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Updated: May 29, 2025
The paper crackled in Owen's trembling hand. So the Baskinelli incident had gone a little too far. Harry Marvin had sense enough to know that he would not have to fight three murderous Italians and a rabble of Chinese unless there had been a plot behind Pauline's peril. It might be best to go directly after Harry to put him out of the way first.
He made a movement as if he would lunge at the throat of Owen, but his fury withered under the glassy smile. "So we met in Paris?" "Once upon a time a little incident in the Rue St. Jeanne. A young woman was concerned in that incident and was not heard of afterward." "And you are trying to blackmail me for the death of Marie Disart! Ha! That is a jest," cried Baskinelli.
He was so near to the musician that the others did not hear. Baskinelli backed away. Pauline, with the swift, inexplicable, yet unerring instinct of woman, moved as if to seek the shelter of Harry's towering frame. He did not see her. He had whirled at the sound of the opening of a door a peculiar door set diagonally across a corner of the room behind the joss.
"I I think I will run back to the others," she cried suddenly. Baskinelli was left alone. "I congratulate you, Signor, on the success of the evening," said a voice at his shoulder. "There are few among the famous who can conquer drawing rooms as well as auditoriums." The musician turned to face the ingratiating smile of Raymond Owen. "I thank you I thank you, sir. But I do not believe you.
A huge two-edged sword was held upright in the steel glove. By the dim light behind the idol the shadow of the sword was cast across the blank face of Baskinelli as he moved forward. He stepped back quickly. The shadow fell between him and Pauline. Again the ancient priest answered a summons at the door.
The three Italians waited only a moment, then followed the Chinese out of the room. "It is late we ought to be going," pleaded Lucille. Complete silence had fallen on the room and her words, a little tremulous, had instant effect on the other women. "What about it, Baskinelli? Had we better be going?" asked one of the men. "Yes yes, I beg only a moment. I wish to show Miss Pauline the "
Harry's voice rang through the little choked room like a thunder blast. "We are coming we are quite safe," called Baskinelli, with the sneer tinge in his tone. "Very well, then; hurry." Harry's manner aroused Pauline's temper again. She purposely lingered. The two Chinamen were arguing violently now with the priest. Harry had closed the door and followed the others down the outer passage.
How should she know that there were two doors, locked and sealed beyond? Her wild screams rang through the long passage, through the dark, above the shuffle and beat and cursing of the staged fight. In the dim light she could see the three Italians grappling with the other men. Baskinelli's voice called to her reassuringly. It might well. Baskinelli was in no danger.
There are so many queer things present, but unidentified," laughed Lucille. "Like a reception to a foreign artist," interrupted Harry with a vindictive glare. "Or shall we say like the conversation of an unhappy guest," said Baskinelli, smilingly turning to note the entrance of a little party of newcomers at the further end of the restaurant.
She herself loved music without understanding it very deeply and Baskinelli, whatever might be his other gifts, could summon all the cadences of love from the machines that people call a piano engine of torture or instrument of joy. For half an hour Harry paced at the foot of the stairs. "I wonder if she's ever coming," he fumed to himself.
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