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Show 5 i ; VJ05EPH Mc CORD ' v,M;u;Serv ;cfc " why it's a pity she's an oil can, sort of." "Don't you mean bookworm? I've noticed that she's quite a reader." "That's a part of it" Virgie was relaxing into a more familiar role now. "It's like I was telling you, Mr. Cutter. I'm not knocking her. She's too sweet I mean it It's just that she never has much to say to anybody ... no line, you know. But let somebody start giving her the low-down on Europe, Irup or Skirup . . . And will she come to! Perfect yen for geography places." "Sort of a Burton Holmes complex?" com-plex?" "No, I don't think she goes for detectives in a big way. She's always al-ways got her nose in adventure magazines mostly ... If a sheik was to ankle in here on a horse right now, Jack would climb right up behind be-hind him and go places." "Jack?" The word betrayed fresh Interest. "Her name's Jacqueline. We call her Jack. That's why I made that crack about sailors. But I can't figure fig-ure getting all hot and bothered over a time-table unless you got a ticket. Take me, now ..." Not infrequently, a customer would find sudden inspiration in a half-finished half-finished suggestion like that. But this man with the pipe seemed not to have heard. "What's her last name?" he demanded. de-manded. "Miss Anthony." Virgie became suddenly formal. "Thanks. You said 'Miss.' " The confirmation came back over one of the broad shoulders as Cutter aaasisaaaa'as? er, on top of the magazine she had been reading. Cutter was rewarded with a friendly smile. Of all things in the world! Those eyes were blue! So deep a blue they were almost black. Larrimore H. Cutter halted in his tracks, stood staring. "Is there something I can do for you?" "No . . ." the dictator blurted. "Why, yes! Of course. I had a letter let-ter ... if you're not busy." Nimble white fingers already were ! inserting paper in the machine. "Please sit down. Will one carbon car-bon be sufficient?" the little stenographer stenog-rapher inquired briskly. "Plenty. Too much . . . Just a personal letter." Cutter slumped gratefully into the chair at the end of the desk. However, How-ever, he did retain sufficient presence pres-ence of mind to lay his folded newspaper news-paper in his lap. One of its column heads was marked heavily with a pencil. As an afterthought, he fumbled fum-bled some letters from an inner pocket then managed a surreptitious glance at his paper. "This is to . . . Royal Allan. I'll have to check on the address later. Just say . . . Dear Roy." A pause. "It certainly was good of you to take the time to write so soon after you got back. I understand that you turned up a big find out there in Cutter glanced at Miss Anthony to see if she were watching him. She was. With disconcerting interest. "I never can think of the name of that place," he muttered lamely. "Near Afghanistan, I think." "The Bamian Valley," his stenographer stenog-rapher supplied promptly. "Of course! Stupid of me to forget. for-get. How did you know that?" "I have been following Mr. Allan's work in the papers. He uncovered an old city there. They think it belongs be-longs to a lost race!" Here was a different Jacqueline Anthony. She leaned forward, the rays from the lamp falling on her eager little face. The blue eyes were wide. Shining with excited interest in-terest Like a child's. "And you know Royal Allan, the archeologist?" She said it almost reverently. "Oh, rather. Old schoolmates." Cutter watched the light play on the waves of that cinnamon-brown hair. "It must be fascinating to visit such places." Jacqueline's two hands were folded over the typewriter. type-writer. The letter was forgotten. A wistfulness in her voice matched that of her eyes. "Then you've never been abroad?' came the crafty suggestion. "No. Have you?" "Occasionally. I was fourteen the first time. My dad was going over on business and took me. We crossed on the old City of New York. I remember we hit a storm that scared me out of a week's growth." "I would have loved that storm. I've never seen a big ship," Jacqueline Jac-queline admitted regretfully. "I'm surprised you haven't tried the big pond, if you're so keen on ships. The cinnamon head shook a quick denial. "That takes money," its owner countered lightly. "I do my traveling in books." "It doesn't take very much these days," Cutter insisted. "You really should do it." He spoke with great earnestness. "I'd love to. More than anything in the world." For the once, Jacqueline Anthony seemed to forget that she was conversing con-versing with a stranger. Here was a man who had been places. In spite of his careless way of talking, she knew that the world's out of the way places held a lure for him. The two of them belonged to the same restless fraternity. Before she quite realized it, she was telling him something of her own desires. "It's some sort of obsession," was her explanation. A faraway look had crept into the blue eyes. "I've always been that way. I do read everything I can find about travel . . . strange lands. I even keep an old atlas hidden away here and look up all the places." "I understand that." "Do you? Everybody around here teases me." She smiled. "I don't wonder. I guess I'm . . . funny." Jacqueline, unconsciously, had adopted Virgie Blake's verdict. "It's not funny at all," Cutter objected ob-jected stoutly. "It's . . . it's tragic." "What do you mean?" "Just that. The tragedy of youth. Not believing most dreams are possibilities, pos-sibilities, until it's too late . . . oftentimes." "It's nice of you to put it that way. I'm not ... so young." "Rot! Look here, Miss Anthony . . ." In his zeal, Cutter spoke that name without noticing the sudden sud-den surprise in the blue eyes watching watch-ing him. "H only you would say to yourself, over and over and over! 'I'm going to . . . the Bamian Valley Val-ley . . .' " He smiled a little at his choice. "If you'd just do that, you'd begin to believe it. And, if you believed be-lieved it it would come true. It would have to. Some day, you'd find yourself, there. Don't you see?" "If only I could." The words came across the desk with a little sigh. "But you can!" Cutter jerked himself upright. He bent forward until his face was full in the light. There was a determined deter-mined glint in his dark eyes. "Why do you say that?" was the girl's startled reply. "How could I?" "Simple enough. You can marry j me. By the way . . . My name's Larry Cutter." (TO CF. COyTIMED. CHAPTER I Virgie Blake, second in command of the cigar counter in the Hotel Raynear's imposing lobby, was studying the profile of a guest who stood near one of the large windows. The man lounged with his arms across the back of a chair, gazing out moodily into the street where sheets of driving rain marched under un-der a leaden sky. An unlighted pipe was clamped between his teeth. Virgie had approved of this stranger strang-er the first time he chanced to pass the stand. It must have been nearly a week ago. She liked his broad shoulders, the restless eyes under their straight brows, the lean face bronzed by long out-of-doors exposure. expo-sure. His lower jaw was heavy, a trifle pugnacious. An attractive carelessness care-lessness marked his general appearance; appear-ance; it was evidenced by the unruly un-ruly thatch of crisp dark hair, and in the suit of rough gray tweeds. Yet there was an air of strength in all the man's leisurely movements. He gave an impression that he might act with disconcerting swiftness if need be. Virgie Blake decided pleasantly and promptly that there was "something "some-thing about him." And let it go at that. Not quite, for she had taken occasion oc-casion to glide over to the desk and make a private investigation the first time she saw this guest asking tor his key and letters. "Oh, Eddie, darling . . ." Virgie smiled persuasively at the room clerk on duty. "Who's the party who just took his key?" "Fourteen sixty-one . . ." Sawyer's Saw-yer's forefinger traveled down the vertical card file near his elbow. "The name is Cutter L. H. from Montreal." "Thanks." "Not at all. Is he the day's particular par-ticular thrill?" " 'Bye, Eddie." Miss Blake's crimson lips curved in a smile of anticipation today when she observed "1461" turn wearily wea-rily from the rain-streaked window and stroll directly towards the cigars. ci-gars. "Smoking tobacco, he suggested affably, resting his arms on the display dis-play case. There was a leisurely quality in his voice, too. Very nearly near-ly a drawl. "What brand please . . . Mr. Cutter?" Cut-ter?" A faint flicker of amusement showed in the dark eyes at the saleswoman's sales-woman's use of the name. He pointed point-ed with the stem of his pipe. The buyer lingered to open the can. He crowded tobacco into his pipe bowl with practiced care. "Do you think it's ever going to stop raining?" Virgie ventured. "You know, this sort of day fairly gives me the jitters." Her voice displayed a confidential note. She swayed nearer, in a graceful pose. "Does it make you feel that way, too?" "It's not . . . conducive to . . . frenzied . .. . enthusiasm." The words were accented by swift puffs. He nodded in the direction of a small glass enclosed office not far away. "I should go over and annoy your stenographer a bit. She doesn't seem any too busy." Something in the tone of his voice caused Virgie to look in the same direction. She attempted a mysterious myste-rious smile, as she asked the unexpected unex-pected question, "Are you a sailor?" sail-or?" "No . . . why?" Cutter did not turn his head as he asked it. "Then you won't get very far . . . with her." "I was only thinking of letters. Doesn't she take dictation?" "Sure! She's a wiz. Sweet' kid . . . but funny. I was just trying to give you a tip, that's all." Virgie made the explanation a trifle uncomfortably. un-comfortably. She was dumb to pull that one. But it was too late now. Her new friend was plainly inter- ested. I "I'm afraid I don't get it" he admitted, ad-mitted, taking his pipe from his mouth. "You're a long ways from salt water here. Should I dash over and tell her the fleet's in?" ' "Don't be like that! I mean she almost never gives a customer a tumble. You know. As long as they stick to their home work, she lets 'em think they're giving her a big moment If they drop a stitch . . . You know what I mean. She's that way." "Urn . . mm." Cutter continued to stare at the stenographer as if it were the first time he had chanced to observe her. Very little more than her head and shoulders were visible through the glass panel. The glow from a shaded shad-ed desk lamp shone warmly on her cinnamon-brown hair, a swirling bob of shining waves that covered the small bowed head. Apparently, she was reading. "Pretty hair," Cutler observed reflectively re-flectively around the stem of his pipe. He might have been speaking speak-ing his thoughts aloud "Gorgeous," Virgie agreed, with commendable enthusiasm. "She's an awfully cute little somebody That's "What's her last name?" he demanded. moved away without so much as a glance at the pouting red mouth he left behind him. His steps slowed as he neared the open door of the stenographer's office and glanced doubtfully at its occupant. But Miss Anthony did not look up from her reading. The would-be customer shook his head with a helpless gesture. ges-ture. He walked on. It was far from being the first time that Larrimore H. Cutter had studied Jacqueline Anthony. His interest in-terest in her had been roused accidentally, acci-dentally, but strongly, while idling with pipe and' newspaper in a retired re-tired corner of the lobby, a vantage point that gave him an unimpeded view through the stenographer's door which chanced to be open. After that, Larrimore Cutter gravitated grav-itated instinctively to that same corner cor-ner chair during the many hours he found it convenient to sit in the lobby, lob-by, feeling distinctly annoyed if anyone any-one else appropriated his private observation ob-servation post After several sessions ses-sions of this furtive watching, he discovered dis-covered that his fanciful reveries over this shining-haired girl left him unsatisfied. He was filled with a growing desire to make her acquaintance. He wanted to sit in the chair of dictation. He wanted to hear her voice. And to make sure about the color of those eyes. That bothered him most of alL He was quick to notice that she never encouraged idle conversation with callers. When she was not otherwise oth-erwise engaged, she read. Obviously, the solution to it all was to walk into that little office and ask the girl to take a letter. Cutter smiled grimly to himself at the notion. He never had dictated letters under similar circumstances . . . would flounder and make a complete ass of himself, most likely. So matters stood when he made that lucky purchase at the cigar counter. The next morning, his paper read, he nerved himself to the great adventure. ad-venture. It still rained. With high resolve, Mr. Cutter strolled resolutely resolute-ly into the stenographer's cubicle. "Good morning," he said gruffly. "Miss Anthony looked up with a start. A quick gesture and the offending of-fending spectacles were removed. She laid them beside the typewrit- |