THE EDGAR WALLACE

COLLECTION

Short Stories of Edgar Wallace

Volume 2

2015

Contents

Introduction

1: If—?

2: The Magnificent Ensign Smith

3: Mr. Miller and the Kaiser

4: A Raid on a Gambling Hell

5: The U-Beast

6: The Man Who Came Back

7: The Speed Test

8: Blooming Aloes

9: The Girl He Kissed

10: The Vampire of Wembley

11: Sentry No. 1

12: Before Witnesses

13: Fluff Willington Of Berysted, Dorking

14: The Little Dragon of Jade

15: The House of the Candles

16: The Get-Back

17: Stuffing

18: The Man Who Shot the "Favourite"

19: One Night in Somerset

20: A Dream

21: The Lady Called Nita

22:  The Man Who Married His Cook

23: The Knight Who Could Not Kneel

24: Her Father's Daughter

25: The Dramatic Butler

26: Diana Helps

27: Con-Lacto Is Strength

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Introduction

EDGAR WALLACE was a prolific author of short stories, hundreds of which were published in all sorts of unlikely places and in many cases then entirely forgotten. Some of them were collected in his lifetime, mostly those short stories forming a series, such as The Reporter, The Iron Grip, and The Adventures of Heine. Most of them, however, were not part of a series. Among the many non-series collections (many of them quite short: 30,000 words or so) were: The Governor of Chi-Foo; Fighting Snub Reilly; A Thief in the Night; The Cat Burglar; For Information Received; Circumstantial Evidence; The Prison Breakers; The Lady from the East; The Stretelli Case; The Ghost of Down Hill, and so on. There was a lot of overlap, too, with some stories appearing in several of these collections. Many stories, specially his earliest ones, published in newspapers and forgotten magazines around the turn of the 20th Century, have never been collected.

As many  as possible of the non-series stories are collected in this series, thereby avoiding the repetition and overlap of the many existing collections. The stories are, at least in the beginning, in approximately chronological order. However, he was so prolific in the 1920s that strict order is difficult to achieve.

This volume contains previously uncollected stories plus stories from The Lady Called Nita (1930)

_________________

1: If—?

The Strand Magazine, August 1919

THE war had soured Hector Smith. It had drawn a line between comparative youth and comparative middle-age. It had burst inconveniently, as wars have a habit of bursting, upon more than one half-matured scheme of his, and had scattered them to bits and left him the poorer. To be exact, it had left Mary the poorer, because it was Mary's money that went, of which fact it had become a habit of hers to remind him.

But more souring, bits of boys, the merest urchins, to be patronized or ignored in the old days, had obtruded themselves upon his and the public's attentions. The balance of life was over-set. The inconsiderable factors (in which category he included these boys who now strutted consciously be-ribboned through his world) had grown to such importance that they overshadowed the real big things of life, such as his handicap at golf, his bridge hands, the remarkable poverty of intelligence on the part of his partners, and the like.

There was a time when Arthur, for example, would have been carried to the seventh heaven by a timely half-sovereign, and would have run his long legs off in his haste to reach the confectioner's before the cream buns were sold. Now Arthur was a straight-limbed youth with "wings," and a record of good service in France.

And Arthur and Mary—

Pshaw! It was absurd! Why, he remembered this dirty little kid when he was so high! Yet, it was a fact that Mary spent most of her time with Arthur, raved about his dancing, his beautiful manners, his perfect sympathy. Pshaw!

Hector Smith cursed the war that forced him to listen to gruesome stories in which he was not interested.

He opened the drawing-room door and stalked in, then stopped with a little grimace. The inevitable Arthur was there, and the inevitable Arthur with an embarrassed giggle made his escape with a mumbled reference to the weather. As for Mary, she looked too good to be true.

"Hasn't that bird got a perch of his own?" snarled Hector.

"How can you speak of a man who has been wounded—?" began his indignant partner.

Mr. Smith laughed contemptuously.

"Wounded! The first time he tried to fly he crashed, and the second time he tried to fly he crashed, and the third time he tried to fly he crashed!"

She tossed her head.

"I'd like to see you do it!"

Mr. Smith shrugged.

"Oh, I know it's a mistake to talk disrespectfully of your hero," he sneered.

He was not feeling at his brightest.

"What do you mean?" she demanded with ominous calm.

"I mean, I'm fed up, that's what I mean," he snapped, and she flamed round on him.

"And so am I!" she cried. "You're vulgar and stupid and tyrannical. The life I've lived with you is abominable. When I married you I had money—"

He bowed.

"That's right," he said, encouragingly, "throw that in my face! Didn't I invest it for you?"

It was an unfortunate question.

"Yes, you did," she said, bitterly. "You put it into a luminous sign business. Luminous signs! And a month after war was declared! And the only thing you could get out of showing a luminous sign was six months' imprisonment!"

"How did I know there was going to be a war?" asked the exasperated man.

"You might have guessed it," she replied, illogically.

"Could I guess that London was to be plunged in darkness? I did my best. I should have made a million out of that fuse factory I started this year—"

"Yes, if it hadn't been for the armistice," she scoffed.

"How did I know there was going to be peace?" he roared.

She flounced past him on her way to the door.

"Oh, you never know anything!"

"There's one thing I know," he shouted after her.

"What's that?"

"One of these fine days I'll run away to America!" Her scornful laugh came back through the slammed door. He threw himself upon the settee. The money was gone and the wife remained. That was his luck. If it had been the other way about—! If only it had been the other way about! If he could only live the years over again! If he could only be five years younger and knew what he knew!

He sat staring at the newspaper in his hand. There was a critique of a new play, a fairy play.

Bah! Fairies were nonsense!

He laid the newspaper down on his knees.

But suppose there were such things as fairies, and suppose they moved about this prosaic, industrialized world as in the old days they moved through the woodland glebes; suppose by a wave of a magic wand a man could be transplanted back, back, back; and suppose that it were possible that the clock should be put back, and one had consciousness of all the things that were going to happen, the horses that were going to win races, the stocks which were going to rise, all the great events which must occur!

He heaved a deep sigh and looked up. He half-rose from the couch, for there before him, a bright and radiant figure in the dusky room, stood a brilliant presence. He knew it was a fairy because it was dressed as fairies should be dressed, and bemuse she was bathed in a flood of silvery light which seemed to come from nowhere in particular. The little hands grasped a wand which twinkled and glittered with light.

Recovering from his initial astonishment he looked at her aappraisingly. He felt it would be undignified and ill-bred to regard her as a phenomenon.

"Hector Smith," said a sweet, low voice,

"I am your fairy godmother!"

"Oh, yes." said Hector Smith, politely.

"You have expressed a wish to be five years younger. Be happy, for to-morrow you will awake in 1914."

"Eh?" said Hector, sitting up. "I say, do you really mean that?"

She inclined her head.

"Wait a moment," said Hector, eagerly. "I must be the only one who knows it. D'ye understand? Because if everybody else knows it I shall be in the cart again."

She raised her wand and waved it slowly above his head.

"I must be the only one who knows that there's going to be a war and all that sort of thing," said Hector, drowsily. A sense of languor was rapidly overcoming him. "I don't want...."

His head fell on his chest.

He did not know how long he had slept when he awoke with a jerk. He had a confused dream in which figured fairies and brilliant wands, and low, sweet voices mingled, and then he remembered that he had to see Tomkins who was liquidating his ill-fated fuse factory. He went to the study and 'phoned Tomkins, but, amazingly enough, Tomkins was not on the 'phone. He asked Exchange to connect him with Smith's Patent Fuse Factory, but Exchange was ignorant that such a place had ever existed.

"The telephone service," said Hector Smith, as be hung up the receiver, "is becoming more and more abominable."

He decided to write to the newspapers on the subject. He paused outside the drawing-room door, for he heard his wife moving about inside, and it was necessary to brace himself up for the ordeal. He was a little scared of Mary in her tantrums, and more scared that his apprehension should be known to her. But the girl who came across the room to meet him had no frown, no reproaches. She was one beaming smile, and she ran towards him and laid her hands upon his shoulders.

"Dearie!" she kissed him, ecstatically: then noting the gloom in his face, "darling, whatever is the matter?"

"Matter?" he answered, suspiciously. "What's that you did? What's the matter with you?"

She looked at him in wonder.

"Nothing is the matter with me. I just kissed you, that's all."

He heaved a sigh. How did she know he had received his directors' cheque that day?

"How much do you want?" he asked, with resignation.

"Naughty boy, why do you say that?" she pouted. "Don't you love your diddlelums any more?"

He stared at her.

"Look here. What's up?" he asked, desperately. "I'll buy it! What's wrong with you?"

"Wrong?"

She was frankly astonished.

"Everything has gone wrong to-day," he growled. "I went to call up that fellow about the fuses—"

She frowned.

"Fuses? What are fuses?"

His suspicions returned. "Don't pull my leg," he said, coldly. "I'm not in a mood for it. Try it on the other fellow."

"What other-fellow?" He jerked his head to the door.

"He was heme just now. I heard his voice."

A smile of understanding dawned on her face.

"Who, little Arthur?"

"Yes, little Arthur," he snarled, "the little hero!"

"Don't be silly, Hector," she laughed. "Arthur a hero!"

His rising wrath moderated. Evidently what he had said to her had done some good. Still suspicious, and with a horrid sense of unreality, he slipped his arm about her waist and led her to the couch. It was all unreal and unexpected, he thought, as her golden head rested on his shoulder.

"It's a. long time since we did this," he said. "It reminds me of the raid nights."

She straightened herself up.

"The what nights?"

"The raid nights."

She laughed. Hector in the full ardour of that period which was neither youth nor middle-age, had been a tempestuous lover.

"Dear, you use such queer expressions!"

"Do you remember the siren?" he asked, after a pause, and her head nodded vigorously.

"Yes, the cat— but I got you away from her."

"And how we used to go down into the cellar?" he mused. It seemed a thousand years ago. She straightened up. It was she who was suspicion.

"We never did," she protested. "Really, Hector! I hope you're not thinking of somebody else?"

Before he could answer Jane came in, and Jane, curiously enough, looked much younger.

"Will there be three to dinner, madam?" asked the maid.

Mary nodded.

"Who is the third?" demanded Mr. Smith.

"Oh, no one," said his wife, airily. "I asked Arthur to stay."

He sprang to his feet.

"Arthur! Confound the fellow, hasn't he gone? I won't have him. Do you understand. Marv. I-won't-have-him!"

Again the look of blank astonishment on her face.

"But why not?"

"He's such a nice little gentleman, sir," pleaded Jane. "He sat on my knee and told me such funny stories."

Hector glared from the maid to his wife.

"There you are!" he said, triumphantly. "That's the sort of fellow he is! Sits on her knee and tells her funny stories!"

To his amazement she laughed.

"It's not worth while getting angry— he can dine in the kitchen."

"In the kitchen!"

"Of course, he doesn't care," Mary went on, calmly, "so long as he goes to the White City."

"With whom?"

"Well, I'll take him," said Mary, indifferently. "I rather like the Roly-Poly and the Wiggle-Wag."

With a mighty effort Mr. Smith controlled himself.

"You can't go to the White City. It's been requisitioned by the Government four years ago," he said. "The White City is closed, I tell you. It's where the C3 men get their A1 gratuity— everybody knows that."

There was a strained silence, during which Jane tip-toed from the room.

Hector saw something in his wife's eyes that looked like fear, and failed to diagnose its cause.

"I'm sorry I lost my temper," he said, penitently; "the fact is I'm jealous."

The fear was replaced by a gleam of interest.

"Jealous? Of whom?"

He made a little gesture to cover his discomfort.

"Of you— and Arthur."

"But you're mad," she gasped; "at his age—"

"At his age." said Mr. Smith, icily, "I had been thrown out of the Empire twice."

He did not explain the degree of worldliness which this experience implied, but he left her to gather that it represented a particularly lurid form of precocity.

"I don't understand you to-night," she said, shaking her head.

"I don't understand myself," said Mr. Smith, rising. "I think I'll run down to the club, I promised to meet an ace."

"An ace? I thought you'd given up cards."

"You don't understand me— this fellow brought down thirty."

"Thirty what?"

"Boche."

"It isn't 'bosh'!" she exploded. "How did he bring them down?"

Hector groaned.

"He got on their tails and crashed them," he explained, patiently.

She was shocked.

"Poor things! I suppose they broke quite easily?" she asked.

He looked at her.

"I don't know what you are talking about," he said, irritably. "I am speaking about a fellow who has been 'mentioned' six times."

She shook her head.

"This is the first time you have mentioned him to me," she said; "what has he done?"

"Done? Why, in the early days before he started flipping, he took a pill-box all by himself!"

Her mouth opened.

"A whole box?" she gasped.

"You see," he explained, "he was in a tank, and when they went over the top—"

"Over the top of the tank?" she asked, hazily.

"No, the tank went over the top and a minnie dropped in front of him."

She was interested again.

"Poor girl," she said, sympathetically, "and did he help her up?"

"No; you see, a dying pig burst just behind him."

"But what did he do with Minnie?" she demanded.

She could not grapple with pigs that flew, but Minnie was someone tangible.

"Oh, she got him in the leg," he stated, carelessly.

She was grave now.

"I see, she wasn't a lady?"

"Of course she wasn't a lady," he wailed.

"I have told you it wasn't a lady! It was a minenwerfer."

She did not want to hear about Miss Werfer or even of a low person to whom he made glib reference— a Miss Emma Gee. This friend of her husband's seemed to have low tastes. He crashed people, he got on their tails.

"And Big Bertha—" Hector was saying when she stopped him.

"I don't think I want to meet your friend," she said, and made for the door.

He didn't understand her. Usually she was as full of the jargon of the war as the most ardent subaltern. Now she professed ignorance and demanded an elucidation of the most commonplace phrase.

He was pondering on this fact when the maid came into the room. She stood nervously waiting, and Hector guessed her errand.

"Well?" he growled.

"I-I thought I would ask you, sir," she faltered; "I was going to ask the mistress if-if she would give me a little rise."

"A rise again!" he groaned. This was the third or was it the fourth time...?

"But, sir?"

"Now listen to me," he said, severely, "I know that living is expensive, and coals are dear, and I am willing to give you another rise. But this must be the very last time. You can have five pounds a month, but not a penny more."

She did not swoon. She was too well-bred a servant.

"Five pounds a month! Oh, thank you, master, thank you! Oh, you are most good—" she grew incoherent.

Hector raised his eyebrows. He thought she was unusually grateful. His wife returned at that moment to hear his news.

"By the way, dear, I've just raised Jane's wages."

Usually she objected to his interfering in her domestic affairs, but now she was most amiable.

"I promised her I would— she seems a nice girl."

"Yes," said Hector. "I'm giving her five pounds a month."

His wife grasped a chair for support.

"Are you mad?" She beckoned Jane, for her earlier suspicions were now certainties.

"Fetch a doctor," she said, under her breath. "The master isn't well. I only pay her eighteen pounds a year."

She tried to say this in a light conversational tone, but her voice shook.

"You only—?" Something was very wrong, and he called the maid to him. "Ask Dr. Sawyer to step round. Mrs. Smith isn't quite herself," he said.

"Get Dr. Thomas." demanded Mary, sharply.

Thomas! Thomas was in Mesopotamia! It was clear now. The worry of the past years had turned her brain. It was a flattering explanation for the preference she had lately shown to Arthur. They watched one another apprehensively after the girl had gone, then:—

"Feel better, ducky?" he asked, huskily.

"Has that nasty wuzzy feeling gone, lovey?" her voice was a nervous squeak.

Dr. Thomas had the flat opposite, and Dr. Thomas was coming out of his flat when the frightened maid had literally flung herself upon him.

"They're both mad," she babbled, and the startled doctor followed her to where two people, each standing at the extreme end of a long drawing-room, were watching one another in silence. Hector saw him and uttered an exclamation of astonishment.

"By Jove. I thought you were in Bagdad?"

The doctor laid his soothing hand on the other's shoulder.

"Of course— Bagdadl Ah, that's the place— we'll soon put you right, old man."

Ignoring the implication that he wasn't right, Mr. Smith whispered something in the other's ear.

"Of course she is," replied Thomas, indulgently, and caught Mary's eye and Mary's significant signal.

It was at that moment that Arthur came in— Arthur in his Eton suit, with his cherubic face stained with jam. Hector looked at him and his jaw dropped.

"What the devil have you dressed like this for?" he demanded.

"Because I'm going to school, Mr. Smith."

"To school? How old are you?"

"Fourteen— nearly."

"Fourteen!" repeated Hector, hollowly.

"Is it possible—?"

On Mary's desk was a calendar and to this he walked.

"Nineteen fourteen! Mary, I understand all. I will explain. You're not mad— it was the fairy— who put back the clock!— my wish was granted!"

The doctor looked at Mary and Mary looked at the doctor. "I'm going to prophesy," Hector went on, excitedly. "We are going to war! The Kaiser will abdicate! The British Army will be seven millions strong! We shall win the war, thanks to Beatty, Haig, and Foch!"

He saw the round face of Arthur and— smack! Arthur sprawled on the door, blubbering.

"Why did you do that?" asked the terrified Mary.

"He's going to cause me a lot of trouble," said Hector, prophetically.

____________________

2: The Magnificent Ensign Smith

The Strand Magazine, May 1919

THERE are many things about the late war (writes Dr. Halkeith-Sinclair, of Curzon Street) which I do not understand even in these days, when its secrets form the subject of daily official and unofficial communications, so that we learn of new and wonderful ships, marvellous new explosives, undreamt-of aeroplanes, and the like. Half-way through the narrative they told of the Magnificent Ensign Smith, I found myself wondering why the Government of the United States of America had been so grudging of the recognition it gave to his unparalleled devotion.

I came into this story in a most prosaic and commonplace fashion. At 9.30 one night in December I was in my surgery in Curzon Street, Mayfair, when I was rung up by the Hotel Savoy-Carlton. I was not in the best of moods, for two hours previously I had been called to a shooting case by the police, and no practitioner— and certainly no practitioner of my standing— cares to get mixed up in a criminal trial, involving as it does hours wasted in draughty court-houses. It was the manager of the Savoy-Carlton who called me.

"I wish you would come over, doctor, and see an American lady who arrived to-day by the Lapland."

"What is the matter with her?" I asked.

"I think she is pretty ill. I have had telegraphic instructions from some American officers in France to do everything possible for her, and I am rather scared of her appearance."

"All right, I'll come over," said I. I drove down to the Savoy-Carlton, which is one of the best hotels in London, and Colloni, the manager was waiting for me in the entrance hall.

"I'm sorry to bring you over, doctor, but I am afraid the lady is very ill. I wonder the American authorities allowed her to travel."

"Is she old or young?" I asked.

"She is old," he said, "and arrived here at five o'clock in a state of collapse. The American officers I spoke of had already booked a suite for her, and as Americans are amongst my best customers I do not want to offend them, otherwise I should have sent her straight to a hospital."

He took me up in the elevator, and there I saw my patient. There is a certain beauty about age, a quality which is called caducity, which means the beauty of decaying things. Her hair was white, her face was one of infinite sweetness, and I saw what I have so often seen in women's faces when they are approaching the great last test of their fortitude, an inspiring majesty. The nurse who was in attendance said she was the sweetest old lady she had ever attended, but "sweet" seems to me to be too mild and sugary a word. You could not call the Canadian Rockies sweet, or the tropical heavens, or the Grand Canyon, or the Valley of Chamonix— and She held something of the dignity of all these things.

I made a brief examination. There was no need to look far for the trouble. She had reached the end of all her physical resources, and it was little short of a miracle that she had been able to make the long journey from America.

She looked up into my face, which was as expressionless as I could make it, and smiled.

"You wonder I am alive," she said.

"Well, I wouldn't say that, Mrs. Smith," said I, pulling up a chair and summoning all my stock of reserve cheerfulness. "You are certainly a very daring lady to have taken this journey."

She smiled again.

"It was vanity," she said, and I laughed.

"Oh, yes, it was vanity."

Her voice was quite strong. She spoke without effort, and, so far as I could see, her respiration was normal. But it is absurd and profitless for a doctor to attempt to gauge by any scientific formula the values of will. Still more unsatisfactory must be any examination which science makes into the life-value of love.

"I am the mother of Ensign Smith," she said, and spoke with assurance, as though Ensign Smith were so well known a character that there was no need for further explanation.

"Oh, yes." said I.

She smiled again.

"Of course you're English, and you are not taking quite the same interest in our boys as we, and I cannot expect you to understand just how an American mother feels about her son who has died so gloriously— for Liberty."

Her eyes lit up with a light that rivalled the eyes of youth, a faint colour showed in the pale, wasted cheeks, and the thin hands which lay on the coverlet gripped the down-quilt.

"I don't think you ought to talk very much," said I; "it will excite you and keep you awake."

She shook her head slowly.

"Do you know what time the Continental train arrives in London?" she asked.

I explained to her that the Continental trains kept no particular time, especially the troop trains, and apparently it was the troop train she was expecting.

"They will be here," she said, with conviction, and was silent for a while, her head turned on her pillow, her eyes half closed.

Presently she raised them again.

"My son, Ensign Smith, won the Medal of Honour in the Argonne!"

"That's splendid!" I said, with enthusiasm, for I knew how jealously that medal is awarded in the American Army.

She nodded.

"Yes, it was splendid. But you don't know how splendid it was. You see Jimmy—"  she hesitated. "Why, I'll tell you all about him, because he has so wonderfully redeemed his faults. Jimmy was a great trouble to me, dear lad. He went with the wrong set, and there was some— some unpleasantness in New York. He was always a delicate boy, and we spoilt him, I guess, and he got mixed up with evil men and women, and he— well, they used to come and tell me about him, and it well-nigh broke my heart. And even when he enlisted they said he was— drunk. But we worked hard for him, and the Governor, my brother-in-law, used his influence, and, well, Jimmy made good." She closed her eyes and smiled and repeated: "Yes, Jimmy made good. He was killed in the Argonne Forest. We didn't know what had happened, because the official news was that he had died, and I wrote to an officer who came from Palata, and he wrote back a beautiful letter about Jimmy, and said he had done splendidly and was going to be awarded the Medal of Honour."

She paused, and I hoped that she was not going to speak again, although I was more than interested. A doctor cannot afford to indulge in his emotions, but my heart went out to that pathetic figure with her beautiful pride.

But she was not, as I hoped, going to sleep. She was just thinking, and the smile did not leave her face.

"I knew he would not he awarded the Medal of Honour except for something very grand," she said; "and they couldn't tell me anything at Washington. Why, you'd think they would know everything at Washington, wouldn't you?"

I nodded.

"Well, they were just too busy, I guess. So one day the thought came to me that I would go to France, or perhaps to England, where I could get into touch with his comrades and his officers."

A light dawned on me.

"I see: so you told them you were coming and they offered to meet you here?"

She nodded.

"To-night?"

She nodded again.

"I have had a telegram from France. A deputation from the regiment is on its way. Isn't that wonderful? A deputation from the regiment to tell me about Jimmy!"

There came a tap at the door at that moment, and I walked over and answered it. It was the manager.

"There are three American officers, the gentlemen who hired the suite, and they want to see the lady. Can they, do you think?"

"I don't think it will make very much difference," said I, in a low voice.

"Is she so ill?"

I nodded.

"Perhaps I had better go down and see them, and explain."

When I turned my head I saw her eager eyes fixed on mine.

"They have come?" she asked.

"They have just come. Do you mind if I go down and see them?"

"Please don't keep them too long, doctor," she said. "I know just how sick I am, and I am only living to hear about Jimmy."

This I knew to be the truth.

I found the three officers waiting by the elevator, and the manager introduced me.

There was a tall, grey major and two younger officers, tired, brown-faced men, with the mud of France on their boots and that strange, set look which men wear who have been through the hell of the Argonne.

"You understand, Major," I said, "that Mrs. Smith is practically in extremis."

"I guessed that," said the Major— his name was Shore. "How long do you think she will live?"

"It is very difficult to tell," said I. "It may sound brutal to you, but she ought to be dead now. It is extraordinary that in her condition she can be either conscious or alive."

Major Shore exchanged glances with his two companions.

"Will you come up with us, doctor?" he said. "I'm pretty scared. I would like to have you around— in case."

I understood, and we went up in the elevator together in silence, and I did not speak again till I introduced them severally by their names— Major Shore, Captain Urqhuart, and Lieutenant van Roos.

I shall always remember the expectancy in her face, the fine comradeship in that shaking hand she extended to them, and shall never get from my mind the picture of those three solemn men sitting around the bed their faces contrasting with the live, joyous expression that she wore.

"It is very kind of you gentlemen to humour an old woman," she said. "Maybe you will have children of your own one of these days, and yon will know how I feel about Jimmy. And Jimmy had so many enemies who would never believe that he had that side to his character."

"Surely," said the Major, clearing his throat. "Why, jimmy was the gamest boy that ever served in the 34th, wasn't he, Urqhuart?"

"He was fine," said the captain, huskily. "I don't think I have ever had a better boy under me. He was in my company."

"And you lived with him?"

She was speaking half to herself, in a sort of rapt ecstasy. "Shared the same tent with him, perhaps?"

Urqhuart nodded.

"Saw him every day! Why, that almost deifies you boys in my eyes."

"He was with me!" It was young van Roos who spoke. "The day we went over!"

"Did he show any—" She hesitated to frame the words.

"He was the bravest of the brave," said van Roos, stoutly. "He was the first over. He went right ahead of the men. There was a big redoubt immediately in front of us, a regular nest of machine-guns, and our men were falling by the score, but Jimmy went on."

"Encouraging them, you see. Mrs. Smith," said Major Shore. "In moments like that example is everything. The bravest of soldiers wouldn't face that kind of fire if they saw their officer faltering."

"That's why Jimmy was so extraordinary," put in Urqhuart. "We never expected him to make that kind of show. The men rallied and went up after him, and we took the redoubt ten minutes later."

"Was he alive then?" she whispered.

"Yes, he was alive then," said Shore. "He wasn't killed till— later."

"And didn't the men think he was wonderful?" she asked.

"They surely did," said Urqhuart; "how could they think anything else? They called him the Magnificent Ensign Smith."

"Did they really, did they really?" she cried, clasping her hands. "I know, you wrote and told me!"

"There was nothing Jimmy wouldn't face." It was Shore who spoke now. They seemed to take it in turns to supplement the record of the boy's heroism. "Nothing worried him— shells, bombs, or machine-gun fire. He took it all laughing."

"And was he a good boy?" she asked, timidly. "I know boys get a little wild when they are out of the battle-line, and there are many temptations to young men. Did he drink?"

"Oh, no!" The three spoke together.

"No," said Major Shore, "I never met a better living fellow than Jimmy. He was just the cleanest lad you could wish to meet."

"He simply spent all his time studying military books," said van Roos. "We used to get rather tired of his studious ways. When the other fellows were going out to paint the town red you would always find Jimmy sitting tight in billets with a book on his knee."

"It made a man of him. It made a man of him!" she whispered.

"Why, it's difficult to believe that Jimmy was ever anything else," said Urqhuart, shaking his head; "he was just made for soldiering. You don't get many Jimmies, even in our Army."

She lay with closed eyes, and for five minutes nobody spoke.

"Tell me how he died," she said, after a while.

"It was at a little village called Piedmont," said Urqhuart. "It lay in a valley between two steep hills, and it was covered by a stream which flowed right across the line of advance. The village had been consolidated by the Germans, who held it in strength. Their batteries had got our positions registered to an inch, and the whole of the hillside was sprinkled with machine-guns. The Virginian regiment on our right had to work round the knoll to the east of the village, and we had to make a frontal attack straight into the gap. The engineers threw over a light bridge, but it was shot away by the German guns. Then the general called for volunteers to swim the stream under fire and establish a position on the north bank so that we could enfilade the German trenches which curved round the village to the west."

"Yes?"

"Well, Jimmy volunteered," said van Roos. "Yes, Jimmy volunteered to lead a platoon across. Of course, it was all done in a hurry, the arrangements were very hasty, and he had to take what men he could find in his sector. Our guns put down a barrage on the village, and Jimmy went over."

"Was he first across the stream?" she asked, hopefully.

"Absolutely first," said Shore. "I saw him through my glasses. I was back in an observation post and had a good view. He got into a ditch on the other side of the stream, and half-a-dozen men crawled in with him. It was certain death for the first to cross, even if they got to the other side."

"Jimmy had only six men," said Urqhuart.

"The next wave that tried to cross were shot to pieces, so Jimmy and his six went on and carried the first German machine-gun post at the point of the bayonet."

"Isn't that wonderful?" said the old woman in a hushed voice. "Don't you boys feel kind of proud of having served with him?"

They nodded.

"And was he—"

"He was killed right there in the German trench, killed instantaneously," said Shore.

"But his sacrifice was not in vain?" she asked.

"No," said Urqhuart. "Indeed no. He held the enemy at a critical point, and gave us just the opportunity we wanted."

"And they gave him the Medal of Honour?"

Major Shore put his hand in his pocket and brought out a flat leather care. He pressed a catch and it sprang open, revealing the simple emblem of valour. She took it reverently in both hands and raised it to her lips.

"Jimmy! Jimmy!" she whispered.

I have never seen anything more beautiful than the smile on her face when I took the medal from her dead hands.

Urqhuart was standing up by the other side of the bed.

"Is she dead?" he asked, in a low voice.

I nodded, and that big soldier went down on his knees by the side of the bed and sobbed as if his heart would break.

Presently he grew calmer and stumbled to his feet, wiping his face.

"Thank God, thank God!" he said. "Thank God that's over!"

He looked at the two men, from one strained face to the other.

"I don't know how you fellows feel, but I feel— horrible," he said, and they nodded.

I think with any encouragement they would have broken down, for their eyes were wet.

"It was my fault," Shore said; "I wanted to make it easy for her when I wrote about the Medal of Honour." He took the medal from my hands and fastened it to his own breast.

I stared at him.

"But didn't he get it?" I asked. "Surely a man who behaved—"

He shook his head, and though he smiled his lips were drooping.

"Ensign Smith," he said, "was shot for cowardice in the face of the enemy."

____________________

3: Mr. Miller and the Kaiser

The Strand Magazine, August 1919

AGAINST the day when explorers and archaeologists rake over the junk of Britain's forgotten cities, as today they take the mounds where Tarquin lorded it, and reconstruct Etruscan history from her crockery-ware, against such a day when paper and parchment and even sheep-skins have perished with the writings and drawings thereon, I trust that Frank O. Miller will inscribe in permanent form the story of his supreme moment, when patriotism overcame sentiment, and duty elbowed his sense of drama into the background.

The loyalty of Frank Oscar Miller transcends all other stories of its kind, for it was loyalty shown long after the last shot was fired and when war was a subject abhorrent equally to the tax-payer and the magazine editor, and when you might expect a man of romantic character to take a lenient view of his responsibilities to that state in which it had pleased God to place him.

There was a time when Frank O. Miller was just plain Franz Oscar Müller. He had changed his name in the 'nineties, having acquired by marriage service and purchase the business of Sloane Miller, Limited. It was in deference to his father-in-law's wishes, who, having no son, desired the perpetuation of his name, that Franz O. became Frank O.

The company had prospered exceedingly. The Sloane Miller building, with its twelve floors and its gilded cupola is a monument to Millerian industry. The Miller demesne at Hampstead is a palace, and Mrs. Miller's emeralds, which are kept, according to all account, in a small safe between the twin beds in Mr. and Mrs. Miller's gorgeous bedroom, are worth a king's ransom.

Incidentally, many men who were in no ways interested in securing the liberty of distressed monarchs had attempted to prove that assertion. But Mr. Miller was a pretty handy man with a gun. His safe was electrically controlled, and after Pal Morris, Lew Jakobs, and "Flash" Joe had successively made their attempts, had failed, and had passed to their country homes, it was agreed in the circles whence they came that Mrs. Miller's emeralds were not perhaps worth trying for, Even "Snakie" Smith, Unelected President of the Guild, and swellest and cleverest of all the mobsmen, turned down the proposition without looking at it, though he might as well have tried because he was caught a few weeks later in compromising circumstances (and a bank vault) and went out of town. This was in the year of grace 1909, and the emeralds have increased in value and size and general magnificence, and the Sloane Miller building has risen, and Mr. Miller himself has grown stouter since then, and the first Mrs. Miller has died and has been succeeded by the second Mrs. Miller (born Stohwasser).

Miller was always British in sentiment, and genuinely so. No suspicion ever attached to him. He subscribed heavily for War stock, gave largely to all the war charities, and if he had had one son he would have sent him with the first divisions to fight for freedom. Unhappily, he was childless.

He was sitting in his library one night in the early part of this year, when Jackie Strauss came in, dropped his hat on the floor, hunched himself into the corner of a settee, and swore thickly through his cigar. Mr. Miller looked over his spectacles at his old friend.

"What's wrong, Jackie?" he asked.

Jackie growled something, and a slow smile spread over the placid face of the head of the Sloane Miller Corporation, for that day he had pulled off a business deal, beating his competitors to the wire, and the chief of his competitors was the Strauss Machinery Trust, Limited. But it was evidently not the successful rivalry of his friend which disturbed Mr. Strauss.

"We've won the war, haven't we?" he demanded, fiercely, and he was evidently speaking under the stress of a strong emotion. "We've got Germany like that." he put his big thumb down suggestively. "Ain't that so? Well, why don't we leave 'em alone? See here, Franz. I'm British. To me there isn't a country like this in the world— though they tried to intern me. The only time I have been in Germany in the last twenty years I was treated like a criminal. But you've got to admit, Franz, he's the Big Man. He may have made this war or he may not. But he did make Germany big."

"We've won the war, haven't we?" he demanded, fiercely.

Mr. Miller took off his glasses, folded them slowly, and put them in his waistcoat pocket. He looked at his companion dubiously and thoughtfully, and rubbed his nose with the knuckle of his forefinger, a sure sign of his perturbation. There was no need to ask who "he" was. He knew instinctively, and there was a little echo of approval in the secret deeps of his mind.

"Don't talk like that in front of Bertha," he said, after a while. "Bertha is—" he hesitated.

Loyalty to his wife prevented his completing the sentence.

"Well, she's never been wholly with us, Jackie, as you well know."

Mr. Strauss nodded.

"I won't say that you're not right," Mr. Miller went on. "I don't like to see a man kicked when he's down, but I'm British first, Jackie."

"Ain't I?" demanded Jackie, truculently, his grey-shot moustache bristling; "but I've got something here," he pounded his spotted waistcoat with his fists, "right down inside me that makes me go just cold and sick when I hear these fools, who never had an original thought in their lives, talking about trying him and hanging him! I'm a Brandenburger, Franz. My relations for hundreds of years have been Brandenburgers. It's in my blood and soul, this feeling for— for him. I don't care if he's guilty as hell. I don't care if we suck Germany dry, if we chuck her fleet on the muck-heap— I'm for him!"

Mr. Miller shifted uneasily. He had his own feelings, for his ancestry went back to the Mark, and the best-known of his ancestors had been body-servant to the Great Elector himself.

"Don't say anything in front of Bertha about this," he repeated, mildly.

"Why not? And don't say anything about what?" asked a voice behind him, and he turned to meet the cold eye of Bertha Miller (née Stohwasser), who never called herself anything but Müller.

She was a good-looking woman in the early forties, dark, swarthy, cold of eye and manner, and now she looked from`her husband to his guest.

"Jackie's been talking politics," said Mr. Miller, feebly.

"I heard. Who is the 'he' you're speaking about?" she asked.

"Oh, never mind," said Mr. Strauss, loyally. "I hear you got that contract to-day, Franz—"

"You were talking about the Emperor," said Mrs. Miller, not to be put off, "and I agree with you, Jackie. It's an abominable shame, the way people are talking. There isn't a worse-represented man in the world."

"Let's have some coffee," said Mr. Miller, hastily; "and for Heaven's sake, Bertha, get off that subject."

"You know it," she accused, "but you haven't the spirit of Jack Strauss. I can't understand how you can stand by and hear these people abuse him. I told that wretched woman, Sanderson, to-day just what I thought of her when she said they ought to hang him."

"Oh, lord," said Mr. Miller, in dismay, "why don't you keep your mouth shut? I'm a businessman, and I can't afford to have my business ruined, and ruined it will be if your views get about. People will say they are mine."

"Pah!" said the wife of his bosom, contemptuously, and addressed herself to Mr. Strauss. "It breaks my heart every time I think of it," she said, passionately; "I can hardly let my mind dwell on it. Think of it, Jackie! He who has had all the kings of Europe at his feet, who had only to lift his hand to have the world shake, who put Germany high amongst the nations, and is now an exile in a little Dutch village, lonely—" her voice choked.

Mr. Miller, looking from her to his friend, saw a light in the eye of Jackie which he had not seen before, a suppressed eagerness which was more eloquent than speech— saw him lean forward and lay his hand on Mrs. Miller's arm.

"But is he?" he asked, softly.

"Is he what?" she answered, her handkerchief half-way to her eyes.

"Is he at Amerongen?"

She dropped her hands on her lap and stared at him.

"What do you mean?"

"I wasn't going to tell you," said Strauss, speaking quickly "but I guess it's got to come out, and I know I can trust you both. Who has seen the Kaiser at Amerongen? Nobody! The reporters have stood at the gates and have seen somebody in a grey cloak. But who has seen his face? A few villagers who have never seen the Emperor in their lives, and they only know it's him because they are told. Who, who has seen the Emperor in the life, has seen him at Amerongen? Nobody! We only know he's there because we are told he's there."

"I wasn't going to tell you," said Strauss, "but I guess it's got to come out.

"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Miller again, her breath coming faster.

Strauss drew his chair nearer to her and lowered his voice.

"I'll tell you," he said. "One of my cashiers, a man named Tells, embezzled nearly a thousand pounds from me. That was five years ago. He was arrested and sent to penal servitude for five years. He was a married man, and I did all I could for him, and I told him when he came out of prison he was to come and see me. He turned up last week—"  He paused impressively.

"Well?" said Mr. Miller, not the least interested of the two.

"I don't think he'll go straight. He's got into pretty bad company," Strauss went on; "in fact, he is already a member of a gang working under 'Snakie' Smith. You have heard of him! He's the biggest thing in the criminal world, and he came out of prison a week before Tells. Now, these criminals," he went on, speaking slowly and with emphasis, "have an intelligence organization of their own. There is hardly a Government secret that they're not up to, and lately some of them have been approached to shepherd a mysterious man who is coming from the Continent and is on his way to America."

Mr. Miller rose quickly.

"Pshaw!" he said. "Impossible! Why should they engage those kind of fellows to look after—? Bah! It's ridiculous!"

He was agitated, and showed it.

Mrs. Miller sat with her bright eyes fixed upon Strauss. She was in a rosy dream of glory, in that glow of exaltation which the novice before the altar, or the Eastern bride meeting her lover for the first time face to face, might experience.

"Go on," she whispered.

"Who could better look after him than these men who spend their lives dodging the police?" said Mr. Strauss, speaking rapidly, "and I tell you that the Emperor is not in Holland. Tells hinted at it.

"Rubbish!" said Miller, his voice quavering. "Would they put him at the mercy of a bunch of crooks? Why, at any moment any one of them might go to the police!"

"And be dead in twenty-four hours," said Mr. Strauss grimly; "you know their code, that class of person. I have looked up Smith's record. He is the very man who would undertake this work; a daring, resourceful man, with a good manner. He has been in every big crime that has been committed in this city since he was a boy of fifteen."

Mrs. Miller sighed, the long happy sigh of a dreamer.

"He may come here— to London.... Wonderful! Wonderful!"

"Dam' stupid!" snapped Miller. "I tell you I'm not in this, Strauss. I am real genuine British. They've treated me decently. The laws of this country are my laws, the enemies of this country are my enemies."

His wife turned in a fury.

"And you can say that, you can say that!" she hissed, "you a Brandenburger at heart! Don't you feel— doesn't your heart leap at the very thought of it?"

"No," said Mr. Miller, truthfully.

This was the guilty secret which he carried to his office, which walked at his elbow in the crowded street, which sat at the opposite side of his desk in his suite on the eighth floor of the Sloane Miller building. He saw Jackie Strauss the next day and purposely avoided him. He gave up eating at his favourite restaurant in Piccadilly and patronized the less fashionable Soho, where he knew Jackie, with his luxurious taste, would not venture.

Mrs. Miller saw Jackie frequently. She had consultations with him, and they met at lunches and at teas. Once at dinner in the family mansion, when the servants had been dismissed, she started in to tell her husband.

"Jackie thinks—"  she began, and Franz Miller dropped his knife and fork with a crash.

"I don't want to know what Jackie thinks," he said, sternly; "now, get that stuff out of your mind, Bertha. If you insist upon remaining a German, remember that a German woman's first duty is obedience to her husband."

"But I want to tell you—"

"I don't want to know," roared Mr. Miller, purple of face, and emphasizing his words with thunderous smacks on the table. "I tell you I don't want to know. You're mad, Bertha, stark, staring, raving mad."

"He's not at Amerongen," blurted his wife, triumphantly.

"He may be with the devil for all I care," roared Miller. "Perhaps you are right, perhaps that crazy story is true, but I tell you I don't want to know, and if you don't stop talking— I'll— I'll—"

He looked so ferocious, and his hand clutched the plate so convulsively, that his wife wilted. He apologized for his anger after dinner, and she received his apology meekly.

The Millers made a point of retiring for the night at 11.30, and Franz was smoking his last cigar and reading for the last time the closing prices, when the butler came into the room.

"There's a man who wishes to see you, sir."

Mr. Miller had a sinking sensation at the pit of his stomach.

"Er— a man," he stammered.

He did not look at his wife, for he could almost feel the emanation of her radiant mind.

"Rather a tough-looking fellow, sir. He wants to see you privately."

Miller hesitated.

"Show him in here," he said.

"Perhaps—"  whispered a voice at his elbow.

"Be silent, woman!" he thundered.

It was a relief to hear the sound of his own harsh, aggressive voice, and he found courage in his own violence.

The man who followed the butler was certainly not the man Mr. Miller dreaded to see. He was a short, bull-necked fellow, with keen, intelligent eyes, and a straight line of mouth. He waited till the butler had retired.

"I've got a message for you," he said, gruffly. "I dare say you've seen me before."

"I don't know— who are you?" asked Mr. Miller, suspiciously.

The man looked round to see that the door was closed.

"I am 'Snakie' Smith," he said.

"Yes, yes," broke in Mrs. Miller, impetuously; "have you a message?"

The man searched his pockets, produced a large white envelope and handed it to the reluctant Mr. Miller.

"Say," he said, confidentially, "I'm not in this. You don't know me. See? If anybody asks you whether 'Snakie' Smith has been, you have never heard of me!"

"No, of course not," said the woman, eagerly.

"Will you be quiet, Bertha?" demanded Mr. Miller, angrily. "Why should I compromise myself? What is this letter about?"

He did not open it, he dared not open it, and the messenger, noting his agitation, grinned.

"So long," he said, with a familiar nod of his head and, swinging round, stepped quickly into the hall, where the butler was awaiting him, and they heard the thud of the street door close behind him.

Mr. Miller turned the letter over and over. It was addressed to him in a large, sprawling, and unmistakably German hand.

"Open it, Franz," said his wife, in an agony of suspense.

Mr. Miller took a long breath and opened the envelope. The sheet which he extracted was of heavy paper, and on the top left-hand corner was a double-eagle, embossed in black. He adjusted his glasses with trembling fingers and read:

"At 11.30 to-night there will arrive one who has no home but the hearts of his people. Give him your hospitality for three nights before he passes on."

He read it three times and handed the letter to his wife. She stood rapt, transfigured, her eyes fixed upon the page.

"It's true," she whispered. "My God! It's true! How wonderful!"

Miller stood, a helpless, ludicrous figure, his mouth agape, his pale blue eyes wandering about the room, then—

"I've got to do it!" he said, hoarsely, "I've got to do it!"

He turned his pale face to his wife.

"Send the servants to bed." he said: "tell them we have a guest. He must have the best mom in the house. Will you—"

"I'll see to it. I'll see to it." she said, in a choked voice, and flew from the room.

He sat heavily down in a low chair, his head between his hands, bewildered, crushed. It seemed that the whole direction of his orderly life had been taken from his hands, He was in the grip of a force and a power stronger, more infallible than reason. This was Fate, Kismet, the Inevitability which was more tremendous than his will could harness. It crept over him, this new spirit of servitude, this atavistic impulse to obey. The blood of dead generations of Müllers who had buckled on their swords and tramped to the red West as the word of their sovereign lord sung through his veins, but to him the song was a dirge.

It was a quarter to twelve when the sound of a motor-car coming up the drive brought him to his feet. The car stopped before the house. There was a little interval and then a bell tinkled. He himself went to the hall and threw open the door.

The car was moving on as he did so, but a man was standing in the entrance, a medium-sized man, covered from shoulder to heel in a long black cloak, a soft felt hat of the same hue was pulled over his eyes, and in one hand he carried a battered portmanteau.

Mr. Miller mumbled something and bowed from his hip downward. He had never bowed like that before, but he knew that he must do so. The stranger stepped into the hall without a word and the door was closed and bolted behind him.

Mrs. Miller was in the open doorway of the library. She stumbled forward, caught the stranger's hand and, bending, kissed it.

"This is the way," she said, huskily, and went before him, Mr. Miller bringing up the rear.

She stumbled forward, caught the stranger's hand and, bending, kissed it.

The stranger stripped his cloak with his right hand— they noticed that he kept his left in his pocket— and with the same motion took off his hat. Tears blinded the woman. She could only see the dim outlines of a well-beloved face. Mr. Miller, though his pulse was beating a tattoo, noted the sallowness, the trim up-turned moustache, less exaggerated than he had expected, the tired eyes, the firm chin, the hair brushed straight back from the forehead.

"Is— would you like something to take?" he asked, shakily; "would your Majesty—"

The stranger raised his hand.

"You will please not use that word," he said, and his voice was gentle and sad. "I fear I am embarrassing you."

"No, no, certainly not," gasped Mr. Miller; "would you like some wine?"

The stranger shook his head.

"I am very tired," he said; "perhaps you would show me to my room. I am afraid I have not a servant."

His smile was very sweet. As he stooped to pick up the bag Mrs. Miller made a movement to forestall him.

"No, no," he said, gently, "I can manage myself. I must not be a greater trouble to you than I can help."

"It is no trouble, oh, I assure you it is no trouble," she cried. "If Exzellenz—"

"You must give me no title— please," he said, and he inclined his head toward the door.

She led the way up the stairs, though her knees were shaking under her, and again Mr. Miller brought up the rear.

"I could ask no better than this," said the man. He had been wearing under his cloak a stained grey uniform that fitted him like a glove. It was plain, without any ornament or decoration, but it was unmistakable.

"I came on a tramp steamer," he said; "it was rather— uncomfortable."

He dismissed them with a bow, and with no further word, and they went down together and sat for two hours facing one another, speechless.

At 2.30 Mr. Miller rose.

"I am going to bed," he said, heavily; "you have arranged—"

She nodded.

"I will see to his breakfast myself; nobody is to go into the room. I have told Parker and he will tell the servants that it is a friend who is ill."

"So?" said Mr. Miller, and mounted to bed, but not to sleep.

He went to his office the next morning, a criminal in mind and, if truth be told, in appearance. He lunched at a restaurant even more remote than any he had yet patronized. Somehow he dreaded returning to his secret, and, dismissing his car, he made a leisurely way homeward by motor bus.

Mrs. Miller was a very subdued, silent woman, but the fit of exaltation was still on her. She walked and moved as one who had seen a vision; was laconic but humble. When she spoke of the stranger her voice dropped to a pitch of reverence.

"I have only seen him tor a little while," she said; "I took his lunch and breakfast to him. To-night when the servants are in bed he wishes to take a stroll in the grounds. Will you— will you accompany him?"

"No," said Mr. Miller, shortly. He gulped. "No," he repeated. Then the grip of the old service fastened about his neck. "Yes, I will," he said.

It was a melancholy exercise, for neither spoke. The stranger walked a little in advance, his head bowed, his mind evidently occupied. As for Mr. Miller, he was torn between his old devotion and his new allegiance.

"I'm British!" he kept muttering to himself, as though it were some magic incantation which, repeated often enough, would restore his equilibrium.

The second day was a repetition of the first, but at nine o'clock came a diversion. Another stranger called, a clean-shaven, alert-looking man, who craved a private interview, and was ushered into the library, Mr. Miller quaking with apprehension.

"Sorry to bother you at this`hour of the night, Mr. Miller," said the stranger, briskly. "My name is Floyd. I am from Scotland Yard."

Franz did not faint. He stretched out an unsteady hand and caught the back of a chair for support.

"Oh, yes," he said, faintly; "a detective?"

"That's it, sir," said the brisk stranger. "It has been reported to me that an old friend of mine was seen giving your house a look-over the other day."

"The other day?" repeated Mr. Miller, mechanically.

"Four or five days ago," said the detective, and Mr. Miller breathed more freely. "He's a well-known thief named Smith— 'Snakie' Smith: you may have heard of him."

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Miller; "Smith— er― did come to the house at— er— my invitation."

"At your invitation?"

"Yes," said the other. "The fact is, Mr. Floyd, I am— er— trying to reform him, getting him to go straight."

Floyd smiled indulgently as a father might smile at the fancies of her child.

"Reforming him, eh? Well, you've got some job! He's a bad boy, Mr. Miller. He's the man who got away with Mabel Joyce's tiara, the actress, you know. He was in the same company."

"I've heard about it," said the desperate Mr. Miller, "but I really think he is reforming now."

"You'll find it an expensive process," said Floyd, grimly.

He took his leave, but the relief at his departure was nothing like the relief that Mr. Miller felt that the police had noted the arrival of "Snake" Smith but had not observed The Man. He must be warned. If the police were watching "Snake," sooner or later they would hit upon their greatest discovery.

But he had no opportunity of warning. He could only tell his wife, and somehow he had got out of the habit of discussing things with his wife and had hardly spoken to her since the stranger had arrived. Yet he managed to convey something of his fears to her. He came back earlier the next day, and if she had been exalted before she was now so beyond recognition. She hardly waited for the door to close on him before she told her news.

"He is leaving to-night, Franz," she whispered. "A car will call for him at eleven. He is going West... on to America. He has friends there. Oh, and Franz, don't think that everything is lost. He has loyal friends. They are working for him, Franz, and he will come to his own. He will wrest from their hands everything they have stolen from him. In a few years, Franz, he will be great again, and you and I—"

"Great again?" said Mr. Miller, dully; "great! That is war!"

She babbled more news, but he did not hear it. All that he realized was war and what it meant, the wrecked lives, the maimed bodies, the sufferings, and a coming again of that hideous nightmare— war!

He did not speak through dinner. He sat hunched up in his chair while she talked in low, fierce tones, and the hands of the clock went round. Why, it was a crime! It was a sin, the most damnable sin that had ever been committed, and he was a participant in the villainy! There would be more war, more dead, more poor maimed, blind souls groping and groaning through the world!

He leapt up with a strangled cry and stumbled across the table to the telephone. His wife stared at him.

"What are you doing?"

He did not reply to her; his trembling hands turned the pages of the Telephone Directory, and presently he called for a number.

"What are you doing?" she asked again.

"Is that Scotland Yard?" he asked. "It is Mr. Miller speaking, of Sloane Miller, Limited. Yes, I am speaking from my house. I have got a man here you want."

"Is that Scotland Yard?" he asked. "I have got a man here you want."

She leapt up at him like a tigress and knocked the telephone from his hand.

"You sssha'n't, you sha'n't!" she screamed. "You traitor! You traitor! I'm going to warn him!"

She took two steps, but he was after her, had swung her round and had thrown her sprawling on to the couch.

"You stay here," he said, breathlessly. "You stay with me here. Don't you move!"

"I'll scream!" she whimpered. "You traitor! Your name will be execrated—"

She moved on, but he stood between her and the door to the hall.

He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It showed ten minutes to eleven. Then there came to his strained ears the "Chuff! Chuff!" of two motor bicycles.

His wife was as white as death. She sat glaring at him till he almost collapsed under the strain of her fanatical hate. Then the door opened, and it was Floyd who came in.

Mr. Miller tried to speak but could not. He raised his hand to his trembling lips to steady them.

"There's a man you want," he said, and got no farther, for at that moment the second door to the room opened and the stranger came in.

He was carrying his bag, his cloak was on his shoulders, and at the sight of Floyd he stood stock still.

"I want you, 'Snakie,'" said Floyd, and his automatic pistol covered the other.

"Well, well, well," said the Kaiser, "if it isn't Floyd!"

Both his hands were in the air now as he walked calmly toward them. He gazed benevolently from the shaking Mr. Miller to his speechless wife.

"And which of you unpatriotic devils put your Kaiser away?" he asked, in elegant English.

Mr. Floyd saw a bulge in the stranger's pocket, and unceremoniously put in his hand and drew forth that which restored Mrs. Miller to speech. It was a large handful of priceless emeralds.

"You nearly got away with it, too," said Floyd, admiringly. "Well, you are certainly the boy!"

The Kaiser smiled pleasantly.

"Have you got a friend outside?" he asked. Floyd nodded.

"I'm sorry," said the man. "Do you mind if I take my moustache off?— it tickles. I am afraid you owe me an apology, Mr. Miller," he said; "that you should imagine the bull-necked tough I sent to you was me hurts my pride."

There was a sound of motor wheels.

"Stocky Jones and Tells, I suppose?" suggested Mr. Floyd, with an inquiring jerk of his head to the sound; "they've been working with you. That car will come in handy." he added. "Pick up your bag, 'Snakie,' you don't suppose I'm going to valet you, do you?"

They went out together, leaving a very silent couple.

It was Mr. Miller who spoke first.

"Bertha," he said, clearing his voice, "You didn't kiss his hand before he went!"

He felt he was entitled to that one.

________________________

4: A Raid on a Gambling Hell

Thomson's Weekly News, December 6, 1919

I HAVE had to deal with all classes of society, high and low, rich and poor, and number amongst clients several millionaires, crooks, peers and peeresses, and servant girls. It is my boast that nothing surprises me, yet I must confess feeling a mild tinge of excitement at receiving, on the letter-head of the Ministry of the Interior, a request that I would call at eleven o'clock upon Mr. George Tresham, the Minister in question.

The Right Honourable George Tresham was a name to conjure with on the day I received that summons. A comparatively young man who had won his way to the foremost Cabinet rank by sheer ability and courage, he had as solid a following as any Minister in the House.

'I have sent for you, Dixon,' he said, 'on a very delicate private matter. A matter,' he went on, 'which affects my personal honour— indeed, affects my whole future career.'

Motioning me to a chair, he began the narrative which is set down below. Of course, I am not giving the real names of persons and places.

George Tresham, in addition to being a popular statesman, was something of a man about town. He had a host of friends, mostly younger than himself, and his interest in the theatre had extended to the writing of a four-act drama, which had been produced with moderate success in the West End. It was during his brief incursion into the realms of dramatic authorship that he made the acquaintance of Bart Philipson— the Honourable Bartholomew Philipson— who, at the time this narrative was told me, had succeeded to his father's very small and very heavily encumbered estate as Lord Colesun.

Bart Philipson, as he was then, had an interest in the theatre wherein Mr. Tresham's play was produced.

The two became fast friends, for George Tresham was a large-hearted, lovable soul, who was attracted rather than repelled by the other's cynicism and worldliness. Tresham was, of course, enormously wealthy.

The two friends were talking at their club one night, and the conversation drifted round to gambling hells. Bart gave a very vivid word-picture of one he had visited in London, and Tresham expressed his surprise that such places existed, and also asked his friend to take him to see one some night.

About a month later, on a Thursday evening, when Tresham had finished his solitary dinner, the telephone bell rang, and his butler told him that Lord Colesun was on the telephone.

'I say,' said Bart's voice, 'are you still keen on seeing one of those places we were speaking about the other night?'

'Rather!' said Tresham, who was bored, and welcomed any diversion.

'Well, there's a new place opened in Montacute Square,' said Bart's voice. 'I don't know very much about it, except that I've got the password and the right of entrée for a friend. I am told it is unique in many respects.'

'All right. I'll come along.'

Tresham ordered his car, picked up Bart, and dismissed the car at the corner of Montacute Square. The two walked on. It was a foggy night, but Bart knew the way.

'Here we are,' he said, and, ascending a short flight of broad steps, he knocked in a peculiar manner on the door.

It was opened by a servant in quiet livery, and after a glance at Bart the two were passed into a hall which was dimly lighted and escorted up a stairway to a landing above. A pair of folding doors confronted them. On this the servant knocked. The door opened a few inches, and a keen eye scrutinised the pair.

'All right; come in, gentlemen,' said the owner of the eye, and they were admitted into a large saloon, blazing with light and richly furnished.

But it was not the appointments which made Tresham stare. It was not even the green table in the centre of the room, around which a dozen men were playing. It was the other questionable occupants. Men and women, the latter in wildly extravagant costumes, were sitting at little tables, taking no notice of the players. They all had the appearance of being under the influence of drink, and very far under at that.

'How perfectly beastly!' Tresham said. 'A perfect saturnalia! Let us get out of this, Bart.'

'I quite agree,' said the phlegmatic Lord Colesun. He was turning to the door, when it burst open, and a wild-eyed servant dashed in.

'The police! The police!' he gasped, and had hardly got the words out of his mouth when two or three policemen burst into the room after an inspector, and were followed by a dozen men in plain clothes. Immediately began a stampede, a kicking over of tables, a screaming of women, a shouting of men. Somebody cried, 'Put out the lights.' One man attempted to unshutter the window, and was pulled back by a constable, and in the end the inspector made his voice heard.

'Ladies and gentlemen,' he said, 'you will all consider yourselves under arrest. I shall take you to Bow Street Police Station.'

'My God! What shall I do?' said Tresham. 'It is ruin, Bart.'

'Keep quiet,' said Bart in a low voice. 'I'll see what I can do.'

He went across to the inspector, and at first the officer would have nothing to say to him. Then Bart said something in a low voice, and the two men stepped aside into a corner of the room, and for a few moments conversed together. Presently Bart strode back to Tresham.

'A policeman will take us out of the door,' he said. 'I've squared him.'

A constable approached and the two men were pushed unceremoniously on to the hall landing and escorted down the stairs.

'All right,' said Bart to the constable and slipped something into his hand.

'Hold hard, sir,' said the policeman, 'I seem to know that gentleman's face.'

'Never mind what you know,' said Bart.

'It's all right, sir. I hope there's no offence,' said the policeman, 'but if that isn't Mr. Tresham, I'm a Dutchman.'

Tresham looked at the man, but could not see his face. He noted, however, that one of his front teeth was broken. In a few moments they were out in the street, Bart cursing himself for having led his friend into such a mess. Tresham stopped him.

'Don't be a fool, Bart,' he said, 'it was my own stupid curiosity which is entirely responsible. What did you say to the inspector fellow?'

'I said a thousand pounds,' said Bart briefly, 'It was the only argument I could think of.'

'Of course I'll pay that,' said Tresham. 'In fact, it's cheap at the price. What about that infernal policeman? Do you think he'll talk?'

'I'll have to go back and see him,' said Bart. 'Otherwise, I don't think there's anybody there who recognised you, not even the inspector.'

George Tresham got home at 11.30, spent a restless night, and when, passing along Whitehall the next afternoon, he saw on the newspaper placards the announcement of a gambling raid, his heart beat faster. Fortunately it was scrappy, merely mentioning the fact that a raid had been made on a house in Montacute Square, that a certain number of people had been arrested, the proprietor had been fined and imprisoned, and that two servants who assisted in the conduct of the house had also been sent to prison. There was no mention of the unpleasant things he had seen; and that afternoon, when Bart came by appointment, the reason was explained.

'I saw the inspector again this morning,' he said, 'and I asked him to keep that part of it quiet, in case it ever came out that I was there. But I'm afraid we're going to have trouble with the policeman,' he went on, shaking his head. 'He's a man named Bowker, a shrewd and unscrupulous fellow, who has been in trouble before, and apparently has already announced his intention of resigning from the force to live upon a private income.'

'What does he mean by that?'

'He means you are the private income, I am afraid.' said Bart grimly.

'Blackmail?' demanded Tresham.

'That's what it amounts to,' said Bart.

'This is dreadful,' said Tresham with a despairing gesture. 'Have you seen this policeman?'

'That's what it amounts to,' said Bart.

'I've just come from him,' said Bart. 'I've found his address— he lives in Bayswater— and made a call. As I feared, he intends making us pay.'

'Did he mention a figure?'

'He did,' said Bart. 'He asked for fifty thousand pounds!'

'Fifty thousand pounds!' Even Tresham was startled.

'Seventy really,' said Bart. 'Fifty from you and twenty from me. Heaven knows where I'm going to get my twenty from.'

Tresham thought for a while.

'When does he want his answer?' he demanded.

'Tomorrow evening at the latest,' said Lord Colesun. 'I have an appointment to meet him on Hammersmith Broadway.'

It was after his friend's departure that Mr. Tresham sat down and wrote the letter that brought me to his study.

I listened in silence and sympathy to the narrative.

'Have you told Lord Colesun that you have sent for me?' I asked.

He shook his head.

'No,' he replied; 'but, of course, I shall tell him.'

'I would rather you didn't,' said I. 'I prefer working under one pair of eyes and with only one set of theories to combat.'

'Namely, mine?' he smiled faintly.

'Namely, yours, sir,' I said. 'You can afford to pay fifty thousand pounds, although I don't suppose anybody can afford to part with such an enormous sum. But Lord Colesun— is it humanly possible that he can pay?'

The Minister shook his head.

'Did he give you the address of the policeman?' I asked.

'No; it is somewhere in Bayswater, but he is meeting him tonight at Hammersmith. You will have to work with Lord Colesun, because he knows the man, and will be able to introduce you if necessary,' he said.

'What do you want me to do?' I asked.

The Minister hesitated.

'Well, I hardly know, except that I should like you to see the fellow and beat his price down. Maybe you could scare him?*

I shook my head.

'That kind of man isn't easily scared,' said I. 'He is evidently a thoroughly bad lot, and, being a policeman or an ex-policeman, as he will be in a day or two, he knows the law just as well as I, and he would be a difficult man to bluff. Now, if you'll be advised by me, Mr. Tresham, you will not say a word to Lord Colesun as to having seen or employed me.'

'But what can you do?' he asked. 'You do not even know the policeman's address.'

'I'll make a few inquiries which will help me to clear up the mystery of the drunken people.'

'Mystery?' he said. 'There was no mystery about it; they were there.'

'Exactly,' said I with a smile: 'but that is the mystery. Don't you realise, Mr. Tresham, that in gaming houses drunkenness is as rare as at a revival meeting?'

I thereupon left him and pursued my investigation.

Scotland Yard very kindly gave me a few particulars, and the Home Office the necessary permission to see the proprietor of the raided gambling-house. He was in Wandsworth Gaol, and to Wandsworth I drove, handed in my order, and was taken to where a stout, elderly man sat on the edge of his seat.

'I want to talk to you about this raid of yours,' said I. 'How did they come to catch you?'

'How? Why, I was given away,' he said vehemently, 'and what's more, I know the man that gave me away.'

'Who was it?' I asked.

'You find out,' he snapped. 'I name no names; I keep my opinions to myself. I was running one of the quietest, best-conducted little joints in London, and it's a shame they couldn't leave me alone.'

'I like your idea of well-conducted little joints,' said I, and in a few brief words I gave him my own opinion of the class of establishment he kept.

'That's a lie,' he said. 'If there were a lot of lushers lying about don't you think the police would have brought it out?

'Anyway, I'm glad they raided me when they did, if they were going to raid at all,' he went on. 'If they'd come a couple of hours later we should have been in full swing. As it was, they caught a few. The police messed it, as they mess everything. Fancy raiding a gaming house at half-past nine at night!' he said contemptuously. 'You're a split, aren't you?'

'I am a sort of detective,' I admitted.

'Well, don't think I've got anything against the police, because I haven't,' he said. 'Inspector Ericson was decent to me, and I don't suppose he'd have raided me, if that swine hadn't given me away. I'll "Bart" him when I come out.'

'What name was that?' I said quickly.

'Never mind,' he replied evasively, and try as I did, he could not be induced to say any more.

Now, Inspector Ericson is one of the straightest men in London. No Robespierre was more incorruptible. He was certainly not the kind of man who would accept a thousand pounds to allow a detected gambler to go scot free.

Ericson was not at the station when I called, and I took the liberty of driving over to his house, and found him preparing to go on night duty.

'I wanted to see you, inspector, about the raid you made the other night.'

'Oh, did you?' he said, with his hard little smile.

'When you made the raid why did you choose half-past nine?'

'Well, the raid was made in accordance with instructions we received from headquarters. The gentleman who gave the house away told us that at half-past nine it was crowded, and, what's more, he had arranged with the doorkeeper to let us in at that hour.'

'Another question, Ericson. When you made the raid, did anybody offer you a thousand pounds to let them out?'

'I think not. Otherwise it would have been as good as paying me to put them in!' he said.

'I happen to know,' said I, 'that the gentleman who gave you the information which led to the raid was Lord Colesun.'

'You do, do you?' said he. 'Ah, well, you know a lot!'

'Well, I won't ask you whether it was he or somebody else,' said I. 'But tell me this— was your informant present when the raid was made?'

'I can answer you very emphatically that he was not,' replied Ericson.

'Just one more question, Inspector. Do you know whether there are any other gambling houses in Montacute Square?'

'I can tell you that there are not,' said the inspector, 'it is funny you should ask that. It was the same question asked by one of my detective-sergeants who was watching the place we raided. He reported that a lot of people had gone in to No. 27. The house we raided was No.43, farther along. He went over to make an inquiry, but found there was a fancy-dress ball on or something. In fact, he mistook a dressed-up policeman, as he thought, who was going into the house as a real one.'

'Thank you, that's all I want to know,' said I, and went back to the office to get the report of my assistants, who had spent that afternoon making inquiries in knowledgeable circles in the city.

Their reports were very satisfactory from my point of view, and I was in the midst of reading them when Mr. Tresham rang through and asked me to come and see him.

'I hope I haven't annoyed you, Mr. Dixon, but I have had to tell Lord Colesun. I thought it was hardly fair to him. Will you come over?'

'Is he with you?' I asked.

'He is with me now.'

I gathered up the reports and read the last two on my way to Whitehall. Lord Colesun I had not met before.

He shook hands with me warmly on my introduction.

'Glad to meet you, Mr. Dixon. I have heard about you, and I am extremely glad that my friend Mr. Tresham has called you in. I was a little ratty when I heard in the first place, but since then I agree that it was wise to take professional advice. Mr. Tresham and I have been talking the matter over, and we have decided that the best thing to do is to pay this infernal policeman and let the matter rest.'

'I think it is the best thing to do,' broke in Mr. Tresham. 'I did have a wild idea that it would be better if you met the policeman, but on consideration I have decided that Bart— Lord Colesun— should carry the thing through himself.'

'I never expected to meet this policeman,' said I. 'At least, not in his role as a policeman. You said, Mr. Tresham, that although you did not see the policeman's face you noticed that he had one of his front teeth broken.'

Mr. Tresham nodded. I turned to Lord Colesun.

'May I ask you,' I said, 'if you know any person who has a front tooth broken?'

'I probably know several. I don't notice the teeth of policemen, however.'

'I am not talking about policemen,' I insisted. 'Do you know any other person with a broken front tooth?'

I had seen the young man's face change, and now he picked up his hat from a settee and walked towards the door.

'I'd like you to excuse me for a little while; I'm not feeling very well,' he said in a low voice.

'Wait!' said I, 'I have to finish my story.'

'Then you'll finish it alone,' snarled the man at the door, and went out, slamming it behind him.

The Minister looked at me in bewilderment.

'What does it all mean.'

'It means this,' said I. 'Your friend Lord Colesun has for months been on the verge of bankruptcy. Moreover, he has been taking funds from a company with which he is connected, which must be made good by tomorrow morning.'

'Good God! You don't suggest—' he began.

'I suggest that the gambling hell and the supposed police raid were got up for your special benefit. The gamblers and the police were members of a provincial touring company, who were brought to London to play their part by Lord Colesun, who told them that he was having a joke on one of his friends. The house was hired furnished—'

'But why the drunkenness?' asked Mr.Tresham.

'That was intended to make you all the more disgusted and all the more anxious to keep your name out of the case. To make the deception seem more real, your friend arranged for a gaming club, which undoubtedly existed in Montacute Square, to be raided the same night— as a matter of fact, an hour and a half before the sham raid was made. The policeman with the broken tooth was Lord Colesun's valet.'

'Then you suggest,' said Mr. Tresham in a low voice, 'that Bart was blackmailing me, and that the fifty thousand pounds was for himself?'

'I not only suggest that, but I advance it as a fact,' said I. 'The valet is a man who has been hand-in-glove with his Lordship in every dirty piece of business in which he has been engaged. Your friend arranged for a raid on a genuine gaming club in order that you should be able to read something in the next day's paper. The sham police who "raided" were in one of the rooms downstairs waiting until you were safely inside the saloon.'

The Minister sat at his desk, his head on his hands. At last he rose.

'Well, Mr. Dixon,' he said with a smile, 'you have saved me fifty thousand pounds, but you have cost me a very dear illusion.'

'You will not prosecute, of course?' said I.

He shook his head.

'If there is any of his father's spirit in the man, there will be no necessity for a prosecution,' he said quietly.

Tresham was right as it happened, for the first announcement I read when I opened my paper the following morning was that Lord Colesun had shot himself.

_________________________

5: The U-Beast

The Grand Magazine, January 1919

"I'VE been sitting here for four hours", said Commander Vanrhyn, of the U.S. Navy, and there was a note of disappointment in his deliberate speech, "and I've heard you boys telling what you consider is the most wonderful story of the war and I've said nothing. And what is more Bestwin has said nothing— which shows that we sailor-men, whether we are American or British, are possessed to a larger extent of what Napoleon called 'the greatest ornament of illustrious lives' than our comrades of the Army."

There was a howl of protest from the club smoke-room, for all present, save the American commander and Commander Sir George Bestwin, were of the land service.

"It is only modesty which prevents my telling you the story of the U904 which has never before been related— unless you've told it George?"

Sir George Bestwin shook his head gravely.

"It is not a story I am competent to tell," he said; "the honours are with you Vanrhyn."

"Well, I don't know," reflected Vanrhyn, "anyway it is a wonderful story."

I MUST begin this yarn at the beginning (said the Yankee sailor, yielding at last to the demand of the club) by telling you something about myself. No, Colonel, I am not forgetting Napoleon's dictum, but this explanation is necessary. I went into the Navy as a boy and served seven years, part of the time in the old coast-defence ship 'Miantonomoh'— but that's neither here nor there.

My naval career was uneventful and I left with the rank of Lieutenant on the death of my uncle. Uncle Harvey was the proprietor of one of the most prosperous newspapers in Chicago, which since I have no desire to advertise, I will call the Monitor-Post. By his death I became the sole proprietor of this proposition, and I only refer to the fact because it was in this new field of journalism that I first woke up to the fact that there was a mighty big world outside Chicago.

It was here that I was educated up to German mentality and learned that there was a place called Germany where men were not content with the realisation of modern ideals, but thought backward way into the dark ages, where the only law was the law of the sword, and the only right was the right of the stronger.

I am indebted to this day to my chief tutor, a cub reporter named Willie Mainz, who was a storehouse of information on militarism and for some extraordinary reason was proud of his ineffaceable right to be kicked by his masters as a normal citizen is of Pure Government.

I guess that Willie was never just as reliable on any other subject as he was on Germany and her future. He turned in stories which got us into no end of trouble. He had only to see a foreign looking woman registering as Mrs. Smith at an hotel to found a story of a Grand Ducal misalliance and the flight of the guilty couple to America, which got even the romances of old Dumas looking as mean as a meteorological report. He cost us too much money, and the staff wasn't big enough to allow us to send out four men to verify his facts, so we fired him, and I at least parted from him with regret.

Often after the European war started I have thought of all his predictions and how marvellously true they were. He foretold the invasion of Belgium, the U-boat campaign, the collapse of Russia— everything came true except the taking of Paris. I admit I had a genuine liking for the little fellow, and when the news reached Chicago that he had been killed at Verdun, I wrote his obituary with my own hand.

Now there was one prediction which I have thought about a great deal since America came into the war. I was discussing with Willie once, just before he left for Germany, this very question of convoys which we were talking about earlier in the evening. There was some discussion in the English Press in the early part of '15 as to whether merchantmen should or should not be convoyed. Emden and Karlsruhe and other light cruisers were playing the devil with English shipping at the time, and Willie had produced a map and shown me that it was impossible to protect shipping by any other means than sending with them an escort.

"Here," he said, pointing to the map— I won't tell you exactly where 'here' was—" is the only place where a patrol could protect an unarmed convoy, and even a U-boat could not get past because there is twenty miles of shallow water."

I tell you war strategy and German tactics were his consuming vices.

Well, the coincidence in this story— or one of them— lies in this fact, that early this year, having rejoined the Navy at the outbreak of war, I found myself in command of one of a flotilla of four destroyers, two of which were American and two British, patrolling this very area. That is why I say that Willie's words came back to me in the dark watches, and I often wished I could bring the young man back from the shambles of Verdun to repeat some of the points which I had forgotten.

Bestwin commanded one of the British destroyers and, as he will confirm, I had often discussed, in the light of Willie's information, the practicability of a U-boat evading the patrol and slipping through across the track of the U.S transports.

In April the Atlantic was thick with American troops bound for Europe and a pretty heavy strain was imposed on the patrols, when we received a wireless from the flagship that a tin-fish was loose in our neighbourhood and that it was one of the latest type. It had passed without sinking two small merchantmen in the English Channel, and that looked pretty ominous. Of course we got all the information which the English Intelligence Department could gather; the name of the commander was Scholtz, a well-known skipper, famous for his daring and resourcefulness, the boat's number was 904, and she had left Bremen on such and such a date.

Naturally, being a bit rattled by our responsibility, we wondered why the artist who had written her biography, so to speak, had not rounded off the job whilst he was admiring her classic lines and put a shell into her. For rattled we were, Bestwin and I. The patrol had been reduced to two, and away out there on the Atlantic were some 20,000 innocent doughboys full of pep and blissfully confident in the power of the Navy to hold back anything that sported a periscope.

I won't tell you the size and power of their escort. This was April, remember, men were badly needed in France, and we took a few risks what we don't take nowadays.

Our patrol covered the only deep water for a hundred miles and that wasn't too deep in places. It lay between two shoals and we had buoyed the four corners of the deep patch to save us the bother of continuously taking observations. Day and night we raced up and down, crossing and recrossing, or else lay with engines stopped, listening at the microphone for some sound of a submarine propeller.

I can testify that the night the U 904 got through we were on the qui vive. It was a calm, starlit night with scarcely any wind but a gentle breeze from the south. The sea was dead calm and I guess that if two lobsters had rubbed together we'd have heard them. And yet that U-boat got through. Patiently, silently it had drifted right underneath us and might have got into the convoy and finished my career and Bestwin's but for a happening which justifies me in saying that this is the most wonderful story of the year.

Bestwin had come on board the Dade for breakfast— the Dade was the destroyer I commanded. We exchanged notes and agreed that nothing had passed and went below to eat.

"I think she'll come by night if she comes at all," said Bestwin, "especially as the difficulty of this passage seems to be well known even in non-naval circles of Germany."

"Of course you saw nothing?" I said.

Bestwin hesitated.

"I saw nothing important," he said, "except that there seem to be a number of very large devil-fish in this quarter. I was looking over the side at four bells in the middle watch and I saw one chap as big as a table. I could see him quite plainly, all phosphorescent and hideous with his long tentacles folded behind him."

"It's rather far north for that kind of animal," I said, and we changed the subject and discussed the sort of things that men discuss at breakfast, razors and soaps, and mail and the scarcity of clean shirts.

We came on deck just as the officer of the watch hailed me.

"Something in the water ahead, sir," he said.

We made a jump for the bridge and fixed our glasses.

Sure enough something was happening. The water was swirling and foaming as though some monstrous body was in mortal agony and was threshing out its life in the depths of the sea. It was on the wrong side of the shoal— the side we didn't want to see a U-boat so that when all of a sudden a submarine broke surface my heart went down into my boots.

Bestwin took a flying leap and jumped for his boat, which was lying alongside, and the last I saw of him, his crew were pulling for their ship.

We got bear the range and opened fire.

The first shell went over, the second fell short. But what worried and puzzled me was the erratic behaviour of the U-boat. It didn't attempt to get away, but was bucking up and down for all the world like a porpoise. First the bow came out, then the stern, then it submerged altogether, and when it re-appeared it was twisting round in a circle.

I heard the gun of the Floss go and saw a column of water leap up astern of the U-boat, and then I saw it come to the level and a figure appeared on the deck waving a white flag.

It was the commander, and when he was taken off and brought to me I had never seen but one man who presented so wild and terrified an appearance. He was shaking and moaning like someone demented.

Bestwin had returned to the Dade and together we got the German down to my mess-room and forced some brandy between his chattering teeth. He looked round dazed and bewildered.

"Then it isn't a dream," he said in German.

We found afterwards that he spoke good English, and after Bestwin and I had gathered in the crew, and put some of our men aboard the submarine to bring her into harbour, and when we were through with wirelessing our report to the flagship and filling and comparing logs, we went down to see him.

He was more composed, and that was when he revealed his knowledge of the English language.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I have no doubt you have formed a very low opinion of my courage."

"Not at all," said Bestwin with innate British courtesy, "you probably thought we were going to hang you."

Kapitän-Leutnant Scholtz— for so he introduced himself— shot at George what I would describe as a look of positive dislike.

"It was not that, gentlemen," he said coldly, "no normal danger ever terrifies a German officer, but I have been through an experience which I can only describe as appalling."

He shuddered at the recollection.

"Last night," he said, "I was approaching your patrol, well knowing, of course, that a very vigilant look-out was being maintained for the protection of your transports which are now in latitude so and so, longitude so-much. I had orders, I will be perfectly frank with you, to sink the giant liner which you have stolen from my country and which carries eight thousand men of the — the U.S. Regiment of Infantry."

He had all the details pat and I don't doubt that he could have told me the birthplace of the chief steward.

"Naturally I was anxious to avoid you; but nevertheless I kept to the surface as soon as night fell and did not submerge until I was about nine nautical miles from your beat."

"To the North-west?" asked Bestwin.

"North-north-west from here," said Scholtz, and went on, "but before I submerged, and when, of course, I was in diving trim so that the boat was susceptible to the least unusual resistance, I observed I was moving in what seemed to be a veritable ocean of devil-fish."

Bestwin uttered an exclamation.

"Why, yes," he said, "I saw them myself."

"There were thousands of them," said Kapitän Scholtz with a shiver, "they lit the sea with their uncanny light. I was not greatly impressed except to find them so far north— I am something of a naturalist, particularly in relation to maricolous animals. I observed that they were rather of the order of Octopus punctatus than Octopus vulgaris, that is to say they were larger and possessed more tentacles than the European species— in fact they differed in many structural respects from the typical Cepholopoda of their order."

"I've got you," said Bestwin, who is no scientist, "they were different."

"Quite", said Scholtz; "as I say, I was not worried except in so far as the possibility with so many of these fish in the neighbourhood there was a danger that my propeller would be fouled. But really this wasn't a great danger. I was taking a final look round before submerging and my second officer had already gone below when I saw on my starboard bow what I took to be the broken mast of a ship lying in the water. I altered my course to keep it well away when, to my amazement it moved."

He wiped his brow with a handkerchief and blew as though to blow away the memory.

"It was moving broadside toward me, so that in three or four minutes I could see it plainly."

"It— then it was alive?" I asked.

"Yes," said Scholtz. "I will try to describe it. In length it was not far short of a hundred feet. It was more or less tubular in shape and the back was covered with a green mossy growth. The head, which lay flat on the water, was spatula-shaped and horny, rather like a crocodile, though as I afterwards discovered it had a huge pair of gills. It was gliding toward me without any perceptible motion. I called the second officer, but before he could reach the deck the thing had rolled over, revealing a white belly and two great fins like the centre-board of a yacht, and had disappeared. I had just time to notice what looked like a ruff of red fur about its neck, but which I afterwards discovered was a broad band of pink seaweed, Polysiphonia Urceolata."

I must confess that both Bestwin and I were staggered. Everybody has heard of the sea-serpent, the existence of which is, of course, one of the stock jokes of the world. But probably at the back of every sane man's mind there has lurked a reservation, that such animals should exist is not absolutely outside the range of possibility.

"Do you suggest," asked Bestwin, who had taken out a sheet of paper and was noting down the extraordinary facts, "that you saw the sea-serpent?"

Kapitän Scholtz shrugged his shoulders.

"What can I say?" he said, "Naturally as one interested in animals and in the sea I have heard of the sea-serpent which was seen in '48 by Captain M'Quhae in the tropic of Capricorn, and I have read Lt. Drummond's account of the monster he saw, and the description which Dr. Drevar of the Pauline furnished in '75 of the battle he had seen between a sea-serpent and a whale. Then, of course, there is the account given by the Captain of Queen Victoria's yacht Osborne, which fell in with the sea-serpent off Sicily in June 1877. I confess I am as sceptical as you, gentlemen, but there was the thing in front of my eyes. There was no question of my being under any illusion or my mistaking the animal for anything but what it was.

"However, after a little while we went below and submerged, keeping the periscope level with the water. It was not long before I picked up the destroyers. Probably my silencer accounted for the fact that you did not hear me. I had shut off and was going down a little deeper to drift under you when I saw this strange animal again. It was swimming in a wide circle and its head evidently struck against my bows, for I felt a trembling shock and we began to roll. Immediately after I felt another shock, this time against the side of the boat, and this last was so violent that I decided to come to the surface and take the chance of being observed. Accordingly I came up.

"For a little time I could see nothing, but presently right aft I discerned the head of the beast, lying across the deck, its body being under water. The head was about eleven or twelve feet long and the eyes, which turned on me and which filled me with the most awful terror, were green and luminous, like those of a crocodile. The head slid sideways toward me with such force that it swept the iron stanchions clear, and I jumped below and again submerged.

"Throughout the night I drifted aimlessly with my engines shut off, not daring, for something more than the fear of your patrol, to come to the surface, and daring as little to stay below because at odd intervals we felt the horny head of the beast striking against the boat. We had excited his curiosity and probably his anger and he kept us close company. Once he came over us and momentarily rested his weight upon the hull. I thought that our end had come. As you know, gentlemen, a submarine is so sensitively balanced that a few pounds of unexpected weight is quite sufficient to set it wobbling. Imagine what happened when two or three tons of marine monster rested on us. My bows dipped down and I should have had some difficulty in recovering, but happily the beast slipped off.

"At seven o'clock this morning I cleared the shallow water, but I had not shaken off my companion. I caught a momentary glimpse of him through my periscope, his cavernous mouth, his triple rows of teeth, his staring green eyes, but I was beginning to get used to him, and to enjoy the novel experience when something suddenly enraged him. I had risked showing my periscope and I was looking through this when the thing happened. He rose half out of the water so that the upper part of him towered over me, and then for the first time I saw that the great under-fins were working to and fro as a man might work his hands. They were for all the world like hands in fingerless mittens. The under side was covered with wide silvery scales, the fins were a dark purple and, as I say, horribly like hands. As suddenly he rose he fell again, sending up a mountainous wave. Then before I knew what had happened he had thrown himself on his back as a playful cat would lie on the ground and had seized the bottom and the sides of the boat in his terrible fins.

"The boat rolled to and fro. I could see him biting at the steel-covered bow and inside we could hear the grating of his teeth. I put on full speed and tried to sink, but the body of the creature was holding me up.

Then suddenly the stern went down and I knew, without seeing, that he had flung his tail clear of the water and had coiled it round my little boat. We rose and fell in a most alarming fashion. The crew who knew nothing of the circumstances, and the officers, to whom I had not confided my fears, could not understand what I was doing and imagined that I was manipulating the diving rudder.

"It was then that you opened fire, and I think the first shell must have wounded the beast, for he released his hold and we came up on a level bottom. Since I did not wish to share the fate of the sea-serpent," said Kapitän Scholtz with a smile, "I had nothing to do but to surrender."

We looked at one another, the three of us.

Bestwin was perhaps more excited than I.

"This is the most extraordinary thing that has ever happened," he said, "and it is quite natural in this extraordinary war, with its submarines, its depth charges and the like, that we should disturb whatever is at the bottom of the sea."

"You understand, gentlemen," interrupted Kapitän Scholtz, "and I am sure you will not take it amiss, that I myself would like to describe this event in my own way."

"In other words," said I, "you want the copyright of this story."

Kapitän Scholtz nodded. "Both the serial and the book rights," he said, and I stared at him.

"Why, Willie," I said.

He gasped. "Mr. Vanrhyn!" said he.

"Willie!" I said, "I thought you were dead, But you are alive and lying."

I shook him warmly by the hand.

"Say, Mr Vanrhyn," he said, looking mighty foolish, just as he used to when we caught him in the old Monitor-Post days. "That's a pretty good story anyway."

"Willie!" I said and introduced him.

"Scholtz is my real name," he explained, "Mainz was my nom de plume, and I got the idea for that story," he said, "by seeing all those devil fish— and Mr.Vanrhyn," he said earnestly, "I wanted some story bad. That old transport is full of Chicago boys, half of 'em friends of mine. It was a question," he said, "of thinking or sinking, and I had to think up an excuse for surrendering pretty quick or my second officer would have shot me. I got all my facts and Latin words out of an encyclopedia I looted. How does the story go?"

"Willie," I said, "that sea-serpent copyright is yours for all time. I'll file it just as soon as I get back to New York."

________________________

6: The Man Who Came Back

The Strand Magazine, May 1920

MRS. ARRIS dreamt of a day, a Sunday morning preferably, when she would open her News of the World and discover a large portrait of herself set amidst closely-printed columns dealing with a cause célèbre. If she had any further preference it was for a murder case of a sensational character, and it is perfectly true that the possibility of figuring in a divorce case never occurred to her. When such a splendid possibility dawned upon her mind it left her dazed and for the moment speechless.

The circumstances were as follows.

DONALD Prendegast came back to his flat near Regent's Park unexpectedly. He had left Nairobi after a twelve months' residence in that thriving city and had written out a cablegram announcing his departure. He had found that cablegram in his pocket when he packed his clothes at Southampton.

So Prendegast came to his flat at eleven o'clock at night unannounced and unheralded, and found Mrs. Arris on the point of leaving. It was rather late for Mrs. Arris, who was a daily help, vulgarly described as a "char," but there had been certain distressing happenings at the flat that evening, and she had hovered round a weeping girl, offering her such rough help and sympathy as her experience suggested. It is true that the only material comfort she could suggest was "a drop of grool," but then Mrs. Arris had complete faith in the recuperative and therapeutical value of oatmeal.

Prendegast stared at the dumpy figure in the nondescript uniform of chardom. That his wife would be out he had expected. Evelyn made a point of dining on Wednesdays with his mother.

Mrs. Arris stared back at him.

"Halloa, young man!" she said, suspiciously.

"Halloa!" smiled Prendegast. "Who the devil are you?"

"Language, language!" said the shocked Mrs. Arris. "Where did you come from, if I might be so bold to ask?"

Prendegast laughed.

"Well, since you're so infernally inquisitive, I've come from Nairobi, which is in Central Africa.''

"Oh, indeed!" said Mrs. Arris, uncomprehendingly, for the only "robi" she knew spelt his name quite differently and was called "George."

Prendegast walked to the fire, switched on the wall lights, and warmed his hands.

"You are surprised to see me, eh?" he smiled. "You're the skivvy, I suppose?" A word abhorrent to Mrs. Arris, and she drew herself up.

"Pardon me!" she replied, not without dignity. "I am the lady that helps the woman that owns this flat, and without a word of a lie I am surprised to see you."

"I expect other people will be too," he laughed. "By Jove! It's good to be back in the old flat. Nothing changed, nothing gone!"

Mrs. Arris blinked. In a mat-bag resting on the sideboard and ready packed to take away were certain odds and ends of food which she had carefully collected before departure. They included an egg or two, an odd packet of tea, a few tins of milk, and the like, for Mrs. Arris had argued that in the condition in which her young mistress found herself the sight of superfluous food might distress her. So Mrs. Arris blinked and changed the subject.

"Might I ask, sir, who you are?" she demanded, with some justification.

"Of course. I'm Mr. Prendegast."

A light dawned on Mrs. Arris.

"Oh, indeed!" she said. "Why, there's a letter for you in the 'all. It's been there the best part of a week. I ought to have posted it before, but I forgot it."

Prendegast, in a forgiving mood, wagged an admonitory finger.

"So you're the person who kept my letters back. Get it for me, will you?"

When she had gone he looked round the pleasant sitting-room. Then he sniffed. Cigars?

Who had been smoking cigars? Evelyn hated the smell of cigar smoke.

Mrs. Arris came back with the letter— it was addressed in Evelyn's hand.

"Excuse me, sir," said Mrs. Arris, a persistent woman and not wholly satisfied.

"Are you any relation to Mrs.—" She snapped her fingers in an effort of memory and explained. "I can never remember the name of a missus till I've been in the house a week, and I've never been in a house for a whole week."

Prendegast laughed.

"Any relation? I'm her husband, that's all!"

Mrs. Arris swayed and put a trembling hand to her somewhat discoloured face. Prendegast did not notice the movement, for his senses were otherwise engaged.

"There's a peculiar smell here," he said. "Has anybody been smoking cigars?"

He heard her gasp, and turned quickly.

"What's the matter with you? You haven't been smoking cigars?" he accused.

Mrs. Arris shook her head. There was something in her face that made the man's breath come quickly.

"Has anybody been here? Any visitors?" he demanded.

"Oh, sir!" wailed Mrs. Arris, appealingly.

"What is it?" demanded Prendegast, harshly. "Speak out! There's something wrong here."

"Did you say you was the lady's 'usband?" asked Mrs. Arris, faintly.

"Of course I'm the lady's husband. Why?"

For answer Mrs. Arris staggered to a chair and dropped into it.

"To think I should ever get mixed up in a scandal like this!"

"Scandal!" gasped the man.

"At my time o' life," she moaned, "when I don't even know what number bus passes the Divorce Court. I've always wanted to be in the News of the World!"

Prendegast went white.

"Divorce Court? Great heavens, you don't mean― No, no, that couldn't be! that couldn't be!"

She nodded her melancholy confirmation of his worst fears.

"You smelt a cigar," she said, huskily. "It was 'im!"

"'Im? Him, I mean. What him?"

"The man who—"  Mrs. Arris's voice failed.

"Speak up! The man who what?" asked the man, hoarsely.

"He's here all the time."

"All the time? Merciful heavens! You don't mean he lives here?"

She nodded, and Prendegast staggered back, covering his eyes.

"This can't be true!" he groaned. "And I came home six weeks ahead of my time thinking to give her a surprise, picturing her delight. My God! It's awful!"

"My Gawd! It is awful!" quivered Mrs. Arris, to whom the tremendous possibilities of a sensational development were now apparent.

Prendegast leapt up, his face white.

"Where is he now?" he demanded.

Mrs. Arris lowered her voice.

"He's gone to Manchester by the night train— there was an awful scene before he went, sir."

The man swallowed hard.

"Tell me the worst," he said, quietly, and Mrs. Arris shivered with pleasurable excitement.

"He's so jealous of her, and he's a good-looking young chap, too, and he kept saying that she was in love with somebody else, and he threatened—"

"He threatened, did he?" roared Prendegast, pacing the room. "He threatened! Let me lay my hands on him and I'll strangle him!"

"She's been crying all the evening, poor soul!" snivelled Mrs. Arris, in sympathy.

"This is awful! I must think!" He paced the room in his agitation. "It was all my fault, all my fault. I shouldn't have gone away for such a long time. It isn't fair to a woman."

Mrs. Arris sniffed her agreement. "I don't know what I should do if I was left alone all that time. You know," she confessed, "we women are devils!"

"I ought to have foreseen this!" Prendegast turned on her suddenly. "What does this man call himself?"

"His name?" She knit her forehead. "Let me think. I know it as well as I know my own. His name— I've got it!— it's Pinder!"

"Pinder! I'll remember that!" Prendegast resumed his pacing. If he talked, it was not to the frowzy old woman who watched him in rapturous contemplation. To her he was the chief figure in a drama in which she was to play no inconsiderable part. To him she had no existence.

This news was terrible, terrible— and he had never dreamt of it. Every letter she had written breathed love and affection. He must forgive her. He must ask for forgiveness, he who had put such a terrible temptation in the poor girl's way.

"Where is she?" he asked.

Mrs. Arris pointed to a door leading from the sitting-room.

"In the old room, eh?" he said, with a bitter smile, and walked to the door.

Mrs. Arris was by now mistress of ceremonies. Torn between a natural desire to shield a representative of her own sex and the beckoning finger of the glory which would be hers when she stepped soberly to a witness-box, the observed of all observers, her inclinations weighed on the side of humanity.

"If you put your ear to the key-hole," she whispered, huskily, "you can hear her sobbing something awful." She laid her grimy hand on his arm. "Don't be 'ard on her, sir. Remember you was young yourself once."

He opened the door. The room was in darkness, and mechanically he felt for the switch. The low sobbing of the room's occupant came to him and touched something in his heart. He clicked down the switch, but no light came. Then he heard a flustered explanation at his elbow, the "refuse wires is broke," and Went in, closing the door behind him.

Mrs. Arris turned back discreetly.

"It's very 'ard," she muttered. "I suppose I'd better put a couple of those eggs back— he may be an egg-eater, coming from foreign parts. Oh, it's very 'ard on her, poor dear! The woman always pays." She hesitated with one egg in her hand. "He don't look as if he'd eat more than one egg." She put the egg back into the basket. "Anyway, I don't suppose he'll have an appetite even for one. Drink's what he'll want."

She closed the mouth of the bag quickly as Prendegast appeared in the doorway. He had taken off his coat and vest and he was visibly agitated.

"Get me a glass of water, will you?" he called, urgently. "My wife is simply hysterical. She won't even speak to me."

Mrs. Arris poured out the water with a shaking hand.

"Coax her, sir," she pleaded. "You know, us women are won by wooing, as the saying goes."

He took the water and went back into the bedroom, Mrs. Arris watching with glazed eyes. Yet the splendour of the situation could not be obliterated by any pity she might feel.

Scandal in high life! Intelligent charwoman makes amazing revelations! Sensation in court! Portrait of Mrs. Arris! These and other visions of a glittering publicity passed through her vague mind.

A key turning in the outer door aroused her and she gazed in dismay at the newcomer, who stamped into the room, throwing down his travelling bag.

It was the sinful Pinder.

"Halloa! Haven't you gone, Mrs. Arris?" he asked, with a frown.

"No, sir," said the almost inaudible Mrs. Arris.

"Well, clear out!" he snarled.

She found herself surprisingly breathless.

"Did you lose your train, sir?" she quavered.

"Yes— no— what the dickens is it to do with you?"

He brushed past her and was making for the bedroom when Mrs. Arris, with unsuspected agility, slipped between him and the door.

"Over my dead body!" she said, heroically. He scowled at her, then scowled at a decanter on the sideboard.

"Oh, you've been drinking, eh? And I thought I'd locked the tantalus. Now, you take my advice and get away before I send for a policeman."

Mrs. Arris bridled.

"And you take my advice and get away before I send for an ambulance."

Mr. Pinder was not a good-tempered man at the best of times. Now he was incoherent. Yet he had need of speech, for at that precise moment the bedroom door opened and Prendegast came out—

For a second both men glared at one another; then—

"So you're the brute!" they yelled in unison.

"What were you doing in that room?" hissed Pinder.

"What are you doing in this flat?" grated Prendegast.

Neither waited for an explanation, and the struggle which followed was disappointingly short— for the one spectator.

Prendegast was the heavier man and in better condition. In twenty seconds Mr. Pinder was flung bodily through the door and the door was slammed on him.

Prendegast came back to the table and sank into a chair.

"I wish I'd killed him!" he breathed.

Then his eyes fell upon the letter which Mrs. Arris had forgotten to post. It was her confession, he thought. How tragic that he had arrived home in time to intercept it! He kissed the envelope tenderly, tore open the flap, and began to read:—

"Dearest Donald,— As you will not be back for three months I have let the flat furnished to a nice couple— a Mr. and Mrs. Pinder...."

He repeated the words slowly, and his hair began to rise.

"....a Mr. and Mrs. Pinder. I am staying at the Grand Hotel until you come back."

It was the furious thumping on the door which brought him out of his trance. Then he beckoned Mrs. Arris. "What did you say the name of these people was?"

"Pinder. Mr. and Mrs. Pinder."

"Mr. and Mrs. Pinder!" repeated the other, hollowly. "Go into that room and get my coat and vest. Hurry!"

Mrs. Arris regarded him in amazement.

"Ain't yer staying?"

"Get my coat and vest!" whispered Prendegast, fiercely. "I'll give you a fiver."

He flew round the flat collecting his belongings, snatched his coat from the astounded Mrs. Arris, and thrust a banknote into her hand.

"Tell me— I've forgotten," he asked, quickly—" is there a fire-escape here?"

"Yes, sir, through this window. But don't go, sir. She'll never forgive you!" Prendegast threw up the window and stepped out on to a little iron balcony.

"When I am gone, open the door. I think you said you'd like your name in the News of the World?"

"Yes, sir, I would."

"Well," said the man, grimly, "it'll be in next Sunday."

"In a divorce case?" she asked, eagerly.

"No; in an inquest," said Prendegast, and disappeared.

She hesitated; then, as the door crashed open and the dishevelled Mr. Pinder flew into the room, she followed.

There was a maniacal glare in Mr. Pinder's eye.

"Gone!" he howled, and his eye fell upon the window.

Before he could follow his wife stepped into the room, a smile on her lips, the light of love in her eyes.

"Oh, Jack— kiss me again!" she murmured.

"'Again'!" moaned Mr. Pinder, and collapsed.

_________________________

7: The Speed Test

The Novel Magazine, July 1921

MISS JANE IDA MEAGH was prepared to brain the first misguided person who addressed her by either of her given names, and had accepted with gratitude at a very early age the appellation suggested by the combination of her initials— Jim. And from “Jim” to “Jimmy” is but a short step.

In the census return Jimmy described herself as a “stenographer.” So might Edison have marked himself “electrician” or Napoleon “soldier.” For there was no stenographer like Jimmy. She was at the very head of her profession, and was booked ahead like a film-star or a Harley Street specialist.

If there was one person in the world whom Jimmy hated and loathed with all her soul, that person was Henry Obbings. Henry was a limp youth who gave you the impression that he had shaved in a bad light. He was famous in the social circle in which he moved for his ready wit and a gift of repartee. He invariably recounted with a wealth of detail his encounters with Jimmy, and repeated with great effect the things he had said to Jimmy on these occasions.

It is true that the majority of his pert replies were those he remembered long after he had left Jimmy, and it is also a fact that he never quite gave a faithful account of what Jimmy had said to him. There were some things which Henry could never bring himself to repeat.

Henry Obbings was the pet speedster of the Rat-a-plan Typewriter Co. Ltd., and from time to time there were issued by him or on his behalf challenges to the whole of civilised mankind, man or woman, to meet him in a speed contest, the only conditions being that Mr. Obbings should operate on a Number 6 Silent Rat-a-plan, “the writer that writes.”

For the purpose of this challenge Jimmy regarded herself as inhuman; she steadfastly and resolutely declined to beat Mr. Obbings privately or publicly, and sneered openly at Mr. Obbings’s portrait in the newspapers. These appeared from time to time, for the Rat-a-plan had an excellent Press agent, and they revealed Mr. Obbings working at his machine, a sycophantic attendant standing by with an oil-can. It was a legend that he worked so fast that after half-an-hour’s use the bearings of the machine became so hot that it was necessary to open the door and windows of the room in which he worked, to let the temperature cool down.

There were also pictures of Mr. Obbings in his moments of leisure and recreation, sitting at a table, with his head upon his clenched fists, looking at a book with a studious, even sad expression.

One morning there came to Jimmy a further challenge by Mr. Henry Obbings. There was an annual exhibition at which business appliances of all kinds were shown, and it was a feature of this event that a diploma and a gold medal were competed for by stenographers. So far it had resulted in a walk-over for Henry.

Jimmy had turned down every such artful move and invitation, and she now dropped the letter into her waste-paper basket with an exaggerated gesture of disgust. Nor did the information that the Rat-a-plan Typewriter Co. offered an additional money prize of substantial value to anyone who could exceed the speed of Mr. Obbings produce a trace of irresolution to her decision.

She got up from her breakfast-table briskly and looked at her engagement- book. Jimmy was booked ahead, as has been remarked before, like a fashionable physician. Her amazing quickness, her accuracy, her unquestionable integrity justified the big fees she received, and incidentally confirmed her wisdom when she set out to be a specialist stenographer.

Her first call that day was on Dr. John Phillips, who was also a specialist in his way; and Dr. John, who looked a little tired under the eyes, as well he might be, for he had been up all night with a dying patient, received her at his morning meal.

“Thanks, no, doctor,” said Jimmy. “I’ve just breakfasted.”

“This is my supper,” growled the doctor. “Jimmy, I’ve the details of fourteen cases to dictate to you, and I hope you feel fitter for the job than I. By the way,” he said curiously, “where did you get your extraordinary knowledge from? You’ve never yet spelt a medical term wrongly.”

“I got them out of a book, the same as you,” said Jimmy.

The doctor looked at her admiringly.

For the next hour and a quarter she was absorbed in the gruesome and sorrowful business of recording the histories of cases, every other one of which ended: “The patient died at 11.45,” or whatever the hour might have been.

“Don’t any of your patients get well?” asked Jimmy as she snapped the band round her note-book.

“Just a few,” said Phillips. “Don’t forget, I’m only called in at the very end in lots of cases. I think some of them expect me to bring my trumpet, under the impression that I am the Archangel Gabriel.”

“A rotten life!” said Jimmy thoughtfully. “I’d sooner have my job.”

The doctor looked at his watch.

“I must hurry. I’ve got to go to Greenwich,” he said.

Nevertheless, and in spite of his hurry, he sat down again at his desk and lit a cigarette, offering one to Jimmy, who shared a common match.

“Jimmy, do you think that a young man with brilliant prospects, but no money, should marry a very nice girl and start family life on— that!” He snapped his fingers to indicate a microscopic income.

“It all depends upon the prospects,” said Jimmy cautiously. “If there’s only a prospect of raising a largo family, I should say no.”

“And I said no, too,” said the specialist with a sigh.

He was a youngish man, remembering the position he occupied in the medical world, and that he could still sigh over the follies of his fellow-men was a wholesome tribute to his youth.

“He’s a pal of mine. We were at University together,” he said.

Jimmy guessed that the unknown He was the patient at Greenwich. Dr. John was looking at the ceiling thoughtfully.

“I was talking to him about you yesterday.”

“About me?” said Jimmy in surprise.

“Yes, about you. I don’t think he has a great deal of money— in fact I know he hasn’t,” said Phillips frankly, “and it’s hard luck that at a time when he’s really ill— he’s had a bad nervous breakdown— he should have had a good offer from one of the technical journals for a series of articles.”

He paused and blew a ring of smoke to the rafters.

“Jimmy, I know your fees, and they are beautifully exorbitant. God bless you for keeping the specialist beyond the reach of common people. But if he asks you to go down— for I think he could dictate these articles; he certainly could not write them— I wish you’d charge him a sum which is not ridiculously low, but which is not your ordinary rate. One minute,” he said as she was going to speak. “I want you to put the rest of your fee on my bill.”

“I’ll do nothing of the kind, doctor,” said Jimmy quietly. “I’d do this job for nothing, but I suppose he wouldn’t like that. Anyhow, I’ll do it at an ordinary typist’s fee, and as to putting the rest of the charge on your account, that’s ridiculous, unless you send me a bill for doctoring my throat last spring and for giving me several helpful pieces of advice about my heart, lungs, and other important parts of me.”

He laughed as he rose.

“I must go, Jimmy. I’ll let you know about Fennell.”

THAT morning Miss Jane Ida Meagh was the victim of a trick. She had been engaged by a firm of manufacturer’s agents to copy a long document dealing with the cork harvest of Spain. She had to do the work at the agent’s office, and it was urged upon her that it was vital, was indeed a matter of life and death that she should get to the last word of that report in the briefest possible space of time.

It was a brand new typewriter, of a brand new make, at which she sat. The keyboard was, of course, universal, and most of the gadgets were of a type with which she was unfamiliar, though their manipulation was very easily learnt.

She had fixed the tension to her liking, and then— the machine grew eloquent under her lightning fingers.

“There’s your report,” she said, and observed that the agent had a stop watch in his hand.

“Five thousand words in forty-two minutes 15.2 seconds,” he said breathlessly but exactly.

“I dare say,” said Jimmy. “Shall I send you a bill or are you one of those never-owe-nobody people?”

The agent for this occasion was of the latter variety. Jimmy collected her cheque and left, and there the incident appeared to have closed.

But the next day she passed a shop window in which was a typewriter. And beneath the typewriter was a large sign:

THE PLATEN TYPEWRITER

on which

MISS JANE IDA MEAGH

(the world’s champion stenographer)

wrote 5,347 words in 42 min. 15.2 secs.

A Record For The World.

Come Inside and Look at This

New Marvel of Engineering Science:

“"THE MACHINE WITH A MIND."

“God bless my soul!” said Jimmy, and despite this pious invocation went red with wrath.

She swept into the shop and demanded to see the manager.

“Take my name out of your window,” she said peremptorily when that gentleman made his appearance.

“But, my dear young lady—"

“Take it out or I’ll sue you for libel,” she said. “Anyway, it’s a lie. I took an hour and a quarter to do the work, on the worst brand of machine that I’ve ever handled. And what’s more, I shall make an affidavit to that effect.”

“It’s a good machine,” he protested; “there are only three in existence; they’re show samples, and—"

“Three too many!” snapped Jimmy.

“Mr. Brown said—"

“If Brown is the nom-de-guerre of the Armenian who engaged me to copy the cork serial,” said Jimmy, “I don’t want to hear what he said. Now, do you take out that placard, or do I tell the Press all my troubles?”

“I’ll take it out,” growled the manager. “I must say, though, that you’re not very considerate. You’ll remember that I gave you a lot of work last summer—"

“You can give it to somebody else next summer,” retorted Jimmy promptly. “Perhaps she’ll do it on ‘The Platen.’ It’s a fairly good machine for two-finger typists. Try ’em with ‘Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party’!”

She fired this invitation as she left him, and there was a sting in it which only a real typist will understand.

The placard was removed, and there the matter would have ended, for Jimmy was discretion itself, and she was in no mood to advertise the trick that had been played upon her. What annoyed her most was that the machine was really good and a distinct improvement on any she had ever used.

Unfortunately, the manager was not so discreet, and the news came to a wandering reporter. The reporter, who was a clever young reporter, wrote a most amusing story that covered the Platen Typewriter, without mentioning its title, with shame and ignominy, so that in every office where girls groped for keys and dreamt dreams of making Miss Jane Ida Meagh look like a pickled walnut, the Platen Typewriter became synonymous with foolishness.

The publicity had the effect of spurring Mr. Henry Obbings to a further challenge, to whom Jimmy was stung to a reply:

Dear Sir,

You ask me whether I will make on exhibition of myself, and urge as a reason the fact that you intend making an exhibition of yourself. The only inducement I can see for me so far forgetting myself is the paragraph in which you tell me that I should work at one end of the building and you at the other. The knowledge that we were as far apart as possible would be an inducement were it not for the fact that the certainty that I was under the same roof as yourself would make me sick.

Yours sincerely,

J. I. Meagh.

It was a very rude letter, such a letter as Mr. Obbings explained to his friends, no lady would write. Possibly he was justified.

“The truth is,” said Mr. Obbings... “no, Percy, I won’t show you the letter, it’s too disgraceful for words— the fact is she knows jolly well I could lick the stuffing out of her in spite of her vaunted speed.”

Yes, Mr. Obbings used the words “vaunted speed.”

“Perhaps she’ll enter at the last minute?” suggested the friend.

“I’m afraid not.” Mr. Obbings shook his head with the sad smile of a tiger deprived of a meal.

A FEW days later Jimmy was rung up on the ’phone. It was Dr. Phillips.

“Can you go down there to-day, Jimmy?” he asked. “Fennell thinks he could dictate the article, and he has got together most of the data.”

“I’m free this afternoon,” said Jimmy.

“I’ll wire that you’re coming then. Be there at half-past two,” said the doctor, and gave her the address.

That morning Jimmy had a great idea. Here was an invalid. She did not know much about invalids except that they lay in bed and refused delicate food. Sometimes they nibbled at a grape or swallowed a mouthful of chocolates, but now and again by a miracle they could be tempted to negotiate some particularly appetising dish, whereafter they put on weight and recovered with the greatest rapidity.

That morning Jimmy stood in her private kitchen, her sleeves rolled up, a cookery-book propped against a milk-bottle, and the light of battle in her eye.

No man or woman knew her ghastly secret. Even Mr. Obbings in his wildest moments never dreamt that her vice was the mangling and cremation of flour and fruit. Her lips moved as she followed the directions in the book.

“Flour, two spoonfuls.... Fresh butter... put in a dry, warm place... bake in a slow oven....”

She drew a long sigh and switched on her electric oven. She ate a hurried lunch, dashing backward and forward to the kitchen to examine the little thermostat which regulated the heat of the oven, and to compare the watch which lay open on the dresser with a note of the minute and the second that her work had gone to a warmer climate, written in pencil on the edge of the cookery-book.

She opened the oven, and with a cloth drew out the steel plate on which four beautiful confections lay, and the fragrance of them was as incense to her nostrils.

She looked at her work, then opened the cookery-book and examined the coloured plates, on which was a life-like representation of the little cakes she was baking. They were exact! If anything her creations were an improvement upon the book. She bore them to her room, and on her face was a look of holy exaltation. Each one she wrapped in white tissue and packed them into a small box and put the box into her attaché case.

She arrived at Greenwich in the afternoon. The Fennell’s house was a small one and poorly furnished, she saw at a glance.

A girl met her at the door, a smiling bright-eyed girl who had laughed at poverty so long that it had become a habit.

“You’re Miss Meagh, aren’t you?” she said. “It is very good of you to come so far.”

Jimmy, who was somewhat at sea on occasions like this, smiled and was glad to get an awkward situation over. She found her client lying on a sofa in a somewhat bare parlour. He was a man of thirty, and he looked terribly ill, Jimmy thought. A low table near by was piled high with books, newspaper cuttings, and blue-covered reports.

“My husband has been ill,” explained Mrs. Fennell. “But he’s much better now, aren’t you, Frank?”

“Oh, much! I’m just loafing now,” said the man with a grin. “I think I can dictate the best part of the article this afternoon, Miss Meagh.”

“Fire away,” said Jimmy, and produced her book.

Fennell’s estimate of his strength had erred on the optimistic side. After three-quarters of an hour of dictation he was exhausted.

“I’m sorry,” he said ruefully. “I thought I was stronger.”

“Don’t worry,” said Jimmy. “You’ve dictated quite a lot. Anyway, I can come down to-morrow afternoon.”

“It’s a long way out of town,” he said doubtfully.

“Rubbish!” said Jimmy, and that settled the matter.

They pressed her to stay to tea, and she needed very little pressing. She had not had the opportunity she had sought, and as tea was to be served in the drawing-room she thought that this was a chance not to be missed. In the interval of waiting she was introduced to the Fennell baby, and as usual, when babies swam into her ken, she became incoherent and foolish.

“I always get maudlin over babies,” she said apologetically. “Of course, it is every girl’s pose that she loves them, but I’m honest. I admit it.”

The maid brought in the tea, a plate of bread and butter, some jam sandwiches, and a large sponge-cake. Jimmy waited breathlessly.

“No, thanks, dear, I won’t eat anything,” said Mr. Fennell with a little shiver as he ran his eyes over the meal. “No, thank you,” he said again as though he had asked himself and refused.

“Really, you ought to eat something, Frank,” said his pretty wife, looking concerned.

Jimmy coughed. “A friend of mine makes rather good pastries,” she said carelessly. “She’s rather a good cook, and curiously enough she sent me...”

She opened her attaché case and took out the box with fingers which shook a little.

Would they have retained their beautiful shape and appearance? Before now Jimmy had known the most remarkable changes to occur between oven and eating. She removed the wrappings from one with a reverent touch. It was as it had been! Fennell’s eyes fastened upon it.

“That does look good!” He reached out his hand. “Have you one to spare?” He took the pastry between his finger and thumb and bit into it.

Jimmy held her breath and half closed her eyes.

“Splendid!” he said. “This is the most wonderful thing I’ve had for years.”

“Would you like one, Mrs. Fennell?” asked Jimmy in a hollow voice. Her heart was thumping. She could have wept at that moment.

“Really, it’s so extraordinary to see Frank eat that I can hardly take my eyes from him,” laughed Mrs. Fennell.

She nibbled at the cake.

“It’s really delicious. Your friend must be very clever.”

“Oh, very!” said Jimmy huskily. “Perhaps she will send me some more to-morrow.”

“Aren’t you eating any yourself?” asked Fennell.

“No,” said Jimmy eagerly, and fumbled for the other two. “Would you like them?”

Mr. Fennell not only liked them, but he ate them. He, an invalid, who had refused the choicest productions of the O.K. Cake Company (or the label about the sponge-cake lied), was eating with every evidence of relish the creature of her brain and hand.

“You can come to-morrow, can you?” asked Mrs. Fennell.

“I can come,” said Jimmy, speaking under stress of great emotion, “if— if you want me.”

It was a lame conclusion. The conversation drifted away from cakes, and Mrs. Fennell took the girl into her confidence.

“We’ve had a lot of bad luck, haven’t we, Frank?”

“Just a little,” ho said.

“Do you know that a week ago I thought we were going to be quite wealthy,” the girl went on. “Frank is an inventor, and he has invented one of the best typewriters that has ever been put on the market, and just fancy, because some stupid girl refused to work it, the manufacturers turned it down!”

“I think she was right,” said Fennell. “Apparently they got her to do a speed test by means of a trick, and they rather over-reached themselves.”

“They were going to give Frank a big sum of money on account of royalties, but now we hear that a lot of orders, which had been booked, have been cancelled.”

Jane Ida Meagh did not swoon. She sat up straight and stared at the girl-wife.

“What was the name of that machine?” she asked faintly.

“I called it ‘The Platen,’ because the...” He explained why it was called “The Platen,” but Jimmy did not hear.

She had ruined them— these lovely people of taste and refinement! This poor man stretched upon a bed of sickness! Jimmy’s eyes filled with tears, and she gulped at the extravagant picture of misery she drew. She had done it! And from sheer caprice and femininity. Jimmy had always hated femininity, and now it seemed the most loathsome of weaknesses.

“You’ll come to-morrow, and don’t forget those cakes,” said Mrs. Fennell.

JIMMY went on the next day, and the cakes she took were even more delicious than the last, for she had mercifully refrained from improving upon the recipe— which was occasionally Jimmy’s super-weakness.

That evening on her return to town she went into the shop where the “Platen” had been exhibited, and the manager, standing with his hands behind him in the middle of the floor space, greeted her with a grave but reserved nod.

“Good afternoon, Miss Meagh,” he said.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Salter,” for that was the manager’s name.

“How is the trade in ‘Platens’?” asked Jimmy briskly.

“Well, you smashed that for us,” said Mr. Salter bitterly. “But, still, I don’t mind so much, because I am thinking of taking over the Rat-a-plan agency for their improved portable machine.”

“Don’t do it,” said Jimmy. “What are you charging for the ‘Platen’?”

He named the price, and she produced her cheque-book.

“You’re not going to buy a machine?” he cried in amazement.

“There are two other ways I can get one,” said Jimmy. “One is by stealing it, and the other by accepting it as a gift— both of which methods are objectionable to me.”

“But you’re—"

“Get that flat-footed boy of yours to carry this to my cab, will you? I’m not so strong as I was twenty years ago.” Which was true, for Jimmy’s age was twenty-four.

The flat-footed boy, who was now a scowling flat-footed boy, carried the instrument to the waiting taxi, and Jimmy placed it on her table that night with determination in the set of her jaw, and the light of battle in her eye.

MR. HENRY OBBINGS sat in a gaily-decorated stand, surrounded by a large crowd of admiring stenographers, and demonstrated, what time a smooth and silky-voiced lecturer dilated upon the staggering qualities of the Rat-a-plan.

“Un-for-tun-ate-ly,” he said, “we have not the op-por-tun-ity of test-ing the rela-tive speed of the Rat-a-plan with any of its com-pet-i-tors.” He spoke as though each syllable was separated from its fellow. “Our challenge extended to the whole of the civilised world has not been accepted by any of our rivals, for reasons which I think need no explanation. Tonight, we had hoped there would be a competition for the Inter-Trades Diploma and Medal, together with the money prize offered by my company, but you are deprived of that interesting demonstration. As you will see, we are the only entrants in the competition.”

He pointed to a large bulletin board where the name of “Mr. Henry Obbings, The Rat-a-plan Typewriter,” was visible.

It was at that moment that the secretary of the exhibition pinned beneath the notice:

“J. I. Meagh, The Platen Typewriter.”

THE contest will remain in the minds of all interested in the delicate art of stenography. The two competitors sat, not at either end of the building, but at the same bench, each with the matter to be copied neatly stacked on their left and a pile of virgin white paper as neatly stacked on their right, and at the word “Go!” both struck simultaneously at the keys.

The test was for half-an-hour’s continuous work, and in that thirty minutes Jimmy wrote 4,630 words without a mistake, beating the baffled Henry Obbings by exactly twelve hundred words.

Incidentally, she established the name of the Platen Typewriter, so that to-day there is scarcely an office in the City where the peculiar tick-tick of its keys cannot be heard.

____________________

8: Blooming Aloes

The Saturday Evening Post, Nov 24, 1923

IT'S a sen— what's that word you said yesterday? (It was the Steward talking.) Sententious! That's right. I must remember that one. It is surprising the number of classy words you can collect in one voyage if you keep your ears open. I got 'urge' last trip from a Pittsburg lady— it means 'wanting to do it.' You get an 'urge' to clean, paint and things like that. At least, some people do. Personally speaking, the only 'urge' I've ever got was to sleep after eating pork pie. Sententious— I'll jot that down. As I was about to remark, it's a sententious remark to pass, but if there wasn't any thieves there would be no thieving.

There never was a confidence man, a card-sharp or a tale-teller that didn't get his living by appealing to what I might describe as the criminal instincts of the respectable classes. Studying human beings is a hobby of mine, and a man who does fourteen trips a year across the Atlantic Ocean has all the opportunity he wants for improving his mind in that respect.

And what I discovered very early in my career was that, except one in a hundred, every man is a dreamer. Women are dreamers too, but they dream practical. It doesn't matter what kind of a man he is, whether he's a fat drummer from New York or one of those skinny cotton men from Manchester who complain because there's only one church service on Sunday and the hymns are too frivolous, they've got dreams. You can see the dreamers lying in their chairs, staring across the sea. or leaning over the rail staring down at the gulf weed, or strolling along the promenade deck looking at nothing— all dreaming.

Sometimes they dream about picking up a wallet of a million dollars, belonging to a hard-hearted swindler, sometimes about taking ten millions from a secret Russian delegate who is going to use the money for corrupting the world— generally speaking, there is something noble about their robbery and the money runs into millions.

And, mind you, the money they steal in their dreams is always put to a good use. I know one chap (he's the president of a hardware corporation) who commits his larcency the minute he comes on board and spends the voyage founding orphan asylums. Lew Baker, one of the cleverest get-a-bits that ever travelled the North Atlantic, told me that no con ever robbed an honest man. And that is true. It's the prospect of getting something for nothing that appeals to people who work ten hours a day to pay the grocer, and the only way to get something for nothing is by thieving— and then you only get it temporary.

People who read about ocean-going crooks think that the beginning and end of 'em is card-play. We put up notices in the smoke-room warning passengers that there are card-sharps aboard, but there wouldn't be room on the smoke-room walls to give particulars of all the queer swindles that are worked between port and port.

The card-men, to my mind, are straight-away grafters who work hard for their living and are entitled to a certain amount of respect. They are workmen pure and simple, and if they catch you, why, there's nothing to it but the loss of your foolish money. You can avoid them and they'll give you no trouble if you say 'no.' The people that are really dangerous are what our old skipper used to call 'the Blooming Aloes.' From all accounts, the aloe is a plant or vegetable that only breaks into flower once in a hundred years.

There are two or three crowds that work the world, and you see them on the western ocean once in a blue moon. As a rule they prefer the long trips— Southampton to Durban. Durban to Bombay, Bombay to Sydney, Sydney to San Francisco, Vancouver to Japan. They have time to get acquainted with passengers, and when they make a kill there's money to it. They're patient and sensible. I've heard of one crowd that went twice round the world and never touched a cent— they could have made hundreds, but that kind isn't after hundreds.

The only gang I ever saw was the one run by Connie Barthurst— they travelled with me once on the western trip— 'John P Mortimer, Miss Mortimer and servant'— and I shouldn't have known anything about them if it hadn't been for the fact that my opposite number was a fellow FMwho used to be a steward on the Orient route and spotted them.

Connie was one of those tall, refined women who always dress quietly and speak to nobody. She used to sit on the deck for hours reading. Her 'father' was a big, grey-haired fellow, who spent his time walking round the deck. I never saw him in the smoke-room once. Anyway, he never smoked. He told me it was a filthy habit (I was his room steward), and drinking was worse. I never saw them again in years— it was on Mr. Denman's tenth trip with me that they turned up at Southampton— 'Mr. and Miss Mortimer and servant.'

Mr. Denman was what I might call an ideal passenger— he always tidied his cabin before he went out, folded and brushed his own clothes— even hung up his own towels. I don't suppose I've answered the bell to him twice, and he's crossed with me a dozen times. He was never ill, always had his meals in the saloon, even in weather that made the old Crenic roll like a baby's head, and, beyond making his bed, there was nothing for me to do. A perfect gentleman in every shape and form. When we got to New York there was his ten- dollar bill, when we pulled into Southampton, two pound notes with a 'Thank you. steward— I hope I haven't been too much trouble to you.'

He generally had the same stateroom— 105 on 'C' deck, and usually sat at the purser's table. Mr. Denman was by all accounts a rich man in the insurance business. He looked easy, but he wasn't. Every crowd that travelled the North Atlantic roped him into a little game at some time or other. If he had stood out against them and been clever, they'd have caught him, but he wasn't that kind. He went like a lamb to the slaughter, as the saying goes, and when they found that he never bet more than a dollar on three aces, and his limit for a full house was ten dollars, they dropped him.

'I never bet more than I can afford to lose,' he told Big Lew Baker.

'You're wise,' said Lew. 'What points do you play at bridge?'

'Tenpence a hundred in England and fifty cents in the States— money is more plentiful in New York.'

'You'll never be ruined,' said Lew, regretful: 'and, talking about ruin, I had a queer experience in London. Met a Russian prince— one of those guys that used to be a millionaire— had a vodka concession or sump'n— and he was actually starving! And the queer thing was that he carried about in his pocket three diamond rings worth a fortune— look at this!*

This was in the slack hour between the first and last dinner bugle, and I was relieving the smoke-room steward. There was only Lew and Mr. Denman in the room.

Lew took an emerald and diamond ring from his waistcoat pocket— a beauty.

'The worst of having too much money.' he said, 'is that you don't know the value of things. What do you think I paid him for this— guess pounds?'

'Three hundred?' said Mr. Denman.

'Fifty!' said Lew, very solemn. 'Why I bought it I don't know. It is no more use to me than a boudoir cap. It's worth twenty-five hundred dollars in New York. You can have it for sixty pounds.'

'It would be robbing you.' said Mr. Denman: 'and, besides. I've no use for jewellery. It is against my religious convictions.'

Lew sighed very heavy.

'Do you play marbles?' he asked.

'I used to when I was a boy,' said Mr. Denman, 'but I'm afraid that I'm out of practice.'

Mr. Denman was a youngish man, rather bald and near-sighted, and, being a simple, nervous kind of fellow, rather shy. The kind of fellow that is usually easy money to chaps like Lew: but so far as I know he was never caught for more than fifty dollars, and he lost that playing whist, to which he was very partial. Nobody would dream that he was the kind that Connie's crowd would go after. In the first place, though he was well off, he didn't appear to me to be so rich that he'd be worthwhile. The blooming aloes go for big money— tens of thousands— and he didn't seem to be in the six-figure class.

Anyway, Mr. and Miss Mortimer and servant got acquainted with him before the ship had left Cherbourg, and two days out he was carrying books from the library for Connie, and wrapping her up in her travelling rug. Which is always what I would term A Sign.

The very next morning Mr. Mortimer called me back after I'd taken him his morning coffee.

'What sort of day is it, steward?'

'Looks like being a fine day, sir,' I said. 'We've run out of the rain.'

'You've a big passenger list, steward— anybody important aboard?'

I told him there was nobody except two movie stars.

'They're important enough for one ship,' he said, smiling. 'It's curious, but I thought Mr. Denman was a movie actor the first time I saw him.'

Having brought the conversation round to Mr. Denman, it wasn't difficult to get out of me as much as I wanted to tell, which wasn't much.

The same afternoon I heard voices in Mortimer's cabin, and one of them was Connie's. The door was shut, but the next stateroom was empty, and I went inside, and. stepping up on to the bed, I got as near the top of the partition as I could.

A ship's the noisiest thing in the world, and you get so used to talking against the turbine and trying to drown the wind outside and the creaks inside, that you raise your voice more than you do anywhere else. Ever notice how you get a sore throat at the end of a voyage? It's speaking on the strain. That's why sailors always seem to be shouting when you meet 'em ashore.

'Not dollars, pounds.' Mortimer was saying. 'A hundred and twenty thousand.'

I didn't hear what Connie said, but after she had finished talking Mortimer went on:

'He's buying the block ... corner of Green and Regent Street.'

I didn't hear any more, but I knew they were talking about Mr. Denman.

Now, it's a point I've raised before— should the steward tell? We've had this question out many a time in the stewards' mess and we've always come to the same decision. If you see a passenger walk into another passenger's stateroom and lift his links and his wallet, it's the steward's duty to pinch him. If you see a gangster with his hand in another man's pocket, you take him up to the captain. But that's where the steward's duty ends. To put paragraphs in other people's tales is no business of yours unless you've got a better tale to tell.

We were passing Fire Island light on the Wednesday afternoon, and I was trying to help Mr. Denman pack his grip, when he saved me a whole lot of trouble.

'What a nice man Mr. Mortimer is!' he said.

'Very nice, sir,' said I: 'though it's my experience, after serving twenty-five years, man and boy, on ships ( and torpedoed twice in the war), that you can't judge shipboard friends till you meet 'em ashore.'

'But Mr. Mortimer is so different,' he says, wagging his baldish head and looking like an owl. 'I was to have stayed with him at his home, only unfortunately I am returning to England by this ship.'

I didn't say anything to this. A gangster usually says he has a home in Georgia, or Sacramento, or some other place where you're not likely to drop in on him if you're staying in New York. Or else he's got a fruit farm in New Brunswick, or a ranch next the Prince of Wales' in Alberta.

Mr. Denman sighed.

'The worst of making friends on board ship.' he said, 'is that they pass, as it were, into oblivion. You never see them again. It is one of the sadnesses of life!'

'I dare say you'll see them again,' I said.

I might have been a prophet, for when we'd turned round and I was sorting the baggage of homeward-bound passengers, and dealing out the flowers and fruit, I saw Mr. Mortimer.

I might say in passing that this 'say it with flowers' movement doubles a steward's work the first day out. Especially if there are a few actresses on board.

'I never expected to see you again so soon, steward,' he said. He had a wonderful smile, one of those smiles that made you feel good to see. 'I had a cable calling me back to England,' he said. 'It's a nuisance.'

There are some things that it is pathetic to see in a grown man, such as a taste for condensed milk, or the idea that some men get that they can sing or do conjuring tricks. It made me properly sad to see how overjoyed Mr. Denman was to find 'Miss Mortimer' was aboard. He clucked about like a young hen, fixing her chair, finding her rugs, and was in the library half-an-hour before the books were issued to get her the books she wanted. I don't think he left her side all the voyage, except for sleeping and changing purposes.

One night, when I was helping him find a collar-stud that had rolled under his berth, he told me that some men in the smoke-room had tried to get him into a no-limit poker game. He could hardly tell me for laughing.

'I always pretend that I'm ignorant of ship sharks,' he said. 'It saves a lot of bother and doesn't offend these fellows. But I'm too old a passenger to be caught, steward.'

'I'm sure, sir,' I said.

Poor soul! I took his baggage ashore at Southampton, and he was so much taken up with 'Miss Mortimer' that he nearly didn't tip me; and it was only after my hanging around for half-an-hour, asking him if he was sure he'd forgotten nothing, that he remembered and slipped me a fiver. And when a cautious man like Mr. Denman breaks the habit of years and puts a hundred and fifty per cent on to his usual tip, he's pretty far gone.

In a month we were taking him back again to New York, and sure enough there was Mr. and Miss Mortimer. But now they were 'Harry' and 'Connie' to one another, and used to spend the evenings leaning over the rail shoulder to shoulder. I had a little talk with the purser and asked him what he thought ought to be done, and he gave me a choking off for my pains.

'Your job is steward,' he said, 'not policeman!'

So I let the matter slide.

On this trip I had Miss Mortimer's cabin to look after, though, naturally, I saw very little of her, the stewardess doing most of the fetching and carrying. But four days out we struck a sou'-wester, a rip-snorter, and the Crenic is one of those ships that was originally intended to be a breakwater. She is one of those stiff, break-but-never-bend packets, with not an ounce of give in her. We hadn't been in the storm for an hour before we had all the dead lights down over every port, and the upper deck passengers down below.

By night the main dining saloon was flooded, owing to her taking a sea through one of the new-fangled, storm-proof portholes. It was a busy time for the stewards, for all the passengers who didn't get religion were ill; and even Miss Mortimer, who was a bit of a traveller, joined the passengers who took to their beds and waited for death. If they'd only waited without ringing for it, it wouldn't have been so bad.

In the early morning we broke into a calm patch, and as the stewardess had gone down with the other women, I had to take Miss Mortimer's breakfast to her— a biscuit and a glass of ice-water.

'Come in, steward,' she said, when I knocked at the door.

She was lying on her bed in a velvet dressing-gown, and I could not help but admire her, for, in spite of the bad night, she looked as beautiful as a picture.

'Will you give me that ring, steward?' she said as I was going out.

She pointed to the dressing-table. She had fastened the ring by a safety-pin to a little bag that hung on the mirror. As I unfastened it I had a good look. It was a new ring, with four big diamonds, and as she slipped it on her engaged finger I guessed how the land lay.

'That's a nice ring, miss,' I said.

'Yes, isn't it?'

She held out her finger and looked at it with a kind of frown.

'Engagement ring, miss?' I asked.

'Yes,' she said, but she didn't tell me who the lucky man was. and I didn't want to know. If Denman had been written on the inside, I couldn't have been more sure that he was the owner.

'Steward,' she called, as I was going, 'when people travel with a lot of money, how is it taken care of?'

'The purser puts it in the safe, miss,' I said, somewhat surprised for a minute, for there isn't a passenger travelling who doesn't know that valuables are put away in the purser's safe the day the ship leaves port.

I found out what all this meant the same day, because Mr. Denman was unusually talkative. He'd never spoken to me about his business before, but I suppose being in love makes a man indiscreet. I've noticed that very often. A brother-in-law of mine told me more about himself the week before he got married than my sister has found out since.

It appeared that Mr. Denman, as well as being in the insurance business, bought and sold property, and he was buying a big business block in Regent Street on behalf of some man in New York.

'I am going to bring the money across in hard cash,' he said. 'It is too important a deal for me to take any risks. Mr. Yonks is an eccentric man, and might stop a cheque, or cable his London agent to withhold payment of a draft; and it is much too important for me, since I've practically bought the property, to allow such a thing to happen.'

'If the ship went down you'd lose it all, sir,' I said.

'What a perfectly horrible idea!' said Mr. Denman. 'Don't talk about it, steward. I should lose something more valuable than my money. And, besides, it is not so stupid as you think. Mr. Mortimer frequently brings over large sums in cash. In fact, when he returns with me, he is bringing two hundred thousand dollars with him.' To me it was as plain as a pikestaff, and I could see, looming ahead, one of the grandest little confidence tricks on the big scale that had ever been worked on the western ocean.

'You'll excuse me saying so, sir, I don't think you're wise to bring that amount of money on board,' I said. 'I don't know much about banking, but it seems to me that if you sent the money through your own banker, Mr. Yonks couldn't either stop the cheque or play any monkey tricks.'

But he shook his head. There is something in human nature that makes good advice sound like an alarm clock on a cold, raw morning, the louder it rings, the more you want to turn over and go to sleep; and I guessed that that was how Mr. Denman was feeling, so I shut up.

Before we reached New York I had the chance of a talk with Lew Baker. Now, Lew is a straightforward card-man, without an ounce of vice in him. He's got a nice home in Brooklyn and a girl at the high school. I'm not defending Lew, or saying that I should care to get my living the same way as he does, but that's neither here nor there.

'There's an old saying, Felix,' he said. 'Never interfere between husband and wife. It's not your business, and I'm rather surprised that you think of butting in. I don't know Connie Barthurst, but I've heard of her graft, which is too slow for my liking. She's not the only aloe in the forest There's a man named Price that works the Mediterranean— Port Said to Marseilles. They say he goes six months before he touches. There's another man named Tom Bones, he's on the Indo-China route. But Connie is cleverer. Why, she dropped into Tom's private hunting ground when he was down with fever at Singapore and took hold of a fellow he'd been after for years, and shook twenty-eight thousand out of him. I don't know either of the parties, and maybe it's all lies. Gangsters have always got some queer story of things that happen on the other side of the world. But that slow business doesn't appeal to me. You've got to have capital for one thing.

'Tom was always shadowed into his home port by a motor launch in case he had to make a getaway quick, which costs money. Gimme quick profits, big enough to count but not painful enough to squeal. I don't think this man Denman will fall, because he's one of those mean and cunning men who count their change. A fellow who thinks he's going gay because he plays bridge at fifty cents a hundred isn't likely to fall for half a million dollars.'

'He's fallen, Mr. Baker,' I said. 'He'll land at Southampton completely minus.'

Lew Baker had a good look at his cigar and then said:—

'If he does, I shall have a higher respect for Connie than I've got now. But those things don't happen except in books. Suppose he lost his money on the voyage home, what sort of squeal would he raise? It might have been worked in the old days before radio was invented, but to try it now would bring a tugful of 'tecs at the ship's side before she passed the Nab Lightship. Leave them to it, Felix.'

I've never been quite sure how much Lew Baker knew; he was the sort of man who told just as much truth as was necessary in the way of business. But, as the poet says, a yarn that is half the truth gets you guessing.

Baker's opinion of Mr. Denman was considerably supported. The day we left New York I was on the upper deck, watching the gangway for my passengers, and about half-an-hour before the ship was due to sail, along came Mr. Denman with a big bag in his hand and three of Burns' men shadowing him. He was the sort of fellow who'd take no risks. Behind him came Mr. Mortimer, and he had a bag, but no detectives. And then came Miss Mortimer, in black, with Servant carrying her grip. I've never known whether the servant was in the swindle. She looked too stupid to me, but perhaps that was her long suit.

As soon as he saw me, Mr. Denman beckoned.

'Come down to my cabin, steward,' he said, and when I offered to take the bag he shook his head. 'I can carry this very well,' he said, with a little smile.

He had 112 on 'C' deck, a bigger stateroom than usual, with a small sitting-room attached, and I followed him in. He settled with the detectives, and then:-

'Will you ask Mr. Mortimer to come in?' he said.

Apparently Mortimer was expecting to be sent for, for he was sitting on the settee of his cabin with his bag on his knees.

'Mr. Denman wants to see you, sir.'

Mortimer glanced at Connie, and she nodded.

'I think it will be safer, father,' she said, sweetly.

I didn't know what would 'be safer,' but I soon found out. When I got back to Mr. Denman's stateroom, he had opened the bag and taken out a big wad of yellow-backs; they were lying on the table, and I saw Mortimer's eyes drop on them instantly.

'I want you to be a witness to this, steward,' said Mr. Denman. 'Mr. Mortimer is taking a large sum of money back to England, and he wishes it to go with mine.'

Mortimer took out two wads of notes and a sheet of paper and, making a little parcel of the money, tied it with string and dropped it into the open bag, which was locked and sealed under my eyes.

'I'll carry this,' he said, with that lovely smile of his. 'You go ahead, Denman.'

The alleyway toward the main companion was very narrow, and for some reason the deck lamps were not alight. Though several of the cabin doors were open, they were mostly either curtained, or, the ship being against the pier, were so dark as to give no light at all.

I followed in the rear and saw nothing unusual, and was present when the sealed bag was placed in the purser's safe and the receipt pocketed by Mr. Denman.

And, mind you, I was looking for something funny. The only thing I noticed unusual was, about ten minutes later, seeing Servant running up the companion- way to the deck, which was strange, because I'd never seen her out of her cabin before. It puzzled me all through the voyage how the swindle was going to be worked. It would have been simple enough if the money hadn't been handed to the purser, but there was the bag in the safe, and I'll swear that Mortimer did not ring the changes, for I watched the packing of that grip like a hawk.

They were thicker than thieves throughout that voyage, practically living in one another's cabins. At night Mr. Denman and Mr. Mortimer used to play piquet in his stateroom, with Miss Mortimer doing her needlework, as innocent as a lamb, and more so. I don't mind admitting that I did more listening at doors, more peeping and prying under sofas, that voyage than I've ever done before or since. And there was no solution to the mystery. All I knew was that poor Mr. Denman was heading straight for bankruptcy, and was enjoying the experience.

I was tidying up Mortimer's cabin the day we reached the English Channel, when the door was flung open and Connie came in.

'This damned boat is not going into Cherbourg, Jack,' she said, before she saw me.

'Moderate your language, my dear child.' said Mr. Mortimer, 2ith a quick look at me.

'Oh, but daddy, isn't it too tiresome? I did want to get some picture postcards. You remember I promised Maisie I would send her some,' she said, in an altered tone of voice. Then, with a smile at me: 'I'm afraid, steward, you think I use strong language?'

'I didn't notice any, miss,' I said, and got out of the cabin as soon as I could.

Now, if there's one thing more certain than another, it is that passengers homeward-bound do not go ashore in Cherbourg to buy picture postcards: and, what was more, the Mortimers' baggage was labelled for Southampton. The whole thing was as clear as daylight: they were going to jump the boat at Cherbourg and leave poor old Denman to collect his bag from the purser at Southampton. The changes had been rung! Right under my eyes, I thought— and yet it didn't seem possible.

I didn't get a chance of hearing their conversation; I was too agitated, so to speak. For a second I'd a mind to warn Mr. Denman— but only for a second.

Taking in Lew Baker's shaving water— he always shaved in the afternoon— I must have shown my feelings for he looked very hard at me.

'What's on your mind, Felix?' he asked.

I didn't tell him, but he guessed.

'Connie's graft is getting into your head and disturbing your mental equilibrium,' he said. Lew was a class talker and used educated expressions. 'Now cut it out, Felix! To every dog his bone, to every lion his rabbit. Denman is on the knees of the gods— I wish 'em joy. Personally, I'd sooner nurse almost anything.'

I went up to the boat deck for my pipe that night, and I stepped carefully, knowing that it was even money on Denman and Connie being there. For it was a bright, starlit night, and stars are highly attractive to people in love.

And there they were. Eavesdrop? That means listening? Why, of course! Didn't I feel, in a manner of speaking, Denman's guardian angel?

She said, in a far-away voice:—

'Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could go on and on through all eternity— only you and I, dear?'

'It would be wonderful,' he said, 'but I've got to be in London tomorrow evening. But after that--'

'And, dear' (this was her talking) 'you must open the bag— you know, the bag with daddy's money— in London. We will come round to your hotel after dinner. Daddy says he can't be bothered tomorrow morning, and he is quite willing to trust the money to you.'

'His confidence in me,' said Mr. Denman, in a shaking voice, 'is amazing. He doesn't know anything about me, either.'

I heard her laugh softly— I was smiling myself. The picture of poor Denman waiting at his hotel for them to call was a sad one.

I had two hours' sleep that night, for a steward has to be up with the lark on the day a ship makes port. It was a grey morning when I turned out; a dull line to port showed the English coast. I was taking a couple of whiffs from my pipe when I saw a big motor-launch moving abeam and on a parallel track. She was standing into the ship, and I thought at first it was the pilot till I heard the chief officer shouting through his megaphone to ask what in hell the driver was doing. Then suddenly it swooped in under our side, keeping pace with the ship.

As I looked over the rail I saw a rope thrown down from the lower promenade deck, and at the end of the rope was a bag. I recognized it at once. It was the sealed bag that I'd seen put into the purser's cabin, only I couldn't see the seals.

In a second I was racing down the companion and flew out on to the lower promenade. A man was sitting astride the rail, ready to slip down the rope.

It was Mr. Denman!

'Stand where you are, Felix,' he said, and when I saw the gun in his hand I naturally stood still.

'You'll find a tenner in my cabin— the clothes I left behind you can have. Tell Connie Barthurst, with Tom Bones' compliments, to keep clear of the Indo-China line. That's my beat. And tell her I've been waiting four years to meet her.'

With that he disappeared from view, and by the time I'd reached the ship's side he was in the launch and casting off the loose end of the rope.

I heard the first officer yell for him to come back, and then the nose of the motorboat turned to the open sea, and that was the last I saw of Mr. Tom Bones.

After I'd been cursed by the chief for not holding him, I went down to Mr. Mortimer's cabin and knocked at the door. He was up and dressed, and Connie was with him, sipping a cup of coffee that the servant had brought.

'Your friend Mr. Denman's gone over the side, taking the bag with him,' I said.

Mortimer's eyebrows went up.

'Indeed— he is in a hurry. Did he wake the purser up to get it?'

I'd seen the purser.

'No, sir; the bag you put in the safe is still there. And he asked me to present Tom Bones' compliments '

The girl went white.

'Tom Bones!' she said, and then hissed: 'Look at the bag, you fool!'

They didn't take the slightest notice of me, but, jerking open a trunk, Mortimer pulled out a bag. I actually gasped. If it wasn't the same bag that had been put in the safe, it was its own brother. Sealed and tied.

He broke the seal and pushed a key into the lock. There were six little packages, and he tore the paper from one.

'Blank sheets!' he almost screamed.

There were three bags, according to the purser's theory. There was the bag with the money in it, and the bag that was substituted in the dark alleyway by the servant who stood in the doorway of one of the cabins as Mortimer passed, and the bag that Denman put into the servant's cabin in exchange when his confederate and pal lured servant to the upper deck with a message.

I've never known who that confederate was. All I do know is that Lew Baker never played cards all that trip, and bought a new automobile when he got back to New York.

____________________

9: The Girl He Kissed

The Grand Magazine, February 1923

SOME clever people can be very, very careless.

Sara Hall was clever, uncannily so. Nobody had ever known Sara to make a false move in the great game of Getting On. Except one.

She bought a subscription to Longton's Library, which was a terrible error of judgment. Longton's was the most fashionable of all the libraries and was extensively patronised by people who were so well off that they could afford to boast that they never bought books. And there was really no reason why they should, because Longton's supplied you with the newest copy of the newest novel, so that subscribers could sometimes read a book before the reviews came out and confirmed them in their appreciations.

Sara, who read very little, explained her eccentricity by remarking in her vague way that one ought to do something for dear Beryl, thereby implying that the fees she had paid were directly helpful to Beryl Markham who, despite her youth and her B.A. degree, was Longton's chief librarian.

Beryl, sitting in her little panelled office, used to catch glimpses of her benefactor, helpless in the face of serried literature, and sometimes— rarely— would emerge from her sanctuary to help her choose a novel which called for no especial genius to understand. Mostly they were stories that bristled with revolvers and reeked of mysteries which remained unsolved until the last chapter.

"It's too good of you, dear," Sara once said. "No, dear, I don't think I shall like that book. I hate 'em with yellow bindings. So Aubrey Beardsleyish. Not that I've even read his poems.... Artist, was he? All artists are poets, don't you think? Yes, I'll have that one. It really is too sweet of you, dear. And how horrid to have to work in a snuffy little place like this. With all these books that people take out and bring back. And you never know where they have been, into infectious rooms and all that. I wonder you aren't afraid of catching things. And you're ever so much too pretty to be a shopgirl. What a perfectly awful thing to say! Of course I know you're not a shopgirl, but... you know. Don't people make love to you and ask you out to dinner?"

Beryl used to wonder why the girl ever patronised the library at all. Out of curiosity she gave instructions to an assistant :

"Let me see the books that Miss Hall takes out; when they are returned, put them on my desk."

This was done.

THERE were certain social functions at which the two girls met. There were others where they might have met if they had wished.

One night the Sandersons, who were both rich and pleasant, gave a dance in their big house in Park View, and because Sara was a mechanical guest at all such happenings she received the usual card.

"I don't exactly know why we ask her, she's not a friend of the Lorlings any more," frowned Mrs. Sanderson, her pen poised. "And besides, poor Mrs. Cathcart... I hear that she is suing Sara in the courts for money lent."

"Better ask her," said her good-natured husband. "It will look rather strange if we don't. Besides, the Lorlings aren't in the country now, and you've had her to your dances a dozen times since that affair. Poor little girl! She wasn't to blame if Lorling made a fool of himself over her. And as to poor old Johnny, he lent everybody money."

"Kate Lorling said she lured her husband on, and that he bought her a house in the country and a car. Kate was quite sure—"

"All Women are cats," said Mr. Sanderson generally. "You'd better ask her. There's nothing like a vamp to make a party interesting."

Beryl was asked because she was Beryl. And because she was Beryl, Bertie Pollard was invited.

In many ways it was a memorable evening. A momentous afternoon was to follow when Mr. Bertie Pollard went reluctantly to a rendezvous to which at other times he had moved swiftly, eagerly, and expectantly. At the end of the broad park path that follows faithfully the serpentine wanderings of the lake he paused and rubbed his silk hat nervously with his elbow.

There are delicately balanced instruments which detect the faintest of human emotions, and record them in wiggly lines on a tape of paper. There are less delicate detectors of agitation, and a silk hat rubbed the wrong way is a glaring signal of mental distress.

Bertie Pollard thrust his dishevelled hat on the back of his head, set his teeth, and strode down the path, his brow wrinkled in a frown of terrifying fierceness. She was there! That was a cause of thankfulness... on the other hand, if she had not been there, he would have been a little more grateful to Providence. Then he could have written explaining everything. He would rather write than talk. Beside which, if she had not been waiting (in her customary seat near the pond) he would have been fortified by a grievance, could have begun his letter: "I am surprised that you did not seek an explanation, etc.," and might conceivably have carried the matter off with hauteur.

He was a lawyer and therefore easily astonished. Half the letters he dictated in the course of a day to obdurate debtors began by an expression of his surprise that the poor devils to whom he wrote had not fulfilled their obligations to his clients.

But there she was. A slim figure in grey charmeuse, her blessed legs extended stiffly, a newspaper in her lap, and her face shaded by a broad-brimmed hat. She was feeding the ducks. Bertie Pollard hoped that she would extend a little of her charity to him.

"Hello, Beryl!" he greeted her, with spurious heartiness. "How do you feel after your night's dissipation? I didn't see you go..."

She folded the newspaper deliberately. Her grave eyes searched his face with a steady scrutiny.

"Bertie, who was that girl you kissed?" she asked directly. "I only caught a glimpse of her.... Mrs. Sanderson asked me to go up to see her sleeping babies— she shares the common illusion that her children are more beautiful than other children when they are asleep— but I saw you."

Bertie licked his dry lips.

"I am going to tell you a little story—" he was beginning.

"Will you please remember," she interrupted him carefully, "that I am by profession a librarian? It is my unfortunate task to read almost every new book, and fifty per cent of the plots turn on a man being suspected because he is caught kissing a strange female, who turns out to be his long-lost sister or the youthful aunt he hasn't seen for years."

"It wasn't my aunt"— Bertie wiped his hot forehead with an air of nonchalance—" and it wasn't my sister. I can't in honour tell you the lady's name, and the kissing episode was really not my fault."

"A vampire?" she nodded. "They have gone out of literature lately, and have restricted their activities to the motion-picture business. How fascinating!"

"Look here, Beryl," said the young man hotly, "I haven't come here to be ragged by you. There is a perfectly natural explanation as to why I kissed her."

"That is what I am afraid of," said the girl, with a sigh, and looked wistfully across the water; "an unnatural explanation would have worked wonders with me."

"She is in trouble— great trouble," blurted Bertie. "I feel so awfully sorry for her...."

"That you kissed her? And did that help her very much? I don't know how these things affect one. When I am feeling bad, I take a brisk walk and avoid starchy foods. The next time I feel that way, I will ask a policeman to kiss me! Sara Hall hasn't any very great trouble, Bertie. Don't start like a stage villain; of course I knew that it was Sara. And I know what the trouble is. She has spent her allowance and expects to be arrested by her dressmaker, and she hasn't a friend in the world, ow, ow!"

"That is very vulgar, Beryl"— sternly—" extremely vulgar to mock— er— people's sorrow. And it is heartless, too, fearfully heartless. I'm very sorry for the girl. Naturally, I being a lawyer, she came to me for whatever assistance I could give her, and I'm doing what I can."

Beryl Markham smiled. "What is it you can do— kiss the dressmaker?"

Bertie made a movement as if he were about to rise, but she laid her neatly gloved hand on his knee.

"I knew you were going to get up. All misunderstood men do that. 'He rose with an expression of pain,' or, 'He rose with a dignified expression'— every author uses one or the other. The point is, Bertie, are these kisses and sympathetic hugs to be part of the legal assistance you give her? I know nothing about law, and I've never seen a lawyer giving advice to a pretty woman. If she is deaf, I can understand his putting his lips to her shell-like ear; I can even understand his embracing her for that purpose—"

Now he actually rose.

"Beryl," he said stiffly, "you don't realise what you are saying. Do you know that that awful woman Cathcart is threatening this poor girl with imprisonment for obtaining money by fraud? You'd think a widow would have more— more religion."

"Perhaps she doesn't feel religious when she thinks of Sara," suggested the girl. "Personally, Sara is a penance to me. She may make you feel holy—"

"I shall continue to serve my friends," he said more stiffly than ever, "and no amount of sarcasm will turn me from— er—"

"The path of duty," she murmured helpfully. "I admire your zeal, only— I do not want legal advice, Bertie. I will not return your engagement ring, because that would be so very ordinary, and it would only lead to your returning the trouser-stretchers and the smoker's cabinet I gave you on your birthday. They would be embarrassing to dispose of. Good afternoon."

He had turned on his heel and had stalked majestically away before she had finished talking. She looked after him for a moment, and then, opening her newspaper, began to read the serial. It was a story (or the description was misleading) of Love and Passion.

She sat for a long time with the neglected story of Love and Passion on her lap, wondering. She wondered whether, if she poisoned Sara Hall, any kind of fuss would be made about the happening. Or perhaps if she shot her— bad women always came to an untimely end. It was one of the rules of the literary game. Not that Sara was bad. She was one of those skinny, mouse-haired women with dark, sad eyes that seem to hold a whole eternity of sorrow. In reality, if you could read the mystery of those sombre deeps, you would find a long procession of ?£?£?£'s.

Many of her friends were under the impression that Sara had a soul. When they talked about her, as they did at very frequent intervals, they spoke of her as "poor Sara," and it was a conventional belief that she had "suffered." Nobody could very definitely specify in what respect she had suffered, or could recall any occasion when she was unable to dawdle through a six-course dinner without assistance. She was not averse to sympathy. In an atmosphere which would have been hatefully shocking to many who admired her most, she thrived apace. She had entered the ranks of Poor Brave Things and was, if anything proud of her unique position.

All this Beryl Markham knew. She was not worried at all about Bertie kissing her. Other men in similar circumstances had kissed Sara Hall and had smoothed her hair and had gazed how-can-I-helpfully into her tragic eyes. And Sara had twiddled the top button of their waistcoats with modestly downcast eyes (raised for momentary and devastating flashes at the victim) and had sighed and pouted and told the man gently, but not offensively, that they must not do that sort of thing, and that she was so fond of their wives that it hurt her to feel that she was being the tiniest bit disloyal to those absent and less attractive women, and in the end—

"My dear Sara, don't worry your pretty little head any more about that silly bill. I'll send you a cheque to-morrow... No, no, no, pay me whenever you like—"

And so forth.

Beryl frowned at the ducks. They did not remind her of Sara. There were other habitants of a farmyard that did remind her, but not the ducks.

And then she got up briskly, walked to the Mall, and, finding a crawling taxi, drove to Spargott Mansions. As she came to the broad entrance hall, a man came out carrying a trunk. He put it down to rest, and something said to Beryl: "Read the label." She walked deliberately to where the trunk rested and read. Then she spoke to the man and asked him a question. Then she went up to the flat.

"MY dear!"

Sara wore a fluffy clinging dress, very simple and very expensive. Her welcome was warm, both her thin white hands met about Beryl's.

"This is lovely of you— you've promised to come so often. Really you are a dear!"

There was an air of emptiness about the room. The little etceteras she expected to see, the photographs, the precious little ornamentations, were not there. It had the defiant atmosphere of a flat that had been let furnished. And yet the furniture was Sara's— Beryl knew who bought it. Sara thrust away a book which she had in her hand and jumped up, and she seemed a trifle embarrassed.

"I never dreamt you'd call— after all my invitations."

"I thought I'd come along and see you," said Beryl. "You were at the Sandersons' dance last night— Of course you were. I spoke to you. I wanted to see you about Bertie."

The melancholy eyes neither flinched nor changed their expression.

"Bertie— Bertie Pollard? Aren't you and he—"

Beryl nodded.

"We are engaged, yes."

Sara shook her head.

"He is a dear boy," she said, a little sadly, "and I almost envy you, Beryl. I don't really, because marriage and love and all that sort of stuff is not for me."

She sighed again, and her long lashes swept her pale cheek. A man would have imagined a tear concealed. Beryl was not a man.

"I had one man— he went out of my life," she said, with a little choke.

"Poor dear!" said Beryl sympathetically. "I like Charlie Lorling too—"

"I don't mean Mr. Lorling," said Sara, with the faintest tinge of acid in her voice. "He was married—"

"I'm so sorry! How stupid of me! You mean poor Johnny Cathcart. He was nice— but wasn't he married too?"

"Of course he was." The sadness had gone from her voice. Sara was almost tart. "I don't mean any of those people. How absurd you are, Beryl! I was very fond of his wife, but Johnny was a perfect fool!"

Here Beryl found herself in complete agreement, for poor Johnny, as she knew, had spent hundreds he could not afford to send this plaintive lady to Florida one winter. He had spent them surreptitiously and Sara, faltering, had accepted his help and had coughed pitiably. The doctors had told her she must spend the winter in Florida or they would not be responsible. And however was she going to afford it? Her income was x and the cost of a winter in Florida was y. Johnny had performed the mathematical feat of reconciling x with y. It cost him the best part of a year's work and the curtailment of his own holiday, for Johnny was a fool, an altruistic, kindly fool.

"Yes, I knew you were engaged." Sara turned to a less embarrassing subject. "Bertie will make a splendid husband, and he is well off, too."

"To be exact, he isn't," said Beryl carefully. "That is why I wanted to see you, Sara. Bertie has very small private means and an excellent income from his practice. But he isn't rich."

Sara shrugged her thin shoulders, undisguisedly incredulous.

"Sara, do you know South America?"

The question was unexpected and, innocent though it was, alarming. Sara's face went pink and then a deeper red and then suddenly white.

"I— I don't— Why? You are thinking of the books I had on South America?" She laughed and was obviously relieved. "No, it is a strange country and a very fascinating one. Are you thinking of going there?" She looked at the tiny clock above the mantelshelf and stifled a yawn. "My dear, I have to leave you. I must change for dinner. Will you do me a favour— do you mind taking this book back to the library? I know it is lazy of me, but the library is so out of the way."

She picked up a tome from the settee. Beryl read the title: The Argentine: Its People and History.

Going down the long, narrow stairway, Beryl was very thoughtful. It was six o'clock when she reached her own little house.

She threw the book she was carrying on to the hail table, and it fell. Stooping to pick it up, a slip of paper fell out. She examined the inscription for a long time and then folded and put it away in her bag, and sat down without attempting to remove her hat or gloves. She sat perfectly still for a quarter of an hour and then she got up and went to the telephone.

"Yes, Beryl."

There was a note of hauteur in Bertie's voice, but she did not smile.

"Bertie, I'm in great trouble."

"What is wrong?" His voice changed instantly, and she loved him for it.

"Will you come to me at Homelands? I have to tell you— I knew I should sooner or later."

She sensed his agitation.

"But, my dear— Homelands? Is anything wrong?"

"Desperately wrong," she said hollowly. "I am going there now by taxi. Will you follow me as quickly as you can?"

"But what in thunder is wrong, Beryl?" be asked frenziedly.

"I can't tell you. it concerns— my brother."

"But you haven't a brother," he almost shouted.

"I have a brother— he has just come out of prison. He has been there for twenty-five years— I have never told you before— Yes, my younger brother— No, he is older than me— Will you come, Bertie?"

She only waited for his answer before she dashed into the bedroom, and found the keys of the old house. Then she flew down the stairs to the street and called the first taxi she saw.

HOMELANDS was ten miles from the centre of the City— it might have been a hundred, for it stood on the edge of a wood, a desolate, shabby little house, that had been her father's. She had found successive tenants for the place, and indeed the rent from this property had seen her through college. Now she could afford to retain it for a summer residence— an inexpensive luxury which her salary, plus a small income, permitted. She was quick, but Bertie was close on her heels. His car drew up at the gate as she was unlocking the door.

"What is the matter, Beryl?" he asked anxiously. "Is your brother here?"

She nodded.

"Will you follow me?" she asked and led the way up the stairs. On the first landing was a stout door, and after a second's hesitation she opened this.

"He is there," she said.

Unsuspectingly he walked through the doorway. He was in a large bathroom, lit by one small window, which, he observed, was heavily barred. But there was no sign of anything that bore the remotest resemblance to Beryl Markham's brother.

"Where—"  he began, when he heard the door slam and the sound of shooting bolts.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded angrily, and tugged at the door.

"Bertie, you must stay there until I let you out. It is all for your good— No, I have no brother. I borrowed the convict brother from Tangled Lives. It isn't new. There are on an average three returned convict brothers a year."

He stormed and raved, but Beryl did not wait to hear. She went downstairs, lit a spirit stove, and began to prepare a meal. Later she brought him coffee and biscuits and handed them to him through the barred transom.

"Daddy had the locks and the door specially strengthened because we had burglars once. They broke in through the bathroom."

"Beryl, I insist that you let me out! This is disgraceful— and it is illegal, too. I never dreamt you would play me such a trick. I have an engagement to-night of the greatest importance."

"It's broken," she said calmly. "You are held, captive of my bow until, eleven o'clock to-morrow."

"But why— what does it mean? Beryl, be reasonable. It is vitally necessary that I should keep an appointment to-night."

"It is even more vitally important to me that you shouldn't," she said.

He spoke to her earnestly. He begged of her, for the sake of the love he bore her, for her own good name's sake, to release him. After he had been talking for ten minutes without interruption he found that she had gone. She was garaging his car and did not come up again until it was dark.

"I may as well tell you that I am seeing Sara tonight," he said, hoping to pique her.

"And it is unnecessary for me to tell you that you're not," said she. "Of course I knew you were seeing Sara," she added scornfully, "and I will add this little piece of information: at this precise moment Sara is searching the town for you! How do I know? I know Sara. She's calling you frantically on the 'phone, at your club, at every place you are likely to be. And she'll be up all night looking for you. Did you realise that you were so important in her young life? Well, you are, Bertie."

"You're jealous."

"Horribly so! No, our engagement is through, but if at some future date you should marry a nice girl, I don't want you to go to her with a bad financial past."

A long pause.

"You know that you are everything to me, Beryl," he said huskily, "in spite of this fool trick you are playing. I wish you didn't feel like this to Sara. She is a greatly misunderstood woman."

"You've lent her money?"

Another silence.

"Yes. I don't know that it is fair to her to tell you— not really lent. She has a very heavy bill to meet, and her dividends aren't due until the day after to-morrow."

"Ha, ha!"

"I hate that sardonic laugh of yours, Beryl! You'll be surprised to learn that she gave me her post-dated cheque for the money."

"How much?"

"Ten thousand— it is a lot of money, and I don't think I should have lent it if she hadn't given me her cheque. But you can't let a girl get into serious trouble— it was that money Mrs. Cathcart was claiming— without helping, can you?"

"I could," said Beryl's voice, "especially if that girl were Sara."

"Will you let me out, dear? It is very undignified and not quite decent... Staying in the same house alone—!"

A CHURCH clock was striking eleven the next morning when the bolts shot back, and an unshaven and weary and, it may be confessed, sulky young lawyer came out.

"You've behaved abominably," he said savagely. "You've made me look a fool. Why did you do it?"

She was looking very pretty and fresh in the early morning sunlight, and her eyes held a hint of laughter which annoyed him still further.

"I suppose I can go now," he growled. "If this story gets round—"

"Sara left by the eleven o'clock boat train to join La Plata, which leaves for the Argentine this afternoon."

His jaw dropped.

"Wh-what?"

"She is travelling as Madame Celli," said Beryl.

"Impossible! She would have told me!"

She nodded.

"If I had told you all this last night instead of locking you up, you would have gone to her, and if she had said it was not true, you would have believed her?"

He did not answer.

"You would have believed her?"

"I suppose I should, but— good God! What about my cheque! If she has gone—"

"She has left no money in the bank, you may be sure. As a matter of fact I know she has gone. I saw the last of her trunks being taken away, and the name on the trunk was Celli. The man told me that the trunks were hers, and besides I recognised the one he was carrying."

He sat down heavily on the top stair and dropped his head on his hands.

"Moses!" was all he could say, and then a pink slip of paper came into his line of vision and he grabbed it.

"My cheque!"

He jumped up and grasped her by the arms and gently shook her.

"Beryl, how did you get it?"

"It was in a book she gave me to take back to the library. She must have been looking at it when I went to call on her yesterday after I had left you. She had just received it? I thought so. She was so flustered that she must have pushed it into the book out of sight. And then my great plan occurred to me— Not mine really. It has been used by five writers in the past four years."

He kissed her, an act which has been recorded by all writers in all books in all times.

_________________________

10: The Vampire of Wembley

The People, May 4, 1924

THE gentle Tressa was remarkable in one respect: she never found bad people interesting.

When Lady Mary Midston told her about the burglar, Tressa was politely interested but not enthusiastic.

“Daddy was in Paris, otherwise I should have called him when I heard the noise in the hall. He’s simply furious with me for not calling Thomas. When I got downstairs there was a light in the drawing-room and a little man was tying up the silver in a tablecloth. I must say, Tressa, that he was awfully decent, and when he told me about his sick wife and his poor little children I hadn’t the heart to call any of the staff.”

“And you let him go?” said Tressa, coldly for her. “My child, you have a certain duty to society— I suppose you realise that? I know you acted as your own kind little heart dictated, but a burglar is a burglar, no matter what the state of his wife’s health—"

“That’s what daddy said,” remarked Mary complacently.

She was a slim, pretty girl, with flawless colouring and anybody but Mike Long would have spent sleepless nights in the fear of losing her. Mike, for the moment being in the grip of the Wembley Vampire, spent his evenings composing letters breaking off the engagement and his mornings in tearing them up.

“My dear Tressa, you are most original! Of course I let him go! And he was an honest man, apart from his burglaries, for he gave me his address, and when I went—"

“You went to his house?” gasped Tressa.

Mary nodded.

“Of course I went I wanted to know whether his story was true. And, darling, it was! He’s got two of the sweetest children, and a wretched, washed- out kind of wife without an ‘h’ to her name. And I’ve asked my cousin Arkwright, who’s in the City, to find him a job, so that he will never have to go out burgling any more.”

Tressa sighed; and then, after a pause:

“Perhaps you’re right,” she said, “and I am wrong. But I must confess that I do not like the most picturesque of burglars, and he doesn’t seem to have been particularly attractive. Bad people do not appeal to me.”

Mary said nothing, but thought a great deal, and Tressa, who was something of a thought-reader, smiled and went on:

“Meeting bad people in one’s own circle is unavoidable; and besides, there’s just a chance that one may be able to switch them on to the right track.”

Mary sniffed.

“If you can switch Lila Morestel on to the right track, I shall be both surprised and pleased,” she said.

The taunt was not without justification, for Lila had been a constant visitor at the Piccadilly flat in the past few weeks.

“That is one of the things I cannot understand about you, Tressa. Everybody knows about Mrs. Morestel. Why, they took her name off the books of the Jacara Club and they are pretty broad-minded.”

“Lila is in trouble and wanted my help,” said Tressa shortly.

LILA MORESTEL was frequently in trouble: and as frequently, in her helpless, agonised way, appealed for the assistance of her friends. Sometimes the assistance was such that it could not be rendered without damage to the reputation of the helper.

Her history was a curious one. She had been a shop assistant in an Oxford Street establishment, and her beauty attracted the attention of Vivian Morestel. Nobody knew how Vivy earned his living. It was supposed that he sold cars on commission, and that he acted as agent for a firm of bookmakers in various members’ enclosures. He had other sources of income, which only the unfortunate young men who accepted invitations to play cards in his flat knew anything about, and they were naturally reticent.

For some inexplicable reason his hectic courtship of Lila culminated within a few weeks of his meeting her in a visit to the Marylebone Registry Office, where they were joined together in the business-like bonds of matrimony.

Lila’s social progress was amazing. There were vague stories in circulation of tremendous adventures with wealthy members of the British aristocracy, and the officials of the Royal Courts of Justice could tell of divorce suits begun by Vivy and ‘settled out of court’ for a consideration. Generally the sum was about £20,000, and Mr. and Mrs. Vivy Morestel grew opulent, bought Flynn Hall at Wembley, and lived there alternately.

Vivy had discovered a method of earning a livelihood more effective than the most cleverly manipulated pack of cards could give him. There were minor scandals within scandals. Big, bluff Scherzo, the maître d'hôtel at the Fourways Club, complained bitterly that he had introduced Lila to a rich Brazilian and that, no sooner had Lila got her landing hooks into his banking account, than she persuaded him to patronise another establishment— a dead loss to Scherzo of £100 a week, for the Brazilian was a liberal spender.

By mutual consent the two young people lived apart, and only met either in consultation, to decide for how much they could bleed Lila’s latest friend, or else to cut up the profits over a pleasant dinner. This sounds incredible, but it is true, and the partnership might have continued for a very long time, with profit to both but Vivy made the mistake of falling in love with somebody, and decided on a real divorce.

That is the story of Lila, known to every clubman in London. It is the story behind the dazzling picture of her published in the daily and weekly press. Into the web of Flynn Hall many bloated flies had flown and struggled helplessly, and had been duly blooded. And now the king fly was buzzing nearer and nearer to the viscid threads.

“I can only tell you, Tressa, that if she gets Mike I’ll— I’ll murder her!”

Tressa laughed softly.

“Mike’s much too sensible,” she said, conscious of her own hypocrisy, for she had told other women that other men were ‘much too sensible,’ and had had to watch the ruin of hopes and ambitions that littered the trail where the triumphant Lila had passed.

She decided in this particular case that it would be wise to see Mike himself; but days passed before she met him, and then the opportunity— it was at the opening match at Hurlingham— was not a particularly good one.

Mike listened, obviously ill at ease, whilst Tressa expatiated on the virtues and sweetness of his fiancée.

“Yes, of course, that’s all right,” he said awkwardly at last. “Mary is a dear— much too good for me, and all that sort of thing. I wouldn’t hurt her for the world. But I’m not so sure that our marriage would be the best thing for her in the long run. Honestly, Tressa, I’d give a million pounds if she’d get fed up with me and break it off.”

“Why?” asked Tressa.

Mike fumbled with his tie, ran his hand through his fair hair, pulled at his aristocratic nose, and stammered something about incompatability.

“The point is, Tressa,” he said at last. “Mary’s much too sweet a girl to marry a rough-and-tumble fellow like me. She’s unsophisticated, and it would simply hurt me most damnably to upset her. She’s a child. I feel that I ought to marry a girl who has— well, suffered— give her a sort of safe harbour after the storm.”

“In fact, Lila Morestel,” said Tressa brutally, and Mike went very red.

“Well, yes; I’m awfully fond of Lila, and she’s had a perfect hell of a time with that awful husband of hers. You’ve no idea, Tressa, what that girl has suffered.”

“I have a pretty shrewd idea, I think,” said Tressa drily, and Mike grew a little peevish.

“Of course, if you are one of the people who believe all these awful stories that are told about her, there’s no use in continuing the argument,” he said. “‘Malice loves a shining mark’, Tressa, and naturally these beastly women who invent all kinds of stories about the poor girl....”

Tressa realised that this was not the moment to give her views on Lila Morestel and her sufferings. More especially she was embarrassed by the knowledge that she had been the unwilling recipient of that lady’s confidence.

When she got home she wrote a little note asking Lila to come and see her, and the next morning came a telephone call from Flynn Hall.

“Is it very important, darling? I’m simply rushed off my feet. I have to see my solicitors today or tomorrow— or perhaps it’s next Monday: I’m not quite certain. But anyway, I’m fearfully rushed! You know just how terrible I’m feeling about the whole business.”

“Can you come tomorrow?” insisted Tressa, and there came from the other end of the wire a reluctant agreement.

“You know I’m selling Flynn Hall?” she added, just as Tressa thought the conversation was ended and was about to replace the receiver.

IT was perfectly true that Lila contemplated the sale of Flynn Hall. She discussed the matter with Vivy, who came to lunch that day, and he completely agreed with her plans. They sat together in the beautiful, panelled library that looked out on a stretch of lawn and a well tended garden. Lila was at her desk, and had before her a neat array of title deeds and accounts; for she was a business woman of extraordinary ability, methodical to a painful degree— it pained Vivy at any rate— even going so far as to keep the records of many strange but thrilling incidents in a steel filing cabinet. Because, as Lila told her husband:

“You never know when these things may be useful.”

A cigarette drooped from Vivy’s thin lips, his pale blue eyes surveyed the pleasant vista in a melancholy stare, his hands were thrust deep into his pockets, and his shoulders humped— a favourite attitude of his when he found himself in hopeless conflict with his businesslike partner.

“Well, have it your own way, Lila,” he said, “only tell me when you’ve made the decision. I’ve never known you to be so undecided before. It seems a perfectly easy thing to do: you can bring a petition: I’ll not defend it; and that will be the end of it.”

She looked at him thoughtfully.

“I’m not sure that is the best way,” she meditated. “Mike and I went to the El Moro last night and had a long talk. He’s worth three millions, Vivy, but the money is so tied up that I can’t see myself handling a great deal of it.”

“Here, what do you mean?” asked Vivian, galvanised to activity in his alarm. “You’re not going to cry off? I’ve promised that dear girl—"

“Never mind what you’ve promised that dear girl,” snapped Lila. “And how you can bring yourself to fall in love with her is beyond me. I’m not going to cry off— I want to marry Mike.”

“Isn’t he engaged or something?” asked Vivy, with a flicker of interest. “I thought he was tied up with Lady Mary Midston— rather a pretty girl, too.”

“He’s tied up with nobody,” said Lila decisively. “He likes her, and I suppose he is sort of engaged to her. I know he’s rather worried about breaking it off, but that’s nothing. The point is this”— she folded her hands on the desk and looked him straight in the eyes—" will it be the best for me to divorce you or for you to divorce me? If I bring the action, there’s nothing in it for either of us, and there’s always a chance that he might back out. On the other hand, if you bring the action, Mike’s got such a strange sense of honour that he’s certain to marry me and, what is more, there would be a settlement.”

Now settlements had been the foundation of Lila’s fortune and, incidentally, of Vivy’s and they were now on ground familiar to both.

“Only this time, of course,” Lila went on, “there would be no cut. Whatever I got would be mine, and I think, with a bit of luck, we could induce Mike to pay a hundred thousand pounds out of court. The only thing is that is mustn’t be settled on me, otherwise it might affect my marriage settlement.”

Vivian was now thoroughly alert, and for an hour they discussed ways and measures. At the end of that time Lila made a neat little memorandum of the arrangement, cursed her husband for his rapacity— he had ultimately accepted an eight per cent commission— and there, so far as the vampires were concerned, the matter was satisfactorily ended.

To Tressa, the next afternoon, she gave her own version of the agreement.

“My dear, the most terrible thing has happened! Vivy is filing a suit for divorce.”

Tressa was staggered.

“He is divorcing you?” she said incredulously. “I thought—"

“I know, I know,” said Lila, wringing her hands. She was a tall, svelte woman, with a willowy figure, an over-large chin and eyes of melting blue. “Isn’t it too dreadful, Tressa! And after all I have done for him, the sacrifices I have made, after all my subterfuges to keep his name clean!”

“Of course, Mike will defend the action, and you will counterpetition?” said Tressa.

Lila shook her head sadly.

“I could do that, of course,” she said mournfully, “but my dear, think of the publicity— I would make any sacrifice for Mike’s sake. In fact, I’ve just seen him and told him so. You can’t realise what this means to me, Tressa.”

“But,” said the incredulous Tressa, “You’re not allowing Vivian to bring this action and offering no defence, are you?”

“What can I do?” wailed Lila. “I have to consider Mike. It’s the awful publicity of a defended action that I’m thinking about.” Tressa frowned.

“Is your husband asking for damages?” she demanded suspiciously.

“I don’t know what he’s doing. My head is in a perfect whirl, and I’m positively sick with worry and anxiety,” said Lila. “Mike has been awfully good about the whole thing. Of course, it’s come as a great blow to the poor darling, especially as he is, in a manner of speaking, innocent; and he’s threatened to kill Vivy. But he realises that he’s been seen about with me so much, and under the circumstances he feels, as I do, that the thing to avoid is publicity—"

“How much is Vivy asking?”

Lila threw out tragic and despairing hands.

“I haven’t the slightest idea, darling,” she whimpered. “Please don’t ask me! The thing is so sordid and horrible that it doesn’t bear speaking of.”

Mike Long, a very dazed and serious young man, sat down that night and sent a letter which took him two hours to compose; and Mary Midston read it in bed and did not shed a tear. She read it twice, read it again, and then, reaching out of bed, lifted the telephone and called Tressa.

“Have you heard the news?” she asked.

Tressa, who had come in to breakfast early in the expectation of this call, replied cautiously:

“What news is this, Mary?”

“I’ve had a letter from Mike,” said Mary, and her voice was singularly even for one whose engagement had been so unceremoniously broken off. “I won’t read it to you, but it’s all about my youth and innocence, and the horrible unworthiness of Mike. In fact, Tressa, he’s ditched me!”

Tressa winced: she had never taken to the argot of the streets.

“And he’s going to marry the Vampire. In fact, Mr. Vampire is bringing an action for divorce, and Mike is the Foolish Third.”

There was a long pause.

“What are you going to do?” asked Tressa.

“I’m going to do all that I’m not expected to do,” said the cool voice at the other end of the line. “I should be sobbing into my pillow, or writing a tear-stained letter. But, Tressa, I’m not going to allow that poor child—"

“Which poor child?” asked the startled Tressa.

“Mike,” was the calm reply. “Do you know anybody who better fills the description? I’m not going to allow him to be ruined by that unspeakable reptile. I’m supposed to be unsophisticated but, Tressa, though I neither dope nor drink, nor indulge in the peculiar pleasures of our mutual friends, I know just enough of the wicked world and its ways to stop this divorce.”

“How?” asked Tressa.

“Ha ha!” said the voice, so sardonic that for the second time within twenty- four hours Tressa was staggered.

“I know something about Lila,” Mary went on, “and I’m going to learn a little more. Do you remember how she once settled a dispute we had at dinner, as to who won the money when we all went to Ascot with the Gladdings, by producing a four-year-old race-card with all the accounts neatly pencilled on the back?”

“But what on earth has that to do with the divorce?” asked Tressa in amazement.

“We shall see,” said Mary, and rang off.

Mike Long was on the point of going out that night when the visitor was announced, and he almost collapsed at the sight of the girl in shimmering blue and white who confronted him in the drawing-room.

“Mary!” he stammered. “My dear, I’m sorry you came. I don’t think it’s wise of you to distress yourself.”

“I’m not distressing myself at all,” said Mary. “I thought I would come along and make your mind easy. I’m consoling myself with Social Snaps”.

“With what?” gasped Mike.

Had his brutal conduct turned this unfortunate girl’s brain?

“You may not have heard of Social Snaps, she said apologetically. “It isn’t a very high-class paper— in fact, daddy says that it is a very low- class paper. It has been advertised for sale in the Press for months— you must have read the announcements. I bought it— daddy lent me the money.”

“But why in the name of fate do you want to go in for that sort of thing?”

He was so astonished that he forgot the painfulness of the interview.

“You’re not a journalist— you can’t write—"

“Can’t I?” she said darkly. “Oh, can’t I!”

He looked at her uncomfortably.

“I’m glad— I mean, I’m glad that you have taken things so well. The whole business is rather awful, isn’t it? Vivy is a so-and-so, but I’ve got to go through with it. You don’t know how terrible I’m feeling....”

He babbled further inanities, and she heard him through. Then she made a statement, and he went red and then white.

“You mustn’t say that sort of thing about Lila: she’s as innocent as a child, and all these stories about her are lies. It is infamous to suggest that she has lived on blackmail— wicked!”

“You must subscribe to my paper, Mike,” she said at parting. “Can you drop me at the comer of Russett Street, Lambeth? I saw your car at the door.”

“Where!” he squeaked. “Russett Street— why that’s one of the lowest neighbourhoods in London!”

“We journalists have to go to strange places,” said Mary.

IT was on the fourth day of the second week after this interview that Lila stalked tragically into Tressa’s room and dropped onto a chair.

“If I could only find the man I’d give him five thousand pounds,” she groaned. “The fool didn’t trouble to take my jewel case.”

“But why should a burglar trouble to rob your library?” asked Tressa, who had read the account of the burglary in the morning newspaper.

“Because— I don’t know!” snapped the Vampire. “Oh my God, why did he? Every paper taken from my safe, every letter stolen from my file! He must have spent hours. And there were two of them. The fool of a policeman said that he saw a little man and a woman coming down the drive and got into a car that was waiting on the road.”

“Who was the woman?”

Lila could only wave despairing hands.

Tressa was genuinely puzzled for a day or two, and then one morning there came to her breakfast table a small weekly journal. She tore off the wrapper to examine Mary’s initial effort as a journalist, and the first thing that caught her eye was a black letter announcement.

In our next issue we shall tell the story of:

The Vampire of Wembley

and publish extracts from correspondence between this sinister woman, her wretched victims, and her horrible husband.

We shall also give the confessions of a converted burglar who, owing to the influence exercised by a young and charming society woman, was induced to return to the paths of virtue.

Order Your Copies Now

And then Tressa understood.

Lila read the marked paragraph sent to her by registered post and also understood.

She got on the telephone to Vivy.

“That Midston girl has got the letters, Vivy. I don’t know what you’ll do, but I’m going to California till things look brighter. I think that is the only way to stop publication. Oh, yes, Mike has a copy of the worst letters. I called him up a few minutes ago, and his valet told me that he was not at home to me.”

_____________________

11: Sentry No. 1

The Philadelphia Inquirer, November 9, 1924

WHEN Ferdie van Wyk was arrested for being found in the barracks of the Larkshire Regiment under suspicious circumstances, he very naturally objected to being marched through the one little street of Simon's Town by a military escort.

Ferdie was neither black nor white, being of that complexion which is described politely as "colored." He had been thrown out of Cronje's army for drunkenness and theft, and he had tasted the dread "sjambok"— that pliant length of rhinoceros hide which the backveldt Boer wields with such skill. He left, vowing vengeance upon his onetime friends, and came to the British Army at Modder River with a cock-and-bull story which secured him a post, first as transport rider, then as guide to the force. Here he was detected in the act of cruelly and unnecessarily flogging a native boy. The boy was a Fingo lad engaged as voertrekker— that is to say he walked ahead of an ox-team. leading them, since, as you may know, oxen are not guided by reins, and move so slowly that the voertrekker finds no difficulty in keeping ahead of them. For his cruelty, Van Wyk was kicked out of the British Army and carried himself to Commandant Viljoen, who was operating in the Free State. In his malice he volunteered to lead the Boers to an unprotected British post on the railway line between the Orange and the Modder Rivers.

He was so plausible with his stories of rich stores guarded only by a handful of soldiers that the commandant took his command to the attack, only to be repulsed with considerable loss. Van Wyk escaped with his life and wandered about the country, robbing isolated farmhouses and terrifying the women who had been left behind till he found himself at De Aar, in the Cape Colony, where he was suspected of having wrecked a troop train, but escaped again by smuggling himself on a southward-bound mail train.

He drifted to Simon's Town, filled with hatred for mankind and especially soldier-kind. It mattered little to him whether the soldier were Briton or Boer, whether he wore khaki or the cartridge belt which constituted the sole uniform of the burgher army.

A tall broad-shouldered man with a dark yellow complexion, flat nose and seamed cheeks, his sullen eyes surveyed the pretty little town hatefully. Like many other men who by their own wicked acts have brought punishment upon their heads, he blamed everybody but himself, and he blamed nobody so much as the deputy chief magistrate of Simon's Town, who, eight years before, had sentenced him to a term of imprisonment for atrocious cruelty to a dog.

It was unfortunate for Van Wyk (that was the name he adopted) that his thieving propensities should get the better of him. Thinking that the detachment of soldiers stationed in Simon's Town was engaged in manoeuvring on the hills, he made a furtive visit to the barrack-rooms, and was captured whilst he was pilfering a soldier's kit-bag.

Van Wyk scowled as he was led into the courthouse, for sitting on the bench was the same young magistrate who had sentenced him eight years before.

Mr. Gerald was not so young, but he bad scarcely altered, indeed he looked younger.

"I know your face," he said, when the evidence had been given; "aren't you Ferdie Van Wyk?"

"No," lied the prisoner, sullenly.

"I am satisfied that you are," insisted the magistrate.

"That's right, your worship," said a gaoler.

Van Wyk scowled at the official, and if a look could have killed, assuredly the gaoler would have died on the spot.

"I shall send you to Cape Town for trial," said the magistrate, and there the matter ended.

Outside the courthouse Van Wyk waited under the care of two armed guards, planning methods of escape. He saw a native nurse wheeling a baby up and down in the shade of the magistrate's garden.

"Whose child is that?" he asked in Dutch.

"The magistrate's little girl," was the reply. A malevolent gleam lit the halfbreed's eye as they marched him away to the cells.

He found himself locked up with two choice spirits, men of his own color, also awaiting trial, and both of them apparently foredoomed to long sentences.

"I wish I could take a match and blow this town off the face of the earth," said one bitterly.

"If we could set fire to the magazine," said the other.

Van Wyk, his heart filled with black hate, said nothing, but he thought of the magistrate and he thought of the gaoler.

"I have a plan, brothers," he said after a while. "At what hour does the gaoler come in the evening?"

"At seven."

"Alone?"

"Sometimes," said one of the men, "but he never enters the cell— he puts the food through, this trap," and he indicated a small wicket in the aoor.

"Where does he carry his keys?" asked Van Wyk

"On his belt."

Van Wyk thought. He was a man of tremendous strength, and his long arms, reaching almost to his knees, were more like a monkey's than a man's. He measured his arm against the door and nodded, satisfied.

At night came Crumps, the gaoler, with the evening meal. He came alone, but he felt safe enough with a door of thick oak between himself and his prisoners. He passed the bread and soup which formed the evening meal through the wicket, then as he was on the point of closing the little steel grating Van Wyk called him.

"What do you want?" asked the gaoler testily.

Van Wyk's arm shot through the wicket, and his long sinewy fingers caught the gaoler's throat. The man struggled, but was drawn to the grating, and another hand grasped him and drew him tighter to the door. He struggled madly, tore at the encircling fingers, but the assault was too sudden. He went limp and unconscious.

Van Wyk held him thus, then, gripping him by the collar with one hand, thrust his long arm through the wicket and found the keys hanging by a chain. With a wrench he tore the chain from the belt and let the inanimate figure fall to the ground.

He chose a key and reached his arm through to its fullest extent... A minute or two later three prisoners tiptoed down the stone corridor to freedom and vengeance.

IT wanted a quarter to one when the sentry on No. 1 post began his weary perambulation of the beat which extended almost from the seashore to the iittle waterfall in the kloof. Behind the square, squat magazine the hill rose steeply. Above, the sentry heard the whine and the bark of baboons at their play. It was not a cheery post, even in the broad light of the African day, when Simon's Bay, alive with grey-hulled men-of-war brought a sense of companionship: at night No. 1 was the saddest of all posts in the world. So thought Terrence Cane as he shifted his rifle from one shoulder to the other for comfort, and stepped briskly toward the town end of his beat.

There was a level width of road cut out of the hillside. On his left now the ground sloped away steeply, leading down to a brook and a score of disreputable houses which were huddled about the insalubrious streamlet.

He was half-way across the road when he stopped suddenly.

Somewhere close at hand he had heard the whimper of a baby. It came from the left, and he peered down the slope. He saw a movement, ever so slight, on the hillside and brought his loaded rifle down to his hip with a smack. "Halt! who comes here?" he challenged quickly, but there was no reply. He listened. Only the barking on the hill and the musical tinkle of the fall broke the silence of the night.

Then again came the fretful cry and again he saw a movement.

He stepped carefully down the rough slope, his bayonet glittering blue in the moonlight, then with an exclamation stooped and picked up a little bundle that lay at his feet.

It was a little baby apparently only a few months old.

He climbed back to his post, carrying rifle in one hand and the baby in the other.

"Why, you little beggar!" exclaimed Private Cane reproachfully. "What do you mean by being out so late at night?"

It was a white child, beautifully and delicately dressed in night-clothes of the finest texture. How had it come there?

Ten minutes before he had thought he heard voices coming from the direction of the brook, but that was not an ununsual circumstance. One always heard voices on No. 1 post, and before now the guard had marched to the relief of a sentry who had broken down into a nervous wreck from the strain of two hours spent on the magazine guard.

Cane walked slowly back to the magazine sentry-box. It was a warm night, but his overcoat hung there in case of rain, and he carefully wrapped the little one in its folds. She was sleeping as calmly as though she were in her beribboned cradle.

He was bending over the child when he heard a noise behind him. He turned quickly, but not quickly enough.

A billet of wood came down on his defenseless head, and he went down like a log.

"Better kill him and finish it," said Van Wyk

"What's the good," whispered the ruffian with him; "if we blow up the magazine he'll die without trouble— you were mad to leave the child on the hill."

Van Wyk turned with an oath.

"What else could we do?" he asked fiercely. "I didn't know he went so far in his walk— I didn't want to alarm him, and I can't carry a kid in my arms whilst I'm scaling a magazine wall."

He looked at the senseless soldier at his feet, and the third man spoke.

"Let us take his rifle," he said.

"Time for that later," said Van Wyk gruffly. "Give me the matches and the shavings and help me over the wall."

But first they dragged poor Cane to a sitting position, bound him tightly with a length of cord, and forced a stick gag into his mouth. Whilst they were doing this the baby raised a fretful cry.

"Hurry up!" said Van Wyk; "if the magistrate discovers the kid has gone he'll raise the town— and besides, the sentries are relieved in half ah hour."

The three men made for the wall as the dockyard clock struck one.

"No. 2.— All-l-l's well!"

Van Wyk heard the distant cry from the barrack sentry.

"No. 3. — All-l-l's well!"

Fainter came the answer from the store guard.

He knew that the men in the guard room would be waiting for No. 1 to respond, and if he did not answer a file of the guard would come at the double to discover why.

"Hurry!" he growled.

A small baby girl who wakes from a pleasant nap in the middle of the night and finds herself in the unaccustomed surroundings of a sentry-box swathed in a soldier's great-coat may choose between yelling her indignation or investigating.

Baby Gerald investigated. She crawled from her bed and flopped alarmingly in the road. She saw a huddled man apparently asleep, and since she had seen people asleep before she was not alarmed. More to the point, she saw a very pretty object glittering on the roadway. It was a long rifle with a bayonet at its end, and she started to crawl its length, cooing cheerfully the while.

She started at the butt end and had not gone far when she stopped to investigate some highly-complicated mechanism. She did not know how complicated it was— all she realized was that it was inviting. She grasped at the polished bolt and she touched the magazine, and then her inquiring, saucy eyes saw a little projection of steel beneath tne rifle. She tugged at this, but it wouldn't come away. She turned again.

"Bang!"

Baby Gerald went backward with a terrified yell, and Van Wyk, astride of the wall, dropped quickly to the ground and ran for his life— straight into the arms of the hurrying picket.

He swung aside and darted down the slope, but the corporal of the guard was a crack shot, and Ferdie Van Wyk finished his earthly career on the slopes of Simon's Bay.

Baby Gerald is now a grown young lady, but they call her "Sentry No. 1" to this day.

_________________________

12: Before Witnesses

The Story-Teller, February 1924

AN inventor lives mainly in the future, and youth, naturally and inevitably, lives for to-day. So that there was a certain amount of justification for Lydia Manton's gloom. Happily, the teashop was deserted, for the hour was three— that slack time between luncheon and tea— and she could speak without fear that some emissary or employee of John Revill was within earshot to carry news of her indiscretion to that tyrant.

And it was an indiscretion for a very rich young lady to be sitting in a Ludgate Hill teashop with Bobbie Ballard, an undesirable acquaintance from most of the points which appealed to her uncle. Not that Bobbie was unpresentable from any other. He was a clean, good-looking, athletic young man, with all the fine code which the public schools lend to their children; but he was extremely poor, and his prospects were as extremely unfavourable. He thought otherwise personally.

'On Tuesday afternoon at seven o'clock,' he said impressively, 'our troubles are going to be over, Lydia! The GBS* are giving a test to my machine, and if they take it up my fortune's made. And of course they will take it up,' he added, with that enthusiasm which is half the inventor's charm and not a little of his pathos. 'There has never been anything like this. Why, a man came over specially from Berlin to try it out this morning, and he's only waiting for the big test on Tuesday— '

[* General Broadcasting Syndicate.]

'The Germans have got no money,' she said dismally. 'I thought everybody knew that.'

His face fell.

'I don't know,' he said vaguely. 'A lot of people think they have. But that's neither here nor there: I'm not depending on the German patents. Now, if we could only persuade your uncle to be reasonable, it would make all the difference in the world to me.'

She shook her head.

'Bobbie, if by persuading uncle to be reasonable, you mean persuading him to put some of his money or let me put some of mine into the invention, get that idea out of your mind, my dear! Uncle Revill hates you, and when I told him that you had invented a wonderful apparatus, his first thought was to get particulars in order to fight the patent! And John Revill is the greatest of all the patent lawyers.'

Bobbie did not want telling that, nor was Mr Revill's loathing for him any secret.

'I hope he won't,' he said after thought. 'There is one flaw in the patent, and if he comes to it, I'm dished. I've cabled to America to discover how far I am bound by the previous patents, and honestly, that is the only worry I've got. Otherwise, the thing is a certain success. I hoped to have had a reply from New York in time to tell you this afternoon. When are you meeting Revill?— how that miserable devil got his name is one of the mysteries of life.'

She smiled faintly. Life in her guardian's household was not a pleasant existence. Mr Revill had a son, a bored and weedy young man, who made love to her half-heartedly and with an air of condescension and inevitable conquest which was maddening. But the callow attentions of Mr Willie Revill were less of a trial than the unflinching severity of his father.

'I'll be twenty-one in a year's time,' she said with a sigh. 'Oh, Bobbie, I wish it were to-morrow! I wouldn't worry about your silly old inventions— '

'They're neither silly nor old,' said the ruffled Bobbie, and she dropped her hand on his penitently.

'I hate saying it, but I think that we can wait,' he said, squeezing the little hand in his. 'And anyway, you can't be married without your uncle's permission. Whatever induced your father to leave you in his care?'

She shook her head, being unprepared to solve, at a second's notice, a problem that had puzzled her since her twelfth birthday. She glanced up at the clock and uttered a little cry of alarm.

'I'm meeting uncle at his office in five minutes,' she said. 'Bobbie, I will write to you, but I'm afraid you mustn't write to me. Uncle watches the servants like a cat watches mice, and I want to keep my maid; she's rather a dear.'

'I was hoping you would come up on Tuesday to the experiment— couldn't you?'

She thought a while, then shook her head.

'I'm afraid it is impossible,' she said. 'And yet— anyway, it would be impossible, Bobbie. You couldn't meet me, because I shouldn't have time to telegraph you.'

He put his hand in his waistcoat pocket and took out a key. 'Have this in case,' he said, as she rose to go. 'If you can possibly get up, come straight to the office. If I'm not there, let yourself in and wait till I come. If you come early, I can have a little talk with you before the fellows from the GBS come.'

She shook her head again doubtfully.

'I don't think I shall be able to. And yet I'd love to come. Is there no way of letting me know what your news is from America?'

'I may get a cable this afternoon,' he said, 'in which case I'll come to the station— '

'You'll do nothing of the kind,' she said quickly. 'If uncle sees you there will be trouble.'

'He needn't see me. If I get any news, I'll bring a note. I can easily slip it into your hand when he isn't looking; and, lovey, if that news is favourable, there will be one large wedding on the day of your freedom!'

It was five minutes after four when she came into the big and stuffy office in Bedford Row where John Revill sat, surrounded by ancient deed boxes and enveloped in the atmosphere of menace which seemed peculiarly his own. A grim, thin-faced man, with a hard mouth and an out-thrust jaw, he scowled up at her as she was shown into his sanctum. Then, with the greatest deliberation, he looked at his watch.

'Where have you been?' he asked sharply.

'I've been to my dressmaker to be fitted,' she said.

'You left your dressmaker at three o'clock,' said Revill. 'I have been on the telephone to them.'

The girl flushed, and there came a light to her eyes which John Revill had seen once before and was not anxious to see again.

'I have been to see Bobbie Ballard,' she said quietly. 'I shall see him as often as I possibly can. And when I am twenty-one I shall marry him! And I will tell you something else, uncle; unless this bullying to which I am subjected is a little relaxed, I shall come up to town next week and see Dodds and Carr, who were mother's lawyers, and discover if I cannot take some action to relieve you of a guardianship which is becoming hateful to me.'

He stared at her, open-mouthed. For the first time in the period of his guardianship her threat had reached under his skin, and he was panic-stricken. Lydia had promised the one step which he feared, and had feared for many years, she might be driven into taking.

'You are talking foolishly,' he said in a milder tone. 'The courts would not alter the existing state of affairs. I wish they would. After all, I am acting in your best interest when I try to save you from the attentions of fortune-hunting little cads like Ballard.'

'He's not little and he's not a cad,' she said quietly. 'Are you sure that Willie is wholly disinterested in his attentions?'

He dropped his eyes under her steady gaze and shrugged.

'We are catching the four-thirty,' he said. 'If you will amuse yourself for a few minutes, I will finish my work and be ready for you.'

The station hall was crowded when they arrived, and she looked round in vain for a sight of Bobbie's face. He was nowhere to be seen, and, with a sigh, she concluded that no cable, encouraging or otherwise, had come from America in time to be communicated to her. It was when Revill had gone to the bookstall that somebody brushed past her and slipped a note in her hand, and, looking back quickly, she saw the back of Bobbie disappearing as the suspicious Revill, paper in hand, came threading his way through the passengers to join her.

During the first hour of the journey John Revill did not speak to her. She sat in one corner of the compartment, he in the other, his grim, hard face made more unattractive by the frown now permanently imprinted on his forehead. They were within five minutes of Barnham Junction, when—

'I want to see that letter Ballard gave you,' said Revill without preliminary.

She gasped.

'Letter?' she faltered.

'The letter that Robert Ballard slipped into your hand while I was buying a paper. You underrate my keenness of vision, Lydia.' He reached out expectantly.

The letter was crushed in her hand, had been there since the journey started.

'I don't know what you mean,' she said. For once, her acting was so excellent that Revill was deceived.

And then a thought struck her. Suppose the letter contained a story of failure, a confession of some weak point in the patent that would, in the hands of the man who hated him, bring Bobbie's plans to naught? This fearful possibility overwhelmed her for a moment, and then she recovered herself. The hand farthest from him, and hidden by her body, moved slowly till it had passed through the open window. The train had stopped at a signal, and as her fingers relaxed she saw the letter drop into a shallow hole that had evidently been recently dug by railway workmen, for a mound of newly-turned earth was by its side.

'I want the letter that Robert Ballard gave you,' he repeated with marked patience. 'I have told you before I will not allow that man to communicate with you under any circumstances.'

'You are mistaken if you think I have a letter,' she said.

She was frightened of him, however unconcerned she might attempt to appear.

Without a word, he took the bag by her side, opened it and made a quick search.

'You have it somewhere.'

'I tell you I haven't the letter,' she said angrily.

Then, to her relief, the train started moving. He looked at her suspiciously, but said nothing more, either then or in the car; but when they reached the big, rambling house which had been her home for seven years, she knew his first act would be to ring for the housekeeper, who was his willing slave, and that at the earliest opportunity every box and drawer in her room would be searched.

She went up, changed, and, coming down, found Willie in the drawing-room, a cigarette drooping limply from his weak mouth, his attention devoted to the evening paper. He looked up as she came in.

'Hallo, Lydia,' he said. 'The governor's in a terrible rage. What have you been doing to him?'

'I've never known him when he wasn't in a terrible rage,' said the girl.

'Pretty sickening for you,' agreed the young man; 'but he's rather like that. You remember what he said after my accounts came in last Ascot? Lord! Lydia, my girl, you've got to humour him.'

She walked across to the fireplace and stood for a while, looking down into the glowing coals.

'I've spent seven years humouring your father, Willie,' she said quietly, 'and they have been seven of the leanest years that I ever hope to have in my life.'

Willie Revill scratched his receding chin.

'You might do worse,' he said, apropos of nothing, and she turned.

'Worse than what?'

He moved his thin shoulders uncomfortably.

'What I was talking to you about the other day— you know what I'm after.'

'What are you after?'

He grinned.

'A wife,' he said flippantly. 'Dear old thing, what's the good of kicking against the governor? He's Nero and Caligula rolled into one.'

Her lips curled scornfully.

'I might add Heliogobalus to that appalling combination by marrying you,' she said. 'No, my dear Willie, I know you, and to know you is to be without illusions.'

He was silent at that. Probably he was groping back to his knowledge of the classics to identify the qualities of Heliogobalus. It was too wearying a pursuit, for presently he asked:

'What happened to make the governor so sore? Was it Bobbie Ballard?'

She shook her head.

'I told Uncle John that unless my life was made a little easier I was going to consult a firm of lawyers and ask them to make me a ward of Chancery. I don't think even a Chancery judge would be quite as offensive as your father.'

Willie whistled.

'The devil you did!' he said. 'I don't wonder at the old man cutting up rough. Whose idea was it— your fellow's?'

She did not answer, and a little while later the arrival of John Revill, his face like a thunder-cloud, put an end to further conversation.

At six o'clock the next morning, when it was still dark, Lydia came downstairs, unlocked the front door and made her way to the little garage where her two-seater was installed. In the night there had been a heavy fall of snow, a circumstance which did not make her task any easier, since she had to push the car out of the garage and steady it down the steep drive to the road, before she dared start up the engine. In five minutes she was speeding towards Barnham. Passing the station, she stopped her machine by the roadside and looked backward. Beyond the tracks of her car wheels in the snow that had fallen overnight, there was no sign of life or human movement.

The dawn skies were pearl and grey, the countryside a stretch of lavender-tinted snows. Sound there was: the hum and drone of the telegraph wires that ran by the side of the railway.

Light shoes and silk stockings were not the most suitable apparel for her adventure, she realized, as she stepped deep into the frozen whiteness. The snow closed like a ring of ice about her ankles as she plodded to the rear of the car, opened the boot and took a spade.

Suppose somebody had seen the letter and picked it up? She was sure it had fallen into the little hole where workmen had been tinkering with the under-earth mechanism of railway points; she had seen this, and at the moment had been glad.

The wind would not blow it away and the spot would be easier to locate.

Glancing round, she took her bearings. There was the switch, there the red-painted telegraph-pole, but the little mound of earth that had stood beside the hole was gone— it had been filled in. She had expected something like that might happen, for, as the train pulled into Barnham Junction, she had seen three platelayers making their reluctant way back to work.

Ploughing through a drift, she crossed a low fence and walked painfully across the metals. Here— no, here. Under the edge of the spade she felt loose earth and began to dig.

There was nobody in sight. Barnham Junction was a deserted wilderness, and the signal-box was out of sight. Frantically she tossed out the earth, and presently there came a spadeful that showed a corner of grimy paper. She stooped and picked it up. It was the letter!

Smoothing it out, she gave a little cry of dismay. The letter had been opened. Hastily she carried it back to the road, turned the car and drove beyond Barnham before she stopped and took out the contents. It was a sheet of paper, sodden with moisture.

Dear Lydia,— The worst has happened. The coil I am using has been patented by the Keilegg Corporation, but I am not absolutely sure and am consulting the best patent lawyer I can find to-morrow morning— not John Revill, I need hardly tell you! Try to come.— Yours in haste.

She read the letter again with a sinking heart. Poor Bobbie!

But who had opened the letter? Some labourer perhaps, out of curiosity; but then, why had he replaced it in the envelope?

She drew a long sigh. Thank heaven John Revill had not learnt the news which she had instinctively guessed the note contained!

As a rule, her uncle went to town by the nine o'clock train, and when, a quarter after that hour, she strolled into the dining-room, she was aghast to see him sitting in his accustomed place at the head of the table. He gave her a curt good-morning, and then:

'I'm not going to town to-day,' he said. 'Did you have a nice trip?'

He knew she had been out with the car, but she was prepared for that.

'Yes; the roads are rather bad.'

'You should have gone last night before the snow came,' he said. 'Did you have much trouble in finding the place?'

She stared at him.

'The— the place?' she faltered.

'The little hole where you dropped your letter.'

Lydia Manton went white.

'You— you followed me!' she cried, and for once he smiled.

'I preceded you,' he said drily. 'In fact, I was groping about that infernal railway at midnight. I could have saved your getting up early, but I would not deny you the exhilaration and the sense that you were getting the better of me. So his coil is patented? I thought it might be. I went through the specification of the instrument a few days ago, and I marked that as the weak spot. I shall oppose the granting of the patent, of course.'

She was silent. The malignity that shone in his eyes brought to her a sense of nausea.

'I was a fool ever to let you meet Ballard,' he said, 'a fool ever to allow you to have these boy-and-girl tennis parties. I ought to have known something would come of them. But I gave you credit for more sense than to grow infatuated over a penniless adventurer. Lydia, there is no need for me to tell you what I desire. I wish to see you married to Willie, and I am satisfied that he will make you a good husband. You told me that you're tired of being shut up here. Well, there's a way out for you.'

Her lips curled in derision.

'There's a way out of the frying-pan,' she said. 'Somebody made a proverb about it. No, thank you; I would rather sit and suffer for another year. After that—'

'After that I shall sit and suffer, eh?' he said, glowering at her. 'Well, we shall see. I have arranged for you to be married to Willie on Wednesday. You don't want a fashionable wedding, and neither do I. We will walk into the registrar's office at Barnham and walk out again; the thing will be settled in ten minutes. And in days to come you will thank me that I have taken your future in hand.'

'Don't wait till then,' she begged scornfully. 'Let me thank you now! Mr Revill, I will never marry Willie. I wouldn't marry him at the foot of the scaffold, to save his life or mine! I hate you and I hate your family; there is something unclean about you all, something that makes me shudder whenever I look at you.'

His face was grey with passion, but he kept tight hold of himself.

'We shall see,' he said.

Whatever other faults she might find with her uncle's treatment of her, she could not complain about the accommodation which had been allotted for her use. She occupied one wing of the first floor, and she had never before understood the reason for the generosity which gave her a self contained suite. Now she was to discover. One door shut off the rooms from the rest of the house, and when she tried the door to come down to lunch, she found it was locked. She rang the bell, but there was no answer. A quarter of an hour later, her uncle himself came in, carrying a tray.

'I'm afraid this action of mine has a melodramatic appearance,' he said, 'but it is necessary that you should be brought to your senses, Lydia, and until you agree to my suggestion, you will remain in your rooms.'

'A prisoner?' she said.

He nodded.

'A prisoner. I am losing a great deal of valuable time in order to give you my personal attention.'

That his attention was very personal she found when, looking out of her window and speculating upon whether the vine which covered the wall would bear her weight, she found him patrolling the path beneath. At night she saw him again— the red glow of his cigar end was visible in the darkness.

Four days passed, four dreary days, unrelieved by the books he brought to her, and from indignation she passed to a condition bordering upon terror.

It was on the Tuesday afternoon that she put into execution a plan she had made, but which, up till then, she had not had an opportunity of carrying into effect. Looking through her window, she saw her uncle crossing the lawn in the direction of his greenhouse. Horticulture was his passion, and by the apologetic attitude of the gardener who accompanied him, she guessed that the withering blast of winter had brought calamity to his cherished orchids. The greenhouses were beyond the shrubbery, and if, as she guessed, he had taken nobody into his secret, but had been his own sentinel, here was a chance.

She put on her coat quickly, threw open the window, and, gripping the vine, swung herself clear. In a minute she was on the ground and stumbling through the snow towards the garage. It was unlocked, and with trembling hands she started up her little car. Twice, three times she tried, and then she opened the bonnet and looked in. The carburetter had been removed!

By the side of her runabout was John Revill's big limousine. Had he taken the same precaution there, she wondered? She got up into the driver's seat, put her foot on the self-starter, and, to her joy, there was a buzz and a whir. Another few seconds, and the car was running down the drive. The fragile iron gates at the end of the drive were closed, and, looking round, she saw her uncle running towards her through the snow, shouting at her. There was no time to be lost. Setting her teeth, she sent the bonnet at the gates. With a crash they parted, and she felt them scrape against his cherished paintwork. But now she was free. There was no other car with which he could follow her, and she struck the London Road with a sense of exhilaration and joy in her heart.

Where should she go first but to Bobbie's office? It was on the top floor of a high building in the Strand, and she prayed that he would be there.

The journey to London took her longer than she had thought. There were road repairs which necessitated her being constantly held up. Once or twice she looked back fearfully, but there was no other car in sight. The church bells were striking six when she came to the Strand.

The elevator boy carried her up to the fifth floor, but was in some doubt as to whether Bobbie Ballard was in, doubts confirmed when she saw the glass panelling of the office door was dark. But here, at last, was sanctuary. She fitted the key and reached out her hand for the switch and turned it. No light came. She tried another and a third before the lamps blazed up.

It was a little office, furnished mainly with a carpet, a desk, and the walls were draped, with heavy black felt curtains. Bobbie was something of a sybarite, she thought, but she was here.

She turned to close the door and stepped back with a gasp of dismay, for her uncle was standing in the doorway.

'You just made it,' he said, took the key out of the lock, closed the door, slipping in the catch which made it impossible to open the door from the outside. 'Fortunately, I was able to get a taxi from the station, and I hired a car at Barnham. Now, young lady, you and I will have a quiet talk, and I'm going to tell you a few truths that will surprise you. Either you marry Willie to-morrow, or you and I will be dead to-night!'

She shrank back from him, her face white with horror.

'What— what do you mean?' she gasped.

'I'll tell you what I mean.'

And then something in the middle of the room caught his eye, and he smiled. It was a square steel box, curiously perforated at one end, and it stood on a draped pedestal.

'Let me tell you first of all that, if you'll do as I ask you, I can fight any action that they bring against your friend and establish his rights over the patentee. As a matter of fact, there is no patent on the coil, and there is nothing to prevent his using that apparatus.'

He faced her squarely, his hands behind him, his head thrust forward; and for a second she had the illusion that she was confronted by some gigantic bird of prey.

'Lydia, your father left you four hundred thousand pounds, of which I was the trustee. More than half that money is gone.'

'Gone?'

He nodded.

'I have had a very unfortunate time,' he said calmly. 'Investments which promised well have failed miserably. I am, in fact, a fraudulent trustee, and if by any chance you succeeded in persuading the court to hand over my trust— as I think you would— there would follow for me a term of penal servitude. Is that clear?'

She nodded, not capable of speech.

'Naturally, this is not a prospect to which I look forward with any great pleasure, and I think it would be safest to keep you in the family, young lady. You have something like two hundred thousand pounds to play with, and that is quite enough for any woman.'

She recovered herself now.

'I will not marry your son in any circumstances,' she said. 'And as for what you have told me—'

'What I have told you, I have not told before witnesses. It would take months of litigation to prove your words if you took action— which you will not do. And if you were to repeat what I have said to any intelligent person, he would laugh at you. What will you do?'

'I will not marry your son.'

There were voices outside.

'I'm perfectly sure you said seven,' said one— it was Bobbie's. 'No, no,' said a deeper voice, 'six o'clock was the hour arranged. I waited for you downstairs because—'

Then the sound of voices became unintelligible.

Revill looked down at the girl, his hand at his pocket.

'You promise?' he said in a low voice.

Sick with terror, she nodded.

Revill stepped to the door and turned the catch. Bobbie stared from the girl to her uncle in amazement.

'Why, how long have you been here?'

'Oh, Bobbie, Bobbie,' she sobbed, 'don't let him touch me ... he threatened to kill me unless I married ... Bobbie, he said awful things... he has stolen my money!'

Bobbie stared incredulously at the smiling lawyer.

'I'm afraid she is hysterical,' said John Revill quietly. 'In fact, I'm not quite sure that her brain isn't a little affected.'

He looked past Ballard to the two prosperous-looking gentlemen who stood behind him.

'Isn't that Mr Lambourn?' he said. 'You've come to make experiments with our friend's apparatus? I suppose you know that one of his 'inventions' had already received the benison of the United States Patent Office?'

'It hasn't!' The girl turned on him. 'You know it hasn't; you just told me that it wasn't patented!'

'When did he tell you this?' asked Bobbie quickly.

'This very moment, before he threatened to kill me and told me about the money.'

'Here? In this room?' said Bobbie eagerly.

He shut the door quickly and walked to the black instrument on the pedestal.

'Hallo, everybody!' he said. 'Experimental station speaking. I'm sorry to keep you waiting, but I was under the impression that you were to be connected at seven o'clock, instead of which you've been connected up since six.'

His voice was slow and distinct.

'Will everybody who heard a conversation between a Mr Revill and a Miss Lydia Manton communicate with Robert Ballard, 53 Stenson Buildings, Strand.'

He turned to the pallid lawyer.

'My office has been connected up with the station of the General Broadcasting Syndicate since six o'clock,' he said, 'and the statement you made— as you thought without a witness— was heard by three hundred thousand people listening in. And if this doesn't make the fortune of Ballard's Transmitter, then you're an honest man and I'm a rogue!'

__________________________

13: Fluff Willington Of Berysted, Dorking

The Wireless Magazine, February 1925

HURT and silent, Marjorie Clewin offered no explanation, made no excuses. Hurt he knew her to be, but how deeply wounded, he could not guess then. And it all started over the silliest discussion, as to whether or not they should go to Madrid for their summer holidays. It was hot in July, he granted. She might have said as much instead of her "Madrid! How absurd!"

Being young, and having within him the seeds of imperiousness, which success brings in its train, and which so often has the appearance of strength, and is the proof of weakness, he went up in the air. He wished he hadn't.

"Perhaps," he asked sarcastically, "you would like to come back to the ranch."

He knew she hated the ranch, the terrible loneliness which only the Canadian woman experiences, the loneliness which fills the asylums and mental hospitals, and breaks young women and leaves them old. It was a beautiful ranch, with mile upon mile of corn-land and the hoary heads of the Rockies to the West, but the tracks were twenty miles away at the nearest point, and Hambledon, which called itself a township, was little more than three grain elevators and a street of shacks, exactly fifty, and there was nothing to do in the world, except to ride and watch the corn and the hawks and an eagle or two that came down from the mountains in the colder weather, and when she said "No" this time her eyes were filled with tears. He thought it was temper. She was something of a fool, too, but young married people are not to be judged by ordinary standards.

And the end of it was that he went to the ranch alone, the last place in the world to which he intended going in the summer of the year. It was a wrench to leave Berysted and the park, and the wide fields, horrible to miss Ascot and Epsom, for he raced a few horses, but strangely enough, the real poignancy of the parting was not leaving his English home and the life he had learned to love, not even leaving Marjorie (their farewells were formal to a point of stiffness), but leaving Fluff Willington, his wife's one sister.

Fluff was nine, and had her name from the mop of goldy hair that defied the united efforts of nurse and maid to bring to order. And John Clewin and Fluff were the dearest of friends, exchanged confidences, listened in together at the Children's Hour, and shared her ecstasy when an unknown uncle addressed her by name and congratulated her upon attaining the dignity of eight. They rode together to the meets with Marjorie. Marjorie was sweet and daring and adorable in those days. She had not then developed her curious petulances, the long and painful silences, and her habit of brooding.

John was down at Hambledon one day and called in at the Universal Canadian Electrical Depot to buy stores, and saw a familiar object standing on a pedestal by itself, the identical instrument he had bought for Fluff. It gave him a little pang to see it, though Fluff was a regular correspondent and sent him long and exciting stories of her adventures, but was so irritatingly silent about Marjorie, that he guessed that some sort of censorship prevailed, and that her fiat had gone forth that no mention of her was to appear. As to Marjorie she had not written at all in the six months he had been in Canada, except to acknowledge with unnecessary curtness the expensive present he had bought for her in Winnipeg.

"You got a wireless up at your ranch, Mr. Clewin?" asked the store-keeper.

"No, I haven't," said John briefly.

"Orter have a set," said the man, "specially now they are relaying from England."

"Do you get receptions from England?" asked John incredulously.

"Sure we do," said the enthusiastic amateur, "and that," he pointed to the instrument, "brings Winnipeg on to your porch. I've had St. Paul, too, and Philadelphia. Why, I've got receptions from Sacramento on one valve! I guess the waves kinder travel along the Rockies."

John thought for a moment.

"Send it up," he said.

He had an aerial fixed the next day and spent three pleasant nights in experimental work. On the fourth night the Winnipeg announcer had an important statement to make.

"At eight o'clock to-morrow morning, which is five o'clock in the afternoon in England, we are hoping to get a daylight relay from London. England...."

He expatiated on the difficulties of daylight reception, dwelt learnedly and enthusiastically upon the improvements which the new beam projector had brought to wireless telegraphy, and excused in advance, as all careful announcers will, the possible failure of the transmission.

John listened, more or less bored, and tuned in to St. Paul, without any great satisfaction to himself. He tried Vancouver and got nothing, and went out into the ether and connected himself with a station where somebody was singing a Spanish song and singing it vilely!

The mail came by car from Hambledon just before he went to bed. There was a letter from Fluff. He went eagerly through the remainder.

"Not a line from Marjorie!" he thought savagely. "Out of sight out of mind."

He, who had begun his voluntary exile with the feeling that he had acted badly, had waited with his trunks packed for the word that would call him back to England full of penitence and self-reproach, was beginning to believe in a grievance which had not (and he was the first to admit this) existed when the C.P.R. steamer passed down the Mersey.

She must hate him, or she would never treat him so, and they had been so happy that first year of their married life. It had been ideal, would be ideal still, it she had been gracious enough to overcome her repugnance to sweltering Madrid. Why he had wanted to go to Madrid at all at that unseasonable time, when all the court was at Santander, he had long since forgotten, but there was a good and sufficient reason— he remembered now, there was to be a produce race in which he had entered a horse.

Marjorie did not understand him. It was an illusion largely shared by other young men and by other young wives.

He was at his breakfast the next morning and, for him, in an unpleasant mood. The waffles were burnt, the eggs were not done, the ham was salt, nothing was right for him. He got up from the table, pulled his watch from his belt-pocket and stood undecided as to whether he should drive into Hambledon and rustle a bridge party, or whether— eight o'clock, he remembered the announcer and was sufficiently curious to tune in and put on his phones.

There was no sound, except the whir of the carrier wave, and then he saw Fluff's letter unopened on the side-board, and reaching out his hand for it, tore open the envelope.

As he read the first words he uttered an exclamation of dismay.

"Darling Johnnie," it began, "fancy, I shall be nine on the 12th June—"

The 12th— to-day! And he had sent her no present, no word. A cable might remedy that, but he would not be in time. The day was fading in England, and even the most expeditious of despatches could not get a wire through to Berysted that night. He had half-risen when a voice said in his ear:

"Stand by, please, for London, England."

A curious jangle and confusion of sound and then out of the mist came a pleasant voice, and he recognised at once that they had broken in upon the Children's Hour.

"Is that Mary Ellen Jones, of Tooting? Glad to hear from you, Mary. It is lovely having such a nice present from your mother. Many happy returns! Harry Franklin of Watford. Hallo, Harry! Congratulations on your birthday, old boy. You must be getting a big boy now. I hope you will enjoy your party. Fluff Willington, of Berysted, Dorking. Hallo, Fluff. Many happy returns! I am glad to hear that you are now a proud aunt, and have a little baby nephew. I hope your sister is—"

John Clewin leapt up from the table, flung aside the headphones, and yelled for his car. The train that came through Hambledon at 10.30 connected with the C.P.R. mail steamer.

_______________________

14: The Little Dragon of Jade

The Saturday Evening Post, May 16, 1925

SOOPER? I'm used to it. Naturally the young policemen won't call me that to my face, they'd be ticked off if they did. I want 'sir' and 'superintendent' from them. Now, over in New York I'd be 'chief' to everybody, but in the metropolitan police area 'chief' means that herring-bellied deputy-commissioner and nobody else.

As a detective I'm a disappointed man: I've got no science in me. Pawson, the banker, was telling me the other day that the only way to discover whether a chap is crook or just plain stockbroker is to examine a gland— I forget the name of it— in the middle of his neck. He read about it in a newspaper. He said that another way is to measure his head. Personally, I've never had the time. When I put the stick to a man's head it isn't to measure it. But I admire that kind of detective. There's a book been written about one. He lived up in the West, had an apartment in Baker Street and played the fiddle. An' when he was short of clues, he took a shot of 'coke' an' naturally he saw more clues in a minute than a flat-footed policeman would see in a year. This feller always had a doctor around so that you might say that he wasn't as big a fool as he looked.

I've seen the scientific method tried— once! There used to be a sub-inspector of the CID at Scotland Yard named Croomb. He was a sergeant of mine when I was in K Division, a young feller who took police work pretty serious, though he never got a real good case till the Hillboro Road murder came along. I must say he put his back into that an' did good work. You remember the case— the woman's body in a sack an' nothing' to identify her except she wore odd stockin's? Croomb worked on the stockin's and got Lebrun, the Hoxton butcher, in the pen, an' eventually on to the trap. It was good work— but, what's the word when a parson starts in to put fancy bits into the marriage service? Unorthodox! That's it! The case got him promotion, which was good, but it got him into the'rist class, which wasn't so good. He started laboratizin': fixed up a sort of workshop at the back of his house in Camden Road, and he an' his girl used to work there for hours. Her name was Eleanor Fenning, a pretty blond, who had been to college an' held degrees in science.

It's a great thing for any man when a woman believes in him, because women work by a kind of wild animal instinct that's neither sense nor reason. Never played the races with a girl, have you? She doesn't look up form or go pikin' round for tips— she just likes the pretty jackets— the mauve an' cream, or maybe the powder blue with silver trimmin's, an' she plays a twenty-to-one shot that all the dockers say couldn't win unless the others dropped dead; and it comes home alone.

Eleanor believed in Croomb. She got an idea that I was jealous of him and kept him out of promotion. When a woman thinks that way you've just got to let her go right on thinkin'— it's like lettin' Niag'ra fall.

She was strong for Eastern stuff. Read Major Laye's Short Study of Native Crime and Bissart's— can't think of the title now, but it's got to do with crimes that are committed by natives for religious purposes.

'There are a lot of undiscovered murders, Sooper.' she used to say to me, 'that are traceable to the rites an' ceremonies of the mysterious East.'

'Maybe there is, Miss Fenning,' says I, 'but there's a whole lot that's traceable to people wantin' the money in the mysterious West.'

Some of the stuff she talked about, I didn't understand. In my young days education wasn't so epidemic as it is now. We hadn't anybody at headquarters who could tell you whether a bloodstain came from a mammal or an animal— are they? Well, whatever they were.

Charlie Croomb kept samples of London mud an' could tell you whether a burglar lived in Kilburn or Kew. My own way is to ask him and tell him he's a liar: say that often enough and he'll spill it. And what does it matter where he lives so long as you've got his fingerprints, an' records can tell you the day of the month he went down for his last conviction? Real crime an' book crime's different. In a book, the feller that's caught leanin' over the body with a gun in his hand is usually the hero of the piece, and the bird who did the shootin' is the old butler who's been in the service of the family for forty-five years. But in real life, when you find somebody with a gun within shootin' distance of the dear departed, you pinch him and he's properly hung, walkin' to the drop with a firm step an' hopin' everybody will take a warnin' from his drinkin' habits.

It's because we're unscientific in London that out of fifty killings a year we catch twenty-eight an' the other twenty-two die by their own hands. I'm old-fashioned. I don't believe in temp'ry insanity or brain-storms or psycho— whatever the word is. No doctor ever gets in the box to swear that a burglar's not responsible for his actions, and you don't produce brain specialists to explain why the head cashier is ten thousand short at the call-over. It's only when somebody is killed, and somebody else stands up in the dock an' puts himself on God and his country (as they say at trials), that the nerve doctor pulls out his diagrams to prove that the cause of all the trouble is a shortage of grey matter in the anterior cavity of the epiginkium. In the Bible, which is a pretty useful tex'-book, there's nothing about brain-storms an' subconscious urges. When Cain opened the register he did his shooting because he wanted more than he was gettin'— an' that's why most murders are committed. But in that good book there's quite a lot about wickedness. It's an old-fashioned word that never arises in court, except in the indictment. Right down behind every bad crime you'll find that word if you look for it. But generally it is called something else.

And science can get you all wrong. What respect can you have for the scientific mind when you see it heave a paving-brick through the plate-glass window of a jeweller's shop?

Professor Charles Bigglewood was, in a manner of speaking, a friend of mine. He used to call me 'Sooper' for one thing. And I've dined at his house in Clarges Street for another. He wrote books on chemistry an' the human mind. I don't know who read 'em— I suppose there are queer people who buy that sort of junk, but I never met 'em. He gave me a copy of one with his own name written on a blank page, and I tried to read it, but the book was kind of dry. There were no characters in it and no pictures, but the binding was grand. I had it on the shelf of my parlour for years.

I got to know him through savin' the life of his daughter. That sound like a detective story, but all I did was to grab her by the hair just as she was steppin' in front of a motor-car. She was about eight at the time— a nice girl but romantical, even at that age. She said she was glad she wasn't killed, because it would have made the driver feel so bad. Some people are like that. Personally, I'd rather a driver threw any kind of fit than the amb'lance bells should be ringin' for me. That's my nature— egotistical. I took her home. I was a mere inspector in those days an' wore uniform, havin' been fired out of the Special Branch for tellin' my superintendent he was playin' favourites. No, it wasn't a question of promotion, only I raided a night club and pinched a lady friend of his, and he wanted the charge withdrawn.

Well, Professor Bigglewood took a view that I'd done something big in scalping his daughter— wanted to give me money, and asked me to dinner, and the Lord knows what. I liked him. He was a pretty nice old man: married his housekeeper late in life— she'd been dead six years when I met him. A clever old boy in spite of his learnin'. Ever noticed how easy these bright scholars fall for a con' man? He was an inventor, too— got a process for dealin' with spelter workin' in the Midlands, and bringing him in a whole lot of money every month. He liked good wine— talked about port as if it was human. In appearance he was nearly the double of the late Gen'ral Booth— long, white beard, fierce sort of nose, and white hair. I've sat listenin' to him by the hour wonderin' at his horse sense. He was the only man I ever met who didn't think police headquarters ought to be more scientific.

And he had one hobby— the collection of little idols— Buddha an' Shion an' quaint things like that. One night he opened a case and took out a little green dragon— made of jade.

'There's a history to that, Sooper,' he said. 'I bought it from a Chinaman at Tower Hill. Gave him a pound for it. He was found in the river next day with his throat cut!'

'How do you know it was the same Chink?' I asked him, bein' suspicious about coincidences.

'My card was in his pocket. He had told me he had another like it, so I asked him to bring it to me.'

I remembered the dead Chinaman. Up at the Yard we thought there had been a Tong fight.

Croomb got to know Bigglewood, too— I can't remember for certain, but I've an idea I introduced him. Never mind about that; Croomb met him, an' once or twice went to dinner with Miss Fenning. Naturally, idols thrilled Eleanor, who wanted to know whether any of 'em had been stolen from a temple when the priest was full of hootch. She got that out of a book. But I reckon that most of his idols came through the usual junk-shops, and that the only body robbed was the professor. Except in one case— the jade dragon. Croomb had his views about this.

'I've advised the professor to send it to a museum,' he said. 'In my considered opinion that dragon is a dangerous thing to have around.'

From what I heard later it seems that Bigglewood hung on to the dragon.

I hadn't a chance of seeing it, for I sort of lost sight of him for years; every New Year's Day I got a wire or a card from him wishin' me luck in the comin' year, may it be bright an' prosperous, an' the usual stuff. Once or twice he wired from Switzerland, an' I guessed that Amelia— that was his daughter's name— was winter-sportin'. I saw her once or twice bein' driven in the professor's new Rolls sedan— the old man did things in style, had the smartest chauffeur, the fattest butler, and the slickest footman in Clarges Street. I didn't know anything about her bein' married, but Sergeant Cross, who is in charge of Records and reads Births, Deaths and Marriages for his own amusement, brought the cutting to me. She'd married Captain Arthur Helby, DSO, MC, in Derby somewhere. About three months after Records brought me a cutting that made me feel mighty sorry for the girl and her father. It was of a death: 'Helby, Captain Arthur Helby, DSO, MC, on October 24th, in Dublin, after a short illness.'

That was all. I wrote to the professor, but got no answer, and when I rung up his house in Clarges Street the caretaker told me that the professor had gone abroad with his daughter. The caretaker said that the captain died a natural death, though there was a lot of shooting in Dublin round about that time.

The next I heard was that she'd married again— a middle-aged general, and had left for India on her honeymoon trip. This bit of news was in the early editions of the evening papers the very day I saw the professor. I sat down an' wrote a letter to the old man. As a matter of fact, after I posted it I wished I had torn it up, because I didn't want him to feel that I was chasin' him. And that night I met him. I was up west lookin' for the taxi burglar— a man who used to drive a taxi up to the house he was going to 'bust'. It was a good scheme, because there's nothing suspicious about a taxi loafin' round a residential square. This bird I was looking for had done three good jobs in a month and got away with 'em.

In the ordinary course of duty I called in at Vine Street, an' was talkin' to the inspector, when I heard somebody comin' into the charge-room, an' lookin' up I nearly dropped— for the man in the patrol's hands was Professor Bigglewood! He was in evenin' dress, his top hat was on his head, and he was, to my eyes, dazed but sober. He saw me an' nodded very solemn. I didn't say a word, but just listened to the young officer who had brought him in.

'I was on duty in Regent Street at one-five this morning he said (we teach young policemen to give evidence to the point), 'an' I saw this man take a wooden pavin' block from a pile that was standin' by the roadside. Before I could reach him he had thrown the brick through the plate-glass window of the Ten Per Cent Jewellery Store.'

I couldn't believe my ears.

'Are you sure it was this gentleman?' I asked, though it was no business of mine, and I apologized afterwards to the inspector in charge for buttin' in.'

'Certain,— sir,' says the officer. 'He was the only man in sight.'

The inspector started in to ask the professor his name and address, and Mr Bigglewood answered without any hesitation. He said that he had been to his club, the Learned Societies, in St James's Street. There had been a dinner given by some of his friends in honour of his daughter's wedding. According to the professor's story, all the men at the dinner were the kind who have to be in bed at ten by doctor's orders, and round about eleven he had a whisky-an'- soda in the readin'-room and went to sleep. When he woke up the club was in darkness an' he had to unlock the front door and let himself out. He was kind of bothered, but he wasn't drunk. He was certain of this— half-asleep was the way he put it. He was half-way down Regent Street when he heard somebody walkin' behind him, an' had a horrible feelin' of fear. It was so bad that he grabbed the first thing he could lay hands on— which was a road block. He said he could no more help doin' it than he could help standin' on his feet. He just lammed out with the block, and bing went the window!

The divisional surgeon came in at that minute, which was lucky, for the doctor knew Professor Bigglewood, and naturally he wouldn't certify him as drunk— not that he would have done that in any case. As to the man who was following, the policeman swore there was nobody near.

'I think Mr Bigglewood's theory that he was walking, to all intents and purposes, in his sleep is a sound one,' said the doctor and laughed. 'You'll have to settle the cost of the shop window with the jewellers, professor,' he said.

I could sec the old man was upset— who wouldn't be? Suppose you were a high-class professor an' woke up and found yourself in the dock on a charge of smashing a jeweller's window at one o'clock in the morning! The long and the short of it was that he was released, and the inspector said he'd send a man down to the shop first thing in the morning and explain how the accident happened.

The professor asked me to walk back home with him; he wouldn't take a taxi— he thought the walk would kind of wake him up. Most of the conversation was on my side; he seemed too rattled to talk. From Vine Street to Regent Street isn't far, but we walked pretty slowly because he was an elderly gentleman. As we turned out of Piccadilly I saw a taxicab drawn up in front of Bigglewood's house, and there was an inspector and a policeman there, an' the inspector was Croomb. He was knocking at the door as we came up.

'Is that Professor Bigglewood?' he said. 'Good evening, professor. Is this cab waiting for anybody in your house?'

Bigglewood shook his head; he was still a bit dull. He began feelin' in his pocket for the key, an' after a bit Croomb and I walked round and had a look at the taxicab. It was a new machine, and the engines were stone cold. It had been standing there, according to the policeman, for the best part of two hours.

'Is it— in the way?' asked Professor Bigglewood, who suddenly seemed to wake up from his trance.

'No, sir,' said Croomb. 'Will you open the door, professor— maybe somebody is inside.'

What Croomb thought, and what I thought too, was that maybe the house was being burgled. And, of course, when we wanted to get into the house the professor had lost his key

'Is there anybody in the house?' I asked.

He shook his head and began to search his pockets.

Just at that minute I heard a church clock strike two. We were standing there, all of us looking, or feeling, pretty foolish. I didn't know what to do with the professor, though I had an idea that if I searched him thoroughly I'd have found the key, though naturally it was a delicate matter for a superintendent of police to suggest that he search anybody.

I don't know why I particularly remember that moment: the dark street with the street lights, and the late traffic passing along Piccadilly at the end; the clear sky overhead, with a few stars showing, and a faint scent of flowers coming from the Lord knows where. I remember Croomb saying:

'You will remember, professor, that I told you the other day about the danger of taxicab burglaries?'

And that's about all I remember. Suddenly me and the taxicab came into collision. My elbow went through the window, and the next second I found myself lying across the steering-wheel with all the breath knocked out of me. I didn't hear any explosion, didn't see any flash. When I tell you that the hood of the car was cut to ribbons by flying glass, and that one of the railings in front of the house was flung fifty feet, you'll have an idea that it was some explosion.

I got to my feet, and the first thing I saw was the professor lying in a heap on the ground. The next thing was the policeman lifting Croomb from the gutter I don't know how the policeman had escaped, because he stood in the path of the explosion, but except that he lost his helmet and had his chin cut by the glass he was none the worse, and Croomb escaped altogether, except that he was knocked out.

I sent the policeman running for the fire alarm, and ordered him to send back the people who were turning into the street to see what it was all about. The front of the professor's house was blown out completely, and so was one of the walls, but fortunately there was a party wall of a house that was untenanted. There was no more fire than a smouldering carpet, and we had that out before the fire brigade came on the spot.

Police reserves were rushed to Clarges Street to keep off the crowd, but long before they had arrived Croomb and I discovered the taxi man. He had been flung against the wall, and he was lying half on a settee and half on the floor, and he was dead. A tall, good-looking fellow he had been— Croomb and I pulled him out into the street, and before the doctor came it was pretty easy to see that nothing could be done for him.

Before he went into the house we had made the professor as comfortable as we could. He was quite unconscious, but as far as I could see there was no bad injury. I thought he was knocked out, as Croomb had been, but when the doctor came he took a very serious view, and they rushed him off to the hospital in the ambulance.

Before the police stretcher got to Clarges Street we made a search of the dead man's clothes, and the first thing I found was a small jemmy in his right-hand coat pocket. It was the newest jemmy I have ever found on a burglar.

'We've got the taxi thief,' said Croomb. 'I suspected this from the moment I saw the machine outside the door!'

He'd hardly said the words before he made his real discovery. Suddenly I heard him say:

'Good God! Look at this!'

In the light of the lantern I saw in his hand the little green dragon of jade!

'Where was it?' I asked.

'In his overcoat pocket.' said Croomb, and when we had finished the search we went into the house, to the back room where the professor kept his collection. Only one case was opened, and that was the one, according to Croomb, where Bigglewood always kept the dragon. Nothing else was touched. There were two or three items of solid gold, and one or two things in the room that were worth real money, but the cases had not been so much as opened. Of course, the glasses were shattered by the explosion, and some of them were on the floor.

'It's easy to see what he came for,' said Croomb. 'The dragon!'

He was quivering with excitement.

'I told the professor the last time I saw him to send that thing to a museum. The thing is as clear as daylight. He came here to pinch the dragon, and took some time in finding it. The door leading to the collection room has been wrecked, so we can't tell yet how it was opened, but I'll bet money that it was "busted" by a jemmy.'

'How did the explosion happen, inspector?' I asked him. I always believe in asking questions: you sometimes get an idea from the answer. Quite a lot of people get their education either that way or by contradicting what other people say.

'There was a gas-stove in Mr Bigglewood's study. It may have been leaking, or it may have been left on by accident. The man must have come into the room and heard me and the constable talking on the street. We'd been here a quarter of an hour. Either he lit his match to light a cigarette or to find his way out— there's no sign of an electric torch here— and the room blew up.'

I sort of scratched my head at that.

'Maybe he couldn't smell the gas?' I suggested.

'He might smell the gas and never dream there was any danger,' said Croomb a bit sharply, and I didn't argue with him.

The professor died without regaining consciousness about four o'clock in the morning, and as I was busy all the forenoon I didn't get any chance of seeing Croomb. I don't think it would have been much use my talking, even if I had.

I have never been quite sure whether Croomb or Eleanor was the official press agent, and it was not my business to inquire; but certainly the late editions of the evening papers smelt like Eleanor.

'Green Dragon Clue in Taxicab Mystery,' was one headline, and 'The Vengeance of the Chinese Dragon God' was another. On the whole I guess it was Eleanor the public had to thank, for she was strong for the mysterious East.

There was a double inquest; one on the taxi-man, whose name was Rolls and who lived at Notting Hill; another on the professor. Rolls wasn't well known; he had only been living in his present lodgings for a month. There were no papers to identify him, and beyond a few things that I had collected and locked up in my room in Scotland Yard, no kind of clue whatever. The jury returned a verdict of accidental death in both cases, and the green dragon was handed round to the jury and the Press-box, and pretty nearly everybody in court, and for the next week all the papers published articles on the Mysterious East, and how bad it was to go monkeying with Chinese religion.

The long and the short of it was that Croomb got a step in promotion. When I saw the deputy commissioner the day after the inquest he told me that he thought it wasn't much credit to me that a junior officer should have taken the case from right under my nose and made a success of it.

'In fact, Sooper,' he said, 'I can't help feeling, after reading the minutes of this case, that our department must be brought up to date. We need more science, a larger and wider perception— '

And all that sort of stuff.

Croomb and his young lady got married on the strength of his promotion. I went to the wedding and to the party they gave after. What I missed was the little green dragon. I thought it ought to have been put on the invitation cards, and maybe done in sugar on top of the cake.

The deputy was sore with me— and naturally. I didn't tell him all I might have told him. He said it was my business to come to him as soon as I found the strip of sponge-platinum and the bottle of cyanide. Perhaps he was right, though I'd told the Chief Commissioner and the Home Office pathologist, who's got more science in the fingers of his left hand than most people I know. We knew Rolls had been poisoned, because we found the poison in Bigglewood's pocket, and the old pathologist, he found the rest by careful investigation. And we knew that the taxi-driver's name wasn't Rolls at all, because I took his fingerprints and turned them up at the Yard, and found his name was Williams, alias Helby— well, here's the story:

Helby was a crook, a man of good education, who used to take jobs as chauffeur in a family where there was a chance of pickings— he did two terms of light imprisonment for theft and larceny. And then he came into Bigglewood's service and got acquainted with the girl. The first thing the old professor knew about the affair was when he got a wire that Helby had married the girl at a Midland registrar's office. He had been married before, but a little thing like that didn't worry Mr Helby.

The old man, to save his face, published the notice of the wedding to 'Captain Helby.' I've got an idea that this young scoundrel had held some sort of commission in the war.

Anyway, Bigglewood had to pay out to keep his new son-in-law, though he couldn't hope to give Helby all the money he wanted. And then, after a few years, the first Mrs Helby turned up, about the same time as Arthur was arrested for burglary in Dublin.

With the fear of a charge of bigamy hanging over him. Helby sent a message to London, having milked the professor as dry as possible, to say that he was dead. The fake was worked from Ireland, and the young widow, who couldn't have been very sorry after the life she had lived, went back to her father, and eventually married General Carslake. I discovered that the 'dead man' had been doing three years for burglary, and that he came out of prison two months or so before the death of the professor.

He managed to hire a new taxi, and got a licence under the name of Rolls. He may or may not have been burgling in London. All that I know is that the jemmy we found in his pocket was bought by an old gentleman with a white beard the day of the explosion.

Helby would have Iain low, only he heard about the forthcoming marriage. This put an idea into his head that he might blackmail the old man, and the night before the wedding Helby turned up in Clarges Street (I could have produced the professor's servant to prove this, but I didn't) and in all probability asked a big sum as the price of his silence.

The old man was as keen a student of human nature as I've ever met— the fact that he put the dragon and the jemmy in Helby's pocket proves that— and he planned the murder of the blackmailer with the care of a scientist— I'll never again say anything against science. It's perfectly true that he did hide in the club till it was shut, that he let himself out and made his way down to Clarges Street, where Helby was waiting for him. He doped him with cyanide of potassium in a glass of port. As soon as Helby was dead, he laid a strip of sponge platinum on the table, turned on the gas fire and went out. Sponge platinum is not a new one on me— I use it every morning to light my gas-ring. The moment coal gas gets at this mineral it turns it white hot, and that's what happened when the room was full of gas and how the explosion occurred. That piece of sponge platinum was almost the first thing I found when I got in the room.

When the murder was done. Bigglewood went out of the house, got to Regent Street by a back way, and, as soon as he saw a policeman, put a brick through a window, expecting to be locked up for the night. He was alibi-hunting, and it was bad luck that I happened to be in the station when they pulled in.

No, sir, we didn't want any scandal. The Home Secretary didn't want it, and the Chief Commissioner didn't want it. Sooner than have scandal, they gave Croomb his promotion. Drop in one night on him and his wife and hear the tale of the little green dragon of jade. And don't laugh, or you'll be giving me away.

_________________________

15: The House of the Candles

The Saturday Evening Post, October 10, 1925

ALL women are subversive to discipline.

I put that in a report I made to Scotland Yard, and the next time I saw the deputy he started in to pull my leg.

'Sooper.' says he, 'you're a woman-hater.'

It was a reputation I always wanted when I was a young officer, because there's no better way of attracting the best girls than for them to think that you look upon woman as nature's greatest error of judgment. It is a sort of challenge that no high-spirited and Christian girl can pass. But it isn't true that I hate 'em. What I meant was— and only a deputy commissioner could have gone wrong on it— that when a policeman's married he joins another service, says good morning to a new superintendent, and answers a roll call that has nothing to do with police regulations.

You can roast the life out of a young detective if he gets fresh, but if his wife comes up to the station asking why her husband hasn't got his promotion after the wonderful work he has been doing and all the risks he has been taking, there's nothing to do but grin and lie. You've got to slop up when she comes into your office; you must kow-tow to her when she goes out. She's got to have the best chair, and when you meet her in the street you must touch your cap to her. Is that subversive to discipline or is it not? When I hear a young officer is going to be married and that his wife hates his job. I send 'em a wedding present.

In all the detective stories I've read there is usually a good-looking and highly educated young officer who falls in love with a rich and beautiful girl, and, after rescuing her every ten pages from a fate which is popularly supposed to be worse than death, marries her on page 366 and lives happily right up to the back cover. I'm strong for romance wherever I can find it. But if I had been put in the witness box a year ago and had to tell the truth on oath. I should have said that I'd never met her or him, and that most detectives marry sensible girls who do the laundry, cook the dinner, and look forward to going to the pictures twice a week. But I met the romantic detective at last.

We had in our division a smart young fellow called Brett— Sergeant Ronald Brett. I'm willing to admit that he came up to the book in almost every particular. He was a good-looker, he'd had a high school education, and he could talk on most subjects as if he'd invented 'em. He had swell manners and the knack of putting his views without hurting anybody's feelings, which means that he was well on the way to being a gentleman. The boys liked him; he was a keen and efficient officer, and when he went out after his man he got him. He was as much at home in a rough house as in the Duchess of Westminster's drawing-room. I made one or two reports on him to headquarters, and I know, from what I was told at the Yard, that he was marked for early promotion.

Then one night, in a thick fog, he bumped into Miss Evelina Buckland. She had lost her way, and Brett, who could have walked through every street of Notting Hill blindfolded, took her home. She lived in a big house off Ladbroke Grove with an invalid brother. I'd often seen the house from the railway. It had a big garden that backed on to the railway embankment, and a fine wireless aerial on high white poles. The Bucklands had servants, two motorcars, and money to burn. She was so struck on Ronald that she invited him into the house, and when he got into the lighted hall he saw that he had been walking with the prettiest girl he had ever met.

'They keep three menservants,' he told me, 'and the house is a dream. But the queer thing is, there is no electric light— only candles.'

Brett was impressed, and I hoped that he was passing on to this house all that he would like to have said about the girl.

'They've asked me to come to tea next Sunday,' he said.

If he had been invited to Buckingham Palace for a thé dansant he couldn't have been more proud. So I knew it was the girl and not the ormolu table, the French clock and the priceless velvet hangings.

I warned him against getting his name into a serial story, but he was very sure of himself, and I didn't bother my head about him until, about a month later, I saw him in full evening kit, handing her out of her car. This was about half-past eleven, and they'd been to the theatre together. Ordinarily. Brett would have recognized me as I strolled past, but his mind had got all undisciplined, and I might have been yesterday's joint for all the attention he gave to me.

A few days afterwards he told me he was engaged. Miss Buckland was a very sensible girl, and wouldn't let him spend more than a tenner on her engagement ring. That bit of thoughtfulness got him all thrilled. They were to be married the following spring, when Mr Buckland was going abroad to a clinic. The wedding was to be a very quiet one, and they were taking over her brother's house.

'That means you're leaving the service, Brett?' I asked.

'No, sir,' he said, to my surprise. 'Evelina wants me to stay on. She thinks the work is fascinating.' I groaned. 'And she wants to know if you will come to tea on Sunday.'

I'd never seen this girl, and I'm no woman-hater, as I said before. So on Sunday afternoon I dolled myself up and went round to Ladbroke Grove, and the door was opened by a swagger footman, who took me into the drawing-room. Brett hadn't arrived when I got there, and so I had a chance of a quiet heart-to-heart talk with the girl.

There was no doubt about her prettiness, though she was older than I'd thought— nearer twenty-eight than twenty-four, I should say, with a complexion like roses and cream, beautiful baby eyes, and the slim figure of a heroine out of a book.

She took me upstairs to the first floor, and I met her brother, a pale- looking man of forty-five, who lay on a long sofa, propped up with pillows. At the foot of the sofa was a pedestal with a big wooden loudspeaker.

'My only recreation,' he said, as he stroked his straggly beard. 'It's tough not being able to get about the same as other men, but I'm getting used to it now. I suppose you have a wireless set, superintendent?'

'Two,' I said. 'One out of order and one I don't use.'

I've never taken to wireless, and that's a fact. People say that it gets you out of yourself, and that is just where I don't want to be. My mind has got a comfortable home, and as soon as it starts paying calls I'm going along to my doctor and arrange to be put under restraint.

What I noticed about this house was the candles. They were everywhere; big yellow candles in sconces and in fancy holders, little white candles hanging in clusters on a silver candelabra, big red candles in the hall and on the stairs.

He saw me looking, and laughed.

'I hate the garish glare of electric light,' he said. 'You have no idea of the beauty of candles until you have used them.'

This Mr Buckland was an interesting sort of bird, and not altogether unknown to me. Twice a week he used to be put into a motorcar and driven about the country for an hour or two, with his own chauffeur at the wheel. I expected to hear a whole lot about his illness, because invalids, as a rule, haven't very much more to talk about; but he was an exception. He asked me what sort of a man Brett was.

'It's a queer thing, my sister falling in love with a detective,' he said, shifting himself with a moan, 'but I suppose there are decent people even in the police force.'

As he was an invalid I did not swat him. You've got to make allowances for the afflicted.

'Evelina is a clever girl,' he went on, 'and crime has always interested her. She will be a great help to Brett. Though what my poor, dear father would say if he could only look down from heaven and see Evelina walking to the altar with a detective-sergeant, I shudder to think!'

It was on the tip of my tongue to suggest that maybe his poor, dear father wasn't in a position to look down, but, as I remarked before, you've got to exercise a lot of patience with the sick.

When I went downstairs I found that Brett had arrived, and that the two of them were poring over a Sunday newspaper, discussing their favourite murder.

Age takes people different ways. It takes me so that I can stand for almost any kind of foolishness on the part of my fellow-humans. When I find young detectives taking a romantic interest in crime and raising theories about cases that are in other people's hand, I pat 'em on the shoulder and let 'em go on to their doom. And when I meet an outsize in fools. I just stroll out into the night and watch the stars twinkling miles away, and realize that I'm next to nothing riding free on a big chunk of stone, which, according to the books, is slightly flattened at each end, and goes shooting round the sun once in twenty-four hours, or, maybe, once a year. And no properly intelligent man can think of himself as nothing without having a pretty mean opinion of most everybody else.

So, though it made me ill to hear a man like Brett theorizing and deducting, I just thought of the stars and how mean the cleverest cop would look from a distance of umpteen million miles.

That newspaper should have reminded Brett that the majestic pageant of life was rolling on in the grand old way in spite of ten-pound engagement rings. The courts were still sitting, Dartmoor was open for the season, judges were still saying: 'I should not be doing my duty to society if I did not pass a severe sentence,' and the ratepayer was as usual putting his hand in his pocket to provide boots for policemen.

Just about that time Notting Hill was a pretty notorious place. We had the Yellow Man operating in the houses and Looey the Dip working the shops, with an occasional private burglary thrown in. I knew Looey was on the job, because the lady who used to wear his brass wedding ring came up one night and split everything.

'He's got a new girl called Annie, and if ever I get hold of her she'll want a new chassis,' said the late Mrs Looey. She said a lot of other things which didn't get past, but I gathered that Annie wasn't qualified for a Sunday-school teacher.

We went after Looey, but didn't find him, and the Yellow Man was just a name.

I had the brightest bunch of boys under me that any superintendent could wish. They could do everything except catch burglars. With a tape measure and a pair of rubber gloves they'd reconstitute the crime (to use a foreign expression) so that you could almost see Looey climbing up the rain-pipe or the Yellow Man swinging lightly on to the balcony. They'd deduce from the elbow mark on the mantelpiece that he was sixty-nine inches tall, had a yellow moustache, and was separated from his wife.

They knew he had a yellow moustache because the policeman on point duty had seen him walk out of the house as bold as brass, and had bid him good night.

After about six of these burglaries, four in Ladbroke Grove, one in Colville Gardens, and another in Elgin Crescent, I called together the Criminal Investigation Department.

'Boys,' I said, 'I'm going to give you a lecture on crime. Let me start right away by telling you that if Looey or that yellow man gets away with another "bust," I shall return you to the uniformed branch of the Metropolitan Police. Having seen your work as detectives, I think you'd make good traffic cops. Nothing smaller than an ice-wagon will ever get past you without you noticing.'

I was a little rattled at the time because Scotland Yard had been sending out 'all station' warnings every few hours about the Stricklands. I suppose the Treasury had been raising Cain— the one-pound notes that this gang printed looked better than the genuine article, and their thousand-franc notes had been cashed by the Bank of France without question. One of the messages I had ran:

Please render an immediate return showing the names and addresses of all users of electric power for driving machinery, photographic purposes, heating and cooking, etc. Report must be returned to Room 1275, Scotland Yard, by Monday without fail.

Fortunately I had the sense to get on to the local office of the Power Company, so I wasn't called upon to employ my detectives as electric light inspectors.

I had never met the Stricklands. They were an Irish crowd that had worked in Dublin till the Free State police got after them, and Scotland Yard wasn't much better off than I.

As I say, all these smoking 'confidentials' from Headquarters began to get on my nerves, and when they were followed by requests for special reports on our local burglaries, I felt like taking a gun up to the Thames Embankment and giving the reporters something to write about.

I'm not complaining very seriously that my boys couldn't pull Looey, because he's one of those fellows who has no locality. All criminals are homing pigeons, and picking them up is about as easy as finding a 'phone number in a guide book. When they are through with a job they go back where they live, and their idea of hiding themselves is to move into the next street, and change their name from Smith to Smyth.

But Looey was different. As soon as he'd finished a job he'd float away into Scotland or somewhere nobody would think of looking for him. He'd go over to Paris, or drop down into Cardiff— and he didn't booze. Drink and talkative women are the ruin of high-class criminals.

Matters had quietened down in Notting Hill, and we hadn't had a burglary for a month, and the Yard had lost interest in the Stricklands, when Looey came back. A policeman was crossing Wormwood Scrubs, towards the prison, at about two o'clock in the morning. A thin drizzle had been falling all evening; it was a cold and miserable night, and the patrolman was stepping lively to get that part of his job over. His duty was to reach the prison wall, make a circuit, and rejoin the road, and he was within fifty yards of the wall when he found Looey.

Wormwood Scrubs is a bit of rough common, and the officer was using his lantern to guide him, otherwise the poor devil wouldn't have been found till morning. The first thing the policeman saw was a boot sticking out of a bush, and, turning aside to investigate, he saw a man lying huddled on the ground. It was Looey, and he was dead.

The local station 'phoned me, and I drove down with the police surgeon, and was with him all the time he was making his examination. The body lay on the top of a crushed bush. There was no sign of shooting or stabbing, and it looked almost as though it were a case of death from natural causes, when Dr Hackett made his report.

'This man has hardly a sound limb in his body,' he said. 'He has fallen from a considerable height.'

Except the prison there was no building within five hundred yards.

'Has he fallen out of an aeroplane?' I asked, and the doctor shook his head.

'No.' he said, 'it's not bad enough for that. I should say he fell some fifty feet. And the curious thing is that there's no vital injury to him, not sufficient to cause death.'

We had half a dozen policemen on the spot by now, which was unfortunate, because their big feet blotted out all footprints. By the light of their lanterns he continued his examination, and then he made the discovery which puzzled me for a long time.

Across the two palms of the dead man ran the ugly mark of a burn. It was as though poor Looey had tried to pick up something nearly red-hot, for not only the palms, but the tips of his fingers were scorched.

The doctor moved him into the nearest hospital for closer examination, and I went back to my office to puzzle out what looked to be like a mystery.

Now, if there's one thing that a real policeman hates it's a mystery. We have burglaries and murders that are mysteries to the public and the newspaper boys, but, as a rule, there's nothing mysterious about them to the man in charge of the case. In nine instances out of ten he knows the man who did it, and the only hard work he has is to connect the killer or the burglar with the crime so surely that a pudden-headed jury will convict.

But this was a real mystery to the police, though it was not to the newspapers, because we told them nothing about the broken bones or burns, and all they could see in the case was that a man had been found dead on Wormwood Scrubs.

I sent for Brett.

'Sergeant,' I said, 'if you can tear yourself away from Ladbroke Grove, and can bring down your mighty mind to the study of human perversity, I'd be glad if you'd take charge of this case and worry out the how-it-happened of it.'

He was a bit touchy on the question of his love-making, but being a good officer he swallowed his feelings and went about in his usual bloodhound way to trail Looey to his last place of residence. There were no papers on the body— nothing that could give us a clue, except that the watch in his pocket was one he'd pinched from Gardner's, the jewellers in High Street, and this only told us that he was a burglar, and we knew that already.

A night or two later. Brett came to see me at my house just as I was going to bed.

'I've been wondering, chief,' he said, 'whether there might be some sort of trouble between the Yellow Man and Looey. They were both working the same district, and from what I heard today they were pretty bad friends.'

'Where's the Yellow Man?' I asked.

'I don't know,' he snapped.

He got sore at me for that, and I don't blame him. We'd searched every dive in London, and we'd had a report from every 'nose'— you don't know what a 'nose' is, I suppose? If you're being very polite, you describe him as a police spy— anyway, there wasn't a 'nose' who'd smelt him, and we'd reached the dead end of our investigations in spite of all the expensive sleuths they sent down from the Yard to help us, when the Yellow Man was picked up at three o'clock in the morning in almost exactly the same spot as we'd found Looey. It was a cyclist sergeant who found him, and 'phoned to me direct. I happened to be at the station when the call came through. We'd arrested a member of Parliament for driving his car whilst he was in a condition that wasn't excusable even in a politician. Naturally we had to send for his own doctor and a dozen Harley Street specialists to prove that what a low-down policeman thought was drunk was merely the after-effects of the war. By the time we got him bailed out, the street in front of the station was filled with motor-cars belonging to a good half of the medical faculty of England.

I was seeing Sir Charles Bromgrove into his car— he's the biggest surgeon in London— when the policeman came running down the steps to tell me about the Yellow Man. It would be an hour before I could get the police surgeon, and it struck me that it would be an excellent idea if I had the assistance of Sir Charles. In a few words, I told him what had happened, and he was a good scout, for he drove me out to Wormwood Scrubs in his own car, and on the way I told him about Looey.

It was the Yellow Man right enough, I realized when I saw the body, and I was curious to know what Bromgrove would say.

'He has had a bad fall, but that did not kill him,' he said, and then he opened the clenched hands, and there was the black mark across both palms!

'What do you make of that. Sir Charles?' I asked.

He looked up over his shoulder.

'He was electrocuted, the same as the other man.' he said. 'I thought so when you told me the appearance of the hands, and I am convinced now.'

'Electrocuted!' The theory got me all tangled up.

'My supposition is that this man was either climbing a wall or was feeling his way along a roof, when his hands came into contact with a live cable.' said Sir Charles. 'He must have been killed instantly and fell.'

Now, if there is one thing that Wormwood Scrubs doesn't own it's an overhead cable.

I'd sent for Brett before I left the station, and he turned up about five o'clock in the morning. I told him what the doctor had said.

'Brett.' said I, 'these two poor nuts were burgling, and in the pursuits of their unlawful occupations they struck a house that has a live wire exposed, and they dropped probably into the back-yard. And for some reason the owner of the house didn't want people to know that he had a live wire, and as soon as he found they were dead he moved these fellows to the nearest open space. Go out and find that shy householder and pull him in.'

'Miss Buckland's theory— ' he began.

'Put it in your report, but sign your own name to it,' said I, for I didn't want any amateur female to come interfering with the processes of justice.

Brett reported at the end of the next afternoon.

'The power company say there wouldn't be a live wire left exposed on a roof, so that doctor's theory goes west.' he said. 'Now Miss Buckland thinks— '

'That woman's got brains.' said I. 'Tell her I'm coming to call on her tonight. I'd like to get her theories first-hand.'

I don't know what made me say that. It is an idea of mine that the Lord has given me a super-instinct. But I somehow felt I had to go along and see that young lady and catch hold on some of her deductions. It's revolting to me to listen to any kind of woman talk about crime. But there was I. looking forward eagerly to taking a cup of after-dinner coffee with little Miss Sherlock and seeing all the beautiful candles.

Brett wasn't there when I arrived, and I thought her manner was a little bit reserved.

'I've been talking to Ronald,' she said, when we'd got through with speaking our mind about the weather. 'And do you know, Sooper, I've got a notion that these terrible accidents have happened on the railway.'

That notion had never struck me before. There is certainly an electric railway running through Notting Hill, and it's true as anything could be that if these two burglars had made up their minds to loot car rails, they would have got very badly killed.

'That's a good theory of yours, Miss Buckland,' I said. 'These poor fellows went out to pinch the line, and the shock of a live wire flung 'em into the middle of Wormwood Scrubs— which can't be more than a mile away.'

There was a queer expression in her eye when she looked at me.

'Of course, the theory may be stupid,' she said, 'and I really know nothing about electricity. We never have it in the house; as you know, my brother has a passion for candle-light.'

'And music,' I said, very gentle. 'That's what I like. Give me the man who loves music. Are you listening-in to Madame Reiacho this evening, Miss Buckland?'

'I expect my brother is,' she said and, rather hurriedly: 'He's not very well tonight.'

'That's a pity,' I said, 'because I wanted to see him.'

She hesitated and then went out of the room. In about five minutes she came back.

'Frederick will see you, Sooper,' she said, 'but don't stay long with him, will you, because the doctor has given strict orders that he is to be kept quiet.'

I went up the stairs into the big room where Mr Buckland was lying on the sofa, and my first glance round was for the loudspeaker. There it was, standing on its little pedestal. He looked sicker than usual, and his conversation was strictly limited. I got in a couple of good ones about the weather, and then I said:

'I see by the paper that Madame Reiacho is singing this afternoon. I'd like to listen. Would you mind if I switched her on?'

'The set is out of order.' he said shortly.

I looked at the wires trailing from the speaker, then I looked at the wall.

'Where do you connect this, Mr Buckland?' I asked.

'I don't know.' he said shorter still. 'My man looks after it. Would you think I am very uncivil if I asked you to leave me now? I have another spasm coming on.'

'I guess you have,' I said, and went out of the room.

Miss Buckland must have thought that our talk would be a little longer than it was, for she wasn't waiting for me on the landing as she had been the last time. There was another flight of stairs leading to the second floor, and I wandered up and found myself prevented from going much farther, for on the landing was a strong-looking door that hadn't even a handle to turn.

I looked through the keyhole but could see nothing, as there was no light within, and then I went downstairs again just as Miss Buckland came up, shading a candle with her hand. She saw me coming down and went white.

'We never use the upper part of the house,' she said without being asked a question.

Behind her on the stairs I saw two of the footmen, and I had the impression that they were listening.

'I was looking for your wireless connexion,' I said. 'I thought I'd hear Madame Reiacho. But it doesn't matter— we've got a set at the station. That brother of yours looks pretty bad, Miss Buckland.'

'He isn't at all well,' she said, her eyes not leaving my face.

I went down with her to the drawing-room and I saw the footmen scurry down ahead and disappear. There was a wall 'phone in the hall.

'Do you mind if I call up the station?' I asked.

She shook her head and stood by whilst I got the number.

That instinct of mine told me lots of things. It told me that the footmen had their ears stretched somewhere in the servants' passage.

It was tough luck that the man who answered my call was Brett.

'Is that you, Brett?' I said. 'I wish you'd tell the inspector to send my letters up to my house for signature. And will you ask him to ring up Mr Colwards and tell him I shan't be able to see him tonight!'

I heard Brett gasp.

'Mr Colwards' is the code word which means 'Send reserves to me at once.'

'Where are you speaking from?' he asked, and his voice was very hoarse.

'I'm speaking from Mr Buckland's house,' I said, and hung up.

When I looked round she was smiling slightly.

'Now come along and have your coffee, Sooper,' she said, and I walked into the dining-room behind her just the same as any poor mental deficient might have done.

It was not a big room, but there was one peculiar thing about it that I'd noticed before: the windows were barred. I sat down and she took up the coffee- pot and then put it down again.

'These wretched servants have forgotten to fill the milk-jug,' she said.

It was so natural for her to walk out with the little jug in her hand that I suspected nothing. It was when the door closed with a bang, and I heard the lock snap, that I knew just where I was going to get off. Outside in the hall I heard her speaking quickly, and caught the words 'police reserves'. That man Brett certainly took her into his confidence.

There was a rustle of feet on the stairs, and five minutes later the front door slammed.

I threw up the window of the dining-room; it looked out on to the back garden and to the embankment of the Metropolitan Railway. The bars were steel and thick. I tried the door, and then, with a chair, I made an attempt to hammer out a panel. But the door was oaken, and there wasn't a bit of furniture in the room that was strong enough to dent a panel, let alone break it. Half an hour afterwards the reserves had surrounded the house, and I saw one of my men in the back garden and gave him a few instructions.

They released me at last and, forcing the door on the landing above, we found just what nobody expected to find, except me I hate saying nice things about myself, but justice must be done. A complete photographic and printing plant, four or five hundred French bank-notes. I don't know how many thousand English treasury notes— in fact, just the outfit you'd look to find in a swell forger's workshop.

Poor Brett was terribly upset.

'Brett,' I said, 'you've lost nothing because you never had it. And anyway, you've talked too much, and you're lucky that I'm not bringing you before the Commissioner for giving away the key word.'

I went out into the garden and made a survey of the 'wireless aerial'. And now I could see how poor Looey and the Yellow Man got theirs. The second pole of the aerial was near the side of the house. Any self-respecting burglar could climb it, and, once on the top, could reach a window through which the wire ran, if they didn't happen to touch the wire. For the aerial was a very simple affair. It tapped the juice that runs on the live rail of the Metropolitan, and gave the Stricklands all the light and power they needed. And as for the candles:

'That kept suspicion away from them. You'd not dream of looking in a candle house for a plant run by power.'

Poor Brett was almost in tears.

'I don t know why Strickland faked being an invalid,' he said.

But that was easy. He had to go out of doors to get rid of the stuff, and there was no more convincing way of leaving the house than to be carried.

'Nobody would stop him and search the pillow behind his head. I said. 'Don't you know that everybody's kind to a sick man?'

'Then they ought to be kind to me.' said Sergeant Brett very bitterly, 'for I'm the sickest thing you've seen in years!'

___________________________

16: The Get-Back

Cassell's Magazine, December 1925

A Lady Called Nita, 1930

THE cleverest thing about a crook is the policeman who is following him, and even he wouldn't be asked to take the chair at a lecture on human intelligence.

When I was a young officer I got all the psych— what's the word? Psychology, that's it— of the criminal mind from a man I pinched for bag-snatching.

'I don't mind going inside. Sergeant,' he said: 'it gives me time to think.'

'And what do you think about, you poor nut?' I asked him.

'New ways of snatching bags,' he said.

Jail is hell to people who are never likely to go there; and it's pretty bad for folks who hoped they wouldn't go there; but for the birds who've got to know every rose in the warden's garden and have their particular taste in cells, it is a home from home. After all, there are hundreds of men and women who live in prisons all their lives without knowing it. The hooter brings them out of their cells, and they march off to the workshop, where they do their hard labour; when that is over, they march back to their cells and go to sleep. They may walk round to the pictures and maybe they see a football match, but the big things of life are eating and sleeping and paying the rent and worrying about the interest on the mortgage or the instalment that's due on the new motorbike. In prison you get everything except worry.

Thieving, like poetry and red hair, runs in families. Nobody knows why decent parents should rear crooks and murderers— it's one of the inscru— whatever the word is, acts of nature. There were three brothers named Larsen; they were all well brought up, they were all clever, and they all went to jail.

When young Harry Larsen and his brother Joe came out of Wandsworth after a nine months' sentence. I went down to meet 'em. They were nice boys, but they suffered from illusions. Illusion Number One was that there was a way of getting a lot of money all at once without working for it. It is the illusion that makes people play the races and buy oil plots and thieve.

Illusion Number Two was that, in spite of all previous troubles, they would succeed next time and get away with enough money to live happy ever after in some country where the extradition law didn't operate.

I liked the boys; I had sent them down twice, but I liked 'em because they were clever and bore no malice— at least, not towards me.

Now, my idea and object in turning myself into a Prison Gate Helpers League was to discover whether they bore any malice against Edward Lasthall. Personally, if I had been one of the two Larsen boys, I should have taken a gun and filled Mr Edward Lasthall full of nickel projectiles. I am speaking now as a born savage with a normal human being's natural drift towards homicide. Because nothing short of death and destruction was good enough for Ed Lasthall— from every point of view except mine, as a Superintendent of Police, and perhaps a judge and jury.

There have been some beautiful words in the English language that have been degraded by misuse, but you couldn't call Ed mean without glorifyin' the expression and putting it up amongst the high-flown compliments. He was a money-lender, and a pretty rich man, and he banked with the Nethersole Company, one of the few private banks in London. I happen to know this because, when little Pat Larsen was arrested for forging and uttering a cheque for eighty pounds, I had charge of the case. Pat was in Ed's office: he got the job himself, the boys keeping well in the background because they wanted the kid to go straight and to start fair without being handicapped, as he would have been if Ed Lasthall knew that his brothers were on the register.

Ed had his office at Notting Hill Gate, and he did a few things that weren't legitimate money-lending. He was the biggest diamond fence in London. If you were on the crook, and you snatched a tiara or a necklace, and you took the trouble to take the stones out of their setting, you could plant them with Ed and get about a hundredth part of their value. We raided his office once or twice, following in a well-known thief, but we never caught him with the goods.

It isn't necessary to explain that we never actually raided him, and that we always pretended it was his client we were after, but it amounted to the same thing.

I did not find out till a long time after how he got rid of the sparklers. His offices were on the third floor, and consisted of two rooms. On the second floor was a little office which had the name 'William Stott and Sons— Furriers' painted on the glass panel. That office was his, and his long-nosed sister used to sit there all the time he was upstairs, facing the door. At the first sign of danger— and she knew every C.I.D. man in the division by sight— she sounded a buzzer.

By the side of Ed's desk was a speaking tube. If the warning came when he was handling stones, he dropped them one by one down the tube, and they fell into a wool-lined box in Sarah's office. Simple? I should say it was. Only I used to think that the speaking-tube went through to his clerk in the room next door, and I didn't know Sarah was his dear relative until after the trouble. He got rid of his clerk, and that is when Pat saw the advertisement and answered it.

Pat was caught so simply that it doesn't seem true. An American crook named Wilson robbed a suite at the Green Park Hotel, and got away with eight hundred pounds and two diamond rings. If he hadn't been greedy he wouldn't have been pinched, but he wasn't satisfied with the money; he had two beautiful stones, and down he went to Ed's office. It was after banking hours, and Ed had run short of money. Would Wilson take a cheque? Wilson didn't want to very much, but he had got nervous about carrying the stones around, and Ed wrote him a 'pay bearer' cheque and Wilson went out. Now it happened that we had received an 'all stations' warning about the robbery and a description of the wanted man. It was an act of lunacy on the part of Wilson to stay in London after he'd made his bust, but, as I've said before, if a man could think straight he wouldn't act crooked.

As the American left the office Sergeant Brett, who had spotted him going in, walked over and tapped him.

'Come for a walk, Wilson— my chief wants to see you about your registration papers.'

Wilson knew all that stuff about 'registration papers,' and took a quick decision. When he saw Brett's two men close on him, he took another and went quietly. When they got him to the station and 'ran him down,' they found most of the money and the cheque in his pockets.

I went personally to Ed's office, and I had only to look at his face to know that he saw his number and landing. But he pulled a bluff.

'I never gave that cheque or signed it,' he said; and here was the curious thing. The cheque hadn't been torn from his current book. It was one he had been carrying around in his pocket for months (that is my theory; I've never been able to prove it).

'I didn't see this man Jones' (Wilson's name on the cheque). 'My clerk interviewed him.'

I noticed that he was talking very loudly, and I thought that it was for the benefit of the clerk in the next room. Sarah wasn't known to me then, and how should I know that she was listening at the door?

'I want to search your office, Lasthall,' I said, 'and maybe I shall ask you to come along to the station to see this man Wilson.'

Now in this country you cannot search an office without a warrant signed by a magistrate, but I figured that he would not dare refuse.

'You can do as you blame please,' he said. 'My own opinion is that my clerk knows more about this than I do. I've seen him imitating my signature.'

He was still talking loudly, and this puzzled me. It wasn't likely that his clerk would take any blame that was coming. After I had turned over his room, we went into the outer office, but nobody was there. The boy had gone home, it appears, and we made our examination without his help. In the top right drawer we found the two stones, and on the blotting-pad, written three or four times, the words. 'Edward Lasthall,' and they were pretty good imitations of Ed's signature.

Sarah was a quick and a bold worker. How bold she was you can gather, for she gave evidence not only before the magistrate, but before the judge, that she had seen the boy and Wilson in conversation on the landing, and noticed Pat Larsen take something from the man. Wilson didn't squeal, naturally. Ed was a very useful man in many ways. By some pull he had got himself made a Justice of the Peace for Middlesex, and used to sit on the bench and try poachers! And a J.P. can sign passports and do a whole lot of things that can help a man considerably.

Pat was sent down for eighteen months— he was under twenty, and had never done a crooked thing in his life. That was the cruel part of it: I knew that he was innocent, but could say no word to save him, especially after it was known that he was a Larsen and that two of his brothers were 'inside.'

And that is just why I went down to Wandsworth to do rescue work. For one thing, I wanted to rescue Ed Lasthall from his evil surroundings and put him in a nice moral jail.

As nine o'clock struck, the two boys came out through the little wicket-gate in their crumpled suits. They saw me at once, and came over towards me.

'What's the idea, Sooper?' asked Joe. 'You've got nothing on us.'

They thought it was a prison-gate arrest. We sometimes take a man as he comes out of jail for some offence he committed before he went in.

'Nothing at all, boys.' I said in a hurry. 'Only I thought I'd come along and see if there was anything I could do for you.'

Harry smiled lopsidedly and jerked his thumb at the prison door.

'You can walk in there and bring out Pat,' he said. 'You put him there.'

'Aw, listen,' said Joe, with a grin, 'what's the sense of bluffin', Sooper? You know who put Pat away. And, Sooper, we are going to make Ed Lasthall be very, very sorry for himself!'

Harry nodded.

'And when we've skinned him, we're going abroad to live on the hide,' he said. 'And Pat's joining us. We've given him the town and the place and the best way of getting there.'

Personally. I take very little notice of threats when they are made at the right end of a sentence— which is the beginning. It doesn't worry me any when the man I've sent down turns as he leaves the dock and tells me what is going to happen to my face when he leaves jail. That is natural. After his time's up. he usually comes along to see me and apologize. But to be threatened after a sentence is through— that is different.

'Skin him if you can, Harry.' I said. 'But there are eighteen thousand policemen in London whose job it is to see that you don't get away with the pelt.'

And then I began to talk to them about Ed. I thought that, being sore, they would squeal a little. You see, I happened to know that Pat was the apple of their eyes, and that, if I got to them quick enough, they would spill everything in the basin. But I was wrong.

'It's no use trying to smoodge us, Sooper,' said Joe, shaking his head. 'We've never had any dealings with this man Lasthall. He doesn't know us, and we don't know him. But we're going to get better acquainted. Even Pat wasn't aware that he was a fence, though everybody else in town seems to have known it.

I had my little car on the spot, and drove them to a coffee-shop in Wandsworth, where we had breakfast together. We talked about old friends inside and out, but all the time the Larsen boys were on their guard, and I got nothing out of them that I could put into an autobiography, if I ever wrote one. The food was better in Wandsworth than Pentonville; Hawkey, the coiner, was in charge of the library, and the 'screws' were more reasonable. In thieves' slang 'screw' means 'to look.' and warders and guards are called by that name because they look through the peepholes into the cells. They told me, before I left, that they were going to stay with relations at Lewisham, but that meant nothing.

Ordinarily, I warn a man who has been threatened at the wrong end of a sentence, but Ed was my lawful prey, and I was looking forward to the day when I should put him in the steel pen and read over a charge to him. And those kind of birds you don't warn.

When I saw him a few days after, he was coming out of Nethersole's Bank looking as black as thunder. His face changed a little when he saw me, but he was too mad to hide his feelings.

'Morning. Sooper— what's the matter with that bank? I've been a client for twelve years, and they treat me like a dog!'

'What's the trouble?' I asked him.

It appeared that he had been negotiating for the purchase of a big block of flats in Baker Street. He bought and sold property as a side-line, and always at a profit, but this was one of his biggest deals.

'I've never had less than thirty-five thousand pounds in my current account,' he said, 'and they know that I'm as solid at Rothschilds, and yet when I ask them for a twenty-thousand loan to finish this deal they treat me as if I were a thief. And I only want the money for three days and can lodge the deeds against the loan!'

The sum he had to find was seventy thousand, which meant that his fluid account was somewhere in the neighbourhood of fifty thousand pounds. That is pretty big money in loose cash, and no business man would keep as much in his current account; but I have in my mind the idea that Ed expected a day would come when he would have to jump for safety— and jump quick.

That's deduction, or maybe guesswork, or possibly good police work, for we had made a few discoveries about Ed Lasthall. Number One was his relationship with Sarah. Number Two was a seagoing motorboat that he kept in the estuary of the Thames.

'I'll change my bank,' he said. 'These old-fashioned private banks aren't safe, anyway.'

Nobody knew better than Ed that Nethersole's was one of the toniest banks in London. All the big swells kept their private accounts with Nethersole's. and it was a good advertisement for Ed to be able to put 'Nethersole's Bank' on his notepaper.

I don't suppose that he was seriously inconvenienced, because he had money on discount at the Credit Lyonnais. Anyway. I heard that the deal had gone through.

I had Sergeant Brett into my office the day after I met Lasthall.

'Watch out for the Larsen boys.' I told him, for my job was to keep the police end of the business in good shape and order. Brett had to know what the trouble was, and when I explained he seemed amused.

'Thieves big and little have been trying to get money out of Ed ever since I've been in this division. Before he died, poor old Looey busted his house in Colville Gardens, and got nothing out of it but nine months' hard labour. The Larsen boys will have to improve on their style to have any hope of catching Lasthall.'

I don't know that I agreed with him. As I have said before, all criminals are fools, and for this reason: they never choose the right material. Their workmanship is fine, but in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred they are in the position of carpenters working on steel. There never was a good watch-maker who could do much with a pick and a shovel, and the Larsen boys had worked some of their cleverest gags on people with as much imagination as the average cow, and naturally they had come unstuck.

The boys were kind of superior confidence-men, and they had got into trouble because they had operated on brokers and businessmen instead of on poets, parsons and ad writers. I've studied their methods very carefully, and I'm bound to admit that their graft was the cleverest that has ever come under my notice. But they had failed because they were aiming at the wrong target.

For a swindle to succeed it is necessary that everybody concerned, including the poor pigeon, should have the minds of swindlers. No con man has ever made money except out of the potentially dishonest. I think 'potentially' is the right word, but if it isn't you'll know what I mean.

I saw nothing of the boys, nor did Brett, and it looked as though the Larsens had gone honest. There was no mention of them, either in confidentials or in the Hue-and-Cry. and although I read the newspapers carefully, I could find no record of a City merchant buying blocks of shares in North African gold mines or oil concessions in Bessarabia.

The two boys had a little money put by (Joe was the saver of the family), and there was just a chance that they had decided to quit and had found work that hadn't got a come-back. But I was wrong, I got the story afterwards from Ed, and it wasn't an easy story to get, because every few sentences he either knocked his head against the wall or stopped to remark what he'd do to the Larsens if he ever laid his hands on them. And when he wasn't doing that he was praying that the Lord would do something vicious to Joe and Harry at that very minute. I never knew Ed had any religion in his system until then, but apparently he was rather strong for prayer.

About the middle of April he had a letter from a man called Weiss, asking him on what terms he'd loan him a thousand pounds. Ed did a lot of advertising and had a pretty large connexion. He sent Mr Weiss the usual inquiry form; you know the kind of thing I mean— kindly state age, colour of eyes, where born, how often bankrupt— and in reply he had a strange letter, which I have seen:

DEAR SIR,— I need hardly tell you that I have not given you my own name. I am in terrible trouble, not on my own account but on account of my brother. I am still hoping that the blow may be averted, and that it will not be necessary for me to come to you for money. How terrible it is that the sins of others should be visited upon the innocent! Your most kind and generous letter has touched me very deeply. I feel indeed that in you I have a good and loyal friend. I will write to you later when matters develop.

Yours sincerely, M. WEISS

THE letter was dated from an accommodation address in South London, and Ed's 'kind and generous letter' he wrote about was the usual brotherly hokum that Ed sent out to all prospective clients.

Lasthall wasn't so much puzzled by the letter as I should have been. I guess he had a pretty curious correspondence; and being a professional moneylender, he knew that nobody borrows for themselves. They always want the money for a dear friend or for a husband or to help somebody else. They've either backed a bill for a near relation, or they've been the victims of other people's circumstances.

Nothing further came, and Mr Weiss had gone out of Ed's memory until the third day of May, which was a Friday.

Edward was sitting in his office reading a sporting paper. He was going away to Brighton that night to spend the weekend, and he was only waiting till Sarah brought up some letters for him to sign before he left the office. He had read through yesterday's racing and was wondering if any of his clients had been hit when his new clerk came in and said there was a young man who wanted to see him.

'What is his name?'

'Mr Weiss,' replied the girl: and then Ed remembered the mad letter he had had from him.

'Shoot him in,' he said, and a second or two later Mr Weiss came in.

Ed said he was a young and artistic looking man, and so far as I can understand, Ed got the notion that he was artistic because he wore no waistcoat, had a big black, flowing tie and longish hair. He seemed in a terrible state of agitation: his lips were trembling, and he couldn't keep still for a second. He was hardly in the chair where Lasthall politely asked him to sit than he was on his feet again, walking up and down the room.

'Forgive me,' he said (Ed Lasthall repeated the conversation word for word: I guess it had burnt itself in pretty deeply). 'Forgive me, Mr Lasthall, but I hardly know whether I'm standing on my head or my heels. This is dreadful— dreadful! I've guessed the truth all these months, yet the news has come as a blow to me. Oh, Johnny, Johnny, how could you!'

He wrung his hands like a man in the last stages of despair.

'Calm yourself, Mr Weiss,' said Ed. He had seen folk carry on in that way before, but it was usually after a loan came due.

'My name isn't Weiss,' the young man replied, 'I am Arthur Jorlton.'

Now Ed had no knowledge of art or poetry, but there was a dim idea at the back of his mind that he had either seen the name in the paper or had heard of it before.

'I am Arthur Jorlton,' said the young man rather impatiently. 'You must know my work? I have a play at the Everywoman's Theatre.'

And then Ed remembered. It was one of those highbrow plays that the critics like but the public won't pay to see, all about souls and the rights of women to do as they darned well please, and Ed, who was strong for girl and music shows, had enough knowledge of the theatre to know that Tombstones (that was the name of the play) was an artistic success and was losing money.

'Why, yes. Mr Jorlton. I know your work very well,' he said. That play of yours is one of the greatest we've ever had on the stage and shows that the British drama is coming back to its own.'

He remembered this bit from a criticism he'd read.

'Artistic success?' said Jorlton bitterly. 'And here am I on the very threshold of fame... and this has happened!'

Ed waited to hear what 'this' was.

'I have feared it,' said Mr Jorlton, throwing his arms about like an actor. 'I taxed him with it in March. I said, "John, I cannot understand how, on your salary, you can afford to keep this expensive flat and to play the races as you do." He told me that he was earning a lot of money by his literary work, and, like a fool, I believed him.'

'And what has he done?' asked Ed very gently. He was beginning to get the hang of the situation.

'What has he done?' Mr Jorlton turned round on him fiercely. 'He has not only ruined himself irretrievably, he has not only ruined me, but by his wicked folly he has dragged down thousands of innocent men and women to penury!'

Ed looked at the clock: it was ten minutes past three, and he was due to catch the 3.40 for Brighton.

'Now listen. Mr Jorlton. You come along and see me on Monday morning and we'll have a heart-to-heart talk— '

'On Monday morning it will be too late,' said the young man, who became calm in an instant and, pulling up his chair to the other side of the desk, sat down. 'Mr Lasthall. I am not a businessman,' he said. 'You would hardly expect that in one of my temperament. I am a writer, a dreamer, a poet, if you will. Only the terrible force of necessity would have brought me to you, but I am encouraged by the humanity of your letter. I want to borrow three thousand pounds for a fortnight.'

'Really!' said Ed politely. 'That's a very large sum. Mr Jorlton, and, of course, you have security?'

Nobody who had ever been to borrow money from Ed had had security, and he nearly dropped off his chair when the man took out of his pocket a thick envelope and produced a bundle of War Loan scrip.

'There is a thousand pounds' worth of War Loan here.' he said. 'But a thousand pounds is not enough, and although I know nothing of business I realize that it is foolish to ask you to accept a thousand pounds' worth of security for a loan of three thousand.'

Ed looked at the scrip and then at Mr Jorlton.

'It is certainly not a proposition that I could listen to.' he said. 'I'm willing to give you a thousand pound loan on the security of this stock— '

The young man shook his head.

'That is not enough. Indeed, three thousand pounds is not enough, but it would stave off the ruin which I fear is inevitable. The auditors are making a very careful examination of the books, and I am afraid the bank suspect something is wrong.'

'The bank?' said Ed quickly. 'Which bank is this?'

But Mr Jorlton was not agreeable to telling that.

'It is a private bank, that is all I can tell you.'

'And your brother has been robbing it?' asked Ed. 'How much money has he taken?'

Mr Jorlton sighed wearily.

'I can't tell you exactly. It must be between a hundred and fifty thousand and two hundred thousand. Sufficient, I fear, unless the joint-stock banks come to their rescue, to ruin this unfortunate house.'

He took a drink of water to steady himself.

'It's Nethersole's Bank, isn't it?' he asked, and the young man looked at him suspiciously.

'How did you know that?'

'Never mind, but I knew it.' said Ed roughly, 'is it or is it not?'

'It is,' said Mr Jorlton in a whisper.

Ed sat back in his chair and did some quick thinking.

'Have these defalcations been discovered?' he asked.

'Not yet,' said Mr Jorlton, 'but I fear—'

'Never mind what you fear. You say the auditors are in and the loss hasn't been discovered? How much money has your brother taken?'

The young man pulled a small book from his pocket and turned the leaves.

'He has a record of a hundred and sixty-one thousand pounds. It has been taken from the account of a very rich man named Buckler—'

Ed knew Buckler: a retired wine merchant who lived in Ladbroke Grove. As I say, Ed was a quick thinker. Nethersole's principal branch was at Notting Hill, and the peculiarity of the bank was that it kept on the premises an enormous cash reserve.

'Is your brother at the bank?' he asked.

'No.' said the young man. 'He has absented himself today. I couldn't let him run the risk of arrest. He sent a message to say that he was sick. Now, Mr Lasthall, can you help me?'

Ed looked at the clock again: it was twenty past three: the bank closed at half past.

'Just wait here.' he said. 'I'll go along to my bank and get some money, and then I'll fix you.'

He seized his cheque-book, dashed downstairs and hailed a taxi. He only had about five hundred yards to go, but time was precious, and three minutes later he walked into the bank and made his way to the desk of the old cashier who usually attended to him. There were two or three people waiting to cash cheques or pay in, and Ed got almost beside himself as the hands of the clock moved towards half past three. At last it came to his turn.

'Good afternoon. Mr Lasthall.' said the old clerk, who was rather talkative. 'I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, but we're rather short-handed just now. One of our clerks is away ill— a young man whom you may have remembered seeing. He's a brother of Jorlton, the playwright.'

'Yes, yes,' said Ed. 'Very interesting. Will you tell me the amount of my balance?'

'We can't tell you anything.' said the oldish boy. 'We've got the auditors in just now...'

Ed waited, hardly daring to draw a breath. By and by the cashier came back and pushed a slip under the grille. £38,500 was the amount, and with shaking hands Ed drew a cheque. The cashier looked at it.

'That nearly closes your account, Mr Lasthall.' he said.

Ed muttered something about buying property, and the cashier went away. He was gone a long time, and Ed was beginning to feel hot under the collar when the old gentleman came back and, laying a bundle of notes on the counter, counted them slowly.

The outer doors of the bank were closed by then, but that didn't matter to Ed Lasthall as he stuffed the money into his pocket with a feeling that he had been hauled into a boat after going down for the third time.

The porter opened the door for him and he went out into the street and was turning towards Notting Hill Gate when somebody called to him peremptorily, and he turned to see a strange and official-looking young man.

'Your name is Lasthall, isn't it? I'm Sergeant Jefferson from Scotland Yard. Will you come along and see Sooper? He wants to speak to you.'

'Sooper?' said Ed in surprise. 'What does he want with me?'

'They'll tell you that at the Yard.'

'But he's not at the Yard— ' began Ed.

'I don't want to argue with you,' said Sergeant Jefferson shortly. 'If it's any news to you, you're under arrest!'

Lasthall nearly dropped. I guess he'd been expecting a squeal from some of the stone stealers for a very long time.

'Sooper has got nothing on me.' he said, 'and if you arrest me there's going to be bad trouble.'

There was a car waiting, and at Jefferson's signal it pulled up by the side of the kerb, and Ed was pushed in.

'There's no sense in getting up in the air about this,' said Jefferson. 'The Yard is always making mistakes, and probably this is one. And, anyway, I'm only doing my duty.'

This calmed Ed Lasthall, though he was a bit shaken, I imagine, and when Jefferson offered him his case he took a cigarette with a laugh.

'There's trouble coming to those people at the Yard,' he boasted. 'I'm not the man to stand for this sort of thing.'

'I'll bet you're not,' said the sergeant.

Ed told me that it was after he'd smoked half-way through the cigarette that he began to feel sleepy, but he was suspicious of nothing.

At eleven o'clock that night Ed, covered with dust and looking as if he had been passed through a cinder sifter, staggered into the police station near Chislehurst Common. He hadn't any idea what had happened to him except that he'd gone to sleep, and that when he woke up he was lying on the grass with a pillow under his head, no money in his pocket, and a tongue like sandpaper. They brought him along to me, and he spilt his story with all kinds of emotional variations, and as soon as I'd heard it through I sent out a hurry call to pull in the brothers Larsen.

Of course there was a young man at the bank called Jorlton, and he was the brother of the dramatist: but the 'dramatist' who called on Ed Lasthall and scared him into drawing his money from the bank was Joe Larsen, and the artistic detective was his brother Harry. I s'pose Joe was the car driver— Ed Lasthall remembered that he wore goggles. It was the cleverest thing that has ever been done in our division.

We never caught the Larsens. When Pat came out of prison we put him under observation, but he slipped us and disappeared from England. The only clue I had was that whilst he was in prison he was learning Spanish, and that's no clue, except for detectives who go around deducting and theorizing.

The only good thing that came out of it was that Nethersole's Bank, which is as sound as the Bank of England, closed Ed's account: but he must have had plenty of money, for when we pinched him, a year later, in connection with the Duchess of Helboro's diamonds, he briefed the best counsel in England and got away with three years when he ought to have had seven.

______________________________

17: Stuffing

The Saturday Evening Post, Dec 11, 1926

THERE are several people concerned in this story whom it is impossible within a limited space to describe. If you are on friendly terms with the great men of Scotland Yard you may inspect the photographs and finger-prints of two— Harry the Valet and Joe the Runner.

Lord Carfane’s picture you can see at intervals in the best of the illustrated weeklies. He was once plain Ferdie Gooberry, before he became a contractor and supplied the army with odds and ends and himself with a fortune and a barony.

In no newspaper, illustrated or otherwise, do the names of John and Angela Willett appear. Their marriage at a small registrar’s office had excited no public comment, although he was a BA of Cambridge and she was the grand-niece of Peter Elmer, the shipping magnate, who had acknowledged his relationship by dictating to her a very polite letter wishing her every happiness.

They lived in one furnished room in Pimlico, this good-looking couple, and they had the use of the kitchen. He was confident that he would one day be a great engineer. She also believed in miracles.

Three days before Christmas they sat down calmly to consider the problem of the great annual festival and how it might best be spent. Jack Willett scratched his cheek and did a lightning calculation.

‘Really, we ought not to spend an unnecessary penny,’ he said dolefully. ‘We may be a week in Montreal before I start work, and we shall need a little money for the voyage.’

They were leaving on Boxing Day for Canada; their berths had been taken. In Montreal a job was awaiting Jack in the office of an old college friend: and although twenty-five dollars per did not exactly represent luxury, it was a start.

Angela looked at him thoughtfully.

‘I am quite sure Uncle Peter is going to do something awfully nice for us,’ she said stoutly.

Jack’s hollow laugh was not encouraging.

There was a tap at the door, and the unpleasant but smiling face of Joe the Runner appeared. He occupied an attic bedroom, and was a source of worry to his landlady. Once he had been in the newspaper business, running evening editions, and the name stuck to him. He had long ceased to be associated with the Press, save as a subject for its crime reporters, but this the Willetts did not know.

‘Just thought I’d pop in and see you before I went, miss,’ he said. ‘I’m going off into the country to do a bit of work for a gentleman. About that dollar, miss, that you lent me last week.’

Angela looked uncomfortable.

‘Oh, please don’t mention it,’ she said hastily.

‘I haven’t forgotten it,’ said Joe, nodding solemnly. ‘The minute I come back, I’ll bring it to you.’ And with a large and sinister grin he vanished.

‘I lent him the money because he couldn’t pay his rent,’ said Angela penitently, but her husband waved her extravagance away.

‘Let’s talk about Christmas dinner. What about sausages…!’

‘If Uncle Peter—’ she began.

‘Let’s talk about sausages,’ said Jack gently.

Foodstuffs were also the topic of conversation between Lord Carfane and Prince Riminoff as they sat at lunch at the Ritz-Carlton. Lord Carfane emphasized his remarks with a very long cigar.

‘I always keep up the old English custom of distributing food to the poor,’ he said. ‘Every family on my estate on Christmas Eve has a turkey from my farm. All my workers,’ he corrected himself carefully, ‘except old Timmins. Old Timmins has been very rude to me, and I have had to sack him. All the tenants assemble in the great hall… But you’ll see that for yourself, Prince.’

Prince Riminoff nodded gravely and tugged at his short beard. That beard had taken Harry the Valet five months to grow, and it was so creditable a production that he had passed Chief Inspector Mailing in the vestibule of the Ritz-Carlton and had not been recognised.

Very skilfully he switched the conversation into more profitable channels.

‘I do hope, my dear Lord Carfane, that you have not betrayed my identity to your guests?’

Ferdie smiled.

‘I am not quite a fool,’ he said, and meant it.

‘A great deal of the jewellery that I am disposing of, and of which you have seen specimens, is not mine. I think I have made that clear. I am acting for several of my unfortunate compatriots, and frankly it would be embarrassing for me if it leaked out that I was the vendor.’

Ferdie nodded. He suspected that a great deal of the property which he was to acquire had been secured by underhand means. He more than suspected that, for all his princely origin, his companion was not too honest.

‘That is why I have asked that the money you pay should be in American currency. By the way, have you made that provision?’ Lord Carfane nodded. ‘And, of course, I shall not ask you to pay a single dollar until you are satisfied that the property is worth what I ask. It is in fact worth three times as much.’

Lord Carfane was nothing if not frank.

‘Now, I’m going to tell you, my dear chap,’ he said, ‘there will only be one person at Carfane Hall who will know anything whatever about this little transaction of ours. He’s an expert jeweller. He is an authority, and he will examine every piece and price it before I part with a single bob!’

His Highness heartily, but gravely, approved of this act of precaution.

Lord Carfane had met his companion a few weeks before in a highly respectable night club, the introduction having been effected through the medium of a very beautiful lady who had accidentally spilt a glass of champagne over his lordship’s dress trousers. She was so lovely a personage that Lord Carfane did no more than smile graciously, and a few minutes later was introduced to her sedate and imposing presence.

Harry the Valet invariably secured his introductions by this method. Usually he worked with Molly Kien, and paid her a hundred pounds for every introduction.

He spoke no more of jewels smuggled from Russia and offered at ridiculous prices, but talked sorrowfully of the misfortunes of his country; spoke easily of his estates in the Crimea and his mines in the Urals, now, alas! in Bolshevik hands. Lord Carfane was immensely entertained.

On the following evening, Harry drove down in Lord Carfane’s limousine to Berkshire, and was introduced to the glories of Carfane Hall; to the great banqueting chamber with its high raftered roof; to the white-tiled larder where petrified turkeys hung in rows, each grisly corpse decorated with a gay rosette…

‘My tenants come in on Christmas Eve,’ explained Lord Carfane,’ and my butler presents each one with a turkey and a small bag of groceries— ’

‘An old feudal custom?’ suggested the Prince gravely.

Lord Carfane agreed with equal gravity.

The Prince had brought with him a large, heavily locked and strapped handbag, which had been deposited in the safe, which was the most conspicuous feature of Ferdie’s library. The expert jeweller was arriving on the morrow, and his lordship looked forward, with a sense of pleasurable anticipation, to a day which would yield him 400 per cent profit on a considerable outlay.

‘Yes,’ said Ferdie at dinner that night, ‘I prefer a combination safe. One can lose keys, but not if they’re here’— he tapped his narrow forehead and smiled.

Harry the Valet agreed. One of his greatest charms was his complete agreement with anything anybody said or did or thought.

Whilst he dwelt in luxury in the halls of the great, his unhappy confederate had a more painful task. Joe the Runner had collected from a garage a small, light trolley. It was not beautiful to look upon, but it was fast, and under its covered tilt, beneath sacks and amidst baskets, a man making a swift getaway might lie concealed and be carried to London without exciting attention.

Joe made a leisurely way into Berkshire and came to the rendezvous at the precise minute he had been ordered. It was a narrow lane at the termination of a footpath leading across the Carfane estate to the house. It was a cold, blue- fingered, red-nosed job, and for three hours he sat and shivered. And then, coming across the field in the blue dusk, he saw an old man staggering, carrying a rush basket in one hand and an indescribable something in the other. He was evidently in a hurry, this ancient. From time to time he looked back over his shoulder as though he expected pursuit. Breathlessly, he mounted the stile and fell over rather than surmounted it.

Stumbling to his feet, he saw Joe sitting at the wheel of the van, and gaped at him toothlessly, his eyes wide with horror. Joe the Runner recognised the signs.

‘What have you been doin’?’ he demanded sternly.

For a few minutes the breathless old man could not speak; blinked fearfully at his interrogator; and then:

‘He’s fired me,’ he croaked. ‘Wouldn’t give me no turkey or nothin’, so I went up to the ‘All and pinched one.’

‘Oh!’ said Joe judiciously.

It was not an unpleasant sensation, sitting in judgment on a fellow creature.

‘There was such a bother and a fuss and shouting going on…what with the safe bein’ found broke open, and that foreign man being caught, that nobody seed me,’ whimpered the elderly Mr Timmins.

‘Eh?’ said Joe. ‘What’s that— safe broken open?’

The old man nodded.

‘I heered ‘em when I was hiding in the pantry. His lordship found that the safe had been opened an’ money took. He sent for the constable, and they’ve got the prince locked up in a room, with the under-gardener and the butler on guard outside the door— ’

He looked down at the frozen turkey in his red, numbed hand; and his lips twitched pathetically.

‘His lordship promised me a turkey and his lordship said I shouldn’t have—’

Joe Runner was a quick thinker. ‘Jump up in the truck,’ he commanded roughly. ‘Where do you live?’

‘About three miles from here,’ began Mr Timmins.

Joe leaned over, and pulled him up, parcel, bag and turkey.

‘Get through into the back, and keep quiet.’

He leapt down, cranked up the engine with some difficulty, and sent the little trolley lumbering on to the main road. When he passed three officers in a police car speeding towards Carfane Hall his heart was in his mouth, but he was not challenged. Presently, at the urgent desire of the old man, he stopped at the end of a row of cottages.

‘Gawd bless you, mister!’ whimpered Mr Timmins. ‘I’ll never do a thing like this again.’

‘Hi!’ said Joe sternly. ‘What do I get out of this?’

And then, as the recollection of a debt came to him:

‘Leave the turkey— and hop!’

Mr Timmins hopped.

It was nine o’clock on Christmas morning, and Angela Willett had just finished her packing.

Outside the skies were dark and cheerless, snow and rain were falling together, so that this tiny furnished room had almost a palatial atmosphere in comparison with the drear world outside.

‘I suppose it’s too early to cook the sausages— by the way, our train leaves at ten tonight, so we needn’t invent ways of spending the evening— come in.’

It was Joe the Runner, rather wet but smiling. He carried under his arm something wrapped in an old newspaper.

‘Excuse me, miss,’ he said, as he removed the covering, ‘but a gent I met in the street asked me to give you this.’

‘A turkey!’ gasped Angela. ‘How wonderful…who was it?’

‘I don’t know, miss— an old gentleman,’ said Joe vaguely. ‘He said “Be sure an’ give it to the young lady herself— wishin’ her a happy Christmas”.’

They gazed on the carcase in awe and ecstasy. As the front door slammed, announcing Joe’s hasty departure:

‘An old gentleman,’ said Angela slowly. ‘Uncle Peter!’

‘Uncle grandmother!’ smiled John. ‘I believe he stole it!’

‘How uncharitable you are!’ she reproached him. ‘It’s the sort of thing Uncle Peter would do. He always had that Haroun al Raschid complex— I wrote and told him we were leaving for Canada tonight. I’m sure it was he.’

Half-convinced, John Willett prodded at the bird. It seemed a little tough.

‘Anyway, it’s turkey,’ he said, ‘And, darling, I adore turkey stuffed with chestnuts. I wonder if there are any shops open

There was a large cavity at one end of the bird, and as he lifted the turkey up by the neck, the better to examine it, something dropped to the table with a flop. It was a tight roll of paper. He shook the bird again and a second fell from its unoffending body.

‘Good God!’ gasped John.

With trembling hands he cut the string that bound the roll

‘It’s money!’ she whispered.

John nodded.

‘Hundred dollar bills…five hundred of them at least!’ he said hollowly.

Their eyes met.

‘Uncle Peter!’ she breathed. ‘The darling!’

Mr Peter Elmer, the eminent ship owner, received the following day a telegram which was entirely meaningless:

Thank you a thousand times for your thought and generosity. You have given us a wonderful start and we shall be worthy of your splendid kindness.

It was signed ‘Angela’. Mr Peter Elmer scratched his head.

And at that moment Inspector Mailing was interrogating Harry the Valet in the little police station at Carfane.

‘Now come across, Harry,’ he said kindly. ‘We know you got the money out of the safe. Where did you plant it? You couldn’t have taken it far, because the butler saw you leaving the room. Just tell us where the money is, and I’ll make it all right for you when you come up in front of the old man.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Harry the Valet, game to the last.

____________________________

18: The Man Who Shot the "Favourite"

Ideas, Feb 9, 1929

'THERE always will be a certain percentage of mysteries turnin' up, that simply won't untwist themselves, but the mystery that I'm thinkin' of particularly is the Wexford Brothers' Industrial Society, which unravelled itself in a curious fashion,' said P. C. Lee.

'If you don't happen to know the Wexford Brothers, I can tell you that you haven't missed much. It was a sort of religious sect, only more so, because these chaps didn't smoke, an' didn't drink or eat meat, or enjoy themselves like ordinary human bein's, an' they belonged to the anti-gamblin', anti-imperial, anti-life-worth-livin' folks.

'The chief chap was Brother Samsin, a white-faced gentleman with black whiskers. He was a sort of class leader, an' it was through him that the Duke started his Wexford Brothers' Industrial Society.

'The Duke wasn't a bad character, in spite of his name, which was given to him by the lads of Nottin' Dale. He was a bright, talkative, an' plausible young feller, who'd spent a lot of time in the Colonies, an' had come back to London broke to the world owin' to speculation.

'Why I know so much about him is that he used to lodge in my house. He was a gentleman with very nice manners, an' when Brother Samsin called on me one afternoon an' met the Duke, the brother was so impressed with the respect an' reverence with which the Duke treated him that he asked him home to tea.

'To cut a long story short, this bright young man came to know all the brothers and sisters of the society an' became quite a favourite.

'I thought at first he had thoughts of joinin' the Brotherhood, but he soon corrected that.

'"No, Lee," ses he, "that would spoil the whole thing. At present I'm attracted to them because I'm worldly and wicked. If I became a brother, I'd be like one of them. At present they've no standard to measure me by, an' so I'm unique."

'What interested the brothers most was the Duke's stories of his speculations in the Colonies, of how you can make a thousand pounds in the morning, lose two thousand in the evening, an wake up next mornin' to find that you've still got a chance of makin' all you've lost an' a thousand besides.

'Well, anyway, he got the brothers interested, an' after a lot of palaver an' all sorts of secret meetin's, it was decided to start the Industrial Society, an' make the Duke chief organiser an' secretary.

'The idea was to subscribe a big sum of money, an allow the Duke to use it to the best of his ability "on legitimate enterprises"— those were the words in the contract.

'The Duke took a little office over a barber's shop near the Nottin' Hill Gate Station, an' started work. Nothin' happened for a month. There were directors' meetin's an' money was voted, but in the second week of April, two months after the society was formed, the Duke said the society was now flourishin' an' declared a dividend of 20 per cent. What is more, the money was paid, an' you may be sure the brothers were delighted.

'A fortnight later, he declared another dividend of 30 percent, an' the next week a dividend of 50 percent, an' the brothers had a solemn meetin' an' raised his salary. Throughout that year hardly a week passed without a dividend bein' declared and paid.

'Accordin' to his agreement the Duke didn't have to state where the money came from. On the books of the society were two assets:

Gold mine... £1,000

Silver mine... £500

an' from one or the other the dividends came.

'All went well to the beginning of this year. You would think that the brothers, havin' got their capital back three times over, would be satisfied to sit down an' take their "divvies", but of all true sayin's in this world the truest is that "the more you get, the more you want."

'From what I hear, the Duke paid no more dividends at all from the end of November to the end of February, an' only a beggarly 10 per cent, in March. So the directors had a meetin' an' passed a vote of censure on the secretary.

'He wasn't the kind of man to get worried over a little affair like that, but he was annoyed.

"What these perishers don't understand,' he ses to me, 'is that the gold mine doesn't work in the winter.'

'"Where is it?" I asked.

'He thought a bit. "In the Klondike," he ses, thoughtful.

'"An' where's the silver mine?"

'"In never-never land," he ses, very glib.

'He got the brothers quiet again by the end of March, for he declared a dividend of 20 percent, but somehow or other all those weeks of non-payment got their backs up, an' they wasn't so friendly with him as they used to be.

'Mr. Samsin asked me to call round an' see him, an' I went.

'When I got to his house, I was shown into the parlour, an' to my surprise, I found about a dozen of the brothers all sittin' round a table very solemn an' stern.

'"We've asked you to come, Mr. Lee," ses Samsin, "because bein' a constable, an' acquainted with law, an' moreover," he ses with a cough, "acquainted with our dear young friend who's actin' as secretary to our society, you may be able to give us advice. You must know," he ses, mysteriously, "that for three months no dividends have been forthcomin' to our society."

'I nodded.

'"We have wondered why," he ses, "but have never suspected one whom we thought was above suspicion."

'"Meanin', the Duke?" I ses.

'"Meanin' Mr. Tiptree," ses Brother Samsin. Tiptree was the Duke's private name.

'"We have made a discovery," ses Samsin, impressively, "an' when I say 'we' I mean our dear Brother Lawley."

'A very pale gent in spectacles nodded his head.

'"Brother Lawley," ses Samsin, "was addressin' a meetin' on Lincoln racecourse— he bein' the vice-president of the Anti-Race-League— an' whilst runnin' away from a number of misguided sinners, who pursued him with contumely—"

'"An' bricks," ses Brother Lawley.

'"An' bricks," Samsin went on, "he saw Tiptree!"

He paused, and there was a hushed silence.

'"He was bettin!"' ses Brother Samsin.

'"Now," he adds, "I don't want to be uncharitable, but I've got an idea where our dividends have gone to."

'"Stolen," ses I.

'"Stolen an' betted," ses the brother, solemnly.

'"Well," ses I, "if you report the matter to me, an' you've got proof, an' you'll lay information, I'll take it to my superior, but if you ask me anythin' I'll tell you that you haven't much of a case. It's no offence to bet—"

'"It's an offence against our sacred principles," ses Brother Samsin.

'The upshot of this conversation was— they asked me to watch the Duke an' report any suspicious movement, an' this I flatly refused to do.

'An' with that I left 'em. I don't know what they would have done, only suddenly the society began to pay dividends. Especially the gold mine, which paid a bigger dividend every week.

'So the brothers decided to overlook the Duke's disgraceful conduct, especially in view of the fact that Brother Lawley was preparin' for one of the most terrible attacks on horse-racin' that had ever been known.

'I got to hear about it afterwards. Brother Lawley was all for bein' a martyr to the cause. He said he wanted to draw attention to the horrible gamblin' habits of the nation, but there were lots of people who said that the main idea was to call attention to Brother Lawley.

'Be that as it may, he thought out a great plan an' he put it into execution on the day before Derby Day.

'A number of our fellows were drafted down for the races and I went with them.

'On the Monday, as I went down on the Tuesday, I saw the Duke. He still lodged in my house, although he was fairly prosperous, an' happenin' to want to borrow the evenin' paper to see what young Harry Bigge got for a larceny I was interested in, I went to his room.

'He was sittin' in front of a table, an' was polishin' up the lenses of a pair of race-glasses, an' I stopped dead when I remembered my conversation with the brothers.

'"Hullo!" I ses, "you an' me are apparently goin' to the same place."

'"Epsom? Yes," ses he, coolly. "An' if you take my tip you'll back Belle of Maida Vale in the second race."

'"I never bet," I ses, "an' I take no interest in horse-racin' an', moreover," I ses, "she can't give Bountiful Boy seven pounds over a mile an' a quarter."

'When I got downstairs I went over her "form." She was a consistent winner. The year before she'd won eight races at nice prices, an' I decided to overcome my aversion to bettin' an back her, although I'd made up my mind to have my week's salary on Bountiful Boy.

'There was the usual Tuesday crowd at Epsom, an' I got a glimpse of Brother Lawley holdin' his little meetin'. He was on his own. It wasn't like the racecourse Mission, that does its work without offence, but Lawley's mission was all brimstone an' heat.

'We cleared the course for the first race, an' after it was over I casually mentioned to Big Joe France, the Bookmaker, that if Belle of Maida Vale was 20 to 1 I'd back her.

'"I'm very sorry, Mr. Lee," he ses, "but you'll have to take a shorter price— I'll lay you sixes."

'I took the odds to 30s. and laid half of it off with Issy Jacobs a few minutes later at threes.

'The course was cleared again for the second race, an' it was whilst the horses were at the post that I saw Brother Lawley leanin' over the rails near the winnin' post. He looked very white an' excited, but I didn't take much notice of him, because that was his natural condition.

'In the rings the bookies were shoutin' "Even money on Belle of Maida Vale", an' it looked as if somebody was havin' a rare gamble on her.

'The bell rang, an' there was a yell. "They're off!"

'I was on the course, near the judge's box, an' could see nothin' of the race till the field came round Tattenham Corner with one horse leadin'— and that one the Belle.

'Well out by herself she was, an' there she kept right along the straight to the distance. There was no chance of the others catchin' her an' they were easin' up when suddenly from the rails came a report like the snap of a whip, an' the Belle staggered, swerved, an' went down all of a heap.

'For a moment there was a dead silence, an' then such a yell as I've never heard before.

'They would have lynched Brother Lawley, with his smokin' pistol in his hand, but the police were round him in a minute.

"I've done it!" he yelled. "I've drawn attention to the curse—"

'"Shut up!" I said, "an' come along before the people get you."

'Next day there was a special meetin' of the Wexford Brothers' Industrial Society, an' the Duke attended by request.

'Brother Samsin was in the chair.

'"We are gathered," he ses, "to consider what can be done for the defence of our sainted Brother Lawley, who's in the hands of the myrmidons of the law. I propose that we vote a sum out of the society—"

'"Hold hard," ses the Duke, roughly, "you can't vote any money— because there ain't any."

'"Explain yourself," ses Brother Samsin. "What of the gold mine?"

'"The gold mine," ses the Duke sadly, "was a horse called Belle of Maida Vale, that I bought out of the society's funds— she's dead."

'"An' the silver mine?" faltered Samsin.

'"That was the Belle of Maida Vale, too," ses the Duke. "A good filly, she was. She won regularly every month at a nice price— but she won't win any more dividends."'

___________________________

19: One Night in Somerset

Britannia and Eve, July 1929

'BEGGARS,' said Audrey Bourne, 'can't be choosers.'

It is more than a little dangerous to base your life and future upon a platitude, even though that platitude has passed into proverb.

She was not exactly a beggar, for she had a thousand a year of her own, and the choice was hardly hers. There were certain overpowering relatives of hers, the half-millionaire uncle being the most dominant, who thought it would be an amazingly fine stroke of business to make her the Countess of Tenford, and, since she was heart-free and had the spurious philosophy which twenty acquires so readily— the keystone of that philosophy being that one man is very much like another— she accepted her fate though she hated Tenford Court, which was Tudor and comfortless, though she loathed Tenford Park with its gloomy trees that shut out all view, and she disliked Lady Tenford, soon to be Agatha, Dowager Countess.

Few people liked Lady Tenford, who was tall, and thin, and acrid; a woman with a large nose and a short upper lip; who knew the history of every coat of arms that jostled one another in the mullion windows of the Great Hall. She had been a Tenford before she had married the late earl, and could trace her line back to pre-Plantagenet times. To her Tenfordism was a religion, the name more sacred than any she murmured so mechanically in the big family pew at Tenford Church.

Audrey came to hate the name and found a welcome relief in discussing, with bated breath, the murderous eccentricities of a hideous assassin who at that time was setting the nerves of Somerset on edge so that nobody walked out at night.

Cattle had been maimed, a farmer on his way home had been struck down and left for dead, a row of cottages at Senthford— which was once Seventhford— had been fired in the night and a poor woman had died of shock.

Her ladyship discovered her interest in these fearful happenings and had squashed her.

'I don't think it is wise, my dear Audrey, and I am sure Harry would not like it, to discuss these dreadful things with servants. You must not forget that one day you will be the Countess of Tenford and between you and them there is a gulf...'

She enlarged upon the exaltation which awaited the girl till Audrey was almost rude. And then, mercifully, Audrey was called to Berlin.

She had, strangely enough, an interest in the estate of a dead aunt who was indubitably German by marriage. The law courts of Berlin required her presence. It was not a very trying ordeal. Her business was finished the day she arrived, and she had a week left for sight-seeing.

In the ordinary and normal circumstances Audrey Bourne would never have become acquainted with 'Scarface.' She thought of him by this ugly title before she knew his name. She was rather young and very modern and had the trick of flippancy. Not that it was an unpleasing scar, or very noticeable: it followed the line of the lower jaw and was not more than two inches long. Otherwise he was quite good looking. Her first impression was that he was an army man; she amended this and decided, on the evidence of his intellect, that he was a schoolmaster on a holiday. He spoke German perfectly and she spoke it as she had been taught at school. It was in a curio shop near the Kurfürstendamm that he came fluently to her rescue, helped her with her purchases, and eventually walked with her through the Tiergarten to the Pariserplatz.

Two days later she saw him lunching alone at the Adlon and had coffee with him in the lounge. She did not ask his name; the head-waiter could not tell her when she asked; she knew that he was staying at the Eden and no more.

The acquaintance and its conditions would have been impossible in England; abroad one does singularly unconventional and even vulgar things and is thought none the worse of.

Had she told him she was visiting Potsdam and was approaching the home of military glory by way of the great lake? She rather thought that she had when she found him on the terrace of the Haus am See, with a table reserved for luncheon. They went across the lake together in a hired motor boat, through the Venetian waterways, to Potsdam, where her car was waiting. In the course of the trip she learned his name and his perfectly dreadful profession. She was genuinely shocked, though he seemed quite oblivious to his social inferiority.

She sat on the edge of her bed that night frowning at her indiscretions.

Why on earth had she told him about her engagement, about Harry and Lady Tenford, and everything? And why had he gaped at her when she told him of her engagement? That was an impertinence. Here was an acquaintance to be dropped instantly.

She went to the writing table and scribbled a note. She would not be able to lunch with him as arranged— she was terribly sorry. She left the note sealed on the table and went to bed.

In the morning she forgot to send it and lunched with him to her regret; for he was insufferable, plied her with questions, became almost proprietorial. It was now for the first time, she learned that he was neither army nor scholastic— he was in Berlin on quite a different errand. She might have borne the shock of this if he had not displayed an indecent interest in her future.

'But why marry anybody if you don't love them?' he asked. 'I think it is a horrible idea! After all, there are more important things than money—'

'Shall we talk about something else, please?' she asked coldly.

She left Berlin a day sooner than she had told him she was leaving and was unreasonably hurt because he did not come to the Friedrichstrasse station to see her off.

'A horrible man,' she said, and wished she had never met him.

She wished this through a sleepless night and in the dreary day journey between Dieppe and Calais, and on the boat and in the Pullman.

Lady Tenford met her at the Halt a few days later and thought she looked peaked.

'You must get some colour in your cheeks before Harry comes back. He is in town, having treatment for his ankle— you know when he was in the army he was shot at by a wretched native.'

HARRY TENFORD'S military career was a short one. He had served for two years with a crack cavalry regiment, had gone to India as ADC to a provincial governor, and resigning his post, had returned to England to a life of complete idleness.

He came down on the day of Audrey's arrival— a rather shy and awkward young man, too full of this forbidden subject for Lady Tenford's peace of mind. He was, it appeared, an amateur detective, had joined one of the search parties which went out to seek the unknown destroyer of the countryside peace, had theories upon which he would have enlarged if his dominating mother had not vetoed the discussion.

'They say he is a man from London... The police found a footprint near the cottages... Hobnail boots and that sort of thing... Naturally they think he is a farm labourer. I pointed out to the inspector that that was probably a blind. Can't town people wear hobnail boots? They say they are bringing the best fellow down from Scotland Yard. It's going to be great fun—'

'It doesn't amuse me,' said her ladyship coldly. 'I would much rather you left this subject for the servants' hall to discuss. Audrey is not interested, neither am I.'

Audrey was very much intrigued at something he had said, but she did not feel that was the moment to display her interest. She had set her teeth for a very dull week, and had an idea that grimmer weeks would follow the 17th July which saw her by courtesy the mistress of Tenford Court.

THERE was a label on the window of the compartment which announced that it was reserved. Harry Tenford's heavy-jowled servant, who was standing in the corridor looking out on the station platform as the train began to move, took a half-step to check the intruder, but he had already pulled aside the sliding door and had one foot in the compartment. Harry looked up over the magazine and scowled at the newcomer.

'The compartment,' he began, 'is reserved.'

'I am terribly sorry, I didn't notice it.'

Harry liked people instantly or disliked them instantly, generally unreasonably in either case. He liked this brown-faced man with his ready smile.

'Don't go, sit down. The beastly train is bound to be crowded. I generally travel de luxe,' he said apologetically. Then, looking past his guest, he nodded. 'It's all right. Sool, I have asked this gentleman to share my carriage.'

The heavy-faced man withdrew reluctantly and closed the door. Harry Tenford's guest had the impression that he would have welcomed the order to eject without ceremony this invader of his master's privacy.

'My name is Tenford. I suppose you are going on to Bath?' But the other man said:

'No. I hear the train is stopping at Tenford Halt by great good luck. I am staying with some people in the neighbourhood. You are not Lord Tenford?'

Harry grinned and nodded. He was a big, florid young man with thin fair hair and a bald forehead.

'Yes, that is my name. Who are you staying with? They must be neighbours of mine. You are in luck; this train doesn't usually stop at Tenford Halt, no trains do except by request. Do you know Somerset, Mr—?'

The visitor took a card from his pocket and passed it across to his host.

'John Carberry,' read the other. 'I knew some Carberrys in India. A chap on the Viceroy's staff. You don't happen to be—?'

'I have never been in India,' said John Carberry. 'I believe I have some relations in the Army, but I don't know them.'

Lord Tenford picked up his magazine again and turned the pages slowly. Presently he put the book down again.

'Are you staying over the week-end?'

'I hope I am staying a week,' said Carberry with a laugh. 'I have an invitation to come down to Braime. Lord Perley—'

'Perley? Good lord! He went abroad yesterday. I believe the house is shut up.'

Carberry looked at him with an expression of blank astonishment.

'That's bad news,' he said. 'It looks as if I had my journey for nothing. I was hoping to get some fishing, too. If I hadn't been a fool I should have telegraphed from Paris to tell him I was coming.'

Harry Tenford looked at him thoughtfully.

'You are not a doctor, are you?' he asked.

'No,' said the other, evidently surprised at the question.

'I only asked you,' Tenford explained hastily, 'because my mother dislikes doctors. She is one of these what-do-you-all-ums?'

'Christian Scientists?'

'In a way— yes. I mean, she goes to church, but she loathes doctors, my dear fellow. It's queer, isn't it? How can people get so prejudiced?'

He didn't explain why he had asked the question till the train was within ten minutes from the Halt.

'I wonder if you would like us to put you up for the week-end?' he asked abruptly. 'There's no inn where you can stay and the nearest town is twelve miles away, and you probably wouldn't be able to hire a car.'

He was amused at the effect of his gloomy prediction. John Carberry's face fell.

When the Halt was reached and they were on the little wooden platform he offered the promise of a solution to John Carberry's problems.

'If you wouldn't mind waiting here till I come back, I will be able to fix you up. The truth is, my mother is rather weird about— strange people. Particularly since this ghastly business in the neighbourhood.'

He did not particularise what the ghastly business was, nor did Carberry express any curiosity.

'If you can get me a car, I will be terribly obliged to you,' he said. He was more than amused at the young man's frankness.

T won't be gone more than half-an-hour. Perhaps Tillett will give you a cup of tea.'

Tillett proved to be the signalman and station master. Perhaps signalman was too dignified a title. He occupied a small cottage near the level crossing, the opening and closing of which was shared between himself and a spinster sister.

The stranded passenger watched Lord Tenford's Rolls sweep out of sight and surrendered his ticket to the querulous station chief.

'You are a friend of m'lord's, sir? Or maybe you are a lord yourself?'

'I am a plain mister myself,' smiled Carberry.

'Marvellous young gentleman: he has been in the army, been all over the world, India, everywhere. Staying at Tenford Court, sir?'

'No,' said the visitor.

'Ah, that's a pity: you'd like her ladyship. She is a bit severe, but a wonderful lady.'

Apparently Tillett's invitation to tea was an inevitable sequel. Tea was his one dissipation, and he offered the hospitality of that meal on the least excuse. Carberry followed him to the cottage.

'Lonely? I should think it was!'

Mr Tillett shivered. He was a thin man, and sandy as he was grey, but the type of man from whom one would expect emotional reaction.

'My sister has gone into Bath. She always goes in on Fridays, and I tell you I will be glad when she is back. Since this terrible business that's been going on—'

'What terrible business? His lordship was telling me something about it.'

Tillett looked right and left as though he feared an eavesdropper.

He told the story of the cattle maiming, of a devilish man who burned and hurt in sheer lust of cruelty.

'We found a dead tramp up there'— he pointed to the infinite— 'up in Crawley Woods. An old fellow; I saw the body after the police found him—'

'Scared, are you?'

Tillett shivered.

'Nobody is safe. I keep my door locked, and I wouldn't open it for all the money in the world. A fellow tried to get through with a car last night, but I told him to go up to the one on the Bath Road. I am not taking any risks.'

He lowered his voice.

'Mackintosh is coming down,' he said impressively.

'Who is Mackintosh?'

'Scotland Yard— one of the big men. He is expected at Bath by train, and he is coming out here this evening. One of the police sergeants told me— Sergeant Grear, a very nice man who lives down the village.'

'People are frightened down here, I suppose?'

'Frightened! It's not the word for it! You won't meet a soul on the road after dark. Most of the farmers who go out carry a gun, and I don't blame them, though the police think there will be a lot of accidents.'

He was the kind of man who could talk without the stimulant of interest. He was still talking when the Rolls came back with Tenford himself.

'My mother will be delighted if you come and spend the week-end with us,' he said. 'You will get all the fishing you want.'

The invitation was, not unexpected. John Carberry anticipated such an invitation after the mystery that accompanied his host's departure. He sat by his side on the drive back and ventured to raise a topic of conversation which he thought might be distasteful to his host.

'He is a marvellous fellow,' said Lord Tenford with enthusiasm. 'He has got everybody scared stiff— everybody except mother. The devil couldn't scare her! We are doing some patrolling to-night. The police has been reinforced and if you care to join our party— We are going to comb out Branson Wood.'

'Thank you,' said the other with a smile. 'That's not my idea of spending a perfect Saturday evening.'

Lady Tenford was waiting to meet them in the big hall. Her welcome was neither enthusiastic nor hearty. Mr Carberry thought that possibly her coldness was normal. Her scrutiny had a quality of suspicion and, remembering her dislike of doctors, he wondered whether her son had convinced her that this was not his profession.

Her ladyship resented his presence— she hardly disguised the fact. The gesture which she made to the scared-looking servant had in it something of contempt. He examined her curiously: a close-lipped woman, thin and angular. Harry Tenford was nervous in her presence, grinned amiably, but was uncomfortable, like a wilful child who had had his way and was a little apprehensive as to the consequence.

In the background was the big heavy-jawed servant whom Tenford called 'Sool'. He had changed into a footman's livery, and looked a little awkward.

'The man will take your bag to your room, Mr— ah— Carberry. Sool, will you see to Mr Carberry?'

Sool took the suit-case from the maid and led the way up the broad staircase, to a small, plainly furnished bedroom. He put down the case, making no attempt to open it, turned towards the door and stopped.

'Staying here?'

His voice was harsh, his tone unfriendly.

'Till Monday— why?'

The man was taken aback by the brusqueness of the question.

'I just asked,' he said.

He opened the door, but the visitor called him back.

'You might say "sir" when you speak to me, will you?' said Carberry. He was smiling in the face of the discomfited Sool. 'Let me see— were you in the Army or the Navy?'

'Navy, sir.'

Carberry nodded.

'SBS of course.' He saw the man jump, and laughed. 'I shouldn't tell her ladyship if I were you,' he said. There was the hint of a threat in his words. 'By the way, when do you expect Miss Bourne?'

'She's here, sir,' said the man.

Carberry's eyebrows rose. Then she could not have had his letter— the letter that he had written and re-written with such care.

'She came down last week,' said Sool.

Carberry nodded slowly.

'Very well ... You'll remember not to speak a word to her ladyship about my question. It is going to be rather awkward for you anyway— don't make your position a dangerous one.'

He changed and strolled upstairs; he knew his way about the house— an illustrated weekly had once described and illustrated Tenford Court exhaustively, and he had taken the trouble to look up the files.

For John Carberry intended to spend Saturday to Monday at the Court, his arrival in Lord Tenford's reserved compartment had been most carefully timed: his intention to spend the week-end at Braime House entirely fictitious. Nobody knew better than he that Lord Perley of Braime was not in residence. He had banked upon the hospitality of Harry Tenford.

He strolled into the library, and its one inmate rose with flushed cheeks and amazement in her eyes at the sight of him.

'You? You're not Mr Carberry?' she gasped.

'I am Mr Carberry,' he smiled.

She stared at him.

'But that isn't your name. Why did you come here in a false name?'

'One does those things,' he said carelessly.

'Does Lady Tenford know?' She was a little breathless.

He shook his head.

'I'd rather she didn't,' he said. 'I'm terribly sorry if I've annoyed you. I quite realise that I'm not a welcome visitor— I seldom am.'

'Not a welcome visitor!' She could have fallen on his neck in sheer thankfulness. Two nights of horror she had spent at Tenford— the Tuesday and the Wednesday nights.

She had wakened one night to hear a low chuckle, and had seen a hand and an arm coming through the open window of her bedroom. Her screams brought the servant Sool and her ladyship's voice was shrill with anger at her 'nightmare' (as Lady Tenford most summarily dismissed the apparition).

On the Wednesday there was a terrific thunderstorm, and in the flicker of the lightning she had seen two shapes flying across the lawn— men, one in pursuit of another. She did not scream, but somebody else was screaming in the dark of the sombre woods.

'No... I sha'n't tell.'

Lady Tenford came in at that moment. She was almost amiable. 'You've met Miss Bourne? Darling, it is time for you to dress.' She pecked at the girl's pale cheek. Audrey was not sorry to go.

'You are a Somerset man, Mr Carberry? Then you know the family?'

'The Family' was the one subject that her ladyship would discuss with the humblest of her servitors. The Tenfords of Tenford Court, William of Tenford who held the West County for King John, Laurence of Tenford whose name is inscribed in the Doomsday Book. It was essential for the peace and happiness of the world that the Tenford line should continue unbroken.

John Carberry gathered that Audrey Bourne was not the medium her ladyship would have chosen to this end. The Bournes were not a really old family— they emerged from obscurity after the Restoration: but Audrey was a 'nice gel' and her archaeological shortcomings had been excused. Besides which it was high time that Harry was married.

At dinner the conversation became more human. Harry Tenford was full of the latest outrage— the tramp murder. It had happened on the night of the storm. He was forming one of a party that was to make a midnight search of the woods.

'You'll do nothing of the kind!' said her ladyship sharply. 'Leave these matters to the police.'

Harry sulked through the rest of the meal.

For Mr Carberry the dinner was interesting, if only because of the gaucheness of the footman. Undoubtedly Sool was the most left-handed servitor that had ever waited at table. The girl hardly spoke through the meal and did not address him directly until she said 'good night' before retiring.

'I'm not sorry you're here,' she said in so low a voice that none heard except the man with the scar.

She fell asleep almost as soon as she was in bed; she had an unaccountable sense of security. Her room was sanctuary at least against the clumsy love-making of Harry— he had kissed her before she came up to bed, and that was one of the things she wanted to forget.

She woke suddenly to hear the deep-toned clock in the hall chime two. It had not disturbed her before, but now she was wide awake— wondering, fearful. Why had the clock sounded so near and so loud. That could not have awakened her.

She sat up in bed, and her blood went cold as the explanation came to her. The door of her room was open. She had locked it and taken out the key. She listened.

It was not imagination; she could hear somebody breathing, and then a board creaked.

The scream died in her throat; she was paralysed by fear, incapable of movement or sound. Then she felt a hand touch the silken coverlet— she heard the soft swish of it moving.

In an instant she was out of bed, darting blindly toward the door.

And then a big hand gripped her arm— another closed about her throat.

She struggled in the madness of her panic.

She heard something snap, and the room was flooded with light.

In the doorway was the man who called himself Carberry, and behind him she saw the frightened face of Sool.

The hand about her throat relaxed, and Harry, Earl of Tenford, drew back, a grin on his foolish red face, and then Sool called him and he went obediently.

IN the library they drank coffee together— the scar-faced Inspector Mackintosh from Scotland Yard and the pallid girl.

'It was an odd coincidence meeting you in Berlin,' he said. 'I was over there collecting information about this case— I didn't tell you so, but that is a fact. Tenford nearly murdered a German professor who was in India, the guest of the Governor to whose staff Tenford was attached. He's mad— a pretty dangerous homicide, but it was hushed up because of the family, and he was placed in the care of a keeper. Sool was an SBS— Sick Bay Steward— at Haslar, that is the naval hospital, and was in charge of lunatics. As soon as these atrocities started Scotland Yard put the case in my hands, and I started hunting up Tenford's history.'

'Did Lady Tenford know?' she asked in a shocked whisper.

He nodded.

'She's probably the madder of the two: Tenford-mad! She would have sacrificed you or anybody else to carry on the line.'

There was a long silence.

'I'm taking you back to town tomorrow,' he said. 'I'm terribly sorry you've had this shock. I hope what I have to say to you when you're well enough to hear it will not be a greater one.'

She shook her head.

'The shock will be yours, I think,' she said quietly, 'for I shall say "Yes".'

_____________________________

20: A Dream

The Golden Book Magazine, April 1933

I DREAMED I was walking on the parapet of heaven. The parapet of heaven was rather like the “parade” of a small seaside town.

There were a wall, a strip of pavement, and a road running parallel. Leaning over the wall and looking down into a void in which, through mists and dimly, one saw a pale green world turning, were a number of old saints. Their robes were rather grimy and ragged, and generally they bore a happy but neglected appearance. With their elbows on the parapet they gazed abstractedly at the world below, and they were smoking short clay pipes; from the rank aroma that came to my nostrils I guessed they were smoking shag.

Presently I saw another and older saint come shuffling in his sandaled feet across the roadway; under one arm he held an immense mortar and in his hand he carried a large porcelain pestle…. Depositing the mortar between his feet, he took from his robes a large blue diamond that sparkled dazzlingly in the sunlight.

This he put at the bottom of his mortar. and hammered at the diamond until it was crushed into small pieces….

When he had finished, each of the old saints took a handful of the powder and threw it into space, and leaning over I saw the dust of it, like an iridescent cloud, sinking out of sight. And as I looked, the world came nearer, and I saw the dust settling on the face of it. And I saw human men searching, as distinctly as though I were standing by their side. Presently one human found a speck, and his frenzied shouts brought hundreds and thousands of other humans to him, and they put the speck of dust in a large golden box and they built a church around it.

And in another part of the earth another speck was found, and those who discovered it erected a university in honor of its discovery. Where a third speck was found by a searcher a hospital was erected, and a new science grew into being. And this thing went on day after day, and year after year, it seemed, for time had no dimension, and as I looked, centuries passed in a flash.

But every time a speck was discovered and a church or a synagogue was built about it, the old saints roared with laughter until the tears rolled down their lined faces.

“What is the joke?” I asked one of the saintly men, and as he dried his eyes he explained.

“You saw yon diamond old Harry was grinding? Well, that is THE TRUTH. You saw him grind it up into fine dust?”

“I saw that,” I replied, “but what is the joke?”

“The joke!”

He was convulsed with laughter and could not speak for a long time, and then he said:

“This is the joke— every man on earth who finds a speck thinks has the whole!”

____________________________

21: The Lady Called Nita

The Lady Called Nita, 1930

THE lady, called by her intimate friends Nita, stopped at the end of the crowded path which leads to the bandstand.

"Mary, I do not think you need come any farther. Take a park chair and wait for me. I may be an hour— I may be longer. If you see me with— with the gentleman, you will not recognise me by a sign."

"Yes, mademoiselle."

"If you think I am being followed, then you may warn me. But I do not think that is likely. M. Goucouldis has no idea that— er— the Prince has any entanglements. But if it should be so that I am watched, then very likely his— agents— will try to get into touch with you. In that case you will tell them that I am Mademoiselle Lemair from Paris. That I am the daughter of M. Lemair, the leader of the Popular Party of Sergovia. If your questioner has a fit at this, send for a policeman: I understand that the English police are trained in first aid."

"Yes, mademoiselle."

It was not an unlikely contingency that the agent of M. Goucouldis, Prime Minister and Chancellor of the Kingdom of Sergovia, would grow a little faint at even second-hand contact with the daughter of M. Lemair. For M. Lemair's was a name that is only whispered in Sergovia. For fifteen years he had been exiled from his native land, and though his followers were numerous, they were, under the iron régime of the Chancellor, a trifle inarticulate. What was known as "The Law of 1909" was a comprehensive measure, so framed that it was humanly impossible for a member of the Popular Party to eat, drink or sleep within the confines of the kingdom. The Law of 1909 was a modernised version of the Ten Commandments, created for the preservation of the ruling dynasty, and M. Goucouldis was at once its author and avenging angel.

It might be explained, lest the Chancellor be shown in an unfavourable light, that the Law of 1909 merely replaced the Law of 1903, which made it a penal offence to be a Constitutionalist, and was designed to preserve an altogether different dynasty, and that the high priest of the Popular measure was M. Lemair. In Trans-Balkania, policies are poles apart, and the warmth and comfort of an equatorial toleration is an unknown experience.

On this particular night of July, M. Goucouldis had many worrying thoughts, but the spectre of M. Lemair did not intrude its grisly shape. It was disturbing to him that he was in London, away from his comfortable villa and his subservient bridge partners; more disturbing that he was in attendance upon his Prince; most disturbing of all that his Prince at that moment had dispensed with attendance.

"Diplomacy," said the Chancellor oracularly, "is the art of stating unpleasant facts inoffensively. It is an unpleasant fact that His Serene Highness refuses to marry; it is a pleasant interpretation of his obduracy that he is wedded to the interest of Sergovia and its people. He may be secretly married already; he may be in love with the unattainable— God knows. In a court like ours I think that it would be impossible that such secrets could be kept. And what constitutes the unattainable to a Serene Highness, I would ask you? Not any woman in this world. Dear no!"

The English of M. Goucouldis was of the best, except that in the matter of idioms he was occasionally at fault. He was a tall, melancholy man, big headed, big nosed, hard mouthed. His blue-grey beard was stiff and uncompromising, his tired eyes held something of tragedy. For he had spent seven years in a fortress prison in the busy days of the Slavola dynasty, when the Popular Party held office, and had seen good men die for their patriotism. That was far away and long ago. The Michaeloffs were firmly established on the throne of Sergovia— there had not been a revolution in fifteen years. In these days he could appear publicly wearing the hated cerise and green ribbon of Sts. Michael and Sofia, without fear that a fanatic's bullet would spit a viperish protest against his unorthodoxy.

Nowadays the rival Churches of Sergovia dwelt together in harmony— had joint conferences to reconcile the Nestorian theory with that of the Monophysites, and were tolerant of Orders named after unqualified saints.

The Chancellor stared out over the darkening park. From somewhere beyond the flaming rhododendrons came the soft "humph-humph" of an euphonium— the band was playing, and in the gloom, starred now with yellow lights, London was finding relief from the hot work-day.

"It is not easy to watch a Serene Highness," he grumbled, "and in London especially. In Germany it would be simple, but for the moment Germany is ... And all the time Paul is growing older, and there appears ever before my eyes the nightmare of mésalliance! Sa! At nights I wake up in a sweat, dreaming that I must announce to the Diet that he has contracted marriage with some little dancer from the— the Lyceum? No— Gaiety? These things happen. A Serene Highness is human. He loves and desires; before him is the barrier of virtue and principle. There is no way past but a little door called 'marriage'... it so often happens. And John is so very English. Here he was educate', here he was for his boyhood, here he imbibed democracy and similar new movements. Where does he go to-night, you think? To the opera. Ha, ha! If I laugh, excuse! He is there!"

He pointed his strong, stubby finger toward the yellow lights.

"He promenades to the band. Perhaps with an equerry— more likely alone. And a man of romance, you understand? In spite of English training, the cricket game, and the box-fighting! To him the Caliph of Bagdad who wandered incognito amongst his subjects is an adorable figure. But how could any caliph make a mésalliance? Or if he did, having so many wives, it would be a matter of percentage— five per cent, of frightful marriages would hardly be noticeable in a well-arranged harem... and there was always the bow-string and the sack and the Tigris— or is it the Euphrates? I have got so mixed in my geography since the English have been in Mesopotamia— they alter things so."

His vis-à-vis on the balcony of the Grand Knightsbridge Hotel was a sympathetic Excellency from the Balkans en route to report to Washington his success in the matter of a commercial treaty— a dried-up little man with big white teeth which he showed permanently. Joshua Higginbotham was the most easily amused Excellency that had ever occupied an European Embassy.

"Wa-al," he drawled, flicking off the ash of his cigar, "romance has its place— especially in court circles. I guess the people like it. It looks fine in two-inch type across the front page— sort of makes the whole world kin. Did you expect to meet the Duchess here in London?"

Goucouldis nodded.

"She is here. Of the most exclusive family, poor but royal. The most desirable of all the matches, though one hears stories of her levity. But that is youth. They say that she plays pranks, has something of the same peculiar obsession of my Serene Highness."

He reached out blindly for a cigar, found it by touch, and did not speak until he had puffed the end to a glowing red.

"There is sufficient romance for him. Marriage with a lady of such ingenuity would supply him with an interest in life beyond the ordinary."

"The Duchess Marie— I have heard of her. She is the girl who worked for three months in a West End milliner's."

M. Goucouldis grunted.

"She desires to shock. That was a passion of her sainted mother, to tease, to alarm. Did not that same sainted mother once run away to Siberia and live alone in a tent, with twentysotnyas of Cossacks of the Don searching for her? Yes, she is full of pranks. But marriage will steady her. And the Michaeloffs are wealthy. Better to be a Crown Princess of Sergovia than a pensioned Duchess of Lemberg. If the accounts I have of her be true, they are made for one another, John and she. And such a marriage would have enormous effects in Sergovia: it would end for ever the poisonous propaganda of the viper Lemair, who from his foul Parisian gutter issues a vile and scurrilous sheet which still circulates in Sergovia, in spite of the efforts of my police."

They smoked in silence, and then the American asked:

"What are the chances of a mésalliance?"

For a second the hard mouth of M. Goucouldis relaxed.

"Happily, none," he said, with a comfortable sigh. "By the constitution, no marriage of a Prince of the House is recognised unless it bears the approval of my signature— or the Chancellor for the time being. When I framed the constitution I foresaw everything. In the prison at Albana one has time to think."

He stared wistfully out into the darkness.

"I could wish to know what my Prince was doing," he said.

His Prince at that moment was most harmlessly occupied. He sat in a park chair, his hands folded on his lap, listening and yet not listening to one of those descriptive pieces which bandmasters love to concoct from the popular and half-forgotten airs of yesterday, his eyes searching every passer-by. He was young, good-looking, and the girls who paced arm-in-arm to the tempo of the music voted him distinguished-looking.

Presently he saw what he sought, and, springing out of the chair, went rapidly towards the slim figure that had come out of the darkness.

"I was so afraid you weren't coming," he said.

She laughed softly as she fell in by his side and walked slowly back the way she had come.

"Really afraid?" she asked.

"Really afraid," he repeated. "My time in London Is so very short that I am simply terrified at the prospect of missing any opportunity of meeting you. You're not English?" he asked suddenly.

She shook her head.

"Or American?"

"No, I'm neither English nor American."

"I knew you weren't," he nodded. "I haven't been able yet to place you. If you were French, I think I should detect your accent."

"Does it matter what I am?" she asked carelessly, slipping her arm into his as they turned into a by-path and solitude. "Now tell me what you were going to tell me last night."

It required some courage, but John of Sergovia was not lacking in that quality. She listened without interruption until he had reached a period of protestation.

"Your Duchess may be rather nice," she said softly, "and you may be very happy with her."

"Happy!" he said scornfully. "Could I be really happy with anybody but you, Marie?"

"They tell me she is very pretty."

"She's freakish," he said impatiently. "Even Goucouldis admits that. And she has no dignity. Have you not heard of her escapade at Tranter's? To act as a shop-girl! I could not submit to be married to a buffoon, however attractive and charming she might be. No, I am going to tell Goucouldis that in no circumstances will I marry the Duchess."

"That is definite?" she mocked him, and in another instant she was in his arms.

Presently she pushed him away.

"You're mad," she said. "Do you realise what it would mean to you if you were to marry a woman unknown... unknown to you... a chance acquaintance? I might be anything— nothing."

"You're everything to me," he breathed. "I've loved you from the very first moment I saw you."

"The very first moment you saw me"— she laughed quietly—" was in the river. John, dear, it is all very romantic, and it began beautifully with a handsome young man rescuing a not unattractive young woman from imminent death— not that I should have died, because I can swim like a fish, and the river was so shallow that I could have walked ashore. But—"

"There are no buts," he said almost savagely.

"There's a big but. If you marry me"— she was watching him closely—"  you may lose your throne. And at this moment, Johnny, there are so many dethroned monarchs in Europe, and they are so undistinguished!"

"I'd lose the world for you," he said, gripping her by the arm, "the world and all hope of heaven! Don't you know what you are to me, Marie?"

"And your Duchess?" she murmured.

"Curse my Duchess! Suppose" he began, but she put her hand on his mouth.

"Suppose," she said gently, "suppose your Duchess isn't such a fright as you think— I do so want to be fair to her. Suppose her vulgar escapades are just expressions of her high spirits—"

"I'll suppose nothing," he said doggedly. "Marie, I've applied for a marriage licence at the registrar's."

Her mouth was an O of amazement, but he went on:

"We'll be married to-morrow. Goucouldis has to go to the Foreign Office to a reception, and I'll have two hours free in the afternoon. I want you to come to dinner to meet him afterwards."

"Do you know what you're doing?" she whispered.

"I know what I am doing. Will you?"

"Suppose I was somebody terrible— suppose I was a girl called Lemair? M. Lemair has a daughter!"

He laughed.

"Not the militant Sergius?" he asked.

"Suppose I were... well, suppose I were she... would you prefer me to your Duchess?"

He nodded slowly.

"If you were the daughter of the most bloodthirsty of revolutionaries," he said solemnly, "I would prefer you to my Duchess!"

A patrolling policeman saw them five minutes later, sitting on a garden seat, and discreetly looked the other way.

M. GOUCOULDIS was a very patient man up to a point. He was also a very discreet man, and, knowing something of the ways of young men, did not press his inquiries too far.

He was dressed for the Foreign Office reception when Prince John met him in the private dining-room for a tête-à-tête meal.

"Your Serene Highness will be glad to know that our dear friend, the Duchess, is in London: she has been here for a week," he said.

"Indeed?" said John indifferently.

He had only known Marie for a week. How wonderful it seemed! A week— seven days— a hundred and sixty-eight hours— and yet it was as though he had known her for all eternity.

"I have written to her illustrious uncle, the Prince Paul of Georgia, requesting the honour of an interview."

"Do you know the Duchess?" asked John, with sudden interest.

"I have not met her, but there is no question of her charm. Her photographs—"

"Every one of her photographs looks different," said John contemptuously. "I shouldn't know her if I met her. Chancellor, you are romantic!"

"Romantic?" demanded the astounded Minister, against whom such a charge had never been brought.

"Of course you are! You are for ever weaving stories and imagining tender situations! You have jumped to the conclusion that because the Duchess is eccentric she must necessarily be a desirable wife for me. You think, because she loves to move incognito, she would be a fit mate for one who is also keen on hiding his identity. I'll bet you've thought how wonderful it would be if I met her thus, and, ignorant of one another's identity, we fell in love!"

M. Goucouldis blinked.

"I have thought nothing so absurd, Highness," he said, and knew that he lied.

Since his charge turned the conversation in the direction of a race meeting he wished to attend, he did not return to the subject.

John went out before the Chancellor took his departure— otherwise the adventure might have had a different ending.

M. Goucouldis went into his own private suite to finish his preparations for the reception, and there he found an agitated Chief of Sergovian Police. One glance at the sallow face of the man brought the Chancellor's heart into his mouth.

"Well, well," he snarled, "what is this bad news?"

"It is about the girl— the lady," stammered the officer.

"The girl he was talking with last night? Remember this, Sava, that His Serene Highness is a young man, and his flirtations are of no great consequence. I tell you this for fear you exaggerate the importance of any little recreation which His Highness may enjoy during his stay in this dismal city. Moreover, I seem to remember that you told me that they walked and they talked and they parted. That is how all flirtations should end, Sava— with a walk and a talk and a parting."

"I have traced the woman and her maid."

"If she had a maid with her, that is all the more proper," said Goucouldis. "Well— and having traced her, what do you find?"

"She is Mademoiselle Lemair," blurted the man.

For a second Goucouldis could not take in the awful 'significance of the discovery.

"Lemair?" he said incredulously. "Lemair? Which Lemair?"

"Sergius Lemair."

The Chancellor staggered back and held on to a chair for support.

"Sergius Lemair?" he croaked. "You're mad! You're trying to frighten me, you scoundrel!"

"Excellency, I swear that I have taken every care to learn the truth," pleaded the man. "She lives in a large flat in Cumberland Place, and her servant told me that her name was Lemair, and that she was the daughter of Sergius Lemair of Sergovia."

M. Goucouldis sat down heavily.

"This is terrible," he said, dry-lipped, "terrible! It is a plot! Oh, for one glimpse of Her Serene Highness the Duchess, for all her pranks and her shocks! Go quickly, find if His Highness has left the hotel, and ask him if I may wait upon him."

The Chief of Police departed, and returned with the announcement that Prince John had left a few minutes before.

All that happened on that afternoon seemed like a nightmare to the distracted diplomatist. It is said that he shook hands with a Foreign Office footman, and addressed a waiting chauffeur as "Your Grace." It seemed an eternity before the exigent rules of etiquette released him to hurry back to the hotel. The Prince had not returned, but ominous news came from his valet, who had been ordered to pack two suit-cases and reserve a compartment on the Continental Mail, which left that night.

At six o'clock came the Prince, flushed, exalted, bright-eyed. M. Goucouldis pulled himself together with an effort. He brought to his dissimulation the experience and training of a lifetime, and outwardly there was no evidence of the horror which consumed him when he knocked at the door of the Prince's suite and walked in, to greet his master with a profound bow.

"I have to tell Your Serene Highness that the Minister for Foreign Affairs was most sympathetic in regard to the question of our frontier, which will be adjusted... "

"I've got something to tell you of much more interest than the demarcation of our frontier," said John, "and I've a feeling that I'd better tell you without any preamble. Goucouldis, I was married this afternoon to the most beautiful woman in the world!"

The Chancellor's face was a mask.

"Your Highness has taken an extraordinary step, one which is not usual without conference with Your Highness's officers of state," he said.

"This is a matter which concerns me much more than my officers of state," said Prince John briefly.

His jaw was set, there was a look in his eyes which did not encourage the Chancellor's continuance; but Goucouldis had very much at stake, and princes to him were at best but pieces in a game.

"Your Highness is aware that, by the constitution of 1909, no marriage of the ruling Prince of Sergovia is recognised unless the marriage certificate bears my signature, or the signature of the chief officer of state, for the time being?"

The Prince looked at him oddly, took a cigarette from his case and lit it before he spoke.

"I am fairly well acquainted with the procedure," he said coolly. "But be that as it may, my marriage is irrevocable, and if the Diet does not accept—"

"It is not a question for the Diet, Your Highness," said the other suavely. "If I approve the marriage, the Diet approves. We are fortunate in possessing parliamentary institutions, even more fortunate in the fact that they count very little."

Their eyes met.

"I am bringing my wife to dinner to-night, Goucouldis," said John quietly. "Whatever views you may have upon the wisdom or unwisdom of my marriage, I trust that you will not communicate your disapproval to the lady of my choice. She was a Mademoiselle Lemair."

"So I understand," he said quietly.

"Oh, you knew, did you?" The Prince laughed. "What a sly old devil you are! Isn't she lovely? Am I not the most fortunate man in the world!"

The Chancellor was thinking rapidly; all the resources of diplomacy were not yet exhausted. Mademoiselle Lemair, patently an adventuress, might prove a more tractable subject than her husband. Moreover, he had most thoughtfully provided for such a situation as this, for in the constitution it was decreed that, if an undesirable wife voluntarily renounced her husband (for a consideration not stated), the marriage was ipso facto annulled. The Chancellor was no seer, but he had had a long and bitter experience of the matrimonial adventures of Sergovian princes, and this clause in the constitution had been accepted without comment by other Sergovian statesmen, who remembered a certain dancing-woman, taken from a low cabaret and elevated to the throne, in the 'seventies.

"I shall be most happy to meet Her Highness," he said, almost pleasantly. "But at the same time I must ask permission to explain to her, in my own way, the consequences to Your Highness which must necessarily follow this act."

John looked at him suspiciously.

"If by any chance you are thinking of inducing her to sign a renunciation, you may save yourself a whole lot of trouble," he said.

The Chancellor spread out his hands in a gesture of self- depreciation.

"I am an old man, Highness," he said. "Surely it is within my province to give advice to those who are younger and more inexperienced?"

It was eight o'clock when the new bride arrived, a tall, radiant being, dressed a little more daringly than the old-fashioned Chancellor cared to see; a dark-eyed, smiling girl, who met the challenge of his glance without faltering.

"A snake," he said to himself; "a green-and-yellow snake!"

Yet he was most friendly and most deferential through the meal that followed. It was not until the end that John of Sergovia began to feel uneasy. He took the Chancellor aside.

"Is it necessary that you should see the Princess?" he asked. "We are leaving by the eleven o'clock train—"

"It is very necessary, Highness," said the old man sorrowfully; "necessary for your happiness and for the happiness of Her Highness."

She was a Lemair all right! The boldness of her, the ready wit of her, the mercenary cunning of Sergius Lemair's daughter were all too apparent. Perhaps she shared some other of her father's qualities. He was a man not unsusceptible to the influence of money— the Chancellors of Sergovia seldom are. His price would be high, his daughter's price even higher; but the house could stand even their exorbitant demands.

John went upstairs to change, and the girl and the old man were left alone, and he thought he saw her bracing herself for the coming struggle.

He walked to the door and closed it after the Prince, and then came slowly back to the writing-table, on the side of which she was sitting.

"Highness, I am a very plain man, with only one tongue. You must realise, both from your associations with your illustrious father, and your knowledge of my country, that this marriage is disastrous to Sergovia."

"I am not thinking of Sergovia," she said quietly. "Does it occur to you that I may really love the Prince?"

That possibility had not occurred to the Chancellor, and he dismissed such an unlikely factor with a wave of his hand.

"I will not tell you that it is my earnest desire, and the desire of my colleagues, that this marriage should be instantly dissolved," he said. "I am a plain man, as I remarked before, and I talk the language which is understandable in every country."

He took from his pocket a paper and laid it on the table. One glance told her that it was the carefully prepared renunciation which she had expected to see, and she laughed.

"You will sign this, Highness," said the Chancellor, "and you will name your own price."

She looked up from the paper to him.

"The gold isn't coined that would buy my signature," she said.

And then, in a softer tone:

"Do you realise what you are doing?" he mouthed.

"Very well indeed I understand," she said.

She walked to where she had left her bag, opened it, and took out a long slip of paper, which she brought back to the table and laid before him. He saw that it was her marriage certificate, so recently written that the ink had not yet darkened.

"Your name across that certificate would make our marriage legal," she said softly. "Am I not a desirable princess for the people of Sergovia, or must they have"— she spoke deliberately —"a young and unknown Duchess, rather freakish in her habits... rather inclined to shock... even hardened Chancellors, with her disguises and masquerades?"

He stared at her and gasped.

"What— what?" he stammered.

"I met your Prince by accident," she said. "I had no design, no intention, of making him love me or of loving him. It was one of those queer strokes of fate that cannot be accounted for.... I told him my name was Nita. And the fun of this very vulgar flirtation so appealed to me that—"

"You're the Duchess!" The trembling finger pointed at her almost in accusation. "What a fool I've been!... Romance, of course... you wanted to shock me, you— you— Your Highness!"

His trembling hand took up the pen, his signature scrawled across the marriage certificate. She blotted it carefully.

"Romance, of course!" he babbled on. "I ought to have known that something like that would have happened.... How wonderful! And to think that I was worrying my head because I couldn't arrange a meeting with the Duchess, and all the time she was arranging matters ever so much better than an old blunderer like myself could have done! It is wonderful!"

The telephone bell rang at that moment, and a well-known voice called Goucouldis.

"My friend, I have arranged that meeting for you with the Duchess. She is here—"

"Here!" shrieked Goucouldis. "You're mad! I beg your pardon, Highness. I mean... the Duchess is here."

"Then she's in two places at once," said the jovial voice.

The Chancellor dropped the receiver and turned his ashen face to the girl.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"I am Marie Lemair," she said. "Didn't you read the marriage certificate?... why, Chancellor, I really believe that you are romantic after all!"

"Married... and approved!" he said hollowly.

"And your father..."

She nodded.

"Father will be pleased," she said, "and Sergovia will be pleased. Be a dear and say that you are pleased too."

But the Chancellor could say nothing.

__________________

22:  The Man Who Married His Cook

Royal Magazine, February 1921

A Lady Called Nita, 1930

ONE afternoon in May, in such a season as the mind of youth turns upon tender matters, Professor Tremlow interrupted his study of Dactylopterus volitans and sat staring in his absent way at a piece of yellow paper outspread upon the desk before him.

He remained in this attitude for the greater part of ten minutes, then he rose, walked slowly across the threadbare carpet which covered the floor of his study, and gazed upon himself in the mirror which overhung the mantelpiece. Whether he remained staring at the lined face, the horn-rimmed spectacles, and the thin grey-shot beard for more than a second is doubtful. It happened that perched upon the frame was a peculiarly interesting specimen of May-fly. He did not think of this tiny stranger as a May-fly, but automatically placed it within the pseudo-neuroptera sub-order of Orthoptera.

He was back at his desk before he realised that he had not taken stock of himself, and sighed. He got up again and walked to the mantelpiece, forgot what he had risen for and pushed the bell which was embedded in the wall.

His one man-servant answered and found the professor with his short- sighted eyes glued to the treatise he was writing.

"You rang, sir?"

Professor Tremlow blinked up.

"Eh?" he said, startled. "What do you want, Thomas— William?"

"Ernest, sir," said the patient butler. "You rang?"

"Did I?" The professor sat up and screwed up his forehead. "Yes— yes— cook— tell the cook I want to see her."

"Certainly, sir," said Ernest, and went kitchenwards hoping.

"Wants me?" said Mary Ann, paling a little.

She was a plump, red-faced woman, with small eyes, and had kept her family for ten years on the overplus from the professor's kitchen. She bad a conscience, it seemed, for there had been butchers' bills throughout Lent.

"It's my day out, too. How did he know I was back?"

"Gawd knows!" answered Ernest piously.

She slipped off her best coat and put an apron over her best skirt, patted her hair before the kitchen mirror, and pattered out.

"If Willie knew what I know about the grocer's account," said Ernest to the kitchen-maid, "he'd take that old geezer and kick her into the middle of next week."

The professor's name was William, and did Ernest but know, he was at that precise moment planning to kick his cook into the middle of next week— figuratively.

The professor swung round in his chair as the cook came in, the chair having been designed for such an operation, and he glared at Mary Ann Dobbs in so ferocious a manner that the poor woman had a cold feeling in her stomach and speculated frantically upon who had turned traitor. Was it the coalman or the religious Mr. Smith, the grocer? Such is the sceptic tendency of modern thought that she had unjustly condemned a good Christian man when the professor spoke.

"Er— Martha—"  he began.

"Mary Ann, sir," smirked the cook apologetically.

"Oh yes, Mary Ann. I knew it was a Biblical name. Er— sit down, Mary Ann."

In all the ten years she had preyed upon the professor he had never asked her to sit down, and she obeyed quakingly.

"You have been with me several weeks now," he began. "When was it you came?"

"Ten years ago last February," said Mary Ann gently.

"Indeed, indeed," said the absent-minded professor. "Yes, of course, it was ten years ago."

He ruminated, looking down at his boots for some time, and then:

"Clara," he said, "I have decided to get married."

She gasped. That meant an end to all her forays and barratries.

"I have decided to get married," said the professor, in a tone of surprise, as though he had only just realised what a remarkable decision he had reached.

"I want somebody who is faithful to me, Alice— Clara, I mean."

"Mary Ann," murmured the cook faintly.

"Somebody who knows my ways," said the professor. "I am not a young man, I am not a rich man, Mary," he said, and added, "Ann" with an effort.

"No, sir," said the wondering Mary Ann.

"I cannot give you the— er— affection and demonstrations of affection which are peculiar to the youthful mammal."

"Me, sir?" Mary Ann got up, her mouth open, and the professor nodded.

"But I can give you my name. I can make you Mrs.— er— er—"

"Tremlow," squeaked Mary Ann, mouth and eyes at their widest.

"My lawyer shall come down— I have been trying all day to remember his name— and he shall fix— er— a mutual deed of gift. That will be— er— more satisfactory, Annie— Clara, I mean."

Mary Ann said nothing, but swallowed hard.

"I believe in community of interest," said the professor. "Er— that is all, Clara—"  and he waved her out of existence.

Mary Ann went down to the kitchen like a woman in a dream and gave the kitchen-maid notice.

Next day came a lawyer who fixed deeds of gift and settlements, bestowing upon the Mrs. Tremlow-to-be one-half of the professor's fortune, amounting to nearly £500, some well-worn furniture, and his copyrights in three volumes dealing with the science of Zootomy.

She, for her part, gave him a half-right in two silk dresses, certain other articles of wear, a cameo brooch and two gold drop ear-rings, and such other property as she might acquire.

They were married by a horrified cure of souls, and Ernest gave the professor away. He would have preferred giving the new Mrs. Tremlow away.

A week later, despite his attachment to the house and fortune of Professor Tremlow, Ernest came to the professor's study and asked for his wages. Mechanically the professor paid him a full month, not realising that he had paid him a full month only the week before.

"I'm going, sir," said Ernest, with a tremor in his voice.

"That's right; shut the door," said the professor.

"I am leaving your employment, sir," said Ernest.

Professor Tremlow looked round in astonishment. If Ernest had said that he was developing into a chrysalis, the professor would not have been astonished, because such things happen.

"Going, Thomas?" he said mildly. "Going to leave me, Thomas?"

"Yes, sir," said Ernest, not troubling to correct his master. "I can't stand the missus."

The professor looked at him over his spectacles and through his spectacles. He lifted his glasses to his forehead and looked at him under his spectacles. Then he sighed and turned to the table.

"She's a good cook, Thomas; a very good cook. I think you will admit that?"

"She's roasted us all right," said Ernest bitterly.

"You must be patient— er— I don't know your name— you must be patient, William, isn't it? She's a woman of character, is Mary Ann— er— I'm married to her? You should study patience; study the bees, Thomas!"

Ernest choked.

"She's a proper bee, she is," he said, with a trace of venom. "She's made this 'ive 'um."

"Well, it's a great pity— a very great pity— Snellgrove is your name, isn't it?"

"Marshall, sir— Ernest Marshall."

The professor nodded.

"I knew it was something to do with tobacco."

And then it was that Mrs. Tremlow flounced in, and Mrs. Tremlow, at the sight of Ernest, trembled with wrath.

"What are you nosing and prying around my 'usband for?" she demanded.

"I have come for my wages, madam," replied Ernest, emphasising the "madam" so that it was almost an offensive word.

Her little eyes screwed up till they were almost invisible.

"You're leaving, eh? A lady can't go into her own kitchen but the servants give notice." She jerked her thumb to the door. "Push off!" said Mrs. Tremlow, and followed him to the door. "Go 'ome and take your mother out of the workhouse!" she advised him humorously. "If I had a face like yours, I'd have the gas cut off."

The professor, roused by voices pitched higher than the ordinary, turned.

"Are you saying good-bye, my love?" he asked.

Mrs. Tremlow had come stalking back, fists on hips, triumphant.

"My brother is coming to-day," she said brusquely, and rather wondered how he would take the news.

Professor Tremlow accepted the tidings in the same spirit as he would have accepted the news that there was a rainbow in the sky or that a flight of locust had fallen upon the kitchen garden.

"How interesting!" he said vaguely. "So you have a brother, and I think you told me you had a mother too! That's remarkable."

He took up his pen and wrote a few words, and she watched him in silence.

"Look here," she said desperately. "Willie!"

"Willie?" said the professor in amazement.

"That's your name, isn't it?" she was not quite sure of herself.

"Yes, I think it is," said the professor; "but you may continue to call me Mr. Tremlow as heretofore."

She seated herself upon the identical chair on which she had received the marriage proposal.

"I can't make you out," she said. "Of course, I know these things happen in books, Willie— Mr. Tremlow— a gentleman marrying beneath himself, so to speak— but I don't understand why you married your cook."

"Ah yes," nodded the professor; "a very good cook."

"Mind you," said Mrs. Tremlow, "I'm not expecting you to gush over my relations. They ain't the kind of people you would gush over, anyway; but Tom's a very nice-spoken young feller, and you needn't see him if you don't want to."

The professor did not reply. He had reached the interesting stage in his monograph on Chocrocampa tersa where the caterpillar develops into the pupae suspensae, which is analogous to that stage in the cinema film where the murderer is discovered to be, not the masked butler, but the bishop, whom nobody suspected, except the people who had seen the film before.

She had other things to say about her relations, for she felt it wise to prepare him for Tom, who had not reached the stage of sartorial refinement where he was prepared to abandon his variegated choker and adopt the white dicky of civilisation. But she missed her chance.

A tall man was ushered into the room by the new housemaid, and he greeted Mrs. Tremlow with that geniality which is part of the stock-in-trade of the family lawyer.

"Well, Mrs. Tremlow," he said, with a smile, "you are settling down, I see. Have you got quite used to the new life?"

The professor turned his head.

"Bless my life, Still!" he said, and looked at his watch. "It's half- past five, and you said you weren't coming until Tuesday. You know my cook?"

"Your wife, Willie," said Mrs. Tremlow, with gentle savagery.

"Yes, yes," said the professor hastily. "My wife, to be sure."

"I have met you lots of times, Mrs. Tremlow," said Still, putting down his bag and snapping open the catch.

Mary Ann smiled archly.

"You're the gentleman who used to like my apple fritters," she said.

"A very good cook," murmured the professor, his pen poised in his hand.

"I see I am not going to get anything out of you," laughed Still, and walked to the long French windows which afforded a view of the professor's restricted demesne.

"I suppose you were surprised, Mr. Still," Mary Ann joined him and lowered her voice, though there seemed no necessity for this precaution. "It was a bit of a surprise to me."

"I expect it was," said Still, who had been concerned in so many divorce cases, criminal conspiracies, and actions to restrain nuisances that he was surprised at nothing.

Mary Ann coughed, feeling that her own condescension called for a word of approval.

"He's a bit old in the tooth, you understand, Mr. Still, but I've lost a lot of chances through being too particular."

Mr. Still was staring out into the garden.

"Your husband is under sixty," he protested in a spirit of loyalty to his client. "His father lived to eighty-nine and his grandfather was ninety- three when he was killed in a wrestling match."

Mrs. Tremlow's jaw dropped.

"You're a ray of sunshine, ain't you?" she said, and Still laughed.

"He is very much in love with you, isn't he, Mrs. Tremlow?" he asked, as he began to sort out the contents of his bag.

Mary Ann sniffed.

"I wouldn't say that. You see, it is a sort of morganatic marriage."

"A what?" asked the startled lawyer.

"I mean," said Mrs. Tremlow, whose knowledge of the English language was hazy, "he might be Johnny Morgan, so far as I am concerned."

Still shot a swift glance toward the bowed head of the professor, and Mary Ann sniffed again.

"Oh, don't worry about him," she said. "When he gets into his books, he's as deaf as a bat."

"I'm rather glad of that, Mrs. Tremlow, for I want to speak very plainly. May I?"

"Plain speaking is my vice," said Mary Ann truthfully.

"Well, I'm going to be frank," the lawyer was half serious and half humorous. "I have known you led the professor a— er— well, not the cheeriest of lives as his cook. When I came down here two years ago to look into his affairs, I found that you had been systematically— er—"

"Say overcharging him," said Mary Ann placidly. "It sounds better. Well, I admit that. A girl has got to look after herself in this world, Mr. Still, and I hadn't any idea that I was going to get my chance. A girl throws away lots of opportunities."

"A girl," said the puzzled Mr. Still. "What girl are you talking about?"

"Me," said Mrs. Tremlow, with some asperity.

"Oh yes, I suppose so. You used to twist him rather round your finger, Mrs. Tremlow."

Mrs. Tremlow smiled proudly.

"And yet," mused the lawyer, "he knew this and married you?"

Mary Ann drew a long breath.

"Well," she said, "love's a funny thing."

Mr. Still scratched his chin.

"He hasn't shown any other form of— er— I mean he hasn't been hearing voices at night or acted strangely in any way?"

"What do you mean?" demanded the bridling Mary Ann. "If you mean to suggest that my husband is off his rocker— pardon the vulgarity— daft—"

"I don't mean anything of the sort," the lawyer was balancing a paper in his hand. "Here is the deed of gift, Mrs. Tremlow, a fair copy, whereby he transfers half his property and fortune, which by the way amounts to very little, to you. Was that your idea?"

"Well, it was and it wasn't," Mrs. Tremlow was on safe ground. "He's a bit near, Mr. What-d'ye-call-it, you understand. A bit difficult to get money out of, so I didn't object when he made over his bit of property to me. Being a lady now," she coughed, "I've got to live up to my station, if you understand, and he's that absentminded he would see me walking about the house without anything on and take no notice."

"That is his salvation," said the lawyer earnestly. "I mean his— er— ability to abstract himself from the humdrum mundane affairs of life and bury himself in science."

He laid his hand on the professor's shoulder.

"Mr. Tremlow," he said, and the professor looked up with a start.

"Hello, Still," he said. "When did you come?"

Mrs. Tremlow made a clucking noise with her tongue to express her good- natured tolerance.

"Here are the deeds we settled the other day. This is your wife's, which she had better keep, and this is yours, in which she transfers half her property to you. You quite understand that you have given over to Mrs. Tremlow half your worldly possessions. You will see the schedule attached."

"Yes, yes," said the professor, glancing at the paper and thrusting it into a pigeon-hole. "Good-bye, Still. I hope you have a pleasant voyage."

The lawyer shifted uncomfortably.

"My train doesn't go for an hour," he said.

"I'm sure it doesn't," said the courteous professor, applying himself again to his paper. "Trains never do go for an hour."

Still shrugged his shoulders, and laughed.

"All right, then, I'll go along," he said. "Good-bye, Mrs. Tremlow."

"Good-bye, love," said the professor.

"Ain't he the most absent-minded man you ever saw in your life?" asked Mary Ann, in tones of admiration as she stood upon the front-door step of the house. "He's always telling me to be careful how I cross the road because it's so dark. He don't know the war's started, let alone over."

Still offered his hand.

"I think you ought to have a very quiet and peaceful life, Mrs. Tremlow," he said. "I don't think you will have a very luxurious life, because the professor's income is not as large as it was."

"We'll manage," replied Mrs. Tremlow determinedly, meaning thereby that she, at any rate, would manage.

He walked down the flagged path to the garden gate and collided with a young man who was coming in. He was a burly young man in a ready-made suit, and his hair, as the lawyer saw, for in the collision the stranger's hat had been knocked off, was parted symmetrically in the middle, so that one long but well- plastered curl dipped over his forehead and then, as though repenting Its rashness, curled backward to his almost shaven head.

"Whinecherlookwhereyagoin?" said the young man rapidly, and Mr. Still, who understood the language, for his practice had extended even to the lower courts of judicature, replied courteously after his kind.

At the sight of the newcomer Mrs. Tremlow had come rapidly down the three steps from the door.

"Why, Tom?" she said, holding out her hand. "Well, I am glad to see you. How did you leave mother?"

"She's all right," said Tom in a tone of disgust, as though the matter of his mother's good health were a sore point with him. "I want—"  began Tom.

"Come and see my husband, Professor Tremlow," said Mary Ann, shivering with pride. "He's a real gentleman, Tom, though he's a bit over the age limit."

She dragged the reluctant young man into the study, and it happened that the mind of the professor was momentarily disengaged.

"Willie, this is my brother Tom." She introduced the young man with a certain defiance.

"Your— er— brother? Glad to see you. Sit down, will you? Have you any sisters?"

Mrs. Tremlow looked sidelong and significantly at her relative.

"Absent-minded," she whispered.

"So you're married?" said Tom, who was a slow thinker and on whom the news had just dawned.

"Married? Of course I'm married," said Mary Ann with a toss of her head. "I sent you a bit of the wedding-cake."

A light broke in upon Tom, whose other name was Dobbs.

"Oh, that's what it was!" he said ungraciously. "But what did you get married to him for? Did you get my telegram?"

"Well, he's better than nothing," said Mary Ann tartly, "and I didn't get your telegram."

Tom looked at the professor who had resumed his work.

"Don't take any notice of him," said Mrs. Tremlow, lowering her voice. "He don't belong to this world in a manner of speaking, though from what I've heard from his lawyer to-day—"  she shook her head.

"Well," said Tom grudgingly, "I don't think you've done a bad thing. After all, you had to marry a gentleman of position, and I don't know any other gentleman of position who would have married you, with your disposition."

"Don't you say anything against the professor, Tom," said Mrs. Tremlow virtuously. "As soon as I was married he handed over half his property to me and I handed over half of mine to him, so you might call it a love match."

"I might and I might not," said the careful Tom.

He was a slow thinker, as has been remarked before, and suddenly he rose and clasped his forehead.

"You gave him half yours?" he said in a hollow voice.

"Yes. What's up?" asked the alarmed Mrs. Tremlow.

"When did you marry?" said Tom in a deep-set voice.

"Last Friday."

"And last Wednesday I sent him a wire," emotion prevented his continuing for a moment, "asking him," he went on, "to break the news to you that old Uncle Joe in Australia had died and left you £100,000. You was always his favourite, Mary Ann."

Mrs. Tremlow grasped the window for support. The room spun round and round, and then her shaking knees brought her to her husband's side.

"Willie," she said, and her voice was very shrill and squeaky, "he sent you a wire telling you I was worth £100,000!"

The professor looked at her and looked at her brother, then he looked at his boots, and then he looked at the ceiling, and then he scratched his nose.

"Dear, dear," he said, in a tone of surprise. "Yes, yes, I remember."

"But you— you didn't tell me," wailed his wife.

"No, I didn't," admitted the professor. "Absent-minded, my love, absent-minded. Take your brother down to the kitchen and give him a good time, Mary Ann. You know the way."

_____________________

23: The Knight Who Could Not Kneel

The Lady Called Nita, 1930

DANIEL GREE was grey and old and broken.

May Excels was young and beautiful. This is a bald claim, yet such a claim could be made with greater detail and less accuracy. Of her nose one had the vaguest recollection, which is as it should be. A woman whose nose one remembers is not beautiful. She may be pretty, piquant, and saucy, noble and commanding, but if you remember her nose she is not beautiful. Her eyes were big and lustrous, violet of hue; her hair jet black, and her eyebrows painted by Nature when the good lady was in her finicking miniature mood. She was so, I say, radiant and beautiful, and Daniel Gree was grey and old and broken.

How dare he lift his eyes to her? As a matter of absolute fact he did not lift his eyes at all, for he was on the hefty side of six feet, and she was just the right height for a girl, which is about your size.

He was grey and old and—

Well, he was nearly twenty-six, and in certain lights the hair at his temples was almost greyish.

And as for being broken, would not you be broken if you loved the daughter of a millionaire and she loved you, and her father, with a passion for titles, had his eye on the scion of a noble house as a prospective son-in- law?

"I can't stand it, May," said Daniel Gree desperately. "I feel that if I'm not made a duke in a month or two I shall go really grey. I am old and broken—"

"And stout? "she suggested.

"No, not stout," he denied indignantly. "I am just old and grey and broken."

"I expect that is why it is," she said thoughtfully, "father thinks the disparity in our ages is too great."

"Why!" he gasped, "there is only five years between us. When I said 'old,'" he went on carefully, "I was referring rather to the care-harrowed soul than to the arithmetical standard of years. May, what am I to do?"

They were sitting on a bench in Hyde Park, and her pretty forehead was puckered with the tremendous character of the problem.

"If you could only earn a title, Danny," she said, "I am sure father wouldn't mind your humble birth"— she arrested his exasperated protestation—" you see, dear, father was a foundryman before Mr. Carnegie made him a millionaire, and grandfather used to peddle laces, so naturally pa is rather particular. I don't think he'd mind your being the son of a clergyman, because he's really awfully broad-minded, but you're so terribly American."

"My great-great-grandfather was on Washington's staff," he said, with a hint of gloom.

"I shouldn't mention that," she said gently; "not to father, anyway. One has to live these things down. Now, if your father had made his appearance in New York about the same time that the Archduke Orth disappeared—"

"Who's he, anyway?" he grumbled.

"The Archduke Orth was, or is, the relative of the Austrian Emperor," she recited, "who, having incurred the displeasure of his parents, sailed for a foreign land. It is believed by some that the ship on which he sailed was sunk, but authentic evidence exists that he reached American soil."

Daniel Gree looked at the girl suspiciously. "Where did you learn this little piece?" he asked rudely, for he loved her and there was no necessity for conventional politeness.

"Miss Zimmerberger taught me that," she said, "when I was at the Pittsbury Preparatory College."

He was silent, then : "We Moors of old Castile—"  he began bitterly.

"Moors?"

"Moor or less," he said gloomily, "we are descended from Christopher Columbus."

"He wasn't a Castilian," she scorned; "he was an Italian!"

His eyes met hers in pained reproach.

"Didn't I say 'descended'?" he asked, with exemplary patience. "Dearie, let us think these things out. Maisie," he said, looking down at her tenderly, "I've reached that stage of love where I cannot live without you. I know it is absurd," he went on; "I know that life will go on as heretofore even if you are snatched from me by the rapacious hands of Fate; that I shall stand on the corner and watch your wedding cortege depart for Paris without batting a lid— I didn't take a degree in Philosophy for nothing."

She looked at him gravely.

I feel the same," she said. "If papa forces me to marry that dreadful Baron—"

"Count," he corrected.

"There are two," she said. "I was thinking more of the Baron because he is the least objectionable; besides, he does parlour tricks and can produce a rabbit out of a tall hat at a moment's notice. One would never be quite bored with him if one kept a silk hat handy, and oh! he can smash eggs in a paper bag and produce guinea-pigs."

"Ah!" the young man nodded, "an evolutionist."

"Where was I?" she went on. "Oh yes, I remember— I say, if I am forced to marry either, I shall be heart-broken— I am perfectly certain I shall do something dreadful... cry, and all that sort of thing."

"Will you, really?"

His voice implied doubt.

"Of course I shall!" she said indignantly; "do you think I am heartless?"

He made no reply.

Side by side they paced the path, patterned with shifting arabesques of light.

"Why don't you get a title?" she asked suddenly. "You can easily find one here in England— it would be splendid!"

She clapped her hands gleefully, but awoke no responsive spark of enthusiasm.

"I'd have to become English," he said, "and it isn't so easy. Now, in Italy I could buy the Red of High Resolve for the price of a taxi fare."

She shook her pretty head.

It must be English," she said, with a definite air. "Daddy is just mad on real titles, and the Baron's chance would die the death before the glory of Sir Daniel Gree! Doesn't it sound lovely?" she demanded, with shining eyes. "Oh, Danny, do try!"

They were in an unfrequented part of the Park, amidst trees that offered some sort of privacy. The awakening vigour of spring was in her blood, the bursting green of the trees, the call of the wild fowl on the little lake, the very wildness of life in her heart.

Suddenly she raised two hands and laid them upon his shoulders.

"My boy!" she whispered, as she lifted her warm lips to his.

"Mark me down as a duke," he trembled, as he left her at the Park gate, "and be careful of your skirt the next time you see me, for I shall be wearing my knightly spurs."

Daniel Gree was a man with a large imagination. He was a dreamer of dreams, and in moments when finance did not absorb his attention (he was the London representative of a great American Finance Corporation) he was highly romantic.

Now the imaginative man has a pull over all other types of men in that he is bound by no earthly ties and is chained to no age or clime.

Picture Daniel a perfectly dressed young man, with the shiniest of silk hats and the best fitting of morning coats, striding along the Mall, swinging his ebony stick. An ordinarily pleasant-looking young man deep in thought, you guess, and place him in the category of thinkers who are deciding whether it shall be a devilled sole at Simpson's or a chop at the Charlton Grill. Yet, at that precise moment, Daniel has a sword strapped to his side and a white topee on his head.

He is facing a horde of Phillipinos with flashing eyes, or rescuing a beautiful lady from the clutches of an Arab slaver. Or, influenced by the latest book he has read, he is a calm commissioner holding palaver with his unruly cannibals.

"I am perfectly certain," said Daniel to his unimaginative broker that morning, "that one of these days I am going to have an adventure which will alter the whole course of my life."

"Run over by a motor bus or something?" asked Joyson.

"An adventure," continued the enthusiastic Daniel, "which, in the flash of an eye, will change my whole status, will introduce me to another sphere of action, change my outlook on life, and all that sort of thing."

"I suppose you will," agreed the other. "I've often thought you'd get married sooner or later."

"Your views on life," said the exasperated Daniel, "are appallingly commonplace."

"I'm a commonplace man," admitted the other placidly; "in the city we deal with realities—"

But Daniel waved him to the devil in one comprehensive gesture. It was not a morning for business. He dealt with two urgent letters, and an hour after his arrival in his office he was returning westward.

A pale sun shone through the misty blue of a London sky, and the branches of the trees which tinged the embankment were just speckled with green. The flower-beds in Temple Gardens were yellow with crocus and daffodil, and there was in the air the electrical magic of spring, and Daniel's heart sang a wild barbaric song, which careless youth and healthy manhood can alike interpret, and which May Excels might equally have understood. The spirit carried him through the day; it brought in the trail of its splendour fragmentary visions in which he figured heroically; it enlarged his love of humanity and brought for him the adventure which would not come, yet which, with every passing moment of time, seemed the more inevitable.

He was passing New Scotland Yard when a man came hurrying out.

"Sorry," said the stranger, disentangling himself.

He was a big florid man, jovially stern of demeanour, and his attitude of politeness was tinctured with authority.

"Hullo," said Daniel curiously, "where the devil are you going in such a hurry?"

The stranger held out a big hand.

"Mr. Gree, isn't it?" he asked.

"Gree it is," agreed the other. "Is it murder, bank robbery, or the activity of the Woman's Suffrage Party which hastens the laggard feet of law?"

Detective Superintendent Mosser smiled.

"I am trying to catch 1.18 for Newbank," he said.

They had met on more occasions than one, for it was part of Daniel's business to check the circulation of illicit bonds which were at that time in circulation in Europe, and such work brought him into touch with the heads of the police department.

"And what is happening at Newbank?"

The detective explained. A new hospital was to be opened by His Royal Highness the Prince of Midlothian. His Highness journeying down from Yorkshire would stop at Newbank Station, would receive an address of welcome on the platform from the Mayor and Corporation of Newbank, would press an electric button which would open the doors of the new hospital at Canbury— a town some five miles away.

"And you will be there— how wonderful," said the admiring Daniel. "I suppose nothing would happen if you failed to turn up?"

The genial police officer smiled. Then he groped into an inside pocket.

"It will be interesting in a way," he said, as he pulled out a card. "I mean, to an American— you'll see a man knighted— the fellow that gave the hospital— if you'd like to see it I can give you an admission to the platform."

"Is that a ticket?" asked Daniel quickly. "Yes— I'd like to go," he went on, as he grasped the pasteboard and looked awe-stricken upon its prim surface. "To what does this entitle me? Not to a knighthood— gee! Don't say it does!"

"It entitles you to refreshments," said the practical servant of law. "You ought to catch the 2.15 to be in time— good morning."

Daniel watched the departing figure, saw it suddenly stop and walk slowly back. There was a puzzled frown on the detective's face.

"Gree?" he said.

"Mr. Gree," corrected Daniel reproachfully.

"I'm not thinking about you— I suppose you're not related to the Gree?"

"I'm him," said Daniel, without regard to the niceties of grammar. "There is only one real Gree, all other Grees being spurious imitations. Look for the Gree label, without which none are genuine. I will injunct any unauthorised Gree with great severity— who is the Gree?"

"It doesn't matter," said the unsatisfying Mr. Mosser, and went off with rapid steps, remembering that N.W.R. expresses wait for no man.

Daniel looked at the ticket, then he stole a furtive glance at a little portrait which he carried as near his heart as made no difference.

"If I can't be a knight, at least I can learn how they are made," said he firmly; and after a hasty lunch he boarded the 2.15.

Newbank, in the language of the local reporter, was en fête. It was en fête in italics and en fête in the black headlines of the Newbank County Chronicle.

Flags were flying in the streets, and the station platform was a blaze of bunting and gilt-work. Flowers real and flowers so artfully artificial that you could not distinguish them from real unless you had paid for them were "displayed in lavish yet ordered confusion" (I look over the shoulder of Mr. Mansem, reporter-in-chief to aforesaid County Chronicle, and quote him word for word as he writes so busily in the waiting-room), and the precincts of the little station were alive with notable people in their most notable clothes.

Daniel, feeling terribly commonplace amidst such magnificence, had the foresight to hunt up the reporter.

"Say, Bud," said Daniel, dropping his hand upon the scribe's shoulder, "put me wise to the programme."

Mr. Mansem, a fierce young man in gold-mounted spectacles, glared up at his interrupter.

"You'll find the programme in the paper." He jerked his head to an open sheet on the table.

"Son," said Daniel gently, "before I became a degraded financier I was a newspaper boy— just like you; doing stunts at three cents a line, and never failing to describe a strawyard blaze as 'a holocaustic and terrifying conflagration.'"

Mr. Mansem looked at him with a new interest.

"It's a hospital five miles away— eccentric sort of devil built it— there he is."

The waiting-room opened out into a smaller room into which only first- class passengers were admitted (so said the laconic legend on the door), but through the glass panels of which the occupants of the common or third-class room might view their betters without extra charge. The smaller saloon was beautified by the addition of palms and flags. There was, too, a draped pedestal, and on that was the electric switch with which, by the pressure of his august finger, His Royal Highness would unseal the distant hospital.

The solitary occupant of the room at that moment was a shy-looking man, with ragged whiskers and an antiquated frock-coat, who looked horribly ill at ease.

"I'm about the only person here who knows him," the reporter went on. "He hates this business— a sort of recluse, y'know, but immensely wealthy."

"Is he the man who is to be knighted?" asked Daniel keenly.

The reporter nodded.

"He doesn't want to be," he said simply; "he just told me he hates the idea of kneeling— he has rheumy knees or something."

Didn't want to be knighted! Daniel raised his eyes to heaven. Here was a gentleman— for a gentleman he was, undoubtedly, despite his whiskers— who had an opportunity for which Daniel would have cheerfully paid one-half his fortune.

There he stood, that impious man, with honour hovering above him and he didn't want—

"I'm going to have a chat with him," said Daniel resolutely.

The reporter looked alarmed.

"Be careful; Gree is an awful bear—"  he began.

"Gree?"

Daniel gasped.

"Don't tell me his name is Gree— what is his front name?"

"Dan Gree," said the other.

In two strides Daniel was across the room. In two more he was through the door and confronting the confused philanthropist.

"My name is Gree," he said rapidly. "I believe we're related— one of my ancestors emigrated to England at the time of the Mayflower; he didn't want to be mixed up with the Pilgrim Fathers— how are you?"

He shook hands desperately with elder Gree; he talked him silent, giving his namesake no chance to disclaim relationship. The antiquated Mr. Gree found himself on terms of confidence before he realised that he had even met this pushful stranger.

"I wish I could get out of it," he said, apropos of the coming trial. "I can't tell you how horrible I feel; I hate crowds.... I think I shall faint... when he comes. Besides, I can't kneel"— he rubbed his knees aggressively—" I've got a twinge of rheumatism and I shall look a fool— oh, confound it!"

"Remember," said Daniel solemnly, "that your cousin is by you to help you up— and if you only introduce me to His Royal Highness, I shall ask no other reward for my service."

From outside came the far-away "bang!" of fog signal. In this simple and inexpensive manner did Newbank salvo royalty.

"My heaven!" said old Gree fretfully, "here comes that damned train!"

He looked round hopelessly for some means of escape. There was a door giving way to the station courtyard and the key was in the lock.

"I can't stand it!" wailed the recluse. "I didn't expect this when I built the infernal hospital. I can't kneel— and I won't kneel!"

He tried the door furtively, snapped back the lock, and peered cautiously forth. The courtyard was deserted, for the public had chosen places of vantage where they might secure a better view of majesty.

His Royal Highness, a tall, agreeable young man, stepped out from his saloon and listened with the utmost gravity whilst an agitated town clerk read an address of welcome, which clearly indicated that Newbank was one of the loyalest, true-heartedest, and most noble township on the Red Map; that the coming of His Royal Highness was something in the nature of a phenomenon, which would at once place Newbank in the forefront of the world's cities, and solidify that empire upon which the sun never sets if it can possibly avoid the necessity.

His Royal Highness expressed the extraordinary pleasure it gave him to step out of his saloon and meet the bald-headed representative of a free and enlightened borough. He didn't say so in as many words, but be probably thought as much.

"I am sorry we are late, Mr. Mayor," he said, as, entirely surrounded by the municipality, he made his way along the platform. "Mr. Gree is here, I understand?"

"I am told so, Your Royal Highness," twittered the mayor; "but... very shy man... this is the saloon, Your Royal Highness. . . "

"It is a pity I cannot visit Newbank," said the Prince; "but the train is late... is this the electric button? Thank you... "— he laid his hand on the switch—" I have pleasure in dedicating the Gree Hospital to the service of humanity, and I declare the hospital to be open."

He pressed the button and simultaneously the thunder of guns on Newbank Common announced the completion of the ceremony.

The Prince looked round with a smile and beckoned his plumed aide-de- camp.

"Mr. Gree?" he asked inquiringly, and a dozen voices whispered urgently, "Mr. Gree!"

A young man, rather pale, but immensely self-possessed, pushed his way to the front. A chief reporter and a certain Detective Superintendent who saw him stood hypnotised into inaction at the sight.

"Will you kneel, please?" smiled the Prince.

Daniel sank on one knee upon the velvet cushion that had been thoughtfully placed for the purpose. A sword glittered over his head, the damasked blade touched his two shoulders lightly.

"Rise up, Sir Daniel Gree," said His Royal Highness.

He shook hands with the new knight, uttered a few pleasant things, and made his way back to his saloon, leaving Detective Mosser staring helplessly at the pale but triumphant young man.

"Gree!" he gasped.

"Sir Daniel— if you please," said the new knight sternly.

"THE STRANGE error by which the wrong Mr. Gree was knighted," said the Newbank County Chronicle, "has been rectified by the bestowal of a baronetcy upon the founder of the Gree Cottage Hospital. The accolade, having once been given, is irrevocable, and the younger Sir Daniel Gree is free to enjoy the title of Knight Bachelor."

Daniel read this with infinite scorn. "Knight Bachelor, indeed!" he said; "we'll show 'em!"

He was speaking to the future Lady Gree, under the approving eyes of her father.

____________________

24: Her Father's Daughter

Nash's Illustrated Weekly, January 17, 1920

The Lady Called Nita, 1930

IN the old days, the Howarths and the Mandrilios "worked" Europe independently of one another, and Tony Mandrillo would have laughed at the suggestion of co-operation between the rival "firms."

A sordid phrase this to describe the operations of world-famous robber barons who descended from their fastnesses at irregular intervals and passed through Europe, from Lisbon to Bukharest, leaving behind them a trail of "smashed" banks and police theories.

Yet in some respects the illustration of two rival commanders would more nearly describe the relationships between Teak Howarth and Antonio Mandrillo. Portuguese Joe could stand for a liaison officer known to them both, yet, strictly speaking, under the command of neither.

The difference between Tony Mandrillo and "Teak" Howarth was the difference between the general and the guerilla leader. Tony planned his raids years in advance, worked out every detail of the robberies he contemplated, so that he knew to a minute where he would be on any given day. "Teak" Howarth usually came unexpectedly from somewhere in the south (it was generally conceded that he was an Australian) and made his plans as opportunity offered.

The war had seriously interfered with the operations of both gangs. Mandrillo had kicked his heels in Brazil during the period of the conflict. Teak had kicked the heels of the enemy, having been successively private, sergeant, lieutenant, captain, and private again of Australian infantry. The startling reduction from captain to private is explained by the fact that Teak as a captain fell foul of a certain provost-marshal and was dismissed with ignominy from the service. This despite certain great happenings which brought honour to Sergeant T. Howarth, A.I.F.

He enlisted again in another battalion, and was in line for promotion when the war ended. And when the war ended, Teak left his battalion without so much as "by your leave," and actually spent Armistice Night in Paris, having reached that capital by the first available train.

He was technically a deserter, but such matters did not interest him. He was on his way south to meet "Boobu" Clark and another amiable partner who had been waiting in Oporto cursing the war (at least Boobu had been) and every other circumstance which interfered with the opening of a certain bank strong- room, the plans of which had been passed and approved by Teak on his last leave, when he and Boobu met under the auspices of the Young Men's Christian Association and completed the final details.

It was an unhappy circumstance that Tony Mandrillo had also marked down that bank, being in possession of certain facts concerning its weakness, the habits of its manager, and such-like. Had Portuguese Joe been in Europe, he would have exchanged confidences with Teak, and the matter could have been amicably arranged; but Portuguese Joe was back in Rio, sick unto death. And, moreover, Portuguese Joe had warned both Mandrillo and Teak Howarth that the Banco Commerciale was a nut that would never be cracked.

The first that Tony Mandrillo knew of Teak's presence was revealed to him in a special edition of the Corresondentia, the front page of which was suffering from a very bad attack of typographical hysteria.

Mandrillo read the news in his comfortably appointed sitting-room at the Briganza Hotel, and forthwith summoned his principal lieutenant. His annoyance was justified, because his raid on Europe had barely paid expenses and would certainly show a deficit when the cost of the Pealigo came to be added to the profit-and-loss account.

From his room at the Briganza he could see the Pealigo lying at anchor in the Tagus, a trim steam-yacht of 600 tons. And at the sight of it he passed into a mild condition of irritation. He was a pleasant-looking, broad- shouldered man with a slight moustache and suspicions of a growing beard— you might take him as a type of a successful Portuguese merchant with Anglophile tastes.

He puffed at the short brier which he held between his strong, white teeth, and thought hard. He was not blaming Teak Howarth. At the same time he was not prepared wholly to exonerate him. He felt rather that the blame was his own, but that admission did not make him feel any more kindly towards his competitor.

Silva, his dapper assistant, came in quickly, closing the door behind him.

"Well?" he asked in English— it was one of Mandrillo's affectations that he spoke no other language.

"Have you seen the newspapers?" asked the chief shortly.

"I've glanced at them. Who did it?"

Mandrillo grunted.

"Teak," he said. "Who else? Nobody but Teak would work that way. If he left his name and address on the safe you couldn't be more certain that it was he. Look at the account of it! The watchman gassed— Teak used to use ammonia before the war. The front of the safe burnt out— all the work done on Sunday afternoon— that's Teak's method all over."

"Did he take much?" asked the interested Pedro Silva.

"More than I thought was there," said the other gloomily. "About £100,000, mostly in American gold certificates. The Banco Commerciale held this stock as part of its reserve."

Silva sat by the table and drummed his fingers thoughtfully.

"Well, that settles that," he said. "The best thing we can do is to get away. When is the girl due?"

"She went on board this morning."

Silva looked at his compatriot oddly.

"She took some persuading," Mandrillo went on; "but I guess she's tired of sitting in a Lisbon pension. Anyway, she's going."

"What is the idea— about the girl?" asked the other, and Mandrillo shrugged away the question.

"Have you told her her father is dead?" persisted Silva.

It was not a discreet moment to cross-examine Mandrillo, as Silva was to discover. The big man had a tongue that stung, a vocabulary that was both extensive and vitriolic.

"That's all right," said Silva easily, when he had finished. "Maybe she knows, for she's a clever girl— only I was pretty fond of Joe, and I don't like to feel that his daughter is running any extra risk."

"The matter does not concern you," said Mandrillo. "The only thing you need worry about is that this swine Teak Howarth has galvanised the police department into life, and they'll be sneaking round here, making inquiries."

"Damn the Portuguese, anyway!" said Silva cheerfully. He had the true Brazilian's contempt for the mother-country. "Our own loot is on board, isn't it?"

"Loot?" sneered Mandrilo. "Such as it is!"

He went walking that afternoon and was duly pointed out by the loafers on the Grand Square as the rich Brazilian who came occasionally to Lisbon; a man of unnumbered millions whose wealth rivalled that of the late Administrator of the Tobacco Monopoly— the Portuguese equivalent for Croesus— as he progressed towards the Alemida.

En route he called at the police office, because the chief of the police was known to him. It was Mandrillo's practice to know chiefs of police, who, as a rule, are most communicative persons. This time the chief was not in his usual cheery mood. He was depressed to the depths, and his hands, which usually flickered so expressively, rested on a desk which was covered with documents.

"There has been a great tragedy," he explained to Mandrillo. "Ah, these foreign anarchists!"

"Is anything wrong?" asked the Brazilian innocently.

"The Banco Commerciale was robbed last night of millions!" wailed the policeman. "By a stranger, an estranjero, you understand. Everybody in Lisbon is suspect— everybody!"

He looked significantly at the Brazilian millionaire.

"Nobody must leave, either by train or by boat, until we have discovered the paltry-minded villain who abused our hospitality."

"How do you know it was an estranjero?" asked Mandrillo, who was interested.

"Because he left behind him tools of foreign make," said the chief of police curtly. "This is a tragedy for me, my friend. To-day the Minister of the Interior has called for my resignation."

He wept noisily.

Mandrillo continued his stroll to the Alemida, where all that was fashionable in Lisbon promenaded or took the air at this hour. He sat down on one of the benches and surveyed the passing stream of fashion. He was not interested, either in local beauties or in local opulence, and was impressed by neither. He was interested in a slim young man who wore a Stetson hat and a striped shirt, and who, lolling back in a victoria, smoked a long cigar with the air of one who was at peace with the world.

Mandrillo saw him coming and turned to the edge of the broad sidewalk, lifting his finger with an almost imperceptible gesture. The young man stopped the cocher and bent forward with a flashing smile.

"Why, if it isn't my old friend Mandrillo!" he said. "Welcome to Lisbon!"

He edged aside to make room for his guest, and Mandrillo stepped into the victoria. The hard-faced Australian positively beamed upon the other.

"What have you been doing all these years, Tony?" he asked.

"Cut out all that polite stuff," said Tony Mandrillo. "There's going to be bad trouble for you, Teak."

The other sucked at his cigar and did not immediately reply.

"Where is Boobu Clark?" asked Mandrillo unnecessarily, since the weeping chief of police had told him.

"Dead," replied Teak Howarth shortly; "the watchman shot him."

"But—"  began Mandrillo.

"They'll find the body all right," replied the other, grimly anticipating the question. "I locked it in one of the safes. All the keys were in the strong-room. You know the Portuguese method?"

Mandrillo nodded.

"As a matter of fact, they found the body this morning."

"It is rather awkward," said Teak, scratching his chin. "Boobu had all the plans to get away. This is foreign land to me. Have you got your yacht here? Of course you have."

Mandrillo nodded, and waited.

"Well?" said Teak Howarth, after a while. "What do you think?"

Mandrillo squared round at him.

"I'll tell you straight, Teak," he said. "I'm willing to get you out, but you've got to pay me Boobu Clark's share."

"That's all right," said Teak, after consideration. "I'll promise anything. I'm mighty keen on getting away."

It wanted more doing than Mandrillo had imagined, and it was five days before the Pealigo steamed past the batteries at the mouth of the Tagus and set her nose for the shining west.

"WILL YOU tell me, please, what is that land?"

Teak Howarth turned as if shot. He stared down into the brown eyes upturned to him, and lugged off his hat.

The girl laughed musically at his surprise.

"You didn't expect to see me?" she said.

"Well, to tell you the truth," said Teak, "I didn't."

"And you don't know me?"

He shook his head.

"I've got a glimmer of an idea I've met you before," he said, "but when, where, or how, I don't know."

"I was a little girl," she said, "and I saw you at our house in Rio."

"I've got you," he cried quickly.

"You're the daughter of Portuguese Joe!"

She nodded, still smiling.

"Why, you've grown out of all knowledge," he said, "and your English is quite perfect. Where have you been?"

"I've been to a school in England," she said, "and then I was in a convent in France. And now— why, now I'm going to Rio!"

She was prettier than he could ever have expected the dark-skinned little child he knew to be. She had slipped from childhood to womanhood at an age when most English girls are at their gawkiest.

She prattled on, and Teak listened, a thoughtful look on his face. She was taking some wonderful mantillas back to Brazil with her. Would Senhor Howart' see them some day, and if the ship was wrecked, would he help save these?... Teak grinned.

Women made little appeal to Teak, who held that no man can live two crooked lives at once and be a success at either. He listened with an odd little pain at his heart as the girl talked of her father and his business successes. Did she know that the name of Portuguese Joe was inscribed in every police record in Europe, or that the five years he was absent from Brazil on urgent business in Europe were passed on the bleak downs of Dartmoor?

He questioned her as to her friends in Brazil and her relations in that country. Apparently she had had nobody but her father, and Teak Howarth was more worried than ever.

That afternoon there was a little gathering under the awning on the diminutive quarter-deck of the yacht. Tony Mandrillo occupied the place of honour. Ferrera, the Dago skipper, who was captain aboard and confederate ashore; Soper, Mandrillo's Scottish engineer, steeped in sin; Pedro Silva, and Teak Howarth— this was the party.

The Pealigo was one day, out of Dakka, where the boat had called to coal. The sea was like oil, the cloudless sky a bowl of hot blue, and there was scarcely a breath of air. All the conditions were against a pleasant ending to the inquisition which Teak in his masterful way, and in face of Silva's warning glances, had initiated.

Mandrillo pulled at his pipe and listened in silence.

"No," he said at last, knocking out the ashes and speaking with great deliberation, "she doesn't know that her father is dead, and what's more, I am not going to tell her."

There was an awkward little silence.

"But what is the general idea?" asked Teak. "She was safe enough in Portugal or in England. Joe had a balance at the Bank of Lyons, and so far as I can find she hasn't a friend in the whole of South America. Why are you taking her out?"

Mandrillo refilled his pipe.

"On this ship," he said slowly, "nobody says 'why?' or 'wherefore?' to me."

Teak Howarth leaned back in his cane chair and chuckled.

"Little God A'mighty!" he said, and made no attempt to keep the contempt out of his voice. "All that pirate king talk never did interest me, Tony. What are you going to do with the girl?"

Another awkward pause, then:

"I am sending her to the Villa Francisca," he said shortly, and Teak whistled.

Hitherto he had not been interested in the manner in which Tony Mandrillo occupied his leisure hours. He was neither prude nor moralist, and had never regarded the notorious country estate of Senhor Mandrillo in any other light than a likely cause for the Brazilian's ultimate downfall. For all men in this crooked game know that the clever ones are undone by women and fools.

But now— it was different. This girl with the brown eyes was entitled as by an inheritance to the protection and the loyalty of the pack which ran with her father.

"Villa Francisca," he said slowly. "That doesn't seem right to me, Tony. I've never run in with your gang, and I've always heard you spoken of as a high-class lot, and Portuguese Joe was running with you, wasn't he?"

He looked first at Mandrillo, who stared back, and then at Pedro Silva, who shifted uncomfortably and did not meet his eyes.

"Put that little girl ashore, Tony," he said gently. "I've offered to share fifty-fifty, but you can make it sixty-forty with the sixty in your own favour. Let her go back to Portugal or England, or wherever her school is—"

Mandrillo interrupted him by rising.

"We're going to Rio, Teak," he said, "and you be very glad that you're getting your fifty-fifty."

The menace in his tone was unmistakable, but Teak laughed. A few minutes later he went down to the hot little cabin that had been apportioned him, and bolted the door before he drew his suitcase from beneath the bunk and opened it.

Teak looked for a long time, then closed the box, relocked it, and pushed it back beneath the bunk. Then he sat down and considered the position. The two long barrelled revolvers and the cartridge belt and the Colt automatic which he had put on the top of the money had disappeared.

Presently he went out of the cabin and went in search of Mandrillo; and Tony evidently expected him, for his first words were:

"There'll be no gun play on this ship, Teak; we're going to Rio, and there's nothing on the earth or on the sea that can put us back. Do you understand that?"

"I understand," said Teak.

"And the girl goes too," Tony went on; "and if it comes to a rough house, it'll be worse for you and worse for her."

"I see," said Teak, and Mandrillo smiled.

"I suppose you're thinking out some way of inducing me to go back to the last port," he said. "You've got a reputation for ingenuity, Teak, but the scheme isn't discovered that will make me put back."

"Maybe not," said Teak, who did not fail to observe that Mandrillo was armed. "But I'm giving you this little bit of information to go on with. I did not take a red cent from the Banco Commerciale."

Mandrillo gaped at him open-mouthed.

"You didn't get a red cent?" he replied incredulously. "You're lying! You are trying to kid me to get back to the coast to put you off."

Teak chuckled.

"Well, it's your ship," he drawled. "You can search my cabin, and if you find more than ten dollars set, you are welcome to it. I haven't even got my beautiful guns," he added whimsically.

"But you said you'd give me fifty-fifty!"

"Quite right," said the other coolly. "That works out at about five dollars. I didn't say I robbed the bank. You said that. I didn't tell you anything except that Boobu Clark was killed."

"Well, what do you mean?" demanded Mandrillo. "What's the idea?"

Teak rolled his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other.

"It means that somebody was there before me. Honest, Tony, I thought it was you."

The other looked at him searchingly, but Teak's eyes did not flinch.

"Well," said Mandrillo slowly, "there will be plenty of time to investigate this matter before we get to Rio."

"In the meantime," pleaded Teak, "I should greatly appreciate the loan of one small gun."

Mandrillo laughed unpleasantly.

Teak saw no more of the girl and, apparently, it was only by accident that he had seen her at all, for she was kept almost a prisoner in her cabin. That night he crept from his bunk on a foraging expedition, and was challenged at the end of the alleyway by one of the Portuguese deck-hands. Mandrillo was taking no risks.

The next morning he greeted Tony with a sunny smile.

"You've won, Tony," he said.

Tony looked at him suspiciously.

"This'll be a pleasant voyage for you, Teak, if you behave yourself," he said. "You invited yourself on board this ship. Nobody asked you to come. Get it into your head that I'm the only boss here and what I say goes, and we'll talk real business— which is money."

This conversation took place on the little navigating bridge, and Ferrera, a smile on his pendulous face, was the audience.

"It's not a bad little packet," said Teak Howarth. "You've got her up regardless, Tony."

Tony nodded, pleased. He had spent a great deal of money on the Pealigo, and she was one of the fastest of her class. Teak stared into the binnacle, watching the compass dial turn slowly from side to side.

"What happens," he asked, "suppose your compass goes wrong? Have you a means of checking it? I read in the paper the other day—"

He told a long and not too convincing story of a ship that had gone on the rocks, but Mandrillo saw nothing in this sudden interest beyond a desire to make conversation.

"Ferrera has another compass, haven't you?"

Captain Ferrera nodded.

"But how do you test your compass?" asked Teak curiously.

Ferrera explained at length. He was a good seaman and a born navigator. To illustrate his lecture on the art of compass-testing he disappeared into his little wheel-house and came out in a moment with a small square case of boxwood, which he opened, disclosing a second compass.

Teak took it in his hand.

"Are these all the compasses you have on the ship?" he asked.

Ferrera grinned.

"That is all that is necessary, Senhor Howarth." And then be stared at the other open-mouthed, for Teak, with a twist of his wrist, had flung the compass into the sea. Then, before he could realise what was happening, before Mandrillo could pull the gun from his pocket, Teak had lifted an iron pin from the rail and had sent its point smashing through the face of the binnacle into the compass bed.

Twice, three times he thrust, and then Mandrillo, purple in the face, had his gun in position, and Teak's hands went up.

"You're a hell of a navigator, Ferrera," he said. "Get to Rio without a compass, will you?"

They pushed Teak Howarth back into his cabin, and the method of the men who handled him was not gentle. Then followed a council of war, and curiously enough it was old man Soper whose advice was followed.

"If ye shoot him there's going to be trouble, and if he goes over the side one night there's going to be trouble," he said. "These deck-hands of yours are bound to talk, Tony, and I'm not going into the collar for you or twenty like you. Keep him in his cabin and starve him sick. By the time we reach Rio—"

"By the time we reach Rio?" sneered Tony. "How are we going to get to Rio?"

"Get back to the coast," said the old man. "We can navigate down to Benguela without a compass by keeping the coastline in sight. Or better still, I know a creek south of St. Paul de Loanda that's got thirty fathoms of water. It's as good as Lobito Bay but not so healthy. We could put the ship in there and send overland to St. Paul for new compasses. You can buy all you want there in the ship chandler line."

"Why not go into St. Paul?" asked Ferrera, troubled. "I do not like these African creeks."

"Ain't I telling you that this is the same as Lobito?" nodded old Soper. "Thirty fathoms of water, and you can bring the ship right alongside the spit. Go into St. Paul and you'll be overrun with consuls and port officials."

It was at that moment that Silva put his head into the door of the captain's cabin, where the conference was being held.

"There's a sort of red fog on the sea behind us, and the wind seems to be blowing all ways at once, Ferrera. What does that mean?"

Ferrera's yellow face went green.

"Mother of God!" he breathed. "That! And without a compass..."

Mandrillo leapt to his feet with a roar.

"I'll settle with Teak!" he shouted, and as he spoke the Pealigo lay over gently on her side as though she were tired.

Mandrillo never got nearer to Teak than his own cabin, where he lashed himself to his bunk. For thirty-six hours the Pealigo dipped and bucked and pirouetted dizzily in the very vortex of one of those rare red storms which are born in the primeval forests of the African tableland and shriek down a hundred ravines, finally uniting their furies in far-off seas.

At the fifty-ninth minute of the thirty-sixth hour the Pealigo took a harder knock than any, and a haggard Ferrera, lashed to his wheel-house stanchions, saw beneath the tumbling clouds, scarcely palm-high, the lather of white breakers upon a shore...

MANDRILLO reached dry land, or land which was dry an hour after the wind dropped and the sun shone out, his sole possessions consisting of a pair of duck trousers and belt, and a packet of cigarettes which were in a waterproof cover in the trousers pocket. Therein he was so many cigarettes ahead of Teak, though he was one knife to the bad.

All that was left of the Pealigo littered the beach. Silva and old man Soper, the remnants of the ship's company, had gone with a providential native guide on an eighty-mile trip along the coast to the nearest white man's town.

They sat opposite to one another, and between them smouldered a small fire which the natives had lit for them. Mandrillo was smoking, and he was amazingly polite.

"That's the end of the adventure, Senhor Howarth," he said, flicking off the ash of his cigarette, "and I hope you like it."

Teak laughed shortly.

"There have been worse ends," he said. "I remember after we cleared the Bank of Borneo—"

He stopped. Mandrillo's eyes were staring past him and upward, and those eyes held a certain savage hunger which the Australian had seen before.

The girl was standing by a palm, looking disconsolately out to sea. They had found her a hut on a little hillock, and it had been Teak who bargained for the gay shawl that now covered shoulders which had been wholly bare when he dragged her through the surf. She might have drowned, for she had clung to her infernal box of mantillas to the last. (Teak had not remembered the mantillas until after he had ravished the shawl.)

He turned his head back to the man, and there was danger in the cold grey eyes.

"Tony," he said, "you know just where I stand about money, but give me twelve months and I will pay you your share and the cost of your yacht."

Mandrillo smiled and pulled at his cigarette.

"If you had left us one compass, Ferrera could have got away," he said softly. "I don't understand you, Teak. I have worked with you and against you, and I have never seen this mushy side of you before. I think something must have happened in the war." His eyes were watching the other, and he saw Teak shift uneasily. "Something must have happened in the war," he went on, "to put ideas into your head. Five years ago you'd have sold the girl for a bunch of gold pesos. There's a reason for all this gallant old knight stuff."

Suddenly his face became fixed and he stared at Teak.

"I remember. They made you something. I remember seeing your portrait in one of the London papers when I was in Brazil. That's how I knew you were in France. Sergeant T. Howarth, V.C. Now what in hell is 'V.C.'? Virtuous Crook?"

He dodged the straight blow that the white-faced man aimed at him, ducked in under his guard, and with one swift jerk snatched the knife from the other's belt. For a moment they swayed, locked together, breast to breast, the muscles on their backs rippling like the muscles of two great Andalusian bulls. Twice Mandrillo struck and twice missed, and then the watching natives saw the blade fly from the hand of Tony Mandrillo.

Swiftly down the little declivity came the daughter of Portuguese Joe, with set face and wide eyes. She circled the struggling men until she came to the place where the haft of the knife stuck up from the sand.

She plucked it forth and stood for a moment hesitating, then she slipped a carefully calculated half-inch of the point between Mandrillo's ribs and he wrenched back with a yell.

"Let up," she said tersely. "Haven't you had enough fighting and wrecking?"

She bent reproachful eyes upon Teak, and for the first time he saw that they held real and genuine laughter.

"You are very nice, Senhor Howart'," she said, "and I know my youth and innocence have appealed to you, and Senhor Mandrillo is a very wicked man. But you are both wrong. I know my poor father is dead. He was dying when I left Rio six months ago. He sent for me to give me his blessing and— the plan of the Banco Commerciale. May he rest in peace!" She crossed herself. "It was a very good plan. I was in the bank before you"— she nodded to the dumb-stricken Teak—" and I was only worried because I was not sure how I could get away. I don't think I should have got away at all, only Senhor Mandrillo was so wicked— wicked. There is a beautiful little box in my cabin," she said. "Do you remember my mantillas?" She turned her laughing eyes to Teak. "It floated," she said. "I spent all last night putting lifebelts round it. It was very wrong of you"— she shook her head sadly—" very wrong of you, Mr. Howart'. You nearly lost me that, and lost your share and Tony's share. Wait, I will show you."

She turned and ran lightly up the little sandy hillock, and the eyes of Teak Howarth and Tony Mandrillo met.

"Portuguese Joe always said—" began Teak.

"—that that bank couldn't be cracked," finished Tony, and they both shook their heads.

"Joe was a rare fellow for keeping things in his family!" said Teak.

_____________________

25: The Dramatic Butler

The Lady Called Nita, 1930

WHEN Barbara Long called at No. 704 Avenue Road, which is on the fringe of Regent's Park, she had no other idea in her head than to escape the drudgery of office work, and secure a secretaryship which would give her sufficient leisure to follow her art course, and supply her with a modest salary that would eke out an even more modest income from her dead father's estate.

No. 704 Avenue Road was a substantially built, if small, house, designed in the pleasing style which came into favour in the late Victorian period. It had its tiny garage, which, she subsequently learnt, was solely occupied by the butler's motor-cycle and side-car. The windows were specklessly curtained, and the garden was bright with sulphur-coloured chrysanthemums the day Barbara called.

A popular work of reference told her that Mr. Harbord Brownwill was a lawyer, that his age was seventy-five, and that his recreations were none. He was a member of no clubs, and he had either no heir or his property, being of the portable kind, was not, in the opinion of his biographer, of sufficient importance to justify the inclusion of heirship into the brief history of him.

She rang the bell and met, for the first time, Mr. Jennings, the butler. A man in the irreproachable livery of his trade, middle-aged, melancholy, eminently respectable. Later she was to meet that thin and vinegary woman his wife, and Mr. Brownwill's house-keeper and nurse.

"The job?"

He looked at her dubiously, scratched his chin, gazed vaguely past her to the trim box hedge that ran parallel with the garden wall.

"Yes, miss— will you come in?"

He ushered her into a drawing-room that was furnished with some luxury. And only then did he ask her name, and brightened visibly when she replied.

"That's the name!" he nodded. "Mr. Brownwill said, 'Take her on— if she's agreeable.' Wait a minute, miss; I'll see him."

She gathered that Mr. Brownwill, because of his age and eccentricities, was not visible, and waited until the soft thud of the butler's feet came to her from the floor above. Listening, she heard the rumble of voices, and presently he came back.

"Five pounds a week— hours, ten till three?" he asked rather than stated.

And there and then began Barbara Long's acquaintance with the House with the Dramatic Butler.

That he had dramatic tendencies she learnt right away, but she had to wait some months before The Man on the Bus came into her life and she witnessed Mr. Jennings' star performance.

Mr. Jennings had three rooms at the top of No. 704 Avenue Road, and the walls of these apartments advertised the one interest he shared in common with his painfully silent wife. For they were devotees of the drama and great admirers of the acting profession.

He showed the photographs to Barbara then and subsequently.

'"They're art, and, in a manner of speaking, they're class," said Mr. Jennings soberly. "It's a bit melancholy livin' in the same house as an invalid, and they sort of take you out of yourself."

That Mr. Brownwill was something of a trial, Barbara came to know. She had never been inside the room where be lay ("grouchin' an' cursin' something fierce," said the mournful Mr. Jennings), and only his vinegary wife and himself had any association with him.

"He's nearly eighty an' worries my life out," said the butler. "He won't have a doctor, he's got no lawyer an' no relations except a grandson— a wild feller... I don't know a wilder. I've never seen him, but Mr. Brownwill often talks about him."

Only once had Mr. Brownwill spoken to her. There was a house telephone connecting the rooms, and she was in the midst of copying an interminable lease when the bell rang and a harsh voice asked her to "send that woman Jennings to me."

"Yes, Mr. Brownwill," she answered, guessing the identity of the caller.

"Are you Miss Long?" growled the voice, and, when she had answered: "Humph! Got all you want?"

"Yes, thank you."

That was all: the receiver was hung up and never again was she called.

Her work was light. A business letter or two, the substance of which was conveyed to her by Mr. Jennings, the finished copy being taken away for signature by Mr. Jennings and posted by him; an enormous number of old deeds to copy, and a weekly visit to a city bank to cash a cheque, comprised her duties. She never saw the interior working of the establishment. There was a housemaid, who had some secret trouble, for her eyes always seemed red from weeping, and once she arrived to see a hired charwoman departing. But the housework was finished before she came in the mornings, and the establishment seemed to run very smoothly without a very large staff.

She had been in her position six months, and the first green was showing on the limes in the garden one morning when Mr. Jennings came in, as was his custom, to bid her good morning and give her the letters that were to be answered.

His task completed, Mr. Jennings lingered at the door of the little library and looked pathetically at the girl, who was feeding a sheet of paper into her typewriter.

Barbara had not known many butlers, but she was satisfied that Mr. Jennings was as near being the ideal family retainer as she was likely to meet.

"Let him have those letters as soon as you can, miss— he's a bit tryin' this mornin'."

He sighed heavily and shook his head.

"Short-tempered— invalids get that way. An' the language! For an old gentleman he's wonderful! Did you write to Miss Alma Devinne, miss?"

Barbara Long smiled.

"Yes, Mr. Jennings. She telephoned me yesterday. She is having some new photographs taken and will send you one."

He nodded, his sad face lighting.

"That will be a hundred and forty-two," he said proudly. "I don't suppose there's a better collection in London. I'd have been in the profession if I'd had my way. So would Mrs. Jennings."

Barbara kept a straight face. The mental picture of Mrs. Jennings on the stage was not without its humour.

"I saw Twisted Lives last night," he went on. "What a play! That bit where the young gel accuses her uncle of murder...! And the scene where Rudolph gripples Ernest and flings him down the well— wonderful! Mrs. Jennings is seeing it to-night."

"Gripples" was a new verb to Barbara.

"You like melodrama, Mr. Jennings?" she asked.

"Love it," he said, with an ecstatic sigh. "Makes you think— puts ideas in your head—"

Suddenly the butler's face clouded; he hesitated, and, closing the door, came towards her; hesitated again, and, putting his hand in his pocket, took out a key. She recognised it as the key of the big safe that stood in one corner of the library.

"I'm going to ask you a favour, Miss Long. Could you keep this key... sort of 'ang it on a chain or strong ribbon or something... I mean so that it never leaves you day or night?"

Barbara stared at him in amazement.

"You want me to keep it?" she asked incredulously.

He nodded.

"There's a letter in that safe in a red envelope... sealed up." He was breathless, almost incoherent. "If anything happens to me... get it out."

Barbara was incapable of speech. There was a suppressed eagerness an almost vehement sincerity, in his voice. She could not believe that his passion for the dramatic was wholly responsible. She took the key a little reluctantly, and slipped it on to the ring which held the key of the house— for nowadays she let herself into No. 704.

"I've got another," he assured her, and showed her the duplicate.

With a deep and mysterious nod, as though he were emphasising something that he had forgotten to tell her, he went softly from the room.

It was on the afternoon of this day that Barbara met the young man on the bus. She was unaware of his existence, though he sat at her side, for her mind was occupied by an advertisement which decorated a passing omnibus, which showed the picture of legs and feet, and was an absurdly incongruous continuation of the human heads and shoulders that appeared above the advertisement. She was going to the theatre that night with a girl who lived at her boarding-house, for two free stalls for a none too successful play had come her way.

And then the young man on the top of the bus suddenly stood up. He might have chosen, thought Barbara Long, a more secure foothold than the toe of her patent shoe.

She uttered a little squeak of warning, and he turned a guilty and startled face to hers.

"I'm so awfully sorry!" he said.

She thought he was blushing, but afterwards saw that the blush was permanent, and wasn't red at all but the sort of brown blush that a tropical sun lays on the faces of all who go out of doors on a summery day.

"Please don't worry— you didn't touch my toe. I was silly to make a fuss."

But there was a distinct dent where his heel had rested.

"Sorry... awfully. But I saw a man I wanted to kill!"

He said this without a smile, and without evidence that he was talking for effect. Somehow she knew that he had seen a man he wanted to kill.

He was about twenty-seven, she judged, with a straight nose, a determined mouth and chin, and the greyest and most beautiful eyes she had ever seen in a man.

For his part, there was no need to analyse her attractions feature by feature. She was very pretty, very alive; he thought that she might also be very capable. Naturally, every woman looked beautiful to him, for he had come back from a land where white women are few, and pretty white women who live within calling distance are to be counted on the thumb on one hand.

Now, Barbara Long had the sixth sense of the business girl— she knew instantly the man you can talk to and the man whose conversation must be cut short. And she had no qualms about talking to this grey-eyed stranger.

"Do you really want to kill him?" she asked.

"Yes— but I shan't, of course!" he said. "I have a wholesome respect for the law. Otherwise—"

Otherwise, she gathered, the unknown would be in some peril.

"You've been abroad, haven't you?"

He looked surprised, and laughed.

"Yes, I've been abroad. If I hadn't, I shouldn't want to kill anybody. A sleek fellow that"— he winced, as though he remembered something that hurt him—" and I'm a fool— I believe the best of everybody. I'm seeing him to-night, and I've got the feeling that any self-respecting fly would have if he were invited to dine with a spider."

She laughed.

"That sounds fearfully dramatic."

They got down together at the corner of Addison Road. He helped her with her drawing-board, but made no attempt to improve the acquaintance. She had made errors and had profited by them, and she would have been amazed if he had asked her the conventional questions: where she lived, did she like the pictures, etc.; and yet, being human, she rather wished it was possible that he could have asked such questions without losing caste.

The boarding-house at which Barbara Long lived was in the Earl's Court Road, and it differed in no respect from any other boarding-house, except that it was run on the lines of a business girls' club. Her room was a large one, sparsely furnished with such salvage of her father's furniture as had been saved from the sale which followed his death and the liquidation of his many debts.

She had her tea and, going up to her room, dressed leisurely— and all the time she could not get out of her head the memory of that brown face and those miraculously grey eyes. She wondered who he was, and the identity of the sleek man against whom he harboured homicidal plans.

She chose, from a recently replenished wardrobe, her best gown in honour of the occasion, for she had not been to a theatre for months. Then she remembered, with a twitching lip, Mr. Jennings. She should have asked that great connoisseur of the dramatic his opinion of the play, she thought, as she gathered from a locked drawer the few jewels which her mother had left her.

Going down to dinner, she learnt that the girl who was to have accompanied her had retired to bed with an influenza cold. Nevertheless, the prospect of going alone did not greatly perturb Barbara. In a sense it was a relief, for she had thoughts enough to occupy her.

Her landlady was talking to her across the table.

"Did Louise give you the message, Miss Long?"

"Message?" asked the girl in astonishment. "No; what was it?"

The landlady uttered a weary exclamation of impatience and Louise, the unlovely handmaiden of the house, was summoned from the nether regions.

"He telephoned after you come in, miss," she said. "I thought you was out."

"Who was it?" asked the girl.

"Mr. Pennings."

"Jennings?" corrected Barbara quickly. She had never before received a message from the butler.

"That's right, miss— Jennings. He said something about, would you come— I couldn't hear him very well, because there was a lot of wuzzy noises on the 'phone. But that's what he said— 'Tell Miss Long to come.'"

"Did he say when?"

Louise considered, a frown on her vacuous face. "To-morrow?" she suggested.

"It couldn't have been then," said Barbara, rising. "I'll telephone him."

She got on to Avenue Road, but there was no answer. She tried again, still without success, and, returning to the dining-room, finished her dinner. Going upstairs, she got her cloak and allowed herself the unaccustomed luxury of a taxicab. Probably it was some letter that Mr. Jennings wanted typed for the night post.

When she got to the house she found the hall in darkness, but she knew her way, and, passing into the dark passage, switched on a light and turned into the library. She had expected to find Mr. Jennings waiting for her, but the room was empty. She went back to the door and listened. Not a sound broke the stillness of the house. Perhaps there was a message on the desk? But no sign of writing was there. The telephone was there— the receiver off the hook. She understood why her call had not been answered.

What should she do? Even as she considered, she heard a key turn in the lock of the front door, and Mr. Jennings' voice.

"Come in, sir, come in," it said. "There's nobody in the house but Mr. Brownwill and me, and we can say what we have got to say without a soul being any the wiser."

What should she do? Behind the blue velvet curtains in the corner of the room was a door leading to a smaller room where she had her luncheon. She slipped behind the curtain as Mr. Jennings ushered his visitor into the room.

But here a new difficulty awaited her. The door into the small room was locked, and she was in the position of an unintentional eavesdropper.

Her first inclination was to walk boldly into the library, and there was no reason why she shouldn't, because she had been sent for and her presence was explainable. But a natural reluctance to appear at a moment when Mr. Jennings and his friend were to engage in a conversation which "nobody could hear," restrained her.

"The secretary goes home at three," said Mr. Jennings' voice. "I thought you might want to come and talk it over again, so I telephoned her not to come to-morrow."

So that was the message that had been sent and which the bungling Louise had muddled!

"Sit you down, Mr. John; please, sit you down," said Jennings. His voice was shrill with anxiety; but for certain peculiar intonations she would not have recognised it.

"How is my grandfather?" asked a deeper voice.

Where had she heard it before? she wondered. She dare not look for fear her presence were discovered.

"Very poorly, very poorly," sighed Mr. Jennings.

"I'm afraid the old gentleman isn't very long for this world."

There was a pause, and then the stranger said:

"Jennings, I'm going to ask you a straight question. Have all the letters I sent been given to my grandfather?"

"Every one of them," said Mr. Jennings fervently. "Every one of them, Mr. John."

"You lie!"

And now curiosity overcame her: she drew the curtains softly aside and saw— the young man of the omnibus!

He was in evening dress; nevertheless, she recognised him. As she looked she could see that his head turned towards the curtained recess and she drew back in a panic.

"None of my letters has reached him," said "Mr. John" sternly. "You've always hated me, Jennings, and you never lost an opportunity of telling lies to Mr. Brownwill about me. Three months ago I sent him a letter with a line of Greek, which told him that I thought the letters were being intercepted and asking him to reply. If he had had that letter, I should have had an answer."

Mr. Jennings was silent. The girl heard his laboured breathing, could almost see the tenseness of him.

"You've got a bad idea about me, Mr. John," said Jennings at last. "I've done all I could for you and for your grandfather, and it's hard that I should be insulted—"

"I want to see him."

She could imagine Jennings shaking his head.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't allow you to do it, sir. His last words to me only this day were, 'Never let that fellow into my sight. He only wants my money.'"

Barbara was looking again. She saw the young man start up from the chair on which he was sitting.

"That's another lie," he said.

"I'm sorry, sir," murmured Jennings' apologetic voice.

They were out of her sight now; they had moved nearer to the curtains, and the voices came louder.

"I'm very sorry, sir. I never thought that you'd say a thing like that to me," Jennings went on in his even, monotonous voice. "And in this room, sir, with your grandfather's picture looking down on you—"

There was no picture of Mr. Brownwill in the room; that was the first thought that struck the girl. Evidently the statement surprised the young man, for be must have turned. And then to the girl's ears came the sound of a dull thud. She heard Mr. Jennings take a step forward and grunt.

"That will do for you!" said Jennings, his voice tremulous with triumph.

A few seconds later she heard the dining-room door closed, and, peeping round the curtain, almost fainted at the sight which met her gaze.

Lying almost at her feet was John Brownwill, as she guessed him to be. There was no sign of a wound, but be was unconscious, and the explanation was to be found in the short club that lay within a few inches of his bead. She had seen the club once before, hanging in Jennings' pantry.

She had hardly looked before the handle of the door turned, and she had just time enough to conceal herself when Jennings came in, this time accompanied by his usually silent wife.

"Help me get him down to the cellar," he said, and his voice was sharp and commanding.

There came from the passage without the sound of sobs.

"And stop that damned girl of yours!" snarled Jennings.

"Shut up, you!" snapped the woman.

"Oh, my Gawd!" sounded a hollow voice from the hall. "We shall be hung for this! Oh, why did you let Father do it, Ma?"

"Come in and lend a hand!" rasped Mr. Jennings.

The weeping girl came awkwardly into the library and, still sobbing, stooped and helped support the legs of the stricken man.

Barbara listened and watched, petrified with terror. She heard the basement door open and the hesitant steps of the bearer party pass down to the cellar, and then, running from her place of concealment, she fled to the street door. But it had been locked on the inside and the key had been taken away. Mr. Brownwill! He was an old man, but he might help.

She flew up the stairs and tried the door of his room. It was open.

"Mr. Brownwill!" she whispered agitatedly, but there was no answer, and she switched on the light.

The room was empty. It was not even completely furnished; the very bed was unmade. She turned out the light, her brain in a whirl, and made towards the head of the stairs. As she did so she heard the voice of Jennings and his wife in the hail below. It was Mrs. Jennings speaking.

"I thought you'd come in earlier: I heard the door open. This place gives me the creeps, Isaac. I'm always hearing noises... what are you going to do with him?"

"I don't know... got to do something," said Jennings in a low voice. "We've all day to-morrow to think about it. That girl isn't coming."

The kitchen door opened and slammed. She must make her way back to the library, she decided. There was a French window which could be opened, and would afford her a way out of the house. Silent as death, trembling in every limb, she crept down the stairs into the library, and as she did so she heard a faint tinkle.

She was still clutching her bag— the keys! And then there came back to her with a rush the recollection of Jennings' remarkable request. The red envelope in the safe! She did not hesitate; with shaking hands, she inserted the key, turned the knob and groped in the inside. Presently her fingers touched a folded packet. There was enough light from the fire to distinguish the colour of the envelope: it was red.

She gently stirred the coals to a blaze and read the writing. It was addressed: "To Whom it may Concern. Proof of Innocence of Isaac Jennings."

She was straightening up when suddenly the room blazed with light. Jennings was standing in the doorway, blank-faced, staring, his mouth working convulsively.

"What— what are you doing here?" he gasped.

And then be saw the open door of the safe and the envelope in her hand, and he reeled back.

"Give me that," he gasped, and took a step towards her.

What made her do it she could never understand. Perhaps her mind had suddenly tuned to his, and she read the shuddering fear in his heart, and jerked back her arm so that the letter was held over the fire.

"Don't come near me," she breathed, "or I will burn this!"

He stood blinking at her, white-faced, a picture of fear.

"Don't— don't do it!" he articulated at last.

And then she saw the woman appear from the passage.

"I'll do anything! I'll do anything!" screamed Jennings. "But don't burn that! For God's sake, miss, don't burn it!"

"Open the front door and fetch a policeman!"

It was a mad request, and, like a woman in a dream, she saw him turn to his wife.

"Get a policeman— quick," be quavered and then to her, with a gesticulation of terror: "Not so near the fire, miss— keep it away from the fire!"

The woman had disappeared. From somewhere below came the dull sound of hammering.

"Give it to me!" Jennings stretched out his shaking hand. "I'll give you a thousand pounds for it! I won't hurt you— I swear I won't hurt you!..." He was still supplicating when a tall, broad-shouldered policeman walked into the drawing-room.

IT WAS THREE days later that Mr. John Brownwill dined with Miss Barbara Long at the Ritz, and in those three days a great deal had happened.

"The main fact," said the bus man (as she thought of him), "is that Jennings will not hang! If you'd burnt that envelope I don't see what could have saved him from the gallows. My grandfather, who was a very morose and misanthropic individual, had neither lawyer nor doctor. Otherwise, he would have known, first that he had a swindling servant, and secondly that he had a pretty bad heart. He was in the habit of taking long walks at night, and in the course of one of these constitutionals he was taken ill and dropped dead in the street. The body was removed to the workhouse, and there was nothing in the pockets to identify him. Jennings missed him that night and went out in search of him, and by accident heard that an unknown man had been found in the street.

"I suppose his first impulse was to identify my grandfather, but that meant that he and his wife and daughter were going to leave a very comfortable job, and possibly there would have been exposed the fact that he had been forging my grandfather's name for small amounts during the year before his death. So poor old Walter Brownwill, worth five hundred thousand pounds, was buried in a pauper's grave, unknown, unclaimed. The certificate of his death and all particulars about that burial were in the red envelope. Jennings feared the day of reckoning; feared also that the time might come when he would be accused of murder.

"After my grandfather was buried, Jennings' job was an easy one. He had merely to pretend that Mr. Brownwill was still in the house, and to carry on as though he were alive. A private secretary was engaged to strengthen his position. She became known to the bank, from which large sums were drawn, and that made things even easier for him. Unfortunately, I turned up and insisted upon seeing my grandfather. Jennings put me off— by the way, he was the fellow I saw from the top of the bus— but to-night, when I was dining with some people, he called me up and asked me to meet him— he said he had been looking for me all the evening. I met him actually outside the house where I had been dining, and he brought me here. And it was nearly my final social call! The man was a consummate actor: I can't understand where he got his inspirations."

Barbara remembered the serried rows of signed photographs, but said nothing.

"I think I owe my life to you," the young man went on quietly, "and I've bought you a little present. I wonder if you'll mind?"

She shook her head. It was a beautiful ring, and, remembering that he had no great experience in such matters, it was remarkable that he put it on the right finger!

______________________

26: Diana Helps

The Lady Called Nita, 1930

JACK SAVERLEY had serious thoughts of asking Diana how she regarded such a happening. Diana's point of view would be interesting. Presumably she would give a more charitable verdict than he was prepared to offer. Of course Prendenbury was not ruined, as he so extravagantly claimed to be; men and women are kinder and bigger than we think they are in such moments of crisis. And because a man's wife is guilty of vulgar shop-lifting and is sent to prison for a month, they do not visit her sins upon him.

Jack paused in his work and gazed thoughtfully at the primitive beauty- type who was shaping on the canvas before him. Mrs. Prendenbury was a great friend of May's.... He scratched his nose with the stick of his brush and smiled. May...! Still, he would like to have Diana's view. Would she look at the matter broadly and diagnose this mania of Ethel Prendenbury as a disease, as three eminent specialists had done— for Prendenbury had money and could afford expert evidence?

Once he stopped, half intending to call Diana from the coal-cellar where she had been most of the morning, but the thought of May stopped him. May disliked Diana and was not amused when, at his urgent and insistent request, she had given an amazing imitation of a certain great actor in The School for Scandal.

Diana had behind her the record of twenty years' honourable association with the stage. She was no more than a dresser, it is true, but she had dressed and admired the great. She was a stumpy, middle-aged woman, waistless and heavy-cheeked. And being no longer needed by the theatre folk she had served, she went out as a daily help. May hated her shrill Cockney voice, but Diana had moments when her voice was languidly refined. Her imitation of Mrs. Salter-Pasaro, that great tragedienne, was amazingly convincing; sometimes (when she was cleaning the silver was her favourite occasion) she gave as startling a representation of Miss Vivian Marsham, "than whom" (as an eminent critic has said) "there is no greater Desdemona."

Jack Saverley tore his mind from Diana; there was a catalogue cover to be finished and he wanted the money. Otherwise he would have gone out, as he said he would, to lunch at the club. May, at any rate, thought he was there. She stood in the doorway of the living-room-studio, consternation in her face.

Jack, looking up, saw her.

"Hello, darling; been shopping?"

"Y-yes. I thought you were going out, Jack?"

"I had to finish this beastly cover," he said, rising to knock out his pipe and to contemplate at a distance the work of three hours. "Not so bad. Why don't you take your things off, duckie? Let me take that muff."

She drew back quickly.

"No, no. Jack, will you get me a glass of water? I am feeling a little faint."

His jaw dropped. Now he saw how white she was, and—" I'm sorry, darling," he said, and flew out of the room.

She waited until he was gone, then drew from her muff two small bundles and thrust them under the cushion of the arm-chair. Then, with a sigh of relief, she threw her muff to the settee and slipped from her heavy coat.

"My dear, you ought not to wear these heavy clothes. It is quite warm to-day. I am glad I was in. You look ghastly."

"Oh, it is nothing," she said. "It is beastly shopping. There are so many people about. I went into Tapperleys, and I was nearly an hour before I was served."

"Tapperleys!" His surprise was justified, for Tapperleys was the most expensive shop in town. "I suppose you went to look round," he said, and his arm slid round her. "I wish I could afford to give you the run of every shop in London. I will, some day, when my fortune's made."

Holding her at arm's length, his smiling eyes surveyed her.

"How you manage to dress on the miserable little allowance I give you is a mystery to me! Oh, by the way, Tapperleys— do you know that man Smithers? He came here the other day with the manager of Tapperleys' art department. I am doing some dress designs for them."

"Smithers?"

"No, I remember you were out. Smithers is a Scotland Yard man—"

She clutched at the edge of the table, and Jack, busy at his palette, did not see the effect of his words.

"ScotIand Yard?"

"Yes. There has been quite a lot of shop-lifting at Tapperleys lately, and they employed him to hunt down the principal offender. I cannot understand how a woman can bring herself to commit a petty crime like shop-lifting, can you, May? As a normal woman, can you get into the mind of that kind of creature?" he asked.

"N-no. Why do you talk about such horrible things?"

"I don't know. I suppose Tapperleys reminded me." He was at work again, and the easel and canvas were between them. She gathered up her coat from the chair, and, as she did so, slipped her hand underneath the cushion. Under cover of the coat, she brought out the bundles she had put there earlier, and, wrapping them inside the coat, she walked to the door.

"I am going to lie down. Where is Diana?"

"Diana? I think she has gone down to the cellar. Do you want her?" he asked.

She shook her head, a frown on her pretty face.

"No. Jack, do you think we shall ever be able to afford to have a real nice servant? Diana is impossible."

"She's not a bad old sort," he said tolerantly.

"Oh, Jack, she's terrible"— she was always irritated by his championship. "Look at the dust on everything."

"But—"

"If you are going to rhapsodise about Diana, I'm going!"

Jack heard the slam of the door and grinned. Then, putting down brush and palette, he went out on to the landing and called a name. A second later, Diana's slippered feet shuffled in the hail below. Diana had never been beautiful. At forty-eight her plainness was accentuated. She never looked her best in the morning, and she was absolutely at her worst after sifting coal. She had been sifting that morning, and staggered into the room with a laden scuttle in her hand and a carboniferous deposit on her face.

"That mine where this coal comes from has got a slate roof," she grunted. "Is the missus back, Mr. What's-yer-name?"

Diana never remembered names unless they were names which graced a play-bill.

"Yes, Mrs. Saverley is back. Diana, you really must have this room dusted earlier. Mrs. Saverley has been complaining again."

"Dusted, sir?" asked Diana incredulously.

"Yes. Why, I wrote my name on that shelf this morning."

"Why? Ain't you got a pen and ink?" asked Diana. She hobbled across to the piano and ran her fingers along the top. "I don't call that dusty. Why, I only did it last Monday! I've lost three dusters lately. I don't want to say anything against anybody, but since that woman who works downstairs has been working d'oylies for a church bazaar I can't keep a duster by me."

"She seems very respectable," said Jack, "if you mean the charlady at No. 6."

"Respectable!" scoffed Diana. "I should say she was! Why, she's buried three husbands!"

Jack, watching her, wondered whether he should broach the subject of Mrs. Prendenbury and her sin.

"I suppose you think I'm fastidious for artist?" he asked.

Diana shrugged her ample shoulders, and applied herself to her dusting with great energy.

"I don't know," she said. "I did work for a fastidious lady once. She was a sword swallower at the circus. She'd spend all the night putting swords into her inside, and then come home and complain about the flies in the milk!"

Jack laughed softly.

"I often wonder you never went on to the stage, Diana."

"I did have a chance once," said Diana grimly. "Wilson Barrett was going to give me a part in the Sign of the Cross."

"What part was that?" he asked, interested.

"I was to be one of the early Christian martyrs that was eat by the lions before the curtain went up," said Diana, and he leaned back and roared.

Diana came to the arm-chair, rubbed its polished back, and banged the cushion. As she turned this over she saw something. It was a pair of stockings, and she looked suspiciously at the innocent Jack.

"Hello, what's that?" he asked, looking round.

"Looks like stockings to me," said Diana dryly. "You ain't been painting anybody without their stockings, have you, Mr. What's-yer-name?"

"Of course not."

"H'm," said Diana.

She was still examining them when they were snatched from her, and she turned to meet the flaming face of her mistress.

"What are you doing with those?" she demanded wrathfully.

"What are they?" Jack reached out his hand. "I thought you said you didn't buy anything May?"

"I didn't. These were a present from a girl I know. They didn't fit her. I wish to goodness you'd leave things alone."

Diana had a disconcerting trick of bowing. It was no more than a stately inclination of head, but it exasperated May beyond all endurance. Before she could snap the words which were on her lips, the telephone bell rang and Jack answered.

For a little while he spoke in monosyllables, and then she heard him utter an exclamation of horror.

"You're mad, Frank. Yes, yes; she's just come in. It is absurd!"

He hung up the receiver, and turned a face, frozen with horror, to the pallid girl.

"What is it?" she whispered.

Jack passed his hand across his forehead as though he were in a dream.

"Tell me, Jack. What is it?"

When he did speak his voice was broken and hollow.

"They say that you have been shop-lifting, that they saw you steal something and identified you. They are going to search the house."

Diana's eyes bulged. Her hands clasped across her broad person, she could only stare.

Jack walked quickly to the window, and looked out.

"Yes, there is Smithers watching the house."

He turned to the girl.

"What is the truth, dear?" he asked gently, and in a second she was in his arms.

"Oh, Jack, it is true!" she sobbed. "I have ruined you! Oh, I was mad, mad!"

"True!" he gasped. "May, darling, you don't mean it! Where are the articles you have stolen?"

"It has been going on for a long time, Jack," came her muffled voice. "I don't know how I can look you in the face!"

Jack sprang to the door and turned the key.

"We must get the stuff out of the house. Where is it?"

She had flung herself face downward on the sofa, and her sobs were heart-rending.

"In my— wardrobe," she gulped.

He dashed into the room, and came back in a minute, a bundle of miscellaneous articles in his arms. They ranged from a fur coat to stockings.

"They—"  he began, when there came a knock at the door. He dropped the bundle with a groan.

"Too late!" He gathered the girl in his arms and kissed her. "My poor little girl!"

"Here!" It was Diana's hoarse whisper, and he looked round.

"What about getting all these clothes out of the house?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"It is impossible now."

But Diana had already made her plan. She caught up the bundle and made for the bedroom door, pausing only to make a snatch at the lay figure which, adorned with hat and wig, had been his inanimate model.

Again came the knock at the door.

"Hush," he said gently. "Dry your eyes quickly. We have to hold this man until Diana gets rid of the clothes."

"But, Jack, she can't," wailed the girl. "There is no way out of that room, and if she drops them from the window the people in the street will see her."

A third knock, this time sharply, and after a second's hesitation Jack crossed the room and opened the door.

A square-built man stood in the doorway.

"Morning, Mr. Saverley," he said briskly. "Morning, ma'am."

"Good morning, Mr. Smithers," said Jack. "I think we have met before?"

"Yes," said Mr. Smithers, with his professional manner, "and we shall probably meet again. I've come on a very unpleasant business, Mr. Saverley." He added that he was not the sort of man that gloated over anybody's misfortune, but that the law was the law, when all was said and done.

"Is this lady your wife?" he asked.

"Yes," said Jack, "she is my wife."

Mr. Smithers shook his head.

"H'm. Very bad business this. You guess why I've come, I suppose? I am from Tapperleys." This time he spoke direct to May.

"Why the devil should my wife guess anything about you?" snarled Jack, and the man raised a restraining hand.

"I'm here in the execution of my duty. I'm a police officer from Scotland Yard. From information received, I have applied for a warrant to search your flat."

Jack took a step forward.

"Warrant or no warrant, you'll search nothing here!"

Mr. Smithers was pained. "What's the good of making a fuss? I've goto do duty."

"May I ask why you have taken this extraordinary action?" asked Jack more quietly.

"That's the easiest thing to explain," said Mr. Smithers. "Tapperleys have been preyed upon by shop-lifters for twelve months. I have reason to believe that your wife is one of the principal offenders. They have lost goods to the amount of three or four hundred pounds to her alone, and she has been watched. To-day she was seen taking certain articles from the bargain basement."

"You dare to say that my wife—"

May's arms were round his neck; her wet face to his.

"Oh, Jack, what is the use?" she begged.

"Exactly; what is the use?" urged Mr. Smithers.

He wanted everything done quietly and in order. He respected Mr. Saverley, who was a gentleman, and no doubt an artist. He was prepared to wait until Jack came to a reasonable frame of mind. He sat down to argue the legality of his position. Jack was content that he should talk.

Mr. Smithers concluded:

"What is the good of making all this fuss, Mr. Saverley? If I can't find the goods, why then, I owe you an apology. If the goods are there— well then, there's going to be trouble!"

"Reahly— what is it all about? Do tell me."

She had come into the room without their hearing her— a magnificent woman, expensively arrayed. No longer in the first bloom of youth, despite her golden hair and her fresh complexion, she carried herself imperially. Through a pair of lorgnettes she examined the company critically.

"Which is the artist?" she asked, in the tired tone of one who had grown weary of thinking.

"I am the artist," said Jack shortly.

"I'm so glad. I called in with a commission. Is this a friend of yours? Oh, good morning. I am so much obliged to you for opening the door." She surveyed the detective through her lorgnettes. "You are so like dear Lord Harthur Hallen that you quite startled me. Poor dear, he was took away to 'Anwell, suffering from water on the brain, through standing in the rain without 'is 'at. I'm Lady Mary Goldenbird."

"My God!" whispered Jack, recognising the hat and the wig.

"I beg your ladyship's pardon, I am sure— but the fact is, I am a detective," said Smithers.

"Reahly? How very extraordinary, amazingly and remarkably strange! How perfectly fascinating! So you're a slop— a rozzer— to use an Italian expression. Do you like Italy, Mr. Smithers? I think it is simply lovely and charming and delightful. You must come and see me in my little villa."

"I'm sure your ladyship's very kind," said Smithers, overcome.

He respectfully came to her side and lowered his voice.

"I hope your ladyship won't mind my making a search. Are these friends of yours?"

Her ladyship shrugged.

"Not exactly friends. I've met them at whist drives. You know the kind of people one meets when one is out on one's own?"

"The fact is, my lady," said Smithers confidentially, "this young woman is suspected of shop-lifting."

"Reahly? Does one lift shops? How perfectly, splendidly marvellous! I think I'd better go if— er— you're searching."

He saw her to the door, watched her go grandly down the stairs, but did not see her vanish into the flat which at that time was occupied solely by the respectable woman who had buried three husbands, the mistress of the house being on a holiday.

Then he went back to his search— but found nothing. For he had escorted the stolen property to the door.

Downstairs in the respectable woman's kitchen, Diana fanned herself with a blond wig, and the respectable woman, seeing her rouged cheeks, was both shocked and curious.

"To go dressing up at your time of life, Mrs. What's-yer-name!" she said disapprovingly; "and how 'ot you look!"

"So would you if you were wearing six pairs of stockings and corsets that didn't half meet," protested Diana.

"But why?"

"I was posin' for him— he's an artist, as I've often told you."

"She's not much, is she?" asked the respectable woman disparagingly.

"Mrs. S.?" brindled Diana. "As nice and respectable a lady as you'd meet in a month of Sundays, Mrs. What's-yer-name! And a perfect lady!"

The respectable woman was impressed. For Diana did not give good characters lightly.

__________________

27: Con-Lacto Is Strength

The Lady Called Nita, 1930

BETWEEN the Kentish coast and the town of Ashford is a large, square, green field, bordered about with a white fence, and in the centre of the field, picked out in stones, which are limewashed every month, are the words:

CON-LACTO IS STRENGTH

Giles Broad had often zoomed ZHLM-Q into the clouds that he might avoid that offensive sight. On clear days Con-lacto was plainly visible for fifteen miles at 10,000 feet, and Giles had got into the habit of flying low so that he might pass this evidence of Mr. Conway's shame and complacency so rapidly that the words could not be read.

At least, he did until one day, when he dropped so near that he narrowly escaped touching the spire of Linthorpe church.

Not that his passengers knew anything about their danger. They were usually so busy being sick, or praying for Croydon, that, death seemed a pleasant alternative route to comfort and stability.

Four days a week Giles piloted the London-Brussels air packet of the Cloudway Route. It was a dull life compared with those thrilling days of war, when you might not cross the Belgian coast line without inviting permanent disablement.

Sometimes he would make a wide detour and cross the old battle-fields, barging into the salient in his endeavour to pick out such of the places as had immediate interest for him.

The old farm where Willaker crashed; that patch of undamaged wood which sheltered the most vicious of the German "Archies"; the little town where he brought down Muller, the German ace, after an epic fight which lasted twenty minutes. Muller was not killed; he sometimes met that stout and smiling German, and they forgathered in a low Brussels estaminet, and drank confusion to all soldiers who walked on their feet. Muller piloted a bus which plies daily between Amsterdam and Cologne, taking in Brussels en route.

Giles drew so many pounds per month for his services. He often wondered whether Mr. Josiah Conway had planted that infernal advertisement in his path out of sheer malice and spite. Certainly it was not to convince this sceptical air pilot of the value of Con-lacto. Giles was beyond conviction. He had expressed his views with such force that he had expected to be forbidden the house.

"And you're really marvellously lucky that you're not," said Leslie Conway reproachfully. "Why on earth didn't you keep off the subject of Con- lacto, darling? It is fearfully difficult for me as it is. Daddy sent for an Almanach de Gotha last week, and he's been hunting up Filitera's pedigree."

Giles snorted. But this fair-haired and pretty daughter of Josiah Conway was used to snorts. Her father was one of the most effective snorters in the canned food business.

"If he's in the Gotha, I'm a Dutchman!"

"He is in Gotha's," she said sternly. "He's the Count of Filitera and the Marquis Walmer-Rotalio."

"What's the idea? Is he to be the Duke de Con-lacto?" asked Giles savagely.

"Daddy's very partial to him," said Leslie, with something of the family complacency. "He speaks well of Con-lacto, anyway, and he is translating some of our labels into Italian."

Giles laughed sardonically.

And yet the matter was a very serious one for him. The fact that Leslie Conway was the only daughter of an extremely rich man scarcely counted. He did not seriously blame Mr. Conway for thrusting down the throats of helpless invalids and innocent infants a slimy, shivery, creamy fluid that contained the concentrated values of the best cream plus the stimulating qualities of the finest cane sugar, plus Vitamine A, B, or C. And Con-lacto was the daily food of thousands— hundreds of thousands. It stood by many an invalid's bedside and reconciled him to his dissolution; it appeared in babies' bottles; it had been recommended by doctors, and formed the staple diet of infantile royalties. And because of this Mr. Josiah Conway had a castle on one of the upper reaches of the Thames— a great red-brick place that stood on a high hill and overshadowed a bend of the river. It gave him the right of warning trespassers that they would be shot at sight; it filled his massive marble garage with cars of a delicate breed, and enabled him to fish in Scottish rivers and shoot on Yorkshire moors, and sleep beneath the roof of a flat in Carlton House Terrace.

"I merely stated—"  began Giles.

"Giles, my darling, you talk too much. I suppose you really talk all the time you're flying, but the noise of the engine is so loud that you're hardly aware of the fact. What harm would it have done you to have told Daddy that Con-lacto once saved your life? Instead of which, you say that the only time you'd ever used it was to drop a tin on to the head of a German staff officer; and as if that wasn't enough, you told him that immediately everybody in the neighbourhood put on their gas masks!"

"I cannot lie—"  began the virtuous Giles.

"You lied on one side, why not lie on another? Giles, dear, I'm terribly afraid that unless something can be done I shall wake up one morning and see my picture in an illustrated weekly— 'The Beautiful Miss Leslie Conway, who is to marry the Count of Filitera.'"

Giles sighed.

"The next time I come to dinner I'll try to make amends," he said.

"If there is a next time," she warned him.

There was a next time, as it happened. Mr. Conway might despise the views of Giles Broad on the nutritive values of Con-lacto, but he had a high respect for him as a pilot, and since business took him abroad every month, it was, he argued, very desirable that he should travel with the greatest assurance and safety.

"But you quite understand, Leslie, my dear, that there is to be no nonsense with this fellow? Naturally, I do not wish wholly to determine your future to meet my own views of what is right and best for you. There must be a certain independence of selection. Just as in our business we choose only the milk—"

"Daddy, let us keep to our subject," she interrupted gently. "Whatever Giles is, he isn't a cow."

Mr. Conway agreed. He wanted to see her happy and settled. But then, he had wanted to see her happy and settled on every occasion that an eligible young man (from his point of view) had loomed on the horizon. And always, it seemed to Leslie— happily, for his peace of mind, Giles did not know this— there was an extraordinarily good reason why her own selective qualities should be brought into play.

"He is foolish," said Mr. Conway, "and a little uncouth. Such a business as ours could not have been built up except on a scientific basis. Eliminate science from Con-lacto, and what have we?— nil, nothing! When this young man sneers at Con-lacto he sneers at science— at— er— Faraday and Lister and Newton. Such a man must have an unbalanced mind; such a man is no fit mate for my daughter," etc. etc.

Leslie never really worried about her father's plain statements of the fact. The etceteras were, however, very trying. If Mr. Conway had been a sensible creature he would have kept off his favourite subject that night at dinner; but the narrow-headed and swarthy young man who sat on his daughter's right hand, and who spoke in such excellent English that you might never have dreamt his Levantine origin, was mainly responsible for the introduction of the topic.

Giles listened and was bored. He was not only bored, but he showed that he was bored, which was extremely tactless. He was sitting so far away from Leslie, and so near to her father, that occasionally his interest wandered.

"...Now I never travel without a case of The Food," Mr. Conway was saying, addressing his possible relative of the near future. "So far from being ashamed, I am proud of the universal benefit which I confer upon mankind. Why? you ask me" (the Count had not asked him). "First"— he ticked off on his thumb—" Vitamine A," and on his forefinger, "Vitamine B," and then rapidly in succession the best cane sugar, the product of happy cows, packed under ideal conditions...

"Mr. Broad, you will perhaps agree to this. An airman's health is his chief asset. Now suppose, instead of scoffing, you were to make the experiment. A spoonful dropped into a cup of tea..."

"I don't drink tea," said the very trying young man.

"Or coffee..."

"Keeps me awake when I'm flying," said Giles recklessly. "I take my little nap from Dover to Dunkirk." And, as Mr. Conway's eyes opened in horror, the girl intervened hastily.

"Don't take any notice of Giles. Of course he doesn't sleep on duty!"

Mr. Conway shrugged his shoulders and muttered something about "flippancy."

When they were alone, Leslie took her lover by the ear and led him to a quiet corner in a very old-fashioned and earth-smelling conservatory, which was Mr. Conway's idea of a winter garden.

"You deserve to be smacked," she said seriously "I was simply on pins and needles right through dinner, for fear you'd tell that ridiculous story about having blown up a dump with two tins of the wretched stuff! Can't you be good, for my sake?"

Giles shook his head in despair.

"The trouble with me is," he said mournfully, "I can't be a hypocrite. Every time I see an advertisement of Con-lacto— 'Me for Strength'— I want to shy something at it. If it was beer it wouldn't be so bad: I could respect a brewer."

A few days later he stood in the aerodrome discussing matrimony with Fred.

Fred was his mechanic, tall and thin and gloomy, with a long lead- coloured face and pale blue eyes.

"...You can reckon yourself lucky, Mr. Broad, that you're single. I don't know how I come to get married. A good woman, but wantin' me to live her life. She believes in cotton next to the skin. I never have anything but wool. She likes tomatoes— they make me ill... there they are every day on the table— tomatoes! She says I'll get to like 'em in time— if I'll only try! She says I ought to be properly fed. Food's poison to me. Every trip she brings me enough meat sandwiches t' sink a ship. I always drop 'em out over the Channel. She means well. Oh Gawd!"

A stout and charming woman was hurrying across the aerodrome and on her arm was a basket.

"My snack!" groaned Fred; "heavy enough to break her arm."

Giles strolled away discreetly; he wondered if Leslie would come every day with his dinner-pail.

And then he saw the big car run in from the road and recognised his passengers. Mr. Conway he expected, but the attentive young man who walked by Leslie's side was an eyesore.

"Who's your boy friend?" asked Giles, and, when she told him, "Good lord! Is he going up?" He grinned fiendishly. "I'll tell you the spot where we'll do one of the neatest little crashes—"

"Don't be absurd. He's terribly scared. If he wasn't so fond of me he wouldn't make the trip."

Giles watched with a sardonic smile the careful disposal of a square black case.

"Is that the Fairy Food?" he demanded. "I can't get away from that high explosive!"

Mr. Conway was looking at the sky with an anxious frown. Low clouds were scurrying up from the southwest; it had grown colder since the morning.

"It looks a bit rough, my dear— er— Gjles," he said.

Giles cocked an eye aloft and shook his head.

"Absolutely nothing. We'll do Brussels in record time."

The Count was already looking yellow.

"I suppose there's no danger, Mr.— er— ?"

"None at all," said Giles curtly. He looked at his watch. "Are you the only two passengers, I wonder?"

Mr. Conway looked around.

"There only seem to be us three."

"Three?" said Giles sharply. "Leslie isn't travelling?"

"Of course I'm travelling."

He hadn't carried her for two years. Usually she was in the habit of coming to the aerodrome to say good-bye to her father, and the knowledge that she would now be behind him was not very comforting. He hurried over to the office and met his immediate chief half-way.

"They're your only passengers, Giles. The weather report has scared the other people away."

Giles looked up at the sky again.

"Do you think it'll be all right?" he asked, with a frown.

The other nodded.

"The weather's pretty good over the Channel. You'll get half a gale to- night, which means you'll have to stay on in Brussels, but I don't think you'll have a very uncomfortable time."

Giles scratched his chin thoughtfully. He was by no means as optimistic.

He hurried back to the girl.

"Leslie, darling, I want you to give up this trip. I don't think either your father or your pie-faced friend ought to go flying on a day like this."

She shook her head.

"Father has to be in Brussels this evening. He has a very important conference."

"With Con-lacto?" he asked irritably, and was instantly penitent. "I'm terribly sorry, but I really wish you weren't coming up. It looks like being a very jumpy voyage, and you'll be sicker than three cats."

"Don't be coarse," she said.

Five minutes later he went up in the teeth of a wind of rapidly increasing strength.

Clear of Croydon, he began to have an idea of what the weather really was like. The south-west was a black wall, and he noticed, as he followed the direction of the wind, that the clouds were moving very little slower than he. At one minute the countryside was plainly visible, the next it was blotted out by a tumbling, swirling mass of grey cloud. His wireless began to chatter. He picked up his number and the message: "Return to aerodrome. Cyclonic disturbances southwest... "

The machine was now bumping and swaying alarmingly. He banked round at an unnerving angle, and fell into a spin, which he corrected. Fred, the mechanic, pulled a long face, and pointed downwards with a fiendish leer. Giles had an impression of hope on that long unhappy face. He decided to take the risk and darted down with all his engines running.

At any moment something might loom out of that mist and bring him to destruction. He decided to take no risks and climbed up again. The machine steadied, though the wind had increased in strength. After five minutes it seemed a little clearer below, and cautiously he slid down. And then beneath the machine he saw the white feathers of wind-blown waves. He was over the sea, and instantly he turned westward toward the coast.

"A cyclonic disturbance" was a mild description of the storm. It treated his huge monoplane as if it were a piece of paper. The speed indicator told him nothing; the compass jiggled furiously. Suddenly on his right flickered a broad, jagged crack of blue flame, and the reverberation of the thunder almost shivered his head.

Exactly what was his position he could not tell. He sent out a wireless to request the direction, but received no reply. Again and again he brought the 'plane down, always to find raging water beneath him and no sign of land.

The reserve of petrol was not a very large one. He looked at his watch; for two hours he had alternately battled and gone with the wind. He was moving north all the time— he was only too conscious of this— and going north at a terrific rate. The third hour passed, and the mechanic made a report on the petrol supply that struck him cold with fear. Again he dipped, came almost to sea-level, and zoomed up again. Higher and higher he climbed, and well for him. Suddenly, out of the confusion ahead, he saw a white jagged cliff, cleared the crest of it with a foot to spare.... Beneath, he saw a level boulder-strewn plateau, ran wide of it, and, coming back into the wind, battled in the teeth of the gale.... The wheels struck the ground, just missed a devastating boulder, and came to a standstill abruptly. Only for a second, then he found himself going back, and restarted his engines.

"Get out and tack her down," he yelled.

He seized a tool-box and followed the mechanic. They were in a saucer- like depression, almost bare of vegetation, and around them circled a shrill cloud of gulls.

The aeroplane was being slowly blown back to the end of the cliff as Giles trundled a boulder beneath the wheel and reinforced this with another. He climbed up, wrenched open the door of the "saloon," and the Count Filitera almost fell into his arms.

"Get out — quick!" he commanded, lifted the white-faced girl clear, and assisted Mr. Conway to solid earth.

Giles looked round. At one end of the plateau he had seen a square wooden hut, and, taking the girl's arm in his, he piloted her through the driving rain. There was need for his support, for the force of the wind was so terrific that they could scarcely keep their feet. And when he spoke to her he had to shout at the top of his voice.

"Island of some sort... quite small... I thought I saw an automatic lighthouse."

The force of the wind was broken as they came under the shelter of the sloping crater. The house was closed and shuttered; there was no sign of life; even the squat stone chimney had its cover firmly lashed. On the thick, weather- beaten door was an inscription. He peered at this and deciphered the almost obliterated words.

"It seems to be a sort of a bird sanctuary. I've read about it. And this is the watcher's crib."

He knocked at the door, but did not expect an answer. Leaving the girl in the shelter of the hut, he returned to collect Fred and the tools, and in a very short time they had wrenched open the lock and had entered the close- smelling cabin.

It was surprisingly well furnished. There was a bed, a table, an easy- chair, and on a shelf a number of books. Evidently the guardian of this lonely rock only spent a few months of the year in his or her enforced exile.

The small room leading off the main apartment was the kitchen. There was a Primus stove, but no immediate sign of food. By the time he had finished his inspection Mr. Conway had supported his sick-looking guest to the hut.

"Well, well, this is very unfortunate," quavered the master of Con- lacto. "Terribly unfortunate! I'm not blaming you—"

"Why not?" snarled Giles, but an appealing glance from the girl restrained him.

"I suppose we can get off here?" suggested Conway.

"You can swim off," said Giles, more politely. "I don't know how near the mainland is, but I have an idea it's somewhere in the region of nine miles."

"But we shall be seen—"

"I doubt it," said Giles coolly. "Ships give this rock a wide berth. They hate it so much that they never look at it. My wireless is out of order— at any rate, we can't possibly be rescued until this storm ceases, and it looks like lasting two or three days."

Conway's jaw dropped.

"But— but we shall starve!" he stammered. Giles looked at him with grave, thoughtful eyes. "Con-lacto is Strength," he said gently, and saw Mr. Conway wince and the face of Count Filitera lengthen.

"But, my dear fellow, we can't live on—"

"Con-lacto," said Giles firmly. "Con-lacto is Health— a Meal in a Table Spoon— Vitality in a Wine Glass."

Mr. Conway and the Count looked at one another, and in Josiah's eyes was a challenge.

"I agree." His tone lacked heartiness, but his voice was firm. "And I am very glad, my dear Giles, that you remember the shibboleth of our— of my— in fact, of Con-lacto."

"Con-lacto Builds Big Boys," said Giles mechanically.

They retrieved the case from the aeroplane and brought it into the hut. Leslie's search of the kitchen had been most successful, for she had found, not only crockery and Spoons in a cupboard, but, most wonderful find of all, a large tin of tea and sugar, a round box of petrified cheese, and two unopened tins of biscuits.

"We haven't any milk—"

"One teaspoonful in a cup of tea," murmured Giles, avoiding her eyes.

"What about you— er— Giles?" asked Conway diffidently, "In the circumstances we can hardly expect him to live on a diet he— urn— loathes."

To the girl's amazement, Giles nodded.

"Con-lacto for me— The Food of Giants," he said, and when the tin was opened he took a spoonful of the viscid mass and swallowed it without a grimace.

And only then did Leslie Conway understand how he had come to win the Distinguished Flying Cross.

Mr. Conway took up his teaspoon and looked long and earnestly at the white contents of the tin.

"Splendid!" he said, but there was no enthusiasm in his tone. "And what about you, my love?"

"The biscuits and the tea, I think, will sustain me," she said. "They're sweet biscuits, too, and a box of cream cheese."

Mr. Conway dipped in the spoon and filled it.

"Not for me," said the Count hastily. "I have no hunger."

"This will prevent hunger," said Mr. Conway gently.

The Count swallowed, shaking his face many times in the process.

When Giles went back to the 'plane, the gloomy Fred had important news for him.

"I made a mistake about the juice, sir: there's enough in No. 2 tank to get us to land as soon as the wind drops, and she ought to be able to take off from here; we're three hundred feet above sea-level, and after I've cleared away a few of these stones there's a straight run to the edge of the cliff."

Giles waited to consult him about another matter, and returned with his news. The machine was not damaged at all, except that a couple of stays had been broken, but Fred had put these right. Giles consulted the girl.

"You and your father had better sleep in the hut. This other bird can make himself comfortable in the kitchen, and Fred and I will use the saloon of the 'plane."

There was plenty of water on the island; great rain-pools were forming, but, better than this, attached to the hut, a filter-fitted water- butt. The first night spent on this island was alarming enough for the two men who slept in the 'plane. The wind increased in fury. Twice in the night they felt the 'plane moving under them, and made a hurried descent to strengthen its moorings; but the wind dropped before dawn, and though visibility was still bad, and it rained heavily, much of the discomfort of the marooned party disappeared.

Giles arrived at the hut to find two of his passengers at breakfast, and in time to witness the revolt of one of his passengers. He heard the Count's voice raised before he reached the hut.

"I will not have it! It is muck! I would sooner starve! Last night I drank it, but it nearly killed me!"

"I am sorry to hear you say that," said Mr. Conway gravely.

He stirred the thick white contents of the tin and his face wore a thoughtful expression. "I'm sorry to hear you say that about Con-lacto. Don't you think it would be better if you followed friend Giles's example and took a tin with you so that you could eat it as you wished? Have you had your morning ration?"

"At six o'clock," said Giles promptly, "and thoroughly enjoyed it!"

Leslie was staring at the smirking young man.

"If I may say so, I have never felt better in my life," he went on. "There is something about this concoction— and Heaven forgive me for my cruel doubts!— that puts vim and vigour into one. At first the taste is curiously sickly; then, as one feels one's needs supplied, there is a suavity—"

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Conway absently.

He took not quite a teaspoonful, looked at it for a long time, and pushed the spoon with a great effort into his mouth. Giles had the impression that he found some difficulty in swallowing.

Later in the day Giles shared a secret cup of tea with the lady of his heart.

"Do you really like that stuff?"

"It's wonderful! I'm taking back all I said against Con-lacto. Fred is simply raving about it; he's going to take a tin back for his wife, and force her to eat it."

Towards evening, Mr. Josiah Conway came to Giles with a sad story.

"I am perfectly sure I saw that wretched foreigner throw a tin over the cliff. Something startled the seagulls."

"That was Con-lacto," nodded Giles. "I can imagine nothing more startling."

"And I found him," Mr. Conway went on soberly, "sucking eggs— seagulls' eggs!"

Giles was interested. But before he could make any comment, Mr. Conway rounded off his information with a query.

"Very dangerous, isn't it? Are they nutritious— seagulls' eggs?"

"If you get them fresh. But I don't think they can be seagulls' eggs; it's rather early in the season."

"They are not dangerous?" asked Mr. Conway anxiously. "Would you call them— um— nutritious?... A little fishy, perhaps?"

At lunch-time he was missing from the festive board. Leslie munched her biscuit and cheese and drank her tea.

"Daddy's taken his Con-lacto with him. He says it tastes better in the open."

"I saw him as I came in," said Giles firmly.

He did not wish to hurt her with a too vivid description of a middle- aged gentleman squatting behind a rock, entirely surrounded by the cracked shells of eggs ravished from maternal nests.

The wind dropped very gradually. There was a sea fog the second day. By the third day, and when the Count and Mr. Conway were not on speaking terms, and when the sight of a tin of Con-lacto set Mr. Conway shuddering, the sea mist cleared off, and far away on the west they could distinguish a coast line.

"We'll chance it," said Giles, after consultation with his mechanic.

They packed their baggage again into the air-plane, all except one wooden case three parts full of circular tins.

"I'd better take one of these," said Giles, pocketing it.

"I think you're a hero!" she breathed. "And Daddy thinks so, too. He was saying this morning that a man with your power of— something or other—"

"Digestion?" suggested Giles.

"No; it was something rather nice... ought to be a partner. And really, darling, there must be something in it: I've never seen you looking better."

"Con-lacto is Health," said Giles absently.

They drew the aeroplane back as far as it would go, to give them a longer run, and, with the passengers locked in the saloon, Fred swung the propeller and clambered in-board. The engine ticked over for a little while, and then, with a deafening roar which was music to the pilot's ears, the big "prop" swung to a blur. Faster and faster the machine leapt forward, nearer and nearer to the edge of the cliff, and just before solid earth fell away from under the wheels, Giles felt her lift, and with a happy sigh turned her head for the mainland.

THEY FOUND a car to take them to the nearest mainline station. Even then Leslie was not sure whether they were in Northumberland or Scotland. Just before she left, Leslie went in search of the mechanic to tip him.

"It's all right, miss," he said, waving away the note.

"It's a pleasure, I assure you. After all, I've done nothing— only me dooty. It might have been worse if there hadn't been any food—"

"You do like Con-lacto, don't you?"

His face was a blank.

"Con what, miss?"

"You know— the food in the little tin. Mr. Broad said you liked it."

He shook his head.

"But," she insisted, "Mr. Conway had it."

"I don't remember seeing it, miss; but, as I was saying, all them sandwiches my missus brought come in handy after all. They lasted me and Mr. Broad three days, which only shows that my wife's got the rummest ideas about a person's inside—"

But Leslie did not stop to listen. She hurled a fleeting "Hypocrite!" at Giles as she took farewell of him. But apparently she said nothing or did nothing to prevent her father nominating Giles Broad as a director of Con-lacto Limited, and did not so much as raise her voice in protest when Mr. Conway suggested that it wouldn't be a bad idea if a fellow like that— should be a member of the family...

End Vol 2

Table of Contents

Introduction

1: If—?

2: The Magnificent Ensign Smith

3: Mr. Miller and the Kaiser

4: A Raid on a Gambling Hell

5: The U-Beast

6: The Man Who Came Back

8: Blooming Aloes

9: The Girl He Kissed

10: The Vampire of Wembley

11: Sentry No. 1

12: Before Witnesses

13: Fluff Willington Of Berysted, Dorking

14: The Little Dragon of Jade

15: The House of the Candles

16: The Get-Back

17: Stuffing

18: The Man Who Shot the "Favourite"

19: One Night in Somerset

20: A Dream

21: The Lady Called Nita

22:  The Man Who Married His Cook

23: The Knight Who Could Not Kneel

24: Her Father's Daughter

25: The Dramatic Butler

26: Diana Helps

27: Con-Lacto Is Strength