THE EDGAR WALLACE

COLLECTION

Short Stories of Edgar Wallace

Volume 3

2015

Contents

Introduction

1: The Lady of Little Hell

2: The Girl from the Ether

3: Fate and Mr. Hoke

4: "Declared to Win"

5: The Cross of the Thief

6: Bill and the Tappers

7: The Praying Girl

8: The Custody of the Child

9: The Prison-Breakers

10: Findings Are Keepings

11: The Jewel Box

12: The Undisclosed Client

13: Via Madeira

14: The Compleat Criminal

15: Red Beard

16: Bulfox Asleep

17: The Cat Burglar

18: The Pick-Up

19: Discovering Rex

20: The Man in the Golf Hut

21: The Clue Of Monday’s Settling

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Introduction

EDGAR WALLACE was a prolific author of short stories, 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 in the form of series. The non-series stories are collected in these volumes.

The stories below are from The Lady of Little Hell (Nos 1-8), The Prison Breakers (9-16), and The Cat Burglar (17-21), eliminating duplications.

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1: The Lady Of Little Hell

(An End of the War Story)

The Woman In The Veil

A DOZEN boisterous voices greeted the young soldier who stood smiling in the big vestibule of Lord Mortimer's house in Grosvenor Square.

He had come through the swing doors unannounced, a fine stalwart figure of youth in the uniform of the Flying Corps, and was handing his British warm to a servant when his aunt hailed him from the head of the majestic stairway.

Lady Mortimer came fluttering down the stairs to greet him, and there was no mistaking the welcome in her face.

"My dear boy, I am so glad you could come. When we heard of the tremendous work the Flying Corps was doing we despaired of seeing you."

"I told the skipper it was your birthday party, auntie, and he gave me leave," laughed Tom Broadwood as he kissed her.

They clustered round him, a noisy, laughing, admiring throng of boys and girls he had known from their pinafore days. Eager young faces lifted to his, a dozen dance-cards were thrust at him, with base and reckless invitation to scratch out any initials he wished and substitute his own. He waved them off in mock terror and taking his aunt's arm mounted to the big ball-room.

Tom Broadwood was a child of fortune, unspoilt. An orphan and the heir of Morgan Broadwood's millions, he had left Oxford and joined up at the first hint of war. He had served as a private at the defence of Ypres, and later had his commission, first as an officer in a Lancashire regiment and later in the Corps of corps.

"I wanted to talk with you, Aunt Selina," he said, when at last he had piloted her to the deserted library.

"You have made me very unpopular with quite a number of people who want to meet you," she chided him.

Lady Mortimer was a woman of forty-five, who retained much of the beauty which Sargent had rendered imperishable in his Academy picture of 1901. She looked down at Tom as he sank into a deep chair and handed him a silver cigarette box.

"Selina," he said— he never called her "aunt" when they were alone— "I wanted to tell you that I have fixed up things with my solicitors, so that if anything happens to me in France my money and property go to your two boys; the work I am doing now is particularly dangerous."

"More than usual?" she asked anxiously.

He nodded.

"The fact is I have been in the Special Intelligence Department for months. I have been in Germany three times lately."

She gasped.

"Tom!"

"Usually I am dropped from an aeroplane; sometimes I take my own machine, but that is for short work. Next week I am going over on rather a hazardous mission. That was one of the reasons I came home to see you. I want to put my estate in trim for your boys."

She nodded gravely.

"Please God they will never inherit the money," she said quietly. "I look forward to the day when you will have a son of your own."

"That sounds queer to me," he laughed. "I've never met the girl, and anyway I have to tell you this: I have asked Gretton— he's my solicitor— to come along and see you when I've gone and give you a full account of my interests. You are the only relative I have in the world."

She shook her head.

"I'm not," she smiled mischievously; "that's the fun of it— and that is why I wanted to parade you around. You have an unique opportunity of meeting a second cousin."

"A second cousin! I didn't know... what is its name?"

"Dawn Marsh."

He pulled a little face.

"Is it masculine or feminine?"

"Very much feminine! She's unique— a product of the century."

"O lor'!!" exclaimed Tom dismally; "that means she's neurotic or drinks cocktails and admires Morris dances, and has red hair and a soul!"

His aunt smiled mysteriously.

"You shall see. She's the daughter of a cousin— Tom Marsh was in the Consular service and poor— lost all his money in South African Mines and developed a taste for art. The girl was educated in Paris, Munich, and some other weird place, and I'm sure would be the most intelligent being in the world if—"

"If?"

"Well, you shall judge. I confess I don't like sporty girls or doggy girls or Amazon girls, and I do like them to be feminine— but the droopy, snoopy girl who must wear a dressing robe that harmonises with the bath mat—"

"Oh, she's that kind, is she? Where did she spring from?" asked Tom. "I don't seem to have heard of her before."

"America. She's Californian by preferences though British by birth."

Tom rose.

"You pique my curiosity. How does she live if she's so poor?"

Lady Mortimer shook her head.

"Heaven knows— that is a mystery. She has a suite at the Ritz-Carlton, she travels in style, dresses like a queen— and Tom Marsh left exactly three hundred pounds to meet ten thousand pounds worth of liabilities."

Tom laughed aloud.

"Lead me to this financial genius," he said.

SO TOM BROADWOOD came to the presence of Dawn Marsh in a spirit of amused interest. He saw her and his amusement died— but his interest multiplied at an amazing rate.

She sat on a large crimson settee in one of the alcoves of the ball-room annexe. A young man, faultlessly attired, sat by her side, but Tom had no eyes but for the girl. She was, he judged, above medium height. What she wore he could never describe. It was a delicate material of creamy white, and there were touches of black and gold on the dress and a bandeau of black and gold in her hair. He classified her peculiar beauty by his elastic and limited standard as something between a Gibson and a Kirchner girl. The face was healthily and delicately pale, the eyes big and set wide apart, the lips full and crimson, the nose and chin well moulded.

She looked up at him steadfastly and with a certain interest which was childlike in its unfeigned curiosity.

"This is your second cousin, Dawn— Tom Broadwood," said Lady Mortimer, and she raised her coal-black eyebrows with a little smile of pleasure.

"I have heard of you— the slayer of Flying Men," she said. Her voice was a soft contralto, distinct despite its drawl. "Sit down, Aunt Selina."

"I must go— I have been neglecting everybody shamefully. I will see you, Tom, before you leave."

He nodded.

The apparition of this girl had momentarily silenced him. He thought he had never seen anything so lovely.

"Sit down, won't you, Tom," she invited; "you know Count Stopl— don't fight, please; the count is Swedish and we aren't at war with Sweden," she laughed.

The man, who had risen, smiled politely, but it struck Tom that he was not pleased. He was young and decidedly good-looking, though the trim moustache was set over a square jaw and hid lips which, were they exposed might have detracted something from his pleasing appearance.

"Miss Marsh is joking, always joking— but always charming," he said, with a click of heels; "for myself I never can fathom the gracious Miss Marsh, though often I have had the surpassing honour of meeting her."

"The count is terribly curious," she said, with a sidelong smile at her companion, "and yet is so polite. Confess, count, you have been questioning and cross-questioning me for two dances."

"My dear lady!" said the shocked nobleman; "never! I would die before such a rudeness! Is it wonderful, Mr. Broadwood, that all mademoiselle's interests are of first importance to her friends?"— he shrugged his shoulders despairingly— "I but ask you if you ride, if you walk, if you play golf or tennis?"

"I am so sorry, count," she interrupted; "you take me so seriously, and really I am not a very serious person."

She turned to Tom.

"The count was so good to me on the voyage. I am sure if we had met a U-boat he would have vouched for my respectability."

The count smiled and bowed.

"If I have your permission I will take my leave," he said; "I have arranged to meet a compatriot. Does mademoiselle leave for New York soon?"

"To-morrow," said the girl, "and if you ever come to California won't you come and see me?"

"I will give myself that pleasure and happiness."

She watched him as he retired and there was neither regret nor relief in that steady gaze.

"Now, cousin," she said, turning suddenly to the young man, "promise me you won't ask me if I ride or walk or box."

"I can promise you that," said Tom.

"And confess that you have never heard of me before to-night," she challenged.

"It is unpardonable of me," said Tom, "but I never have."

She looked at him from under her lowered lashes and laughed softly.

"You are not staying long in London?" he said.

"Neither are you, they tell me," she replied. "I shall be glad to go out of it. The life here is too strenuous. I was intended for Arcadian surroundings, mossy banks, shady bowers and fluting shepherds."

"With two French maids and a manicurist," he added, and she laughed.

"Some day I will build a house where you press buttons and electricity does the rest. Don't you hate work and hustle, Cousin Tom?"

"I can't say that I do," said Tom, "but I have not had much experience."

"And now you are going to war, which is the hardest work of all"— she shivered; "it's all very horrible and unpleasant and crude and elemental," she said.

Tom had recovered from the awe which she had inspired in him, but he still retained that curiously irritating feeling that he was in the presence of a superior force, mental and, strangely enough, physical.

"I was awfully surprised to hear you don't ride," he said.

"I don't ride from choice," she agreed, "and it's perfectly true that golf doesn't interest me. The fact is," she laughed, "I am constitutionally lazy. I need my French maids and my manicurist and my chauffeur and secretary. They are the necessities of life just as a cup of tea is to the girl in the government office. You are disappointed, aren't you?" she said suddenly.

"Why, no," replied Tom; "only my theory is that everybody should work."

"I will buy a laundry to-morrow," she said, "and you shall come and see me every Saturday and collect your shirts."

"You are laughing at me, and I am afraid I am impertinent," said Tom.

"I don't exactly know what work a girl can do except keep house," she suggested; "a woman s place you know, is the home."

"Some women's places" he said boldly, "are those rosy bowers and mossy banks of yours, and they would look oddly foreign in any other environment."

"If that is intended for a compliment I thank you," she said gravely. "Would you pick up my dance programme? It is lying within three inches of my hand and I haven't been able to summon sufficient energy— thank you. It has been worrying me for the last half-hour, and I dare not tell the count lest be grovelled on the floor and picked it up between his teeth."

They both laughed together.

"Now you are dying to go away," she said, "but I won't let you till someone comes. I know you are only making a flying visit to Town, but I am intensely selfish. I know hundreds of people want to see you, but they must be patient till I have finished with you. Will you please call that waiter— I want an ice— and could you reach over and pick up my shawl? You see I like being waited upon."

Tom was amused. This was a new type to him and not unpleasant. He supposed that in course of time the novelty would pall, and the naked selfishness and helplessness of the girl would irritate him, but for the time being it was all very charming, and when at last her partner came to claim her he took farewell with regret.

"Please write to me from France," she said; "You know my place at Mollinos."

He thought of the late Tom Marsh and his three hundred pounds' estate and wondered.

She laid her cool palm in his and for a second or so her splendid eyes held him. They seemed to search his mind, his very soul. Then:

"Good-bye, Cousin Tom. Remember to write. Don't tell me horrible things— how many Germans you have killed; and please, please don't tell me of your sufferings or your privations because I am awfully sensitive!"

HE FOUND HIMSELF that night standing outside Lord Mortimer's house, looking up at the lighted windows of the upper floors, speculating upon which of those rosy curtains shut out the world from this dainty and fragrant lady.

It was half-past twelve, and he had arranged to spend the night in the flat of an old Oxford friend, now a silver badge man working for the Red Cross.

London has a charm of its own and, declining the use of Lady Mortimer's car, he strolled aimlessly in the direction of his lodging. He called in at his club and wrote a few letters, met a man of his squadron on leave, who delayed him at a street corner whilst Tom retailed the latest news from the Front, and it was nearly two o'clock when he set forth in earnest to discover his friend's flat.

Like every Londoner, he did not know his London very well, though the West End is very difficult to lose yourself in. Nevertheless he found himself in a poor quarter of the town, without any idea as to where he was wandering or in which way he could reach Portland Place.

He was in a street of mean tenements when his adventure occurred. The door of one of the houses opened and a woman walked down the steps, crossed the road diagonally and in a direction which eventually brought her to the same sidewalk and ahead of Tom.

She might be unaware of his presence in the street, for he wore rubber protectors on his field boots, and certainly she gave no indication that she knew she was being followed.

At the corner of one of the cross streets she stopped suddenly, and Tom crossed the roadway so that he need not pass her. He thought possibly she had seen him and stopped to speak to him, and he had no particular desire for conversation.

He was half-way across to the opposite side walk when he saw he was mistaken. A man was approaching her furtively, and presently she spoke to him. Tom saw the newcomer take something from his pocket, a package of some kind, and hand it to the girl— and at that moment came a diversion.

From the shadows sprang another man, and Tom saw that it was a policeman. Where be came from, what secret hiding-place, the young soldier could only guess.

Without a word the policeman sprang upon the man, and Tom saw his truncheon rise and fall, and his victim collapse with an ominous limpness. Tom stood watching, a frown of indecision on his face. He knew that the blow which felled this wretched wanderer of the night was struck with no ordinary club. He knew, too, that English policemen do not ordinarily use their truncheons except in moments of peril.

Instinctively he realised that the man on the ground was dead. The policeman seized the girl by the arm and then, for the first time, he spoke.

"Your coup did not develop as you hoped," he said.

She answered him in a low tone.

"And nobody suspected it," he sneered. "I alone dared doubt you— all your plans, all your— "

What followed passed so swiftly that Tom had not taken half a dozen swift strides toward them when the thing was done.

He saw the policeman seize the woman, caught the flash of steel, and saw her wrench herself free. The man stooped to spring, and at that moment a quivering thread of flame leapt from the woman's hand, the crash of a report woke the echoes of the silent streets, and the policeman staggered, swayed, and fell.

At that moment Tom reached them.

"What have you done?" he demanded.

He could not see the face, hidden behind a thick veil, but he saw in the light of a street standard that she was dressed in black from head to foot, and the figure was that of a girl.

The hand that held the pistol was bare and the space between thumb and forefinger was black with the back-fire of the automatic.

This he saw; then:

"Stand back!" She waved him off with the weapon, then turning, she flew swiftly.

He started in pursuit, but remembered the fallen policeman and turned back. Other feet were running and she would probably meet the constable on the next block. He had nearly reached the fallen policeman when he saw something lying on the ground and stooped to pick it up. It was a thin, flat piece of white ivory the size of a five-shilling piece, and it bore a rough resemblance to an eagle with outstretched wings. On its surface and burnt into the ivory were the ciphers "395" and the letters "K.I."

He slipped the "bone" into his pocket and was stooping over the dead officer when two other policemen arrived.

"What's this?" said one.

"I am afraid one of your men has been shot."

"One of our men?" said the policeman who wore the chevrons of a sergeant; "what is one of our men doing here? He's dead enough," he said, after a cursory examination. "Do you know this man, Constable Smith?"

"No, sir," said the other.

Tom looked over their heads as they unbuttoned the man's coat.

"Why," exclaimed one of the policemen in surprise, "he's in evening dress!"

He had flung back the uniform overcoat and disclosed the glazed shirt- front and the white waistcoat. Over the heart was a little red patch where the bullet had struck.

Tom leant down closer and received his second shock.

"Why— why— " he said.

"Do you know him?" asked the policeman.

"Yes, I know him," said Tom quietly; "his name is Count Stopl, and he is a friend of Lord Mortimer's."

A QUARTER of an hour later he was ringing the bell of the darkened house be had left before midnight. His aunt came down in her wrap. Briefly Tom narrated the events of the past crowded hour, and Lady Mortimer shook her head pityingly.

"The poor boy! I must go up and tell Dawn."

She left the room and was gone ten minutes. When she returned she was accompanied by the girl, who looked radiantly lovely in a flowered silk dressing-gown. She had, apparently, been roused from her slumbers, for her hair had been hastily stuffed under a boudoir cap.

She listened in silence whilst Tom told the story.

"It is all very dreadful," she said; "and now for the second time, Cousin Tom, good-night."

He took her hand in his and held it, looking down till she snatched it back from him.

"Good-night," he said, and went back to the police station to spend the time when he should have been sleeping making a signed statement of the crime he had witnessed, all the time conscious of the knowledge that between the thumb and the finger of Dawn's right hand was that little black splash of powder which an automatic pistol makes when it throws back.

Little Hell

THE Chief Intelligence Officer of the 16th British Army looked up as Captain Tom Broadwood entered his bureau.

"Sit down, Broadwood, for a moment," he said with a smile; "I won't keep you long."

He finished signing the papers before him, and as his clerk was going he said:

"Sergeant Lorring, I am not to be interrupted, and see that body comes near that door."

"Yes, sir," said the non-com and disappeared.

Colonel Waterson leant forward, his elbows on his desk, and dropped his voice:

"Broadwood, I shall want you to leave to-morrow night— are you ready?"

"Yes, sir," smiled Tom. "I have been ready for a fortnight, ever since I came back from leave."

"Oh, by the way," a thought struck the Intelligence Officer, "that man Stopl whose end you witnessed in London— he has been identified."

"Identified?"

"Well, he wasn't a count, you know, and his name wasn't Stopl. His real name was Brakzand, and he was known to the American police as a particularly dangerous German agent."

"But he moved in good society. Surely the Swedish Embassy would have exposed him?"

"It was difficult. You see, there was a Count Stopl who died in some outlandish place in South America. He had no relations who knew him or anything of him. When the spurious Stopl turned up in London, he was accepted. He had plenty of money and apparently knew all the best people in American society. But he was undoubtedly a bitter enemy of Britain. That is by the way. I thought you would be interested. They have not found the woman who killed him, but the general theory is that she also was a German spy who had quarrelled with him."

Tom's face was thoughtful. He had been trying to forget things in the past fortnight— trying to forget a pair of the loveliest eyes in the world, and a hand which had been blackened by the back-throw of an automatic pistol.

"You know quite a lot about the matter, colonel," was all he said.

The other nodded.

"I'm supposed to know something about spies," he said grimly, and went on with the business in hand. "You have had all the instructions you want about your present job? Good. I will repeat the important points. In the uniform of a private of the Royal Air Force you will take a machine— an obsolete one, which will give you about 180 miles' range— leaving late to-night. You will make your landing near the prison camp at Ingolsberg, burn your machine, and surrender to the prison camp authorities. Between now and next Monday we shall plant a machine for you in a barn which was erected by one of our agents for the purpose at the farm called Halle Stadt, which looks out on to a lonely bit of moorland. Whilst you are at the farm you are to discover the identity of the Baroness von Zimmermann, a friend of the commandant's and a frequent visitor."

"How long do I remain a prisoner?" asked Tom glumly.

The colonel smiled.

"You will escape when you receive orders from Parry to get away."

"Parry? Who is Parry?"

"That is the name of a mysterious somebody who needs your help. I confess I don't know Mr. Parry— whether be is young or old, tall or fat, bearded or clean-shaven."

"It's a mysterious stunt, sir," said Tom. "I can't say I like the prisoner of war idea."

"You don't want to go?" asked the colonel quickly.

"Go, sir! Why, of course I'll go— only—"

The colonel nodded.

"Unsatisfactory, eh? Well, that's just how it struck me."

TOM left the aerodrome early the next morning riding an old "pusher" bus, which had this advantage, that if it was slow it was sure. He carried no arms and no other bomb than the incendiary bomb which was to ignite the machine.

He passed over the line, heavily shelled, though he had avoided the more sensitive spots in the enemy's defensive systems and crossed the broad steel ribbon of the Rhine an hour before dawn.

He found Ingolsberg— sighted its forbidding laager in the grey hours of a raw morning, and came down calmly within a hundred yards of an old and astonished sentry, who blinked through full-moon spectacles, and did not realise that he was witnessing a manifestation of war until the aeroplane burst into red flame and a good-looking young man in the unfamiliar uniform walked across to him and said:

"I am British."

An hour later, with a palpitating sentry on either side of him, he met, for the first time, the Prussian officer of tradition. Hitherto the Germans he had met— mostly on the right side of the British line— had been courteous. Now he was to meet, not the fighting soldier, but the military politician, the martinet of the theoretic school, a soldier who had not as yet experienced the humanising effect of battle.

Colonel Heyderbrand was a man of fifty-six, lean, straight, and wasp- waisted. His hair and trim moustache were white, his face otherwise being clean shaven.

He sat at his table, a long cigar between teeth which were suspiciously white and regular for so old a man, and surveyed the prisoner.

"English?" he asked harshly.

"Yes."

"Say 'sir,' you swine!"

Tom did not answer.

"Where did you come from, and why did you land?"

"Went astray in the night and finished my petrol."

"Say 'sir,' damn you!"

No answer.

The colonel's face flushed red.

"I will teach you... yes, by God, I'll teach you! Take him away, Feldwebel."

So Tom Broadwood was bundled from the room and was turned loose in a great wired cage to wait his captor's pleasure.

And here it was that he met that remarkable man, Dusty Miller. He stood stiffly erect, his back to a pole, and his constancy in that position was due less to an ingrained respect for authority than three separate sets of straps which bound him there.

The brown face was small and rugged, the mouth big and whimsical, and his blue eyes ranged his restricted field of vision with hope and expectancy. He whistled a little tune in slow time— a melancholy tune, suggestive of partings and weeping mothers and flower-strewn graves, and ever and anon exchanged an unfriendly word with the sentry who marched within insulting distance.

Tom approached the scene in wonder and wrath. It hurt his manhood to see a fellow-man treated like cattle; it stung a certain pride in the common ancestry which he and the prisoner shared.

As for the bound man, he ceased whistling when the other approached and eyed him curiously.

"Ostraylian?" he asked.

Tom smiled and shook his head.

"Flying Corps," he said.

The man's blue eyes opened wide.

"A pilot— a fightin' pilot? How many of the perishers did you 'out' before they pinched you?"

"Three or four," and the soldier beamed.

"Say 'forty' an' cheer me up," he begged.

The sentry approached with a frown.

"You must not speak to the prisoner whilst he is undergoing 'strafe'," he said in German.

"Take no notice of 'im," begged the man at the pole. "Hector, I'm surprised at you intrudin' yourself between friends. Here— What's— your— name?"

"Broadwood— Thomas Broadwood," laughed Tom.

"You're either Tommy or Broady— make up your mind."

"Any old thing."

"Well, Broady, I finish my 'strafe' today— come over to F.7 an' have a yarn," urged the man. "My name's Miller— commonly called 'Dusty.'"

"What did you get this for?" Tom indicated the pole.

"Escape," said the other laconically; "my ninth. I've had ten days of this an' twenty-one days 'strooben' arrest— that's German for 'dark hole an' little grub.' But the worst ain't much worse than the best in Little Hell."

"Little Hell?"

The man nodded and grinned.

"Little Hell," he said with relish; "the one camp in Germany that no nootral ambassador ever visited. Every man here's a dog— an' treated like it. Nine escapes I've made, but I've got a better idea for my tenth escape. Here comes the Feldwebel," he muttered, "hop it!"

And Tom "hopped it" in time to avoid meeting the martinet of the camp.

It was not until the next afternoon that he met the cheerful little man, and then learnt that he was getting acquainted with one of the most famous men of Germany. For Dusty was an escape expert. He had been a prisoner since the battle of Mons and, as he said, had made a get-away nine times. Thrice he had been captured on the Dutch frontier, within sight of liberty, once on the Swiss frontier. He had employed a score of tricks and subterfuges, he had smuggled compasses and maps, files and wire-cutters, he had indeed broken every law governing the prisoner of war, and had suffered imprisonment in Cologne, Munster, Dresden, and Ingolsberg, to say nothing of minor terms of solitary confinement in local camps.

The two men strolled across the recreation ground together and half a dozen watchful eyes followed them.

"I've never had a pal who spoke German," explained Dusty; "if I had I'd have made an escape years an' years ago. I've been in these dam' laagers for a hundred an' fifty years an' six months, as a prisoner counts time. Now the question is, are you game?"

Tom looked at the little man. The time might come when it would be necessary to get away and such a man as this might be useful.

"I'll help you escape if you want to get away," he said steadily, "but for the time being I don't want to go myself."

The little man stared at him.

"Been bit by a shell or something?" he asked anxiously "don't want to get away?"

"Not yet," smiled Tom.

"I've often thought I'd like to go to Monte Carlo," said Dusty loudly as a German non-commissioned officer in silent shoes overtook them; "I'm told it's rather a pretty little place, but a bit wild."

When the officer had passed out of hearing Dusty spoke again.

"You've got to be careful; some of these poor fellows talk English better than me an' you. Don't forget I'm watched— they search the room I sleep in three times a night. I'm so popular with the other fellows who have to turn out of bed in the cold an' be inspected that I expect to die young. But do you mean you'd help me hop it?"

Tom nodded.

"You said you had a plan," he said.

"So I have. Listen. The commandant of this place is sweet on a girl— a Baroness."

Tom started. He expected to have some trouble in learning things which were, apparently public property.

"She comes here once a week to tea," Dusty went on; "every Thursday. She's the widder of a German officer, husband killed in the war, I'm sorry to say— lend me your handkerchief, I'm crying I— an' Commandant Heyderbrand is fairly— "

"Crazy is the word you want."

"Potty was the word I wanted, but yours will serve, Broady. They have tea in the commandant's quarters an' she drives up in a motor-car, which comes inside the wire of the camp an' is run into a stable alongside the quarters. My plan is this: we get into that stable an' hide in the car. it always goes out before my lady an' drives about a mile up the forest road an' waits, an' the silly old— our respected commandant strolls up with the girl to the spot. I've seen him do it."

His chance had come within an hour of his arrival. Tom turned the proposition over in his mind.

"How do you get to the stable?" he asked.

"There's only one way," explained Dusty, lowering his voice, for they had turned and were walking back to the huts; "there's a door from the commandant's quarters and his house can be reached through a tunnel me an' a feller named Golder dug the last time we was here— I was transferred to another camp before it could be used for another grand plan I had in connection with the commandant."

"What was that?" asked Tom.

"To cut his dam' throat," said the little man with such concentrated malignity that Tom shivered.

The days dragged slowly, for life in Ingolsberg Laager was a dreary and wearisome thing. He was herded in a big hut with two hundred other men. The food was vile, the bread half sawdust and the mess which was called by courtesy "soup," wholly impossible.

Every evening he drew as near as possible to the big gate, hoping that the woman would put in an appearance. He spent his nights conning his chief's instructions. Who was the mysterious Parry, the secret agent at whose word he must attempt escape, and in what manner would he make known his order?

In a way the prison experience was interesting and helped pass the time of waiting. He was meeting, not for the first time— he had served as a private in the early days of the war— the working-class Englishman. At first he thought him a dull brute, whose language was deplorable; then he realised that the dullness was diffidence, the brutality a sort of rough philosophy. His language meant nothing, his threats of violence addressed to such of his comrades in misfortune as annoyed him less than nothing. Under the crudity of speech and manner Tommy was a sentimentalist, unswervingly loyal, and a great player of the game. It shocked him to hear them speak disrespectfully of the "Belgiums"— they never said "Belgians"— but he was to discover that the Flemish prisoners had the best time in camp and repaid the kindness showed them by their guards by a little unofficial espionage upon their fellows.

He learnt that the French and the English were polite friends, but did not "mix," and that Tommy's greatest friend in adversity was the Russian soldier, "loyal and lousy," as an English N.C.O. described him. And be discovered why. The Russian was a child and Tommy was a child; it was the affinity between unsophistications.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday passed and, to his relief, Dusty Miller made no attempt to approach him.

On the Thursday occurred the extraordinary happening. He had gone to the cookhouse to stand in a long queue, with a basin in his hand, to receive his midday "soup." The mixture was brown water, quite transparent, with a few scraps of vegetables floating on the surface.

As he carried his ration back to the dining-hall be looked into the concoction— and almost dropped it. For, at the bottom, was an oblong slip of ivory and it bore the one word, which could be plainly read:

"PARRY"

He looked round to see if he were observed and fished the slip from the basin. He turned it over and read in microscopic writing

"Be prepared to leave. Message will be delivered to you at Halle Stadt."

That was all. In what manner he should leave was not suggested.

That afternoon, when the bell had sounded for supper and the prisoners were moving from the recreation ground to their huts, Dusty strolled toward him.

"Look, but don't take too much notice," he said, and jerked his head to the north side of the camp where the commandant's wooden house stood. Tom turned his eyes in the direction the other had indicated. A big limousine was standing before the house, the straight-backed colonel was bowing his greetings to a graceful woman who was at that moment alighting.

"That's her," said Dusty, in a tone of proprietorship. "Would you like a bath?"

"Would I what?" asked the startled Tom.

"A bath?" said the other calmly; "we're allowed one between four an' six. There's the bath-room— that red hut. Stroll over an' turn on the tap; I'll be with you in a minute."

Tom obeyed instructions, tingling with excitement. Had "Parry" arranged this? Was the little man himself Parry? No one challenged him as he made his way leisurely to the frame hut that served the prisoners for their ablutions. It was a roomy place, with a broad trough of running water in the centre, and in two corners were small cubicles. Tom had tubbed once that day but he knew he was expected for once to carry out orders.

He turned the faucet, let the water splash into the big concrete basin that served as a bath, and it had run half full when he heard Dusty's quick step.

"That's the wrong one. Come over here," whispered Miller; "quick— here's a knife; prize up that floor-board whilst I watch."

The floor-board yielded easily, revealing a cavity of uncertain depth beneath.

"Squeeze down and drop— I'll put back the board," said Miller; "hurry!"

Tom struggled through the slit and, with some misgiving, let go. He fell only a few inches and presently his companion was at his side. The "champion escaper" deftly replaced the floor-board and presently Tom heard him strike a match.

The light of the candle he lit showed they were in a roughly excavated pit about eight feet deep and four feet square. Against one side of the pit hung a ragged piece of sacking.

"Just as we left it!" whispered Dusty in admiration.

He pulled the canvas down and revealed the entrance of the tunnel. It was the size of a large drain-pipe, but the brief examination which Tom made showed that it had been scientifically constructed. It was supported by wooden props— pieces of wood filched from time to time by the amateur engineers and applied to the purpose with infinite labour.

"It took eight of us three months to make it. I'll go first," said Dusty.

He crawled into the entrance and Tom followed. The going was slow and laborious. He found himself unbearably hot and gasping for breath, for of ventilation there was little.

After they had been crawling for twenty minutes— it seemed hours— the hollow voice of Dusty said:

"Come up farther and stand up."

To his surprise, Tom found he could stand erect and stretch his cramped and aching limbs.

Dusty relit the candle. They were standing in a pit very much the same size as that into which they had dropped half an hour before, with this exception, that one of the pit sides was faced with brick.

Dusty took a chisel from his pocket, searched for something in the wall, and then gently pressed the edge of the chisel into what appeared to be mortar.

"Soap an' sand," he whispered hoarsely, "me an' Nobby Clark opened this wall the day before they shifted us to another camp."

Working rapidly, he removed brick after brick, Tom crouching by his side holding the candle. Presently a hole was made big enough to pass through, and again Dusty led the way.

They were in a cellar, well stocked with wine and beer. A flight of steps led up to a trap-door and Dusty removed his boots.

"Get yours off, Broady," he said, "climb that ladder while I'm puttin' these bricks back an' push up the trap— there's nobody there or we should hear 'em. I tried but I ain't strong enough."

Tom mounted the steps and pushed gingerly upward. The trap yielded slightly. He pressed harder, putting forth all his strength, and he heard a soft rustle as something slid down the inclined surface of the trap. He listened but there was no sound from the room and he pushed open the trap without difficulty and climbed into a room which was evidently used as a forage store, for it had been a sack of oats lying on the trap which had made it so difficult to open.

Dusty was by his side in a minute, the trap replaced, and the sack of oats returned to its position.

Dusty tried the door and it opened. A brief reconnaissance and they emerged into a corridor, from which opened three doors, the one at the farther end of the passage which faced them being covered by a heavy velvet portière, and the others to the left and the right.

"That's the one," whispered Dusty, indicating the left; "it leads into the garage."

He moved forward and grasped the knob when a smothered exclamation from Tom stopped him.

"What's wrong?" snarled the Cockney, turning.

He saw Tom's eyes fixed upon the doorway at the end of the passage, and following the direction of their gaze he stood open-mouthed at what he saw, for a hand parted the curtains, a gloved hand, and it pointed urgently to the other door.

Only for a moment was Tom paralysed, then, with two swift strides, he reached the portière and pulled the curtain aside. There was nobody there. He was confronted by a heavy oaken door which did not yield to his pressure.

The little space between door and curtain held a delicate fragrance. It was a woman, then!

He came back, puzzled.

"Quick!" urged Dusty in a whisper.

"Not that door. The hand pointed the other way," said Tom.

They moved to the opposite door, turned the handle and pushed it open, and confronted Colonel Heyderbrand!

Resistance was useless. They stood still whilst the commandant shouted his orders.

They were still standing when the soldiers burst in and secured them.

"Pigs! dogs!" hissed the comrnandant. "Why did you not go into the garage, eh? You would have been finished with Little Hell then! To the larger Hell you would have gone! You know what would happen? I was waiting for you. You would have been shot down as you opened the door. You have had a lucky escape, for you have been watched ever since you went into the bathroom, and I was hoping to make an end of this swine," and he lashed Dusty across the face. "Take them away," he said— "but stay, our good friend shall see this scum."

He walked across the ornate room in which the arrests had been made and flung open a door.

"Gracious lady," he called, "Baroness von Zimmermann! Let me show you some of my wild animals!"

He stood aside with a little bow as the woman entered.

"My God!" cried Tom, for it was Dawn Marsh who stood smiling in the doorway and viewing him superciliously through a pair of lorgnettes!

________________

2: The Girl From The Ether

CAPE RACE said "O.L." and had been saying "O.L." at regular intervals for a quarter of an hour. Not in any spirit of profanity did Cape Race speak, but soberly, almost wistfully— for "O.L." decoded meant no more than the S.S. Thibetian.

Strictly speaking, it applied less to twenty thousand inanimate tons of riveted steel plate and spinning turbines, than to Carter Jackson, for he was the operator on duty and should have been sitting at his table, ear-pieces clamped to his head, left hand on key, right hand manipulating pencil on paper, his whole mind absorbed in the message that Cape Race had to send.

Instead of which, his ear-pieces lay on the table; he could hear the whine of the code call, but heeded it not. For he was deliciously deep in the lily land of might-have-been. There is a big white house which stands back from the post-road— a house whose upper stories are hidden when the maple is in leaf. And way behind there is a wide porch, where sentimental young people can sit and watch the full moon fretting a silver path across Long Island Sound....

"Had she have loved me? Just as well—

She might have hated, who can tell,"

growled Carter, and stretched his arm for the receivers.

Suppose Balderwood Jackson, uncle and patron of his one spoiled nephew, had weathered the financial storm which beat him down. It had seemed ludicrously impossible to Carter that there could have been a storm at all, for did not all men agree that never in the history of the country had money been so plentiful or its prosperity so great? Out of a clear sky had the lightning struck. Meterological experts are familiar with such happenings; there is a death-rate to the wealthiest of communities; when Midas touched a cabbage and turned it to gold, some peasant was short a perfectly good vegetable.

Anyway, Balderwood Jackson who, although he was a good citizen, did nevertheless contravene the Sullivan Act, which forbids the possession of lethal weapons, laid hands upon himself, and his name figured largely in the evening editions.

For he had sold short certain stock, which might be likened in general uninterest of appearance to the domestic cabbage, and a Midas corporation had turned them into gold.

They brought the news to Carter at his home on the Sound. He kept the reporters waiting because he was trying out his new wireless set. When he heard and understood, he went back to his tiny wireless-room and tapped out into the ether the Twenty-Eighth Psalm, which he knew by heart. There was no reason why he should do this, indeed it was at best a mechanical performance— machine work for the settlement of his panicking thoughts. But it was immensely confusing to other amateur radiographers who were listening-in.

In a sense this exercise was strangely fitting as a commentary upon Balderwood Jackson's life and failure.

The passing of his uncle's estate, the sordid business of auction sales, the vulgarity of court proceedings, none of these things had touched Carter. For he was twenty-four and superior to material things. He had called upon Grace Meredith and had formally released her from her engagement, and she, to his amazement, had accepted the release in a few well-chosen and appropriate words.

That hurt...

"O.L."... "O.L."

There was an impatient note in the call. Carter sighed, turned over a switch, and the key quivered under his hand.

"Wts mttr wi u?" asked Cape Race— Carter could almost hear the operator's snarl, and grinned.

"Go hd," he said, and there came an avalanche of "welcomes," "rooms reserved," stock prices and the like.

For an hour he wrote rapidly, then with a final sarcasm Cape Race was silent.

Carter folded the messages into envelopes and addressed them to the passengers— asleep now, if their several consciences permitted— and put them aside for early morning delivery.

He sat for a while reaching out into space, lengthening and shortening his wave-lengths. Once he heard faintly, so faintly that he could detect no sequence to the letters, the far-off voice of Aberdeen. Somewhere on the rugged coast of Scotland an operator was jabbering to Rome, and the faded fringe of the message came into the waters of the dark Atlantic. Then he heard the Berengaria, and she was speaking to the Olympic very severely.... It was all about an ocean letter that had gone astray....

Carter took off his receiver and then rising walked out on to the dark boat-deck as Granger took over the watch.

Leaning over the rail he puffed critically at the butt of the wonder- cigar. It had been donated him by a misguided passenger, who felt that his gift would accelerate the dispatch of an anguished message. Carter accepted the bribe with dignity, and put ten dollars' worth of slushy sentiment through Cape Race in its turn.

The days of the passionate "remember me's" and the "never forget you's" had passed. Poldhu was a faint and blurred whine of sound. Only the talk of outward steamers and occasionally the fragments of incoherent talk, and that in tones as thin and high as the shrill of the cicala, from Aberdeen, reached the wireless-room.

Carter made his cigar last for two hours, and as eight bells went for'ard, he went back to the house of mystery.

The myopic Granger was polishing his big spectacles, and glared round as the other slammed the door.

"Here you are, are you?" he said fretfully and-unnecessarily. "Eight bells went quarter-'n-hour ago."

"You're a liar," said Carter amiably. "Any one around?"

"Not a soul," replied Granger, climbing into his jacket, "and there's no news."

"No news!" repeated the wrathful Carter; "you big, fat, lazy devil, do you mean to tell me that you've been stalling here all this watch, and you haven't been out for news?"

"No news," said Granger at the door, and not without satisfaction, "and as to going out for news, why, I've prodded the ether to Mars— and even she said nothing."

Carter snorted.

"How are the first-class passengers going to last a day without news?" he demanded severely. "What is going to happen to-morrow night when they go down to dinner and there's no ship's bulletin?"

"Fake it," suggested Granger helpfully from the open door. "It's easy. Say the Jugo Slavs are restless, an' that the Allies are holdin' a conference, an' somebody's been shot in Ireland— "

"Get out!" snapped Carter, and the door banged.

He sat down at the table, fixed his ear-pieces, and tapped a key. Then he turned a little nob on a dial and again rattled the key. It was hardly true that there was "nobody about." A hundred and fifty miles away the big Cunarder Aurelia was pushing her nose into a sou'-westerly squall, and be heard the chatter of her.

"Hullo!" tapped Carter, "what's biting you?"

But still the Aurelia chattered. Presently she stopped and whined her code number, "K.M."

"J.L.," tapped Carter. "How's Corky?"

"Fine," came the reply— Corky, chief operator of the Aurelia had had pneumonia the last time the ships had spoken. Then:

"Got any news?" asked Carter.

"No," was the reply. "Aberdeen very faint— shall I relay from Tusamic?"

"Are you in touch with Tusamic?"

"No!"

"Then what the hell are you talking about?"

"E... E... E... !" exploded Aurelia in sheer merriment.

Carter grinned and sent out another length.... Aberdeen— unmistakably Aberdeen, but unintelligible. He shortened and picked up news about Senator Billister....Ponsons tender had been accepted... should specifications go forward to Paris....

Carter waited awhile until he heard the code. The message was for the eastern-bound White Star boat. There would be no news. That crazy Granger must have missed it.

He played scientifically with a key, and then:

"I- LOVE- YOU- VERY- MUCH."

He wrinkled up his nose and stared at the words which he had written mechanically.

A fragment of some moony passenger's message....an errant scrap of sentiment torn from its context ? Strange that it should be spelt out without any of the professional contractions. It should have run "I— LOV— U— VY— MCH." An amateur? What amateur would be sending at one o'clock in the morning— and what amateur radiographer operated from the wide ocean? For his dial told him that this message had come from a ship in a sea somewhere in the northern seas.

"Rum," he said, and then:

"C- A- R- L- O  D- E- A- R."

Carter Jackson made a little sound. Carlo! Grace used to call him "Carlo." The word brought back that big house of the maples and the porch— and the netted silver of the moonlit Sound.

"Who are you?"

His fingers trembled on the key.

"Who are you— this is 'Thibetian'— Carter Jackson operator!" he rapped.

In slack hours Granger shaved himself in the instrument room, and in the tiny mirror against a bulkhead Carter caught a glimpse of his face. The staring light of the great valve lamps made a man look ghastly at the best, but they did not print old-looking lines about his eyes.

No answer came, and be waited. The thud of his heart beat twice to the thud of the screws.

Again his fingers rested delicately on the ebony key, when:

"I A-M SO SORRY I WANT YOU SO MUCH CARLO BOY."

The face of Carter Jackson was wet, and yet he felt deadly cold.

"Grace is it you— tell me please— it is Carter."

He did not trouble to think rationally. The absurdity of his conclusion only came to him in the morning, hours after he had been relieved from duty, and when the steward woke him with tea and certain futile references to the weather.

Carter had not slept very well, but he had slept well enough for the angle of his vision to undergo a new orientation.

Grace knew nothing about wireless telegraphy. He had tried to get her interested, and she was only bored. And she was hardly likely to be in the northerly seas.

"I wonder if I dreamt it," he asked himself, and sliding from his bunk, began to search in his pockets. No, there were the scraps of paper on which he had written the messages; he had even marked the hour and the minute they had been received.

If it were Grace, why had she not answered that frantic appeal of his? She had been silent, ignoring ; the cold hauteur of her lofty silence was inexplicable. But of course it wasn't Grace.

Operator Granger was inclined to be offensive that morning.

"Say," said he, "Aurelia has been asking who is the poor fish who loves Grace dearer'n life itself, eh? Aurelia says that all the time we ought've been reachin' out for the murders 'n hold-ups an' bank robberies that constitutes the news of God's beautiful world, we were shovin' through mush about undyin' adoration. Aurelia says—"

"Damn Aurelia!" snarled Carter Jackson.

"But who sent it?" persisted the other. "I've been lookin' through all the blanks, an' the nearest to a love letter was that 'I'se-a-tummin'' message from the Hebrew tobacco man from Chicago."

"Aurelia is lying," said Carter more calmly. "Did you get any news?"

"I did," complained the other, "got it from Aurelia. He's pretty sick at havin' to give it, and I'm pretty sick at havin' to take it. It was your job, anyway."

The Thibetian passed Fire Island on the following morning, and came into dock in the afternoon.

Carter, reporting at the Purser's office, discovered that the ship would be an extra six days in port. Not especially cheerful news to Carter, for he seldom left the confined area of No. 32 pier.

But suppose....

He dismissed the idea as being unworthy of a brain. Grace Meredith was, in all probability, married now. He had neither seen nor heard of her in three years.

Once a neighbour of theirs had travelled on the Thibetian, but him had Carter laboriously and irritatedly avoided.

Still....

On the third day after the ship's arrival in New York, he dressed in shore-going kit and went up town.

At the cost of a quarter he could set at rest all his doubts. His hand shook as he turned the leaves of the telephone directory. (He knew the number, of course, but it pleased him, unaccountably, to pretend that he had forgotten.)

It was Stardon, the Merediths' butler, who answered him. So Stardon hadn't been fired over that mystery of the missing port— the great question and crisis which had preoccupied the Jacksons and the Merediths just before the crash came.

"Yes, sir— what name did you say?"

"Smith. William B. Smith," said Jackson huskily. "Is Miss Meredith at home?"

"Yes, sir."

Carter's heart sank.

"Do you want to speak to her, sir?"

He did not want to speak to anybody, but hung up the receiver, leaving an annoyed butler tapping the hook and speaking evilly of the American telephone system.

So that was that. The end of a cruel and fantastic dream. Men dreamt this way continuously. Some of easy money, of fortunes deposited in their hand; some of power (these went mad in time); some of love and lovers.

Carter walked back to the ship and went to his cabin.

Here or hereabouts be might have stayed until the ship left port, but Granger dug him out on the Sunday.

"I'm going to take you down to Coney Island," he said enthusiastically, when he had discovered that Carter had never experienced the hectic joys of that resort. "There is a fellow I know who has a classy motor- boat; it is coming alongside on Sunday."

Carter protested but yielded eventually. He was being too sorry for himself, and the poison of self-pity was an insidious and hateful one.

Granger had not exaggerated the classiness of his friend's boat, nor had be over-stated its comfort.

Sitting at ease, with a hot sun overhead, and a gentle breeze blowing in from the Atlantic, Carter Jackson felt immensely superior to fate. The chug- chug of the busy little engine, the gentle motion of the boat, and a gradually dawning sense of the mercies which bad been vouchsafed to him, brought him almost to a condition of content long before Coney Island rose to their view.

"That's a nice-looking ship," said Carter suddenly.

A big white steam-yacht was coming toward them from the sea.

Granger's friend, who was both encyclopaedia and Who's Who of the yachting world, nodded vigorously.

"Yuh," he said. "She's a dandy boat; belongs to Meredith, the hardware man— Dog Star she's called. Cost...."

He recited exactly to the last cent the value of the yacht, but Carter was not listening.

Meredith! The old hopes trembled, the old doubt stirred again.

"Yuh," said Granger's friend, nodding, "that's right; he lives on Long Island; got a beautiful home, cost..."

The motor-boat was turning landward, when Carter was seized with a sudden inspiration.

"I'd like to see that yacht nearer at hand," he said. "Could you get alongside?"

"Sure I could," said the other enthusiastically, and spun the wheel.

Nearer and nearer it came; Carter could see figures on the sun- deck— some women, a man or two in yachting attire.

Granger's friend brought the boat almost under the yacht bows.

"Dandy, eh?" he said, with the air of a proprietor.

Carter said nothing; he was looking up to the down-turned face of a girl leaning over the rails.

If she saw him she made no sign. It seemed to Carter that she looked past him, and was gone before he could decide whether he would attract her attention, whether he dared wave to her or not.

"You can see her from the other side," said the owner of the classy boat, as he brought her under the yacht's stern. "I could keep up with her— I can beat her for speed, I tell you."

"No, no," said Carter huskily, "I want to see Coney Island."

Granger's friend was hurt, but recovered sufficiently before he reached the landing-stage, to record certain marvellous performances of his craft.

Jackson did not hear him. He was stunned with the tremendous possibility of his discovery.

When he came back to the ship that night, without any very clear idea of how he had spent the day, he was as tired as Granger was jubilant; somebody or something had evidently pleased that short-sighted young man, who beamed benevolently at him from the doorway of the cabin.

"Did you ever see such hair?... She's in the beauty chorus at the... Some girl, eh, Carter?"

"Some girl," agreed Carter, and was momentarily puzzled to know who Granger was speaking about.

By the next afternoon he had made up his mind. He went ashore, and with a recklessness which frightened him, took the first train for the pleasant place he had once called "home."

He did not recognise a single taxi-man at the station, but be saw old Weitheim come out of the store, and he recognised Doctor Felling as he flashed past in his resplendent automobile. The Merediths' house shocked him. In two years the pleasant old home of John Meredith had been swept away, and a stone mansion, turreted and gabled, timbered before and stuccoed behind, floated up from its ruins.

Stardon, the butler, recognised him.

"Why, Mr. Jackson!" he said, with such a beam of welcome that Carter decided that this rotund man could not have stolen the port after all. "Well, this is a surprise! Mr. Meredith is in the library. I'll go right along and tell him."

John Meredith gave him the welcome he expected. Carter had always been a favourite of his, and now he ran out, a stout, wild-haired man, and gripped Carter's hand in his.

"It's good to see you, Carter," he bellowed. "Been out west, eh? Come back with a fortune like the young men in the movies?"

He led Carter to the library, and Carter, conscious that he had not come back either from the west, or with a fortune, was a little uneasy.

"If you had come yesterday we should not have been here," said Meredith. "Sit down, Carter. Some changes since you went away, eh? Well, I had to get a bigger house. The old home was falling to pieces, though I hated to part with it; but my sister— you have met Miss Meredith— she is staying with us now."

Of course! It was to the maiden sister of John Meredith that the butler had been referring.

"She was kind of set on this kind of house, though Grace hasn't been civil to me since it was built," he chuckled. "Yes, I have been away on a yacht cruise," he rattled on. "Grace was getting a bit peaked, and, gosh, the weather was hot... fierce... and as I had the yacht lying up on the slips, I thought I'd go away beyond the Sound... into the Arctic Circle, my boy. Now what have you been doing, Carter— tell me?"

"I haven't been entirely west, sir," said Carter, with a smile. "East a little and west a little."

"Europe, eh?"

Carter nodded.

"You left in such a damned hurry that I didn't see you— we've missed you a whole lot," said the old man.

"I— I didn't say good-bye to anybody," said Carter awkwardly. "How is— Grace?"

"Fine," said Mr. Meredith, and looked at him curiously. "What happened with you and Grace?" he asked. "I never understood why you two people fell out."

Carter was saved the embarrassment of replying. Grace came in at that moment. He thought she was looking paler than when he had last seen her. She was certainly more beautiful: the indefinable something which distinguishes the woman from the girl had come to her. To say "older" would have been a looseness of description. She had matured as a bud matures in a night.

She met his eyes steadily, and her cool hand rested in his for a second.

"It is good to see you, Carter," she said; "where have you been?"

So she did not know, he thought in dismay, and there came a definite end to his dream.

"He's been to Europe," interrupted her father. "Made a lot of money, Carter?"

"I've made none," said Carter grimly. "My worldly possessions at this moment amount to a hundred and twelve dollars back pay."

"Have you been working?" she asked.

"I'm on the Thibetian," he said shortly; "wireless operator— eighty dollars a month."

"A wireless operator!" said Meredith slowly, and in a tone of surprise. "Why, of course, you were always—"

"Will you come along and see our new garden?" interrupted the girl. "It is quite beautiful, if you forget the architectural monstrosity which it surrounds."

She led him away, Mr. Meredith protesting feebly.

Once in that silent walk Carter looked at her hand. The ring he feared to see was absent from her white finger.

"Do you find us strange?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"What have you been doing all this time, Grace?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"What does a girl do? I've been to horse shows; I've been to theatres and operas, to Palm Beach, to Daddy's camp; I've read the best sellers and heard all the best music and danced all the worst two-steps—" She paused.

"Have you probed into the mysteries of wireless telegraphy," he asked slowly, and held his breath, waiting her reply.

It came after a long pause.

"Wireless telegraphy, no. Why do you ask, Carter?"

He shook his head.

"I don't know exactly; it's very amusing. Some people learn the Morse code— just for fun."

"I learn nothing— for fun," she answered.

Thereafter they exchanged banalities.

"You're not staying to dinner, Carter?" said Mr. Meredith in horror.

"No, I've got to get back to New York." Carter was insistent. "I have to take my turn of duty."

"But surely there is no duty when your ship is in harbour?" said the girl.

Carter lied valiantly.

She came down to the station to see him off, and as the car swung out of the big drive on to the post road, he looked back at the house.

"It isn't beautiful, is it?" she said, with a little grimace.

"It is immensely decorative," he said gravely, "especially those two flag-staffs on the top of the towers."

He was glad in the end to leave her. The silences were painful. Not once had any reference on either side been made to the past, and he was almost relieved when the train drew out.

He half expected to receive a letter from her before the ship sailed.

"You're a fool," he said savagely, "a hopeless imbecile."

When the bell was ringing the visitors ashore, a presence exploded into his cabin.

"Oh, there you are!" said the breathless Mr. Meredith. "I swore to Grace I wouldn't see you— but I am not a fool— you're a fool! I'm too old for foolishness, anyway. Do you see, Carter? You're a fool and Grace is a fool," he repeated inconsequently, "and there goes that damn bell."

He gripped the young man's hand and shook it.

"Come along and see the Dog Star when you come back; she's got a fine radio set— Grace can work that set better than any operator. I never dreamt then you were on the Thibetiandoing this kind of work. Grace never told me— good-bye."

He dashed out of the cabin, only to dash back again; he was a violently moving man.

"L.T.V.," he said mysteriously, and nodded, and there was mystery in his nod also. "Didn't you see the aerials— no, of course you didn't— we had 'em when we were away— they're up now, Carter. They look fine, too."

"I don't understand you," said the bewildered Carter. "Aerials?"

Arid then be remembered the significant flag-posts on the Meredith house.

"They're up now— talk to her, my boy, L.T.V.!"

He left Carter Jackson considerably disturbed.

He looked up the code book, and found it: "Yacht, Dog Star." She would not be on the yacht, but the code would find her— if she was listening- in.

At one o'clock in the morning he relieved Granger; Cape Race, immensely talkative at this stage of the voyage, was gabbling commercially.

"Excuse me," said Carter gently, and devoted himself to the old emergency set, which was more suitable for messages over a comparatively short distance.

"L.T.V." he tapped. "L.T.V." and then the answer came.

"Send slowly, I am only a beginner."

So that was why she had not heard him. In his excitement on that electric night, he had sent his message at so tremendous a rate, that none but an expert could have understood him, and then:

"I LOVE YOU CARTER," said L.T.V. "WHEN YOU COME BACK..."

At half-past two Cape Race picked up the U.S. Mail steamer Kentucky.

"Can you get Thibetian?" asked Cape Race in a fury.

"I could, but being human, I won't," said Kentucky rapturously. For Kentucky had been listening-in. Presently Cape Race was satisfied; the whine of the Thibetian's signal came through:

"WHRN L U BN," asked Cape Race furiously.

"Go hd," came the reply, "I've finished—"

In a little room under one of the grotesque towers of Mr. Meredith's new home, a girl sat at a bench, her head on her arms, and she was fast asleep. Therefore, she did not hear what Cape Race was saying to Carter Jackson, and was spared the gentle sarcasm of the mail steamer Kentucky.

__________________

3: Fate and Mr. Hoke

Grand Magazine, Sep 1924-Feb 1925

LORD DERRYMERE read the paragraph again, removed his pince-nez and placed them carefully on his Empire writing-table. Then, after a moment's consideration, he pressed the bell that was neatly labelled "Secretary." There was an interval of nearly a minute before Mary Bush came in, to meet the grave scrutiny of eyes, which, whilst they approved her undeniable prettiness, could yet disapprove of the notoriety which had come to her in the past few days, and which had created such intense sensation in the servants' hail of Derrymere House.

Mary stood demurely before the table, book in hand, wondering just what he would say, and what form his injured dignity would take. Or was it about Jimmy he wished to speak? He had made no reference to his discovery, though she had expected one every time she saw him.

"Miss Bush"— he leant back in his chair, fixed his pince-nez on his long nose, and folded his well-manicured hands— "I have been reading, in a cutting from the public press, the story of your remarkable good fortune; and whilst, as a Justice of the Peace, I deprecate, without any reservations whatever, the breach of the law which a lottery involves, yet I must offer you my congratulations upon your success in the Grand National Sweepstake, organised, I understand, on behalf of certain charitable institutions— though whether those charitable institutions benefit to any extent is extremely doubtful....Fifteen thousand pounds!"

Mary smiled uncomfortably.

"Fifteen hundred, Lord Derrymere," she corrected.

With great care his lordship adjusted his glasses and read the cutting again.

"Peer's Secretary wins Fortune in Hospital Lottery," he read. "Girl wins £15,000 by the Victory of Sergeant Mariati."

"Fifteen hundred," said Mary again. "The promoters must have given the wrong figures to the press."

He inclined his head courteously.

"I am sorry," he said simply. "Fifteen thousand pounds is a substantial sum, and would have made a very considerable difference to your— ah— future."

Mary Bush agreed silently, but she knew her employer too well to place any obstacle in the flowing stream of his eloquence.

"In this democratic age," said his lordship, "when we see on every hand the introduction of— ah— plebian blood into the greatest and oldest of the families, it would be contrary to the spirit of the times if I offered any foolish objections to a union on which the heart of my son seems to be irrevocably set. But we are, as you know from your intimate acquaintance with my affairs, an extremely poor family, and I confess that, in contemplating— ah— marriage, I had in mind the possibility of his choice resting upon some wealthy member of the manufacturing class. But fifteen hundred pounds!" He pulled a long face. "I fear..." he shook his head— "I greatly fear.... You have no other prospects?"

"You mean money, Lord Derrymere?" she asked. "I'm afraid I haven't. There are some distant relatives of mine in Australia who are immensely wealthy, and I have an uncle in Russia."

"In Russia?" said Lord Derrymere, interested. "A Bolshevik? I understand those gentlemen have accumulated considerable property— "

She laughed.

"No, he isn't a Bolshevik, and I'm under the impression that he isn't very rich."

She was discreetly silent upon the many stories which had come to her of Uncle Algernon's lurid past. He was one of those relations about whom people never boast, and his continued presence in Russia was, she guessed, due very largely to the lax view which the Soviet officials had taken of the sacred rights of property.

"It is very regrettable," said Lord Derrymere, and she took his nod, rather than the words, for her dismissal.

Jimmy, whose other name was the Viscount Bournvale, was waiting for her in the garden. He was a young man immensely energetic, and though he was possessed of the optimism which is the peculiar gift of youth, he waited for her reappearance with some anxiety.

"What did he say?" he asked.

"It isn't what he said, it's what he suggested," said Mary wearily. "Jimmy, we'll have to be sensible. You're poor, I'm poor—"

"You've got fifteen hundred pounds: that's more than the governor's ever had in one sum for years," suggested Jimmy indignantly. "He wasn't offensive to you, was he?"

She shook her head.

"No, dear, he was just kind and logical and loquacious."

He took her arm, and they paced the long path to the rosary.

"If it had been fifteen thousand pounds, it would have made a difference, Jimmy. I think your father likes me."

"Did he ask about your relations? He's rather keen on relations," asked the gloomy Jimmy.

She laughed.

"I have only one I could have advanced, but oh, Jimmy, he's dreadful!"

Mary Bush had come into the poverty-stricken household of the twelfth Earl of Derrymere as resident-secretary to a peer who had much to say on the Irish Land Act, and said it for four hours a day, in language acceptable to the dullest of the English reviews. In such moments as he could bring his mind from the contemplation of Governmental enormities, Lord Derrymere had vaguely observed the friendship which had grown up between the girl and his heir; but until one momentous evening, when he had walked without knocking into his secretary's office, the exact nature of the relationship had not dawned upon him.

"Jimmy, I'm glad, really glad, we've been such good pals, and I'm even glad he saw you kissing me; but, dear boy, we've come to the end, and you'll marry something in the brewing trade, and I'll— I'll"— she choked— "go back to find another amiable gentleman who splits his infinitives..."

He took her in his arms and kissed her.

"Mary," he said solemnly, "I've got a hunch that fate is working for us— and fifteen hundred pounds is a lot of money. Did you get it?"

"I got the cheque this morning," she said miserably. "Oh, Jimmy, do you think it is worth while buying any tickets for the Derby?"

Fate indeed was working, but in a manner that Mary Bush could not guess, for she knew nothing of Mr. Abraham Hoke, that world-wanderer, so could hardly be expected to appreciate his immeasurable sense of humour.

Abraham Hoke came swinging along Tchistoproudsky Boulevard at peace with the world, though he had no reason to be, by all civilised reckoning. His lean face was tanned to the colour which furniture-dealers describe as fumed oak, the little lines which seamed his face were many, his hair, powdered grey, was tidily brushed under the rusty green hat which sat jauntily on the side of his head, his soiled clothes were white with the dust of the road to Skatchka, and a black-rimmed monocle was fixed in his eye.

As he walked he swung a sagging panama cane jauntily and sang a song about women. He did not hum it, he sang it, loudly enough to attract attention to himself, but not so loud as would excuse the warning and the admonition which trembled on the lips of that unenlightened Red police agent who watched the eccentric figure with a smile which was half a frown.

Behind Mr. Abraham Hoke and his assurance, as he cheerfully footed it along the broad boulevard, was the wide world and the experience thereof— more immediately in his rear was the Skatchka and a racehorse called Grom, which unaccountably failed to win.

Hoke had invested all that he possessed— a trifle of 5,000,000 roubles— upon the equine traitor. When he saw the gaudy jacket of Grom toiling in the rear of the field, he waited some time for a miracle to happen, and then, remarking that providence was fighting on the side of the moneyed classes, he tore up his pari-mutuel ticket and said, "Nitchevo," which is Russian for "never mind."

He stood head and shoulders taller than the average man, and gave the observer the impression that he was thin. But the average man's coat would have split over Abraham Hoke's broad shoulders, and the average man's sleeve would have come to a little below his elbows.

From time to time as he walked, casting an occasional and approving glance at the Kremlin's bulk, he would take his monocle from his eye, and, with glass daintily poised, and head swaying from side to side, conduct an invisible orchestra, to the consternation of sober passersby, who stopped to look after him, crossing themselves as they realised his madness.

Yet they were no more sober than he, be it known. God had given Abraham Hoke, tramp of the world, a glad heart and a sunny mind, and though half the detectives in Europe knew him by repute, though many men, from the Chief of Police at Tomsk to the genial Commissioner O'Hara of Seattle, desired most passionately to meet him, none grudged him credit for his joy in life.

He crossed Miasnitokaya, singing a sinful song about a peasant who came to worship at the shrine of St. Inokente and met a girl en route. Fortunately for the morals of Moscow, he trolled his lay in that peasant Russian which is not met this side of Lake Braikal.

He was hungry long before he reached his destination, which was an inexpensive house in the Prospekt, rented by Mr. Algernon Bush, though at that time, for diplomatic reasons, he was known as the Senhor Dom Jerome Xavier de Castro y Pembalino of Paraguay.

He was sitting at his big carved oak writing-table when Hoke entered, and might have been a successful stockbroker, if one judged him by his neat but expensive attire and the single pearl which, with a thin gold watch-guard, represented his stock of visible jewellery.,

He looked up with a smile as Hoke came in, and motioned to a deep leather chair by the side of the desk.

"Ha, Hoke!" His voice was pitched high, and he had a little nasal twang not unpleasant to hear. "You are late— but I'll forgive you. I want you to do something for me, and it will be worth your while."

"Material advantage, as opposed to the balm of an untroubled mind," said A. B. Hoke, "I have never sought. In the language of my young friend Tillett, I demand the right to live without the distressin' after effects which accompany the too strenuous employment of my voluntary muscular system; for the moment, I hunger."

The other pushed a bell, and an untidy man appeared. "Bring some sandwiches and drink," said Bush.

"Continually bring the sandwiches," added A. B. Hoke in a murmur.

He sat in silence till the man came back with a tray and laid some rough-hewn sandwiches on a little table.

"I give you this," said Bush, when the man had gone. "After, you will have sufficient money to provide for yourself."

"I am no porcine hog," said A. B. Hoke, as be diluted his whisky. "The greed for gold an' lust for power, which serves but to swell the surplus of the incorruptible Commissioner of National Wealth, are not for me. I demand only of the world that it serves me as a habitation an' free foodery, an' in the pursuance of my hobby I have crossed lands where the foot of white man would never tread if there was a railway handy."

Bush was content that he should babble on. Leaning back in his padded chair, he stroked his small black moustache and listened.

"Years ago," said Mr. Hoke reminiscently, "I found myself in the western side of Thibet— me an' a chink named Li, himself a lover of Nature, and a born financier. I will not at the moment discuss the chain of adventurous circumstances which brought us to the inhospitable plateau, or the remarkable happenin's which preceded our arrival at Dras, en route for the Zoji Pass an' the far-famed glories of Kashmir."

He paused, and for a moment was lost in thought.

"As one who has said me jolli to the Grand Lama— though you'd discredit that statement as vergin' on the borderline of boastfulness— as one who has roosted under the lee of Nangar Parbat, that hogback of crystal heaven, and has, moreover, pigged it with the Ladaki, the Chatrali, and other disgustin' products of the trans-Himalayan territories, I am entitled to advance the opinion that there are easier ways of acquirin' pice."

"I'm going to give you an easier," said Mr. Bush. "When I heard you had drifted into Moscow, I thought 'Here is the very man!'"

"And I am." Mr. Hoke spoke through sandwich. "Far be it from me to pry into your domestic affairs— but there is a musical tinkle to your conversation. Have you, for the fourteenth time, sold rolling-stock to the deluded rulers of this land? That you are alive is more than remarkable. Did not Horace Sellermein, a German but a gentleman, perish miserably at the hands of Commissary K, to whose spouse he sold the veritable Crown jewels for a paltry billion?"

Mr. Bush shifted uneasily.

"I've had a pull," he said, "and now I have a push. The big fellow at the Kremlin, who was behind me, was shot last week for bribery and theft. I have twenty-four hours to leave Russia, and my capital could, with luck, be converted into ten pounds English."

Hoke stared at him.

"This imposing mansion...?"

"Was lent by my friend," said Bush. "I'm going to England. Read this."

He passed a newspaper cutting across the table, and Hoke read.

"Mary Bush," he said, as he handed back the paper.

"Fifteen thousand pounds, and I'm one of her two relatives." Mr. Bush was impressive. "My only relation, if I cut out my brother Joshua. And I have cut him out, Hoke! There is a man worth a million— he has so much money that he's ill with it, and yet he allows his own brother to battle with dirty-necked Russkis for his daily bread."

"Dirty-necked they may be, but with soap at a million roubles a cake, cleanliness is swank," said Hoke philosophically. "But what is the graft?"

Mr. Algernon Bush folded up the paper and put it in his pocket.

"Fifteen thousand pounds is a lot of money," he said. "Mary is my niece. I am a man of the world— can advise her in the matter of investments. You get me, Hoke? There's a monkey for you in this. You've got to come and brag for me. You're the friend who can tell her about my estates in..."

"Trans-Caucasia?" suggested Hoke helpfully.

"Anywhere... it means a week's work, and there's a monkey in it, as I said..."

"Monkeys have no appeal to one who has observed their restless habits," said Hoke firmly. "Swindles of a general character appeal to one of my nimbleness of wit and wealth of vocabulary, but swindles involving gentle ladies— no!"

"Look here"— Bush sprang up, and with two rapid strides placed himself between Hoke and the door— "I have asked you to make five hundred, with no risk."

"Prince of true hearts," said Hoke courteously, "no risk! What of the untroubled pool of conscience into which you are throwin' half a brick! What of the mud of self-despisery you are stirrin' with the rod of temptation! No— K- N- O- U- G- H— No! Robbery is a pastime, an occasional fatal accident, a hobby, but a robbery of babes-in-arms— no! I take my leave."

With a bow he made for the door.

"No, you don't," growled Bush. "You dog! You miserable continental sneak-thief! You're going to do as I tell you— "

Hoke shrugged his shoulders.

"Out of my way, beef," he said loftily.

Bush, with an oath, dropped one of his powerful hands on the other's shoulder— only for an instant. Then a big, bony hand gripped him by the throat, a hand as inflexible as steel, and he was swept from Hoke's path. He might have been a feather, so lightly was he tossed aside.

He stood for a moment bewildered, then, with a froth of curses, he sprang to his desk and pulled open a drawer.

"Depress it, depress it, dear lad," said A. B. Hoke gently.

He was holding his revolver so that all Bush saw was the cold, black cavity of the barrel.

"Go in peace, find another side-partner, and enjoy the fruits of your depredations— for A. B. Hoke the long trail to Tiflis, where there are pickings for one who, like myself, has the Koran at my finger-tips."

Still humming his tune, Hoke strutted back the way he had come, halting before the door of the Chief of Foreign Intelligence, where a man can rest awhile and read foreign newspapers a month old, slightly soiled but otherwise entertaining.

An hour later, when Algernon Bush was roping the last of his trunks, Mr. Hoke made an unexpected appearance.

"Well— have you changed your mind?" he asked.

Mr. Hoke smiled sadly.

"Hunger drives with a short rein," he quoted. "I have buried my conscience in synthetic vodka— open the gate of your monkey- house— A. B. Hoke has fallen!"

THREE WEEKS later Mary Bush came into the library and found Lord Derrymere sitting before a large map. He greeted her with an almost tender smile.

"Good morning, Mary," he said gently. "I have just seen your uncle— an extraordinarily entertaining wan! Not perhaps so widely travelled as Colonel Hoke, whose description of his adventures in Thibet should be written— I have just communicated with the editor of Statesmanship, suggesting that the Colonel might very well write a most entrancing series of reminiscences— but one cannot exactly expect a man of Mr. Bush's wealth to have had so varied a career. A rolling stone, as you may have heard, gathers very little moss. I have been studying the position of his concessions in Trans-Caucasia— you are an extremely fortunate young woman!"

Mary did not reply. Her fortune, in truth, had bewildered her, and the emergence from the obscurity of the Russian mists of a millionaire uncle had taken her breath away.

"His generosity is amazing," mused his lordship, shaking his head in admiration. "You have heard, of course, what he proposes doing— or am I betraying a confidence, I wonder?"

"I can't understand it," said Mary. "I never dreamt Uncle Algernon was a rich man. In fact..." She thought it wiser not to relate what she had thought of her erratic relative. "Yes, he told me last night; he said that his lawyer would bring the deed to-day. It does seem too good to be true!"

"Such things happen," said his lordship seriously. "All along I had some suspicion of this possibility. You will probably recall my words, that he might have accumulated great possessions. I do not, of course, approve of the Russian Government, but there is no doubt that any shrewd man, settled in Russia during the past few years, has had unrivalled opportunities— unrivalled! He tells me that he is investing your money in an oil concession he has obtained from the Government?"

Mary nodded. For some reason, she was not particularly enthusiastic about this investment. She had never possessed so large a sum before, and contemplated its parting with a little sense of dismay, which, in view of all the circumstances, was rather absurd.

"I think you are wise," said Lord Derrymere. "I also am thinking of investing a few hundreds. You are indeed a very lucky girl!"

IN THE PRIVATE sitting-room at the Star and Garter Inn, the one place of entertainment that the village of Derrymere possessed, Mr. Algernon Bush lay moodily in an arm-chair, his hands thrust into his pockets, a frown of discontent upon his placid features.

"Fifteen hundred!" he said bitterly. "Curse these newspapers! It will hardly pay expenses. I did think the old boy would put in a thousand or two, but he hasn't got two sixpences to rub together. Hoke, that 'monkey' is off! It's as much as I shall do to clear expenses, and if I can squeeze out a hundred for you, you'll have something to be thankful for!"

Mr. Hoke stood by the window, whistling softly to himself, his bright eyes searching the road.

"I am content, little friend of the poor," he said, "for monkeys, with their flea-chasing habits, are unpopular with me."

"And why the devil did you suggest that deed of gift? Two hundred thousand! I wonder the size of it didn't scare her— and me without the price of a magnum! The lawyer's fee will cost me the best part of ten pounds," demanded Bush violently. "She'd have parted without all that tomfoolery."

"Confidence— establish confidence," murmured Hoke. "And think of the pleasure you gave, the bright flush of joy that suffused her maidenly cheeks; think of the two tender hearts that will be united; think of an ancient home saved from ruin."

"Stuff!" snarled the other. "I'm thinking of the cost of stamps— fifty is as much as I shall be able to spare for you, Hoke."

"Fifty is wealth," said Mr. Hoke complacently, "to one who has shared the begging-bowl of the wandering fakir, and has comforted his stomach on the bark of trees—"

"You're a fool, and I was a fool to bring you," growled Mr. Bush.

He made a little sum on the back of an old envelope, and recovered something of his spirits. Fifteen hundred pounds was fifteen hundred, and he had the girl's cheque in his pocket, and at ten o'clock the next morning, when the Troubridge banks opened, that slip of paper, and another which he hoped to receive from an impressed lordship, would be converted into cash.

He was quite cheerful when he drove up to Derrymere House that afternoon, and, in the presence of a lawyer and a fascinated household, fixed his sign and seal to the imposing and involved document through which a well- trained lawyer had gabbled, without apparently stopping to take breath. The girl took the parchment in her hand and gazed at it openmouthed.

"It's really too wonderful!" she gasped. "I can't believe my good fortune, uncle."

He waved aside her thanks.

"My dear, that is very little, compared with what you will one day inherit," he said soberly. "It is, if you will forgive the vulgarity, a fleabite compared with the return you will receive from your investment."

He drove back to the inn, Mr. Hoke preferring to walk. At seven o'clock, when dinner was served, the wanderer had not returned, nor did midnight bring him, and an uneasy Algernon Bush returned from one of his many excursions along the road in a troubled frame of mind.

AT TEN O'CLOCK the next morning, when Mr. Bush was walking out of the bank, with a rustling pad of notes in his right-hand trousers' pocket and a gleam of satisfaction in his eye, Mr. Abraham Hoke was sitting with the senior partner of Bracken, Thompson, Brown, Smith & Jones, which, as their names will disclose, were an eminent firm of lawyers.

"This," said Mr. Hoke, as he took from a ragged note-case a small slip of paper, "I saw in Moscow: a chance scrutiny of an ancient newspaper— and yet, how providential!"

He read the paragraph with unction:

If this should meet the eye of Algernon John Bush, of Sydney, South Australia, will he communicate with Bracken, Thompson, Brown, Smith & Jones, 907 Leadenhall Street, solicitors of Joshua Bush, deceased.

The lawyer eyed the odd figure curiously.

"You know where Mr. Bush is— I think you said as much in your letter?"

"Yes, sir, I can tell you within a few yards where he is to be found," said Mr. Hoke.

The lawyer nodded.

"There is nothing more to say than what you already knew a fortnight ago. The amount that Mr. Algernon Bush has inherited is just short of a million pounds. Fortunately for the purposes of administration, most of the money is in cash at the Bank of England. He died in London, as you are probably aware. As to the other question you asked me in your letter, as to whether a deed of gift made by Mr. Bush without the knowledge of his inheritance would be valid, I must reply in the affirmative. He would hardly convey property in a deed of gift unless he possessed— what was the sum?"

"Two hundred thousand pounds," murmured Mr. Hoke.

"Exactly. As I say, if he gave, by deed of gift, that sum, the amount would be immediately recoverable."

Mr. Hoke drew a long sigh.

"I always thought it would be," he said. "Yes, I always thought it would be. And now, could you give me the address of a hard-faced lawyer? The kind of man who would battle with a soulless robber of orphans, and wring from his reluctant mitt, and to the last penny the money he owes her? A lawyer of the world, to whom a shark is the merest goldfish and the clinging tentacles of an octopus are as the tendrils of a passion-flower— in fact, a lawyer?"

Mr. Bracken obliged, and Hoke went down the stairs two at a time, a song in his heart and his everlasting pilgrimage before his eyes.

THAT NIGHT Mr. Bush arrived at his London hotel, en route for the Continent, and found two letters awaiting him. The first was staggering— the second filled him with the deepest melancholy.

"And, dear friend," wrote Hoke, "you'll pay! For the first time in your ill-spent life you have so much money that you can't afford to run away. Ponder well on this— wealth has its responsibilities. The advice of one who has supped with wise men on the slopes of Everest is not to be despised and I wait lest I be called to give evidence of fraud and testify to your ungentleness. Pay, monkey-man."

In the end Mr. Bush paid, but it hurt very much.

____________________

4: "Declared to Win"

JOHN PETWORTH came out of the Army with a slight limp, an inadequate pension, and an extraordinary knowledge of horses. It is a fairly simple matter to set up in business as a trainer of racing thoroughbreds, if you have a wide circle of rich friends, a plausible manner, and the right kind of conversational powers.

This lean-faced young man, however, was unusually shy and silent. He was a member of no night-clubs, for the Mauser bullet had carried away a few small but necessary bones of his ankle and put an end to his dancing; and the only friend he had— and he scarcely dared think of her as such— was Jane Seymour, who was comfortably off but could not, by any stretch of imagination, be called rich. And this, despite the fact that she had a flat in Park Lane and £2500 per annum— flat and income having been left to her by a maiden aunt who, with the exception of the £500 per annum she left to Gerald Seymour, bequeathed the residue of her estate to an institution for providing homes for friendless girls.

It was almost a miracle that Jane talked with this diffident young man at all. They met, of all the unlikely places, at a Berkshire flower-show. The Rector of Stanbridge introduced the embarrassed young man as a grower of chrysanthemums— which he was. Jane thought he was an amateur horticulturist until, in his vague, rather helpless way, he betrayed his lowly occupation.

"How wonderful!" said Jane enthusiastically. "Won't you let me come and see your stable?"

Mr. Petworth went very red, fingered his little moustache guiltily, and blurted out the truth. He had a stable and he had a hack— but he had no other horses. He had had three: one of them won a selling race and disappeared; the owner of the other two, who expected to win races every time his horses ran, had taken them away and sent them to a more optimistic trainer. Nevertheless, Jane insisted upon inspecting the stable qua stable and Mrs. Gill, with whom she was staying, drove her over one afternoon to the pretty little farmhouse near the downs, and gradually the story of Jack Petworth's trouble was unfolded. It wasn't what he told her, but rather what she saw. The shabby furniture, the odd cups and saucers, the skimping economy revealed in a dozen ways, made her heart ache. His cheerful faith that "some day" he would train "the winner of a big race" almost reduced her to tears, and Jane Seymour was the least emotional of young ladies.

She saw him again before she left Berkshire, and, going back to London, made a very careful study of racing; and the result of it all was that she accepted the Gills' invitation for the Doncaster week, and on the Thursday morning, rather breathlessly and self-consciously, purchased the yearling colt Abbeyland for £300, and, with the assistance of a knowledgeable stableman, had him boxed and sent to the station nearest John Petwoth's stable.

"Why on earth are you sending him to Petworth?" asked her brother Gerald, aghast. "I've never heard of the fellow."

"He's a very good trainer," said Jane recklessly, "one of the best in England."

She sent a note to John :

DEAR MR. PETWORTH, am sending you a horse to train. Will you please enter him in the Derby and any other kind of race you think he's likely to win? And will you please tell me what I have to pay you, and whether I ought to send a cheque in advance?

John replied very gravely, very precisely. She was a little disappointed that he was not enthusiastic. He was, in fact, somewhat critical. He did not like the horse's legs, but hoped for an improvement. And he didn't exactly like the horse's neck, and there no improvement was possible. But he said, "Abbeyland has a sensible head." Jane wrote back to say that that was the very reason she had bought the animal, though, in truth, his head and his legs, no less than his neck, seemed like the head, neck, and legs of other horses she had seen.

Abbeyland did not run as a two-year-old: she hardly expected he would. The only thing she hoped was that he wouldn't die. From time to time she went down to Berkshire and inspected her purchase, and the lean young trainer limped round after her with a look on his face that she might have been happier had she seen.

"About this Abbeyland, Miss Seymour," he said awkwardly, one morning in early spring, "I think he's just about coming to hand, and he might win a little race for you.... I don't know how good he is: unfortunately I have nothing to try him with."

"Abbeyland? Isn't he in the Derby or something?" she asked innocently.

"That's what I was going to talk about. You know, Miss Seymour, it will cost you a hundred pounds to run him. If you scratched him now, it would only cost you twenty-five pounds— the entry, I mean."

She smiled.

"We will run him," she said magnificently.

Just before she left:

"I suppose you hadn't an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Blass?"

He saw her colour change, and felt a brute.

"I haven't had the right kind of opportunity," she said, and left rather hurriedly.

She had talked to Mr. Blass, but on quite another subject than the advisability of his sending a few horses to the stable of a struggling gentleman trainer.

Ronny Blass was a very rich young man. He was so rich that he felt superior to almost everybody he knew, for he was one of those cash-conscious people that are so rarely met with. It was his misfortune that he had had a doting mother who thought that public schools were horrid places where boys learnt dreadful things; she did not know that a public school is an institution in which the youth of Britain is taught by soulless prefects that if you have money you must not Talk about it— this lesson being emphasised into a permanent conviction by the toe of the prefect's boot or the long, pliant cane that he wields in the charge-room between afternoon prep. and tea-time.

Ronny had a succession of tutors, who prepared him for the university; and at the university there is practically no discipline worth mentioning, and if a man is a cad he can, by searching, find congenial company.

Ronny met with other mamma's boys, and acquired a large number of club ties and a smattering of Latin verse— for he was on the classical side. He came down from Oxford without a degree, but with the confident assurance that he was a man of the world. His fond mamma having gone to heaven in the meanwhile, Ronny's bloated bank balance was still further augmented.

It seemed to him that Life was a very desirable shop full of polite, even sycophantic, assistants, who were ready to sell him anything be wanted. One of the first articles he picked was Jane Seymour, who had a fiat in Park Lane, £2500 a year, and a brother. He picked her because she was beautiful and had big, solemn grey eyes and a figure like pliant steel. One night, when they were dancing at the Ritz, be broke the news of her good fortune. She did not swoon or tremble or go pale. Nor did she display any other symptoms of nausea as she looked up into his pallid and shapeless face.

"Marry you?" she said, and added something he could not catch.

They were rather near the syncopated orchestra when she said this, and he thought she had said, "How wonderful!" and smiled.

"There's nothing wonderful about it, Jane," he began. "You're an awfully charming kid— "

"'Funny' was the word I used," she said calmly.

He missed a step and trod on her foot in his agitation.

"I don't see— " he began.

"You wouldn't. There are forty reasons why I wouldn't marry you, and the first is, I don't love you and I don't respect you. Let us sit down, shall we?"

They found a settee.

"I won't bother you to tell me the other thirty-nine," he said stiffly, and, leaving her, made his way to the buffet.

Gerald Seymour, her brother, heard the news over a glass of port, and was both sympathetic and sententious.

"A woman's 'no,' old man, means nothing," he said. "Leave the matter to me."

He was two years Jane's senior. Wisely he did not discuss the matter until they reached home in the early hours of the morning.

"Now look here, Jane— about Ronny," he began, with that wise-old-man air which is so becoming in a veteran of twenty-three. "He isn't a bad fellow— in fact, he's one of the best. And awfully rich. He'll win the Derby this year— "

"Good-night," said Jane kindly. "I'm going to bed. You ought to go yourself, Jerry. You're talking in your sleep already."

He did not think of a suitably snappy answer until he woke up in the middle of the night.

It was true that Ronny was an owner of great thoroughbreds. You can buy them "in the shop" at Doncaster or Newmarket. He knew no more about horses than he knew about cats, and less about his own than the most youthful of speculators who write bets at the street corner.

But the owner of horses is an important person. People come to him and ask him for tips; and it is fine to stand in the centre of the parade ring and have jockeys touch their caps to you; and when your horse wins there are paragraphs in the press:

"Mr. Ronald Blass was present at Newbury yesterday to see his good- looking Swynford colt win the Berkshire Nursery..."

And the routine and mechanics of racing were rather fascinating. Almost as fascinating as a razor can be to a child of four.

On the morning after his rejections he met Jerry Seymour at the Haviland Club for an early cocktail.

"She simply treated me like a bit of dirt, old boy," said Ronny gloomily. "You might imagine I was— well, anybody. Just laughed at me.... And there isn't a thing in the world I wouldn't have done for her."

Jerry made sympathetic noises. He also said the one thing that he shouldn't have said.

"I think it's this wretched training fellow— Petworth. She's always dashing down to see that wretched horse of hers."

"Horse?" Mr. Blass was more interested in the horse than the trainer. "I didn't know she had a horse."

"It's in the Derby," said Jerry.

Ronny produced from his pocket a small book and turned the pages.

"What's it called— Abbeyland? Yes, here it is. Why on earth has she got a horse in the Derby? Bless my soul, I never knew she was a racing girl!"

"She isn't," said Jerry treacherously. "It's this fellow Petworth. He's an old soldier with a game leg— the fellow must be at least thirty!"

"In the Derby?" said Ronny, amazed. "My dear, good chap, the girl must be mad! Skyward or Tester are certain to win." He looked at Jerry thoughtfully, pursing his lips. "I've a jolly good mind to tell you something," he said.

Jerry's eyes opened wider.

"If it is anything that will help a fellow financially, I'll be awfully obliged, Ronny," he said.

For the moment the lunacy of Jane Seymour was forgotten, whilst the racing expert explained his great plan.

There is no man so rich that he does not desire to be richer. Ronny Blass had a grievance against all the money that was not at his bankers, and out of his knowledge of racing, its intricacies and finesses, he had evolved a scheme.

To an ordinary man the winning of the Derby would be a prize sufficiently large; but Ronny was no ordinary man. In a dark and secluded corner of the smoke-room he outlined the Wonderful Idea.

When an owner has two horses running in a race, he may "declare to win" with one of them. That is to say, he may "pull" the second in order to let the declared animal win. The declaration, however, has a deeper significance. It must appear on the notice-board, and the consequence is that the horse who is not "declared" invariably drifts out to a long price, because the public know that he is not fancied and that his stable-companion is the better of the two.

"Now, Jerry, you'll swear by this and that that you won't tell a soul... ."

The vow was made, solemnly and soberly, and Mr. Blass revealed the swindle that was contemplated upon an unsuspecting public.

"Mind you, old boy, it's quite in order. I'm running horses for myself, and not for the beastly public. If they burn their fingers, that's their look-out. Now, listen: I'm running Skyward and Tester in the Derby. Tester is a stone better horse than Skyward, and can leave him standing. I'm going to declare to win with Skyward. You see what I mean, old boy? The silly bookmakers will offer any price against Tester; a lot of my pals will back him at the last moment, and we'll win a fortune."

Jerry, who had some sort of a conscience, squirmed a little.

"But, I say, isn't that rather dishonest?"

"Dishonest!" scoffed Ronny. "Don't be absurd! It's done every day, old boy. You don't understand these things. Now I know racing from A to Z. All the tricks of the trade, old man. You can stand on me."

He was such a thin young man that, had Jerry accepted his invitation, he must have done Mr. Ronald Blass a very serious injury. Happily, Jerry did not accept the suggestion literally.

It was a week before the Derby when Jane Seymour had a letter from Berkshire.

Dear Miss Seymour,—  The horse is very well indeed. In fact, he is much better than I dreamt he would be with such legs. He went splendidly in a gallop to-day, but, as you know, I have nothing to gallop him with except my hack. I borrowed a horse from Mr. Stanton, the trainer, however, and with that we went the Derby distance, Abbeyland pulling over the other all the way—

"What does 'pulling over' mean?" she looked up from her letter to ask.

Gerald growled something about asking silly questions.

"— pulling over the other all the way. I don't think he can possibly win the Derby: that would be too tremendous a stroke of luck for me— and, of course, for you. But if you wish to run him, I can get Stoll the jockey to ride."

"What the dickens are you reading?" asked Gerald irritably.

He wore a flowered silk dressing-gown, his hair was very untidy, and he had not shaved.

"It is about Abbeyland," she said.

He closed his eyes wearily. There were times when he found it very difficult to humour her.

"Abbeyland! Who wants to know anything about Abbeyland?" he asked. "Do you imagine that you can buy a Derby winner for three hundred pounds? How absurd you are, Jane! That beastly little horse has cost you over five hundred pounds to train, and Heaven knows how much on entrance fees, and he hasn't won a race! And when I mention— only mention— a new car, you go up in the air! Ronny Blass tells me he got eighty out of his De Swinzey, between Oxford and Cheltenham. And for six hundred quid I could have got it! I could get it now," he added encouragingly.

But Jane was not to be encouraged.

"You have a car, Gerald," she said. "It is quite fast enough for any sane man. And you have a licence that is as busy as a pass-book. I really can't see that you have room in it for any more convictions. Poor Abbeyland!"

Jerry Seymour sighed, crumpled up his serviette, and strolled to the window, there gloomily to survey Park Lane and the green of tree-shaded grass beyond.

"Ronny will win the Derby— everybody knows that. His horse is favourite." And then, curiosity overcoming him: "What does that lame fellow say?"

"Do you mean Mr. Petworth?" she asked coldly.

"Why call him 'mister'?" he demanded pettishly. "If you want to exercise your charity on a wretched amateur trainer, by all means do so, but for Heaven's sake don't give him airs!"

She mastered her wrath with an effort.

"He says Abbeyland is better now than he has ever been, and he thinks it's almost certain he will win," she said mendaciously.

He gaped at her.

"Abbeyland... win the Derby?"

She nodded solemnly.

"You're pulling my leg."

"I wouldn't do anything so indelicate." She folded up the letter and put it into her pocket. "Mr. Petworth says he has— what is the word ?— 'tried' him, and he is certain to win."

Consternation was in his face.

"Good Lord! I hope not," he gasped. "I've got five hundred on one of Ronny's."

She stared at the young man.

"Five hundred— pounds?"

"What did you think it was?" he snapped. "You can't bet in farthings! And the money's as good as in my pocket."

"But if you lose— ?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I couldn't lose, but if I did I could sell the car."

"You told me yesterday that it wasn't worth a hundred. Oh, Jerry, how could you?"

Mr. Gerald Seymour sulked out of the room and, dressing hastily, went in search of his friend.

Now human credulity is never expressed in so remarkable a measure as in the game of horse-racing. Ronny listened, was at first amused, then scornful, and passed naturally into a condition of doubt and panic.

"Abbeyland?" He scratched his nose, and again consulted his little book. "It's jolly well bred, old boy," he said. "That would be a disaster, wouldn't it? I mean, she'd be so cock-a-hoop over winning the Derby that the next time I asked her she'd treat me like mud."

He spent an hour telephoning to various sporting acquaintances— knowledgeable men for whom racing had no mysteries— and at the end of his quest was a little comforted.

There was one result to his inquiries: they set tongues wagging. Two sporting newspapers on the following morning had a reference to the "dark" Abbeyland. His name appeared in the betting at 33— 1. A lay journal noted that:

"There have been some inquiries for the dark Abbeyland, trained by Petworth at Newbury. This horse has yet to make his appearance on a racecourse, but rumour credits him with being a little more than smart."

The alarmed John Petworth made a special journey to London— an infrequent excursion for him.

"I don't know where these fellows have got this yarn about Abbeyland," he said, "but I assure you, Miss Seymour, that it was not from me. I don't think you have a ghost of a chance of winning, though he may run very well. The three-year-olds this year are a pretty bad lot, and it's quite conceivable that Abbeyland may make a good showing. But from what I've heard, Mr. Blass's two horses are superior to anything we've seen out, and Tester beat the Guineas winner easily at Newmarket a month ago."

What made her ask the question she did not know.

"Suppose we win, Mr. Petworth? It will be a splendid thing for you, won't it?"

He gave her one of his rare little smiles.

"It would make all the difference in the world," he said. "Incidentally, it would put twenty thousand pounds in your pocket."

She looked at him incredulously.

"In mine? Why?"

Until that moment she had never even considered the possibility of gain from such a victory, and the sum he mentioned took her breath away. He explained that the stake was worth £10,000, and that a Derby winner might be worth anything from £10,000 to £20,000 as a selling proposition.

"But how would it affect you?"

He flushed a little.

"Isn't it the custom of the owner to make a"— she hardly knew how to phrase the sentence— "present to the trainer?" she asked.

His face had gone a dull red.

"Not in this case," he said stiffly. "You have been most kind to me." And then, with a laugh, "Really, I don't think we need discuss such a wonderful possibility."

"But suppose it happened?"— her eyes were fixed on his— "What would you— like? Because"— her voice was unaccountably husky— "there is nothing in the world you could ask for that I would not give."

Her heart was thumping: how could he fail to hear it?

"That is a tremendous promise," he said in a low voice— "such a tremendous promise that I would offer my soul to win the Derby for you."

There was a long and almost painful silence.

"If I do not win this race, perhaps I may win another."

He had taken her hand in his, and she scarcely realised the fact. Slowly she withdrew it.

"If you do not win a race— there are other things to be won," she said steadily.

In the seclusion of her pretty little room overlooking the Park, Jane Seymour very calmly and deliberately reviewed herself, and felt no shame at her barefaced proposal.

That there is many a slip 'twixt cup and lip is so frequently illustrated at the great game, that a man more experienced than Ronny Blass might have heard a warning voice whisper through the shouts of his exhilaration. For he had journeyed into Wiltshire and had witnessed the final gallop of his two horses. They had been tried with a steady and reliable old performer which had run second in the Jubilee Handicap, and the two colts had outstripped him at every part of the race.

"The stake's in your pocket, Mr. Blass," said the trainer. "I don't see what is to beat yours. Shall you make a declaration?"

Whereupon Ronny took him aside, and, to the consternation of the trainer, told his great scheme.

"There will be an awful row if this comes out, Mr. Blass," said the trainer seriously. "I don't see any advantage, except from the betting point of view."

"Isn't that an advantage?" asked Mr. Blass. "Don't be silly, Oscam; we'll clean up the ring!"

He came back to London, however, feeling far from satisfied.

Suppose there was a row? Suppose the disgruntled public hooted him as he went out to lead in the winner? Ronny Blass was a little sensitive for his reputation. He desired to be thought well of, and the nearer and nearer he came to the day of the race, the more unpleasant seemed the consequences of his muddleheaded scheme.

On the night before the Derby be gave a dinner to his friends. It lasted until eight o'clock in the morning, at which hour he stepped into a cold shower, and from the shower to the hands of his valet. Jerry, who had spent the night with him, was in little better case, and over a breakfast of devilled bones and a large bottle of Bollinger they entered upon a grave discussion, the subject of which was the Integrity of Ronald Blass.

"I've got to be careful, old man," said Ronny, a little thickly. "Reputation of the family's at stake, old boy. It'd be terrible for me, old man, if all those beastly cads in the crowd started howling at me, old boy, because I won with the wrong horse, old thing."

"You're quite right, old man," said Jerry, shaking his head owlishly. "It would be simply fearful."

"It'd be a terrible thing for the family, old boy," said Ronny. "The Jockey Club would get fearfully peevish, old man. I think the best thing we can do is to scrash Skyward and make no declaration."

Jerry pondered the "scrashing" of Skyward for a long time.

If Skyward was scrashed," he said, "there'd be no necess'ty for making the declaration."

Ronny stretched out his hand and gripped his friend's.

"You're a genius, old boy," he said. "Let's have another bottle. And remind me, old man, that I send a wire to that dear little thing we met at the Foxtrot Club— I promised the dear soul a tip, old boy, an' I mus' keep my word."

At eleven o'clock two rather pallid, red-eyed young men walked steadily to a waiting car. They took the route through Wimbledon, and half-way up the main street Ronny tapped at the window. The chauffeur pulled up by the side-walk.

"Gotta scrash that horse," he said.

"Splendid idea," said Ronny languidly.

In a stately fashion the top-hatted Ronny marched into the telegraph office, and at the second attempt, detached a form. He addressed the wire with the greatest care to "Racing Calendar, London." Tester would win; his price would be short, but what did that matter? Good old Tester! Jolly old Tester! There was no horse in the world like Tester! It would be in the newspaper that night how Tester won... "Wealthy Young owner Leads in his First Derby Winner." The picture of Tester would be in tomorrow's paper.... Little pictures half begun and half formed, moved like a distorted cinema film through his somewhat confused mind. He wrote as evenly as possible: "Please scratch— "

And then he remembered "the dear little thing." He must send her a tip. He scrawled a few lines— the last words were "much love, old thing." The clerk behind the counter demanded a shilling: he recollected that afterwards.

"Done it, ole boy," he said, as he climbed back into the car. "Mus' act like a gen'leman old man— "

And then the memory of the shilling came lurching through his fuddled brain.

"Didn't scratch it after all, old boy— silly ass! I sent wire to Lottie Maybridge but didn' scratch horse at all."

"Does it marrer?" asked Gerald, half asleep.

"Norrabit," said his friend.

They were wide awake by the time they reached Epsom, for it was Jerry's idea that they should stop in Ewell at the house of a doctor, who was by way of being a Cambridge friend of Ronny's and the doctor, in his youthful enthusiasm, concocted a draught which just didn't kill them, but brought them to a condition of shaky sobriety.

In the paddock they saw a limping figure, and, walking beside him, Jane Seymour. Ronny greeted the girl with a sickly smile.

"You look ill," she said. "Are you very anxious about your horse?"

"Not at all," he said, "but I had rather a thick night."

Ronny never disguised his little excesses. He felt he was so rich that it was unnecessary that he should.

"Where's this old crock of yours?" he asked jocularly.

John Petworth pointed. Certainly Abbeyland was not a beauty. He was a thought too long in the legs for an Epsom horse, his neck was not his best feature, and his hocks would hardly have satisfied a veterinary expert.

"But he can gallop," said Petworth quietly.

He did not look at the girl; he had hardly looked at her since they met in the paddock.

"Are you going to win?" asked Ronny, with heavy humour.

John Petworth smiled.

"I don't even know that he will lose," he said cryptically.

The Gills were not at Epsom for the Derby, and they had lent the girl their box. After the parade, Petworth hurried round to join her, and they sat together watching the horses make their slow way through the dip to the starting-post.

"Tester is a screaming favourite," he told her.

"Isn't Ronny running two horses?"

He shook his head.

"Only one— but then, everybody knew that Tester was the better of the two. There was some talk of his running them both and making a declaration to win with Skyward. I'm very glad he didn't."

After a long pause:

"Do you think Tester will win?"

He nodded.

"He is a certainty," he said quietly. "I shall have to wait some time before I win my— other race— and my reward."

It was the boldest sentiment John Petworth had ever expressed in his life, and he went hot and cold as he said it. She did not answer or even turn her head; her eyes were fixed upon the horses now lining up at the gate. Jane Seymour's heart beat a little faster as she picked out her own pink and grey jacket.

"It would be wonderful," she said, almost under her breath, "if— "

The white tape leapt up at that moment, and the field of horses surged forward as one.

They had not gone two hundred yards before the field was divided into three groups. In the first of these was Tester, leading by a length; behind him something that bore a black jacket, and close third, Abbeyland. Up the hill they pounded, passed out of sight behind the bushes, to reappear with Tester leading by two lengths, and going easily. John Petworth shook his head.

"The race is all over," he said quietly.

"But they've a long way to go yet!" she said in surprise.

"The farther they go, the farther Tester will win," he said, "but Abbeyland is running remarkably well. I shouldn't be surprised if you are second."

Round Tattenham Corner the field came into the straight. Tester was out by himself, at least four lengths clear of Abbeyland, and in this order they ran home, Tester winning by eight lengths, Abbeyland beating the third by a neck.

"That's that!" said John Petworth, with a wry little smile. "But he ran splendidly."

"I think it's wonderful of you that Abbeyland should have done so well." She was shaking with excitement. As she laid her hand on his: "Aren't you awfully pleased?"

He nodded.

"Very pleased. I should have been swooning if we had won— at least, I am conscious!"

He escorted her down to the crowded little unsaddling enclosure, a place usually sacred to the male of the species. They heard the cheers of the crowd as an exalted Ronny led in his horse, and then, guided by Petworth, she went out to meet Abbeyland.

"He ran right well," said the jockey, as be slipped off and began unbuckling the girths, "but he never had a chance with that fellow."

"You did well to get second, Stoll," said Jane.

The glory of owning even a Derby second was beginning to glow within her.

"That was easy. I could have beaten the third by a couple of lengths," said the little jockey, as he pulled off the saddle and struggled towards the weighing room.

She waited by Abbeyland, who seemed in no sense wearied, and accepted her caresses as his right, and then— A distant voice bawled:

"Don't pay!"

John Petworth looked round in amazement.

"An objection?" he said, and, even as he spoke, the red flag went up by the number board.

Inside the stewards' room Ronny, in a state of frenzy, faced the imperturbable stewards.

"I know all about that, Mr. Blass," said the senior steward patiently, "but here is the point: did you or did you not scratch a horse this morning?"

"Of course I scratched him!" Ronny almost howled.

"From the Wimbledon Post Office at eleven-thirty-six?"

"I don't know the name of the Post Office, but I scratched him. I scratched Skyward— "

The senior steward shook his head.

"Fortunately the telegram has been sent down to us, though it did not reach us before your jockey weighed out."

Ronny took the yellow form with his shaking hand and read:

SCRATCH TESTER. MUCH LOVE, OLD THING. —  RONALD BLASS.

"And may I say, Mr. Blass," said the steward icily, "that when you address officials of the Jockey Club, it is not necessary to be affectionate!"

Like a man in a dream, John Petworth went back to the box to tell the news of the disqualification.

"He must have been sending another wire and got them mixed," he explained. "But isn't it wonderful? Isn't it a miracle..."

She lifted up her face; it seemed almost like an invitation, which John Petworth was too great a gentleman not to accept...

___________________

5:  The Cross of the Thief

Royal Magazine, September 1922

PAMELA WILSON once lectured the awe-stricken first-year girls at Newnham on the subject of "Romance."

"Romance," said she, "is one of the curiosities of History; it belongs to an age that knew not electric light or the aeroplane. It has gone with the true colour of the East and the popularity of the lute as an adjunct to courtship; with political assassinations and the stage coach. Romance to-day is something to be dusted but never used."

Pamela left Newnham at a tender age. This is undeniable, though she would have been both amazed and indignant at the accusation of youthfulness. For it seemed to her that great erudition had aged her prematurely. This is an illusion from which the very young and the very clever are never quite free.

She was twenty-two, nicely shaped, with a skin like silk and eyes of sapphire-blue. And she wrote. Her special subjects were Syrian history and the growth of the Christian Church. Such matters as the Arianism, Gnostic heresies, and the Apologia of Justin of Iranaeus, were to her more real and understandable than is Liberalism, Conservatism, and the pronouncements of ex-President Wilson to the average man of to-day.

She was a good girl but not goody, being so clever that she was superior to piety. When she was twenty-one, a learned review published her monograph on Joseph of Arimathea. By the time she left Cambridgeshire her views were quoted with respect by white-bearded gentlemen, who, picturing her as a white-headed lady devoting a placid lifetime to the study of doctrinarianism, wrote her long letters which began "Dear Colleague."

It occurred to Pamela one day, when she was sitting in her little Chelsea flat, her cheeks bulging with a chunk of well-advertised toffee, that the fabric of her growing reputation as an Authority was based upon the discoveries of other people. That she was living on the brains of dead writers, presenting conclusions— in a novel way, it is true— which she had found ready- made in the library at Newnham.

She put down the camisole she was sewing and puckered her brows. For the first time in her life there came to her a sense of her inadequacy, and it was a disturbing sensation. She must go out into the world and find things for herself. She must make revelations upon which unborn students of Newnham would theorise and write books which they could paraphrase and improve upon. No, not improve upon. She could not go so far as to think disloyally of herself.

Her opportunity came almost instantly. There had been a discovery in Palestine— a momentous discovery. Pamela scoffed at its authenticity. She scoffed in six hundred scornful words which she sent to the Daily Megaphone, and which the Daily Megaphone printed under a respectable heading, describing Pamela Wilson as "The Well-Known Authority upon the Holy Land."

There followed in a few days a telephone message, and Pamela presented herself at Megaphone House.

"Good lord!" said the editor in dismay," I thought you were much older!"

Pamela flushed and was inclined to be haughty.

"Sit down," said the editor, recovering from the shock, as editors do recover from shocks, with extraordinary rapidity. "We want you to go out to Palestine and write us half a dozen articles. Will you do it?"

Pamela knew that it was undignified to lose control of her voice, and that her tremulous acceptance did not accord with her character as "A Well-Known Authority on the Holy Land."

"You've never been, of course?" said the editor. "I guessed that from the assurance in your article which, by the way, has been extensively quoted in France and Germany. Come and see me tomorrow, and I will fix everything for you. By the way, if you are in any kind of trouble, see Yisma Effendi. That is a very secret and confidential tip from the Foreign Office."

Pamela went home elated, yet in a way depressed. It was glorious that she was going to see with her own eyes... but the editor had not treated her as an unusual being. Perhaps he was used to meeting Well-Known Authorities. She comforted herself with that thought, but decided that the men who conducted the daily press lacked that enthusiasm and stately courtesy which was so charming a characteristic of the gentlemen who edited or wrote for the more important reviews— one of whom, the Dean of Wenbury, hearing that she was going to Palestine, sent her a letter of introduction to Brother Bokoslava: "You will find him a charming fellow; my son was at Oxford with him."

On a day, Pamela sailed for Egypt, and the news of her departure was wired in code to Moscow, Erzrum, Alexandria, and Jaffa by a hook-nosed and shabby man who had shadowed her for a week.

Pamela did not know this; the editor of the Daily Megaphone, who knew such things as the reason the Grand Duke Muchoff never appeared in public and the date of the next General Election, even he did not know this, or he would have sent a real reporter to follow Pamela and report happenings.

SOME WEEKS after Pamela sailed and four years before the Turkish guns thundered over the Black Sea, Mahmud Ali sat in the sun near the Gate of David, waiting for chance fortune, his back to the broad stone slabs that even Herod had looked upon as ancient, his eyes fixed alternately upon the lower road which leads down to Beth-salem and the passing throng.

There was nothing in all Jerusalem to tempt Mahmud to work. His clean- cut face, his slightly aquiline nose, the insolent breeding of his creamy-brown face, all testified to his House, for he was of a stock which had come into Palestine in the days of Saladin.

He watched the passers-by with impressive interest— the goat-herds, the shepherds, the donkey train newly come from Bethlehem and was so watching when Arak el Selum, a notorious gossip, dropped down by his side— not unseen, for Mahmud had recognised him from the tail of his eye.

"There is a talk in Beth-salem that you will be taken by soldiers and cast into prison," said Arak cheerfully.

Mahmud chewed in thought, but made no answer.

"Also Mahomet ben Abra will beat you with a stick because you spied on him for Yisma."

"Croaking dog," said Mahmud, "how long is it since vultures learned to sing?"

The mean, pockmarked face of Arak creased in a grin. He caught up a handful of pebbles and jingled with them idly.

"Men who rob alone," quoted he, "have company in prison."

"Sheep go in flocks to slaughter," answered Mahmud readily. "I will see Mahomet ben Abra in hell yet— he and the fat women of his house."

Even Arak was shocked at the shameless reference to the harem, and made a disparaging noise.

"How can a man consider this old goat," asked Mahmud, "and such a man as I, who have been to the ends of the world? I am the servant of Yisma the Frank, and that is true. All men know this, and he knows well that they know— for truly he is the Ear of El Kuds, the Sanctuary. But if I were a lone man I should mock such low and foolish men as M'met ben Abra. For I have sat amidst the roses of Shiraz, and read the verses of Hafix written in gold. Remember this also, Kaffir,"— he wagged the insult home with his crooked finger,— " that I have been to Long Island— such a place as you cannot imagine. As a child I lived with the Mericani, learnt at their schools and worshipped in their mosques. I know their poets, Long-fello, Shakespeare— say that, ignorant dog!"

But Arak would not frame the clumsy word. "Sakaspah" he could manage, but no more.

Mahmud sat with his keen face toward the road which leads past Silvam. Perhaps he was thinking of the eccentric gentleman whose freakish fancy carried a little Arab boy to America, and whose death released a lank youth from the irksome restraint of a New England boarding-school to the joyous life of the Near East.

A faint sound came to them, and Arak came up to his feet as though he were on springs.

"It is the hour of prayer," he said; "come with me to the Mosque of Yasul."

"Go to the devil!" responded the other, and flung a stone after the retreating Arak— flung it without effort, yet with such effect that the tarboosh was whisked from the other's head as by an invisible string.

Mahmud picked himself up, and stood for a minute or two with his eyes fixed on the gate as though loath to take himself away.

Then he saw what he was waiting for. Tewfik Effendi, very stout and very dark, a heavy black moustache ending the lower part of his face. Tewfik walked with difficulty because he had dropsy, and the two soldiers who followed him had to shuffle at a snail's pace.

The Chief of the Police saw Mahmud, frowned, and beckoned him.

"What thieving pig are you?" asked he, "that you should steal from the Nazarene Fathers of the Ass?"

"Effendi," said Mahmud, with great care, "I am neither pig nor thief, but a follower of the Prophet who said: 'You shall not eat of that which is unclean,' and as for thieving, I know a man who works with a Nazarene priest and lies about the finding of a certain cross."

Tewfik Effendi turned yellow.

"Men who know too much must find new heads," he countered. "You have been denounced as a traitor to the Divine Commander of the Faithful, and I have hung men for less— even on the public places of Jerusalem I have hung them."

Mahmud smiled.

"I saw a magistrate hung," he said, "also Abdul Mahmet Bey of Lower Syria. Who shall say that we will not hang together, you and I?"

Tewfik Effendi made a little face and swallowed hard.

"God send you grace, Mahmud Ali," he said mildly; "you address the Chief of Police as though he were a donkey-boy. Now come soon to my house by the Babsith-Maryam, and I will give you coffee and a cigarette. You are a bright and comely boy— with my help, who knows— ?"

"Who knows?" mocked Mahmud gravely. He waited until a corner of the street hid the Commissioner of Police from sight, then he clapped his hands gently and a beggar, who sat against the opposite wall drowsing in the shade, rose swiftly.

"Go follow Tewfik Effendi, and bring me word of all that happens," he said, and the man departed. He himself took the Street of David at a rapid pace. He turned sharply to the left, by the Syrian Convent, and crossing by the Citadel he reached the White House within the Jaffa Gate, passed unbidden to the gardens and scarcely waited for the invitation which decency demanded, before he pushed apart the green doors of Yisma Effendi's reception-room.

That calm young-old man sat cross-legged on a diwan smoking a cigarette through eight inches of amber tube. On his knees was outspread a large vellum map, and littering the dark reddiwan on either side were innumerable documents.

He looked up with a little frown as Mahmud Ali entered.

"Peace upon thy house, Yisma Effendi, and great prosperity," said Ali, squatting in the centre of the room as he spoke, and offering the tribute of a hurried salaam.

"Upon you peace, Mahmud Ali," responded John Hazell. "What brings you here?"

Mahmud was eyeing his host curiously. Yisma Effendi wore his robe of grey silk with the inevitable cummerbund of scarlet, and the tarboosh on his head was set at that rakish angle which the rich Mohammedan youths of Jerusalem affected.

"Effendi," aid Mahmud Ali, "there is talk here of a miracle which the Patriarch of a new Moskobi religion has performed."

Hazell smiled faintly.

"Do you come at my full hour to tell me of miracles?" he asked in the Syrian-Arabic, "or of a new Moskobi religion? For I tell you, Mahmud Ali, that never the sun comes up over Palestine but it sees a new sect, and never does it set save on the miracle of a day."

Mahmud Ali closed his mouth tightly and shrugged his shoulders. Hazell waited a little while, then he asked:

"Tell me news of my friends— such news as does not come to me through the windows of my house."

Mahmud Ali ignored the gentle sarcasm.

"There is a great feud between Selik Arabi and the Sheik of the wild people beyond Bethany— the Mutesarrif has sent ten soldiers, under Captain Abdullah Harsim, to bring in the Sheik. Tewfik Effendi goes often to the Wadi Balak to meet an Armenian priest— "

"Who pays him money because he lies scandalously," interrupted Hazell, and grinned at his spy's discomfiture.

"Effendi," said he in an injured tone, "this I could have told you three days since, but I wished to know his business— now I can tell you."

"This Armenian has discovered the Cross of the Thief, as all the world knows," said Hazell. "It has been concealed for a thousand years in the roof of a Khan near by Shechem. That Khan between the Tomb of the Forty Prophets and the Well of the Woman of Samaria."

He was telling one of those periodical scandals which set Jerusalem in a ferment. There are men, evil, soulless men, who make God a factor of commerce; who barter and cheat in the name of religion. From time to time they organise great schemes of plunder, and such a scheme had come to fruition in these past days.

Reduced to penury, the Order (its clever organiser called it "The Faith of the True Armenian Church ") was at its last gasp when came the providential discovery of the Cross of the Penitent Thief. Widely advertised, money flowed into the coffers of the Armenian Monastery. Copts and Greeks, Latins and Anglicans, had thundered their denunciation of the fraud. Moscow had foamed at the mouth and had written passionately strange characters; even the sedater English reviews had been stirred to vexation. Incidentally, Pamela Wilson had written six hundred sarcastic words in the Daily Megaphone, which had disturbed the True Armenians more profoundly than any other criticism, for people read and foreign correspondents quote a daily newspaper, whereas they never by any chance open the pages of the learned monthlies.

Yisma Effendi— his real name was Hazell, and he was Intelligence Officer for five nations— sat motionless on his diwan, his chin in his hand, his eyes fixed upon the tessellated pavement near the fountain.

"You may go, Mahmud," he said at last, and Mahmud, knowing himself to be rather a man of hearing than man of doing, salaamed and went.

For five long minutes Yisma continued staring at the sun-flooded court and at the glittering drops that were flung from the fountain's feathery top, and then he clapped his hands.

From nowhere, as it seemed— though in reality he came through a narrow door at the corner of the apartment— appeared an old man, who salaamed in reverence.

"Send to me Dhin," said Yisma, and the servant withdrew noiselessly.

Dhin came, but through no narrow door, being of a size which precluded such finesse. He was very fat, and waddled in his walk. His face, clean-shaven, was alive with humour, his forehead everlastingly damp. He saluted with great earnestness.

"Effendi," he said importantIy, "I was at prayers when your Excellency sent for me, for knowing how great is the reliance which you place in me, and how important is my place in your lordship's household, I go not to the Mosque, but recite the Surah from ' In the name of God' to 'who go not astray' three times— this I do on your lordship's house-top over against the tent, for I am a modest man."

"To-night," said Hazell, giving the recital no attention, "there comes from Jaffa a young Frankish woman. Watching her will be the Armenian Yussef, who runs and carries for the Monastery of the True Armenians. At the hour of Subh that man must be here and none must see him coming..."

"At the hour of Subh," said the man earnestly, "I pray in the Mosque of Sidna Omar for my brother's wife who has a carbuncle on her neck. Lord, I entreat you by the hundred and twenty and four thousand prophets of Islam, that you find another hour, for though, as God knows, there is no other man in Jerusalem who loves you better, yet I am a poor sinner."

"Go in peace," said Yisma.

"O Effendi," pleaded Dhin the Fat, "if you give me two poor medizi for alms... "

"No.''

"One miserable medizi," begged the other, "as bashish to the spirits, O my beloved... "

"Get out!" snarled Yisma, and the man waddled to the door. Here he paused and raised his solemn hand. "Though I dwell for ever in Gehenna," he said, his voice quivering, "I will do what you ask, risking my soul's salvation for no more than five piastres to give to the poor, who sit at the gate of the Mosque."

Yisma pointed to the open door, and with one more supplicating glance the big figure was swallowed up in the dark doorway.

TO PAMELA WILSON the journey from Jaffa to Jerusalem was a pilgrimage of delight, in spite of the bleak unloveliness of the country through which the train puffed and struggled. The blue-grey mountains of Judea had a mystery, the olive plantations were a joy to her eyes. She passed through strange, queer- smelling towns, jumbles of squalid buildings which had once been great cities, the dowries of kings' daughters, the abiding-places of Solomon and of Pharaoh. The little train smoked and spluttered over battlefields where Philistines and Jews had fought for the supremacy of their small world ; it climbed into stark cañons, rumbled across little rivers which David had known, and came, after four hours that seemed like minutes, to the outskirts of a dusty station labelled in French-Arabic and German and English.

She was in Jerusalem!

The courteous gentleman who throughout the journey had acted as guide- book and commentator, smiled at her obvious excitement.

"Well, you are there— or nearly there," he said, "and now you will be able to see for yourself how much truth there is in the ridiculous story."

He was a sallow-faced man with a slight black moustache. She thought he was foreign, although he spoke English perfectly. And, of course, Pamela Wilson had talked quite frankly about the object of her visit. There was no reason why she should not, especially, after seeing her name on the suit-case, he had asked if she was "the Pamela Wilson" who had written so entrancingly of the True Armenian artless fraud.

"Oh yes, I have read the article. It was taken over and translated by a German newspaper, the Lokalanzeiger, I think. It has made quite a stir in archeological circles."

She was fluttered by this tribute to her fame.

"No, I am going to Jerusalem on business," he said, and introduced himself as Mr. John Scarpi. His manner was perfect: he was differential, quiet, and, in a sense, reserved.

The train waited for some time before it pulled into the station, and Pamela went to the window and looked out. When she came back she laughed.

"I almost feel as if that man were keeping guard on the door," she said; "every time I have been to the window I have seen him there. The conductor called him 'Yussef,' and he seems to be well-known."

"A dragoman probably," said Mr. Scarpi; "he is keeping near you in the hope of your engaging him. I will see."

He looked out of the window and said something in a language which was not Arabic. The man looked scared and scuttled away. This Pamela saw, looking over his shoulder.

He collected her baggage and handed her into a cab; glancing backward as she drove away, she saw him talking to the man Yussef.

That disreputable person was glad when the interview was through, for the trailing of tourists was not to his liking. Moreover, he had an assignation with a woman in the Haret el Maidan. He stopped at a wine-shop near the station to drink the dust of travelling from his throat, and a fat man approached him.

"Peace on you, Yussef. You have come a long journey?" seating himself opposite the Armenian.

"On you peace, fat man," said Yussef arrogantly; "drink wine?"

Dhin shook his head.

"It is against my religion," he said, "and the wine here is not good."

"Then go to the devil," said Yussef, swallowing.

Dhin selected a large bottle with great care, and smashed it on the man's head. The methods of Dhin were neither subtle nor refined.

"This pig insulted my faith," he explained, when the keeper of the shop came. "Help me put him into a carriage and I will take him to the Nazarene Hospital."

"May he roast in hell," responded his compatriot.

When Yussef the Armenian recovered his senses, he was lying on a marble seat, and a man was looking down at him with a quizzical smile. Yussef groaned and sat up, fingering his damaged head.

"Yisma Effendi," he said, "your servant did this, and I go to Tewfik Effendi for justice."

"What happened to the Frankish woman whom you followed from Jaffa?" asked Yisma, and the man scowled.

"I know nothing," he said.

"To whither has your master taken her?" asked Yisma, and the man's eyes opened wide.

"She has gone?"

Yisma nodded.

"When I sent for her she was gone," he said, which was the truth. Five minutes after her arrival at Fast Hotel, Pamela Wilson had gone out and had not returned.

"I know nothing," said Yussef, but with a certain satisfaction.

Yisma clapped his hands and two men came. "Burn his feet until he speaks," said Yisma simply. Yussef waited only so long as would enable him to discover if Yisma Effendi threatened unfaithfully, then he spoke, nursing a scorched sole.

To Pamela Wilson, the sudden appearance of her travelling companion at her elbow was a delightful surprise.

Mr. John Scarpi, hat in hand, a smile upon his thin, sallow face, was pleased with her pleasure, being human.

"You will get lost in these narrow streets," he said, "and really, there is nothing worth buying here— all the relics are fakes and imported by the car load. Let me show you the real bazaars."

A carriage was near at hand: she thought it was a cab, and jumped in without hesitation. Later—

"Surely we have left the city?" she said, pulling aside the curtains.

"There is a suburb just outside," he answered glibly, "and it is there that the more interesting things are sold."

They were a long time reaching the suburb. When at last the sweating horses were jerked back on their haunches, she alighted, to find herself before a small and dilapidated house, half surrounded and wholly hidden from the road by stunted olive trees.

"Will you come in, please?"

She hesitated.

"Is this a shop?" she asked, and then his hand gripped her arm and she was flung through the open doorway. She stumbled and fell to her knees on the earthen floor, speechless with surprise and fear.

Mr. Scarpi shut the thick door and bolted it.

"How dare you!"

She sprang to the door, but his arm was about her waist and she was dragged back.

"Don't make a fuss or you'll be sorry," he said, and his voice was sharp and threatening. "You can scream if you want, but you are miles from anybody except the Arab shepherds."

"What is the meaning... ?" she began in a shaking voice.

"Sit down," he commanded, and pointed to an untidy bed. "I am keeping you here until night, and then you will be taken to the Convent of the True Armenians. In that convent you will have a vision, eh? A wonderful vision. You will then write to all your friends and say that the discovery of the cross, about which you have written so cleverly, was a true discovery. You will write this, saying also that in your repentance at finding how wicked you have been, you have become a convert to the True Armenian faith."

She could only look at him open-mouthed.

"You have done me a great deal of harm," he went on, "for I am the head of the Order. Subscriptions toward the building of a new monastery have fallen from a thousand Egyptian pounds a day to a few paltry roubles. I am putting matters to you very plainly, Miss Wilson. I am a business man, you may know my name."

He took a card-case from his pocket, extracted a large square paste- board and handed it to her.

She took it from his hand and tore it up without looking at the elegantly engraved script.

"I don't want to know who you are— it is preposterous... absurd!" she said energetically. "Do you imagine that I will submit to your ridiculous proposal? I shall go straight to the British Consulate— "

"You will never have an opportunity of going straight to the British Consul," said her captor, calmly lighting a cigar. "Don't you realise that if I were mad enough to let you go, I should probably spend the rest of my life in prison? You will find the Sisters at the convent a little dull of understanding, for they are mostly peasant girls from Georgia. I practically bought them from their parents— I had to make a start somehow, and converts came very slowly. With your intellectual attainments, you ought to establish a moral supremacy over them and become in time a kind of a saint. I have views on that matter too," he said, flicking the ash off his cigar. "If you take my advice, Miss Wilson, you will bow to the inevitable, and be glad that nothing worse has happened to you or is likely to happen. I tell you this, that if there is a chance, the remotest chance, of my being saddled with this offence, I shall not go to prison without cause. You are a very attractive young lady," he said significantly, "and I am showing the greatest self-restraint in treating you as though you were the plainest and least desirable woman on earth."

She shivered.

"I have friends," she began.

"Not in El Kuds," he corrected. "Here you are a tourist. Even in England you have not many friends, and no relations."

At that moment a name came to her memory that she had not recalled since her interview with the editor of the Daily Megaphone. She had dismissed the suggestion which the editor had made that in time of trouble she should call upon the assistance of somebody who had been recommended by the Foreign Office, because she had never dreamt for one moment that she ever would be in any trouble. After all, the world was civilised, romance was dead, and these were not the days of brigandage and outrage.

"Yisma Effendi will know," she said at random.

It was bluff on her part, for there was no particular reason why Yisma Effendi— whoever he might be— should find himself in the slightest degree interested in her plight. But the effect upon the man was magical. He leapt to his feet, and in the half-light she saw his face grow pale.

"Yisma Effendi!" he stammered; "do you know him?"

"He is a personal friend of mine," she said boldly. "I was going to call on him when you took me away."

He licked his dry lips.

"You said nothing to me in the train about Yisma Effendi," he accused. "You told me you had no friends at all in Jerusalem. You are lying!"

She herself was amazed at the change of tone her words had produced.

"He knows I am in Jerusalem," she said, again drawing upon her imagination.

She saw the hand that stroked his chin shake, and his lips were bloodless.

"You are lying," he said at last. "Somebody in London told you about Yisma Effendi, and you have only just remembered the name. Ah! That is true!." His finger jerked to her triumphantly.

She had opened her mouth to speak, when there came through the one deep-barred window of the room a shrill, mournful whistle. The man looked round, unbolted the door, and rushed out. In a few seconds he was back, and was pulling the bed from the wall. Beneath was a square of faded carpet that hid a trap-door of well-worn cedar. He pulled up the flap, disclosing a flight of steps.

"Go down there," he said curtly.

"I refuse!" said Pamela in defiance.

His hand shot out and seized her by her dress.

"Go down," he said between his teeth, "or I'll throw you down."

She bit her lips, and summoning her courage, descended slowly down the uneven steps. Her head was only clear of the floor when he dropped the trap, replaced the carpet, and pushed back the bed. He had hardly time to stroll into the open with a look of unconcern, when the four horsemen drew up before the door and Yisma Effendi leapt lightly to the ground.

"Good afternoon, Father," said Yisma Effendi.

"Good afternoon, my son," replied the other gravely. In his modern well-fitting dress, the attitude of parental authority sat grotesquely upon him. He looked up into the heavy face of TewfIk Effendi, who grimaced horribly, surveyed the two soldiers who rode behind the fat Commissioner of Police with a frown of wonder, and then:

"Are you going far, Yisma Effendi?" he asked.

"Not very far," said Yisma. "No farther than this house, I hope. I want Miss Wilson."

"Miss Wilson?" The man was all open-eyed astonishment. "Why, isn't that the lady who travelled up from Jaffa with me by train?"

"It is the lady you have been waiting for at Jaffa for the past fortnight," said Yisma briefly. "The same lady you drove from the Bazaar of Weeping to this house, where that very same lady is now concealed."

The other's look was one of pain and forgiveness.

"I certainly drove the lady to the Gate of David and left her there," he said. "I have not seen her since. If you think she is in this house, you are at liberty to search."

"I shall search with or without liberty," said Yisma, and walked into the one apparent room of the house. He looked round and came out again.

"Where is she?" he asked quietly.

"I tell you— "

"Look!" Yisma pointed to the floor, where the fragments of the man's visiting-card were scattered. "You do not tear your own card up, do you, my friend? Where is she?"

"I tell you—"

Yisma made a sign to the soldiers, who had dismounted, and they seized the man and flung him down upon his face.

"Blindfold him;" and then: "My friend," said Yisma, "at your infernal monastery you have a hoard of gold and you have many years of life before you." He spoke in Syrian-Arabic, and his harsh words fell on the other's ears like the stroke of a hammer. "Will you live to enjoy what you have, or will you die because you want more than you can spend?"

"This is an outrage," sobbed the man.

"Strike," said Yisma, and the quivering victim heard the whistle of a sword as it came from a scabbard.

And then something stung his neck, and he fainted.

Yet it was only the thong of Yisma's riding-whip that struck him lightly.

"Glad to be alive?" asked Yisma pleasantly, when the man stared around. "Now the next time it shall be the sword, by Allah!"

"She is in the cellar under the bed," quavered the prisoner.

Pamela Wilson came blinking into the daylight to meet the steady grave eyes of an agreeable-looking young Turkish gentleman.

Half-way back to Jerusalem she had recovered herself sufficiently to talk of the British Consul, and the steps she would take to secure satisfaction for the behaviour to which she had been subjected.

"I don't think so, Miss Wilson," said Yisma, who was riding at her side. His voice was quiet, but he seemed amused.

"If this man is an agent of the True Armenians," she said, "I shall complain direct to the head of the Order, Father John Bokoslava. I have a letter of introduction to him from the Dean of Wenbury."

"Take my advice," said Yisma, "and don't present it."

"Why not?" she asked in astonishment.

"Because the gentleman we have just left behind with the soldiers— Tewfik Effendi has moments of extreme delicacy and did not wish to have him bastinadoed in your presence—"

"Well, what about him?" she said, when he paused.

"He is John Bokoslava," said Yisma, and laughed softly to himself all the way back to Jerusalem.

______________________

6: Bill And The Tappers

Clues, June 10, 1928

THERE was a very clever detective at Scotland Yard called "Bill."

Bill was wandering through Berkshire on a wet and rather stormy evening, and came to a nice little house that had been built in the midst of a pine wood. It was the one of the four houses in the neighbourhood that Bill was anxious to see. Mr. Crollen, a florid man, sat at the open window of his dressing-room, for it was a warm evening, and from time to time addressed his pretty wife, who was drinking a cup of tea.

"Sooner or later they're pretty sure to get wisdom, and then it's you and me for a nice long world voyage, Lou— "

"You and I," she corrected, being something of a purist. He was absurdly proud of her erudition, and purred gratefully.

"Tha's so. You and I— and me! This Scotland Yard aren't— isn't all bone-headed. A feller in town— Joe Saute, the 'con.' man— told me they've got a whale of a feller up at the Yard— Bill Somep'n. I've heard about this feller from a boy that's workin' the Paris hotels...."

"Oh, Bill!" she wailed wearily; "there's always a Bill somewhere! There was a Bill at the O. and E. so darned clever that he couldn't find his latch-key."

There was an esoteric jest here. Mr. Crollen laughed heartily. This Lou of his had been an operator on the Oriental and European Telegraph Company when he first met her and introduced her to a wider and more expensive life.

She left ten minutes ahead of the city detective who came to arrest her for utilising information that came across the wire for her own private enrichment.

She saw Crollen crane his head out of the window.

"Saw a car pass the drive," he explained, "then the engines stopped. Hullo!"

Bill was walking carelessly up the gravelled drive, smoking a cigarette.

Lou, at her husband's side, saw the intruder.

"You'd better go down and see what that kid wants."

Mr. Crollen obeyed.

He came back in ten minutes.

"Run out of petrol, that's all," he explained, "and— "

Lou had a small instrument at her ear, and now raised a warning finger.

"D.H. 97 coming through," she said; "now for three hours hell's dullness."

They forgot all about Bill, for at 11.47 that night Mr. John Mortimer confided his secret to the ether.

WHEN SENATOR Grannit went to Paris, from New York, taking with him eighty thousand dollars in negotiable stock, the European press hardly commented upon the circumstances under which he was relieved of his wealth, though it was especially interesting to the student of criminology. Nobody knew that the Senator carried this money, except the Bank of France and Mr. Grannit himself. Yet within an hour of his arrival in Paris, the money was lifted.

Scotland Yard investigated the matter at a distance when Sir Hubert Loam, reaching his house in Berkeley Square, found a young man waiting to receive a cheque on account of a deal he had concluded when he was still on board the Mauretania.

The cheque was an open one, and was handed to the representative of The North & South Land Syndicate without hesitation. It was presented and paid— but the money never went to the Land Syndicate. Nor had the suave clerk, waiting in Sir Hubert's drawing-room, the slightest association with known syndicates of any kind.

That is when the police began to take notice. There followed almost at once the case of Mrs. Crimack-Leggatt of Pittsburg. She lost exactly ten thousand pounds' worth of jewels which she had sent to be reset.

"The whole thing is rather extraordinary," said Inspector Lander, Chief of the Confidence Branch at Scotland Yard. "Neither of these people is talkative; they made no friends on the voyage; yet in some way the gang that worked the swindles knew everything about them that was worth money. This is a job for Bill!"

TWO MONTHS LATER came John Mortimer, by a crack White Star liner. The boat was delayed by fog, and he arrived on Saturday, after business hours; but life was such good fun, and London so horny, that business hours did not worry him.

After the boat had left Cherbourg, there appeared a new face on board.

John noticed casually, at lunch, a grey-haired man with a dark, saturnine face. Later, when he was packing his hand-bag, the stranger appeared.

"Sorry to bother you, Mr. Mortimer..." he handed the confident young passenger a card.

"Detective-Inspector Lander," read John in the corner of the pasteboard.

"I travel the boat from Cherbourg to England," explained the detective apologetically. "I don't know whether you have any valuables aboard— ?"

He gave John Mortimer the impression that he knew very well.

"Well, in case... we've told Bill to keep an eye on you."

"Thank you!"

Mr. Mortimer's tone was sardonic. He was of the age when, taking a dispassionate view of humanity, he could find none more efficient than himself.

A few hours later he was gloating over London— the London he had not seen these eight years. And the stone balcony of his bedroom at the Admiralty Hotel was royally set for gloating. Beneath him was the green of the Embankment Gardens, with its little statues and flower-beds and its squat bandstand. Beyond, the broad stretch of the Embankment, and beyond that the pageantry of the Thames.

The wintry sunset was all rose and russet, and the river stared up at him with the reflection of a paling sky. Two tugs abreast swept down-stream, their port flights greening the water; a police launch stole from the shadows of moored barges on the farther shore, and swung in a wide circle towards its neat pier by Scotland Yard. The street cars were already glittering with lights, and against the western light the clock tower of Parliament was sharply defined.

He was conscious that somebody had come into his bedroom. Ordinarily, the appearance of a hotel servant would not have disturbed him, but now there were excellent reasons why he should not leave any caller unchallenged. It had been careless in him that he should have forgotten to turn the key in the lock.

"A young lady to see you, sir." The floor waiter passed him a card.

"Miss Monica Bradley," he read; and, in the corner:

"From Mr. Store."

Of course! He had forgotten the secretary.

"Ask her up to the sitting-room, please," he said; and noticed that the waiter passed through the door to that apartment.

So the bedroom door was locked after all. He tested it and found it was so. Then he tried the wall-safe near the head of the bed. It was hidden behind a sliding oak panel. All the big suites at the Admiralty Hotel had their private safes. That fact was widely advertised, and had determined the hotel for many a traveller in John Mortimer's position. Nine little keyholes ran down one edge of the steel door, but only two locks operated, and Mortimer had the two keys in his pocket. With every new guest the combination was changed by one official at the hotel. It seemed an ingenious idea to John Mortimer, who had reason for desiring security.

He returned to the sitting-room as the girl was shown in. She was a head shorter than he, and he was pleasantly shocked to discover that she was pretty. Two grave grey eyes met him; when she spoke she had the voice of a lady.

"You're from Mr. Store," he smiled. "Very kind of you, Miss Bradley, to come on Saturday afternoon. I thought English people didn't work after one o'clock!"

She smiled faintly at this.

"This English person works seven days a week," she said, as she put down her bag on the table and began to strip her gloves.

She was very self-possessed— capable, he imagined. Better-dressed than he might have expected.

"Mr. Store sent you, of course," he nodded. "I had forgotten I had wirelessed for a secretary."

He was bland, very much the man of affairs. She had met his type before, but never observed such obvious qualities. Tall, good-looking, immensely confident... she liked him.

He looked at his watch. It was rather late in the afternoon, and he was rather chary of starting his business at such an hour. She anticipated his question when she said:

"I was expecting that you would wish me to work late, Mr. Mortimer."

She opened the little attaché-case she had placed on the table, took out a note-book and pencil— "The typewriter will come up later," she said, and looked at him expectantly.

There was a whole heap of work to do: letters to the Rajah's representatives in Paris, cables which he should have sent an hour ago to announce his safe arrival. Yet he was rather too full of his own pleasant emotions to settle down to work.

"Mr. Store is our agent," he said. There was a hint of patronage in his tone that went well with his youthfulness. "I haven't told Mr. Store what has brought me to Europe, but it is rather an important matter."

She nodded.

"I know you're bringing some emeralds for the Rajah of Rajpoona."

He stared at her open-mouthed. He was indeed exporting emeralds from New York— a circumstance which might sound queer to Hatton Garden. But John Mortimer and his partner had been making this collection for fifteen years— at least, his senior partner had, for he was a member of one of the most famous firms of jewellers in New York. Some of the stones had been in the possession of old colonial families for a hundred years.

"How on earth did you know that?" he asked in dismay.

She smiled again, and she really had a lovely smile.

"Probably your partner cabled Mr. Store," she said; and then, almost carelessly: "I suppose you have put the stones in a safe place? Eight hundred thousand dollars' worth of emeralds are rather a responsibility, aren't they?"

He looked at her suspiciously.

"They are in a very safe place," he said.

She nodded. "Naturally," said she.

There was something in her tone that was faintly irritating. Before he could properly analyse that particular inflection, she went on: "You're expecting to meet the Rajah's agent in London— Mr. Koenig— aren't you?"

He was ruffled— some of his pleasant mystery had been dissipated.

"I notified his address in London and in Paris," he said shortly, "but I guess he must be in Paris, for I haven't heard of him."

"You will," she said, nibbling at the end of her pencil, her thoughtful eyes fixed on his.

He stared at her.

"Of course I shall," he said, with a touch of asperity in his voice.

"Then that's all right."

Her smile was altogether disarming. She smoothed her note-book flat and looked at him inquiringly. But he was not in an immediate mood to work.

"You rather took my breath away— but then, London does that," he said. "It is like coming back to a strange world. What a law-abiding little burg this is! It may make you happy to know that Bill is looking after me! I presume Bill is a detective, so if he comes whilst I am out, you might order some beer for him— if he drinks beer."

"Bills drink nothing else," she said.

He was graciously amused.

"I can tell you, I shouldn't have been walking through New York with these infernal emeralds except I had a Burns man walking on each side of me and another behind," he said. "By the way, do you know whether Store heard from Koenig?"

She shook her head.

"I'm pretty sure he hasn't," she said. "He doesn't even know that there is such a man."

Whether it was the exhilaration of finding himself in his native city, or from the sheer joy of finding somebody with whom he could talk, and who, he knew, shared his secret, or for some reason which he could not understand, he babbled on.

"We did not tell Store. You see, this was rather a big deal, and the fewer people who knew about it, the better." And then, suddenly, his face went blank again. "But how the dickens did you know about— the emeralds, I mean? Renstein couldn't have been so foolish— "

"All men are foolish," she said quietly.

He felt that if he spoke he would only say something extraordinarily inane.

"You didn't bring your own secretary, Mr. Mortimer?"

"That seems fairly obvious," said John, as coldly as he knew how. "We have no women stenographers in our office."

She was nibbling at the end of her pencil again, staring through the open French windows on to the murky skyline.

"Women are not very efficient, I suppose?" she asked.

"Women talk," said John crushingly. "When they should be working they— er— are chattering."

To his surprise, she nodded her agreement. "About men," she said. "That's queer, isn't it?— men only talk about themselves!"

He might have said something very sharp if he could have thought of anything to say. Instead, he compromised by dictating three cables, two of which were absolutely unnecessary, and two rather dignified letters which contained nothing of what he intended to say. She was an efficient stenographer, and was always waiting for the next sentence. He cleared his throat.

"I think that will be all," he said.

She put down her pencil and looked up at him.

"I am afraid I have annoyed you," she said. "And secretaries who annoy principals come to a very sticky end! You see, I am not used— " she stopped suddenly.

"You are not used— ?" he suggested, and his suspicions grew when he saw how confused she was.

Fortunately, the typewriter arrived at that moment, and he left her to her work.

She was half-way through when Mr. Koenig called him on the 'phone. The telephone was in the sitting-room, and he had perforce to interrupt her in her work, and since there was an excuse for her stopping, there was also a reason why she should listen.

"Just arrived, Mr. Koenig. You got my wire? Good!"

"Coming right along!" said a thick and hearty voice.

John hung up the receiver as his secretary asked:

"Do you know Mr. Koenig?"

It is very difficult for a pretty girl to be wholly impertinent. John Mortimer's intelligence told him that that was a question he might well have answered more or less offensively. The sentimentalist in him produced a fairly coherent reply.

"No, he has never been to America, and naturally I have not met him," he said, a little stiffly.

He snapped the words, and Miss Bradley was inwardly amused.

He was the most easy-going of young men, but objected to being laughed at, and that this very pretty and capable lady was laughing at him was most obvious to John Mortimer. He wished Store had shown a little more discrimination. After all, it was all very well to employ a lady in that capacity, and John Mortimer was a democrat and all that sort of thing; but he was also a man who for seven days had allowed his self-importance to grow in proportion to his responsibility, and this chance-found girl had made him feel most astonishingly small. He was a little alarmed, too. This was not a moment when he required the association of unusual people.

"I suppose you are Mr. Store's confidential secretary?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"No; he has never confided anything to me— not even his love affairs," she said, with such calmness that he almost forgot to be shocked by this outrageous disclaimer.

"I thought Mr. Store was an elderly man— " he began.

She had a most exasperating trick of interrupting him.

"Eighty, and possibly ninety. But even quite ancient men have love affairs."

He went out and slammed the door behind him.

He was in no pleasant mood to receive the lady whom Monica brightly announced by tapping on the door.

"A lady?" He frowned. "Who is it?"

"Miss Koenig."

John Mortimer was a little staggered. He had not endowed the Rajah's agent with a family, certainly not with as attractive a family as the slim, rather pale, sad-eyed girl who greeted him when he came out.

"My father is not here yet?" She spoke with a slightly foreign accent. "He told me he would be here, that I must call at six."

She looked at the jewelled watch on her wrist, and was apparently embarrassed.

Mortimer noticed that she glanced from time to time at his temporary secretary. Miss Monica Bradley was annoyingly interested in the personality of the visitor, and it appeared that the interest was mutual.

"This is my— um— secretary," introduced John awkwardly.

Miss Koenig inclined her head slightly, and took a swift look at the girl sitting with folded hands before her typewriter, and in that swift glance Mortimer could have sworn he saw a half-recognition.

"Indeed?" said Miss Koenig politely. And then:

"Have I not seen you at some time? Did you not call at my house— "

Monica shook her head.

"Somewhere... a house we had in the country. I was at the window when you came; my brother saw you."

Monica shook her head again.

"You're mistaken," she said coolly, and John Mortimer knew that she was lying.

He saw the visitor give the typist a long and searching scrutiny, saw the suspicion that lived and died in her eyes, and the slight shrug of her shapely shoulders; and then, before John could speak, there came a rap at the door, a bell-boy entered, followed by the bluff and hearty Mr. Koenig.

He was a little man, rather stout and bald. Two humorous blue eyes shone behind the thick lenses of his horn-rimmed spectacles.

"Ah, my frient Mr. Mortimer!" he boomed, gripped John heartily by the hand, and then grinned round at his daughter. "Dis is de good fellow, eh? He comes to rob your poor farder! Worse dan de fellows who steal the money from the poor silly peoples who travel on ships."

He drew up a chair with a thump, sat down on it, drew out a big pocket- case which he slammed on the table. It was, John saw, packed tight with notes.

"The Rajah comes to-night by 'plane from Paris," he explained. He spoke rapidly. "You understant? I must place my business before he comes or I make no profit. The sum is a hundred and seventy-t'ree t'ousand, which I pay— "

And then his eyes fell upon the girl typist watching him curiously, and John saw his brows meet.

"Why, young lady! I think I have met you, eh?"

"So your aunt was saying," said Monica genially.

"My aunt—?"

"Your daughter; I'm sorry." She was very apologetic.

"Did you not call at my house once for... petrol?" He was going to say something else, but checked himself.

"Miss Bradley is from Mr. Store, our London agent."

Koenig's face cleared.

"Ah, yes, Store." And then, quickly: "Is he here?"

"He left for Australia last night," said the girl gravely, and Koenig's jaw dropped.

"Australia?" incredulously. "My tear young lady— " And then he laughed. "You confuse me and make me feel a fool!" he chuckled. He took a gold cigarette-case from his pocket. "Indeed you are a remarkable young lady."

He pushed the case towards John, who took a cigarette, and then to the girl, who shook her head.

"I never smoke in business hours. Poor Senator Grannit had one of your cigarettes, and what happened to him? Don't light that, Mr. Mortimer," she said sharply, as John was in the act of striking a match.

Koenig glared at her for a second, and then, turning, ran to the door and flung it open. The two Scotland Yard men who were waiting found him rather a difficult handful, but "Miss Koenig" went quietly in the hands of Monica Bradley.

"YES, I AM BILL," said Monica demurely, when she interviewed her employer that night. "I suppose you'd call me a detective, but really I only work out odd problems. The oddest problem of all was to discover how this little crowd cleaned up so easily. It was really very simple. They have a very powerful wireless set at a house in Sunningdale, and the young lady tuned in to the homeward-bound American liner, and took down the private messages that were coming through to London. Sometimes she heard, and wrote hundreds without getting any profitable information, but occasionally she and her husband learned little secrets which indiscreet people had confided to the wireless. It is a very simple matter to pick up any liner: did you know that? Once you have their code number, the rest is fairly simple. They got to know Grannit was bringing money; they knew Loam was expecting a man to call for a cheque; and that a rather wealthy and foolish old lady had wirelessed to a big jeweller saying that she wanted her diamonds reset. It was as easy as eating pie to intercept the real message, and, in your case, a simpler matter to get the genuine agent out of the way. For example, Mr. Store is now in Paris with the real Mr. Koenig, awaiting your arrival. We located a big receiving-set at Sunningdale— at least, I did— and we arranged to get duplicates of all the messages that were coming through to the Radio Company. Naturally, we had to guess who was to be the victim, but that wasn't so difficult as you'd think. We didn't know exactly how we were going to deal with your case, but after you wirelessed for a secretary, it was easy."

Mr. John Mortimer had recovered from his natural annoyance.

"And you are the Bill that is supposed to be 'looking after' me?"

She nodded.

"Continue!" he said. "I want you to escort me to the hotel safe, where I'll deposit those infernal stones, and then you can escort me to a place where we can get supper and a dance."

Bill did not demur. Officially she was still on duty.

____________________

7: The Praying Girl

Weekly Tale Teller, October 16, 1915

THE girl drove to the Bahnhof holding her husband's hand in hers. Now and again she shot a shy glance into the bronzed face, and his blue eyes lost a little of their hardness as they met hers.

The straight way was through the Kaiserstrasse, but she would have the fiacre turn into the Münsterstrasse that they might pass the Minster.

"I shall go here every day and pray for you," she whispered, and he pressed her hand.

"Every night... I shall pray for you," she said, as she stood on the platform by the carriage window. He looked almost god-like in the tight-fitting grey of his German air-service uniform.

"You will not take risks... the English are very kind to Saxon prisoners."

He laughed.

"Oh, you little traitress!" he rallied her. "You want me to desert and go over to the English!"

"If you were safe— I would not care," she said, and stood twisting her little handkerchief into a ball as the train drew slowly from the station, its windows crowded with cheering men, the glass roof re-echoing to a roar of "Hochs!"

BURLEIGH'S Six nose-dived from a height of 2000 metres, flattened at the exact moment, and came skimming along the ground of the aerodrome, pulling up within a few yards of the Flying Commander.

Grey walked slowly over to the machine as Burleigh heaved himself to the ground, stretching his cramped limbs with a painful little smile.

"What happened to you?" asked Grey curiously.

"Nothing much," replied Burleigh, and gave his machine a critical scrutiny before he turned again to his chief.

"You didn't get your Taube, did you?"

The other shook his head.

"Couldn't you climb up?" suggested the Flight-Commander.

Burleigh nodded.

"Couldn't you reach him?"

Burleigh nodded again, and looked at his superior very earnestly and very thoughtfully.

"What the devil's the matter with you, Burleigh?" asked Major Grey irritably. "You aren't usually so reticent."

"No," agreed the other at once, and there was a long pause. Then he checked an exasperated comment which was trembling on the lips of the Flight- Commander with, "Do you believe— er— in— prayer?"

A new look of interest came to the Commander's face.

"That depends," he said cautiously, "on who does the praying."

Burleigh nodded, as he stripped the leathern helmet from his head, and slowly ungloved. "That's exactly my opinion," he said.

With a little nod he made his way across to his hut.

Grey watched him with an anxious tenderness. He turned to the mechanics who were handling Burleigh's Six— it was called Burleigh's Six to distinguish it from the five machines which Burleigh had previously flown, all of which were either under repair, or were frankly scrap-iron, for Burleigh was the most daring member of this section of the Royal Flying Corps, and had come some unholy purlers— and then, with his hands thrust deep into his breeches pockets and his chin on his breast, Flight-Commander Grey made his way to the Orderly-room.

The hard-faced Colonel, who commanded the wing, was sitting at his table busily signing indents when his subordinate entered.

"Burleigh back?" he asked.

Yes, sir," replied the other.

"Did he get a Boche?"

"No, sir," and then, "I'd like to speak to you about Burleigh, sir."

The Colonel took off his pince-nez.

"What's the matter?" he asked quickly.

The supply of flying-men was barely adequate. The supply of reliable men as opposed to mere machine smashers was very small. Burleigh was the most daring man in the wing. He had the Instinct, which was half the battle so far as airmanship was concerned. Sooner or later there comes a time when every airman must break. The Colonel had hoped that Burleigh's time was far distant.

When Grey, glum of face, came to the Orderly-room and "wanted to talk about" members of the Corps, it meant only one thing.

"Nerves gone, I suppose," growled the Colonel. "Well, he's stuck it longer than most of 'em— you can't expect fellows to fly over guns everlasting. What are the symptoms?"

Grey stared through the little window with a frown on his face.

"Rather curious," he said, "he asked me if I believed in prayer. Of course, one sometimes... Lord, sir, I've prayed like anything! I had a tail slip over Douai— I stalled too steep and she let back... but I didn't talk about praying."

"H'm!" said the Colonel, and rising from his table walked to the window that overlooked the officers' huts. "That's bad, and yet... have you ever noticed that air-nervès never develop into religious melancholia? It breaks a fellow up until he is only a dithering wreck, but religion... no! Send for Burleigh."

Ten minutes later Burleigh came, a lean, brown-faced man, with a pair of humorous blue eyes. He saluted his chief and waited.

"Um... Burleigh," began the Colonel, "I think you had better have a rest, my boy... too much 'archie,' eh?"

For answer, Captain Burleigh stretched out a sinewy hand and held it unwavering at right angles to his body.

To the wonder of the Colonel it did not tremble or shake. It was, in fact, as steady as the arm of a railway signal.

"Nothing much wrong with that, sir," he said.

The Colonel rubbed his chin.

"What is this talk of praying?" he asked abruptly. Burleigh indulged in that soft laugh of his.

"I understand now, sir," he turned his smiling eyes on Grey. "I asked you if you believed in prayer— I do."

There was an awkward pause. Certain things men do not discuss in public. Religion and the public avowal of faith is not out of place in a Colonel or even in a Major of some seniority. From men below that status it is demanded that there shall be a reticence, and the junior officer is expected to say his prayers privily. If he did not say his prayers and openly boasted of his heathenism, he would be regarded askance, for an officer should be a gentleman, and a gentleman has, as an indispensable part of his equipment, a wholesome belief in the existence and mercy of God.

"I'll tell you why I say this," Burleigh went on. "You sent me out this morning to hunt the red Taube?"

Grey and the Colonel nodded together.

"Very good— I hunted him. I went twenty miles inland to a place well behind Roulers, and I spotted him outside the hangars outside Roulers. You can't mistake 'Reddy,' and there he was. I was dodging in and out of the clouds, but they saw me, and opened up with 'archies'— bracketed fire. I was flying the little Morane and they misjudged the distance— all the shells burst short, and presently I dived into a nice fat cloud and went for a little joy-ride till the trouble blew over."

"I got into the black of it, and I couldn't see the tip of my nose, and if it hadn't been for the stabilizer I shouldn't have known whether I was upside-down or sideslipping to glory. I started climbing, for I pretty well knew the depth of the cloud, and presently I got into the sun. I messed about for ten minutes, circling round in the hope of something turning up, and then I decided to come back."

"There wasn't any sign of the earth immediately underneath, but I could see our lines, and I started streaking for home. I'd hardly got going when suddenly from right under me came Reddy!"

"He was barging up out of the mist before I realised what was happening, but I brought the Morane round on a hairpin-turn, got above him, and slipped a bomb. It couldn't have missed him by more than a yard. He was quick to see what was wrong, and up went his tail and down he dived into the cloud, with me after him. He flattened out and swerved, and I just shot past him— so close that I could see the Boche as plainly as I see you, sir."

He paused again and laughed quietly.

"And then?"

"Then I chased him. Round and round we went in that damnable mist, and I can assure you, sir, I knew that I had him. He had either to nose-dive to earth or take what was coming. And he knew it— but he was dead game. He turned to the left and shot sideways, and his bullet just missed me."

"I turned the Lewis-gun on to him, and I felt that certainty which comes to a man just when he is dead sure he has got his bird before he fires his shot. My hand was on the trigger and I'd got him covered so that I couldn't miss him... straight in the centre of his back."

Burleigh stopped once more, but this time his laugh held amusement and wonder.

"What happened?" asked the Colonel.

"We were in the cloud— not the thickest part but the grey edge of it— and as my finger closed on the trigger the mist between him and me took shape— the shape of a woman— a young girl— and she was praying.... I saw it as plainly as— as— I see Grey. She was kneeling, and she was in her nightdress... rather a pretty girl with long hair...."

There was a deep silence broken by the Colonel.

"And so you...."

"I didn't shoot, sir," said Burleigh simply, "that is the reason I came back— he dived out of sight and I didn't follow. You may call it nerves," he went on in his deliberate way, "but I never felt better in my life."

"H'm!" said the Colonel again, and shot a significant glance at Grey.

Burleigh interpreted the glance, and his eyes danced. "Well— um— Burleigh"— the Commander was obviously ill at ease— "I think, anyway, you're entitled to a rest— I've thought so for quite a time. A few weeks at Brooklands will pull— I mean will— "

He tailed off lamely, for even a hard-faced Colonel, devoid of tact, and conscious of the deficiency, finds it difficult to tell a man to his face that he has betrayed all the symptoms of incipient mania.

"Excuse me, sir," said Burleigh suddenly, as a thought occurred to him, "who is the man flying Reddy?"

The Colonel opened a drawer of his desk and took out a locked book, which he opened.

"It is curious that you should ask me that— I have had a batch of information about these fellows this morning from Intelligence G.H.Q., and Reddy's man was amongst it."

He turned the leaves of the book, fixed his pince-nez, and came to the page he sought.

"Here we are! "he said, and read aloud:

"No. 872, Taube ('Reddy'), Pilot Lieutenant Gustav von Sedlitz-Telymaun. Age 25. Native of Saxony. Married since the war, Maria Fedora Klesser at the Minster Freiburg. Wife lives in that town at Essenbahn Strasse 971.

"There's detail there that would be creditable to the German Intelligence!" said the Colonel triumphantly.

"Married since the war?" mused Burleigh— "certainly she looked young," stood for a moment, saluted, and turned on his heel.

They waited until he was out of earshot before the two men spoke.

"A few days' rest here might put him right," said Grey, and the Colonel agreed readily enough, for Burleigh was too excellent a man to spare, and the reconnaissance work was very heavy.

Grey went to the mess-room for lunch, and found, to his relief, that Burleigh was not there. He beckoned a youth, who, at the moment Grey arrived, was demonstrating the impossibility of capsizing with the aid of a paper aeroplane, and the young man came to the door with the half-reproachful, half-embarrassed air of one who expected a carpeting.

"Bascombe, I want you to go out and look for Reddy," said Grey; "go by yourself and take Boyd's Morane. You've got to find Reddy and bring him down."

He related briefly Burleigh's experience.

"A little nerve-strain— you needn't mention the matter to anybody. See what you can do."

Bascombe's face was serious. "He seemed all right— Burleigh, I mean," he said; "he was in here only a few minutes ago."

"He's gone, I tell you," said Grey; "we shall not be able to send him up for weeks yet— go along and see what you can do."

Half an hour later Bascombe's Morane was sweeping upward in great circles above the aerodrome, six deadly little bombs on a tray beneath the frame, the Lewis-gun well ready for any emergency which might arise.

The Morane disappeared in the sky, moving eastward rapidly, and two hours passed before it was again signalled returning to the lines. Bascombe brought his machine to the ground in a gentle volplane, and the Flight- Commander ran across the ground to meet him.

"Well?" he asked eagerly. Bascombe was peering down at him from the pilot seat.

"Well," said Grey again, "did you see Reddy?"

Bascombe nodded.

"Did you get him?"

The man shook his head.

"What happened?" asked Grey.

Bascombe got to the ground before he replied.

"I saw the praying lady," he said simply, and Grey gasped.

"You saw—" he began incredulously.

"The praying lady," said Bascombe calmly.

He told the story in half a dozen sentences, and it was almost word for word the story which Burleigh had already told.

"And if you think I'm mad, sir," said Bascombe, "you're entitled to your opinions. In point of fact, I'm as sane as any man in France. I saw a woman quite clearly. She appeared just as I had got the line on Reddy and at the moment when I was already making up a suitable reply to your congratulations. There she was, on her knees, her hands clasped over her breast, and her head raised upwards... it was uncanny. I had a horrible fear, too, that if I shot I should come down myself. Anyway, before I could recover, Reddy was gone."

At the mess that night, Reddy and the praying lady formed the main topic of conversation. "The only thing to do," said Gibson, the youngest of the flyers, "is to send a wire through Holland to Mrs. Reddy, something like this:

"The Members of the Royal Flying Corps present their compliments to Mrs. Reddy, and request that she will be good enough to stop praying for her husband."

"Of course, the whole thing is an illusion," said Boyd, who was in charge of the archies; "poor old Burleigh got a little ragged, and Bascombe, who has been flying over guns for the last three months, was influenced by what Grey told him. It's preposterous. These things don't happen in the twentieth century, and anyway, it is positively indecent that a Bosche should have a guardian angel."

A week passed, and the grim business of war went on unchecked. There was a counter-attack north of Arras, and a concentration of German troops behind Ypres, two new Zeppelins had come to Flanders and must be watched. All together the Flying Corps had its time fully occupied. The Reddy mystery had disappeared from mess discussion even as the Reddy disappeared from the sky. It was reported that she was having a new tractor fixed. With Reddy's absence there was a diminution of interest, until one day Burleigh, engaged in the hack- work of their craft— he was spotting the effect of howitzer fire— was attacked in mid-air by a Taube and an Albatross. The Albatross he brought down with a lucky shot, which pierced her petrol tank, and then, by dint of manoeuvering, he placed himself between the Taube and the German line. The Taube manoeuvred desperately, climbing and dipping, in an endeavour to get directly ahead of the British and to "take his air." But all the time he was being pushed farther and farther into the British line. He was in such a position now that he dared not dive for fear of the British guns, he could not climb without losing the lead he had.

"Now," said Burleigh, "I think I've got you, my lad."

He left the aeroplane to take care of itself, and glanced along the sights of the Lewis, his finger was increasing its pressure upon the trigger and the man in the Taube was as good as dead. The day was clear, there was not a cloud in the sky, and the view Burleigh obtained of his quarry was perfect. Yet something stayed the pressure. It seemed as though a power greater than he arrested his actions, momentarily paralysing his nerve centres. Between him and the Taube floated a grey diaphanous mist of no greater substance than the drifting smoke of a cigarette.

"Huh!" growled Burleigh, and throwing over the control-lever dropped like a stone for a thousand metres. He flattened at the exact moment and came swiftly to earth behind the British lines.

An officer ran from his shelter.

"Hit?" he asked.

"Not materially," said Burleigh.

He glanced up at the sky. The Taube was shrieking back to the German lines, and Burleigh shook his fist to the south-east "Stop praying, confound you!" he snarled, and then burst out in an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

____________________

8:  The Custody of the Child

The Penny Illustrated Paper, December 7, 1929

THERE were times when Mrs. Harvey, despite her fifty-seven years, was as gay of heart and as amusingly epigrammatic as she had been in those far-off days when her movements had appeared with unfailing regularity in the society columns of the daily newspapers.

Women (and men too, for the matter of that) who have centred brilliant circles and have heard their well-turned comments repeated from tongue to tongue, fight hard against the brain-sloth which the years bring, and either hold fast to their old quips and so become boring, or find excuses for their dullness and acquire the reputation of being hypochondriac.

Mrs. Harvey called art to her aid, with disastrous consequences to her moral qualities.

Jack Mayne, her one son, and the child of her first marriage, worshipped his mother, and would sit at the dinner-table and gurgle with delight and pride at her humour and good spirit. There were other times, and this his young wife observed more keenly than he, when Mrs. Harvey would go through the days heavy-eyed and irritable, jumping at the slightest noise and strangely sensitive to the lightest touch.

Gwen Mayne was not a worshipper of her mother-in-law, though she got on well enough with her, and at times shared her confidences. It is true that she was never sufficiently intimate to be admitted to Mrs. Harvey's locked boudoir, but then, neither Jack nor any of the servants were allowed to inspect "Bluebeard's room."

Had some inquisitive member of the household opened that locked door in time, Gwen Mayne would have been spared one month of hell and eleven months of despair, and the powder of grey in Jack Mayne's hair would probably have made a later appearance. The circumstances leading to the opening of the door may be briefly stated.

It was three days before the New Year, and Gwen was sitting in the nursery superintending the toilet of Marie Marion. Her life had been a happy one, and this tiny atom of humanity which had come to the young people had done much to compensate for the wisps— they were hardly clouds— upon her bright horizon.

She lifted her pretty face to Jack as he came into the nursery.

"Mother is planning a day's shopping, dear," he said; "I wish you would go along with her. She is quite her cheerful self to-day."

The girl nodded without enthusiasm.

"I wish you were keener on dear mumsie, Gwen," he said, a little irritably.

She laughed.

"Don't be silly; I'm awfully fond of her. You can't expect me to feel quite as you do, you who know her so well."

He waited a little while as though there was something else he had to say, then as he was leaving he asked carelessly :

"Did you have any letters this morning?"

She shot a suspicious glance at him.

"Yes," she said.

She had expected this question and had dreaded it.

"And how is the doctor?" he asked, and this time his carelessness was obviously assumed.

She rose from her chair and took gentle hold of his hands.

"Jack," she asked, "you don't really object to my knowing Dr. Brinton? Why do you worry about other men? Jealousy doesn't belong to your nature."

He made a little grimace.

"I don't like these sudden friendships, Gwen, and that is the truth. Brinton is a very amiable, good-looking fellow with a record of adventure— an irresponsible bachelor— the sort of man that might fascinate— "

She looked him straight in the eyes.

"Fascinate me?" she asked.

He avoided her glance.

"Well, yes," he said uncomfortably. "it seems absurd to you, Gwen, but— "

He saw the pain in her eyes, and stopped.

"I won't let him see me any more, Jack," she said quietly. "I could have told you something about Dr. Brinton which would have— but what is the use?"

She turned abruptly from him, and after waiting a moment he left the room.

She watched him pass down the carriage-drive out of sight, and then, with a shrug of her shoulders, she went into her room and dressed.

Jack Mayne did not see his wife again for a year and a day. Again it was the eve of the New Year, and such a going out of the Old had not been experienced for twenty years. A north-easterly blizzard swept through the city streets, and the countryside lay buried in snow so deep that the very landmarks were obliterated and the high roads were but shallow depressions in a white waste.

A woman descended from the train at the little station which served the residential quarter where Jack Mayne had his house, and declining the services of the one heroic cabman who had braved the weather, she plunged through the snow toward the familiar broad avenue which she had once known so well.

The blizzard enveloped and blinded her, but she struggled on, sometimes knee-deep, slipping and stumbling forward, stopping now and again to take breath, and to set down the parcel she carried.

In her slow progress she stopped occasionally and flashed an electric lamp upon a gate-post rubbing off the snow that she might discern the number, and at last paused before the entrance of Jack Mayne's home.

She seemed to be summoning resolution, and presently she turned into the drive and walked cautiously toward the house.

In the comfortable dining-room a glum dinner-party was in progress. Jack Mayne sat on the right of his mother, and opposite him, his friend and one time school-fellow, George Gresham. This was one of Mrs. Harvey's dull days, and she took no part in the conversation, but sat with downcast eyes, lost, apparently, in her thoughts.

"It is good of you to come down, George," said Jack for the tenth time.

"Rubbish!" protested the other. "I am quite alone in London, and you have no idea how joyous it is to get back to a cold winter. You must not forget that until last December I have been spending my Christmases under a punkah sipping iced lemonade. Police-work in India and the colonies isn't all it is cracked up to be, Jack."

He looked again at the heavy-lidded Mrs. Harvey, and Jack smiled.

"You still think you have met my mother before?"

The other laughed.

"No, my memory plays queer tricks— it is one of those puzzling recollections of people due to the irregular action of the brain rather than memory."

"Perhaps you met her in the old days?"

"I think it is unlikely," the other shook his head. "When I knew you years ago, your mother was not living with you. Since I came back to England to take up my duties at Scotland Yard, I certainly have not visited your house."

He shook his head.

"No, I don't think it is possible. I have been no-where I could have met Mrs. Harvey— in fact, I wasn't able to look up my old friends until this summer."

There was a long silence, which Jack Mayne broke.

"By the way, when you were in South Africa, did you ever meet"— he hesitated— "Brinton?"

George Gresham nodded.

"Yes," he said quietly; "I knew him rather well. He was in the prison service in Johannesburg, and I was brought into contact with him whilst I was reorganising their finger-print system."

Again silence.

"Did he strike you as being that kind of man?" asked Mayne, fiddling with his wine-glass.

"To be perfectly honest, he did not," replied the other frankly. "I always regarded him as a white citizen, and I confess that I liked him!"

"Did you ever meet my wife— my late wife?" corrected Jack Mayne.

Gresham shook his head, and for the first time during the meal the old woman spoke.

"Jack," she said in a strangely strained voice, "why do you talk about this?"

Her son smiled.

"What does it matter now?" he asked, with a lift of his shoulders; "it is all over, and the smart of it is beginning to wear off. You don't mind if I talk about this, do you, George?"

The Police Commissioner shook his head.

"But for the Lord's sake don't discuss it if it pains you at all," he said.

"Not a bit," replied Mayne. "I suppose you know the circumstances?"

"No, I know practically nothing about it, except that you are divorced," George answered.

"Curiously enough it happened twelve months ago yesterday," mused Mayne, leaning back in his chair. "I had had a few words with her in the morning about this fellow, Brinton, who I thought was corresponding a little too frequently— you know she met him at a tennis-party; he is a crack player."

George nodded.

"There was nothing particularly bitter in our little encounter," Mayne went on, "and I thought no more of it. She went out that morning with my mother on a shopping expedition, and in the midst of it all she made some excuse and left mother. Mother came back very upset; something bad happened, or my wife had said something— what it was I do not know, and I have never pressed mother to tell me. At any rate my wife did not return home that night, and I had no message from her for three weeks. Then I received this letter."

The old woman was looking at him with pleading eyes, but he did not see her. He took from his pocket a note-case and extracted a sheet of paper, which he threw across the table to the other. George looked at the letter, which was evidently written on the fly-leaf of a book:

Dear Jack,—  I have gone away with a friend. I hope you won't think badly of me, but I cannot explain.

"Where was this posted?" asked George, passing the letter back over the table.

"It was posted at Trenton, a little town twenty miles from here, and this is the damming thing,"— he emphasised his words— "it was enclosed in an envelope bearing the crest of one of the hotels in the place, and the envelope was addressed to me in Brinton's handwriting!"

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely certain. A handwriting expert was able to establish this and to leave no doubt about the matter. When detectives were put upon the track, it was established that a Mr. and Mrs. Brinton had stayed in the hotel a few days— and Brinton is a single man. The shock nearly killed me. I filed a petition for divorce and, by a curious coincidence, when the process-server called at the hotel in Trenton— that being the only address I knew— he found my wife there."

"How long after you made your discovery did you file your petition?"

"Immediately. Do you think I would wait a moment?" He struck the table with his clenched fist and his eyes blazed with anger. "No, no; if she wanted to be rid of me I gave her the earliest opportunity. The petition was filed, the case was undefended, and the divorce was granted last October."

The old woman at the head of the table sat with lowered head, weeping silently, and Jack jumped up with an exclamation of regret, and went to her.

"I'm so sorry, mother; I am a brute."

She rose from the table shaking her head, "I'll go to my room," she said, and he walked with her to the door, his arm about her shoulders.

"I never thought mother would take it so badly," he said, coming back to the table and pushing the cigarettes up to his companion. "She and Gwen were not the best of friends, and yet ever since this thing happened, mother has been a wreck."

"Do you think I ought to go?" asked the other.

"Not a bit," replied Jack; "she gets like that at times. I suppose she's gone up to her Bluebeard room."

"Her Bluebeard room?" repeated the other, and Jack laughed.

"That was the name Gw— , my wife gave to mother's sitting-room. Mother never allows us through the door. I suspect some tender romance of her youth." Then, "Well, what do you think of the case?" he asked, carrying the conversation back to its original groove.

"Didn't Brinton put in any kind of defence?"

Jack shook his head.

"He went back to Africa a week before the papers were served."

"Didn't he communicate?"

Jack hesitated.

"Yes, he sent me a letter, rather a lengthy epistle judging by the size of it."

Gresham looked at him in astonishment.

"Didn't you read it?"

"No," admitted his host; "I was so enraged that, like a fool, I chucked it into the fire. My lawyers were very sore about this, because the letter undoubtedly would have supplied the proof and saved them a lot of bother when the case came on."

Suddenly he stopped, and bent his head, listening.

"Is that mother coming down again?" he said wonderingly, walked to the door and opened it.

The darkness of the passage was illuminated by one small electric lamp, and by its light he saw that the stairs were empty.

"I thought I heard somebody walking about in the room overhead," said Gresham; "my hearing is rather sensitive."

"Overhead!" repeated Mayne in astonishment, "why, that is the nursery. Nurse is away, and unless it was mother, I don't know who would go in to her. Wait a moment."

He ran up the stairs and entered the big nursery at the front of the house, and the room was empty save for the white cot against the wall. After a look round, with such assistance as the burning night-light afforded, he was leaving, when something by the child's bed attracted his attention. He tiptoed across and, with a smile, took up a big doll.

"Here is the intruder," he said, as he came back to his guest; "probably mother has been leaving Marie Marion her New Year present. Hullo! Here's the label!"

He lifted a tag that was tied to one of the doll's ankles, and George Gresham saw his face turn white.

"'From mother,'" he read mechanically, "'to her little daughter."

He stared across to Gresham.

"It did not come by post," he said; "she wouldn't dare— she wouldn't dare...!"

The door opened slowly and Gwen walked in. She was still wearing her heavy coat, which glistened with moisture, and the sodden and shapeless hat testified to the violence of the storm which was raging without. Her face was whiter than her husband's and her lips were tremulous.

"What do you want?" he asked hoarsely.

George Gresham was standing by the table staring at the girl.

"I want my child," she said, with a sob in her voice, "my child that I brought into this world and suffered for."

Jack made a helpless gesture.

"You know you cannot have her, Gwen," he said gently, "the court has given me its custody."

She did not meet his eyes.

"I want my child," she said doggedly, "though I break your heart to get her. I can't go on any longer— I can't, I can't!"

There was a distant ring of a bell, and outside came the soft footfall of a servant. Jack turned his head to the door with a puzzled frown. He did not expect visitors, and they were most unwelcome at this hour of crisis. There was a murmur of voices in the hall and a tap at the door.

"I can see nobody, Jane," said Jack. "Who is it?"

"Dr. Brinton."

Mayne took a step back and his breath came quickly.

"Show him in," he said, and turned his steely eyes upon his wife.

it needed all his self-possession, all his courage to hold her so aloof when his very heart was aching for her. As for Gwen, she had given a little start of surprise at the name, and had turned slowly to meet the newcomer.

The man who came in shaking the snow from his coat was tall, slim, and good-looking. Him Jack Mayne expected, but not the pretty girl who followed. It was Brinton's attitude which took his breath away. The doctor was friendly, and without hesitation offered his hand to Mayne. So astounded was Jack Mayne that he took the hand mechanically.

"You don't mind my calling," said the visitor. "I've been terribly anxious to discover how that matter went, and although I only landed at Southampton yesterday I came straight along to see you all."

"How that matter went?" repeated Mayne huskily. "Well, it is no news to you to learn that my wife was divorced!"

"Divorced! Good God, what do you mean?"

Dr. Brinton stared at the other.

"I don't know why you should be surprised," said Mayne coldly. "You took my wife away from me, you were with her in a Trenton hotel, from whence you wrote your letter, and we have traced the fact that you stayed there with a 'Mrs. Brinton' on three dates in January of last year."

Brinton took a long breath.

"Oh, indeed," he said softly; "well, I'm going to astonish you, my friend!"

"Stop!"

It was Gwen who spoke.

"I forbid your speaking!"

"It is too late to forbid my speaking. I have already told your secret by letter to this lunatic, and that doesn't seem to have convinced him. You had my letter?"

"I burnt it," said Jack Mayne.

Dr. Brinton sank back into a chair and looked at the other with something which was half-anger and half-amusement in his eyes.

"Well, I am going to tell it to you again," he said. "It is true I stayed at the Royal Hotel, Trenton, with a lady who called herself, with excellent reason, Mrs. Brinton. This is the lady," he pointed to the girl who had come in with him.

"You were married?"

"Yes, I was married in January, the very day I sent your wife's letter to you."

"How came my wife to give you a letter?"

"Please, please, doctor!" Gwen Mayne had come to Brinton's side. "Don't tell! I was a fool to come. Only I want to say this, Jack— Dr. Brinton was a good friend of mine and yours— and no more."

"I am going to tell," said the doctor quietly. "I think there has been enough tragedy in this business— and as my name seems to have been mixed up in the case I cannot be silent to save your husband's feelings."

"I met Mrs. Mayne in prison," he turned to Jack abruptly.

"In prison!" gasped Jack. "You're lying!"

Interruption came from an unexpected quarter.

George Gresham, watching the scene, caught Mayne's eye and nodded.

"It is true," he said. "I was in court when she was first charged— that is where I saw your mother."

"Go on," said Jack hoarsely.

"On the day before my wedding, a friend of mine, a prison doctor at Trenton, telegraphed to me asking if I could take his duties for one day as he, also, curiously enough, wanted to go to a wedding. I hadn't the heart to refuse him, and went up to Trenton on the day I was married, taking my wife with me. Trenton Jail is an institution for women only, as you probably know," he went on. "I was making a visitation to three or four of the prisoners who had reported sick, and you can imagine my feelings when I walked into one of the cells and found the prisoner to be your wife and my good friend."

"Go on," said Jack, as he paused.

"She told me the whole story, and begged me to smuggle a note out of the prison that would allay your suspicion. The only stationery she had was prison notepaper, which obviously she could not send, so she tore a leaf out of her Bible and wrote the message with my fountain-pen. What that message was I never read. I said good-bye to her, arranged that I would take a room for her at the hotel, so that she would have somewhere to go on her release, and went back to Trenton from where I posted the letter. I had a talk about the matter with my wife, and she told me that I ought to write to you, whoever's feelings might be hurt, and tell you the whole story."

There was a deep silence, broken only by the girl's sobs.

"Why was my wife in prison?" asked Jack.

"For shop-lifting," said Brinton calmly. "She was shopping with a woman who is a morphia fiend and, in consequence, has become a kleptomaniac. The woman stole a few paltry things and put them in your wife's bag. They were both arrested as they were going out of the shop, having been watched by a shop detective. They were taken to the manager's office, and in that time the elder woman begged your wife to take the blame, saying that she would explain to her son and would secure her immediate release. Your wife quixotically followed this advice. She gave the name of Mary Smith at the police court, and was remanded. At the end of a week she was brought up again, and expected to find her mother-in-law present to fulfil her promise. Mrs. Harvey was not there. Your wife went to prison with hard labour for one month. I explained all that in my letter."

Jack Mayne sat with bowed head.

Presently he got up, walked out of the room and slowly up the stairs. He knocked at his mother's door, and her voice bade him come in.

Something in his face must have told her that all was not well, for she shrank back.

"What do you want, sonny?" she asked in a trembling voice.

"Mother," he said, "are you in the habit of taking morphia?"

She hesitated a moment. "Yes, sonny," she said. He looked round.

"I want the key of your room."

"What room?"

"Bluebeard's room," he said, with a grim smile, and she took a key from under her pillow and gave it to him with a hand that shook.

He passed across the bedroom, fitted the key in the lock, opened the door and went in, switching on the light.

He did not go far, for the room was littered with a thousand pitiful evidences of his mother's weakness. Scores of lace collars, handbags— all the little things that can be picked up at a big store, and shoved out of sight in a muff, lay in dust and confusion, a mute testimonial to Mrs. Harvey's activities.

He came out of the room, locking it behind him, and pushed the key back under his mother's pillow.

"Mother," he said, and it was the only word of reproach he uttered, "you allowed Gwen to suffer, to go through that hell!"

The old lady turned her face to the wall and did not speak as he left the room.

He came back to the dining-room and crossed to his wife.

"Gwen," he said penitently, and she looked up and smiled.

"Who is coming my way?" asked Dr. Brinton loudly.

"I, for one," said George Gresham, and they made for the hall.

Brinton was the last out, and closed the door gently.

"A happy New Year!" he cried through the crack, and somebody threw a kiss at him.

At least it sounded like that.

__________________________

9.  The Prison-Breakers

IT WAS the sort of thing one might expect would happen in the Intelligence Service, and may be briefly related.

Alexander Barnes, who enjoyed a mild fame as a man about town, a regular first nighter at all the new plays, a familiar figure at private views, was arrested on a charge of wilfully shooting Cristoforo P. Supello. With him was also charged an American who gave the name of "Jones."

The facts elicited at the trial were briefly as follows:

Barnes and Jones had been dining at the "Atheneum Imperial" and had strolled out into Pall Mall. A few minutes later the officer on point duty at the end of Waterloo Place heard three shots fired in rapid succession. The shots came from the direction of the Duke of York's statue, and the constable ran towards the sound and was joined by two other policemen who arrived from the other end of the thoroughfare. The man, Supello, was lying on the ground dead. Barnes and Jones were caught at the top of the Duke of York's steps leading down into St. James's Park, and were secured without difficulty.

The fact that they attempted to escape did not support the story which Barnes told, namely, that he had been attacked by Supello and had fired in self-defense. Undoubtedly a revolver was found in the dead man's hand with one chamber discharged. In Barnes's possession was an automatic pistol from which two shots had been fired (the shells were discovered on they following morning), but no weapons of any kind were found on Jones. Both Jones and Barnes swore they were attacked first, and the fact that three shots were fired and that two of them had been found in Supello's heart proved that the first had been fired by him, since medical evidence demonstrated that he could not have used a revolver subsequent to receiving the wounds which killed him.

With such evidence it seemed humanly impossible that the charge could be persisted in, yet Barnes was found guilty of manslaughter and sentenced to ten years' penal servitude, whilst Jones was discharged.

The conviction was secured on the evidence of a homeless man who said he was dozing on the steps of a house when he heard an altercation and saw Barnes draw and flourish his pistol in the face of Supello, and by the further evidence of the butler of Mr. Stieglemann, the international financier, who alleged that he, too, was a witness of the affair, and said that he heard angry words between the parties, and corroborated the statement of the night-waif in so far as the flourishing of weapons was concerned.

The occurrence created something of a sensation, for Barnes was a fairly well-known man who lived a blameless and— save that he had a trick of disappearing from London at odd intervals, nobody knowing whither— an unsuspicionable life.

Alexander Barnes accepted his sentence philosophically, although he had a young wife to whom he was passionately devoted. He possessed that serene faith in his department which makes up nine-tenths of the moral equipment of the Intelligence Man.

He did not tell the judge that he and "Jones" of the Washington Secret Service had intercepted Supello on his way to a certain Embassy with the full text of the Salem-Ponsonby Treaty in his pocket, or that they had followed Supello, a most notorious trafficker in government secrets, from the hotel; or that they had sat watching him at dinner until the lady from the Embassy had passed Supello's table and had dropped a white rose as a sign that his Excellency had agreed to pay the stiff price which the Mexican had asked.

They shot him and had ripped the treaty from his inside pocket, and Jones had dropped the document into the nearest street sewer, but, honestly, Supello had fired first. Barnes could not tell this interesting and romantic story, partly because he would not have been believed, and partly because it is the rule of the Higher Intelligence Circle never to bleat. If you are caught you must take your medicine with a smiling face and send no S.O.S. messages to your unknown chiefs for succour.

"Mr. Jones" was informed that his presence in England was no longer an absolute necessity, and he departed for New York and was accompanied to his cabin by police officers.

When the big liner was fifty miles from Mersey mouth, he was visited by a quiet man who talked with him for a long time. This man was Bland, Chief of the Intelligence Service, who left the boat at Queenstown and made his way back to London.

He sought an interview with the Minister of the Interior, and the result was not especially successful.

At the end of a very hopeless quarter of an hour, he shrugged his shoulders. "I quite understand, sir," he said as gently as he could, "my suggestion is very irregular, but then the situation is a little extraordinary. We are on the verge of war— "

"That is a matter of opinion, sah," said the other gruffly.

He always said "sah," and as "Sah" he was known throughout the services.

He was a thin man with a towsy mop of pure white hair, his face was thin, his mouth was thin, and he looked out onto the world through the narrowest slits of eyes that Bland had ever seen in a man.

Sir George Mergin had been Minister off and on over a period of twenty years in one administration or the other. He was known as narrow, but safe.

He ran his department on rigid regulation lines, wrote with a quill pen, and drank a glass of sherry at eleven in the forenoon.

Small wonder then that he regarded the Chief of the Intelligence Bureau and his preposterous schemes with resentment.

"You see, Mr.— er— Bland, you have no— er— official status. You are in no vote and come under the— er— administration of no department."

"In fact, we're nobody's darlings, sir," smiled Bland, "and have no Chief to whom we can appeal. The Interior loathes us, the P.V. police are jealous of us, the Foreign Office, whom we serve, pretend that they do not know that there is such an organization as the Secret Service— "

There came a gentle tap at the door and a secretary entered. He crossed to his Chief and said something in a low voice.

"Ah yes, ah yes," said Sir George, "tell the Commissioner to come in."

Bland concealed a smile. It was no coincidence that Assistant-Commissioner Goldring should make his appearance at that moment. Goldring had control of the Political Department and ran a secret service of his own. It was little more than a glorified detective force, which was employed in tracing dangerous aliens and keeping an unfriendly eye upon the comings and goings of known anarchists. It was a department which boasted of its linguistic gifts and was known at the Yard as the "P.V. Division "— "P.V." standing for "parlez-vous."

And here it may be said that the regular police force entertained a most profound contempt for the P.V.'s, their prescience and their capacity, and invariably favored Bland's department when a decision had to be made for one or the other.

Goldring came in, bowed graciously to the Chief, and favored Bland with a little nod.

"Ah, Commissioner, I am glad you have come, sah! Now I will put it to you, Mr. Goldring or perhaps, Mr. Bland, sah, you would like to explain your— er— curious project."

Bland knew as well as any that Goldring was well aware of the business and that he had already been consulted.

"I suggest that Alexander Barnes should be set at liberty," he said. "Mr. Goldring knows all that Barnes was doing. He was out to find the man who had bribed a Foreign Office clerk to supply him with a copy of the Salem-Ponsonby Treaty."

"And shoot him?" suggested Goldring, shaking his head with an assumption of gravity. "Surely there is a law in the land to deal with such crimes as you suggest Supello committed; surely he could have been arrested?"

Bland looked at him with a pitying smile which made the other hot and angry.

"No, sah!" said the Minister shortly; "I can do nothing, sah— nothing. It is absurd to ask such a thing. Bring me a request from my excellent friend, the Foreign Minister, or let the Under-Secretary substantiate your statement, and in the public interest I might bring Clause 475 of the Act of Defense into operation, but otherwise— no!"

Again Bland smiled.

"You know very well, sir, I cannot do that," he said.

"Personally," interrupted Goldring, "I doubt the whole story. I am not exactly without information, Mr. Bland; you don't suggest that you know any more of what is happening in England than I?" he asked archly.

Bland nodded.

"I know that our friend Stieglemann gives excellent dinners," he drawled. "I know that after dinner his guests play roulette, and that if Stieglemann wishes he can always win— it is useful."

"What do you mean?" demanded Goldring, very red.

"By 'useful'? I'll tell you. Suppose a police official lost five hundred pounds at a sitting, and Stieglemann tore up that police officer's I.O.U. for that amount, would not this officer be under some obligation to his admirable host? You ask me what I know more than you— I'll tell you. Stieglemann's roulette board is faked. You didn't know that, did you?"

Goldring met Bland's challenging eyes and dropped his own before them.

"I am going now," Bland went on, picking up his hat, "but before I go I will say this. The two witnesses against Alexander Barnes were planted. Stieglemann's butler is an alien agent; the tramp who saw everything is another. But they don't count, because Alexander would have killed Supello anyway sooner than allow the Salem-Ponsonby Treaty to go to its purchaser. You refuse me help to release Barnes— I will release him myself and take him through England under the nose of your police."

Sir George rose in a trembling fury. "You threaten me, sah!" he quavered.

Bland nodded.

"I will break you, sah! I will arrest you, sah! Mr. Goldring, take him into custody!"

Goldring hesitated, then stepped forward, and Bland laughed. He laughed as he accompanied his captor down the stairs, and was chuckling in the locked room at Scotland Yard when they came to him (after an hour's stay) and told him that he was free.

For there had come to Sir George Mergin a High Government Personage who had said at the end of an aimless and innocent conversation:

"Oh, by the way, release Bland."

"Release him— release him, sah!" spluttered Sir George. "Why, sah?"

"Oh, I don't know," said his visitor vaguely, "only I think...  I should release him if I were you. By the way, all the evening newspapers have a story about your resigning— it's in the stop-press. You aren't thinking of taking that step, are you?"

"Certainly not!" gasped the Minister. "Who dare put such a thing in the papers?"

"Goodness knows— you know what newspapers are," said the Personage carelessly, and strolled to the door.

He stood for a moment irresolutely playing with the handle of the door. Sir George saw him frown and purse his lips.

"I think I should release Bland," said the visitor thoughtfully, and went out, closing the door behind him.

Sir George wrote the order for release.

"But Barnes shall serve his time," he said viciously, as he flourished his signature to the document.

Bland went back to his office, where he had a little work to do. He recognized that he had put Goldring and his department upon their mettle and that the Parlez-Vous Brigade would be watching him like a hawk. Two of them had followed him to the office and were now— ostentatiously innocent— examining the windows of a fruit store on the opposite side of the street.

They followed him to his flat— Goldring had put a car at their disposal— and Bland watched them from his window with great enjoyment for some time. Then he sent for them, and they came sheepishly enough and stood in front of the big desk in his study.

"I don't want you boys to get cold feet watching me," he said kindly; "you can sit up here if you promise not to make a noise. You'll get a much closer view and be able to docket my varying emotions."

"Mr. Bland," protested one, "you're quite in error"

"I am never in error," interrupted Bland. "Just sit where you are. I'm expecting a visitor, and you'll be able to report the whole wicked plot."

The visitor was Shaun Macallum, a bright young man wise in the ways of the Intelligence Service.

"Sit down, Shaun. I phoned you to come— oh, by the way, these are two of Goldring's men, Sergeant Jackman and Sergeant Villars. I have no secrets from them."

The two men grinned uncomfortably.

"Alec Barnes is in Clewes Gaol," Bland went on; "I want you to go down and arrange to get him out. When he is released I want you to bring him to London and take him to Liverpool by train. Put him on a boat that is leaving for the United States— our friends on the other side will arrange for him to join his wife, who leaves for the U.S.A. next week."

"How are we to get him out of prison?" asked Shaun. Bland leant back in his chair and gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling.

"That is fairly simple," he said slowly.

The two men seated uncomfortably on the edge of their chairs leant forward a little.

"That is fairly simple," repeated Bland; "on a certain day we will cut all telephone and telegraph wires leading to the prison. Within half an hour our friend will be free. If he is not, then he will be within twenty-four hours."

"Oh," said Shaun blankly.

Bland rose.

"That's as much as I can tell you," he said; "and now, Shaun, you can take these two active and intelligent members of the P.V. Division and lose them."

That evening Commissioner Goldring sought the Minister of the Interior at his house in Portland Place.

"It is absurd, sah," said Sir George irritably. "The whole thing is absurd and wholly irregular. Confound the fellow! If I had my way— by Jove! The thing is a bluff, sah."

Goldring shook his head. He was a badly scared man, for if Bland's intelligence men knew of private transactions as between himself and Mr. Stieglemann, what else might they know?

"If he says he will do it, he will," he said.

"Let him try," answered Sir George grimly.

This was on the Wednesday evening. On the Thursday morning the Governor of Clewes Gaol received very detailed instructions regarding the care of his prisoner.

On Friday morning, Goldring was in attendance on Sir George when officials brought word that the telephone wire between the office of the Minister of the Interior and Clewes Gaol had been cut in three places.

"Rush an XX message through to Clewes town," said Sir George. "Tell the Governor to hold Barnes in readiness for transfer to Stanmoor— anything may happen in these little country gaols, sah."

Bland lunched with Shaun Macallum that day.

"Exactly what is the idea— cutting the wires and all that sort of thing?" asked Shaun.

Bland glanced swiftly round and lowered his voice.

"We can do nothing in these little country prisons," he said; "our only chance is to scare Sah into transferring Barnes to Stanmoor."

This was, as I say, on the Friday morning.

On Saturday those idle folk who lingered about Stanmoor's tiny railway station after the arrival of the 3.7 from London would have witnessed the coming of a tall, good-looking convict.

He was unshaven but cheerful, for he had faith in his Chief and in the hundreds of gallant men who, as he knew, were working for his salvation. His wrists were enclosed in handcuffs and he was accompanied by the inevitable assistant warder, carrying the inevitable blue envelope containing transfer papers. This was no unusual sight for the townsmen of Stanmoor. No day passed which did not witness the coming or going of sinister figures in yellow livery. Sometimes they appeared singly, but more often they arrived or were dispatched in gangs of twenty, fastened together by a long steel chain which passed between each couple.

The warder beckoned a cab, and into this he bundled his prisoner, following and seating himself opposite. There was no need to give the driver instructions. He whipped up his horse, passed through the little market-place and Stanmoor's one street, and breasted the long hill which leads to the dreary moorland, in the very center of which is situated Stanmoor Convict Establishment.

It is the boast of successive governors that never once in its long and mournful history has Stanmoor Prison lost a convict save by death, discharge, or transfer. Escapes there had been, but no man had ever succeeded in getting away from the moor.

This is not to be wondered at. Physically, Stanmoor is bleak and bare save for three definite wood groups named, ominously enough, Hiding Wood, M'Greery Wood, and Trap Wood. M'Greery, who gave his name to the second of these, was a sometime fugitive from the granite prison and met his end in its bosky glades. Hiding Wood is so called because it was the clump for which the majority of escaped prisoners made; and Trap Wood has only two outlets, one to the moor and the other to the village of Boley-on- the-Moor and presents no difficulties of search.

The roads are few, the farms scattered and difficult to come by, the edges of the moor are patrolled by guards, and when to these difficulties is added the fact that the Governor had recently secured the right to requisition a military aeroplane patrol in case of need, it is not necessary to urge the strenuous character of the problem which Stanmoor offered to the unfortunate wretch who sought freedom over its bare and treacherous waste.

Barnes and his custodian passed under the arch of sorrow, through the black gates, and were taken to the office of the Chief Warder.

That official was evidently well advised as to the responsibility which his new charge represented.

"You're the prison-breaker, are you?" he said pleasantly. "Well, we shall have to give you extra attention, my friend."

It was an extraordinary speech for a Chief Warder to make (so thought the Assistant Warder, in charge of the prisoner), for men holding that position are sparing of speech, laconical, and stony. They do not address a prisoner as "my friend," nor do they volunteer information as to the necessity for keeping him under observation.

"Do you speak any foreign languages?" asked the Chief Warder.

"Yes, sir, several."

"German?"

"Yes, sir." The Chief Warder nodded. "I can find you work here," he said; "there are a number of German prisoners— let me hear how much German you know."

And then he spoke rapidly in a language wholly incomprehensible to the attendant warder, and the prisoner replied, speaking as quickly.

All these facts came out at the subsequent inquiry (details of which will be found in the Blue book "Prison Commissioners' Report, No. 764 A") into the part the Chief Warder played.

What he said in German, and what Barnes replied, is a matter of conjecture. The Chief Warder's version was that he merely asked a few questions in the language to test the prisoner's knowledge. The Ministry of the Interior alleged that he was a "member of a certain organization," the character of which did not transpire.

Three days after the admission of Alexander Barnes to Stanmoor, Goldring came by special train to Stanmoor town, bringing with him twenty of the smartest men of his special corps, for Alexander Barnes had escaped.

Sir George Mergin had a brief interview with his Commissioner before he left London, and to say that Sir George was angry is putting the matter with studied moderation.

"The prisoner is on the moor, he escaped an hour ago, and there is a cordon round the district."

"But how— how, sir?" demanded the bewildered Goldring.

"He went out with a party of German prisoners to work in the fields, leapt the stone wall on to a waiting motor-cycle, and got away, sah, under the eyes of the warder!"

"But the cycle?"

"Had been put behind the wall by some person unknown— how the devil he knew it was there— "

At Stanmoor, Goldring found a telegram waiting for him from his Chief:

BLAND HAS BEEN SEEN. HE SAYS THAT BARNES IS STILL ON THE MOOR, AND HE WILL LEAVE FOR LONDON VIA STANMOOR STATION.

"Will he!" muttered Goldring between his teeth; "will he!"

No man passed from the moor that day who did not come under the vigorous scrutiny of police and guards. Farmers' wagons were halted and searched— even the sacks of potatoes that some carts carried were emptied before the wagon was allowed to proceed.

Night brought no relaxation of the watchers' vigilance. A battalion of soldiers was brought from Taverton to assist the guard, and big motor head-lamps flooded every road with light.

A weary-eyed Goldring paced irritably up and down in the lemon yellow sunlight of morning.

"I'm going to have that fellow if I keep awake for a week!" he said, shaking his fist at the unoffending moor. "You know me, Barton. These secret service people, these amateur policemen, are not going to get away with it. We'll have Barnes!"

"What like of man is he in appearance!" asked his subordinate.

"A six-footer and broad— you can't mistake him," said Goldring. "Look at that poor little devil!"

"That poor little devil" sat in an open wagonette which was passing down from the moor to the town. His drab convict dress and certain distinguishing marks showed him to be a man whose time had nearly expired, so that Goldring might have spared his sympathy.

He was a merry little fellow, with a bullet head and a bright eye, and he jingled his manacled hands as he hummed a song under the disapproving eye of the warder who sat on the opposite seat.

As he passed Goldring he turned his head and called:

"Catch him, Boss! Don't let him go!"

The warder snarled something and the little man relapsed into silence.

"Going to Wormwood Scrubs for discharge," said Goldring's companion, with a professional glance at the prisoner; "they always get fresh the last week or so."

A motor-car came streaking down the road from the moor and pulled up with a jerk by Goldring's side.

"We've located him, sir," said the occupant, a "P.V." man. "We've found the cycle and the convict clothes in Hiding Wood, and the warders are beating it."

Goldring rubbed his hands.

"I'll send a wire to the Chief," he said, and walked back to the station.

He had dispatched his telegram from the tiny office, and had returned to the platform, when the London train drew in, and he stood watching idly.

He saw the diminutive convict (he was well under five feet and so thin that he looked no more than a boy) hustled into a third-class carriage, and saw the blinds pulled down. Then, as the train drew slowly out and the carriage with the convict came abreast, the blind was flung up, the window fell and the little prisoner poked out his head, resting his handcuffed fists on the window edge.

"Don't you look for that lad in Hiding Wood, Mister Busy-fellow!* He went up in one of them Zepp'lins. He's— "

[* "Busy-fellow"— "Detective" in thieves argot.— E. W. ]

At this point a uniformed sleeve crossed the man's chest and he was flung backward, the blind was pulled down and the train sped on.

The stationmaster, a witness of the occurrence, smiled at Goldring.

"That fellow is a bad lot," he said; "the warder told me that he was one of the people who had assisted this convict you are looking for, to escape. Name of Jerry Carter."

"The warder had no right to tell you anything," snapped Goldring.

He had more reason for shortness of temper an hour later, when Hiding Wood drew blank.

Throughout the day the search went on and was continued on the morrow and the next day, but without result.

At the end of a week Goldring returned to London a very sick man, and sought Sir George.

What happened at that interview has never been revealed, but if he went into the Minister's room sick, he emerged, figuratively speaking, a chronic invalid.

He saw Bland at his office, and after the fashion of men in disgrace was prepared to accept sympathy even from his most implacable enemy.

"Come to me this day week," said Bland, "and I may be able to tell you something. But you must give me your word that what I tell you doesn't go any further. Otherwise you shall know nothing."

Curiosity and pique induced the promise, and took him to the appointment.

Bland was sitting in his big arm-chair smoking a comfortable ciga.

"Sit down, Goldring," he invited cheerfully; "have a cigar— you'll find them in the silver box."

He leant over and pushed a bell, and after a short delay the door opened and a man came in.

Goldring sprang to his feet with an exclamation of surprise, for the newcomer was the little convict he had seen leaving Stanmoor Station.

"One of us," introduced Bland largely, waving his hand. "Mr. Martin Caxton of the Intelligence."

"How do you do?" said the little man, offering his hand. "I'm afraid I was awfully impertinent to you the other day."

"But what— what?" stammered Goldring.

"I'll explain," said Bland. "Oh, by the way, Barnes has arrived safely in the United States, you'll be sorry to learn. I won't tell you how he actually got away from the gaol or give you the names of the people who helped. Getting away from the prison was child's play. It was leaving the moor that was the difficulty. I knew that every kind of person who attempted to reach the town would be stopped and examined— every kind of person save one."

"And which was the one?" asked Goldring curiously.

"A handcuffed convict," said Bland. "Martin Caxton was the convict— he was waiting in Hiding Wood for two days."

"Letting my horrible whiskers grow," said the little man complacently.

"But Barnes?" asked Goldring.

Bland blew a ring of smoke and watched it dissolve.

"Barnes was the warder," he said.

_______________

10.  Findings Are Keepings

FINDINGS are keepings. That was a favorite saying of Laurie Whittaker— a slogan of Stinie Whittaker (who had other names), her father.

Laurie and a youthful messenger of the Eastern Telegraph Company arrived simultaneously on the doorstep of 704 Coram Street, Bloomsbury, and their arrival was coincident with the absence, in the little courtyard at the back of the house, of the one domestic servant on duty in that boarding-house. So that, while the electric bell tinkled in the kitchen, the overworked domestic was hanging up dishcloths in the backyard.

"I'm afraid there's nobody in," said Laurie, flashing a bright smile at the youth, and then saw the cablegram in his hand. "It's for Captain John Harrowby, isn't it?" she asked. "I'll give it to him."

And the boy, who was new to his job, delivered the envelope and accepted her signature in his book, without a very close regard to the regulations of the Cable Company.

Laurie slipped the envelope in her bag and pressed the bell again. This time the servant heard the signal and came, wiping her hands on her apron, to open the door.

"No, miss, Captain Harrowby's out," she said, recognizing the visitor, and giving her the deference and respect which were due to one who lived in the grandest house in Bedford Square. "He's gone up to the city. Will you step in and wait, miss?"

If Laurie felt annoyed, she did not advertise the fact. She gave her sweetest smile to the servant, nodded pleasantly to the pretty girl who came up the steps as she went down, and, re-entering her limousine, was driven away.

"Who is the lady, Matilda?" asked the newcomer.

"Her?" said the girl-of-all-work. "That's Miss Whittaker— a friend of Mr. Harrowby's. Surely he's told you about her, Miss Bancroft?"

Elsie Bancroft laughed.

"Mr. Harrowby and I are not on such terms that he discusses his friends with me, Matilda," she said, and mounted to her tiny room on the top floor, to turn over again more vital and pressing problems than Captain Harrowby's friendship.

She was a stenographer in a lawyer's office, and if her stipend was not generous it was fair, and might have been sufficient if she were not the mother of a family— in a figurative sense. There was a small brother at school in Broadstairs, and a smaller sister at a preparatory school at Ramsgate, and the money which had been left by their father barely covered the fees of one.

Two letters were propped on her mantelpiece, and she recognized their character with a quaking heart. She stood for a long time surveying them with big, grave eyes before, with a sigh, she took them down and listlessly tore them open. She skimmed the contents with a little grimace, and, lifting her typewriter from the floor, put it on to the table, unlocked a drawer, and, taking out a wad of paper written in a crabbed handwriting, began to type. She had got away from the office early to finish the spare-time work which often helped to pay the rent.

She had been typing a quarter of an hour when there was a gentle tap at the door, and, in answer to her invitation, a man came a few inches into the room— a slim, brown-faced man of thirty, good-looking, with that far-away expression in his eyes which comes to men who have passed their lives in wide spaces.

"How are you getting on?" he asked, almost apologetically.

"I've done about ten pages since last night," she said. "I'm rather slow, but— " She made a little grimace.

"My handwriting is dreadful, isn't it?" he said, almost humbly.

"It is rather," she answered, and they both laughed. "I wish I could do it faster," she said. "It is as interesting as a novel."

He scratched his chin.

"I suppose it is, in a way," he said cautiously, and then, with sudden embarrassment, "But it's perfectly true."

"Of course it's true," she scoffed. "Nobody could read this report and think it wasn't true! What are you going to do with the manuscript when you have finished it?"

He looked round the room aimlessly, before his eyes returned to the pretty face that showed above the machine.

"I don't know," he said vaguely. "It might go into a magazine. I've written it out for my own satisfaction, and because it makes what seems a stupid folly look intelligent and excusable. Besides which, I am hoping to sell the property, and this account may induce some foolish person to buy a parcel of swamp and jungle— though I'd feel as though I were swindling a buyer!"

She had pushed the typewritten sheets towards him, and he picked up the first and read:

"A Report on the Alluvial Goldfields of Quimbo,"

and, reading it, he sighed.

"Yes, the gold is there all right," he said mournfully, "though I've never been able to find it. I've got a concession of a hundred square miles— it's worth less than a hundred shillings. There isn't a railway within five hundred miles; the roads are impossible; and even if there was gold there, I don't know that I should be able to get it away. Anyway, no gold has been found. I have a partner still pottering away out there: I shall probably have his death on my conscience sooner or later."

"Are you going back to Africa?" she asked curiously.

He shook his head.

"I don't think so." He hesitated. "My— my friends think I should settle down in England. I've made a little money by trading. Possibly I'll buy a farm and raise ducks."

She laughed softly.

"You won't be able to write a story about that," she said, and then, remembering, "Did the maid tell you that Miss Whittaker had called?"

She saw his start, and the color deepen in the tanned face.

"Oh, did she?" he asked awkwardly. "Really? No, the girl told me nothing." And in another minute he was running down the stairs. She did not know whether to be angry or amused at this sudden termination of their talk.

Captain Harrowby had been an inmate of the boarding-house for three weeks, and she had gladly accepted the offer, that came through her landlady, to type what she thought was the story he had written. The "story" proved to be no more, at first glance, than a prosaic report upon an African property of his, which, he told her, he was trying to sell.

Who was Miss Whittaker? She frowned as she asked herself the question, though she had no reason for personal interest in the smiling girl she had met at the door. She decided that she did not like this smart young lady, with her shingled hair and her ready smile. She knew that Captain Harrowby spent a great deal of his time at the Whittakers' house, but she had no idea that there was anything remarkable in that, until the next day, when she was taking her lunch at the office, she asked old Kilby, who knew the secret history of London better than most process- servers.

"Whittaker?" the old man chuckled. "Oh, I know Stinie Whittaker all right! He runs a gambling hell in Bloomsbury somewhere. He was convicted about ten years ago for the same offense. I served a couple of writs on him years and years ago. He's more prosperous now."

"But surely Miss Whittaker doesn't know?" said the shocked girl. "She's— she's the friend of a— a friend of mine."

Old Kilby laughed uproariously.

"Laurie? Why, Laurie's brought more men to the old man's table than anybody else! Know? Sure she does! Why, she spends all summer going voyages in order to pick up likely birds for Stinie to kill!"

The news filled the girl with uneasiness, though she found it difficult to explain her interest in the lonely man who occupied the room beneath her. Should she warn him? At the mere suggestion she was in a panic. She had quite enough trouble of her own, she told herself (and here she spoke only the truth). And was it likely that a man of his experience would be caught by card-sharps? For six days she turned the matter over in her mind and came to a decision.

On the evening she reached this, John Harrowby dressed himself with great care, took a roll of notes from his locked cash-box, and, after contemplating them thoughtfully, thrust them into his pocket. His situation was a serious one; more serious than he would admit to himself. Laurie had cautioned him against playing for high stakes, but she had not cautioned him against Bobby Salter, the well-dressed young man-about-town, whom he had met first in the Bedford Square drawing-room. Bobby had told him stories of fortunes made and lost at cards, and even initiated him into a "system" which he himself had tested, and had been at his elbow whenever he sat at the table, to urge him to a course of play which had invariably proved disastrous.

John Harrowby was without guile. He no more thought of suspecting the immaculate Bobby than he thought of suspecting Laurie herself. But tonight he would play without the assistance of his mentor, he thought, and drew a deep breath as he patted his pocket and felt the bulge of the notes.

He threw a light coat over his arm, and, turning off the light, stepped out on to the landing, to stare in amazement at a girl who was waiting patiently, her back to the banisters, as she had been waiting for ten minutes.

"I wanted to see you before you went, Captain Harrowby," said Elsie, with a quickly beating heart.

"Anything wrong with the manuscript?" he asked in surprise.

She shook her head.

"No, it isn't that, only— only I'm wondering whether— "

Words failed her for a second.

He was palpably amazed at her agitation, and could find no reason for it.

"Oh, Lord," he said, remembering suddenly. "I haven't paid you!"

"No, no, no, it isn't that." She pushed his hand from his pocket. "Of course it isn't that, Captain Harrowby! It's something— well...  I know you'll think I'm horribly impertinent, but do you think you ought to play cards for money?" she asked breathlessly.

He stared at her open-mouthed.

"I don't quite know what you mean," he said slowly.

"Haven't you lost...  a lot of money at Mr. Whittaker's house?" She had to force the words out.

The look in his face changed. From amazement, she saw his eyes narrow, and then, to her unspeakable relief, he smiled.

"I have lost quite a sum," he said gently. "But I don't think you— "

"You don't think that's any business of mine? And neither is it," she said, speaking rapidly. "But I wanted to tell you that Mr. Whittaker ...  is a well-known— "

Here she had to stop. She could not say the man was a cheat or a thief; she knew no more than old Kilby had hinted.

"I mean, he has always had...  play at his house," she faltered. "And you're new to this country, and you don't know people as— as we know them."

This time he laughed.

"You're talking as though you were in the detective service, Miss Bancroft," he said, and then suddenly laid his hand on her shoulder. "I quite understand that you are trying to do me a good turn. In my heart of hearts I believe you're right. But, unfortunately, I have lost too much to stop now— how you knew that I'd lost anything, I can't guess."

She nodded, and, without another word, turned abruptly away and ran up the stairs to her own room, angry with herself, angry with him, but, more than anything else, astounded at her own action.

No less puzzled and troubled was John Harrowby as he walked into Bedford Square.

Elsie had some work to do; but somehow she could not keep her mind fixed upon her task, and, after spoiling three sheets of paper, gave up the attempt and, sitting back in her chair, let her mind rove at will.

At half-past nine the maid brought her up a cup of tea.

"That Miss Whittaker's just gone, miss," she announced.

Elsie frowned.

"Miss Whittaker? Has she been here?"

"Yes, miss; she come about a quarter of an hour ago and went up to Captain Harrowby's room. That's what puzzles me."

Elsie stared at her, open-mouthed.

"Why on earth did she go there?" she demanded.

Matilda shook her head.

"Blest if I can tell, miss. She didn't know that I was watching her— she sent me down to the kitchen to make a cup of tea for her, which was only a dodge of hers, and if I hadn't come back to ask her whether she took sugar, I wouldn't 'a' known she'd been out of the droring- room. I see her coming out of Captain Harrowby's room as I was standing in the hall. You can just see the door through the banisters."

Elsie rose, and went downstairs. Harrowby's door was ajar. She switched on the light. What she expected to find, she did not know. There was no sign of disorder. Possibly, she thought, and she found herself sneering, it was a visit of devotion by a love-stricken lady; but there was a cupboard door ajar, and half in and half out the cupboard, a japanned box that was open. She took up the box. It was empty. She put the box back in the cupboard and went thoughtfully out on to the landing.

"I think I'll go and see Captain Harrowby," she said, obeying a sudden impulse, and, a few minutes later, she was walking through the rain to Bedford Square.

She was within a dozen paces of the door of Mr. Whittaker's house when a cab drew up, and she saw Laurie Whittaker alight, pay the cabman and, running up the step, open the door of the house. Where had she been in the meantime? wondered Elsie. But there was no mystery here. It had begun to rain heavily as Laurie left the house in Coram Street, and she had sheltered in a doorway until a providential taxi came along.

Possibly it was the rain that damped the enthusiasm of the amateur detective; for now, with the Whittaker house only a few paces away, she hesitated. And the longer she waited, the wetter she became. The taxi-man who had brought Laurie lingered hopefully.

"Taxi, miss?" he asked, and Elsie, feeling a fool, nodded and climbed into the cab, glad to escape for a second from the downpour, and hating herself for her extravagance.

The cab had turned when her hand touched something on the seat. A woman's vanity-bag—

"Findings are keepings," according to the proverb, though there is an offense in law which is known as "stealing by finding."

Elsie Bancroft knew little of criminal law, but she was possessed of an inelastic conscience, so that when her hand touched the bag in the darkness, her first impulse was to tap at the window of the taxi-cab and draw the attention of the driver to her find. And then, for some reason, she checked the impulse. It was a fat bag, and the flap was open. Her ungloved fingers stole absently into its interior, and she knew that she was touching real money in large quantities.

During the war she had worked in a bank, and the feel of banknotes was familiar. Mechanically, she slipped their edge between her nimble fingers. One...  two...  three...  she went on, until... .

"Eighty-four!"

They might be five-pound notes— four hundred and twenty pounds. She felt momentarily giddy. Four hundred and twenty pounds! Sufficient to pay the children's school fees— she had had an urgent, if dignified, request from the principal of Tom's boarding-school and a no less pointed hint from Joan's— sufficient to settle the problem of the holidays; but—

She heaved a deep sigh and looked through the rain-blurred windows. She was painfully near to her destination, and she had to make her decision. It came as a shock to her that any decision had to be made; her course of duty was plain. It was to take the number of the cab, hand the bag to the driver, and report her discovery to the nearest police station.

There was nothing else to be done, no alternative line of action for an honest citizen....

The cab stopped with a jerk and, twisting himself in his seat, the driver yanked open the door.

HARROWBY blinked twice at the retiring rake. A mahogany rake with a well-worn handle, and with an underlip of brass so truly set that even the flimsiest of banknotes could hardly escape its fine bevel. And there were banknotes aplenty on the croupier's side of that rake. They showed ends and corners and ordered edges, notes clean and unclean, but all having a certain interest to Harrowby, because, ten minutes, or maybe ten seconds before, they had been his, and were now the property of the man who wore his evening suit so awkwardly and sucked at a dead cigar.

John Harrowby put his hand in his pocket; as an action it was sheerly mechanical. His pocket, he knew, was a rifled treasury, but he felt he must make sure.

Then came Salter, plump, philosophical, and sympathetic. Salter could afford both his sympathy and philosophy; the house gave him a ten per cent commission on all the easy money he touted, so that even his plumpness was well inside his means.

"Well, how did you do?"

Harrowby's smile was of the slow dawning kind, starting at the corner of his eyes and ending with the expanse of a line of white teeth.

"I lost."

Salter made a noise, indicative of his annoyance.

"How much?" he asked anxiously.

He gave the impression that if the loss could be replaced from his pocket, it would be a loss no longer. And Stinie, he of the awkwardly worn dinner-jacket, sometimes minimized a client's losses and based his commission note on his pessimistic estimate.

"About two thousand pounds," said Harrowby.

"Two thousand pounds," said Salter thoughtfully.

He would be able to buy the car that he had refused in the afternoon. He felt pleased.

"Tough luck, old man— try another day."

"Yes," dryly.

Harrowby looked across to the table. The bank was still winning. Somebody said "Banco!" in a sharp, strained voice. There was a pause, a low consultation between the croupier and the banker, and a voice, so expressionless and unemotional that Harrowby knew it was the croupier's, said "I give."

And the bank won again.

Harrowby snuffled as though he found a difficulty in breathing.

He walked slowly down the stairs and paused for a second outside the white-and-gold door of the drawing-room, where he knew Laurie would be sitting. A moment's hesitation, then he turned the handle and went in. She was cuddled up in the corner of a big settee, a cigarette between her red lips, a book on her lap. She looked round, and for a second searched his face with her hard, appraising eyes. She was a year or two older than he ...  he had thought her divine when he came back from Central Africa, where he had spent five bitter years, a trader's half-breed wife and an occasional missionary woman, shrivelled and yellow with heat and fever, the only glimpses he had of womankind.

But now he saw her without the rosy spectacles which he had worn.

"Have you been playing?" she asked coolly.

He nodded.

"And lost?"

He nodded again.

"Really, father is too bad," she drawled. "I wish he wouldn't allow this high play in the house. I hope you're not badly hurt?"

"I've lost everything," he said.

For a second her eyebrows lifted.

"Really?" It was a polite, impersonal interest she showed, no more. "That's too bad."

She swung her feet to the floor, straightened her dress, and threw away her cigarette.

"Then we shall not be seeing a great deal of you in the future, Captain Meredith?"

"I'm afraid not," he said steadily.

Was this the girl he had known, who had come aboard at Madeira, who had made the five days' voyage from Funchal to Southampton pass in a flash? And now he must go back to scrape the earth, to trek into the impenetrable jungle, seeking the competence which he had thought was his.

"I think you are damnable!" he said.

For a second her brows met, then she laughed.

"My dear man, you're a fool," she said calmly. "I certainly invited you to come to the house, but I never asked you to gamble. And really, John, I thought you would take your medicine like a little gentleman."

His heart was thumping painfully. Between the chagrined man whose vanity has been hurt, and the clean anger of one who all his life had detested meanness and trickery, he was in a fair way to making a fool of himself.

"I'm sorry," he said in a low voice, and was walking out of the room when she called him by name.

"I hate to part like this." Her voice was soft, had the old cooing caress in it. "You'll think I'm horrid, John, but really I did my best to persuade you not to play."

He licked his dry lips and said nothing.

"Don't let us part bad friends." She held out her hand, and he took it automatically. "I thought we were going to have such a happy time together," she went on, her pathetic eyes on his. "Can't I lend you some money?"

He shook his head.

"I'm sure the luck would turn if you gave it a chance. Couldn't you sell something?"

The cool audacity of the suggestion took his breath away.

"Sell? What have I to sell?" he demanded harshly. "Souls and bodies are no longer negotiable, even if there was a twentieth-century Mephistopheles waiting round the corner to negotiate the deal!"

She toyed with the fringe of a cushion.

"You could sell your mine," she said, and his laugh sounded loud and discordant in the quietness of that daintily furnished room.

"That's worth twopence-ha'penny! It is a cemetery— a cemetery of hope and labor. It is the real white man's grave, and I am the white man."

She brought her eyes back to his.

"As you won't borrow money from me, I'll buy it for a thousand pounds."

Again he shook his head.

"No, I'm afraid there's nothing to be done," he said, "except to wish you good-night."

As he turned, she slipped between him and the door.

"I won't let you go like that, John," she said. "Won't you forgive me?"

"I've already forgiven you, if there's anything to forgive," he said.

"Sit down and write me a letter saying you forgive me. I want to have that tangible proof," she pleaded.

He was impatient to be gone, and the foolery of the suggestion grated on him.

"Then I'll write it," she said, sat down at the little escritoire and scribbled a dozen words. "Now sign that."

He would have gone, but she clutched him by the sleeve.

"Do, please— please!"

He took the pen and scrawled his name, without reading the note, which was half concealed by her hand. Looking through her open fingers, he saw the words "Quimbo Concession."

"What's that?" he said sharply, but she snatched the letter away.

"Give me that paper!" he demanded sternly, reaching out for it, but in another second an automatic pistol had appeared in her hand.

"Go whilst the going's good, Harrowby," she said steadily.

But she had not reckoned on this particular type of man. Suddenly his hand shot out and gripped her wrist, pinning it to the table. In another second he had snatched the letter and flung it into the little fire that blazed on the hearth. He held her at bay till the last scrap of blue paper had turned to black ashes, and then, with a little smile and a nod, he went out of the room into the street and the pelting rain.

He was wet through as he opened the door of No. 704 Coram Street. Matilda, half-way up the stairs, turned with her startling news. He listened and frowned.

"Miss Whittaker been here?" he said incredulously.

"Yes, sir...  and Miss Bancroft went to tell you all about it. Didn't you see her?"

He shook his head.

What had Laurie Whittaker wanted? he asked himself, as he went up the stairs to his room. The girl must have been mistaken.

He took one glance at the open cupboard, and then the truth leapt at him, and, snatching at the box, he put it on the table and threw open the lid. There had been a square sheet of parchment in a broad envelope, and on that parchment was inscribed his title to the Quimbo Concession. It was gone.

He turned with an oath. A girl was standing watching him with grave eyes.

"Is this what you're looking for?" she asked.

Her face was very pale. She held out the envelope, and he took it from her hand.

"Where did this come from?" he said, in amazement.

"I stole it," she answered simply; "and I think this is yours."

He took the envelope from her hand with a frown, extracted a cable form and read. It was from his partner.

"Gold found in large quantities near Crocodile Creek. Congratulations."

"How did you get this?" he gasped.

She held out a little French vanity-bag, and he recognized it instantly.

"I found it in a cab; Miss Whittaker left it there," she said. "There is also four hundred and twenty pounds which belongs to her."

"Which belong to us," said John Harrowby firmly. "Findings are keepings in this case, my child. She found me and kept most of my money— I've got fifty pounds left at the bank— and I think we're entitled to this little salvage from the wreck."

And then he kissed her, and it seemed such a natural thing to do, that she offered no protest.

________________

11. The Jewel Box

THERE WERE very few moments when Alys Southey could find sufficient placidity of mind to interest herself in the news of the day.

Fragmentary scraps of gossip came to her in the hurried luncheon hour, when girls, between their semi-confidential narratives of what "he said" and what "she" had replied, spoke of the world outside their own large universe. And she knew in a dim way that the houses of the great had been robbed, that the Duchess of Monfort had lost her family emeralds, and that William Sollette, the rich American, had lost a pearl necklace of fabulous value; she even knew that a society man, Henry Melville, had been arrested as a result of a detective having found Mrs. Callagan's diamond sunburst in his overcoat pocket.

Her drama was nearer at hand, and the complications of society were as nothing compared with the complex of her domestic situation. She possessed a stepfather and a stepmother. The stepfather had been tolerable during the lifetime of her mother, but when he had married again, and had imposed a new relationship upon her, the outlook became blacker and more hopeless than ever it had been. To leave the house was a simple solution— so simple that it was freely tendered by the few who knew the circumstances; but there was Olga, her sister, and Olga was fourteen, easily scared, terrified of being left to the mercy of her new mother, and Alys barely earned sufficient to keep one. So Alys stayed; and staying, prayed for a miracle.

"And it may happen," said Olga wisely. "Perhaps Pots will get tired of us and give you the money to keep me." (Her stepfather's name was Potter.) "Or you may have a lot of money, Alys darling."

"Brown and Helder never pay more than thirty shillings a week, even for their best assistants," sighed Alys wearily, "and I'm not their best assistant!"

The child's forehead puckered in a frown.

"Perhaps that handsome man who buys gloves every day— " she began, but Alys stopped her.

"Olga, don't be a goop!" she said, with a little smile. "Fairy princes avoid Oxford Street."

"I saw him yesterday," said Olga, after a moment's thought. "He was talking to the milkman— "

Alys stared at her.

"You saw him!— my darling, you don't know him. And is he likely to come to Kilburn? I don't suppose he knows the place."

But the child was emphatic.

"I know it was him— he," she insisted. "You've described him so that I'm sure I recognized him. And he had a beautiful big car waiting at the end of the street. I'm sure he was making inquiries about you."

Alys gasped.

"You shall have no more detective stories from the library," she warned. "You're dreaming."

The mysterious and good-looking stranger who had piqued the curiosity of the staff by buying a new pair of gloves every day had become almost part of her daily life. Sometimes he amused, sometimes irritated her. She had woven many stories about him, but never once did she associate him with romance, for romance played no part in her day-dreams.

It was at ten that night that the bolt she had feared was launched.

Mr. Potter, a stout, bald man, entirely dominated by his shrewish young wife, cleared his throat before he spoke.

"Alys, don't you think yon could get a better job?...  It is a great expense to me, keeping two big girls like you and Olga...  you ought to be able to support your sister...  When I was your age— "

He rambled off into reminiscences, but his wife brought him up with a jerk.

"I'm tired of people asking me if I'm your sister, and if Mr. Potter is my father. It makes things so very, very awkward, my dear. It sort of— well, it emphasizes the May and December-ness of my marriage, and I'm getting fed up!"

"But I can't possibly earn enough to keep us," protested Alys. "If father would give me an allowance— "

Mrs. Potter bridled.

"An allowance! If he would give me an allowance, I should be glad! What nonsense! Of course you could earn enough— or you could marry. Young Phillips has asked you, and his father is well off."

"Mr. Phillips is out of the question," said Alys, rising. "Just give me a day or so to think it over."

It was lightly said, but not a day or two, or even a year or two, could solve her problem, thought Alys, as she went up the stairs with a heavy heart.

Yet, in twenty-four hours, the solution came...

The girl at the glove counter recognized the tall young man who was moving slowly through the store in her direction, and hardened her pretty face into a frown.

Any other girl in the store would have been flattered by the marked and, so far, respectful attention of this man about town.

Some of them knew his name— knew, through the porters' department, that he occupied one of the best suites at the Ritz-Carlton; knew that he used, even if he did not own, two speedy cars— a very desirable friend for a shop-girl scornful of the conventions and immensely satisfied that she could look after herself."

His name was Stenton. He was, according to reliable accounts, a rich man, and he had come on successive days to the Universal Store, had walked straight to the glove counter, and had bought one pair of reindeer gloves, size eight.

Alys Southey, watching his approach, recalled none of his desirable qualities. She only knew that for weeks she had been the target for dubious witticisms addressed to her by her fellow-workers; that she had been jollied and ragged at every meal! that she had gone red and white under crude raillery; and that this young man was the conscious or unconscious cause of it all.

He walked up to the counter, settled his gold-headed cane against a chair, and slowly stripped his gloves. Alys waited, neither embarrassed nor unhappy in the consciousness that a dozen pairs of eyes watched the meeting; her own private embarrassment was so much more real.

"I want a pair of reindeer gloves, size eight," he drawled.

He was something more than ordinarily good-looking. There was a strength and a character in the mouth and jaw, a grave knowledge in the gray eyes that looked at her, a hint of purpose in his every action which did not accord with the mess-room's conception.

"Size eight— brown or gray!" asked the girl mechanically.

"Gray— you're having a pretty bad time at home."

There was no pause between the words, and for a second the girl did not comprehend his meaning. She had half opened a drawer when she realized that he had put into words the disquiet of her own mind.

"Why " she began. "You mustn't— you haven't any right— "

He could admire dispassionately the characteristic beauty of the girl, the slim line of her figure, the regularity of feature, the curve of lip and chin, the dusky blue of eyes now opened wide in pained astonishment.

"Life is becoming insupportable at home," he said, examining the gloves and continuing in an even, conversational tone. "There's a way out."

She faced him, calm and outwardly self-possessed.

"Not for me," she said quietly. "I am afraid you do not understand— I suppose you mean no great insult to me, but it is not fair for a man of your position— oh, I think you are horrible!" she burst out, and he saw the quick rise and fall of her bosom and heard the indignant tears in her voice.

"There is a way out," he repeated, "for you and for me. I've been watching you for weeks— I've had you photographed from every angle— an impertinence which you must forgive. And I want your services. I will give you two thousand pounds, and I will ask nothing that a good woman cannot give."

She stared at him, bewildered.

"But— but I don't know you— I've never met you before you came here— I've not spoken to you until today— it is absurd to pretend you love me— "

"I don't," he said.

He was turning over the gloves that lay in the drawer she had put before him, and he seemed to the watchers behind the ribbon counter to be wholly absorbed in his inspection.

"Oh no, I don't love you, and I don't expect you to love me. I like you as a man might like a Botticelli statuette or a Corot landscape or da Vinci's portrait of Beatrice d'Este. One does not love those things, unless one is quite crazy, any more than one loves a woman for the satisfaction she brings to the eye. One can only love minds and characters and the intangibility which is called Soul— and I am not only ignorant of these factors in your make-up, but I am sincerely incurious."

She listened, dumbfounded, perhaps a little piqued, since she was human. He made his selection, and she wrapped his purchase and scribbled his bill automatically.

"I am not coming here again," he said as he took the pa<2ket and the bill. "I repeat that I want you to undertake a piece of delicate work on my behalf, and I will pay you two thousand pounds for your services."

Mr. Cyrus Stenton raised his glossy hat, and turned and walked to the cashier's desk.

Alys looked after him; then a glimpse of something white on the counter brought her eyes down. It was a visiting card, and underneath the name was written:

"My 'phone number is Regent 1764, Extension 9. Meet me at 7 o'clock at Fozolli's restaurant. Private Room No. 4."

For the remainder of the day Alys moved like one in a dream. It was so fantastical, so unreal, so like all the stories she had ever read. All her reason told her that men did not offer girls £2000 for any service that they could honestly perform, and yet her instinct told her that there was no danger from this tall, good-looking stranger.

It was early closing day, and she left the store soon after two o'clock and made her way home. Olga was at school— at the cheap little school which Mr. Potter had chosen for her.

£2000! What would it mean to Olga? An end to this life of fret and strain, a good school for Olga, and an opportunity for herself to take up the Art course she longed for.

Again the doubt came to her mind with overwhelming force. Why should a man pay her £2000 for a simple duty which any girl might perform? But was it?

Throughout that afternoon, in the privacy of her little attic bedroom, she wrestled with this grotesque problem. At half-past six she was hovering in the region of Fozolli's, with neither the courage to take the bold step or to withdraw. Seven o 'clock struck, and, summoning all her courage, she crossed the road quickly and passed into the broad vestibule of the famous restaurant. The liveried attendant seemed to be expecting her.

"You're come for Mr. Stenton?" he said.

"Yes," she answered breathlessly. "I— I want to speak to him."

She knew how feeble was the reply, and hated herself for the weakness she was showing. Before she could order her thoughts, the elevator had taken her up two floors, and she was conducted along a broad, heavily carpeted corridor. The attendant stopped before a rosewood door and tapped gently; then, as a voice bade him come in, he opened the door and, stepping aside to allow her to pass, closed it behind the girl.

She was in a room quietly but luxuriously furnished. A table was laid for two, and, most grateful sight of all, a woman of middle age in the uniform of a serving-maid was standing near a second door. Mr. Stenton was in evening dress, and was even better-looking than she had imagined. She was sufficiently human to notice this fact before he came toward her.

"This is indeed very good of you. Miss Southey," he said, taking her hand for a moment. "You would like to take your coat off? Mary, will you please attend to Miss Southey?"

Scarcely knowing what she did, Alys followed the woman into the second room. It was a dressing-room, for on the settee was spread a beautiful gown. The table held a variety of articles, including a diamond and platinum chain, a double row of pearls, and an open case in which glittered a beautiful bar brooch.

She looked around for the owner, and Mary, the maid, smiled as if she guessed the girl's thoughts, which, however, Alys did not put into [words.

She returned to the man, and found him, his hands clasped behind him, looking out of the window, evidently absorbed in his thoughts, for he started when she spoke to him. Throughout the meal no reference was made to the object of her visit or to the £2000. It was not until the maid had withdrawn that he came directly to the subject.

"Miss Southey," he said, "I am going to ask you to do something for me which you may well hesitate to agree to, since behind a very simple service you may imagine there lurk all manner of sinister meanings. I must start right off by telling you that my name is not Stenton— though I am not prepared at the moment to tell you what it really is. How late can you remain out tonight?"

She looked at him quickly, suspiciously.

"Until midnight," she said, "or even till later. There is a dance at the Art School, and I had half made up my mind to go."

"An Art student?" He raised his eyebrows. "Really I I was hoping that you had some such interest. You are not a typical shop lady," he smiled.

"There isn't such a thing as a typical shop girl," she replied quietly. "There are typical girls and typical men, and the fact that they are engaged in one or another profession or business doesn't alter the type."

He seemed surprised at her answer, and looked at her again a little oddly. And then he put his hand in the pocket of his evening coat and took out a flat leather case. This he opened. She did not look at him during the process, but it required all her control to keep her eyes averted. She heard the rustle of banknotes, and his hand came across the table.

"Here are ten notes for a hundred pounds each," he said. "I will give you this in advance as an earnest of my sincerity. The other thousand you will receive when your work is completed."

"How long will it take!" she asked.

"It may take a week— a month. It may be finished tonight. I hope it will be finished tonight," he said gravely. And then: "I may want you tomorrow. What will happen supposing you do not go back to the store!"

"I shall get the sack," she said, with a faint smile, "and I shall forfeit exactly sixteen shillings of my pay."

"I think that can be remedied." His voice was grave. He was considering this little problem of hers as profoundly as though it were the fate of an empire. "That, of course, can be remedied, and the sixteen shillings can be made good."

She laughed aloud.

"I don't know that the sixteen shillings matters much in relation to a thousand pounds," she said, looking down at the notes, yet afraid to touch them. "Mr. Stenton, what am I to do? You know so much about me that you may be able to advise; and though my child-like faith may sound absurd, I am almost willing to abide by the advice you give. Should I do this work? Is it work that you would ask anybody who was related to you, or whom you were"— she flushed— "fond of, to perform?"

He considered a moment, then nodded.

"Yes, it is. If you were my sister, I should ask you to help me in the same way," he said quietly.

She took the money up, folded the notes, and put them into her bag.

"Now tell me what I must do," she said, almost briskly.

He looked at her for a long time before he spoke.

"In the next room there are some clothes. I haven't attended to all the details, but Mary, who was in my mother's employ, has, I think, procured all the necessary articles and will assist you to dress."

"Me?" she said in amazement. "You want me to wear that wonderful dress?"

He nodded.

"And the pearls? Oh no!"

"I want you to dress exactly as Mary suggests to you, because Mary knows."

"And then?"

She looked at him, her lips parted in amazement, her eyes bright with eagerness, for now the spirit of the adventure was upon her.

"And then I propose taking you to a party. You will be there for exactly half an hour, possibly three-quarters of an hour— not longer, I should imagine. You will speak to nobody unless it is absolutely necessary, and I will give you a partner who will save you from that embarrassment. At the end of three-quarters of an hour you will come away; but during the time I imagine you will learn something."

He got up from the table and, going to a sideboard, pulled open a drawer and took out a black portfolio. This he opened, extracting what was evidently a page from an illustrated weekly. It was obviously a portrait— she saw that at a distance— and it had been cut carefully round, so that the inscription below did not appear. Without a word he handed her the picture, and she stared and gasped. She was looking upon her own portrait.

"But— but— I don't understand," she said, bewildered. "You said you had had me photographed, but not in those clothes...  they are not mine...  I have never worn them."

The picture that looked up to her was singularly beautiful— she had to admit that, in spite of the likeness to herself. About the fair throat were row upon row of pearls; a big diamond butterfly caught up the dress at the shoulder; and the hand that was held to the face was encrusted with rings.

"Little too many, don't you think?" said Mr. Stenton. "But that is the fashion nowadays."

She turned the page over, and saw it was from the Bystander.

"This is not me," she said, "but the likeness is perfect."

He smiled slowly.

"Now don't ask any more questions. That is the one promise I want to extract from you, that you will not ask me, at inconvenient moments, any question which I might be embarrassed to answer. You will carry out all my instructions to the letter. You will not interfere in any scene which you may witness, however remarkable and sinister it may seem to you. Do you promise?"

She nodded. Looking at his watch, he stood up.

"I think we will go," he said, with a smile. "I don't know how long it takes a lady to dress, but I am going to give you twenty minutes."

It was half an hour before she came out of the room, and at the sight of her he was stricken dumb. She flushed red at the admiration in his eyes, and for a second felt foolish.

"Wonderful!" he breathed. "Wonderful!"

The night had fallen when they came through the vestibule, a great green chiffon cloak about her shoulders. At the door was a big Rolls, and a footman was standing with the open door in his hand. Blindly, dumbly, she stepped in, still in a dream. She felt ridiculously like Cinderella, and expected to wake up any moment in the garret bedroom. These things did not happen in real life, she told herself again and again as the car sped through the crowded West End and went swiftly down Piccadilly. They only happened in story-books. She was dreaming.

Where was the party to be? They had passed Hammersmith and were crossing the bridge, when she asked the question.

"It is in the country," he said. "We have an hour and a half's drive, though we are not due for another two hours."

Through Barnes and Kingston, past San-down, into Cobham. She recognized the places up to there; beyond that, she was in a strange land. The bright headlamps of the car illuminated the road, and she sat, staring through the window, wondering... wondering.

They had been an hour on the journey when the car slowed and stopped. There was no house in sight, and, looking out, she saw the boles of trees on either side. They had come to a forest road, and for a moment her courage failed her.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"Now please don't be alarmed. I want you to step out, because the car is going to make a rather uncomfortable journey into the shelter of the trees," he said kindly. "You must trust me. Miss Southey."

Trembling, she stepped down upon the hard road, and he wrapped the cloak around her.

They stood watching whilst the chauffeur put the bonnet of the car toward the wood, and drew it into the cover of some laurel bushes. Then the lights were extinguished.

"You can go back now. I shall be close at hand, and you will not be waiting for longer than a quarter of an hour."

Then she saw another man. He was in evening dress; she caught the flash of his white shirt-front as he lit a cigarette. A man of more than middle age, with a gray moustache and dark, forbidding eyes. Stenton and he talked together in a low tone for some time. Where had he come from? He must have been waiting on the road for them, and that red lamp he carried in his hand had signalled the car to stop.

She went back to the limousine, and, letting down the big plate window, looked out. Her eyes were now growing accustomed to the darkness, and she could see the two men in the road clearly. Then suddenly the red lamp began to wave. From the distance came the dull whine of a motor-car. The red lamp waved more furiously, and the man with the gray moustache was suddenly illuminated by the glaring headlamps of the oncoming car, which stopped suddenly.

Stenton walked to the door and jerked it open.

"I want you, Jane," he said. There was a note of harshness in his voice.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

She saw a woman bend forward and heard a cry.

"Philip! What is the meaning of this!"

"Step out," said Stenton curtly.

"I'll do no such thing; I— "

"Step out. I don't want to use force on you. You know why I am here. Your scheme has been discovered."

"You're a fool!" cried the woman shrilly. "And a blackguard! How dare you stop me, Philip!"

He had whispered something to her, and the shrill quality went out of her voice, and she spoke now in a low tone, which did not reach the astounded ears of Alys Southey.

She was wondering what was happening, when she saw Stenton coming toward her.

"Now, Miss Southey," he said, "I want you to get into that car."

"But why " she began.

"You must ask no questions," he said almost roughly. "You promised!"

His arm guiding her, she walked back to the road and, looking round, she saw the figure of a woman talking to the man with the gray moustache, vehemently, tearfully.

"Get in," said Stenton, and she obeyed.

The interior of the car was heavy with the aroma of an Eastern scent. She was about to let down the window when he stopped her.

"I don't think I should do that," he said gently. "I forgot the scent."

"I don't understand what it all means, but I'll do as you tell me," she said.

She felt that, if she gave way now, she would get hysterical. And then, to her surprise, he patted her hand.

"The Colonel is going along with you— Colonel Dayler. I shall follow later."

He called the man with the gray moustache, and that gentleman hurried toward him, and, without a word, climbed into the car, and, before she realized what was happening, it was moving on.

"My name's Dayler. I don't know whether— Philip told you. I am a Colonel of the 195th Wessex."

"Who is Jane?" she asked.

The extraordinary was becoming the normal. She had ceased to worry, ceased almost to thinK independently.

The Colonel chuckled.

"Oh— Jane? Jane's a nice gel," he said and chuckled again.

"I didn't promise I wouldn't ask you questions," she said presently. "Where are we going now?"

"We're going to Lord Ilcombe's country house," said Dayler. "And you've got to stick tight to me, and I'll fend off all inconvenient inquiries. Until you feel me squeeze your arm, you're to take no notice of anybody. They'll certainly try to talk to you, but you trust me."

She could only sit helplessly and wait. Presently the car turned from the road, and passed up a lordly avenue of elms, stopping before the brightly illuminated facade of a big house. As the footman assisted her down, she heard the sound of music, and, clinging tightly to the Colonel's arm, she passed, bewildered and puzzled, into the big hall. As she did so a butler opened a door. She was in a big banqueting-hall. In one gallery a band was playing, and the floor was crowded with dancers.

Somebody nodded to her. A girl who swept past said something which she could not catch. And then a young man checked himself to lift his eyebrows and say:

"You're late, Jane."

"Jane!" The significance of the name came upon her with a rush. Jane was the woman whose portrait she had seen in the paper. She was impersonating her. At the thought of all that might signify, she hung heavily on the Colonel's arm; and realizing that she had discovered the role she was playing, he hurried her into an alcove and sat her in a big armchair.

"Now let me assure you, Miss Southey," he said earnestly, "that you will have no cause to reproach yourself for this night's work. You are impersonating Lady Jane Dinford. That is why Philip has chosen you."

"But— but " she began.

"I swear to you, on my honor, that you will come to no harm, and that we are asking you to do nothing that is dishonorable," said the Colonel emphatically. "Your big test is to come, my dear, but I'm sure that I'll be able to see you through with it."

It was when the dance had stopped that the test really came, for two men and a girl came to the alcove and greeted her.

"You're not to bother Jane," said the Colonel. "She's got a fearful headache. Her car met with a little accident coming down, and she's shaken. Smile," he hissed under his breath, and Alys forced something which, she felt sure, looked more like a death's-head grin than the amiable smile of a pretty woman.

The Colonel was watching. She sensed, in that quick left and right glance of his that swept the hall, an expectancy out of the ordinary. Presently she saw a woman— tall, graceful, and a little passee, crossing the room with slow, leisurely steps.

"Ah!" whispered the Colonel. "When she speaks, you call her Edith."

"Who is it?" she asked in a whisper.

"Lady Carleigh."

As the woman came up, the Colonel rose.

"You know Jane Dinford?" he said.

"I think we have met," said Lady Carleigh languidly, and put out her cool hand.

To the girl's amazement, she left behind a little wad of paper, which Alys had the presence of mind to conceal. Lady Carleigh did not wait, but went on to the next alcove as though that had been her objective.

"What does it mean?" asked Alys fearfully.

"Did she give you anything I" asked the Colonel quickly, and she passed him the slip of paper that the woman had left in her hand.

"Let's go out," said the Colonel. His voice was husky.

They crossed the floor into the hall, and, as though expecting them, a servant stood outside the front door with the girl's cloak on his arm. The car was waiting, and before she realized what had happened, she was speeding down the drive again. They had left the house well behind before the Colonel switched on the light and unrolled the ball of paper that Lady Carleigh had given her.

"10.45 to London. Bonton Tunnel 11.17. Be on the down road near entrance, dressed in white so that I can see you. I will drop the box. It will be well wrapped."

"What does it mean?" asked Alys.

"It means that your work will be at an end tomorrow," said the Colonel.

"Where is Mr. Stenton!"

"I think he has gone back to town with his cousin."

"Lady Jane?"

The Colonel nodded.

It was nearly midnight when the car turned into a quiet London square and stopped before the sedate portals of a big house. The door was opened to them at once, and, conducted by the Colonel, she passed into a gorgeous drawing- room, lit by softly shaded wall- brackets. Stenton, his back to the empty grate, was waiting, and at the sight of the girl he came forward eagerly.

"Well...  do you know— ?"

"I know I was supposed to impersonate Lady Jane Dinford," she said.

"We've got it, my boy," said the Colonel's voice exultantly, and he produced the slip of paper.

Stenton read. When he had finished, he nodded.

"Thank you, Colonel," he said. "And now, will you go along and arrange for supper for Miss Southey, while I tell her the truth?"

He closed the door upon his companion and turned again to the girl.

"Won't you sit down. Miss Southey I" he said gently. "The story I have to tell you is not a very long one, but I think you have had sufficient shocks for one evening. Nevertheless, I am going to give you another.

"You have heard of the jewel robberies which have been occurring in various country houses?"

She nodded.

"To those of which you know, I will add another. A few weeks ago Lord Ilcombe's best friend was arrested, charged with stealing a diamond ornament, and he is now waiting his trial. Lord Ilcombe was satisfied that his friend was innocent, and that the real culprits were two ladies, who apparently were not very great friends, but who, working in conjunction, had carried out a series of most audacious thefts. The reason for their conduct I will not go into. They are both more or less poor women, and certainly both more or less unscrupulous. There have been incidents at cards which it is unnecessary to recall.

"Lord Ilcombe fixed upon these two women as the culprits, but he found it impossible to prove that they were acquainted with one another. The two were invited to the house-party, of which you were momentarily an uncomfortable guest. Last night Lord Ilcombe showed his guests six very valuable rubies that had come down to him from an ancestor of the eighteenth century. They were in a jewel case, and he knew that, if these women were guilty, they could not resist the temptation of adding yet another to their long list of thefts. Only one saw the casket; the other— who, I need hardly tell you, is Lady Jane Dinford— has been ill in London. But this morning an urgent wire was sent to her, asking her to come down for the evening.

"Tonight his jewel case will be stolen. The loss will not be discovered until after the departure of the guests. Lady Carleigh will, of course, be the culprit. But she is clever. She was nearly caught at the Earl of Pinkerton's house, but managed to secrete the stolen property in the overcoat pocket of Lord Ilcombe's friend."

"You are Lord Ilcombe?" said Alys quietly, and he nodded.

"Yes, I am Lord Ilcombe," he said.

"Where is Lady Jane now?"

He looked up to the ceiling.

"I have taken the liberty of holding her prisoner until I have proved beyond doubt that my suspicions are correct. That proof has already been given to me by the paper which her confederate slipped into your hand."

"But what is she going to do?"

"She will throw the box from the window as she passes through the tunnel, and you will be there to take it."

"But why?" interrupted Alys. "Why could she not take it to London!"

"Her job is to get rid of it as quickly as she can," said Lord Ilcombe quietly. "The only fear I have is, that in the daylight she may recognize you. You must go to Bonton Tunnel to take that box from her. I know what you're going to say." He smiled faintly. "You are going to ask me why I do not have her arrested the moment I know that the box is in her possession. There are many reasons, not the least being that she is my mother's sister, and I do not want a scandal. What I want to do is to be able to furnish proof, without the assistance of the police, that she is the robber. And you, my dear young lady, are going to assist me."

The girl scarcely slept that night, and long before Mr. Potter was down she had left the house. Lord Ilcombe's car was waiting for her, and that young man himself was standing talking to the chauffeur when she came up.

"You have an hour's drive, and I've ordered breakfast at an inn en route," he said.

He was not a good conversationalist that morning. Apparently some trouble clouded his mind, and presently it came out.

"I'm worrying about you, young lady. I think that I have scared you unnecessarily. I should have told you the truth at first. You see," he confessed, "I was rather chary of taking anybody into my confidence. Both these women are relatives of mine— yes, Lady Jane is my first cousin, and I did not want the fact to be generally known. And"— he hesitated— "I was very fond of Jane, and would have helped her if I'd known— though I doubt if I could ever have reformed her."

She shot a swift glance at him, and in that moment felt a pang of sorrow for the woman who had sacrificed so much.

It was a silent meal, that breakfast, but one which ever remained in the memory of the girl. Lord Ilcombe was so immersed in his thoughts that he scarcely answered when she spoke to him.

A few minutes before eleven the car stopped near a railway line, and the two got out and walked along.

"There is a pathway down the embankment for the use of plate-layers," said Ilcombe, leading the way through the hedge.

Following him, the girl saw the black month of the tunnel.

"I hate asking yon to go into that unpleasant-looking place, but I am afraid I must," smiled Ilcombe, and with a gaiety in her heart which was unusual, and wholly foreign to the seriousness of the business, she laughed, and ran down the path.

The tunnel was short but dark. It was filled with the suffocating, sulphurous odor peculiar to tunnels, and, with a glance backward at the watching man, she sat down on the bank and waited. She heard the rumbling of the train long before it reached the far end of the tunnel, and, rising, walked quickly to the entrance.

Would she be recognized? Would there be time for Lady Carleigh to see that her plot had failed! Alys moved further into the shadow of the tunnel and waited. With a shriek and a roar, the train thundered past, deafening her. Then, from a window, something big and round was thrown, striking the metals and rebounding almost to her feet. Stooping, she picked up the ball of paper and cardboard, the train vanishing in the distance.

With knees that trembled, she ran up the path breathlessly and put the parcel in his hand.

"Thank Heaven, that's over!" he said, and with a knife cut the string.

Under the paper, wrapped in fine shavings, was a cardboard box, and within was yet another box, padded tightly with cotton wool.

He opened this, only to reveal a third box. The girl watched eagerly. At last the case was revealed, and with a jerk of his finger the lid snapped up.

As it did so, he uttered a cry of amazement. The jewels were not there. Instead, was a letter, which he opened.

"Dear Philip," it ran, "I recognized Jane's double the moment I put the paper in her hand. Even if I had not, Jane's telephone message this morning would have told me all I wanted to know. We are leaving for the Continent by the afternoon train. If you want a scandal, you can have us arrested.— Your loving Aunt."

There was a P.S.

"As you have so completely compromised your very pretty girl, the least you can do is to marry her."

Without a word, he handed the letter to the girl.

"For the first time in my life," he said, and his voice was very gentle, "I agree with my aunt. Let's lunch."

"You've lost your rubies," she said in dismay, and he looked at her with a strange light in his eyes.

"There's a Biblical proverb somewhere about rubies, if I remember rightly— the thirty-first chapter of Proverbs and the tenth verse. Look it up, Alys."

__________________

12. The Undisclosed Client

A SNOWY night in early March; underfoot, the stone sidewalk smeared with a film of mud. Yet Mr. Lester Cheyne did not hurry: his walk, the slow pace of a man who was thoroughly enjoying a happy experience which he was loathe to bring to the end, which was marked by the cozy lobby of Northumberland Court and the luxury of a suite that lay beyond.

The snow fell in a picturesque and almost theatrical way, large distinct flakes that fell vertically and showed themselves to the best advantage in the light of the big arc lamps. Along the Embankment the bare arms of the plane trees were marked white; in the dark river that ran at the far side of the granite parapet, two tug-boats were passing, one up and one down river. They were tagged with green and red lights that splashed shivering and grotesque reflections on the water. A span of yellow lamps located a distant bridge...

Lester, his throat enveloped in the upturned lambskin of his coat collar, could admire and absorb and enjoy. He had a wonderful feeling of content, such as any healthy man might experience who had performed a difficult task to his entire self-satisfaction.

It was the rush hour: the offices were emptying and the sidewalk held a triple line of hurrying walkers. He edged near to the railings of the Temple, not desiring to hamper the toilers of the world in their homeward trek. He also was a toiler, but in another sphere. He liked to think of himself as a general who, in the silence of a room aloof from his fellows, planned subtle and successful movements against an enemy, overwhelmingly superior in point of numbers and backed by limitless resources.

He was a slim, good-looking man of thirty-five, who looked ten years younger. When he was revealed to strangers as a successful lawyer, they were politely incredulous; yet he was very successful, and his sleek limousine and the apartment with the waxed walls and the silken tapestries were there to proclaim his prosperity to the world.

It was not a novel experience to be jostled as he strolled: elbows had grazed him, shoulders had lurched against his. A grunted pardon politely waved, and they passed on into the obscurity of the night and the oblivion of their unimportance.

But the Girl in the Brown Coat did more: touched him with her arm, slipped sideways, and was caught deftly by the smiling Lester, and remained everlastingly in his life as a memory never to be expunged.

She fell ungracefully, one foot sliding outward, one doubled beneath her, arms flung violently in an effort to balance.

He caught her as awkwardly under the arm, and she slid forward, so that she became a human wheelbarrow that he was unconsciously pushing.

"Sorry...  awfully sorry!"

He must either allow her to sit down in the snow and mud, or she must get up of her own power, for his rubbers had caked up with half-frozen slush and his foothold was precarious.

She recovered herself with the commendable agility of youth.

Twenty...  younger perhaps. Or older. He wasn't sure. The white light of the spluttering arc lamp was merciless enough to tell whatever unpleasant truth there was to be told. But the verity was very pleasant. Eyes any color, but big and with little droops at the corners that gave her a certain lure. Mouth very red. Complexion faultless so far as could be judged.

She came erect, gripping at his fur collar: it was not an unpleasing sensation.

"I'm dreadfully sorry— I slipped."

"I noticed that," he said, and laughed.

When she smiled she was rather beautiful. He had not seen any woman...  girl, whatever she was...  quite so beautiful. At least, not for a very long time. And because they met in the atmosphere and environment of adventure she was almost painfully interesting.

"I knew something was going to happen to me this night," she said in the friendly way of one who shared equal mastership of the situation, if mastership was called for. "I slipped up once this morning at home, and I slipped over a rug in the office; the third trip was sure to come."

She gave him the grim little smile that naturally accompanies a nod of farewell, and quickened her pace to leave him behind. Then her right arm shot out and caught hold of the railings. In a fraction of a second he overtook her.

"You'd better walk with me— I am wearing rubbers. Have you far to go?"

"Charing Cross tube," she said ruefully. "Thank you, I will: I seem rather short on suitable footwear."

She lived in a girls' club at Hampstead and worked in an office on King's Bench Walk. She had seen two of the plays he mentioned...

Shabby? Not exactly. Cheaply dressed described her better. He could price the coat— the bargain stores sold them in saxe, tête de nègre, tobacco, fawn, navy, and black, and the fur collar had been, in the lifetime of its original wearer, attached to a frisky white tail and a pair of lop ears.

Mr. Lester Cheyne had his private and personal record of past adventures, and these included at least one young lady who had pounded the keys of a typewriter by day, and had grown sentimental in his society after business hours.

But high or low, he could not parallel that face or overcome the irritating sense that he had once met...  seen...  heard her before. A face in a crowd perhaps, or he had caught a glimpse of her one sunny evening in summer. He often walked this beat before dinner. The river inspired him.

"Have you had dinner?" he asked.

"I? Lord, no! I take supper when I get home— when I'm hungry. I think I shall be hungry enough tonight!"

He seemed to be considering something; his head drooped forward.

"If I suggested that I should give you dinner, would you call the police?"

He had a mock solemn brand of banter that never offended even a chance acquaintance, and seldom failed to bring about whatever lay at the end of it.

"I don't think so. One can't walk between the Temple and Charing Cross six hundred times a year without gathering a few invitations to dinner," she smiled.

"And how many have you accepted?" he asked blandly.

She shook her head. He gathered that these extemporaneous hosts had drawn blank.

"I didn't think you would," he said, "and yet I am most respectably placed. I have a Member of Parliament as my neighbor on the left, and the Dean of Westchurch has the flat on my right— "

There was the slightest tinge of disappointment in her voice. "That would be impossible, wouldn't it— I mean... "

She did not say what she meant, but that hardly mattered. He was not amazed that she had even considered the dinner invitation, because women could not amaze him. He understood them too well. They were made of the very stuff of unexpectedness. But he was a very quick thinker: as a general he struck like lightning at the first weak spot exposed. This quality of his had been of enormous profit to him.

"I almost wish my dean was a bishop and the Member of Parliament a Cabinet Minister," he murmured regretfully, "and that I, instead of being the most humble of lawyers, were the Chief Justice on his bench!"

Here was the parting of her ways. She had either to talk of snow and tugs that went gleaming up and down Thames River, or else she must dovetail a comment to his last words.

"Are you a lawyer? Then I must know you. There isn't a barrister in the Inner Temple I haven't seen."

So he talked lawyers and his own insignificance until they began to slow their paces, the yellow glow of the Underground station being just ahead of them. Before the open booking-hall they lingered, yet nearer to the sidewalk's edge than to the station. She wore a sort of pinky-brown silk stocking, ludicrously inadequate in this weather. The neat ankles were mottled with mud.

"I would not dare ask you to dine and go to a show— you'd hate going as you are. But a grilled pheasant and a spineless sole and a plebeian rice pudding to follow— "

"Don't! You are making me feel like a shipwrecked sailor."

Still she hesitated and shook her head.

"It is awfully nice of you, and somehow I know that you are— right. But I couldn't possibly. Where do you live?"

He nodded towards the railway bridge. Beyond, you can just see the austere corner of Northumberland Court, all gray stone and sedate and statesmanlike windows.

"Where is that?"

"Northumberland Court— next to the National Liberal Club. Its austerity is depressing. My two maids are Churchwomen, and, fearing the worst, peek through keyholes to make sure they are not missing it. At least I suspect them. One goes to church on Sunday morning and one on Sunday night. They are very English and can reconcile their deep religious convictions with a moderate but regular consumption of Pale Ale!"

She was looking at him all the time he talked, a half smile on her face, a kind of reluctant amusement in her eyes. They were gray, turning blue on the slightest provocation.

"You talk like a novelist!" she said, and he was faintly annoyed. There was an inference of plagiarism. "There is no sense in half-adventures," she said. "Produce your roasted pheasants and your Church of England parlormaid!"

She walked more quickly now; seemed to him a little breathless. He hoped that he was not mistaken in this. He thought he could define exactly her point of view. She was crossing a Rubicon— but a shallow Rubicon. One could wade back at the first hint of danger— could even stop in the middle and cogitate upon the wisdom of the passage. So many women had created in their minds this practicable stream, learning later in some pain of soul the unfathomable depth of it, the swirl and fury of its inexorable current.

His flat was on the ground floor. One frosty-faced virgin opened the door to him, and vanished rapidly into the dining-room to set another place. Her counterpart hovered at the door of the little drawing-room, ready to act as guide or vestiare, or to perform whatever service woman can render to woman.

"Put your coat and hat in my room," said Lester. "Mary will show you—"

"Gosh— look at me!"

The girl's eyes were wide opened— she pointed a white finger towards the photograph that leant limply against a vase on the mantelshelf.

His first emotion was of anger at his stupidity in leaving the photograph lying about. It came that morning; he thought he had locked it away in the drawer. Possibly the dyspeptic Mary had propped it against the Chinese candlestick.

Followed a thrill of wonder. There certainly was a distinct likeness between Lady Alice Farranay and Miss Brown Coat. A likeness and yet not a likeness...  that of course accounted for the strange sense he had had of meeting a familiar face. He explained the dissimilarity.

"Don't be silly!" She had the lofty contempt of an elder sister. "I'm shingled and she isn't— that's the only difference. I don't know"— she was suddenly dubious— "the nose...  These studio photographers retouch so...  but I am like her."

She had pulled off her hat with a shake of her head, and now the likeness was not so apparent.

"She has a fringe...  I haven't. If I grew a fringe and allowed my hair to grow, and dressed it in that blobby way over the ears..."

Mary at the door was stepping from foot to foot impatiently— the girl became aware of her ingratiating smirk— a painful grimace which at once beckoned and inquired and went out.

Lester took up the photograph, examined it coldly, and laid it away in a drawer. After dinner it must go into the safe, with the photograph of Lady Alice that the butler took the day Johnny Basterby went to India, and the letters he wrote to her, vulgarizing in the crudity of words a something which had brought Alice Farranay into the splendid haze which is God.

A difficult proposition.

That is why Lester looked so coldly on the picture. The stuff of unexpectedness was here. A fighter, and yet she did not have the appearance of a fighter. Would she go down battling?— that was a question which very nearly concerned Lester Cheyne. Never before had he felt a qualm of misgiving or had the shade of a desire to back out, or recognized the depth and strength of his own private Rubicon. The letters? Could they be interpreted in any other than the obvious way? The butler's photograph...  a back view, though unmistakably her ladyship. But might not a second cousin be permitted the liberty of an encircling arm as they paced towards Gollards Covert? He was leaving for India the next day, remember. These problems Mr. Cheyne had taken to the Thames Embankment and had settled to his complete satisfaction, when the brown-coated girl had executed pirouettes in the snow.

She would not fight. That kind of woman never fought, especially when they had money to burn. Not intelligent women. Alice could draw a check for twenty-five thousand pounds as easily as for ten. And the Undisclosed Client would benefit as usual.

Lord John Farranay was immensely rich. If he lived to inherit his father's dukedom he would be even richer. There was some doubt as to whether he would live. His father was ninety, Lord John a little over fifty, nearly thirty years his wife's senior. But John Farranay had lived— not nicely, it is true, and he was an older man than his father, who had sown his wild oats in the hunting-field.

A tap at the door.

"Oh, there you are!"

He was relieved to see her. That word was revelation. Relieved. Never before in all his life had he welcomed diversion from the business at hand.

"You look awfully nice. What have you been doing to yourself?"

"Nothing. I tried to work down a fringe. What have you done with the picture? What a shame! You have put it away!"

"Pheasant!" he smiled. "And rice pudding!"

She admired the furnishing, the taste, the quiet luxury of everything. In the hall she stopped to look at the etchings, and before she sat down at the polished table must inspect the Corot over the sideboard.

"Soft...  and air and breeze in it, isn't there!"

The lace mats on the table were rather fascinating. She fingered their texture with a sure, understanding touch.

"I suppose you are married? There's a sort of woman atmosphere which can't be your Pale Ale— "

Entered Mary with plates and dishes on a dumb waiter, and comment continued along these lines would have been embarrassing.

She was immensely pretty; not skinny either, as so many of these poor- eating typists are. And rather beautiful hands. Her throat too— he was a connoisseur in the matter of throats. The line of them should incline a little forward and have as their capitol a peculiarly rounded chin.

"Wine you won't have, of course. Water is good for the young. I think I will take water too, Mary."

When the white-aproned servitor woman had gone:

"Do you know, this is very unreal? It is rather like one of those day- dreams that wanders on under its own power and brings you into such strange places. My name is Lois Martin. I suppose you are entitled to know that."

"Mine is Lester Cheyne...  I'm sorry, I should have told you that before."

She took up the glass of water and drank slowly; put it down, patted her lips with the serviette.

"Who is she?— is that a very impertinent question?"

"Who? You mean the photograph? She's— er— just an acquaintance...  a friend of a friend. I don't know much about her except that she is married to a very rich man who is rather jealous, rather mean, and desperately unwholesome. He is thirty years older than she."

"Why did she marry him?"

"He is very rich."

Lois Martin sighed.

"I suppose one ought to have a contempt for women who marry rich men. But money means an awful lot: it comes into everything. It keeps you out of crowds, and you can't get into crowds without having something rubbed off— polish or bloom. And it keeps other people— people you love— out of crowds and queues. The divine thing that money buys is— isolation."

Curiously he looked at her. She spoke with a strange earnestness.

"And whom do you love?" he asked.

She was thinking of something, for she started at the sound of his voice.

"Nobody— yet. I love dreams and the beautiful things that come in dreams."

Her left hand rested on the table. Sure of her agreement, he reached out and covered it with his, and she did not draw her hand away. So far and no farther he went. This almost resemblance to Lady Alice was rather amusing— added a piquancy to the situation. To make love to one woman and to blackmail her twin ...  it was amusing.

"I rather like you," he said. "Do people worry you who have immediate likings and dislikings?"

"No. An interest which has to be flogged or coaxed is a pale substitute for the real thing. People either magnetize you and you jump an awful long way towards them, or else they belong to the crowd."

He was encouraged.

"My view entirely. I like to jump right into the grand salon of friendships— I loathe giving my name at the door and being handed on through the antechambers, my virtue explained at every stage. By the time you've got to the middle of things there is nothing to be learnt about you and you're a bore exposed!"

When she said, as she did at eight o'clock, that she must go, he offered no objection.

"But I do hope that you will come to dinner one night— soon. I have an idea at the back of my head that we may be awfully useful to one another— I am shamelessly utilitarian, aren't I? But I feel that way towards girls— especially girls who are working for their living, and who aren't just looking for a good time and hang the consequence."

The paternal note seldom failed him, but for once there was a serious purpose behind his little speech. But how she might be employed, or whether he could employ her at all, were questions that tomorrow must answer.

She was hesitant again.

"I don't know...  I should like to come, awfully."

Her scrutiny of his face was searching: she seemed baffled at the end of it. Not that his face was inscrutable to the student of physiognomy. Superficially he was handsome in a dark, pinched way. There were pictures of notable Florentines in the National Gallery that were of his type without his glossy little moustache. He was thin-lipped, blue-chinned, deep-eyed. Giovanni Bellini painted a Doge of Venice who was not unlike Lester Cheyne, though he was darker than Loredano.

"I don't know— would you like me to come, really?"

Here was the conventional surrender.

He drove her home to Hampstead in a taxi and they held hands lightly most of the way.

She was quite different in most respects from the average pick-up, ladylike if not a lady. Though this quality was not essential, he had found. One pair of red, warm lips differed only from another in respect to the soul and the imagination back of the caress they offered.

Therefore he had every reason to be pleased with himself when he returned to Northumberland Court to the contemplation of Lady Alice Farranay, that beautiful but stiff-necked lady who might go down fighting but probably would not.

Mr. Cheyne's office was in the city of London, near Aldermanbury. It was like and yet unlike a lawyer's office. The appointments and furnishings reflected his own luxurious tastes. His staff was restricted to a girl who typed with two fingers and got through life with half a brain. She came in to him when he rang his bell, a dumpy young lady in an artificial silk jumper and a string of imitation amber beads.

"Mr. Mortlake has been waiting half an hour," she said in a hushed voice.

In two years of service she had learnt only this: she must not shout.

"Show him in, Clarissa."

His mood was gay and friendly. Her homely face was distorted in a smile of respectful reproof, for her name was Annie, but she was usually called Miss Synes.

A dapperish man, with a head too big for his thin body and an unhealthy white face, tiptoed into the room, holding a derby hat in his hand. He sat down in the chair which the girl had placed, and laid his hat on the floor.

"Anything?" He drooped his head on one side— a gesture of interrogation.

"Nothing, Mortlake."

Mr. Cheyne had already run through the letters: there was none bearing the Melton Mowbray postmark.

"Ah— she'll write. Her ladyship is very obstinate, but she won't...  you don't think she will?"

Mr. Cheyne shrugged his shoulders.

"You know her ladyship best," he said. "I am rather worried about the business— in fact, I am almost sorry that I agreed to act for you. The case is so very peculiar; in fact, it has almost the appearance of blackmail."

The peculiarity of Mr. Cheyne's operations was that there always came a moment in his relationship with his Undisclosed Clients when he expressed the wish that he was not acting for them and when their "cases" bore some verisimilitude to the crime of extorting money by threats. And yet invariably he went on to the bitter end, until, in fact, a check or a sealed packet of banknotes enabled him to write "finis" to the episode.

There was sometimes an unpleasant aftermath. His clients had been known to complain in bitterness of the inadequacy of their reward.

There was the valet of the Honorable Arthur Keverling, who found a bundle of letters from the young wife of the Minister of Justice; and Millie Winston, the lady's maid, who brought to Aldermanbury the stupidly indiscreet diary of her mistress'; and that wretched wastrel, the brother of Fay Lanseer, who thought that five thousand was a mighty poor share of the seventy thousand pounds which Lord Charholm had paid rather than hear his letters read in open court— Fay being his wife's best friend. But in the end they had been glad enough to avoid the alternative which Mr. Cheyne had offered— the return of money and documents under cover of a letter in which Mr. Cheyne would express his pain and indignation that he had been unwillingly and innocently the agent of blackmailers.

Mortlake was visibly alarmed.

"I don't see how you can say that, Mr. Cheyne. When I came to you first, you told me that I was to sue her for money lent and for damages...  my being kicked out at a minute's notice and all that."

Which was true.

Mr. Cheyne was a blackmailer, but no vulgar blackmailer. He might very properly threaten to sue for the return of mythical loans; that is part of a lawyer's business. He might take into his possession documents of a most compromising character, letters such as men and women have written to one another since the art of writing was invented, but he only did this to prove that the mere possession of such letters by his client was proof of his trustworthiness. For who would give letters of this kind to a servant for safe custody unless he or she was on such terms of friendship with the hireling that the loan, for the recovery of which action was taken, might very well have been solicited and granted? And if the victims of the Undisclosed Client retorted that the letters had been stolen, that was a very serious charge indeed, and Mr. Cheyne over his own signature suggested, nay demanded, that the pilfering servant should be prosecuted.

"You left Lady Alice's employment six weeks ago— were you with her long?"

"Eighteen months," said Mr. Mortlake. "His lordship engaged me soon after the marriage. I must say she's the best of the pair. His lordship is a swine in every way."

"Jealous?"

Mr. Mortlake smiled.

"Of his own shadow! He used to be, anyway, till he took up with Miss Wenbury. He'd give his head for a divorce and her ladyship knows it. He's poisonous... ."

He explained just why Lord John Farranay was poisonous, and Mr. Cheyne listened. He was not at all squeamish.

"The letters might get him the divorce— the photograph is worthless. We want something more. I wonder... "

His brows met in a disfiguring frown.

The Girl in the Brown Coat beautifully arrayed and with that fringe manipulated, might very well be Lady Alice But exactly how he might use this resemblance was not clear.

"All right— don't come tomorrow. Say Friday, or, better still, next Monday."

Miss Synes' answered the bell and stood imploringly at the open door until the visitor passed her.

Another letter, thought Mr. Cheyne. He dipped his pen in ink.

Dear Madam,

Yourself and an Undisclosed Client

We are surprised that we have not had a reply to our letter of the 13th inst. You will, we feel sure, appreciate our desire to spare you unnecessary trouble and expense, nor is it our wish to place on record the name of our client, since we feel sure that it would be painful to you to have thus emphasized a financial transaction which might not be regarded as consonant with your dignity.

Briefly we restate our claim: in October last you borrowed from our client the sum of fifty thousand pounds, giving him as security certain letters which passed between yourself and Captain John Basterby, now on the staff of H. E. the Viceroy of India. The statement in your brief note of the 3rd to the effect that the letters were stolen by our client, who had never possessed so large a sum as fifty thousand pounds, constitutes a very serious charge. We feel in the circumstances that we must challenge you to prosecute our client for his alleged theft. In so far as concerns his ability to command so large a sum, we have our client's assurance that he inherited a considerable fortune from an uncle in America. We have again to request the name of your lawyer, who will accept service on behalf of our client.

Very correct; very proper. He blotted the draft and summoned his typist to make a fair copy.

Two nights later came the Girl in the Brown Coat— punctually. Mr. Cheyne let her in.

"Do you mind a cold dinner? My maids have developed symptoms of influenza. Don't be alarmed!"

She smiled.

"I'm not a bit alarmed," she said.

He was afraid she would come in evening dress: bargain-basement evening dress might spoil her. Except that she wore a lighter frock and had a pair of new shoes obviously purchased for the occasion, she was the same exquisite lady of his recollection.

"I have been thinking a lot about you," he said.

"Like?"

"Well— these beastly mornings and nights, and the thought of you tramping through the slush with a herd of dirty people— and packed in stuffy cars. You don't belong to crowds. I've thought of what you said about crowds. How much do you earn a week?"

She named a sum as he relieved her of her coat. A ridiculously small sum it was.

"Absurd!"

He chucked the coat on the settee and led her to the fire, and when his arm went round her she did not so much as shiver. She even smiled up into his face.

"We are getting along," she said.

"Do you mind!"

She shook her head.

"No. I suppose I should if I were properly constituted. But it is rather easy to be made a fuss of, and one doesn't carry around the Girl Guides' Code of Conduct."

Stooping, he touched her lips with his, and then she pushed him gently away from her.

"Tell me something. Are you in the Temple?"

"No— City. I'm commercial. I've a bleak little office off Queen Victoria Street."

She made a little face.

"How uninteresting! I hoped at least you were a police lawyer. Crime is so awfully fascinating. We are Chancery lawyers; dull! I could scream sometimes. You do a lot of work here, don't your'

She pulled at the handle of the green wall-safe.

"How funny! That doesn't seem to go with the furniture, and you have wonderful taste."

"Come and eat," he replied, purring. He loved appreciation of his finer side.

There was wine on the table, but he offered her none until she pushed forward her glass.

"Bless your bright eyes!" He toasted her, and immediately afterwards: "I am going to make you rich," he said, and she laughed.

"That sounds like temptation," she said, and he admitted that it was. Women love directness. He knew all about women. Too great a subtlety silts up progress. Yet he was a delicate speaker and she listened without protest.

"I couldn't...  I don't think I could. There would be awful trouble at the club. One is supposed to be in by twelve. And...  no!

And yet it was an easy matter to send somebody for her belongings next day. She had a friend there who would pack them.

"Talk about something else. Where is the picture of the beautiful lady like me? Who is she— really?"

He poured her another glass of wine and then filled his own.

"She is the defendant in a case I am bringing on behalf of— an Undisclosed Client."

She wanted him to explain further, pleaded with him to bring the picture.

"A little alteration and you would be her double," he said, when he brought it back and laid it on the table before her.

She stared down at the photograph.

"Who was she?"

"She was the daughter of a disagreeable old soldier," he said carelessly. "But to the devil with her! Let us speak of really important things."

He was behind her as he spoke; both his arms went round her, meeting at the waist; the shingled head was against his cheek, the fragrance of hair and skin was a little heady, and he had his first heart-thump.

"Perhaps she has an Undisclosed Client too," she suggested, and he laughed softly.

"Even now you don't understand— and after all the trouble I took to explain! Only lawyers have clients— "

Her head turned— his lips sought hers.

"No...  I couldn't. I was stupid to come here. Drink your wine."

She struggled out of his grasp, but not frantically. Surrender was in every gentle movement of her.

He lifted the glass.

"Here's to us!" he said.

"To the Undisclosed Client!" she mocked, and they drank together.

"Queer how you and I met," he said, and dabbed his lips with a silk handkerchief. "Out of all the millions that walk these greasy streets— you are terribly like her."

"Like?"

"Lady Alice— except for the way you dress your hair, you might be her double."

The girl had been looking down at the tablecloth, fiddling with the stem of her wine-glass. Now she raised her eyes and there was a queer smile in them.

"I suppose I am— I should be, you know. I am Lady Alice Farranay!"

His mouth opened in surprise and then he laughed.

"You took my breath away: your little joke, eh!"

She shook her head.

"I am Lady Alice. You see, you are a difficult man to fight. I had heard about you— Fay Keverling told me. Of course you had the letters and things from Mortlake— my butler? I see I am right."

"You're— Lady— Alice?"

He was numb with amazement— he had never felt quite as he felt now, so dazed, so peculiarly stupefied.

"I thought it would be easy— but not so easy as it was. And when you asked me here to a little dinner, I knew that you would be alone. I had to do it. I have an Undisclosed Client too— one worth fighting for," she said, and he smiled crookedly.

"By gad— you've a nerve... now suppose you go, Lady... Lady Alice... "

His forehead was wet, he was surprised to find when he put up his hand to it.

"What d'you expec' to get... coming here?"

Why was his speech so thick, and his heart bumping so?

"The letters... they are in your safe. I had to guess that. And the key is on the chain in your pocket. I put some stuff in your wine when you were out of the room. Morphia and something else— there is a dear old doctor who would have given me poison if I had wanted it... . Of course I knew you would be alone... "

He did not hear the rest very distinctly. Clutching the edge of the table and bringing all his will power to bear, he attempted to walk to the door. And then his knees doubled under him and he found the floor very pleasant to lie upon and dream upon...

The girl watched him till he lay still, and then, leaning over him, she unfastened the golden key-chain he carried, examined the ring, and, choosing a key, walked to the safe. This she unlocked with a hand that did not tremble.

She took out the letters and read their beginnings... near the end of one a sentence arrested her eye.

"...I have a feeling something happened. You will tell me, beloved, won't you? And I'll stand by you... "

Lady Alice Farranay smiled faintly and dropped letters and photograph into the fire and watched them consumed to ashes. On the table was her photograph. It had been a shock to find herself confronted with that when she first entered the flat. But by drawing his attention to the resemblance she had stifled surprise before it had formed. This photograph went the way of its fellow; curled blackly in the flames, and was poked to fragments.

Relocking the safe, she fastened the keychain to the pocket of the unconscious man, picked up her overcoat, then she walked out into Northumberland Avenue and hailed a taxi.

MR. CHEYNE was in retirement at a little Italian town when he read the announcement in the Paris edition of an English paper. He knew, of course, that the old Duke and his impossible son had died in the same week, but this intelligence was both new and startling:

"Lady Alice Farranay gave birth yesterday to a son, and Billshire is rejoicing that the Dukedom is not, as was feared, extinct. Lady Alice is the daughter of the late General Sir Gregory Starmart, and comes of a famous fighting family."

"Humph!" said Mr. Cheyne— for very good reasons he called himself "Mr. Burton Smith," and he had shaved off his moustache. "Humph! Baby!... Undisclosed Client! I never thought of that!"

________________________

13: Via Madeira

THIS STORY concerns four people: Larry Vanne, who understood men and lived on his knowledge; Eli Soburn, who both understood and liked diamonds, and never traveled without a hundred thousand pounds' worth in a little leather wallet attached to his undergarments; Mary Perella, who understood most of the things that a ladies' school could teach, and, in addition, had that working knowledge which comes to a girl who has been left penniless and must shift for herself; and fourthly, Jeremiah Fallowby, who had a knowledge of the world geographically, and who was suspicious of all women who might love him for his wealth alone.

Of these four, only one had a definite objective. Larry Vanne, pacing up and down his hired flat in Jermyn Street, a long cigar between his strong white teeth, his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waist coat, confided to his slightly bored wife that the North Atlantic trade had dwindled to vanishing-point.

"I don't know what's coming over New York, Lou," he said despairingly. "We hadn't been tied up ten minutes to the river end of Twenty-third Street when along came McCarthy with a couple of bulls, and it was 'The Captain wants to see you, Larry.'— "

"They had nothing on you," said Mrs. Vanne; "not if I'm to judge from the presents you brought home!"

"Sure they had nothing on me!" said Larry. "But it shows the tendency of the age, Lou. Suspicion, suspicion, suspicion! And I did no more than to sit in a game with that Boston crowd to trim a half-witted cinema boy— my share was less than a thousand dollars. I haven't worked the North Atlantic for years, and things have gone from bad to worse, Lou. There wasn't a dame on board that didn't park her jewelry in the purser's safe."

Lou yawned.

"Any man who works one-handed is asking for trouble," was her dictum. "That's where you're all wrong, Larry. Now suppose you and me— "

"You and I," said Larry gently. "Let's keep the conversation out of the steerage."

It was true that Larry had never worked the North Atlantic. He had confined himself mainly to the Pacific trade, and had made bigger pickings between Shanghai and Vancouver, B.C., than any man in his line. He had worked scientifically, allowing certain routes to lie fallow for years, had watched and noted changes in personnel, so that he could tell you off-hand who was the captain of the Trianic and just whereabouts in the world you might find that red-nosed purser who nearly gaoled him in '19.

He made no or few mistakes; his patience was remorseless. On one occasion he took two journeys to Australia and back, and caught his man for £8000 worth of real money when the ship was in sight of port.

"I'm trying a new trade, anyway, and this time you'll work for your living," he said, but gave no further information.

It was his practice to be frank in general and reticent in particular, and he told his companion nothing of Mr. Soburn and his wallet of diamonds. He could have told quite a lot. He could have traced Mr. Soburn's family history from the day he started peddling buttons in New York; of his legitimate deals in furs, of his questionable transactions in the world of low and high finance. He carried these wonderful cut diamonds of his for the same reason as a girl carries a doll or a boy a clockwork motorcar. They were his toys and his comforts, and he had frequent satisfaction in displaying these behind locked doors to his cronies with all the hushed pride that a Japanese virtuoso would display a carved jade box of the Ming period.

Larry knew his movements, past, present, and prospective; but, mostly, he knew Mr. Soburn's chiefest weakness, which was for a pretty face.

Larry's wife was beautiful enough in her hard-cut way, but it was not the kind of beauty that would appeal to Mr. Soburn.

"What I want," he told her frankly, "is something that hasn't lost the bloom; the sort of big-eyed girl who would faint at the sight of a sparkler."

Mrs. Larry nodded her head slowly.

"That sounds so much like me that you might be painting my portrait," she said; "but I gather you want a different type."

That day she sent in an advertisement to two newspapers. On the third day came Mary Perella. Mary walked from Bayswater because she had reached the stage where pennies counted. She had had three jobs in six months. Her three employers suffered from a common misfortune, which they confessed at an early stage of her engagement— they were unhappily married. Unhappily married employers who absent-mindedly paw their secretaries' hands are not so infrequent a phenomenon as many people would imagine. Mary descended the secretariat scale from rich city merchants to a musical composer who lived in a world of writs, and she had broken her last pound sterling and was owing one week's rent when she set forth to Jermyn Street, never dreaming that the lady who required a secretary-companion to travel abroad, at a wildly exorbitant salary, would be likely to choose her from the thousands of applicants.

"She's made for the part," said Larry, who, unobserved, had made a very complete scrutiny of the new secretary. "Orphan and everything; no relations in London... " He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Fix her tomorrow. Get her passage booked and our own at the same time.

"We'll travel on the Frimley passports."

He was very practical now.

"She'll want some money for clothing— give her twenty-five on account. You told her that she was my secretary and not yours!"

Mrs. Larry nodded.

"She bore the blow very well," she said. "I suppose you 're sure that Soburn is traveling on that ship?"

"Sure I'm sure!" he said scornfully. "He's got the royal suite, two bathrooms— God knows why— and two of his best pals are traveling. Besides, the next packet is booked up. And, Lou, you can tell that kid to report on board. I don't want to see her till we get to Southampton. Somehow I don't make a good impression on girls."

Mary Perella came the next morning and nearly dropped when the gracious lady confirmed her in the engagement.

"I'm quite sure you will do, my dear," said Mrs. Larry Vanne sweetly, "and you will find my husband a very generous employer. He is writing a book on rare jewels, but nobody must know this, because... "

The excuse, flimsy as it was, convinced Mary.

"What about Dennis?" asked Mrs. Larry suddenly, when she saw her husband after the interview.

Though he was a man who did not usually display his emotion, Larry Vanne was surprised into a grimace. Detective-Inspector Dennis, of Scotland Yard, was an atom in the molecule of uneasiness which never quite ceased to perturb him. And Dennis had met him on his arrival in England, and in his suave, nice way had said "Don't," He hadn't been quite as terse as that, and had added a sermon, the text of which was "Watch out," that had left Mr. Vanne distinctly uncomfortable.

Detective-Inspector Dennis does not really come into the story at all, so it would be superfluous to describe that very wise man, who read the minds of jewel thieves and confidence-men with such devastating accuracy.

At ten o 'clock on the Thursday morning Mrs. Larry Vanne booked stateroom No. 15, the last available accommodation on the London Castle. A quarter of an hour later, Mr. Jeremiah Fallowby also rang up the Castle office, and was answered by a junior who was deputising for the booking-clerk, who had just gone out to lunch.

People often said that Jeremiah Fallowby was good-looking. They qualified the statement in various ways: some said that he would be really handsome if he had a little more expression; some thought that his features were irregular, but he had nice eyes; others were inclined to the belief that it was his mouth which spoiled him. On one point they were all agreed: he could be very dull. He seldom went anywhere— you never met him, for example, dining at the Ambassadors' on the night of the Grand Prix. He certainly went to Deauville— but ways in the off-season. The month he spent in Venice was the very month that the Lido was a wilderness. He was in town when everybody else was out of town, and Ascot usually coincided with the period that he chose for his stay at Aix.

At the height of the London season he was pretty sure to be somewhere in the country and when the north-bound trains were overloaded with guns bound for the moors, Jeremiah would be writing excuses from Madeira.

"Jerry, you're absolutely impossible!" rasped his aunt. "You never meet a gel worth knowing, and you'll end up by marrying a waitress in a tea-shop!"

"Which tea-shop?" asked Jerry, momentarily interested.

"You're coming to us for Christmas," said his aunt. "I am not going to allow you to wander alone. If you go away, I'll come with you— I warn you."

"Thank you," said Jeremiah gratefully.

"You would like me to come!" asked the astonished lady.

"No," said Jeremiah truthfully. "I'm thanking you for the warning."

None of his many relatives were really very rude to his face, because he was worth a quarter of a million sterling. But the uncles and aunts and cousins who planned to marry him off, and who arranged the most cunningly devised house- parties, only to receive a letter which began:

"...most terribly sorry, but I shall be in Venice on the 10th..."

had no scruples in speaking of him in the plainest possible manner.

"It is his damned romanticism," fumed Uncle Brebbury, who had five eligible daughters. "He's got a fairy prince complex...  thinks he'll find a (naughty word) Cinderella. Tea-shop gel! He'll be bringing home a— a―!"

"Bertie!" murmured his shocked wife. "Please... The gels!"

But "the gels" were in complete sympathy.

Jeremiah wrote a little, read much, thought even more. He was modest enough to believe that he was entirely without attraction, sophisticated to the extent of suspecting that most mothers were prepared to sacrifice their daughters on the altar of his fortune.

One gloomy morning Jeremiah, having sworn to be a member of Mrs. Leslie Fallowby's Christmas house-party, was contemplating the dismal prospect. The glory of autumn is at best the wan beauty of decay; and since healthy men do not love caducity in any expression, Jeremiah had met the early frosts and the mists which lie in the tawny hollows of Burnham Beeches with an uneasy yearning for the moorland when spring was coming in, with arum lilies growing on the seashore and gladiolas budding on verdant slopes. He would rise from his writing-table and pace restlessly the worn carpet of his study. And inevitably he would be drawn to the drawer where, with the supreme indifference which summer brought to him, he had thrown the early sailing lists.

For hours this morning he had sat turning them over. He could go to the east coast, stop off at Naples or Port Said...  He could spend a week in Nairobi...  he knew a man who was trying to grow cotton somewhere in Kenya— or was it tobacco?

It would be rather fun to end the sea journey at Beira— push off up country to Salisbury, and work down through Bulawayo and Kimberley to the Cape.

There was a delightful boarding-house at Rondebosch, kept by an ex-civil servant, with great hedges of blue plumbago. Behind, like the backcloth of a theatrical scene, the ranges of Constantia.

Jeremiah Fallowby made a little face and, walking to the casement window, stared out over the darkening lawn. Rain was falling steadily. Every tree dripped dismally. Near at hand was a bed of bedraggled chrysanthemums— white they had been, and their soiled petals littered the ground.

He looked at his watch mechanically. Really, he intended looking at the date block. One o'clock. 27th October...  November in four days— fogs and drizzle and colds in the head.

He sat at his table again and reached for the telephone, gave a London number, and waited indecisively till the bell rang.

"Is that the Castle Line? Good...  have you anything on the London Castle— deck cabin if possible?"

He waited, the receiver at his ear, his pen drawing uncouthly arabesques on his blotting-pad.

A voice at the other end of the wire awakened him to realities.

"Good...  my name is Fallowby...  yes, Jeremiah Fallowby. I'll arrange to collect the ticket right away."

He rang off, and immediately connected with a London agent in Threadneedle Street, and gave him instructions. The tickets arrived by the first post in the morning, and Jeremiah went joyously to the task of packing.

If he had only been content to stay at Burnham Beeches he might have been saved a great deal of inconvenience. Within two hours of the receipt of his letter he had left his house with instructions that neither letters nor telegrams should be sent on to him, and had deposited himself in his club in St. James's Street, so that he did not receive the frantic wire addressed to him by the Steamship Company, nor yet interview a penitent junior clerk who had booked a stateroom that was already engaged. In complete ignorance, he motored to Southampton, had a breakdown on the way, and arrived only just in time to hurl his baggage on board.

The cabin was a large-sized one. He was annoyed to discover that there were two beds, and directed the steward to remove one.

"Traveling alone, sir," said the steward phlegmatically. (Nothing surprises stewards.) And then, "There was some trouble about your ticket. Another gent was booked."

He glanced at the initials on the suitcase, took the counterfoil of the steamship ticket, made a few inquiries about Jeremiah's taste in the direction of early-morning coffee and baths, and vanished.

To the purser, as he handed in the counterfoil:

"Seventeen's aboard. The other fellow hasn't come."

"That's all right," said the assistant purser, and spiked the paper.

The ship had cleared Southampton waters and was nosing its way to the Channel when Jerry, writing letters at the little desk in the cabin (the usual and untruthful excuses to Mrs. Leslie Fallowby), became aware that somebody was standing in the open doorway.

He looked up and saw a girl.

"Um...  er...  do you want anything!" he asked.

Mary Perella came into the stateroom a little boisterously. She had that excited pinkness which adventure gives to young skins— the day was unexpectedly mild; there was a blue, cloud-flecked sky above, and the white cloisters of the Needles on the port quarter.

Ahead a summery land, and the immense possibilities of new lands.

Jeremiah glared up at her from his writing-table.

"Oh, Mr.—?"

He got to his feet slowly.

"Fallowby," he said, and she looked relieved.

"I've been worrying terribly about the name," she said. "You know when Mrs. Fallowby told me I didn't really catch it, but I hadn't the courage to ask."

Jeremiah frowned.

Mrs. Fallowby? Which of his innumerable aunts was this? Mrs. Hector Fallowby, or Mrs. Richard— or was it that terrible little Mrs. Merstham- Fallowby with the impossible daughters?...  He uttered an exclamation, but swallowed its violent end.

"Not Mrs. Le—" he said.

Even in his agitation he thought she was extraordinarily pretty: she, at any rate, was no Fallowby. Gray eyes, rather big; there was the faintest film of powder on her face, but young girls did that sort of thing nowadays.

She nodded smilingly. He was, she thought, being a little facetious. Husbands and wives spoke about one another in such queer ways.

"It will be rather fun spending Christmas Day on board ship," she went on. "We are going to South Africa, aren't we?"

"Unless the captain changes his mind," said Jeremiah, and they both laughed.

Then he became conscious of his remissness.

"Won't you sit down?"

She sat on a sofa under the square window that looks on to the promenade deck.

"I suppose you have a letter from Mrs. Fallowby?"

It wasn't like any of the Fallowbys to give letters of introduction to pretty girl outsiders.

He saw a look of consternation come to the girl's eyes.

"Isn't she here!" she gasped.

Jeremiah blinked at her.

"Who— Mrs. Fallowby? I hope not!"

Mary Perella went pale.

"But...  I suppose it is all right...  but...  she said she was coming."

Jeremiah frowned. If there was one experience in the world he didn't want, and which he intended to avoid, it was a tete-a-tete with a female Fallowby. Mrs. Leslie had evidently kept her promise.

"I suppose she's here, then," he said unhappily.

There was an awkward pause. Into Mary's mind crept a doubt.

"She engaged me as traveling secretary, and she said I was to see you as soon as I got on board. Fortunately, I remembered the number of your cabin."

"Really!"

He could think of no comment more illuminating.

"So you're going to South Africa? Do you know the country?"

She had never been abroad. Her father had served in Africa: he was so interested a listener that she found herself telling him about the tragedy of two years before.

"I stayed with an aunt for six months, but it was rather— well, impossible."

"I never knew an aunt that wasn't," he sympathized. "You seem to have had a pretty unhappy time, Miss Perella— that is an Italian name, isn't it?"

She thought it had been Maltese two hundred years before, and he seemed to remember a General Sir Gregory Perella who had done tremendous things in the Abyssinian War— or was it the Mutiny?

Suddenly:

"What do you want me to do! I have a portable typewriter—"

"Nothing," he said hastily. "The best thing you can do is to go along and find Mrs. Fallowby— no, I don't think I should do that. If I remember rightly, she is a terribly bad sailor, and won't be on deck for a week. Just loaf around. If there is anything I can do for you, let me know...  got a nice cabin! Fine! If you see Mrs. Fallowby, tell her I'm...  er...  awfully busy. In fact, I thought of writing—"

She nodded wisely.

"A book— I know."

She left him a little dazed.

He saw her that night at dinner, sitting at a little table by herself, and they exchanged smiles as he passed. There was no sign of Mrs. Leslie Fallowby, but the ship had a slight roll on, and that would explain her absence. After dinner he saw the girl leaning over the rail, and went up to her.

"I haven't seen your— " she began.

"You wouldn't," he interrupted her. "Poor dear, she thinks this is rough weather."

He commandeered a chair for her, and they sat down and talked till nearly ten o'clock.

"You're going to let me help you with your book!" she said, as they stood at the head of the companion-way before she went below for the night.

"My book?" He started guiltily. "Oh, of course! Did I say I was writing a book? Naturally, I will be happy for you to help me, but I haven't got very far."

He found himself awaiting her arrival on deck the next morning with some impatience. They were in the dreaded Bay, but the sea was as smooth as a pond, and, save for the chill in the air, the weather was delightful. Pacing round and round the deck, they discovered mutual interests— she also would one day write a book, which was to be a tremendous affair about life and people. He did not even smile. Jeremiah was rather diffident: possibly he credited her with as extensive an acquaintance with the subject as he himself possessed.

"I can't find Mrs. Fallowby's cabin anywhere," she said. "My conscience has been pricking me. Couldn't I do something for her?"

"She's quite all right," said Jeremiah hastily.

It was time enough to brace himself for an interview with Mrs. Fallowby when she made her appearance. The letter of excuse he had written was already torn up. How like that enterprising lady to discover that he was sailing!

And yet he was puzzled a little. Why should Mrs. Fallowby have taken this voyage without her unprepossessing daughters? He resolved at the earliest convenient moment to discover from Mary Perella a solution to this private mystery.

"We shall be in Funchal Harbor on Christmas Eve, by which time it ought to be fairly warm," he told her in the course of the afternoon walk. "It will be rather jolly doing one's Christmas shopping."

"Mrs. Fallowby will be well enough to come ashore by then?" she suggested.

Jeremiah prayed not, but refrained from giving expression to the hope.

The next night they leaned over the rail together and watched the faint star of light which stood for Cape Finisterre sink down behind the horizon; and he told her what a bore life was, and how he hated crowds and people who were terribly resolved to be gay to order. And she reviewed some of her landladies, and told him of a restaurant where one could get a wonderful lunch for 3d., or 6d.; and once he squeezed her arm to attract her attention to a passing sailing ship, its white sails looking ghostly in the faint light of the crescent moon, and she did not seem to resent that method. Yet, curiously enough, when he took her arm again to lead her to the companion-way, she very gently disengaged herself.

"I hope Mrs. Fallowby will be better in the morning," she said, "and I do hope you will do some work— I feel a great impostor: I haven't done a stroke since I've come on to this ship!"

He went to bed and dreamed of gray eyes and very soft arms that gave under his grip.

The night before the ship came into Funchal Bay, and whilst he was dressing for dinner, the purser came to see him, and the tone of that officer was rather short, and his manner strangely hostile.

"In what name did you book this cabin, Mr. Fallowby?"

"In my own name," said Jeremiah in surprise.

The purser looked at him with suspicion.

"The name I have on the list is Frimley— the same initials, J. F., 'John Frimley.' Are you sure that isn't the name in which the cabin is booked?"

"You've seen my ticket— and really, does it matter?" asked Jeremiah, a little impatiently.

"It does and it doesn't," said the purser. "Who is this young lady you're with, Mr. Fallowby?"

"I am with no young lady," said Jeremiah, with pardonable asperity. "If you mean Miss Perella, she is my aunt's secretary. Nobody knows better than you that my aunt is somewhere on this ship. I suggest that you should interview Mrs. Leslie Fallowby, who I have no doubt will give you the fullest information."

"There is no person named Mrs. Leslie Fallowby on the ship," said the purser, and Jeremiah stared at him. "The young lady," went on the officer, " states that she is your secretary, and that she is traveling in that capacity."

"My secretary!" said Jeremiah incredulously.

"She says she is your secretary, engaged by your wife."

Jeremiah sat down with a thump.

"Say that again," he said.

The obliging purser repeated his tremendous tidings.

"Now I don't want any trouble with you, Mr. Fallowby," he said, not unkindly, "or with your wife. I'm going to show you a copy of the wireless we have received from London, and you'll understand that the game is up."

"Which game?" asked Jeremiah faintly.

The purser took a sheet of paper from his pocket, evidently a typewritten copy of a radio that had been received that day. It ran:

"To Captain, London Castle. Believe passenger named John Frimley and his wife are traveling under assumed name on your ship. They booked Suite No. 17, but they may be traveling separately to avoid detection. Frimley escaped our officers sent to arrest him at Waterloo, and has not been traced. He is a tall, good-looking man, clean-shaven, may wear horn-rimmed spectacles— "

(At this point Jeremiah quickly removed the reading-glasses he had been wearing when the purser came into the stateroom.)

"His wife is pretty, looks younger than she is. If any persons answering this description or occupying Suite 17, hand them to Portuguese Police, Funchal, to await extradition."

Jeremiah read the document twice.

"Your wife is already under guard in her cabin," said the purser, "and there'll be a master-of-arms on duty outside your stateroom to see that you do not attempt to leave until the Portuguese authorities arrive."

Jeremiah gaped at him.

"My wife is what?"

The purser waved a majestic hand and left the cabin before Mr. Jeremiah Fallowby began the exercise of the colorful vocabulary which he had acquired in his travels.

It was in the bare and whitewashed office of a Portuguese police office that he saw again Miss Mary Perella. He expected her to be carried in, a pallid and wilting wreck, whose nights had been made sleepless by the thought of her tragic sorrow; but it was a very healthy and indignant girl who came across the uncovered floor towards him.

"What is the meaning of this, Mr. Frimley!" she asked. Reproach was rather in her eyes than in her voice. "It isn't true that you are a jewel thief?"

"My name is Fallowby," protested Jeremiah.

"You told me your wife was on board, and she isn't."

He guessed that this was his real offense.

"I never said my wife was anywhere," said Jeremiah loudly. "I was talking about my aunt, Mrs, Leslie Fallowby. You told me you were her secretary."

"I did nothing of the kind," she stormed. "I told you I was your secretary— that your wife had engaged me."

"But I've never had a wife!" he wailed.

"Attention!" The fat man behind the desk boomed the word. "I know English too well! Now you spik my questions when I ask them!"

"Fire ahead," said Jeremiah recklessly.

He slept that Christmas Eve in a stone cell which was very dark and very unpleasant in other respects. He had no acquaintance with the Portuguese language, but he spoke Spanish rather fluently, and he learned that the girl had been taken to a convent. The British Vice-Consul had been requisitioned, but that worthy was not in Funchal. So Jeremiah despatched long and vehement cables to London...  and might have saved himself the trouble.

In the early hours of the morning came a wire to the Chief of Police, announcing the arrest of "Mr. and Mrs. Frimley," whose other name was Vanne, and an apologetic police dignitary of the first class came personally, and in uniform, to offer apologies.

It was from him that Jerry learned of Mr. Vanne's little plot (revealed to the London police by his wife); of the engagement of a secretary who was to charm from a susceptible millionaire a view of his diamonds and such information about their safeguarding as she could secure.

Apparently, Miss Mary Perella had been similarly informed: he met her half-way up the steep slope which led to the convent, and she came running down with her hands outstretched.

"Welcome, and a merry Christmas, fellow-convict!" she said, with a gaiety that was immensely infectious.

He took her arm as they walked down the cobbled hill lane together, and came to a bench that overlooked the bay.

She was beautifully sympathetic— apparently saw nothing in her own experience but a thrilling adventure.

"I knew, of course, that something must be wrong. I couldn't imagine you were a burglar, or whatever this Mr. Frimley was." She sighed. "I've lost a very good job," she said ruefully.

"Let me find you another," said Jeremiah eagerly. "I really am going to write a book— I have threatened to do it for years, and you can come along and correct my spelling."

She half shook her head. Yet apparently she accepted the position, for they went on to the Cape by the next mail steamer, and the English chaplain who had married them on the morning they sailed came down to see them off.

________________

14. The Compleat Criminal

MR. FELIX O'Hara Golbeater knew something of criminal investigation, for he had been a solicitor for eighteen years and had been engaged in work which brought him into touch with the criminal classes, and his ingenuity and shrewd powers of observation had often enabled him to succeed in securing a conviction where ordinary police methods had failed.

A spare man, on the right side of forty, he was distinguished by a closely cropped beard and shaggy eyebrows, and in the cultivation of these he had displayed extraordinary care and patience.

It is not customary, even in legal circles, where so many curious practices obtain, to bother overmuch with one's eyebrows, but O'Hara Golbeater was a far-seeing man, and he anticipated a day when interested people would be looking for those eyebrows of his, when their portraiture would occupy space on the notice boards of police stations— for Mr. Felix O'Hara Golbeater had no illusions and was well aware of a most vital fact, which was that you cannot fool all men all the time. Therefore he was eternally on the qui vive for that mysterious man who would certainly appear on the scene some day and who would see through Golbeater the lawyer, Golbeater the trustee, Golbeater the patron of field sports, and last and greatest of distinctions, Golbeater the intrepid aviator, whose flights had caused something of a sensation in the little Buckingham village where he had his "country seat." And he had no desire to be "seen through."

He was sitting in his office one night in April. His clerks had long since gone home, and the caretaker, whose duty it was to clean up, had also left.

It was not Felix O'Hara Golbeater's practice to remain at the office until 11 p.m., but the circumstances were exceptional and justified the unusual course.

Behind him were a number of japanned steel boxes. They were arranged on shelves and occupied one half of the wall space from floor to ceiling. On each box was painted in neat white figures the name of the man, woman, or corporation for whose documents the receptacle was reserved. There was the "Anglo-Chinese Pottery Syndicate" (in liquidation), "The Erly Estate," "The Late Sir George Gallinger," to name only a few.

Golbeater was mainly interested in the box inscribed "Estate of the Late Louisa Harringay," and this stood wide open on his polished desk, its contents sorted into orderly heaps.

From time to time he made notes in a small but stout book by his side, notes for his confidential guidance apparently, for the book possessed a hinged lock.

In the midst of his inspection there came a sharp knock at the door of his sanctum.

He looked up, listening, his cigar stiffly held between his even white teeth.

The knock came again, and he rose, crossed the carpeted floor softly, and bent his head, as though by this process he could intensify his auricular powers.

Again the visitor rapped on the panels of the door, this time impatiently. He followed up his summons by trying the door.

"Who's there?" asked Golbeater softly.

"Fearn," came the reply.

"Just one moment."

Golbeater stepped back to the desk swiftly and bundled all the documents into the open box. This he replaced in the rack, then returning to the door, he unlocked it.

A young man stood in the doorway. His long Raglan was splashed with rain. In his plain, kindly face embarrassment as at an unpleasant mission struggled for mastery with the expression of annoyance peculiar to the Englishman kept waiting on the door-mat.

"Come in," said Golbeater, and opened the door wide.

The young man stepped into the room and slipped off his coat.

"Rather wet," he apologized gruffly.

The other nodded.

He closed the door carefully and locked it.

"Sit down," he said, and dragged forward a chair. His steady black eyes did not leave the other's face. He was all alert and tense, obeying the atavistic instinct of defense. The very angle of his cigar spoke caution and defiance.

Frank Fearn seated himself.

"I saw your light— I thought I'd drop in," he said awkwardly.

There was a pause.

"Been aeroplaning lately?"

Golbeater removed his Havana and examined it attentively.

"Yes," he said, and spoke confidentially to the cigar.

"Queer that a fellow like you should take it up," said the other, with a glint of reluctant admiration in his eyes. "I suppose studying criminals and being in touch with them...  helps your nerves...  and things."

Fearn was marking time. You could almost hear the tramp of his intellectual boots.

He began again.

"Do you really believe, Golbeater, that a chap could— could escape from justice if he really tried?"

A wild thought which was half a hope flashed through the lawyer's mind. Had this young fool been adventuring outside the law? Had he overstepped the mark too? Young men do mad things.

And if he had, that would be salvation for Felix 0'Hara Golbeater, for Fearn was engaged to the young heiress who had inherited Miss Harringay's fortune— and Fearn was the man of all men that the solicitor feared. He feared him because he was a fool, a stubborn fool, and an inquisitive fool.

"I really believe that," he answered; "my contention, based on experience, is that in a certain type of crime the offender need never be detected, and in other varieties, even though he, is detected, he can, given a day's start, avoid arrest."

He settled down in his chair to pursue hts favorite theory— one which had been the subject of discussion the last time he and Fearn had met at the club.

"Take myself for instance," he said. "Suppose I were a criminal — one of the swell mob— what could be easier than for me to mount my machine, sail gaily away to France, descending where I knew fresh supplies awaited me, and continuing my journey to some unlikely spot. I know of a dozen places in Spain where the aeroplane could be hidden."

The young man was eyeing him with a glum and dubious expression.

"I admit," Golbeater went on, with an easy wave of his cigared hand, "that I am exceptionally placed; but really in any case it would only have been a matter of prearrangement: elaborate and painstaking preparation which any criminal could take. It is open to him to follow the same course. But what do we find? A man systematically robs his employer, and all the time he is deluding himself with the belief that a miracle will happen, which will allow him to make good his defalcations. Instead of recognizing the inevitable, he dreams of luck; instead of methodically planning his departure, he employs all his organizing power in hiding today the offense of yesterday."

He waited for the confession he had encouraged. He was aware that Fearn dabbled on the Stock Exchange; that he was in the habit of frequenting racecourses.

"H'm," said Fearn. His lean brown face twisted into a momentary grimace.

"It's a pretty good thing," he said, "that you aren't on the lawless side, isn't it? I suppose you aren't?"

Now Felix O'Hara Golbeater was a man very shrewd in the subtleties of human nature and very wise in the reading of portents. He knew the truth which is spoken with a smile, and may be taken either as an exhibition of humor or a deadly accusation, and in the question put to him with quizzical good humor he recognized his finish.

The young man was watching him eagerly, his mind filled with vague apprehensions, so vague and so indefinite that he had spent four hours walking up and down the street in which Golbeater's offices were before he had screwed himself up to the interview.

The lawyer laughed. "It would be rather awkward for you if I were," he said, "since I have at this moment some sixty thousand pounds of your fiancée's money in my possession."

"I thought it was at the bank," said the other quickly. The other shrugged his shoulders. "So it is," he said, "but none the less it is in my possession. The magic words, 'Felix O'Hara Golbeater,' inscribed in the south-east corner of a check would place the money in my hands."

"Oh!" said Fearn.

He made no attempt to disguise his relief.

He got up from his chair, a somewhat gauche young man, as all transparently honest young men are, and spoke the thought which was uppermost in his mind. "I don't care two cents about Hilda's money," he said abruptly. "I've enough to live on, but— for her sake, of course— one has to be careful."

"Oh, you're being careful all right," said Golbeater, the corners of his mouth twitching, though the beard hid the fact from his visitor; "you had better put a detective on the bank to see that I don't draw the money and bolt."

"I have," blurted the young man in some confusion; "at least— well, people say things, d'ye know— there was a lot of talk about that Meredith legacy case— really, Golbeater, you didn't come well out of that."

"I paid the money," said Golbeater cheerfully, "if that's what you mean."

He walked to the door and opened it. "I hope you wont get wet," he said politely.

Fearn could only mutter an incoherent commonplace and go stumbling and groping down the dark stairs into the street. Golbeater stepped into an adjoining room, closing the door behind him. There was no light here, and from the window he could observe the other's movements. He half expected Fearn to be joined by a companion, but the hesitation he showed when he reached the street indicated that he had no engagement and expected to meet nobody.

Golbeater returned to the inner office. He wasted no time in speculation. He knew that the game was up. From an inner drawer in his safe he took a memorandum, and glanced down it.

Twelve months before, an eccentric Frenchman, who had occupied a little country house in Wiltshire, had died, and the property had come into the market; not, curiously enough, into the English market, because its late owner had been the last of a line of French exiles who had made their home in England since the days of the Revolution. The heirs, having no desire to continue residence in a land which had no associations for them, had placed the sale of the property in the hands of a firm of French notaries.

Golbeater, a perfect French scholar and an earnest student of the Parisian papers, came to know of the impending sale. He had purchased it through a succession of agents. It had been refurnished from Paris. The two servants who controlled the tiny ménage had been hired and were paid from Paris, and neither of these staid servitors, who received remittances and letters bearing the Parisian postmark, associated M. Alphonse Didet, the employer they had never seen, with the London solicitor.

Nor did the good people of Letherhampton, the village adjoining the property, trouble their heads overmuch about the change of proprietorship. One "Frenchie" was very much like another; they had grown up accustomed to the eccentricities of the) exiled aristocrats, and regarded them with the same indifference which they applied to the other objects of the landscape, and with that contempt which the bucolic mind reserves for the ignorant fellows who do not speak its language.

Also there was in the neighborhood of Whitstable a little bungalow, simply furnished, whither Golbeater was in the habit of making week-end excursions. Most important and most valuable of its contents was a motor cycle; and in the cloakroom of a London terminus were two trunks, old and battered, covered with the labels of foreign places and the picturesque advertisements of foreign hotels. Felix O'Hara Golbeater was very thorough in his methods. But then he had the advantage of others' experiences; he had seen the haphazard criminal, and had profited by the lesson to be found in the untimely end which rewards carelessness in flight.

He walked to the fireplace, struck a match, and burnt the memorandum to ashes. There was nothing else to burn, for his was the practice of clearing up as he went along. From the safe he took a thick package, opened it, and revealed a tightly compressed wad of banknotes, English and French. They represented the greater part of sixty thousand pounds, which, if every man and woman had their own, should have been at the bankers of Miss Hilda Harringay.

The whole of the sixty thousand was not there, because there were other deficiencies which had claimed more urgent and pressing settlement.

He pulled on a raincoat swiftly, put out the light, artistically left a half-finished letter in the open drawer of his desk, and went out. The advantage of being a bachelor occurred to him as the theatre train pulled out of Charing Cross Station. He had nothing to trouble his conscience: he was the ideal defaulter.

From Sevenoaks Station he made his way on foot along the two-mile road which led to the hangar. He spent the night in the shed reading by the light of a portable electric light. Long before dawn he had changed into his mechanic's kit, leaving his everyday working clothes neatly folded in a locker.

It was a perfect day for a flight, and at five in the morning, with the assistance of two laborers on their way to work, he started the aeroplane and rose easily over the sleeping town. It was his good fortune that there was no wind, more fortunate still that there was a mist on the sea. He had headed for Whitstable, and when he heard the waters washing beneath him in the darkness, he came down and found the shore; he recognized a coast-guard station and went on for a mile, keeping touch with the beach.

THE NEWSPAPERS which published an account of the aeroplane tragedy described how the machine was found floating upside down two miles from shore: they described the search by coastguards and police for the body of the unfortunate Felix O'Hara Golbeater, who in an endeavor to reach his bungalow had evidently got lost in the mist and was drowned. They observed in guarded language that he was making for the French coast and with good reason.

But none of them described how Felix O'Hara Golbeater had set his planes at a sky-climbing angle when only a few feet from the water— and from the water's edge by the same token and had dropped into the sea with close on sixty thousand pounds in the waterproof pocket of his overalls.

Nor how, with surprising swiftness, he had reached the isolated little bungalow on the shore, had stripped his wet things on the verandah, had entered, changed, and reappeared to make his sodden mechanic's kit into a portable bundle: nor how he had placed this in a specially weighted bag and dropped it down a well at the back of the house. Nor how, with incredible rapidity, he had removed his beard and his eyebrows with such tidiness of operation that not so much as a single hair was ever found by the police.

None of these things were described, for the simple reason that they were not known, and there was no reporter sufficiently imaginative to picture them. In the early hours of the morning, a clean-shaven, young-looking motor cyclist, goggled and clad in a shapeless mackintosh kit, went spinning back to London, stopping only in such towns and at such hostelries as motor cyclists most frequent. He reached London after nightfall. His motor cycle he left at a garage, together with his wet waterproofs. He had considered a more elaborate scheme for disposing of them, but he did not regard it as necessary, nor was it.

Felix O'Hara Golbeater had ceased to be: he was as dead as though indeed he lay swaying to and fro on the floor of the ocean.

M. Alphonse Didet, from the porter of the Baggage Department, demanded in French good, and in broken English not quite so good, the restoration of his two trunks.

As for Letherhampton, the expected Frenchman had arrived or returned (they were rather vague as to whether or not he had already stayed at the château), and it served as a "fill" to conversations, heavily charged with agricultural problems and the iniquities of Welsh statesmanship.

In the meantime, London, with breathless interest, discussed the story of Felix O'Hara. Scotland Yard conducted a swift examination of Mr. Golbeater's Bloomsbury offices, and of Mr. Golbeater's Kensington flat, and of Mr. Golbeater's banking account, but though they found many things which interested them they did not discover any money.

A white-faced girl, accompanied by a lean and homely young man, interviewed the detective in charge of the case.

"Our theory," said the policeman impressively, "is that in endeavoring to effect an escape to the French coast he met with a fatal accident. I think he is dead."

"I don't," said the young man.

The detective thought he was a fool, but considered it inexpedient to say so.

"I'm sure he's alive," said Fearn vigorously. "I tell you he's too diabolically clever. If he wanted to leave England, why should he not have gone by last night's mail-boat There was nothing to prevent him."

"I thought you employed private detectives to watch the boats?"

The young man blushed

"Yes," he confessed; "I had forgotten that."

"We'll circularize all the stations," the detective went on, "but I must confess that I do not expect to find him."

To the credit of the police it must be said that they went to work in no half-hearted fashion. The bungalow at Whitstable was searched from end to end without result; there was no trace of him; even the mirror at which Golbeater had shaved was thick with dust; this had been one of the first articles of furniture the detective had examined.

The ground about had been searched as systematically, but it had been a wet day when the fugitive had departed, and moreover he had carried his motor cycle at some discomfort to himself until he had reached the road.

His flat gave no indication of his whereabouts. The half-finished letter rather supported the theory which the police had formed that he had had no intention of making his hurried exit.

Fortunately the case was sufficiently interesting to the French journals to enable Felix O'Hara Golbeater to acquire a working knowledge of what was going on. Punctually every morning there arrived at his château  Le Petit Parisien and  Le Matin. He did not patronize English papers: he was much too clever for that. In the enterprising columns of the  Matin he discovered something about himself: all that he wanted to know, and that all, most satisfactory.

He settled down to the comfortable life of his country house. He had planned the future with an eye to detail. He gave himself six months in this beautiful little prison of his; at the end of that time, he would, by an assiduous correspondence tactfully and scientifically directed, establish his identity as M. Alphonse Didet beyond any fear of identification. At the end of six months he would go away, to France perhaps, by excursion, or more elaborately, by sailing yacht.

For the moment he gave himself over to the cultivation of his roses, to the study of astronomy, to which the late owner's tiny observatory invited him, to the indictment of a voluminous correspondence with several learned societies situated in France.

Now there was at Letherhampton in those days a police superintendent who was something of a student; there were unkindly people who expressed the opinion that his studies did not embrace one necessary to him in his profession— the study of criminology.

Superintendent Grayson was a self-made man and a self-educated man. He was the sort of individual who patronizes Home Correspondence Schools, and, by a modest outlay and an enormous capacity for absorbing in a parrot- like fashion certain facts obscure to the average individual, he had become in turn an advertising expert, a civil engineer of passable merit, a journalist, and a French and Spanish scholar. His French was of the variety which is best understood in England, preferably by the professors of the Home Correspondence Schools, but of this fact the superintendent lived in blissful ignorance, and he yearned for an opportunity of experimenting upon a real Frenchman.

Before the arrival of M. Alphonse Didet he had called many times at the château and had spoken in their native language with the two servants who were established there. Being poor ignorant menials, they did not, of course, understand the classic language he spoke, and he dismissed his uncomprehending victims as being provincial, though as a matter of fact they were Parisian born and bred.

With M. Alphonse on the scene, Superintendent Grayson searched round for an excuse to call, in the same helpless fashion that the amateur picture-hanger looks round for the hammer at the critical moment. The ordinary sources of inspiration were absent. M. Didet, being a French subject could not be summoned to a jury, he paid his rates duly, he had never run any person down in his motor car, and, indeed, did not possess one.

The inspector was in despair of ever finding an opportunity when an unfortunate member of the constabulary was badly injured in the execution of his duty, and the county started a subscription for the man, with the permission of the Chief Constable. Inspector Grayson was entrusted with the collection of local offerings.

Thus it was he came to the Château Blanche.

M. Alphonse Didet watched the burly figure arriving, booted and spurred, frogged across the chest, and beribboned, as a superintendent with some army experience should be, and tapped his teeth with his pen speculatively. He opened a drawer of his desk and took out his revolver. It was loaded. He threw open the chamber and extracted the cartridges, throwing them, an untidy handful, into the wastepaper basket. Because if this meant arrest, he was not quite sure what he would do, but he was absolutely certain that he would not be hanged.

Paul, the elderly butler, announced the visitor. "Let him come in," said M. Alphonse, and posed easily in the big arm-chair, a scientific work on his knee, his big spectacles perched artistically askew on his nose. He looked up under raised eyebrows as the officer entered, rose, and with true French courtesy offered him a seat.

Clearing his throat, the superintendent began in French. He wished Monsieur good-morning; he was desolated to disturb the professor learned at his studies, but hélas! an accident terrible had befallen a gendarme brave of the force municipal. (It was the nearest the good man could get to county constabulary, and it served.)

The other listened and understood, breathing steadily through his nose, long, long sighs of relief, and feeling an extraordinary shakiness of knee, a sensation he had never thought to experience.

He too was desolated. What could he do?

The superintendent took from his pocket a folded sheet of manuscript. He explained in his French the purport of the appeal which headed it, giving the ancestry and the social position of the great names which offered their patronage. Huge sprawling names they were, monstrously indistinct save in the money column where prudence and self-preservation had advised that the figures of the donations should be unmistakable.

What a relief! Alphonse Didet squared his shoulders and filled his lungs with the air of freedom and respectability.

Very gaily within, though outwardly sedate and still the French professor with spectacles askew, he stepped to his desk. What should he give?

"How much are a hundred francs?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Four pounds," said the inspector proudly.

So M. Alphonse Didet signed his name, put four pounds carefully in the column allotted for the purpose, took a hundred franc note from his drawer, and handed it with the subscription list to the inspector.

There was some polite bowing and complimentary sentiments murmured on both sides; the superintendent took his departure, and M. Alphonse Didet watched him down the path with every sense of satisfaction and pleasure.

That night when he was sleeping the sleep of the just, two men from Scotland Yard entered his room and arrested him in bed. Yes, they arrested this most clever of criminals because on the subscription list he had signed "Felix O'Hara Golbeater" in a hand which was bold and exuberant.

________________

15. Red Beard

ONE OF his most jealously guarded secrets should have perished when the safety-catch of John Mildred's Browning pistol caught in a loose strand of thread as he was pulling his gun. How that thread came to be there may be explained in technical language by Mildred's housekeeper, who kept his clothes in repair.

The thread was stout, but broke at the second jerk, and the mischief was done. At the first tug a loop had formed about the catch and had pulled it to safety, and when John threw his gun at Red Beard nothing happened. He saw the mischief and thumbed down the catch, but by this time the visitor had fired three times, shattering the aorta arch and the pulmonary artery.

John, his hands widespread on the table, stared at his murderer, and in his last moment of life God gave him vision.

"I'm glad...  didn't shoot," coughed John Mildred thickly, and smiled.

Then he sat down carefully in his writing-chair and as carefully died. I found him reclining over the table, his head on his arms, and 'phoned Central Office.

Evidence produced: One Browning pistol unfired, with loop of thread jammed between safety-catch and chamber; one broken thread in hip pocket; one weeping, hysterical housekeeper who admitted Red Beard at 10:15 p.m., and had heard the shots and "Mr. Mildred's last words, poor gentleman," and had subsequently been pushed aside by Red Beard. Evidence of unexploded cartridges in Mildred's faithless pistol, and three shells from the murderer's gun— and Mildred. He was killed by three shots from a Holt automatic 45 calibre.

Brinkhorn, Deputy Chief of the Department, came along with me to conduct the examination, and he kept the real police at bay in the hall below until we had finished; this by virtue of our special warrants and the fact that Brinkhorn is all sorts of a great white chief, a deputy sheriff, a puller of strings, and what not.

"Rum how old Mildred hated people with whiskers," I said, remembering John's eccentricity. "I'll bet it was the humiliation of being shot out by Red Beard that hurt him most."

"You can't choose your murderer in these times," said Brinkhorn, always the philosopher; "help me lay him on the sofa, I want to search his pockets."

But I suggested leaving him until the real police came— they are frantically jealous folk, and Brinkhorn agreed.

John had a little smile on his white face when we, having admitted the impatient coppers, put him down. It was as though he had lived long enough to see a capital joke in circumstances which arranged his dissolution.

The police made notes and would have collected his papers and probably would have sealed up the room also, but Brinkhorn stopped them, 'phoned the Chief Commissioner, and secured endorsement of the divine right of Military Intelligence to interfere. Then we bundled the cops out of the room, lit our pipes, took off our coats, and got busy. It was a warm room, being centrally heated. We opened the drawers systematically, taking the locked drawers first.

John was one of those card-index maniacs, who flourish even in departments like ours. If you wanted to discover his trouble you turned up "T" so to speak. As a matter of fact, we knew most of his secrets, but not the cause of his feud with the red-bearded man. We hoped to find it here. He had told us, of course, little bits about Red Whiskers, but had so punctuated his recital with those deep, choking chuckles of his, that we never really knew how much there was in it.

"The point is," said Brinkhorn, sitting down suddenly in the chair from which we had just removed the dead man (you cease to be sentimental after your tenth violent death), "the point is, was old man Mildred pulling our legs when he told us that he was being threatened?"

I shook my head.

"I have seen the letters," said I; "they followed him about all over the shop. They used to be waiting for him at the club. Even when he went on secret missions, which nobody but you and I knew about, he would find them waiting for him at his hotel, addressed to him in his assumed name. They were always signed 'Red Beard,' and always telling him that his time was near at hand."

I shall always remember Brinkhorn as he sat, his chin resting on his hand, his elbow on the table, his eager, handsome face momentarily clouded.

"He never showed them to me," he said, half to himself; "that is curious, because I was one of his best pals. I am not saying," he said, hastily apologetic, "that you didn't know him better in many ways than I, and it is only natural that you should, because you were working together, and most of the coups he pulled off during the war were as much to your credit as to his."

"In some cases more to his than mine, in some cases more to mine than his," said I. "He deserves the whole credit for catching von Klotz, the woman, Minnie Lauer, and the Pfeifer gang, whilst I think that pretty well all the credit for catching Schmidt, da Silver, and Martinique go to me."

That may sound immodest, but four years of strain and danger and sleepless anxiety have destroyed most of my affectations, even the pose of modesty.

Brinkhorn nodded.

"I think we had better go through the record of the men he pinched," he said; "this is obviously a vendetta, and one of the relatives of the gentleman who 'marched with a firm step to the gallows' as the newspapers say, is behind this affair. Afterwards we will talk to the housekeeper lady if she has quite recovered. By the way," he said suddenly, "what happened to that card that was on the floor when we came in!"

There certainly had been a card, one of those large index cards on which Mildred was wont to enter data, and it had assuredly been lying-midway between the door and the desk when we came into the room. It was not there now.

"I picked it up," I said, "and put it on the desk."

Brinkhorn turned over the papers, but there was no card. "Whereupon he cursed all interfering policemen, and 'phoned the nearest station, but without success. The two active and intelligent officers of the law who had made a superficial search of the desk, had taken nothing away with them. I looked at Brinkhorn and Brinkhorn looked at me.

"It is strange," he said, and we dropped the subject temporarily.

There was no difficulty at all in unearthing the record of the men whom Mildred had hunted to death. We found the index number under "E"— "Espionage, convictions for," and we took their dossiers out of the deep twin cabinet beneath the bookcase. There they were, the whole crowd of them, and it pleased me to see how he had marked my cases, or rather those in which I played a more prominent part than he, with a big "T" for Templey, which is my name.

We carried them to the desk under the light, and went through them carefully. Willie von Klotz, Hans and Johanna Pfeifer, the van Lauer woman, Bissing, Prensa, Schumacher— they were all there.

"Who was Goertz?" asked Brinkhorn suddenly. "I don't seem to remember that case."

"You were in France at the time," I said, "but it was an ordinary typical case of espionage. Mildred shadowed him for a week before he arrested him at Plymouth. He was shot in the Tower."

Brinkhorn read through the closely written precis in silence, his head in his hands.

"Listen to this," he said.

"'Von Goertz is an officer of the Prussian Hussars. He speaks English and French fluently. In appearance he is a fine-looking fellow, tall and well made. He has a good forehead, blue eyes, and'— " Brinkhorn paused and looked up.— "'A striking red beard!'"

"H'm," said I, "this is not our Red Beard at any rate, for Goertz was shot and Mildred saw the execution."

"You are sure of this?"

"Absolutely," said I. "I can give you the name of the Provost Marshal who superintended the business."

"There is no chance of course, of his having got away or having escaped death?" mused Brinkhorn.

I smiled.

"Men who are shot at twelve paces with soft-nosed bullets do not, as a rule, escape death," said I dryly.

Brinkhorn looked across to the sofa where Mildred lay.

"Then it wasn't Goertz," he said; "let us have the lady up."

Mrs. Cummins, the housekeeper, had reached the feeble and helpless condition of hysteria, when even the sight of Mildred's body would not unduly distress her, but to make absolutely sure, Brinkhorn and I pushed the sofa into the dressing- room and shut the door.

We got her seated, and I put her through a mild cross-examination.

At 9:30, Mr. Mildred being out (so her story went), there came a ring at the front door, and, thinking it was her employer, she opened it to discover a man on the doorstep. It was snowing heavily, a particularly wild night, and there was only a dim electric light in the doorway and that covered by an art- shade, so that she had the vaguest impression as to the visitor's appearance.

"Was he tall?" I asked.

"Middle size, if anything. He wore a long fur-lined overcoat and a soft hat, and he had gloves— big furry gloves on his hands."

She was emphatic as to the red beard which flowed over the front of his coat and glistened with melting snow. Equally sure she was that that part of his face as was visible was "as white as death."

He asked if Mr. Mildred was in, and when she said No, he said he would wait. She hesitated, but he was urgent, speaking in a gruff voice which somehow did not seem to her to be natural.

Mr. Mildred had so many strange visitors, she said in extenuation (and this we understood perfectly well), that she did not like to deny him, and led the way up to Mildred's room, switching on the table-lamp and bringing forward an arm- chair where he might sit. Happily her perturbation of mind was set at rest a few moments later, when she heard Mildred's key in the lock of the front door, and went to meet him with the information that a gentleman had called.

"And he expected him, sir," said the trembling housekeeper. "When I told him a gentleman was waiting, he said, smiling quite pleasant, 'Has he got a red beard?'"

"And you said 'Yes,'" said Brinkhorn, nodding. "Did he say anything more to you?"

"Nothing more, sir. I heard him go into his room, and then I thought I would go upstairs to find if he wanted anything— he usually had a cup of tea. I was outside the door when I heard voices, then three shots"— her lips trembled. "I heard Mr. Mildred say, 'I am glad I didn't shoot you,' and for a bit I thought it was all right. I was very frightened, sir. I was going downstairs when the door was flung open and the red-bearded gentleman dashed down past me. Then I telephoned to Mr. Templey at his club— Mr. Mildred told me I was always to telephone to Mr. Templey in case of emergency, and that is all I know, sir."

"You heard nothing beside the shots and Mr. Mildred saving, 'I am glad I didn't shoot you'?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Has the red-bearded gentleman been here before?"

"No, sir."

"Have you ever been warned not to admit the red-bearded man?"

"No, sir."

Again she was hesitant.

"Mr. Mildred did say," she said, "that he was expecting a funny visitor one of these days, and he asked me how tall I was."

"That's a rum question to ask you," smiled Brinkhorn.

"I thought it was, sir, but you know Mr. Mildred would have his little joke."

Brinkhorn lifted his head.

"There's the bell, Mrs. Cummins. I think you will find it is the police ambulance. I shall leave one of my men here tonight. Nothing must be dusted or tidied or in any way touched in this room until I give you permission."

We accompanied Mildred's body and saw him put away in the hospital mortuary, then I accepted Brinkhorn's invitation to go home with him to supper.

"If your wife doesn't object to a visit at this hour," I said.

"I have just telephoned to her," said Brinkhorn, "and she will be glad to see you."

(One of the advantages of marrying a widow, thought I, as the taxi drove slowly across Westminster Bridge in a perfect blizzard, is that she is accustomed to the eccentricities of mankind and nothing surprises her, even the apparition of her husband arriving home with a guest at midnight.) Great minds think alike, and Brinkhorn must have had a telepathic wave.

"God has given me a very intelligent wife," he said, with a happy little laugh. "I would like to bet if we gave her all the facts of the case she would find a solution to the mystery of Red Beard. How she hates the Huns, poor girl!"

The story of Mrs. Brinkhorn was known to me. She had been the wife of a Canadian officer, and was on her way to England, accompanied by her baby boy, to join her husband. Her voyage coincided with the big gas attack in the Ypres salient, and her husband was killed on the very day that U.97 had torpedoed a liner in which she was traveling. She and a few passengers who were landed on the Irish coast were the only survivors. Undoubtedly she hated the Hun.

"The case is a pretty simple one," Brinkhorn went back to our dead friend. "Mildred is, or was, a clever servant of the Department of Justice, lent by Washington to our Counter-Espionage Bureau. In the course of the four years he brings to justice a large number of German agents, amongst them von Goertz, whose brother determines to be revenged upon the slayer of his relative. Being a Hun, and totally ignorant of the Anglo-Saxon temperament, he thinks he will terrorize Mildred by writing threatening letters, the terrorization consisting not so much in the letters and their contents, but lying in the fact that this unknown avenger is able to demonstrate his knowledge of Mildred's movements.

"He awaits a favorable opportunity, gains admission to Mildred's room, probably ransacks his bureau— by the way we must find out what happened to that card— and shoots our pal."

"How do you account for Mildred's curious speech?" I asked.

"About being glad he didn't shoot him? Yes, that's rather quaint! Have you any theory?"

I made no reply.

"Of course it may be this," Brinkhorn went on, "that Mildred preferred that his murderer should endure the suspense of a trial."

"That wasn't Mildred's way," said I. "There wasn't a kinder-hearted man in the world than John."

"Then what do you think?"

"I'll tell you one of these days," said I, as the cab drew up before the house in Bryanston Square where Brinkhorn lived.

Mrs. Brinkhorn was a truly remarkable woman. She showed neither annoyance nor impatience with her husband for bringing a guest to the house at that hour, and had a nice little supper waiting for us. I had met her once before, but had never been so struck by her ethereal beauty. She wore a negligee costume of deep blue chiffon velvet. It was a sort of costume which to my ignorant eyes might have either been a dressing-gown or a dress, but I can only recall an impression of stateliness which was particularly pleasing.

"The telephone awoke Frank," she said with a smile; "he wants to come down to say goodnight."

"Have him down," smiled Brinkhorn.

When the sleepy little fellow came toddling into the room, it was clear to me that Brinkhorn loved the child as much as if it was his own. He pushed him toward me for my admiration. He was a plump, sturdy little chap, and Brinkhorn laughed as I pulled up the leg of his pyjama.

"A sturdy boy," said I, patting his calves.

Mrs. Brinkhorn smiled faintly and put out her hand to the boy.

"Come along, Frank dear; you must go back to bed," she said.

She rejoined us a few minutes later, and by this time we were deep in the discussion of Mildred's end.

She listened without interruption until Brinkhorn turned to her.

"I was saying, my dear," said he, "that if we could leave this case in your hands, we would be pretty certain to find Mildred's murderer."

"You have a very great opinion of my genius," she said.

"And very rightly," said Brinkhorn warmly. "Now I am going to tell you, Templey, what I have never told anyone else. I have had a great deal of success in this war, and half of it is due to my wife. She has been my ghost and has done a lot of the work I have got credit for. Yes, you have, dear," he said, when she laughingly protested; "I rely upon your judgment absolutely."

"Mr. Templey is shocked," she smiled; "he thinks you have been betraying terrible Government secrets to me."

"It takes a great deal to shock me, Mrs. Brinkhorn," said I, "and I must confess that I am tremendously interested in what your husband says. Although he is not aware of the fact, I have taken up Mildred's murder, and intend applying myself single-handed to tracking down Mr. Red Beard, and I believe you can be of the greatest assistance to me."

They both stared at me.

"You think I am impertinent," said I, "and it certainly does sound as though I was taking advantage of your confidence and hospitality, but there are points in this case which your husband has overlooked, and which I feel sure I could, with your assistance, elucidate. Mysteries which could be cleared up— "

"Including the mystery of the disappearing index card?" interrupted Brinkhorn.

"Even that," said I.

"I should be glad to help you, said the girl— I judged her to be about twenty-seven. "When would you like to call me into consultation?" she asked, with quiet laughter in her eyes.

"There's a challenge for you," mocked Brinkhorn.

"If it were not so late, I should say— now!" said I.

Brinkhorn roared with laughter.

"I will go up and hold the boy's hand until he goes to sleep," he said. "How long is this consultation going to last?"

"Ten minutes," I suggested.

Brinkhorn exchanged amused glances with his wife.

"In ten minutes, when I come back, you shall have the whole mystery cleared up. Mildred's assailant shall be in the hands of justice."

"I won't promise that," said I, "but I promise that I shall know who committed the murder."

He paused at the door.

"Don't forget the missing card," he said.

"That is the first mystery which shall be unraveled," said I, and the door clicked behind him.

For a second or so we looked at one another, and then the laughter died out of her eyes.

"Now, Mr. Templey?" she asked quietly.

"Are you left-handed, Mrs. Brinkhorn?" I asked.

"No. Why?" She colored slightly.

"I will tell you in a moment," said I, and putting my hand in my inside jacket pocket I took out a card and laid it on the table. "We will settle the question of the missing card straight away," I said. "I picked it up from the floor and put it in my pocket. Will you read it?"

She took it in her hand and her eyebrows rose.

"Why, this is all about me," she said.

"I think you know," I said, "that Mr. Mildred had a passion for collecting data about his cases. Let me read this to you:

"'Mary Mabel Tensthall. Born New Jersey 1891. Married George O. Fenton, citizen U.S.A. Detroit 1912. One son. Lived Canada. Husband killed Ypres salient, April 1915 (1st Canadians). Mary Mabel and her child on way to meet her husband, April 1915 in S.S. Calgary. Mined or torpedoed off the Fastnets with all hands and passengers except few survivors brought to Queenstown. Note, they were third class.'— "

Underneath was written:

"'M.M.T. booked from St. Paul (local sipping office) First-class saloon tickets.'— "

"I and my boy were two of the survivors," she said.

"Read underneath, Mrs. Brinkhorn; you will see these words: 'M.M.T. booked from St. Paul (local shipping office) First-class saloon tickets.'— "

"But that proves what I say. I traveled first class."

"No first-class passengers were saved," said I.

"That is a mistake," she replied quietly. "Mr. Mildred got things all wrong."

"Now I will read you a little memorandum that I took myself this evening about a man named von Goertz, who was shot in the Tower of London in the early part of 1915.

"'Von Goertz is supposed to have been working with his wife and child.'—"

"Well?" asked Mrs. Brinkhorn.

"Here is another little item I jotted down from Mildred's description. It was from the body marks of von Goertz:

"'Mole right shoulder. Large orange-colored birth-mark on inside of left calf."

"Well?" said Mrs. Brinkhorn again.

"Your boy has that mark too, Mrs. Brinkhorn," I said.

There was a long silence then:

"And now," I asked, "will you please show me your right hand."

She made no movement.

"You served me tonight with your left. That is why I asked you if you were left-handed. You passed the bread with your left hand. You poured out the wine for me with your left hand. "Will you please let me see your right?"

"What an absurd request!" she said, but she did not show me.

"When a Browning pistol is fired," said I, "there is an escape of gas from the chamber, which leaves a black patch on the hand between the finger and thumb. Will you show me your right hand?"

There was a silence.

"No, I will not," she said.

"Then I will tell you the rest of the story," said I. "You were in Ireland when your husband was killed. You were at Queenstown when the survivors came in. To my knowledge, they were searching for the wife of von Goertz, and it was pretty well known that Mrs. Von Goertz—"

"The Baroness von Goertz," she corrected.

"I beg your pardon," said I— "was in Ireland. You had sworn to yourself to avenge the death of your husband, and the torpedoing of the Calgary gave you your opportunity. Posing as the wife of Captain Fenton, you made your way to London, sought out Brinkhorn, who fell in love with you. You married him that you might get deeper into the secrets of his Bureau. It was because he trusted you and confided in you that you know all the movements of Mildred, which were often known only to myself and your husband. It was you, and you alone, who shot him, and he recognized you just before his death and said he was glad he had not shot you."

She was as white as a sheet and sat bolt upright, her hands folded in her lap.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

It was the only question I could not answer. I had laid my watch on the table when Brinkhorn went out, and six minutes had already passed.

"You may think that I am trying to escape you," she said, "and that I am lying to save my life." There was a thrilling sincerity in her voice, and I did not doubt her. "I loved my husband. I adored him. To me he was a god. We German women have a capacity for adoration which you will never understand. You will understand less, and believe me less, when I tell you that I love Frank Brinkhorn. Will you give me until twelve o'clock tomorrow to decide?"

I nodded.

Brinkhorn came in a few minutes later.

"Well," he said jovially, "have you made your great discovery?"

I laughed.

"Mrs. Brinkhorn has been very helpful," I said, rising to go.

"Aren't you going to tell me?" he said, in mock disgust.

"Tomorrow," said I.

He looked at me sharply.

"What an officious devil you are, Templey!" said he; "and I didn't realize that you knew I had resigned from the Department."

"Resigned from the Department?" It was my turn to be surprised. "When did this happen?"

"Today," said he. "But for Mildred's death, Grace and I would be leaving for South America on Saturday. I have a ranch in the Argentine, and I want to get the bugs and cobwebs of war out of my brain."

I looked at Mrs. Brinkhorn, and there was an appeal in her eyes which I have never seen before, and I hope I shall never see again.

"Then," said I, with a gaiety which I did not feel, "I will extend your time, madam, until Saturday midnight."

I DO NOT know whether she ever told Brinkhorn. I had a wire from him last week, saying that he didn't intend returning to England, and asking me to settle his bills, and the last word in the wire was "Thanks."

I found I had to settle Mrs. Brinkhorn's bills as well, and there was one from Clarkson for spirit gum and red crepe hair. I paid it without batting a lid. After all, Mildred, standing on the border-line of eternity, was glad he had not killed her, and Mildred was a pal of mine, and his implied wishes were sacred. Still, I thought it was funny that I should have to pay for the Red Beard!

_________________

16.  Bulfox Asleep

PEOPLE say that Bulfox was a fool. Only, like many another man, he stopped being a fool when he married.

The marriage was all wrong, I grant you. It was wrong from the point of view of intellectual disparity, it was wrong because Lady Eva Thonsen was very beautiful and he was very plain, it was wrong because he was a rich American who married a poor English peeress— I use the word "peeress" wrongly, because, of course, Lady Eva Thonsen wasn't really a peeress, but a younger daughter of an impecunious Irish earl.

Especially wrong was this inversion of a conventional situation. We could not sneer at Eva Thonsen as we should have sneered at her elder brother had he contracted an alliance with an American heiress, and the humorous papers had an aggrieved and proper sense of disappointment.

Bulfox had had a father with large and tenacious hands: his motto was an adaptation of the singularly English maxim, "What we have, we'll hold." He Americanized it to the extent of adding, "What I haven't, I'll have."

Bulfox was a fool anyway, you remark. Say it again and I'll heave the ink-bottle at you.

You don't know that he was not a fool because you've only a garbled version of the affair.

He was an only son. Old man Bulfox rode him for a tender-mouth. Gave him all the breakfast foods that were advertised— Flaked Oats for phosphates, Skinned Barley for gray matter, Malt for brawn, and Dr. Olebuck's Boy Booster— I forget the real name of the muck— for stamina.

You see, the boy's mother had died of  T B, , and the old man was in a blue funk lest the boy developed any symptom of the same disease. In those days tuberculosis was supposed to be as much hereditary as bad temper. He had the kid nursed on a farm in what he called Gard's own country, in Gard's fresh and beautiful air, surrounded by such of Gard's natural phenomena as would be calculated to bring the squalling son of a Pittsburgh iron-master to maturity.

His approval of Providence was a beautiful and a touching thing.

So young Bulfox had a pleasant path to manhood, and passed via a succession of nursery governesses and tutors to a condition where he could read the plays of Molière and play a reasonable game of golf.

Now, the last of these tutors was in every way the most vital and potent influence that had ever come into Percy Bulfox's life. I don't know where the old man picked him up. Unkind folks say that he salvaged him from the wrong end of the hunger-line. His name was Clarence. I am not putting this on to you as a fairy tale, though it sounds like it; for he was a Clarence by name, by nature, and by appearance.

A weed of a young man with a bulgy head and a weak chin and a feather-stitch of a moustache.

Bulfox, who never did a kind action in his life that didn't eventually pay dividends, discovered in Clarence a man of erudition and tone. Clarence knew Lord H— and Countess O— ; he had spoken to the King of England or the King of England had spoken to him. It is immaterial. Possibly he was standing in the way of the King's 90 Mercedes and the King— who, I understand, was a seafaring man at that time — had twenty-twoed him. It is, as I say, immaterial, and is certainly not a point to go to war about.

Clarence was acquainted with Botany, Astronomy, Art, Science, Chemistry, Eugenics, Psychology, Literature, and Etiquette. He had a curious little cockney twang and sounded the 'h'" in "honor." I believe that the secondary schools and polytechnics of England turn out thousands of Clarences per annum, but the majority of them steer clear of the hunger- line, because the majority keep away from Chicago.

I have no word to say against Clarence. He was the most wholesome influence in young Bulfox's life. If he imparted to his pupils the habit of making "a" sound like "i," he taught him something which is not included in the curriculum of the average college— a rigid chivalry, an austere appreciation of duty, and a sense of honor which most gentlemen are born with, which some have kicked into them by the born-rights, and others picked up from observing the kicks and profiting thereby.

Clarence, with his romances and his "h's" everlastingly playing tag, instituted the bushido spirit into Percy; made him a dear little Samurai — if you can imagine a Samurai who says "I siy, ole feller"— and prepared him, unconsciously, for the great moment of his life.

When Percy was twenty-two, Papa Bulfox took him to Europe, and Clarence, who had preceded them by a year with a dressing-case full of good money— old Bulfox was a spendthrift on all matters nearly affecting his son— met them in London and, true to a long-standing promise, introduced the old man to Countess O— , who proved to be Countess Oharahn, the wife of the Irish peer before mentioned, and the mother of Lady Eva Thonsen.

I do not hazard a guess how Clarence had come to be acquainted with these high-tone folk. Some people say that the Oharahns were poor enough to know anybody except their servants, but the most likely explanation is that these good souls had been interested in the Democratic Educational Movement, of which Clarence was the rare and refreshing fruit.

Anyway, the Bulfox's were installed in the visiting list of Countess Oharahn, and that is how the youngster came to meet Lady Eva.

A straight, slender girl, with all the fire and tenderness of her Irish ancestry in her face, all the grace and beauty of line which her English grandmother had grafted to the mould. She was, I think, the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.

You may accuse me of being wise after the event, but I swear that I saw at that first meeting a hint of tragedy in her eyes, a strained, hunted look that came furtively at odd moments and vanished with her quick smile.

Bulfox took me to one of the Countess's shabby little "At Home's," and that is how I came to meet my lady. Percy at this time was a curious thing. He was neither good American nor passable English. He was shy, diffident, awkward; ready to blush for the slightest reason, gauche to a painful degree, yet withal altogether charming.

He was good-looking too, in a fresh, healthy, boyish way, and he fell head over heels in love with the girl.

It was most hopelessly foolish, he said (he used nice gentle words that impressed by their very mildness), he was in despair (these were his own words), and yet he was happy in his secret heart. I doubt whether he ever thought of marriage: he desired no tangible, no concrete expression of so divine a thing. You can't understand that? I never thought you would.

But Percy understood: he had a soul, and at first he had no more idea of possessing the girl than a poet has of having a sunset stuffed for his sideboard, or putting the aurora borealis in a gilt frame, or, say, cleaning his teeth with the Moonlight Sonata.

He worshipped her, and it came as a shock to him to learn that practical, hard-nutted old Bulfox had opened pourparlers with Countess Oharahn for the hand of her daughter.

My own view is that the idea came from the Countess via Clarence.

The girl was submissive: Percy dumbfounded. He found himself driving away from St. George's, Hanover Square, with a white angel by his side, before he realized that the angel was the Lady Eva Bulfox.

It was a strange marriage, the strangest ever witnessed. Percy just settled down to worship her, to compose sonnets to her hair, her eyes, and her grace. She never suspected this. For her part, she set herself to do her duty to a kindly, diffident American with a cockney accent. It was a difficult task she undertook, because the boy did not want duty of any active kind: he just wanted her to Be.

And all the time there lay deep down in her heart a realization of the wrong she had done this husband, a nagging, aching hunger for truth...  There had been an "affair" years before when she was little more than a child. The man

"... was gallant and gay,

Had loved and laughed and ridden away."

He had wrenched her young heart for his pleasure, had taken greedily with both hands less than she could give, more than she had thought to give.

Every day that she thought of him— and she thought of him every day— she hated him a little more.

As at first her respect, then the mother-love which inclines all women toward the simple, the good, and the helpless, grew for her husband, so her hatred for the man who had laid his black hand on her life intensified and concentrated within her.

Percy had taken a big house near Tonbridge, and it was here that the first year of his married life was spent. The girl was content to forgo the London season: happy, save for the gnawing of that little devil in her heart, in the society of her husband. She came near to loving him in the dark days when he mourned his father, whom he had idealized in his romantic way, until old Bill Bulfox, hard of head, hand, and heart, had become a shining figure of kindliness and chivalry.

Eva Bulfox had no such illusions, for she was a woman with a woman's uncanny trick of detaching actualities from their wrappings. But Percy's pure grief was a revelation to her. She went into mourning for the old man, and the boy adored her for her graciousness.

The death occurred three months after their marriage, and Percy paid a flying trip to America to settle up the estate.

It was during that period that Captain Gregory Cassilly reappeared upon the horizon.

I only saw him once, but I retain a very vivid impression of the man, possibly because he was a vivid man— vivid in coloring and in certain qualities which need not be enumerated.

He was announced one spring afternoon.

Eva took the card from the salver and read.

She held it for quite a long time in her hand, as though she did not really understand the three words of title and the two words of club which were inscribed upon it.

"Ask Captain Cassilly to come up," she said.

She stood by the fireplace as he entered, a much finer thing than the angular girl he had left. Black became her, intensifying the pallor of her cheeks, making her a little pathetic and wholly adorable.

So, I presume, six feet of muscle and breadth thought as it stood hesitating in the doorway.

"Why, Eva," he said heartily, "you look delicious."

She did not take the outstretched hand.

Instead, she pointed to a chair.

"Sit down, please, Captain Cassilly," she said.

There was no hint of the storm that raged in her heart, nor the bitter self-contempt which dominated all other conscious emotion, in her voice or gesture.

"Captain Cassilly?" he reproached. "My dear child! You're angry with me! And I can explain everything... "

He spoke jerkily, with almost visible marks of exclamation at the end of each sentence. He was a whirlwind of a man, cyclonic in address, a maelstrom in passion, a romanticist of a kind.

"I have no interest in explanations," she said quietly. "I cannot undo what is done: I am glad you came, though I dreaded seeing you."

He smiled to himself.

"I thought I hated you," she went on, "but that must go with my other illusions— I have no feeling of hatred for you, only a sense of curiosity."

"Curiosity," he began, and was preparing an epigram when she spoke.

"I am glad you have come," she repeated, "because I wanted to tell you this: I have not told my husband all— all— "

It was not an easy thing to abash Cassilly, as I know. You might have thought such a freezing welcome would have sent him— a wilted and dispirited man— down the long avenue, his soul in harmony with the east wind.

But he stood there as if deliberating a commonplace business problem. He pulled at his long yellow moustache; his head drooped on one side, his eyes on the carpet.

He was a perfectly dressed man, a handsome man, by certain standards. He had grown a little bovine with the years: the subtle qualities which had attracted her had matured by crude and well-defined phases.

She had no illusions about Captain Cassilly— nor he about her, it seemed.

"You have not told him, eh?" he said thoughtfully.

He said no more. Turning without a word, he left her.

She might have thought she was rid of him, but he turned up again. This time Bulfox was at home.

He greeted her with the familiarity of an old friend. It was in a roomful of people: she could do no less than acknowledge his civility: no less than introduce him to her husband. She was bewildered and a little frightened; his line of attack was a new one, it was as though he had agreed in a fit of magnanimity to sweep out the past and to start afresh.

Bulfox liked him: he admired his ease, his worldliness, his command of the situation, his vitality.

If she had any doubt as to why the gallant captain continued his attentions despite rebuffs, she had the matter made clear to her very soon.

Bulfox, as you know, was an amiable, kindly man, with simple tastes and bourgeois habits, which he had acquired from Clarence. His simple tastes lay in the direction of gramophones and amateur gardening: he could prune roses, and had uncanny scraps of knowledge about flowers. He was a potterer par excellence.

If Lady Eva required his attendance be sure he would come guiltily from the gun-room, his. hands behind him like a naughty child, stained with oil and grasping a wash-leather polisher. Or from the garden, with a pair of huge gloves testifying to his bourgeois upbringing. But worst of all, from the aesthetic point of view, was his practice of taking forty winks after lunch. Usually he chose the drawing-room and the long, low chair in the window. Here he would settle himself, with a bandana handkerchief over his face— a habit acquired from Clarence— and enjoy his siesta.

Cassilly must have learnt of this practice; he chose to call for a little talk with Lady Eva Bulfox, one afternoon, at a moment when he knew the master of the house would be snug and unconscious.

Instinctively, she knew the object of his visit. She chose the library for the interview: he came to the point with the promptitude of a man who realizes the value of time. She sat at one side of the library table, he at the other.

"I came to see you today," he began, "because I am in a hole."

She made no reply. "I am in a hole," he repeated carefully. "I have been losing a lot of money lately; my people seem to have got rather tired of extending to me that helping hand, the possession of which is the main reason for their existence."

"I am afraid I do not take a great deal of interest in your private affairs, Captain Cassilly," she said clearly.

"You will," he said; "I think you will. I want twenty thousand pounds next Monday. I'm going abroad for a year or so, and it is essential to my happiness that I should have the money. Listen, Eva"— he leant across the table and shook an admonitory finger in her direction"when I ran away with you in— I forget the year— you swore to love me, honor me, and obey me. It is unimportant," he went on carefully, "that the marriage was illegal owing to my first wife being at that time in the land of the living. An oath is an oath, and I have a claim upon your services."

She rose from the table, desperately white.

"You have no claim upon me," she said steadily; "not even a claim for forgiveness. You tried to wreck my life and succeeded in part."

"I want the money," he went on, taking no more notice of her than if she had not spoken. "You have a very rich husband, an adoring husband, and, I think, a sensible husband, who will hand you a check without pressing inquiries."

"I shall ask him for nothing," she said. "I shall tell him— everything."

He inclined his head slowly, almost approvingly.

"Then I shall tell everybody else— everything," he said. "I know a number of excellent journalists on the other side of the ocean who would welcome a tit-bit of this description. That will do your husband no good."

He watched her, standing there, with the curiosity which had been his undoing.

"I shall call on Friday," he said; "you have an 'At Home,' I believe — just an informal affair with tennis. I shall expect you to give me the money."

He rose from the table deliberately.

"And we will have no nonsense," he continued, "when I want money, you must get it for me— you are rich, I am poor."

She said nothing, fingering a rose at her belt nervously.

"If you take a sensible view," he went on, "you will not have one moment's unpleasantness."

Did she dare tell Percy? Did she dare? That was the thought in her mind as she stared out of the window. She knew in that moment of trial that she loved her husband; that his opinion counted more than anything else was suddenly evident to her.

She opened her mouth to speak, and then stopped dead and staggered back, a look of horror in her eyes.

Stretched in the cosiest and most shady corner of the room, his legs outstretched on a chair, his bandana over his face, his hands clasped on his waistcoat, was Percy, taking his siesta. He did not move; save for the regular rise and fall of his breast he gave no sign of animation.

She looked back at the man, his eyes had followed hers.

"He's asleep," he whispered; "don't forget— Friday."

For the first time there was a menace in his voice.

She did not see him go; her eyes were fixed on her husband, then she went softly from the room, closing the door behind her.

Now, here you have a situation which the experienced dramatist could handle to advantage. Suppose she told her husband everything; defied this blackmailing scoundrel— in what way would it serve her? Save for the easing of her conscience, in no way. Percy would pay the money, because the good name of his wife was in violent hands. Percy would pay cheerfully.

Whilst Cassilly lived there was this black shadow over her life; and you cannot in these enlightened days hire assassins to still tongues inconveniently glib.

I went down to Carulm on that Friday. She had not told her husband. She was bright, ready to laugh, a phase of nervousness peculiar to some temperaments.

There was an electric thrill in the air, a certain tingling which made itself felt. It is difficult to describe exactly what I mean. I think it was she who infected the more sensitive of us with a sense of coming storm.

Cassilly was there, dressed for tennis, and there were a heap of other people— the Bryans of Bryanlaker, Sir George Tandall, a judge of the King's Bench, the chief constable of the county, Major Fairfax, two or three well-known barristers, an author or two, a few members of the hunting set who gathered in little groups and talked hounds from the moment they arrived to the moment they departed. An extraordinary representative gathering, and I wondered how Lady Eva had got them together. Then I learnt, to my surprise, that although she had issued the invitations, the more distinguished members of the party had come at Percy's request.

It suited Cassilly well. It made the situation more tragic for Lady Eva, for she had not spoken to her husband. There was no difficulty so far as the money was concerned, because Percy had settled a million on her, though Cassilly did not know this.

I went to look for Percy and found him, as usual, pottering. Tennis had no attractions for him; his duties as a host he had never taken seriously. He was farm-bred and thoroughbred.

I found him in the gun-room, and he told me a really amusing joke which was good enough to repeat when I joined the party at tea in a big marquee which had been set up on the lawn near the gun-room.

There was a clatter and a tinkling and a ripple of light laughter as I went in. Lady Eva was very silent and very white. Near her stood Cassilly, composed and cheerful. He was curling his moustache absent- mindedly.

"Have you seen my husband?" she asked. "I wish you would ask him to come."

At that moment Percy came in, and there was a roar of laughter from his friends, because in his absent-minded way he carried a treble barrelled shot-gun in one hand and in the other a square of wash- leather.

"I— I'm so sorry," he stammered.

I saw Cassilly smile. He was still smiling when the gun exploded, and I saw the face of the tall man go suddenly red and horrid.

A CORONER 's jury brought in a verdict of "Accidental Death," and Percy was censured by the coroner for his carelessness.

People say he's a fool who ought not to be trusted with weapons: that aspect has never occurred to me. He may be a fool, but I am certain he's a chivalrous fool, who would risk his neck for the woman he loved.

The only thing I am not certain about, and upon which I seek information is: Was he asleep in the library? I have never asked Percy, and indeed the opportunity has never occurred. He and his wife have been traveling for the last three years— four years if you reckon the twelve months they spent in Virginia where their child was born.

________________

17: The Cat Burglar

OLD TOM Burkes used to say to Elsah, his daughter: "Easy grabbing is good grabbing. Nobody was ever ruined by taking small profits."

After his eighth whisky old Tom was rather oracular. He would sit before the fire in the shabby little dining-room at Elscombe Crescent (Mayfair by telephone, Bayswater by bus), and pass across such cultured pearls of wisdom.

"You can't expect millionaires to marry— especially if they've been married before. This Poynting's got money and a family. Families are always a just cause an' impediment. If he wants to make you happy by givin' me a directorship— let him."

So that when, in a moment of mental aberration, Colonel J.C. Poynting pressed upon her for acceptance the emerald bar which caused all the trouble, Elsah accepted. She made some faint protest... One shouldn't (she murmured) accept such a present even from so dear a friend unless... unless...

Colonel Poynting did not fill the gap. He was an infatuated old gentleman, but for the moment infatuation was held in check by an uneasy-sense of family.

"You'd better insure that," said Elsah's wise father. "It's worth three thousand if it is worth a cent."

Prudently, Elsah followed his advice— which was also unfortunate.

Most unfortunate of all, a few weeks later Colonel Poynting very nervously requested her to return the bar— his daughter had asked to see it... he would return it to Elsah.

"Perhaps," said her cynical parent.

That night the bar was stolen. It was taken from her dressing-table by some person or persons unknown. This information she conveyed to the Colonel by express letter. The Colonel replied in person, arriving in a taxi and a state of nervous perspiration. Accompanying him was a detective.

And that was where the real trouble started. For the detective asked horrid questions, and Elsah wept pitifully, and the Colonel not only comforted her but proposed marriage. On the whole, it would have been better if he had been content with the loss of the emeralds.

Now, here is a point for all mystery-mongers to note. Up to the moment the loss of the emerald bar was reported. Miss Dorothy Poynting had never considered Elsah as anything more than a safe dancing partner for fathers, and knew nothing whatever about the bar having been given to that enterprising lady.

The two shocks came almost simultaneously. Dorothy Poynting's reactions to the announcement were rather inhuman and wholly at variance with Colonel Poynting's ideas of what a daughter's attitude should be when he condescends— there is no other word for it, or at any rate the Colonel could find no other word— to inform her that he contemplated marrying again.

He told her this at dinner, stammering and coughing and talking quite fiercely at moments, though at other moments he was pleading.

"She's rather young, but she's a real good sort. If you feel... um... that you'd be happier away... elsewhere... living somewhere else, you can have the flat in Portland Place, and of course Sonningstead is yours..."

Dorothy surveyed her father thoughtfully. He was good-looking, in a way—pink of skin, white-haired, slim, invariably tailor-right. She wished he was fat; there is nothing quite as effective as a noticeable rotundity for reducing the conscious ego.

He was very vain about his waist and his small feet and nicely modeled hands. They were twiddling now with the spotless gardenia in his buttonhole.

"Elsah Burkes is a dear girl," defiantly. "You may not like her: I hardly expected that you would. It is a tremendous compliment to me that she should, so to speak, sacrifice her— um— youth..."

"It may also be a tremendous compliment to the Poynting Traction Company," said Dorothy gently.

He was infuriated. He told her so. He was so mild a man that she had no other means of knowing.

"I'm simply furious with you! Because a gel's poor... I'm sorry I consulted you..."

She smiled at this. How annoyingly she could smile! And she dusted her white georgette lap before she rose, took a cigarette from the table and lit it.

"Dear old darling," she said, waving the smoking thing airily, "would you have told me if you had not to explain how dear Elsah came to be robbed of a large emerald bar— mother's bar? You had to explain that away—"

"There is no need whatever " he began, with well-modulated violence.

She waved him to comparative quiet.

"It was in all the newspapers. The moment I saw that Elsah had lost an emerald bar I was suspicious. When I saw the photographs, I knew. With all your money, daddy, you might have bought her a bushel of emeralds. It was intensely heartless and vulgar to give away a jewel that was my mother's. That is all." She flicked ash into the fireplace. "Also— don't get vexed with me— it was singularly prudent of Elsah to insure the bar the moment it came into her possession."

"You are going too far," said her father in his awful voice.

"As far as Portland Place, if you go on with this absurd marriage. Or perhaps I'll go out into the world and do something romantic, such as work for my living."

John Venner came in at that moment. Elsah and he arrived together.

She was rather tall and Junoesque— which means on the way to plumpness— red- haired, white-skinned, flashing-eyed.

"That woman," said Dorothy, in a critical mood, "has made radiance a public nuisance."

She said this to John Venner: he was rather charitable. Nothing quite exasperates a woman so much as misapplied charity. And it is invariably misapplied when employed in the defense of another woman.

John was a Guardsman, a nicely mannered young man who had so much money that he could never marry well.

"I think you're deuced unkind to old Elsah," he said.

With difficulty Dorothy remembered that she was a lady.

Elsah had similar views. She asked her future step-daughter whether they might go to Dorothy's bedroom and have a real heart-to-heart talk. Dorothy checked an inclination to suggest the meat pantry.

"Because you see, darling"— Elsah sat picturesquely on the bed and exhibited her nice legs— "I must get right with you! I know you loathe me, and I told Clarence—"

"Who's Clarence?" asked the dazed Dorothy.

"Your dear daddy," cooed Elsah.

"Good God!" said Dorothy, shocked. "I never realized that! Well, you told Clarence—"

Elsah swallowed something.

"I told your dear father that he mustn't expect you to... well..."

"Hang out the flags?" suggested Dorothy.

"That's rather vulgar, isn't it!" Elsah would not have been human if she had failed to protest. "I do hope you and I are going to be great friends. Won't you come round and dine one night with father and me? He's such a dear..."

All that sort of stuff.

Dorothy listened and wondered, as Elsah told her of the terrible shock it had been to her when she found the bar had vanished, and of what perfect dears the insurance people had been. She had no intention then of calling on Elsah or her father. Two days later, without rhyme or reason, she made her appearance at Elscombe Crescent. Elsah was out, but her plump father was in.

"Cer'n'ly," murmured Mr. Burke drowsily. "Show'rin... who d'ye say 'twas!"

He had been celebrating at luncheon the forthcoming prosperity to his family. Conscious that somebody had come into the room, he jerked himself into semi- wakefulness.

"Elsah, old girl," he droned, "as I've off'n said, grab whils' the grabbin's good."

He said other things, and Dorothy stood stock-still and listened until Mr. Burkes began to snore.

Not in dark cellars with blanketed windows and secret exits do great robber gangs hold their meetings; behind no tiled doors with guards within and without do they confer across a greasy table, with loaded revolvers and bright knives at hand to deal with intruders.

Old Tom Burkes had never possessed a pistol in his life, and he regarded the employment of knives, bright or otherwise, as "foreign." He had, in his unregenerate youth, employed a length of lead piping on the helmeted head of a policeman, but he was not proud of the exploit.

The robbers' cave for the moment was the rather ornate restaurant of Emilio, which is near to the Strand. It was a place of bright lights, in the rays of which silver and glass glittered on snowy napery; there were flowers set in rather florid German-silver cornucopias on every table, and behind the red plush seats that ran along the wall, large mirrors on which landscapes and things were painted so extensively that a lady could not see herself powdering her nose except by dodging between obese swans and glittering minarets.

The robber fare was  crème duchesse, sole au bonne femme, and poulet curry au casserole.

Tom had black coffee to follow; Morgan, being younger and less opulent, seized the opportunity to order pêche melba at another man's expense.

Tom fetched a plethoric sigh, tapped off the ash of his cigar into the coffee saucer, and made another regretful reference to "Lou."

"What a woman!" he said.

There was both admiration and awe in his tone. He was stout and bald. His red face was rather furrowed; in his prominent blue eyes at the moment was a hint of tragedy. Morgan, being younger, was less easily harrowed by the misfortune of his fellows. He was a mean-faced man of thirty, painfully thin, with large red hands that were mostly knuckle.

"If she'd stuck by her friends," he said, "them that was her real friends, she'd have been out and about, havin' dinner with us—"

"Lunch," murmured Mr. Burkes. "And at the Carlton. Lou believed in the best. Ah!"

He sighed again.

There was more than a hint of sycophancy in "Slip" Morgan's attitude and speech. They called him "Slip" because he was slippery, and because he was so thin that legend had it he had once slipped through the most closely set steel bars that ever protected a bank vault.

"Lou was thoughtless," said Tom, himself very thoughtful. "She was too confident. She was inclined, if I might say so, to forget her jewties. I said to her only a month ago: 'Lou, I want you for a big job, so keep yourself free round about New Year's Day. There's grand money in it, and I can't work without you.'—"

Mr. Morgan uttered impatient sounds.

"I'd have thought " he began.

Tom did not want to know what he thought.

"She told me she'd got a job to do for Rinsey, and I told her he was a careless worker, an' warned her. I gave her fifty on account— the money's lost, but I don't mind that, Slip— and I got to work to make the job sweet." He groaned, deliberately it seemed, for he took his cigar from his mouth. "And now, with this footman feller givin' me all I wanted, where the devil is Lou?"

Slip hastened to supply the information.

"Don't be a pie-can," said Mr. Burkes testily. "I know she's in Holloway. Six months ain't much, and she ought to have got a laggin'. But where'm I goin' to find The Gel!"

Slip smiled.

"It's nothin' to laugh about," said Tom. His sourness was justified.

"I got her," said Slip simply.

Tom removed his cigar again.

"You got her?" skeptically. "Maggie Swarty or Gay Joyler or one of them lot! Is anybody goin' to think they're ladies? You want your head shaved!"

"I got her," said Slip again, and added: "A lady."

Tom's nose wrinkled.

"What you think's a lady an' what is a lady is about the differentest thing that ever happened," he said.

But Slip was not offended.

"This one's a real lady. She's pretty and young and plays the pianner," he said impressively. "And she's on the crook, and is ready for anything except funny business."

"Except what?"

"Funny business— love-makin', hand-holdin', cuddlin'," said Mr. Morgan comprehensively.

Tom looked at him suspiciously.

"I ain't tried," Slip was in haste to assure his superior. "One of the other lodgers asked her to go to the pictures. She told him to go to hell!"

"A lady!" murmured Mr. Burkes, closing his eyes like one in pain.

"She's a lady. I got sweet with the maid who looks after her room, and what do you think I found out?"

Tom shook his head, and Slip searched in his pocket and produced fantastically shaped pieces of paper which he maneuvered so that they formed the torn half of a note-sheet.

Mr. Burkes laboriously extracted his pince-nez, fixed them to his nose, opened his mouth (as he did when he was thus engaged), and read:

"Send back the brooch, and no further action will be taken..."

"Written on good paper," said Mr. Burkes, an authority on such matters, "by a woman— she's a maid or something. That's why you thought she was a lady."

Slip argued with great earnestness, and in the end Tom was half convinced. There was an admitted difficulty as regards the approach, but Slip, a man of tact and resource, was confident that all obstacles would be overcome.

Miss Mary Smith was not an easy proposition. Since she had taken a certain jewel from Elsah Burkes' dressing-table, she had been living in retirement, with three thousand pounds' worth of emeralds pinned, if not in the vacuity of her heart, on the garment which enfolded it.

She had changed her lodgings as often as she had changed her name, once with great rapidity, when Elsah had located her and had come later, bearing an offer of forgiveness in exchange for the big green bar. Unfortunately, she did not bear the message which Mary required.

It would be rather awkward, mused Mary Smith, as she sat on the edge of her bed in a Bloomsbury lodging, if Miss Burkes really did put the police on her track; but, on the other hand, how could Elsah explain certain matters... ?

To her cogitations intruded the deferential knocking of the parlor- maid.

"Yes?" asked Mary Smith imperiously.

The maid entered.

"The gentleman says could he have a few words with you?"

She slid a card across the table. Mary read, and was unimpressed:

Mr. Featherlow-Morgan. New Amsterdam Board of Control.

There was a vagueness about Mr. Morgan's exact status which she overlooked. She went down to a hole in the wall of the entrance lobby [which was known as the lounge.

Mr. Morgan understood women: shilly-shallying was a mistake that led to failure. He believed in the direct or knock-out method.

"Good evening, miss," he said respectfully. "I'd like to have a few words with you."

She waited.

"I never beat about the bush"— Slip could not afford to lose time. "Heard about Miss Burkes? I'll bet you haven't! I'll bet you don't know her!"

"You've won your bet," said Mary Smith calmly. "Aren't you awfully excited?"

Such a response was naturally disconcerting. Happily he could cover his momentary confusion. He groped wildly in an inside pocket, brought out a red morocco case, and flicked it open. Between visiting-cards, of which he carried a variety, was a newspaper cutting. This he drew out and flourished at her.

"Read that," he commanded.

Mary Smith took the slip. He saw her brows gathered in a puzzled frown. Then she started to read aloud:

"...with every suit we present an extra pair of pants warranted wear-resisting..."

"You're reading the wrong side of the paper," said Slip testily. She turned the cutting over.

"The police are searching for an emerald bar, which was stolen from Miss Elsah Burkes' dressing-table, possibly by cat burglars, last week, and have circulated the following description of the missing jewelry... The bar is worth £3000, and the insurance underwriters are offering a reward of £200 for its recovery. Miss Burkes, who is engaged to be married to Colonel Poynting, the shipping magnate, says that although the property is insured, it has a sentimental value which is beyond calculation."

She handed the cutting back.

"Sentiment is the ruin of the leisured classes," she said, and he laughed admiringly. It was not a pleasant laugh, being a succession of "huh-huhs" that ended in a violent cough.

"That's the way to look at it. Do you know Colonel Poynting?"

She first hesitated, then nodded.

"Do you know his house in Park Lane— ever been there?"

"I know the house very well," she said. Her eyes were asking questions.

"I am a plain man " he began, and she nodded, he thought a little offensively, and for a moment was thrown out of his stride. "What I mean to say is, that there's no sense in beating about the bush."

"You did say it, some time ago," she said.

Very few women could rattle Slip Morgan. She did.

"You're on the hook and so am I," he said firmly. "I know all about that emerald bar that you've got pinned on your—"

"Don't let us be indelicate," said Mary Smith. "Yes, you know all about it? Well?"

"If you want a hundred pounds for an hour's work, the job's waiting for you. All you've got to do is to go to Colonel Poynting's house. We'll fake a card of invitation. Just walk about amongst the swells, and give a certain friend of mine the office when he can come in. Do you see what I mean?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "The only thing that's pretty clear is that you want me to go to Mr. Poynting's house, and that of course I shan't do. In the first place " She paused, and shook her head again. "No, I can't do it."

Slip smiled. They still had the "lounge" to themselves, but the chances were that they would not enjoy this privacy for long.

"I'll tell you what," he said confidentially. You think you'll be recognized?" And, when she agreed, he patted her lightly on the arm. She brushed her sleeve so ostentatiously, so deliberately, that he did not repeat this gesture of friendliness and comradeship.

"It's the fancy-dress ball " he began.

"0h!"

Evidently she knew all about the fancy-dress ball, for he saw her mouth open a little.

"0f course, masks! How amusing!" She looked at Slip with a new interest. "Your friend is on the hook, you said? Does that mean he's hanged or he's going to be hanged! Or do I understand that your friend is not exactly honest?"

"Don't be comic," said the inelegant Mr. Morgan, "and don't play the dairymaid on me. Innocence is all very well in its place. The question is, will you do it— there's a hundred pounds for you— fifty down and fifty after the job?"

She was pinching her lower lip, looking at, and slightly through, Slip Morgan.

"Do I understand that your friend is going to?" She waited for him to suggest the proper phrase, which he did.

"He's going to do a job at Colonel Poynting's house in Park Lane."

"And that I'm to go inside and signal— how?"

"Through the winder," said Slip. "It's easy.

You just stroll up to the winder—"

"Window," she murmured.

"'Winder's' good enough for me," he snarled. "Pull out a handkerchief and sort of rub your nose with it. But you mustn't do that till Colonel Poynting gives away the prizes for the first fancy dress, because everybody will be down in the drawing-room then. Now do you get me?"

She had got him. And once she was interested, she became almost enthusiastic. She arranged to meet Mr. Thompson that night (Tom Burkes' temporary  nom de guerre). She would go, she thought, as a pierrot or a pierrette.

"It isn't exactly original," she said.

"That doesn't matter," replied Slip, "so long as it's clean."

So were arranged the preliminaries of one of the neatest cat burglaries that had ever been engineered. Upstairs in Mr. Poynting's study was a safe, and in that safe he kept a considerable sum of money.

Park Lane is not, as some people imagine, a center of wild and hectic gaiety. It is a thoroughfare mainly inhabited by people who are rich enough to live somewhere else. Year in and year out their white blinds are drawn, their furniture is shrouded in holland sheeting. A vulgar few live in their houses, but as a rule they do not give parties. Colonel Poynting's fancy-dress ball was, therefore, so unusual an event that the police hardly knew where to park the cars.

The Colonel received his guests at the head of the big staircase, and he was arrayed, spiritually and materially, in the toga of a Roman father, as he explained to the worried young Guardsman, who wore nothing more symbolical than a dress suit. The Colonel explained between speeches of welcome addressed to his arriving guests.

"I neither know nor care where Dorothy has gone," he said firmly. "You saw the letter she wrote to Elsah— or rather, started to write?—How d'ye do! How d'ye do!— Happily, I came into the library when she had been called away to the telephone, and read it.— Glad to see you, Lady Carl... how d'ye do!— No daughter of mine can tell my fiancee— order her, in fact— to give up her father—"

"He's an awful old bounder," said Mr. Venner mistakenly.

"I'm referring to myself," said the Colonel. "I mean Dorothy's father—not Elsah's father... how d'ye do! I'm glad to see you... No, Venner; I will not have it... how d'ye do. Miss... um... ?"

The newcomer was a masked lady, who flashed a smile and waved a hand before she disappeared.

"What good legs that girl's got!" said the Colonel. "Terribly good legs!... As I was saying, she left my house, and I've reason to believe that she is persecuting poor Elsah— the dear girl says nothing, but I can guess. If I could only get at Dorothy... ah, darling!"

Darling looked rather worried, and this in spite of the assurance of her parent that she had nothing to worry about. So far as he was concerned, he would keep sober until after the ceremony. Not that this troubled her. She drew the Roman father to a convenient alcove, and a host of clowns and devils and Venetian ladies arrived unwelcomed.

"Yes, my dear"— the Colonel patted her hand— "everything is in order. I had the license from the Bishop's office this afternoon. Have your baggage at Victoria...  Simplon Express— you know Italy? A glorious place!"

For the moment Italy meant less to Elsah than a pint of pure mud.

"Dorothy hasn't... written?" She was rather breathless, showed appropriate symptoms of nervous apprehension (she was honoring Ophelia in the matter of costume) and a tenseness which he understood.

"You need not trouble your pretty head about my foolish child," he said. "She has neither written nor called."

And here a gathering of Mephistopheles, pierrots, Henry the Eighths, and a Gentleman of the Regency at the head of the stairs sent him to perform the host's duties.

The masked girl sought no friend. She found malicious pleasure in the sight of a disconsolate young Guardsman equally unattached. She danced with a Romeo, a pre-historic man, and a Lord Nelson, and was depressed by the spectacle of an Ophelia in the arms of a Roman father.

Colonel Poynting's fancy-dress ball was an annual affair; the prize- giving for the best costume had developed into a ritual. At half-past eleven the three sycophantic friends who made the choice led the modest Ophelia to the cleared center of the ballroom.

"My friends!"

The Roman father cleared his voice and stroked the moustache which had come into fashion since the days of Augustus.

"My friends, on this joyous occasion— er— and on the eve of what may be the turning-point of my life, I have great pleasure in awarding as a prize a replica of that jewel which was so unhappily lost by the fair choice of the judges."

A disinterested observer might have demanded (and many who were not disinterested did ask sotto voce) whether Colonel Poynting had foreknowledge of how the judging would go.

"This replica—"

"Why not have the original, daddy?"

The Colonel turned with a jump. The masked lady was unmasked.

"Dorothy!" he squeaked. "Really...!"

Slowly she held something to view. It was the emerald bar.

"If the insurance has been paid to your lady friend," she said, "This belongs to the underwriters."

"Where... where did you find it?" stammered the Colonel.

Dorothy looked at the crowd of revellers, stepped nearer to her father, and lowered her voice.

"It was never lost," she said— only the Colonel and the pallid Elsah heard; "I found it in her bedroom— between mattress and overlay— and Mr. Burkes was foolish enough to tell me how useful the insurance money would be!"

"That's a lie!" gasped Elsah. "You're— you're—"

The Colonel stopped her. He was as dignified as a toga and a wreath of roses would allow him to be.

"I will hear no word against Elsah," he said. "We are to be married tomorrow."

Dorothy stared at him.

"But, daddy, not until you make inquiries... you must wait..."

Colonel Poynting smiled.

"My dear," he said, almost playfully, "in my safe upstairs, and in my cash- box, is a little piece of paper signed by the Bishop of London. Come, come, my dear; tell Elsah you're sorry that you made such a ridiculous charge."

"In your cash-box?" she said slowly.

Turning, she walked to the window, drew aside the heavy curtains, and waved her hand.

"My dear!" said her father, in alarm. He thought for a moment that she contemplated suicide and was taking farewell of the world.

"Now let everybody sit down and talk," said Dorothy, coming back to the group. "Tommy Venner— do something for me! Call everybody in— servants, everybody."

The Colonel moved uneasily. "You're not going to make a scene..." Dorothy laughed.

"I'm going to drink the health of my friend Tom," she said mysteriously.

Just off Park Lane a taxi was waiting. Tom Burkes strolled negligently towards and entered the vehicle. As the cab drove off, Slip Morgan, who had been waiting nervously in the dark interior, asked a question.

"There it is," said Tom, and dropped the heavy cash-box on the floor. "That gel's a good worker. I'll hand it to her."

"Gels'll do anything for me," said Slip complacently.

_______________________

18. The Pick-Up

John Bull's Summer Annual, 1927

IT WAS THE day before Mr. Vernon Strate went back to town, where his multifarious activities demanded attention, that he proposed in his quiet way— so quietly, so unemotionally, that at first Margaret Brand did not realize what he was saying.

"I am, of course, your senior by ten or twelve years, and I realize that in many ways I am not the kind of husband you would have chosen."

She listened, at first dismayed, and then in a state of confusion. She was twenty-four, and the kind of man she would have chosen had not appeared. And the future, to this daughter of an Infantry Colonel who had left her the thousand pounds she so jealously hoarded, was growing a little bleak. She held a position that brought her £200 a year and no prospects.

"I really can't think what to say, Mr. Strate— I hardly know you."

Which was true: they had met in the train to Brightsea— his courtesy and attention had been charming, and she was quite sure that he had exchanged the luxury of the Marine Hotel for the bare comforts of Acacia House in order to be near her.

He had admitted as much. "I am a fairly rich man," he went on, "and I have no ties and no relations..."

He spoke of travel, of Italy and the Riviera and the beauties of his Canadian ranch.

"I am going to town tomorrow. I would like you to give this matter your earnest consideration. On the day we marry, I will settle ten thousand pounds upon you."

He was, despite his denial, an attractive man of forty, tall, and in a way fascinating. His queer trick of dropping his "h's" occasionally used to amuse her at first, but when he told her of his early struggles against poverty, his selfeducation, and his lack of opportunities for acquiring polish, the amusement became sympathy.

Most of the day he spent indoors with his work: his eyes were not strong, and the sun gave him a headache. Sometimes they would stroll together at nights, but that was before he proposed.

In his absence she found herself considering the offer seriously. And yet... it was an ugly thought: Mr. Strate was a "pick-up"— a man who had come into her life without introduction.

Of "pick-ups" Margaret Brand had heard. You found them on the promenade, on the pier, sometimes in trains. They asked you whether you would like the window up or down, would you prefer this shady chair to the one in which you sat; they spoke about the weather or the calmness of the sea, or the oddness of other people. And gradually you came to know them and went char-a-banc rides to ruined castles, or the pictures—soon you found yourself discussing quite intimate things like relations and appendicitis.

Margaret had been two weeks at Brightsea when the real "pick-up" loomed on her horizon. He was not an inmate of Acacia House, that spotlessly clean and economically furnished boarding-house where middle-aged ladies who knitted jumpers in London came to knit jumpers in Brightsea; he did not drop carelessly into a chair by her side on the front, nor stroll past her several times trying to catch her eye.

The meeting was unusual.

She was sitting on one of the hard bench seats, a slim figure in beige, the red of her open sunshade giving a deeper tinge to her tanned and pretty face, when he came swinging along the deserted pier— it was eight o'clock in the morning, and only energetic fishers were up and about.

A rather tall, brown-faced man in flannels and a dark blue blazer, on the breast-pocket of which was a white dove.

He passed her without a glance, and she looked up from her book and watched him idly till he disappeared round the side of the Pavilion at the far end of the pier. She was reading when he came back, so engrossed in the story that she would not have noticed him had he not tripped and fallen, sprawling at her feet.

"Damn!" he said calmly, as he picked himself up. "Shoelace... terrible sorry!"

He put one foot on the bench and jerked savagely at the long lace that had tripped him. She said nothing— turned her eyes to the book again, though she was not reading.

"If I were trying to scrape acquaintance with you I should attempt something less painful." He was dabbing a scratched hand with a handkerchief.

"But I'm not. And I won't tell you that we've met before, because we haven't. It's a glorious morning, isn't it?"

"Is it?" She barely raised her eyes from the printed page.

"You know jolly well it is." Without invitation he sat down. "You're Margaret Brand. My sister went to school with you. My name is Denman —Ian or John, according to taste. She pointed you out yesterday and tried to attract your attention."

In the old days at St. Mary's, when Margaret Brand was senior prefect and Helen Denman was head girl, there arose the legend of The Awful Brother. He was Helen's, and his awfulness lay in his undiscipline, his rowdiness, his propensity for breaking precious vase. and windows, and his disinclination for morning baths.

Finally, in the last year he did something that was so awful that Helen (something of a prig, Margaret remembered) would not even tell her dearest friend. All that she could recall was that it was disgraceful.

The Denmans were rich and County. Pa Denman had acquired a baronetcy: Mrs. Denman was a lady who was very particular about the people she knew. And the awful brother had been guilty of an act of supreme awfulness. Did he marry a barmaid or run away with the wife of a butcher?... Margaret couldn't remember— perhaps she had never been told.

"You're not the— awful brother?" she blurted.

He nodded unsmilingly.

"That's me," he said calmly. "Now will you behave?"

She laughed in spite of her momentary fright.

"Yes, I'm the awful brother— I'm in a devil of a tangle. The poor old governor died last year, and I've been trying to hide up my past... You see, I'm a baronet of the United Kingdom, and that doesn't go with certain things. If the newspapers got hold of the story they'd splash it! I'm turning over a new leaf next week, though... chucking everything. I'd like one last fling, though— gosh! how I'd like one big thundering punch before I cleared out!"

He spoke rapidly, jerkily— to her, incoherently. She hadn't the slightest idea of what he was talking about. As suddenly as he had sat down he rose again. "I'll toddle along," he said; "awfully glad to have met you: don't give me away!"

She saw him again in the afternoon, and he carried her off to tea —insisted upon taking her to the theatre that night, and met her early in the morning to instruct her in the art of sea-fishing.

She thought it expedient at the end of the third day to tell him.

"Engaged?" His rather good-looking face was suddenly blank. "Really... I didn't know."

"Well, not exactly engaged," she explained quickly, and told him as much as she thought necessary, changing the subject as quickly as she could.

"Have you had your big punch?" she asked him; "and what is your big punch?"

He shook his head. "No— I don't suppose I shall. Brightsea isn't the sort of place you'd expect to get it."

This puzzled her. What was the dreadful thing he did when he disgraced his family? Was he a jewel thief or... somehow she knew that the barmaid theory was wrong.

That afternoon Mr. Strate returned from London, and she plucked up courage to make her decision.

"Can you come out— I want to speak to you?"

He hesitated. "The sun is rather strong for my eyes," he began.

"Wear your smoked glasses," she suggested. "You did one day, and you didn't get a headache."

He agreed to this, and ten minutes later they were walking slowly along the pier.

"Let us sit here." She sat down, and he at her side.

"Mr. Strate, I want to tell you something. I don't think I can marry you. I am very appreciative of the honor you do me, but I am not anxious to marry—"

"But, my dear," he began, "I've set my 'eart on this—"

And then there appeared in the distance the lank figure of the awful brother.

He saw them, and waved his hand.

"This is a friend of mine," she said— "Ian Denman. I knew his sister—"

To her amazement, the man by her side leapt to his feet with an oath.

"I don't want to meet anybody!" He almost shouted the words. "Tell him I'm not well." But it was too late. Ian Denman had come up.

"This is Mr. Strate," she said haltingly, "a— a friend about whom I spoke to you."

The awful brother was glaring down at them.

"Good Lord!" he groaned. "Here's my chance and I can't take it— beat it, Smith!"

To her horror and amazement the placid Mr. Strate rose and ran at top speed toward the entrance of the pier, the awful brother running after him.

"You've spoilt it, my dear!" he said, as he fell into the vacant seat. "I wanted to go out of the force in a blaze of glory― And now I can't!"

"Who— who are you?" she gasped.

He chuckled.

"Didn't you know I disgraced the family by joining the police. I'm Detective-Sergeant Denman of Bow Street, and I've been looking for Smith— alias Bocosco, alias Strate— for months. He's a professional bigamist, and wanders round looking for lonely young ladies who have a few hundred pounds in their bank.

"Come and have a lemon squash, and I'll tell you where we'll spend our honeymoon."

_____________

19. Discovering Rex

IN THE office of the Public Prosecutor was a young lawyer named Keddler, for whom the prospects were of the brightest until he grew impatient with the type of evidence which was supplied him by the painstaking but unimaginative constabulary, and went out single-handed to better their efforts. And he succeeded so remarkably well that a reluctant Commissioner of Police admitted his superiority as a detective and offered him a post at New Scotland Yard.

This offer was enthusiastically accepted, but since the regulations do not admit of amateur police work and he found himself relegated to the legal department, where his work consisted of preparing statements of evidence for his successor at the P.P. office to examine, he resigned at the end of six months. To return to his former position was, at the time, impossible, and against the advice of his friends and in face of solemn warnings from his old chief, he opened an office in the city of London, describing himself as an "Investigating Agent."

Despite the gloomy predictions of his associates, John Keddler grew both opulent and famous. The opulence was welcome, but the fame was embarrassing, not that John was unduly modest, but because it led on three occasions to his identification at a moment when it was vitally necessary that he should be unknown to the persons who detected him.

Starting on a small job for the Midland and County Bank, a matter of a forged acceptance, in which the real police had failed to satisfy the bank, he enlarged his clientele until he found himself working amicably with Scotland Yard in the matter of Rex Jowder, alias Tom the Toy, alias Lambert Sollon.

Rex was wanted urgently by several police departments for insurance fraud, impersonation, theft, forgery, and general larceny, but only the insurance fraud was really important because it involved a well-known Chicago house in a loss of $700,000,  which they were anxious to recover before Rex, who was notoriously careless when he handled other people's money, dissipated his fortune in riotous living. John Keddler was commissioned by the London agents of the company to bring about this desirable result, but unfortunately the lean, shrewd thief had learnt from an indiscreet newspaper that John was his principal danger, and had spent two days waiting in the country lane in which the detective's modest little house was situated, and one dark night when John descended from his car to open the gates of his demesne, six pounds weight of sand had fallen upon his shoulder. The sand was enclosed in a sausage-shaped bag, and it was intended for his neck.

Taken at this disadvantage Keddler was almost helpless and would have ceased to worry Mr. Jowder until the inevitable give and take of the Day of Judgment, only the assailant had placed himself in an unfavorable position to follow up his attack, though it was helpful to him that the red rear light of the car reflected on the polished steel of the gun John pulled mechanically.

He dived to the cover of a hedge and ran, and John Keddler had been so respectably brought up that he hesitated to scandalize the neighborhood by discharging firearms to the public danger. In some respects John Keddler was a slave of convention. But this mild adventure served to concentrate his mind and attention still more closely upon the case of Rex Jowder, and so well did he work that at the end of a week there was a police raid upon a certain safe deposit in the city, and there was discovered the bulk of the stolen money which the misguided Jowder had cached (as he believed) beyond the fear of discovery.

Why this raid was carried out is a story made up of John's instinct, a drunken man, a frightened woman (Rex was strong for ladies' society), and an indiscreet reference, repeated by his terrorized lady friend, to a mysterious key which hung about his neck. He would have been captured also, only the police were a little over-elaborate in their preparations.

With his money gone, the fruit of two years' clever and dangerous work, Rex Jowder became something more than annoyed. Before him was a life sentence, and standing at the focal point of his misfortune was one John Keddler. From the point of view of the insurance company whose gratitude he had earned, John was not a "good life."

"What about Jowder?" asked his confidential clerk.

"Jowder can wait," said John. "As a matter of fact I am not very much interested in the man any longer."

But the man was very much interested in John, and he was content to wait too, though his waiting had to be done in a mean Lambeth lodging.

As for John Keddler, he accepted in a joyous holiday spirit the commission which followed the loss of Lady Bresswell's jewelry, for Lady Bresswell lived on the Lake of Como, and John was partial to the Italian lakes. Incidentally this visit was to introduce him to the Marchessa Della Garda— that unhappy lady.

From the first the wisdom of Mona Harringay's marriage bristled with notes of interrogation— those little sickles that trim the smothering overgrowth of truth.

There was no doubt that the Della Garda family hated the Marchessa with a hatred born of an enormous disappointment. They referred to Mona as "The Señora Pelugnera" (they affected Spanish by virtue of their descent from the Borgias), and "Mrs. Hairdresser" was adopted to keep fresh the ghastly fact that Mona's father was the very rich proprietor of Harringay's Elixir for the Hair.

The marriage was in every way an amazing one, for Giocomi was no impoverished third cousin of the real nobility. Head of the Della Garda clan and immensely wealthy, the ordinary excuses and explanations of a marriage between an Italian marquis and the daughter of a rich American were wanting. They had met in Harringay's Long Island home where Giocomi was a guest. He was making his first long absence from the Continent of Europe. Therefore he was home-sick and miserable when he met Mona, and their marriage was the natural reaction. She, for her part, was fascinated by his good looks and a little overwhelmed by the impetuosity of his wooing. The wedding was the social event of a brilliant season.

Not until the liner was clear of Sandy Hook did Giocomi Della Garda emerge from his delirium, and face the certainty of his relatives' wrath. For all his good looks and his perfect manners, he was not a nice young man. He had, in particular, a weakness for approval, one of the most fatal to which the human soul is liable, and the nearer to Genoa the vessel came, the more and more he resented the existence of a wife who had already surrendered her mystery, that lure which had led Giocomi into so many adventures, but which had never before yielded him a wife.

Mona, Marchessa Della Garda, realized the bleak failure of her life long before she came home to the cold, oppressive atmosphere of the gloomy palace which had housed sixteen generations of the family. Neither the cold majesty of the Pallacco Della Garda, nor the exotic splendors of the Villa Mendoza, set amidst the loveliness of Lake Como, brought compensation to a disillusioned heart-sick girl. But her one and only visit to the Como home was not without its consequences. Lady Bresswell, a grateful and somewhat voluble lady (her lost jewels recovered without the scandal which would have attended the investigations of the police), was showing John Keddler the glories of the lake. They had brought her ladyship's expensive motor-boat to a rest near Cadenabbia, and the servants were spreading lunch when round a tiny headland came a boat, the sole occupant of which was a girl.

She pulled with long, steady strokes and seemed oblivious to their presence, although she only passed them a dozen yards away.

John Keddler, a man to whom all women were very much alike, gazed at her fascinated. The sun in her russet gold hair, the appealing sadness of her delicate face, the sweep of her perfect figure, took his breath away. It was as though he had seen a vision of some other world.

He watched her until she brought the boat to a white landing-stage, and stepping out and tying the boat, had disappeared behind a great fuchsia bush.

Then he heaved a long sigh, and like a man waking from a dream turned to meet the laughing eyes of his hostess.

"Who was that?" he asked, almost in a whisper.

"I've told you twice, Mr. Keddler," smiled Lady Bresswell, "but you were so absorbed that you didn't hear me. She is lovely, isn't she?"

"Who is she?"

"The Marchessa Della Garda, an American girl who married Giocomi—poor dear. Giocomi is rather a beast."

"Oh," said John, and that was all he said.

Sixteen generations on her father's side of hairdressers, general workers, coal-miners, and peasants had supplied Mona Della Garda with the capacity for endurance and patience, but on her mother's side, she went back to some quick-drawing folks who had made the lives of successive western sheriffs exasperatingly lively, and when, some six months after John Keddler had seen her, Giocomi followed a flagrant breach of his marriage vows by boxing her ears, she took a pistol from the drawer of her dressing-table.

There was excellent reason for this act, for Giocomi was weeping with rage at her mild reproach and had flung off to his room in search of a hunting-crop. Following him went Pietro Roma, his valet, also in tears, for this man worshipped the young Marchessa and would have died for her. It nearly happened that he did, for in frenzy at his interference, Giocomi clubbed him into insensibility with the heavy end of the stock. He never used the whip.

The major-domo of his establishment, attending the cracked head of the valet, heard a shot and mistook it for the crack of a whip, until the Marchessa came downstairs wearing a heavy carriage coat over her evening dress and carrying her jewel-case in her hand. Even then, he did no more than wonder why the illustrious lady should go abroad on a night of storm.

Later came doctors, examining magistrates, and, one by one, white- faced Della Gardas to take counsel together. More than a week passed and Giocomi Della Garda was laid away in the dingy family vaults of SS. Theresa and Joseph, before the name of John Keddler was mentioned.

It came about that news reached Rome of Pietro Roma, who disappeared with a broken head the day after his master's death and had been seen in London.

"If she is in London too," said Philip Della Garda thoughtfully, "you may be sure that she will never be discovered. The English and Americans work hand in hand, and they will do everything that is humanly possible to cover up her tracks. I am all for employing the man Keddler. He recovered Lady Bresswell's jewelry last summer, and even at the British Embassy they speak of him with respect."

Prince Paolo Crecivicca, his kinsman, stroked his white beard.

"I shall never be happy until this woman is brought to trial," he said, "and I agree that this infernal rascal, Pietro, is probably in communication with her, for, according to Dellimono, he was the man who betrayed to 'The Hairdresser' poor Giocomi's little affair with the Scala girl, and these vulgarians would be on terms of friendship. Employ Mr. Keddler by all means. Wire to him at once."

John Keddler arrived in Rome thirty-six hours later— no miracle this, with the London-Paris, Paris-Milan, Milan-Rome air services in full operation. Though he answered the summons in such a hurry that Philip Della Garda not unnaturally believed he was eager for the job, he displayed no remarkable enthusiasm for the undertaking. Particularly was this apathy noticeable after all that Prince Crecivicca described as the "unfortunate facts" were revealed.

"In England, of course, she would be acquitted," he said, a little stiffly, "and even in Italy— do you think it is wise to bring this matter before your courts? The publicity... the scandal...?"

Philip Della Garda showed his small teeth in a smile.

"We are superior to public opinion," he said smugly. "Had this happened two hundred years ago we would have dealt with the Hairdresser without invoking the assistance of the courts. As it is—"

As it was explained by the Della Gardas in chorus, this woman must be subjected to the humiliations of a trial, whatever be the jurors' verdict.

"Of course," said John politely. "Have you a photograph of the lady?"

Not until then did he realize that he had been sent to track the woman of his dreams— the woman who had no name to him but "The Girl in the Boat." They saw him frown and a queer expression come to his face.

"I will do my best," he said.

When he had gone, leaving his employers with a sense of dissatisfaction, Philip Della Garda, accounted by his friends as something of a sportsman, had an inspiration.

"Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?" he demanded pedantically. "I will go to London myself."

Passing through Paris, Keddler was seen by a journalist who happened to be on the aviation ground, and it was his speculative note on the occurrence which Mona Della Garda read in her Battersea lodging:

"Among the famous people who now use the air express for their continental travels is Mr. John Keddler, the well-known private detective. Mr. Keddler, in an interview, says he finds the air-way an invaluable boon. He had been called to Rome in connection with the Della Garda murder, and was able to make the return journey in a little over twenty- four hours— a journey which ordinarily would have taken four to five days. He left immediately for London, and hopes to bring about the arrest of the Marchessa in a very short time."

Of course, John Keddler said nothing about the Della Garda murder, or his hopes. He had grunted a "good afternoon" at the enterprising press agent of the Aviation Company, and there began and ended the interview—but Mona Della Garda, reading this paragraph, fell into a blind panic.

For now, the sustaining heat of righteous anger had departed from her, and the strain of the sixteen barber generations— they had been law-abiding and for the most part timorous barbers, with exalted views on the sanctity of human life— was asserting its pull. Murder in any degree was to them merely a phenomenon of the Sunday newspapers, as remote from reality as the moons of Saturn.

"I wonder, miss, if you ever read them agony columns in the newspapers!" asked Mrs. Flemmish one morning.

Mrs. Flemmish was her landlady and a woman from the Wessex borders of Devon, a woman of rolled sleeves and prodigious energy, whose stoves were brighter than the panels of limousines.

Mona had found her room by accident and was perfectly served, for Mrs. Flemmish had unbounded faith in the spoken word of her sex, and never doubted that "Miss Smith" was a young lady who wrote for the press. Mona had to excuse her feverish interest in the daily newspapers.

"Yes— yes," said Mona, going white. She lost her color readily in these days, and her frequent pallors gave her delicate face a fragility which Mrs. Flemmish in secret accepted as a symptom of lung trouble.

"I'd like to know who this 'Dad' is who keeps on advertising to 'M.', telling her to communicant— communicate, I mean, with him. Where's Long Island, miss?"

"In— in America," said the girl hurriedly, "near New York."

"I suppose she's run away from home," ruminated Mrs. Flemmish. "Girls be girls all over the world— but she ought to let her father know, don't ye think so, Miss Smith?"

Mona nodded. How could she let him know, other than by letter, and a letter was on its way. Mr. Harringay would pass that epistle in mid-ocean, for he had caught the first east-bound liner, a greatly distracted man.

If she could only get into touch with the devoted Pietro. The poor fellow was in London, searching for her— a mad search, since he would be followed, and he could not find her without also betraying her.

A thought came to her on the third evening after the return of John Keddler. There had been some reference to Pietro in the newspapers. A reporter had found him amongst the outcast and homeless on the Thames Embankment one night, and had secured a "good story" from him. Perhaps he slept there every night? She would search for him. A man's help might save her— even the help of this poor devoted servant.

"I am going out tonight, Mrs. Flemmish," she said.

Mrs. Flemmish made a little grimace.

"It's not a good night for ye, mum," she shook her head. "There's one of them Lunnon fogs workin' up. Did ye read the paper tonight about the Eye-talian lady, miss?"

Mona's heart almost stopped beating.

"N— no," she said; "is there any fresh— which Italian lady?" she asked.

Mrs. Flemmish had settled herself down in the chintz-covered arm- chair and was stirring the fire economically.

"They a' set a detective on her, poor creature," she said. "Do you think 'twas her father that put the advertisement in the paper?"

Mona had a grip of herself now.

"Perhaps," she answered steadily, and Mrs. Flemmish, staring in the orange depths of the fire, nodded.

"If I were her, her bein' a rich young woman, I know what I'd do, ees fay!"

Mona frowned. She had never looked to this sturdy country woman for a solution to her agonizing problems.

"What would you do?" she asked slowly.

"I'd marry a young Englishman," nodded Mrs. Flemmish. "My man were in a lawyer's office an' clever he was, as all the Welsh people are, an' often he's told me that you can't arrest an Englishwoman in England for a crime in foreign parts."

The girl could only stare. That solution had not occurred to her, and if it had, she would have rejected it, for even the enthusiastic scientist is not prone to repeat the experiment which cost him everything short of life by its failure.

"Her has money, by all accounts," said the woman, feeling furtively between the bars of the fire to dislodge a glowing piece of slate. "Her could buy a husband and divorce him, and even when she was divorced her'd be safe."

Mona stood for a long time pinching her red lips in thought, and Mrs. Flemmish turned her head to see if she was still there, a movement that startled the girl into activity.

"I'll go now, Mrs. Flemmish," she said hastily. "I have the key...."

A light yellow mist lay upon the streets, which were crowded even at this late hour, for it was Christmas week, as the cheery contents of the shop windows showed. Great blobs of golden light looming through the fog marked the blazing windows of the stores, and she passed through a road lined with stalls that showed vivid coloring under the flaring, pungent naphtha lamps.

She checked a sob that rose in her throat at the memory of other Christmas weeks, and hurried her pace, glad, at last, to reach the bleakness of the bridge that crossed a gray void where the river had been.

A taxi-cab carried her to the West End, and this she dismissed in the darkest corner of Trafalgar Square, making her way on foot toward Northumberland Avenue. She had to pass under the brilliant portico lights of the Grand Hotel, and had disappeared into the gloom beyond, before the young man who was standing on the step waiting for his car, realized it was she.

She heard his startled exclamation, and looking back in affright, recognizing Philip Della Garda, ran. Swiftly, blindly through the thickening fog she flew, crossing the wide thoroughfare and turning backward into Graven Street.

Philip Della Garda!

He hated London in the best of seasons. There could be only one incentive to his presence in the raw of December, and she was terrified. They would arrest her and take her back to Italy and a lifelong imprisonment. She had heard stories, horrifying stories, of the Italian prisons, where the convicted murderers were buried in an underground cell away from light and human companionship in the very silence of death. None spoke to them, neither guardian nor priest. They lived speechless until the thick darkness drove them mad.

She could have shrieked; the terror thus magnified by the uncanny mirk in which she now moved had assumed a new and more hideous significance.

Marriage could save her! It was this mad panic thought that sent her hurrying along the Strand, peering into the faces of men who loomed from the nothingness of the fog and passed, none dreaming of her quest. There were men who leered at her, men who stared resentfully at the eager scrutiny she gave them in the fractional space of a second that the light allowed.

And then the inspiration came, and she hurried down a steep slippery street to the Thames Embankment. The benches were already filled with huddled figures, so wrapped in their thread-bare coats that it was almost impossible to tell that they were human.

"May I speak to you?"

Her heart was beating a stifling tattoo as she sat down in the one unoccupied space which Providence had left by the side of the man whose face she had glimpsed in the light thrown by a passing tramway car.

Instantly she had made her decision. There was a certain refinement revealed in the lean face, a sense of purpose which seemed out of tune with his situation. He did not answer her, but drew more closely to the wreck that slumbered noisily at his side.

"I— I don't know how to begin," she said breathlessly, "but I'm in great trouble. I— I must tell you the truth; the police are searching for me for something I did in Italy—"

She stopped, physically unable to go on.

"The police are searching for you, are they?" There was an undercurrent of amusement in the man's words. "Well, I sympathize with you— I'm being sought for at this particular moment."

She shrank back almost imperceptibly, but he noticed the movement and laughed. She recovered herself. She must go on now to the bitter end.

"Are you British?" she asked, and after a second's hesitation he nodded. "Are you married?" He shook his head. "If I gave you money— a lot of money, would you— would you marry me— at once?"

He half turned and stared at her.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because if— if I became British by marriage they would not arrest me. I only want your name— I will pay you— anything, anything!"

Her voice was husky, and the underlying fear in it was not to be mistaken.

"I see," he said; "you want to be naturalized by marriage. That's the idea?"

She nodded.

"Could it be done— quickly?"

The man rubbed his chin.

"I think it could be done," he said. "Tomorrow is Thursday. If I gave notice we could marry Saturday— where do you live?"

She told him and he rubbed his chin again.

"It might be done," he said. "I've got a sort of claim to Battersea. If I— anyway you can meet me at the registrar's on Saturday at twelve. What is your name?"

She told him that and gave him the other particulars he asked. He seemed to be thinking the matter over, for he did not speak for a long time. A policeman strolled past, flashing his lantern in their direction, and he dropped his head.

"There is one thing I want to say," said Mona desperately. It took all her courage to tell him this. "I only want your name. When—when it is all over I shall divorce you... you understand?"

"H'm," said the man, and got up.

"Let's walk along," he said. "I'll take you as far as Westminster Bridge, and you don't mind if I cross the road occasionally; it might be very awkward if I met a certain person, if I was with you."

The man kept close to the parapet, Mona nodded, and they were abreast of Cleopatra's Needle when he caught her arm and drew her to the recess. The fog had lifted and he had seen a tall saunterer walking near the kerb and scrutinizing the sleepers on the bench.

The searcher did not see them, and the man at Mona's side looked after him.

"If you weren't here," he said softly, "I'd have settled an old score with that gentleman."

He left her at the end of the Embankment and Mona went home, not daring to think. The next day was a day of torture. She was placing her life in the hands of a man who, by his own confession, was a fugitive from justice. And yet... she must do it, she must, she must, she told herself vehemently.

That morning the newspapers had given greater prominence to the Della Garda murder. There was an interview with Philip Della Garda, who had seen her and had told of his recognition in half a column of closely set type. From this newspaper, too, she had a clue as to the identity of her future husband. She found it in a note dealing with the activities of John Keddler.

"Mr. Keddler, who has been commissioned by the Della Garda family to assist the police in their search, is also on the track of Rex Jowder, an international swindler, supposed to be of British origin, who is wanted for frauds both in London and New York."

In a flash it came to her. That saunterer was Keddler—the man who was tracking her down, and her chosen husband was an international swindler! She wrung her hands in despair, and for a second wavered in her resolution.

Nevertheless, a sleepless night spent in a painful weighing of this advantage against that peril, brought her to the registrar's office.

She carried with her a large portion of the money she had brought from Italy— happily, in view of a flight from the tyrannies of Giocomi Della Garda, she had kept a considerable sum in the house. She realized with consternation that she had fixed no sum; would he be satisfied with the four thousand pounds she brought to him? But what did that matter? Once she was married, she would be free to communicate with her father, and he would satisfy the most extravagant demands of her husband.

There was only one fear in her heart as she walked through the pelting rain to the dingy little office. Would the man repent of his bargain—or worse, would he be unable to keep the appointment? Both aspects of her doubt were cleared as soon as she set foot in the outer lobby of the office. He was waiting, looking more presentable than she had expected. His raincoat was buttoned to the chin and she thought him good looking in the daylight.

"I had the certificate made out in your maiden name," he said in a low voice. "It makes no difference to the legality of the marriage."

She nodded, and opening a door, they stepped into a chilly-looking office, and to the presence of an elderly man who sat writing slowly and laboriously at a big desk.

He glanced up over his spectacles.

"Oh yes— Mr.— er—" He looked helplessly at the certificate he was filling. "Yes— yes, I won't keep you young people longer than a few moments."

They sat down and Mona utilized the respite.

"Here is the money," she whispered, and pushed a roll of notes into his outstretched hand.

He took the notes without any great display of interest and coolly slipped them into the pocket of his raincoat without troubling to count them.

Presently the old man rose and beckoned them.

As in a dream Mona Della Garda heard his monotonous voice, and then a ring was pressed upon her cold finger.

"That's that," said her husband cheerfully. "Now come along and have some food— you look half dead."

She stared from him to the golden circlet on her hand.

"But— but I don't want to go with you," she stammered in her agitation. "It was understood... I leave you now... but you must tell me where I can find you."

"Young lady," the man's voice was not unkind, "I have taken a few risks for you and you must do something for me. There is a gentleman waiting in the rain for me; he has been trailing me all the morning, and my only chance of escaping a disagreeable occurrence is in your companionship."

"But I don't want..." she began, and seeing his face, "very well, I will go with you to a restaurant."

He nodded and they went out in the rain together. Three paces they had taken when there was a sound like the sharp crack of a whip. Something like an angry bee in terrific flight snapped past Mona's face, and her husband leapt at a man who was standing half a dozen paces away. Again came the explosion, but this time the bullet went high, and in a second she was the terrified spectator of two men at grips.

The struggle did not last long. Three policemen came from nowhere and one of the men was seized. The other came back to her wiping the mud from his coat.

"I didn't think he was such a blackguard," he said.

She could only look at him in wide-eyed fear.

"Who was he?" she gasped.

"A fellow named Rex Jowder," said her husband; "he's been looking for me for a month."

"Then you...?"

"I'm John Keddler," he smiled, "and I think I've lost a good client. Come along and lunch and I'll tell you how you can get your divorce— I'm a bit of a lawyer, you know. Besides which I'd like to return all that money you gave me."

WHETHER or not, in the complicated terms of the Extradition Treaty between Italy and Britain, Mona Keddler could have been tried in London for a crime committed in Rome, no jurist would commit himself to say. John Keddler in his wisdom did not challenge a decision. He had an interview with his furious employer, who threatened and stormed— and went home. Mona he sent to a place of safety until the storm blew over; but the storm was the mildest of breezes.

The winter turned to spring and the spring to summer. The Italian Government notified all persons concerned that the Della Garda "affair" would be regarded as a lamentable family tragedy, for which nobody could be held liable; and the summer came to autumn again before Mona Keddler sailed for New York.

The question of divorce, in spite of many meetings at luncheon, dinner, and tea-tables, had never been properly discussed by either. It was not until the evening before she sailed for New York that Mona Keddler asked the question that had puzzled her so through the six months of her curiously pleasant married life.

"I cannot quite understand, Jack, why you did it," she said.

"Did what?"

She hesitated.

"Married me," she said. "It has practically ruined your career, for I don't see just how we can divorce one another without... well, without unpleasantness. The divorce laws are so horribly strict in England. And you are married—without a wife. It was selfish, miserably selfish of me to let you do it—but why did you?"

He was unusually grave.

"For the last reason in the world you would suspect," he said.

"But what?" she asked.

Here he was adamantine.

"I'll keep my mystery," he said, "but I'll write my reason in a letter, if you swear you will not break the seal of the envelope until your ship is on the high seas."

She promised, and he watched the  Olympic drift from the pier at Southampton with a little ache at his heart that nothing could assuage—watched until the trim figure on the promenade deck and the handkerchief she waved were indistinguishable from other figures and other wildly waving handkerchiefs.

Then he went back to town, heavy hearted, feeling that life was almost done with.

At that moment Mona Keddler was reading for the fortieth time the scrawled words in pencil:

"Because I loved you from the day I saw you rowing on the Lake of Como."

Her trunks were piled on the deck and she was watching the low-lying shores of France with a light in her eyes which no man had ever seen.

John Keddler had forgotten that the ship called at Cherbourg on the outward voyage.

_____________

20. The Man In The Golf Hut

HE WALKED down the stairs from the great man's study, and at every two steps he came to a halt as some new aspect of the situation appeared to him. He had an absurd desire to sit down on the heavily carpeted treads and take his time over his musings, and once or twice he did lean on the sloping and massive handrail to allow himself a physical ease that his mind might work with greater smoothness.

Of course, the whole thing was madness— stark lunacy, and the greatest, least reasonable, most extravagant of all the lunacies was John Jenner's sublime egotism. His name must be protected; his honor must be avenged; he must face the world without blush or reproach.

Bobby Mackenzie chuckled hysterically but internally.

There were seven more stairs to descend before he came to the broad landing from whence one reached the drawing-room and Leslie Jenner.

"Phew!" said Bobby, drew a handkerchief from his sleeve, and wiped his brow.

He went down two steps and lingered... down three more and halted, drumming the handrail with nervous fingers... then boldly took the last two together, strode across the landing, laid a resolute hand upon the doorknob, and found his knees shaking.

And yet he was a sturdy young man, good and healthy looking, practised in the ways of social intercourse and one who was not unused to meeting difficult situations. Once, in a shattered trench fronting the Hindenburg line, he had pushed nerve-shattered men into action with a ribald jest which had become an army classic. At this moment he did not feel humorous.

He turned the knob with an effort of will which would have nerved a condemned man to put the rope about his own neck.

A girl was standing against the fireplace, her back to him. She did not look round even when he banged the door. He saw her shoulders shake, and looked back at the door.

"Miss Jenner," he said huskily, "don't... don't...!"

She turned, and he gasped.

"You were... laughing?" he asked incredulously.

"Of course I was laughing," she scoffed. "Isn't it laughable— father's absurd scheme?"

He nodded very slowly. He was very fond of Leslie Jenner. Every man was fond of her— a wisp of a girl, light-treading, lissome, quick- thinking.

"I told you some of the story before you went up to father," she said. "I suppose he told you the rest?"

"I suppose he did," he admitted carefully.

"He told you that I had spent the night with an unknown man in the golf hut?" she said.

He nodded again.

"I'll tell you the rest." She settled herself on a fender-seat and pointed to the big arm-chair opposite to her. Bobby seated himself meekly.

"I'd been to the Winslows," she said; "they're great pals of father's. Old Winslow is one of the two gods of finance whom father worships; father is the other. They had a birthday party— one of their numberless children has reached twenty-one without mishap, and naturally they wanted everybody to rejoice and be exceeding glad. Daddy was going, but something colossal happened at the last minute— steel rose an eighth or lard fell a twenty-fourth or something— and naturally the world stopped revolving. I went alone— Winslows' place is about twelve miles out of town, and you have to cross a piece of waste land that is called Smoke Park. It is a desolation and an abomination—"

"Must you be scriptural?" pleaded Bobby. "I only ask because your parent has been—"

"The Book of Job?" interrupted the girl quickly—"'He hath made me a byword to the people, and I am become an open abhorring'— I thought he might. Well, to continue this strange story. Nothing happened at the dance except that I saw you flirting outrageously with Sybil Thorbern—"

"Flirting!" groaned Bobby. "Oh lord!— well, go on."

"Anyway, you were talking most earnestly to her— Jack Marsh pointed out that fact."

"He would," said Bobby. "I'm hardly likely to flirt with the wife of my best pal— but go on."

"Coming back at a little after midnight," she continued, "my car stopped. There was oil where gas should have been or gas where oil was due, I can't tell you. Anyway, Anderson, that's the chauffeur, disappeared into the interior of the bonnet and remained, uttering strangled moans from time to time, and emerging at intervals to apologize for the weather. You see, being a warm night I went in an open car, without hood or anything, and it began to rain like... like...."

"Hell," suggested the sympathetic man in the chair.

"Yes— thank you. I was getting wet through, and I remembered that there was a shelter— a small respectable hut which had been erected for golfers— we were on the course when we finally went dead. Without saying a word to Anderson, I tripped daintily along a path and found the hut. By this time it was raining— um— well, as you said. The door of the hut was closed, but it opened readily enough and I stepped inside. I was within hailing distance of the car, but the chauffeur had not seen me go, you understand?"

The other nodded.

"No sooner was I inside when I had a horrible feeling that there was somebody else there. I went spiney and shivery and made for the door. Before I could reach it somebody caught me by the arm. He was very gentle but very firm.

"'If you shout,' he said, in a disguised voice— I knew the voice was disguised— 'I'll knock your infernal head off!'"

"I see," said Bobby; "he was a gentleman."

"He wasn't bad," said the girl; "after that he was quite nice. He said that he hated doing this, but it was all for my good, and he hoped that I'd have the sense to see that he wouldn't have taken the step but for circumstances over which he had no control. In fact, it struck me that he was nervous himself."

"You couldn't see him?"

"No— it was absolutely dark. Then I heard the chauffeur's voice shout 'Are you there?' I was going to answer, but the man put his hand over my mouth. Then I heard the car drone down the road. Anderson thought I must have walked on, and went along to pick me up. I don't know what I said to the gentleman in the hut— I think I was offensive. He didn't seem to mind.

"'You will stay here till one-thirty,' he said, 'and then you can go home.'"

"The brute! You were terribly frightened I suppose?" said Bobby.

"No— the queer thing is that I wasn't," replied the girl. "I just recognized that this was an unusual person. I even made up stories about him."

"Like what?" asked the interested Bobby.

"Well, perhaps he had committed a murder, an old feud, you know, and that sort of thing, and was making his escape when I came in upon him. I was puzzled about the one-thirty. Why did he want me to stay so long? Presently, however, I got a clue. There was a sound of a car coming along the road, and I saw its head-lamps appear over the rise. It was from the same direction as I had come, and stopped at identically the same spot where my car had stopped. I heard somebody get down, then I heard a whistle. And this is where the queerest part of the adventure began. My jailer literally pushed me into a corner of the hut.

"'Don't make a sound,' he said quite fiercely, and then he walked to the door, opened it, and stepped out. I heard somebody say, 'Is that you?' and then my man replied in a horrid, gruff, growling voice: 'Nothing doing!' The other person made no reply, but I heard his feet scuttling back to the car, and presently the car moved on, working up to a terrific pace before it disappeared."

"What did your man do?" asked Bobby.

"He came back," said the girl, "and he was laughing as though at the greatest joke in the world. But it was no joking matter for him, for just as I started in to ask with all the dignity that I could command that he should escort me at once to my home, along came papa's car from the opposite direction and pulled up near the golf hut. I heard father's loud voice cursing Anderson.

"'Of course she's in the golf hut, you fool,' he said. 'Do you think a daughter of mine wouldn't have sufficient sense to come in out of the rain? Give me one of those head-lamps.'

"He took the lamp in his hand, and then my jailer began to get agitated.

"'Is he coming here?' he whispered. 'Who is it?'

"'My father,' I said very coldly.

"'Your father!'"

"There was a kind of horror in his voice that went straight to my heart," said Leslie. "He turned to me and asked: 'What is your name?' I told him, and I think he nearly dropped."

"He didn't realize how important a prisoner he had, I suppose?" suggested Bobby.

"Don't be sarcastic— at any rate, father was no sooner on the path leading up to the hut, when my ruffian threw open the door and bolted like a hare. I saw father's lamp turn in his direction, but daddy could only have caught a glimpse of his back. And then, Bobby," said the girl solemnly, "the fat was in the fire! Of course, if I'd had a glimmer of intelligence, I should have told father the truth and stuck to my story."

"Though it was an extremely improbable one," said Bobby gravely, and the girl nodded.

"It was improbable, but it was true. The improbability of the yarn, however, struck me first. My imagination was too keen. I pictured just how father would stand with his hands on his hips and his legs apart, glaring down at me, and I just didn't feel like explaining.

"'Who was that man?' demanded father, and his voice was so deceptively mild and reasonable that I thought I had an easy escape— and I just gave the name that came into my head!"

"Which happened to be mine," said Bobby sadly.

"Which happened to be yours," she agreed.

"Did it strike you," asked Bobby, "that you would have the devil of a job explaining me away— especially as I bolted? That you were spoiling my young career, blackening my fair name, and jeopardizing my prospects?"

"Not until afterwards," she confessed ruefully. "When I got home I went to daddy and told him the whole truth, and he said I was shielding you, that by heavens I should make amends, by heavens he had half a mind to shoot you, and by heavens such a large blot had never been splashed upon the family escutcheon— of course, I knew I was wrong. I know I am wrong now. I want you to forgive me, Bobby. It is pretty hard on me you know— I've still to tell Jack Marsh."

"Oh, Jack Marsh!" said the young man softly. "Is he an interested party in this business?"

She hesitated.

"In a way," she said; "you see, there's a sort of understanding—I'll tell you frankly, Bobby. I'm rather fond of Jack, and I'm rather afraid of him. I'm fond of you too, but I'm not afraid of you. You see?"

"I see," said Bobby, "and that is rather a good thing."

There was a certain significance in his words, and she looked at him sharply.

"Oh, by the way, you haven't told me what happened upstairs. Did father ask you to marry me?"

He nodded.

"He not only asked, he demanded."

"Poor boy," she smiled; "you had an awful difficulty in getting out of it, didn't you?"

"Not at all," said Bobby, brushing invisible crumbs from his knees, "not at all. In fact, I didn't get out of it."

"You didn't— get out of it?" she asked breathlessly, staring at him.

"No," said Bobby, "I didn't. I just said 'All right!'"

There was a long silence.

"What does that mean? Do you mean to say— that you accepted me?" she asked faintly.

Bobby nodded.

"There was nothing else to do," he answered, with a dismal smile. "He insisted upon the affair taking place at once, and was frightfully keen on a quiet wedding."

She had nothing to say, being literally speechless.

"It is extremely tough on me," said Bobby bitterly. "I have always looked forward to a wedding with bridesmaids and crossed swords in the porch, and 'Hark the Herald Angels Sing!' and all that sort of stuff. I was never so disappointed in my life as when he talked about a 'quiet wedding.'"

"But— but Bobby," she wailed, "you haven't really—"

He nodded.

"I had to do it for the sake of your dear old family escutcheon," he said. "I don't know very much about your escutcheon, but if it's anything like mine it wants electro-plating. Our family has been making mesalliances since the days of Robert Bruce."

Suddenly she realized the horrible fact that, quite unknown to her, she was engaged.

"You mustn't do it," she cried vehemently. "Bobby, you must go straight to father and tell him— tell him you weren't the man. The engagement must be broken off! I insist upon this! It is—it is awful!"

Bobby sniffed.

"Suppose you go to father and you tell him I'm not the man," he said; "after all, you're better authority than I am."

"But this is tragic," she said, pacing the room; "it is monstrous!"

"Oh, I don't know," said Bobby, sitting back in his chair and putting the tips of his fingers together; "I'm not so sure that it is so bad. Mind you, you're not the kind of girl I should have chosen."

"Bobby, you're insulting!"

"No, I'm not," he said; "honest to goodness, I'm not. I have a terrifically high opinion of you, and I should never have dared in my position to have offered marriage. Your father, however, insists upon the marriage taking place immediately, insists upon giving me £100,000 worth of shares in his shipping company—"

"He is going to pay you!" she gasped. "For marrying me! Bobby!" She swallowed something, then walked quickly to the door. "I'm to see father, and I'll tell him the whole hideous truth. I love him dearly and I would do anything to save him unhappiness, but I am not going to have my life wrecked—I'll tell him that."

"You might tell him something about my life being wrecked too," called Bobby from the chair.

Probably she did not hear him, for she was out of the room and half- way up the stairs before he had finished. She came to the door of the study and no farther. Three minutes later she made a solemn re-entry to the drawing-room, closing the door behind her.

"Bobby," she said soberly, "I dare not do it. Poor daddy! I just opened the door, and he was—" she choked.

"Yes?" said Bobby interestedly.

"He was sobbing as if his heart would break," gulped the girl.

"I shouldn't have thought £100,000 would have affected him like that," said Bobby thoughtfully.

"You brute!" she flamed. "Of course, it wasn't the money. It was me— me." She sat down, covering her face with her hands.

"It may have been me too," said the insistent Bobby; "after all, a nice man like your father would be awfully cut up at the thought that a life such as mine promises to be, and a career—"

"Your life and your career!" she interrupted angrily. "Oh, what a fool I've been, what a fool!"

Bobby did not interrupt, to agree or deny, and presently she grew calmer.

"I'll go through with it," she said wearily. "I could laugh if it were not so terrible."

"I couldn't even laugh," said Bobby; then: "I wonder if I could persuade him— I'd have had a try if you hadn't told me about Jack Marsh."

She swung round at him.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Just what I say," said Bobby coolly. "It was the mention of Jack Marsh which has sealed your young fate."

"Bobby!"

Bobby was standing up, his back to the fire, and his lips were tight pressed.

"We'll go through with this marriage," he said. "Maybe it is going to be pretty rotten for both of us, but I have an idea that it'd be worse for you if I didn't go through."

Another long silence, then:

"When shall it be?" she asked, averting her gaze.

Bobby scratched his chin.

"What are you doing next Thursday?" he demanded.

THREE WEEKS later they sat on opposite sides of a breakfast-table in a private sitting-room of the Hotel Maurice reading their several correspondence. Through the open window came the clatter and whirr of the traffic on the Rivoli and the indefinable fragrance of a spring-time which further advertised its presence in the masses of mimosa, the golden clusters of daffodils, and in the shallow bowls of violets occupying every table in the room.

The girl threw a letter across the table to her husband.

"You'd better read this," she said; "it is from Jack Marsh."

He took up the letter and read it from beginning to end, so slowly that she grew impatient.

"Oh, do hurry," she complained; "there's nothing in it. I think Jack is being very nice about the whole business."

"Very!" he handed the letter back. "If you take my advice, you'll write to him, and having thanked him like a little lady, tell him that under the circumstances it is inadvisable that you should meet again."

She could only stare at him.

"What on earth do you mean?" she demanded.

"You can add," he went on, "that your husband objects to the continuation of the acquaintanceship."

"I'll do nothing of the sort," said the girl, the color coming to her face, her eyes shining dangerously.

"It is my wish," said the lofty Bobby. "Forgive me if I pull out the autocratic stop, but I have asked precious little of you since we have been married, and it is not my intention to make any other demands upon you. This, however, I insist upon. After we have been married a few years I will allow you to divorce me, and you can take as your portion those beautiful shipping shares which your dear father bestowed upon me as a wedding gift. But, in the meantime, you will do as I wish. Jack Marsh is an undesirable acquaintance."

"From your point of view," she scoffed.

"From your point of view too, only you haven't the—only you don't know it," he said.

She checked an inclination to throw a fish-knife at his head, and sat back, her hands folded on her lap.

"I shall take not the slightest notice of anything you say," she said; "my friends are my friends, and they will continue to be such. Perhaps you would like to see my other letters? I had half a dozen from feminine relatives, congratulating me upon my marriage and envying me my happiness. Do you mind if I laugh?"

"Why not?" said the imperturbable Bobby. "I can show you letters that I've had from maiden aunts, infinitely more comic. I could show you, I've got it here somewhere," he searched among the pile of letters at his elbow, "an epistle from Uncle Angus, reminding me that the first-born of the Mackenzies is invariably called—"

She rose from the table.

"If you're going to be horrid, I will not stay," she said; "that sort of humor doesn't amuse me."

They came back to London a week later to all appearances a happily married couple, and London relieved them both of a particular strain, for here each had friends and peculiar interests which neither shared with the other. The marriage was the most unreal experience which had come either to Bobby or to the girl.

Bobby described the ceremony as being rather like a joint application for a dog license, and said that it left him with the same emotions that would have been aroused by an appearance before an Income Tax commissioner. The "honeymoon" had bored them both, save for the odd intervals when they found a common pleasure amongst the treasures of the Louvre.

London and its gaiety spelt relief.

A few nights after their return, Mrs. Vandersluis-Carter gave a dinner and dance. Neither Leslie nor Bobby were invited to the dinner, but both went on to the ball. About midnight Bobby, wandering about in search of his wife, found her sitting in an alcove head to head with Jack Marsh. Marsh was doing the talking, and by his doleful appearance Bobby gathered that he was telling the girl the sad story of his life.

She looked up and saw something in Bobby's face which she didn't like, and took a hasty farewell of her former fiancé.

"Will you go along, Leslie?" said Bobby. "I'll join you in a few minutes. I want to speak to Marsh for a while."

"Let us go together," she said nervously.

"If you please," said Bobby, and his voice was firm, "will you go and wait for me?"

Marsh was on his feet too, sensing trouble. Leslie still hesitated, and the matter might have passed off quietly only Marsh felt it incumbent upon him to say a few words.

"Leslie was just telling me," he said, with all the geniality at his command, "that—"

"My wife's name is Mrs. Mackenzie," said Bobby. "You can forget that she was ever called Leslie by you."

"Bobby, Bobby!" whispered his wife in terror of a scene.

"And I would add this," said Bobby, taking no notice of her, "that the next time I catch you speaking with her I will take you by the scruff of the neck and I will kick you into Kingdom Come. Does that appeal to you?"

Marsh was white with rage.

"You're a pretty good talker, Mackenzie," he said; "you ought to be in Parliament."

Bobby's answer was appallingly unexpected. Without drawing back, his fist shot out and Mr. Marsh went to the floor.

"I'm not going to explain anything to you," said Bobby to his agonized wife that night. "I'm only telling you that you must not meet Marsh or there will be trouble. In a few years' time, I promise you, you can divorce me—just as soon as it is decent. In the meantime, if you want to avoid this kind of unpleasantness, you must also avoid J. Marsh." It was unfortunate that Bobby's assault had been witnessed by the one person beside Marsh who hated him.

Sybil Thorbern had reason enough by her own code. Into the sympathetic ears of her husband she poured the story of Bobby's infamy. He, poor, good man, listened uncomfortably because he was Bobby's oldest friend.

"The man is a savage," she said, "absolutely undisciplined."

"Bobby isn't bad," protested her husband feebly. He was a ruddy man, twenty years his wife's senior, an out-of-doors man with a detestation of any crisis which involved mental effort. "Bobby is a little wild, Sybil, but if he hit Marsh, you can be sure that Marsh deserved it."

Whereupon, stung to indiscretion, Mrs. Thorbern blurted venom. She was a pretty woman and had many admirers. Her husband took almost a pride in the fact, but the kind of admiration which Bobby Mackenzie had expressed to his wife (as she told the story) left a cloud on his brow.

"When did this happen?" he asked.

"The night of the Winslows' ball, a few days before this fellow married Leslie Jenner."

"I can hardly believe it," he said, in a troubled voice, "and yet—" he remembered certain circumstances, a packed valise lying in the hall, the discovery of his wife in traveling clothes ready to go out after midnight, and the lame excuse she made.

"I was mad," she excused herself; "every woman has that spasm of madness, however much she loves her husband, and for a moment he carried me off my feet. And then I realized how sweet you were and how good and ... Douglas, I hadn't the heart...!"

She was weeping now passionately, but her hysteria was due more to fright than to contrition. For she had said too much, made her accusations too direct, and even in the exalted moment of her vengeance was panic- stricken at the possible consequences of her "confession."

"Douglas, you won't say any more about it, will you?" she pleaded. "I oughtn't to have told you."

"I'm glad you did," he said. "I remember—" he said slowly, "some bruises on your arm that night— did he do that?"

She nodded.

"Yes, yes, but you won't go any farther with this matter, will you, Douglas? Please, please, dear, for my sake!"

"I'll think about it," said Douglas Thorbern unsteadily, and went up to his room.

The next morning there was a meeting between two distressed women. Bobby was out when Mrs. Thorbern called at the hotel where the young people were staying, and Leslie, who knew her well enough and disliked her instinctively, received the wife of Bobby's best friend.

"Leslie, I want you to help me," she blurted. "I'm in an awful fix. I was very annoyed with Bobby, and I told my husband something about him and I'm afraid, I'm afraid...!"

"What did you tell your husband about Bobby?" demanded Leslie coldly.

The fact that she had parted from Bobby that morning in a spirit of the bitterest hostility did not lessen her feeling of antagonism toward Mrs. Thorbern. The woman hesitated.

"I— I told him that Bobby wanted to run away with me."

Leslie sat down suddenly.

"Bobby wanted to run away with you?" she repeated incredulously.

The other nodded.

"When did this happen?"

"On the night of the Winslows' ball, you remember?"

"Oh, I remember," said Leslie grimly; "I have a very good reason for remembering. So Bobby wanted to run away with you, did he?"

Again Mrs. Thorbern hesitated.

"I told my husband so, but—"

"Did you tell him the truth," asked Leslie, "or were you just lying?"

"I— well, there was some trouble with Bobby and me...."

"Were you speaking the truth or a lie?" asked Leslie again, and her voice was steady. "Personally, I know you were lying, because Bobby would not do so mean a thing."

"Naturally you would defend your husband," bridled Mrs. Thorbern.

"Naturally," said the girl calmly.

"He's a beast!" Mrs. Thorbern burst forth tearfully. "He has ruined my life!"

Her sincerity was unmistakable, and Leslie felt a little pang at her heart, but there was in her composition some of her father's shrewdness, his dogged insistence.

"Did Bobby ask you to run away with him?" She returned to the question and knew that her own future happiness was at stake, for she had dreamed of a future which did not exclude from her life the man who met her at meals and talked solemn nonsense about matrimony.

"Yes!" cried Mrs. Thorbern at last, and Leslie smiled.

"That, my dear girl, is a naughty, wicked lie!" she said. "Bobby never wanted you to run away with him— in fact, I'm going to ask him to tell me the story, because I am sure you are concealing something."

"All I want you to do is to warn Bobby to keep out of my husband's way." Mrs. Thorbern's voice held a menace. "You're horribly unsympathetic, Leslie; I did hope I should find a friend in you."

"What do you want me to do?" asked the girl; "agree with you that Bobby is a blackguard? I rather think that I know him better than you."

"I'm glad you have that illusion," said Mrs. Thorbern icily. "Your understanding of him was violently sudden; there was something rather mysterious about your marriage."

"Mysterious?" drawled the girl; "but aren't all marriages a little mysterious?"

Mrs. Thorbern shrugged her shoulders and was on her way to the door when Leslie stopped her with a cry. The older woman looked round and saw a light burning in the girl's eyes.

"Wait, wait," said Leslie excitedly, "this story about Bobby— this story you told your husband— when did you arrange to run away with him?" and then, as the other hesitated, she corrected, "when did you tell your husband that Bobby wanted to run away with you?"

"On the night of the Winslows' ball."

"And did your husband— have any idea that you were going to run away—with anybody?"

"He knew nothing," said Mrs. Thorbern, "he— oh, what is the good of telling you?"

"Oh please, please tell me," begged Leslie. "I am really anxious to know."

"Douglas found me dressed ready to go," said Mrs. Thorbern slowly, "and he— he— discovered my dressing-bag in the hall. I didn't expect him back that night. He had gone to Edinburgh on some business."

"And you were meeting— Bobby— somewhere near the Winslows?"

Again the hesitation.

"Yes, I was meeting him— him—"

"At any time?" asked the girl breathlessly, and Mrs. Thorbern looked at her with suspicion.

"I told my husband," she was careful to say, "that I was meeting Bobby between twelve and half-past one."

"I know," Leslie almost whispered the words; "you were meeting him at the golf hut in Smoke Park!"

It was Mrs. Thorbern's turn to show astonishment and uneasiness.

"You were meeting him at the golf hut before half-past one— and it wasn't Bobby you were meeting at all!"

"How do you know?" asked the woman harshly.

"It was Marsh— Jack Marsh— and Bobby knew you were going to run away, and he stopped you— that's what you mean when you say he wrecked your life!"

Mrs. Thorbern's breath was labored.

"Bobby is a sneak," she cried. "He listened, he listened! I'd have gone with Jack then, but he caught me by the arm— your charming Bobby— I had the bruise marks for days!"

"And he was waiting in the hut for you," said the girl slowly.

"Jack?"

Mrs. Thorbern looked at her open-mouthed, but the girl shook her head.

"No, Bobby," she said softly, "the splendid darling! It was he who was in the hut all the time waiting for you to keep your appointment and determined to save your husband's name. And that's why he wouldn't tell me— because it meant giving you away."

"How do you know he was there?" asked the woman.

"Because I was there too," said Leslie proudly.

Bobby came down to dinner that night, glum of face, and found his wife waiting for him in the hall.

"I'm in all sorts of trouble," he said. "I've had a perfectly rotten letter from an old pal of mine."

"He'll write you an apology in the morning," said the girl cheerfully.

He stared at her.

"How do you know? Are you going in for clairvoyance or something?"

"He'll write you an apology, because I told his wife she had to tell him the truth."

Bobby stopped dead.

"Look here, young person," he said, "what is the mystery?"

She smiled up in his face.

"Don't make a scene in public, Bobby," she said, "and do take that gloomy look off your face. I want to start off on my second honeymoon without a sad thought."

He stood gaping down at her.

"When do we start?" he asked hollowly.

"We'll go by the boat train that leaves Victoria at nine o'clock in the morning," she said.

He looked at his watch.

"What about the train that goes to Bournemouth tonight?" said he.

_______________

21. The Clue of Monday's Settling

IT DID NOT seem possible to May Antrim that such things could happen in an ordered world. She paced the terrace of the big house overlooking the most beautiful vale in Somerset, her hands clasped behind her, her pretty head bent, a frown of perplexity upon her pretty face.

Everything must go... Sommercourt... the home farms... the house in Curzon Street... her horses... she checked a sob and was angry with herself that it needed the check.

And why?

Because John Antrim had signed a paper—she thought such things only happened in romances. Her father's stability she had never questioned. She knew, as all the county knew, that he was a wealthy man beyond fear of disaster. And out of the blue had come this shattering bolt. It was incredible. Then she caught a glimpse of him. He was sitting in his favorite seat at the far end of the terrace, and at the sight of that dejected figure, she quickened her pace.

He looked up with a faint smile as she came up to him, dropping her hand on his shoulder.

"Well, May? Thinking things out, too!"

"I'm trying to," she said, "but I find it difficult to make a start. You see, dear, I don't understand business..."

"Sit down."

He made a place for her by his side.

"I'm going to tell you a story. Sounds formidable, eh? It begins on the 18th of March when the steamship Phoenician Prince left New York for Southampton. She is a vessel of 18,000 tons, one of two, the property of the Balte Brothers, Septimus Balte and Francis Balte being the partners who control the stock."

"Our Francis?" asked the girl in surprise.

"Our Francis," repeated John Antrim grimly.

He went on:

"On board were five million in British, French, and Italian notes, which had been redeemed from the American money market, and were being consigned to the Anglo-American Bank of London. These were packed in six tin cases, soldered air and water tight, and enclosed in stout wooden boxes. They were deposited in the strong-room, which is on the port side of G Deck. Its door opens into a cabin which is occupied in extraordinary circumstances by a quartermaster.

"On this occasion one of the owners was on board, Mr. Francis Balte, and because of the importance of the consignment he had the quartermaster 's cabin fitted up for his own use. During the day, and when Mr. Balte was absent from the cabin, it was occupied by his personal steward, Deverly.

"Francis kept the key of the strong-room in his possession. It never left him day or night. On the night of the 26th, the purser went to Francis with certain documents relating to the money. Francis opened the doors of the strongroom and the purser checked the packages; the door was closed and locked. There was no bathroom attached to the cabin, and Balte used an ordinary sponge bath which was brought in by the steward, together with a dozen small towels. These were used to lay on the floor, with the idea of saving the carpet, which had been newly laid— in fact, especially for Mr. Balte's comfort. The steward went in later, took away the bath and six towels, the other six being unused."

May frowned again. What had the towels to do with the narrative?

He must have interpreted her thoughts.

"I have interviewed the steward," he said, "and the loss of the towels seemed to him to be the queerest part of the whole proceedings. The next morning, as the ship approached the Needles, the purser came down, accompanied by half a dozen seamen. Balte was asleep, but he got up and handed the key of the strong- room to the purser, who opened the doors, to find— nothing."

He groaned.

"I should never have underwritten such a vast amount."

"You underwrite!" she gasped. "Is that why... you are responsible for the money?"

He nodded.

"It was stark madness," he said bitterly. "Ordinarily I should only have been saddled with a small proportion of the loss. But in a moment of insanity I accepted the whole risk. That is the story.

"The ship was searched from end to end— every inch of it. The steward was on duty in the alleyway outside— he sat with his back to the door, dozing he admits. It was impossible for anybody to get through the porthole, supposing, as was the first theory of the police, that a man let himself down over the side and scrambled through the port. The steward was full of the mystery of the towels— six towels and six boxes of notes! But in one respect he was very informative. He distinctly heard in the middle of the night a sound like that of a watch or clock being wound up. 'Creak, creak, creak'— he gave me a wonderful imitation."

"What on earth was it?"

"He heard it six times faintly but distinctly. He says so now, but he also says that he thought it might have been the creaking of gear— one hears strange noises on board ship. And we come again to the fact that six towels were missing. To my mind that is significant. The boxes were very heavy, by the way, many of the notes were of small denomination and had been subjected to hydraulic pressure in the packing to get them into as small a compass as possible. Roughly each box weighed 140 pounds with its iron clamps and bands."

May was interested.

"I never realized that paper money had weight," she said. "How many five pound notes could an ordinary man carry?"

"A strong man could carry £100,000 worth," replied Antrim," but he would not care to carry that amount very far. So there it is, my dear. Somewhere in the world is a clever thief in the possession of nearly a third of a ton of negotiable paper. And I am responsible."

They sat in silence until

"Daddy... why don't you see Bennett Audain?"

"Bennett?" he was startled, and then a smile played at the corner of his lips. "Bennett came to me just before I left town. He had heard from somebody that I was involved and, like the good fellow that he is, offered to help with... with money. I had an idea that I would see Francis."

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. Francis Balte she knew and did not dislike. She had met him at the house in town— a vague, cheery man, full of commonplace phrases.

"You mean that I should let Bennett take the case in hand!" asked John Antrim, with a little grimace. "I mistrust amateur detectives, and although I admit your cousin is clever— he is also the veriest amateur. Curiously enough the loss of the towels interested him more than the loss of the money."

Her mind was made up.

"You are to telephone Bennett that we are dining with him tonight," she said determinedly.

"My dear—"

"Daddy, you must do it— I feel that Bennett is the one man who can help."

THE REAL seven ages of man's conscious existence may be divided into the periods when he wishes to drive a locomotive, when he wants to be a detective, an Adonis, a soldier (or sailor), a millionaire, a prime minister, and a boy.

Bennett Audain never got beyond the second period, but he realized some of the others, for he had been a soldier, he was undoubtedly good-looking, and as unquestionably rich.

The right kind of obsession is an invaluable asset for a young man of great possessions, and to current crime he devoted the passionate interest of the enthusiast. He was both student and worker; he had as great a knowledge of the science which is loosely described as "criminology" as men who had gained fame in its exposition; he certainly understood the psychology of the criminal mind better than any police officer that ever came from Scotland Yard—an institution which has produced a thousand capable men, but never a genius. Indefatigable, patient, scientific in the sense that science is the fanaticism for veracity," which is the scientist's basic quality.

"It is queer that a fellow like you should take up psycho-analysis. I should have thought it was just a little off your beat." John Antrim looked critically through his glass of port.

"There are queerer things," said Bennett, with an amused glance at the girl. "It is queer, for example, that having taken a hundred-mile journey to consult me about the strong-room robbery, you haven't yet mentioned it."

The girl smiled, but the frown on her father's face deepened.

"Don't sneer at psycho-analysis, Daddy," she warned him. "Bennett will give us a demonstration— won't you, Bennett?"

They were dining together at Bennett Audain's house in Park Lane. The big room was dark save for the shaded lamps on the table and the soft glow that flushed the Persian rug before a dying fire.

Bennett had a nervous smile, charming in its diffidence.

"That is a popular label for a queer new system of mind-probing," he said. "I am not accepting or rejecting the Freudian philosophy, and I'm not enough of a doctor to understand his theory of neuroses. I merely say that those responsible for the detection and prevention of crime might, with profit, employ the theory of idea-association."

A gust of wind blew a pattering of rain against the curtained window.

"Humph!" said John Antrim, and looked at his watch.

Bennett laughed softly.

"I knew you would look at your watch when you heard the rain," he said, and the other stared. "Why?"

"Association of ideas," said the other calmly. "You told me when you came that you thought of leaving May in London and driving back alone to Sommercourt. Uncle John," he leant across, coming from the dusk of shadow into the yellow light, "if I could get the right man to question I would save you exactly a million!"

Antrim frowned horribly.

"I doubt it," he said, in his gruffest tone. "I have been caught. But I was a fool to underwrite the whole consignment— a mad fool. You can do nothing; the best and cleverest police officers are working on the case. "What could you do— by psychoanalysis?"

He leant back with a sigh.

"Who is the right man?" asked May eagerly.

Bennett, his eyes fixed on vacancy, did not answer at once.

"Where is Francis?"

The girl started, as well she might, for the question was shot at him with unexpected violence.

"I'm sorry— only I had an idea"— Bennett Audain was apologetic to a point of panic. "I— I get a little explosive at times, which is terribly unscientific "

"But is human," smiled the other.

John Antrim got up.

"I wonder if he is at the Elysium Club?"

"There is a 'phone over there." Bennett pointed to the shadows. "It is rather late, but perhaps he'll come round."

Antrim hesitated. Before he could make up his mind what to do, May was 'phoning.

Apparently Balte was at the club.

"He's on his way," she smiled; "poor soul, he was most embarrassed to hear my voice."

May returned to the table.

"Heavens, what a night! You can't return to Sommercourt, Daddy."

The rain was swishing savagely at the windows, the ceaseless broom-like sweep of it across the panes, the faint tick of the enamel clock on the high mantelpiece, and the wheezy breathing of Bennett's old terrier, stretched before the fire, were the only sounds in the room until Balte came with a clatter.

He was a stout man of thirty-five, fair and ruddy of face, and he brought into the shadowy room something of his own inexhaustible vitality.

"Glad to come, Miss Antrim." He stopped dead at the sight of John Antrim. "Pretty wild night, eh— I'm blessed if it has stopped blowing since I arrived. Old Sep writes that he was in Torquay yesterday, and the sea was absolutely breaking over the front— tramcars drenched and wrecked. Funny, being wrecked in a tramcar."

He put his red hands to the blaze and rattled on.

"Dreadful thing, eh, Miss Antrim! "What's the use of the police— eh? What's the use of 'em? Want men like Audain, full of up-to-date ideas. Wish it had been anybody but you, Antrim." He shook his head mournfully.

"Ever heard of Freud?" asked Bennett, his chin on his clasped hands, his absent gaze on the fire.

"Freud— no. German, isn't he? Nothing to do with the Germans, old boy, after that beastly war. They sunk three of our ships, by gad! Who is he, anyway?"

"A professor," said Bennett lazily, "and an authority on the mind. Why don't you sit down, Balte?"

"Prefer standing, old boy. Stand and grow better— eh, Miss Antrim? What about this Hun?"

"He interprets dreams "

"Ought to be in the Police, that's where he ought to be—interpreting some of those pipe-dreams they have," he chuckled.

"I will tell you what I am getting at," said Bennett and explained.

May held her breath, sensing the deadliness of the play.

Mr. Balte was amused.

"You say one word and I'll tell you a word it suggests?" he said. "That's a kid's game— used to play it when I was so high. You say 'sugar,' I say 'sweet'; next fellow says 'orange,' and so forth."

"You see, Mr. Balte," interrupted May, "Bennett thinks he can get at your sub- conscious mind. He believes that he can even tell what happened when you were asleep."

Mr. Balte pulled at his nose and looked down. He was thinking. He wondered if Bennett Audain could get at his mind about May Antrim, and could put into words all that he had dreamed yet had not dared to say, all that he had schemed for. The thought caught his breath. He loved her so, this girl whose beautiful face had never left his vision; he had dared so much for her and she never knew. To her he was one of the thousands who served as a background of life.

"Try, old boy," he said huskily; "I don't believe in it, but if you can get hold of any information that will help Mr. Antrim— you don't know how I feel about that— go ahead."

"Sit down."

Mr. Balte obeyed. His china-blue eyes were fixed on his interrogator.

"Ground," said Bennett unexpectedly.

"Eh— er— er— earth," responded the other.

"Dig."

"Garden."

"Hole."

"Er—I nearly said 'devil,' " chuckled Mr. Balte. "This is funny— like a game"

But it was an earnest game with Bennett Audain. Presently:

"Shares," he said.

"Slump," it came promptly, one word suggested by the other. Balte added: "Everything is slumping just now, you know..."

They went on quickly. Bennett recited the days of the week.

"Monday?"

A grimace— the faintest— from Balte.

"Er-unpleasant— starting the week, y'know."

Bennett shot out the days.

"Friday!"

"Calendar— thinking of a calendar, y'know."

"Key?"

"In door."

He got up.

"A silly game, Audain." He shook his head reproachfully. "Admit it. I can't play games— too worried. Poor old Sep is half off his head, too."

"Where is Septimus?" asked Bennett.

"At Slapton— pike-fishing. Hmm, how people can sit in a punt all day... fishing. Well, what are you going to do, Audain? Can you help us? The police— pshaw!"

"Will you tell me this?" asked Bennett. "Are you a heavy sleeper?"

The stout man shook his head.

"Do you sleep late in the mornings?"

"No; up at six, bright and jolly." He paused. "Now I come to think of it, I was very sleepy that morning. Drugs, eh... do you think I was drugged— chloroform and that sort of thing?"

"No," said Bennett, and let him go.

"Well?" asked the girl when the door had closed upon the visitor.

"Stay in town for a day or two," said Bennett Audain.

At seven o'clock the next morning he called a justly annoyed police inspector from his bed. Fortunately Bennett knew him very well.

"Yes, Mr. Audain; his trunks were searched. Mr. Balte insisted."

"How many trunks had he in the cabin?"

The inspector, cursing such matutinal inquisitiveness, answered:

"Four."

"Four? Big ones?"

"Yes, sir; pretty big and half empty."

"Did you smell anything peculiar about them?"

The inspector wagged his head impatiently. His legs were getting cold and the bed he had left was entrancingly warm.

"No, sir, I did not smell them."

"Good," said Bennett's cheerful voice.

"The worst of these amateur detectives is that they jump all ways at once," said the inspector as he shuddered back to bed.

"M'm," said his wife, on the border-line of wakefulness.

Bennett, at his end of the wire, looked out of the window into the gray moist morning on to the stark, uneasy branches of park trees.

The hour was 7.5. Essential people had not yet turned in their beds; even the serving-maids and men-servants had scarcely blinked at the toilsome day. Bennett Audain went back to the remains of his breakfast and wished, when he had had Francis Balte under examination, he had said, "Paint." Mr. Balte would surely have responded "See."

Mr. Balte had a large house at Wimbledon. He was a bachelor, as was his brother. He was a simple man, as also was his brother. They had inherited considerable property at a time— the last year of the war— when property had a fictitious value. The cream of their father's estate had been swallowed by the Treasury in the shape of death duties. Their skimmed milk was very thin and blue in the days of the great slump. Stockholders in Balte Brothers Incorporated Shippers— and they were many— watched the shrinking of profits indignantly. The last general meeting of the Company had been a noisy one. There was one fellow in particular, a bald man with spectacles, Francis had noted miserably from his place on the platform— a violent, intemperate man, who had talked of a change of directors, and he had received more "hear-hears" than had Francis when he had expressed the pious hope that trade would improve and shipping return to its old prosperity.

It was Sunday morning, and Francis sat in his library. It was a room containing many shelves of books which he had never read, but the bindings of which were in the best taste. His elbows were on the table, his fingers in his untidy hair, and he was reading. Not the Sunday newspapers, his usual Sunday's occupation.

These were stacked, unopened, on the little table by the easy-chair. It was a book, commonly and commercially bound, and the more he read the more bewildered he grew. A little shocked also, for this volume was embarrassingly intimate.

Thus his brother found him. Septimus, lank and bent and short-sighted, glared through his powerful glasses at the studious figure and sniffed.

"Got it?" he asked.

Francis closed the book with a bang.

"It is all medical stuff," he said. "Audain is a bit cranky. Going?"

The question was unnecessary. Septimus was muffled to the chin, his fur gloves were under his arm, and his big racing car was visible from the library window.

"If there is anything in this Audain stuff, let me know. I've read something about psychoanalysis— I thought it was for shell-shocked people. So long."

"When will you be back?"

"Tuesday night. I've written the letter."

"Oh."

Francis stirred the fire thoughtfully.

"Create a bit of a stir your resigning from the Board," he said; "wish..."

"Yes?"

"No, I don't. I was going to say that I wished it was me. Better you. Everybody knows you're in bad health.... Warm enough?"

"Ay," said his brother, and went out pulling on his gloves.

Francis did not go to the window to see him off. He bent over the fire uncomfortably, jabbing it unreasonably.

It occurred to him after a long time that his brother had not gone. He put down the poker and shuffled across to the window— he was wearing slippers. There were two cars in the road, bonnet to bonnet, and a man was standing by the seated Septimus. They were talking.

"Audain," said Francis, and meditated, biting his lip. Presently Septimus went off and Bennett Audain came briskly up the path. Francis admitted him.

"Energetic fellow!" he cried. His voice was an octave higher than it had been when he spoke to his brother, his manner more virile and masterful. He was good cheer and complacency personified. "Come in, come in. You saw old Sep? Poor old chap!"

"He tells me that he is resigning from the shipping business." Bennett was warming his hands.

"Yes; he's going to the south of France, old Sep. Going to buy property. Queer bird, Sep. But he was always a land man— farms, houses... anything to do with land... very shrewd."

Bennett glanced at the table, and the other anticipated.

"Interpretation of Dreams— eh?" he chuckled. "You've got me going on Freud.

Don't understand it. Of course I understand what he says about dreaming and all that... but that game of yours... eh?"

Bennett changed the subject, Francis wondering.

"Yes, it is not a bad house," he agreed amiably. "A bit bourgeoise, but we're that kind. Quaintly constructed— would you like to see over it?"

A home and its attractions can be a man's weakness. In a woman, its appointments are the dominating values , architecture means no more than convenience. And Bradderly Manor was a source of satisfaction to Francis. They reached the wind- swept grounds in time, because there was a workshop in which old Sep labored. It was to him what laboratory, studio, music-room, model dairy, and incubatory are to other men. It was a workshop, its walls lined with tool cabinets. There was a bench, an electric lathe, vices, drills... an oak panel with its unfinished cupids and foliage testified to the artistry and workmanship of Septimus Balte.

"Always was a wonderful workman, old Sep," said Francis in admiration. "Do you know, he was the inventor of a new depth charge that would have made his name if the war hadn't finished "

"That's it, is it?"

Francis looked round.

Bennett had taken from a shelf a large paint can. It had not been opened. The manufacturer's red label pasted on the top of the sunken lid was unbroken.

"That's what?"

Bennett held the can for a second and replaced it.

"Luminous paint," he said. "Lefvre's— he's the best maker, isn't he?"

Francis Balte said nothing. All the way back to the house he said nothing. Bennett followed him into the library and watched him as he filled a pipe from a jar which he took from the mantelpiece.

"Well?" he said miserably. Bennett saw tears in his eyes.

"The two things I am not sure about are," Bennett ticked them off on his fingers: "One, was John Steele the cause? Two, why the towels?"

The stout man puffed furiously and all the time his eyes went blink, blink, blink.

"Friday— Calendar; that's how you knew. You wouldn't think I'd fall so easily. But you must have known all about it or why should you know I meant the Racing Calendar?"

"I guessed. I did not know that you and your brother had a stud of horses and raced them in the name of John Steele. That was easy to discover. When I decided that it was the Racing Calendar you meant, the official journal of the Jockey Club, I went to the publishers and got the register of assumed names."

The pipe puffed agitatedly.

"No... we lost money on racing, but that wasn't it; bad business... over-valuation of assets. I wonder what she will think about me..."

He sank down in a chair, the pipe dropped from his mouth, and he wept into his big red hands.

"I have no interest in punishment," said Bennett Audain, and May Antrim, watching the pain in his delicate face, nodded. She was beginning to understand Bennett Audain.

"In solutions of curious human puzzles, yes," said Bennett, as he sipped his tea and noted joyously the first splashes of green that had come to the park trees in one night, "but not in punishment. If you like to put it that way, I am unmoral. Your father received his money?"

"Of course he did, Bennett— the six boxes arrived at his office yesterday morning."

Bennett laughed very softly. "It is good to be alive when the buds are breaking, May. I feel a very happy man. Suppose you wanted a clockwork contrivance made, where would you go to get the work done? Look up the Classified Directory. No mention of clockwork- makers or makers of mechanical toys. Yet there are ten people in London who do nothing else. There is a man named Collett in Highbury who made a sort of time- bomb during the war. I went to him after I had learnt that Septimus Balte was working on war inventions. I found that by patient inquiry. It is queer how soon people have forgotten all things pertaining to the war."

"But why did you inquire about clockwork at all?" asked the girl.

"Creak!" mocked Bennett. "Did your father tell you how the steward had heard a noise, six noises, as of a watch being wound? Well, I found Mr. Collett a secretive, furtive man, but reasonable. He had made a simple water-tight machine. It operated a large spool which was held in position by a catch and released three hours after it had been set. Is that clear?"

May nodded.

"Why water-tight?" asked Bennett. "The spool itself was outside, and presumably was designed to work in the water. Attached to the steel box containing the mechanism were two iron bolts, one at the top above the spool, one at the bottom. Now what was attached to the spool? Nothing but ten fathoms of stout light, cord, a double length of it. Now do you see?"

"No," admitted the puzzled girl.

"Then I will explain further. At the end of the cord was a small cork buoy, probably covered with canvas and certainly treated with luminous paint. The towels—" he laughed,

"I ought to have thought of the use to which they would be put, but I had not seen the cabin. And the strange thing is that when I put myself in the place of Francis, it never occurred to me that if boxes weighing 140 pounds and clamped with iron were pushed through a porthole, the brass casings of the port would be scratched— unless the boxes were wrapped in cloth of some kind."

"Then he threw the boxes into the sea!" gasped May, sitting back.

Bennett nodded.

"First he took the buoys and attachments from his trunks, then he wound up the mechanism, threw that and the buoy out of the porthole—the buoy being attached by a short length of chain to the under-bolt of the clock-work case — then he heaved up the money-box and pushed that after. They sank immediately. No belated passenger leaning over the rail would see a luminous buoy floating back. Nobody saw those buoys but Septimus, waiting in his motor- boat twelve miles south of Slapton Sands. And he did not see them until the three hours passed and, the spools releasing the buoys, they came to the surface. Then he fastened a stouter rope to one of the double cords and rove it through the bolt.... He salvaged all six boxes in an hour, which isn't bad for a sick man."

She shook her head helplessly.

"How... why... did you guess?"

"Guess?" Bennett's eyebrows rose. "It wasn't a guess. Who else would have stolen the boxes? In fiction the thief is the last man you suspect. In fact, the thief is the last man you'd acquit. The police always suspect the man who was last seen near the scene of the crime, and the police are generally right. I knew half the Balte secret when the word 'key' suggested 'wind' and 'Monday'— the day racing men settle their bets— suggested 'unpleasant'."

He looked at his watch.

"Francis and 'poor old Sep' should at this moment be boarding the Rotterdam at Plymouth," he said.

"But why... he had heavy losses, but he would not have been ruined. Did he want the money so badly "

"There is a woman in the case," said Bennett gravely. "Somebody he dreamt about and planned for."

"Poor man!" said May softly. There were tears in her eyes, he noticed, and remembered Francis Balte's words: "I wonder what she will think about me?"

End

Table of Contents

Introduction

1: The Lady of Little Hell

2: The Girl from the Ether

3: Fate and Mr. Hoke

4: "Declared to Win"

5: The Cross of the Thief

6: Bill and the Tappers

7: The Praying Girl

8: The Custody of the Child

9: The Prison-Breakers

10: Findings Are Keepings

11: The Jewel Box

12: The Undisclosed Client

13: Via Madeira

14: The Compleat Criminal

15: Red Beard

16: Bulfox Asleep

17: The Cat Burglar

18: The Pick-Up

20: The Man in the Golf Hut

21: The Clue Of Monday’s Settling