THE EDGAR WALLACE

COLLECTION

Short Stories of Edgar Wallace

Volume 6

2015

Contents

Introduction

1: The Ghost of Down Hill

2: The Queen of Sheba’s Belt

3: The Black Grippe

4: The Governor Of Chi-Foo

5: On The Witney Road

6: Mother O' Mine

7: The King's Brahm

8: The Greek Poropulos

9: Kid Glove Harry

10: The Treasure Of The Kalahari

11: The Weakling

12: The Perfect Gentleman

13: The Stretelli Case

14: The Looker And The Leaper

15: The Man Who Never Lost

16: Code No. 2

17: Chubb Of The "Slipper"

18: The Man Who Killed Himself

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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.

These non-series stories are collected in this series of volumes.

Numerous collections of Edgar Wallace's short stories were published in his lifetime, often with a great deal of overlap in content. This volume contains the stories from The Ghost of Down Hill and The Governor of Chi-Foo, both 1929, eliminating any duplicates.

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1: The Ghost Of Down Hill

1: The Man Who Wanted Pass-Books

IT was, of course, a coincidence that Margot Panton was the guest of Mrs. John Staines on the night of the visitation; it was equally a coincidence that she travelled down to Arthurton by the 4.57 in the same railway coupé as Jeremiah Jowlett. And yet it was as natural that she should break her journey in town to accept the hospitality which her old nurse could offer her, as it was that Jeremiah and she should be fellow passengers by the only fast train which Jerry always took, summer and winter, unless he was away from London or was working up evidence against some malefactor; for Jerry was a barrister, and had a desk in the office of the Public Prosecutor.

"My dear," said Martha Staines in genuine admiration, "I should never have known you!"

Margot, a slight, pretty figure curled up in an armchair before the fire, raised her tea cup in warning.

"Don't tell me I'm growing pretty Martha!" she said solemnly. "Ever since I can remember I have been growing pretty and have never quite grown."

"Well, you've got there now Margot," Martha Staines shook her head and sighed.

The girl's mother had died eight months before, leaving her orphan child in the guardianship of an absent brother-in-law. Martha recalled the sad, thin face of the woman she had served for so many years and those happy days at Royston when Margot had been the most angelic of babies.

"Your uncle is back, then, Margot?"

The girl nodded, a gleam of amusement in her eyes.

"It is rather fun having a guardian you cannot find!" she said. "I wonder what he will do with me when the travel fever comes on him again?"

Martha shook her head. She was a stout, good-looking woman of forty-five, and her prosperity had neither spoilt her humour nor her manners.

"Where has he been this time?" she asked.

Margot took a letter from her bag and consulted it.

"The Upper Amazon," she said. "I'll read you the letter:

Dear Margot,

I was grieved to learn on my return that my poor sister had passed away. By the letters which I found waiting from your lawyers I see that I am appointed your guardian. I hope you will not find Arthurton a bore. I am rather an old fogey and am interested in very little outside of geology and spiritualism, but you shall be your own mistress. I shall expect you on Tuesday evening.

Your loving uncle,

James Stuart.

"Spiritualism," said Martha thoughtfully. "That sounds lively."

The girl laughed and put down her cup upon the table. She was at an age when even the supernatural phenomena of life were amusing.

Mr. Staines came in a few minutes later. He was a bluff man, red and jovial of face and stout of build. He brought with him a faint fragrance of pine, and the dust of the saw-mill lay like power on his boots.

"It's a lovely part of the country you're going to, Miss Panton," he said, as he stirred his tea. "I know it very well. What is the name of your uncle?"

"Stuart," said the girl, "Mr. James Stuart."

He nodded.

"I know his house, too; a big place at the foot of the hill with a lovely garden— in the proper season. It will be well under snow now."

He scratched his chin.

"Yes, I remember him, a very close gentleman. He had the name of being a little eccentric, if you don't mind my saying so, miss."

"He's a spiritualist, Staines" said Martha.

"A spiritualist, eh?" Mr. Staines chuckled.

"Well, he's got plenty of spirits to practise on at Arthurton. Maybe he'll have a go at the Ghost of Down Hill Farm."

"That sounds thrilling," said the girl, wide-eyed. "Do tell me about the Ghost of Down Hill Farm, Mr. Staines."

"Well, I've never seen it myself— mother, I'll have another cup of tea— but I've heard yarns about it," said Mr. Staines. "In the first place, there isn't a Down Hill Farm. There used to be about eighty years ago, but it's built on now, and before that there was a priory, or a monastery, or something. That is where the ghost comes from. I took the trouble to read up the history years and years ago," he explained almost apologetically. "That is why I know the dates. In 1348 the country, and the continent too, was visited by a terrible plague which took off half the inhabitants of England. It broke out in the Priory, being carried to Arthurton by a monk who came from Yorkshire, and when the villagers heard that they had the plague they put a guard round the place and would allow no one to go in or come out. All the monks died except one, and he used to come out every night and walk round the building. After a time he died too. He is the Ghost of Down Hill— they have dropped calling it a farm— and I've met old men who say they have seen him."

"How lovely!" said the girl ecstatically. "Do you think that he'll walk for me?"

"Well, miss," said Staines with a twinkle in his eye, "if he wouldn't walk for you, he'd walk for nobody," and his laugh shook the decanters on the side-board.

Suddenly he became serious and turned to his wife.

"Did I tell you about that case at Eastbourne, mother?" he asked.

"No, my dear, you didn't," said his wife, busy at the table clearing up the tea things.

"Did you ever hear me speak about a man named Wheeler?"

Mrs. Staines shook her head.

"Well, I have, lots of times," said Staines. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. He's in the surveyor's office at Eastbourne now, but I knew him years ago when he was clerk of the works for one of the biggest architects in the South of England. A very nice fellow."

"Well, what about him?" asked Mrs. Staines.

"Listen to this."

Mr. Staines fumbled in his pocket and produced a pair of pince-nez which he fixed to his nose, then unfolded the evening paper, and after a search:

"'An extraordinary happening is reported from Eastbourne. Mr. Joseph Wheeler, of the Borough Surveyor's office, was sitting in his room on Sunday night, the family being at church, when a masked man appeared and, holding up Mr. Wheeler at the point of a revolver, demanded that he should produce his bank-books or any other personal accounts he might have. Fortunately Mr. Wheeler had the books handy and produced them under protest. The intruder then ordered his victim to stand with his face to the wall whilst he examined the pass-books which had been produced. The examination lasted five minutes at the end of which time the masked man disappeared as suddenly as he came."'

"Well, now, what do you think of that?" said Mrs. Staines, properly impressed.

"I thought it was going to be quite exciting," said the girl disappointed. "He should at least have left a message written in blood!"

She went to bed early that night. She had had a tiring journey and Mrs. Staines, leaving her husband to go to his office to work out the day's accounts, followed her example.

The Staines's house stood at the entrance of one of the timber yards which John Staines, in his affluence, had acquired. A one-story brick building built in the yard formed the headquarters of his thriving business and it was to his own office that he repaired to enter up the personal transactions.

He did not hear the door open but he felt a cold draught of air and looked around. A man was closing the door behind him as he looked and Mr. Staines jumped to his feet, for the head of the intruder was enveloped in a monkish cowl and two hard, bright eyes glared at him through the vertical slits which had been cut in the mask. More alarming still was the automatic pistol which he held in his hand.

"Don't shout, and don't attempt to get away. Pull down those blinds," ordered the man; and Staines obeyed drawing down the blue linen blinds and shutting out all view of the interior from the yard.

"I want your pass-books, bank-books and private ledgers for the past ten years," said the stranger.

"Look here," began Mr. Staines.

"Look nowhere," snarled the man, "Do as you are told, damn you!"

Mr. John Staines was a wise man and albeit resentfully, obeyed. He stacked the little brown covered books on the table, taking them from his safe.

"Now stand against the wall and do not look around," said the intruder and again Mr. Staines obeyed.

He heard the rustle of turning leaves but he did not turn his head. Five minutes passed and a chair was pushed back.

"Stand still," said the stranger.

The door opened and closed rapidly, a few seconds later he heard the crash of the wicket gate and sat down heavily in his chair.

"Well, I'm— !" said Mr. Staines, and his profanity was pardonable in the circumstances.

2:  Jeremiah Obadiah Jowlett

IN a small, gloomy office overlooking Whitehall, Mr. Jeremiah Jowlett collected together the dossiers he had been examining, tucked them under his arm and sprinted for the room of his chief. Lord Ilfran looked up as his subordinate came in.

"Hullo, Jerry, haven't you gone?" he asked.

"No, sir," said Jerry unnecessarily and put the envelopes before the elder man. "I think we can prosecute in the cases of Myer and Burton," he said "but there does not seem to be a case against Townsend."

Lord Ilfran nodded.

"Is there any fresh news?" he asked.

"None sir, of any importance. I see in the newspapers that an attempt has been made to rob the strong rooms of the mail steamer Carmuria, but the thieves seem to have bungled it very badly, and the men are in custody at Southampton."

"There are no good strong room robbers left," said Lord Ilfran in a tone which suggested that he regretted the circumstances. "Ever since the Flack gang were laid by the heels that branch of crime has become uninteresting. What is this I see," he asked, "about the hold-up of a wood merchant in Camberwell?"

"Oh, yes," Jerry was leaving but turned back. "That is extraordinary. There was a man held up in similar circumstances at Eastbourne two or three days ago, and now this man Staines has been victimized."

"Nothing was stolen?" asked Lord Ilfran.

"Nothing at all, apparently," replied Jerry. "As in the previous case, the burglar merely asked to see the state of the pass-books and the private ledgers of Mr. Staines."

"Extraordinary!" murmured Lord Ilfran looking out of the window. "Most extraordinary! Nothing was stolen you say?"

"Nothing at all," said Jerry, who threw a glance at the clock above the head of the Public Prosecutor.

"Well, get off," said Lord Ilfran with a smile. "I suppose you are catching your 4.57. What on earth makes you live at Arthurton?"

"Come down and spend Christmas with me, sir" said Jerry with a smile, "and I think you'll understand."

The taxi-cab that took him to Victoria was a slow one and he had to race to the platform and even then only arrived as the train was on the move. The guard opened the door of a first-class carriage and he jumped in and would have fallen, but a little hand thrust out in alarm saved him.

"I am so awfully sorry," said Jerry, with that smile of his which had disarmed so many of his critics.

"I think the train jerked," said Margot Panton primly.

"I'm almost sure it jerked," said Jeremiah, and then he chuckled and the girl laughed too.

It was all very improper, of course, and very unusual. Margot had been warned since she could understand never to speak to strange men in railway carriages, and never under any circumstances to travel alone with one. And yet before the train had reached Clapham Junction, Jerry had told her that his favourite aunt's name was Maud and she had explained the inner workings of the perfect system at the school she had left.

"Arthurton!" he said in delight when she told him her destination. "Good lord, I'm going there, too. Where are you staying?"

"With my guardian, Mr. James Stuart."

"Is that so?" he said, raising his eye brows. "Why, we're neighbours! Mr. Stuart is the antiquarian or explorer, or something, isn't he? I know he lives abroad."

"I know very little about him," she replied, "and I don't remember having seen him. He is the only relative I have in the world," she said simply.

Jerry was more than ordinarily interested and plied her with questions as to her length of stay until, laughingly, she changed the subject.

"If you live at Arthurton—"

"As I swear I do," he said.

"Don't interrupt. If you live in Arthurton you can tell me something I am dying to hear about."

"I have a bronze medal for saving life," he said modestly. "I must tell you this in case nobody else does. I am willing to earn another one."

"Have you ever seen the Ghost of Down Hill?" she asked.

He fell back in his seat and shrieked with laughter.

"I am the Ghost of Down Hill," he said, and she stared at him. "At least I'm the only ghost that's ever haunted Down Hill. My house is built, if not upon the site, at least upon the land which the old monks owned and which the proprietor of Down Hill Farm, which was burnt a hundred years ago, included in his demesne."

"And you've never seen the ghost?" she asked.

"I've never seen the ghost, and Minter— he is my valet, cook and general manager— hasn't seen a ghost either."

He hesitated and then:

"No, we've seen nothing."

"You were going to say except," she began.

He smiled.

"Except that two or three nights ago we saw a strange figure in the garden, but it was probably a poacher setting a snare. There are thousands of rabbits on that part of the Downs."

"You'll love the place," he said as he helped her to alight at Treen Station, "and I hope your uncle is going to invite me to tea and tennis. You've got a wonderful court and I have no court at all. And there is your uncle. Shall I introduce you?" he asked whimsically.

The man who walked towards her was a little above middle height and strongly built. Apparently he was in the region of sixty but he was as straight as a ramrod. The short-clipped white beard, the shaggy eyebrows and the large nose gave her the impression of an old eagle; an impression which the bright deep-set eyes helped to strengthen. He gave her smile for smile as he met her and took her little hand in his big, hairy paw. Though it was bitterly cold and the snow lay thick on the roads, he wore no overcoat nor gloves and the soft white shirt was opened at neck to expose the corded throat.

"You're Margot," he said, and brushed her cheek with his lips. "How do you do, Mr. Jowlett. This is a neighbour of ours, Margot."

His manner was brusque, his voice gruff, but his attitude was genial. He had a little car waiting at the station yard. It was parked alongside Jerry's one extravagance, a long-bonneted racing car, the possession of which he excused on account of its hill-climbing qualities.

"It is my elevator," he said. "I live on the first floor of the world, Miss Panton, a position which gives me the happy feeling of being able to look down upon my fellow-citizens."

They gave him a minute's start and he disappeared silently across the snowy carpet.

James Stuart sat at the wheel and his little car followed at a respectable distance. He did not speak to the girl and she had time to take stock of this new relative who had come into her life. He had the glamour of relationship to her mother, but she felt that she could love this grim old man, upon whose face she thought she detected the lines of suffering.

Mr. Staines had not exaggerated the prettiness of her new home. It was an old house, creeper-grown, and stood in extensive grounds. Even under its white, fleecy covering, which lay in thick pads on the spreading cedars, she saw the beautiful possibilities of the sleeping garden.

"I wonder you can ever leave this place," she said as she stood looking through the French windows of the drawing-room.

"It's pretty," he said shortly.

"Is there anything in Brazil as pretty?"

He shook his head.

"Nothing," he answered shortly.

Her own apartment was a lovely large room overlooking the garden and had the appearance of having been recently furnished. She discovered later that this was the fact and that the furniture had only arrived that day from Eastbourne.

She found her uncle amiable enough at dinner. He had a fund of sardonic humour which kept her amused and he took, moreover, a surprisingly broad view of men and things.

"There isn't much young company for you in Arthurton," he said. "A girl like you should have plenty of dances and similar nonsense. I'll invite young Jowlett over to dinner to-morrow night if you like."

She did like very much.

"In the season there's plenty of social life in Eastbourne, and it is only fourteen miles away, and I'm thinking of getting another car," he said. "But now— " he hesitated and rubbed his beard with his knuckles, a little gesture of irritation which did not escape her— "I am very busy in the evenings with my specimens and I'm afraid you'll be left alone—"

"Please don't worry about me, Uncle James," she said earnestly. "I can amuse myself with a book. And if I think I'm on your mind all the time, it will take half the fun out of life."

He seemed relieved at this, and then awkwardly:

"Well, you can start right away," he said. "I am going to my study now,"

At ten o'clock she tapped at his door to say good-night and went up to her room. He had promised her a maid, though she was ready enough to dispense with this luxury. She undressed and sat in her kimono by the open window looking over the garden. It was the third quarter of the moon and it was rising as she looked out upon that most wonderful of landscapes.

The snowy expense of the Downs lay in blue shadow and the moonlight flooded the broad white Weald with an uncanny radiance.

She sighed happily, switched off the light and snuggled into bed. The strangeness of the room and, perhaps, the queer smell which all new furniture has, prevented her sleeping as soundly as she expected. She turned from side to side, dozing fitfully, and then she heard a faint sound of a foot on the gravel path outside. From the position of the patch of moonlight on the floor she knew it must be very late and wondered if her uncle was in the habit of taking midnight strolls on such a freezing night. Slipping out of bed she pulled on her dressing-gown, walked to the window and looked out.

And then her blood froze, and her knees gave under her, for there in the middle of the garden path, standing out against the snowy background, was a figure in the sombre habit of a monk!

The cowl was drawn over his head and the face was invisible.

It stood there motionless, its hands concealed in its wide sleeves, its head bent as in thought.

Then slowly the head turned and the moonlight fell upon the bony face, the hollow sockets of its eyes, the white gleam of its fleshless teeth.

For a moment she stared, paralysed, incapable of sound or movement; and then she found her voice, and with a shrill scream collapsed on the floor in a dead faint.

3: The Tramp

WHEN she came to herself she was lying on the bed under the eider-down quilt and her uncle's anxious face was looking down at hers. He was in his dressing-gown and his hair was rumpled untidily.

"I am such a fool," she said, with an apologetic smile.

"I heard you scream. What was the matter— nightmare?" asked Mr. Stuart.

And then she told him what she had seen. Stuart walked to the window and looked out.

"A manifestation," he said gravely. "You were very fortunate."

"A manifestation?" she repeated in an amazement. "Do you believe— "

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I believe there is a great deal one doesn't understand; a great many things and a great many phenomena," he replied. "But honestly, I think in this case you have been suffering from nightmare."

"Do you— do you think," she replied, "that was the Ghost of Down Hill?" She heard him chuckle.

"So you've heard the yarn, have you?" he said. "Perhaps it was. Perhaps it was oyster patty followed by coffee— a combination which has produced more ghosts than any of us spiritualists have raised."

Margot Panton was neither superstitious nor a sceptic. She had the mens sana in corpora sana of the well-balanced public school girl, and she was heartily ashamed of the exhibition she had made of herself. It had been the surprise of it; the atmosphere of mystery; the moonlight; the strangeness of the place— all those circumstances had combined to surprise her into that ridiculous fainting fit.

Alone in her room, she sat up in bed clasping her knees, a picture of frowning puzzlement. Her common-sense told her that there was no such thing as ghosts and they did not wear boots that crunched the gravel beneath them. She got out of bed again and looked out into the garden. It was empty. Then switching off the light with a contemptuous "pooh!" she curled herself in bed and fell into a dreamless sleep.

Her uncle was out when she came down to breakfast but he returned before she had finished the meal.

"Well, have you got over your scare?" he asked as he dropped his hand on her shoulder in passing her.

"I'm perfectly certain it wasn't a ghost," she said.

"Oh, you are, are you?" his eyes twinkled, "and how do you reach that conclusion?"

"Ghosts don't wear boots," she said decidedly.

"They may have shoes," said the dry old man. "I take tea without sugar or milk, Margot. If it was not a ghost, then I ought to be careful," he said. "I have brought some rather valuable things back from Brazil and Peru; some old statuettes of the Incas," he explained, but did not offer to show them to her.

She had had a glimpse of his study that morning, a plainly furnished room on the ground floor with a book-case and a desk, a few skins of animals stretched on the walls and little else.

That morning she was still occupied in unpacking her trunk and disposing of her photographs about the room.

She lunched alone, her uncle having gone to Hastings in his car. When he had told her he was making this trip she had expected he would invite her and he must have guessed her thoughts.

"When I get a better car I will take you round the country, Margot, but you make my old flivver look shabby."

She smiled at the implied compliment. She was beginning to like this old man with his mordant humour and his pretty turn of compliment.

His absence gave her an opportunity of exploring her own domain, and putting on a pair of heavy boots— for the snow lay thick upon the hillside, under a radiant sun— she went out on a tour of inspection. Beyond the garden was a wide paddock which ran up the hill and was divided from the next property by a wire fence. She followed this fence to the crest of the rise and saw that it passed close to a pretty little brick bungalow which stood on the top of the hill. This must be Down Hill she thought. It covered a larger area than she had imagined. She caught a glimpse of bachelor comfort through the wide open windows. A stout man, whom she rightly guessed was Jeremiah Jowlett's factotum, gave her a stiff little bow as she came abreast of him. He was shovelling away the snow that had fallen in the night from the garden path. Apparently Jerry had gone to town.

"Good morning, madam," he said respectfully.

"Is this Down Hill?" she asked.

"Yes, madam. This is Mr. J.O. Jowlett's estate."

The words sounded to her a little magnificent and she smiled internally. She remembered that her travelling companion of the evening before had said that this man disapproved of "Jeremiah." She passed the house and walked along the Downs and sat down to rest on a garden seat which had evidently been placed there by Jeremiah, and was dry and free from snow.

The view was wonderful. In the golden sunlight the Weald was a glittering snow-field, and far away on her right she saw the silver fret of the sea running across the gap at Seaford, like the line of a lace bodice across the V of a woman's corsage. She sat entranced, dreaming idly, formless, pleasant fancies floating across her mental vision— lazy mists that alternately revealed and veiled the substances of life. Her reverie was rudely broken.

"Pretty view, ain't it, miss?"

She turned with a start. Not more than two yards away a man was standing in the road. He looked like a tramp. His clothes were old and soiled, his boots were gaping, and his chin had not known a razor for a week. He was puffing at an empty pipe and his big coarse hands were thrust into the pockets of his tattered overcoat.

She rose quickly.

"Yes, it's very beautiful," she said.

"Do you live around here, miss?"

"Yes, I live here," she said shortly and turned to walk back towards Down Hill, the red roof and chimney pots of which showed above the trees. She heard his feet crunching through the snow behind her and presently he drew abreast.

"Nice place to live, ain't it, miss?" he asked and she made no reply.

"I haven't had anything to live on since yesterday morning," he said suggestively.

She opened her bag and took out a shilling and handed it to him without a word.

"Thank you kindly. Mind you, I'm a rich man by rights, if every man had his due."

He volunteered the information and paused at the end as though he expected her to make some reply. She quickened her pace but recognized the futility, and even danger, of running from a danger which was probably non-existent, and when they came again in sight of the house and the placid servant leaning on his shovel, she recovered something of her lost self-possession.

"There's a ghost around here, so they tell me," said the tramp, and she looked at him more carefully.

He was a hollow-faced man with small eyes set close together and a long aggressive nose. She thought his age was something between forty and fifty.

"I shall be round here for a day or two," he said. "My name is Sibby Carter. I'll just be hanging around."

In spite of herself she laughed.

"I don't know why you should tell me that," she said. "I am really not interested in your plans."

"Sibby Carter my name is," he repeated, and smacked his lips, "and I shall be hanging around here for two or three days."

She was walking away from him when he followed and caught her arms with a grip that made her wince.

"Here, I can tell you something," he began but the stout servant had seen, and with a surprising agility had leapt the hedge and was coming towards them.

"Clear out of here. What do you mean by accosting this lady!"

Sibby Carter released his hold and his thin lips curled up in a sneer that showed his yellow teeth.

"Hello, fat and ugly!" he said rudely. "What are you coming interfering with me for?"

The girl, breathless and a little white, had instinctively drawn to the stout man's side.

"You be off," said Mr. Jowlett's servant peremptorily.

"I've as much right here as you have," said Sibby Carter.

"You're on private property, you know that! Now be off, or I'll take you down to the village and give you in charge."

The tramp seemed impressed at this possibility and he looked from the girl to the stout man, and then:

"Fat and ugly!" he shouted. "Fat and ugly!" and went trudging back the way he had come, his shoulder hunched, his hands in his pockets.

4: The Passing Of Sibby

WHEN James Stuart returned the girl told him of her unpleasant experience and he listened with a grave face.

"As a rule we see few tramps in this neighbourhood," he said. "You must not go out alone, Margot. What did he call himself?"

"Sibby Carter!" she repeated with a half smile, but Mr. Stuart did not smile.

"I must remember the name. It may be useful for purposes of identifying him," he said. "We must thank Mr. Jowlett for the service that his servant has rendered us."

He himself met Jeremiah at the station that night, and Jeremiah, whose work had suffered that day by the memory of two laughing grey eyes, accepted the invitation to dine with indecent haste.

"I am glad Minter was on hand," he said. "Confound that fellow! But that was Minter all over. Ever the knight-errant and rescuer of distressed ladies— lucky devil! Do you dress at nights?"

"No, no" said Mr. Stuart, shaking his head. "I want you to come as you are. Perhaps you'll drive straight to the house."

"I'll take the elevator to the ninth," said Jeremiah, "and I'll be back at the house in time to welcome you."

But when he did get to Arthurton Lodge Mr. Stuart was waiting. The dinner was a great success from the point of view of two peopled who rallied one another as though they had been friends since childhood. The old man was a silent but appreciative audience.

"And so you actually saw the ghost! And he wore hob-nailed boots. Bully for the ghost," he said boisterously.

"It's fun for you but I was scared to death," said the girl.

"You were afraid I'd lose him I suppose," said Jerry, "and thank you for your thoughtfulness. He certainly had no right to stray on to your property, and any time you see him away from his ancestral home I hope you will send him back. I must get some slippers for him," he said gravely. "You have no idea how that ghost wears out boots— — "

"You haven't seen him yet!" she challenged. "You won't speak so flippantly of him when you do."

"I never speak flippantly of ghosts," protested Jerry. "Certainly not of my own ghost. When I bought the property five years ago and built that bungalow I particularly asked for special provision to be made for William—"

"Who is William?" asked the unsuspecting girl.

"William is the name of the ghost," said the other solemnly.

"You're incorrigible. And besides you know uncle takes quite a different view."

"About ghosts?" asked the other incredulously.

"Don't you uncle?" the girl appealed.

Mr. Stuart rubbed his beard.

"Naturally I believe in manifestations," he said. "I have witnessed some extraordinary psychic phenomena and I would not exclude the possibility of even a ghost."

"I am sorry if I— " began Jerry.

"You can say anything you like about them," said the old man good-humouredly. "I'm merely expressing an opinion."

They adjourned to the drawing-room after dinner and to the girl's surprise Mr. Stuart accompanied them and sat whilst she sang. It was in an interval of silence, one of those momentary cessations of speech which the superstitious associate with the twentieth minute, that an interruption came. The girl looked round suddenly at the shuttered window.

"What was that?" asked Mr. Stuart quickly.

"I thought I heard a sound," she said. "It was as though somebody had touched the window pane."

Jerry rose.

"I'll go and see," he said, but the hand of James Stuart detained him. "It may be our friend the ghost," he said, half jocularly and half seriously, "and in that case I think that somebody should see him who takes a less frivolous view."

"Shall I come with you?" asked Jerry.

"I'd rather go alone," replied Mr. Stuart, and was gone for some time.

They heard his footsteps walking along the gravel path which ran round the house and then they heard him return. It was some minutes before he came back to them and he met Jerry in the passage.

"Miss Panton was getting anxious," said the young man.

"Nobody was there," explained Stuart as he came back to the drawing-room and laid an electric torch upon a table. "I searched the shrubbery and the garden but there is no sign of ghost or burglar."

"It may have been the creeper knocking against the window," said Margot, but Stuart shook his head.

"There is no wind and I particularly noticed that the creeper is trimmed close near the window," he said. "Perhaps it was your imagination."

They sat talking for some time and the old man included himself in the conversation. Jerry was hoping that the scientist would tell something of his adventures in Brazil but beyond a perfunctory and superficial reference to the heat and the mosquitoes he said little or nothing and the talk was mostly of Margot's school life and Mr. Stuart's reminiscences of her mother when she was a girl.

He was in the midst of one of these stories when he stopped suddenly and bent his head.

"Did you hear anything?" he asked.

"I heard nothing," said Jerry in surprise. "What did it sound like?"

"It sounded like a footstep on the gravel. Did you hear it Margot?"

But Margot had not heard it either.

"Strange!" muttered Mr. Stuart.

The conversation was resumed. Again he stopped.

"I'll swear I heard a cry," he said.

Jerry had heard what he thought was the faint screech of a distant owl."

"I thought it was an owl, too," said Margot.

Soon after Jerry rose to go and they walked with him to the hall, Mr. Stuart helping him on with his coat. He had left his car at the back of the house outside the little garage but refused the old man's company.

"I can find my way up the hill road blind-folded." He said as Stuart opened the door, "and—"

He stopped and started back with a little exclamation of surprise. And well he might be surprised, for crouched in the porch was the figure of a man. The light in the hall was strong enough to show every detail of the huddled man and Margot recognized him.

"Why, it is the tramp!" she cried. "Sibby Carter."

Jerry leant over the figure and touched it, and at that touch it rolled over and fell in an inanimate heap.

"Dead!" gasped Jerry and looked closer.

As the figure lay its throat was exposed and there was a round and livid bruise at the nape of the neck.

"Dead!" said Jerry again. "And murdered I think. The Ghost of Down Hill has a pair of very powerful hands, Mr. Stuart, for this man's neck is broken!"

5: Minter The Servant

THERE was no doubt about it. The man was dead. Jeremiah had only to look at him for a second to see that. Gently he shepherded the girl back to the drawing-room. She was white but very calm, and when she spoke her voice did not so much as tremble.

"Is he dead?" she asked quietly, and marvelling at her self-possession, Jeremiah nodded.

"How dreadful! What do you think happened?"

"My mind is in a whirl," said Jeremiah, shaking his head helplessly. "I know no more than you."

"I am sure he is the man whose name was Sibby Carter," she said, and he looked at her in astonishment, for he had not heard her half-whispered words when the body had been found.

"Do you know him?" he asked incredulously.

She shook her head.

"I only met him to-day," she said and she told him again of her meeting with the tramp.

"That man?" he said in surprise; "what an extraordinary coincidence!"

It was an hour before the police came, and nearly two hours before the ambulance arrived from Eastbourne to carry away the victim of the tragedy.

The fact that Jeremiah had been present in the house relieved Mr. Stuart from the cross-examination of the detective officer, who came in haste with the ambulance.

"It was very fortunate you were here," said James Stuart gravely. "I can't understand it. Why did the man come here, and who but the Ghost of Down Hill could have slain him?"

In other circumstances Jeremiah would have laughed.

"The Ghost of Down Hill?" he repeated; "but surely, Mr. Stuart, a ghost is not a material thing with material strength in its insubstantial fingers?"

James Stuart shook his head.

"There are more things in this world than are dreamt of in your philosophy," he said simply, and with these words in his ears Jeremiah made his way back to his bungalow, a greatly perturbed man.

Although the hour was late, the stout and placid Minter was waiting for him; a little fire burnt in the grate of his comfortable sitting room, and Minter, who never seemed to be tired, listened to the story of the "exciting night" which that air of polite interest which invariably annoyed Jeremiah.

He was a large, stout, calm man with a clean-shaven face and deep-set eyes, the very model of a perfect valet-butler, but there were times when he irritated Jeremiah beyond endurance. The man had been in his service for five months, and in every way had been satisfactory, and now Jeremiah had a particular reason for being grateful to him. He had that morning saved the girl from the unpleasant attentions of the dead Sibby Carter.

"One would imagine, Minter," he said irritably, "that I was telling you the story of a tea-fight. Don't you realize that there has been a murder committed under your very nose?"

"Oh yes, sir," said Minter respectfully. "What time would you like your breakfast in the morning?"

"Pah!" said Jeremiah.

He dismissed his servant, and went to bed. But his mind was too active to sleep. Again and again he turned over in his mind the extraordinary circumstances of that evening, and somehow the adventure of the surveyor of Eastbourne, and Mr. Staines's curious experience, insisted upon obtruding into his mind and mixing themselves up until, with a groan, he shut his eyes tight and attempted to dismiss entirely from his thoughts both the Ghost of Down Hill and the mystery man who held up inoffensive people and examined their pass-books.

He was nearly asleep when he thought he heard a stealthy movement outside his door, and was instantly awake. He listened. Again it came, a faint creak of sound, and carefully pulling back the clothes, he got out of bed as noiselessly as possible, crept to the door and listened.

The clock of Arthurton church struck three.

"This is getting on my nerves," he muttered to himself and would have gone back to bed, but for the unexpected repetition of the sound. This time it was outside the house. He walked across the room to the window and gently drew aside the curtain. The cloud wrack had for a moment covered the moon, but he could see a figure walking quickly down the snow-covered path to the gate, and there was no mistaking its identity, for the bulk of the man could not be distinguished. It was Minter!

He pulled on his trousers over his pyjamas, slipped his feet into long mosquito boots, and bundling on an overcoat, he went out into the passage through the door which was open, along the covered passage way, and out of the side door, which also was ajar.

When he got outside the man had reached the gate.

"Minter," he called sharply, and at the sound of his voice Minter turned. He was carrying something in his hand; something that glittered and gleamed in a fitful ray of moonlight.

"Minter," called Jeremiah again.

"Yes, sir," was the answer, and the man came slowly back.

Before he could slip the thing he carried into his pocket, Jeremiah had seen the revolver, and gasped. He did not link the mild Minter with lethal weapons.

"What the devil are you doing crawling about in the middle of the night with a pistol in your hand," he demanded.

"I was following the Ghost of Down Hill, sir," was the cool reply.

"The Ghost of Down Hill," repeated Jeremiah, "what do you mean?"

Minter did not reply immediately, and Jeremiah, scrutinizing him keenly, saw that he was considerably perturbed by the unexpected interruption to his quest.

"I thought I saw a figure moving through the gardens here and I followed it."

Jeremiah looked at him.

"But you're fully dressed, Minter," he said quietly. "Did you happen to be fully dressed when you saw the ghost?"

"Yes sir," was the surprising reply.

Jeremiah led the way back to the sitting room and turned on the light, and this time his examination of his servant was more thorough.

"And did you happen to have changed your clothes before you went to bed," he asked pointedly, for the suit the man wore was not the butler's uniform that had encased his portly figure when Jeremiah had said good-night to him.

Minter did not make any reply.

"I will see you about this in the morning," said Jeremiah, and with a curt nod dismissed his servant.

The more he thought the matter over, the more puzzled he became. A faint glow was showing in the east before he eventually fell into a troubled sleep, to be awakened by the correct Minter, who came into the room with a preliminary knock, carrying the usual morning tea service.

The man filled Jeremiah's bath and put his clothes ready before he spoke.

"I, daresay, sir" he said, after a moment's hesitation, "that you think my conduct last night was rather strange."

"I think it was extremely strange," said Jeremiah, "and I tell you this frankly, Minter, that unless you explain what you were doing out in the middle of the night, and explain it to my satisfaction, I shall dispense with your services."

Minter's heavy head nodded.

"That I can quite understand, sir," he said politely, "but if I tell you, sir, that I have seen the Ghost of Down Hill three nights in succession, and that I was waiting last night to follow him, you will understand that there is nothing mysterious about my having changed my clothes for garments more suitable for an out-of-door chase.

This argument was unanswerable. Jeremiah did not for one moment doubt the big man's word. He also had seen the Ghost of Down Hill, and it was quite possible that the man was speaking the truth."

"Ghosts, sir," the man went on, "do not as a rule impress me because I come from a long line of Wesleyan Methodists who are not great believers in spiritual manifestations. But a ghost with a theodolite and a measurers-rod seems to me to be little outside of the usual run of ghosts."

"What do you mean Minter?" asked Jeremiah quickly, as he sat on the edge of the bed staring at the man.

"Two nights ago, sir, I saw the ghost, and he carried over his shoulder a small theodolite— I saw it in use later. He was making elaborate measurements, evidently starting from the big rock in the sunken garden below the house, for I saw the rod as distinctly as I see you. Before I could dress and get out he was gone."

Jeremiah whistled. All doubt as to his servant's story was now dissipated. He knew that the man was speaking the truth.

"You must have found his footprints?"

"I found them immediately after, sir, but was unable to make a very careful observation in the morning because another fall of snow fell during the night," said Minter, shaking his head, and Jeremiah had to laugh at the matter-of-fact tone of his servitor.

"Aren't you a bit scared, Minter?"

"No, sir, I am not very scared," said the man with a smile. "Not so scared as the ghost would be if he knew that I took the revolver prize at Bisley for three years in succession."

6: The Warning

"IT is an extraordinary case," said Lord Ilfran shaking his head. "One of the most extraordinary I have ever heard about."

He was seated at his desk in the big room overlooking Whitehall and Jeremiah Jowlett was sitting on the opposite side of the table facing him.

Lord Ilfran ran his long, nervous fingers through his white hair, and stared out of the window.

"You say that this man Carter was a member of the Flack gang."

Jeremiah nodded.

"I don't think there can be any doubt about that," he said, "His finger prints have been taken and identified; moreover, he didn't seem to disguise his name. He went to prison at the same time as John Flack, the head of the gang, and they were released from prison within a few days of one another."

"Has Flack been discovered?"

"No, sir," replied Jeremiah. "We have put a call out to all stations, but up to now we have not been able to pull him in."

"It's curious," said the Public Prosecutor again, "and what a terrible shock for that poor girl."

"She stood it splendidly," said the enthusiastic Jeremiah. "Most women would have fainted, but she was a brick."

"There were no footsteps in the snow?"

"No. The garden path had been swept clear of snow, and the only clue we have is the one supplied by Mr. Stuart. He said he thought he heard footsteps a few minutes before the tragedy was discovered."

Lord Ilfran leant back in his chair.

"The ghost suggestion is, of course, absurd," he said. "Somebody is masquerading for a purpose of his own. By the way, have you seen the ghost?"

"Twice," said Jeremiah to his chief's surprise. "The fact is sir— " he leant across the table and lowered his voice— "so far as a house can be said to be haunted, that description applies to my bungalow. I haven't told Miss Panton because I did not want to alarm her, but the Ghost of Down Hill is a very real quantity, and although my glimpses of this midnight wanderer have been more or less sketchy, yet the descriptions Miss Panton gave me of the man in the monk's robe with a grinning skeleton face are identical with what I saw."

Lord Ilfran was seldom surprised. A lifetime spent in the law had removed the novelty even from the bizarre, but now he was genuinely amazed, for Jeremiah was a hard-headed young man who had few illusions.

"How long has this been going on?" he asked curiously.

"About six months," was the reply, "or about three months before Mr. Stuart returned from the Brazils. The first time I saw the ghost was one late summer night when a storm was working up from the sea. I was sitting in my study reading a law book, when I heard a tap-tap at the window. I thought that a shutter had worked loose and took no notice. Presently it was repeated. I walked to the window and looked out; it was a pitch black night and I saw nothing until suddenly there came a blinding flash of lightning, and there, standing in the middle of the path, I saw the figure of a monk. By the time I had got outside it was raining heavily, and the fitful flashes of lightning failed to reveal the visitor.

"The second time was a month ago, and on this occasion the visitation was a little more serious," said Jeremiah quietly. "I had gone to bed and was asleep when Minter woke me to tell me he heard a noise in the cellar. We have a cellar beneath the house where I keep a small stock of wine. When I went to investigate I discovered the cellar door wide open and on going down I found that somebody had dug a deep hole in the floor of the cellar."

"You saw nobody?" asked Lord Ilfran, intensely interested.

"Nobody," replied Jeremiah, "at that moment. Behind the house is a covered passage-way which communicates with the kitchen, and affords me storage for my bicycle and a side entrance to the garage. In my search of the house I reached the passage-way, carrying a petrol lantern and then I saw the visitor for the second time. He was at the far end of the passage near the side door, and I am willing to confess that the sight of that fleshless face startled me. Before I could reach him, he was gone."

"Has there been any other manifestation?"

Jeremiah smiled.

"It is curious you should used that word sir," he said, still smiling. "It is a favourite one of Mr. James Stuart, who implicitly believes in spirits, and has asked me to give him permission to spend a night alone in the house in order that he may lay the ghost. I might add," he went on, "that Minter, my servant, has also seen the figure— a fact which I learnt only last night."

Lord Ilfran rose from his table and paced the room slowly.

"That will not bring us any nearer to the discovery of the murderer of Sibby Carter," he said.

"Are you going to fall in with Mr. Stuart's suggestion?"

"I don't know why I shouldn't," said Jeremiah. He did not explain that he was particularly anxious to be on good terms with the uncle of Margot Panton, and that as Mr. Stuart had offered him the use of his own house during the period of his ghost laying, he was all the more willing and ready to humour the old man in his whim.

"Yes, sir," he said. "I am taking Minter down to Mr. Stuart's house the day after to-morrow."

"That is Christmas Eve," interrupted Lord Ilfran, "and a very excellent time for ghosts. I am sure I wish Mr. Stuart luck."

Jeremiah Jowlett went home that night a little earlier. He was anxious to see the girl who had made so profound an impression upon him, and more anxious to learn whether any new evidence had come to light. He found Margot amazingly cheerful. Perhaps it had been her first shock which had steeled her to the subsequent tragedy, but at any rate, she was less distressed than he had dared to expect.

"Uncle is out," she said. "Will you have some tea with me?"

Jeremiah did not want a second invitation. He lingered over the repast till it was nearly dinner time, but Mr. James Stuart had not returned, and at last he reluctantly took his leave.

It was a beautiful night, despite the cold and they stood for a moment talking at the garden gate. From where they were the outlines of Down Hill house stood clear against the dying light in the western sky.

"I have allowed Minter to go home to see his sister," explained Jeremiah, when the girl had remarked upon the darkness of the bungalow. "Please don't worry about me, Miss Panton; I am an accomplished bachelor, who can grill a chop and boil a potato, with the best cook in Arthurton,"

"It seems horribly lonely for you," said Margot. "Won't you stay to dinner?"

"I'd like to," said Jeremiah in all sincerity, "but I don't want to annoy your uncle by living on the premises."

Suddenly she clutched his arm.

"Look!" she gasped, and pointed to the house.

He could only stare in speechless amazement.

Of a sudden every window in the little building was glowing redly, as though simultaneously every room was on fire. Fiercely it gleamed across the snow-white hill, and then as suddenly the red glow died down.

"I must investigate this," said Jeremiah.

"Let me come with you," she said, and he felt her grip tighten on his arm, and hesitated.

"I think you had better stay here," he said, and a minute later she heard the thunder of his car as it took the steep hill road.

Jerry jumped from the machine at the entrance to his demesne, and raced along the garden path. Switching on a pocket lamp he tried the side door. It was locked. He thrust a key into the lock and a second later was in the covered passage-way. He did not meet any intruder, nor did he expect to. There was a strong smell of sulphur and the dining room, the first he entered, was hazy with smoke. A small fire, which Minter had lit before he went out, glowed on the hearth; but the room was empty, as was his bedroom where another small fire was burning.

He searched every inch of the bungalow without finding the slightest trace of a visitor. It was impossible that anybody could have made their escape, for all the doors, except the side door, were locked on the inside, and the side door had a lock which head recently put on, which he knew it was impossible to pick.

He came back to the dining room, and then, for the first time, saw a document which lay upon the table. It was not of paper, but of old-fashioned vellum, and the words were written in quaint old English characters:

"Thy presence on this hallowed spot is a profanation. Leave thy house, lest the lonely monk of Down Hill bring thee to a terrible death."

7: The Footprints On The Roof

HOW had the paper got there? He looked round and the solution became apparent. The table was placed near to the window and above the window were two small ventilating panes, one of which was opened. The paper could have been thrust in from the outside and the chances were that it would fall upon the table. He opened the window to let the fumes disperse and then sat down to puzzle out the situation.

Suddenly a thought struck him, and he went to the fire and looked at it carefully. On the top of the red glowing coal were the ashes of paper. He went into the next room and made a similar discovery. Slowly a smile dawned on his face.

"So that's it, is it?" he muttered and went out of the house taking with him a step ladder which stood in the passage. His home was built into the hill rather than upon it, and the fields behind were almost on a level with the roof. He planted his step ladder and climbed carefully. In a second he was standing on a small stone parapet which surrounded the roof. There was no doubt now as to what the visitor had done; the snow-covered slates were marked in all directions with footprints, and they led up to the squat chimney stack. He made an inspection and returned to his room. Whoever the Ghost of Down Hill was, there was no doubt as to the method he had employed for producing the effect which had so startled Jeremiah and the girl. Two packages of red fire had been dropped down the two chimneys simultaneously, had fallen into the fire, and had ignited producing the red glow.

He went back to where he had left his car and drove down the hill again to reassure the girl whom he found waiting wrapped in her furs at the garden gate of Mr. Stuart's house.

"Nothing very startling," he said carelessly. "Some fireworks that I had intended using to celebrate the coming of the New Year had been left too close to the fire, and were touched off."

"It might have been serious," said the girl. "Your house might have been burnt down."

"I don't think it was as bad as that," said Jeremiah.

He stood talking to the girl for some time, and then went back to the house. Half way up the hill he thought he saw a figure crouching in the shelter of some bushes, and stopping the car with a jerk, jumped out. The man turned to run, but Jeremiah was on him before he had gone a few paces.

"Let me have a look at you, my friend," he said as he gripped the stranger's arm; and then he fell back in surprise, for the man was Minter.

"What the dickens do you mean by sneaking away into the bushes?" demanded the exasperated Jerry. "Now see here, Minter, I have had just as much of this mystery as I am willing to stand. You will come up to the house and explain what you are doing here when you are supposed to be in London attending the sick bed of your sister."

The man made no reply, but stepping on to the running board of the car as it moved, accompanied Jerry back to the house.

"Now, Minter," said Jeremiah grimly, as he closed the door. "I won't trouble you to spin a yarn about the Ghost of Down Hill; I will even excuse you the lie that you were returning home, and that you mistook me for the monkish bogey and hid from fear. Let us have the truth."

Minter was dressed in a rough knicker-bocker suit, over which he wore a heavy Irish ulster. He did not seem in the least embarrassed by his employer's direct questions, and his placid face remained impassive all the time Jerry was talking.

"I have no explanation to give, sir," he said in a smooth, even way, "if you will not accept the story that I was returning to the house when you overtook me,"

"Why did you run away?" asked Jeremiah sternly.

"That, I admit, was an error," replied Minter, gravely inclining his head. "I should have stood my ground and offered my explanation. The truth is, Mr. Jowlett, I did not think that the occupant of the car was you."

"Nonsense," snapped Jerry, "you know the sound of my car as well as you know the sound of Big Ben. Now, what have you to say for yourself?"

But Minter had evidently no explanation to offer, for he remained silent.

"Very good," said Jeremiah, "then you leave my service to-morrow, you understand, Minter? I will not have these infernal mysteries."

Suddenly a thought struck him.

"You haven't by chance been perambulating the roof of the bungalow to-night?" he asked sardonically, and Minter smiled.

"No, sir, I did not go on to the roof," he said, "but I have been wandering about the house; it is possible you may have observed my footmarks, though I was careful to keep to the paths as much as possible."

"Did you see the fire?"

"The red fire," corrected the other, "yes, I saw that."

"Did you see me come up to the house?"

Minter nodded.

"I even saw you come up to the— "

Crash!

They were standing near the window when the interruption came. The big glass pane splintered into a thousand pieces, and something dropped heavily on to the floor. Jerry stared open-mouthed at Minter, as the man stooped and picked up an object from the ground.

"How very cheerful, sir," said Minter holding a large white something in his hand, and despite his self-possession Jeremiah shivered. It was a human skull that had come hurtling through the window!

Jeremiah Jowlett was early in London the following morning, and instead of going to his office, he proceeded straight to Scotland Yard, where he had an interview with the assistant commissioner.

That official listened without comment whilst Jeremiah told his story, and when he had finished:

"What do you want me to do?" he asked.

"I want the best detective you have, sir, preferably Leverett, who I am told is a particularly smart man; for I am sure that behind all these ghostly warnings there is something particularly sinister, and I associate the death of the man Carter— "

"With the Ghost?" smiled the commissioner quietly.

"With the ghost," said Jeremiah.

The commissioner shook his head.

"I am afraid you can't have Leverett; he has been working for some time on a very old case— the Flack case; you probably have heard of it?"

"I know about the Flack gang," smiled Jeremiah, "what is Leverett doing?"

"He has been trying to recover the money that was stolen from the liner. The Flacks got away with an enormous treasure, you remember, and not a penny of it has been recovered. I can let you have Jackson, who is a fairly smart fellow."

"There is another thing I want to say, Sir John," said Jeremiah, and he seemed reluctant to continue. "It is about my man Minter; a very excellent chap," he explained, "but I have reason to suspect that he knows more of this ghost business— in fact, I am under the impression that he is the ghost!"

He took a little case from his inside pocket and produced a photograph.

"I snapped Minter when he wasn't looking the other day; perhaps you people may be able to identify him. I hate thinking ill of the man, who has been a particularly good servant to me, but in the circumstances— — "

The commissioner took the photograph from Jerry's hand and examined it.

"Do you know him, sir?"

"I seem to remember the face."

"Is he a member of the Flack gang," said Jeremiah with sudden inspiration.

"I will ask Leverett," said the commissioner quietly. "And in the meantime Mr. Jowlett, I will see that your house is kept under observation. It must be an extremely trying experience for you."

"It will be more trying for the ghost," said Jerry unpleasantly.

He had arranged with Minter to take his clothes and personal belongings to James Stuart's house, and when he returned that evening it was with a sense of going home.

He found the dutiful Minter very much at his ease in his new surroundings.

"Nothing disturbs that fellow," said Jerry, with reluctant admiration. "You would imagine that he was born and bred in your uncle's service."

Margot laughed.

She was looking unusually beautiful that night, Jerry thought, and he prayed that Mr. Stuart's investigations into spiritual phenomena would occupy at least a week, though he felt a little guilty that he had allowed the old man to go to the house at all. His conscience was pricking him that night at dinner.

"Do you know, Mr. Stuart," he blurted out, when they had reached the coffee and dessert stage of the meal, "I think I ought to tell you that these manifestations, as you call them, are due to human agency."

The old man turned his grave eyes upon Jeremiah.

"That is what the uninitiated say of all manifestations," he said quietly.

"But I have a feeling that I am fooling you by allowing you to go to the house," said Jerry.

"I am willing to be fooled," said Stuart with a quiet smile.

"I saw you to-day."

It was the girl who spoke, and she addressed her uncle.

He rose his bristling eyebrows.

"You saw me, my dear," he said gently. "Where did you see me?"

"At Seafort," said the girl with a smile.

"You were in a big motor-boat. It was almost too big to call a motor-boat; it was nearly a yacht. I had to go into Seafort to get some medicine for Mrs. Wilmot, who has rheumatism," she said.

"You should have gone to Eastbourne, the road isn't so bad," he said shortly and then after a long pause; "Yes, I was trying the boat. A man wishes to buy it, but I am not very keen on the sea."

"But it was a brand new boat, and they told me it had just arrived from London and that it was yours."

He smiled.

"The wish was probably father to the thought," he said good-humouredly, "and the gentleman who gave you this information was probably the proprietor, who is anxious to sell it to me at a profit."

He changed the conversation to another channel.

At nine o'clock that night, with a small bag in his hand and Jeremiah's keys in his pocket, he said good-night to the two.

"I shall probably have some very important information to give you in the morning," he said. "I am in a particularly good mood to-night, and there is very little doubt that I shall gain communication with those upon the other plane."

"Cheerio," said Jeremiah, who could think of nothing more appropriate to say.

"Poor uncle," said the girl when the older man had gone. "He really does believe in spirits you know."

"I'm inclined to believe in them myself," said Jeremiah flippantly. "In fact, I hope that Down Hill is stiff with ghosts, then they will keep Mr. Stuart busy for another year."

He reached out and took her hand, and saw her colour change.

"Margot," he said, "how long does a man have to know a girl before he falls hopelessly in love with her?"

She tried to withdraw her hand but he held it tightly.

"I know that this is not the most appropriate time for love-making, and that by certain rules of conduct I am acting despicably," he said earnestly, "but Margot, I can answer the question I have just asked. It takes a man just as long as I have known you to fall in love."

"Do you play chess?" she asked hastily.

"I play everything except the flute," said Jeremiah.

He was a riotously happy man that evening, for he had read the answer to his unspoken questions in the moist eyes of the girl, and when he went to bed that night (which was in Mr. Stuart's own room) he seemed to tread on air.

The next morning brought James Stuart a little weary-looking, but full of confidence. He had an amazing story to tell of a visitation, and a long conversation he had had with one of the innumerable spirits which haunted Down Hill, but he only stayed for ten minutes and then returned to the house.

Jeremiah went up to town, taking Minter with him. He had a number of purchases to make, and he intended that this Christmas Day should be a memorable one, not only in his own life, but in the life of the woman he loved.

They got back to Arthurton after nightfall and the snow was falling gently but persistently.

"It looks as if we are going to have a pretty wild night, Minter," said Jerry as he jumped into the car.

"Yes, sir," said Minter agreeably.

The wind was blowing in fitful gusts, and long before they had reached the house, both men were white with the driven flakes.

Jerry could not see Down Hill house: the falling snow made an impenetrable veil which hid, not only the bungalow, but the whole of the hill.

The girl had been busy decorating the house with holly and greenery, and Jerry spent a happy evening assisting her. He allowed Minter, who said he had a chill, to go to bed early, but this was no great hardship to Jerry, who wanted to be alone with the girl, free from interruption.

They had almost finished their work when Jeremiah remembered a particular present which he had given Minter to carry. It was intended for Mr. James Stuart and was not amongst the parcels that were piled on the hall table. Minter would not be asleep so early, he thought, and went up the stairs to the room where Minter was quartered. He knocked at the door but there was no answer, and he turned the handle and walked in. The room was empty; the bed had not been slept in, and Jeremiah went back to the girl as a very thoughtful young man.

Mrs. Wilmot, the housekeeper whose rheumatism had sent the girl into Seafort, had not seen Minter, nor had the other servants who had been employed since Margot's arrival.

"He said he had a chill, and I let him go to bed," said Jeremiah in a troubled voice. "I don't understand it and I don't like it. If he had a chill he would not go out on a night like this, and if he hadn't a chill, he had certainly some reason for lying."

"Perhaps he has gone up to your house for something he had forgotten," suggested Margot. "Now don't be silly, Jeremiah; come along and help me with this holly."

Midnight came and the girl had gone to bed, but still Minter had not returned. Jerry made three visits to his room, and at one o'clock he decided that he would lock up and go to bed. But how would Minter get in? Minter was beginning to worry him. That smooth, placid man, who was never disturbed and never distressed by the most extraordinary happening, was beginning to present a problem almost as insoluble as the Ghost of Down Hill.

At two o'clock Jerry went up to his room and lay down, pulling the silken coverlet over him, expecting any minute to be disturbed by Minter's knock, but no sound came. After lying for an hour he got up and looked out of the window. The snow was still falling, and there was no sound but the low soughing of the wind and distant hoot of a fog-horn in the far-away Channel.

He wondered what the old man was doing at that lonely house on the hill, and smiled despite his annoyance. Then he heard the low purring of a motor-car. It came to him with the wind in the little gusts, sometimes loud, sometimes almost indistinguishable. He threw open the casement windows and leant out, peering into the darkness. Nearer and nearer came the sound of the car, and suddenly with a start he recognized that it was his own car which he had left in the garage on the top of the hill, on the previous night.

There was no mistaking the sound. Jeremiah could have distinguished it from a dozen. Suddenly the purring ceased; the engine had stopped. Faintly came the sound of a voice; a queer, eerie sound it made in that silent night; high-pitched and unintelligible. Another voice replied, and then there was an interval of silence. Suddenly a shot rang out, clear and distinct. It was followed by another, and a third, in rapid succession.

Jerry waited to hear no more. In three seconds he was outside the house and running through the deep snow in the direction of the road whence the sound had proceeded.

He heard the roar of his car, and jumped aside just in time to avoid being run down; it was going without lights and he only had time to glimpse a huddled figure at the wheel before it passed into the night.

He stood stock still, bewildered and baffled. Then there came to him a faint cry from the direction the car had gone; he plunged through a snow drift almost up to his waist in an effort to reach the man who had called. Putting his hand in his pocket he discovered his lamp, and flashed the light. He knew before he had picked up his bearings that he was in one of the deep ditches which ran on either side of the road and he struggled back to firmer going.

"Where are you?" he shouted.

"Here," cried a faint voice, and he turned into the narrow lane which led up to the Down Hill farm.

Suddenly he stopped and his blood ran cold. Staring up from the ground was that ghastly fleshless face he had seen on the monk. Only for a second was he stricken motionless, and stooping picked up the thing. It was a mask; evidently dropped by somebody, but was evidently part of the "ghost's" equipment.

"Where are you?" he called again.

"Here," said a voice close at hand, and he turned his lamp on a figure that lay half covered by the driving snowflakes.

"My God," he gasped, "Minter!"

Minter's white face was streaked with blood, but that calm man could afford to smile.

"My name isn't Minter," he smiled.

"I am Inspector Leverett of Scotland Yard and I am afraid I am badly hurt."

IT was some time before Jeremiah could procure assistance to carry the wounded man to the house, but at last Leverett was propped up on pillows in the drawing-room, and Mrs. Wilmot was lighting a fire to prepare restoratives.

Jerry had a rough knowledge of surgery and he saw at once that the two wounds in the man's head and shoulder were not as desperate as he had feared, a view which was confirmed when Arthurton's one doctor came upon the scene.

"Who did this?" asked Jeremiah.

"John Flack," was the reply. "I have been watching him for five months, and now the devil has got away, though he can't escape from England, that I swear. Which way did he go, sir?"

"Was he in the car?" asked Jeremiah.

The man nodded and winced with the pain of it.

"I think he went to Seaford."

"To Seaford," gasped Inspector Leverett. "Didn't I hear the young lady say that he was trying out a motor-boat? That is the means by which John Flack will escape."

"No, it was Mr. Stuart who was trying the motor-boat!" said Jeremiah.

The man looked around.

"Is the young lady about?" he asked in a low voice.

Jeremiah shook his head. "No, thank heavens, she's still sleeping, Mrs. Wilmot tells me."

"Good," said Leverett, and eyed Jeremiah curiously. "You say that Mr. Stuart owned that boat at Seaford," he said, "and I told you that John Flack would escape by means of that boat. I now tell you what will probably surprise you, Mr. Jowlett. Flack and John Stuart are one and the same person!"

7: The Last

MARGOT PANTON never knew the story of her uncle's past. She simply heard that he had gone abroad, and did not even know that wreckage of his motor-boat had been picked up in the Channel four days later. To her John Stuart is still that pleasant memory of a pleasant and eccentric old man who left England hurriedly and unexpectedly on a wild winter night, and has not returned.

Jeremiah saved her from the knowledge, and when he sold his house at Arthurton, and without authority disposed of James Stuart's property, handing the proceeds to the girl, she never dreamt but that he was acting under Mr. Stuart's directions.

Even when they married, as they were three months later, Jeremiah never showed her the letter which Inspector Leverett sent to him a week after the girl had been whisked off to town.

"Dear Mr. Jowlett," the letter ran,

"I feel that I owe you an apology and an explanation beyond the few incoherent remarks I made on the night when you undoubtedly saved me from death, for I should have been frozen by the morning.

"You probably know as much about the Flack gang as I do. The gang was organized by one of the cleverest crooks in the world; his real name was James Stuart. Stuart had been in the hands of the police many times, but always under the name of John Flack. He was a clever bank smasher and for his crimes he served three terms of penal servitude. His long absences from home, when he was supposed to be engaged in tours of Brazil and South America generally, are explained by the fact that he was serving terms of penal servitude during these periods.

"Nobody knew that the white-bearded gentleman who lived at Arthurton was Flack, and I had no suspicion of the circumstances until some six months ago. Flack, or Stuart's last job, was the burgling of the strong room of a liner. He and his two companions got away with nearly a million dollars in paper currency, with the police hot on their track. The third man of the gang was drowned in an attempt to swim a river, but Flack and the man named Sibby Carter went their several ways, agreeing to meet in London at a certain rendezvous. The police picked up Sibby Carter, and from him learnt the direction Flack had taken, and started off in pursuit of the leader of the gang. Flack or Stuart, must have known what was happening, for he made a bee-line to the country he knew best, namely the country about Arthurton where he lived, respected by his neighbours, who had not the slightest idea that they were harbouring one of the greatest crooks in the world.

"He dare not go home, however. His biggest asset was his identity as Stuart, and he had a shrewd suspicion that the police would not be shaken off. He arrived at Arthurton in the night, and his first step was to bury his plunder. He chose a spot on the top of a hill, the site of an old monastery which was supposed to be haunted. There, deep in the ground, he buried a steel box containing his loot.

"After carefully marking the place, he went on to London, hoping to baffle his pursuers, but was arrested at Charing Cross station, two days later. He swore that the money was lost, and was sent to a term of penal servitude for seven years, as also was his confederate, Carter. The two men were released within a few days of one another, but unfortunately Flack was released first. Carter, who wanted his share of the loot, and who knew that his chief had hidden it, began a search to discover the hiding place of his former leader.

"He must have known something about Stuart's identity, for the man appeared in Arthurton a short time after his release. It was his arrival at Arthurton which brought me, for I was trailing Sibby Carter in the hopes that it would bring me to the stolen property which had been hidden. Carter was anxious to get the money, but he was also in some fear of Stuart, for I have no evidence that he had ever spoken to the man, except on that night when he lost his life. But here I anticipate.

"Stuart, released from gaol, came back home and discovered to his horror that a bungalow had been erected on the very spot where his money was hidden. His first suspicion was that the builder, or the Clerk of the Works must have found the money and said nothing about it. He paid a visit to the Clerk of the Works, who by this time had an appointment with the municipality of Eastbourne, and holding the man up at the point of a pistol, he examined his pass-books, his object being to discover whether any large sum had been paid into the account at the time the building was in course of erection. Failing to make this discovery he next called upon the builder, a man named Staines, and submitted him to the same search. When these had failed, he was certain that the money was still under the house, and began his carefully considered plan of frightening the occupant away so that he could pursue his search without hindrance.

"Unfortunately for him, I had already arrived at Arthurton and knowing that Sibby Carter was in the neighbourhood, and more than suspecting that James Stuart and Flack were one and the same person, I had contrived to be taken into your employment as a butler— in which capacity I trust I have given you no cause for complaint.

"I shaved off my beard and moustache, and it was fortunate for me that I did so, otherwise Stuart would have recognized me.

"On the night that Sibby Carter was killed I was watching the house with a pair of powerful night glasses, and I saw the two men I n conversation. They must have walked to the porch, and there undoubtedly James Stuart, who was a tremendously powerful old man, had broken the neck of his erstwhile companion in crime, in order to silence him. Possibly Carter had threatened to expose Stuart. The motive for the murder is not at all obscure; there were many reasons why it was necessary that Carter should be put out of the way.

"The rest of the story needs no telling. Stuart, posing as a spiritualist, got admission to your house. On the night he dug deep into your cellar and unearthed the tin box, I was watching him. I followed him down the hill road through the storm, hanging on to the back of the car, knowing that he was making his final getaway, and that the tin box on the seat by his side contained the money he had stolen from the liner.

"When we reached the road I thought it was time to reveal myself, and jumping on to the step, I put a revolver under his nose and demanded his surrender. At the same time I gripped the steel box and jerked it from the car. Before I knew what had happened he had shot me down— that is the story.

"The money is now recovered, and I should not think it is necessary that Miss Panton should know any more than she already knows.

"One thing I think you can tell her— it is that her uncle, definitely and finally, has laid the Ghost of Down Hill.

"Yours very sincerely, "Frederick Leverett."

_______________________

2: The Queen Of Sheba's Belt

The Red Book Magazine, Feb 1912.

"I SUPPOSE there is nothing more to be said."

The woman rose slowly from the deep chair and drew the lace wrap about her shoulders with a little shiver.

The terrace before Emmersley Hall was deserted. There floated out to the couple the soft strains of the latest Hungarian waltz, and there was a harmony between the soft mist of sound, and the solemn splendour of the moonlit path, which sloped down from their feet.

The man had risen with her. He was a tall, handsome man on the right side of thirty; his straight back and squared shoulders spoke eloquently of the army. Now his fine face was hardened by the pain which he had occasioned, and which he would willingly have spared this beautiful woman.

She looked unusually pale in the moonlight; a beautifully shaped creature with masses of dark hair, dressed low about her temples; imperious and haughty; you saw that in the almost insolent droop of the eyelash, in the strength of the chin.

She was humble enough now.

"No, I do not think there is much to be gained by talking it over," said the man with a nervous little laugh. "I wonder at myself, that I can discuss it so dispassionately, but it is only because I want to be fair to you, Anna— I beg your pardon!" He corrected himself hastily. "It is a trick one does not readily lose— Lady Wensley."

As if actuated by a common desire to get as far from the house as possible, they walked to the edge of the terrace.

"You think I have treated you badly?" she said, leaning over the balustrade by his side.

She spoke quickly, for she knew that their time together would be all too brief for her purpose.

"I don't think you acted quite straight with me," he said. "I want to be fair with you. I know now that you were keen on marrying money, but you might have given me some indication of your thoughts and wishes in that direction."

Yet, she noticed wonderingly, there was no reproach in his voice.

"The first news I had of your marriage came by the very post by which I expected to receive your final wishes about the marriage settlement. You had given me no indication, no hint of your changed views. Why, you were married by the time the letter reached India. It was a pretty hard and bitter blow for me," he said gravely.

"You have survived it very well, Ronald," she said with a little smile.

He turned his head; his face was stern; there was no reflection of the amusement she had shown.

"God gives men strength in the hour of their necessity," he said soberly. "Do you remember your 'Vanity Fair'? You remember that awfully good chap who would have been the hero of the story, if Thackeray could have tolerated a hero; and you remember what he said to the girl whose whims and fancies he had endured for so long? You probably don't. He said 'You are unworthy of me.' It was as I was finishing your letter for the second time, that that blessed phrase came to me. Trite, wasn't it?" he said with a short laugh. "Yet, like most trite things, it was very comforting."

She hung her head.

"You are very hard; you do not understand."

"I confess I do not; at least, I did not then," said the man.

"You do not know what it is to be poor," she said in a low voice.

He laughed again.

"I've hardly ever known what it is to be anything else," he said with a little chuckle of genuine amusement.

"And now it is all over, and you've forgotten?"

"Yes, it is all over," he agreed.

"And you have forgotten?"

"No!"

"You think women are horrid?"

There was a little inquiring tilt to her eyebrows, as she raised her face to his with the question.

"I do not think that women are horrid," he said, "though I am perfectly sure, by whatever standard one judges, that you were not as nice as you might have been. Let it go at that."

He turned as if to re-enter the house, but she laid her hand on his arm.

"One moment, Ronald," she said. "Suppose— suppose?"

She stopped. Her breath came quickly, there was a strange fire in her eyes.

"Suppose I have regretted all that I did, and that I see now, with a clear vision, my folly and its fruits? Suppose," she dropped her voice to an eager whisper, "that I count love above all things? Ah! Listen to me!"

She caught his arm, for he would have moved a little away from her in his embarrassment.

"Money isn't everything, Ronald. It was wicked of me, and cruel of me, I know, to do what I did; but I wanted something more than love, and now I want love more than everything."

The diamond star upon her white bosom rose and fell quickly; her shining eyes were uplifted to his.

He shook his head slowly. There was pity in the face turned to hers.

"It is too late," he said gently, "even were I blackguard enough, it is too late! For if you did not love me, I believe I could not love you as a man should love—"

She stepped back with a little cry.

She had never doubted his love for her. His words were like a blow; harder to endure.

"There is someone else?"

He dropped his eyes before hers; he found himself talking a little hoarsely and cleared his throat.

"There is someone else," he said. "I think that, at last, I have found the real thing."

Through the French window which opened from the ball-room to the terrace, there came a tall, big-moulded man. The light from the room touched his white hair, and gave the pair a momentary glimpse of a red, jovial face.

"Hullo! Is that you, Anna?" he called.

He saw her figure standing aloof from the other, and hastened towards her.

"Come along, my dear, the Rajah was asking for you. Hullo, Grey!" he said genially to the other; "come inside, my lad. You will find, when you reach my age, that a sentimental passion for moonlight effects will be tempered by a natural fear of rheumatism. Brrrrrr!" he shivered.

"I will come in one minute, John," said the woman. "Captain Grey was just telling me about his adventures in India and you've interrupted at the most exciting part."

"I'm sorry," said her husband with a quick laugh.

He turned his kindly blue eyes upon the younger man.

"You fellows who have adventures to tell," he said ruefully, "have a tremendous advantage over us poor stay-at-home fogeys. Yet the Rajah has promised a glimpse of that treasure of his. There's adventure enough there— even for you, Grey," he said.

"I will come in."

"One moment, Captain Grey," said lady Wensley, desperately. "I wanted to ask you just one thing."

Her husband stood for a moment irresolutely, and then, as he realized that he was a little de trop, he made a graceful retreat.

"Don't stay too long, the air is chilly," he called over his shoulder.

She waited until his big form had disappeared into the brilliantly illuminated room, then turned to her companion.

"What is her name?" she asked quietly.

Ronald Grey hesitated.

"It would be hardly fair?" he said.

"Are you engaged to her or aren't you?" she asked, almost roughly.

"I am engaged," he said simply.

She laughed; it was not a laugh that was good to hear. It told of the disappointment, chagrin, humiliation and thwarted designs of the woman. It told too of the reawakened love, perhaps of its very birth, since she had never felt so deeply as now.

"Who is she?" she asked again.

Before he could reply, the slim figure of a girl stepped out on to the terrace, and came towards them.

"Ronald," she cried, "we are waiting for you."

She stepped up to him and laid her hand on his arm.

There was no need for lady Wensley to ask any further. The man's silence was eloquent. He had wished to spare her the humiliation of knowing that Marjorie Douglas had supplanted her in his heart.

Marjorie was Anna Wensley's cousin— a beautiful child who had blossomed, as it seemed, in a day to womanhood. She was fairer than Lady Wensley; as tall, as graceful, and, of her colouring, more beautiful. Her eyes sparkled with laughter as she spoke; she was all excitement.

"Oh Anna," she cried, "aren't you longing to see this wonderful belt of the Rajah's?"

The woman pulled herself together with a great effort.

"I'm not particularly keen," she said.

She knew that the tête-à-tête was finished. What further need was there for any talk between them? She knew the worst; she had offered something and that something had been rejected.

She fell in naturally by Ronald's side, and walked back with him into the room.

The dancing had ceased; the guests were gathered in one corner of the room about the swarthy figure of the Rajah of Jhiopore. It was the Coronation year, and to Sir John Wensley had fallen the duty of entertaining one of the richest of India's potentates. They had met when Sir John had been on a shooting expedition, and he had welcomed the suggestion of the India Office that he should take under his wing for protection and guidance this stout and kindly Easterner.

The Rajah had had the benefit of an Oxford education, and was at once a pleasing and an accommodating guest.

As the little party entered the room, his Highness was talking to a tall, clean-shaven man, of distinguished appearance. The hair about his temples was grey; there was a certain strength in the set of his jaw, but humour shone in the grey eyes that looked out upon the world from under shaggy black eyebrows.

The Rajah's deep laugh sounded high above the babel of talk.

"This will amuse you, Sir John," he called, as he caught sight of the figure of his host.

"What is that?" asked Sir John with a smile. "Anything Claude Trennion says is calculated to amuse me."

"I don't know that it is particularly amusing," drawled Trennion, "though I suppose even a policeman is entitled to his jape. I was telling the Rajah that he ought to be jolly careful of that belt in the house of an antiquarian, as you are, Sir John, of such enthusiastic tastes."

"Well, the Rajah hasn't corrupted me yet," smiled Sir John, "though possibly after I have seen this wonderful belt of his I shall be filled with greed and envy."

"You shall see it now."

The Rajah got up from his chair and beckoned a servant.

"Will you tell my secretary that I wish to see him," he said.

Then, turning to the little throng about him, he said seriously:

"It is rather a business seeing the Queen of Sheba's belt. You see, it is one of my family heirlooms. I brought it to London with me because the British Museum people were most keen on preparing a replica, and though my faithful subjects tell me, from time to time, that I am the most admirable of men— that I am the very light of the heavens, and the rich soil beneath their feet— I have not the same childlike faith in their integrity as I have in the staid gentlemen at your great national museum."

With a swift glance he looked around. His eye lighted on Marjorie, and he nodded.

"You, Miss Douglas, shall wear this belt. It looks its best upon somebody. You can have no idea of the fascination of the jewel until you see it worn by a beautiful woman."

The words of the Indian sent a quick flush to the girl's face, though the compliment had been kindly meant. Whatever embarrassment she may have felt was relieved at that moment by the arrival of the dark-skinned secretary of the Rajah.

They exchanged a few words in Hindustani, and then with a deep salaam the secretary left.

Trennion watched the scene curiously. He had come down from London that day at the invitation of Sir John. He had welcomed the change. Too much of Scotland Yard is not good for the health of an Assistant Commissioner, and work had been very heavy during the past few months, as a result of the Coronation festivities.

He took an idle interest in people; they were his chief and solitary "subject." Human nature he found more engrossing than any other kind of actor.

He fell in at the rear of the little party which trailed behind the Rajah and his henchmen. They made their way through the long corridor of Wensley Hall, and up the broad stairway to the Rajah's suite. There was nothing in the furnishing or decoration of the apartment to suggest the abiding place of one of India's richest men; for Sir John knew the Rajah's tastes sufficiently well to avoid ostentation, and indeed, the stout little man who ruled the Province of Jhiopore neither desired Eastern luxury or missed it.

There were two rooms communicating. The inner was his Highness's sleeping apartment; the outer his sitting room, and, for the time being, his state office.

He bade them wait a little while and disappeared into the bedroom. A few minutes later he came out carrying a long, flat case of red morocco. He laid it upon the table in the centre of the room, under the branching lights of an electrolier, and opened it.

The little party which thronged about the table uttered cries of surprise and delight.

There, upon its blue velvet cushion lay the Queen of Sheba's belt. It was a great breast-plate of dull gold set about with uncut diamonds and emeralds; on either side, flush with the breast of the wearer, were two bosses thickly encrusted with pearls and emeralds.

He lifted it gingerly from its case and weighed it reflectively in his hands.

"This weighs seven pounds," he said, "which rather disproves the theory that the new woman is better developed physically than was her sister of olden days."

He nodded to Marjorie and she stepped forward, a little uncomfortably, but smiling.

"May I be your lady's maid?" he said, and with his deft hands he fastened the great belt about her waist.

It fitted her perfectly. The ancient fasteners behind, working as truly as they did in the days of Solomon's queen, snapped into their places: the jewelled shoulder-straps fitted true into their little slots, which the dead and gone workmen of Babylon had fastened.

She made a gorgeous figure standing there in the full glare of the lights.

Ronald, watching her, felt a glow of pride in her loveliness, and their eyes met in one understanding and happy glance.

Lady Wensely had intercepted that glance, and something gripped at her heart and stirred the very foundations of her being. With a superhuman effort she retained control of herself.

"Very pretty, Marjorie," she drawled. "you look as if you had just stepped off the stage of the Gaiety, or," with an almost imperceptible shrug, "from the floor of a Covent Garden ball. What is the value of this wonderful thing, Rajah?"

The little man looked up, showing his white teeth in a smile.

"It would be difficult to value it from the point of view of an antiquarian." He glanced at Sir John and the baronet nodded. "But taking a purely material view, if one weighed the gold and valued the gems according to the standard of Hatton Garden, that belt is worth 200,000 pounds."

There was a little gasp of astonishment.

"Oh, take it off please," said Marjorie nervously, "I don't like to wear anything so valuable, even for a few moments. One of the emeralds may drop out."

The Rajah shook his head.

"Enjoy the sensation for a moment," he said. "Remember as you stand there, that Sheba's queen wore that belt probably before the great Solomon himself."

"Please take it off," she said.

She had gone suddenly white. Some premonition of evil had come to her, and Trennion on whom no sign was lost, caught a glimpse of the face of his hostess, and wondered what this girl had done to earn that brief and fleeting malevolence which gleamed from the older woman's eyes.

With deft fingers the Rajah released the belt, and the girl, looking a little white, smoothed out the creases in her crumpled dress with a hand that trembled.

"It gave me quite an uncanny feeling," she said, smiling nervously. "Wasn't it absurd of me!"

"Other people have had that feeling," said the Rajah drily. "People with stronger nerves than you, Miss Douglas."

He replaced the belt in its case and disappeared into the bedroom with it; by and by he returned.

"What did you think of it?" he asked Sir John.

"It is a magnificent piece of work," said the antiquarian, shaking his head in admiration. "I didn't have the opportunity I should have liked to have had of examining it."

"You shall have that tomorrow," said the Rajah. "To tell the truth, I am as chary of showing it as most people are of wearing it. It wasn't fair, really, that I should ask Miss Douglas to put it on. It was only because I, myself, have no faith in these ridiculous superstitions"— he shrugged his shoulders contemptuously— "but I should not have asked other people to share my scepticism."

"Is there a legend?" asked Trennion.

"There is an obscure and rambling legend to the effect that anyone wearing it is liable to bad luck, or something of the sort. It is not a particularly powerful talisman, either for good or evil."

They made their way back to the ball-room.

It was a small house-party that had gathered at Wensley Hall. This restriction as to the number of guests had been necessary, since Sir John had been in some doubt as to the retinue the Rajah would bring, and in what state he would live. It had come as a pleasant surprise to find this genial ruler so simple a man. The Rajah of Jhiopore, with his big round body and his big round face, was a pleasant surprise to most people with whom he was brought into contact. He was one of the best read men of his class; a keen sportsman, and a good fellow by all standards.

Trennion was thinking this as he strolled to the library. The "policeman" was no dancing man, and his idea of rest took the very common place and intelligent shape of a book, a pipe, and an easy chair. It was all he asked of the world— just then.

He found a comfortable chair in one of the window spaces. Sir John was something of a modernist so far as his domestic comfort was concerned, and those nooks which in ordinary country houses are breeding places of pneumonia and influenza, were at Wensley Hall the cosiest of corners.

The room was empty when he came in. One light was burning and he did not trouble to switch on the remainder. He had no wish to read: he lit his pipe, and stretched himself on the big settee, looking through the window at the soft vista of park land mysteriously illuminated by the yellow moon.

He was a tired man. He had come to Wensley Hall because he was tired. His head nodded; the pipe in his mouth fell with a little thud on to the carpeted floor and he dozed.

He could hardly have fallen asleep before he was awakened by the sound of voices.

He opened his eyes. Marjorie stood in the centre of the room, an agitated Marjorie, with her hands clasped. She faced a small bald-headed man with melancholy side whiskers.

"I can't pay you yet, Mr. Callit," she was saying; "I had no idea you would want paying so soon."

"Well, Miss," said the man, "I'm sorry to bother you, but I really must get money in. I've had some big demands, otherwise I shouldn't have bothered you. I've come down specially from London, to-night, to see you."

"But I can't pay you," said the girl in despair. "I can't! I should never have had those things if I had thought you were going to bother so soon. My dividends aren't due for another two months, and it is impossible for me to do what you ask."

The little man shook his head, helplessly.

As for Trennion lying there, an unwilling eavesdropper, he was in an unenviable position, and would have given no little sum to have been well out of the room beyond earshot.

He knew exactly what the girl would feel if she found him there, or if he were to make his presence known.

"Can't you get the money anywhere, Miss?" asked the man desperately; "you don't know what a hole I am in. Eighty pounds won't be anything to a lady like you."

"Oh, you ought never to have come," said the girl. "I wish to Heaven I had never bought clothes at your wretched place. It is abominable of you."

"Can't you borrow the money?"

"How dare you!" she flamed. "How dare you suggest that I should borrow money! Whom do you imagine I could borrow money from? You have to wait."

"I can't wait, Miss," whined the man, wringing his hands. "I tell you I am in a pretty bad position. What about Captain Grey?"

She drew herself up and looked down at the other coldly.

"I am going to ring for the servant," she said; "you had better go. You are behaving disgracefully. You have no right to mention anybody's name to me."

"I must have the money," said the man in a panic. "That's what I came for, and I am not going away till I get some."

Trennion thought he heard a slight noise near the door; his ears were unusually sensitive, and they caught that which the girl had evidently missed.

He looked up quickly and bit his lip to suppress an exclamation. In the shadow of the portiere he saw a woman, and that woman was Lady Wensley. She had been there all the time— he saw that. From where she stood she could have seen him and she turned her head, but her attention was too closely occupied by the scene she was witnessing.

Trennion guessed that she had been there all the time. He had no illusions as to the motive of human beings. His police work had destroyed much of his faith in the common honesty of humanity. She had followed the girl, he guessed, with intent to discover the meaning of, what must have been to her, a suspicious visit. And now she stood there, listening intently.

"I will send you something tomorrow," said Marjorie at last. "I can do no more than that."

The man hesitated.

"Are you sure, Miss—" he began.

"I tell you I will send you money tomorrow," said the girl with a little stamp of her foot; "and you must be content with that."

"Well—" he rubbed his hat irresolutely on his sleeve, "that will have to satisfy me, Miss, I suppose," he said dubiously. "I'll trust you. If you can let me have it before twelve o'clock tomorrow, it will make all the difference in the world to me."

She said no more. The interview was finished.

Trennion saw the figure by the portiere slip through the door. He saw, too, the puzzled look which came into the girl's face at the sight of the open door— a bewilderment which was succeeded by a look of apprehension. Without a word she threw the door wide open and passed through; and the man followed, closing the door behind him.

Trennion sat up, picked up his pipe from the carpet, and walked into the middle of the room.

An Assistant Commissioner of Police is not usually perturbed by the frailties or the unexpected impecuniosities of his fellows. That Marjorie Douglas should be damned neither shocked nor amused him. At first he thought he had come upon a surprising streak of extravagance in the girl, but the words of the agitated tradesman had dismissed that idea from his mind. He saw exactly her position— a position in which any woman might find herself.

He wondered whether he should offer her the money. Eighty pounds was not a great sum, but to make the offer would be to make the admission of knowledge. It was a delicate situation. He was pondering the matter over, his chin on his palm, when the door opened hurriedly, and Anna Wensley came in.

She stopped dead when she saw him.

"Mr. Trennion!" she said, and then, with a little nervous jerk of her shoulders, came farther into the room. "I wanted a book; these dancing people are boring me. How long have you been here?"

She spoke quickly and jerkily.

"I've just come in," replied Trennion untruthfully.

"Did you meet— anybody?" she asked.

"No! I saw your cousin, Marjorie. Who was the queer old gentleman with her?"

"Oh! He is a man who has come down from town." She shrugged her shoulders. "I'm afraid poor Marjorie is rather extravagant. You won't tell anybody, will you?" she asked pleadingly.

"You may be sure I shall tell nobody," he said.

He wondered exactly what her object was in telling him this and how much of the secret she was prepared to divulge.

"You see, Marjorie has been spending a tremendous amount of money on jewellery and things." Her gestures spoke her disapproval more admirably than words could have conveyed it. "I think the young girls of to-day are tremendously foolish. It is so easy to get credit, and then," another shrug, "to find a method of raising money on the jewels. I don't say," she said quickly, "that that is what Marjorie has done— but so many girls do it. It's rather shocking, isn't it?" she cooed.

He nodded.

"It's very shocking indeed," he said gravely. "In fact, it is an offence under the law in certain cases."

"I know. But you are not going to arrest dear Marjorie and take her away?" she smiled, "are you? No! The man you saw was from Stangs, the jeweller. However, one oughtn't to talk about it, but I know I can trust you, dear Mr. Trennion."

"Oh yes," he said with a smile, "you can trust me."

What object could she have, he wondered, in lying to him? He did not doubt that the man was from a firm of dressmakers. Why should she wish to represent her cousin so blackly? Why had she come in so hurriedly and shown such evidence of dismay at finding him there?

These were the problems which helped to keep him awake longer than he desired that night. They occupied him at spare moments on his journey to London the next day.

Once back in Scotland Yard his engrossing work was sufficient to take his mind from the little comedy which he had seen enacted at Wensley Hall. He was an enthusiast in the pursuit of criminal research. He found his work already defined for him that day, and spent a fascinating twelve hours taking the measurements and the weights of a number of known criminals, who had been transported in closed vans to Scotland Yard, to his office, for that purpose.

The work took him two days. It was two days of minute measurements, two days of patient recording.

On the second day he had finished his work and had gone back to his club for dinner. In the middle of the meal a club waiter brought him a telegram, and he opened it.

His eyebrows rose as he read the message it contained:

QUEEN OF SHEBA'S BELT HAS BEEN STOLEN FROM WENSLEY HALL. CAN YOU COME ALONG AND HELP US INVESTIGATE?

JOHN WENSLEY.

He laid the telegram down by his plate and whistled softly to himself.

MARJORIE DOUGLAS stood facing her cousin in the dusk of the drawing-room. The girl's face was tense and white, but about the thin lips of Lady Wensley flickered a faint satirical smile.

"I really cannot understand what you are driving at, Anna," said the girl.

"I didn't suppose you would," said the older woman drily; "yet I thought you might have saved me the embarrassment of putting what I have to say into plain words."

"They cannot be too plain for me," said the girl coldly. "I am tired of innuendoes, and of hints and suggestions."

Lady Wensley had dropped her eyes, and was viewing with apparent interest the gathers she was making in her tulle scarf.

"I suppose you are," she said, without looking up. "As for me, I am more than tired of other things."

The girl looked at her with a puzzled expression.

"I can quite understand, Anna," she said gently, "that you are a little distraught by this dreadful robbery; but your hints hurt me; they worry me terribly. Can't you say exactly what you mean? Do you suspect anybody? And do you think— ?"

She stopped dead.

"You don't think that I know who took it?" she asked with a catch of her breath.

Lady Wensley raised her insolent eyes to her, and stared unwinkingly.

"I wonder why you say that," she said softly. "Now, can't you offer me any hint that would help me when it comes to giving dear Mr. Trennion information?"

"Hint?" gasped the girl. "Why surely—"

"I simply hate to say it, Marjorie," said Anna.

She walked to the window and looked out upon the gathering gloom, her hand behind her; the figure of a woman with an unpleasant task before her. Yet the straight line of the shoulders and the poise of the head told the girl that her cousin would not shrink from the performance of her duty, however painful it might be.

"Of course, dear," she said, in her cooing voice, "everybody knows you are hard up."

The girl flushed.

"I don't know what you mean," she said steadily.

Lady Wensley shrugged her shoulders.

"Well, after all, if you don't know you are the only person here that doesn't. Isn't it a fact that you are being dunned by a man who came all the way from London?"

"That is true," said the girl hotly, "and you are wicked and cruel to suggest that the fact that I have been in want of money can in any way be associated with the loss of the Rajah's jewel. It is infamous of you!" She stamped her foot. "How dare you?"

Lady Wensley turned swiftly.

"Did you pay the man the money?" she asked pointedly.

"I did," said the girl.

"Where did you get the money from?"

With an effort the girl mastered her growing anger.

"The money came to me?.I found the money?."

She stopped; it seemed such an impossible explanation.

"I received money on Thursday."

"The day after the robbery," said Lady Wensley meaningly. "How did it come?"

"It came by post, in bank notes."

"But from whom did it come?"

The growing terror in the girl's eyes was pitiable.

"I don't know," she said.

She forgot to be indignant or angry. All she realized was that there was piling up against her a monstrous mountain of suspicion, and that she could give no explanation which would satisfy her inexorable cousin.

"It came by post," she said again, "on Thursday morning. There was just a hundred pounds in bank notes. I don't know who it came from," she shook her head helplessly, "but I had written to one or two people, and I thought that one of these had sent it."

"To whom did you write?"

"I thought it was from one of these," she went on quickly; "but there was no name on the envelope. I should have written to them to find out, but by the next post came a letter from both of them. One of them sent me the money, which I returned; the other was not able to help me. That is the truth," she said defiantly. "You have pried into my private affairs; you have put the worst constructions upon my actions. You don't, for one moment, imagine that I had anything whatever to do with the taking of this jewel?"

Again the shrug.

"I want to settle this matter without any bother," said lady Wensley. "After all, my dear girl, it isn't so much a question of what I think, as what the world will think?"

She hesitated a moment, eyeing the girl closely.

"What will Captain Grey think?" she said slowly.

The girl's face was white now. She stood a moment staring at the other, as though she could not fully grasp her meaning. Then she turned, and without another word, left the room.

She went straight to the library, expecting to find Ronald there. She knew he had some work to do, for he had been asked to prepare a report upon some north-western tribes with which he was acquainted.

He looked up as she came in. He was sitting at the writing table, surrounded by papers. His smile left his lips when he saw the distress of the girl.

"Why, what is the matter?" he said rising.

In a voice which was rendered almost incoherent by her mingled grief and anger, she told him the story, and he listened. And as he listened his eyes opened wide in astonishment.

"But," he said, "my dear girl, surely you are joking?"

"I'm not," she said.

"But Anna would never dare to say that to you," he cried, his brows clouding, "Not in all seriousness?"

For reply, the girl burst into a passion of weeping.

He caught her to his breast, and soothed her as best he could, but it was a long time before he could pacify her.

It was unthinkable; it was monstrous that such a suggestion as this should be made. He had shared in the general perturbation which had fallen upon the household when the discovery of the Rajah's loss was made. It had hurt him to see Sir John Wensley so grieved. The old antiquarian had taken the matter much to heart; and although the Rajah, with oriental philosophy, had made light of the matter, and had sought to ease the shock of the discovery, yet nothing that the Indian could say or do could relieve Sir John of the sense of his own responsibility.

The Rajah had gone. He had taken leave of his host and hostess with the urbanity and geniality which characterized all his movements. One might have thought, from his florid little speech, and from the gay good humour in which he left, that, so far from having lost a jewel which was worth a king's ransom, he had acquired one.

Two of the best men from Scotland Yard had come down to investigate the matter, without arriving at any result that was satisfactory either to Sir John or to themselves.

Sir John Wensley had been a little disappointed that Trennion could not come himself.

Trennion had a reputation through two continents for the detection of such crimes as these.

Scotland Yard's opinion, as represented by the two detective officers who came, was that the burglary was the work of a gang of international criminals whose activities had, for the past year or so, tried the patience— and called into play all the vigilance— that Scotland Yard possessed.

As against this theory, their enquiries in the neighbourhood failed to elicit any news of strangers, nor did systematic investigation in the villages about Wensley produce any other evidence which might connect outsiders with the crime.

The accusation against Marjorie Douglas was, of course, absurd. Ronald himself did not take it seriously. He was disturbed by a belief, which amounted almost to a certainty, that the robber or robbers had operated from within the house, and that whoever had taken this wonderful jewel had not, so far, succeeded in removing it from the precincts of Wensley Hall.

This view he had communicated to Sir John, but a very stringent search of the servant's quarters had not revealed any clue.

Lady Wensley was not in her boudoir, nor was she in her little study.

Ronald hesitated.

Should he send to her room? Sir John was away; he had gone to town to see Trennion.

His hand was on the bell when Lady Wensley came in.

She had utilized the period which had elapsed between the departure of the girl and the coming of Ronald, to change. She looked her best in the blacky- blue close-fitting velvet dress which she wore. She had just the touch of colour which she sometimes lacked, and the glitter of diamonds at her fingers offered the only relief to the svelte and sombre figure. Her eyes were bright as with some unwonted excitement.

To his surprise she came forward with a smile.

"I suppose that girl of yours has been telling you that I suspect her?" she asked.

"I think—" he began.

"Don't think," she said lightly. "Just come along and sit over here." She indicated a big settee. "Now, Ronald," she said with almost matronly assurance laying her hand on his arm, "I want you to take a sensible view of things. I know it sounds horrid, but remember this, that Marjorie has been in great difficulties. She is being dunned, and when a young girl is being dunned, you never know exactly what she is going to do."

"But surely," he said, looking at her in pain and astonishment, "you don't really mean that you think Marjorie is a thief?"

"What am I to think?" asked lady Wensley in resigned despair. "Somebody has taken the belt— somebody inside the house."

"But it's preposterous, Anna," he said sternly. "You really don't mean it?"

"Mean it? Indeed I mean it," she said earnestly.

He rose quietly to his feet.

"If you mean that," he said, "then you and I are no longer friends."

"But—"

He raised his hand.

"Hear me until I've finished. You know as well as I that your cousin would never stoop to so base a crime. Her whole life, her upbringing, her training— everything, is against such a monstrous supposition."

"When a girl buys jewellery—" murmured Lady Wensley.

"It was not jewellery," cried Ronald indignantly. "She has told me everything. It was a paltry eighty pounds with a wretched little tailor who was on the verge of bankruptcy. He came up here in a panic. As a matter of fact, his petition is filed in this morning's papers."

Lady Wensley smiled.

"How clever of Marjorie!" she said admiringly. "Of course, she saw that in the paper and jumped at the idea."

He turned from her abruptly.

"I don't stay in this house another day," he said, standing at the door, "nor does Marjorie. I see something behind all this— some wicked malice."

"Oh, la la!" laughed lady Wensley; but her laugh was a little artificial, and more than a little shrill. "What melodrama we talk in these days! If you must go, of course you must. I'll have your bag packed, and as to Marjorie"— she shrugged her shoulders— "I suppose you have the right to say that she shall go too. I will place no obstacle in your way. Go to London, and let me know where you are staying. More important," she said carefully, and looked at him with a speculative eye which well nigh maddened him, "you had better let me know where Marjorie is staying. There may, of course, be developments."

She lingered on the last word with significance.

"Developments," she repeated. "I think I can do no less than go to Scotland Yard and lay my view before dear Mr. Trennion. It is a shocking thing to do, of course, but what am I to do? I must protect our guests."

His calm grey eyes were fixed upon her face.

"I do not know what you can do," he said quietly, "I only know this, that I am either to believe that Marjorie is a thief who has committed a most terrible crime, or I am to believe that you are a jealous, disappointed and malignant woman."

Every word was a clean cut; every word flicked the woman like the cruel end of a lash.

Yet she showed no sign, save the tightening of her lips, and an almost imperceptible stiffening, that she felt his anger. She did not attempt to reply; there she was wise. She controlled all outward evidence of distress; to speak would have been to betray her weakness.

"I choose to believe," he went on, "in the purity and in the honesty of Marjorie. If I do you an injustice I am not doing you so cruel a one as you have done my future wife."

He made a little pause before the last word, and, seeing her wince, was momentarily sorry.

"You may offer Sir John any explanation you wish. You may tell him that I am Marjorie's accomplice if you wish," he said. "I am leaving by the six o'clock train, and Marjorie goes with me to London."

His voice was low, but perfectly under control.

With a little bow he left her. She stood motionless for a long, long time, though it was probably not more than a few minutes, and then she walked slowly from the room, and mounted the stairs to her own bedroom.

She stood before her glass, as though communing with herself; then she turned swiftly and rang the bell.

A French maid came in a few minutes.

"Celeste," she said, "tell me, where is Miss Douglas?"

"She is going, milady," said the girl.

They were speaking in French, for Celeste knew very little English.

"Where is her baggage?"

"In the hall, milady."

"All of it?"

"Oui, milady. Thomas brought down the last bag before your ladyship rang."

Anna considered a moment.

"Go quickly, and if there is nobody there, bring up Miss Douglas's bag— the green one."

The girl went out of the room, and Anna paced the floor feverishly. It was a desperate thing to do. She was in a panic before the girl had half descended the stairs; she would have run down and called her back, in fact, she went to the door with that object, but heard footsteps and stopped. It might be Ronald, he was on the same floor. What a fool she was; what a careless, blundering fool, first to precipitate this crisis and then to take advantage of it with such unpardonable gaucherie! But the green bag would be an easy matter for her— if Celeste could get it.

Then a thought struck her; she walked swiftly to her dressing table and pulled open a drawer.

She heard a tap at the door and her heart froze within her.

"Come in," she said faintly.

It was Celeste, and she was carrying a small green dressing-case.

"Did anybody see you? Answer me quickly— did anybody see you?"

"No, milady," said the girl.

Anna could trust Celeste. The girl was devoted to her— owed, in fact, her life to this strange woman who could be so cold and so fiery, so heartless and so tender even to her dependents. Anna had nursed this French maid of hers through a bad attack of diphtheria, when a trained nurse from a nursing home could have been found for her— when, too, she could still have claimed something of credit for the girl's recovery. But with that perverseness which was at once her charm and her undoing, she had chosen rather to attend the girl herself. Now she was to put her adoring servant's loyalty to the test.

"You will not say a word of this to anybody," she said, fumbling with the clasps of the bag. "Go out of the room and see if there is anybody in the corridor."

The girl went out, and came back to find her mistress, white of face, tugging unavailingly. The bag was locked. She was mad to expect anything else.

"Take it back to the hall," she said "quickly."

She had a key which would open it, for the green bag had been her own till she had given it to the girl. But her keys were not there. They were in her study downstairs. She had realized this the moment she had opened the drawer of her dressing table.

She followed the girl out as she carried the bag along the corridor, and stood at the head of the stairs until she had disappeared from view. There she waited until the French girl returned.

"Did anyone see you?"

"No, milady," said the girl, wonderingly.

"Bien!" said my lady with a heartfelt sigh of relief.

There must be some other way. She must find it. The fortune of chance might serve her in good stead.

She walked steadily down to the hall, just as Marjorie came up. A servant stood at the door, there was nothing to be said but conventionalities.

"I am sorry you have to go," she said politely.

Ronald took her extended hand and bowed over it.

"I hope I shall have the pleasure of meeting you again," he said stiffly.

Marjorie said nothing. She was too shocked by the amazing charge which had been brought against her to find either the will or the inclination to play a part.

To cover the awkwardness of the situation she turned to the waiting groom.

"I want you to register that bag." She pointed to the little travelling bag. "Book it to the cloak-room at King's Cross, until called for."

"Yes, madam," said the man.

To the cloak-room at King's Cross, repeated Anna mentally. She saw a way.

She watched the brougham which carried the two to the station until it was lost to sight in a turn of the long avenue, then she slowly retraced her steps to the house and to her room.

To the cloak-room at King's Cross.

Then Marjorie was not going home. She would go to Plymouth, to her aunt's, and would pick the bag up on her return.

Marjorie lived with her widowed mother in Chelsea, but Anna knew that she was, at that moment, wintering in Italy, and was not due back for a week.

Yes. It would be Marjorie's Plymouth relative who would entertain the girl for the next week.

A week. Sufficiently long! Here was her opportunity.

She went into her study to work out the plan. Her luck was in; how much so she realized when the evening brought a wire from Sir John to say that he was accompanying the Rajah to Paris, and would not be back for eight days.

CLAUDE TRENNION came swinging through the archway of Scotland Yard, his hat, a large white Terai, set a little askew on his head.

His face was thin, clean-shaven and burnt brown by the Indian summer— for he had come to Scotland Yard by way of the Punjab. There was a patch of grey hair at his temple, and a monocle in his eye. He was tall enough to indulge himself in the luxury of a stoop; one hand was everlastingly thrust into his pocket, the other whirled a Malacca cane.

He returned the salute of the policeman on duty at the door, went up the broad stairway two steps at a time, and came to his big handsome office as his uniformed clerk was laying his papers on his desk.

Trennion looked round as he entered the office.

A weighing-machine, such as may be seen in the offices of a medical man, stood under the window. This he had used in preparing his famous report on the Bertillon System.

"Get that away to-day, Cole," he said, nodding toward the machine. "Anybody waiting to see me?"

"A lady, sir."

"Oh yes, Lady Wensley." He nodded, this time to himself, and, unlocking the drawer of his desk, took out a large envelope. "Ask her to come in," he said.

Trennion was silently reviewing the events of the previous week, when the door opened and Anna Wensley came in.

"I am so sorry to bother you, dear Mr. Trennion," she said as they shook hands. "I've come about the belt, of course. I do so want to clear this matter up without any delay, and it was dear of you to give me this appointment."

He smiled.

"Very delightful of you. Won't you sit down and tell me exactly what your own views are?"

Trennion placed a chair for his visitor.

Lady Wensley deposited her muff and gold purse, with its bunch of jingling keys attached, upon the Assistant Commissioner's table, and settled herself comfortably in the chair Trennion offered. She was a little irritated by his "office manner," and how absurd of him to pretend that he did not know her views after her letters and telegrams.

"I am afraid I can tell you very little," she said easily. "The belt has disappeared and we must get it back. It is considered by the Rajah literally as priceless. He is beside himself with anxiety, and till it is found neither Sir John nor I can know any peace."

"The belt is particularly heavy, I remember, is it not?" Trennion put the question almost indifferently.

"It weighs six pounds four ounces," Anna replied promptly; "that is one of the facts which I thought you knew. By the way, you have a list of my guests, have you not, Mr. Trennion?" she added carelessly.

"Yes; I have the list you sent me— here it is."

Trennion took the slip of paper from his desk.

"It was hardly necessary to be so explicit," he smiled, "remembering that I shared your hospitality for two whole days. I see you have included Marjorie Douglas,"— he looked up sharply,— "and you say," he read from the letter, "she is very poor, very pretty, very clever and ambitious, and she was seen coming out of the Rajah's room on the day the belt was stolen. I always understood that Marjorie is a cousin and a great friend of yours?"

Anna's short upper lip curved ever so slightly, but she avoided the inquiring gaze of the other.

"Not exactly," she said carelessly. "She's certainly a cousin; but as for the other— she's a friend of a friend— Ronald Grey, whom you know." Trennion nodded. "She's pretty certainly, I should not call her beautiful?a very fascinating girl, and he's a susceptible man."

"They're engaged?" Trennion put the question as one who was merely making conversation.

Lady Wensley stiffened a little and answered as it seemed, reluctantly.

"Yes; there is some entanglement. She's— well, of course, dear Mr. Trennion, I don't care to say anything unkind, but— "she lifted one velvet-clad shoulder deprecatingly, "I think you remember a certain episode in the library at Wensely— the dunning jeweller?"

Trennion nodded. He maintained his attitude of polite attention.

"You've known Ronald for some time, have you not?"

"Oh, for quite a long time," said Anna easily, though under the inconsequent examination of the man she was experiencing a tinge of exasperation. "I shouldn't have asked Marjorie if he hadn't insisted."

"Insisted?" echoed the attentive Commissioner. "He must be rather a close friend— a very close friend— to insist upon our receiving a girl you do not care to meet."

"Perhaps 'insisted' was not quite the right word— I express myself badly, I am afraid."

Lady Wensley's tone was languidly impatient.

"He has some right perhaps—" Trennion paused.

Anna rose from her chair. Her movement was full of dignity and grace. Only the steely glitter in the narrowed beautiful eyes betrayed her anger.

"Pray what do you mean?" she demanded coldly.

"Don't be offended, Lady Wensley, I beg. Friendship is a big matter. Surely if it has obligations, it has rights."

Anna resumed her chair, and with something of her indolent serenity; the interview was going the wrong way. She felt herself losing grasp of the situation.

A knock on the door interrupted her, and, in response to Trennion's summons, a policeman appeared with a card. The Assistant Commissioner glanced at it thoughtfully and put it on his desk.

"In a moment, Cole," he said, "I will ring; ask them to wait."

"We policemen, Lady Wensley," he continued when the man had left, "are inclined to be brusque, you understand? Well, this affair of the belt is a very serious matter. The Government doesn't want the matter to go into court, but we must get the belt."

"Of course, we must get the belt," said Anna, in her most confidential manner, "but—" there was a slight change of tone, a drop in its temperature, "do you mean that there will be no prosecution?"

"Not if we can get the belt without," said the other decidedly.

The woman bit her lips and moved a trifle restlessly.

"You'll hush it up— I didn't think they did that sort of thing at Scotland Yard!"

Trennion made a little grimace.

"Oh, we do many things at Scotland Yard besides finding lost umbrellas," he said a trifle flippantly.

She was obviously disturbed.

"I must insist— dear Mr. Trennion, how can I allow this matter to be hushed up? Think of my position. It is extremely awkward. I am afraid— indeed, I am convinced— it is impossible in this case to let the guilty go free. I am very sorry for her, of course"— she gave a little shrug— "besides, she was my guest. It is all very embarrassing. I wish Ronald would be more careful in his choice of friends— you see, I know the branch of the family rather well, and they are— well— just a little— oh, how I hate—" she checked herself again, and resumed in calmer tones, "how I hate being concerned in a affair of this kind!"

Trennion had been regarding his fair vis-à-vis attentively. He remembered that night in the library; it was a vivid memory. And her present distress was not lost upon him; he adopted a properly sympathetic tone as he replied:

"I'm awfully sorry for you, but I must tell you that unless we discover the belt actually in Miss Douglas's possession we shall not prosecute."

The lady's lips tightened.

"How do you mean 'in her possession'?"

"Well, unless, for example, she has it on her person, or we find it in here," tapping a green leather bag which lay on his desk.

"But why should it be in there?"

The question was put in all artlessness and Trennion stifled a smile.

"Because this is her bag," he said patiently, "and because I acted on your information and secured it from the cloak-room at King's Cross. Curiously enough, somebody else had been trying to get it."

"Marjorie herself, no doubt?"

"I should say not. If she had tried she would have got it. Besides, she left immediately after the robbery for Devonshire. She wrote to you from London, you remember, telling you that she had gone on in a hurry, leaving her bag at the cloak-room. At least," he said carefully, "that is what you told me. Oh no, the lady who was trying to secure this bag was a veiled, mysterious person— so mysterious that the attendants refused to hand it to her without the ticket. I learnt as much only this morning. I got the bag to-day in order that it might be opened in the presence of interested persons."

Trennion fixed his eyeglass a trifle more firmly in his eye, and pressed the electrical bell upon his table.

"I think we had better try to unravel this matter. You are pretty confident that the belt is in this bag?"

A shadow crossed Anna Wensley's face, but it passed in a moment. She could hear the thump-thump of her own heart, could feel the process of age that drew the skin of her face tighter, and deepened the shadows beneath her eyes. Yet she was apparently her easy, nonchalant self again as she drawled:

"Dear Mr. Trennion, how can I be confident? I only tell you of my suspicions— all that I wish to do is to assist justice."

"I think you may be able to do much in that direction," Trennion assured her, as he turned to the man who answered his ring. "Ask that lady and gentleman who are waiting to see me to come in, please."

"Very good, sir."

Anna started up from her seat suddenly and crossed the room to where Trennion sat. She laid her hand on his arm. She had not expected this.

"Mr. Trennion," she said, "I don't want—"

But whatever she had in her mind to say was not spoken, for at that moment two people were shown into the room.

The first was Marjorie. She was very pale, and her deep blue eyes were wide with distress. Her pretty mouth had a downward droop, like that of a tired child, and her lips were not quite steady, though she pressed them bravely together. Trennion, with his quick smile, welcomed her and pushed forward a chair. She certainly did not look a thief, nor did she bear the stamp of infamy, which as Anna had hinted, was part of her family heritage.

Ronald Grey— tall, soldierly, and more angry than distressed, followed her. He paused abruptly as he caught sight of Lady Wensley.

"Anna!" he said. "You here!" His voice was charged with contempt.

The fleeting expression of sullen rage which had marred her beautiful face a moment earlier as the two had entered the room vanished like birds before a storm. She smiled sweetly at him and utterly ignored the girl.

"Yes, of course I'm here— where did you expect me to be?"

He looked at her impatiently.

"Why have you come?" he said sternly. "Surely not to repeat the lies you pretended to believe at Wensley?"

Marjorie laid a pleading hand upon her lover's arm.

"Ronny, please! Please say no more."

The girl's words and actions seemed to fan to flame some smouldering passion in the beautiful woman as she turned her eyes angrily on the girl.

"Please, please!" she mocked. "Oh, don't beg his forbearance, I pray you. Let him say what he wishes. There was a time, Ronald, when— but do I need to remind you of that time? I see you remember!"

The man's eyes Involuntarily sought those of the young girl, and as he answered the elder woman he pleaded to his fiancée.

"I remember much that I wish I could forget," he said very gravely.

But Lady Wensley had no intention of accepting the rebuff.

"How like a man!" she said almost gaily, "isn't it, Mr. Trennion? Men wish to forget their own follies, and women find their chief joy in remembering them!"

Marjorie's eyes were fixed on her cousin's face.

"Anna," she said, "I have come here to answer the charge you have brought against me—"

Anna stared at her.

"I— my dear, good girl, I bring no charge."

The girl's face went a trifle paler under the insult of the older woman's manner.

"Why! That is my bag," she exclaimed suddenly.

Trennion nodded, and his voice was gentle and reassuring as he replied:

"Yes, it is your bag. I have taken the liberty of exercising certain embarrassing powers which I possess to claim it."

Ronald, who had listened impatiently to the exchange between the two women, could no longer control himself.

"But this is monstrous— it is an outrage," he broke out. Then he looked across at Lady Wensley, who stood all the time with a little scornful smile upon her face. "This is a plot," he accused her.

"If it is a plot," said Trennion soothingly, "I shall find out all about it, you know. I've got quite a reputation for finding things out. The Commissioner says I'm more like a magazine detective than a policeman. Now let us get to facts. The belt was stolen— the Queen of Sheba's belt. I'm sure, Lady Wensley," Trennion favoured her with his most friendly smile, "that dear lady would turn in her grave if she knew that her golden corsets were the subject of an inquiry at Scotland Yard. It was stolen, no doubt about that, and on the morning it was stolen," he turned again to Marjorie, "a maid saw you, Miss Douglas, leaving the Rajah's rooms."

"I can explain," said Marjorie quietly.

"One moment." Trennion's voice was as gentle as ever. "The explanation given is that you had the room immediately above the Rajah's, and corresponding in every way, mistook the floor, entered the Rajah's sitting-room by mistake, and came out immediately."

"That is the truth— a simple explanation," Marjorie answered him.

"Oh, very!" The words were from Lady Wensley, and her tone implied all that her words left unspoken.

"Lady Wensley, your tone is insulting," said Marjorie, rising indignantly, with tears of anger in her eyes.

Again Trennion interposed, but Ronald interrupted roughly.

"The whole thing is absurd. Suppose Marjorie had stolen it— where on earth could she dispose of it? How could she smuggle—?"

Trennion's smiling protest interrupted his anger.

"I think it best, don't you, if we have no interruptions?" he said smoothly. "Now, Miss Douglas, did you ever see this belt except on the occasion when I was present?"

"Never," said the girl decidedly.

"Or handle it— except on that occasion?"

"Never— even then I did not touch it."

"You did not by any chance carry it away inadvertently, caught it in your wrap or something?"

"Oh, no, that would be quite impossible."

"Why?"

Trennion spoke almost sharply.

"Because I was not wearing a wrap," the girl returned.

"How absurd, Mr. Trennion," Lady Wensley interrupted impatiently. "How would she carry it away in her wrap— why it weighs over six pounds!"

"Miss Douglas apparently does not retain a sufficiently vivid impression of the fact to realize this," said Trennion very quietly; then to the girl, "who packed your bag?"

"I packed this bag."

"What is in it?"

"Nothing of importance, that is why I left it at the cloak-room."

"It is pretty heavy." Trennion lifted the bag gingerly.

"There are some books in it."

The girl showed signs of weariness at the apparently useless questions, and Ronald came to her aid.

"Marjorie has been perfectly open and straightforward, Trennion," he said hotly. "It is a disgraceful thing that such a charge should be levelled at an innocent girl."

Lady Wensley looked at him scornfully.

"If you are going to be heroic, I shall be bored," she said. "May I look at your pictures, Mr. Trennion, do you mind?"

"Pray do, Lady Wensley," said Trennion politely; "but you'll find very little to amuse you, I' m afraid."

"I assure you it takes very little to amuse me— is not that so, Ronald?" She was fast losing all sense of caution. Only she knew that she had thrown something away with both hands; had been prodigal of love— of happiness, of life.

Ronald Grey looked at her smiling face almost sorrowfully, and made no reply. The smile died from her lips and she turned her back on him abruptly.

"You have no objection to my examining this bag?"

Trennion put the question almost deferentially.

"None whatever," said Marjorie; "but I am afraid I have no keys with me. I left them behind at Plymouth."

"Oh!" Trennion's tone was non-committal.

"Of course she wouldn't have the keys, Mr.Trennion," Lady Wensley turned from her inspection of the pictures to make the remark; "and of course they would be at Plymouth— two hundred miles away."

Ronald faced round towards her.

"Your malignity is pitiable," he said in a low tone.

"You grow more and more like the hero of melodrama every minute," she retorted calmly, and then as though dismissing him from her thoughts she pointed to the weighing-machine. "What is this thing, Mr. Trennion?"

He started.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, Lady Wensley. That is a balance. I've been conducting some experiments."

"Really, how positively ducky— I wish you would weigh me."

Her enthusiasm was almost childish, and as Trennion hesitated, she stepped on to the weighing plate and repeated her request. It was the desperate expedient of one who desired time. The very freakishness of it took the Commissioner off his guard, and he crossed the room obediently.

"This is not business, you know," he said reproachfully, as he carefully adjusted the weights.

Captain Ronald took advantage of the interruption to gently lay his arm upon his fiancée's shoulders. He spoke reassuringly, caressingly, but there was infinite pain in the man's clear grey eyes.

"Marjorie, you have nothing— nothing to fear."

She slipped her hand into one of his and moved a little nearer to him.

"You do not doubt me?"

"I'd as soon doubt my mother. If I doubted you, life would be a bitter, empty thing. You are the beginning and end of life to me."

There was no doubting his earnestness and the girl smiled up at him gratefully. The smile faded as the thought of Lady Wensley intruded itself.

"Yet I am so afraid of her, Ronald; there is something sinister in her assurance. She behaves as though she had me in a trap. There is a triumph in her voice, in her look. Oh, Ronny, I am afraid— afraid!"

"Nine-stone twelve-and-a-half-pounds," the Assistant Commissioner's voice broke in on them.

"Is that good or bad?"

"It can be nothing but good in your case, Lady Wensley," said the courteous Trennion.

"I don't know what that means, but I am sure it is meant to be nice."

She played with the weights of the machine as Ronald claimed the other's attention.

"Trennion, Miss Douglas is quite willing that you should cut open the bag."

"That is good of you, but it is not at all necessary," replied Trennion with a smile, taking off the telephone receiver. "We are always prepared for— hullo— hullo— give me 16-X. Yes is that 16-X? A.C. speaking. Sergeant, send me up some keys, a lady's dressing-bag. Very ordinary type. Thank you. I shan't keep you a minute."

He hung up the receiver and turned to find lady Wensley at his elbow.

"Mr. Trennion"— she spoke very softly, "there is something I feel I ought to tell you."

"Yes," said Claude in a matter-of-fact tone.

She looked significantly at the others.

"Alone," she said briefly.

Marjorie rose immediately and turned to the door, and with the stiffest of bows Ronald Grey prepared to follow her.

Lady Wensley advanced a little towards him.

"You don't mind, Ronald, do you?" she said plaintively, "I shan't tell him a word about— us."

Ronald apparently did not hear her. He held the door open for the girl and they passed out of the room.

Trennion was consumed by a strangely sudden interest in the papers on his desk. It was well that he did so, for Lady Wensley's face at the moment was not good to see. The next moment a stifled little cry caused him to look up.

She had both hands to the lace at her throat. She swayed a little. He was beside her in an instant.

"Are you ill?" He reached for the bell.

"No— no, don't ring; I'll be better in a moment— a little water, just a little water!"

"Let me ring, Lady Wensley."

"Please don't, it will pass. I am ashamed of such weakness."

"Can I leave you— I'll go myself for the water— are you sure you will be all right?"

"Yes, yes."

"I won't be a moment." Trennion went hurriedly from the room. He was really concerned. A woman, unless she was absolutely normal, invariably troubled him.

The closing of the door had an extraordinary effect upon Anna Wensley. She stood suddenly erect.

"Queen of Sheba's belt," she murmured. "Did she feel like me?"

She walked swiftly to the door to be certain it was shut, and then came as swiftly to the table. She spoke breathlessly now, as though the low spoken words urged her on to complete the work she had to do.

"Did she hate a woman and pray for her death? I wonder, a woman who had stolen her love from her. Answer that, my Queen of Sheba's belt?"

Her fingers fluttered rapidly down the buttons of her loose tailor-made coat, and as it fell back something glittering showed against the dark of her gown beneath, something that shone and sparkled as it clasped her waist with its setting of gold. She found a key hanging on a long chain round her neck and hastily unlocked the bag on the table.

In an instant the glittering thing from her waist was in the bag, and she snapped the fastening down. Trennion, entering the next moment, found her still in the drooping attitude in which he had left her, and he hurried to her side with the water.

"Are you better? Do drink this."

She took the glass from his hand and murmured some words of thanks.

"I am so sorry, but you know I am not very strong. Thank you so much, I have been an awful nuisance to you."

"Not at all— do you feel well enough to tell me—"

She put up her hand to stop him.

"I think I won't if you don't mind; after all, it is hardly fair; I have only my suspicions, you know. The girl can't help being poor, can she—"

He looked at her sharply.

"Well, as you please," he said. Then a light knock sounded on the door.

"Come in! Ah, Cole, with the keys. Please ask Captain Grey and Miss Douglas if they would kindly come in again."

Trennion stood jangling the keys together till the man had gone, then looking at the bag, he asked Lady Wensley:

"You think she stole it?"

"Well, what am I to think? I hate to be uncharitable, but all sorts of things happen in society, as you must know, dear Mr. Trennion."

She paused as Marjorie, followed by Ronald, entered the room again, then went on in her drawling tone:

"I hope you won't keep me very much longer, I've three calls to make and I must leave town by the 12.45."

Trennion answered her. "I do not think you need wait at all, lady Wensley," he said.

She frowned. She was being taken too literally. Nor did she like Trennion's "office manner."

"I can spare another ten minutes or so. I will wait till then anyhow," she said.

He selected one from the bunch of keys the man had brought him.

"I think this is a likely one, Miss Douglas. Will you open it or shall I?"

"You open it, please."

Trennion tried the key he held in his hand.

"This fits. Hullo!" he looked up with a little frown.

"Doesn't it open?" asked Marjorie.

"I can't tell yet." Trennion put his hand to the bell. "Yes, it is open. One moment before we look into it. I want to ask my man a question." Then to the man, who had just come in, "you brought this bag from King's Cross yourself?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have you had charge of it ever since?"

"Yes, sir," repeated the man.

"Did you notice if it was locked when you received it from the cloak- room?"

"It was, sir."

"Are you sure?"

"Perfectly certain, sir. I brought it straight to the Divisional Superintendent and he tried it."

"Thank you, Cole; that's all."

"I only wanted to find out," said Trennion to the astonished three, "to— well, just to make sure."

He looked at the bag again but made no move to open it.

"Well!" the impatient exclamation came from Anna Wensley.

Trennion looked at her as if he was thinking of something else.

"Well! I hope it is well," he said at last, and he opened the bag. Just inside was a filmy lace wrap, and in silence he lifted it. The Queen of Sheba's belt lay shimmering between the folds of lace.

"My God!" Ronald Grey turned an agonized face to the woman he loved.

"Ronny— I am innocent! I know nothing— nothing about it!"

Grey took the half-fainting girl in his arms and comforted her with little choking words. He was dazed and bewildered but he did not doubt her.

As for Trennion, this scene might have been enacted a thousand miles away for all the notice he took.

"I don't think I want this bag anymore," he said calmly.

Anna looked towards him eagerly "What are you going to do— your duty, I hope?"

"You never can tell," said Trennion vaguely.

"You will arrest her— you must, you will?"

There was no mistaking the passion in the woman's voice, and Ronald turned on her almost savagely.

"Anna! Have you no heart? Can you not show a little mercy? She is innocent. My God! You know she is innocent!"

She laughed; a little rippling sound which expressed real mirth.

"My dear good Ronald— voila! " she pointed to the belt.

Trennion interrupted her.

"I think if you would talk to Miss Douglas, Ronald, possibly there is an explanation— try and get her to remember the circumstances."

He turned to lady Wensley and appeared to be making conversation to gain time for the now weeping girl.

"Ten-stone twelve-and-a-half-pounds," he said lightly. "That's a respectable weight for so dainty a person, Lady Wensley."

"It wasn't ten-stone twelve, Mr. Trennion," said Anna, adopting his tone, "it was nine twelve, you know."

His friendship at this moment, when every remaining spark of goodness in her flamed to light to uncover her sin was especially comforting.

"Ten twelve, I think," said Jimmy.

"Don't be stupid, Mr. Trennion, I can prove it— come here."

She stepped on the weighing-machine and Trennion slid the weight upon the steel arm. Then he turned to the lovers.

"Have you found a possible explanation?" he asked.

"I can offer none— none."

"I didn't think you would somehow."

He put his hand on the bell.

Ronald Grey was as white as the girl by his side.

"What are you going to do?" he asked.

"I am going to send for an officer."

"Ronald!" Marjorie clutched his arm. Lady Wensley's drawling voice jarred in upon them.

"Dear Mr. Trennion, I think it is awfully splendid of you. I know just how you feel, but one owes a duty to society, and all that sort of thing, and duties are most painful things."

"They are," said Trennion unsympathetically, "very painful." Then to the attendant who had just entered, "take this bag to a cab for Miss Douglas."

He crossed the room to where the lovers stood and taking the girl's hand in his, said kindly:

"I am so sorry to have given you so much bother. Go and finish your holiday in Devonshire; it's a delightful place."

"Why— aren't you— aren't you arresting me?" said the startled girl.

Trennion smiled.

"No; why— do you want to be arrested?"

"But the belt— I must be cleared of that dreadful charge."

"Oh, you're cleared all right."

"Cleared!"

"Yes, you don't suppose I should send you off if I thought you were guilty; I— catch her!"

And the overwrought girl reeled and would have fallen but for Trennion's timely warning.

She pulled herself together and forced herself to speak.

"I'm all right— only it was a little, a little sudden." She smiled pitiably. "How can I thank you, Mr. Trennion?"

"Please don't— go off and thoroughly enjoy Devonshire."

But Lady Wensley had found her voice.

"Mr. Trennion— what does this mean? I will not be a party to this perversion of justice."

The Assistant Commissioner smiled crookedly.

"Don't bother, Lady Wensley, you're not. Marjorie, I am sure your cab is waiting; do not let us keep you."

He almost hustled them from the room and turned to meet the fierce stare of the woman.

"You shall hear of this, Mr. Trennion."

She was speaking quickly, painfully. She saw the undoing of a plan, which, hateful as it was, was dear to her.

She walked swiftly to the door and would have passed through, but he stood before her.

"Do not go for a minute, I beg, Lady Wensley." The cool young man's voice was smooth and persuasive.

"You will not persuade me," she raged. "I shall go straight to the nearest newspaper office and tell the story."

"Ah, then you would lose your train," said the imperturbable Commissioner. "Be advised by me, go straight to Wensley and forget this miserable affair."

"How dare you offer me advice!" She was almost incoherent in her anger. "Of course, I see your object. You have good reason for wishing the matter forgotten. But if there is a law in England, she shall suffer. You shall not hush up this affair."

"As a matter of fact, I am not really keen on hushing up ordinary crime, but this is no ordinary crime."

He picked up the belt from the table and weighed it thoughtfully in one hand.

"Here is the belt," he pursued, "a nice heavy belt— you must have found it very heavy."

"I— I? why, what do you mean?"

"You wore it this morning, you know, when you came here with it round your waist. You knew that Marjorie's bag was here, because you wired me to secure it, and because all other means having failed you, you hoped for an opportunity to put the belt in."

"How dare you!"

But the Assistant Commissioner went on as though she had not spoken.

"The opportunity came when I went to get you a glass of water— you made one mistake. You did not lock the bag after you."

"Oh, this is infamous," gasped the enraged woman. "Prove it; prove it! You cannot!"

"I can prove everything; but there are some things we don't want to prove."

"You shall pay for this insult."

"Lady Wensley, listen to me." His voice was firm; he had dropped the tone of badinage. "For your innocent amusement, and at your request, I weighed you when you came in— you weighed nine-stone-twelve-and-a-half. For my own information I induced you to be weighed again— after— the belt— was found."

"Ah!" a look of terror came into the beautiful, insolent eyes and he continued:

"You weighed nine-stone-six— you had lost six-and-a-half-pounds in less than a quarter of an hour. Lady Wensley, this belt weights six-and-a-half-pounds."

"What a fool— oh, what a fool!" The words were whispered rather than spoken, and the terror in her eyes deepened.

"It is very simple, isn't it," said Claude suavely; "but I repeat, there are some things one does not want to prove. You wish to catch the 12.45, I think, Lady Wensley. Well, you'll find your way out— you needn't wait for Cole. The stairs are at the end of the corridor. Good-bye, so glad we have been able to arrange things. Hope you will have a pleasant journey— charming day, isn't it?"

He watched the unsteady figure till it had turned into the side corridor which led to the stairs, then he came back to his desk, and stood looking down at the belt.

"Rum things, women," he said. "Queen of Sheba— Anna Wensley— all rum."

_______________________

3: The Black Grippe

The Strand Magazine, March 1920

DR. HEREFORD BEVAN was looking thoughtfully at a small Cape rabbit; the rabbit took not the slightest notice of Dr Hereford Bevan. It crouched on a narrow bench, nibbling at a mess of crushed mealies and seemed perfectly content with its lot, in spite of the fact that the bench was situated in the experimental laboratory of the Jackson Institute of Tropical Medicines.

In the young principal's hand was a long porcelain rod with which from time to time he menaced the unconscious feeder, without, however, producing so much as a single shiver of apprehension. With his long ears pricked, his sensitive nostrils quivering— he was used to the man-smell of Hereford Bevan by now— and his big black eyes staring unwinkingly ahead, there was little in the appearance of the rabbit to suggest abnormal condition.

For the third time in a quarter of an hour Bevan raised the rod as though to strike the animal across the nose, and for the third time lowered the rod again. Then with a sigh he lifted the little beast by the ears and carried him, struggling and squirming, to a small hutch, put him in very gently, and closed the wire-netted door.

He stood staring at the tiny inmate and fetched a long sigh. Then he left the laboratory and walked down to the staff study.

Stuart Gold, his assistant, sat at a big desk, pipe in mouth, checking some calculations. He looked up as Bevan came in.

'Well,' he said, 'what has Bunny done?'

'Bunny is feeding like a pig,' said Bevan, irritably.

'No change?'

Bevan shook his head and looked at his watch. 'What time—' he began.

'The boat train was in ten minutes ago,' said Stuart Gold. 'I have been on the 'phone to Waterloo. He may be here at any minute now.'

Bevan walked up and down the apartment, his hands thrust into his trousers pockets, his chin on his breast.

Presently he walked to the window and looked out at the busy street. Motor-buses were rumbling past in an endless procession. The sidewalks were crowded with pedestrians, for this was the busiest thoroughfare in the West End of London and it was the hour of the day when the offices were absorbing their slaves.

As he looked, a taxi drew up opposite the door and a man sprang out with all the agility of youth, though the iron-grey whiskers about his chin and the seamed red face placed him amongst the sixties.

'It is he!' cried Hereford Bevan, and dashed from the room to welcome the visitor, taking the portmanteau from his hand.

'It is awfully good of you to come, professor,' he said, shaking the traveller warmly by the hand. 'Ever since I telegraphed I have been scared sick for fear I brought you on a fool's errand.'

'Nonsense,' said the elder man, sharply; 'I was coming to Europe anyway, and I merely advanced my date of sailing. I'd sooner come by the Mauretania than the slow packet by which I had booked. How are you? You are looking bright.'

Hereford Bevan led the newcomer to the study and introduced him to Gold.

Professor Van der Bergh was one of those elderly men who never grow old. His blue eye was as clear as it had been on his twentieth birthday, his sensitive mouth was as ready to smile as ever it had been in the flower of his youth. A professor of pathology, a great anatomist, and one of the foremost bacteriologists in the United States, Bevan's doubts and apprehensions were perhaps justified, though he was relieved in mind to discover that he had merely accelerated the great man's departure from New York and was not wholly responsible for a trip which might end in disappointment.

'Now,' said Van der Bergh, spreading his coat-tails and drawing his chair to the little fire, 'just give me a second to light my pipe and tell me all your troubles.'

He puffed away for a few seconds, blew out the match carefully and threw it into the grate, then before Bevan could speak he said:

'I presume that the epidemic of January has scared you?' Hereford Bevan nodded.

'Well,' said the professor, reflectively, 'I don't wonder. The 1918 epidemic was bad enough. I am not calling it influenza, because I think very few of us are satisfied to affix that wild label to a devastating disease which appeared in the most mysterious fashion, took its toll, and disappeared as rapidly and mysteriously.'

He scratched his beard, staring out of the window.

'I haven't heard any theory about that epidemic which has wholly satisfied me,' he said. 'People talk glibly of "carriers" of "infection", but who infected the wild tribes in the centre of Africa on the very day that whole communities of Eskimos were laid low in parts of the Arctic regions which were absolutely isolated from the rest of the world?'

Bevan shook his head.

'That is the mystery that I have never solved,' he said, 'and never hope to.'

'I wouldn't say that,' said the professor, shaking his head. 'I am always hoping to get on the track of first causes, however baffling they may be. Anyway, I am not satisfied to describe that outbreak as influenza, and it really does not matter what label we give to it for the moment. You might as truly call it the Plague or the Scourge. Now let's get down to the epidemic of this year. I should like to compare notes with you because I have always found that the reports of this Institute are above suspicion. I suppose it has been suggested to you,' he went on, 'that the investigation of this particular disease is outside the province of tropical medicines?'

Stuart Gold laughed.

'We are reminded of that every day,' he said, dryly.

'Now just tell me what happened in January of this year,' said the professor. Dr Bevan seated himself at the table, pulled open a drawer, and took out a black-covered exercise book.

'I'll tell you briefly,' he said, 'and without attempting to produce statistics. On the 18th January, as near three o'clock in the afternoon as makes no difference, the second manifestation of this disease attacked this country, and, so far as can be ascertained, the whole of the Continent.'

The professor nodded. 'What were the symptoms?' he asked.

'People began to cry— that is to say, their eyes filled with water and they felt extremely uncomfortable for about a quarter of an hour. So far as I can discover the crying period did not last much more than a quarter of an hour, in some cases a much shorter time.'

Again the professor nodded.

'That is what happened in New York,' he said, 'and this symptom was followed about six hours later by a slight rise of temperature, shivering, and a desire for sleep.'

'Just the same sort of thing happened here,' said Bevan, 'and in the morning everybody was as well as they had been the previous morning, and the fact that it had occurred might have been overlooked but for the observation made in various hospitals. Gold and I were both stricken at the same time. We both took blood and succeeded in isolating the germs.'

The professor jumped up.

'Then you are the only people who have it,' he said, 'nobody else in the world seems to have taken that precaution.'

Stuart Gold lifted a big bell-shaped glass cover from a microscope, took from a locked case a thin microscopic slide, and inserted it in the holder. He adjusted the lens, switched on a shaded light behind the instrument, and beckoned the professor forward.

'Here it is, sir,' he said.

Professor Van der Bergh glued his eye to the instrument and looked for a long time.

'Perfect,' he said. 'I have never seen this fellow before. It looks rather like a trypnasome.' 'That's what I told Bevan,' said Stuart Gold.

The professor was still looking.

'It is like and it is unlike,' he said. 'Of course, it is absurd to suggest that you've all had an attack of sleeping sickness, which you undoubtedly would have had if this had been a trypnasome, but surely this bug is a new one to me!'

He walked back to his chair, puffing thoughtfully at his pipe. 'What did you do?'

'I made a culture,' said Bevan, 'and infected six South African rabbits. In an hour they developed the first symptoms. Their eyes watered for the prescribed time, their temperature rose six hours later, and in the morning they were all well.'

'Why South African rabbits?' asked Van der Bergh, curiously. 'Because they develop secondary symptoms of any disease at twice the rate of a human being— at least that has been my experience,' explained Bevan. 'I found it by accident whilst I was in Grahamstown, in South Africa, and it has been a very useful piece of knowledge to me. When I wired to you I had no idea there were going to be any further developments. I merely wanted to make you acquainted with the bug— '

The professor looked up sharply. 'Have there been further developments?' he asked, and Bevan nodded.

'Five days ago,' he said, speaking slowly, 'the second symptom appeared. I will show you.' He led the way back to the laboratory, went to the little hutch, and lifted the twisting, struggling rabbit to the bench under a blaze of electric light. The professor felt the animal gingerly.

'He has no temperature,' he said, 'and looks perfectly normal. What is the matter with him?' Bevan lifted the little beast and held his head toward the light.

'Do you notice anything?' he asked.

'Good heavens!' said Van der Bergh; 'he's blind!'

Bevan nodded.

'He's been blind for five days,' he said. 'But— '

Van der Bergh stared at him. 'Do you mean— '

Bevan nodded.

'I mean, that when the secondary symptom comes, and it should come in a fortnight from today.'

He stopped.

He had replaced the animal upon the bench and had put out his hand to stroke his ears when suddenly the rabbit groped back from him. Again he reached out his hand and again the animal made a frantic attempt to escape.

'He sees now,' said the professor. 'Wait,' said Bevan.

He took down a board to which a paper was pinned, looked at his watch, and jotted a note. 'Thank God for that,' he said; 'the blindness lasts for exactly one hundred and twenty hours.' 'But do you mean,' asked Van der Bergh, with an anxious little frown, 'that the whole world is going blind for five days?'

'That is my theory,' replied the other.

'Phew!' said the professor, and mopped his face with a large and gaudy handkerchief. They went back without another word to the study and Van der Bergh began his technical test. For his information sheet after sheet of data were placed before him. Records of temperature, of diet and the like were scanned and compared, whilst Bevan made his way to another laboratory to examine the remaining rabbits.

He returned as the professor finished.

'They can all see,' he said; 'I inspected them this morning and they were as blind as bats.' Presently the professor finished.

'I am going down to our Embassy,' he said, 'and the best thing you boys can do is to see some representative of your Government. Let me see, Sir Douglas Sexton is your big man, isn't he?'

Bevan made a wry face.

'He is the medical gentleman who has the ear of the Government,' he said, 'but he is rather an impossible person. He's one of the old school— '

'I know that school,' said the professor, grimly, 'it's a school where you learn nothing and forget nothing. Still, it's your duty to warn him.'

Bevan nodded and turned to Stuart Gold.

'Will you cancel my lecture, Gold?' he said; 'let Cartwright take the men through that demonstration I gave yesterday. I'll go down and see Sexton though he wither me!'

Sir Douglas Sexton had a large house in a very large square. He was so well-off that he could afford a shabby butler. That shrunken man shook his head when Dr Bevan made his enquiry.

'I don't think Sir Douglas will see you, sir,' he said. 'He has a consultation in half an hour's time and he is in his library, with orders that he is not to be disturbed in any circumstances.'

'This is a very vital matter and I simply must see Sir Douglas,' said Bevan, firmly. The butler was gone for some time and presently returned to usher the caller into a large and gloomy room, where Sir Douglas sat surrounded by open books.

He greeted Bevan with a scowl, for the younger school were not popular with the Sextonians.

'Really, it is most inconvenient, doctor, for you to see me at this moment,' he complained, 'I suppose you want to ask about the Government grant to the Jackson Institute. I was speaking to the Prime Minister yesterday and he did not seem at all inclined to agree to spend the country's money.

'I haven't come about the grant, Sir Douglas,' replied Bevan, 'but a matter of much greater importance.'

In as few words as possible he gave the result of his experiment, and on the face of Sir Douglas Sexton was undisguised incredulity.

'Come, come,' he said, when Dr Bevan had finished, and permitted his heavy features to relax into a smile. 'Now, that sort of stuff is all very well for the Press if you want to make a sensation and advertise your name, but surely you are not coming to me, a medical man, and a medical man., moreover, in the confidence of the Government and the Ministry of Health, with a story of that kind! Of course, there was some sort of epidemic, I admit, on the 18th. I myself suffered a little inconvenience, but I think that phenomena could be explained by the sudden change of wind from the southwest to the north-east and the corresponding drop in temperature. You may have noticed that the temperature dropped six degrees that morning.'

'I am not bothering about the cause of the epidemic,' said Bevan, patiently. 'I am merely giving you, Sir Douglas, a rough account of what form the second epidemic will take.'

Sir Douglas smiled.

'And do you expect me,' he asked with acerbity, 'to go to the Prime Minister of England and tell him that in fourteen days the whole of the world is going blind? My dear good man, if you published that sort of story you would scare the people to death and set back the practice of medicine a hundred years! Why, we should all be discredited!'

'Do you think that if I saw the Prime Minister—' began Bevan, and Sir Douglas stiffened.

'If you know the Prime Minister or have any friends who could introduce you,' he said, shortly, 'I have not the slightest objection to your seeing him. I can only warn you that the Prime Minister is certain to send for me and that I should give an opinion which would be directly contrary to yours. I think you have made a very grave error, Dr Bevan, and if you were to take the trouble to kill one of your precious rabbits and dissect it you would discover another cause for this blindness.'

'The opinion of Dr Van der Bergh,' began Bevan, and Sir Douglas snorted.

'I really cannot allow an American person to teach me my business,' he said. 'I have nothing to say against American medicines or American surgery, and there are some very charming people in America— I am sure this must be the case. And now, doctor, if you will excuse—'

He turned pointedly to his books and Bevan went out.

For seven days three men worked most earnestly to enlist the attention of the authorities. They might have given the story to the Press and created a sensation, but neither Bevan nor Van der Bergh favoured this method. Eminent doctors who were consulted took views which were extraordinarily different. Some came to the laboratories to examine the records. Others 'poohpoohed' the whole idea.

'Have you any doubt on the matter yourself?' asked the professor, and Bevan hesitated.

'The only doubt I have, sir,' he said, 'is whether my calculations as to the time are accurate. I have noticed in previous experiments with these rabbits the disease develops about twice as fast as in the human body, but I am far from satisfied that this rule is invariable.'

Van der Bergh nodded.

'My Embassy has wired the particulars to Washington,' he said, 'and Washington takes a very serious view of your discovery. They are making whatever preparations they can.

He went back to his hotel, promising to call on the morrow. Bevan worked all that day testing the blood of his little subjects, working out tables of reaction, and it was nearly four o'clock when he went to bed.

He slept that night in his room at the Institute. He was a good sleeper, and after winding the clock and drawing down the blind he jumped into bed and in less than five minutes was sound asleep. He awoke with the subconscious feeling that he had slept his usual allowance and was curiously alive and awake. The room was in pitch darkness and he remembered with a frown that he had not gone to bed until four o'clock in the morning. He could not have slept two hours.

He put out his hand and switched on the light to discover the time. Apparently the light was not working.

On his bedside table was a box of matches, his cigarette holder, and his cigarettes. He took the box, struck a light, but nothing happened. He threw away the match and struck another— still nothing happened.

He held the faithless match in his hand and suddenly felt a strange warmth at his fingertips. Then with a cry he dropped the match— it had burnt his fingers!

Slowly he put his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, groping his way to the window and releasing the spring-blind. The darkness was still complete. He strained his eyes but could not even see the silhouette of the window-frame against the night. Then a church-bell struck the hour...nine, ten, eleven, twelve!

Twelve o'clock! It was impossible that it could be twelve o'clock at night. He gasped. Twelve midday and dark!

He searched for his clothes and began to dress. His window was open, yet from outside came no sound of traffic. London was silent— as silent as the grave.

His window looked out upon the busy thoroughfare in which the Jackson Institute was situated, but there was not so much as the clink of a wheel or the sound of a pedestrian's foot.

He dressed awkwardly, slipping on his boots and lacing them quickly, then groped his way to the door and opened it. A voice outside greeted him. It was the voice of Gold.

'Is that you, Bevan?'

'Yes, it is I, what the dickens—' and then the realization of the catastrophe which had fallen upon the world came to him.

'Blind!' he whispered. 'We're all blind!'

Gold had been shell-shocked in the war and was subject to nerve-storms. Presently Bevan heard his voice whimpering hysterically.

'Blind!' he repeated. 'What a horrible thing!' 'Steady yourself!' said Bevan, sternly. 'It has come! But it's only for five days, Gold. Now don't lose your nerve!'

'Oh, I sha'n't lose my nerve!' said Gold, in a shaky voice. 'Only it is rather awful, isn't it? Awful, awful! My God! It's awful!'

'Come down to the study!' said Bevan. 'Don't forget the two steps leading down to the landing. There are twenty-four stairs, Gold. Count 'em!'

He was half-way down the stairs when he heard somebody sobbing at the foot and recognized the voice of the old housekeeper who attended to the resident staff. She was whimpering and wailing.

'Shut up!' he said, savagely. 'What are you making that infernal row about?'

'Oh, sir,' she moaned. 'I can't see! I can't see!'

'Nobody can see or will see for five days!' said Bevan. 'Keep your nerve, Mrs Moreland.' He found his way to the study. He had scarcely reached the room before he heard a thumping on the door which led from the street to the staff quarters. Carefully he manœuvred his way into the hall again, came to the door, and unlocked it.

'Halloa,' said a cheery voice outside, 'is this the Jackson Institute?' 'Thank God you're safe, professor. You took a risk in coming round.' The professor came in with slow, halting footsteps, and Bevan shut the door behind him.

'You know your way, I'll put my hand on your shoulder if you don't mind,' said Van der Bergh. 'Luckily I took the trouble to remember the route. I've been two hours getting here. Ouch!'

'Are you hurt?' asked Bevan.

'I ran against an infernal motor-bus in the middle of the street. It had been left stranded,' said the professor. 'I think the blindness is general.'

Stuart had stumbled into the room soon after them, had found a chair and sat down upon it.

'Now,' said Van der Bergh, briskly, 'you've got to find your way to your Government offices and interview somebody in authority. There's going to be hell in the world for the next five days. I hope your calculations are not wrong in that respect, Bevan!'

Hereford Bevan said nothing.

'It is very awkward!' it was Gold's quivering voice that spoke, 'but, of course, it'll be all right in a day or two.'

'I hope so,' said the professor's grim voice. 'If it's for five days little harm will be done, but— but if it's for ten days!'

Bevan's heart sank at the doubt in the old man's voice. 'If it's for ten days?' he repeated.

'The whole world will be dead,' said the professor, solemnly, and there was a deep silence.

'Dead?' whispered Gold and Van der Bergh swung round toward the voice.

'What's the matter with you?'

'Shell-shock,' muttered Bevan under his breath, and the old man's voice took on a softer note.

'Not all of us, perhaps,' he said, 'but the least intelligent. Don't you realize what has happened and what will happen? The world is going to starve. We are a blind world, and how shall we find food?'

A thrill of horror crept up Bevan's spine as he realized for the first time just what world-blindness meant.

'All the trains have stopped,' the professor went on; 'I've been figuring it out in my room this morning just what it means. There are blind men in the signal-boxes and blind men on the engines. All transport has come to a standstill. How are you going to get the food to the people? In a day's time the shops, if the people can reach them, will be sold out and it will be impossible to replenish the local stores. You can neither milk nor reap. All the great power-stations are at a standstill. There is no coal being got out of the mines. Wait, where is your telephone?'

Bevan fumbled for the instrument and passed it in the direction of the professor's voice. A pause, then:

'Take it back,' said the professor, 'of course, that will not be working. The exchange cannot see!'

Bevan heard a methodical puff-puff and the scent of tobacco came to him, and somehow this brought him comfort. The professor was smoking.

He rose unsteadily to his feet. 'Put your hand on my shoulder, professor, and, Gold, take hold of the professor's coat or something.'

'Where are you going?' asked Van der Bergh. 'To the kitchen,' said Bevan; 'there's some food there and I'm starving.' The meal consisted in the main of dry bread, biscuits, and cheese, washed down by water. Then Hereford Bevan began his remarkable pilgrimage.

He left the house, and keeping touch with the railings on his right, reached first Cockspur Street and then Whitehall. Half-way along the latter thoroughfare he thumped into a man and, putting out his hand, felt embossed buttons.

'Halloa,' he said, 'a policeman?'

'That's right, sir,' said a voice; 'I've been here since the morning. You're in Whitehall. What has happened, sir? Do you know?'

'It is a temporary blindness which has come upon everybody,' said Bevan, speaking quickly. 'I am a doctor. Now, constable, you are to tell your friends if you meet them and everybody you do meet that it is only temporary.'

'I'm not likely to meet anybody,' said the constable. 'I've been standing here hardly daring to move since it came.'

'What time did it happen?'

'About ten o'clock, as near as I can remember,' said the policeman. 'How far from here is Downing Street?'

The constable hesitated.

'I don't know where we are,' he said, 'but it can't be very far.' Two hours' diligent search, two hours of groping and of stumbling, two hours of discussing with frantic men and women whom he met on the way, brought him to Downing Street.

That journey along Whitehall would remain in his mind a horrible memory for all his days. He heard oaths and sobbings. He heard the wild jabberings of somebody— whether it was man or woman he could not say— who had gone mad under the stress of the calamity, and he came to Downing Street as the clock struck three.

He might have passed the Prime Minister's house but he heard voices and recognized one as that of Sexton.

The great man was moaning his trouble to somebody who spoke in a quiet unemotional voice. 'Halloa, Sexton!'

Bevan stumbled toward, and collided with the great physician. 'Who is it?' said Sexton.

'It is Hereford Bevan.'

'It's the man, Prime Minister, the doctor I spoke to you about.' A cool hand took Bevan's.

'Come this way,' said the voice; 'you had better stay, Sexton, you'll never find your way back.'

Bevan found himself led through what he judged to be a large hall and then suddenly his feet struck a heavy carpet.

'I think there's a chair behind you,' said the new voice, 'sit down and tell me all about it.' Dr Bevan spoke for ten minutes, his host merely interjecting a question here and there.

'It can only last for five days,' said the voice, with a quiver of emotion, 'and we can only last out that five days. You know, of course, that the food supply has stopped. There is no way of averting this terrible tragedy. Can you make a suggestion?'

'Yes, sir,' said Bevan. 'There are a number of blind institutes throughout the country. Get in touch with them and let their trained men organize the business of industry. I think it could be done.'

There was a pause.

'It might be done,' said the voice. 'Happily the telegraphs are working satisfactorily, as messages can be taken by sound. The wireless is also working and your suggestion shall be carried out.'

The days that followed were days of nightmare, days when men groped and stumbled in an unknown world, shrieking for food. On the evening of the second day the water supply failed. The pumping stations had ceased to work. Happily it rained and people were able to collect water in their mackintosh coats.

Dr Bevan made several excursions a day and in one of these he met another bold adventurer who told him that part of the Strand was on fire. Somebody had upset a lamp without noticing the fact. The doctor made his way toward the Strand but was forced to turn back by the clouds of pungent smoke which met him.

He and his informant (he was a butcher from Smithfield) locked arms and made their way back to the Institute. By some mischance they took a wrong turning and might have been irretrievably lost but they found a guardian angel in the shape of a woman against whom they blundered.

'The Jackson Institute?' she said. 'Oh yes, I can lead you there.'

She walked with unfaltering footsteps and with such decision that the doctor thought she had been spared the supreme affliction. He asked her this and she laughed.

'Oh, no,' she said, cheerfully. 'You see, I've been blind all my life. The Government has put us on point duty at various places to help people who have lost their way.'

She told them that, according to her information, big fires were raging in half-a-dozen parts of London. She had heard of no railway collisions and the Prime Minister told her—

'Told you?' said Bevan in surprise, and again she laughed. 'I've met him before, you see,' she said. 'I am Lord Selbury's daughter, Lillian Selbury.' Bevan remembered the name. It is curious that he had pictured her, for all the beauty of her voice, as a sad, middle-aged woman. She took his hand in hers and they walked slowly toward his house.

'You'll think I'm horrid if I say I am enjoying this,' she said, 'and yet I am. It's so lovely to be able to pity others! Of course, it is very dreadful and it is beginning to frighten me a little, and then there's nobody to tell me how pretty I am, because nobody can see. That is rather a drawback, isn't it?' and she laughed again.

'What does the Government think about this?'

'They are terribly upset,' she said, in a graver tone; 'you see, they cannot get at the people— they are so used to depending on the newspapers, but there are no newspapers now, and if there were nobody could read them. They have just stopped— You step down from the kerb here and walk twenty-five paces and step up again. We are crossing Whitehall Gardens. They have wonderful faith in this Dr Bevan.'

Hereford Bevan felt himself going red.

'I hope their faith is justified,' he said, grimly; 'I happen to be the wonderful doctor.' He felt her fingers grip him in an uncontrollable spasm of surprise.

'Are you really?' she said, with a new note of interest. 'Listen!'

They stopped, and he heard the tinkle of a bell.

'That is one of our people from St Mildreds,' she said; 'the Government is initiating a system of town-criers. It is the only way we can get news to the people.'

Bevan listened and heard the sing-song voice of the crier but could not distinguish what he said. The girl led him to his house and there left him. He felt her hand running down his right arm and wondered why until she took his hand and shook it.

Old Professor Van der Bergh roared a greeting as he came into the room.

'Is that you, Bevan?' he asked. 'I've got a knuckle of cold ham here, but be careful how you cut it, otherwise you're going to slice your fingers.'

He and Stuart Gold had spent the day feeding the various specimens in the laboratory. The fourth day dawned and in the afternoon came a knock at the door. It was the girl.

'I've been ordered to place myself at your disposal, Dr Bevan,' she said; 'the Government may need you.'

He spent that day wandering through the deserted streets with the girl at his side and as the hundred and twentieth hour approached he found himself looking forward not so much to the end of the tragic experience which he shared with the world, but to seeing with his own eyes the face of this guide of his. He had slept the clock round and just before ten struck he made his way to the street. He heard Big Ben boom the hour and waited for light, but no light came. Another hour passed and yet another, and his soul was seized with blind panic. Suppose sight never returned, suppose his experiments were altogether wrong and that what happened in the case of the rabbits did not happen to Man! Suppose the blindness was permanent! He groaned at the thought.

The girl was with him, her arm in his, throughout that day. His nerves were breaking, and somehow she sensed this fact and comforted him as a mother might comfort a child. She led him into the park with sure footsteps and walked him up and down, trying to distract his mind from the horror with which it was oppressed.

In the afternoon he was sent for to the Cabinet Council and again told the story of his experiments.

'The hundred and twenty hours are passed, are they not, doctor?' said the Premier's voice.

'Yes, sir,' replied Bevan in a low voice, 'but it is humanly impossible to be sure that that is the exact time.'

No other question was asked him but the terror of his audience came back to him like an aura and shrivelled his very heart.

He did not lie down as was his wont that night, but wandered out alone into the streets of London. It must have been two o'clock in the morning when he came back to find the girl standing on the step talking with Van der Bergh.

She came toward him at the sound of his voice.

'There is another Cabinet meeting, doctor,' she said, 'will you come with me?'

'I hope I haven't kept you long,' he said, brokenly. His voice was husky and so unlike his own that she was startled.

'You're not to take this to heart, Dr Bevan,' she said, severely, as they began their pilgrimage to Whitehall. 'There's a terrible task waiting for the world which has to be faced.'

'Wait, wait!' he said, hoarsely, and gripped the rail with one hand and her arm with the other. Was it imagination? It was still dark, a fine drizzle of rain was falling, but the blackness was dappled with tones of less blackness. There was a dark, straight thing before him, something that seemed to hang in the centre of his eye, and a purple shape beyond, and he knew that he was looking at a London street, at a London lamppost, with eyes that saw. Black London, London devoid of light, London whose streets were packed with motionless vehicles that stood just where they had stopped on the day the darkness fell, London with groping figures half mad with joy, shrieking and sobbing their relief— he drew a long breath.

'What is it? What is it?' said the girl in a frightened voice.

'I can see! I can see!' said Bevan in a whisper.

'Can you?' she said, wistfully. 'I— I am so glad. And now— '

He was near to tears and his arms went about her. He fumbled in his pocket for a match and struck a light. That blessed light he saw, and saw, too, the pale spiritual face turned up to his.

'I can see you,' he whispered again. 'My God! You're the most beautiful thing I have ever seen!'

London slept from sheer force of habit and woke with the grey dawn to see— to look out upon a world that had been lost for five and a half days, but in the night all the forces of the law and the Crown had been working at feverish pace, railways had dragged their drivers from their beds, carriers and stokers had been collected by the police, and slowly the wheels of life were turning again, and a humble world, grateful for the restoration of its greatest gift, hungered in patience and was happy.

________________________

4. The Governor Of Chi-Foo

IN CHI-FOO, as in the Forbidden City, the phrase  Iang-knei-tsi,  which means "foreign devil," was one seldom employed, for Colin Hemel, who in the days of the Manchu dynasty had the august and godlike ear of the Daughter of Heaven, was as terribly quick to punish now that he served a democratic president. As for Chi-Foo, Augustus Verrill sat there, and, brute as he was, he had still enough of the white man in him to resent Iang-knei-tsi.

So it was Iang-ren  that people said, meaning (so we persuade ourselves) "honorable foreign."

What they call foreigners in Chi-Foo nowadays I do not know, for Augustus Verrill is not there, and for this reason.

On a bright spring morning the interested but fearful people of Chi- Foo, straining their ears for the sound, were rewarded with the word they awaited. It was the word "shul!"  which means "kill!"

A Chinaman with a thick padded coat of blue, his hands concealed in his sleeves, was picking a delicate way along the untidy street which leads to the Gate of a Thousands Regrets, when he heard the guttural whisper, and saw the crazy door of a house come flying outward.

He spun round on the heel of his felt boot, his eyes blinking in the strong sunlight, his lean brown face tense, and a grin of expectancy showing the white even rim of his teeth.

"Kill!" said the dog-faced leader.

The blue-coated Chinaman squared his elbow and a straight splinter of fire leaped from his hand.

The dog-faced man, with a grimace like one who swallows a noxious draught, went lurching against the white wall of the house, leaving it smeared and disfigured when he finally collapsed to his knees.

This was against all arrangement, for the Devil in Blue had left the inn outside the city gates, and in a second's space the Street of Going Forth was deserted save for the bluecoated Chinaman and the gurgling thing that was huddled in the mud by the wall. The blue Chinaman looked down, frowning.

"Insensate Chink," said he. "Blind and prejudiced instrument of fate— quo vadis?"

He took a white handkerchief from the fold of his sleeve and blew his nose, never removing his eyes from the dying man.

"Better you than me, by gad," he said earnestly, "from all over the world to die like a pig in a wallow of mud? That's no death for a gentleman."

All the time he spoke aloud in English, yet so cleverly was he made up, so scrupulous was the attention he had devoted to his toilette and the et ceteras of his character that none in the city of Chi-Foo knew him for any other than Li Wan, a small-piece mandarin charged by the Daughter of Heaven to inquire into certain irregularities at the Court of Mandarin Wen-Ho Hong, Governor of the Province of Chi-Foo.

He waited until the man was dead, then looked up and down the deserted street. The Gate of a Thousand Regrets was closed, though it was long before sunrise. The Captain of the Guard would explain the unusual happening, would also swear by his domestic gods that he saw no sight of brawling and heard no sound of shot.

At the other end of the street a little knot of small boys had gathered with folded arms, frowning curiously, and relaxing their attitude from time to time to point out, with their thin little arms stretched stiffly, the tragic consequences of the attack.

These melted as the man in blue, twirling his long-barreled Browning, walked slowly back the way he had come. The bazaar was alive with people—the bazaar which ran to the right from the street end to the very gates of the Yamen.

But even this crowd, silent and watchful, stepped on one side to give him a free passage. Once he heard a half-hearted "Shul!" and his quick ears caught the rustle of movement which is so ominous a sequence to such an urgent suggestion. Then a jagged stone whistled past his ear, and he heard the "Ugh!" of the man who threw it.

He was half-way to the Yamen, and did not turn until another stone caught him in the middle of his well-padded back.

He whipped round as the thrower was stooping for further ammunition, and covered him.

"Oh, man," said he, in the queer dialect of the river province, "I wish you a safe journey."

The thrower dropped his stone as if he had been shot.

"Come nearer to me," commanded the Blue Man, and the coolie shuffled forward through the mud, staring without expression into the gray eyes of the other.

"There is a wind on the river tonight," said the man with the pistol.

"I sail my sampan in the wind," stammered the other; and then, "Let me die if I have offended your honorable body."

"Walk behind me, brother," said the blue Chinaman, and continued on his way. The trembling coolie who had followed him did not see him grin, or know that the Devil in Blue was armed. He had used the password of the Mournful Owls— not for the first time— and here was a member of the secret society humbly serving him, though Chung-Win-Ti, the local head of the Order, lay stiffening in the mud not a stone's throw away.

The man in blue passed hastily through the gates of the Yamen, and entered the outer Court of Justice.

He swept aside an imploring secretary full of murmurs about the Mandarin's indisposition, and came without ceremony to the presence of the Governor.

Wen-Ho-Hong looked up as the Blue Man entered, and started.

"It is an honorable happening that you condescend to come to my hovel," he murmured. "Does your graciousness desire something?"

"My miserable carcass has come," said the Blue Man, a snarl on his lips, "despite the fact that your honorable assassins endeavored to send me on the journey; also, my noble prince, I fear that I have villainously slain an honorable servant of yours, Chung-Win-Ti, in the Street by the Gate."

The aesthetic face of the other did not so much as twitch.

"If you had brought your nobleness with the other honorable members of your Commission," he said gently, "I, unworthy as I am, would have sent forth my miserable guard to bring your felicity to the Yamen."

For a moment they sat, two Chinamen with shaven heads and plaited queues, their hands upon their knees, watching one another; then the Governor spoke:

"Will your lordship deign to enter my poverty-stricken inner room?"

The stranger hesitated a moment, then rose without a word and followed the Mandarin through the great lacquered door, which the Mandarin closed carefully behind him.

"Now, Mr. Hemel," he said, in English, "we can talk— what is the idea?"

Colin Hemel, the President of China's Secret Service, lit a cigarette.

"A few slight irregularities, Augustus," he said slowly, between his puffs. "Robbery of troops' pay—"

"That's nothing," said the other lightly. "Betrayal of the Government to the rebels— membership of a secret society."

"That's nothing either," snarled the Mandarin. "Isn't there anything else?"

Colin Hemel looked up at the beautiful carved ceiling of the sanctuary.

"When we were very young men," he said slowly, "long before you went Chinese— I suppose the fact that we were both born in the land makes our jobs natural— there was a girl at Shanghai; do you remember?"

The other licked his lips.

"I was rather fond of her, and so were you," Colin went on, "and when Li Hang took you up, made you his English secretary, and finally gave you a province to rule, I was jolly glad— it sort of left the way open to me."

The other smiled faintly, but Colin seemed not to see him.

"I heard all about your wonderful success at Pekin, how you had pleased the Daughter of Heaven, and your fine new appointment— the only American to hold such a job, aren't you?"

The Mandarin nodded.

"I used to talk about it to her, and she was a little wistful. One day she disappeared."

The man before him averted his gaze.

"She disappeared," repeated the Secret Service man, blowing out a cloud of smoke, "and she came here."

There was a dead silence, which the Mandarin broke.

"Well?" he asked defiantly.

"Well," said the other, "I have added to your crimes— that."

The man he called Augustus— he was an Augustus Verrill before his Chinese days— nodded.

"I somehow fancied you were on the track when I heard the Commission was appointed," he said; "naturally I tried— to stop you. I am rather a big chap with the Owls, and they do, well— they do things for me."

"Naturally," said the blue-coated man dryly.

"As for Miss— er— Mrs. Verrill, for, of course, I married her— you are quite mistaken if you think she is unhappy. You shall see her if you care— after this trial. I suppose it is a trial?"

Colin nodded. "The Commission will arrive in an hour. I came on ahead for reasons of my own."

"To secure news of her?" The Mandarin's eyes narrowed.

"Exactly. Can't I— can't I see her now?"

The Mandarin shook her head.

"Be reasonable, my dear fellow," he said suavely. "She is in the very best of health— lives like a princess and all that sort of thing— servants— and she's awfully happy."

Colin rose, and paced the parquetted floor of the room, his hand on his breast.

"That is all I want," he said, a little huskily. "I wronged you, Verrill— I'm sorry." He held out his hand. "I always thought there was a beast in you. Somehow I never thought of her as being happy. That— that was conceit, I suppose. I'll arrange the Commission for you."

Later he was to remember the attempt on his life, and wonder why— if the man had nothing to fear. But perhaps he feared for her, that this masterful officer, who now enjoyed the confidence of the Daughter of Heaven, would carry her back to her people— perhaps.

He went to the sitting of the Commission with a light heart.

HE WHO was called Wen-Ho-Hong swore by all his domestic gods, and by every sacred thing save his dead father— he was too much of a gentleman to so perjure himself— that he knew nothing of the world of the Owls, nor of any other,  secret society. He was charged also with having been the cause of a mutiny in the army by withholding his soldiers' pay for a year, but here he saved himself without difficulty.

The Owls' business was more difficult to explain away to the commissioners from Pekin. Though he thrust responsibility upon a smallpiece mandarin named Ho-shi-lai, though he arrayed witnesses by the thousand— producing a sample hundred in the flesh before the grave Commission who sat, hands on knees, spectacled and impassive, in the court- house-to testify to his innocence, neither Li-hung-sao nor the teak-faced Mandarin with the winking eye, who sat at the end of the row of judges, were visibly impressed.

"The Daughter of Heaven" (they still preserve the fiction of Royal Government in China), murmured Li-hung-sao apologetically, "is disturbed, and miserable sycophant as I am, and unworthy to discuss such high matters with Your Excellency, yet I must humbly ask for a better story to carry to the gate of the Celestial City."

"Prince," said the Governor lightly, and he glanced meaningly at Colin Hemel, "I have sworn by the Noble Dead, and I have brought witnesses to prove that I know nothing of the killing of the Sesu folk— I can do no more."

Li-hung-sao had glanced from time to time at the third member of the Commission.

"What does Your Excellency say to this?" he asked timidly, for president though he was, the last word was with the blue-coated man at the least important place.

Colin Hemel twisted round.

"I am unworthy to give an opinion," he said, and he was occupied in his mind with the important question— how little could he with decency fine this peccant Mandarin, before he delivered a mild admonition?

For he was anxious to have done with this farce of a trial— a farce which he had planned so tragically— and go to some place where he could see her over again and for the last time. How strange she would seem in the Chinese costume she would wear! She with her flaxen hair and gray eyes.

"Your Excellency knows," he began, when there was a stir in the crowd, a howl like the howl of a beast, and a figure dived head down between the soldiers. It fell on its knees before the grave court.

A coolie flung after and lashed at the quivering figure in his fear and rage.

"Excellencies," he stammered, "a woman from the kitchen— shameless."

"Mercy, O judges!" the thing on the floor mumbled and blubbered in Chinese, and raised its head and caught the staring eyes of the Mandarin in blue. He saw the cropped hair, the gray eyes, the wasted face, the skinny arms stretched in supplication.

"Mr.— Mr. Hemel!" sobbed the wreck, and collapsed.

"Let this woman be taken to my chair," said Hemel softly; "in the name of the Daughter of Heaven, let no man harm her."

The court was very still; only the shuffling feet of the man who lifted the figure and the heavy breathing of the Governor of Chi-Foo were the sounds heard.

Then Hemel, white as death, leaned forward, consulting no man, and struck a gong with his bare knuckles. Through the side door curtained with gold and black tapestries came a man bare to the waist, dull-eyed and brown. He ran forward and sank on his knees before the judge, sweeping his lithe body till his shaven forehead touched the ground.

"Go, Fa-ti-sing," said Colin Hemel huskily, "taking with you His Excellency Wen-Ho-Hong, the Governor. Outside the city gate, near by the Plain of Ten Thousand Sorrows, you shall strike the head of Wen-Ho-Hong from his body. In the name of the Daughter of Heaven, tremble and obey."

So they took Augustus Verrill to the appointed place, and snicked off his head before an incurious crowd, and the members of the Commission went back to Pekin in their chairs.

All except the teak-faced Mandarin, who, with three soldiers at his back, rode out of the Gate of Great Assistance, and took the bumpy road for the hospital at Foo-sang, riding beside a palanquin wherein lay a Chinese kitchen-wench who was all the world to him.

________________

5.  On the Witney Road

TOM CURTIS said nothing. He fiddled with his bread-knife, stared out of the window, apparently absorbed in the phenomena of nature, in the gray of flying clouds, in the drunken lurchings of poplars, in everything except the enormities of Chesney Blackland. When he did speak, it was to remark that it was going to be a real snorter.

"I suppose," he said thoughtfully, "that one ought to have a snowy Christmas once in forty years to justify the Christmas cards."

Margaret pressed her lips tightly together, and her fine eyes glittered ominously.

"You're a slug, Tom," she said.

Tom closed his eyes in patient resignation. He was a slug, and was proud of his lowliness. He stood six foot three, was broad in proportion, and had little interest in life outside the fluctuations of the industrial market and the very excellent pack he hunted in the Cresmore country.

"There will be no hunting for weeks," he said pathetically.

"Hunt Everstein," she snapped. He looked at her in mild reproof.

"Really, Margaret, you're unreasonable," he said. "Everstein has been acquitted by a jury of his fellow-countrymen, and there's an end of it. I admit he's a poisonous little beast; I'll go so far as to say that if every man had his due, Everstein would be breaking coke in Dartmoor— or whatever they break. Which reminds me that I've been asked down to Devonshire Hunt on Thursday. It's a pretty sporting country—"

Margaret leant back, a picture of despair.

"I can't get father to see it, but it's little short of a crime— it is a crime— that this horrible man should be basking in the sunlight at Monte Carlo, his wretched pockets filled with our money. I think Mr. Blackland is as bad as he. Everstein is a criminal, but at least Mr. Blackland has some pretensions to being a gentleman."

She looked to her father for confirmation, but the Colonel did no more than shift uncomfortably in his chair and fidget with his serviette.

Colonel Robert Curtis had been described as "a beautiful old man." He was gentle, sweetnatured, weak. He hated trouble of any kind, and Heaven knows he had had trouble enough this past six months; for there had come into his life, a little more than two years before, a most plausible financier, with a scheme for amalgamating industries, and the Colonel had joined his board. Some of the industries were represented by genuine factories which prepared and distributed real commodities that people bought, but there were a few which were little more than derelict buildings and rusted machinery. They did not appear that way on the balance-sheet: they were most important assets, and few people realized their utter worthlessness until the crash came and Mr. Everstein was arrested.

The Colonel had been a director of the parent company, and the smash had cost him a lot of money. How much, Margaret did not know. She did know that after Everstein's arrest her father had taken to his bed, and for three weeks had talked brokenly of the ruin which faced him, and had even gone as far as inviting an estate agent from Oxford to value Deeplands and its contents. But he did not go any further than this: the threatened sale was never held, and the only servant dismissed was a chauffeur who disposed of two worn tires without his master's permission.

"Everstein brought father to the very verge of ruin," said Margaret tragically. "If father hadn't been able to borrow money from his friends, we should have been living in some wretched little villa and owing the landlady money."

"Rot!" said her practical brother. "Suppose Blackland hadn't defended Everstein, or suppose he had defended him and Everstein had been sent to jail for seven or eight years, what difference would that have made?  Chesney is one of the best fellows in the world, and anybody but an idiot knows that it's the duty of a barrister to defend his client to the best of his ability. He would have been a skunk if he hadn't."

"And you call him a friend of yours!" said Margaret witheringly. "He's a very good friend and a ripping fine fellow! If you weren't such an unreasonable goose, I should have asked him to come over to spend Christmas Day with us."

It needed but this to drive Margaret over the edge of reason. She got up and, her hands clutching the cloth, leant over the table towards him.

"Tommy!" she said intensely. "If you bring Chesney Blackland here, I will leave the house! I would not spend an hour under the same roof with him. Have you read his speech for the defense?"

She flung towards the little secretaire which stood in a corner of the room, wrenched open a drawer and brought out a folded newspaper.

"Listen: "'There is no doubt,' counsel went on, 'that Everstein had amongst his shareholders some of the most credulous and simple-minded people in England. In effect, however, whatever onus attaches to the prisoner from that cause is attached also to Everstein's fellow- directors.'"

She put the paper down and glared at her brother. "In other words," she said deliberately, "this wretched man said that father was as big a thief as Everstein... and this reptile is your friend!"

Tom rubbed his nose and looked at his father. That aristocratic gentleman shook his head and closed his eyes, as though he could not bear either the contemplation of his son or the thought of Blackland's enormity.

"Anyway, counsel have got to say all sorts of things," said Tom stoutly. "It's silly to bear malice against a barrister for what he's said in the defense of a—" He fizzled out lamely.

"If you dare ask Chesney Blackland here, Tom, I will never forgive you." She pointed a minatory finger at the big young man. "Father would forgive him, of course, because father forgives everybody, and he's a Christian and all that sort of thing."

"It's Christmas time," murmured Tom.

"It would make no difference to me if it were August Bank Holiday," said Margaret. "If you bring Mr. Blackland to Deeplands, I will go out. I would rather die than be in the same room with him. He has slandered father, he has let this scoundrel loose upon society, he is worse than Everstein himself; and if you had any self-respect you would write to him and tell him just what you think of him."

Tom grinned. "Why not send him a Christmas card and write all these admirable sentiments on the back?" he demanded, and Margaret shivered at his vulgarity.

She had to go into her father's study soon after breakfast to consult him about the following day's arrangements. The Colonel stood with his back to the fire, a pipe in his mouth, a look of settled gloom on his fine-cut face.

"I don't think I should bother Tommy about this man Blackland if I were you," he said. "Blackland's really a nice fellow. Didn't you meet him when you were up at Cambridge last May week?"

She gazed at him blankly. "The thing is finished and done with," her father went on hurriedly. "I see no advantage in bearing malice. We shall— er— battle through. Blackland was a good fellow: I liked him."

Colonel Curtis was one of those fortunate people who can convey the most subtle of expressions by an innuendo. You never realized that he had enemies until he forgave them. He had borne his troubles bravely and silently, and Margaret had not realized how badly he was hit until there came the valuer with his notebook, examining legs of chairs and weighing the silver on the palm of his hand. It is true that the legs of the chairs were still planted on the carpets of Deeplands, and that the silver graced the table at every meal, but the atmosphere of near ruin was established.

The Colonel had never complained about Everstein's duplicity or Blackland's treachery, but in those simple words, "Blackland was a good fellow: I liked him," she read the Colonel's crushing disappointment when he had discovered that this good fellow whom he liked had stood up in a crowded court and had basely hinted that Everstein was not alone in his guilt. And Margaret loathed Chesney Blackland more than ever.

"You will be in this afternoon, Margaret?" said the Colonel, changing the subject. "I have asked the Walshes to come over, and I thought we might have a rubber of bridge."

Margaret shook her head. "Tom can make a fourth," she said. "I am going to drive over to Cheltenham to see old Mrs. Gurney and take her Christmas present."

The Colonel's face fell.

"The post, of course, is gone— it might have been sent direct from the shop—"

"I want to take it myself, Father," said Margaret decisively; and when she spoke in that tone of voice, the Colonel seldom opposed her.

She had intended going that morning, but old Mrs. Gurney's woolen coat did not arrive until after lunch; and by the time she had packed the little hamper with the whisky, and the plum pudding, and the body of a cockerel slaughtered that morning, it was three o'clock.

Tom, who had taken his gun out on to the Priory fields, came into the hall as she was making her preparations for departure. He was sheeted white from head to foot.

"It's snowing like the dickens," he said. And then, as she was fastening her coat: "You're never going out in this weather?" he added in amazement.

"I'm running over to Cheltenham," replied Margaret, with that note of finality which as a rule suspended all argument.

"You're driving to Cheltenham in that wretched thing?" Tom's blue hands pointed to the two-seater at the door.

"Don't be silly," said Margaret. "You don't imagine a little snow will stop me?"

Tom walked out into the road and looked up at the skies, which were filled now with whirling white specks.

"You really oughtn't to go, Margaret," he remonstrated. "Send Downes over— or, if you must go now, let me drive you. You'll get snowed up as sure as fate."

"It will be even more certain if a fat man like you is in the car," she said, with a smile.

"If you want to be helpful, put that hamper and parcel into the boot."

As she settled herself in the little car and drew a fur rug over her knees, she raised a warning finger to Tom.

"I'm very serious about Chesney Blackland," she said, "and if you have some Machiavellian plan for bringing him here tomorrow"— Tom wriggled uncomfortably— "I want you to alter your plan, Tommy: if he comes here, I shall go to town and spend Christmas Day with the Readings."

"Beastly prejudice," muttered Tom, and from his guilty demeanor she guessed that she had not been far wide of the mark when she suggested that he had already formed a plan for inviting the hateful Blackland.

She smiled triumphantly as she sent the little car down the snowy drive and turned on to the Witney Road. The hood of the machine was raised, but the snow blew persistently under the canvas, and although her tiny electric screen-wiper worked frantically, it was difficult to see more than a few yards ahead, and that through a blurred surface.

The road was fairly good, and the car held its way without any more than an occasional skid, and she came through the deserted streets of gloomy Witney in excellent time. She had left the town and was climbing up on to the plateau which separates Witney from Cheltenham when she experienced her first sense of misgiving. It was nearly dusk. The storm had abated just before she reached Witney, and there was little or no wind, but the snow was falling thicker than ever, and once she plunged into a drift which lay athwart the road. It was not very formidable: the bonnet of the car sent the fine powdery snow flying, and she was through almost, before she realized she had hit an obstruction.

Her spirits rose when she came on to a stretch of road which was almost free of snow, being protected by a belt of trees which ran for half a mile along the roadside; but her satisfaction was shortlived. Dipping down into a valley, she met a recrudescence of the storm, and she slowed almost to a crawl, for now it was absolutely impossible even to see the road, and she could only guess her position by observing the stone wall which marked the boundary of a farm on her right.

It grew dark with surprising suddenness, and, looking at her watch, she saw with dismay that it was past four o'clock. Where she was she could only guess, but the road she followed went downhill and that did not seem right. Presently she came to a place where another road joined that on which she was traveling, and, getting down from her seat, she plodded to a sign-post, the face of which was so covered with snow as to be indecipherable. Taking her umbrella from the car, she managed to clean the face of the indicator, and her jaw dropped in consternation. She was on the wrong road: by following the stone wall she had been led miles out of her track.

Margaret took counsel with herself and decided that the only sane thing to do was to return to Oxford. She got into the car and backed up the road, intending to return on her tracks. But to come downhill was one thing, to go back up that long and tiring slope was another. She had accomplished less than a third of her journey when the car struck. She must continue along the wrong track, hoping to work her way back to the main road.

Hers was a very small machine, ordinarily easy to turn, but in thick snow the smallest of motor-cars becomes a little unmanageable. Backing to the hedge to give herself room to turn, she suddenly felt the wheels sinking, and before she could reverse, the back part of the car settled gracefully into a ditch.

"Blow!" said Margaret.

She might have said something stronger, but it was very dark and she felt rather frightened. She felt that this was not the moment for profanity. Nearly a mile farther on she had passed a small lodge and a pair of big gates, suggesting that somewhere behind the pine and the laurel was a human habitation. With what philosophy she could summon she trudged up the hill, slipping and sliding in the snow, and came, hot and weary, to the lodge gates.

The lodge proved to be empty; but the iron gates opened readily, and she followed a serpentine path which led her at last to a white lawn that stretched before a small Elizabethan mansion. She sighed with relief when she saw a light glowing in one of the windows, and with great labor made her slow way across the lawn and knocked on the old-fashioned double door.

It was immediately opened by a middle-aged woman, obviously, from her sedate alpaca and her trim lace cap, the housekeeper. In a few words Margaret explained her predicament.

"Come in, miss," said the housekeeper. "I will send a man down to get your car. Why, you're wet through!"

Margaret gazed ruefully at her sodden feet. "You have a telephone here?"

She saw the instrument standing on a table in the wide, flagged hall. "I want to telephone to my people—"

The housekeeper shook her head. "I'm afraid, miss, the line must have broken. The master was talking to a gentleman in Oxford a quarter of an hour ago when he was cut off. But you must change, miss. I will see Mr. John."

She disappeared through an open door, and Margaret had a glimpse of a cozy library, the lights of which she had seen from the drive. There was a murmur of voices, and the housekeeper came back.

"Will you come this way, miss?"

She led the way up the broad stairs and opened the door into a comfortable bedroom, which was obviously a man's room, for she saw certain striped garments folded on the bed.

"I may be able to get you some silk stockings, miss, but I'm afraid I can't give you anything better than the maid's shoes. We have no lady in the house," she said. "Mr. John is a bachelor."

There was a bright fire burning, and before this Margaret changed as many of her garments as were necessary, accepting the unknown maid's skirt and stockings with gratitude. She strolled to the open casement window, and by the light which streamed from the room she saw that the snow was still falling heavily.

The housekeeper, who had been to make inquiries, returned with somewhat disconcerting news.

"There is no possibility of a car getting away from here tonight, miss," she said. "Mr. John will send the gardener to the nearest telephone with any message you wish to send to your parents."

Margaret gazed at her in amazement.

"Do you mean to say that I shan't be able to get away from here tonight?"

The housekeeper shook her head.

"No, miss, I'm afraid you won't," she said. "The roads are quite impassable and it's still snowing."

"But I must!" insisted Margaret. "I simply can't stay here... in a bachelor's house."

"I stay in a bachelor's house, miss," said the middle-aged lady, with dignity.

"Yes, yes, I know. But don't you see—" began Margaret. And then the absurdity of the situation struck her and she laughed. "I'm afraid you and Mr. John will think I'm very ungrateful," she said. "I'll write a message."

She scribbled a note to her father, headed with the telephone number, and then: "But I can't stay here: this is Mr. John's own room, is it not?"

"I'm having a room made ready for you, miss," nodded the housekeeper, "and Mr. John has asked me whether you would like to come down to tea."

"I'd like to come down, if only to thank him," she said. "Will you send this message?"

She handed the paper to the woman, who went away and came back almost immediately to announce that tea was waiting.

A slim man, soberly attired, rose as she entered the library. He might have been thirty, but might as easily have been forty. He was very tall, with a slight stoop, and her first impression of him was that he was rather good looking. She guessed, from his preter-natural solemnity, that he was a doctor.

"I ought to bless the snow for bringing me a visitor, Miss Curtis," he said. (He had rather a charming smile, she thought.) "But I expect at this moment you are hardly sharing my view?"

"I am not," she said frankly. "Is it really impossible for me to get away tonight?"

"I'm afraid it is," he answered, with a return to his grave manner. "I have sent a man out to telephone to your people, and I can only hope that the snow will stop falling, and that tomorrow morning we shall be able to get you back to Oxford. In the meantime, are you partial to muffins?"

He raised the lid of a dish, and Margaret, who by this time was very hungry, speared a crisp brown morsel to her plate.

"Do you live here alone?" she asked.

He nodded. "I usually spend winter in Switzerland," he said, "but this year my work has kept me at home. You see, the Christmas vacation is a very short one."

She put down her cup. "Are you a lawyer?" she asked, and he laughed softly at the dismay in her voice. "You don't like lawyers?"

"I like some lawyers," she admitted, and adroitly he turned the conversation into another channel.

It was a jolly little house. She could quite understand that even solitude had a charm in these paneled, low-ceilinged rooms. Once or twice between tea and dinner she sounded him about her bête noir, but Mr. John skilfully evaded discussion of Chesney Blackland and his villainous deeds.

It was after dinner; they were sitting before the log fire in the library, she in one deep armchair, he in another, when—

"Do you know Chesney Blackland?"

He did not answer.

"Mr. John, do you know Chesney Blackland?"

"You don't like him?" said the lean-faced man, looking into the fire. "And yet, he likes you rather a lot. He once saw you, though he never spoke to you, and carried the memory in his heart for years and years—"

"You do know him?" She sat up.

"Yes," said the man quietly; "I am Chesney Blackland."

Margaret gasped.

"Then you— you told them to call you Mr. John... to deceive me..."

She was on her feet now. "No; I am Mr. John to Mrs. Buckingham. My name is John Chesney Blackland."

She was looking down at him with a deep frown.

"I am very grateful to you for your hospitality," she said stiffly, "and I can only regret that I have given you so much trouble."

"Where are you going?" he asked, jumping up as she moved to the door.

"To get my coat, and then I'm going to walk back to Witney," she said.

In two strides he was between her and the door.

"You'll do nothing of the kind," he said violently. "Why, it is madness! You will be caught in the storm: you haven't a ghost of a chance of getting back!"

"I am going to Witney," she said steadily. "Will you please let me pass?" And then, in a sudden burst of resentment: "I would rather die than remain in the same house with you, Mr. Blackland! You have insulted my father, you have helped a blackguard to escape justice. I hate you!"

For a second she saw the bleakness in his eyes and shivered.

"I don't mind your hatred," he said in a low voice, "but I cannot allow you to leave this house."

"But if I insist?"

He was silent.

"Will you please let me pass?"

For answer he pointed to the chair before the fire. "You may go, of course, but before you go I want to tell you something that apparently you do not know."

"Nothing you can say will alter my view, Mr. Blackland—" she began.

"At least I am entitled to a hearing," he interrupted. "I cannot prevent your leaving this house. I suppose you would make it so unpleasant that I had no other course. But if you go, I must accompany you, whatever be the consequences."

"If I go, I go alone."

He nodded slowly.

"At least you will allow me to tell you the secret that lay behind the Everstein case?"

She hesitated. "Nothing you could say would convince me—" she began irresolutely, and then, to her own amazement, went back to the chair she had vacated.

"May I smoke?" He filled a pipe from a silver box, lit the tobacco carefully, and, settling down in his chair, puffed for a moment or two, his eyes fixed on the blazing logs.

"The man you call Everstein is my brother," he began, and her eyes opened wide.

"Your brother?" incredulously.

He nodded.

"But he is a Swiss—"

"I am Swiss, too," said Chesney Blackland. "Isaac Everstein is my brother, though I am not proud of the relationship. He is a swindler! I knew him to be a swindler. But he has a child— she is in the house at this moment."

"Here?"

He nodded again. "A sensitive girl of fifteen, who had no illusions about her father, and yet loved him passionately. By some mischance she learnt that Isaac was under arrest, and the shock nearly killed her. Had he been sent to penal servitude—"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I know you hate me," he went on. "Your brother was on the telephone to me a few minutes ago: I was coming over to spend Christmas in your house. I suppose you didn't know that? It was a scheme of Tom's, who knew you disliked me, but thought that if we met, you might modify your point of view. I defended my brother, and was prepared to involve any person in the world rather than that he should be sent to prison. If you ask me whether I like him, I reply that he is utterly loathsome to me. I should not have turned a hair if he had been sent to the scaffold. But all the time I was pleading in that fusty court, I had one thought and one thought only— the child, stretched upon a bed of pain, who was waiting, waiting... dreading the sound of the telephone bell..."

He stopped abruptly. Margaret was listening open-mouthed.

"But nobody knew this?"

He shook his head. "You are the first person I have ever told."

"And the child?"

He sighed.

"She is slowly recovering. The trial will have left its mark upon her— that is natural. But imagine, Miss Curtis, what would have been the consequence if— Isaac had been sent to penal servitude for a term of years?"

"I'm sorry," said Margaret, and on the impulse of her emotion leant forward and laid her hand on his arm.

He shrank back at the touch.

"No, no, please don't sympathize with me," he said, as he rose quickly, and she thought she understood.

"I'm sorry I've been such a fool. Won't you forgive me?"

She held out her hand and he took it.

"I wonder if you will forgive me?" he asked.

"Why, of course. And now you can teach me picquet, as you promised: I am quite sane. May I see your little niece?"

He shook his head.

"She will not be fit to see visitors for many weeks," he said gravely.

MARGARET was wakened from a dreamless sleep by a hideous view-halloa from the garden below, and, jumping out of bed, she ran to the window and looked down. It was Tom, and, standing before the porch of the house, was an old victoria and the four horses that he had hired from a livery stable. Snow had ceased to fall; the world lay under a thick carpet of white.

"Merry Christmas!" yelled Tom. "Can't you get down and let me in? Nobody seems to be up in this establishment."

In ten minutes she was dressed and downstairs, but one of the servants had already opened the door, and Tom was warming his chilled hands before a hastily kindled fire.

"How do you like Chesney?" asked Tom. "You did stay under the same roof, after all, old girl."

She raised her hand in quiet protest. "I know a little more about Mr. Blackland than I did," she said. "I'm afraid I was rather uncharitable."

"He's a nice-looking fellow," said Tom. "What about having him over for dinner tonight?"

Margaret had already decided that her uncharitable ban should be lifted, and her invitation to "Mr. John" had been given and accepted.

"The governor's worried to death about you," said Tom. "He made me get up in the dark and commandeer this old bus to bring you back to civilization. Hullo, Chesney!"

Chesney was coming downstairs in his dressing-gown.

"I've got to rush my sister back to Oxford: the Colonel is all nerves about her," said Tom. "No, no, I won't stop to breakfast. Something hot to drink, and a bite for the young lady..."

Coffee and rolls were forthcoming almost immediately. They stood before the hall fire talk ing, Tom apparently oblivious to the signs Which his host had given him, until, in desperation, Chesney Blackland said: "I'd like to see you for a moment before you go, Tom. Will you come into the library?"

"Not now, old boy," pleaded Tom, putting down the cup. "You're coming over to dinner— I must get back: there's some more snow coming."

"I wanted to tell you—" said Chesney, but Tom was out in the open, giving directions to the ancient driver of this extemporized four-in- hand. "We dine at seven, but you'll come to tea," said Margaret, as she held out her hand with a smile. "And you really do forgive me?"

"I'm wondering whether you're going to forgive me," groaned Chesney Blackland, as he took her hand in his.

"For what? You mean, for the things you said about father? Of course!"

There was a roaring invitation from Tom outside, and the girl hurried into the victoria. The flakes were beginning to fall again, and there was reason for hurry, Tom explained, as they began their climb to the Witney Road.

"If we can make Witney we shall be all right, but the road is rather like High Street, Siberia."

To their intense relief, they reached the main road without mishap, and in a quarter of an hour Witney lay beneath them, a gray, cheerless town in a hollow.

"That's a quaint place of old Chesney's," said Tom.

"It's a very pretty house: has he had it long?" asked the girl.

"Lord, yes," said Tom, lighting a cigarette with some difficulty. "It's been in the family hundreds of years. It was a gift from King Charles to one of the Blacklands."

Margaret's pretty face came round, the picture of amazement.

"A gift of King Charles? But they're not English: his brother is—"

She stopped. Obviously Tom was not interested in Blackland's confidence.

"His brother!" scoffed Tom. "Why, he never had a brother. I knew the family: I was with Chesney at Eton."

The girl did not speak till they were clear of Witney, and then:

"Are you sure?"

"What about? About Chesney? Why, of course I'm sure. Old man Blackland only had one son and five daughters."

"What nationality was Mr. Everstein?" she asked, with outward calm.

"He was a Swiss Jew."

With an effort Margaret controlled her voice. "Has he any children?" she asked.

"Fourteen, I am told."

"Will you stop the carriage? I want to walk a little way," she said unsteadily.

Tom roared a direction to the driver and got out, a very much perplexed man.

"Now what on earth—?"

"Tom," she said, when they had walked some little distance from the victoria, "you must send to Mr. Blackland and tell him he cannot come to the house."

"Great Moses!" he gasped. "Why?"

"Because— he is a liar! Oh, the brute, the brute! To play on my feelings..."

Bit by bit the story came out. Tom listened, and, to the girl's surprise, did not laugh.

"Yes, that's a lie," said Tom. "Chesney has no brothers. Of course, he told you that story to prevent you from making a fool of yourself, as you undoubtedly would have done."

"He's hateful!" she stormed.

Tom shook his head. "He's not so hateful as you think, Margaret," he said quietly. "And now I'm going to tell you the truth. What he said about father was true."

She stared at him uncomprehendingly.

"Father was in the Everstein swindle right up to his neck," Tom went on. "He was a party to the faking of the balance-sheet, and it was only by a fluke that he didn't stand in the dock with Everstein."

She was white and shaking now.

"Is that true?" she asked in a low voice.

Tom nodded.

"When Everstein was sent for trial, and Blackland went to Brixton Gaol for consultation, Everstein told Chesney the truth, and said that if he was convicted he'd bring down father... that he wasn't going to suffer alone. And Chesney played the game: he came to see me and told me this. Of course, it was no use telling the governor; anyway, he was in bed, sick with fright."

"But why did— Chesney— take all that trouble?" she asked unsteadily.

Tom's reply was rather like Tom, frank to the point of brutality.

"Because he saw you a few years ago, and, like a chump, fell in love with you. That's the truth! Chesney was unscrupulous in his defense: it was the talk of the Bar. But he fought like a demon to save Everstein from conviction, because he knew father would be involved, and, through father, you."

The snow was falling heavily now. She looked back to the old victoria and the steaming horses. "He is a liar, anyway," she said, as she walked slowly towards the carriage.

"Tom, will there be any shops open in Oxford this morning?" she asked, as the victoria bowled along the homeward road.

"There may be: why?"

"I'd like to buy a present— for Chesney Blackland's niece," she said, with pleasant malice.

_________________

6. Mother o' Mine

THEY CALLED Ian Cranford "Iron" Cranford.

Lest it be thought that the employees of the Cranford Manufacturing Corporation were possessed of the sense of poetry, or that they bestowed a romantical and even heroic nickname upon their managing director because they loved and admired him, it may be explained that there was about this time another and a more public "Ian," a popular figure in London boxing circles who was also addressed as "Iron," less as a tribute to his robust constitution than in the exercise of the Cockneys' immemorial right to give any pronunciation he chooses to any word he employs.

And Ian Cranford was not beloved. He was likewise called by other names.

A girl, red of face and trembling with suppressed wrath, came out of Cranford's private office, and slammed the door behind her. Six pairs of youthful eyes surveyed her in joyous anticipation. The seventh pair of eyes did not look up from the note she was transcribing, and her typewriter, alone, clattered and clicked through the buzz of eager inquiry and heated reply which followed.

"If he thinks he's gotta slave to deal with," said the red-faced girl as she banged the cover down on her typewriter, "he's made a mistake so far as I'm concerned! I ses to him, 'If a young lady can't take a day off when her head's splitting so that she could get a doctor's certificate for the asking, you'd better get somebody else!' 'Oh,' he ses, in his sarcastic way, 'and is it necessary to take the 9.55 for Brighton to cure your headache? I happened to see you getting in the train.' 'Well,' I ses, 'if I can't go down to Brighton and see my poor dear mother, it's pretty hard,' I ses. 'You can go and live with your poor dear mother at the end of the week,' he ses. 'I'll go now,' I ses, 'and as for you, you can go to hell!' I ses."

A most gratifying chorus of admiring gasps.

"'Yes, you can go to hell!' I ses. That's the way to treat 'em," said the red-faced girl, with trembling pride. "There's no other way for fellers like that! He hasn't got a heart, that Iron Cranford; he's not human! If ever I tell my young man the things he said to me—"

A sudden and violent rattle of space-bars and six fluffy heads dropped, as though at the word of a drill sergeant, over six banks of complicated keys. A man stood in the doorway of the private office, the type of man who wears rough blue serge, soft loose collars, and smokes a straight, short pipe. He was nearing the forties, with gray at the temple, hard-jawed and resentful of eye.

"Haven't you gone?"

His voice had a snap and a bite which sent shivers down six young spines.

"No, I haven't gone yet, Mr. Cranford," said the girl in a milder tone than might have been expected.

She was all for a dignified exit, but her knees wobbled annoyingly.

"I am going when— I am going when—" she choked.

"You are going when you please, I suppose?" said the man in the doorway. "You should worry about me, ha, ha!"

There was no mirth in his "ha, ha!" but a hint of sardonic laughter.

"Now, you girls!"

Six backs straightened to attention, the seventh was still bent over the machine, though her hands were idle.

"I am firing Miss Wilkinson, as she has probably told you," said Cranford. "You ought to be told the reason I am discharging her. It is not because she took a day off; any girl can take a day off if she has a headache. I am sending her away because she lied, and because on Saturday morning I saw her in company with a type of man with whom I do not want any of the girls in this office to associate."

Miss Wilkinson's trembling became a visible ripple of wrath. It was a ripple which swayed her shoulders and her head and produced an alarming elongation of neck.

"Be careful what you're saying!" she shrilled. "You take people's character away, and you can be had up in the court. You— you— "

"Get on with your work," said Cranford shortly. "Miss Glynn!"

The seventh stenographer rose at his nod, gathered her notebook and pencil, and followed him into the office. She was a slight, pretty girl, rather white of face and tired of eye. There were some in the office who feared Ian Cranford. Some perverted souls who adored for the very reputation of brutality which was his. Some, like the shivering Miss Wilkinson, who alternately loathed and fawned upon him. But Doris Glynn, his confidential secretary, alone hated him consistently and silently.

She never joined in the chorus of abuse, which at intervals rose against him; she never identified herself with those informal services of absolution that followed some act of justice on the part of Ian Cranford, which bore the appearance of generosity.

She hated him for all that he was, and all that he had. She hated him for his undeviating ruthlessness because he kept to his way, walking down the strong and the weak who stood between him and his objective. And mostly she hated him for what he would some day think of her.

She sat meekly by his desk, her notebook on her knees, and Ian Cranford stroked his trim moustache thoughtfully.

"Wilkinson is keeping bad company," he said. He always referred to the girls by their surnames, another abominable practice of his. "She is a poor, brainless, flighty fool, without a single decent instinct which I have been able to discover."

He scratched his big jaw, then he reached for the telephone and gave a number, which she recognized as police headquarters.

"I want to speak to Mr. Holding," he said; and after a minute's silence, "That you, Holding? It's Cranford speaking. You remember that long-firm man, Sawerson, who runs fake selling-agencies and did a term in jail some time ago... you remember him? Good. Well, he's taken up with a girl in this office whom I have just dismissed. A Miss Wilkinson, I will send you her address. She had access to my list of customers, and I should say that was what he is after."

Evidently the man at the other end of the wire asked a question concerning Miss Wilkinson, whose complaining voice was still audible through the closed door of the office.

"No, no, she is nothing," said Cranford. "Just a nothing. She hasn't the brains to be a crook. Good-bye."

He hung up the receiver and swung round to the waiting girl.

"Now, we'll get on with that correspondence with Mrs. Bristow," he said. "Write to Harbury and instruct to call in all the mortgages on the quarries. I hear that Mother's darling son has been sent down from College and has arrived home with a sackful of unreceipted bills."

He stared down at his desk awhile, then:

"I shall never ruin Mrs. Bristow," he said, "nor pierce her of her colossal vanity."

A pause.

"I don't know that I want to ruin her anyway," he said. "I merely want to—" He stopped. "That woman had had too much money anyway."

The girl made no reply, merely jotting down a note in her book; then suddenly, and to her surprise, he said: "I understand you are married— Mrs. Glynn?" She was taken aback for a moment.

"I have been married," she said quietly. "I am a widow."

He frowned at her.

"Any children?"

"One," she said, her anger rising.

His frown grew deeper.

"You are very young. Why didn't you tell me you were married when you came? Why did you call yourself Miss Glynn? There was no need to lie about it."

"I didn't lie about it," she said hotly. "I was only married for a year— somehow I never think of myself as married."

She might have added that that year was the most wretched year of her life. The street accident which ended the life of her drunkard husband was the only happy memory of three hundred and eighty days of purgatory— she used to count the days.

"Some employers do not like married women in their offices," she went on, more calmly, "especially young married women, and that is why, when I was addressed as Miss by your cashier, I did not correct him."

"All right," he said, and as she rose:

"I am going down to South Devon in the morning."

She listened, holding her breath. "Come to me before I go for the key of my safe. The tender for the Shaftesbury Power House must be delivered personally at five minutes to twelve, not a minute before or a minute later, to the architects at Winchester House. They are received up to twelve o'clock, but you ought to allow yourself five minutes in case of accidents. Not before, you understand? I don't trust that architect of theirs, and he'll be tipping off our price to somebody else if he gets it too soon. You'll find it in the bottom drawer in the safe."

She nodded, and again made a note in her book.

"Benson leaves for Rio in the afternoon: give him three hundred pounds in banknotes; you'll find them in the same drawer. Note the numbers and get a receipt. Remind him to telegraph... Send Wilkinson's address to Inspector Holding, New Scotland Yard..." He fired a dozen other instructions before he dismissed her with his curt nod, and she went back to her desk with the last of her qualms seared out of existence.

He was not human, there was nothing human about him. His talk of Mrs. Bristow, that aged widow whom she had once seen in the office...  A pompous, white-haired lady, insolent it is true, but still a woman— and an old woman. His lighthearted blackening of poor Lilly Wilkinson's character, his slander about an architect— these things were as a tonic to strengthen her in her resolve.

She hated him, she hated him! She wanted to hate him more. She could not hate him enough. For hatred was a narcotic which was to deaden the pain and drown a voice that whispered "No, no no!" all the day and all the night.

The office staff was allowed an hour for lunch— no more and no less. Doris Glynn alone was given an extra half-hour, that being the additional time which Cranford allowed himself. The half-hour was especially desirable today, and she permitted herself the unaccustomed luxury of a taxi-cab. She had to get from the city to Devonshire Street by a quarter-past one. Of course, she could have asked for extra time, but the idea of making such a request to Cranford was in itself abhorrent.

She reached the house of the great chest specialist at the same minute as a woman turned the corner of the street, leading a little boy by the hand, and Doris walked toward them with a smiling welcome for the child.

"It is awfully good of you to come, Mrs. Thomas. I don't think I could have got home in time."

The motherly woman with the child arrested the flow of thanks with a bluff "Nonsense!" and together they walked up the steps and passed into the specialist's house and into the gloomy waiting-room. He did not detain them very long. Presently a nurse came in and beckoned the mother and child, and they followed into Sir George Crisly's consulting-room.

The specialist shook hands with the girl and led the boy to the window, scrutinizing him sharply.

"Well, Mrs. Glynn, when are you going?" he asked. She was fidgeting with her handkerchief, and started as he spoke. "I— I don't know," she stammered. "I have the passports— thank you, doctor, for getting those for me. I shall never be able to repay you for your great kindness. Do you really, really think that a year will make all that difference to the boy?"

He nodded. "I not only think, but know," he said. "Of course the child is very young to have a crisis, but undoubtedly he is in that pathological condition when the next twelve months will make all the difference in the world to his future health. There is undoubtedly a dispostion to tuberculosis. The mountain air is absolutely certain to destroy that tendency and give him something to build up on. I suggest Argentière because the air there is particularly good for such cases. There are nice pensions where you will be able to live very cheaply, and the journey is an easy one." He smiled. "I think you are exceedingly fortunate in being able to go at all. So few people have saved their money as you have against a rainy day."

She nodded slowly, and had he looked at her closely he would have seen her bosom rising and falling as though she found a difficulty in breathing.

"I don't mind telling you, now that you have decided to go," Sir George went on, "that to have lived in England would have killed your boy."

She closed her eyes, and he walked quickly to her side and took her arm.

"I'm awfully sorry; I thought you knew," he said gently.

Oh, I knew, doctor," she smiled bravely. "Of course I knew, only I wouldn't let myself know, if you understand."

"I think I do," said he. "Anyway, you've nothing to worry about now."

He turned to the child and patted him on the head.

"Good-bye, little man," he said. "Come along and see me in twelve months' time and I shan't know you!"

The girl waited until the child and his motherly guardian had turned the corner before she began her walk in search of a cab to take her back to the office. She was numb with fear, with apprehension, with doubts, but the greatest doubt of all had vanished. No longer could she hesitate or allow any false ideals to stand in her way.

At parting she had made her final preparations. For a small sum paid weekly the goodnatured Mrs. Thomas, who occupied an apartment on the same floor in the tenement where Doris had her home, took charge of the small boy during the day. She was to bring the child and the two portmanteaux, already packed, to Waterloo Station that night in time to catch the Havre boat-train. Doris had allowed herself two hours to do what she had to do. She closed her eyes tight, with a little wince of pain, as she thought of what those two hours would hold.

Passports, time-tables, tickets, little notes on the route, all these were in her bag. She would tell Mrs. Thomas that she was going to Italy, and had already hinted as much to her.

That afternoon the office was purgatory to her. She was filled with an immense sense of desolation and loneliness. It was as though she was living in'another and a more enviable world, and she did envy these light- hearted girls with homes of their own, mothers and fathers who cared for them and would worry about them if they were late. She envied their freedom from care, their silly chatter about boys and clothes. Somehow the office appeared in a more pleasant light than she had ever viewed it, a more homelike place than she had ever dreamed it could be, and she was amazed to discover the tears rising to her eyes at the thought that she would not again see this big prosaic room with its rows of desks. Cranford was out until half-past three, and he came back more truculent than ever. He dictated three slashing letters, a bite in every line: one to his works' manager at Bletchley, one to the solicitor of the unfortunate Mrs. Bristow, and a third to a second solicitor, no less than the advocate chosen by the discharged Miss Wilkinson to vindicate her character.

"Delivered by hand, was it?" he growled. "I know the solicitor, a dirty little police-court practitioner. A decent man wouldn't have had the time to sit down and write straight away. Sue me for slander, will she! Huh I take this...!"

Her pencil flew over the paper, and there was need for speed, for when Ian Cranford was annoyed he spoke very quickly. She was in the midst of taking a milder correspondence when he stopped and said suddenly:

"That passport..."

It seemed that her heart stopped beating. She could only stare at him open-mouthed.

"Passport?" she managed to say at last.

She was as white as death, but he was not looking at her.

"That diplomatic passport which I received from the Government during the war," he said, "you are to return that to the Foreign Office. I am not engaged on Government business in France now, and there is no need of it. Remind me tomorrow that I return it."

She could have swooned with relief. As it was, her limbs felt like water and her mouth and throat were dry. One of the girls saw how pale she looked and, much concerned, brought her a cup of tea, and she drank it and felt refreshed. At half-past five the staff left, and she was still taking down Cranford's notes, now upon some new construction in which he was interested, now an article for a technical newspaper, always at top speed in a voice which seemed to hold an everlasting complaint.

At half-past six he finished, tidied his desk neatly, and closed it with a bang. He looked at her as she turned over the leaves of her notebook.

"You've got two hours' work there," he said. "You may go early tomorrow to make up."

She nodded.

"I think that is all," he said after a while. "You know my address in Devonshire. Here is the key of the safe; don't lose it. Good-night."

The "good-night" was his usual curt farewell, and only her lips moved in response. She went back to her desk and tackled her work. 82

Her fingers flew over the keys, and by eight o'clock she had gathered together the typescript, signed and enveloped such letters as she had authority to send, laid the copy of his article on his desk, and had covered her own machine.

It was dark. There was only the light above where she sat and the solitary light which she had switched on in Cranford's office. Save for the caretakers, whose brooms she heard thumping in the corridor without, she was alone in the building.

She opened her bag, dived her hand into its depths, and took out the key. She felt surprisingly calm. Did other criminals feel the same? Often she had wondered how burglars and murderers could have brought themselves to commit their cold-blooded deeds, but now she understood. There was no tremor in her hand, and when she walked into the inner office, her step was steady and she felt no inclination to faint as she had feared. It was very easy. She did not know what reserves of strength she was exhausting.

She opened the safe, pushed back the heavy door, and pulled out a drawer. On the top lay the sealed envelope containing the tender for the Shaftesbury Power House.

This she carried to the desk, wrote on a slip of paper, "To be Delivered by 12.5 certain" even underlined the 'certain'— pinned it to the envelope and laid it in the chief stenographer's basket. Then she went back for the money. it lay in two wads, the money that was usually kept there, supplemented by the £300 which had been drawn from the bank that morning to pay the expenses of Benson, who was leaving for South America. It was this £300 she took, and it was when those notes were in her hand that her nerve broke. She felt the break coming and tried to fight it off, but in an instant she was leaning against the safe, sobbing softly.

"Oh, it's wrong, it's wrong," she sobbed. "Nothing can make it right, nothing, nothing!"

"Nothing!"

The voice was behind her, and she turned round, her mouth open to scream.

Cranford had come in and had half closed the door behind him. His remorseless face was a mask, his steady gray eyes were fixed upon her. She did not faint, she did not scream; she clutched the hard steel corner of the safe to hold her erect and looked at him. She could not even think, though she had a picture of a little boy who would be waiting for her in two hours' time at a London terminus, and there was the winter ahead, and the greatest specialist in London had said frankly that the winter would kill him. She did not think of herself or what it meant to her. If she saw anything, it was only the supreme and horrible tragedy which centered round the white-faced little boy who was her greatest treasure and her greatest sorrow.

"Nothing can make it right," said Cranford in even tones.

She lurched forward, but he caught her before she fell and propped her into a big chair at his desk.

"I'm sorry," she muttered.

He watched her for a while in silence, then reached for the telephone, and she shrank back as though he were going to strike her. He called a number. She was faintly familiar with it. Cranford was on speaking terms with the police and knew somebody at almost every station, and she braced herself to hear her doom.

When the call came through, she recognized the man whose name he mentioned as a business associate of his.

"I'm not going down to Devonshire tonight," said Cranford. "Just let me know what happens."

He made no explanations as to his change of plan, because that was not Cranford's way. Slowly he removed his light overcoat, hung this and his hat on their usual peg, and pulled up a chair to the position which she usually occupied when she was taking notes. She was still holding the money in her hand, unconscious of the fact, indeed, her arm was still rigidly held as it was when he had surprised her.

"Well, what is this all about? he asked, and she looked at him wonderingly, and he repeated the question.

"I was stealing your money," she said.

"I guessed that," said Cranford dryly; "but you're not the kind of person who steals money, Mrs. Glynn?"

She shook her head. "No— I'm not," she 'answered helplessly, "but I was stealing. What are you going to do?"

"Why were you taking that money?" demanded Cranford. "That is the first point. I will decide what I am going to do afterwards. By the way, I will relieve you of that."

He took the notes from her unresisting hand and slipped them into his pocket. Then he got up, closed the door of the safe, and locked it.

"Well?" he said.

She told him simply. It was the story of a mother's fight for her delicate boy, told without excuse, without emphasis, and might have moved any man. Apparently it did not move Cranford, and she would have been surprised if it had.

"You were taking money to send your boy into the mountains?"

She nodded.

"Who was the doctor?"

She told him, and he nodded. "Where do you live?" he asked.

"In Clerkenwell," she said, and he rose.

"Get your things on," he said. "We will go to your house in Clerkenwell."

"But—" she began.

"Put on your coat," he said in a voice which allowed no argument.

She obeyed, delaying her return to his room just long enough to wipe the evidence of tears from her face. He was dressed waiting for her, and without a word led the way from the office and the building. No word was spoken on the journey. For the second time that day she had the unusual experience of traveling by taxi-cab, but this time in a different mood.

She mounted the narrow, ill-lighted stairs, and ushered him into a tiny flat. Two bags stood packed in the hall, and in the little living- room the child was being dressed for the journey. At a sign from Doris Mrs. Thomas came to the passage.

"I just want a few minutes," whispered the girl. "Mr. Cranford wishes to see my boy."

She came back to find Cranford and the child solemnly surveying one another.

"That's your boy, eh?"

She nodded. "He doesn't look very ill. He's white, but I wonder how children can be anything but white in London."

Presently his survey ended, and he turned his impassive face to the girl. "I suppose you have your passport and ticket?"

Her lips trembled, and she could only assent with a gesture.

"All right," he said, rising. "You are going by the Havre boat, I presume?"

She assented again.

"Well, I'll meet you at Waterloo at half-past nine," he said. "You had better look for me by the bookstall. Give your trunks to a porter and he will register them for you." She stared at him wildly.

"Mr. Cranford!" she faltered.

"Do as you are told," he said, and was gone before she could gather her scattered thoughts.

He was waiting for them at the station, and had secured a carriage. To her amazement he himself got in with them, also to her embarrassment, because she held third-class tickets, whilst the carriage he had reserved was first-class.

"But you are not going, Mr. Cranford? You have no passport."

"I came up to bring my diplomatic passport to you for you to return," he said. "That is why I called at the office. I have it in my pocket."

She found a bundle of papers, and on arrival at Southampton she was to learn that he had reserved a cabin for her and the boy.

There never was, perhaps, so strange a journey or such queer fellow- passengers as these two who journeyed through France, from Havre to Paris and from Paris to the golden valley of Chamonix, without speaking any more than was necessary to announce that dinner was served or that a change of trains was scheduled. And so they came to Argentière, the girl still in a maze, still without understanding, and it was not until they were lunching at La Planet that he discussed any aspect of their amazing journey.

"I know one of the Alpine guides who lives in this village," he said. "He has an extremely nice home, and his wife is a very kindly sort of person. I have arranged for your little boy to stay with them for a year. He is old enough to enjoy the life and too young really to miss you. He will have excellent food, and there is no reason why you shouldn't come out two or three times a year to see him."

She smiled at him through her tears.

"Why have you done this, Mr. Cranford?" she asked. "Why have you been so— so wonderful to me?"

And then for the first time in her life she saw him smile, and it was a smile of singular sweetness and, too, singular sadness.

"Mrs. Bristow will tell you one of these days," he said shortly, and changed the subject, leaving her more bewildered than ever.

She left the boy without a pang. He waved her so cheery a farewell from the brow of the little hill on which La Planet is built, that it would have been the sheerest selfishness if she had felt grieved at the parting. So far she had been upheld by the tremendous novelty of the situation, by the gratitude which had welled and bubbled up from her heart, gratitude to the man who had saved her boy and had saved her. She was beginning to understand all that her act and her plans had meant. She could look down from the brink of the precipice and see herself, a strange and remote figure engaged in an act which she could neither understand nor sanction in her normal mood.

But most astounding of all the experiences which had been crowded into three days, Ian Cranford was indefinably changed, though still monosyllabic of speech, silent and unsmiling.

So far she had borne herself well, but the reaction came that night on the way back to Paris. They were alone in a first-class compartment. He was dozing in a corner, a traveling rug over his knees, and she was vainly attempting to sleep, lying full length upon a seat. Then she began to cry, softly at first, but, as she lost control, melting into a very passion of tears. Before she knew what had happened he was sitting by her, his arm about her, her head upon his shoulder.

"Poor little mother, poor little mother!" his soft voice came to her ear. "You've stood it splendidly, you brave dear soul!"

She felt his lips brush her cheek, and sank into delicious unconsciousness. She spent the night in his arms, sleeping like a child.

Two days later Doris Glynn was back at her desk in the room which she had not expected to see again, as grave, as imperturbable as ever, yet with a certain softness of voice and manner which was remarked upon. None knew the turmoil of her mind or the film of half-answered questions which flickered through her head.

Why had he done it? Why for her? Why of all the women in the world had he chosen a weakling who saw no way out of her difficulties other than the way of theft?

She could only think with awe of that awakening in the gray light of an autumn dawn with her cheek against his, his strong arm around her, and the low-spoken words of homage and love...

The recollection of it caught her breath, and she stopped with her hand poised over the keyboard. Then the door of Cranford's private office flung open and his bull-voice roared for her. She went meekly, notebook in hand, and the door closed behind her.

"My Gawd!" said one stenographer to another, "I wouldn't have that girl's job for a million a week!"

Inside the office Mr. Cranford had visitors: one, a stately, gray woman who did not deign to notice the girl. Mrs. Bristow was accompanied by her solicitor, and evidently the least pleasant part of the negotiations had been concluded before Doris was called in.

"I think you've been extremely hard," the lady was drawling, "and really your terms are ruinous. After the quarries are gone I shall hardly have £5000 a year to live upon."

She shook her head mournfully.

"People have starved on less," said Cranford, and the old lady's eyebrows rose in resentment at the flippancy.

"You have been very hard, Mr. Cranford," she said. "By the way, are you one of the Cranfords of Cranford Bassett?"

Ian Cranford shook his head.

"And yet the name is familiar to me," said the old woman as she rose. "I have known many Cranfords. There was Stanley Cranford. You remember, Stiles "— she addressed the elderly solicitor—"a perfectly charming boy. And then there was a Mrs. Cranford; who was she? Oh, I remember," she nodded; "a very estimable person. My housekeeper, for some time. What happened to her, Stiles? I seem to remember that there was something disagreeable."

"You prosecuted her for theft," said the solicitor.

"Of course, of course," said Mrs. Bristow complacently. "She had ideas far above her station, poor soul; stole jewelry, did she not, to educate her son, or some such nonsense? Did she go to prison?"

"For six months," said the solicitor.

"So she did, so she did! Good morning, Mr. Cranford."

She held out her hand, but Cranford did not take it.

"You have been harsh with me, very harsh indeed. I hardly know which way to turn, and my poor boy..."

She was still talking to herself when the girl opened the door for her, and they heard her complaining voice growing fainter.

Doris turned to meet Ian Cranford's eye.

"A nice woman," he said grimly; "she believes she is ruined with £5000 a year."

"I think she was trying to be horrid," said the girl.

"Sit down, dear." Cranford's voice was unusually soft. "You've been wondering why such a disagreeable beast of a man—" she put her hand on his to stop him, but he went on: "You wonder why I have been..."

He stopped himself and was at a loss for words. "I always liked you, but I loved you that moment when I came in and found you sobbing as if your poor heart would break with my money in your hand."

"But why?" she asked in amazement.

"For your sacrifice," he said, "because you were doing what another woman did, what Mrs. Bristow's housekeeper did for my sake, that I might go to a good school and start fair in the battle of life."

"For you?" said the girl, staring at him, and he nodded.

"For me," he said simply. "My mother was Mrs. Bristow's housekeeper. She stole to keep me at a decent school, and Mrs. Bristow, though she knew all the circumstances, prosecuted her."

He looked out of the window and licked his dry lips.

"My mother died in prison," he said softly. "She died in prison!"

And then Doris Glynn understood.

________________

7. The King's Brahm

THERE IS a certain type of man, common to both hemispheres, and possibly to all races, though he is more sharply outlined when he is English or American, who thrives on disaster.

You meet him today seedy and unshaven, and slip him the trifling loan he asks; you turn aside tomorrow to avoid him, but beware how you cross the street the next day lest his lacquered limousine strike you into an unconsciousness whence even the fragrance of his considerable cigar shall not recall you.

For weeks, months even, such men occupy suites furnished like the model offices that look so well in catalogues. They have clerks and managers, and their names are painted on glass doors. Elevator boys respect them, and even policemen smile at them as they pass.

Then of a sudden they vanish. New names appear on the office indicator, new staffs occupy their suites; and inquiry as to their whereabouts elicits brusque and negative replies. Months afterwards you meet them unexpectedly in country towns, a little shabby, a little furtive, but immensely enthusiastic about the new patent cinder-sifter that they are selling on commission. Then they seem to vanish out of life, and their acquaintances, when they think of them at all, wonder whether they are in the poorhouse or only in gaol... and we continue in our speculation until one night the flash of a diamond shirt-stud in a box at the Opera betrays their presence in the role of the newest millionaire.

They live in a world of their own; in some mysterious way they carry their own population. Neither the men they meet nor the businesses they operate touch, even remotely, the everyday life of ordinary people.

As a rule they are wistful, relentless men, with a gift for telling circumstantial lies in an easy absent-minded way, which is the only way lies can be told convincingly.

Mr. Benjamin Thannett was such a phenomenon. He was a commercial magician at the wave of whose slim hands mining corporations grew in a night, and substantial boards of directors were created in the wink of an eye. He himself never accepted a directorship. His name was absent from the innumerable prospectuses he had composed, nor did it appear as the holder of any important blocks of shares.

In such companies as he promoted there were only two classes, and only one that mattered. These were the shareholders and the moneyholders. He seldom held shares. He appeared usually as the "vendor" of the property to be incorporated. He invariably had a property to sell—even in his day of dire necessity he could produce an oil field from his pocket-book with the surprising celerity of the conjurer who extracts a rabbit from a top-hat.

Sometimes, so alluring were these properties that the mere announcement of their possession filled the letter-box of his office with the appeals of would-be sharers of fortune. Thereafter came a period of prosperity which invited the envy of the honest poor. A period of luncheon parties, at which the principal stockholders of the new company received their first and only dividend in the shape of a full meal and faultless cigars.

Mr. Thannett's path through life was littered with the crippled remains of little optimists who had reached greedily towards him for easy wealth and had been shrivelled at a touch.

There were probably widows amongst the debris; very likely there were orphans too, though this is doubtful, for the widow and the orphan with money have trustees and guardians to protect them. More pathetic were the fat and comfortable little men of business whose accumulations had vanished into the magician's pocket. There was a suicide or two, but such things are inevitable.

Mr. Thannett grew prosperous after many vicissitudes which involved occasional disappearance from the haunts of men, and he might have reached the summit of his ambition (there was an unreachable woman upon it) but for the fact that in the course of a certain operation he came into conflict with the imponderable factor of tradition.

In the year 1920 Mr. Thannett, returning from a tour of Europe, the possessor of five square miles of forest land whereon was sited an oil well of dubious value, was seized of a brilliant idea. From this, and the five square miles of Bulgarian territory, purchased from a drunken farmer for a song, grew "The Balkan Oil and Timber Corporation." The originator of this great idea had a confederate whom he described variously as "my partner" and "our General Manager," one Steelson, a man as stout in build as himself but less presentable— for Thannett prided himself upon his gentlemanly appearance.

On the day after his return to Paris, which for the time being was his headquarters, he sat with Mr. Steelson in his room at the Grand Hotel, a large scale map of Northern Bulgaria spread on the bed, and outlined the possibilities of the new venture.

Steelson's puckered face creased discouragingly.

"You can't do much with eight square kilometres, Ben," he said, shaking his head, "not in Europe anyway. Why not go to New York? It'll look bigger from there."

Ben Thannett pulled at his cigar thoughtfully. He was a tall, full- blooded man with faded eyes and a moustache of startling blackness.

"I think not," he said carefully. "There are a whole lot of reasons why I don't want to go to America just now."

Mr. Steelson wrinkled his nose. "They've forgot that Cobalt Silver proposition of yours by now," he said contemptuously. "A sucker is born every minute, but one dies every thirty seconds."

"Maybe they do, but there are enough left alive to tell the tale," said the other decisively. "No, it's London or nothing. They don't feel very bad about Bulgaria in England, and besides, nobody knows anything about the country. I met a man on the Orient Express— he was English— who raved about Bulgaria; said it was the finest country in Europe, full of minerals and timber and oil. That got me thinking. At Milan I got into conversation with two or three other men who were coming through and passed on all this oil and mineral talk. They lapped it up, Steel— like puppies round a dripper of cream. It appears that Bulgaria is one of the nine promised lands— like Mesopotamia used to be and Central Africa, until they found 'em out."

"Five square miles," murmured Steelson, shaking his head. "Now if it was five hundred...!"

Benjamin had taken off his coat for greater comfort and was pacing the floor, stopping now and again to survey the roofs and chimneys of Paris. He stopped and started to smile.

"There's a million hectares of land to be got," he said deliberately; "a million good hectares, worth twenty leva a hectare before the war—"

"What's a leva?" asked the other. "I don't know these Balkan monies."

"A lev is a franc, roughly," explained Benjamin patiently.

"Twenty million francs! Where are we going to get twenty million francs?" demanded Mr. Steelson disgustedly.

"There may be oil on it: a lot of people think there is," Benjamin went on, sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands in his trousers pockets. "You can't buy land in that part of the country just now under two pounds sterling a hectare."

"Then what in hell are you talking about?" asked the exasperated Steelson. "We've got under eighty thousand francs at the Foncier."

Mr. Benjamin Thannett resumed his pacing. "I have no sympathy with Germans," he said, with seeming inconsequence; "it will be one regret of my life, Steelson, that I was detained in the Argentine by that Cattle Syndicate of mine during the war. I'd have given anything to have been in the Hindenburg line, or in the Argonne, Steelson—"

"Oh, shut up," snarled his partner. "What's Germany got to do with it?"

"And I'm a democrat at heart, Steelson— you know that? I hate these hereditary institutions. They're tyrannies, Steel. They crush the masses into— into pulp, and batten— that's the word— batten on the likes of me and you. Do you agree?"

But Mr. Steelson was speechless. He could only stare, and Benjamin, who had drama in his system, beamed delightedly at the sensation he had created. Now he produced his climax. Unlocking the bag that had accompanied him on his travels, he opened it, and after a search, brought out a small red box, not unlike a jewelcase. Inside, reposing on a plush bed, was a big irregular chunk of amber.

The fascinated Mr. Steelson rose and examined the trophy. "Amber," he said wonderingly. "What is that inside?"

"That," replied Benjamin, in his most impressive tone, "is a small butterfly. It's rare. There are only about ten pieces of amber in the world that contain a butterfly; it cost me five thousand francs, Steel."

And then Steelson exploded, speaking, it would seem, in his capacity as partner rather than General Manager.

"...we'll be down to our last cent at the end of this week," he said violently, "and you fool away money..."

Benjamin allowed his friend to exhaust himself before he explained.

"You're a fool, and you always have been a fool," he said calmly. "Finding that was the biggest luck I have had in years. I saw it by accident in Milan as I was strolling through the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele. It came from heaven, that bit of amber, when I was puzzling my brains sick as to how I could get an introduction to King Gustavus..."

"All right," said Steelson helplessly, "let's all go mad together."

The light faded in the sky, and the streets of Paris were aglitter with light before Mr. Benjamin Thannett had concluded the narrative of his scheme. When they went down to dinner together, The Balkan Oil & Timber Corporation was born.

THE CHIEF ASSET of the Company, in happy ignorance of the part for which he had been cast, was at that moment listening to an excellent municipal orchestra some seven hundred miles from Paris.

The good people of Interlaken, who gathered on warm evenings to drink beer or sip at sugary ices in the big open Kursaal, knew the gray man very well, for, unlike his fellows in misfortune, he was a permanent resident. Guides, escorting gaping tourists, lowered their voices and with a sidelong jerk of their head indicated the thin figure which sat near the orchestra and eked out one china mug of beer so that it lasted the whole evening. He was always shabbily dressed, generally in a faded gray suit that was worn at the elbows. His wrist-bands were frayed, his collar was usually in the same condition. Generally he came alone, but occasionally a pretty girl came with him, a delightful lady who upset all local traditions by the invariable luxury of her dress. For her very expensiveness confounded that section of public opinion which would have it that King Gustavus XXV of Hardenberg was reduced to starvation, that he slept miserably in the cheapest room at the Victoria, and that only by the charity of the proprietor.

The other section having taken the trouble to make inquiries, refuted this statement.

His Majesty had a suite of ten rooms: his bill was paid with punctilious regularity, and there was no need to explain away either the extensive wardrobe of the Princess Stephanie, his daughter, or the poverty of his own attire. It was notorious that in the palmiest days of his prosperity the king had amongst others, a weakness for old clothing, nor was his air of abstraction and melancholy peculiar to his present situation.

"No doubt the poor man is thinking of his magnificent castles and palaces," said the burgess of Interlaken pityingly. "Such is the penalty of defeat and revolution."

But Gustavus, sitting with his chin in the palm of his thin hand, his gloomy eyes staring into vacancy, regretted nothing except the loss of his wonderful collection of butterflies.

The king's passion for collecting was commonly paragraphed through the press of Europe; the folks of Interlaken should at heart have known as much as Mr. Benjamin Thannett discovered when he began to read up the character and history of the owner of the Hardenberg Concession.

Kingship of a small German state had meant little to Gustavus. It had been something of an embarrassment. Chief of the advantages was that, as the head of the state, he was not amenable to certain rigid conventions, and might dispense with the interminable business of wearing stiff uniforms. Only on state occasions, at great Potsdam reviews, or council meetings, did he groaningly dress himself in the skin-tight. uniform of the Hardenberg Fusiliers of theGuard (of which he was Colonel), and for the rest of the time, wearing an old knickerbocker suit, with a butterfly net in his hand and a specimen-box slung at his side, he prowled the Steinhart Forest in search of notable additions to his museum.

More kingly in the power he wielded was the tall, stout man who sat, a month or so after the Paris meeting, at the king's little table, smoking a cigar of great size and quality. The habitués of the Kursaal, who were growing accustomed to the stranger, decided that he must be an ex- minister of the deposed monarch, and probably one of the highest birth, for his manner was free and his laughter at times loud and unrestrained. And every time he laughed, the king winced a little, and his hand went nervously to his white moustache with an embarrassed gesture.

Mr. Benjamin Thannett was neither well born nor well mannered. He was very sensitive to his own conceptions of humor, and his laughter meant no more than that he said something or thought something which was amusing to himself.

"I don't know why I take so much trouble," he said, with a gesture of indifference; "your forest land is not really worth a great deal to me; none of these Bulgarian concessions can be worked for years. Why, there isn't a railway for two hundred kilometres, and you can buy land at a lev a hectare, and leva work out at two hundred to a dollar!"

The king shifted uncomfortably.

"Yes, yes," he said nervously. "I am greatly obliged to you, Mr. Thannett, for taking so much trouble."

"It is a pleasure," said Benjamin, with truth. He had ceased saying "your Majesty" three weeks before, and had now dispensed with the "sir."

The measure of this gentle exile had been taken. Mr. Thannett's personality was dominant, and instinct told him that he was near to an achievement.

"I've bought a lot of land lately," he went on, flicking the ash of his cigar upon the polished floor. "I acquired a tract in the Ukraine the other day for a million. I don't suppose I shall ever see the money again," he added carelessly. "At the same time I don't want you to be a loser. Given the time, I can get big money for your land. That is why it interests me. Money to people like me means nothing. It is the thrill of the battle: pitting my genius against my business rivals— that is the thing that keeps me going."

"Naturally, naturally," said the king hastily, in terror of hurting the feelings of his guest. "I appreciate all you have done, Mr. Thannett, In fact, I am delighted that I have had the opportunity of meeting you— I am rather conscious-stricken about having taken your beautiful gift. By the way, I have verified the genus of that insect— it is the Lycena Icirus."

"That was nothing," said Mr. Benjamin Thannett airily. "Absolutely nothing. I heard of your interest in Lepidoptera, and as I happened to have an amber in my collection, I thought, as a fellow-collector, it would be an act of courtesy to pass it on to you."

The king murmured his thanks.

"Now what I should suggest," said Mr. Benjamin Thannett, suddenly the practical business man, "is for you to sell your land at a nominal figure to the company I have formed for the purpose. We would market that property in England, and I feel that we should get a better price if your name was not associated with the sale. You quite understand there is still a great deal of prejudice in Europe against Germany."

The old man nodded.

"That is quite understandable," he said, and then with a note of anxiety, "Would not your method mean a protracted negotiation? Of course there is no need to hurry, but— I have been considering the sale of this land for some time. It was given to my grandfather by his cousin, the Emperor of Austria, and although it has not been a profitable possession, the land has always been highly spoken of. I'm sure you realize, Mr. Thannett," he went on, with some evidence of reluctance, "that my position here in Switzerland is a very anxious one. I left my country at short notice, and my funds are not inexhaustible."

Benjamin nodded slowly.

"I can promise you," he said impressively, "that the sale will be completed within a few weeks. I will credit your estate with half a million sterling, and that amount, less a trifling fee for conveyance, will be in your hands within a month."

The king studied the interior of his beer mug, as though it contained a solution to all his problems.

"Very good, Mr. Thannett," he said; "I will arrange the transfer to your company tomorrow. May I ask you," he said, as they descended the broad stairs leading into the garden, "not to mention this to Her Serene Highness? She has—" he hesitated, "other views."

He was too polite to tell Mr. Benjamin Thannett that Her Serene Highness disliked the company promoter instinctively; indeed, it was unnecessary, for Benjamin was sensitive to atmosphere.

As they walked along the dark avenue, a man came from the shadows of the trees and fell in behind them. Thannett looked round quickly.

"It is my Stirrup Man," said the king. "He always accompanies me; you must have noticed him before, Mr. Thannett."

Thannett breathed a sigh of relief.

"No, I haven't noticed him before," he said, more respectfully. "Why do you call him a stirrup man, sir?"

The king laughed softly.

"In Hardenberg they call him the King's Brahm. The Brahms have been in the service of our family, as personal attendants, for eight hundred years, Mr. Thannett, and one of the family has always stood at the king's stirrup for all those years. They have followed them into exile,'for I am not the first of my race to be driven from Hardenberg, and they have stood with them in their prosperity. This is John Brahm, the eldest of six brothers, and he has a son who will serve my daughter and my daughter's son when I am gone. They are the common people in Hardenberg who have a coat-of-arms and a motto— 'To do all things, to risk all things, and suffer all things for the King's Comfort.'"

"Very interesting," said Mr. Thannett.

He accompanied the king to the hotel and took his leave in the lobby.

A girl who was sitting curled up in a chair reading a French magazine rose as the king entered, and dropped a little curtsey.

"Your millionaire kept you late tonight, father," she said, with a smile.

"You don't like my millionaire," said the king grimly. "My dear, we cannot afford to have likes or dislikes. He is an extremely useful man."

She came and put her arm round his shoulder and gently shook him.

"He gave you a beautiful butterfly in a beautiful piece of amber," she said, with gentle mockery, "and he probably bought it out of a curiosity shop in order to get an introduction to you."

"My dear, it came from his private collection," he said, a little testily. "Why are you so prejudiced, Stephanie? I suppose because he is an Englishman?"

"Is he?" she asked carelessly. "No, it would make no difference to me if he were a Turk, and Heaven knows I dislike the Turks intensely. But I feel that he is an adventurer."

"You mustn't say these things," said her father seriously. "I tell you he is a very useful man. We need money very badly, dear; besides—"

"Does John Brahm like him?" asked the girl quietly.

The king looked at the stolid figure standing stiffly in the doorway. John Brahm was a tall man of tawny complexion and dull yellow hair. He wore the gaily embroidered waistcoat, the spotless linen shirt open at the neck, and the knee-breeches and heavy shoes which formed the peasant garb of Hardenberg.

"Well, John Brahm," asked the king, a little impatiently, "you saw the excellency who was with me tonight. Is he a good man or a bad man?"

"Majesty, he is a bad man," said John Brahm.

"You're a fool, John Brahm," said the old man, but the girl's eyes were dancing with laughter.

"Listen to the words of the king's Brahm," she said. "Really, father, aren't you just a little too trusting?"

King Gustavus frowned, and then a twinkle came into his eyes also.

"In a month you will be very sorry that you have maligned my poor friend," he said, and the girl suddenly became serious.

"In a month?" she repeated. "Why, what is going to happen, father?"

But he would not satisfy her curiosity, and went off to his room with his stolid retainer walking in his rear.

The Princess Stephanie stayed up very late that night. She was uneasy to a point of panic. Her father had never discussed business affairs with her, but she had some idea of the state of his finances.

Her dislike of Benjamin Thannett was instinctive. It was not his vulgarity, his blatant assertiveness, or the apparent meanness of his birth which made her curl up in his presence— it was not that queer sixth sense which warns women of personal peril; his presence brought a vague unease and feeling of resentment which she could not analyze. He had come to dinner soon after his presentation of the introductory butterfly, and she had felt repelled, sickened, almost frightened by him. He seemed to embody a terror to her future and the future of her house.

She rose early in the morning after a restless night, and, going to the telegraph office, dispatched a wire to a lawyer in Geneva who had acted for her father. He arrived at Interlaken in time for dinner, a meal which King Gustavus did not grace by his presence.

"I am sorry my father is out," said the troubled girl. "He went to the Kursaal soon after five and told me not to wait dinner for him."

The old lawyer laughed.

"You're not worried about His Majesty," he said. "I presume he is accompanied by that gigantic guard of his."

"John Brahm," she smiled. "Oh yes, John will be with him. No, I'm not worried about father's bodily comfort," and she proceeded to relate something of her fears.

"Thannett," repeated the lawyer thoughtfully. "I seem to know that name; yes, of course; he is the company promoter. We had some trouble with him in Geneva three years ago. He bought a clock factory for promotion purposes. I don't think the factory proprietors ever received their money. We had several inquiries about him. Yes, yes, I remember now very well indeed. The man is a swindler, but one of those swindlers who keep on the right side of the law. I had no idea he was in Switzerland. But His Majesty has nothing to sell?"

The girl had gone suddenly white. "We have land in Bulgaria," she said slowly. "I never thought of that! It is the only property we have. We left Hardenberg with a few thousand marks, and His Majesty had some property in Switzerland which he sold after we arrived. Oh, Doctor Vallois, if we have lost the Hardenberg Concession, we are ruined!"

And then King Gustavus arrived, unusually cheerful, a smile on his gray face, and a certain jauntiness in his air, which made the girl's heart sink still further. Without any preliminary she demanded:

"Have you sold the Hardenberg land, father?"

He looked astonished.

"Yes, my dear," he said, with a little chuckle. "I have been worrying about the value, and I am happy to tell you that I have received a magnificent price. Hello, Doctor?"

He greeted the lawyer almost jovially.

"What brings you to Interlaken?"

"I sent for the doctor," said the girl quietly. "I had a feeling that something like this would happen. Father, did Mr. Thannett pay you much money?"

"To be exact, he paid me a thousand francs," said the king humorously.

"A thousand francs!" she said, horrified. "Surely you are joking?"

"No, I'm teasing you," said the king. "I certainly received only a thousand francs, but that was the nominal sum we agreed upon."

He explained the situation more fully, and the lawyer listened open- mouthed.

"But surely your Majesty has not sold this property? You retain some lien on it?"

"I have shares in the company," said the king impatiently, "shares which I think will most probably produce more than I anticipate."

There was a dead silence.

"Have you a copy of your agreement or contract?" asked the lawyer.

The king passed the paper across the table, and watched the lawyer a little uneasily as he read line by line and clause by clause. Presently he finished.

"You have no claim whatever upon Mr. Thannett nor upon his company," he said. "He has the power without consultation of so increasing the capital that your shares will be valueless. It is an old trick of his."

"Do you mean—" cried the old man, half starting up.

"I mean that your Majesty has been swindled," said the lawyer, "and this paper is not worth the stamps that are on it. Thannett undertakes to do nothing except to sell the property to the best advantage. To whose advantage it will be I can guess."

"I will notify the police," gasped the king.

The lawyer shook his head. "This document is legal. The man has acted legally. He is within the law, and your Majesty cannot touch him," he said. "The agreement has been drawn up by one who is skilful in such matters, as I can testify."

"You mean I shall get nothing more than the thousand francs I have received?" asked the old man huskily.

"I mean," said the lawyer, "that the document to which you have signed your name, and which is in Mr. Thannett's possession, deprives you of every right you have to your Bulgarian property, without conferring any advantage or rights whatever upon yourself."

The girl looked from her father to the lawyer, and then her eyes strayed to the tall, broad figure of the king's Brahm standing stiffly behind his master's chair. She rose.

"John Brahm," she commanded, "you will attend me."

She turned and walked from the dining-room, and John Brahm followed heavily.

MR. BENJAMIN Thannett had left Interlaken by the evening train. He stopped at Spiez to snatch a hasty meal, then boarded the electric train that connects with the Oberland railway. He came to Montreux at eleven o'clock that night, and Mr. Steelson greeted him on the platform.

"You're late," said Mr. Steelson fretfully. "Did you get it?"

"Did I get it?" repeated the other scornfully. "Of course I got it. These damn Swiss railway officials kept the train back an hour at Zweisimmen to pick up an aeroplane passenger who had lost the train at Spiez. I'd like to have the reorganization of these railways, Steel."

"I dare say you would," said the unimpressed Steelson. "Come over and have a bite; there's time before the Simplon comes in. She's late too."

They went down the stairs to the Suisse Hotel, and over their coffee Mr. Thannett told his story.

"There ought to be a society for the protection of kings," he said humorously. "It was the easiest thing. Do you think he'll kick? That daughter of his won't take it without a fight."

"What can she do?" asked the other, examining the contract with an expert's eye. "We can sell in Paris on this. There are three men on the Bourse who'll take this contract, and make as much out of it as we shall. Bulgarian land is booming just now."

"It makes you think, Steel," ruminated Mr. Thannett. "Here's a fellow who was a king, had all the power that a man could have. A real king, Steel! And here am I— a nothing, so to speak, and I bested him— it was like taking money away from a child. And I've got the law behind me." He laughed till he shook at the thought. "It's a wonderful thing, the law," he added piously.

"Give you three brandies, and you'll preach a sermon," said the practical Mr. Steelson. "No, you needn't worry about this contract; it meets ninety-nine contingencies out of a hundred and I can't think what the hundredth could be. Come along if you want to catch that train."

They boarded the northern express, and took their places in the two sleeping-compartments which Steelson had reserved.

"It's brains that win," was Benjamin's last remark as he turned into his cabin.

"I dare say," said the other. "Good-night."

Mr. Benjamin Thannett stretched himself luxuriously upon the bed. He did not want to undress until the frontier station had passed, and the Custom House officials had made their inspection; but the gentle jogging of the train made him doze. He woke suddenly; a man was in his compartment; he must have come in and closed the door behind him. Benjamin had a momentary glimpse of a tall, uncouth figure in ready-made clothes which did not ouite fit, and then the lamp was switched out.

"What are you—" he began, but a hand, large and heavy, closed on his throat.

When the Custom House officials came to search the carriage, they found it in darkness. Switching on a light, they saw a man lying on his side. Mr. Benjamin Thannett was quite dead when they found him, for his neck had been broken, and Steelson, searching the clothes in frantic haste, failed to discover the contract over which they had gloated an hour before. That was in the pocket of John Brahm's coat. John Brahm at that moment was tramping back to the Swiss frontier station.

Mr. Benjamin Thannett had provided for all contingencies except the tradition of the House of Brahm, which was to do all things, and risk all things, and suffer all things for the king's comfort.

___________________

8. The Greek Poropulos

The Weekly Tale-Teller, November 19, 1910

AT CAROLINA, in the Transvaal, was a store kept by a man named Lioski, who was a Polish Jew. There was an officers' clubhouse, the steward of which was a Greek sportsman named Poropulos, and this story is about these two men, and about an officer of Hampton's Scouts who took too much wine and saw a pair of boots.

I have an intense admiration for George Poropulos, and I revere his memory. I admire him for his nerve; though, for the matter of that, his nerve was no greater than mine.

Long before the Boer war came, when the negotiations between Great Britain and the Transvaal Government were in the diplomatic stage, I drifted to Carolina from the Rand, leaving behind me in the golden city much of ambition, hope, and all the money I had brought with me from England. I came to South Africa with a young wife and £370— within a few shillings— because the doctors told me the only chance I had was in such a hot, dry climate as the highlands of Africa afforded. For my own part, there was a greater attraction in the possibility of turning those few hundreds of mine into thousands, for Johannesburg was in the delirium of a boom.

I left Johannesburg nearly penniless. I could not, at the moment, explain the reason of my failure, for the boom continued, and I had the advantage of the expert advice of Arthur Lioski, who was staying at the same boarding house as myself.

There were malicious people who warned me against Lioski. His own compatriots, sharp men of business, told me to 'ware Lioski, but I ignored the advice because I was very confident in my own judgment, and Lioski was a plausible, handsome man, a little flashy in appearance, but decidedly a beautiful animal.

He was in Johannesburg on a holiday, he said. He had stores in various parts of the country where he sold everything from broomsticks to farm wagons, and he bore the evidence of his prosperity.

He took us to the theater, or rather he took Lillian, for I was too seedy to go out much. I did not grudge Lillian the pleasure. Life was very dull for a young girl whose middle-aged husband had a spot on his lung, and Lioski was so kind and gentlemanly, so far as Lil was concerned, that the only feeling I had in the matter was one of gratitude.

He was tall and dark, broad-shouldered, with a set to his figure and a swing of carriage that excited my admiration. He was possessed of enormous physical strength, and I have seen him take two quarreling Kaffirs—men of no ordinary muscularity—and knock their heads together.

He had an easy, ready laugh, a fund of stories, some a little coarse, I thought, and a florid gallantry which must have been attractive to women. Lil always brightened up wonderfully after an evening with him.

His knowledge of mines and mining propositions was bewildering. I left all my investments in his hands, and it proves something of my trust in him, that when, day by day, he came to me for money, to "carry over" stock—whatever that means—I paid without hesitation. Not only did I lose every penny I possessed, but I found myself in debt to him to the extent of a hundred pounds.

Poor Lil! I broke the news to her of my ruin, and she took it badly; reproached, stormed, and wept in turn, but quieted down when I told her that in the kindness of his heart, Lioski had offered me a berth at his Carolina store. I was to get a £16 a month, half of which was to be paid in stores at wholesale prices and the other half in cash. I was to live rent free in a little house near the store. I was delighted with the offer. It was an immediate rise, though I foresaw that the conditions of life would be much harder than the life to which I had been accustomed in England. We traveled down the Delagoa line to Middleburg, and found a Cape cart waiting to carry us across the twenty miles of rolling veldt. The first six months in Carolina were the happiest I have ever spent. The work in the store was not particularly arduous. I found that it had the reputation of being one of the best-equipped stores in the Eastern Transvaal, and certainly we did a huge business for so small a place. It was not on the town we depended, but upon the surrounding country. Lioski did not come back with us, but after we had been installed for a week he came and took his residence in the store.

All went well for six months. He taught Lil to ride and drive, and every morning they went cantering over the veldt together. Me he treated more like a brother than an employee, and I found myself hotly resenting the uncharitable things that were said about him, for Carolina, like other small African towns, was a hotbed of gossip.

Lil was happy for that six months, and then I began to detect a change in her attitude toward me. She was snappy, easily offended, insisted upon having her own room—to which I agreed, for, although my chest was better, I still had an annoying cough at night which might have been a trial to anybody within hearing.

It was about this time that I met Poropulos. He came into the store on a hot day in January, a little man of forty-five or thereabouts. He was unusually pale, and had a straggling, weedy beard. His hair was long, his clothes were old and stained, and so much of his shirt as was revealed at his throat was sadly in need of laundering.

Yet he was cheerful and debonair—and singularly flippant. He stalked in the store, looked around critically, nodded to me, and smiled. Then he brought his sjambok down on the counter with a smack.

"Where's Shylock?" he asked easily.

I am afraid that I was irritated.

"Do you mean Mr. Lioski?"

"Shylock, I said," he repeated. "Shylockstein, the Lothario of Carolina." He smacked the counter again, still smiling.

I was saved the trouble of replying, for at that moment Lioski entered. He stopped dead and frowned when he saw the Greek.

"What do you want, you little beast," he asked harshly.

For answer, the man leaned up against the counter, ran his fingers through his straggling beard, and cocked his head.

"I want justice," he said unctuously—"the restoration of money stolen. I want to send a wreath to your funeral: I want to write your biography—?"

"Clear out," shouted Lioski. His face was purple with anger, and he brought his huge fist down upon the counter with a crash that shook the wooden building.

He might have been uttering the most pleasant of compliments, for all the notice the Greek took.

Crash! went Lioski's fist on the counter.

Smash! came Poropulos's sjambok, and there was something mocking and derisive in his action that made Lioski mad.

With one spring he was over the counter, a stride and he had his hand on the Greek's collar—and then he stepped back quickly with every drop of blood gone from his face, for the Greek's knife had flashed under his eyes. I thought Lioski was stabbed, but it was fear that made him white.

The Greek rested the point of the knife on the counter and twiddled it round absentmindedly, laying his palm on the hilt and spinning it with great rapidity.

"Nearly did it that time, my friend," he said, with a note of regret, "nearly did it that time—I shall be hanged for you yet."

Lioski was white and shaking.

"Come in here," he said in a low voice, and the little Greek followed him to the back parlor. They were together for about an hour; sometimes I could hear Mr. Lioski's voice raised angrily, sometimes Poropulos's little laugh. When they came out again the Greek was smiling still and smoking one of my employer's cigars.

"My last word to you," said Lioski huskily, "is this—keep your mouth closed and keep away from me."

"And my last word to you," said Poropulos, jauntily puffing at the cigar, "is this—turn honest, and enjoy a sensation."

He stepped forth from the store with the air of one who had gained a moral victory.

I never discovered what hold the Greek had over my master. I gatherered that at some time or another, Poropulos had lost money, and that he held Lioski responsible.

In some mysterious way Poropulos and I became friends. He was an adventurer of a type. He bought and sold indifferent mining propositions, took up contracts, and, I believe, was not above engaging in the Illicit Gold Buying business. His attitude to Lillian was one of complete adoration. When he was with her his eyes never left her face.

It was about this time that my great sorrow came to me. Lioski went away to Durban—to buy stock, he said—and a few days afterwards Lillian, who had become more and more exigent, demanded to be allowed to go to Cape Town for a change.

I shall remember that scene.

I was at breakfast in the store when she came in. She was white, I thought, but her pallor suited her, with her beautiful black hair and great dark eyes.

She came to the point without any preliminary. "I want to go away," she said.

I looked up in surprise.

"Go away, dear? Where?"

She was nervous. I could see that from the restless movement of her hands.

"I want to go to—to Cape Town—I know a girl there —I'm sick of this place—I hate it!"

She stamped her foot, and I thought that she was going to break into a fit of weeping. Her lips trembled, and for a time she could not control her voice.

"I am going to be ill if you don't let me go," she said at last. "I can feel—?"

"But the money, dear," I said, for it was distressing to me that I could not help her toward the holiday she wanted.

"I can find the money," she said, in an unsteady voice. "I have got a few pounds saved—the allowance you gave me for my clothes—I didn't spend it all—let me go, Charles—please, please!"

I drove her to the station, and took her ticket for Pretoria. I would have taken her to the capital, but I had the store to attend to.

"By the way, what will your address be?" I asked just as the train was moving off.

She was leaning over the gate of the car platform, looking at me strangely.

"I will wire it—I have it in my bag," she called out, and I watched the tail of the train round the curve, with an aching heart. There was something wrong; what it was I could not understand. Perhaps I was a fool. I think I was.

I think I have said that I had made friends with Poropulos. Perhaps it would be more truthful to say that he made friends with me, for he had to break down my feeling of distrust and disapproval. Then, again, I was not certain how Mr. Lioski would regard such a friendship, but, to my surprise, he took very little notice of it or, for the matter of that, of me.

Poropulos came into the store the night my wife left. Business was slack; there was war in the air, rumors of ultimatums had been persistent, and the Dutch farmers had avoided the store.

A week passed, and I began to worry, for I had not heard from Lil. I had had a letter from Lioski, telling me that in view of the unsettled condition of the country he was extending his stay in Durban for a fortnight. The letter gave me the fullest instructions as to what I was to do in case war broke out, but, unfortunately, I had no opportunity of putting them into practice.

The very day I received the letter, a Boer commando rode into Carolina, and at the head of it rode the Landrost Peter du Huis, a pleasant man, whom I knew slightly. He came straight to the store, dismounted, and entered.

"Good morning, Mr. Gray," he said. "I fear that I come on unpleasant business."

"What is that?" I asked.

"I have come to commandeer your stock in the name of the Republic," he said, "and to give you the tip to clear out."

It does not sound possible, but it is nevertheless a fact that in two hours I had left Carolina, leaving Lioski's store in the hands of the Boers, and bringing with me receipts signed by the Landrost for the goods he had commandeered. In four hours I was in a cattle truck with a dozen other refugees on my way to Pretoria—for I had elected to go to Durban to inform Lioski at first hand of what had happened.

Of the journey down to the coast it is not necessary to speak. We were sixty hours en route; we were without food, and had little to drink. At Ladysmith I managed to get a loaf of bread and some milk; at Maritzburg I got my first decent meal. But I arrived in Durban, tired, dispirited, and hungry. Lioski was staying at the Royal, and as soon as I got to the station I hailed aricksha to take me there.

There had been no chance of telegraphing. The wires were blocked with government messages. We had passed laden troop trains moving up to the frontier, and had cheered the quiet men in khaki who were going, all of them, to years of hardship and privation, many of them to death.

The vestibule of the Royal was crowded, but I made my way to the office.

"Lioski?" said the clerk. "Mr. and Mrs. Lioski, No. 84— you'll find your way to their sitting room."

I went slowly up the stairs, realizing in a flash the calamity.

I did not blame Lil; it was a hard life I had brought her to. I had been selfish, as sick men are selfish, inconsiderate.

They stood speechless, as I opened the door and entered. I closed the door behind me. Still they stood, Lil as pale as death, with terror and shame in her eyes, Lioski in a black rage.

"Well?" It was he who broke the silence.

He was defiant, shameless, and as I went on to talk about what had happened at the store, making no reference to what I had seen, his lips curled contemptuously.

But Lil, womanlike, rushed in with explanations. She had meant to go to Cape Town— the train service had been bad— she had decided to go to Durban— Mr. Lioski had been kind enough to book her a room——

I let her go on. When she had finished I handed my receipts to Lioski.

"That ends our acquaintance, I think."

"As you like," he replied with a shrug.

I turned to Lillian.

"Come, my dear," I said, but she made no move, and I saw Lioski smile again.

I lost all control over myself and leaped at him, but his big fist caught me before I could reach him, and I went down, half stunned. I was no match for him. I knew that, and if the blow did nothing else, it sobered me. I picked myself up. I was sick with misery and hate.

"Come, Lil," I said again.

She was looking at me, and I thought I saw a look of disgust in her face. I did not realize that I was bleeding, and that I must have been a most unpleasant figure. I only knew that she loathed me at that moment, and I turned on my heel and left them, my own wife and the big man who had broken me.

One forgets things in war time. I joined the Imperial Light Horse and went to the front. The doctor passed me as sound, so I suppose that all that is claimed for the climate of Africa is true.

We went into Ladysmith, and I survived the siege. I was promoted for bringing an officer out of action under fire. I earned a reputation for daring, which I did not deserve, because always I was courting swift death, and taking risks to that end.

Before Buller's force had pushed a way through the stubborn lines to our relief, I had received my commission. More wonderful to me, I found myself a perfectly healthy man, as hard as nails, as callous as the most- experienced soldier. Only, somewhere down in my heart, a little worm gnawed all the time; sleeping or waking, fighting or resting, I thought of Lillian, and wondered, wondered, wondered.

Ladysmith was relieved. We marched on toward Pretoria. I was transferred to Hampton's Horse with the rank of major, and for eighteen months I moved up and down the Eastern Transvaal chasing a will-othe-wisp of a commandant, who was embarrassing the blockhouse lines.

Then one day I came upon Poropulos.

We were encamped outside Standerton when he rode in on a sorry- looking Burnto pony. He had been in the country during the war, he said, buying and selling horses. He did not mention Lioski's name to me, and so studiously did he avoid referring to the man, that I saw at once that he knew.

It was brought home to me by his manner that he had a liking for me that I had never guessed. In what way I had earned his regard I cannot say, but it was evident he entertained a real affection for me.

We parted after an hour's chat— he was going back to Carolina. He had a scheme for opening an officers' club in that town, where there was always a large garrison, and to which the wandering columns came from time to time to be re-equipped.

As for me, I continued the weary chase of the flying commando. Trek, trek, trek, in fierce heat, in torrential downpour, over smooth veldt and broken hills, skirmishing, sniping, and now and then a sharp engagement, with a dozen casualties on either side.

Four months passed, and the column was ordered into Carolina for a refit. I went without qualms, though I knew she was there, and Lioski was there.

We got into Carolina in a thunderstorm, and the men were glad to reach a place that bore some semblance of civilization. My brother officers, after our long and profitless trek, were overjoyed at the prospect of a decent dinner— for Poropulos's club was already famous among the columns.

My horse picked up a stone and went dead lame, so I stayed behind to doctor him, and rode to Carolina two hours after the rest of the column had arrived.

It was raining heavily as I came over a fold of the hill that showed the straggling township. There was no human being in sight save a woman who stood by the roadside, waiting, and I knew instinctively, long before I reached her, that it was Lillian. I cantered toward her. Her face was turned in my direction, and she stood motionless as I drew rein and swung myself to the ground.

She was changed, not as I expected, for sorrow and suffering had etherealized her. Her big eyes burned in a face that was paler than ever, her lips, once so red and full, were almost white.

"I have been waiting for you," she said.

"Have you, dear? You are wet."

She shook her head impatiently. I slipped off my mackintosh and put it about her.

"He has turned me out," she said.

She did not cry. I think she had not recovered from the shock. Something stirred from the thin cloak she was wearing; a feeble cry was muffled by the wrapping.

"I have got a little girl," she said, "but she is dying." She began to cry silently, the tears running down her wet face in streams.

I took her into Carolina, and found a Dutchwoman who put her and the baby to bed, and gave her some coffee.

I went up to the officers' club just after sunset and met Poropulos coming down.

He was in a terrible rage, and was muttering to himself in some tongue I could not understand.

"Oh, here you are!"— he almost spat the words in his anger— "that dog Lioski—?"

He was about to say something, but checked himself. I think it was about Lillian that he intended to speak at first, but he changed the subject to another grievance. "I was brought before the magistrate and fined £100 for selling field-force tobacco. My club will be ruined— Lioski informed the police— by— ?"

He was incoherent in his passion. I gather that he had been engaged in some shady business, and that Lioski had detected him. He almost danced before me in the rain.

"Shylock dies tonight," he said, and waved his enemy out of the world with one sweep of his hand. "He dies tonight— I am weary of him— for eighteen— nineteen years I have known him, and he's dirt right through—!"

He went out without another word. I stood on the slope of the hill watching him.

I dined at the club, and went straight back to the house where I had left my wife. She was sleeping— but the baby was dead. Poor little mortal! I owed it no grudge, but I was glad when they told me.

All the next day I sat by her bed listening to Lillian's mutterings, for she was very ill. I suffered all the tortures of a damned soul sitting there, for she spoke of Lioski—"Arthur" she called him— prayed to him for mercy— told him she loved him—

I was late for dinner at the club. There was a noisy crowd there. Young Harvey of my own regiment had had too much to drink, and I avoided his table.

My hand shook as I poured out a glass of wine, and somebody remarked on it.

I did not see Poropulos until the dinner was halfway through. Curiously enough, I looked at the clock as he came in, and the hands pointed to half past eight.

The Greek was steward of the club, and was serving the wine. He was calm, impassive, remarkably serene, I thought. He exchanged jokes with the officers who were grumbling that they had had to wait for the fulfillment of their orders.

"It was ten to eight when I ordered this," grumbled one man.

Then, suddenly, Harvey, who had been regarding Poropulos with drunken gravity, pointed downward.

"He's changed his boots," he said, and chuckled. Poropulos smiled amiably and went on serving. "He's changed his boots!" repeated Harvey, concentrating his mind upon trivialities as only a drunken man can. The men laughed. "Oh, dry up, Harvey!" said somebody.

"He's changed—?"

He got no further. Through the door came a military policeman, splashed from head to foot with mud.

"District Commandant here, sir?" he demanded. "There's been a man murdered."

"Soldier?" asked a dozen voices.

"No, sir— storekeeper, name of Lioski— shot dead half an hour ago."

I do not propose to tell in detail all that happened following that. Two smart C.I.D. men came down from Johannesburg, made a few inquiries, and arrested Poropulos. He was expecting the arrest, and half an hour before the officers came he asked me to go to him.

I spent a quarter of an hour with him, and what we said is no man's business but ours. He told me something that startled me— he loved Lillian, too. I had never guessed it, but I did not doubt him. But it was finally for Lillian's sake that he made me swear an oath so dreadful that I cannot bring myself to write it down— an oath so unwholesome, and so against the grain of a man, that life after it could only be a matter of sickness and shame.

Then the police came and took him away.

Lioski had been shot dead in the store by some person who had walked in when the store was empty, at a time when there was nobody in the street. This person had shot the Jew dead and walked out again. The police theory was that Poropulos had gone straight from the club, in the very middle of dinner, had committed the murder, and returned to continue his serving, and the crowning evidence was the discovery that he had changed his boots between 7.30 and 8.30. The mud-stained boots were found in a cellar, and the chain of evidence was completed by the statement of a trooper who had seen the Greek walking from the direction of the store, at 8.10, with a revolver in his hand.

Poropulos was cheerful to the last— cheerful through the trial, through the days of waiting in the fort at Johannesburg.

"I confess nothing," he said to the Greek priest. "I hated Lioski, and I am glad that he is dead, that is all. It is true that I went down to kill him, but it was too late."

When they pinioned him he turned to me.

"I have left my money to you," he said. "There is about four thousand pounds. You will look after her."

"That is the only reason I am alive."

"Did you murder Arthur Lioski?" said the priest again.

"No," said Poropulos, and smiled as he went to his death. And what he said was true, as I know. I shot Lioski.

____________________

9. Kid Glove Harry

MR. SOLOMON Parsons was a lawyer of sagacity and genius. He had beneath the polished dome of his pink head something of the qualities of a great general. There might be added to this catalogue of his qualities an instinct of equilibrium which assisted him, despite many temptations, to walk inside the true line which divides legitimate from questionable practice. This instinct of equilibrium enabled him to walk straightly even upon the line. Once he toppled to the wrong side, taking no harm, as it happened, except the demolition of every castle he had builded; but there was some excuse for him, for he had invested heavily upon a falling market, a form of insanity not uncommon in men of the learned professions, as our curb broker will tell you. He was not ruined. There was no need for embezzlement or the transference of his clients' assets, such as he controlled, to his own accounts. It just meant that he had to sell loan securities and write to his son, telling him that he must give up all idea of going into the army, come home, and work.

Mr. Solomn Parsons paid his differences like a respectable man, and was honest because honesty is the best policy. And then it was that old man Glenmere died and left to Solomon the proving of his eccentric will. Any will which contains a condition or request may be classified as "eccentric." Mr. Parsons spent one afternoon reading over the provisions which made the will remarkable, and then sat down and wrote for the second time to Miss Dorothy Trent.

His principal clerk came in whilst the letter was in process of completion.

"Oh, by the way," said Solomon, looking up, "I am writing to Miss Trent about her legacy."

"Do you want the letter copied, sir?" asked the clerk.

"No, no, it's not necessary," said his employer airily. "It's merely an informal note of congratulation."

"A very fortunate young woman," said the chief clerk, "she's worth nearly half a million. He's left a lot of holdings in Canada, hasn't he, —land and all that sort of thing?"

"Yes, yes," this time Mr. Parsons was impatient. "All right, Jackson, I'll attend to this matter. Ask Mr. Reginald to come in and see me."

Reginald made his glum appearance and dropped into a chair on the opposite side of his father's writing-table. He was a pallid, willowy, young man, with hair on his upper lip.

"How are you getting on, my boy?" asked Solomon benevolently, as he licked down the envelope of his letter to Miss Trent.

"I hate this place," grumbled his hope and pride. "Really, governor, it's pretty tough on me. I never dreamt that you were so hard up."

"My investments unfortunately went wrong," said Solomon smoothly. "Still," he went on, "I hope you're going to make yourself as comfortable as you can, Reggie. At the back of my head is an idea which may develop very favorably for you. A large fortune and a pretty wife, eh, my boy— how does that strike you?"

Mr. Reginald sniffed. "That sort of thing only happens in books," he said irritably.

"It happens in real life, believe me." His father nodded his head emphatically. "I am a much older man than you, and in my profession I have seen many strange happenings. Post this letter for me."

His son took the envelope and glanced at the address. "Who is she?" he asked.

"She's the girl who came into old Glenmere's fortune. Half a million, my boy!" said his father archly.

His son looked up quickly.

"Is this the girl you're thinking about?"

Mr. Parsons nodded.

"Bosh!" said his ungrateful son. "What chance have I? She'll be simply surrounded by all sorts of fellows the moment it is known that she has money; and a girl like that who has been poor is pretty certain to jump at the first likely man who come along— and besides the will makes a quick marriage pretty easy for her."

Mr. Parsons smiled.

"Post the letter," said he, "and have a little faith in your father, my boy."

The quiet Newhaven household of Dorothy Trent and her mother had been prepared for the sensation which was coming. There had been no secret that Grandfather Trent, though he offered little assistance to his one relative whilst he was living, had made ample provision for her when he had passed beyond the responsibilities of the real estate business, and a brief note from the lawyer asking for authority to administer the estate, had announced the disposal of the old man's fortune, "with conditions."

"Which, of course, my dear," said the mild Mrs. Trent, "you will carry out."

"That entirely depends upon what they are, mother," said the girl quietly. "If it is one of those curious wills which directs me to marry the orphan child of his favorite butler, you may be sure that dear grandfather's money will go to the old ladies' home or The Society for Promoting International Discord or whatever the alternative is."

"I'm sure your dear grandfather—" began Mrs. Trent apologetically, and the girl laughed.

"My dear Mary Ann," she said, "you're not sure of anything in the world or anybody. I await the wicked lawyer's letter— I'm sure he's wicked; all lawyers are, who handle wills—with a great deal of interest. In the meantime I'm not going to the office— I feel I ought to get something out of this."

Mrs. Trent made her usual weak protest. She had spent her life protesting against the inevitable, in which category she placed her daughter's inflexibility of purpose. The Trents lived in a little house on the outskirts of the town. Dorothy was employed as stenographer in Newhaven's biggest store, and her horizon had been largely determined by the urban boundaries. Yet there was within her a surging desire to burst out into a large world, and now that it seemed that all her long-cherished dreams of travel were to be fulfilled, she felt that the "condition" must be unusually severe before she refused.

"Mother," she asked, "if— if this money did not come, would you be terribly disappointed?"

Mrs. Trent smiled, which Dorothy, reading the signs by long practice, knew meant that she hadn't given the matter a great deal of thought, and was busy making up her mind at that moment.

"It would mean a lot to me, Dorothy dear," said the older woman; "one always feels that one is living on the brink of a volcano."

It was a favourite expression of hers, and Dorothy, long inured and tired of speculating why her mother chose so tragic an illustration, said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

"Of course, dear, it would save you from work, and give you a very happy time," Mrs. Trent went on, gathering her arguments en route.

"Never mind about me, mother, I'm thinking of you. Would you be horribly disappointed?"

"I think I should," said Mrs. Trent, nodding her head, and employing a tone which suggested that she was surprised to find herself taking this decisive opinion.

"I should be disappointed— but, my dear, there is no question of your not getting the money, is there"

"I'm thinking of the conditions," said the girl.

The garden gate clicked, and the girl turned her head to see the postman with a solitary letter.

"Special delivery," she said grimly. "This must be from Solomon the Wise One."

She went to the door and took it in, and a glance at the superscription on the envelope verified her surmise. She sat down at the table, her mother peering anxiously at her over her glasses, and read the letter through carefully, then read it again.

"Humph!" said Dorothy.

"What is it, my dear?" asked Mrs. Trent tremulously.

"It's the condition, and really it isn't a terrible condition after all. Shall I read you the letter?"

Mrs. Trent nodded.

"'Dear Miss Trent,'" began Dorothy, "'I have already communicated to you that fact that your grandfather, James Trent, deceased, has left a will appointing me to be his sole executor and you his sole legatee save for a small sum which is left to me, his lawyer, as a token of his regard and affection.'" (Mr. Solomon Parsons might have written "very small" sum and underscored the qualification.) "'Your grandfather, as you may know, married very late in life, and had strong views upon the postponement of matrimony. He desires that you should marry—"

Mrs. Trent all of a twitter sat up.

"Good gracious, Dorothy, who is the young gentleman?"

"There is no young gentleman," said Dorothy coldly, without looking up. "Listen. 'Desires that you should marry early in life. He stipulates that you shall inherit one-tenth of his legacy immediately, and the other nine-tenths upon your wedding day, and he directs that if you do not marry before your twenty-fourth birthday the remainder of his estate shall go to the Railway Benevolent Fund. Yours faithfully, etc.'"

The girl folded the letter and sat with her hands clasped on her lap, looking across to her mother. "Well, that's fairly reasonable," she said; "that means another" — she calculated quickly— "well, over a year of freedom."

"And in that time, my dear," said Mrs. Trent, "maybe you will discover somebody on whom your affections may rest as a house upon a rock."

Trent shook her head, for girls had changed sadly since her youth. As she often remarked.

A month later, Dorothy Trent with the light of joy in her eyes sat in Mr. Solomon Parsons' office. And Mr. Solomon Parsons was talking.

"I think it is necessary that you should see the property," he was saying, "and particularly if you are going to sell it, that you should be on the spot to sign the necessary documents— you have the administration of the estate, you know," he added, "until you fail definitely to fulfill the conditions of the will."

"Who wants to buy it?" asked the girl again.

"Sir John Storey. You see, he owns the greater part of the adjoining property, and why he wants yours, Heaven knows! Your grandfather's Canadian agent writes me that he already possesses about five hundred square miles of his own."

"Perhaps he wants to keep chickens," said Dorothy. "Does he live there?" asked the girl.

The lawyer nodded.

"That an English baronet should isolate himself from the amenities of society and bury himself in the wilds of the Canadian Rockies, I cannot understand," he said, "but, there the fact is, he's been living there for six years. He has a vast estate and seems to be satisfied, so it is no business of ours."

Dorothy thought for a moment.

"I'd simply love to go," she said, "but I can't see how I can go alone."

Mr. Solomon Parsons smiled. "I'll arrange that, my dear lady," he said. "I am making up a party, my son and, myself. You've met my son in the outer office as you came through."

The girl shook her head.

"There was only an elderly gentleman, who I think is your clerk, and the office boy," she said.

Mr. Solomon Parsons bridled.

"The office boy, my dear Miss Trent," he said, with some acerbity, "was my son Reginald."

She murmured her apologies.

But the business was too important for Mr. Solomon Parsons to take very deep offence.

"As I was saying, we will go out with you, see you to Sir John's house— he has, by all accounts, a very beautiful house— and he wrote some time ago saying that he would make us very welcome if we came. By the way, there is a two or three-day journey across the— er— mountains and things, and I understand it's a rather difficult country. You don't mind that?"

"It will be lovely!" said Dorothy, her eyes shining.

So it came about that one chilly morning in early October, the lake steamer, The Nelson, set down three passengers at Little Pine Beach. To two of these, Little Pine Beach was a most inhospitable village of tin buildings, which promised little in the way of creature comfort. To the third, this shelf of land under the towering gray scarp of Mount Macgregor was a veritable fairyland. She had ceased to gurgle with joy at the sight of snow-capped mountains or vast wheat lands. Ship and train and boat had been vehicles of enchantment. She had lived for weeks in a sort of dumb wonder.

The clean tang of mountain air; the fragrance of pine and balsam; the delicious incense of burning wood—she had stood on the observation platform of the car in the early mornings and snuffed them ecstatically. And she had seen the sun rise on virgin snows, and heard the thunder of milky torrents crashing furiously through deep ravines, and had lived with a God she knew and worshipped.

"It is precious chilly," grumbled Mr. Parsons, "and I suppose there won't be a thing here fit to eat," looking around anxiously, and when a middle-aged man in mackinon coat and top boots detached himself from a group at the door of one of the dwellings, he went toward him, and met the newcomer half-way.

"Your father arranged for somebody to be here to meet us, didn't he, Mr. Parsons?" said the girl.

"Reggie," murmured that gentleman; "why don't you learn to call me Reggie, Dorothy?"

"Because it would encourage you to call me Dorothy," said the girl tartly.

Mr. Reginald Parsons was the one blot upon an otherwise perfect trip. The lawyer she could tolerate, but this sleek youth and his half- hearted love-making was getting on her nerves.

"I wish you wouldn't be so unpleasant toward me," he said plaintively. "I really didn't think I'd like you when I heard I was coming on the trip, but at the first sight of you I was head over heels—"

"Will you tell me, is this the person your father expects to meet here?"

"No, it isn't," snapped Reggie. "He's a fellow who is going on a trip with us, a lawyer or something."

"Do we start from here?" asked the girl, interested.

"I hope so," said the gloomy youth, "and the sooner we start the better."

Mr. Parsons was coming back now with his companion.

"I want to introduce you to Judge Henesey," he said, "He's going to make the trip with us."

The stranger, a sober-looking man of fifty, shook hands solemnly with the party.

"Your horses and traps are ready for the journey," he said. "You know it is a three days' hike?"

"Is the journey a pretty one?" asked the girl. "Of course it is, it couldn't be anything else."

"Well," said the other cautiously, "I don't know whether it's pretty, but it's certainly intteresting. The trail is a mighty difficult one to follow unless you know it. None of the boys round here ever go up. You reckoned on getting a guide here, didn't you?"

He addressed the lawyer, and Mr. Parsons nodded.

"A man named Harvey."

The Judge raised his eyebrows. "Joe Harvey! Why, I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed. Harvey broke his leg a week ago and they sent him down to Nelson; but I dare say I'll find somebody, though nobody around here ever goes on to the fellow's estate."

He went back to his tin hut from whence he had come. The curious group about the door was now increased to half a dozen men, and with these he spoke.

"There's a man who came in last night, but I don't know whether you'll care to take him."

"Who is he?" asked Solomon.

"Well, we call him Kid Glove Harry. He's a trapper or something, though he never seems to have any pelts for sale. He turns up regular every six months, and some say he's a bad character, though I've never heard anything definitely against him."

Mr. Parsons hesitated.

"Why do they call him Kid Glove Harry?"

"Because he wears kid gloves, I guess," said the other dryly; "he ain't much to look at. You'd better see him."

He whistled and crooked his finger, and a man detached himself from the group. Judge Henesey had no more than told the truth when he described the newcomer as unattractive. His hair was long, he had a six months' stubbly growth of beard, and one eye was obscured by a dirty bandage. His clothes were stained and worn, and his rusty boots were gaping. A pack was swung over his back, and held by a bandolier of rope, and the general ferocity of his appearance was heightened by the Winchester he carried under his arm and the long-barrelled Colt which swung at his hip.

He did not speak, and made none of the gestures of humility which Mr. Solomon expected from all men he engaged for service, but stood surveying the party calmly out of his one undamaged eye.

"Does he know the trail?" asked Mr. Solomon doubtfully.

The man nodded.

"What is your name?"

The girl was staring at the wild man with glee. Somehow he matched the scene and satisfied her artistic requirements. In curiosity she looked at his hands as Mr. Parsons spoke, and sure enough they were encased in tight-fitting gloves which might have been kid and at one time were probably white.

"That'll do, Harry," said the lawyer, and the man without a word turned his back upon the party and strode away.

"You'll not get him to talk. In some of the camps they call him 'Dummy.' He hates talking."

"Does he hate shaving, too?" said Reggie. "Couldn't we get him trimmed up a bit"

The Judge bit off the end of his cigar and lit it.

"The only barber at Little Pine Beach has had delirium tremens for a week," he said deliberately.

"I suppose we'll have to take him," decided Mr. Solomon Parsons, "though I can't say that he impresses me very favorably."

To the girl, Kid Glove Harry was the one fascinating figure of the party. She rode behind him on the trail, and speculated upon the kind of life that this type of man would live. To her he was something out of a book, a figure from the land of fiction. She wondered if that revolver which flapped at his side as he jogged along had ever been used offensively; how he had got that injury to his eye. Between her speculations and the loveliness of the scene which burst into view as the little party climbed higher and higher toward Dead Horse Pass, she was so fully occupied that nightfall came too quickly.

The horses were unpacked and camp made for the night. Judge Henesey had a consultation with their guide, and came back to the party shaking his head.

"We shall have to pitch our own tents and cook our own food," he said. "He says he will cook for the young lady but nobody else."

"You can tell him from me," said Mr. Parsons, with dignity, "that if there's any cooking to be done, we'll cook for the young lady."

"And you can tell him from me," said the young lady in question, with some determination, "that I shall be most happy to test his powers as a chef."

Mr. Solomon Parsons said nothing, but looked significantly at his son. Kid Glove Harry might be the greatest villain unhung, but he made an excellent soup and a no less excellent cup of coffee; and Mr. Solomon Parsons, who was a good trencherman, eyeing the remains of his canned beef meal, sniffed the fragrance of the soup and broke the tenth commandment.

The trail widened, and the girl was able to ride side by side with her wild man the next morning.

"Is your eye very bad?" she asked.

"Not very," replied the man gruffly. She wanted to ask how it had happened, but did not dare, and as though reading her thoughts he said,

"Back-fire from my rifle—shooting a lynx."

They rode on in silence which the girl again broke.

"This is wonderland to me. I suppose it is very ordinary to you, and you do not see the beauty as I see it."

He did not reply to her question, but after a while asked:

"Why are you going up to the Storey's?"

She told him frankly, and he listened without comment. She noted that his beard was shot with gray, nevertheless she found it difficult to tell his age. His skin was burnt brown, and there were wrinkles about his eyes—he might have been fifty or thirty. She was taking a surreptitious survey of him when he turned suddenly and looked her full in the face.

"You needn't have come out anyway," he said. "Lawyers could have signed those documents or whatever it is you have to sign."

"My lawyer said it was necessary," she said. She might have added that she did not question her lawyer's decision, and had leapt at the opportunity of seeing a new world. Suddenly she uttered an exclamation.

"Why, tomorrow's my birthday," she said. "I shall be twenty-three. It would be rather awkward if I was twenty-four."

He took no notice of her, and she was piqued. They rode for half a mile in silence, and then unexpectedly:

"Why not twenty-four, eh?"

"It is of no importance," she said coldly, and he did not urge her to any further confidence.

That night was a trying one for her. Reggie was unusually affectionate, and his father seemed to give his son every opportunity to be alone with his client. The climax came when Mr. Solomon Parsons strode off with the Judge to explore a wooded slope. The girl had finished her meal and was getting up when Reggie 's hand caught her arm.

"Don't go," he said, clearing his throat; "there is something I want to say to you, Dorothy."

His tone was so changed that she looked at him in astonishment.

"Dorothy, I love you," he said huskily—"I just love you like the devil!"

"I don't want to be loved like the devil!" she said calmly enough, though she was quaking. She sat with her hands on her lap looking at him, as Reggie described afterwards, as though he were some new kind of insect, and he grew desperate.

("Carry the citadel by force, my boy," his father had urged him that afternoon.)

"Dorothy," said the young man, gripping her by the hand, "I am not worthy of you."

"Thank Heaven we agree on something," she said, and tried to rise, then before she knew what had happened, she was in his arms, his lips pressed to hers. She struggled, but the strongest and most determined of girls would have been caught at a disadvantage. It was then that a finger and thumb pinched Reggie's right ear urgently, and he released his hold of the girl and looked up, white with passion.

"Damn you, what do you mean" he snarled.

He tried to leap to his feet, but since his rate of rising was governed largely by the will of the man who held his ear, his progress was slow and painful.

Kid Glove Harry released his grip, and with a slight push sent the young man reeling back. He said no word, but looked at Mr. Reginald Parsons, and there was something in that look which fired whatever red blood the young man possessed.

With an oath he tugged at his belt. "Put that gun down," said Kid Glove Harry quietly, and the scowling youth obeyed.

"What is the matter?" It was Mr. Solomon Parsons, who came stumbling through the undergrowth at the sound of his son's angry voice.

The girl, breathless and a little frightened, stood aloof, and heard Reggie give his account of what had happened— an account by no means unflattering to himself. To her amazement, Mr. Parsons heard the story without exhibiting anger for the palpable boorishness of his son or apologies to the victim. Only Judge Henesey standing in the background looked a little puzzled.

The lawyer turned with a bland smile to the girl.

"My dear young lady, this is unfortunate, doubly unfortunate, because of a discovery of mine the day we left Nelson." She said nothing, but a sudden sense of dismay filled her, for what reason she could not understand.

"There was a telegram there," said the lawyer, and he took a folded paper from his pocket.

"What was the telegram?" she asked steadily. "How does it affect me?"

"It affects you rather nearly," said Mr. Solomon Parsons slowly; "it appears that in my reading of your grandfather's will, I made a slight mistake. You are to be married," he spoke distinctly, "before your twenty- third birthday, not your twenty-fourth."

She gasped. "My twenty-third!" she said incredulously. "Surely you are wrong."

"I deeply regret the error, but it was your twenty-third birthday that the will stipulated. I wish now that I had shown it to you," he said, with unctuous regret, "but there the matter stands."

The girl pressed her hand against her forehead and thought.

"Then you mean," she said slowly, "that unless I am married today— tonight— I forfeit the remainder of my grandfather's estate?"

He nodded, and smiled a little.

Kid Glove Harry, a silent spectator, saw the blood mount to the girl's cheeks.

"It was a plot!" she cried, her voice trembling a little; "that is why you wanted me to come to the wilds of Canada. I needn't have come here at all. You planned to have me here in the woods, here in the wilderness on the eve of my twenty-third birthday so that you could marry me to— that!"

She pointed to the scowling Reginald. She thought a little while, evidently trying to piece together the details of Mr. Parsons' strategy.

"And you're a lawyer, of course," she said, nodding to Judge Henesey, "and you could marry me."

"That was the idea, miss— I understood from this gentleman," Judge Henesey spat as he spoke, "that you wanted a wedding in the hills."

She looked round desperately. She knew now what that money meant to her, the freedom, the happiness it would give to her, the opportunity for travel—for life; and looking, she saw Kid Glove Harry, tangle- bearded, bandaged eyed, and poverty stricken, and her heart leapt. She walked toward him.

"May I speak to you for a moment?" she said, and led him aside.

She was red with embarrassment when she spoke.

"Are you married?" she asked jerkily.

He shook his head.

"If I gave you ten thousand dollars— a hundred thousand dollars," she said breathlessly, "to marry me, would you promise to leave me when you have brought me back to Pine Beach"

He thought a while. "Yes; I would leave you when we came back to Pine Beach if you wished," he said.

She looked at him keenly, but his eyes never wavered.

"And you will marry me?" she said.

He nodded.

"I don't see why not," he drawled. "I'm doing nothing particular this evening."

She came back to the fire.

"You can marry me, Judge Henesey, can you not?"

He nodded.

"With or without a license?"

"Yes," he said.

Very good."

She put her hand in Kid Glove Harry's.

"Marry me," she said.

Mr. Solomon Parsons sprang forward.

"You can't do it," he roared.

"You can't prevent it," said the girl.

"You bet you can't," said Kid Glove Harry. "Go right ahead, Judge..."

That night Dorothy slept in the tent of her husband, and Kid Glove Harry, rolled in a blanket, slept before her door.

It was a silent party that rode over the hills and down the slope to the big wooden mansion which was their destination.

Mr. Solomon Parsons spoke only once that morning when he asked the Judge:

"What's that fellow's name?"

"Torker or Morley, or something," said the Judge. "I didn't catch it correctly, but I'll get it when I give him the certificate today."

The girl rode ahead with her husband, and beyond an observation about the weather they, too, were silent. It was when they had come into view of the eccentric baronet's mansion that the girl asked:

"Have you ever met Sir John Storey?"

He shook his head.

She asked another question, and he replied with a nod; a further, and again he shook his head.

"You don't like talking very much, do you?" she asked.

"Not very much," he replied. "I'd just hate to say what was in my mind."

She looked at him in alarm.

"I guess I'll part with you when we get to the homestead," he said. "You won't want any Kid Glove Harrys hanging around."

"You promised to see me to Little Pine," she said, "and besides, I must find out where you live to send you that money."

"I don't want any money," he said.

"You promised," she said, and he made no reply.

The homestead was a revelation to her. As they grew nearer, she saw it was a dwelling which combined the architectural beauties of the colonial house with the ornate decoration of a Swiss chalet. And there were servants— real servants— in white starched dress frontswho helped the party to alight, and showed them into the great hall, the walls covered with skins and trophies.

There was a butler, a pompous stout man, who treated them with a courtesy and punctilio which, remembering the surroundings, would have seemed to the girl ridiculous but for the awe he inspired in her. She looked around for Kid Glove Harry, but he had disappeared.

Reggie, with a sneer on his face, saw the look and asked:

"Where's your husband. Mrs.— I don't know your name?"

The girl flushed. She turned to the butler.

"Will you see if Mr.— Mr.— if my husband is outside?" she said. She hated that smile on Reggie's face—hated it more bitterly when she realized that she, too, did not even know her own name.

The butler came back. "He will see you later, madam," he said deferentially.

"Is Sir John here?" asked the lawyer.

"No, sir, he is not in the house at present. I will let you know when he returns. I have sent your suit-cases to your bedrooms, gentlemen. Will you dress for dinner? Sir John invariably does."

The two men had brought their dress-suits. Judge Henesey had parted company at the door, and only stopping to fill the marriage certificate with Kid Glove Harry's name, was on his way back to Little Pine.

The girl did not meet her husband that afternoon. Once she saw him riding back from the trail, where he had left the Judge, and she noted with a little pang that he had made his way to the back of the house, where she guessed the servants' quarters were.

She dressed for dinner with more than usual care. There was a fun and a novelty of dressing here in the wilderness, and there was—

"Pshaw!" she said, and dismissed the idea. It was too absurd to be entertained. Why should she want to dress to please a brigand like the guide, who probably had no other thought in his head than a desire to get away to the nearest town and drink the money she would give him? And yet she looked forward with something like pleasure to his appearance.

She came down to dinner radiant, and into the dining-room with its shaded electric lamps (the eccentric baronet had a water-power plant, and generated his own electricity from a waterfall three miles away, she discovered), happy in the consciousness that she was not displeasing.

Reggie looked at her with a grin.

"Where's your husband?" he asked, and chuckled at her obvious exasperation.

The girl looked up to the butler, who stood by a chair at the end of the table.

"Will you tell my husband that dinner is served?" she asked a little huskily.

She would play the game out to the end, she thought.

"Kid Glove Harry is his name," added Mr. Reginald Parsons.

The butler bowed and went out. He came back in a few minutes, and standing by the door, his head erect, conscious of the importance of the occasion, announced:

"Kid Glove Harry."

And at the sight of the man who came in, Mr. Solomon Parsons gasped, and the girl rose from her chair wide-eyed.

It was a clean-shaven man with fine eyes (these she recognized), and he was dressed in the conventional smoking-jacket and starched shirt of civilization. He came forward with a little smile and a bow, and seated himself at the head of the table.

He surveyed the men with grim amusement, then he turned to the girl.

"I hope you're not shocked," he said, "but do you know I had been in the wilderness and haven't had a hair-cut or shave for six months."

He looked up at the butler.

"Mr. Tibbins," he said, "bring her ladyship some ice water."

Then Mr. Solomon Parsons recovered his power of speech. He asked in a hollow tone:

"Then you're Sir John Storey?"

"That is what I am called."

"But nobody knew you at Little Pine."

"I never go there in state," said Sir John, with a little smile. "I shoot at the back of that country, and sometimes go into the village. I happened to arrive there, the day before you came, in a very deplorable condition, Lady Storey," he said gravely, addressing the girl, and she colored. "They know me as Kid Glove Harry from an eccentricity of mine."

"Why do you wear kid gloves?" demanded the curious Mr. Solomon.

"To keep my hands clean," said the other calmly. "That's a curious reason, isn't it?"

That night, when the men had gone to bed, he walked with the girl along a long porch overlooking the moonlit valley. Fifty miles away, above white peaks of his lowly fellows, rose the hoary head of Macdonald.

"It's a wonderful place, this," said the girl.

It was the first time she had spoken to him that evening.

"I don't wonder that you hide yourself away, but isn't it very lonely?"

He flicked the ash from his cigarette before he spoke.

"It is very lonely," he said; and after an interval of silence, "It will be a thousand times more lonely after I have taken you to Little Pine Beach."

She laughed, a soft gurgling laugh, and leant over the rail of the porch.

"I think you're very quixotic," she said, "but I think, if you take me to Little Pine, you'll be—"

"What?" he asked.

She didn't make an immediate reply.

"I promised you I would take you to Little Pine," he said doggedly, "and I must keep my word.'"

"You also said, 'if you wish,'" she said softly.

"And do you wish?"

She was playing with the tendril of a vine that twined about one of the verandah supports, and what she said was in so low a tone that he did not hear her. But he took a chance and caught her in his arms, and it seemed that he had just guessed right.

___________________

10. The Treasure Of The Kalahari

ROMANCE may come on the heels of tragedy.

So it came to Mirabelle Maynard at Red Cot farm in Sussex; for when the shock of her brother's death had passed, she found a certain tender interest in the letters which arrived, sometimes from Bulawayo, sometimes from Kimberley, but as often as not bearing the postmark of the mail- sorting van. They were well expressed letters in a crabbed handwriting, and they told her of things that left her a little breathless; and when she had read them through she would sit down and indite epistles almost as voluminous, and these she addressed to the Rev. George Smith at a little store in Mafeking. She did not know that it was a little store, but the Reverend George very kindly told her so.

He did not tell her that it was a Kaffir store, and that the letters, by arrangement, were sent on to him, since his own addresses were uncertain and shifting. But he did hint that he was young and single and that he was good-looking. He said, amongst other things, that he had left the ministry and was devoting his life and energy to securing justice for her and punishment for the venal officials who were endeavoring to rob her of her inheritance.

Upon a certain day, Mirabelle Maynard mortgaged and let her farm, booked a first-class passage to Capetown on the Dover Castle, and disappeared from England. She was destined never to meet the romantic clergyman whose summons brought her feet to the corridors of adventure...

There was a time, in the queer days following the rising and the subsequent rush to the diamond diggings westward of Fourteen Streams, when the citizens of a certain Bechuanaland town decided that one Walter Vellors, who was awaiting execution at the fine and new stone gaol for the murder of a storekeeper, was not really a bad fellow as fellows went; and anyway, these damned storekeepers... Peruvian Jews most of them... too bad that a fellow like Walter... or was it Jim...? should swing, eh, boys?

They got up a petition, and they had a meeting, and they telegraphed the legislature at Capetown, and finally they held up Zeederberg's coach eighteen miles outside of Geelow, and took therefrom the official and only hangman the country possessed. Him they made so gloriously drunk that his name appears first of the signatories to another petition, which begins:

"We free men of Bechuanaland, holding capital punishment in abhorrence—etc.," and may be seen to this day framed in the office of the Minister of Justice.

Then the same free men seduced from their lofty duty the chief warder (who was Governor) and three common warders (two half-colored), so that the Governor and warders and condemned prisoner fraternized in maudlin fashion.

Into this electric atmosphere rode Captain Bill Stark, a lean, brown, expectant man.

He came into Adderley Street (so they had christened a strip of dust that divided one line of tin shanties from the other), and they turned out of the Grand Hotel in such a great hurry to tell the news that the Grand Hotel swayed crazily.

They told him, all speaking at once.

"Poor feller, he's suffered, Sheriff... damned storekeeper robbed him, you bet.... Why, one feller I know robbed another feller I know.... Anyway, everybody's against it, that's all."

"Is that so?" said Bill Stark. "And the gaol staff, you say?"

"Everybody," doggedly, but not without triumph.

"And  the hangman?"

"That's God's truth.... Now, Captain..."

But the Captain was riding for the gaol. He was Chief Constable, Sheriff, and Tax-Collector. He rode through the gate, and the warder held the rein as he flung off and into the guardroom.

"Properly speaking, Captain Stark," said the chief warder, on his dignity and in that falsetto which the illiterate regard as a tolerable imitation of high-class conversation, "properly speaking, you have no status in this. I am responsible, sir, to the High Commissioner..."

"Turn round," said Stark wearily. "You colored men go first. Open the door of the first cell.... In you go. Now your keys, Schultz—all of them. Thank you."

They did not argue, not even the chief warder, partly because the long barrel of a service Webley was sticking into his belt, and partly because it was not until he subsequently indicted his "Report on Outrageous Happening in Geelow Gaol" that he thought of appropriate repartee.

So Stark locked the men in the cell and went in search of Walter Vellors. Him he found, and Walter protested indignantly.

"My dear man," said Captain Bill Stark testily, "if you go shooting up storekeepers and robbing their safes, you can't complain about being punished."

"I refuse to be hanged until I have an accredited minister of the Gospel," said Walter Vellors, within his rights.

"Why argue?" pleaded Bill, as he strapped the man. "You'll be seeing Peter in a second or so."

"Half a minute," said Vellors, his unshaven face twitching. "There's something I want to get off my chest. It is about a mine and a girl—"

Bill Stark's lips curled until he looked like an angry dog.

"If you get sentimental I'll cry," he said, "and crying never did improve my appearance—"

"There's no sentiment about it," said Vellors, surprisingly cool. "I did up this Peruvian, and I was the fellow that killed Jan van Rhys at Laager Sprint. I shot Pieter Roos down in the Lydenberg district, and— oh, I've done a lot and I guess I'm fully entitled to the company of the saints. But this girl's in the Kalahari by now. I sent her a fake plan— all jumbled up... got an idea she's come up to Bulawayo to see me, because, from what her brother said and  her picture, she's a good looker, and... I'm a lady's man myself."

"Get on to the mine," snarled Stark, "and remember that serial stories bore me stiff."

But Mr. Walter Vellors was not to be hurried. He and a man named Maynard had located a "pan" in the Kalahari desert— a ten-mile stretch of alluvial gold.

"I'm willing to admit that it was a miracle," he confessed. "I met Maynard, who was a new chum just out from England, looking for a new home for him and his sister. I told the tale about the alluvial. I've told it a hundred times to suckers, and some have fallen and some have passed me by. But Maynard took up the idea, and him and me went out into the bush country for a two days' trip. It lasted a month because we lost ourselves, and if it hadn't been for striking a Hottentot village I'd have died natural. And then we found the 'pan.' Maynard found it and took samples— we had no water to wash it, but he said there was a new way of dealing with that kind of stuff. Anyway, we got back to Vryburg and washed the samples, and then Maynard got a heat stroke and pegged out. That looked as if I'd got an easy job, but it wasn't. He'd registered the claim in his own name, and that damned Commissioner wouldn't listen to me when I told him I was Maynard's partner. It appears that in a will he'd left everything to his sister.

"It was tough luck on me, Sheriff— there was a million, or maybe ten, and I couldn't touch it. The chief of police at Vryburg gave me twenty-four hours to get out of town, so I dodged up to Mafeking and got a grand idea. I wrote to the girl and told her all about the gold claims me and her brother had, and asked her to come out to Bulawayo. I called myself Smith— George Smith."

"Well?" asked the Sheriff coldly, as the man paused.

"Give us a gasper, Sheriff," begged Mr. Vellors. "This story is worth the makings... I'm not kidding you. I told the girl not to go to the Government office at Vryburg— I said there was a plot to swindle her. I wanted to see her first, you understand, to get my share. Well, she wrote a lovely letter thanking me for my kindness, and said she'd meet me, not at Bulawayo, but at Kibi Cubo— that's a 'tot' village near the supposed property. You see"— the prisoner drew the smoke into his lungs and paused before he exhaled— "you see, I had to give her a second place where we could meet, but I never dreamt that she would go into the desert. Being young, maybe, and romantic..."

"When is she due?" asked Stark quickly.

"Today."

Again the Sheriff's lips curled back.

"You're lying, I guess—"

"If I die this minute—"  protested the other indignantly.

The Sheriff looked at his watch. "In five minutes," he said tersely, "whether you speak the truth or lie..."

AND WHEN it was all over he went down town and rode his horse to the group before the Grand Hotel— silent, uneasy, fearful.

"I've hanged your friend," said Bill, staring coldly down on them, "and he's completely dead. Got anything to say?"

Somebody had, after a long and speechless while.

"No good crying over spilt milk, Captain."

"That's so," said Bill Stark. "And now, you miners and loafers, get back to your huts; and whilst I'm in my best admonitory mood, I want to tell the gentleman who is buying diamonds from the natives working the Boyson field, that if I catch him or any other man engaged in I.D.B., I'll put him on the Breakwater at Capetown for seven years."

He rode away.

"Bullying swine," said a voice. Captain Stark did not turn in his saddle. He rode at a hack canter to the telegraph office, and found the operator drinking neat whisky and cheating himself at patience.

"Get me a through line to Vryburg," he said, and the operator, who knew him, did not argue.

"Ask this..." said Bill, and waited until the answer came:

"Gold claims registered in Maynard's name. No sign of sister. Ask Brakpan Halt, nearest railway stop to claims."

Brakpan Halt was more difficult to reach. No answer came for half an hour, and then:

"Young lady detrained, bought Cape cart, three horses from Tyl, and trekked west this morning."

"Tell him," said Bill, "to send somebody out to bring her back to the rail."

And, when that message had gone through:

"Get Masabili and tell the stationmaster to hold the Bulawayo mail for me—"

"You won't get any mail train at Masabili," interrupted the operator, with the satisfaction of one possessing superior information. "It's thirty-five miles from here to Masabili halt, and the train goes through at midnight."

Bill Stark scratched his long nose thoughtfully.

"I may make it with two horses," he said.

Riding the one and leading the other, he cantered out of town, watched by resentful citizens. He was ten miles on his road before he remembered that, in his capacity as Coroner, he had not held the necessary inquest on the late Mr. Walter Vellors.

The road was bad, and half-way one of his horses fell lame and had to be left at the mule station where the coaches changed teams. He reached the brow of the hill overlooking Masabili in time to see the faint red lights of the mail dimming in the desert.

At four in the morning a leisurely goods train drew in, and he made the journey northward in a truck which was carrying a huge dynamo for a new power station at Bulawayo.

"It is the only covered truck, Sheriff," said the train guard apologetically. "My caboose is full of parcel mail."

"It will do," said Stark. The sleep he enjoyed in that car nearly cost him his life.

He was turned out at Brakpan Halt at two o'clock on a blazing afternoon.

"No, mister, she hasn't come back. As a matter of fact," said the stationmaster frankly, "I didn't rightly get your instructions. And if it comes to that, I can't take no orders from Geelow— where in hell is Geelow anyway?"

"Did you send out to search for this lady or didn't you?" asked Bill Stark, and the slightly, but only slightly, colored official told the truth.

"I didn't. I've got enough trouble of my own. There were four cases of cigarettes stolen from the 17-down yesterday, and I've been worried to death about it. They couldn't have been pinched at this siding. How could they have got 'em away— the thieves, I mean? And I get reported twice a week because the Bulawayo mail can't get water. She sits here and hoots for hours, and I live four miles away and have to come in. Why don't they take their water at Mahagobi? That's what I say... settin' here hooting all night for water... I have to come in and set the pump going..."

Bill Stark cursed him evenly but fearfully.

"Damn you and your pump and your hooting locos," he snapped. "You'll have a life on your hands, you coffee-colored son of a Hottentot. Get me a horse and don't argue, or I'll skin your head!"

The station premises adjoined an ancient farm belonging to the Dutchman from whom the girl had secured her Cape cart and horses. The Sheriff interviewed Mr. Tyl, and learnt little save that the girl had paid twice the value for her purchases.

"Ach! She seemed a capable young woman. She said she was going to meet friends, and, man, she could drive. She had a little farm in England and she sold it to come out.... I told her where the water holes were..."

"I want two horses, baas," said the Sheriff briefly.

He stopped long enough to load one animal with biscuit and biltong and two great waterbags, and as the sun slipped down behind the dwarf thorn trees, he headed westward, following the tracks of wheels.

He went on till darkness failed, and then, lantern in hand and leading his horses, he followed on foot until the tracks grew more difficult to read. Before daybreak he was on the trail, and when daylight came at last he extinguished his lantern, snatched a hasty meal, and rode on at a jog-trot. A minor cause for annoyance was the discovery that his watch had gone dead. Thereafter he had to judge the time by the position of the sun.

He had passed the thick belt of wachteinbitje bushes, and had come to sheer, unadulterated desert, where the tracks no longer appeared. There had been a gale of wind in the night— he had heard it with something like fear in his heart— and fine sand had drifted over the wheel tracks. After two hours' search he picked up the trail, only to lose it again. Once he passed a solitary Hottentot woman tramping unerringly to her kraal. She had seen no white girl, nor Cape cart.

On the third day he halted finally and definitely. His horses were exhausted, and his stock of water was running low.

And then, at the moment when he was taking a compass bearing for the first stage of his retreat, there came over a low ridge of sand a weary horse and rider. At first he thought it was a boy— she sat astride, a slim figure in white, her head bowed dejectedly on her breast.

He stood staring at her, and she would have passed unnoticing if he had not found his voice. At the sound of his yell she reined in her horse, and, shading her eyes, looked toward him.

Another second, and she turned her horse's head in his direction, and the half-dead animal made an heroic effort to trot.

"Thank God I've found you, Mr. Smith!" she called hysterically as she slipped from the saddle. "Oh, I'm so frightened of this place! I've been two nights... I missed the village... If I had only gone on to Bulawayo..."

She stumbled and would have fallen, but his arm was about her.

"Sit down, Miss— er— Maynard," he said awkwardly.

It would have been an awkward meeting in any circumstances. He had never troubled to think what she was like. She was just a woman— somebody's sister. He certainly had never thought of her as pretty, with a mop of golden hair and a skin like milk and peaches.

"Everybody thought I was mad to come out, but of course I didn't tell them about the horrible way the Commissioner at Vryburg had behaved," she went on a little breathlessly. "And I've done a whole lot of desert travel— my poor brother and I spent every winter in Algeria before things went wrong, and we... You are Mr. Smith, aren't you?"

Bill Stark blinked like a man waking from sleep.

"To be perfectly honest, I'm not," he blurted. "Smith, whose real name is Vellors, is dead— hanged. I hanged him. I'm the Sheriff of Geelow..."

He cursed himself when he saw the horror in her face. In an instant she was on her feet, staring at him, terrified. "Hanged... oh no! Mr. Smith was my friend— how horrible!"

"I'm a dam' fool for telling you," said Bill Stark, a trifle incoherently. "Excuse the language.... Yes, Vellors was a murderer and he had to go. He told me all about you and the fake mine—there's a real mine somewhere, but the Commissioner at Vryburg will tell you all about that— told me just before— just before his"— he coughed—"untimely end."

This time she really fainted, and Bill Stark, in a panic, dashed to his pack horse, and, unstrapping the last water-bottle, poured an improvident quantity over her face.

"You must forgive me if I'm a little shaken," she said unsteadily. "I think I am— what called yourself just now. Hadn't we better be getting back?"

Bill nodded slowly.

"Mr. Smith said that they would stop at nothing to get the claims," she said. She seemed to be speaking her thoughts aloud. "I suppose you have told me the truth?"

He did not answer. He was looking at her in amazement.

"That is why he asked me to meet him without letting anybody know," she continued listlessly. "So you have killed him!"

Bill cleared his throat, but before he could protest she went on:

"I don't for a moment imagine that you want to kill me, though if you would kill a clergyman—"

"A what?"

"You know Mr. Smith was a missionary," she said. "That is how he came to meet my brother."

"Good God!" gasped the awestricken Sheriff. "Did Wally tell you that?"

"Don't let us talk about it," she said. "Shall we go back?"

"One moment." Bill Stark was aroused. "This Vellors was a notoriously bad character and a triple murderer. I hanged him because there was nobody else there to do it— and he wanted hanging badly!"

She sighed and looked across the waste of bush and sand, and it hurt him to read the scepticism in her drawn face.

"I didn't believe him when he started telling this story— about the gold-pan and you and your brother. It was the only decent thing he ever did— to tell me, I mean."

She was not convinced; such is the contrariness of women, she could smile when he asked her what had happened to her Cape cart.

"I don't know. One of the horses died. And then my riding horse died too. I think they must have been sick. I saddled the other."

"Oh!" said Bill, and then, gravely: "I think we'd better get back."

They rode side by side almost in silence. Twice he halted to consult the map he had borrowed from the stationmaster, and set a course with the help of his compass. And on the second occasion, when they had stopped to eat a frugal meal and drink sparingly of the rapidly diminishing stock of water, she saw him frown and shake a little instrument.

"That's funny," he said.

"What is funny? I should like to be amused."

She looked over his shoulder as he laid the compass on the map. "That isn't the north," she said. "Look! The needle is pointing to the west!"

"So I observe," he said quietly. "I've been using this infernal thing by night, otherwise I should have seen it was wrong."

He took out his watch and looked at the dial.

"That went wrong the day I left the rail," he said, "and—"

He stopped suddenly.

"I traveled up in company with a big dynamo that was being shipped up to Bulawayo— Miss Maynard, do you know what a dynamo is?"

"I know what a dynamo is," she said. "It is a machine for making electrical current."

He nodded. "It is also a powerful magnet," he said," and my compass isn't worth three grains of sand."

They looked at one another in dead silence.

"Is that so?" she said mechanically, and then: "I think I believe you. Mr.—Mr.—"

"Stark," he suggested.

"About Smith— ugh!" she shuddered. "I'm glad... in a way. What shall we do now?"

He had already considered that problem and had found no satisfying solution.

"We will strike east," he said. "You haven't a compass, of course?"

She shook her head.

"Nothing so intelligent," she said, and there was a note of bitterness in her flippancy. "Nothing but unlimited faith in humanity and a taste for adventure. Did it... was he hurt? How dreadful that you had to do it!"

Her mind was still on the hanging.

"We'll go east," he said. "We can judge roughly, but where we'll land eventually, the Lord He knows!"

Morning brought them to the end of the water. He dug down into the sandy soil, using his broad-bladed hunting-knife, and she stood holding her horse's head, watching him curiously.

"We're lost, aren't we?" she said, and with her words there came to him in full force the terriffic danger in which she stood. The hanging sheriff sat down with a groan as he realized that the real treasure of the desert stood before him, a white-faced girl in whose eyes was dawning the fear of death.

"No, no, not lost," he said huskily, and struggled to his feet. "Over there..."

He pointed with a hand that shook, and somehow his momentary weakness gave her courage.

That night they lay down side by side, their tongues parched, their throats harsh and dry. He heard her soft weeping in the darkness, and, putting out his arm, drew her toward him until her head was pillowed on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he muttered.

"I'm sorry, too," she said, with a little catch in her voice. "And I'm not sorry... though I wish we could... could die less thirstily!"

She sat up suddenly.

"What was that?" she gasped.

There came to his ears a faint and eerie wail of sound.

"I'm glad you heard it," he said in a low voice. "I thought I was imagining things— listen!"

They stood up, straining their ears. And then it came again— a thin, sobbing shriek. With trembling fingers the Sheriff lit the candle in his lantern.

"What is it?" she asked in an awful whisper, but he did not answer, striding ahead, his lantern throwing long shadows on the gray sands and revealing the yellow blossoms of the dwarf trees. An hour, two hours passed, and she was ready to drop with exhaustion, when suddenly she found herself climbing the steep sides of an embankment, and she stumbled over a long obstruction.

"The railway!" she gasped.

But he did not speak. Standing in the center of the track, he was waving his lantern to and fro, and presently she was blinded by the glare of a head-lamp as the engine of the Bulawayo mail came round the shoulder of a sandy hill, and the howl of her siren, heard nearer at hand, was very pleasant music.

"IT WAS the engine hooting for water at the halt," he said.

He sat by her side, one arm about her, her head again on his shoulder. "And of course we walked in a circle. I'll start you off for Vryburg in the morning, and then what will you do?"

"I don't know." She looked up at him. "What are you going to do?"

He considered a moment.

"I've got something to clear up at Geelow, and then I'm at your service," he said.

He had remembered his duties as a coroner.

_____________________

11. The Weakling

REX MADLON was a nice boy— one of those charming young persons who made friends more easily than he could make money. Mostly, his friends were other charming folk: somehow he had no affinity for hard-faced men who wore impossible neckwear and could put you on to the good things of the market.

On those occasions when he strolled into Denny Horli's office just before one o'clock, Denny knew that young Mr. Madlon had come out in a hurry and wanted a couple of pounds for lunch, or else had come to consult him in a professional capacity in regard to some wretched tailor who refused to wait longer than two years for the settlement of his bill.

Dennis Horll paid good-humoredly when it was a matter of a few pounds: once he had made a compromise with a tailor in regard to an overdue account. He liked the exquisite young man: more to the point, he loved the sister of this amusing youth.

Norah Madlon was hardly ever amused by her adored brother's shiftlessness.

The six hundred a year which her mother had left her, plus the eight hundred which had been settled on Rex, might have made life rather comfortable for them both. But Rex's eight hundred seemed to have no existence. His half-yearly dividend was earmarked months ahead. He had a vague idea that he could marry money; and he ended by promising to marry an unspeakable young lady whom he met in a night club.

From this entanglement Denny rescued him.

"I really don't know what to do." Norah's pretty face was paler than usual. "Rex is such a darling fool, but if anything happened to him I think I should die. Denny, surely you can advise him? He would listen to you."

She was very pretty and appealing, with red lips that quivered pathetically in moments of distress. And she was distressed now as they sat in the drawing-room of the little Queen's Gate flat.

"Darling, you must do something— Rex is in a terrible mess. He's given I.O.U.'s... debts of honor... and this horrible man threatens to go to Uncle Lewis."

Uncle Lewis was very old and very wealthy— a churchwarden and church trustee. He held definite views about the Revised Book, and had nothing but gas lighting in his house. He believed that dancing was an invention of the devil in the time he could spare from inventing playing cards.

"Some day Rex will be awfully rich, but I'm terrified that Uncle will find out... you know, about that dreadful girl and the gambling."

Denny looked glumly into the fire.

If the truth be told, the vagaries of Rex had ceased to raise a smile. Though this she did not know, Rex was already in his debt to the extent of close on five hundred pounds, and Denny was not a rich man.

"My darling, I don't know what to suggest. Rex is such a waster—"

He saw her stiffen at this. The sanest, dearest girl in every other respect, she could not endure the least suggestion of disparagement applied to Rex.

"Well, he certainly isn't a saver, is he?" He tried to turn the phrase to its least offensive meaning.

"Rex isn't a waster!" Her voice was very cold. "He is just thoughtless, and depends too much upon Uncle Lewis and his money. It isn't very kind of you, Denny!"

Happily or unhappily, Rex interrupted the conversation at this point. He came in, a figure of gala, perfectly tailored, perfectly valeted— a tall, fair-haired young man with a disarming smile. Norah looked at the clock: it was a quarter after eleven.

"Are you going out again, Rex? I thought you said you were going to bed early?"

Rex laughed. "I'm going to have an inexpensive evening— Lord Levon's little dance. I must go— I promised."

"Nowhere else?" she appealed.

"Don't be absurd." His left eye closed humorously in Denny's direction. In a few seconds he was gone.

Denny walked to the window, pulled aside the shade and looked out into the street. Rex's little coupe was already moving at break-neck speed along the broad, deserted road— he had a passion for fast and costly machines.

"You can do something, Denny?" Her nerves were on edge, her voice more than a little impatient. "I always thought that lawyers could raise money."

"This lawyer can't," he said good-humoredly. "Is it much?"

She hesitated. "Four or five thousand pounds," she said, with an attempt at airiness; and Denny Horll groaned.

"My dear, I couldn't raise that except on very good security."

"On Uncle Lewis's will?" she suggested.

He shook his head. "Your uncle may change his will at any moment. Four or five thousand pounds?" He whistled. "My dear, that is impossible!"

He saw the red lips go tighter.

"Very well," she said. "But I did think you could help. You mustn't imagine, because you saw Rex so cheerful, that he isn't worried to death about it."

He pressed her for some particulars of the debt. Here she was rather vague, and he guessed that she knew very little. He did gather, however, that Rex was in the habit of playing baccarat at the house of "a friend."

She seemed unwilling to supply any details, if there were any she could supply. Their parting was a little distant, and he went home to his lodgings near Regent's Park a very unhappy young man.

Life had not been very easy for Denny Horll; he had followed his father, only to clear up the tangle which that light-hearted man had left behind. Ben Horll had had something of the temperament of Rex, and Denny found his practice more of a responsibility than a profit. For three ghastly years he had worked to right the number of wrongs, with the rectification of which his father had saddled him. He had to live down suspicions, that were in some cases certainties, attached to the name of Horll. But at last the nightmare struggle was over, and he had cleared away the wreckage, and was building on a new and solid foundation.

He was in the midst of a heavy morning's work next day when Rex came in.

"You had a bit of a row with Norah, didn't you— all about me!" He screamed with laughter. "You're a silly old ass! But honestly, Denny, what's the chance of raising that money?"

Denny shook his head. "Precious little, my son."

Rex pulled a long face, but was instantly his smiling self. "It's going to be deuced awkward," he said. "If old Lewis— who is pretty ill— would have the decency to pop off... but I suppose he won't."

"Are things really so bad?"

Rex strolled to the window and looked out.

"Ghastly place, Baker Street," he said. And then, carelessly: "Yes, the fellow who's got my paper is an absolute cad. I told Likstein, and he's furious."

"Who is Likstein?" asked Dennis.

"He's the fellow that runs the game— I mean, he's a friend of mine whom I meet occasionally." Rex became suddenly vague. "Come to lunch?"

Dennis shook his head.

"I'm afraid I can't. I've got a very important job," he said, and explained what it was.

That afternoon he had to go to the city to a consultation with another solicitor. When he came back he learned that in his absence Rex had called, and, after waiting a quarter of an hour, had gone again.

That night he had another interview with Norah, and this time she was a little more unreasonable. But he was not prepared for the sequel. On the following afternoon there was delivered to him a curt note and a half- hoop of diamonds. Denny Horll felt that the world had suddenly become a bleak, colorless place.

As he sat with his head in his hands by his desk, the telephone bell rang.

"Is that Mr. Dennis Horll?... Scotland Yard speaking. Inspector Boscombe... We have information that you've got a lot of money in your safe... never mind how we know. I should like to warn you, there's a fellow in town who specializes in burgling the offices of solicitors. A fellow named Darkey Cane. You want to be very careful. There was a burglary in Lincoln's Inn last night."

Denny listened with a smile, expressed his gratitude, and, restoring the receiver to the hook, he went to the safe to make absolutely sure.

TEN HOURS later...

Denny Horll walked slowly to the desk, opened a drawer, and took out the loaded Browning.

"Put that down— and lively!"

He spun round, the pistol still in his hand. The long curtains that covered the window looking out on to Baker Street had parted. A man was standing there, an overcoat buttoned to his chin, his face hidden behind black silk— the top of a woman's stocking, in which two irregular ovals had been cut level with the eyes.

"Drop it— quick!" Mechanically he dropped the pistol to the floor.

"Stand over by the fireplace, put your hands on your head, and don't make a fuss, or you'll get it where the hen got hers!"

The mask reached behind and pulled the curtains close.

"Keys of the safe— throw 'em on to the table!"

Denny put his hand in his pocket, and flung the keys as he was ordered. The intruder backed to the safe and, with one eye on his victim, turned the key and the big door swung open.

"Stand over by the window where I can see you— thank you; sorry to bother you."

The tone was ironical; here was an experienced practitioner with a sense of humor.

He made a quick scrutiny, pulled out a thickly packed envelope marked "Steffan Estate". On its flap was the name of the Northern & Southern Bank.

"This will be a lesson to you— never keep real money in your office. You drew this three days ago to pay John Steffan when he arrived from America. If there hadn't been a fog, I'd have been late, shouldn't I? Still, that's part of the luck... we didn't know anything about it till last night. You've got a talkative friend— he's young, and he'll grow out of it."

Denny said nothing. He watched, fascinated, and saw the envelop disappear into the pocket of the burglar.

"I'll be on the other side of the curtain for two minutes. If you move I'll shoot you without warning. I may not be there— you've got to take that risk."

"Go ahead."

Denny's voice was unnaturally calm and steady. The burglar saw the pallor of the thin, aesthetic face, and chuckled to himself. "Color is the one thing you can't control," he said. "Good-night!"

He was through the curtains in a flash. Denny did not move, though he knew that his visitor would hardly wait a second on the balcony. He heard a shot, and then another, from the street below, and the shrill blowing of a police whistle. He leapt through the curtains and peered down into the fog. A man shouted up at him. Dimly he saw the helmet of a policeman.

"Man got over the balcony. Lost anything?"

"I'll come down."

He went down the dark, uncarpeted stairs two at a time. No. 804 Baker Street was once a dwelling-house, but business had moved north from Oxford Street, and the house was now a collection of office suites. Denny Horll had his on the first floor— two rooms sufficed to carry on the dwindling solicitor's practice which his father had left him.

"You're working late, Mr. Horll." The policeman evidently recognized him, though he could not remember the man.

"Yes— clearing up before my Christmas holiday." Denny spoke quietly, monotonously; like a man dazed. He walked up the stairs before the policeman. The safe was still open. He indicated this with a gesture, and the policeman walked over and stared helplessly at the phenomenon.

"That's what he did, eh?" He saw the revolver on the table. "Held you up?"

"That's my pistol," said Denny. "I'm afraid I was a little late on the draw."

"Held you up!" repeated the policeman owlishly.

He put his electric lamp on the weapon. It was such a ludicrous, unnecessary action, for the lights were burning, that in any other circumstances Denny would have laughed.

"I— saw him coming down from the balcony on a rope, and nearly got him. He shot at me and missed— twice he shot. I couldn't chase him on a night like this— I ask you."

Then he became dimly aware of his responsibilities.

"Anything lost?"

Denny licked his dry lips.

"There was a packet in the safe containing twenty-three thousand pounds, or rather a hundred and ten thousand dollars. It was the proceeds of the sale of the Steffan Estate. I drew it from the bank a few days ago. Mr. Steffan should have arrived tonight, but I think his ship has been held up in the Channel by the fog."

The policeman looked at him and shook his head. He was now out of his depth. The immensity of the theft brought the matter into the purview of high official Scotland Yard. The fact that the money was in dollars bewildered him: he could remember no formula in regard to foreign monies.

"Banknotes— American banknotes? I suppose you've got the numbers?"

Denny shook his head slowly.

"I'll use your 'phone."

His story to the station-house was a little incoherent. A balcony, a rope, a man, a shot: he insisted upon this; mentioned the theft as an afterthought. Somebody asked him a question at the other end of the wire, and he went over it all again— a man, a rope, a balcony, a shot in the fog...

"Absolutely impossible to chase a man in this weather, sir. You couldn't see your hand before your face in Baker Street... the man shot twice."

He sighed, hung up the receiver, and turned to Denny.

"Boscombe's there. He's been in our division all the night, looking for the gang that smashed Avington's, the jewelers. That's a bit of luck— Mr. Boscombe, I mean."

"Very," said Denny.

Boscombe, tall, thin, constitutionally sceptical, came in ten minutes' time, and with him two assistants. After he had questioned the constable, he sent the man back to the station to make his report.

"You didn't recognize the man, of course? Masked, wasn't he? The policeman thought so. Who knew you had this money in the office?"

Mr. Boscombe wrote down his name and address. "My clerk," said Denny.

"Anybody else?"

Horll shook his head.

"Any of your relations?"

"I have no relations," curtly.

"Friends? Are you married, Mr. Horll? No! Engaged, of course?"

A sour reply was on the tip of Denny's tongue.

"I am engaged, yes."

Mr. Boscombe looked at him, pulling at his nose thoughtfully.

"The young lady, now: would she know you had the money in the office?"

"No." The reply was sharp.

The sceptical Mr. Boscombe took a swift glance at him, folded up his notebook, and dropped it into his pocket before he went across to the safe and made another examination.

"The man wore gloves, you say? Cotton gloves"

"They looked like gray suede, but they could easily have been cotton."

Boscombe took the keys from the safe, laid them on a sheet of paper, and wrapped them up.

"I'll have a couple of men down to examine the safe door and photograph it," he said. "Anything in the safe of value? You can trust 'em, of course."

Denny shook his head.

Boscombe changed his mind, unwrapped the paper, and took out the keys, and locked the safe door; then he put the keys back in the paper.

"Bad luck on you, Mr. Horll. You're not insured, of course? Insurance Companies will not take risks on money. How is it you were working so late in the office?"

"I was doing a little work, clearing up for Christmas. I wanted to take a holiday."

The detective glanced at the desk: it was very orderly; there was no appearance of documents or books; the basket on the table contained a tied brief.

"You must have finished your work when he came in. The revolver, of course, you had in your drawer? You expected burglars?"

"I expected burglars after you had warned me," said Denny. He spoke with a great effort. "Naturally, having this money in the office, I took no risks."

"Naturally," murmured Boscombe. "I forgot that I 'phoned you— Darkey's work this: very typical."

He walked to the fire: it had burnt very low. On the top was a litter of ashes.

"You burnt that recently, I presume? What was it? It looks like a letter to me."

The ashes still bore the shape of a letter. There were innumerable black charred scraps that indicated the letter had been a long one. It required all Denny Horll's effort to maintain his assumption of indifference.

"Nothing particular; just a begging letter, as far as I remember."

The detective looked down at the ashes. The letter had not only been burnt, but it had been broken up by a poker. There was a suspicious depression in the low fire, as though it had beenr stirred especially for the purpose of destroying this document.

Boscombe looked at the table again, then into the wastepaper-basket, stooped, and took out a crumpled sheet of paper. Smoothing it flat, he read:

"Dearest, I don't know how—"

He found another sheet, and a third and a fourth, all the same size, and one began without address:

"You will understand—"

The detective looked at him hard for a long time.

"You've been trying to write a letter to somebody, Mr. Horll?"

Dennis nodded.

"A friend of yours?"

There was no reply.

Inspector Boscombe folded the sheets of paper and put them in his pocket.

"I'll come round and have a talk with you in the morning."

THE FOG still held, but was thinner on the outskirts of London. Not even the fastest of cars, chosen and stolen for the purpose, could contend against the handicap which nature imposed upon the brightest of "snap burglars."

Darkey Cane and his two companions threaded their way painfully through the misty streets.

"If it hampers us it hampers them," growled a confederate; and by "them" he meant those custodians of law and order whose duty and pleasure it was to checkmate such as he.

Darkey, who was sitting by his side, his heavy overcoat turned up to his ears, grunted.

"Fog has never stopped the working of a telephone yet. It's clearing— hit her up, Augustus!"

It was certainly clearing; one could see two street lamps ahead. Beyond Kennington Oval the fog was a thinnish mist; the car increased in speed. They flew through Deptford and up Blackheath Hill. At the crest of the hill the road was almost clear. The car increased its speed. Suddenly ahead of them they saw a red lamp waving.

"That's 'phone work," said Darkey philosophically, and added jocosely, "Kid him— he's only a copper."

The machine flew past the signaller at fifty miles an hour.

"I think—" began Darkey.

That particular thought was never expressed. They were a hundred yards past the red lamp when there were four explosions so loud that they seemed as one. The Flying Squad that was looking for Darkey had thrown a band of canvas across the roadway, and that canvas was heavily laden with upturned nails. The machine swerved left and right, crashed into a lamp standard, and turned a complete somersault. By the time Darkey was on his feet he was entirely surrounded by blue uniforms. A hated voice— for he knew this particular detective-inspector— hailed him as a friend.

"I want you, Darkey, for a job in Baker Street. Fan him, somebody."

Big hands fanned Darkey very carefully. They ran down his vest and under his vest, his back and legs, but they did not find the revolver, for he had thrown that over the balustrade of Westminster Bridge as they had crawled across.

"All right, it's a cop," said Darkey. His hand stole stealthily to his inside pocket, but before he could reach the packet the inspector had deftly removed it.

It was in Greenwich police station that the contents of an envelope marked "Steffan Estate" were examined. Fifty sheets of quarto notepaper were revealed before the astonished eyes of Darkey Cane.

"Well, I'm—" he exploded.

"You seem to have been caught," said the inspector, and examined the flap of the envelope again. He had not been surprised to find it open, thinking that Darkey had already made his investigations.

Darkey sneered.

"I ought to be murdered for trying to hold up a crook firm like Horlls. His father was a twister, and I'll bet he's worse. It's disgraceful, the way these lawyers are allowed to steal."

"This is a matter, I think, which will interest Mr. Boscombe," said the police officer...

AT HALF-PAST two Dennis was still sitting at his desk. He picked up the revolver again, looked at it for a long time, then dropped it into a drawer of the desk. The old agony was to begin anew: the suspicion attaching to the name of Horll & Son was solidified into a grisly fact. He could hear them saying, "Like father, like son." The Law Society would hold an inquiry, of course, and he would be struck off.

He pulled open the center drawer, brought an envelope into view, and brought out the half-hoop of diamonds. The cruel little letter Norah had sent he had destroyed. He gazed, fascinated, at the jewel....

He heard the knock on the outer door, looked up; the hands of the clock were pointing to a quarter after three. It was the police... Boscombe again.

He went slowly down the stairs, stopping to switch on the light, and opened the front door. Standing, a shadowy figure in the fog, was a girl. For a moment he could not believe the evidence of his senses.

"May I come in?" Her voice was little above a whisper.

He opened the door wider. Norah went swiftly past him up the stairs. She had disappeared before he reached the first landing. He found her standing by the dead fire, white-faced, hollow-eyed.

"I'm sorry, Denny." Her voice was husky and low. "Will you forgive me?" Her hands closed on his, and their iciness shocked him to wakefulness.

"For God's sake, what are you doing out at this time of night Have you heard—"

She nodded. "Rex told me. He came home two hours ago. and, Denny, he was terribly— drunk! He was so boastful and weak that I couldn't even be sorry for him. And then he told me that the man he went to pay the money to wasn't there, and he gambled and won thousands. Denny, you've got to forgive him."

Her numb fingers fumbled at the catch of her bag; she opened it, and took out a large packet of American bills. She laid them on the table.

"He didn't touch a penny. He came in when you were out and took the money from the safe, and put a packet of writing-paper in its place. He knew where you kept your duplicate keys. It was horrible... beastly of him. And everything happened last night, Denny. Poor Uncle Lewis died."

Dennis took up the notes like a man in a dream.

"They are all there: I counted them— a hundred and ten thousand. You've got to forgive him, Denny: he's a weakling."

"We are all weaklings," said Dennis Horll slowly; and his mind went to the last long letter he had written to her, the letter that had taken so long to compose and which was an agony to put on paper, and absent mindedly his hand touched the drawer where lay the revolver with which he had planned a swift end to all his troubles.

There were compensations other than the palpitating girl he held in his arms. The mental picture of the notorious Darkey cursing over a packet of valueless letter-heads was one of them.

________________

12. The Perfect Gentleman

MRS. LEVERTON Cam really reached her decision long before her legacy came, and when she was just plain Mrs. Wainford, the widow of a very gallant officer, who had died fighting on the Somme.

Plain Mrs. Wainford she had never been. At twenty she was beautiful; at thirty-five hers was that ethereal loveliness which would have inspired poets had she lived in a poetic age. The news of Willie's death had shocked her— or rather, she was shocked by her own attitude, for her first sensation had been one of incredible relief. It was a painful shutting down of an unpleasant story. The magnificent heroism of his passing should have wiped out all bitternesses— memories of crude infidelities, of shameless dishonesty, of that one open-handed blow he had struck her.

But somehow these ugly pictures remained in her mind. And then came Slick, handsome, tall, debonair; a young man who met trouble, for which he was mainly responsible, with a smile. She thought she loved him; she was sure he loved her. There was no earthly reason why they should not marry. Marriage stood for bondage in her mind, and the prospect was not alluring. Yet she would have married Slick; her real humiliation was that he had always found a good reason against such a course. And Slick Dawlish became involved in the Maidstone baccarat scandal and narrowly escape prosecution.

Misfortunes do not come singly. Within a month he figured in yet another unsavory affair. One of his horses was most palpably pulled; there followed an inquiry, and a few weeks later that deadly notice in the Racing Calendar:

"Following upon an inquiry by the Stewards of the Jockey Club into the running of 'Dictionnaire,' the Stewards warned Mr. Basil Winden Dawlish off Newmarket Heath."

Slick read the announcement with some amusement and got on to the telephone to his friend. Apparently she had read about it in the evening newspaper. "I suppose I'd better pop off to the Continent somewhere, Bunny. What do you say to a trip—"

"You go alone, Slick." The voice was very cold, very even. For a moment he was shaken out of his indifference.

There is no need to put on record his expostulations, the story of his many journeys to Cheyne House, only to find that Mrs. Wainford was out. Five years passed. The Leverton Cam fortune and the Leverton Cam diamonds came to Bunny Wainford. He read one day the announcement that she had changed her name by deed poll, and went smiling to bed— he had been up all night trimming an opulent young Guardsman who had the misfortune to sit in a game with him. Slick's manipulation of a pack of cards was his most amazing accomplishment.

He used to read of her movements in the society columns of the newspapers:

"Mrs. Leverton Cam, the widow of a very gallant officer..."

When he read this he laughed till the tears came into his eyes. For Slick had a secret which he shared with none.

They met occasionally, but he paid no further visit to the flat until a certain 24th of December...

The dinner had been a good one; the game which followed had been short and profitable. Slick came out of a club which was not too particular as to its membership, feeling at peace with the world. How much of his benignity was traceable to that excellent 1919 wine and that marvelous old brandy, and how much to his momentary affluence, it may be difficult to separate.

He hailed a cab with a lordly gesture, his first intention being to go home to his flat in St. James's Street, yet, when the cabman asked for orders:

"Cheyne House, Chelsea Embankment," he said.

The cabman drew a long face.

"The fog's thick along the Thames, sir. I've only just come from Westminster."

Slick was dimly conscious that the fog was thick where he stood —a yellow, blinding mist through which the street lamps glowed wanly.

"Cheyne House," he repeated, and got in.

Their progress was slow. Somewhere in the region of Chelsea, as they guessed rather than knew, the cabman stopped and Slick got out.

"The Embankment can't be very far from here, sir," and added: "It's a wonderful night for The Cat."

At the moment Slick was not interested in fashionable burglars, though The Cat's exploits had been a general topic of conversation at most of the dinner-tables he had visited in the past week or two.

"All right," he said, and paid the cabman magnificently.

He had a knowledge of topography and a surprising memory. He remembered, for example, certain big, acorn-shaped rail-tops that surrounded a museum, and when, groping in the dark, he felt one of these, his progress to Cheyne House was simplified. It was five years since he had put his foot inside that flat of hers... If she was rotten to him, he could go away again. After all, a fellow had an excuse for calling at this season of the year. He had still got her key on his ring... He ought to return that. Perhaps the hall porter would not admit him... He wished he could climb like that cat bird, and chuckled for a long time at the thought of the surprise it would give Bunny. He was not quite sober.

Marjorie, the maid, opened the door to him Her face was a little pallid; one hand was behind her. "Oh, Mr. Dawlish!" she gasped, and seemed very relieved. She opened the door wider. "Won't you come in?"

He walked into the lighted hall, hung up his hat and coat, and followed the girl, who backed before him, into the drawing-room—the same room, but beautifully decorated. The furniture was new, terribly expensive; the lamp brackets on the wall were of silver; the glass chandelier was new. He grinned.

"Mrs. Leverton Cam is out," said the girl. "She went to the theatre with Lady Lorford."

"Oh!" He stroked his chin gravely, saw that the maid's hand was still behind her.

"What have you got there?" he asked. Silently she produced the thing she was holding— a small poker.

"Are you expecting a friend?" he asked good-humoredly.

It was the cat burglar she feared; her defensive attitude was not an unusual phenomenon. Had not old Mrs. Curter recently invested in a large Navy revolver to protect her eneralds? And that pink-faced woman who lived with somebody or other— he couldn't remember whom— invested in police whistles and burglar alarms?

The maid was talking. "It's like out of a book, isn't it, sir? Fancy a burglar wearing evening dress—"

"Good Lord!" said Slick." All burglars wear evening dress some time or other; it's part of their punishment."

He walked to the French windows, opened them with some difficulty, and stepped out on to the balcony. Below was unrelieved murkiness.

"It's a ghastly night, eh? Get me a spot."

She went out and came back with a tray, and he helped himself liberally, though he remembered that whisky goes badly on top of champagne.

Now that the maid had recovered herself, she remembered certain prohibitions, and was a little uneasy. This he detected, and he anticipated the cause.

"Excuse me, sir... Madame will be rather angry, won't she, when she finds you here?"

He was looking at her. Marjorie had got older; all the bloom had gone. He took a pack of cards from his pocket, and, sitting down to a little table, began to shuffle and cut almost mechanically.

"Marjorie, do you remember the old times when nobody had a bob in the world?" he asked. "I bet they've put up the rent of this flat since I left. Somebody told me Cheyne House had become quite fashionable."

He offered the cards to the girl.

"Cut," he said laconically.

She hesitated and presently obeyed, a little awkwardly, a little timidly. He dealt five cards quickly to her and five to himself.

"Don't pick them up," he said. "You've got three aces and two kings," and when she turned the cards up he roared with laughter. "I learnt that at Sunday school," he said, and suddenly bent his head, listening. "There's a car."

He opened the window again and walked on to the balcony, and presently heard the whine and rattle of an ancient machine. A taxi. He came back, closing the window, and found the girl still waiting a little apprehensively.

"Mr. Dawlish, I wish you'd try to persuade Madam to keep her jewels at the safe deposit," she said. "It terrifies me having those diamonds in the flat. And everybody knowing that she's got them here. There was a bit in the paper the other night; I cut it out."

She searched the mantelpiece, where apparently she had deposited the cutting. He took the slip from her hand and read:

"Mrs. Leverton Carn is one of the society women who do not fear cat burglars. Most ladies would keep the Carn diamonds in a bank, but Mrs. Leverton Carn prefers the security of her own safe."

"Silly," was his comment. "She's asking for it."

"With this burglar around—" began the girl, and then the bell rang.

Slick poured himself out another whisky. He heard Bunny's voice, the click of an opening door, but did not look round. He knew she was standing in the doorway surveying him, and guessed that that survey had in it nothing of approval. Presently he turned his eyes.

"Come in, Bunny. Don't stand on ceremony; we're all friends here," he said.

She was lovely—he expected nothing less—lovelier than he had ever seen her.

She took off her wrap and handed it to Marjorie.

"I will ring when Mr. Dawlish has gone— which will be very soon," she added.

And, when the door had closed on the maid: "Did you come to see me or Marjorie?"

He laughed quietly.

"Your tastes are so catholic that one is never sure—tea-shop waitresses, grass widows ready for the haymaker, chorus-girls."

Her shrug completed the category.

"And widow ladies down on their luck, eh?" said Slick, amused.

She walked to the little settee near the fire and sat down, offering her cold hands to the blaze.

"I deserved that," she said, without looking up, "but I thought you could resist the temptation. Marjorie tells me you did have the decency to ring. You have never returned the key."

He was on the point of telling her that it was in his pocket. Instead:

"Lost it," said Slick.

She looked at him thoughtfully. "You haven't improved."

"When my little reformer got tired of improving me, I lost interest," he said flippantly.

She might have told him that it was impossible to improve a man who would rather steal than work.

"I often wonder why you didn't turn cat burglar," she said; "it is the fashionable branch of your profession."

He shivered.

"Cat burglar— any kind of burglar— horrible life! Out of doors in all kinds of beastly weather— climbing up spouts— ugh!"

She smiled faintly.

"Card-sharping is easier— picking up stupid young men of your own class and fleecing them."

He laughed.

"You're frightfully amusing tonight. What have you been seeing— a musical comedy? Not that that would depress you. You can't hurt my feelings, Bunny darling."

Her shoulders moved imperceptibly. Then, as his hand strayed to the decanter: "Don't drink any more, Slick."

"Call me Basil," he mocked her. "Basil! Fancy giving me a name like that! No wonder I went wrong."

He splashed some soda into the glass.

"If they'd christened me Percy, I'd have had a chance."

"Where did you get the name 'Slick'?" she asked him, and it occurred to her that it was amazing she had never asked that question before.

"At school—" he began, and stopped short. "When I was a kid."

She almost gasped with astonishment at her discovery. She had known him all these years, and for the first time in her life she had discovered his raw spot.

"I wonder what they'd think of you at your school— now?" she asked innocently, and saw the scowl gather on his face, and guessed she was right. Here was the chink in his armour.

"I don't want to discuss my school," he said gruffly. "Do you mind? We'll keep that out of the conversation."

She looked at him in amused wonder.

"That's your tender spot, is it? I never knew that before. The perfect gentleman!" She mimicked him. "'We will not discuss my school do you mind? We are old Festonians.'"

She saw the angry red come to his face.

"Drop it! I mean that," he said.

She might call him a thief, and he would laugh; a card-sharper, and he would be amused. She had called him worse than either, and he had done no more than make her an ironical bow. But at the first reference to his school...

"Why have you come?" she asked quietly. He felt in his pocket, took out a note-case, laid two banknotes on the table.

"The last time I saw you I borrowed a couple of hundred. Here they are."

She looked at the money contemptuously.

"Who was the victim?" she asked.

"A fellow from America," said Slick easily. "They've got all the money except that bit."

He put the cards back. "The perfect gentleman!" she said.

He nodded and smiled. "I was good enough for you once, old girl," he said, as he reached for the decanter.

Her hand fell on his wrist, but he shook it off.

"You've got foolish ideas, Bunny," he said. "You think everybody's honest except the pros. Why, there isn't a club in London that hasn't got its sharps— only they pretend that it's temperament. You know the feller who wriggles about in his chair if you don't return his spade? He's a sharp, but doesn't know it."

She waited, and, when he had put down the glass:

"I don't know that I want you to stay, Slick, I suppose Christmas is the excuse that brought you? Well, I will accept your kind wishes— and now you can go."

He tried to take her hand, but she drew back; and then, before she realized what had happened, she was in his arms, and he was kissing her. She broke loose furiously, white as death.

"You brute!" she breathed. Slick Dawlish was not smiling any more. He stood glowering down at her, his hands in his pockets.

"Brute! That's been my trouble— I've been too gentle with you! If I'd treated you as your husband treated you—"

"We'll leave his name out of it!" she cried, in a cold fury. "Slick, haven't you any decent feeling, that you can mention the name of a man who died honorably in action— a man of your own regiment—a man you pretend was a friend of yours?"

He was off his guard now. Anger, wounded vanity, a tremendous sense of grievance, a desire to hurt as he had been hurt, dominated him, to the exclusion of all the considerations which had governed him during all the long years.

"He was no friend of yours, Bunny," he said brutally. "Don't see him in a halo because he passed out."

His voice was tremulous with anger.

"He never hesitated to take a hunting-crop to you— you told me that yourself. Your life was a hell upon earth with him— don't forget it!"

"He's dead," she said in a low voice.

Slick Dawlish swallowed his whisky at a gulp.

"I'm talking about him alive. You sneer about me being unfaithful— good Lord!"

And now she turned on him in a fury.

"I don't want to hear what you're going to say," she said tensely. "I forgave him all when the news came— you yourself brought it. Have you no shame, no decency? He treated me badly— I've never said he didn't— but his sacrifice wiped that out and left him a clean memory. If you had only gone with him!"

"I'm jolly glad I didn't," said Slick, and his tone infuriated her.

"The perfect gentleman! The old Festonian!"

Now he turned with a snarl.

"Drop it!"

"That hurts you," she taunted. "I'd like to print your record on every wall of your old school. I'd like to have a banner on the playing field— 'Slick Dawlish, an old boy of this school, is a card-sharper— a man without honor to comrades living or faith to the dead!'"

He was livid with fury.

"Faith to Bill Wainford— that damned coward!"

He saw her eyes open wide with horror, but nothing could check him now.

"I'll tell you! Bill Wainford deserted in the face of the enemy the night before the big push."

"That's a lie"

"He went to save his skin," he went on remorselessly. "He'd have been court-martialled for robbing the regimental funds if he hadn't. I told the lie about his being killed— I swore I'd seen it— they found out the truth after they'd granted your pension, and they hushed it up."

She came nearer and nearer to him, her beautiful face distorted with anger. Then suddenly he felt the sting of her palm on his cheek.

"You liar! You horrible liar! Get out!"

He was sober now; watched her, unmoved and silent, as she almost ran to the wall and pressed the bell...

Marjorie came in.

"Show that man to the door and never let him come in again."

Slick Dawlish went out into the fog, stood for a long time by the ornamental wall which surrounded the block, and then, his fingers moving mechanically through his pockets, he touched a key. This key was one of the excuses he had had for calling. He must see Bunny again, tell her a lie, swear to her that he had never meant what he said, that old Bill had died honorably...

He went upstairs again very slowly. It was nearly half an hour after he had left the flat that he inserted the key and opened the door. The hall was in darkness; in the drawing-room, one small globe, overlooked by the maid, still glowed.

He was a little muddled now. Incursion into the night air had made his legs curiously weak. And then he heard a queer scratching noise, and turned his head towards the curtained window.

Crack!

He drew back against the wall, and a little later the curtains parted and the bearded face of a man appeared.

Who the devil was this? Slick frowned. Was there another man? The intruder was in evening dress, the white front slightly soiled— The Cat!

As he stepped into the open, Slick Dawlish's hand gripped his collar and swung him round. That left of his was drawn back to strike, when—

"My God! Bill!" he whispered. "Bill Wainford!"

Was he dreaming? His head was reeling. It may have been a drunken fantasy.... Then he heard the voice.

"Slick!" He saw the glint of a knife in the intruder's hand.

"Is this your place?"

Slick shook his head, for the moment incapable of speech.

"It belongs to a woman, doesn't it? Mrs. Leverton Cam. Funny— my wife had relations of that name. Are you— er— a friend of hers?"

He picked up the hat he had dropped and put it on the sofa. Slick nodded.

"You're the cat-man, eh?"

Wainford laughed softly.

"Yes. It would have been bad luck if I'd been pinched. I only came out of Dartmoor six months ago. Can I have a drink?"

Slick pointed to the decanter.

"Don't talk too loudly," he said. Wainford looked round at him as he was pouring out the whisky.

"Is there anybody here? Mrs. Leverton Cam?"

Again Slick nodded.

"She's as rich as the devil, isn't she?"

"Don't talk so loud," Slick warned him again.

The newcomer had had many adventures, and spoke of them with that old, pitiable pride of his. He had reached America after his skip from Cambrai, got into trouble in Connecticut, and was gaoled. When he came out, he fell into the association of a bank smasher and was caught again. Together they broke gaol and got across to Canada.

"Ever heard of Toby Lands— the man who held up the cashier in Leicester and got away with three thousand? That was me— they caught me on the next job: I got three years."

"Fascinating," said Slick, and Wainford looked at him suspiciously.

"What are you doing?"

Slick smiled slowly.

"All the tricks you taught me, old boy. I'm the best pupil you ever had, Bill."

"The cards, eh? You haven't seen my wife?"

"She's abroad," said Slick quickly.

"Good luck!" said Wainford, raising his glass with an ironical gesture.

"She was a bit of a weeper. Still sweet on her?"

Slick did not answer this question. He indicated the door.

"You had better go while the going's good."

"I thought I'd leave decorated with diamonds."

Wainford was looking round the flat. He saw a photograph, and before Slick could stop him he had picked it up.

"Bunny!" he whispered. "Mrs. Leverton Carm— she's Bunny!"

"Don't be a fool," said Slick.

Wainford looked round at him with his sly smile.

"Dont be a fool, eh? Mrs. Leverton Cam is the late Mrs. Wainford. I heard that this woman had changed her name when she came into the stuff, but I never guessed. She'll hear my voice in a minute "— and then, extravagantly— "and will come running into the arms of her loving husband!"

"She'll hear nothing," said Slick quietly. "There's a double door and a lobby beyond that. She thinks you're dead."

Wainford smiled crookedly.

"She'll know I'm alive! A quarter of a million, wasn't it? With all that money, old boy, we'll buy peace with the world— Monte and Egypt and a nice quiet little flat somewhere up west, eh?" He chuckled.

Slick's eyes did not leave him.

"The old life, with her money— is that the idea?" he asked slowly. "The old hunting-crop and the girls?" He whistled softly.

"Have you gone pious?" sneered Wainford.

It was a mistake to have asked such a question. Slick had not gone pious; his mind at that moment was with the dead; the good fellows whom this man had deserted.

"Bill"— his voice was very, very soft— "you know what happens to deserters in the face of the enemy? They die."

Wainford grinned at him.

"There's no war on now."

"Yes, there is," said Slick, and his voice was very, very low. "I'm the enemy. You think you're going to Bunny, don't you, to break her heart all over again?" He shook his head. "You're going back into the dark where you belong, Bill."

"Do you think so?" hissed Wainford.

As the other's hand reached for him, Slick saw the flick of a knife and caught the man by the wrist. For a second they swayed and struggled, and then...

What happened, Slick never knew. Only he felt the man gripped in his arms go slack; saw the blood well over the white shirt-front. Then he heard Bunny's voice.

"Who's there?"

Wainford had fallen on his knees, kneeling against him. A dead man... Slick had no doubt of that. Stooping, he lifted him, carried him to the sofa, and sat him in the corner, jamming a hat upon his head.

"Who is that man?"

Bunny was standing in the doorway leading to her bedroom; she wore a dressing-gown, hurriedly fastened, over her night-clothes. Slick looked up stupidly.

"Hello!... Old friend of mine. We met after separation of years. Doesn't speak very much," he said, with grim humor. "He'll never say anything— or do anything to hurt you, Bunny."

Bunny rang the bell.

"Tha's all right." Slick's voice was thick and drunken. He was talking to the dead man, lolling, his arm supporting. "I've been telling her a lot of lies, old boy, and I've come back to apologize. All right, Bunny."

He put a hand under the arm of the inanimate thing and lifted it. It was grotesquely alive, stupidly drunken. He dragged it as he walked unsteadily with his burden to the doorway.

"Goo'-night, Bunny... always a perfect gentleman."

Outside the fog was thicker than ever. He could cross the road, and there was a parapet that divided him from the river, where a dead man might drop quietly out of sight and be no more seen by him.

He heard a splash, and then the chiming of Big Ben as it struck twelve.

"Merry Christmas!"

He waved his hand towards where Bunny sat weeping in a room somewhere at the back of the fog.

__________________

13. The Stretelli Case

DETECTIVE-Inspector John MacKenzie has retired— the newspapers are filled with stories of his exploits. His immediate chiefs are equally filled with wonder, suspecting many reasons for his premature withdrawal from the services of his country, but never by any chance hitting upon the real cause, which was the unquenchable antagonism between his sense of duty, his sense of justice, and his grim sense of humor.

And this conflict of emotions arose over the Stretelli case, which most crime experts and the majority of people consider as having been rounded off on a certain cold December morning in Nottingham Prison.

In a sense this was true; yet, with the compliments of his Chief in his ears and with the knowledge that there was a vacant post for a new superintendent to be filled, duty, justice, and humor battled it out so briskly in his mind that he sat down in his office and wrote his resignation.

In one sense Mackenzie was old-fashioned, and when a card was brought into his office inscribed "Dr. Mona Stretelli, Madrid," he sniffed. He was prejudiced against women doctors, though this was the first lady who had ever called upon him professionally.

"Show her in," he said, and wondered exactly what had brought a Spanish lady doctor to Scotland Yard.

She was in the room before his speculations were carried far— a girl of middle height, dark, capable, and even pretty.

"I am very honored to meet you, doctor," he said conventionally, speaking in French. "What can I do for you?"

She smiled faintly at the brusque greeting.

"You can give me ten minutes of your valuable time, Mr. Mackenzie," she said in perfect English. "I have rather an important statement to make."

She handed him a letter bearing the Home Office stamp. It was an introduction from a high official, and Inspector Mackenzie ceased to wonder.

"Do you know Mr. Peter Morstels?" she asked, and he shook his head.

She hesitated.

"In London you must hear... rumors about people— in the West End, I mean. Have you ever heard of Margaret Stretelli?"

Mackenzie frowned. "Of course! I thought the name was familiar. Stretelli! You are related?"

She nodded. "She was my sister," she said quietly.

"'Was'— she's not dead?"

The girl nodded again, and he saw that her eyes were wet.

When Margaret Stretelli disappeared from London, nobody at police headquarters was either relieved or sorry, but the event did not pass unnoticed. Margaret belonged to the bobbed-hair set that had its meeting- place in a Soho restaurant. She was known to be an associate of questionable people; there was talk of cocaine traffic in which she played an exciting but unprofitable part; there was one wild party into which the police had intruded, and a minor court case where she had figured, a little vulgarly, as the driver of a car which had charged a lamp-post. Police headquarters was mildly interested in her vagaries, knew her to be well off in the matter of money, and when she was no longer seen at her haunts they made discreet inquiries, to discover that she had married a gentleman farmer in the Midlands, and had run away from him a very few weeks after the marriage, and had gone to New York.

A very uninteresting and commonplace story, hardly worthy the attention of Scotland Yard's recording angel, yet, since all crime has its basis in the commonplace, the circumstances were duly noted and filed.

"Perhaps I had better tell you our story," she began. "My father was a doctor of Madrid, and on his death he left five million pesetas between his two daughters, myself and Margaret. I had taken up my father's profession, the profession of medicine, and was in my third year when he died.

"Poor Margaret loved life— as she understood it. Three months after father's death, she left Madrid for Paris, ostensibly to study music. From Paris she went to London, and, so far as I can learn, she got into a very undesirable set. How she came to meet Mr. Morstels, I have never been able to discover. It is certain that she had wasted a great deal of money when she came under his influence. He proposed to her and they were married at Marylebone Registry Office, and she left with him for his home at Little Saffron.

"She was seen there by some of the villagers, and, so far as can be ascertained, lived with him for three weeks. How much longer she was a resident is not known. It may have been three months, it may have been no longer than a month. But, when she disappeared, the story that she had run away from her husband was accepted as true by the villagers of Avignon, who had got quite used to the unfortunate character of Mr. Morstels' marriages."

"He had been married before?" asked Mackenzie.

"Twice," said the girl; "and each time his wife ran away and was divorced by him. Mr. Mackenzie, I am satisfied that my sister has been murdered!"

Mackenzie sat up in his chair.

"Murdered? My dear young lady, that sort of thing does not happen—"

He stopped suddenly, realizing that this was the type of crime that did happen.

"Possibly his story is true, and your sister ran away," he suggested.

She shook her head.

"That is impossible. Had she run away she would have come to me. We were always the best of friends, and though she was wilful and headstrong, she never got into a strait when she did not ask me to get her out of it."

"Have you seen Mr. Morstels?" asked Mackenzie.

"I have seen him: I saw him yesterday for the first time," she said, "and the sight of him convinces me that my sister has been murdered."

"That's rather a serious statement to make, but I realize that you would not advance such a theory unless you had good grounds," said Mackenzie, with a smile. "After all, doctors as a profession are not easily influenced or given to making rash statements, are you?"

She shook her head. "I am not, certainly," she said, rising and walking up and down the room, her voice rising agitatedly. "Forgive me, Mr. Mackenzie, but I am so convinced that poor Margaret is dead that, if she walked into the room at this moment, I know that I should be suffering from an illusion."

"But why do you feel this?" Mackenzie persisted. "Beyond the fact that Mr. Morstels seems to be, by your account, a much,married man, nothing is known against him."

"I have been making inquiries," she said.

"The local police speak well of him, but I think that I can furnish you with some details which may be of interest. Before Margaret left London, she drew from the bank the sum of six thousand five hundred pounds. Where is that money?"

"Did you ask him?"

"I asked him, and he said that one of his greatest misfortunes was that the lady, when she left him, had taken with her not only her own money but some of his. He had the audacity to ask me if I was prepared to refund it."

Mackenzie sat hunched up at his desk, his chin in his hand, a heavy frown on his face.

"It grows more and more like a conventional murder story," he said. "I hope for your sake, Miss Stretelli, that you are mistaken. I will see Mr. Morstels."

ON A WINTRY MORNING, when the frost showed whitely on the bare branches in Mr. Peter Morstels' orchard, Detective-Inspector Mackenzie made his leisurely way from the little railway station, a pipe between the teeth, the furled umbrella, without which he never moved, under his arm. In sight of Hill Cottage he stopped and carefully inspected the rambling house with the ugly concrete extension that had recently been completed. It stood on the slope of a hill, a picturesque dwelling, owing something of its charm to distance. Five minutes later he was inspecting the building nearer at hand, and he was not impressed.

The man who answered his knock was unusually tall and broad, a veritable giant of a man. His thin hair was flaxen, his big face ruddy with the glow of health. Standing square in the doorway, he looked down upon the detective with a scowl of suspicion.

"Good morning, Mr. Morstels. I am Inspector Mackenzie from Scotland Yard."

Not a muscle of the big man's face moved. No flicker of lid hid for a second the pale blue of the saucer eyes.

"Glad to see you, officer. Come in."

He led the way to a stone-floored kitchen, low-ceilinged and clean.

"I'm wondering if Miss Stretelli sent you? She did, eh? I thought it was likely. If I haven't had enough trouble with her sister without her coming to me with fantastic stories about my wife!"

"Where is your wife?" asked Mackenzie bluntly.

"In America somewhere— she never told me the town she was going to, naturally. I've got her letter upstairs."

He was gone a few minutes, returning with a sheet of gray paper. It bore no address.

I am leaving you because I cannot endure the quietness of the country. I am writing this on board the "Teutonic." Please divorce me. I am not travelling in my own name.

Mackenzie turned the letter over in his hand.

"Why didn't she use ship's stationery?" he asked pleasantly. "A women in a hurry to get away does not usually unpack her trunks in order to get stationery that is available in the saloon. I suppose you traced her through the passenger list— oh, of course, you couldn't. She was traveling in another name. I wonder how she got over the passport difficulty?"

He said all this musingly, watching the man before him, but if he expected to irritate Peter Morstels into an indiscreet statement, he was to be disappointed.

"That was her business," said the other calmly. "She did not take me into her confidence. Her sister thinks I have killed her!"

He laughed quietly. "Fortunately, I was alone when she called the other day. A nice story would have gone through the village if my servant had heard her!"

His eyes never left the detective's face as he spoke.

"I suppose she told you something of the sort?" he queried. "If she did, you're at liberty to search the house, dig up the ground, and pull the place to pieces. I can say no fairer than that. The only things I have of hers are some clothing she did not take away. Would you care to see it?"

Mackenzie followed him up the stairs to the big bedroom at the front of the house. In a wardrobe closet he found a fur coat, two or three dresses, and half a dozen pairs of shoes. These latter he examined carefully, one by one, and found a pair that had not been worn.

Mackenzie, who knew something of women, drew his own conclusions. An examination of the garden and the grounds brought him no nearer to a solution of the girl's disappearance.

"What are you building there?" he asked, pointing to the half-finished concrete annex. The man smiled slowly.

"That was to have been a new bathroom for my lady! Hill Cottage wasn't good enough for her. I wasbuilding this place as a sittingroom for myself, but she made me remodel it for her use. I'm a poor man, Mr. Mackenzie, but I would have spent my last sou for that woman! She had plenty of money— thousands— but not a penny did she give me. Not that I wanted it."

Mackenize drew a long breath.

"You've been rather unfortunate in your matrimonial affairs," he said, and had nothing but a grunted agreement.

The detective went back to town that morning in a thoughtful mood. He found Mona Stretelli waiting for him in his office.

"I see by your face that you have learned nothing," she said.

"You must be a thought reader," he smiled. "The only thing I am satisfied about, and this is unofficial, is that Morstels is a liar. He may be a murderer, too, but— there is a 'but'!"

"Do you think that, if you had authority to search, you should find anything?"

Mackenzie shook his head.

"I don't think so," he replied regretfully. "This man is more than an ordinary criminal. If he has killed these unfortunate women—"

He saw her turn white and stagger, and ran to her assistance.

"It is nothing," she said, and suddenly her black brows met, and there came a fire in her eyes that startled him.

"I swear to you," she said, in a low, vehement tone, "that this man shall not escape! He shall suffer for his crimes—"

Suddenly she stopped, and her compressed lips gave some indication of the self-restraint she was exercising. She held out her hand.

"I shall not see you again," she said.

That afternoon, Mackenzie reported to his Chief, and put the matter plainly to him. The Commissioner was not hopeful.

"I am afraid we can do nothing. Naturally, this unfortunate Spanish girl is excited by the loss of her sister, but these disappearances are very common, particularly when the person who disappears is— let us say Bohemian. She will very likely turn up at Monte Carlo next season."

Mackenzie disagreed. He did not see Mona Stretelli for a fortnight, though, to his surprise, he read about her. There had been a sale of some old jewelry, the property of a deceased Marquis, and she had purchased a famous paste ring, which had been the property of Marie Antoinette, for £200.

A picture of the ring appeared in some of the London newspapers, the editors being possibly attracted by the quaint and even bizarre setting. It was such a ring as no woman could wear— it was enormously large— and he was puzzled that she had overcome her distress so that she could indulge in a frivolity of this kind.

Then, about a week later, a most amazing thing happened. She went to Scotland Yard unannounced one evening, and he expected some news, but certainly not the news she gave him.

"Mr. Mackenzie," she said, "I have been very ungenerous in reference to Mr. Morstels, and I am perfectly satisfied that my suspicions were ill- founded."

He looked at her in amazement. 'Have you seen him?" he asked.

She nodded; there was a flush in her cheek and her voice was unsteady as she answered him.

"I am going to be married to Mr. Morstels this week."

He looked at her, speechless with astonishment.

"Married?" he gasped. "But, knowing what you do—"

"I am afraid we were both very prejudiced against Peter," she said calmly. "I have found him a most charming and fascinating man."

"I should imagine you have," said Mackenzie grimly. "But do you realize what you are doing?"

She nodded.

"And you're really going to marry him?"

"Yes," she replied. "I am marrying him when— when his divorce proceedings are through. I am staying with him for a week. His aunt is coming to chaperon me. I told you I would not see you again," she said, with a half-smile, "but this time I mean it!"

With a curt farewell she was gone. As she was leaving the room, the bag she was carrying under her arm slipped and fell. She picked it up hurriedly and passed out of the room, but in falling the bag had opened and a long moiré silk purse had fallen out.

He did not notice it until she had gone. Picking it up, he opened the purse, thinking to find a card bearing her Paris address. All there was in the purse was an oblong receipt form which interested him considerably.

A few seconds later she was announced again. Evidently the girl had discovered her loss.

"I know what you have come for," said Mackenzie, looking at her flushed face. "I found it on the floor a few seconds ago."

"Thank you," she said, a little breathlessly, and without another word she turned and went away. The next morning he received a wire telling him she was leaving for the country.

Mackenzie thought many things— but mostly his mind was occupied by one problem: what value would the homicidal Peter Morstels place upon the eccentric ring of Marie Antoinette? The reason for the purchase of the ring was now clear.

On the second morning after the departure of the girl, he strolled down to Waterloo Station to see the passengers off and to watch the departure of the boat-train for Southampton. There was a very big trans- Atlantic passenger list, and so many people were crossing to America that the train was run in two sections.

"Queer how these Americans travel," said the station inspector, recognizing him. "Look at that old lady."

He pointed to a bent figure in deep mourning, walking painfully along the platform with the aid of two sticks. "At her time of life to be risking a sea voyage!"

"Extraordinary," agreed Mackenzie.

When he returned to the house that afternoon he found a letter waiting for him. The envelope was soiled and muddy, the address was in pencil. Inside was a visiting-card— Mona Stretelli's— and scrawled on its face were the words: "For God's sake come to me!"

Mackenzie carried the news to his Chief, and from that moment he was out of the case, though he had credit for all that followed.

"But, my dear fellow, you must take the case!" insisted his Chief, but Mac was adamant, and to Inspector Jordan belongs all the immediate credit for the discoveries.

It was near midnight when Jordan arrived at the farm, and this time he went armed with authority, for he had seen his Chief and had impressed him with the seriousness of the possibilities. Peter Morstels, half dressed, opened the door himself, and turned a little pale when he saw his visitor.

"Where is Mona Stretelli?" asked Jordan curtly.

"She has left," said Peter. "She left me the night she arrived here. My aunt could not come, and she would not stay without a chaperon."

"You're lying," said the detective shortly, "and I am going to place you under arrest while I make a search of the house."

The search of the house revealed nothing, but in the morning Jordan questioned the villagers, and produced evidence which made the case against Morstels look black. Two men who, returning from a neighboring village, had passed by a short cut within a quarter of a mile of the house, had heard a woman's sharp scream at nine o'clock that night. It came from the direction of Hill Cottage. No further sound was heard, and apparently the villagers took little notice of the occurrence. When questioned by the detective, Morstels admitted that, for some unaccountable reason, which he had put down to hysteria, Mona Stretelli had started screamiug.

"She was like a lunatic," he protested. "Must I be arrested because a woman screams? I gave her an hour to calm down, then I went to her room and knocked at her door, but there was no answer. I opened it, and she was gone— possibly through a window, for it is a window from which she could drop easily to the ground."

"That story isn't quite good enough," said Jordan. "I am going to remove you to the police station, pending an examination of the ground."

The whole of the estate, such as was not covered by trees, was very carefully probed and dug, and on the third day of the investigation the big discovery was made. Under about four feet of earth was found a heap of charred bones; but, most damning of all, the ring of Marie Antoinette!

Jordan came back to London and woke Mackenzie with the news.

"He evidently disposed of the bodies by burning," he said exultantly. "There is a huge fireplace in the kitchen, and the bodies could be burnt without detection. We have our pathologist, who swears that the bones are human."

"They are not necessarily the bones of Mona Stretelli," said Mackenzie warningly.

"But there is the ring!" he said in triumph. "That is sufficient!"

Throughout the trial that followed, Morstels preserved a sangfroid which was remarkable. The only time he broke down was when the death sentence was pronounced, and then it was only for a few moments.

On the morning before his execution, Mackenzie went to Nottingham Prison to see him, at the condemned man's request. He was smoking a cigarette and chatting with one of the warders, and he greeted the detective with a little nod.

"You brought me bad luck, Mackenzie, but I'm going to tell you something. I did kill several women— three or four, I forget," he said, with a shrug of indifference. "They are all in concrete, the foundations of my new house," he chuckled. "But Mona Stretelli I did not kill— that I swear. It is a bit tough on me, Mac, that I'm to swing for a murder which I did not commit!"

He brooded for a minute, then:

"I should like to see this girl Stretelli and congratulate her."

Mackenzie did not reply until he wrote his resignation. He had seen in Mona Stretelli's purse a receipt from a Steamship Company for her passage. To make doubly sure, he had gone to Waterloo and recognized her, though she was well disguised, as she boarded the train.

The night after she was supposed to have been murdered, she was on the broad Atlantic, bound for a new home, a new land, and a new life, leaving behind her, in a hole which she herself had dug, the calcined bones which she had purchased from an anatomical establishment, and the ring which was to bring Morstels to the scaffold.

And Mackenzie knew it, and let a man hang for a crime he had not committed. His conscience and his sense of justice were appeased. His sense of humour was entirely satisfied.

__________________

14. The Looker And The Leaper

FOLEY, the smoke-room oracle, has so often bored not only the members of the club, but a much wider circle of victims, by his views on heredity and the functions of the hormones— for he has a fluent pen and an entree to the columns of a certain newspaper that shall be nameless— that one is averse to recalling his frayed theories.

He is the type of scientist who takes a correspondence course in such things as mnemonics, motor engineering, criminology, wireless telegraphy, and character-building. He paid nothing for the hormones, having found them in an English newspaper report of Professor Parrott's (is it the name?) lecture. Hormones are the little X's in your circulatory system which inflict upon an unsuspecting and innocent baby such calamities as his uncle's nose, his father's temper, and Cousin Minnie's unwholesome craving for Chopin and bobbed hair. The big fellows in the medical world hesitate to assign the exact function of the hormones or even to admit their existence.

Foley, on the contrary, is prepared to supply thumb-nail sketches and specifications. When you go to the writing-table in the "Silence" room, and find it littered with expensive stationery, more or less covered with scrawly-wags, it is safe betting that Foley has been introducing his new friend to some wretched member whom he has inveigled into an indiscreet interest.

But Hormones apart, there is one theory of evolution to which Foley has clung most tenaciously. And it is that the ultra-clever father has a fool for a son.

Whether it works the other way round he does not say. I should think not, for Foley senior is in his eightieth year, believes in spiritualism, and speculates on margins.

Foley advanced his theory in relation to Dick Magnus.

John Seymour Magnus, his father, is popularly supposed to be in heaven, because of the many good qualities and characteristics recorded on the memorial tablet in St. Mary's Church. Thus: He was a Good Father, a Loving Husband and a Faithful Friend, and performed Many Charitable Deeds in This City.

There is nothing on the memorial tablet about his Successful Promotions or Real Estate Acquisitions. He was bracketed first as the keenest business man of his day. A shrewd, cunning general of commerce, who worked out his plans to the minutest detail, he ran his schemes to a time-table and was seldom late. All other men (except one) would comprehend the beginning and fruition of their schemes within the space of months. John Seymour Magnus saw the culmination of his secret politics three years ahead.

There was one other, a rival, who had the same crafty qualities. Carl Martingale was his contemporary, and it is an important circumstance that he supplied, in his son, a complete refutation of all Foley's theories. Carl and John died within twelve days of one another, and both their great businesses went to only sons.

Dick took over the old man's chair, and was so oppressed by his uncongenial surroundings that he sold it for a ridiculous figure to Steven Martingale. The two were friends, so the sale was effected over a luncheon for which Dick paid.

Steven had arranged the lunch weeks ahead, had decided upon the course of conversation which would lead up to the question of sale, and had prepared his reply when Dick was manceuvered into offering the property. For Steven was his parent, and worse. Old Carl was a selfmade boor, with no refined qualities. Steven had the appearance and speech of a gentleman and shared certain views on life with the anthropoid ape.

Ugly stories floated around, and once old Jennifer came into the club in a condition bordering on hysteria and drank himself maudlin. He had hoped to bag Steven for the family, and had allowed his pretty daughter Fay a very free hand.

Too free, it seems. Nothing happened which in any way discommoded Steven. The old fellow owed him an immense amount of money, and Steven knew to a penny the exact strength of these financial legirons.

He was a strikingly handsome fellow, the type the shop-girls rave about—dark, tall, broad of shoulder and lean of flank, an athlete and something of a wit. A greater contrast to Dick could not be imagined, for Dick was thinnish and small, fair haired, rather short-sighted (Steven's flashing eye and long lashes were features that fascinated) and languid.

But he did not develop his left-handedness until after he was married.

Both Dick and Steven courted Thelma Corbett, and never a day passed but that their cars were parked in the vicinity of the Corbettménage. Corbett being on the danger-zone of bankruptcy was indifferent as to which of the two men succeeded in their quest, and Thelma was in a like case.

She was one of those pretty slender creatures whom. meeting, leave you with a vague unrest of mind. Where had you met her before? Then you realized (as I realized) that she was the ideal toward which all the line artists who ever drew pretty women were everlastingly striving. She was cold and sweet, independent and helpless, clever and vapid; you were never quite certain which was the real girl and which was the varnish and the finishing-school.

To everybody's surprise, she married Dick. Steven had willed it, of course. He half admitted as much one night between acts when we were smoking in the lobby of the Auditorium. Dick had at that time been married for the best part of a year and was childishly happy.

"I can't understand how Dick came to cut you out, Steven," I said. He was feeling pretty good toward me just about then, for I had pulled him through a sharp attack of grippe.

He laughed, that teasing little laugh of his.

"I thought it best," he said, a statement which could be taken two ways. That he was not exposing his modesty or displaying the least unselfishness, ho went on to explain:

"She was too young, too placid. Some women are like that. The men who marry them never wake them up. Some go through life with their hearts asleep and die in the belief that they have been happy. They have lived without 'struggle,' and only 'struggle' can light the fire which produces the perfect woman. I figured it that way."

I was silent.

"I figured it that way"— a favorite expression of his— explained in a phrase the inexplicable.

"That is why you find the most unlikely women running away with the most impossible men," he went on; "the heavens are filled with the woes of perfect husbands and the courts shudder with their lamentations. They are bewildered, stunned, outraged. They have showered their wealth and affection upon a delicate lady, and in return she has fled with a snubnosed chauffeur whose vocabulary is limited to twelve hundred words and whose worldly possessions are nil."

I said nothing, and soon after the bell rang and we went back to our seats. He drove me home that night and came up to my den for a drink, and I reopened the subject of Dick and his wife.

"Dick is one of Nature's waste products," he said. "He has neither initiative nor objective in life. How could old Magnus breed such a son? He was the cleverest, shrewdest, old devil in the City. Dick is just pap and putty—a good fellow and a useful fellow for holding my lady's wool or carrying my lady's Chow, but—"

He shook his head. "No 'struggle' there, Steve?" I asked. "Foley's theory works out in this case."

"Foley is a fool," smiled Steven. "What about me? Aren't I my father's son?"

I admitted that.

"No, Dick lives from breakfast to supper, and could no more work out a scheme as his father did than I could knit a necktie."

"And there is no 'struggle' in the establishment?" I repeated, and he nodded gravely. "There is no 'struggle,'" he said, and although he never said the words I felt him saying "as yet."

Steven became a frequent visitor at the Magnus' house— Dick told me this himself. "He's an amusing person," he said— I met him in the Park, and he stopped his car to talk"— and I can't help feeling that life is a little dull for Thelma."

It was much duller for people who were brought much into contact with Thelma, but I did not say so. She was the kind of hostess who wanted entertaining.

Everybody loved Dick in those days, and he was welcomed wherever he went. Later, when he passed through that remarkably awkward stage, a stage which we usually associate with extreme adolescence, he was not so popular, and I was a little bit worried about him. It grieved me to see a man with all the money in the world making a playtime of life, because people who live for play can find their only recreation in work, and he never expressed the slightest desire to engage himself in the pursuit which had built up his father's colossal fortune. He rode well, he shot well, he played a good game of golf, and it was a case of "Let's get Dick" for a fourth at bridge.

"The fact is," said Dick, when I tackled him one day, "heavy thinking bores me. Maybe if I had to, I would. Sometimes I feel that I have a flash of my father's genius, but I usually work out that moment of inspiration in a game of solitaire.

"One afternoon he took me home to tea, arriving a little earlier than usual. He was evidently surprised to find Steve's car drawn up near the house. He should have been more surprised when he walked through the French windows opening from the lawn to the drawing-room, and found Steve and Thelma side by side on a settee examining Medici prints. It may have been necessary for the proper study of Art that Steve's hand should be upon the girl's shoulder. Evidently she did not think so, for she tried to disengage herself, but Steve, much more experienced in the ways of the world, kept his hand in position and looked up with a smile. As for me, I felt de trop.

"Hello, people!" said Dick, glaring benignly into the flushed face of the girl, "do my eyes behold a scandal in process of evolution? Or have I interrupted an exposition on the art of Michael Angelo?"

Steve rose with a laugh.

"I brought Thelma some pictures," he said, "they're a new lot just published; they are rather fine, don't you think?"

Dick looked at the pictures and, having no artistic soul, said that they struck him as a little old-fashioned, and I saw the girl's lips curl in disdain of her husband, and felt a trifle sad.

Another time (I have learnt since) Dick found them lunching together at Madarino's, a curious circumstance in view of the fact that she had said she was going to spend the day with her mother.

Then one afternoon Dick went home and sounded his motor-horn loudly as he swept up the drive, and discovered his wife at one end of the drawing-room and Steve at the other, and they were discussing Theosophy loudly.

After tea Dick linked his arm in Steve's and took him into the grounds.

"Steve, old boy," he said affectionately, "I don't think I should come and see Thelma unless somebody else is here, old man."

"Why in Heaven's name shouldn't I?" asked Steve. "What rubbish you talk, Dick! Why, I've known Thelma as long as I've known you."

Dick scratched his chin.

"Yes, that seems a sound kind of argument," he said. "Still, I wouldn't if I were you. You know, servants and people of that kind talk."

But Steve smacked him on the back and told him not to be a goomp, and Thelma was so nice that evening that, when during a week-end Dick surprised his wife and Steve one morning walking with linked hands along an unfrequented path through the woods, he did no more than give them a cheery greeting, and passed on with a grin.

It was about this time that Dick started on his maladroit career. He became careless in his dress, could not move without knocking things over, went altogether wrong in his bridge, so that you could always tell which was Dick's score by a glance at the block. There was usually a monument of hundreds, two hundreds, and five hundreds erected above the line on the debit side, and when men cut him as a partner they groaned openly and frankly.

Harry Wallstein, who is a lunatic collector, gave him a rare Ming vase to examine, and Dick dropped it, smashing the delicate china into a hundred pieces. Of course he insisted upon paying the loss, but he could not soothe Harry's anguished soul. He had a trick too, when he was taking tea with some of his women friends, of turning quickly in a drawing-room and sweeping all the cups on to the floor. In the street he escaped death by miracles. Once he stood in the center of a crowded thoroughfare at the rush hour to admire the amethystine skies. A motor lorry and two taxicabs piled themselves up on the sidewalk in consequence, for it had been raining and the roads were slippery.

Dick footed the bill for the damage and went on his awkward way. It is extraordinary how quickly a man acquires a reputation for eccentricity. People forgot the unoffending Dick that used to be, and knew only the dangerous fool who was. When he called on Mrs. Tolmarsh, whose collection of Venetian glass has no equal in the country, the butler was instructed never to leave his side, to guide him in and out of the drawing-room, and under no circumstances to allow him to handle the specimens which Mrs. Tolmarsh invariably handed round for the admiration of her guests. Nevertheless he managed to crash a sixteenth-century vase and a decanter which had been made specially for Fillipo, Tyrant of Milan, and was adorned with his viperish crest.

And in the meantime Steven gave up his practice of calling three times a week on Mrs. Magnus and called every day.

Dick did not seem to mind, although he took to returning home earlier than had been his practice. I might have warned Dick. I preferred, however, to say a few words to Steven, and I got him alone in a corner of the library and I did not mince my words.

"I shall not moralize, Steven," I said, "for that is not my way. You have your own code and your own peculiar ideas concerning women, and so far you've got away with it. I do not doubt that you will get away with this matter because Dick seems to be drifting down the stream towards imbecility— but there are, thank Heaven, a few decent people in this town, and if you betray Dick you are going to have a pretty thin time. I won't commit the banality of asking you to look before you leap, because I know you're a pretty good looker!"

"Leaper!" he corrected. "No person who looks very carefully leaps at all. The world is divided into those two classes— lookers and leapers. Anyway, I am not very greatly concerned by what people think of me. If I were, I should have entered a monastery a long time ago. You've been straight with me, Doctor, and I'm going to be straight with you. My affairs are my affairs and concern nobody else. I shall do just as I think, and take a line which brings me the greatest satisfaction."

"Whosoever is hurt?" I asked.

"Whosoever is hurt," he said, and meant it. "I know just what is coming to me. I have figured it out."

There was no more to be said. To approach Dick was a much more delicate matter, for he was impervious to hints.

A week after I had talked to Steven I met Hariboy, who is a banker of standing and the president of my golf club. I met him professionally, for I had been called into his house to perform a minor operation on one of his children, and I was cleaning up in his dressing-room when he strolled in, and after some talk about the child he said:

"Steven Martingale is going away."

"Going away?" I repeated. "How do you know?"

"I know he has taken steamship accommodations for Bermuda. My secretary and his secretary are apparently friends, and she told my girl that Steven is doing a lot of rush work, and that he is leaving for a long holiday on the 18th."

"Do you know by what line?" I asked, and he told me.

Luckily the manager of the shipping office was a patient of mine, and I made it my business to call on him that afternoon.

"Yes, the ship leaves on the 18th," he said, "but I haven't Mr. Martingale on my passenger list."

We went through it together, and I traced my finger down the cabin numbers and their occupants.

"Who is this in No. 7 suite?" I asked. He put on his glasses and looked.

"Mr. and Mrs. Smith. I don't know who they are. It's not an uncommon name," he added humorously.

So that was that!

I do not think I should have moved any further in the matter if I had had the slightest degree of faith in Steven's honesty. But Steven was not a marrying man. He had once told me that under no circumstances would he think of binding his life with that of any woman, and had expounded his philosophy with that cold-blooded logic of his, which left me in no doubt at all that whatever fine promises he might make to Thelma Magnus, only one end of that advenlure was inevitable.

I sought Dick all over the town, and ran him to earth in the first place I should have looked— the card-room of Proctor's Club. I entered the room in time to hear the peroration of a violent address on idiocy delivered by Dick's late partner. His opponents were too busy adding up the score to take any interest in the proceeding.

Dick sat back in his chair, his hands in his pockets, a little smile on his thin face.

"Fortunes of war, old top," he murmured from time to time.

"Fortunes of war be—" roared Staine; who was his victim. "You go four spades on the queen, knave to five, and not another trick in your hand...!"

"Fortunes of war, old top," said Dick again, paid his opponents and rose, upsetting the table and scattering the cards in all directions.

"Awfully sorry," he murmured; "really awfully sorry!"

That "awfully sorry" of his came mechanically now.

"Now, Dick," said I, when I'd got him into my car, "you're coming straight home with me, and I'm going to talk to you like an uncle."

"Oh, Lord!" he groaned. "Not about Thelma?" I was astounded, and I suppose looked my astonishment. "Everybody talks to me about Thelma," said Dick calmly. "She's a dear, good girl, and as honest as they make 'em. I'm not a very amusing chap, you know, Doctor," he said mournfully, "and Steven is the kind of fellow who can keep a room in roars of laughter."

"But, my dear, good man," I said impatiently, "don't you realize that a man of Steven's character does not call daily on your wife to tell her funny stories?"

"I don't know," said Dick vaguely. "Thelma seems to like him, and I've really no grudge against old Steve. He's a leaper too," he said, with a quick, sidelong glance at me, "and that makes him ever so much more interesting to the women." lie chuckled at my astonishment. "He was telling us the other night about that amusing conversation he had with you."

"He did not tell you the whole of the conversation, I'll swear," said I dryly, but Dick showed no curiosity.

"Old Steven is a good fellow," he repeated. "I like him, and I tell everybody who comes to me with stories about him and Thelma that he is my very best friend."

I groaned in the spirit.

"Then," said I in despair, "it is useless telling you that Steven has booked two berths by the steamer which leaves on the 18th for Bermuda."

He nodded. "I know; he is taking his aunt," he said. "I got the same yarn from Chalmers, and I asked Steven, and he told me, yes, he was going away—"

"In the name of Smith?" I asked pointedly.

"In the name of Smith," repeated Dick gravely. "After all, he's a big power in the financial world, Doctor, and it is not good business for him to advertise his comings and goings."

After that there was no more to be said.

"We're having a little party on the 17th at the house. I wish you would come along," said Dick before I left him. "I've particularly asked Steve to come. It will be a send-off for him, though of course nobody must know that he is going abroad."

The dear, simple fool said this so solemnly that I could have kicked him. What could I do? I had a talk with Chalmers, who is as fond of Dick as I am, and he could offer no advice.

"It's hopeless," he said, "and the queer thing is that Dick has arranged to go out of town on the night of the 17th. So we can't even drag him to the ship to confront this swine!"

"Do you think he'll marry her?" I asked after a long pause in the conversation.

"Marry her!" scoffed Chalmers. "Did he marry Fay Jennifer? Did he marry that unhappy girl Steele? Marry her!"

It was a big party which Dick gave. His house lay about twenty miles out of town and is situated in the most gorgeous country. It was a hot autumn day, with a cloudless sky and a warm gentle breeze, the kind of day that tempts even the most confirmed of city birds into the open country.

I do not think it was wholly the salubrious weather that was responsible for the big attendance. Half the people, and all the women who were present, knew that on the following day Steven Martingale was leaving for Bermuda, and that Thelma would accompany him.

I saw the girl as soon as I arrived, and noted the bright eyes, the flushed cheek, and the atmosphere of hectic excitement in which she moved. She was a little tremulous, somewhat incoherent, just a thought shrill.

All Dick's parties were amusing and just a little unconventional. For example, in addition to the band and the troupe of al fresco performers and Grecian dancers, he usually had some sort of competition for handsome prizes, and the young people, particularly, looked forward to these functions with the greatest enjoyment. On this occasion there was a revolver-shooting competition for ladies and gentlemen, the prize for the women being a diamond bangle, and for the men a gold cigarette case.

Most men imagine themselves to be proficient in the arts which they do not practice, and nine out of ten who have never handled a gun boast of their marksmanship.

Dick sought me out and took me into the house and upstairs to his own snuggery.

"Doctor," said he, as he dropped into an easychair and reached for his cigarettes, "spare a minute to enlighten me. What was the Crauford smash? I only heard a hint of it last night, and I'm told that dad was positively wonderful."

It was queer he had never heard of Ralph Crauford and his fall. Old Man Magnus and he were bitter enemies, and whereas Crauford must nag and splutter from day to day, Magnus was prepared to wait. As usual he laid his plans ahead, and one morning failed to turn up at his office. The rumor spread that he was ill, and there was suport for the story, because you could never pass his house without seeing a doctor's waiting car. It was a puzzling case, and I myself was fooled. So was every specialist we brought in. For weeks at a time Magnus would be well, and then he would have a collapse and be absent from his office for days.

And all the time the Crauford crowd were waiting to jump in and smash two of the stocks he carried. We had advised a trip abroad, but it was not till the end of a year of these relapses and recoveries that he consented. He went to Palermo in Sicily, and after a month it was announced that he had died. Then the fun started. Crauford jumped into the market with a hammer in each hand, figuratively speaking. Tyne River Silver fell from 72 to 31, and all the time the executors of the estate were chasing one another to discover their authority to act. This went on for three days and then the blow fell. Old Man Magnus appeared on 'Change, looking a trifle stouter, a little browner, and infinitely cheerful.

Crauford had "sold over." It cost him his bank balance, his town house, and his country estate plus his wife's jewelry to get square with Magnus.

Dick listened to the story, his eyes beaming, interrupting me now and again with a chuckle of sheer joy.

"Wonderful old dad!" he said at the end; "wonderful old boy! And he was foxing all the time. Kidding 'em along! The art of it, the consummate art of it! Specialists and sea voyages and bulletins every hour!"

He stood up abruptly and threw away his cigarette.

"Let's go and see the women shoot," he said.

There was the usual fooling amongst the girls when their end of the competition started. In spite of their "Which-end-shall-I-hold-it?" and their mock terror, they shot remarkably well.

I had caught a glimpse of Steven, a silent, watchful, slightly amused man, who most conspicuously avoided Thelma, but came down to the booth and stood behind ier when she fired her six shots for the prize. Incidentally not one bullet touched the target, and the wobbling of her pistol was pitiful.

Steven's shooting was beautiful to watch. Every bullet went home in the center of the target and the prize was assuredly his.

"Now watch me, Steve," said Dick, and at the sight of Dick with a gun in his hand even his best friends drew back.

He fired one shot, a bull's-eye, the second shot was a little bit to the left, but nevertheless a bull's-eye, the third shot passed through the hole which the first had made, the fourth and fifth were on the rim of the black center—and then he turned with a smile to Steven.

"My old pistol is much better than the best of the new ones," he said.

He had refused to shoot with the weapons provided, and had brought a long ungainly thing of ancient make; but as he was not a competitor in the strict sense of the word, there had been no protest.

The sixth shot went through the bull and there was a general clapping.

"How's that?" said Dick, twiddling his revolver.

"Fine," said Steven. "The Looker shoots almost as well as the Leaper," laughed Dick, and pressed the trigger carelessly. There was a shot and a scream. Steve balanced himself for a moment, looking at Dick in a kind of awed amazement, and then crumpled up and fell.

As for Dick he stood, the smoking revolver still in his hand, frowning down at the prostrate figure.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, but Steven Martingale had passed beyond the consideration of apologies. He was dead before I could reach him.

THAT OLD-FASHIONED revolver of Dick's had seven chambers, and people agreed both before and after the inquest that it was the kind of fool thing that Dick would have.

"He ought to have seen there were seven shots when he loaded the infernal weapon," said Chalmers. "Of course, if it was anybody but Dick I should have thought that the whole thing was manoeuvred, and that all this awkwardness of his had been carefully acted for twelve months in order to supply an excuse at the inquest and get the 'Accidental Death' verdict. It is the sort of thing that his father would have done. A keen, far-seeing old devil was John Magnus."

I said nothing, for I had seen the look in Dick's eyes when he said "leaper."

At any rate, the shock wakened Dick, for his awkwardness fell away from him like an old cloak, and Thelma Magnus must have found some qualities in him which she had not suspected, for she struck me as a tolerably happy woman when I met her the other day. But I shall not readily forget that hard glint in Dick's eyes when he spoke the last words which Steven Martingale was destined to hear. I had seen it once before in the eyes of John Seymour Magnus the day he smashed Crauford.

Maybe some of the old man's hormones were working. I should like to ask Foley about it.

_______________

15. The Man Who Never Lost

THE MAN in the gray cashmere suit who lolled with his face to the Hotel de Paris was dimly conscious that from one of the balconies he was being particularized. He guessed also that he was in process of being described, but he was hardened to notoriety. He could almost hear the man tell the girl, "That is the celebrated Twyford— the fellow with the system who breaks the bank regularly every week."

Too lazy and somnolent to raise his head even to identify the newcomers to Monte Carlo (as he guessed they were), he stretched his long legs to the sun and settled sideways for greater comfort.

He was forty and grayish. A lean, clean-shaven face; large, regular white teeth that showed readily, for he was easily amused; eyes of steady, unwinking blue, and a gun-metal nerve: these were some of the features and qualities of Aubrey Twyford, The Man Who Never Lost.

"That's Aubrey Twyford," said the envious young man on the balcony. "I wish to Heaven I had half his luck or a tenth."

"Poor Bobby!" said the girl. Her eyes were sympathetic and kindly, and at the pressure of her hand on his arm he turned.

"Whose luck?"

The middle-aged lady who came through the French windows and joined them on the balcony had no sympathetic quality in her tone, nor was there kindliness in her nod.

"Hello, Bobby," she said, and gave him her cheek; "I heard you had arrived. Who were you talking about?"

He nodded to the square and, shading her eyes, Mrs. Brane took in the lounging figure, from the tips of his white shoes to the crown of his gray hat.

"That's Aubrey Twyford— they call him The Man Who Can't Lose. He comes to Monte Carlo every season from February to May and never leaves the table except as a winner."

"Wonderful man!" said Mrs. Brane dryly. "Are you thinking of emulating his example, Bobby?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, aunt," said Bobby Gardner with a laugh, "I had hopes."

She sniffed.

"I hate gamblers," she said shortly. "He must be a very horrid person." She looked again at the object of their conversation.

Twyford had risen and was walking slowly to meet a short, stout man who had come down the steps of the Hotel de Paris.

"That's Souchet, the big Paris banker. He is a millionaire, and I wouldn't change places with him for all his money. His daughter ran away with the chauffeur this week, and the poor old gentleman is quite knocked out. He is losing money at the tables, but the beggar can well afford it," said Bobby gloomily.

The girl had gone into the room, and his aunt walked closer to him.

"Why did you come to Monte Carlo, Bobby"

"Why?" His pretence of surprise was very transparent. "Why, I come here every year."

"But why have you come now?" she asked.

He did not immediately reply nor meet her eye.

"I am getting very tired of this business, Bobby," she said quietly. "You are making a fool of Madge. The girl is simply worried to death. Why don't you propose to her if you are going to?"

He laughed a little bitterly, for Bobby had occasional moments when he was sorry for himself.

"With £400 a year?"

"Bah," she said contemptuously, "as if money made any difference!"

He swung round.

"It makes a lot of difference. Madge is a very rich girl and I am a very poor man. When I can meet her on something like equal terms, I will ask her."

"That is just your vanity," said the elder woman; "man's vanity It would not worry you if she were poor and you were rich. You would not regard it as being an undignified thing for her to accept your wealth."

"That is different," he said.

"Only from a man's point of view," said she, and walked back into the sitting-room.

A quarter of an hour later all three passed into the rooms, through the big and terribly serious public room into the ornate Cercle Privée. They passed along the roulette tables and came to the crowd about the trente-et-quarante players.

"That is the only game he ever plays," said Bobby in an undertone. "Look at him packing it up!"

Before this man in gray, with his expressionless face and his lean, white hands, was a thick pile of thousand-franc notes, and whilst they looked he had added 24,000 to his stock. On the opposite side of the table Bobby saw the dour, bearded face of Souchet the banker. He was not gambling, unless betting in louis can be so described, but five out of every six stakes he played were raked to the croupier.

"Who is Aubrey Twyford?"

"It is a rum story," said Bobby, leading the girl to one of the seats by the wall. "He used to be a professor of psychology, a man who never gambled and took his modest holiday every year in Monte Carlo. People who knew him here twenty years ago say that he never risked as much as a five-franc piece on the table until he discovered his system."

"Has he a system?" she asked.

Bobby nodded.

"The Casino authorities have tried to find what it is. They have had detectives and officials watching him for years. All his coups have been recorded and examined by the best system experts in Europe, but apparently there is no system at all. I have reason to believe they have searched his baggage time and time again to discover some clue which will put them on to his scheme of play, but they found nothing."

"That is very strange, Bobby," she said.

"This is his last season, by the way. He told me yesterday he was chucking it up."

At that moment there was a stir at the table. Souchet and Twyford rose together and walked away, Souchet explaining something with a little smile and The Man Who Never Lost nodding his reply as he pocketed his winnings. Bobby noticed that he needed two pockets.

"Go on about him," said the girl. "I am fearfully interested."

"About twelve years ago he started playing, and since then he has never looked back. The Casino officials say that he has taken nearly £700,000 from the tables in the past ten years."

She frowned.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked quickly.

"I had an idea," she said. "That is all."

He did not press her. Mr. Aubrey Twyford entertained on a lavish scale. His table, in a corner of the Café de Paris, was always crowded for dinner, and when Bobby and the girl came in that night they found the usual throng about him.

"I forgot something about Twyford, and I ought to tell you this in justice to him," he said. "He is most awfully good to people who have bad luck. I have known him to go down to see off a man who has gone broke, and to hand him an envelope containing every penny he had lost. You see," said Bobby, with a smile, "one is frightfully communicative at Monte Carlo, and one knows just how the other fellows are doing at the tables. Last season a widow came down with £3000 and lost it in four days! She had come down because she wanted to raise enough money to buy her son a business. It was a mad sort of idea, and Twyford told her so when he got into conversation with her the first day she played, and do you know what he did? He gave her £6000 on the day she left Monte Carlo on the promise she would not gamble again."

"It is incredible," said the girl. "Who is that man next to him?"

"That is young Stanton. His father is a very rich Manchester merchant. He won 200,000 francs this afternoon."

She laughed.

"Is the financial position of anybody in Monte Carlo secret?" she asked.

"Not a bit," laughed Bobby. "I bet you, the croupiers could tell you your income to within a pound."

Mr. Stanton had taken a little too much wine. He was loud and talkative.

"I'm going to set 'em alight tonight," he said, with a laugh. "Stand by, everybody, and wee me break the bank."

Twyford raised his glass of Vichy water and sipped.

"It is very unlucky to talk about breaking the bank," he said.

"Luck?" said the other. "My dear chap, there isn't any luck in it! One has only to keep one's head—"

"Don't despise luck," said Aubrey. He had a rich mellow voice and spoke slowly and deliberately. "There are three lucky moments in every twenty-four hours, no more. I have studied the subject very carefully. If you get in on the flood-tide of your luck, you can't lose. If you strike any of the other minutes you cannot win."

"Do you suggest that you only win for three minutes in every twenty- four hours?" scoffed Stanton.

"I am not talking about myself," said the other quietly. "I work on a system, and by my system I cannot lose."

"But if you've got a system," persisted Stanton, gulping down a glass of champagne, "why is it you are not playing all the time? Why, you go for days without making a bet!"

"I shall bet tonight," said Twyford quietly, "and I shall win and win heavily. I am going to play maximums of twelve thousand francs."

"What we ought to do"—it was Souchet the banker who spoke —"is to follow our friend, but how? He does not play his stake until they start dealing the cards, and then it is too late to follow him." Twyford smiled.

"That is also part of my system," he said dryly.

The girl leant across the table to Bobby.

"Bobby," she said, "take me back to the Casino when Mr. Twyford goes. I am most anxious to watch his play."

"I'll get you a seat near him," said Bobby. "There are generally one or two sleepers who will give up their seats for a louis."

"Sleepers?" she said, puzzled.

"That isn't the name, I don't think," he said, and explained that there was a class of habitué at the rooms who did nothing but sit on the off-chance that somebody would put down a stake and either walk away or forget to take his winnings. In this case the wily watcher reaches out his hand and rakes in the "sleeper" unless the croupier is extra vigilant and has noticed who staked the money.

Presently the big party broke up, and they strolled through the café across the deserted square. With very little difficulty Bobby secured a seat, two removed from Twyford, for the girl. immediately opposite her sat the optimistic Stanton, flushed and voluble.

True to his word, Twyford produced a bigger pad of notes than he had taken away in the afternoon. His first stake was for twelve thousand francs, and this he lost. He lost his second stake on black. He staked again on black and won. The girl watched him, fascinated. He dodged from black to red, from red to couleur, from couleur to invers, and five out of every six coups he won. It was enthralling to the girl, possibly because the scene and the setting were so novel and bizarre. She watched the dealer as with amazing dexterity he led out the two lines of cards...

"Rouge perd et couleur."

A clicking of counters against rakes, a flutter of mill notes, and invariably it seemed it was toward Aubrey Twyford that the notes fluttered. She kept note of the colors in a little book which Bobby had provided. There was no method in the run of the cards; they dodged from black to red and from red to black. They ran three times on black before they started zig-zagging from black to red again, and it seemed that everybody at the table was losing—except The Man Who Could Not Lose.

Mr. Stanton was no longer voluble. His big pile had steadily decreased until it was the merest slice. He was losing his nerve. He would put a big stake upon a color, then change his mind and withdraw the greater part of it before the cards were dealt. Once he put down a maximum, hesitated, and took it off, substituting 500 francs on the red. The red won, and he cursed audibly. Aubrey Twyford, who had had his maximum on the red, smiled.

At eleven o'clock Stanton pushed back his chair and walked round to Twyford.

"They've cleaned me out," he said. "I've lost 300,000 francs. You don't seem to have done so badly."

Twyford smiled.

"Do you want any money?" he asked.

"No, I've finished for the night," said Stanton. "I'll try again in the morning," and walked past him to the bar.

Twyford caught Bobby's eye and nodded.

"Come and drink orangeade," he said. "I am bloated with wealth."

"May I introduce Mr. Twyford?"

The girl looked into the half-smiling eyes of The Man Who Could Not Lose, and saw a whole wealth of humanity and humor in their depths.

"You must drink orangeade, Miss Radley," he said; "everybody does it."

"It sounds yery innocuous," she laughed.

"That is just what we want," said he. "I have been watching your wonderful system, Mr. Twyford," she said.

He chuckled.

"I hope you are not going to tell people how I do it," he said dryly. "Everybody watches my wonderful system and I fear they are as wise as ever, though why they should not understand it from the first, Heaven only knows."

They sat down in the big, comfortable armchairs with which the buffet was well furnished, and the waiter brought them great tumblers of fragrant orange-juice packed to the brim with cracked ice.

"When I have finished at Monte Carlo, I must write a book about my system," said Twyford.

"And I will be one of your first readers," said the girl. "I am sure I shall come straight to Monte Carlo and win a fortune."

He shook his head, and the smile vanished from his face.

"It requires a heart of iron to work my system," he said. "It is just because I am getting human that I am giving it up."

Bobby went to the bar to get some sandwiches, and the girl turned to the man.

"Mr. Twyford," she said, speaking rapidly in a low voice, "there is something I want to say to you. You are really leaving Monte Carlo for good?"

He nodded.

"And you are not going to work your system again?"

"I am not," he said; "that you may be sure."

"Suppose, Mr. Twyford," she dropped her eyes and fingered the arm of the chair nervously, "suppose somebody offered you a big sum for your system, would you sell it?"

She looked up sharply and saw he was smiling.

"Not for myself," she said, going red, "but there is somebody— somebody I want to see well off."

"I could not sell it," he said shortly. "I am very, very sorry, and I am really acting in the best interests of the— er— somebody you want to help, but it is impossible."

She bit her lip.

"May I ask you not to tell— ?"

He raised his hand to stop her and regarded the returning Bobby with more interest. Her aunt came into the buffet at that moment and claimed her.

"You ought to be in bed, Madge," she said. "Bobby, why do you keep Madge up so late?"

Then she saw Twyford, and the girl introduced them.

"Have you been teaching them your system, Mr. Twyford?" she asked, with a little smile.

"I teach all Monte Carlo my system," he laughed, "and really the Casino should charge a fee to see me play."

When the women had gone, Twyford turned to Bobby and favored him with a long scrutiny.

"Mr. Gardner," said the elder man, "you aren't playing today."

Bobby shrugged as he sank back in his seat.

"What's the use?" he said. "I fool about with louis, and I neither make money nor lose money. I haven't the nerve to be a gambler, and yet I never have been so tempted to risk every cent I have as I am today.

Twyford sucked at his straw.

"Bad news?" he asked.

"No," said Bobby, "just a realization of what a perfectly useless ass I am!"

"That sort of thing does upset you," said Twyford.

"Do you know what I am going to do?" asked Bobby suddenly, and his fresh young face fired at the thought. "I'm going tb have a real old gamble tomorrow. I've got a couple of thousand pounds which I've been putting aside for— for— well, for something, and I'm going to play thousand-franc stakes!"

"You will lose," said Twyford, without hesitation. "Every man who goes out to win big money because he must win big money loses."

"How do you know I must?" said the other sharply.

"I gather from your tone that it is necessary for you to have a lot of money," said Twyford, "and when a man goes out to win that money he loses."

"Always?"

"In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred," said Twyford; "I think the percentage is a little higher. I kept very complete psychological data during the first few years I was at Monte Carlo, and I think it works out at ninety-nine point four per cent."

Bobby stared at him.

"Then I am going to be the point six per cent. that wins!" he said, and rushed off to see the girl before she retired for the night.

Twyford looked after him with a little smile, then with a shrug of his shoulders he beckoned the waiter.

Bobby Gardner came down to the vestibule of the hotel the next morning and found Twyford reading a newspaper. "I was waiting for you," he said. "Do you think you could persuade your ladies to take an auto ride to Grasse?"

"It is awfully kind of you," said Bobby gratefully.

The girl was at first reluctant. She had felt the last night's refusal as a rebuff, but Mrs. Brane wanted to go to Grasse to buy some perfumes, and Madge consented.

It was a much more pleasant ride than she had anticipated. The beauties of the Grand Cornich had been so often described to her that she was prepared to be bored, but the wonder of hill and valley, of narrow mountain roads and dizzy precipices, filled her with amazement and delight.

It was on the journey back, when they had stopped at the Gorge du Loup for afternoon tea, that Aubrey Twyford beckoned her more with a look than a gesture, and she detached herself from Bobby and went to him.

"I have been thinking of what you said last night," he said. "Will you walk a little way up the Gorge with me?"

"About the system?" she said quickly.

He nodded.

"You will sell it?"

"No, I will not sell it," he said, "but I will give it to you. I have decided to leave Monte Carlo tomorrow. All the stories they tell about me are perfectly true. I am a very rich man, and there is no further need for me to gamble. First," he said, turning and facing her, "you must promise me that you will not reveal my secret until after I have left Monte Carlo."

"I promise," she said, "but—"

"There must be no 'buts,'" he said, "not even to Mr. Gardner!"

He saw the colour mount to her cheek, and smiled inwardly, then, taking her arm, he slowly paced the road, and the system of The Man Who Could Not Lose was revealed.

At first she was incredulous. Then she felt a sense of revulsion. Then, as his calm, even tones related the story of his years at Monte Carlo, she recognized that he was speaking as a doctor might speak about his cases, cold-bloodedly and scientifically. At the end of the revelation she held out her hand.

"I am awfully obliged and grateful to you, Mr. Twyford. No, I shan't tell Bobby, and I don't think I shall tell anybody else."

"You will see tonight," he repeated for the second time.

She inclined her head gravely. They were nearing the party again when he said suddenly:

"Miss Radley, Bobby Gardner is a real good fellow, as clean a specimen of a boy as I have ever met. I have seen him here year after year, and I have particularly studied him."

She had gone very red, but it was with a smile that she asked:

"Why do you tell me this, Mr. Twyford?"

"It was quite unnecessary," he agreed. "I am sure you have noticed those qualities yourself."

The trente-et-quarante table was crowded when Twyford took his seat. Bobby, bright of eye and inordinately cheerful, laid his modest fortune before him, and nodded brightly to Twyford. Then the gambling began. Bobby started with a stake of a thousand francs and won. He increased his stake and won again. With the exception of three he won twelve successive coups, and suddenly Twyford rose from the table with a little laugh, picked up the remainder of his money, and left the trente- et-quarante table for good.

He stood watching Bobby, and Bobby was winning heavily until the girl whispered something in his ear when he, too, rose, both hands filled with notes and counters.

Twyford was sitting on a bench smiling, and he jerked his head inviting them, but he was only looking at the girl.

"Come and sit down," he said. "I want to ask you a question."

He shook an admonitory forefinger at her, and she laughed. "I am not going to ask you whether you told Bobby Gardner my precious secret," he said.

"I thought you were," she replied in surprise. "I am merely going to ask you this. Have you become engaged to Bobby since I saw you last?" She nodded.

"That explains it," said the other. He rose and shook hands with both of them, and The Man Who Could Not Lose left the gaming rooms, never to reappear.

"You see," began the girl, "Mr. Twyford was a great psychologist."

"But do you mean to say," said the incredulous Bobby, "that he told you his system before he left?"

She nodded.

"By the way," he added, "do you know he lost nearly 200,000 francs last night!"

She nodded again. "I guessed that," she said, "but I don't think that will worry him very much."

"What was the system?" said Bobby.

"I was telling you," said the girl severely, "when you interrupted. He studied the people of Monte Carlo, especially the gambling people, for eight years, and the thing he discovered was that there are conditions under which a gambler cannot win. If a man is worried about some outside matter, if he is losing steadily and cannot afford to lose, or if he comes to the tables and simply must win money, Mr. Twyford knew that whatever else happened, his money would go, and the majority of his stakes would vanish. And when he found this out he took the trouble to discover who at Monte Carlo was in trouble, who wanted money very badly, who was playing with their last stakes— and he played against them. If they backed red he backed black, if they backed couleur he backed invers."

"Good lord!" gasped Bobby; "was that playing the game?"

"That's what I asked him," said the girl, "and he had no difficulty in convincing me that it was. It was not he who was influencing the bad luck of the others, their bad luck was simply influencing him to fortune. Sometimes the man with the bad luck would only lose a few thousand francs, and Mr. Twyford would win hundreds of thousands by betting against him. If he knew a man or woman whom he had played against was ruined, he always made good their losses before they left— he said he could afford to, because he was very often playing twelve thousand francs against their forty. He said it is the only system in the world, and I believe it is."

"But why did he lose last night?" asked Bobby, and the girl smiled.

"I suppose it was because he was playing against somebody who ought to have been radiantly happy," she said. "Didn't you hear him ask me if I had accepted you?"

__________________

16. Code No. 2

THE SECRET SERVICE never call themselves anything so melodramatic. If they speak at all, it is vaguely of "The Department"— not even "The Intelligence Department," you will note. It is a remarkable department, however, and not the least of the remarkable men who served— in a minor capacity, it is true— was Schiller.

He was an inventive young Swiss with a passion for foreign languages. He knew all the bad men in London— bad from the violently political standpoint— and was useful to the Chief Secretary (Intelligence), though Bland and the big men... well, they didn't dislike him, but they sort of... I don't know how to put it.

Watch a high-spirited horse pass a scrap of white paper on the road. He doesn't exactly shy, but he looks at the flapping thing very expectantly.

He was never in the Big Game, though he tried his best to get there. But the Big Game was played by men who "chew ciphers in the cradle," as Bland put it.

In some mysterious way Schiller got to know that Reggie Batten had been shot dead whilst extracting the mobilization orders of the 14th Bavarian Corps from a safe in Munich— this was in 1911, and the sad occurrence was described as an "aviation accident."

The Munich military authorities took Reggie's body up in an aeroplane and dropped it... and the Munich newspapers gave poor Reggie some beautiful notices, and said that the funeral would be at two o 'clock, and they hoped that all his loving friends would gather round. Such of his unsuspecting acquaintances as did gather were arrested and searched, their lodgings and baggage ransacked, and were in due course most incontinently sent across the frontier.

Bland, who was in Munich, did not attend the funeral; in fact, he left the beer city without lingering unnecessarily.

He was back in town only a day when Schiller asked for an interview.

Bland, square-chinned, clean-shaven, and wholly impassive, heard particulars of Schiller's application and laughed.

"You are altogether wrong in your view of Mr. Batten," he said. "He was unconnected with this department, and his death was due to a very deplorable accident. Therefore I cannot give you his job."

Schiller heard and bowed.

"I have been misinformed, sir," he said politely.

He went to work in another way and made a carefully planned attack upon the Chief Secretary, who had-reached that delicate stage of a man's career which is represented by the interregnum between the end of a period of usefulness and the consciousness of the fact.

Sir John Grandor had been in his time the greatest Intelligence man in Europe, but now— he still talked of wireless telegraphy as "a wonderful invention."

Yet Sir John was chief, and a fairly shrewd chief. His seal of office was Code No. 2, which no mortal eye had seen save his. It lay on the bottom shelf of the safe between steel-bound covers, sheet after sheet of close writing in his own neat hand.

No. 2 Code is a very secret one. It is the code which the big agents employ. It is not printed, nor are written copies circulated, but is learnt under the tuition of the Chief himself. The men who know Code No. 2 do not boast of their knowledge, because their lives hang upon a thread— even in peace time.

Schiller could never be a big agent. For one thing, he was a naturalized foreign subject and the big men are nationals, trained to the Game from the day they enter the Office. They are educated men, condemned for life to dissociate themselves from the land of their birth, and who they are, or where they live, is known only to three men, two of whom have no official existence.

Sir John liked Schiller and did many things for him. He told him stories of his past adventures and Schiller listened attentively. In the course of one of these post-prandial discussions (he was a most presentable young man, and Sir John frequently took him home to dinner), Schiller casually mentioned Code No. 2. He spoke of it with easy familiarity, and Sir John discussed the Code in general terms. He told his guest how it was kept in the special safe, how it was made up on the loose-leaf system, and how it was a nuisance because it was always in disorder because he had to consult it every day, and invariably replaced the sheets he had been using on the top, irrespective of their alphabetical right to that position.

The young man had innocently suggested that he should come to Sir John's office every night and sort them out, but the old man smiled benevolently and had said he thought not.

Bland summoned Grigsby to his office one day, and that florid young man came to the tick of the clock.

"This fellow Schiller is bothering me," said Bland in the low tones which are almost second nature in the Service. "He is a smart fellow and very useful, but I mistrust him."

"He has a blameless record," said the other, staring out of the window, "and he knows little of the bigger things— Sir John is a ditherer, but he's close enough. What is worrying you now?"

Bland strode up and down the room.

"He is inventing a new wireless receiver," he said, "and he has got the old man interested. He works all day at it in his room, and at night he carries it down to Sir John's office, where it is most religiously locked in the safe.

"Of course, it is absurd to imagine that the box— it is about the size of a biscuit-tin— can contain anything with human intelligence and get out in an air- tight safe and walk around, or go squinting at the code; but, somehow, I don't like it."

Grigsby chuckled.

"It's a new one on me," he confessed. "I'm not denying that Schiller isn't clever; he invented a draught excluder for my room which is a model of ingenuity, but I can hardly imagine a wireless receiver which reads and transmits a code from the interior of a steel safe."

But Bland was not convinced.

He sent for May Prince. She was holiday-making in Devonshire, but came at once to town: a straight slip of a girl— she looked eighteen, though in truth she was ten years older— with the loveliest smile in the world, a pair of appraising gray eyes, and a mouth which, in repose, was a little inclined to droop.

"Sorry to disturb you on your holiday," said Bland, "but I want Schiller kept under observation. Next week you will be discharged from the Department for neglect of duty. You will retire with a grievance, and you will tell Schiller, whom you will continue to meet, that I am a beast and that I lose a great deal of money backing racehorses. I will have a few bookmakers' accounts prepared for you, which you will show discreetly."

"Is he to blackmail you?" she asked.

Bland shook his head.

"If he is all I think he is, he will not. No, he might give you confidence for confidence— so long."

And May, with a nod, went out.

Schiller's invention took an unconscionable time to develop. Yet he was enthusiastic over its possibilities and inspired the Chief with some of his enthusiasm. He worked in his spare time at the machine, and regularly every evening at live minutes to six he would carry his heavy box to the Chief's office, solemnly deposit his burden on the iron grill which formed the one shelf of the safe, and watch the locking up with a jealous eye.

And May Prince had nothing to report. Three days before that fatal 1st of August which brought so much destruction and misery to Europe, Bland, who had been working day and night in the interest of his department, went up to Schiller's room to question him regarding the bona fides of a certain Antonio Malatesta, suspected of being an agent of the Central Powers. Bland very seldom visited the offices of his subordinates, but on this occasion his 'phone was out of order.

He found the door locked and knocked impatiently. Presently it was opened by the smiling Schiller. The table was covered with a litter of wire, electric batteries, tools, and screws, but of the great wireless receiver there was no sign.

"You are looking for my wonder-box, sir?" said Schiller. "She is in my safe— soon I will give you the most remarkable demonstration! Even today I caught a signal from the Admiralty— through a closed window."

Bland was not listening.

He stood erect, his nose in the air, sniffing.

There was a faint, sweetish smell— a scent of camphor and something else. Schiller watched him through narrowed eyes.

"H'm," said Bland, and, turning on his heel, left the room.

A telegram lay on the table. It had been delivered in his brief absence:

SCHILLER IS AGENT IN CENTRAL EUROPEAN PAY. HE IS HEAD OF CRYPTOGRAM DEPARTMENT. HAVE PROOF.— MAY.

Bland pulled open the drawer of his desk, took out an automatic pistol, and raced through the door, and took the stairs two at a time.

Schiller's door was open, but he had gone.

He had not passed out through the lobby or the front entrance of the building, but a commissionaire on duty at the side door had seen him pass and had heard him hail a cab.

Bland went back to his office and put through a 'phone call to the police:

"Watch all railway stations and docks. Arrest and detain Augustus Schiller."

He described him briefly, but with a sure touch.

"It is very lamentable," said Sir John, really troubled, "but I can , t think he has taken away anything of importance. Has he removed his invention?"

"I have that all right, Sir John," said Bland grimly, "and tonight with your permission I am going to see what happens."

"But surely you don't think!"

Bland nodded.

"I haven't monkeyed with it at all, but I've listened very carefully through a microphone and there is no doubt that it contains a clockwork mechanism. It is almost silent, but I have detected the sound. I suggest that we place the box where it is usually put, leave the safe door open, and watch."

Sir John frowned. All this seemed a reflection on his judgment and, as such, was to be resented, but he was too loyal a man in the Service to which he had given forty-five years of his life to allow his injured vanity to come before his public duty.

At six o 'clock the box was placed in the safe.

"Is that where it was always put?" asked Bland.

"I generally— in fact invariably— put it on the iron grid."

"Just above Code 2, I see, sir."

The Chief Secretary frowned again, but this time in an effort of thought.

"That is true," he said slowly; "once, I remember, when the box was placed a little to one side Schiller pushed it to the center, which I thought was a little impertinent of him."

The two men drew up a couple of arm-chairs and seated themselves before the safe.

Their vigil promised to be a long one.

Eight, nine, ten o'clock passed, and nothing happened.

"I think it is rather ridiculous, don't you?" asked Sir John testily, as the quarter to eleven chimed.

"It seems so," said Bland doggedly, "but I want to see— good God— look!"

Sir John gasped.

Immediately beneath the box was Code 2, enclosed in a leather binder, the edges of which were bound, for durability sake, with a thin ribbon of steel.

Now, slowly the cover of the book was rising. It jerked up a little then fell, leapt again and fell back, as though there were something inside which was struggling to get free. Then of a sudden the cover opened and remained stiffly erect, forming, with the contents, the letter L, the upright of which was the cover.

There was a "click," and the interior of the safe was illuminated with a soft greenish radiance. It threw a glow upon the top page of the code which lasted for nearly a minute. Then it died away and the cover of the book fell.

"Phew!" whistled Bland.

He lifted the black box carefully from the safe and carried it to Sir John's desk, examined the bottom of the box with a long and patient scrutiny, then set it down.

"Code No. 2 is in the hands of the enemy, sir," he said.

It was daylight when he finished his investigations. Half the box was taken up by accumulators. They supplied the current which, operating through a powerful magnet, lifted the cover of the Code-book. They gave the light to the wonderful little mercurial-vapor lamps, which afforded the concealed camera just enough light to make an effective exposure.

"The little clockwork arrangement is, of course, simple," said Bland, "that sets the time for the machine to work and switches the current on and off. It probably opens and closes the shutters which hide the lens and the lamp and the magnet. I suspected the camera when I smelt the film in his room."

Sir John, white and haggard, nodded.

"Get me out of this as well as you can, Bland," he said gruffly. "I'll retire at the end of the year. I'm a damned old man."

He walked to the door and paused with his fingers on the handle.

"There are thirty men's lives in Schiller's keeping," he said; "their names and addresses are in that book. I suppose he got through the book. I am so careless that I changed the order of the pages almost every day, and the devil has been at work for nine months. He ought to have worked through the book by now, for there was a different sheet on top every time."

"I'll do my best, sir," said Bland.

Schiller was away— and safely away— before war was declared. He was seen in Holland and was traced to Cologne. There was no possibility of changing the code, and messages were already coming through from agents.

Bland took a bold step. Through a man in Denmark he got into communication with Schiller and offered to make a deal. But Schiller was not selling. In the telegraphed words of the emissary whom Bland had sent:

"Schiller is receiving an enormous fee from enemy government for decoding wireless messages that your agents are sending. He alone knows the code."

Nothing daunted, Bland again got into communication with the traitor, offering him an enormous sum if he would consent to return to a neutral country and retain his secret.

"Meet me in Holland, and I, will fix everything," his message ended. It elicited a reply which was characteristic of the ingenious master-spy:

"Come into Belgium and I will arrange."

A mad suggestion, for Belgium was now enemy ground, but Bland took his life in his hands, and a long glass dagger in his handbag, and left the same night for the Continent.

Bland went into Belgium by the back door and made a laborious way to Brussels. It would not be in the national interest to explain the means and methods he employed to make his entry into that carefully guarded land, but it is sufficient to say that he met Schiller, looking very prosperous, in the estaminet of the Gold Lion at Hazbruille, a small village on the Ghent-Lille Road.

"You are a very brave man, Mr. Bland," complimented Schiller, "and I wish I could oblige you in what you wish. Unfortunately, I cannot."

"Then why did you bring me here?" asked Bland.

The other looked at him curiously.

"I have a certain code," he said quietly. "I have it complete with certain exceptions: there are three pages missing. What do you want for them?"

Here was a staggerer for a smaller man than Bland.

"That is a fair offer," he said, calmness itself, "but what is the particular code you are buying?"

"No. 2," said the other, "I thought "

Bland interrupted him.

"No. 2 Code?" he said, sipping his bock (he was for the time being a Belgian peasant). "Of course, that's rubbish. Neither you nor I know No. 2 Code; the code you stole was No.3."

Schiller smiled superiorly.

"When you get back to London," he said, "ask your Chief whether 'Agate' does not mean 'Transports loading at Borkum.'"

"You might have got hold of that particular word by accident," said Bland grudgingly.

"Ask him if 'Optique' does not mean 'Emperor has gone to Dresden,'" persisted the calm Schiller.

Bland looked round the room thoughtfully.

"You know a great deal, my friend," he said.

The woman who managed the estaminet came in a little later and found Bland pulling slowly at a rank cigar, his elbows on the table, a half-emptied bock before him.

The woman glanced with a little smile at Schiller.

"He's tired," said Bland, emptying the bock. "Let him sleep on. And don't let the flies disturb him," he added humorously.

Schiller lay sideways on the bench at which Bland was sitting, his face to the wall, and over his head was a coarse blue handkerchief.

"He will not be disturbed," said Madame, and pocketed the five-sou tip that Bland gave her with a grateful smirk.

"When he wakes," said Bland at the door, "tell him I have gone on to Ghent."

Three hours later a German Landsturm soldier who had come for his evening coffee, whisked away the handkerchief which covered the sleeper's face, and stammered:

"Gott!"

For Schiller was dead, and had been dead for three hours. It took even the doctor quite a long time to discover the blade of the glass dagger in his heart.

A week after this Bland was dressing for dinner in his West End flat, and had reached the patience stage of bow-tying, when his valet informed him that Grigsby had called.

"I told him you were dressing, sir," said Taylor, "but Mr. Grigsby is that full of his horse winning the Gatwick steeplechase that he won't take 'No' for an answer."

Taylor was a privileged person, and was permitted to be critical even of Bland's friends. Taylor was an ideal servant from his master's point of view, being simple and garrulous. To a man in Bland's profession garrulity in a servant was a virtue because it kept the employer always on his guard, never allowed him the delusion of safety or the luxury of indiscretion. Moreover, one knew what a garrulous servant was thinking and, through the medium of secret agents, what he was saying.

"Show him up here," said Bland after a while.

Mr. Grigsby came noisily into the dressing-room, though his greeting of Bland was a little cold.

"I've a bone to pick with you," he said. "What the devil have you been saying to Lady Greenholm about me? You know my feelings about Alice "

"Wait a moment, please," said Bland sharply, and turned to his servant. "Taylor, you can go to the General Post Office with the letter you will find on the hall-stand."

Mr. Grigsby waited until he heard the door of the flat close, then walked into the passage and shot the bolt of the front door.

He came back to where Bland was standing with his back to the fire, his hands thrust into his trouser pockets.

"You're sure he had No. 2?" he asked.

Bland nodded.

Grigsby bit his lip thoughtfully.

"It isn't worth while worrying about how he got it— now," he said. "The question is, who will get it next!"

Bland opened a cigar case, bit off the end of a cigar, and lit up before he replied.

"What news have you at this end!" he asked. "I was across the border before they discovered his death; naturally, I have heard nothing save what our Amsterdam man told me."

"The code is in London," said Grigsby briefly. "As soon as he was dead a cablegram was sent to Valparaiso by the authorities in Brussels. It was addressed to a man named Van Hooch— probably a third party. Here it is "

He took out a pocket-book and laid a slip of paper on the table. The message was short and was in Spanish:

"Schiller's London lodging."

"It's rather puzzling," said Bland. "Schiller wouldn't have written the code out— he was too clever for that. And yet he must have given the authorities a guarantee that the secret should not be lost with his death. It has probably been arranged that he should tell some person agreed upon— in this case a man in South America— in what manner the code was hidden. The exact locale he left until his death, probably sealed up amongst his private papers."

"That is a sound theory," said Grigsby. "He told you nothing more?"

Bland shook his head.

"I had to kill him of course," he said with a note of regret. "It was pretty beastly, but the lives of thirty good men were in his holding. He probably knew where they were stationed."

"And the man that comes after will also know," said the other grimly. "We start tonight to make a very scientific search of his lodgings."

But the flat in Soho Square yielded no profit.

For the greater part of a fortnight three of the smartest Intelligence men (including Lecomte from the French department) probed and searched, slitting furniture, pulling up floors, and dismantling cupboards.

And the result was a negative one.

"I'll swear it is there," said Bland dejectedly. "We've overlooked something. Where is May Prince?"

"She's at the Chief Censor's. She has an office there," explained Grigsby.

May came in some triumph.

"I thought you'd send for me," she said. "I could have saved you such a lot of trouble!"

Bland was all apologies.

"I've neglected you terribly, May," he said. "Do you know, I have never seen you since you sent me the wire about Schiller?"

She nodded.

"I know that— Schiller is dead, isn't he?"

"How did you know?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"One reads things in the Censor's office— innocent letters from Holland, with messages written between the lines in formic acid and milk which becomes quite visible if you use the correct formulas. Mr. Schiller was a remarkable man; and his father was one of the greatest scholars Switzerland has produced, though he was blind. What do you want of me now?"

Bland explained briefly. The girl knew of Code No. 2 and the secrecy which surrounded it, and realized the urgency of the situation.

"By the way, how did you know that he was an enemy agent?" he asked.

"I discovered his code," she replied cryptically.

Accompanied by the two men she went to the flat in Soho Square. The flooring had been replaced and the rooms were habitable again. She made a tour through the flat, then she returned to the big dining-room.

"This is the room where the code is," she said decisively.

It was a cheerful apartment, papered in a rich brown. A broad dado of a simple design belted the walls, and the wainscoting had been painted a chocolate color to harmonize with the paper. From the ceiling hung an electric fitting, and at this May glanced.

"We've had that down," said Bland, "and the wainscot has been taken out, but we've found nothing."

"Will you leave me alone here for a few minutes?" asked the girl.

The two men withdrew, but they were hardly out of the room before she followed, her eyes blazing with the joy of discovery.

"Got it!" she laughed. "Oh, I knew— I knew!"

"Where is it?" demanded the astonished Bland.

"Wait," she said eagerly. "When do you expect your South American visitor?"

"Tomorrow— of course, the room will be guarded and he will have no chance of searching."

Her eyes were still dancing when she nodded.

"We shall see— tomorrow. I fancy you will have a very frank visitor from Valparaiso, and when he comes I want you to send for me."

"What on earth "

"Wait, wait, please! What will he say?" She closed her eyes and frowned. "I can tell you his name; it is Raymond Viztelli."

"You knew this all along?" asked the astonished Grigsby, but she shook her head.

"I knew it when I went into the room," she said, "but now I am guessing. I think he will offer to help you discover the code, and he will tell you there is a secret panel in the wall, and that it will take days and days to make the discovery. And I think he will ask you to be present when he makes his search."

"He needn't ask that," said Bland unpleasantly.

"I think you're very mysterious, May, but I've a kind of feeling that you're right."

She had a few questions to ask the janitor of the building before she left.

"Mr. Schiller did all his own decorations— in the dining-room, didn't he?"

"Yes, miss," said the man. "A regular feller he was for potterin' about with a paste-pot or a paint-brush."

"And he has paid his rent in advance?"

"That's right, miss."

"And he said that nothing was to be done to the flat till he came back?"

"His very words!" said the caretaker.

"I thought so," said May.

At ten o'clock next morning a card was brought to Bland. It was inscribed: "Señor X. Bertramo Silva," and written in a corner, "of Valparaiso."

Bland pressed a bell, and in a little time Grigsby and the girl came in.

"He's come," said Bland shortly, and handed her the card.

The visitor was shown in. He was a dapper little man with a pointed beard, and spoke excellent English. Moreover, after the preliminaries he plunged straight into the heart of his subject.

"I am going to be very frank with you, Mr. Bland," he began; and Bland shooting a swift glance at the girl, saw the laughter in her eyes.

"I was for some time an agent of the Central Powers— I tell you this because I wish you to clearly understand my position," he went on. "Safe in South America, I thought no call would be made upon my services. A few weeks ago, however, I received a cablegram which was intercepted by the British authorities.

"I had known, of course, that in certain eventualities I might be obliged to come to England to make a search for certain documents, and that I should learn the place where they were hidden by telegram. That telegram came—I am here!"

He flung his arms dramatically.

"I came straight to you on my arrival. I tell you frankly why I came, because I decided, the night before I reached Plymouth, that the game was not worth the candle. I will assist you as far as possible to discover the documents, and then I will, if you will allow me, return to South America."

It was all very amazing to Bland. The man had said almost all that May had predicted he would say. He looked at the girl again, and she nodded.

"You understand that your search " began Bland.

"Will be under the eyes of the police?" interrupted the man from Valparaiso. "I would prefer it."

"You would like to start your search at once, I suppose?" asked Bland.

"The sooner the better," said the other heartily.

"One moment."

It was the girl who spoke.

"You have a very good memory, señor?" she asked.

For just a fraction of a second the smile died from the man's eyes.

"I have an excellent memory, madame," he said curtly.

They went together in a cab and were admitted to Schiller's flat by the police officer on guard.

"Have you any theory?" asked Bland as they stood in the hall.

"Yes," replied the other quickly. "I think the documents are hidden in a recess in the wall behind a secret panel. It may take a week to find the panel. This is a very old house, and it is possible Mr. Schiller chose it for some structural advantage it may have had."

Again Bland thought rapidly— the frankness of the man, his willingness to help— the talk of secret panels was all in accordance with the girl's amazing prophecy.

He saw the glee in her eyes— glee at the mystificaton of her Chief.

Then he turned to the little man.

"Go ahead," he said.

Señor Silva bowed.

"I will take this wall first," he said, "and I will search for the evidence of a panel. My fingers are perhaps more sensitive than yours "

His hand was outstretched toward the dado, when—

"Stop!"

At the sound of the girl's sharp warning Señor Silva turned.

"Before you go any farther," she said, "let me ask you if you value your life?"

The Chilian shrugged and spread his hands.

"Naturally, madame."

The girl turned to Bland.

"If this man learns Code 2, what will happen to him?"

Bland looked from May to the face of the stranger.

"He will certainly die," he said simply.

She nodded.

"You may go on if you wish, but you are starting a little too far to the right."

His face went a ghastly gray.

"To the right!" he stammered.

"The message to you begins at the door, Señor Viztelli," she said calmly. "The code does not begin until you reach the window. "Will you continue?"

He shook his head, having no words.

Bland called in his men and they hustled the little South American into a cab.

"And now explain," said Bland.

The girl walked to the wall near the door and touched the dado.

"Feel," she said.

Bland's fingers touched the wall-paper gingerly. He felt a few pin-point eruptions, passed his hand to the right, and felt more. Then the truth dawned on him.

"Braille!" he whispered. The girl nodded.

"Schiller's father was a blind man," she said, "and Schiller evidently took up the study of the alphabet by which blind men read. Silva was informed how the code had been written and learnt it against the time when it would be necessary to take over Schiller's work."

She ran her fingers along the dado.

"There are seven lines of writing, and they run round the room," she said. "Schiller pasted this dado on himself— a bit at a time— as fast as he was able to photograph Code 2. This is how the top line begins.

"To Raymond Viztelli," she read. "Keep up pretense helping police; be frank, as I have told you. Tell them there is a secret panel, and you will be able to come often. Code begins: 'Abraham' means 'New guns have been fitted.'"

Bland caught her hand and gently drew it away.

"If you want to be a nice live girl and dine with me tonight," he said half humorously, "do not pursue your investigations any farther."

That afternoon Bland did a little amateur paper-stripping and made a good job of it.

____________________

17. Chubb of the "Slipper"

NO DOUBT about Chubb's gift of oratory. When he was a sprat of twelve, a chubby midget filling his neat cadet uniform, he had orated to the Commander of H.M.S. Britannia to such purpose (it was on the subject of messing) that, recovering from his trance, the outraged officer had stopped his shore leave and threatened him with expulsion.

People thought it was cheek, but really it was a natural gift for oratory. The Britannia boys called him Demosthenes Junior, but that was too long and it was "Chubb" that stuck, and rightly so, for "Chubb" fitted him as well as he fitted his clothes.

He orated his way from Hong-Kong to Chatham, from Benin to Sydney. He addressed Admirals, Captains, Commanders, Navigators, and— at rare intervals— the Lords of the Admiralty themselves.

He talked of himself soberly and gravely, as though he held the wheel of Destiny, and those who met him for the first time began by sniggering openly or secretly (according to their rank), and ended in a condition of awe-stricken reverence.

If Chubb hadn't been a good fellow, a splendid seaman, one of the best torpedo officers of his day, he would have been a bore. As it was, men sought him out to learn of his wisdom, and even Admirals, called up to respond at local functions for the Navy, came to Chubb to pick up the wrinkles of rhetoric.

On a day in July, Chubb Church came down to the quay, driving his little yellow two-seater. His suit was aggressively brown, and perched above his round, red, cherubic face was a gray top hat. He had a long cigar between his teeth and a look of settled melancholy in his eyes.

He drew the car up with a jerk by the edge of the landing-stage and slowly descended.

A waiting petty officer touched his cap.

"Flagship's made a signal. Get up steam, sir," he said.

"The Flagship's made a signal. Get up steam," repeated Chubb absently. "Oh, it has, has it?"

He inspected his small car with a bleak stare and shook his head.

"Never again, O car of fate," he said.

The chief petty officer twiddled his bare toes in embarrassment.

"Beg pardon, sir?" he said.

Chubb brought his eyes to his subordinate.

"Is your name Carr, my lad?" he asked.

"No, sir— Samson, sir."

"Then you are not the car I was addressing, Samson."

He returned to his contemplation of the machine.

His chauffeur had climbed out of the little well at the back of the car, and was regarding its mechanism anxiously and not a little resent-fully.

Chubb twirled his cane, and pushed his gray hat further on the back of his head and sighed.

"Son," he said, "take the car to Plymouth— I may be there, who knows the strange and beneficent workings of Providence? If I do not come, you will call every morning at Drake's Lodge and tell Miss Gillander that the car is entirely at her disposal mornin', afternoon, and evenin'— at any hour of the day or night. Tell her—"

Here he stopped. Even Chubb felt the delicacy of delivering tragic messages by a chauffeur, and moreover in the presence of a hard-footed and eager-eared sailor who would repeat the conversation for the benefit of his favored members of the Petty Officers' Mess.

Also there was a chance of the battleship going into Devonport, where he might deliver the message himself.

"Recall signal flying, sir," said the petty officer.

"Blow the recall signal!" replied Chubb mutinously.

He turned and walked slowly down the steps and stepped nimbly into the bobbing pinnace.

"Cast off," he said and settled himself in the tiny cabin as the pinnace danced over the sunlit waters of Falmouth to the Ironside.

"What the devil were you waiting for, Chubb?" asked a justly annoyed Captain, who had been watching the scene ashore with his telescope; "I jolly nearly recalled the pinnace without you."

Chubb took off his hat.

"Sir," he said, " there are moments in life when the premonition trembles upon one edge of sordid actuality."

"Hurry up and get out of that kit," interrupted the skipper briefly. "Come on to the bridge, I want to speak to you."

"We are going into Devonport," said Captain Benson ten minutes later, when they stood side by side on the bridge of the battleship; "I suppose you've heard the news?"

Chubb bowed his head.

"She sails on Wednesday next," he said, with splendid resignation. "You may think, sir, that I'm a sentimental ass— well, sir, as dear old Socrates or Plato or one of those officers said—"

"Who sails?" asked his astounded superior. "I'm not talking about anybody sailing."

"I thought you referred to Miss Gillander, sir," replied Chubb, redder than ever.

The Captain's lips twitched.

"Nothing so important," he said gravely, "merely a question of European complications, and you're gazetted to the Slipper for special service."

And so it came about that Chubb saw Jo Gillander again.

He saw her in the big and fragrant drawing-room that overlooks the Head, and there was pleasure unmistakable in her eyes.

She was the tiniest of girls, so perfectly and beautifully proportioned that you forgot she was under the height of the average woman. Her face was delicately modeled and delicately colored. There was a dancing imp of laughter in her eyes, yet so tender a laughter that tears seemed near at hand.

"I saw your big fat ship come in," she said, and patted the settee by her side most invitingly.

No doubt but that Chubb prepared a rapid survey in language of overpowering vividness. From the world to this little lady was a natural transposition.

"It is not for me," he finished gravely, "to forecast the enormous and cataclysmic consequence to a situation already workin' to its ordained and fearful end. What spark of rhetoric, what brand of eloquence will eventually fire the magazine, changin' the destinies of men, and casting into the melting- pot the fortunes of nations— but, Miss Gillander, I can say with great earnestness and sincerity that I love you."

She raised her hand gently to stop him, but there was kindness in her eyes and the laughter had gone.

"For you," he went on, "I am prepared at any given moment— so far as the exigencies of the Service admit— to throw down the gage of war to all the world; refuse me, as you have done not once, but many times, and let the world grow apprehensive in the face of a heartbroken and reckless man."

Of course it was absurd. She explained the absurdity in a very few words. It wasn't the disparity in their fortunes, because, although the American heiress was credited with millions, yet Chubb was very well off indeed. It wasn't that her parents objected, because she had no parents. It wasn't even that she disliked Chubb— but (here was the truth, and she could not tell it) Chubb was without the heroic qualities. He was less like the hero of tradition than anybody she had met. He was fat— there was no getting away from his girth; he was plump, he was babylike.

She was a worshipper of tall men, with sad, clean-cut features, powdered gray at the temples. Chubb threatened to go bald on the slightest provocation.

She explained, getting round the subject as best she could, why it was impossible for her to marry him.

Chubb went back to the dockyard to superintend the revictualling of H.M.S. Slipper with a heavy heart.

It was his first important command, but it gave him no pleasure. It was a dream of a ship, could pull out twenty-eight knots; a lightly armed, unprotected cruiser designed for the protection of shipping— a sleek, swift, deadly little ship, such as Chubb could handle better than any man in the Service.

But his heart was at Drake's Lodge, with a girl whose packing he interrupted from day to day.

She was very definite at last, being humanly annoyed, not so much at his persistence as from his having called at 11 a.m. and caught her immersed in the prosaic task of making a cubic yard of wearing apparel fit half a cubic yard of box.

The Steamship Company had sent her a frantic warning that she must reduce her baggage to its smallest limit, for war was in the air, and the holds of S.S. Germanie were needed for passenger accommodation.

"Understand finally. Captain Church," said she, still kind, but this time unpleasantly so, "I cannot marry; you are not the kind of man I want—"

There— she had said it!

Chubb stood comically, tragically bewildered.

What kind of man could she want?

"The hot weather has perhaps affected you, Miss Gillander," he said gently; "the psychology of weather in its relation to human affairs has often— in short, what's wrong with me?"

"I don't want you," she said, biting her lips.

There was a long and painful silence.

"Oh," said Chubb, and groped for his cap; "all right." He walked to the door and turned upon her a face charged with portent. "For all that happens hereafter," said he, "you are responsible."

She ignored the unfairness of the threat.

"You are not going to—" she began in agitation.

"You will see the map of Europe changed," said Chubb and walked out.

From that moment, in Chubb's mind, war was inevitable.

The Slipper came slowly through the darkening seas, all her lights out, a blur of gray on a gray ocean. Behind her, scarcely visible, was the coast of Ireland.

Chubb stood on the bridge, and by his side was his First Lieutenant. The telegraph marked "Slow ahead." Chubb looked at his watch, snapped the case cover, and took from his pocket an envelope heavily sealed. He handed it without a word to his Number One, who examined the seal and passed it back to his superior.

Chubb tore the envelope of his sealed orders and read the contents.

"Convey the Germanie to latitude..." he read aloud;..."wireless me when you have opened this... keep an eye open for the enemy's torpedo boats; there are four in your area..."

There were other instructions concerning a certain collier which would be found waiting at a rendezvous— of other ships suspected of acting as colliers to the enemy. Chubb knew all about the Germanie, its immense speed, its crowded accommodation, and, most important item of all, the fact that it carried two million pounds of gold had been set forth in the columns of the Press.

"What the deuce are they sending gold to America for!" he asked fretfully. "It seems to me that this is the time of all times when the auriferous metal is most needed at the seat of war."

"Shipment purchased months ago by the U.S. Treasury, sir," said his Number One. "Dash it all— we can't pinch the gold of neutrals!"

"But why not send this damned stuff on an American ship!" protested Chubb. "Are you aware that the Studtgardt and the Altonaare in these waters—two of the fastest cruisers the Dutchmen have? Are you aware that on the Germanie are delicately nurtured ladies to whom the very thought of war is abhorrent? By Heavens!"— he raised a dramatic fist to the sky—" rather would I see the vexed boundaries of Europe twist in serpentine convulsions than that one spasm of fear—"

"Wireless from the Flagship, sir."

The operator came on board with a bit of paper.

Chubb looked at the paper.

"Candour, devoted, Portsmouth, tempted," it ran.

"Decode that," he said, and in three minutes the message was in his hands.

"Destroyers covering Studtgardt are crossing you."

Chubb nodded.

He was dressed in gray flannel trousers and gray sweater, a grim, workmanlike suit for the task in hand.

He was the seaman now, cautious, alert, and tense.

The engine telegraph went over to "Full ahead," and the swift Slipper gathering speed tore through the water, cutting the heavy seas with her knife- like bows. The day was failing but there was no mist. Officers searched the seas ahead through their binoculars, but there was no sign of craft. Darkness fell, and then far away on the starboard bow Chubb saw something.

It was no more than a patch of foam on the water, but it was moving.

It was for all the world as though a big white feather was being trailed on the sea at the end of an invisible swing.

"Submarine on the starboard bow," he shouted, and the Slipper heeled over as though she was turning turtle as she came bow on to the danger.

"Bang!"

From the starboard gun of the forrard battery flicked a straight rod of flame. Instantly the white beams of two searchlights played upon the feather.

Chubb's finger touched a button and two seconds later a long fish-like shape leapt from the bow to the water—a shape that seemed alive as it swam straight and swift to its prey.

"Bang!"

The shell from the second gun threw up a column of water to the rear of the feather, now moving in a circle preparatory to launching her death-dealing messenger.

She was half turned when the British torpedo struck her. Up into the air jumped a great column of water sprinkled with black wreckage. A deafening explosion and then silence.

"Away cutter!" roared Chubb, and the boat went over the side to pick up what was left of the luckless crew.

"Phew!" said Chubb and wiped his forehead as the boat came back from its fruitless search.

The boat was hardly inboard when the second attack came. The two destroyers came into the white beams of the searchlights as the Slipper was gathering way. The four starboard guns of the Slipper spoke together, and there came across the waters a sound like the emptying of a sack of old iron.

"That's got her," began Chubb, when the bridge on which he stood was raked by a mad twirling shell, which carried away rail and port telegraph, and almost carried Chubb with it. It was the last shot the destroyer fired. Again the fish-like shape leapt joyfully to its work from the torpedo tube in the bow.

It met and passed another, which just missed the swinging stem of the Slipper... the torpedo boat went down by the head in a swirl of water.

But the second was intact though lamed.

The aft guns of the Slipper pumped shell into her, but at an ever-increasing distance.

"Wireless the Flagship," said Chubb; "they can send a couple of T.B.D.'s to pick her up."

He was bothered. He was working blindly. Somewhere beyond the rim of the sea men were playing a game with the Slipper as a pawn. Somewhere in a big building in the very heart of London the players watched him dispassionately— condemning him, perhaps, that from his sacrifice they might gain some advantage of which he knew nothing.

He searched the seas again through his night-glasses. It was not a hostile cruiser he sought; the Studtgardt was a thousand miles away. It was Germanie he was looking for. The fact was the panic-stricken Germanie was running at top speed to the New England coast with her precious cargo.

He parted from the cruiser fleet at Brow Head and had taken his instructions from the gray-haired young Admiral.

"Here are your orders," he said, handing the sealed package; "you won't have much trouble, I fancy— keep to the south of theGermanie's course. Coal at Halifax, and report to the C.I.C, North Atlantic."

"Far be it from me, sir," said Chubb, "to discuss or question the high strategists of war, but a great passenger steamer carrying huge quantities of gold demands much greater protection than I can give her."

"Don't make speeches at me, you insubordinate devil," said the Admiral. "You're not likely to be bothered, and if you are you can run up to the Germanie, take off Miss Gillander, and set a course for a desert island."

Chubb blushed and went down the ladder, cursing all high officers who gossiped about his private affairs.

So the fleet sailed eastward, and a man who had been lying out of sight of the coastguards on the Irish coast carefully noted the direction it took, and making his way to the nearest post office telegraphed to London a tender inquiry after his mother's health.

An hour later the German North Atlantic Squadron received news via Togoland that the rich prize Germanie was on her way to America escorted by one insignificant, unprotected cruiser.

Wireless messages went left and right, and while two destroyers and a submarine moved from their secret base to cut off theSlipper, the cruiser squadron made its preparations for the rapid transference of gold.

There was on board the Germanie a certain air of tension which communicated itself by some remarkable method from the ships' officers, who knew the peril, to the passengers, who knew nothing.

Jo Gillander, stretched in a big deck chair her grave eyes on the horizon, found a certain melancholy pleasure in the nervousness of her fellow- passengers. For she needed diversion. There lingered in her mind the unheroic figure of a stout young naval officer and in her ears his sombre eloquence. She smiled faintly, but the smile soon passed.

She had not realized how big a place he held in her heart and in her thoughts. She looked up with half a frown as the dapper figure of the middle- aged von Sedligtz dropped into the chair by her side. She had known him for some years He was attached to the Embassy at Washington an automatically smiling man, with a clean skin and a carefully brushed moustache.

"Now you shall soon be back in your free land," he smiled, "away from horrid war, hein. Soon we shall make wars impossible and police all Europe— Europe in peace under our High Kaiser!"

"Do you think you will win?" She looked a him curiously, and he laughed.

"Cer-tain-ly— why not? First to crush France, then to crush Russia, and all the time we weary the English fleet— picking off one ship here and one ship there."

He stopped and hesitated.

"Already," he said impressively, and his hand swept to the sea, "In this circle of water there has been one such ship— pouf!— gone! I know."

He nodded wisely.

She looked at him with resentment in her eyes. That he could smile amidst such horrors! That he could be so complacent in the face of tragedy! And she remembered that stout man of hers— yes, of hers, she told herself defiantly, and enveloped him in that second of time in the heroic qualities which had never been his. At this moment the Captain of the Slipper was very precious to this dainty little lady.

"Yes, it went out," von Sedligtz went on, unconscious of the storm that was gathering; "one moment a proud ship— the next moment our friend the Slipper—"

"The Slipper!"

She was on her feet, white and shaking.

"Jawohl!" he said jocularly— he was a dense man and saw only the sensation he had made. "Such is my knowledge. You saw a fishing-boat pass yesterday— you saw a man waving little flags— he told me everything."

She confronted him, pale as death, that rosebud mouth set in a straight line.

"If the Slipper is sunk," she said in a low Voice, "I hope this ship sinks, and you and I with it."

He stared at her, but he was never destined to utter what was in his mind... they felt the ship slow down, without realizing what was happening, then—   "Gott!" cried the exultant von Sedligtz; "Look!"

Right ahead, barring the way, were four great ships painted gray, and from their main fluttered the white-and-black flag.

"For the gold, you understand," he cried, beside himself with joy— "for twenty million marks on this ship. Hoch!"

Nearer and nearer they came, then the Germanie's engines reversed and stopped, and a little steamboat came rocking from the Flagship of the squadron. It got half-way when under its bows came a fountain of water, and dully across the sea came the shock of the explosion.

Jo Gillander turned her head and gasped. Coming at full speed, the water, creamy white at her sharp nose, raced the Slipper,

It was madness— she realized that. She saw the German picket-boat turn, then of a sudden it flew to splinters before her eyes.

Simultaneously the squadron ahead moved left and right and came into action.

"Crash! Crash! Crash!"

The guns were thunder; the whizzing, shrieking shells indescribably terrifying.

With clasped hands and gray face she saw the Slipper turn almost on her side as she changed her course, saw a black cavity yawn in her upper works.

The Slipper was showing her teeth now. Her four-point-two guns were not to be despised, and she hit back, spitting fire, fore, aft, and amidships.

Worse than this, the lean gray devils were being loosened from their forward tubes.

The Studtgardt was suddenly enveloped in flame and smoke and listed heavily to port.

Then a shell carried away mast and fore-funnel of the Slipper, and she went over again, to recover almost immediately.

But the cruiser squadron was showing unusual activity. Smoke belched from their stacks and there was a flurry of water astern...

They saw the British fleet long before the hysterical folk on the Germanie had seen her.

They came up in two divisions, marvelously appearing over the rim of the sea— eighty mighty vessels of war, throwing steel farther and heavier than any cruiser that was ever built.

The end came in a horrible whirlpool of water that marked a vanished cruiser.

"IT WAS a ruse, of course," said von Sedligtz, his mouth working pathetically; "they sent the Slipper, and followed her up."

She said nothing, waiting at the end of the gangway, up which there ran a beautiful man in a gray sweater, his red face grimy with powder, a most unlovely cut across his cheek— he got that from a splinter of shell which all but missed him.

"The Admiral's compliments to you, and can you go ahead, sir?" said Chubb. "I— "

Then he saw the girl.

"I told you what would happen," he said reproachfully, and indicated a battered cruiser; "all this might have been avoided."

And as he saddled her with the full responsibility for a European war, she came laughing and crying to his arms.

____________________

18. The Man Who Killed Himself

PRESTON Somerville was standing on his balcony as the train wheezed and snorted up the last stiff slope to Caux. So that he saw the man and the woman arrive. There were a pair of prismatic field-glasses on the little, round, iron table which, with a basket-chair, constituted the furniture of the balcony, and he focused them upon the station.

Yes, he was right, and, curiously enough, he had expected them that very day by that very train. They would not see him, the gaudy sun-blind above him was cover; besides, he was too far away. He watched them walking up the path, a porter carrying their two valises. Behind, walking at his leisure, was George Dixon; him he had recognized almost before he had stepped on to the platform.

Marie and the man were coming to the hotel of the Stars! They might, in decency, have gone to the Palace or the Grand, or to one of the big pensions. But Templar! He smiled. Templar had no finesse.

He looked again through the glasses.

Marie had grown stouter. He could not see the color of her hair, but doubted whether it was still the same fluff of gold that he had known seventeen years before.

As to Templar, he had put on flesh considerably. It was over a year since he had seen him!

Somerville shrugged his shoulders and turned to survey the glory of Lac Leman, blue, purple, and eau de nil. There was snow on Grammont that had come in the night. The Dent du Midi was white down to the tree line. Two thousand feet below him was Territet, a toy-town set in a garden. A beautiful country and a wonderful world, and for him prospects of the brightest, except...

He walked back into his room, unlocked a bureau and took out a weather- stained grip. It was fastened with two locks, and these he opened at leisure. He put in his hand and pulled forth a leather case which also needed unlocking. There were two packages of letters, a few photographs, and something in a blue envelope. He had carried this around for years. There was absolutely no necessity for his doing so. Indeed, it amounted to a folly. It was a certificate of marriage, and recorded the fact that Preston George Somerville had married Marie Clara Legrande, and the date was seventeen years before. Why a man should carry about the evidence of his own bigamy, that criminal folly of his which, for seventeen years, had been an unceasing nightmare, he could not explain. He had married when he was eighteen, and his married life had been short but violent. His wife had left him, and then Marie Templar had come along. He might have told her the truth, and was on the point of doing so— he put away the certificate and locked it up. He had spent the greater part of seventeen years wondering as much over the things he did not do as those he had done.

There was a tap at the door.

"Come in," he said, looked up, and crossed the room with outstretched hands to welcome George Dixon.

"Why, you're looking fine, Preston," said that man of law, returning the grip. "How on earth did you know I was in Switzerland? It knocked me over to get your wire."

"I read the newspapers," said Somerville, "especially the Visitors' List, and I spotted you at Interlaken."

"One item of news I've to break to you, old man," said Dixon, "and it is that I must be back in London in three days' time. That means that I must leave this paradise tonight or tomorrow."

Somerville nodded slowly.

"It couldn't be better," he said. "Sounds uncomplimentary, doesn't it? Well, it isn't really."

"And now what is the trouble?" began the lawyer. "And before you tell me anything, I suppose you know who is here?"

Somerville nodded again.

"I came up in the train with him," Dixon went on. "Is there going to be— a settlement?"

"Yes, there is going to be a settlement."

Somerville's voice was soft, and he seemed to be speaking half to himself.

"Well, if I can do anything to bring that about, Preston, I'll wait a week," said the other heartily. "Man, you've been ten times a fool to have let this thing go on. I could have stopped it for you ten years ago when you first told me, if you 'd only given me the word."

"I'll stop it— myself," said Somerville, and Mr. Dixon looked at him curiously.

"How did this man Templar come into the case? You never explained it to me."

Somerville was filling his pipe, his eyes fixed upon the bluey-white mountains, and he did not reply immediately.

"There is much that I haven't told you," he said, "but Templar is the easiest thing to explain. Marie, that is my second wife, was a member of a third-class musical company which came to the wilderness where I was nursing my private grief— I think that is the expression. Templar was her manager in more senses than one. I think I was a little mad. In fact, I think I was very mad. I was keen on Marie, and that in itself was a form of lunacy. I am not going to make excuses, George, and really the excuse I offer reveals my greatest offense; but I was not sober for fourteen days when I took Marie Legrande— God knows what her real name was— to the nearest joy town, perjured myself before the necessary official, and took her for better or for worse. She discovered the truth three months afterwards, through Templar. Personally, I think she would have let the thing go without bothering, only, unfortunately"— he pronounced all five syllables of the word— "Templar wasn't of the letting-go sort. It was my misfortune that I had money. That's the story: Templar and she have been running together ever since. I tell you, I don't think Marie is a bad lot. She is one of the weak, fluffy type, who loves the good things of life, and I have kept her and Templar on Easy Street ever since. I have lived through"— he shrugged his shoulders— "I am going to be melodramatic, if I am not careful", he said, with a faint smile. "I was content to pay and go on paying, only—"

"Only what?" asked George.

The other got up and strolled out on to the balcony, looked around and came back before he answered.

"When my first wife ran away from me, I had been married about six months," he resumed in that slow, matter-of-fact tone of his. "Seven or eight months later— in fact, a few weeks after I had married Marie— I received a note from my first wife, asking me if I could meet her. It was that note which fell into the hands of Templar, and left him in no doubt whatever as to my offense. That, however, is by the way. I met the first Mrs. Somerville, and she made me a present— the most wonderful present that any man has ever received at the hands of a woman." His voice shook momentarily.

From his inside pocket he took a flat leather case, opened and handed it to the Lawyer. George Dixon saw the smiling face of a girl, radiant and beautiful, looking out at him from the leather frame.

"Who is this?" he asked in surprise.

"My daughter."

"Your daughter!" gasped George. "But I never knew—"

"That was one of the secrets I kept," said Somerville, and took the case back.

He looked at the face for a moment, closed the cover, and replaced it in his pocket.

"That was one of the secrets I kept," he repeated, "and will explain, if nothing else does, just why I have been so complacent. I know as well as you that, if I went into court, my punishment would be purely nominal. I might even gain the respectful sympathies of a court crowded with stout ladies from Bayswater. But this"— he tapped his pocket— "how would it affect this? No, no, George, that wasn't the solution."

"But does Templar know?"

Somerville nodded.

"That is why he's coming three months before his time," he said. "He only discovered the fact a month or so ago. My little girl is at Cheltenham, and apparently she took part in some school theatricals, and earned an honorable mention in the local newspaper. The honorable mentioner, unhappily, added the name of Preston Somerville as the father of this delightful debutante. They had a pull before they knew about Maisie. What sort of a pull have they now?"

"But there must be a solution, there must, Preston," said George. "Couldn't you send the girl to America—"

Somerville stopped him with a gesture.

"Solutions and solutions," he said; "and because I have hit upon one I telegraphed to you, providentially discovering you at Interlaken, to come along and see me. My affairs at home are in pretty straight order, but I wanted you to know about the girl, because you may have to administer my estate."

"Good God!" cried George Dixon. "You're not going to find that way out! Think, think, Preston! You used to be so clever at this sort of thing when we were at Oxford. Don't you remember our crime club discussion, how you used to work out the solution of all the story mysteries, and plan to the minutest detail mysteries even more mysterious than appeared in newspapers? Surely some of that old ingenuity remains?"

Somerville stopped in his restless stride and looked down at the other.

"It's curious you recall that," he said, "extremely curious. Because, as I say, I think I have found the solution to all my problems."

George sprang up, his eyes blazing.

"I knew you would, old fellow. By Gad, I'm glad!"

"Yes, I've found a solution," said the other slowly. "I've had a detective watching these two people. It was he who wired me that I might expect them here. My sleuth discovered many interesting facts, but none quite so vitally important as " he paused.

"As?" said George Dixon impatiently.

"As the thing he carries in his right-hand waistcoat pocket," said Somerville, speaking with quiet emphasis.

""What is it?" asked the other curiously.

"That you will discover. We must leave the revelation to the very last chapter," smiled Preston Somerville. "But there it is, snug in his right-hand waistcoat pocket." He laughed softly. "I've lived through hell because of that man," he said, without raising his voice. "The woman is different. I'm certain of that. She alone would never trouble me."

He heaved a long sigh, then turned abruptly to his friend, and his tone was brisk and businesslike.

"Now, George, I'll tell you just what I want you to do, in case my scheme goes wrong...."

In a large double bedroom of the Hotel of the Stars, the stout and florid Mr. Templar sat on the edge of his bed, looking at the lady who was registered in his name. She was on her knees before her open valise, unpacking with some show of reluctance.

"You told me that we'd only be here a day," she said discontentedly.

"It all depends, Marie," said the other, speaking through his cigar. "We may have to wire home for money."

Her next words confirmed Mr. Somerville's judgment.

"Why don't you leave him alone?" she asked, twisting round and sitting on her heels. She was still a passably pretty woman, though the gold of her hair did not carry conviction to the sophisticated. "Poor devil! We've bled him enough, and we've got enough too, Joe; why not let's go back home and see that farm you're always talking about!"

Mr. Templar chuckled. There was little of the desperado in his appearance, for he was mild, thin-haired, and readily amused. His face was pink, his bulging eyes unlined. He took life very easily.

"If I had listened to you," he said good-humoredly, "you'd have had twenty weeks' engagements a year at about four pounds per. I should have been managing dirty little third-rate companies in dirty little fourth-rate towns. Here you are in a beautiful country, living on the fat of the land at the best hotels, and you're grousing. You haven't had a bad time for years; not a real bad time."

She had resumed her unpacking.

"It depends on what you call a bad time," she said. "I've had my bad times, don't you worry! And you've had yours too, Joe." She swung round. "There's been times when you've thought that Preston was going for you. Do you remember that night in Paris when you saw him with the fellow from Scotland Yard, walking through the cafe?"

He blinked and swallowed.

"Shut up," he said uneasily. "Prison— phew! I'll never do that! I have lived like a gentleman, and I think I can die like a gentleman," and his hand strayed to his right-hand waistcoat pocket. "There's something in that farm idea, dear," he said after a while. "I've always said so too. Let's try him this once, and then we'll chuck it."

She, on her knees, laughed bitterly.

"If you've said that once, you've said it forty times; anyway, I'm not going to see him."

"Did I ask you to?" demanded Mr. Templar in an aggrieved tone.

It was not till the next morning that he met his victim. They were alone on the broad stoep of the hotel, looking down over Territet. Templar made his usual gambit.

"Well, Mr. Somerville, I am sorry to trouble you again, but things have been going pretty badly."

"They'll go worse for you," interrupted Somerville, with unexpected malignity. "I shall live to see you some cold, misty morning hauling stones from the Dartmoor quarries. I've promised myself the pleasure of a trip to Princetown with this object."

Templar was speechless. This was not the man he had known, the cynical, quiet gentleman with the hard smile, who had paid without question, and had offered him no other offense than his contempt.

"I— I," he spluttered. "What do you mean? Suppose it is you who go there?" He raised his voice. " Suppose I send you there and bring... your daughter to see you! That makes you sit up, old man? Suppose I bring her down... to see you? That's a different tale, isn't it?"

A faint flush had come to Somerville's lean cheeks, but his provocation had served its purpose. Templar's loud voice had brought an inquisitive waiter to the verandah, who lingered a moment, eyeing them interestedly, until the fact that his presence was not required was made obvious, and he retired.

"How much do you want this time?" asked Somerville in a quieter voice.

"Three thousand," said Templar, made bold by anger." That is, seventy- five thousand francs Swiss."

Somerville walked to the balustrade of the stoep and leant on his folded arms, looking down to the lake. In Templar's eyes he was a crushed and beaten man. That final argument about the daughter had been sufficient, said Templar to Templar, and exulting in the new weapon he planned other raids, conveniently forgetting the attractions of farm life which panic had conjured.

Presently the other man looked round.

"Meet me tomorrow afternoon at three o 'clock, in the Gorge du Chauderon."

"Gorge du Chauderon?" said Templar, puzzled. "Where's that!"

"You walk down the hill to Glion, turn to your right through the town, and you'll strike a road which leads eventually to Les Avants. Near the bridge which crosses the gorge, you will find a path which runs down to the river-bed. It's a nice, quiet place, where we are not likely to be interrupted."

"Why not here?" asked the stout man. "I can come to your room tonight—"

"You'll get your blood-money in the Gorge or nowhere," said the other decisively. "What's the matter with you, Templar? As a rule, you don't care for your 'allowance' to be transferred in a room, where the transaction might be witnessed by a hidden detective; that was the excuse you made in London for taking me out in the middle of the night to the Embankment."

"There are plenty of places we can meet," growled Templar, "besides—"

"That's the place I have decided upon," said Somerville.

Templar was eyeing him suspiciously.

"There's going to be no monkey tricks, you know, Preston Somerville!" he blustered. "If you try... I'll have no mercy on you!"

Somerville snapped his fingers contemptuously, and turned away.

"At three o'clock," he said.

"I'll be there"— between his teeth; "and if you attempt any—"

Somerville did not wait. He walked leisurely along the stoep, turned in through the lounge, and made his way to the manager's office. Templar followed. He had his doubts and his own fears. He took a chair where he could watch the entrance to the bureau, and as the time passed and Somerville did not make a reappearance, he began to fidget. Twenty minutes had gone when his prey came out, talking in low tones to the manager, and Templar thought that the manager looked across at him with a certain significance. He felt hot, wiped his neck with his handkerchief, and rose to his feet with a self-conscious cough, and stalked back to his room with the self-conscious carriage of one wholly disinterested in Somerville's existence.

Disjointedly and with unusual heat he retailed the particulars of his meeting to the silent woman. He was badly rattled; was impelled three times to the bottle of whisky he kept in his trunk, and rendered all the more irritable by her unresponsive attitude.

"Well, say something," he snapped at last. "What's he after? What's his game? He never treated me like that before. Is he short of money?"

She looked him straight in the face.

"Joe," she said, "do you want my advice?"

"If it's the kind of advice I want," he said, biting savagely at the end of his cigar.

"Well, you'll leave Caux at once," she said. "I don't know much about Preston— I didn't live long enough with him to discover all his little ways. But he's cleverer than ten devils if he's put to it. And it's not like him to lose his temper."

She sat a moment with pursed lips, then rose jerkily.

"I'm going," she said.

"You're going! Where are you going? You're not going anywhere," he said sharply, and she swung round on him.

"Don't try any of that rough stuff with me, Joe," she said. "I'm going back to Paris by the night train. You can stay and get what you like, but I'm through with this. The Lord didn't give me the equipment of a blackmailer, and I don't think He gave it to you either," she said. "I know what has put you up in the air; his talk about Dartmoor!"

Mr. Templar testified to the shrewdness of her guess with that nervous little blink of his.

"Maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea if you went," he said, after a while. "Anyway, there's no need for you to stay. But, by thunder, if he tries any of his funny business with me...!" He drew a deep breath.

He saw her off that night by the last train down the mountain, a greatly relieved woman; their farewells were unemotional. Then he went back to his room and slept, and his sleep was interrupted by bad dreams.

In the morning a further happening disturbed him not a little. He had taken his breakfast in his room, and had spent an hour reading the newspapers on the stoep. On his return to his room he found that the valet had unpacked and had brushed and hung his clothes; but, what was more disturbing, had taken from the bottom of his valise the somewhat theatrical revolver which Templar carried with him, and had laid it on the dressing-table. It was an excellent weapon, despite its silver plating and mother-of-pearl butt.

"Who told you to unpack my grip?" demanded Templar angrily.

The astonished valet raised his shoulders to the level of his ears and smiled.

"I thought monsieur desired. It is usual," he said.

"I gave strict orders that my bag was not to be touched! I told you myself!" roared Templar. "I'll complain to the manager and have you fired, damn you!"

What could a well-meaning valet do but raise his shoulders again to the level of his ears and smile even more despairingly before he melted from the aggrieved presence.

Templar took up the revolver and examined it. He would want that, at any rate. If this fellow tried any monkey tricks (Templar's vocabulary was a limited one), he would show him! He searched in his bag, took out a little packet of cartridges, loaded the weapon, and slipped it in his hip pocket. The weight of it gave him no little comfort. The sense of its possession added to the sum of his confidence, and he needed all the confidence he could muster. There was something sinister and menacing in the name of that place, Gorge du Chauderon, which made him shiver, though he was to find the journey thereto prosaic enough. He went down to the Glion by train, and walked along the hill road cut in the steep slope of the gorge. He found the little path without difficulty, and slid and slipped down through a wilderness of larch and pine to the rocky valley bottom. He stopped to rest now and again, for he had plenty of time. There was no sign of Somerville. He half expected to find him a fellow- traveler along this tortuous descent. But Somerville had gone ahead, and was sitting on a rock in a small clearing, in sight of the furious stream which leapt and dashed on its impetuous journey to the lake.

Somerville sat waiting in this drowsy spot, where the ceaseless "shish- shish" of the mountain river drowned the ceaseless shrill of crickets. From where he sat he could see the naked peak of Jarman and the scarred shoulder of Rocher de Naye. He heard the hesitating footsteps of his enemy and rose to his feet.

Templar stopped dead on seeing him, all his suspicions and fears revived.

"Come along, man, what are you afraid of?" called Somerville, and the man advanced with hesitant footsteps. He peered from left to right, seeking the witness he always suspected was lurking somewhere within hearing; but the thin vegetation hereabouts offered no cover, and he came closer.

"Sit down on that rock, Templar," said Somerville. "Let's talk."

"I don't want any talking," bullied the man. "I haven't come here for conversation— I've come—"

"But I have," said Somerville. "I'm going to tell you something."

The man's eyes narrowed.

"'I'm going to tell you this," resumed Somerville. "You're at the end of your tether, my friend."

"Oh, so that's it?" Again he looked round. "You think you've caught me, do you?"

"I have not only caught you," said Somerville evenly, "but I am going to kill you."

Templar leapt up, and in his hand glittered and flashed the weapon he had jerked from his pocket.

"Oh, you are, are you?" he breathed. "Well, if it comes to killing, Somerville— I guess two can play at that game. You try any of your monkey tricks ..." He paused, at a loss for breath, and Somerville laughed quietly.

"Keep your gun," he mocked. "I hoped you would bring it. I repeat I am going to kill you," he went on. "For a very long time, nearly seventeen years, you have lain on my life like a horrible dream. You thought it was because I feared for myself that I shrank from the disgrace which would attach to my name. You now know, having made the discovery recently, that I was afraid for— some one else."

"Your daughter. I know all about that," interrupted Templar, who had regained something of his nerve.

"I only want you to realize just how I have suffered," said Somerville, "so that, if a tardy sense of justice is awakened in you before you die, you may have the comforting reflection that you deserved all that came to you."

He walked slowly towards the other, and Templar leveled his pistol.

"Don't come any nearer," he said hoarsely. "I'll shoot you like a dog— by God I will!"

"Shoot!"

The contempt in the tone might have stung another man to desperate action, but Templar cowered.

"Shoot! You fool, whatever you do, you're doomed! Shoot! You haven't the guts... your hand is shaking... ah!"

Somerville, drawing nearer and nearer to the wobbling barrel, suddenly launched himself at the man. One hand gripped the revolver and wrenched it from Templar's grip, dropping it on the grass at his feet. The struggle which followed was short. Preston Somerville, lean and lithe, was all muscle and nerve— his opponent started the fight at this unfair advantage, that he was wholly demoralized.

For a second or two they swayed, Templar squirming and clawing, and then he fell, grazing his cheek against the rough face of a boulder.

Somerville stooped, turning him over, and noted the lacerated cheek with a lift of eyebrows.

"Excellent," he said steadily. "Most excellent! If I had designed that scratched face of yours, Templar, I could not have executed the deed more neatly— get up!

He had picked up the revolver and slipped it into his pocket.

Templar rose shakily.

"You'll suffer for this," he said in jerks.

"On the contrary, you will suffer— that is why you are here."

A look of fear, blind, hysterical fear showed in the prominent eyes, and Somerville smiled.

"I'm not going to kill you— here," he said. "As a matter of fact, in a few minutes you will be climbing that path again. I intend that you shall spend the rest of your years in a Swiss prison, Templar— one of those mountain prisons where men go through life seeing nothing but gray peaks and white peaks until they die. Doing nothing but digging and quarrying until somebody digs—"

"Shut up!"

Templar's voice was a squeak.

"You can't do it! See! You try... you try!"

Somerville nodded.

"I am going to do it."

He took the man's revolver from his pocket and laid it on the rock beside him. Then he produced a thick pad of banknotes. Templar saw they were each for a thousand francs. His next proceeding was more difficult to understand. With a small pen-knife he made a little incision in his wrist. It was no more than a scratch, and the blood bubbled slowly to view. He waited a second, then lifted his revolver.

"Come here!" he said sharply.

Slowly the man obeyed.

"Lay your finger-tip on that cut," he commanded.

"What's the game?"

"Do as I tell you."

The reluctant Templar obeyed.

"Now take that note— the top one."

"Look here!" But the revolver barrel drove forward into the pit of his stomach, and Templar clutched the note with his bloody fingers.

"Give it to me," said Somerville, taking the money and examining it. "An excellent impression. The chain is complete."

Templar was breaking quickly.

"What's the game, hey?" he fretted. "What's the idea of all this fooling? You're not going to scare me, Somerville, take it from me! I've seen too much of play-acting—"

"The chain is complete!" Somerville's voice was harsh and joyous. "Listen! Here are the links. First you quarrel with me this morning in the presence of a waiter— that it happened to be I that started the quarrel is immaterial. Next I inform the hotel manager that you are a bad character who has demanded money from me."

Templar's face was purple.

"Next," said Somerville, "I instruct the valet— he attends me also— to open your bag in order that he may identify your revolver. He could never forget having seen the elegant weapon. Next I meet you alone here in the Gorge du Chauderon— and next?"

The truth was dawning on Templar— the hideous trap into which he had fallen. He could only blink and swallow and swallow and blink.

"Next," said Somerville slowly, "I am found dead here— your revolver near by; your bloodstained finger-print on a banknote... the marks of a struggle on your face—"

"No, no!" Templar screamed the words. "You'd never do it, Mr. Somerville! For God's sake— you'd never do it... suicide...!"

The torrent of his speech ran into a delta of sheer incoherence.

"Suicide," said Somerville. "I've planned it all— step by step. You've given me seventeen years to plan it, you dog... and you're going down with me. They'll find my body here— I wrote to the police at Les Planches to tell them I was meeting you and asking for protection. The letter will be delivered this afternoon— I even worked out the time."

He lifted the wad of banknotes and held them out.

"Take these," he said. "Take them all save the one which must be found by my side—"

With a howl Templar struck at the extended hand, and the grass was strewn with the scattered notes.

Then he turned and fled up the path, sobbing like a frightened child. He must reach the road— find a man— a witness, and return to the place before... before... He must have a witness— somebody who had seen Somerville alive...

Half-way up the path he was stricken motionless.

"Crack!"

The hills echoed and re-echoed at the pistol shot. He turned open- mouthed, ashen, toward the sound. He was paralyzed, could only mouth incomprehensible noises of woe. He could descend and recover the note. Face that? With a wail he turned and fled up the side of the hill, stumbling out into the roadway almost under the wheels of an empty fiacre.

The driver looked at the dishevelled figure wonderingly. As for Templar, he could only outstare the coachman, who had pulled his horse to a halt.

What suspicion was in this peasant's mind? Templar pulled himself together with a superhuman effort, and pushed back the hair from his streaming forehead.

"Glion— Gare!" he muttered, and stumbled into the victoria.

He would get down to Territet, he thought. The funicular left every ten minutes. After Territet? There was the lake or the rail. He could get to Italy—seven hours' run, but he'd have to wait until the morning for a train. Or to Lausanne, or That was the scheme! By boat to Evian! Evian was in France, and an hour's journey across the lake.

He took courage at the thought.

He paid the cocher, and the man looked at him curiously.

"M'sieu has injured himself? See, there is blood on M'sieu's fingers."

Templar remembered and cursed. He offered no explanation, walked straight to the ticket office, and secured his billet. The car waited, and he fumed. Why were they waiting? The answer came when the sky-blue train from Montreux clanked into the station. Two men got out, and Templar bit his lip to stop the cry which he could arrest in no other way. They were Swiss gendarmes. Of course! The police office was at Les Planches, half-way between Montreux and Glion. He would like to have crouched down in the high pew-like compartment out of sight, but he braced himself to sit stock still.

The policeman spoke to the chef de gate, then walked briskly from the station and turned on to the road. A bell tinkled, and Templar could have wept his relief as his car dropped slowly on its steep run to Territet.

He had a quarter of an hour to wait for a boat to Lausanne. No steamer ran direct to the French ports from this end of the lake, and at Ouchy he discovered that the last boat for Evian had already gone.

It was getting late now, so he went up to Lausanne and snatched a hasty meal. The way out was by rail. Valorbe was only a few miles, and he discovered that a mixed train ran to Pontarlier at eleven o'clock— and Pontarlier was France. He took his ticket and went into a gloomy waiting-room, and, choosing the gloomiest corner, sat down to wait.

He spoke and understood French, and all that evening in the cafe and in the crowds which flocked the quais of Lausanne Station he had listened intently for some word of the crime— his crime! The one crime of all crimes which he had not committed and was incapable of committing.

But he had heard no word.... The Swiss police kept these things quiet.

Prison... years and years... all his life... they did not execute for murder in Switzerland.

He shook his head violently.

"No... no prison for me."

From outside the waiting-room a man watched him through the window. It was rather difficult to see Templar, because he had chosen his corner well, but the watcher identified him and walked back along the platform to the entrance, where two policemen were standing.

"The man is in the waiting-room," he said in French, "in the corner nearest the clock. Do not forget his name is Templar."

"You accuse him of having stolen your bag?" said one of the policemen.

The man nodded, and the policeman moved off. Templar heard the door open, and sat bolt upright at the sight of the uniforms.

"M'sieu Templar?" said one of the policemen.

Templar nodded.

"I arrest you—"

Templar had taken the little phial from his right-hand waistcoat pocket, and had swallowed its contents at a gulp.

"Prison....? No prison for me..." he said thickly. "Blackmail, yes... but not murder... not—"

They caught him as he fell, and one went to look for the man who had charged him.

But Somerville had disappeared from the tragedy he had staged.

An hour later he was speeding back to Montreux in a fast motor-launch. On the way he dropped overboard the silver-plated revolver which he had fired into the air that afternoon.

It was a bad day for the man Templar, when an inquisitive detective had discovered that he was in the habit of carrying cyanide in his right-hand waistcoat pocket.

End

Table of Contents

Introduction

2: The Queen of Sheba’s Belt

3: The Black Grippe

4: The Governor Of Chi-Foo

5: On The Witney Road

6: Mother O' Mine

7: The King's Brahm

8: The Greek Poropulos

9: Kid Glove Harry

10: The Treasure Of The Kalahari

11: The Weakling

12: The Perfect Gentleman

13: The Stretelli Case

14: The Looker And The Leaper

15: The Man Who Never Lost

16: Code No. 2

17: Chubb Of The "Slipper"

18: The Man Who Killed Himself