THE EDGAR WALLACE

COLLECTION

The Short Stories of Edgar Wallace

Volume 9

Contents

Introduction

1: Mrs. William Jones and— Bill

2: The Adventures of George

3: According to Freud

4: Bondage

5: The Society of Bright Young People

6: The King and the Editor

7: Christmas Presents

8: Lord Exenham Causes a Sensation

9: The Death Room

10: The Limp of the Clan Chen

11: The Great Reward (Novelette)

12: The Pet of the Wigshires

13: Frank The Trumpeter

14: The Man Who Killed "X"

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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 "series" stories.

Non-series stories are collected in this volume, mostly from the small collection Mrs William Jones and―Bill , 1930.

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1: Mrs. William Jones and— Bill

The 20 Story Magazine, October 1922

HER eyes were sleepy eyes, he noted that much, though as a rule he never looked twice at a woman, save in the cause of art. And her mouth, at the moment he was observing her, struck him as being lazy. He had never heard of a lazy mouth before, but that is just how it occurred to him. It was parted— "fly-catching"— he described it afterwards.

Yet she was quite an adorable person, with the figure that men make up stories about, that is to say, she had no definite figure at all, but there was just enough of her to occupy clothes, so that they seemed to fill the right amount of space.

The eyes were blue, dark blue, almost violet. The eyelashes (so he saw, being sophisticated) had the appearance of having been made up, they were so dark, whilst her hair was so-so, well not exactly fair— veiled gold (whatever he meant by that, and it certainly conveys a rough sense of subdued glory) was the colour he jotted down on his tablet.

For the rest, features conformed to the outstanding excellences, and neither discounted nor enhanced them. All this Bill Jones saw from his barn- like bedroom, which was on the ground floor of Ten Pines Hotel, which in turn was situated in the middle of a pleasant valley between sea and marsh.

The big windows of the room opened on to a broad and shady veranda, and it was on this "stoep" that the unaccountable lady reclined, her heels elevated to the veranda rail.

It was not a lady-like attitude. Miss Beryl Foster, who had come to Ten Pines every summer for twenty-nine years, and who occupied, by arrangement and tradition, the cheapest bedroom in the hotel, and the only easy-chair in the hotel parlour, said that in all those twenty-nine years she had never seen a lady in such a posture.

Miss Foster spent her days upon the veranda, knitting savagely a shapeless something which looked like a bath mat, but was probably something else. She knit with an air of gloomy courage which suggested that she was being punished for her sins, and recognised the justice of her punishment.

To Bill Jones the unaccountable lady was a fascinating object, transcending in picturesqueness the amber rocks that stood in amber pools, entirely surrounded by blue-green waters that foamed in chinese white about their bases.

Bill Jones was a good man but a bad artist. He was handsome in a rugged kind of way, and his name was really Bill Jones, his father having been born both Jones and eccentric. And he had christened or caused to be christened his infant son, just plain "Bill."

"You mean William?" said the officiating clergy.

"I mean Bill," said Bill's father firmly.

"And what are the other names?" the clergyman demanded anxiously.

"Jones," said Bill's father.

And so "Bill Jones" he was christened, and the clergy shivered as it pronounced the fateful words.

Bill really did not mind. The name fitted him. He was as tough as luck and as hard as lines, to apply the sayings of the slangster. He could box, swim, ride, leap, throw things, run and tackle. He could not paint. Obviously, the kind of pictures for which he was designed were not the kind of pictures designed by him. Nature lagged behind his palette. He belonged to a select art club, the members of which told one another at stated intervals, that they were ahead of their time. And it was probably true, for who knows what shape and colour things will take in a million years?

But Bill Jones differed from all other bad artists in this respect— he knew he was a bad artist. He knew that his visit to Ten Pines had nothing whatever to do with art study.

He looked at the beautiful girl and sighed.

"Oh lord!" he prayed, "if I were only an artist— what a head and ankle!"

Bill was away when she arrived. He had taken his colour-box and a small canvas out on to the lake.... there was a "right light," and he remembered how amazingly beautiful was the patch of young alders and rushes at the western corner.

A man, even a poor technician, might make a great picture of that. So he took his paint-box and punted across the water. He also took a line and tackle, for the pike fishing hereabouts is very good.

When he returned with four pike (one a nine-pounder) and a virgin canvas, Mrs. Carmichael, the landlady, regarded him curiously. She did not explain her mystery. And Bill found no solution until....

He was going to speak to the unknown lady. Up to now he had not dared to do more than admire in a furtive, public-spirited and detached manner the rare feast of beauty which fortune had brought to him. And Providence was on his side, for as he walked leisurely along the front of the veranda, the little high-heeled shoe which had been perched upon the rail fell almost at his feet.

"I'm awfully sorry."

Beauty was charmingly confused, put out a white, hand to take the shoe, and Bill's heart sank. There was no especial reason and certainly no intelligent reason why his heart should sink at the sight of a new wedding ring upon the proper finger of her hand.

"It must have fallen off," said Beauty more calmly, as she emptied the sand from its interior.

Bill was inclined to agree and, being unusually tongue-tied, the acquaintance might have ended then and there.

"You're an artist, aren't you?" she said. "How lovely it must be to paint beautiful pictures."

"It must be," agreed Bill honestly. "I'm sorry I've never had that experience."

She frowned.

"But you are the artist? Mrs. Carmichael pointed you out to me and said you were the artist, and asked me if I knew you. As she didn't tell me your name— "

"My name is Jones," said Bill modestly. He thought that it was not a thing he need boast about anyway. "Bill Jones."

Her mouth opened in a luscious O.

"William Jones!" she said hollowly.

He nodded.

"Bill, to be exact," he replied. "I haven't the pleasure— "

She hesitated only for the fraction of a second. The whole conversation was irregular, and not even the fortuitous circumstance of their occupying adjoining rooms justified this sudden exchange of intimacies.

"My name is Mrs. William Jones," she said rapidly. "My husband is a traveller."

"Indeed?" said Bill politely, and wanted to ask her whether at this precise moment her husband was fulfilling his professional duties.

"He's a chauffeur, I mean," said the girl, clearing her throat.

Bill was not shocked. He had known some very good chauffeurs in his time. He had also known some very bad ones. He hoped that she had not married a bad one. It would be dreadful to think of that frail and beautiful lady being married to a man who took cross-roads at top speed without sounding his klaxon.

Still he was depressed. The fact that her husband was a chauffeur had nothing whatever to do with the cause of the depression. He was depressed that she should marry anybody whether he was a traveller or just an ordinary stationary individual, such as a policeman on point duty or a commissionaire outside a picture palace. Her offence was that she was married at all.

"He is away just now," said Mrs. Jones unnecessarily.

"Perhaps," said Bill, whose manners in moments of crises were irreproachable, "you would like to walk along the beach?"

"I should very much," said Mrs. Jones demurely, and she came down to him, under the very eyes of Miss Beryl Foster, who knitted even more fiercely, and later made a clacking sound as the landlady appeared in the doorway and beckoned her with the blunt end of a knitting needle.

"It is as I thought," she said, "they are a honeymoon couple!"

"Whatever makes you think so?" said the landlady hopefully.

"They're a honeymoon couple who have quarrelled on their wedding day. She went her way and he went his. It was probably over a question of relations. All my friends quarrel over their relations."

"But— " began Mrs. Carmichael.

"He couldn't bear to have her out of his sight, so he followed," said Miss Foster romantically. "Did you notice how they pretended not to know one another— my dear!"

She twisted her face up into what with a little practice would have been a smile.

"She threw her boot at him as he passed," said Miss Foster startlingly.

"Her boot?" said the incredulous Mrs. Carmichael, "but she only wears shoes."

"Well, shoes or boots, it doesn't matter," rejoined Miss Foster impatiently. "Anyway she dropped her shoe right in front of him, and of course he had to pick it up... they're reconciled."

She pointed, this time with the sharp end of her knitting needle, at the two as they strolled along by the seashore. They were at that moment passing Lover's Rock, so called because it occurred without excuse in the very middle of a smooth stretch of beach. Lovers might shelter themselves from the gales that blew in those months when no lovers were within a hundred miles. It might as truly have been called Fat Man's Rock. However....

"You see!" said Miss Foster thrillingly. "Now mark my words— oh, drivel and blink!"

With these ladylike curse words did Miss Foster announce the dropping of certain stitches from her too adventurous needle.

And in the meantime.

"I am an artist in the sense that I am not colour-blind," confessed Bill, "otherwise I am sheer false pretence. Fortunately I have a father who is sufficiently fond of his children and well enough off to indulge them in their abnormalities."

"Have you any brothers and sisters?" she asked, interested.

"No," admitted Bill, "I'm the only children. Do you like Ten Pines?"

She shrugged her dainty shoulders.

"I didn't know there was such a place until I came here," she said. "Of course, I could have gone to Newport, but— this is an out-of-the-way place, isn't it?"

Bill nodded gravely.

"You wanted to be alone?" he said gently.

"No, I didn't," she answered; "I'm bored to death. There's an awfully rowdy man sleeps in the next room to me who gets up at unearthly hours and whistles and drops his boots on the floor when he goes to bed. Those kind of people— "

"I am the man next door," interrupted Bill, more gently still. "I hadn't the slightest idea that I was worrying you, Mrs. Jones. There's a woman who lives on the left of me, Number 22, I think, who snores abominably— "

"I live in 22," said the girl icily, "and I don't snore because I don't sleep. I haven't slept a wink since I've been at this place. I'm too worried to sleep and too much of a lady to snore."

Bill agreed.

"When is your husband coming?" he ventured to ask..

He knew he had committed a faux pas by the look she gave him.

"Is it necessary to tell about my husband?" she asked frigidly. "He is a subject I never care to discuss."

They walked along in silence for a long time, and Bill, who was not a society man and was not perfectly certain in his mind whether one did discuss husbands with wives, sought vainly in his mind for another and a more pleasing subject. Art he had exhausted in three sentences.

"Who is your father?" she asked suddenly.

"My father," said Bill vaguely. "Oh, he's a man named— named Jones."

"I should have guessed that, but what does he do for a living besides calling himself Jones?"

"He owns some factories— motor-car factories, I believe," said Bill. "I will even go so far as to admit that I know, but the proper pose of the merchant's son is his ignorance of the means by which his parents subsist."

She nodded gravely, and he wondered whether the mention of his father's sordid employment had touched a chord which brought back to her the memory of her absent husband.

Presently she sighed.

"My father is in rubber."

"You surprise me," said the polite Bill. "I have never had a father in rubber. It must be rather jolly."

Again she eyed him suspiciously.

"Did he recommend you to Ten Pines?" said Bill hastily.

"Ten Pines!" The scorn in her voice. "He's never heard of Ten Pines, and he has not the slightest idea I am here."

A little pause.

"I ran away to get married."

"The devil you did!" said the admiring Bill.

"Yes, I ran away," she replied complacently. "Father wanted me to marry a friend of his— a man in the iron trade, and of course I ran away."

"You did perfectly right," said Bill warmly. "I can imagine nothing more revolting than being married to a man in the iron trade. Did your husband run away with you, that is to say, did he come on first, or did he drop you half-way?"

She stopped and faced him squarely.

"My husband has certain duties to perform, and being a man of honour he is performing them," she said. "He had to give a month's notice to his employer, and naturally I wouldn't hear of him leaving without notice."

She turned and walked back toward the hotel, and Bill paced by her side, his hands behind him, his mind very full of her difficulties.

"Does your father know the chauffeur?" he demanded.

"No." Her reply was very short and uncompromising.

"It was— a love match," she went on, speaking with difficulty. "I met him first at a ball, and then he drove me— round the park."

"Which park?" asked Bill, and she became a little exasperated.

"Does it matter which park it was?" she asked. "Any park."

"There are some parks better than others for driving round," murmured Bill apologetically. "And after that, you just got married to him?"

"That is what happened," said Mrs. William Jones, "and here I am."

Thereafter conversation flagged. She seemed worried about something. As they were nearing the hotel, Bill said with a sigh:

"I should love to paint your portrait."

"You can," she answered complacently.

"I said I should love to do it, I didn't say I could," said Bill. "Perhaps your husband will allow me— "

"You need not bother about my husband," and then, "will you walk back with me?" she asked hurriedly.

Bill turned and noticed that she was a little agitated.

"Mr. Jones," she said, "I have a confession to make. I have told you a lie. My husband is not a chauffeur but an artist. I wish he had been a chauffeur now."

"An artist?" said Bill. "Do you mean a paint and canvas artist?"

"You don't think I meant a music-hall artist, do you, or a trapeze artist?" she asked with asperity. "No, he's a painting artist. I'm awfully sorry."

"I'm sorry too," said Bill with sympathy.

"You've nothing to be sorry about." Beauty could be very violent when she wished. "Oh, what a stupid fool I was— I ought not to have made him an artist."

"Only the Lord makes artists," said Bill proudly.

"A chauffeur!" she said. "Of course he should have been a chauffeur!"

"I certainly think he'd have earned more money if you'd made him a chauffeur," agreed Bill, "but I don't quite follow your line of thought, Mrs. Jones."

"Oh, don't you!" she retorted darkly. "Well, perhaps you will!"

She did not come in to lunch. Bill went outside to the veranda and sat down to wait. It was a hot afternoon, and the cool breeze which blew in from the sea was of so zephyr-like and somniferous a nature that he had not been sitting there long before his head sank on his breast, and he passed out into the state of existence where he painted beautiful pictures which were hung in great exhibitions, won innumerable gold medals, and earned for him a fame which was at least equal to that of his father's notorious "Jigger Eight."

He was awakened by being kicked. It was not a vicious kick. At the same time it was not a gentle one, being intended to arouse him to consciousness with the least possible waste of time.

"Hi," said a man's voice unpleasantly. "Wake up, my friend!"

Bill woke instantly and blinked up at a very tall man in a grey flannel suit and a terrible red complexion.

Bill's first impression was that he had met a creature of his dreams— a man who wore his face inside out. And then he saw that it really was a normal man with a normal white moustache and an abnormal bald head who was scowling down at him, and the stranger was accompanied by a younger man with a small face and a tiny black smear of a moustache. He wore a perfectly fitting morning coat, beautifully creased trousers, and his hair was glued back from his forehead.

Bill rose a little wearily, but wondering.

"Now, sir," said the red-faced man breathing through his nose, "perhaps you will accompany us to a place where we cannot be overheard."

He said this in a voice like a steam siren.

"May I suggest a desert island in the Pacific," said Bill, yawning.

"I want to talk to you, sir," roared the red-faced man. "I want an explanation from you, sir, and Mr.Duvine also wants an explanation, sir, and if he had my spirit, sir, he'd take you by the scruff of your neck and beat the life out of you. If I were twenty years younger— "

"And twenty degrees less apoplectic," murmured Bill. "Will you come with me to the beach. I see that your business is very urgent. I think an assignation near the True Lovers Rock would not be inappropriate."

He led the way to the very water's edge. The tide was going out. The sands, white-hot in the afternoon sun, were deserted.

"Now, sir," said the red-faced gentleman, "my name is Andrew Pollack."

Bill nodded and a momentary qualm came to him.

"You're not the man whose picture I painted? No, his name was— anyway it doesn't matter about his name, but I used up two tubes of carmine."

"I don't want to hear any of your infernal studio jargon," bellowed Mr. Pollack. "I want to know where is my daughter?"

Bill was genuinely exasperated.

"Have you come all the way to Ten Pines to ask me where is your wandering child to-night?" he asked.

"Where— is— your— wife?" demanded Mr. Pollack awfully, and for a second Bill dithered.

"My wife?" he asked in a strangled voice. "Do you mean my— my wife?"

"I mean my unhappy daughter," Mr. Pollack spoke with emotion. "The innocent girl upon whose empty mind you played. The girl— you dazzled her with your infernal art!"

Bill was fanning himself languidly with the brim of his panama hat.

"Thank you for those kind words," he said gratefully, "I knew that my art could daze, but I hadn't the slightest idea it dazzled."

"Don't trifle with me, sir, you have behaved like a scoundrel. You knew that my daughter was an heiress; you thought that you would get an income for life, eh?"

"Perfectly disgusting," murmured Mr. Duvine. "Very caddish in the extreme."

"How did you know I was here?" asked Bill, after a long cogitation.

"I tracked you, sir." Mr. Pollack put his hand in his pocket and took out a note-case, opened it fiercely, and violently snatching forth a letter, thrust it into Bill's face.

"I suppose you dictated that?" he said.

Bill took the letter and read.

Dear Father,— I can never marry your horrible friend. I have decided to make my own life. I have long secretly loved Mr. William Jones, the eminent artist, and we were married to-day at the Registrar's Office by special licence. I am very happy, and my husband sends his kind regards, and please don't attempt to find me. I shall come back in two months.— Your loving daughter, Silvia.

"Now," said Mr. Pollack. "Let me have one word with you. My daughter has certainly money of her own, but she will not get a penny of mine. You hear, sir, not a cent, not a tenth part of a Russian rouble!"

"Kroner are cheap, too," said Bill helpfully; "you can get forty-four thousand for a—"

"Don't argue with me!" howled Mr. Pollack. "You have ruined a young girl's life, sir. Celebrated artist!" He sneered audibly. "I've been asking the dealers about you. They say you're the worst artist in the world. They say that the name of Bill Jones is known and execrated from one end of the country to the other! They say— "

"Don't tell me what they say," said Bill peevishly. "They've said it to me, and I've accepted their verdict. I admit I'm a rotten artist, but I'm a good husband."

Mr. Pollack snorted.

"There is within me a whole wealth of unsuspected tenderness."

Mr. Pollack snorted still more loudly.

"Haven't you got a handkerchief?" said Bill, feeling in his pocket, "Of one thing you may be sure, that I shall never ask you for a penny, for Cynthia— I mean Sylvia. With my own two hands I will work for her, sharing," his voice broke, "the last crust of bread— the crumb for her and the knobbly bits for me."

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," said Mr. Duvine mildly. "You really ought, sir. I think you've treated me most unfairly. It was simply a dastardly thing to do. It was really!"

"I don't think we can afford to waste any more time with you," said Mr. Pollack, and turned to the young man. "When you see my daughter, I hope you will tell her that I have cut her out of my will, and out of my heart. That neither she nor her mountebank husband will ever darken the doors of my house."

"I only want to say..." began Bill.

"Faugh!" said Mr. Pollack, and left him standing by the big rock.

Bill watched them out of sight, saw them mount the car before the Ten Pines Hotel, and then he turned and walked slowly round the rock.

The girl who was sitting in its shade looked up with a scared face.

"Have they gone?" she whispered.

"They have gone," said Bill.

"I was so frightened," she admitted. "I thought Father would strike you to the earth."

"To the sand," corrected Bill. "No, he didn't. He kicked me once, but what's a kick more or less?"

"I thought it was very decent and kind of you," she said. "But there was absolutely no need for you to rattle on about sharing your last crusts with me, because I'm not married to you, and I'm not married to anybody."

"I rather gathered that from your uncertainty of the morning," said Bill. "In fact, you invented your husband in order to choke off Duvine— and I can hardly blame you. As to being married at all, that is another matter. You are married to a respectable young artist—"

She stared at him.

"Married?" she said incredulously. "I'm not married!"

"You're married to me," said Bill calmly. "Do not forget Miss Pollack that I have also a name to lose. I cannot have Mrs. Carmichael pointing the finger of scorn at me or allow my name to be bandied about as an unmarried husband. We boys have our rights."

"But—" she gasped. "We're not married."

"For the moment we're not married, I admit," said Bill. "Your ruddy parent— I beg your pardon, your parent is under the impression that we are. If he should discover that we are not," he clasped his brow, "oh heavens, what would happen to my good name?"

"I've got a pretty good name, too," she said wrathfully. "You have made a mess of things!"

Bill staggered.

"I?" he said.

"Of course you've made a mess of it," she retorted viciously. "Why didn't you tell Father that you weren't married to me? How dare you associate my name with yours?"

Bill recovered himself very slowly.

"It's my name," he protested; "you haven't a name at all in the matter; you're the spurious Mrs. Jones! I, at least, am a genuine Jones."

"Anyway, you should have told him that you weren't married," she said more mildly; "you should have explained that it was all a girlish freak."

"Never," said Bill Jones indignantly; "I've never been guilty of a girlish freak, and I'm too old to start now. I'm afraid, Sylvia, we've got to find a way out that meets not only with the approval of your father but of mine. We Joneses have our feelings, although we do not express them so hecticly as you Pollacks. So, Sylvia— "

"Do you mind not calling me Sylvia. My name is Miss Pollack."

"Your name is Mrs. Jones. Mrs. William Jones," said Bill severely. "I've already forgiven you for calling yourself William instead of Bill. I detest Williams."

She sat down on the sand again. She felt unaccountably helpless.

"What am I to do?"

"I'll go into town to-morrow morning," he said, "get the necessary licence, and, at the identical office, where you married the artist, who was afterwards a chauffeur, but who is, alas, an artist after all, we will regularise a position which is at present embarrassing to me, and one which I trust will never become generally known."

"I'd sooner die than marry you," she said briefly. "I don't know you. I've only spoken half a dozen words to you."

"What better preparation for a happy married life?" asked Bill. "Retain that habit."

"Anyway, I'm not going to marry you," she said, taking up a handful of sand and threw it at the unoffending sea.

Bill sighed and sat down by her. He, too, took up a handful of sand and poured it from palm to palm absent-mindedly.

"You are really a bad artist. Father said so."

"Couldn't you take my word?" he asked reproachfully.

"Father hates artists," she said, after a while.

"Then he can't hate me," said Bill. "Besides, he'll get used to me in time."

"I could never be happy with a man like you," she said thoughtfully; "you're not serious enough, and you take too flippant a view of life— and don't make your hands messy with that sand."

He threw the sand away obediently and wiped his hands on his trousers. She groaned.

"I admit I am not so serious-minded as you," said Bill. "To have been consistent you ought to have married a professor of mathematics. Why choose an artist? Heaven knows we have quite enough— "

"Don't talk rubbish; you know I'm not married— yet," she added.

Bill edged a little closer.

"You've seen me at my worst, Sylvia; I'm not always painting. I play a pretty good game of tennis, but that is about the only important occupation I have in life. My principal hobbies are loafing round Europe, alternated with long spells of theatre-going. I know a jeweller's on the Rue de la Paix, who sells better pearls than any other jeweller you can name."

"Devoux?" she said instantly.

He nodded, and she looked at him, with a new admiration.

"What kind of motor-cars does your father make?" she asked. "Are they the sort which one can rely on... for long trips...."

"A honeymoon trip?" he suggested.

"Any kind of trip," she said recklessly.

He put one arm round her and with the other searched his pocket. Presently he found the new catalogue of the Jigger Eight which his father had sent to him that morning.

"Listen to this, honey," he said.

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2: The Adventures of George

Windsor Magazine, Dec 1910 to May 1911,

GEORGE GREGORY SANWORTH was regarded as the fool of the family. The Sanworths were a remarkably clever family; some people even went as far as describing them as brainy. Cuthbert Sanworth was a barrister of some note; Torre Sanworth wrote a history of Peter the Great, which was accepted by the Sanworth family as the last word upon the reign; Christopher Sanworth was also a barrister, but made an income by writing satirical verse for a society paper; Grace Sanworth wore pince-nez, and was an authority on prints and old furniture; and the old man Sanworth was an authority on most subjects, and it was admitted even by his children, that he was a genius.

But George was a fool, having no gifts save that of knowing a good horse when he saw one. He dabbled, in a shy way, with chemistry and metallurgy, but he never referred to these accomplishments, knowing that he was the fool of the family.

There was no Mrs. Sanworth. The task of presenting to the world such a galaxy of genius had exhausted her desire for life, and she died when George was a very small boy, possibly heart-broken in the discovery that this last addition to the Sanworth family was a mistake and something of a failure. George knew he was a fool, because the family used to sit round and tell him so. Sometimes the information used to come in epigram, which he only vaguely understood, sometimes with brutal plainness, which made him grin uncomfortably, for he was a little sensitive.

In such an atmosphere, George Gregory Sanworth lived for ten years, for he had been exactly ten when, by the unanimous vote of the breakfast table, he had stepped into the position which is vacant in every family.

He accepted the situation philosophically, found some quiet amusement in it if the truth be told, for he had the beginnings of a sense of humour, and might, under more favourable conditions, have shone as a humourist of the dry variety. He had no friends, no lasting friends at any rate. Friendship could not outlive the exposure of the family. If he brought a boy home to dine, the guest began his visit in embarrassment, and took leave in contempt, so George had nothing in the world but his own inside thoughts, his bunsen burner, and his assorted chemicals. When he was twenty-one the Sanworths became absorbed with a breakfast-table problem. How should George invest his money? He had £600 left in trust by a maternal uncle, and on his twenty-first birthday there was a solemn signing of papers ("Write your name where the pencil mark is," said the lawyer), a great comparing of original drafts and sworn copies ("Put your initials against the words, 'unless the said George Gregory Sanworth should predecease me,'" said the lawyer fretfully), and, after many days, the transference to the legatee's account of a sum which in a mysterious fashion had dwindled to £564. 3s. 4d.

"And now," said the family, after dinner had been hurried through that night, "and now what shall be done with the money?"

George wriggled uneasily in his chair and murmured vaguely that "it was all right where it was."

"Stuff!" said the family. "Nonsense! rubbish!— how like George to leave his money in the bank, nibbling away at the capital from time to time!"

"A friend of mine would take George into his office," said Torre Sanworth thoughtfully; "if any man could turn George into a useful member of society, Falling could."

"Who is Falling?" demanded the resentful legatee.

A shriek of scornful merriment greeted his inquiry.

He did not know Falling! Falling, the pioneer of the village industries— the man who taught agricultural labourers the art of repoussé work!

Grace Sanworth, recovering from her paroxysm of amusement, remembered that Falling was not a very good business man— now that she came to think of it. Why not "put" George with Kalesteine?— everybody knew these famous art dealers were commercially sound; "and really, these art people make an awful lot of money."

"I can imagine," said Cuthbert— and waited for a silent audience— " I can imagine nothing more tragic than the spectacle of George buying a chromo- lithograph and— "

"Before you people go any further," interrupted George, "I'd like to say that I have decided to go abroad."

There was a dead silence, and George went very red.

"I'm going abroad," he repeated doggedly.

Another silence, and Sanworth père settled his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

"May I ask why?" he demanded, with ominous blandness.

"Because I'm jolly well going," said George illogically.

"An excellent answer," said Mr. Sanworth; "but not sufficiently illuminating— why?"

"Because," said George, after a pause, "I'm tired of all you clever devils, and I'm sick of hearing you gas at me from morning to night."

"The worm," said Cuthbert, sotto voce, "has turned."

"I'm tired of listening to people trying to be clever...epigrams... quotations from the poets... rotten," he ended disconnectedly.

Thereafter the attitude of the family toward George was one of chilly politeness.

He made his preparations for departure unassisted by the advice or encouragement of his outraged relations. He was not asked what his plans were, and did not volunteer any information.

Only at breakfast on the morning of his departure did his father ask him a question.

"What time do you leave?"

"At four o'clock."

"Indeed," said Mr. Sanworth courteously. "I hope you have a good voyage— I suppose you have taken the precaution of booking a berth— I noticed your boxes were labelled 'Cape Town?'"

George regarded that reflection upon his intelligence as an unfriendly act, and wisely said nothing.

"If I start arguing with these beggars, I'm done," said he to himself.

There was no other leave-taking. George went alone to Waterloo, and no farewell telegram awaited him at Southampton.

"A rum family," mused George, watching the circling light of St. Catherine's from the stern of the Walmer Castle.

He shook his head, touched gingerly his breast pocket where five crisp bank notes for £I00 each were snugly hidden, and smiled.

"A rum family," he said again, and, whistling a vulgar little tune, he went below to dress for dinner.

2

GEORGE FOUND a metallurgist in Johannesburg who was a great metallurgist indeed, albeit young. He was a tall, youngish man with a pair of steady blue eyes that looked at you with infinite calmness. He was a man after George's own heart, because he had no small talk, no repartee, and had only the vaguest ideas as to what was happening in that world which was outside the realms of chemistry. They spent a delightful evening discussing the effect of cyanide of potassium upon gold-matrix, and finished up by reminiscences, which, if they were put into book form, would be intituled "Crucibles I have met."

"And," said the eminent metallurgist, at parting, "if I can help you in any way, please let me know."

"I think I shall manage," said George confidently. "I shall just browse round prospecting, and making assays in my tin pot way, and if I strike anything real good, I will let you know."

Did the faintest of smiles illuminate the face of the eminent metallurgist at the idea of George discovering "anything good" in a country every inch of which had been prospected? It is possible, but George did not notice it.

He went west, beyond Klerksdorp, and worked his Way down to Fourteen Streams; he went north beyond Petersburg and came to the Crocodile River, near Tuli Drift; he went east, by way of Caroline. He went into the bad, low country and found malaria.

For eighteen months, he clipped and pounded, and washed various unpromising chunks of rock, and grew a straggling beard, and learnt to speak Cape Dutch.

Sometimes he found the colour of gold and assayed his find solemnly, writing long reports to the young metallurgist in Johannesburg.

The members of the Sanworth family knew nothing about him because he did not write long reports to them. They spoke of him ironically; it seemed a correct attitude to take up toward George.

Two years after George had left the parental roof, he struck the farm Vogelfontein by Brakdorp, and out-spanned his two mules of "Farm (497) Vogelspruit."

He took coffee with the owner of the farm, shook hands— a solemn ceremony— with the farmer's four sons and seven daughters, and received permission to prospect.

George had a theory about gold reefs which need not be particularised, because it would not interest the nontechnical reader, but it had to do with the "dip" of a reef in relation to the presence of dolomite or something of the sort. Frankly, it was a ridiculous theory, as ridiculous as the idea widely held in a less enlightened age, that a stone might be discovered which had the effect of transmuting metals. Yet, seeing this, a monk discovered gunpowder.

George Gregory Sanworth began his fantastic operations by cutting a section of a ridge at random.

He intended, by some wearisome process of triangulation based upon the character and bearing of the strata he discovered, to arrive at a spot beneath which, at the distance of 3000 feet, the gold-bearing reef would be discovered. He had worked his theory before, but had never found gold.

For two long days, aided by his Kaffir boys, he dug and dug. He was not looking for gold in that particular spot. I would impress this fact upon you. But he found it.

A more prosaic happening could not be imagined than the discovery of the Sanworth Reef.

George, smoking a short briar pipe, squatting on the ground, slowly twirling his metal pan... a hot sun blazing overhead, and the smell of frying bacon...

"Hullo," said George, with a perplexed frown, "Hullo!... well, I'm blest... colour..."

He put down the dish and stood up. His pipe had gone out, and he lit it with a sun-glass, which was a long process, and gave him time to think.

Thinking very deeply, but very clearly, he walked slowly back to the farm.

"You've got gold here," he said.

"Ja," the farmer smiled and nodded; "you buy the option."

(He had made an income for years from impetuous and optimistic prospectors who had found "colour," but, then, they had never happened upon the Sanworth Reef.)

George eyed him suspiciously.

"I tell you there's gold here," he repeated— he was a very honest young man.

"Ja— plenty of gold," said Cootze pleasantly; "you buy the option for two hundred pounds for one year, then I will sell you the farm for ten thousand— that is cheap."

George bought the option, and went off to Johannesburg, carrying with him sacks full of specimens.

The youthful-looking metallurgist was greatly interested, and he and George spent one hilarious evening discussing a new process for recovering gold from slimes.

More to the purpose, George was introduced to a stout man who had a suite of offices on the top floor of a palatial building in Commissioner Street. He was a florid gentleman who wore a big white waistcoat, frayed at the edges from many laundry operations, and whose only jewellery was in the form of a gunmetal watch fastened to his person by a leather guard. He did not look like a millionaire as he sat there in his office, chewing a quill toothpick and regarding the roofs of Commissioner Street through the open window with a strained and troubled stare.

George told the story of his discovery: exhibited his option, displayed his specimens on the table, and produced his assays:

"Interestin', very interestin'," said the millionaire mechanically.

"My own theory is," said George, "that the main reef is continued in a line parallel..."

"Very interestin', very interestin' indeed," said the millionaire, intently regarding a bold sparrow who had perched perilously on a neighbouring chimney-pot.

George talked and talked until he was out of breath, and then:

"Very interestin'," said the stout man. "I will send. a man down— good mornin'."

George left the presence a little chilled.

He spent a pleasant week in Johannesburg, evolving an altogether new and preposterous theory in relation to gold-bearing quartz, a theory which, as the young metallurgist told him afterwards, was opposed to all known mineral laws.

Then one day, when seated in his bedroom at Heath's Hotel, surrounded by the debris of rejected data, a message came to him, and, in obedience to the summons it contained, he climbed again to the top floor of the palatial premises in Commissioner Street and discovered the millionaire with the same waistcoat— he identified a rust spot near the second button- hole— staring over the heads of the population.

"Sit, sit down," said the stout man, without removing his gaze from the window. "That Vogeispruit proposition— very interestin' ."

He shook his head slowly, and repeated the information that it was indeed very interestin'.

"Our man saw it— proved it— what do you want?"

George was taken aback.

"Hey?" he said hesitatingly.

He really did not know what he wanted.

"Lucky young feller," said the millionaire, with a sigh, as though George's fortune was a matter for regret; "devilish lucky young feller— what do you want?"

George was silent.

"Suppose we float it: suppose it pans out all right"— it was the millionaire's turn to hesitate. He was evidently a man of no great command of language.

"Here!"

He swung round suddenly, and stared at George.

"We'll buy a half share; pay you half in cash and half in script, what d'ye say?"

"All right," said George weakly.

"All right," repeated the other, looked at his watch, shook it, and put it to his ear. "All right— have to buy a new watch. It's more than half-past seven, I'll swear. Now Mr.— er— forget your name, come along on Saturday, and we'll fix things."

"Excuse me," said George nervously "what do you think— how much— ?"

The stout man looked long and earnestly at George's boots.

"Hundred thousand cash, hundred thousand shares— is it a deal?"

George nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

3

GEORGE SANWORTH became almost a millionaire without any other than a few interested persons becoming aware of the fact. It is an astonishing thing that even in this age of enterprising pressmenship, one may do or be anything short of criminal without the world being any the wiser, always providing that you say or do nothing that is unconventional. Thus you may be the greatest scientist in the world, and just so long as you preserve a normal view on men and things, you will attract less attention than the obscure "professor" who gives his opinion, in the largest type, that stage fright was bacteriologically curable by the application of some especial virus.

George Sanworth did nothing fantastic: he did not give a dinner-party in Johannesburg, he did not tip the waiters at Heath's with £I00 notes: he did not order a special train to carry him to Cape Town, nor make extravagant outlays on flowers for the decoration of his cabin.

So he came back to England inscribed on the list of passengers as Mr. G. C. Santworth. The fact that his name was spelt wrongly being conducing proof of his obscurity.

One grey dawn he found himself standing in his pyjamas watching the restless white light of St. Catherine's trembling and dying on the far horizon ahead.

"A rum family," he said, for the wheeling light awoke a memory.

He landed at Southampton, directed the dispatch of his worn luggage, and came to Glazeboro' by way of London.

The family was at dinner when he arrived unheralded, and it was only natural that they should put an altogether wrong construction upon the unexpected apparition of this brick-red young man— he had shaved off his straggling beard— in the shabby suit.

Consternation, suspicion, a little contemptuous amusement, all the emotions evoked in a well-balanced family that finds itself suddenly confronted with A Problem, and that the problem of the returned Prodigal, were evidenced in the reception afforded to George.

"Oh, sit down, sit down!" this, testily from Sanworth senior; "I suppose you want something to eat— "

"Why didn't you let us know you were coming?" this resentfully from Grace.

"Brown paper parcel under his arm— packing-cases coming by water— huge boxes of gold— ropes of pearl— diamonds by buckets— pieces of eight— wonderful— very," murmured Tone.

George, bubbling over with his news, ready with one glowing word to light the train of the mine, went suddenly cold. In a moment he lost all sense of embarrassment more than that he lost his awe of the family.

"Do you know, George," said Christopher Sanworth easily— he had a mop of red hair and he was poisonously bland— "your return reminds me of a little story told the other night by Eugene Thebier at a dinner— "

"I don't care what you say to me," said George, "so long as you don't read me any of your rotten poetry, but I would rather you shut up for about ten minutes whilst I tell you something. Is there anybody in this bunch of fricassed genius who has made a study of the stock markets?

There was an awful silence.

"Because," said George slowly and without flurry, "if there is, he will know that Sanworth Reefs are at 10 1/4."

"What is that to do with us?" snapped his father.

"I hold a hundred thousand shares in that company— that's all."

He got up from the table, rolled his serviette and stuffed it untidily into a napkin ring.

"You are jolly clever," he went on; "but I'm a millionaire and can afford to be a fool. I'm tired of you, sick to death of you, all you're words and messy little penny-a-line phrases. I came back here because I wanted a home, a real home, and I find I have returned to the same old monkey house."

It was not a great speech— it lacked dignity, subtlety, and was, moreover, unfilial to a degree, but George, standing by the open door, his broad shoulders hunched, his hands thrust defiantly into his trouser pockets, was without respect.

As afterwards related by members of the family, in his eyes was an "insane glare," but this may be a pardonable exaggeration due to the extraordinary impression his conduct conveyed.

"I'm going now," he said, "and I don't want to see any of you again, or to read your toshy verse (Christopher shuddered), or to hear about your punk prints (Grace shivered), or to learn of your histories cribbed from other fellers' books (Torre went pale and frowned terribly). I think there ought to be a real home somewhere for a chap like me, and I'm going out to find it."

He slammed the door behind him, caught the edge of his coat between door and handle, opened it roughly, and slammed it again.

His exit lacked dignity.

4

WHEN a man who is young, pardonably angry, and moreover a millionaire, strikes that part of London which begins at Aldwych and runs westward to Bayswater, lurid happenings are almost inevitable.

George, with his much labelled luggage on the top of a four-wheeled cab— he was in no mood for taxi-cabs, being out of sympathy with civilisation— trundled over the bridge from Waterloo Station mentally reviewing his position.

He felt horribly lonely, and cautiously reckless. That is to say, he felt that convention demanded of him some proceeding of an outrageous character; at the same time he was anxious to avoid that variety of excess which would eventually bring him discomfort. Dissipation, he told himself, was not his "line of country"; intoxicating liquors made him ill; he had no taste in food— his favourite dinner was roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, with rhubarb tart to follow— and he disliked intensely anything approaching ostentation.

He drove to an hotel in Arundel Street, engaged a bed and a sitting- room, and strolled out into the Strand.

It was then a quarter to twelve, the theatres were closed, but the Strand was alive with people homeward bound, and in the neighbourhood of Charing Cross it was distinctly crowded. People thronged the side walk, and there were wild little rushes for each motor-bus that jarred itself to a standstill before the station.

He was an idle and a thoughtful observer of struggling humanity for five minutes, then he resumed his journey westward, crossing Trafalgar Square to Pall Mall.

How might a man spend a million pounds? What extraordinary happiness might he find in its possession? He could equip an expedition to discover the South Pole.... George did not want to discover the South Pole; or found a hospital... or race horses... George shook his head.

He was crossing Pall Mall, and a motor-car, flying along toward St. James' Street, squeaked warningly. George was no judge of pace, beside which he was immersed in his problem.

The mud guard of the car caught him, and threw him toward the pavement, and an unsympathetic lamppost received him coldly.

HE WAS LYING in a very pretty room. The window was open, and outside he could hear the clip-clop of horses, and the honk-honk of motor-horns.

He was disagreeably restricted.

That sentence describes his sensations. There was a strap or something that restrained the movements of his right arm, and a veritable pillow of some hard substance fastened to his right side. With admirable calm-ness he diagnosed his injuries— broken ribs, fractured arm. What about his head? He moved it gingerly, and to his great relief nothing happened. Yet there was a dressing of some kind affixed— "Superficial injuries," he concluded, and lay quietly enjoying the experience of being alive— a sensation peculiarly the possession of men who have already decided in their minds that they are dead.

"Now, my friend, you must take some of this."

The room was dark, save for a shaded lamp, and the nurse was very pretty: she held a feeding-cup in her hand, and George shuddered.

I'm sorry," he said in a very hoarse voice; "but I've just had dinner."

The girl smiled, stooped, and put a cool hand under his head and lifted it slightly.

"That is a much more reasonable statement to make than the one you made yesterday," she said.

He frowned. What did he say yesterday? She guessed the thought that was in his mind.

"You know you were very cross yesterday," she said, and put the spout of the feeder to his lips. "You said you'd discovered a new motor-car mine, and it was worrying you terribly, because every time you blew up the rock you spoilt the varnish of the car."

He grinned guiltily.

"I don't remember saying anything yesterday," he said. "How long have I been here, and what hospital is this?"

"You have been here nearly a week, and this isn't a hospital," was the answer. "This is my house, and I knocked you down on Saturday night."

He thought awhile, ordering the matter to his satisfaction.

"Oh, did you?" he said, and fell asleep....

"I think that you are strong enough now to tell me who your friends are."

It was morning again. He had a sleepy recollection that a strange nurse had re-made his bed and sponged his face, but this was the pretty one back again.

"I have no friends, only relations," he said, unconsciously paraphrasing an ancient joke. "I am a millionaire," he added unconsequently.

"Indeed?"

The polite incredulity annoyed him; she was humouring him, and he had no wish to be humoured. Later in the day she gave him details of the accident.

"We were coming back from the theatre. The chauffeur tried to avoid you, but you weren't looking; you bent our radiator."

"Your radiator bent me, too," said George, and the girl laughed.

I do not think that George had ever made anybody laugh in his life until that moment, and the sensation was pleasing.

"Are you a real nurse?" he asked.

Her eyebrows rose at the impertinence.

"I haven't asked you whether you were a real millionaire," she remarked maliciously.

"Oh, but I am," he said, with considerable warmth; "a hundred thousand in cash, and a hundred thousand in shares— and the shares are at ten pounds— you jolly well reckon that out— "

"If I had thought you were a millionaire," she said coldly, "I should have sent you to a hospital— I hate millionaires."

George regarded her with stern reproach.

"You are very uncharitable," he said, and relapsed into silence, a deeply injured young man.

It annoyed him still further when, later in the day, she gave some hint of her own prosperity. She was a nurse because she loved nursing. She was especially blessed with the goods of this world, an orphan, and the matron of St. Agatha's Nurses.

"Matron!" murmured George derisively; "and I suppose," he said tartly, "that when you're short of a patient you take out your car and knock one down."

"You're very rude," she said, with a great severity.

There was another long and unfriendly silence.

"I say," he said after a while, "what is wrong with me?"

"You've a broken rib or so; you've fractured the radius of your right arm, and, from later symptoms, I should imagine you have a slight concussion."

She was reading a book, and did not look up as she reeled off the calamitous inventory.

"Indeed?"

George was very polite; he tried to remember all the beastly clever things that his worthy family had fired at him on occasions, and failed.

"In— deed," he repeated, but could think of nothing more cutting. He contented himself by analysing her features, and found an unaccountable pleasure in the discovery that they were faultless.

She was twenty-five, he judged. Her eyes were big grey eyes, and her eyelashes were very dark. Her complexion was perfect; her nose was straight; her mouth and chin were adorable. (He gave up intelligent analysis at this point and fell into vague rhapsodies.)

5

THE DIRECTORS of the Sanworth Reef Gold-mining Company (Ltd.) sat in council at their offices in Dashwood House. There was the identical millionaire, with the identical white waistcoat (George would have hailed the rust spot near the second button-hole as an old friend), who sat at the head of the table staring out of a window, obligingly opened for the purpose, and there were other millionaires more expensively clad.

One of these was very angry. He had a hot red face, and a hot red tie, and an apoplectic carnation in his button-hole.

The board meeting had been called because George Gregory Sanworth had, of a sudden, disappeared as from the face of the earth, and because George Gregory Sanworth held one hundred thousand shares in the richest gold-mining corporation of the East Rand.

All sorts of things might have happened to him, but it is fair to remark that the personal well-being of the gentleman was of less consequence to the directors than the knowledge that "Fizz" (Frickerburg, Zemer & Zust Ltd., that financial colossus) were endeavouring to secure control of the company.

"With due respect, Mr. Chairman," said the red man offensively, "I submit that Mr. What's-his-name— Sandworth— should never have been lost sight of: we've traced his people, they don't know where he is; we've been to his bankers, they don't know where he is; we've found his hotel, they don't know where he is. Its bad management."

"Very interestin'," said the Chairman softly; "most interestin'— one of the most interestin' things I've ever known."

"It comes to this," said the purple man explosively; "here's a young man with a hundred thousand shares carrying influence which might easily become control of the company, and he's wanderin' about loose— an' if Frickerburgs get hold of him an' buy him out for a couple of million— "

"Interestin' problem," agreed the man with the white waistcoat; "intensely interestin' ; idea bein' that if we got hold of him and persuaded him to hold his shares, or sell 'em to the company, the "Fizz" people wouldn't bother."

There was a little man at the far end of the table— a little man with a bald head, black side-whiskers, heavy black moustache, and black-rimmed eyeglasses. He had the appearance of being in mourning for a distant relative.

"Why not detectives, Mr. Chairman?"— his voice was unexpectedly deep— "why not detectives? A friend of mine in the City told me confidentially that "Fizz" had got a couple of smart men looking for Sanworth in addition to all his relations. Why not we, or us, as the case may be?"

Eventually it was Resolved:

THAT the board authorize the employment of two private detectives to trace Mr. G. C. Sanworth, and that a sum of £100 be voted for that purpose.

GEORGE WAS SITTING up in a deep chintz-covered armchair, his legs spread luxuriously on a rest. He was whistling a little tune when his nurse came in.

He thought she was unusually pale, and certainly in the grave eyes that surveyed him steadily there was more than a hint of trouble.

She closed the door behind her, and glanced a little apprehensively at the open window.

"Aren't you sitting too— too near the window?" She asked.

He shook his head.

"The desire for a hurried departure has long since disappeared," he said flippantly; "your increasing civility has made Bloomsbury— "

"This isn't Bloomsbury," she corrected, not without a show of hauteur.

"It is near enough," he said.

"We are Mayfair in the telephone book," she insisted.

"So is Pimlico," he taunted; "so are bits of Chelsea and bits of Camden Town. Don't pin your faith to the telephone book—"

He might have gone on indefinitely, but something in her face stopped him.

She drew a low chair forward and sat down near him.

"Mr. Sanworth," she said, speaking quickly, "I want to say something to you. When we picked you up we found in your pocket a great deal of money—"

"I have every confidence in your honesty," he said graciously.

"Please don't joke— there was a lot of money, but nothing by which we could identify you. I— we— did not stop to consider who you were, Sister Rose and myself; we brought you here, because— because we were distressed by the accident, and because we felt that, having been responsible for the mischief, it was—"

"Up to you?" he suggested.

"Up to us," she accepted unsteadily, "to do all we could to save your life."

She hesitated again and looked at him, and the pain in her eyes deepened as she spoke.

"You have jested about being a millionaire," she said, and her voice was very low, "and I— I nearly believed it— but now... I know."

She dropped her eyes and did not see the look of blank astonishment on his face.

"Yes?" he said, when the silence had continued for nearly a minute.

She sat with clasped hands, her face averted.

"Last night— for two nights— this house has been watched by detectives." She turned a sorrowing face to his and shook her head slowly. "Oh, you poor boy, what have you been doing?"

You will remember that for six weeks nurse and patient had met and talked and half-confided, one in the other.

"What have I been doing?" He was puzzled. "Let me see; I once—"

"I don't want to know!" She rose hastily with hands extended, as if to hold at arm's length the story of his fall. "But you must go away from here." She was speaking rapidly, wildly almost. "When it is dark I will drive you from the mews to the railway station— I will take you to Dover and put you on board the steamer— you are well enough to travel."

She left him speechless.

Later in the day he decided to go through with the adventure in "the spirit in which it was meant," to apply the vague formula he himself employed.

When it was dark that night, she came in a sober nurse's uniform and helped him to dress. Though the evening was decidedly warm, she wrapped him in a huge overcoat, and muffled his neck with wrappers; she had also purchased a pair of blue spectacles.

"I shall look an awful guy," he grumbled.

She bit her lips and said nothing, and George Gregory Sanworth likened himself unto an arrant worm.

The drive to the station in a brougham with drawn blinds was an ordeal, for neither spoke.

She had reserved a carriage for him.

"Walk as though you're ill," she whispered fiercely, as he strode along the platform.

Those who watched a tall man with blue spectacles and muffled to his eyes, walking vigorously one moment and hobbling desperately the next, saw also the nurse, and drew their own conclusions.

"How far are you coming?" he asked, when the train had started.

"To Dover," she said shortly.

"Where am I to go?"

"I have taken your ticket to Paris." There was a long silence.

"I'm not going."

She turned on him with wide-opened eyes.

"But you must!" she gasped.

"I'll stay and face it," he said doggedly. "I don't know what I've done, but I can't get more than seven years for it, unless," he added thoughtfully, "I am wanted for murder."

She shrank a little from him, and he wanted very much to kick himself.

The train slowed at Dovertown Station, and stopped. Two men came walking carelessly along the length of the train; they had almost passed the carriage, when one clutched the other's arm and turned back.

George swore under his breath, for he recognised the red hair and the aggressive moustache of his brother, and, since he had discarded his blue glasses and had removed his wrapping, he knew that his brother had recognised him.

"Hello! I say!"

Christopher Sanworth fumbled at the handle of the carriage, and, with a bound, George was at the window.

"What do you want?" he demanded.

"Came down on the same train— thought I saw you at Charing Cross. I say, you're wanted, old man— everybody's looking for you— let go that handle, old fellow—"

"A slight mistake," said George calmly.

"Oh, rot; you're George Sanworth, I'm— "

"A slight mistake," repeated George; "my name is Higgins, and I've never met you before in my life."

"Rubbish— don't be a goat. You're George Sanworth— I say, George, old man— " The train was moving slowly and Christopher continued a disjointed conversation, running alongside. "Your company wants you— they're in a great state of mind— wondering what became of you— put detectives on to find you— you're a millionaire twice over—"

George unkindly pulled up the window, and turned to meet the amazed and terrified face of the girl.

"Mr. Sanworth!" she gasped. "It— it isn't true?" He nodded.

"You're not— "

He shook his head. In her distress she held her cheeks with both hands.

"What have I done?" she said, half to herself.

"What have you done?" repeated George sternly. "You have compromised me in the eyes of The Family— you have made me deny a loving brother— you have branded me"— his voice shook with emotion— "a criminal, and you have attempted to drive me from my native land. Moreover—"

He stopped, as the train stopped at the ocean platform.

"There's a train back to London in half an hour," he said practically, "and if there isn't we will have a special."

He led her along the stone platform in the direction of the town.

It was by the special train he returned to London. She was very pale, very silent, and inclined to be annoyed.

"The fact of it is," he said, a trifle incoherently, "my family— can't stand 'em. I was looking for a new family when you picked me up, or knocked me down, as the case may be. I want a new family. If I hadn't met you I should have advertised for one. Will you— will you be a family to me? I know I'm not worthy, and all that sort of thing, but nobody ever is. I hate being in love; I think if you married me you might awe me..."

He said all the wrong things, but he said them so earnestly, so wildly, that...

IN THE COURSE of time the Sanworth family received an invitation to George's wedding, and, having read it, the Sanworth family frowned. In the bottom left-hand corner was the significant notification:

"No Speeches."

____________________

3: According to Freud

Mrs William Jones and― Bill, 1930

THE real seven ages of man's conscious existence may be divided into the periods when he wishes to drive a locomotive, when he wants to be a detective, an Adonis, a soldier (or sailor), a millionaire, a prime minister, and a boy.

Bennett Audain never got beyond the second period, but realised some of the others, for he had been a soldier; he was undoubtedly good-looking and, as unquestionably, a millionaire.

The right kind of obsession is an invaluable asset for a young man of great possessions, and to current crime he devoted the passionate interest of the enthusiast. He was both student and worker; he had as great a knowledge of the science which is loosely described as "criminology" as men who had gained fame in its exposition; he certainly understood the psychology of the criminal mind better than any police officer that ever came from Scotland Yard— an institution which has produced a thousand capable men, but never a genius. Indefatigable, patient, scientific in the sense that science is the "fanaticism for veracity," which is the scientist's basic quality.

"It is queer that a fellow like you should take up psycho-analysis. I should have thought it was just a little off your beat." Sir Joseph Patterly looked critically through his glass of port, and added: "This is a good wine. Your father laid it down, of course. What a rare judge!"

They were dining together at Bennett Audain's house in Park Lane. The big room was dark, save for the shaded lamps on the table and the soft glow that flushed the Persian rug before a dying fire.

Bennett had a nervous smile, charming in its diffidence.

"That is a popular label for a queer new system of mind-probing," he said. "I am not accepting or rejecting the Freudian philosophy, and I'm not enough of a doctor to understand his theory of neuroses. I merely say that those responsible for the detection and prevention of crime might, with profit, employ the theory of idea— association."

A gust of wind blew a pattering of rain against the curtained window.

"Humph!" said Sir Joseph, and looked at his watch.

Bennett laughed softly.

"I knew you would look at your watch when you heard the rain," he said, and Sir Joseph stared.

"Why?"

"Association of ideas," said the other calmly. "I know that Lady Friendly is a very sick lady, and that you are going to Friendly's at ten o'clock. The rain reminded you of the journey. Sir Joseph "— he leant across, coming from the dusk of shadow into the yellow light— " if I could get the right man to question, I would save your brother exactly a million!"

The great surgeon frowned horribly.

"Poor old Jim," he said, in his gruffest tone. "He has been caught. But he was a fool to underwrite the whole consignment— a mad fool. But, my boy, the best and cleverest police officers are working on the case. What could you do— by psycho-analysis?"

He got up with a sigh.

"I'll come back after I have seen her ladyship— I hope we can avoid an operation..."

He went on to talk shop to one who had spent three years at Guys' to get an insight into the medical side of the profession which he loved.

It was eleven when he returned. Bennett sat huddled up in a big chair before a fire of cedar logs, and the room was fragrant.

"What could you do?" asked Sir Joseph, without preliminary. "When I was at the Friendly's, I phoned to Jim— her ladyship is much better by the way— and the poor old boy is frantically anxious that you should help. He's got a big opinion of you."

The other man did not reply for a minute, then he stretched his silk- clad feet to the blaze with a luxurious little grunt.

"On the 18th of September," he recited, "the steamship Phoenician Prince left New York for Southampton. She is a vessel of 18,000 tons, one of two, the property of the Balte Brothers, Septimus Balte and Francis Balte being the partners who control the stock. On board were five million in British, French, and Italian notes, which had been redeemed from the American money market and were being consigned to the Anglo-American Bank of London. These were packed in six tin cases, soldered air and water tight, and enclosed in stout wooden boxes. They were deposited in the strong room which is on the port side of G Deck. Its door opens into a cabin which is occupied in extraordinary circumstances by a quartermaster.

"On this occasion one of the owners was on board, Mr. Francis Balte, and because of the importance of the consignment he had the quartermaster's cabin fitted up for his own use. During the day, and when Mr. Balte was absent from the cabin, it was occupied by his personal steward, whose name I cannot recall for the moment— "

"Deverly," said Sir Joseph.

"Exactly, Deverly. Mr. Balte kept the key of the strong-room in his possession. It never left him day or night. On the night of the 26th, the purser went to Mr. Balte with certain documents relating to the money. Mr. Balte opened the doors of the strong-room, and the purser checked the packages. The door was closed and locked. There was no bathroom attached to the cabin, and Mr. Balte used an ordinary sponge bath, which was brought in by the steward, together with a dozen small towels. These were used to lay on the floor, with the idea of saving the carpet, which had been newly laid— in fact especially for Mr. Balte's comfort. The steward went in later, took away the bath and six towels, the other six being unused."

"Why do you insist upon the towels?" asked Sir Joseph curiously. "I heard nothing about those."

Bennett smiled.

"I have interviewed the steward," he said, "and the loss of the towels seemed to him to be the 'funniest' part of the whole proceedings. The next morning, as the ship approached the Needles, the purser came down, accompanied by half a dozen seamen. Mr. Balte was asleep, but he got up and handed the key of the strong-room to the purser, who opened the doors, to find— nothing."

Sir Joseph groaned.

"Jim should never have underwritten such a vast amount," lie said, his mind reverting to his ruined brother. "But how do you explain it? The ship was searched from end to end— every inch of it. The steward was on duty in the alleyway outside— he sat with his back to the door, dozing, he admits. It was impossible for anybody to get through the port-hole, supposing, as was the first theory of the police, that a man let himself down over the side and scrambled through the port. Did you try your psycho-analysis on the steward?" He added the question dryly.

Bennett nodded.

"It produced nothing, because he had nothing to conceal. He was full of the mystery of the towels— six towels and six boxes of gold! But in one respect he was very informative. He distinctly heard in the middle of the night a sound like that of a watch or clock being wound up— ' Creak, creak, creak.' He gave me a wonderful onomatopoeia— "

"Eh?" said the startled surgeon.

"Sorry," said Bennett. "It means the employment of words to represent sounds— anyway, he creaked!"

"What on earth was it?"

"Heaven knows. He heard it six times faintly but distinctly. He says so now, but he also says that he thought it might have been the creaking of gear— one hears strange noises on board ship. And we come again to the fact that six towels were missing. To my mind that is significant. The boxes were very heavy, by the way, many of the notes were of small denomination and had been subjected to hydraulic pressure in the packing to get them into as small a compass as possible. Roughly, each box weighed 140 lbs. with its iron clamps and bands;"

Sir Joseph was interested.

"I never realised that paper money had weight," he said. "How many five-pound notes could an ordinary man carry?"

"A strong man could carry £100,000 worth," replied Bennett, "but he would not care to carry that amount very far. So there it is, Sir Joseph. Somewhere in the world is a clever thief in the possession of nearly a third of a ton of negotiable paper."

Sir Joseph brooded gloomily.

"The loss falls on the underwriters— Jim is involved to the extent of nearly a million, and that means ruin. I wish you'd see Balte," he said suddenly. "Poor chap, he is distracted. They say Septimus is nearly off his head— he isn't particularly strong anyway. He has been away from the business for a year, rusticating in Devonshire somewhere."

"Where is Francis now?"

The surgeon started, as well he might, for the question was shot at him with unexpected violence.

"I'm sorry— only I had an idea." Bennett Audain was apologetic to a point of panic. "I— I get a little explosive at times, which is terribly unscientific— "

"But is human," smiled the other. He got up. "I wonder if he is at the Elysius Club— he plays bridge there when he is his normal self."

"There is a phone over there." Bennett pointed to the shadows. "It is rather late, but perhaps he'll come round."

Balte was at the club.

"He's on his way and very anxious to talk to you." Sir Joseph returned to the fireside. "Heavens, what a night!"

The rain was swishing savagely at the windows. The ceaseless broom- like sweep of it across the panes, the faint tick of the enamel clock on the high mantelpiece, and the wheezy breathing of the surgeon were the only sounds in the room until Balte came with a clatter.

He was a stout man of thirty-five, fair and ruddy of face, and he brought into the shadowy room something of his own inexhaustible vitality.

"Glad to come, doctor," he said. "Pretty wild night— eh. I'm damned if it has stopped blowing since I arrived. Old Sep writes that he was in Torquay yesterday, and the sea's absolutely breaking over the front— tramcars drenched and wrecked. Funny, being wrecked in a tramcar."

He put red hands to the blaze and rattled on.

"Dreadful thing— eh, Audain? What's the use of the police— eh? What's the use of 'em? Want men like you— full of up-to-date ideas."

"Ever heard of Freud?" asked Bennett, his chin on his clasped hands, his absent gaze on the fire.

"Freud, no. German, isn't he? Nothing to do with the Germans, old boy, after that beastly war. They sunk three of our ships, by gad! Who is he anyway?"

"A professor," said Bennett lazily; "and an authority on the mind— why don't you sit down, Balte?"

"Prefer standing, old boy. Stand and grow better— eh? What about this Hun?"

"He interprets dreams— "

"Ought to be in the police; that's where he ought to be— interpreting some of those pipe dreams they have," he chuckled.

"I will tell you what I am getting at," said Bennett, and explained.

Mr. Balte was amused.

"You say one word and I'll tell you a word it suggests?" he said. "That's a kid's game— used to play it when I was so high. You say sugar, I say sweet, next fellow says orange, and so forth."

"You see, Balte," interrupted Sir Joseph, "Audain thinks he can get at your subconscious mind. He believes that he can even tell what happened when you were asleep."

Mr. Balte pulled at his nose and looked down. He was thinking.

"Try, old boy," he said. "I don't believe in it, but if you can get hold of any information that will save Sir Joseph's poor old brother— you don't know how I feel about that, Sir Joseph... go ahead."

"Sit down."

Mr. Balte obeyed. His china blue eyes were fixed on his interrogator.

"Ground," said Bennett unexpectedly.

"Eh— or— er— earth," responded the other.

"Dig."

"Garden."

"Hole."

"Er— I nearly said 'devil,'"chuckled Mr. Balte "This is funny— like a game!"

But it was an earnest game with Bennett Audain.

Presently:

"Shares," he said.

"Slump." It came promptly, one word suggested by the other. Balte added: "Everything is slumping just now, you know..."

They went on quickly. Bennett recited the days of the week.

"Monday?"

A grimace— the faintest from Balte.

"Er— unpleasant— starting the week, y'know."

Bennett shot out the days.

"Friday?"

"Calendar— thinking of a calendar, y'know."

"Key?"

"Wi— door!"

He got up.

"A silly game, Audain." He shook his head reproachfully. "Admit it. I can't play games— too worried. Poor old Sep is half off his head, too."

"Where is Septimus?" asked Bennett.

"At Slapton— pike fishing. Rum how people can sit in a punt all day... fishing. Well, what are you going to do, Audain? Can you help us? The police— pshaw!"

"Will you tell me this," asked Bennett. "Are you a heavy sleeper?"

The stout man shook his head.

"Do you sleep late in the mornings?"

"No, up at six, bright and jolly," he paused. "Now I come to think of it, I was very sleepy that morning. Drugs— eh... do you think I was drugged— chloroform and that sort of thing?"

"No," said Bennett, and let him go. The doctor shared his car and, left alone, Bennett Audain sat for an hour by his fire until the butler came significantly and asked if there were any instructions for the morning.

Then he went to bed.

At seven o'clock the next morning he called a justly annoyed police inspector from his bed. Fortunately, Bennett knew him very well.

"Yes, Mr. Audain, his trunks were searched," Mr. Balte insisted.

"How many trunks had he in the cabin?"

The inspector, cursing such matutinal inquisitiveness, answered:

"Four."

"Four? Big ones?"

"Yes, sir, pretty big and half empty."

"Did you smell anything peculiar about them?"

The inspector wagged his head impatiently. His legs were getting cold and the bed he had left was entrancingly warm.

"No, sir, I did not smell them."

"Good," said Bennett's cheerful voice.

"The worst of these amateur detectives is that they jump all ways at once," said the inspector as he shuddered back to bed.

"M' m," said his wife, on the border-line of wakefulness.

Bennett at his end of the wire gloomed out of the window into the grey, moist morning, on to the stark uneasy branches of park trees.

The hour was 7.5. Essential people had not yet turned in their beds; even the serving-maids and man servants had scarcely blinked at the toilsome day. Bennett Audain went back to the remains of his breakfast and wished, when he had had Francis Balte under examination, he had said, "Paint." Mr. Balte would surely have responded "See."

Mr. Balte had a large house at Wimbledon. He was a bachelor, as was his brother. He was a simple man; as also was his brother. They had inherited considerable property at a time— the last year of the war— when property had a fictitious value. The cream of their father's estate had been swallowed by the Treasury in the shape of death duties. Their skimmed milk was very thin and blue in the hungry days of the great slump. Stock-holders in Balte Brothers Incorporated Shippers, and they were many, watched the shrinking of profits indignantly. The last general meeting of the company had been a noisy one. There was one fellow in particular, a bald man with spectacles, Francis had noted miserably from his place on the platform. A , violent, intemperate man who had talked of a change of directors, especially of managing directors, and he had received more "hear-hears" than had Francis when he had expressed the pious hope that trade would improve and shipping return to its old prosperity.

It was Sunday morning and Francis sat in his library. It was a room containing many shelves of books which he had never read, but the bindings of which were in the best taste. His elbows were on the table, his fingers in his untidy hair, and he was reading. Not the Sunday newspapers, his usual Sunday's occupation. These were stacked, unopened on the little table by the easy-chair. It was a book, commonly and commercially bound, and the more he read the more bewildered he grew. A little shocked also, for this volume was embarrassingly intimate.

Thus his brother found him. Septimus, lank and bent and short-sighted, glared through his powerful glasses at the studious figure and sniffed.

"Got it? "he asked.

Francis closed the book with a bang.

"It is all medical stuff," he said. "Audain is a bit cranky. Going?"

The question was unnecessary. Septimus was muffled to the chin, his fur gloves were under his arm and his big racing car was visible from the library window.

"If there is anything in this Audain stuff, let me know. I've read something about psycho-analysis— I thought it was for shell-shocked people. So long."

"When will you be back?"

"Tuesday night— I've written the letter."

"Oh."

Francis stirred the fire thoughtfully.

"Create a bit of a stir your resigning from the board," he said. "I wish..."

"Yes?"

"No, I don't. I was going to say that I wished it was me. Better you. Everybody knows you're in bad health... warm enough?"

"Ay," said his brother, and went out pulling on his gloves.

Francis did not go to the window to see him off. He bent over the fire uncomfortably, jabbing it unreasonably.

It occurred to him after a long time that his brother had not gone. He put down the poker and shuffled across to the window— he was wearing slippers. There were two cars in the road, bonnet to bonnet, and a man was standing by the seated Septimus. They were talking.

"Audain," said Francis and meditated, biting his lip. Presently Septimus went off and Bennett Audain came briskly up the path. Francis admitted him.

"Energetic fellow," he cried. His voice was an octave higher than it had been when he spoke to his brother, his manner more virile and masterful. He was good cheer and complacency personified. "Come in, come in, you saw old Sep? Poor old chap."

"He tells me that he is resigning from the shipping business." Bennett was warming his hands.

"Yes, he's going to the South of France, old Sep. Going to buy property. Queer bird, Sep. But he was always a land man, farms, houses... anything to do with land... very shrewd."

Bennett glanced at the table and the other anticipated.

"'Interpretation of dreams,' eh?" he chuckled. "You've got me going on Freud. Don't understand it— of course I understand what he says about dreaming and all that... but that game of yours... eh?"

Bennett changed the subject, Francis wondering.

"Yes, it is not a bad house," he agreed amiably.

"A bit bourgoisie, but we're that kind. Quaintly constructed— would you like to see over it?"

A home and its attractions can be a man's weakness. In a woman, its appointments are the dominating values; architecture means no more than convenience. And Bradderly Manor was a source of satisfaction to Francis. They reached the wind-swept grounds in time because there was a workshop in which old Sep laboured. It was to him what laboratory, studio, music-room, model dairy, and incubatory are to other men. It was a workshop, its walls lined with tool cabinets. There was a bench, an electric lathe, vices, drills... an oak panel with its unfinished cupids and foliage testified to the artistry and workmanship of Septimus Balte.

"Always was a wonderful workman, old Sep," said Francis in admiration. "Do you know, he was the inventor of a new depth charge that would have made his name if the war hadn't finished"

"That's it, is it?"

Francis looked round.

Bennett had taken from a shelf a large paint can. It had not been opened. The manufacturer's red label pasted on the top of the sunken lid was unbroken.

"That's what?"

Bennett held the can for a second and replaced it.

"Luminous paint," he said, "Lefevre's— he's the best maker, isn't he?"

Francis Balte said nothing. All the way back to the house he said nothing. Bennett followed him into the library and watched him as he filled a pipe from a jar which he took from the mantelpiece.

"Well?" he said miserably. Bennett saw tears in his eyes.

"The two things I am not sure about are," Bennett ticked them off on his fingers: "One, was John Steele the cause. Two, why the towels?"

The stout man puffed furiously, and all the time his eyes went blink, blink, blink.

"Friday— Calendar, that's how you knew. You wouldn't think I'd fall so easily. But you must have known all about it, or why should you know I meant the Racing Calendar?"

"I guessed. I did not know that you and your brother had a stud of horses and raced them in the name of John Steele. That was easy to discover. When I decided that it was the Racing Calendar you meant, the official journal of the Jockey Club, I went to the publishers and got the register of assumed names."

The pipe puffed agitatedly.

"No— we lost money on racing, but that wasn't it, bad business, over valuation of assets. Poor old Sep!"

He sunk down in a chair, the pipe dropped from his mouth and he wept into his big red hands.

"I have no interest in punishment," said Bennett Audain, and Sir Joseph spluttered indignant, "but— buts!"

"In solution of curious human puzzles, yes," said Bennett, as he sipped his tea and noted joyously the first splashes of green that had come to the park trees in one night, "but not in punishment. If you like to put it that way, I am unmoral. Your brother received his money?"

"Of course he did— the six boxes arrived at his office yesterday morning. But, my dear fellow, justice..."

"Twiff!" said the other inelegantly. "Let the police make their discoveries. Then you will know the story. You promise to treat what I say as a professional secret, or I shall tell you nothing, Sir Joseph."

"I am getting old and inquisitive," he said. "Well. I promise."

Bennett laughed very softly.

"It is good to be alive when the buds are breaking. Sir Joseph. I feel a very happy man. Suppose you wanted a clockwork contrivance made, where would you go to get the work done? Look up the classified directory. No mention of clockwork makers, or makers of mechanical toys. Yet there are ten people in London who do nothing else. There is a man named Collett in Highbury who made a sort of time bomb during the war. I went to him after I had learnt that Septimus Balte was working on war inventions. I found that by patient inquiry. It is queer how soon people have forgotten all things pertaining to the war."

"But why did you inquire about clockwork at all?" asked the surgeon.

"Creak!" mocked Bennett. "Do you remember how the steward had heard a noise, six noises, as of a watch being wound? Well, I found Mr. Collett a secretive, furtive man, but reasonable. He had made a simple water-tight machine. It operated a large spool which was held in position by a catch and released three hours after it had been set. Is that clear?"

The doctor nodded.

"Why water-tight?" asked Bennett. "The spool itself was outside, and presumably was designed to work in the water. Attached to the steel box containing the mechanism were two iron bolts, one at the top above the spool, one at the bottom. Now what was attached to the spool? Nothing but ten fathoms of stout light cord, a double length of it. Now do you see?"

"No," admitted the puzzled Sir Joseph.

"Then I will explain further. At the end of the cord was a small cork buoy, probably covered with canvas and certainly treated with luminous paint. The towels" he laughed. "I ought to have thought of the use to which they would be put, but I had not seen the cabin. And the strange thing is, that when I put myself in the place of Francis, it never occurred to me that if boxes weighing 140 lbs. and clamped with iron were pushed through a porthole, the brass casings of the port would be scratched— unless the boxes were wrapped in cloth of some kind."

"Then he threw the boxes into the sea!" gasped the old man, sitting back.

Bennett nodded.

"First he wound up the mechanism, threw that and the buoy out of the porthole— the box being attached by a short length of chain to the under- bolt of the clockwork case, then he heaved up the money box and pushed that after. They sank immediately. No belated passenger leaning over the rail would see a luminous buoy floating back. Nobody saw those buoys but Septimus, waiting in his motor-boat twelve miles south of Slapton Sands. And he did not see them until the three hours passed and the spools, releasing the buoys, they came to the surface. Then he fastened a stouter rope to one of the double cords and rove it through the bolt... he salvaged all six boxes in an hour, which isn't bad for a sick man."

Sir Joseph shook his head helplessly.

"How did you guess Balte was the thief?" he asked.

"Guess?" Bennett's eyebrows rose. "It wasn't a guess— who else could have stolen the boxes? In fiction the thief is the last man you suspect. In fact, the thief is the last man you'd acquit. The police always suspect the man who was last seen near the scene of the crime, and the police are generally right. I knew half the Balte secret when the word 'key' suggested 'wind,' and 'Monday'— the day racing men settle their bets— suggested 'unpleasant.'"

He looked at his watch.

"Francis and 'poor old Sep' should at this moment be boarding the Rotterdam at Plymouth," he said.

__________________

4: Bondage

Mrs William Jones and― Bill, 1930

THE first two waking hours of Larry Fairing's day were hours of mental and physical misery.

The prison mail was delivered at eight o'clock, and at ten minutes after that hour the warder who acted as his valet brought into his bachelor quarters the morning tea and a small packet of personal letters— letters which the recipient dared not examine until a cold shower had restored something of his manhood. Then, with an effort of will, more consciously exercised than the little grip of heart that had sent him over the top at zero hour in old days of war, he seized the mail and turned over the letters, his heart beating thunderously.

Patricia seldom wrote to the prison; when she wrote at all, her letters were addressed to the County Club. Perspiration rolled down his face as he finished his inspection and found no note from her. It was a relief, even if the last letter was from Jim— Jim the unfortunate, with his tale of hard luck and his frantic request for fifty— "send it by wire before the banks close, old boy..."

It wasn't worth while. These mornings of agony, of remorse, of bitter self-reproaches and fears, and the horrible hours of depression that followed. He needed a shock— something tremendously unheaving; something that would bring him to his senses. When a man admits that much to himself, he is far gone in weakness.

Well, the shock had come, and it had effected no change. It had arrived in the shape of a scrawled note from Jim, full of "for God's sakes," and "I must have been mads," and the young Governor of Shagford County prison had stared, white-faced, at a letter dispatched a few minutes before a detective had tapped Jim Fairing on the shoulder and had said, "I want you."

Larry had read and had appreciated to the full the grim irony of the situation, and then had taken from his desk a small silver box full of white powdery forgetfulness, and had sniffed the nearest pinch of the "snuff" and thereafter could laugh at the jest which life had played on him. Yet he could view his own folly with horror and loathing. An abysmal despairing horror in cold, hard mornings; a benignant and impersonal horror later in the day. There were moments when he felt neither horror nor fear, but sagged beneath the weight of his own self-pity— a pitiable, singultient, blubbering thing, that bore no resemblance to anything human.... when behind the locked doors of his quarters, he wept and gibbered his weak woe.

The gateman who passed him out of the prison only saw a good-looking gentleman a little haggard and pinched, but wholly master of himself; the habitués of the County Club saw a very self-possessed man of twenty- seven, who had an excellent war record, and had had charge of a military prison in France— that is how he came to be in the Prison Service.

What did Patricia Warren see? The thought that she would one day see him as he was set him shivering.

Curse the degenerate French doctor who had introduced the drug to him, curse him, curse him!... Once he had started for France to seek him out and kill him, but the effect of the dose that inspired the plan had worn off before he reached Newhaven.

Then one morning when he was away from the jail, two prisoners were brought from London to serve the first portion of their sentences. He heard about the fight when he came back. How one had sprung at the other and half killed him before the warders had clubbed him to quiescence. These were the men— the chief warder handed him their papers.

"H'm," said Larry, his face going of a sudden bleak and old as he read.

That afternoon he came from his quarters, unlocked the door of the outer lobby, and walked down the broad and spotless corridor, from whence opened the offices of the prison and the Justices' room. He snapped back the lock of a door at the farther end of the passage and passed into the great hall. A warder, sitting at a high desk which commanded a view of three radiating wards, rose to his feet and saluted, and the man in prison clothes, who was assisting him in his work of distributing library books, stood stiffly to attention.

"No. 7 party— one man, all correct, sir," the warder reported.

Larry Fairing nodded.

"What has happened to the man Stelling?" he asked.

"He has been taken to the punishment cells, sir," reported the warder. "The doctor has just been to see him."

The Governor nodded again and went on. His master key brought him to a short flight of stone stairs at the bottom of which was another ward, brightly clean, but darker than its fellow above. A warder, sitting on a stool, rose and brought his hand jerkily to the peak of his cap.

"One man in punishment cells, all correct, sir."

"I want to see him," said the Governor.

The warder crossed to one of the narrow yellow doors set deeply into the wall.

"He's in irons, sir; chief warder's orders," he said. "I shouldn't go in to him if I were you, sir. He's been. using insulting language to everybody."

"What is he?"

"Convict, sir: three years: I hope you can get him transferred to Princetown— they tame lions there!"

The door swung open and the Governor walked into the punishment cell. It differed in no respect from other cells save in its equipment. A sloping plank bed, a log of wood set firmly in the concrete floor instead of the ordinary stool, and a papier-mâché dish and cup were its contents.

The man who squatted on the low plank bed looked up with a scowl, and meeting the Governor's eyes, dropped his own and gazed stolidly on the manacles about his wrist and the bright steel chain that fastened ankle to ankle.

His age was probably twenty-five; unshaved as he was, and in the coarse garb of servitude, he looked forty.

"Any complaint?" asked the Governor.

"None," growled the other.

"Say 'sir,'" rapped the warder.

"Let him alone; now, Stelling, are you going to behave yourself?"

It sounded feeble to Larry, but he could think of nothing else to say.

"Yes, sir," was the answer.

The Governor turned to the warder.

"Go and find Mr. Venn, please," he said, and the man saluted and went off, though it was the chief warder's hour of recreation, and as likely as not he would not be in his quarters.

When his footsteps were echoing in the hail above, Larry spoke:

"It's a queer joke... sending you to me, Jim."

The prisoner's irons rattled as he moved uneasily.

"I'm sorry, Larry, but I couldn't exactly object, could I... Larry, I wasn't in the swindle, honest to God! Felton led me into it... I nearly killed the swine this morning."

"So I see," said Larry dryly; "does he know your real name?"

"No... I was always Stelling to the gang. Larry, if I only had a chance to get away to Australia, I'd cut out that crowd. There is a man in Australia who knows me by my real name, and he has a daughter... I'm... I'm fond of her, Larry..."

His voice choked.

"I'll do the time, but keep Felton away from me— I'm not spinning a more-sinned-against-than-sinning yarn, but I had none of the money they took from the poor boob; I admit I played cards with him and jollied him along."

Larry nodded. He had forgotten the circumstances of the crime, though he had a dim idea that it was an elaborate swindle by which a confiding South African financier had been relieved of his money.

"You'll be brought before me in the morning," he said, "and I have to give you a dose of punishment cells. I'll get Felton sent to another jail."

The chief warder was descending the stairs.

"You can take the irons off this man, Mr. Venn" said Larry carelessly; "bring him up to my office to-morrow morning."

"Very good, sir."

The easy-going chief warder had expected a reprimand, for prisoners are not ironed except by order of the Governor.

"Oh, Venn," said Larry, turning on the stairs, "we had better keep these fellows separated whilst they are in Shagford— they are not to work in the same party."

He went back to his rooms and lay down on his bed, for his head was throbbing, and he was sick at heart.

He dozed and dreamt, and his dreams were of Pat Warren... well worth the fight he must make. That she was an heiress interested him not at all. It was the loveliness of her, the melting sweetness of her; her grave, old- fashioned grimness that filled his mind. Worth fighting for... he would take the beast by the throat and strangle it; this beast that had overcome him— but had not yet mastered him. He made a splendid future, and planned within the compass of thoughts a new world, a new Larry Fairing who would laugh at those black days of torment.... Into the rosy atmosphere of his dreams came a thunderbolt.

"Eh?" he said, struggling to his elbow.

"It was left here, sir, ten minutes ago. The man would not wait; he said there was no answer."

He took the latter from the warder's hand; it was from Patricia, the first he had ever received at the prison. His knees trembled as he stood up, and the hand that tore open the flap of the envelope was shaking. He carried the blue sheet of paper to the light, and blinked at it:

"Will you meet me at the railway station? I want to see you. There is something important I want to tell you. I have been trying to make up my mind all day to write you this letter. I am sure this will not come as a surprise to you, after what happened last night."

He put the letter down.

After what happened last night? What happened? He had gone to Frenchan Park to dinner, a tête-à-tête dinner, for her aunt was visiting a sick relative. What happened? He remembered the dinner; dimly remembered returning to his quarters. He had awakened with no unusual sense of depression. He found a difficulty in breathing, and mechanically his hand stole to the bureau where the little silver box was hidden. No, no! not to-day; he must not do it, he must not, he dare not! Now must be the beginning— he must start the period of reformation at some time. He dressed carefully, studiously keeping his mind away from the silver box. Yet he lingered in the room, and hated himself for his hypocrisy, hated more the leering devil who stood behind him and who whispered "one little pinch, you must brace up... it will be suicide if you see her without the confidence which that alone can bring." He shook off the thought, walked to the door, stood irresolutely, then came back, and, deliberately opening the bureau, took out the box...

There was a lot to be said for that act, he told himself, as he walked briskly to the railway station. He certainly felt more in the humour to defend himself from any charge she might bring against him. What had he done to offend her.

She was waiting for him on the side-walk before the bare entrance to the station, and he saw that her car was drawn up some little distance away.

"I am catching the 5.30 to town," she said, "and we have just half an hour; I am sending my boxes on, and I thought I would pick up the train at Melton."

"Where are you going, Pat?" he asked.

"I am going to town; I am shutting up Frenchan Park," she said briefly.

They had left Shagford and were passing into the country before she told what was in her mind. Suddenly she gripped his hand.

"Oh, Larry, Larry," she sobbed, "why do you? Why do you?"

"Why do I what?" he asked, licking his dry lips.

"You were mad last night— mad, mad! You told me the most absurd things. You said you had an uncle who was leaving you a million."

"Good God!" he gasped, "did I? I must have been drunk."

It was an effort to say as much. She shook her head.

"You were not drunk, Larry; I have seen you like that before. It has worried me terribly. Larry, do you take drugs?"

"No," he said.

She gripped him by the shoulder and turned him round.

"Look me in the eye. Doctor Valet said that when a man or a woman takes drugs, they lose all sense of honour, all desire to speak the truth. Tell me, Larry— no, look at me— do you take drugs?"

He held himself to the truth, but it required a supreme effort.

"Yes," he said huskily, "I got into the habit in France."

She sank back in the corner of the limousine, her lips trembling.

Five minutes later :

"I thought it was that," she said quietly.

"But I will give it up, I swear I will," he said eagerly. "Pat, there isn't anything in the world I wouldn't do for your dear sake."

"Haven't you been trying for my sake to give it up?"she asked, her grave eyes on his.

He did not answer that, preferring silence to a lie.

"What chance is there?" she said, bitterly, "for you and I? You mustn't see me again, Larry; not until you can come to me and say 'I have not touched drugs for a year'— for two years, Larry! We're both you. The separation will not kill us."

Her words came to him like the knell of doom.

"Give me a chance," he pleaded; "give me a month— in a month I'll have the thing beaten..."

She shook her head.

"No, no, it must be two years. You trust me?" She put her hand in his. "You know I will be true to you and will wait for you; you know that, don't you, Larry? We can't marry now— you know that, don't you? It will kill me and it would ruin you. You have got to fight this monster."

"But you could help me," he almost whined. "Pat, can't you see what a help you could be?"

"I have been helping you all along, Larry," she said. "You have had me to come to, you have had whatever influence I can exercise, and I have known you for three years. Larry, don't you see"— she laid her hand on his knee, and her white face was upturned to his— "that it is because you drug that you are satisfied with things as they are? Satisfied to take this position, the Governor of a jail— a position only held by old men. You have talents, genius; you are not going to stay in a backwater all your life. Oh, I know it is a very responsible Government post, that hundreds of men would give their heads to stand where you stand, but it isn't your work, is it, Larry?"

He fell naturally into the mental attitude of one who has been unnecessarily hurt. The effect of the little pinch of white powder was wearing off, and his brain was growing numb.

I'll write you," he said thickly, but she stopped him.

"Don't even do that. Trust me, Larry; come to me in two years' time and say 'I have not touched drugs for one year.' Fight it, my boy."

He stood on Melton Station staring blankly as the tail of the express vanished out of sight.

The tragedy had come upon him with stunning suddenness: he could not realise what had happened.

That night he took a more cheerful view; he would make a good fight. He would go to her with his splendid record. Dear little girl... he would show her... and, of course, the whole thing was too preposterous. He, a grown man, in the power of a miserable drug like one of those besotted and effeminate creatures who had been pointed out to him when he was a kid, as horrible examples of the degeneracy of the age.

It would be a simple matter, he smiled, and after all, Pat was right; this practice was one of the easiest to give up, if one gave one's mind to it.

He felt all these cheerful things under the influence of a double dose which he took after dinner.

The next morning he awoke horribly; he had to sit at the desk of justice and award punishments for breaches of the prison rules; and, so acting, saw his brother and the treacherous Felton separately.

That afternoon he made an excuse to go to the punishment cells, choosing a time when the warder in charge was at tea.

"Jim, I want you to help me."

The prisoner looked at the white-faced man and frowned as he listened to the incoherent confession.

"Drugs!" he said, staring; you don't mean, Larry, that you take drugs? I had no idea— "

"I got into the habit in France," said his brother impatiently. "Jim, you know these people in the West End, and drug-taking people aren't novelties in your set; what is the cure?"

The convict was silent, fingering his hairy chin. "Do you want the truth?" he asked. Larry nodded, knowing what the truth would be. "There is no cure; you can put a man in hospital and keep him away from the drug for a week or two, and when he is released, maybe he'll go straight."

"And after that?"

The convict shrugged.

"After that, he goes back to the dope. But you've got some sort of mind, Larry; you don't mean to tell me that you're going to lie down to that kind of trash?"

"Isn't there anything I can take? Any medicine?" asked the other desperately. "I could sound the prison doctor, but I'm scared of his guessing."

"What is the drug you take?"

Larry told him, and his brother looked serious.

"That's the worst of all," he said, "you poor devil." He shook his head. "And here I was envying you yesterday, envying you in your comfortable quarters whilst I sat in this dark cell."

"But, Jim, I've got to fight it!" the man wailed. "I've got to; it means more than you imagine. It isn't only my life and my soul that's at stake, it is the happiness of somebody that I'd die to serve."

"There is only one way of giving up drug-taking, and that is not to take any more," said Jim. "There is no easy way to reformation, Larry; you ought to go to an institution where they would keep you from the stuff. But you'd have to stay a jolly long time, let me tell you."

The Governor of the jail shook his head wearily. "You're not exactly a cheerful counsellor," he said.

He slammed the cell door savagely and locked it; then he went back to his quarters to begin the single-handed fight.

It began well; it ended inevitably. He dosed himself in order that his mind might be clear to find an easy way to renunciation. He was like a man who got drunk to discover the way to temperance.

He fell asleep that night in paradise; he was in hell when his servant brought his tea and a telegram. He opened the wire with nerveless fingers.

"Fight the good fight," it said.

Fight what good fight? He had no consciousness; no definite entity at that hour; he was sheer animal, with certain human accomplishments. He could read.

"Fight the good fight," he read, and puzzled over the words.

Later:

"You are not looking particularly well lately," said the prison doctor, eyeing him keenly.

Doctor Houseman had strolled into the office to make his report.

"I am not feeling up to the mark."

"Why don't you take a holiday? This is a rotten job for a young man. I often wonder you took it. By the way, that man who was committed for execution is a nervous wreck; he is going to give us trouble, and I suggest dosing him with minute grains of bromide."

"Execution," frowned Larry; "oh, of course, the man who came in yesterday."

It was the first execution that the jail had known during his governorship, and he had looked forward in some dread to the ghastly business. Now he was indifferent. Later in the morning he went in to the condemned cell and saw the prisoner, an agricultural labourer of low mentality, who had become intensely religious.

The weeks that followed held more of terror for the occupant of the Governor's quarters than for the low-browed man who slept in the big double cell, watched by warders day and night, for he at least had hope, and Larry Fairing was without hope entirely.

He passed a sleepless night on the eve of the execution; the prisoner slept well. A pinch of the drug brought him alert, and almost cheerful to meet the under-sheriff and to conduct him through the dread ceremonial.

Yet so inured was he to the operations of the drug that the effects had passed away before the solemn procession was formed, and as he walked behind the prisoner to the scaffold, he had an insane desire to loosen the strapped hands and take the man's place. He stared at the motionless figure on the trap with hungry envy, and when it fell with a clang, and the executioner put out his hand to steady the swaying rope, he looked down at the curved figure with a savage grin.

"You are out of it," he muttered....

The doctor took his arm.

"My dear Fairing, you must lie up for a day or two," he said. "I suppose this is your first execution."

"No, I have seen several— shooting," said Larry jerkily. He had been shocked that morning by a terrible realisation; it was that Patricia Warren was becoming less and less a factor in his reformation. She had no power to arrest the hand that groped toward the bureau cupboard; he seldom thought about her. He sat down with his head in his hands and thought the matter out. Thought it out cruelly and painfully throughout that afternoon, and then he went down to the cells and saw his brother.

"The Governor's interested in that fellow Stelling," said the warder in control of the wing.

The chief warder nodded.

"Yes, new Governors always are interested in prisoners; he'll get out of that after he has been in the service a few years. Why, bless you, I wanted to talk to every prisoner I saw when I first joined. I thought they were the most interesting people I had ever met!"

The interview between the Governor and Convict Stelling was a long one, and, at the end, Larry sent for his subordinate.

"I am going to lie up for a day or two in my room; I have been rather run down. I shan't want to see the doctor or anybody else. You can carry on."

"Very good, sir."

Larry kept to his room for four days, and in all that time no razor touched his chin.

Shagford Jail was worked on the patrol system. At night all guards were withdrawn from the main prison wards, which were visited every hour by the warder on night duty, who patrolled the wards and their landings, and recorded his presence by means of two time clocks.

The guard-room was against the gate, and between the wards and the guard-room was the Governor's quarters.

On the fourth night, the warder, sitting smoking a forbidden pipe in the darkness, heard the door of the Governor's house close, and put away his pipe in some haste.

"It's all right," said Larry's voice. "I'm going round the prison."

"Shall I come with you, sir?"

"No, thank you."

The warder in the half-darkness saw dimly the figure of his superior as it went up the steps of the main hail, heard the snick of the lock and the thud of the door as it closed behind him. Half an hour passed, and the man on the gate had notified the patrol that it was the time for his hourly inspection, when he heard the door from the wards close, and saw the familiar figure in the tan trench-coat come down the steps.

"Is that you, sir?"he asked.

"Yes. Good-night."

The door of the Governor's house slammed.

At five o'clock in the morning, just as it was getting light, the Governor came out of his house and walked across the courtyard to the big gates.

"I'm going out for a walk," he said. "I can't sleep."

The gate opened and slammed after the solitary figure.

The gateman shook his head at the patrol.

"He's the most curious Governor I have ever seen."

"He's young," said the other tolerantly, "and I've got an idea he drinks a little bit too much, though I must confess I have never seen him the worse for liquor."

"Whoever gets the worse for liquor," asked the gateman pathetically.

At eight o'clock that morning, when Larry's servant took him in his tea and letters, he found the room empty and the bed undisturbed. There was a note addressed to the man on the table. It contained a sum of money, and the curt intimation that the Governor would not be back for a few days. There was also a letter to the chief warder telling him to carry on.

That afternoon a telephone message came through from the Prisons' Office in London, announcing the fact that Captain Larry Fairing had resigned his appointment, and that his successor was on his way to Shagford.

A third letter was addressed to the prison doctor; he found it on his desk when he came to medical inspection that morning.

"Dear Doctor" (it ran),— "I am clearing out for reasons which you will understand when I tell you that the man Stelling, in No. 7 cell, is my brother. Obviously it is impossible to remain Governor of the jail, and though I dare say things could be arranged satisfactorily, I think it better if I made a sudden departure. I have sent my resignation to the Commissioners, and shall be away from the county for two years."

"Good Lord," said the astonished doctor, and put the letter in his pocket. "No cases this morning, Venn?"

"Only one, sir, the man in No. 7 wishes to see you."

"In the punishment cell? Stelling," said the doctor, startled.

"Yes, sir. He has been asking to see a medical officer all the morning. He has given us a lot of trouble, that fellow. The Governor has been very patient with him."

The doctor understood the reason why patience was exercised.

"I'll come down," he said. He was curious to see the Governor's brother.

It was an ironical situation, thought the medico, while his warm Irish heart was stirred to sympathy.

The warder opened the door of the cell and the man stood up. Dr. Houseman was seeing Stelling for the first time, for although he had passed him on his entry to the prison, he had not taken much notice of him; and there was in his face a distinct resemblance to the Governor.

"Well," he said, "what do you want?"

"Doctor," the man's voice was hoarse and trembling, "for the love of God, give me a little cocaine! I must have it, doctor, I really must ; I am suffering the curses of the damned."

"Cocaine?" The prison doctor looked at the man open-mouthed. "You're a drug-taker, eh?"

"Yes, sir ; if you will give me just a little— "

"Not on your life," interrupted the doctor grimly. "You have been here for a month without it, and you have broken the habit, my lad."

"I must have it— I must, I tell you," almost screamed the prisoner. "Don't you see what I'm suffering? don't you see?" His hand shook as with palsy.

"That will do," said the doctor sternly, and signalled to the warder.

The doors clashed upon a frenzied man, clawing at the steel panels, howling his agony.

A week later came an inquiry from outside the prison, which the doctor answered. He knew Patricia Warren slightly, and had some idea that an engagement had been pending between the doctor and the girl.

DEAR MISS WARREN,

I cannot tell you any more news about the Governor, except that a warder who was at this prison, but was afterwards transferred to Winchester, saw the Governor on the Australian mail-boat Modic. Apparently the warder had gone on board to say good-bye to some friends who were going to Australia, and he recognised the Governor pacing the saloon deck. He was curious enough to look at the passenger list, and found that Captain Fairing was travelling as Mr. James Fairing. Beyond that I know nothing. In his letter to me he told me he was going away for two years.

The writing of this letter was interrupted (though this Patricia Warren could not know) by the urgent call of the hospital warder, who summoned him to deal with the half-crazy occupant of a padded cell.

"My boy," said the doctor between his teeth, as he jabbed a hypodermic needle into the Thing's arm, "if you get through your sentence, you will bless the day you were ever put into prison."

TWO YEARS LATER, a tall, bright-eyed man stepped into the Governor's office at Dartmoor Jail, wearing a tweed suit that did not quite fit him.

The old Governor looked up.

"Well, Stelling, you are going out this morning?"

"Yes, sir," said the other cheerfully, "and a very pleasant day it is."

"I hope you'll go straight now, my boy," said the old man, "and," he added significantly, "that you will not return to those beastly drugs." He wagged his finger at the smiling ex-convict. "You were a wreck when you came here; now you will be able to give Dartmoor Prison an excellent testimonial. It is the healthiest spot in England!"

The Governor passed across the table a sum of money that the convict had earned during the period of confinement, and put out his hand.

"Good luck to you, Stelling."

The prisoner stopped to shake hands with the gate-man who guards that terrible steel grille behind which so many hearts have broken, and stepped blithely down the road to Princetown Station.

He reached Plymouth in the afternoon, and without hesitation stepped into the car that awaited his arrival in the station yard. The girl, who was hidden from view in one corner, took his hand and held it without speaking.

"I had your letter saying you would be waiting for me here," said Larry. "It was wonderful of you, darling; who told you, Jim, of course?"

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

"I had a long letter from him a few months after— after you disappeared. He told me how you came to his cell, and how you took his place whilst he went out free. It was a wonderful struggle, a glorious struggle, and you've won!"

He held her hand more tightly.

They were doubling back, and presently they reached the end of the wild moor. The car hummed along the deserted white road, swinging to the right to avoid Princetown.

Larry tapped the window and the limousine stopped.

Far away in the distance he saw the grim, grey huddle of buildings which are called Dartmoor Prison. He looked and nodded.

"Good-bye— bondage!"

And the girl who watched him knew that he did not speak of the bondage of bolts and bars.

_______________________

5: The Society Of Bright Young People

Merry Magazine, February 1925

A MAN who calls his unprotected and innocent children "Theodora" and "Belarius" displays alike a lamentable lack of taste and a singular ignorance of history. For you may purchase the fourth volume of the Decline and Fall for a few trashy pennies, and, applying yourself to the work of the great phrase-maker, you may discover that Theodora hated the great general. In addition to which, Theodora was not nice.

Stopford Leader was Superior alike to the teachings of history and the misfortunes of ignorance. (If here and there I drop insensibly into the pompous diction of Gibbon, it is because I have been diligently reading him to discover who Belarius was anyway.)

He was the senior partner in the legal firm of Marythew, Marythew, Carter, Wouding & Marythew. Lawyers frequently have styles and titles like this. But Carter and Wouding and two of the Marythews no longer walked the broad pavement of Bedford Row, or strutted through the flagged corridors of county courts. Unless even in heaven stout, middle-aged men of law may strut, they strutted no more.

In the fulness of time Mr. Leader gave up his practice and himself retired to manage his not inconsiderable fortune (curse this Gibbon style!) and the home direction of those estates in Alberta which in his foresight and prudence he had so providentially accrued.

He was a happy and indeed contented man at that period of his life when this record of adventure opens. He had sold his Alberta property— or practically sold it— to a Canadian landowner for a sum beyond his wildest dreams.

"And when Mr. Meekly's signature is on the deed"— he rubbed his hands at breakfast one morning— "I think— I rather think, Belarius, that I shall offer no insuperable obstacles to your purchasing the two-seater which has attracted your wayward fancy, nor shall I demur at the expense involved by your contemplated London season, my dear Theodora."

Mr. Leader talked like that, and even Gibbon might be excused if he turned in his grave.

"Meekly— what a perfectly ghastly name!" said Belarius, glaring across the table. "It doesn't sound a bit Wild-Westish."

"What is he like, father?" Theodora was normally curious.

Mr. Leader smiled.

"He is a rich man of uncertain age. It is strange that your interest in him should have its complement in his interest in you."

"In me?" Theodora purred.

"In her?" asked the expensively educated Belarius, nearly dropping his eyeglass from sheer incredulity.

Mr. Leader nodded.

"That is so. He intends settling in London, and has, I believe, purchased a villa in Park Lane, and here, in the luxurious environment of social London, he, ever a student, as I understand, will devote himself to his favourite authors, and in the manner of the great arbiter elegantium, compose a history of his times."

"Good Lord! What a queer old johnny!" said Belarius.

(In his letter Mr. Meekly had said, "I want to settle down in London and get the hang of things," but Gibbon would have put it differently.)

Mr. Stopford Leader was a serious-minded man, slightly bald, and believed in the law up to a point. He realised that the law covered a great number of delinquencies, and felt that it ought to be strengthened in such matters as trespass, impertinent servants, and overcharges by tradesmen.

Belarius, tall and thin, slightly myopic— he probably wore a monocle in his cradle— was so chock-full of romance that he had no time to be serious; and if he was serious at all, it was a kind of romantic seriousness. He sighed for the Middle Ages, when johnnies owned castles, and knights in armour went galloping the jolly old forests, rescued ladies who were tied to trees (the ladies must be beautiful, but any old kind of tree would serve), and if any beastly bounder gave you an odd spot of cheek, out came your jolly old two- cylinder sword and— biff!

Belarius was called Bill for short. Theodora, who objected to the abbreviation "Dora," accepted the shortening to "Thera," which sounded good and meant nothing. Thera has an added importance in this history, because she was really the founder of the Great Order.

It was after Jim Bellamy's parent had been howled down at the Town Hall at a by-election that the great idea took shape.

There was in the town of Bulborough certain anarchistic elements. Anaemic young men who proclaimed their originality by wearing no hats but a quantity of loose hair, communistic barbers, frankly bolshevist errand- boys— these had gathered in force on the night Mr. Bellamy made his great appeal to the free and enlightened electorate of Bulborough, pointing out to them that the only chance of the country's salvation was his return to Parliament.

To make the outrage more monstrous, he was supported by Mr. Stopford Leader himself. And neither gentleman had been allowed a hearing. Groans, catcalls, the ringings of bells, boos, moans, and other demonstrations of disapproval had punctuated the speeches of each orator, and the meeting (to quote the Bulborough Herald, with which was incorporated theWoodhollow Courier and Advertiser) "broke up in disorder, and pandemonium reigned."

Mr. Leader was struck by a dead cat as he came out of the hail; a virago shook her fist in the face of May Knollys, Thera's dearest friend, and indeed it seemed that the revolution was at hand. Pale but brave, Mr. Leader went back to his beautiful house at Hillchurch and got into telephonic communication with the War Office.

It was the third night after this when the great idea took shape. There was a secret meeting in Bill Leader's study. He called it his study because it was the place where he slept in the afternoon. The door was locked; the servants were forbidden under any circumstances to approach nearer than ten paces to the closed oak.

"The whole trouble is," said Bill, who had voted himself into the chair, "that the present system of dealing with these jolly old blighters is altogether wrong and rotten."

"Hear, hear!" said the beautiful May Knollys. "Bill, you've said a mouthful! When that wretched woman shook her fist at me, I couldn't help thinking of those terrible creatures— I forget their French name— who used to sit in front of the guillotine, knitting their husbands' socks. And that's another proof that there is such a thing as reincarnation. I had a distinct recollection of the Place de l'Opera... the big guillotine with the noose hanging— "

"Oh, do shut up about your reincarnation," interrupted her brother. "And nobody was ever executed on the Place de l'Opera— anyway, there are no nooses to guillotines, you poor fish! Now what's the idea, Bill?"

"A secret society," said Bill solemnly. "Something with a snappy name. The Sons of Vengeance— how does that strike you?"

"Rotten!" said three voices at once.

Thera thought that a secret society was a great idea.

"I'm sure daddy will help us," she said. "He's got awfully strong views about justice, and I remember reading a book when I was a mere child, about three or four or five men who set themselves out to rectify the inequalities of the law."

"Don't introduce any crackjaw phrases into this perfectly friendly meeting," said Bill impatiently. "We've got to move, and we've got to move jolly quick! We've got to make our name fearfully terrifying. Things have got to happen to-night— perfectly extraordinary things. And all that the jolly old victim discovers when he wakes up dead in the morning is a bit of paper stuck on his chest, with a skull and crossbones drawn upon it and the word 'Vengeance'— something like that. I'm perfectly sure that the society would be a success."

They sat in silence for a long time, clenched fists to mouths, each conspirator frowning darkly.

"I've got it!" said Thera suddenly. "That 'Sons of Vengeance' idea, Bill, is wrong. Besides, it's too melodramatic, and people would laugh their heads off. What we need is an innocent title that doesn't mean anything at all about vengeance— "

"And therefore is all the more terrible," nodded May. "When we were in China there was a perfect association called 'The Happy Sons of the Buttercup.' They used to cut people's throats and do all sorts of jolly things."

Her brother's lips curled in a sneer.

"If you really want to get a laugh, let's call ourselves 'The Happy Sons of the Buttercup' or some such rot. What about 'The Society for Preventing Anarchists'?"

"Hold hard," said Bill, smiting his brow. "I've got it— ' The Society of Bright Young People.'"

They looked at one another.

"That's good," said Thera slowly. "'The Society of Bright Young People.' Now who shall we start on?"

"Mrs. Ligham, the greengrocer's wife," said May promptly. "Couldn't we lure her to a wood and frighten her terribly? A woman who'd threaten a young, innocent girl... well, really, something should happen to her."

"She didn't," snarled Jim; "she only threatened you. We don't want to deal with these small fry; don't you agree, Bill?"

Bill agreed; for there was born in the back of his mind a great idea. He raised his hand to silence three people all speaking at once.

"Doboski," he said simply.

Jim frowned.

"Do-who-ski?" he asked. He was not a whale on contemporary politics.

Thera nodded eagerly.

"The very man, Bill. Doboski is the head of the Lithonian revolutionary party," she went on rapidly, "and he's coming to Bulborough to lecture on the art of revolution."

Four pairs of eyes sparkled.

"Hold hard," said Bill, who had assumed the rôle of dictator and master-strategist. "We can't go leaping around until we have formed this society properly. Jim and me are to be trusted" (Jim had been expensively educated, as has been remarked before), "but you three girls will probably go blabbing our secrets all over the town. What about an odd spot of swearing— signing your names with your life's blood, what?"

"You don't get any life's blood out of me, Bill," said Thera icily. "Ink is my favourite writing fluid, and a 'J' nib is to be preferred to any other. And if there's any bad language, May and I will, of course, refuse to have anything to do with your— my society. It is mine; I invented it."

"Don't let's wrangle," said Jim. He was rather a fat young man and inclined to be testy. "Now we ought to have objects and plans— "

"Half a mo'," said Bill, and produced a fountain pen. "Our first object is to regenerate the world."

"You'd better put that down in case you forget it," said Thera.

"Don't sneer, Theodora," said her brother sternly. "Everybody has his jolly old ideals to live up to. Number two: to crush anarchism— "

"In all its branches," added May; "especially women anarchists with fat arms."

Bill paused and frowned down at the paper.

"How many 'k's' in 'anarchist'?" he demanded.

But nobody was quite sure, so Bill employed two.

An hour passed before the raison d'être of the Society of Bright Young People was finally agreed. Another hour before secret signs and passwords were reduced to writing. (If you put one hand upon the top of your head and a finger under your chin, it meant "Do not speak to me: I am under observation.") As the clock was striking eleven, the first meeting of the Brights was finally dissolved, after an unseemly wrangle as to who should be Chief of Operations.

But once the Society was in being, the rest seemed easy. The doomed Doboski, ignorant of the fate which awaited him, had by his agents plastered the town of Bulborough with announcements of his forthcoming lecture. Even Bulborough stirred uneasily; and when Harry Rickaby, who was chief assistant at a fish shop off High Street, made his appearance in the street on a Saturday evening, carrying a large red flag, and followed by other restless elements of the population, it was felt that world events were touching Bulborough very nearly.

Though Harry's demonstration was cut short by the arrival of his irate mother in search of the red tablecloth he had borrowed without permission, there were wise old men who shook their heads and agreed that Something was Going to Happen.

Up at Hillchurch the disorder occasioned by the arrival of Harry's mother in search of her household property was magnified into a riot. Mr. Leader's chauffeur had a sister who brought the laundry on Saturdays, and she came with an incoherent story of rioting, of baton charges by the police, and a street that ran with blood. Mr. Leader listened gravely.

"There is little doubt," he said, "that, primed by the poison of popular education, and incited to insane fury by the demagogic oratory of their shoddy tribunes, the proletariat, unmindful of the blessings which have accrued under the beneficent sway of the Town Council, of which I have the honour to be Chairman, are seeking in rapine the remedy for their own sloth. I shudder to think of what will happen on Wednesday."

Belarius and his sister exchanged secret glances, and Bill went so far as to scratch both ears at once, which meant "There will be doings on Wednesday." Thera, a little hazy as to the secret signs, thought it was a signal to her that he wanted to speak to her outside, and, making an excuse, she went into the corridor and waited there ten cold minutes for a fellow- conspirator who did not come.

"And your signal said as plainly as anything 'Come outside,'" said the exasperated girl. "I think these secret signs are silly, and I'm not going to take the slightest notice of any more."

Bill raised his eyebrows.

"You know the penalty for disobedience of our laws?" he asked ominously.

"Pish!" said Thera, and snapped her fingers.

The plan in regard to Mr. Doboski was simple and effective. The Bulborough train stopped at Lynewood Halt, two miles out of the town, for the collection of tickets. Lynewood itself lay a few hundred yards from the station, and was on the estate of Jim Bellamy's father.

"My idea is that we'll keep him there till morning, then rush him away before daybreak to Welborough, leave him stranded in the street, and there you are!"

"The great thing," insisted May, "is to bandage his eyes. If you don't bandage his eyes, he'll see where he's going, and then the grease will be on the spirit stove, my boy!"

"Don't worry about his eyes," growled her stout brother. "I'm going down to the woodman's hut to put on a new padlock; and the main point is that, whether he's bandaged or unbandaged, he mustn't see us. When will the robes be ready?"

"To-night," said Thera promptly. "May and I are working like slaves. The cloaks will be silk for the girls and cotton for you boys. We are not quite sure about the eyeholes..."

The Reception Committee of the Red Brotherhood had hired a band for Wednesday evening. Mr. Doboski was to arrive at seven o'clock, half an hour before his meeting, and he was to be greeted by the proletariat guard on the platform. He was to address his meeting and leave by the eleven o'clock train for London; and in preparation for the hectic scenes which would follow his arrival, the whole police force of Bulborough was assembled— both of them.

At ten minutes to seven the London train came noisily to Lynewood Halt, arid the one solitary ticket inspector, beginning at the far end, began his long and toilsome examination. At the darkest part of the platform— which was every part except where one oil lamp burnt— Bill Leader waited, his overcoat buttoned to his chin, a black slouch hat pulled down over his eyes. Swiftly he walked along the platform, oblivious to the snow which was falling, and fortified against the keen north-easterly wind by a heavy overcoat (the Society had agreed that a black hood and robe would excite attention, even at Lynewood Halt), and presently he saw his man: a tall, dark man, wearing a fur cap and a short, poky beard. Viewing him from a discreet distance, Bill could picture the tyrant sitting at his tribunal, sending processions of men and delicate females to the rigours and horrors of Siberia. There he sat, snug in his fur-lined coat, the big collar pulled up above his ears, his cruel eyes brooding over an evening newspaper opened at the sporting page.

Bill's resolution, which had been waning during the period of his wait, took a new strength. He walked to the carriage door and jerked it open.

"May I see you, please?" he asked curtly.

"You want to see me?" said the man in surprise, He spoke with a foreign accent.

"They have sent a car for you," mumbled Bill behind his collar, his hat still pulled down over his eyes.

The stranger jumped up, pulled down a bag from the rack, and followed Bill on to the platform. Not a word did the Avenger speak as he turned into the country lane where a closed car was waiting, and with the car three shivering conspirators huddled together on the front seat.

"Will you get in, please?" asked Bill, and the man in the fur coat obeyed.

In another second the car was driving swiftly, if erratically (Jim Bellamy's teeth were chattering, but that was probably due to the cold, and his steering was not of the surest, even in normal spins).

"That's nice of you to send a car," said the foreigner. I haven't a great deal of time; I'm taking the train back to-night and going on to the Continent to-morrow."

Bill sat quaking at his side as the car shot through a gateway and bumped and swayed over the cart track leading to the woodman's hut.

"This is a pretty poor road," said the stranger in surprise.

"It's good enough for you," stammered Bill. It required a terrible effort to say this, but once it was said the old spirit of adventure, dormant in the bosom of most men who found themselves alone in a dark wood on a stormy night with a savage and remorseless enemy, sparked up again.

Before the man could answer, the car stopped. Thera jumped down and pulled open the door.

"Come out," she quavered, "you horrible man!"

In the reflected light from the headlamps the stranger saw a revolver that trembled so violently that at first he imagined, by some sleight of hand, she was holding two.

"What's the great idea?" he asked, as he stepped slowly down to the ground.

"Go in there." She pointed to the yawning door of the woodman's hut.

"A hold-up, eh?" He laughed softly. "All right, sister, if that's the idea."

"And don't call me 'sister,'" she stormed. "You know jolly well that all that sister and brother nonsense is sheer hypocrisy."

Jim Bellamy, frozen to the wheel literally and figuratively, felt it a moment to add his voice to the chorus of condemnation.

"You ought to be jolly well ashamed of yourself," he bleated.

The stranger looked round; there was another cloaked and masked figure ahead of him. She also held two, and possibly three, revolvers in one hand.

"Well, if this doesn't beat the band! Who are you folks, anyway?"

"We're the Society of Bright Young People," said May tremulously.

"Yes, that's what we are." Bill here asserted his position as leader. "We're going to rid the world of thugs and crooks and anarchists, Mr. Doboski."

The stranger laughed; it was a horrible, blood-curdling laugh. If May's revolver had been loaded, she would have fired it off in sheer nervousness.

"Go in there."

A storm lamp was burning on the table of the little hut, revealing its unpleasant interior. There was an old chair, a table, and little else save peeling wallpaper.

The plan was to follow him in, search him for documents of a compromising character, bind him hand and foot, possibly gag him, and if he gave trouble, to stun him with a well-aimed blow from the butt of a pistol. This was Thera's idea, and she had deputed the job to her brother.

But nobody seemed disposed to follow the tall stranger into the ill- lit interior.

"Go on!" hissed May, pushing her brother forward.

But Mr. James Bellamy, who was well brought up, stood aside to let a lady pass.

"Go on, search him!" Bill's voice was hollow. "It won't take you two twinks, old bird."

"Search him yourself," said Jim under his breath. "My job was to drive the car."

It was Thera who braced herself up and walked into the hut.

"I'm going to search you," she said, "and please don't let me have any of your monkey tricks."

She was at some disadvantage, because the hood which covered her face had slipped round so that she could only see out of one eye.

"Excuse me," said the stranger politely, and readjusted the hood. "You were saying?"

"I'm going to search you."

At that moment a puff of wind closed the door with a bang.

Jim tried to open it.

"What's wrong with this door?" he hissed.

"Why, I thought you were going to put on a padlock?"

"Couldn't get the right kind of padlock," mumbled Jim Bellamy, tugging at the knob with shaking hands. "I fixed a new spring lock— did it all this morning, and did it jolly well."

"Well, open it."

"Eh?" Mr. Bellamy scratched the portion of the hood that hid his nose.

"Unlock it!" said Bill frantically. "You can't leave Thera in there with that horrible man!"

Jim Bellamy went limp.

"I haven't brought the key," he said faintly.

And then Thera's voice sounded from inside.

"Open the door, please."

"You open it," yelled Jim. "You can do it from inside."

She tried, and, ordinarily, might have succeeded; but Mr. Bellamy was not a good locksmith, and he had so fastened the catch that when, under the force of the wind— and nothing else could have closed it— the door had slammed tight, it was immovable.

"I'm afraid you're a prisoner too. What have you been doing— running a revolution?" asked the bearded enemy blandly. "Or maybe you've been a traitor to the gang?"

"Open the door!" gasped Thera, kicking at the door.

"Jim's gone to get the key," bellowed a voice outside.

"Which was Jim?" asked the interested stranger. "The gentleman who lured me, or the bird at the wheel?"

"The bird at the wheel," she snapped, before she realised her vulgarity.

Mr. Doboski whistled.

"Well, I fear you'll have to sit down and make yourself comfortable," he said, and slowly stripped off his overcoat, laying it on the back of the chair.

He went out of the room to the little scullery that adjoined, and returned with an armful of wood, which he threw into the bleak grate.

"There's no reason why we conspirators should freeze to death," he said.

"Can't we get out of the window?" she asked, in a panic.

"They're barred," was the laconic reply. "I've never seen a cuter little prison."

He struck a match and kindled the heap of wood into a roaring flame.

"That's better." He looked round the room. "One chair— that's yours. I'll sit on the table. Do you live around here?" he asked politely.

"Of course I live around here," snapped Thera, throwing a malignant glance at the man. "It is because we wish to save our people from the misery of a revolution that we are doing this."

The stranger looked at her long and earnestly.

"I'd like to have a little peep at you," he said. "Do you mind taking off the—"

She hesitated, then, realising something of the ridiculousness of her appearance, and not averse to his seeing the type of woman he had to deal with, she whisked off the black hood.

"My!" His mouth opened. "Well now, isn't that the best of luck! I've always thought I should be kidnapped— bandits held me up once in the mountains, but they were just ugly, coarse, sordid men, with common whiskers— I guess none of them had seen the inside of a bath for a month. Give me this kind of brigandage every time!"

"I don't want you to insult me with your compliments," said Thera haughtily.

"Was that a compliment?" he asked earnestly. "Anyway, we won't argue that matter. I came down here expecting to be disappointed— and I'm not. I came expecting to see a girl who's beautiful in her poppa's eyes, and I knew she was going to give me the everlasting hump. And here I've been kidnapped and held up by unlawful loveliness— "

"I wish you would be good enough not to address your remarks to me," said Thera coldly.

The stranger looked at his watch.

"And now they've got to get that door open. I've some important business to do in Bulborough, and I must catch the eleven train back to town."

She smiled contemptuously, though she never felt less like smiling in her life. She wished now she had taken Bill's advice and loaded the revolver, which she still gripped in her hand.

"You're staying here till the morning," she said. "It will be death to you to attempt escape from this wood," she added heroically.

The hour that followed seemed like an eternity. From time to time Bill squeaked an inquiry or an injunction through the keyhole. In moments of great excitement he had the habit of transposition.

"If he gets shoot, fresh him like a dog!" Or, "Touch a head of her hair, Doboski, and you die!"

But the man standing before the fire showed no disposition to touch her or even to get fresh. His sorrowful eyes were on the blazing logs, and Thera wondered what drama, what tragedy, lay behind his revolutionary tendencies. After a long silence he turned his head.

"Young lady, you've either robbed me of a great pleasure or a great disappointment. Ever been in love?"

Thera bridled.

"This is not the moment to discuss such matters," she said icily "I understand that in Russia— "

"Ever been in love with a dream— a conception? Never seen her... only heard scraps of talk about her. Her father thinks she's wonderful, and has mentioned her, and out of these fragments I have constructed a wonderful girl, not unlike you."

Thera shrugged. It seemed a conspirator-like thing to do.

"I was seeing her to-night— and now I shan't."

"Perhaps she is lucky," said Thera, with spirit; "and mixed marriages are never happy."

"Are you married?" he asked, and she snorted.

At that moment Bill's voice howled.

"If he shoots you, touch him! Father's here!"

"Maybe I ought to be grateful to you," the man went on. "I shall never know."

"Perhaps she wouldn't love you," said Thera, thoroughly interested in spite of the impropriety of the occasion. "Girls are always expected to fall in love with men who are keen on them. There's a man named Meekly... a horrible, anæmic Canadian whom father knows. He's always writing about me. And, of course, when I see him—"

At that moment a key grated in the lock and the door swung open. Bill, very white (except for his nose, which was very red), dashed in savage-eyed.

"Doboski!" he said wildly.

"Doboski?"

Mr. Leader, who had been brought over by the distracted Jim Bellamy, stood in the background and surveyed the scene.

"Surely...!" He came forward with outstretched hand to the bearded man. "Surely it is my friend, Mr. Meekly! Theodora, this is the gentleman I have so often spoken to you about."

"So I gathered," said John Meekly, "but I'm not anæmic."

The Society of Bright Young People looked at one another, and one by one they stole forth into the darkness.

__________________

6: The King and the Editor

Mrs William Jones and― Bill, 1930

THE King read the letter again with a suspicious frown.

It has afforded us infinite pleasure to learn of Your Majesty's acceptance of our invitation, and such resources as our ever-hospitable and peace-loving land can offer for Your Majesty's entertainment shall be realised. We would proffer the respectful suggestion that Your Majesty should so time your arrival at our capital as to admit of our receiving Your Majesty with those marks of affection and respect due to the overlord of the ancient states of Atopia and Monterio, and we permit ourselves to further suggest that the 17th of October would fulfil our desires in every regard.

THE KING READ the letter, carefully folded it, and as carefully placed it in the breast pocket of his uniform jacket.

He was a tall, broad-shouldered young man, with hair inclined to curliness, a clear blue eye, and an alertness of action that had earned for him at Eton the nickname of "Rap."

This may or may not have been a shortening of his name, for in those days he was no more than Count Richard Raptoryski, and his chance of succeeding to the three hundred square miles of territory which constituted the Kingdom of Atopia, and the four hundred and twenty-five square miles of untamable mountains that bore with it the "karlship" of Monte 'Rio, was somewhat remote. Influenza removed one man who stood between him and the throne, and revolution two others (it was a great mistake on the part of his predecessors to impose an income tax on the mountaineers of Monte 'Rio), and suddenly there had come to a young man on a far-away Scottish golf links a summons to kingship.

He had read the imposing document, with its impressive seal, with that same suspicion with which he now read the King's letter. Then he had slowly walked back to the club-house and had drunk a whisky and soda— the respectful messenger watching him in some awe.

There had been a dozen men in the room, boastful young men talking of their handicaps, and one had said:

"What's up, Rap— broken a club?"

He shook his head solemnly.

"Old friend," he said, "I'm a king."

That was all.

"That's a curious thing," mused the other; "poor old Gill of Guys used to have the same kind of hallucinations. In his case it was drink."

"Don't be an ass," begged the King, "and for Heaven's sake, don't be flippant before the gentleman with the whiskers"— he alluded to the rapt messenger at the door— "because I'm not quite sure whether he's the Prime Minister or the Local Postman. I'm a king, Piggy. My cousin George has— er— popped off, and I'm a royalty and I feel horribly upset."

"Have another drink," said the practical Piggy, and His Majesty complied.

But that was ages and ages ago— nearly two years.

It seemed to His Majesty of Monte 'Rio that there had never been a time when the cares of kingship had been absent from him. He could hardly remember the time when he did not wear uniforms and attend Cabinet Councils, and review armies, and collect taxation.

Monte 'Rio was part of his being, and he had joined vigorously in the fight against absorption.

For there were evil-minded Chancellors in Europe, who looked with a longing eye upon Monte 'Rio— not because of its commercial possibilities, or because of its revenues, but for the very substantial reason that it afforded the domination of Lower Sindonia, and of the Eastern Steppes.

The country was a huge natural fortress, with heaven-made ramparts, trenches, pitfalls, culs de sac— there was not an invented fortification known to military science that was not here provided, a hundred times more formidable than ever human brain conceived or human hands erected.

The King paced the well-worn carpet of his study, his head on his breast, his hands clasped behind him.

Charles of Woldberg, Emperor and War Lord, had invited him to Rustenberg, and Adolph, most powerful Kaiser of Eastern Europe, was to form one of the Imperial party.

He stopped and looked out across the sunlit town that lay beneath the Palace windows. "The city of the river" was very beautiful, with its white buildings, its great grey church with its one lofty spire. In a jumble of white and green ran the river, twisting and turning between mossy quays to the distant sea. Far away on the horizon the blue hills of Monte 'Rio proper, shimmered in the hot autumnal air.

The King turned from his contemplation and rang a bell. A servant in a faded livery answered the call.

"You will inform His Excellency Count Schiffer that I desire his presence."

The man bowed and retired.

Soon the door opened to admit the Chancellor.

He was elderly and bald, and his gait was a little unsteady, his eyes perceptibly vacant. He bowed and nearly fell, but jerked himself into an erect position and stood swaying a little.

"Schiffer," began the King, then stopped. "You've been drinking," he accused.

"A li'l," admitted His Excellency, tearfully; "a little glass of cognac— maybe two. The grass tax, Y'r Majesty— oh, these cursed peasants!"

He shook his head mournfully.

"Grass tax!" said His Startled Majesty; "what the devil do you mean, Schiffer? Do you mean to tell me that these horrid blight— people haven't paid their grass tax?"

"Alas!" mumbled the old man, his bald head wobbling in his dejection. "Alas! I sent two Commissioners to the hills—" He completed his tale of woe in incoherent rumblings.

The King turned pale.

"What money have we got?"

"In English money— since Your Majesty has never taken kindly to our Monterian coinage— we have exactly ninety English pounds."

"Good Lord!"

The King paced the apartment agitatedly.

"Our salary— " he began.

"Paid in advance, and the household vote, and the privy purse vote, and the army vote."

"Have we spent all that?" asked the King in an awestricken whisper, and the Chancellor nodded.

"You bought a motor-car— I put it into the army estimates as 'engines of war,' but it took all the army vote and a part of the prison vote

"But Schiffer," protested the King, "I must have money! The whole future of these realms depends upon my meeting Their Majesties at Rustenberg. There must be a special vote— "

"There was a special vote," said the lachrymose Chancellor ominously— "'Entertainment and Diplomatic Services, £900'— you spent that on the new golf links."

"Did I?" faltered the King guiltily.

"You did," said the Chancellor.

Richard of Monte 'Rio thought deeply, biting his knuckles to aid the exercise.

"Can't we fine somebody something?" he asked vaguely.

The Chancellor shook his head.

"The judges want all the fines they can get to pay the court expenses," he said with a despondent gesture; "then, again, nobody cares two straws about a fine, and when people are sentenced to pay one hundred krone or go to prison for forty-two days, they impudently demand prison."

"Well?"

"Well," said the Chancellor unsteadily, flicking a crumb of bread from his sleeve, "they know we can't afford to keep 'em in prison."

The King drew a long breath.

"And this is the country I gave up golf for!" he said bitterly. "Can't we confiscate something?"

The Chancellor shook his head.

"We can't even afford a revolution," he wept afresh at the thought of the country's limitation.

"Don't snivel, Schiffer," said His Majesty sternly; "and, please, don't sniff. Where is Mr. Wall?"

"Your Majesty's Secretary," said the moist Schiffer, "is engaged at Hôtel de la Paix on— on State affairs."

"He's playing billiards," said the King despairingly; "heavens! what a country! what a people! Where one's very pals round on one, and the decrepit officers of State are engaged in a conspiracy to veil their wrongdoings."

"Command Mr. Wall, Your Excellency," he said with sudden dignity, and the Chancellor withdrew with a stately, if uncertain, obeisance.

Mr. Michael Wall came into the presence a quarter of an hour later, very hot, for he had run all the way through the hilly streets to the Palace, very cross, for he had had abominable luck, but quite prepared to be placated by the news that there had been an unexpected influx to the treasury.

"Now where the dickens have you been, Mike?" said the King, with some irritation.

"Your Majesty is aware," began the ruffled secretary.

"Shut the door, and don't be an ass," said His Majesty, "and drop 'majestising' me. Mike, I'm in a hole."

Mike said nothing. He was a fresh-coloured young man with yellow hair and reflective eyes that shone behind spectacles. He had a trick of whistling to himself that was annoying, but the world's main grievance against him was his frankness.

He admitted he was frank; indeed, he took quite an unnecessary amount of pride in this doubtful accomplishment, and accepted the unpopularity that followed the practice of his curious virtue as the transpontine villain of melodrama accepts the execrations of the gallery as a sort of compliment.

"I'm in a hole," repeated the King, with relish; "in the dev-il of a hole."

"What about the grass tax?" queried the secretary, staring out of the window and talking at his companion.

"The grass tax," said the King shortly. "I have remitted."

Mike whistled a slow movement from Chopin.

"Leave the 'Dead March' alone," begged the King, "and help me out of my fix. Mike, I've absolutely got to go to Rustenburg. Uncle Fatty's got a terrific function on, and old Dolfy's coming from the East, and I simply must turn up." He said this very impressively, but Mike did not seem impressed. "It will cost hundreds," he said, with caution.

"Thousands," corrected the King impatiently. "It will cost a couple of thousands. I simply must invest in a new kit, and then there's the Palace tips and the decorations for the various chaps who hang round you in palaces. You can't get even the simplest Order of the St. Agatha under a fiver apiece, and even that's buyin 'em by the dozen, and I suppose I shall be expected to give a couple of Brilliant Stars of Monte 'Rio— "

"If you'll permit me to say it," said the spectacled young man, still addressing his remarks to the window, "you've got yourself to thank for all this. I believe in being frank; I know you think it's a fault, but when a king, on £3000 a year, spends half his income—"

"Now, do shut up and don't be a sandy-thatched gibberer," pleaded His Majesty. "I do not want any of your decline and fall philosophy; I want money."

Mike relapsed into a staring silence.

"Tax something," he suggested, "or borrow it."

"There's nothing to tax and there are no money-lenders who'll touch my paper, since I persuaded the Diet to shorten the period of the Statute of Limitations."

"And made it retrospective," added the secretary thoughtfully.

"And made it— for certain reasons— retrospective," admitted the young king with an embarrassed cough.

"We might," he went on, "coerce Atopia. They have had a very prosperous tourist season— by the way, where's the army?"

"He's on leave," said the solemn Mike, and the King writhed.

"I wish you wouldn't exercise your dubious wit upon the armed forces of the Crown," he said acidly; "we—"

"I've got it!"

Mr. Michael Wall became of a sudden animated.

"I've got it— you'll have to marry!"

"Eh?"

"You have to marry— get a dowry— repair the fallen fortunes of your house. Everybody's doing it, why shouldn't you?"

"My dear, good, well-meaning friend," said the King, with a show of irritation, "one can't do that sort of thing when one's a king. I can't go touting for heiresses. It is all arranged by ambassadors and people—"

"Marry a princess, a tip-topper." Mr. Wall was quite excited at the idea. "There are lots of 'em about— make a grand alliance— what about the Princess Marie-Elise?"

The King gasped at the cold-blooded proposal.

"Marie-Elise!"

The only daughter of Charles of Woldberg, most potent sovereign, and likely as not already betrothed!

"You're an ass," he said helplessly.

"Why? Why shouldn't you? Do you think that Monte 'Rio is such a tin- pot kingdom that it is a presumption—"

"Stop!" commanded the King, speaking with emotion. "Stop, Mike! Poor we are, ungenerous and ungrateful we are, but not— not tin-pot."

He shook his head emphatically and walked to the window. "As to presumption," he said, speaking across his shoulder, "it is an honour for any house to be allied to this ancient house of Zippilin-Monte 'Rio—"

"I'm sure," murmured the encouraging Mike.

"We will ask our cousin's hand," he went on loftily, and a little dreamily; "we will offer her— what is she like?"

"Rippin'," said the enthusiastic Mr. Wall, and the King nodded.

"We will demand her hand," King Richard of Monte 'Rio went on, speaking with firm assurance, "and—"

Two knocks came to the door, and Schiffer entered. There was a triumphant gleam in his eye.

"I have to announced to Your Majesty, that the Diet at this morning's sitting—"

"Yes, yes!" said the King eagerly.

"Has in its wisdom voted an ice-breaker for our harbour at Saix."

"Thank Heavens!" said His Majesty, with fervour.

The secretary eyed him accusingly, but the King did not meet his gaze.

"So Your Majesty may, now go ahead with your preparations, and I have taken the liberty of instructing the Court tailor to call upon Your Majesty at three o'clock this afternoon...."

Mr. Michael Wall, Private Secretary and Candid Friend, waited until the Chancellor had withdrawn.

"Where is the money coming from?" he demanded, and the King looked a trifle uneasy...

"After all," he wound up a long explanation, "they do not really require an ice-breaker on a river where the temperature never falls below fifty degrees, and the money will be much better employed—"

"Speaking frankly," began Mr. Wall with great seriousness.

"Come out to the links," said His Majesty hastily; "I'll go you a round before lunch."

________________

7: Christmas Presents

Mrs William Jones and― Bill, 1930

LEW WITHERSYNE's magnificent car developed engine trouble at the lodge gates of Pelford Manor just as Lord Pelford came walking through those same gates.

"Very annoying indeed," said Lew, smiling despite his misfortune; "but happily I am not bound for anywhere in particular. I'm just loafing through England sight-seeing."

Fine snow was falling, and the countryside was white. Lord Pelford made a little grimace.

"Not exactly the weather or the season one would choose for touring," he said, and Mr. Withersyne laughed.

His laugh was one of his greatest assets— that and his rich baritone. The chaplain at Dartmoor, whatever might be his sorrow at the iniquity which brought an old face back to "B" Hall, was always glad to welcome Lew back to the choir.

"I chose the winter and prayed that it would snow good and hard," he said, and explained to his puzzled audience. "For twenty years I have spent my Christmas in the hottest part of South-West Africa. Blazing sun— sand so hot that it shrivels up your boots— glaring plumbago on every bush, so bright that it nearly blinds you: you won't wonder why I am very nearly the happiest man in England to see real honest-to-heaven snow!"

He was a classy talker, specialising in romantic conversation. Lord Pelford was interested. In his youth he had travelled extensively; had wandered under scorching suns and knew something of the ache for grey skies and scudding snow-clouds.

"Perhaps you will lunch with me?" he suggested. "I know South Africa rather well."

Lew, most perfect of "timers," glanced along the road and saw that his confederate, who had signalled the appearance of his lordship on the drive, had disappeared (Lew had been shivering in the cold, waiting for the coming of his victim), and, after a moment's hesitation :

"That is most kind of you," he said, "but I feel that I am rather taking advantage of your..."

"Not at all," replied the hospitable peer, and Lew went slowly up the drive by the side of his host, leaving his mechanic to tinker at an engine which required no mechanical assistance whatever.

"Yes, I love Christmas at home. I've got a great scheme to go slumming on Christmas morning— the itch for that Haroun al Raschid feeling that every rich man has, I suppose. I don't know the ropes very well. The only slum I know is Whitechapel, and they tell me that is a highly respectable business quarter— not a bit slummy."

Lord Pelford laughed.

"I know that feeling, but I have never been able to afford that indulgence. My name is Pelford— I am Lord Pelford."

"The Earl of Pelford?"

Lew stopped dead and surveyed his companion in amazement. His lordship was a little gratified.

"Well, now... I've heard of you," said Mr Withersyne. "You are a director of a number of companies, aren't you? How queer! I once very nearly wrote to you asking if you would accept a seat on my London board."

Lord Pelford murmured his appreciation of the compliment.

"I'll be perfectly frank with you," said Lew. "It was my hope that if I told you my name, it would be unfamiliar to you. I am John Elmer."

Before the other could recover from his astonishment, Lew went on:

"Nobody knows that I am in England; there have been certain irregularities here which made my pleasure trip a real necessity. Confidential information about a new property I am developing has leaked out— Heaven knows how."

He proceeded to explain. It was a derelict mining company, the Kalahari Extension. The shares were at waste paper prices (as his lordship knew). Lord Pelford knew more than this: he was well aware that John Elmer was something of a recluse who lived in a five-hundred-pound house in the centre of the Kalahari and never came to England. The City said that Elmer was a millionaire ten times over, that he was an autocrat who dismissed London managers for the slightest irregularity.

Pelford surveyed the rugged features of his guest with a new and a keener interest.

"I have taken every Extension share off the market," Lew went on. "Why? Well... I'll tell you. I have discovered that the richest reef I own runs under the Extension Company's property. That, of course, I tell you in confidence. And the one thing I do not wish anybody to know is that I am in England. Now about this Haroun al Raschid business— "

"I think I can help you there," said his lordship. "My daughter is very interested in welfare work. No, she's in Paris just now, but I'm sure when she returns she will be only too happy to help you. I am very much interested in your new company, Mr. Elmer...."

All through lunch and the greater part of the afternoon Lew talked. He spent the night at Pelford Manor and the greater part of the next day. And when, in the evening, reading his financial paper, he saw a paragraph which stated that Mr. John Elmer was paying one of his rare visits to London and was staying at Harridge's Hotel, he was rather amused. Mr. Elmer's presence in England was not quite so secret as he had desired. Lew did not see the paragraph at all. He was too busy fixing his get-away. For it was perfectly true that he had bought every available share in the Kalahari Extension Company. He had bought them from a dealer who specialised in dead stock, at the rate of a shilling a thousand shares, which was not a high price for stock in a company which owned a few hundred tons of rusted machinery, an abandoned shaft, and an irrecoverable overdraft.

Unless a man is a hardened philosopher— and that no sentimentalist can be— Christmas Day in London without friends, with no more cheer than the best of hotels can give him, and no other means of filling his time than counting the pedestrians from his bedroom window, is perhaps the most depressing experience that life can offer.

John Elmer's philosophy was strictly local in its expression. It was in evidence once on the sun-washed Kalahari desert, when the last drop of water was gone, and fifty miles lay between him and the nearest wash-hole; he displayed a certain stoicism when a Southern Angola tribe had caught him and made preparations for his torture; and as stolid an indifference when the Portuguese Government all but ruined him by the repudiation of a concession to mine in the forbidden territory. All and any of these experiences he had borne with outward and inward fortitude.

And now, with the greater part of four millions to his credit in the books of the Bank of England, with scores of stamp batteries thundering, with four mines working to his great profit, he felt poorer, more unhappy, certainly more lonely than that day when, bootless and ragged, with a month's growth of beard, he was staggering through the suburbs of Vryburg after his first exploration, a record of failure behind him.

Elmer lifted the window a little higher and leant out. Below was the desert of Brook Street. One taxi-cab crawled despondently along the kerb, a man and a woman were walking towards Park Lane, and far away to the right, in Hanover Square, there was a solitary milk-cart. A drizzle of rain was falling; the skies overhead were grey and menacing; it was rawly, sourly cold.

Christmas Day! He drew his padded dressing-gown tighter round him and stalked dejectedly into his ornate sitting-room, where shaded lights and soft colours and the red glow of a fire gave the illusion of cheerfulness.

Floor-waiter and valet had wished him a mechanical "Merry Christmas!" and had been automatically tipped for their automatic courtesies. There was nothing to do but to pull up a comfortable arm-chair to the fire and read the day away.

He had not been in England for twenty-five years. He knew nobody except his agents and the members of the small committee of management, and these were more or less employees; and though they might have bidden him welcome to their homes on this day of days, he would have been as much "out of it" as he was in the luxury of his suite in Brook Street.

He took up a book and tried to read, but after a minute put it down and glanced at the clock. The hour was half past ten. He had dressed, intending to go out, but changed his mind. Putting his hands into the pockets of the gown, his fingers came into contact with a thick folded pad of notes that he had drawn from the bank on the previous day. A newspaper advertisement of a sale of antiques, hastily read, had been the cause, but he had arrived at the sale-rooms to discover that auctioneers have a little more intelligence than to offer valuable furniture for sale on Christmas Eve, and that the auction was to be on 24th January.

He took out the notes, counted them absent-mindedly running the edges through finger and thumb. Six thousand pounds: fifty-nine notes of a hundred, and twenty of five.

He had hardly put the money back in his pocket before there was a discreet tap at the door and a page-boy came in.

"Merry Christmas, sir!" he piped.

"I've given you a pound already," growled John Elmer.

"I know, sir. Will you see the young lady from Suttons?"

Elmer stared round at him.

"What young lady from Suttons?" he asked. "Who are Suttons?"

"The dressmakers, sir. She said she had an appointment ; she's got a parcel for you."

He leant back in his chair and gaped at the youth.

"She has a parcel for me, has she?" And then, on an impulse: "Show her up."

Suttons the dressmakers apparently kept their employees busy even on this grisly festival.

He expected to see a red-nosed errand girl follow the page into the room, and he was more than surprised, he was aghast, when he rose to his feet to meet the prettiest girl he had seen since he had been in England. Not only was she pretty, but, though he knew very little of women and their attire, he saw that she was expensively dressed. Grey eyes, a perfect skin glowing with health, a hint of dull-gold hair under the closely fitting hat, and a figure that seemed familiar to him (he remembered afterwards that pastel drawing by a famous Austrian artist that adorned the walls of his sitting-room in the Kalahari); all these were bewildering enough, but her first words took his breath away.

"Good morning, and a merry Christmas, Mr. Elmer! I am Mary Pelford, and I have managed to get the dress after an awful lot of trouble. I had to drag that wretched woman of Suttons from her bed in Putney. She swore she would deliver it last night in Cheyne Gardens, and I waited up till midnight. And, of course, she'd forgotten all about it... thought it was for New Year's Eve or some such nonsense."

She was looking at him seriously as she spoke, an anxiety which was half relief, as though, behind the forced gaiety of her words, was a trouble which could not be wholly hidden. And then, before he could recover his balance, she went on impulsively:

"I'm so awfully glad to find that you're a real person. I was terribly worried, when daddy told me about... well, about investing fifty thousand pounds in your company. You see, Mr. Elmer, father is awfully... 'simple' is the word. And a most unbusinesslike man... and we're really very poor."

John Elmer might find his philosophy no proof against a bedraggled London on Christmas Day, but he was a man with a rare presence of mind.

"Your father is— er..."

"Lord Pelford... you stayed with him last week," and suddenly he saw her face grow white. "You are Mr. Elmer, the millionaire, aren't you?"

He nodded smilingly.

"Let me take that box," he said, relieving her of the package she carried. "And won't you sit down? What is in here?"

He rattled the box as he spoke.

"That is the Santa Claus dress." She was looking at him doubtingly, suspiciously. "You were going to St. Michael's Mission to give away... things to the children. Father said you arranged with him that I should take you."

He smiled again. It was very rare for John Elmer to smile twice in one day.

"And, of course, I'm going— though I have no toys to— er— distribute. I'm sure they would much rather have money."

She looked dubious at this, having all a welfare worker's dislike for that kind of charity.

"Will you take tea with me?" he asked gently. "We people who live in the Colonies are wedded to the eleven o'clock tea habit."

When he had rung the bell, he went on apologetically:

"I am such a very busy man, and have so many interests, that for the moment the shares I sold your father have slipped my mind. Will you tell me what they were?"

"Kalahari Extensions," she said promptly. "You remember you told father that you had found a reef, or something of the sort, running under this property?"

He stared at her, so astonished that she took alarm.

"Isn't that so, Mr. Elmer?"

"Yes, yes," he said hastily. "Quite right. The reef runs from my property under the Extensions area. So your father bought fifty thousand shares?"

"A hundred thousand," she corrected. "You told him, you remember, that they would be worth three pounds a share."

He nodded. His mind was working rapidly.

"Has he paid me for these?" he asked.

"Why, of course," she said, startled. "He gave you a cheque for fifty thousand pounds. Don't you remember, the banker would not pay until father went down to see him?"

"Yes, yes, of course," murmured John Elmer, and stared moodily into the fire.

She was untying the string which bound the parcel, and presently she took off the cardboard lid and exposed the bright scarlet robe, expensively trimmed with white rabbit fur, a large silvery wig, and a big white beard, and laid them on the carpet before his dazed eyes.

"Do I wear those?"

"Not now, of course," she laughed. "But when you get to the hall, you can dress in the vestry. But I don't like the distribution of money ; isn't it possible to get toys— anywhere?"

"I don't know; it's likely. I seem to remember passing several toy- shops, but whether the people live on the premises— "

"There are shops open all over the town," she urged; "tiny little confectioners' shops that sell things of this kind."

"I'll be with you in one minute," said John Elmer, rising with alacrity.

He dived into his bedroom, changed his dressing-gown for a coat and heavy overcoat, and came back to find her sitting with her chin on her hands, a puzzled frown wrinkling her smooth forehead.

"Do you know, you're not a bit like the photograph Collings took?"

"Who is Collings?" he asked.

"He's the gardener's son. Daddy gave him a snapshot camera for his birthday, and he took an awfully good picture of father and you as you came down the steps of Pelford Manor. I brought it with me so that I could recognise you if I saw you."

She opened her bag and took out a tiny photograph. He guessed that the tall, commanding figure was that of the girl's father. The man by his side was evidently the spurious John Elmer. But there was a certain rough likeness between himself and the swindler which might have deceived a careless observer. He took the picture from her hand.

"I don't know," he said thoughtfully. "It isn't such a bad likeness of me."

"It is you?" she asked breathlessly.

"Why, of course," said John. "And now, if you don't mind, we'll do a little shopping, and then heigh! for St. Michael's."

He could not remember when he had ever been quite in the same mood as he was that morning, as he drove from one tiny shop to another, collecting such remnants as had been left over from Christmas Eve, until the car was half filled, and they sat gingerly amongst ready-filled stockings, mechanical motor- cars, dolls, and the etceteras peculiar to Yuletide.

And John was a greater success at St. Michael's than he had ever dreamt he would be. The girl, watching the white-bearded man, surrounded and almost stormed by a yelling horde of children, felt her last doubts disappearing.

"That's that," he said, as he came back, dishevelled, to the little retiring-room and stripped the robe from his broad back.

"Did you enjoy it?" she laughed.

"I think I did," said John Elmer thoughtfully, "except when you insisted on keeping on the wrong side of the Christmas tree."

"Which is the wrong side of a Christmas tree?" she asked, puzzled.

"The side where I could not see you," said John, and the girl was not as displeased as he thought she would have been at the frank admiration of this almost stranger.

He was a little different from what she had expected. She had had hints of a certain uncouthness momentarily revealed in his dealings with servants that she could not conceive in this gentle-mannered man.

"Will you come to dinner to-night at Cheyne Gardens?" she asked. "Unfortunately, father will not be there, but I am having a lot of young people to dinner and a dance."

"Your father is not in London?"

"He went to the South of France this morning," she said. "Mother is a semi-invalid and cannot endure the English winter."

"Then I'll come," he said promptly.

Again she looked at him, suspicion in her eyes.

"One would almost imagine that you did not wish to meet father." she said.

He chuckled.

"If it is not an impertinence, Lady Mary— I heard them calling you Lady Mary— this day of all days I do not wish to talk business," he said, readily enough.

He left her at the door of her house and, declining her offer of the car, took a taxi-cab to the Thames Embankment.

"Scotland Yard, sir?" said the cabman, with a note of respect.

"The very place to spend a happy Christmas Day," said John Elmer gaily, and the cabman thought he had been drinking.

He was fortunate in the time of his call, for there had been a bad murder in Sussex a few days before, and the chiefs of departments were in conference when he sent his name up to Superintendent Alford. He had met Alford in South Africa, when that officer had paid a fleeting visit to Bechuanaland for the purpose of extraditing a notorious American criminal. The uniformed constable came back and invited him upstairs.

"The Superintendent won't be very long, sir. The conference is breaking up," he said, as he ushered him into a bare and comfortless room which was typical of Scotland Yard. A few minutes later the red-faced Alford joined him and gave him a hearty greeting.

"I heard you were in London, Mr. Elmer," he said. "Now, what can I do for you? Have the boys been after you? They've a passion for millionaires."

John smiled.

"They have and they haven't," he said. "Can you tell me who this is?"

When he had taken the photograph from the girl, he had been careful to slip it into his pocket. The inspector carried the photograph to the light, took up a magnifying glass and studied the snapshot.

"I don't know the tall man; he looks to me like Lord Pelford. But the little fellow is Lew Withersyne."

"Lew Withersyne?" repeated John thoughtfully. "Who is he?"

"He's one of the cleverest swindlers we've got," said Alford. "A sort of super-confidence man, very well read, and with a line of talk that would make Cleopatra part from her needle. Has he been after you?"

John shook his head.

"No, he has not been after me," he replied softly.

"After a friend of yours, perhaps?"

"Well"— Elmer hesitated— "I don't know. The reason I wished to see you is to ask you if I could be brought into immediate touch with him."

"You want to see him?" said the other in surprise.

John nodded, and the discreet superintendent asked no further questions, but with an excuse left the room and came back immediately afterwards with a tall young man, whom he introduced as Sergeant Atkins.

"Atkins thinks that we could pick up Lew at his sister-in-law's at Brockley to-day. He was seen in London yesterday, and one of our men tailed him to Victoria, where he took tickets for to-morrow's continental mail. We were discussing him this morning before you came, and wondering whether he was making a get-away or whether he was going to strike out on a new field."

"What is the Brockley address?"

"Atkins will go with you if you want to see him," said Alford, and, accompanied by the tall detective, John went speeding through the deserted streets of South London.

Half an hour's drive brought them to a very respectable road, composed of semi-detached villas, and the detective suggested that the cab should be stopped at the corner of the street.

"If we drive up to the door in a taxi, Lew will get scared and we'll lose him. Do you want him for anything particular?"

"No," said John Elmer.

"I wondered what he'd been doing. He was reported as driving about the Midlands in a swagger motor-car with two of his workers, but we've had no squeak— I mean complaint— so I suppose Lew didn' touch lucky."

At last they found the house, No. 59, and John knocked at the door, which was opened by an untidy-looking servant.

"Mr. Withersyne?" She looked back over her shoulder nervously. "No, I don't think he lives here."

"What do you mean— you don't think?" demanded Atkins in his best official manner. "Tell Mr. Withersyne I want to see him."

They waited five minutes before Lew Withersyne appeared in the passage. Although his manner was confident and even jaunty, his face went a little paler when he saw the familiar face of the officer.

"Good morning, Lew."

"Good morning, Mr. Atkins," said Lew, a trifle huskily. "Anything wrong?"

"Nothing particular, Lew. This gentleman wants to see you."

"I am Mr. John Elmer," said John, and now Lew's face really did change colour.

"Mr.— Mr. Elmer?" he stammered.

"Put on your coat and just step outside for a moment. I wish to have a private talk with you, my friend."

"I don't know you, I've never heard of you— " the man began to bluster, but Atkins cut him short.

"I don't want you, Lew. If I did, I shouldn't have argued. Mr. Elmer wishes to speak to you on a private matter."

Lew followed the detective meekly to the side-walk, and Atkins withdrew to a discreet distance.

"Now, my friend," said John, "I don't want any argument. You sold to Lord Pelford one hundred thousand shares in Kalahari Extension at ten shillings per share. You bought them, I take it, at 'dud' prices—"

"Well, that's no crime, is it? Ain't they doing that on the Stock Exchange every day?" demanded Lew, careless of his speech in moments of crisis.

"That is no offence," admitted John, "but to represent yourself as being me is a felony."

"Have you told him? Do they know?" he asked, jerking his head to the watchful Atkins.

"Not yet. I want from you the sum of forty-nine thousand pounds, and I'm going to make you a sporting offer, Withersyne. How many of those shares have you got?"

"Eight hundred and twenty thousand," said the other.

"Have you got them here?"

"In my bag upstairs. At least, seven hundred and twenty thousand. I sold a hundred thousand to a— a gentleman."

I'll take the rest," said John Elmer coolly, "and with it I'll take forty-nine thousand pounds in cash. Probably I have a criminal mind, but I feel that you're entitled to a thousand for all the trouble you took."

"Look here, governor," began the man, and then, as John beckoned the detective towards him: "I'll get it for you," he said, and disappeared into the house.

He was only gone for a few minutes. When he returned :

"Here's the money." He handed a package to John. "Don't count it," he urged fearfully, "or that busy will think there's something wrong. And here are the shares." He took a thicker bundle from his pocket. "They cost me— "

"I know what they cost you— about a penny a million," said John. "I see you've a blank transfer form there." He took a fountain-pen from his pocket and wrote rapidly. "Sign that," he said, "and then I'll give you a Christmas present."

Lew affixed his signature.

"The Christmas present I give to you," said John, "is a piece of advice: when opportunity knocks at your door, don't open the window."

"I don't get that," said the puzzled Lew.

"You will," said John Elmer.

DINNER WAS over; the sound of the gramophone came faintly to the two people who sat in the conservatory. The hand that the girl put up to her mouth was shaking as John Elmer told the story.

"Then— then he was a swindler, after all?"

"Yes, he was a swindler— in intent."

"And we have lost—"

"You have lost nothing. I have got the money back from this rascal, and I'll give you a cheque for the full amount to-night, or your father may keep the shares, which are extremely valuable."

She looked at him open-mouthed.

"Valuable? But you told me—"

"Sometimes," said John, "people tell the truth by accident. They hap upon a tremendous fact, never realising that the lie they invent is a singular truth. And the singular truth about Mr. Lew Withersyne's story is that our reef does run under the Kalahari Extension. And it is a valuable reef— so valuable," he went on, looking straight ahead of him, "that on the strength of my new acquisition I am thinking of building a real nice house, worthy of the beautiful situation of my present hovel; worthy of"— his lips were dry— "worthy of a wife who might like to spend an occasional winter in that sunny land."

Her cold hand went out and was crushed in his.

_____________________

8: Lord Exenham Causes a Sensation

The Grand Magazine, February 1918

THE bombshell which Lord Exenham threw into the realms of criminal investigation will hardly be forgotten by this present generation.

It is no secret that the spring of 1914 brought a crisis in police affairs all over the world. From Yarra-Yarra to Aberdeen, from Scotland Yard to Hong Kong, police chiefs sat back and gasped, seeing the end of the most elaborate and perhaps the safest system that had ever been devised by the ingenuity of honest men for the detection of the professional criminal. For days the cables were hot with messages, and Scotland Yard, which had the matter in hand, was simply overwhelmed by the extra and unexpected work which Lord Exenham's amazing discovery necessarily involved.

MacDermot of the Central Office, New York, Pflanzer of Chicago, Maurice de Fauberg of the Sûreté were amongst those who sent special commissions to inquire into, and report upon, a happening which was very rightly regarded as revolutionising the whole system of criminal detection.

The circumstances are as follows, and they are recorded with scrupulous accuracy and impartiality in the Government report (No. 794 [Secret and Confidential] Dactylographic Committee Report), from whence the writer, who has been privileged to read the 480 pages of that report, has taken the material for this account.

On the 7th January, 1914, the Halifax premises of the British Weavers' Bank were entered by an expert bunch of 'bank-smashers', presumably an American gang which was known at the time and particulars of which had been sent forward from New York by Captain MacDermot of that city.

The burglary had been effected on the Thursday night, when it was known that large sums of money had been accumulated at the bank for the purpose of honouring the wage cheques which would be presented on the Friday morning by the various large employers of labour who used this branch.

The sum in question, some £60,000, had been brought from Leeds with an armed escort and had been safely deposited in the strong-room of the bank. As was usual on these occasions a night watchman was on duty. It was part of that duty to communicate by telephone every half-hour with the local police station.

On the night in question the calls came through regularly, and were recorded by the station sergeant. The watchman, a man named Timmers, had a very bad cold and his voice was husky, and this probably was one of the reasons contributing to the success of the burglars' coup.

At any rate the message 'All's well' reached the police station at regular intervals throughout the night until 4.30.

At 4.35, not having been signalled, the station sergeant called up the bank and received no reply. He waited a little while and again rang through, but without any greater success. Whereupon, he dispatched a sergeant and a constable to the bank, in accordance with the instructions on which this system of vigilance was conducted.

There was nothing to excite the suspicion of the patrol beyond the fact that when they knocked at the side door of the bank premises, which were in a narrow court, they received no reply.

It had been raining in the night and the constable who patrolled this beat said he himself had been several times into the court to take shelter from the exceptionally heavy downpour and that he had not noticed anything unusual. Repeated knocking having failed to elicit any answer, the manager of the bank was communicated with and drove down in his car, arriving at about 5.15.

He opened the door with his keys and the sergeant and the constable, who by this time had been joined by the inspector on duty, passed into the premises. There was no sign of disorder. A glimmering gas light still burnt and the party descended to the vaults. It was here that the worst anticipations were realised. The night watchman was discovered scientifically bound and gagged. Over his head had been drawn a canvas money bag, such as was employed by the bank for the storage of copper coinage. The door of the strong room was found open and the boxes containing the gold were missing.

The watchman was released and placed under observation, and the Halifax police immediately wired to Scotland Yard for assistance, Superintendent Branbury, of the Criminal Investigation department, arriving by the afternoon train.

The thieves had evidently effected their entrance into the premises by skeleton keys and the lock of the strong room door had been blown out by nitroglycerine. The information that the night porter could supply was not very helpful. He had been down into the vaults to make an inspection, and on returning was walking across the floor of the 'shop' when he was struck down from behind, the thieves apparently having been in the business premises of the bank for some time. He recovered consciousness to hear a hoarse voice at the telephone giving the 'All's well'. Beyond that he knew nothing.

There was only one clue discoverable in the vault, but that was an important one.

In this room was a weighing machine, and one member of the gang had with singular carelessness grasped the bright steel balance and left a perfect impression of a thumb. It was Superintendent Branbury who made this discovery, and he was destined to make another.

An engine-man on the night shift of the Halifax Milling Company had been taken ill and had been sent home by his foreman. He was still wearing the canvas-soled shoes which it was his habit to wear in the engine-room and these, in his pain, he had forgotten to change. This probably accounts for the fact that he was not heard or challenged by the robbers.

He was passing the bank on the opposite side of the road (the hour being 2.45 a.m.) when he saw three people emerge from the court and one of them, he said, was a woman.

Soon after they came into the street a big closed motor-car ran up silently and the three people returned to the court. He had a good view of only one of the men, whom he described as tall, with a 'wasp waist'. He was evidently wearing a long overcoat tightly buttoned to his figure. In the few seconds which elapsed before the arrival of the motor-car he heard the girl say, 'I am sick of it, sick of it,' and the 'wasp-waisted' man raised his hand with an extravagant gesture of menace and spoke in a high shrill voice. He did not notice or hear anything more and forgot the incident until the news of the robbery reminded him.

The motor-car was also reported as having been seen by two constables, but neither of them had taken its number.

Branbury acted quickly. The three men, the woman, and the motor-car identified the gang. It was the same confederation about whom he had been warned by the New York police and he had had at least one of them under observation.

On the following morning he journeyed to Liverpool and, accompanied by an inspector of the local police force, he went to the Callipers Hotel in Union Square. It was one of those small clean hotels, eminently sedate and respectable, with a reputation amongst commercial travellers for civility and good food, and the arrival of the police created something like a sensation.

'Yes,' said the landlord, 'there is a lady staying here, a Mrs Golding.'

Branbury nodded.

'That is the lady I want. Was she here on Thursday night?' he asked.

The landlord thought for a moment.

'I was in Manchester on Thursday night,' he said, 'but I will find out.'

His inquiries were not satisfactory. Nobody had noticed whether Mrs Golding was in or out over-night. She was certainly in the hotel on Friday, for she had slept very late.

The landlord led the way to a private sitting-room and Branbury entered unannounced.

The girl was sitting by the fire and rose to meet him. She was pretty, with a mop of golden hair and big, wistful eyes that met the detective's squarely.

'I am Superintendent Branbury, of the Criminal Investigation Department,' said Branbury, 'and I must ask you to accompany me to the police station.'

Her lids dropped and a faint smile played upon her face.

'Why, I think you have made a mistake, Mr Branbury,' she said. 'Why should I go with you to the police station?'

She was in no wise confused or agitated by a request which would have startled most people.

'I want to question you as to what you were doing on Thursday night,' said the superintendent calmly, 'and I shall also want your finger-prints.'

'Oh,' she smiled again, 'the Halifax robbery!'

'You know about that, do you?' said the detective sharply.

'Why, of course,' she drawled, 'everybody who reads the papers knows about that, Mr Branbury. If you will wait a moment I will put on my hat.'

She made a move to the other room, but Branbury followed on her heels.

'Surely you can trust me?' she asked in well-simulated surprise.

'Your name,' he said, 'is Mabel Blixon, or Jones, or Gatterley, and you are known in the United States as "California May". You are a member of a gang of bank-smashers and you have been convicted on two charges, including the shooting of a detective, for which, by a technical flaw in the evidence, you escaped punishment, and I may be excused, therefore, the indelicacy of following you to your room.'

'You have more reason to apologise for your prolixity,' she said with calm insolence.

She was searched at the police station without any discovery being made and submitted without resistance to her finger-prints being taken. From the moment Branbury compared the photograph of the impression he had taken from the scale with that of the girl's thumb-print, he was perfectly sure of his ground.

'That will do,' he said. 'I shall charge you with being concerned with three other persons in breaking and entering the premises of the British Weavers Bank at 943, High Street, Halifax.'

'Thank you very much,' she said politely.

'You have still a chance, my friend,' said the detective. He spoke from the open door of the cell into which the girl had strolled.

'Of course I have,' she said; 'by telling you my companions in crime and where the gold is hidden. Unfortunately, I am not concerned in the robbery, and though I admit that I am the lady whose history you sketched so fully, I am living a perfectly honest life and have not been concerned in any robbery in England.'

And this is the view she maintained.

She came before the stipendiary magistrate and was remanded.

A week later, on the evidence, flimsy as it was, which Branbury had collected, she was committed to take her trial at York Assizes. Branbury came back to London and interviewed the Assistant Commissioner.

'The evidence is slight,' said that individual, shaking his head, 'and I do not know that there has ever been a case where a prisoner has been convicted on finger-print evidence alone. Even in the case of the Deptford murderers there was corroborative evidence of the men having been recognised near the scene of the crime, half an hour after it had occurred.' 'Finger-print evidence is sufficient,' said Branbury; 'there is no doubt about the matter.'

'The engine-man, does he recognise her?'

Branbury shook his head.

'He failed entirely to identify the lady. I shall have to make the case as strong as possible, and I propose with your permission, sir, to call the greatest authority in London on Dactylography.'

The Commissioner raised his eyebrows.

'It is curious you should say that. I suppose you are referring to Lord Exenham?'

'Yes, sir,' nodded the detective; 'but why is that curious?'

The Commissioner pulled open a drawer and took out a letter.

'I had this from Lord Exenham this morning,' he said.

He passed the letter across to the detective, who read:

Dear Commissioner,

I am rather attracted by the Halifax Bank robbery and the interesting criminal who is charged. I hope you will give me an opportunity of making some head measurements.

Yours sincerely, EXENHAM

'I will go down and see him,' said Branbury. 'I do not think there is any chance of our lady escaping if we put Exenham in the box.'

'He will hate going into the box,' said the Commissioner, shaking his head, 'but you can try him.'

Lord Exenham, who had many claims to fame, had inherited his father's passion for data, which he had applied very largely to the study of Criminology. He had been chairman of four Commissions dealing with criminals, and had been one of the strongest supporters of the movement to introduce the finger-print system to Scotland Yard. He himself had collected, it is said, some eighty thousand impressions, and after the death of his only son and the marriage of his daughter he had practically converted Exenham Towers into a great anthropological museum.

'I have had a telegram from the Commissioner,' he said as he ushered the detective into his library, 'and I am very glad to see you, superintendent. I hope you will stay over-night.'

'I am afraid I've got to get back, sir,' said the officer.

'I am interested in this case,' Lord Exenham went on; 'but then, as you know, I am interested in all varieties of crimes and criminals.'

He looked at his big library table littered with paper and smiled.

'I am just finishing the third volume of my work on Criminal Anthropology,' he said, 'and this case rather fits an illustration of mine. Now will you please tell me the whole story?'

Briefly the detective related the story of the crime.

'It is extraordinary that the woman, who is quite young, should be so callous. I should not think she is more than twenty-six,' he said.

'I saw her photograph in the illustrated papers,' said Lord Exenham; 'in fact, it was that photograph which aroused my interest in the case. The "wasp-waisted" man— you have not found him?'

'No, my lord,' said the other; 'we have searched everywhere and the woman will tell us nothing.'

'It is very curious, very curious,' said Lord Exenham, drumming his fingers on the table. 'I suppose that girl was a nice girl once— well educated, you say? The employment of the word "proximity" rather suggests as much, though of course quite common people get hold of a long word which they work to death.'

'She was probably a criminal from her childhood. These people start very young,' said Branbury.

'I should not imagine so,' said the scientist quietly. 'I think you are underrating the demoralising power of our sex, Mr Branbury. If you investigate this matter to its beginnings, you will find that a man has had a very extraordinary influence upon this unfortunate woman. You will note from the evidence of your engineer that she protested that she was tired of the business, and you will probably find that behind all the calmness and cynicism, which is a mark of the habitual criminal, especially the woman criminal, there is a big aching heart, my friend. I am talking like a sentimentalist,' he laughed. 'Now let us get down to very unsentimental facts. Have you any data, any measurements, to give me?'

'I have brought her finger-prints and it is upon that subject that I want to see you. I shall ask you to be so kind as to go into the box as a witness for the prosecution.'

'To testify on the question of finger-prints?' he asked.

'Yes, my lord.'

'I do not like the publicity,' said Lord Exenham; 'but still if it is a public duty I will most certainly go into the box. Let me see the finger-prints.'

The detective took from his pocket a flat case which he opened, and took out first an enlarged photograph of the impression found on the scale and then an enlargement of the thumb-print which he had taken from the girl. The scientist compared them in silence, then he looked up with a frown.

'It is very extraordinary,' he said.

'Aren't they identical?' asked the detective quickly.

'Absolutely; there is no question about it,' said Lord Exenham; 'they are certainly identical, and yet— it is very extraordinary.'

He looked up at the detective again.

'I have a very excellent memory for thumb-prints; in fact, my mind is a big index of all the salient features of every thumb I have taken.'

He rose and went to one end of the room, unlocked a safe and extracted a book, which he opened on the table. Branbury, looking over his shoulder, saw that it was a sort of autograph album which was filled with finger-prints and beneath each finger-print was a name.

Lord Exenham turned the pages slowly and at last he stopped.

'Here we are,' he said. He picked up a magnifying glass and inspected one of the impressions, then he looked at the photograph and the enlargement of the girl's thumb-mark.

'This is amazing! Look for yourself, superintendent.'

The superintendent took the glass, looked and gasped— for the thumb- print in the book was identical with the thumb-prints of the criminal!

The same 'accidentals', the same 'whorl', the 'hooks' and 'deltas', even the clear heart-shaped core of the thumb-print was identical. He looked at the name beneath. It was 'Henry'.

'Who is this?' he asked.

'My son,' replied Lord Exenham simply, 'who has been dead these last six years and is buried in the parish church of this village.'

There was a deep silence.

'But, but,' stammered the detective, 'it is impossible. You know, my lord, it is impossible! There cannot be two thumb-prints alike. It would upset the whole system of criminal detection. If there is one weak link in the chain the whole process of identification by finger-prints goes by the board. Why, sir, it is your life's work— '

Lord Exenham was staring down at the print with pursed lips.

'Yes,' he said slowly, 'my life's work, but there it is.'

'Of course, it will be impossible to secure a conviction if this is made known?'

'It must be made known,' said his lordship quietly. 'I hardly know what to think or what to say. There is no doubt about that print,' he said, shaking his head. 'I know something of dactylography and I will swear that those three are identical.' Branbury shook his head helplessly.

'The whole system is based upon the belief that no two finger-prints can be exactly alike— this revolutionises the police systems of the world!' he said, almost in tones of awe as one who is confronted by a cataclysm.

He walked down to the station, declining the offer of Lord Exenham's motor-car, a bewildered and baffled man. He wanted to be alone to think it out, and he also desired to make a call at the parish church. Fortunately he found the church open and the sexton engaged in sweeping the floors.

'Oh, yes, sir, Mr Henry's buried here,' said the old man, and led him to a corner of the churchyard where a plain cross marked the resting-place of 'The Honourable Henry Curtice Exenham, only son of the Right Honourable the Lord Exenham, of this parish.'

'I knew him well, Mr Henry,' said the old man, 'a nice lad, but consumptive.'

Finding the detective interested, he took him to his cottage and showed him a portrait of the young man, a refined face bearing unmistakable evidence of the disease which had ended his young life.

Branbury returned to London and placed all the facts in front of his chief. Before he had left Lord Exenham had promised to forward the negative of the thumb-print, and until this arrived and was enlarged nothing could be done.

The negative reached Scotland Yard by special messenger on the following afternoon, and the three enlargements were viewed that night not only by the Commissioners, but by Dr Melsbury, Professor Caxton, Sir Jeremiah Findin (the Home Office Advisory Solicitor), and every expert on dactylography who could be reached at short notice.

'It didn't need enlarging,' said Sir Jeremiah, 'it is exactly the same print— what do you say, Caxton?'

'The impossible has happened,' he said; 'I think in fairness to our colleagues abroad we should notify all the police headquarters of this catastrophe— for catastrophe it is.'

Melsbury, stout and short of breath, was measuring the lineations with a tiny instrument and now sat up with a groan of despair.

'Bang goes the classifications of twenty years,' he wheezed. 'Think of the thousands of offices, and then imagine the millions of records that are so much wastepaper; it is hardly credible. Was his lordship upset, Branbury?'

'Yes— dazed would describe his condition.'

The Assistant-Commissioner was writing.

'How is this?' he asked at last, and read:

Very urgent. Lord Exenham has discovered an instance of dactylographical duplication. Two thumb-impressions, one of his dead son and one of known criminal, exactly correspond. Photographs will be sent you at earliest possible moment. Acknowledge to Scotland Yard.

'We cannot do less,' said Sir Jeremiah gloomily. 'As for California May— ?'

'What do you advise?' asked the Commissioner.

'We shall offer no evidence unless we secure something outside of the finger-print.'

So it happened that, when 'Mabel Blixon' was called at the York Assizes, the Prosecutor rose and intimated that the Crown proposed to offer no evidence against her, and she was discharged with a curt nod from the judge.

In the meantime all the police world grew more and more frantic. From a dozen points of the compass officials were speeding to London. Urgent inquiries flashed from city to city— what was to be done? What steps were London, New York, Chicago, San Francisco, Paris, Melbourne taking?

On the twelfth day following the discharge and disappearance of Mabel Blixon (for she had vanished in an inexplicable fashion) the chiefs of police of all the principal cities of the world received a cable:

DO NOT CHANGE FINGER-PRINT SYSTEM. IT IS INFALLIBLE. I HAVE AN EXPLANATION WHICH I WILL COMMUNICATE TO LONDON.

It was signed 'Exenham'.

The telegram reached Scotland Yard late in the afternoon, and Branbury left immediately for Exenham. What was the explanation? How could an explanation be possible?

To his annoyance he discovered that the train by which he travelled did not stop at Exenham Halt, and he was obliged to hire a fly at Burchester to drive back eight miles, and he did not reach the gates of the Hall until a quarter to ten that night.

Telling the driver to wait, he strode along the drive, across the park.

The house was in darkness, and when he rang the bell there was no answer. He rang again. It was too early for the household to have retired for the night, and, indeed, he remembered that Lord Exenham had confessed to being a very late worker.

Again he pressed the electric bell; then resting his hand upon the door he felt it give way.

He pushed open the door and walked in. The hall was in darkness, but he struck a match and closed the door behind him. To his surprise the lock did not catch, and he lit another match to discover the reason. The catch of the door was held back by a little lever. Perhaps, he thought, some servant had stolen forth surreptitiously and, being without a key, had chosen this simple method to secure his or her re-entrance.

He thought he heard voices and listened.

Lord Exenham's study was on the ground floor, opening from the big hall. The first and second doors to the right led, he judged, to a drawing-room, the third to the study— it was from this last chamber that the voices proceeded. He walked cautiously forward. If Lord Exenham was up and about, how dared the truant servant risk detection?

He heard the voices plainly now, Lord Exenham's calm monotone and another. The voice of the second man was shrill, angry and threatening.

'...my wife, I tell you, my wife.... I told you what I'd do... you tell me where... don't move, you old dog... put up your hands....'

Branbury waited to hear no more. In one stride he was at the door and had flung it open. As he did so, two shots, in rapid succession, stung his ear. The first came from near at hand, evidently from the man who stood with his back to the door supporting himself on the edge of the long table.

Branbury took in the scene at a glance— the swaying figure near him, the figure of Lord Exenham sprawling over the far end of the table, his pistol still poised. The detective's eyes came back to the stranger... wasp-waisted ... tall ... shrill of voice!

He remembered in a flash— then the man coughed and collapsed into Branbury's arms.

'I think he is dead,' said the even voice of Lord Exenham, and a glance at the ashen face of the stranger convinced the detective of the truth of this diagnosis.

'Lay him down and help me to the sofa— he got me, but he fired first,' said the scientist. 'I was afraid for a moment that he had only winged me, but I am happy to believe— thank you, Mr Branbury, I'm not in any great pain, which is a good sign.'

Branbury lifted the stricken man from the table and carried him to a settee in one of the window recesses. Lord Exenham's dark waistcoat was patched with blood.

'I'll get one of the servants to go for a doctor,' said Branbury.

Exenham smiled faintly.

'There are no servants,' he said. 'I packed them off to London, and no doctor could possibly reach me or, thank God, save my life. I am finished, but I have sufficient strength left to clear up a little mystery— you will find a bottle of brandy in the cupboard to the right of the fireplace.'

Branbury moistened the scientist's lips with the cordial, then dashed out into the park and raced back to the place where he had left the cab.

'Go into the village and find a doctor,' he said; 'there is a doctor's house near the station. If you can find the village constable bring him here. Knock up the cottagers and tell them I want men— Lord Exenham has been shot.'

He returned to find the wounded man still smiling to himself as at a pleasant memory.

'You have had your trouble for nothing, superintendent,' he said, 'and you have probably wasted very valuable time. Listen to what I have to say.'

He motioned to the brandy, and the officer assisted him to sip a little.

Presently the elder man spoke.

'I had two children, a boy and a girl. The boy, poor Harry, was a delicate lad and, as you know, died. The girl was of a different type. Self-willed, healthy and masterful. I'm afraid I did not give her the watchful care that it was my duty to provide. She was her own mistress and until she met Eric Gatterley she had her own way. Gatterley was, I knew, a bad lot. He had forged his father's name and was turned out. Later he stole and converted deeds from his employer's safe and a prosecution was only avoided by the efforts of his family. He was plausibly good-looking and, in spite of his effeminate voice and manner, a great favourite with women.'

He paused.

'You have never met Gatterley, have you?' he asked.

Branbury shook his head.

'If you will walk to the end of the table you will see him,' said Lord Exenham grimly. 'He is much less dangerous now than he ever was in his wicked life.'

He took another sip of brandy, this time without aid.

'I don't know how my girl got to know him, but the friendship was very far advanced when I discovered how matters stood and put my foot down. To my surprise she acquiesced meekly in the ban I pronounced, but I should have known that she was not to be turned from her purpose. One day she walked into this room and announced that she had married Eric. I think I must have gone mad. I ordered her and her husband from the house and refused to correspond with her. Gatterley was nonplussed. He had hoped that I would accept the fait accompliand receive him as my son-in-law. He probably expected to milk my fortune and was furious when he was undeceived. He bombarded me with letters, threatening, imploring, but generally demanding money. In the last letter I received from him he promised that I should pay dearly for my "insolence", and that since I had sent him a message that I would have nothing to do with an unconvicted thief he would make his wife worthy of a share in that title. He kept his promise.'

His voice sank and he did not speak again for a minute. Branbury knew now that the scientist's life was ebbing with every breath he drew.

Only the solemn 'tick-tick' of the clock on the mantelshelf broke the silence until Lord Exenham roused himself from his sad reverie.

'They went to America— Gatterley embezzled three thousand from his brother-in-law and had to fly. From time to time I tried to get into communication with my girl— once I succeeded in sending her a large sum of money to make her escape from the man, for I had heard through my agents that she was trying to get away. The money fell into Gatterley's hands and I heard no more until I read the account of the Halifax robbery and saw her portrait in the paper. I did not know until then that she had suffered imprisonment before or that she had earned her nick-name. I had a wild desire to save her— to fulfil that desire I determined to sacrifice everything.'

'But the finger-print?' asked Branbury eagerly.

'It was the recollection of that finger-print in a book in which I kept the impressions of a few friends and celebrities who came my way that decided me.'

He shifted himself with a little grimace of pain and smiled up at the detective.

'It was her thumb-print you saw,' he said. '"Henry" was short for "Henrietta". My poor boy was also Henry— but we called him "Snips"— you'll find his impression in the book. I determined upon the fraud— it was novel and convincing, since I, who advanced the proof, was the greatest authority on the subject of finger-prints. And it succeeded. My girl was met on leaving court by a trusted servant who knows the whole story, and she is now on her way to Australia with sufficient money to keep her in comfort.'

His voice was growing weaker; there were longer and longer pauses between his sentences, and Branbury strained his ears for the sound of the returning cab.

'Gatterley wrote threatening to expose me— the story of the similar finger-prints had reached the Press ... I invited him here ... to kill him ... fortunately ... able to destroy him ... perfectly legal....'

His voice sank to a tired murmur and he seemed to be sleeping. Then he slowly opened his eyes.

'Tell the truth about ... finger-prints ... great science... infallible ... help my daughter ... if opportunity....'

He ceased to speak, and when a half-attired doctor came swiftly across the room ten minutes later there was no need for his services.

____________________

9: The Death Room

Cassell's Magazine, March 1923

'DO you believe in spiritualism, Mr Gillette?'

Detective-Inspector John Gillette now frowned a little terrifyingly at the girl who sat on the opposite side of his desk. When an official of Scotland Yard receives a newspaper reporter he does not expect to be cross-examined on his hobbies. And spiritualism was a hobby of this dour man.

'You see,' Ella Martin broke in eagerly, 'I have taken up a case for the paper. The editor did not like the idea at all, and said that my job was to write nice, chatty little pars about what Lady So-and-So wore at the Devonshire House ball, and all that sort of thing, but I rather insisted.'

John Gillette concealed a smile— and he very seldom felt the inclination to smile. She was very young and very pretty, and very unlike any newspaper reporter he had ever seen.

'How did you know I was interested in spooks?' he asked.

'From the evidence you gave in the Marriot case years and years ago. It was amongst the cuttings in the library.'

Detective-Inspector John Gillette was not an easy man to interview. Against that, however, was the fact that very few, other than those officials at police headquarters whose business brought them in touch with him, regarded him as worth interviewing. His name rarely appeared in print, for he was an 'office man' and a consultant rather than a practitioner in the art of crime detection.

He was a man of thirty, and a bachelor in a double sense of the word, for he held a degree from the London University.

'Spiritualism?' he repeated slowly, 'Well, yes and no. Certain phenomena are inexplicable. Animal instinct, for example. I have seen sheep terrified before the door of a new slaughter-house, and one that has never been used before. I have known dogs to be frantic with fear hours before an earthquake. In fact, I have seen my old terrier shivering with fright three hours before a raid warning was received. Explain that! It is as easy to explain as spirit manifestations. There is a something. The mediums feel it, and, dissatisfied with its faint message, they must interpret the whisper as a shout! They see things dimly, and in their impatience or enthusiasm they insist that you shall see plainly. With this result— that they fake. They rip along ahead of the thing they should pursue, and are mad with you when you prove that all that is following them is their own silly shadows! But why are you so interested? It doesn't seem a very healthy subject for a young lady to discuss with a police officer! What is the stunt behind your question?'

She smiled.

'Have you ever heard of Mr Jean Bonnet?' she asked.

The inspector's forehead puckered.

'Bonnet! Do you mean the stockbroker?'

She nodded.

'That is the gentleman. He is a millionaire, and has a big, rambling place, Tatton Corners, near Reading.'

Gillette pushed himself back from the table and frowned again.

'A Russian died there the other day. I remember! So that is your stunt? What were the circumstances of the death? All the details were not in the newspapers, and I wasn't very much interested.'

'So I gather,' said the girl, with a little smile. 'Otherwise you would not ask why I want to know something about spiritualism. The Russian's name was Dimitri Nicoli, a financier, who was associated with Mr Bonnet. Nicoli, who lived in Paris, seems to have been a furtive, secretive man. He had no relations and very few friends, certainly nobody who enjoyed his confidence. He had a leaning towards the shadier side of finance, and undoubtedly during the War he dabbled in one or two questionable enterprises which yielded him a huge profit. About four weeks ago Nicoli came to London, and to a man who knew him and who remembered him in town, he confided the fact that he was engaged in a transaction with Mr. Bonnet which would yield him "milliards." The character of the transaction he never discussed, and the next day he left for Tatton Corners, where he arrived and was entertained by Mr Bonnet. He spent a week there, talking over some business. Mr Bonnet says it was the flotation of a culture pearl company on an extensive scale; at any rate, Nicoli left at the end of the week for Paris.

'He returned in the early part of last week, and, at his own request, was put in what the servants at Tatton Corners call "the haunted room".'

'The haunted room?' repeated Gillette. 'Of course! I remember now. There was a headline about it in your newspaper.'

She nodded.

'Apparently one of the rooms— and, curiously enough, it is one of the newest rooms in the most modern wing of the house— is believed to be haunted. Mr Bonnet, who studies spiritualism, and who, like so many people who take up the study, is a hard-headed business man'— she shot a swift glance at Gillette, and for the second time he smiled— 'told our reporter that he has seen dark shapes come and go down the corridor, and even through the closed door of the room. He has never mentioned the fact before for fear of frightening the servants.

'The morning after Nicoli's return he was found dead in his bed, and had the appearance of a man who had been strangled, though there were no marks at all upon his body. Suspicion immediately fell upon a mysterious Frenchman, or, at any rate, a man of foreign appearance, who had arrived in the neighbourhood at the same time as Nicoli, and who stayed at the little inn in the village and spent his nights wandering about the country, and was seen by Mr Bonnet's gardener in the grounds of Tatton Corners itself.'

John Gillette tapped the table impatiently.

'You will think we are asleep at Scotland Yard, but I had forgotten all about it! I remember now. But the local police were perfectly satisfied that nothing was wrong. Could this foreigner have reached Nicoli through the window?'

She shook her head.

'I have seen the plans of the house. That wing is newly built, and it is almost impossible for anybody to have got into the room without leaving some trace.'

'And the mysterious Frenchman?'

'Has disappeared entirely. He gave the name of Binot. And now comes the remarkable part of the story. Mr Bonnet sent for one of our reporters yesterday and told him that he had had a communication with the dead man, who had appeared to him that night by the side of his bed with the news that Binot was the murderer!'

'H'm!' growled the detective, settling back in his chair. 'That sounds to me like a disordered digestive apparatus, aggravated by an attack of nerves. I shouldn't take that too seriously if I were you, Miss Martin. Your editor, now— was he interested?'

'Not very,' said the girl; 'but it occurred to me that there might be a bigger story behind it all.'

Detective-Inspector John Gillette was silent for a while, absorbed in his own thoughts.

'I should like to see this haunted room,' he said at length, and her eyes lit up.

'I hoped you would,' she said. 'You see, Mr Gillette, I am not frantically impressed by the spirit theory; whilst I can't help feeling that there is something just a little uncanny, I am certain that there is also something scientific behind it too. And science rattles me.'

The detective looked at the eager face and his heart went out to the girl. There was something very naive and appealing in her youth, something that stirred a chord in his nature that had never been touched before.

'Briefly, what is the stunt?' he asked, and she hesitated.

'I was going to do it myself, and then I got a little frightened and realized that detective work isn't as easy as it seems. I thought I would go to Tatton Corners, pretending that I was a fellow countryman of Mr Nicoli— a niece who was interested in his fate. They say Mr Bonnet is awfully kind and unsuspicious.' She hesitated again.

'And when you have taken advantage of his innocence and secured an entry to his house, what then?' asked Gillette, with a twinkle in his eyes.

She pulled a little face.

'I don't know,' she said vaguely. 'Probably get permission to sleep in the haunted room.'

It was Inspector Gillette who hesitated now. He really was not interested in a newspaper mystery which was probably no mystery at all, but he was very much interested in Ella Martin.

'I hate helping the Press,' he said, 'but I'll go with you, though I've an uncomfortable feeling that I'm being a fool. Of course, nobody will invite you to stay, and probably I shouldn't let you if they did. It's a mad adventure, and I look like being turned out of the Force for helping you!'

2

A BITTERLY cold wind was blowing, and there was a smell of snow in the air when they arrived at Tatton Corners. In their assumed character of Russians they were wearing fur coats and hats.

Mr Bonnet, a slight, sad-looking man, was playing patience in his drawing- room when the station fly clattered up the drive. The thin, almost aesthetic-looking face of the financier, the high forehead and the straight grey eyebrows, held the detective's attention. It was the face of a dreamer, of the spiritualist rather than one who had been the shrewdest financier in the country.

Mr Bonnet listened in sympathetic silence whilst the girl (with a glibness which amazed the detective) explained the object of the visit.

'A relation?' asked Mr Bonnet gravely, and she nodded. 'I would, of course, do anything for a relative of my poor friend Nicoli,' said Mr Bonnet with a little sigh, 'though it saddens me even to discuss the tragedy. Perhaps Mr— ' He looked at the inspector inquiringly.

'Gillette,' said that gentleman, and Mr Bonnet bowed.

'I had a fear at first that you were reporters, although I am hardened to that now,' said the financier, as he led the way out of the room into the chill of the garden. 'I seem to have lived in the company of policemen and newspaper reporters all my life. Here is the room.'

Tatton Corners was a sixteenth-century farmhouse, to which its owner had made certain ruthless additions, none of which was calculated to improve it from the point of view of the artist. The new wing was of red brick, and some half-hearted attempt had been made to keep the annexe in harmony with the remainder of the structure.

Gillette looked up. A broad window, the top sash of which had been dropped down a foot, a window box, and—

'What is that red square underneath the window?' he asked.

'That is a ventilator,' replied Mr Bonnet. 'I had the new wing built on the soundest hygienic principles, and I fixed these patent ventilators in every room. There is another, you will notice.' He pointed to a window.

He led them round the grounds, which must have been beautiful in summer, and all the time Gillette's eyes did not seem to leave the house.

'You are utilitarian at the cost of good architecture,' he laughed. He pointed to a large red tank which the girl had mistaken for a turret structure.

'I hoped nobody would ever notice that,' said the melancholy Mr Bonnet. 'The water supply here isn't sufficient, and we are inclined to dry up during the summer. So I store my rainwater, and at that height we can get sufficient pressure to reach the farthest part of the grounds.'

They passed into the house, and Mr Bonnet led the way to the haunted room. It lay at the end of a passage, from which opened two other doors, leading, as the host showed them, to spare bedrooms. The door was unlocked, and Bonnet flung it open wide.

The detective saw a very ordinary bedroom, comfortably furnished. Beside the bed in the corner there was a dressing-table, a writing-desk, two or three chairs and a small but handsome Persian rug upon the polished floor.

'There, you see, is the other side of the ventilator.' Mr Bonnet pointed to the grille in the wall. 'It is a curious thing that this room should be haunted, because it has rather haunted me.' He smiled pathetically. 'I intended this to be my own sitting-room, but somehow I could never work in it. I experimented with every kind of lighting.' He pointed to the electrolier fastened to the ceiling (a little too rich, the girl thought, for so commonplace a room). 'First I tried lighting it from the walls, and then from the roof; then I tried hand lamps, but somehow I could never settle down to work here, and so I turned it into a spare bedroom. The view sometimes tempts me to come up, or used to tempt me'— he shivered— 'until this hideous tragedy got rid of any desire I had to spend my afternoons here.'

Absent-mindedly John Gillette fingered the silver electric switches near the door. Suddenly the light blazed in the roof. He turned another switch, but there was no further illumination.

'The wall lamp is out of order. I am going to have it wired,' said Mr Bonnet. 'I feel I don't wish to do anything to this room now that my poor friend— ' He turned away his head.

Ella Martin found herself ushered into the passage and into the hall, and felt for a moment desperate. She had come determined to stay the night, but the absence of women servants, no less than the failure of her host to issue an invitation, made the plan look just a little mad— as mad as Gillette thought it was.

Mr Bonnet accompanied them to the waiting fly.

'I was hoping,' he said, 'that you good people would have stayed the night. But I am very lonely here; half my servants have left, and the new ones are already terror-stricken.'

The detective, with one foot on the step, turned and looked at Ella thoughtfully.

'It would be no great hardship, staying a night in this lovely house. And the hotel doesn't seem to be a very inviting one. Perhaps we can lay the ghost.'

Ella hesitated. For a moment her courage forsook her. The adventure had lost a little of its attractiveness. A glimpse of Gillette's face decided her.

'I'll send the driver back to the hotel to bring a suit-case,' said Gillette. 'I'm glad you asked me. I would rather like to stay here. By the way, are you making a rockery garden, Mr Bonnet?'

'Yes,' said the other in surprise. 'Why?'

'I saw a heap of broken marble at the back of the house,' said the detective. 'But why rockery gardens should not have gravel under foot, and must have unpleasantly sharpened, pointed marble pebbles, heaven only knows!'

They talked of gardens and gardening, and the evening passed so quickly that the girl was surprised to discover it was eleven o'clock.

'I am afraid you will have to be accommodated in the haunted wing,' said Mr Bonnet, smiling for the first time. 'I hope your nerves are good.'

'Excellent,' said the detective. 'I undertake to lay any ghost I find.'

The other became instantly grave.

'I don't think I should speak slightingly of these things, if I were you, Mr Gillette,' he said. 'I am only a child in the science, but I have seen amazing things happen.' He seemed to stop himself with an effort, as though he were afraid of placing too great a strain upon their credulity.

'And the young lady?' He looked at the girl dubiously.

'The young lady...' Ella found her breath coming more quickly; she had to force the words.

'The young lady would like to sleep in the haunted room itself,' she said a little unsteadily, and Mr Bonnet stared at her.

'In the haunted room?' he gasped. 'Impossible, my dear young friend! Why, you would be frightened.'

He looked appealingly at Gillette, and then beckoned him aside.

'I do not know, sir, in what relationship you stand with this young woman,' he said in a low voice, 'but I beg that you persuade her to change her mind.'

An hour before the detective would have been in a dilemma. Now, however, his mind was very clear on all matters except Miss Ella Martin.

'I think I should allow the young lady to sleep where she wishes,' he said calmly, and Mr Bonnet was obviously nonplussed.

'Very good,' he said with a shrug. 'But I must prepare the room— no servant will go into it after dark.'

For a moment the girl's resolution wavered, but her host was gone before she could change her mind.

'I'm scared to death,' she said in a low voice.

'Don't be,' said Gillette, and tapped three times on the table.

'You hear that?— remember it, and when you hear that sound on your bedroom door open and let me in. You'll stay up all night, of course?'

'But— ' she began, bewildered.

'You wanted an adventure,' he said grimly, 'and you wanted ghosts. You have bewitched a respectable police officer into acting the fool to that end, and I rather fancy that— '

He had heard Mr Bonnet's footsteps in the room above the library where they were talking, and then:

'Whoo-oo-oo!'

It was a moan that rose to a wail, and then to a shrill shriek ... and silence.

And at that moment Mr Bonnet came slowly down the stairs towards them.

It was Gillette who asked the question.

Mr Bonnet shook his head.

'I don't know,' he said simply. 'I hear it often— it is the sound which frightens the servants. Your room is ready, Miss Nicoli,' he said, using the name she had given. And with reluctant feet she walked upstairs.

The bed had been made and she sat down, looking fearfully about the room. It was nearly twelve o'clock before a tap brought her heart to her mouth, and she opened the door to admit the detective. He seemed to be amused at something as he turned and locked the door. He carried a bag in his hand, and this he opened and took out a small black cardboard box. From this he extracted two tin candlesticks, into which he fitted two short candle lengths.

'Are you preparing for the lights to go out?' she said in a whisper.

'Not exactly. I am preparing for their coming on,' said the other. 'Will you oblige me by sitting bolt upright, Miss Martin. Sit on a pillow and keep very, very quiet, because this ghost hates noise.'

He walked to the window and tried to open the lower sash, but it had been fastened, and he remembered Mr Bonnet apprising him of the fact. The top sash, however, he pulled down.

'Not that it will be much use,' he said.

He took off the silken shade from the wall bracket.

'Why, there is no electric bulb in it,' said the girl in surprise. 'That is why it doesn't light.'

'I didn't think there would be,' said the other, replacing the silk shade.

Pulling down the blind he lit the two candles and placed them on the floor; then he switched out the light.

'Watch the candles,' he whispered.

3

THE girl sat, watching and watching, until there seemed a dozen dancing candles, until her very head ached from weariness. No sound broke the stillness of the night; the faint roar and rattle of distant trains came to them at intervals, but there was no other sound. Once Gillette turned his head and looked at the wall bracket, but that was the only movement he made, and then, for no reason whatever, one of the candles went out.

The girl stared at the remaining light. Whilst she looked that too went out.

'Don't move!' hissed Gillette.

Suddenly there was the flash of an electric torch.

'Hold that,' he whispered. He took a box of matches out of his pocket, lit one, steadied it until the flame had taken hold and then slowly lowered the light toward the candle. An inch from the top of the wick the light went out.

'Take off your shoes,' whispered the detective, and switched on the lights. 'No, no, don't stoop, put your feet up on the bed. That's right.'

Tiptoeing to the door he turned the key softly and pushed. The door did not give by so much as a millimetre. She saw the frown gather on his face as he turned the handle.

'The ghost has bolted us in,' he said nonchalantly. 'I was a fool not to look for bolts.'

He lit the candles again and slowly lowered one to the floor. It went out just below the bed level.

'I always carry candles in my kit,' he said conversationally. 'I wish I carried an axe.'

He went to the window and examined the panes.

'Toughened glass strengthened by wire,' he said. 'We must have time.'

She saw him glance up at the wall bracket, and then, kneeling on the bed, he screwed up a piece of paper and leisurely plugged the open end of the fixture.

Over the open window sash he vaulted, lowering himself to the ledge without.

'Come here and bring your scarf,' he ordered, and, wondering, she obeyed.

'Hold up one hand.'

In an instant he had knotted an end of the scarf about her wrist, and drew up the slack until the strain on her arm was almost painful. Then he fastened the other end to the hinge of the outside shutter.

'What are you doing?' she gasped.

'Women faint,' said Mr Gillette coolly, 'and I particularly wish you not to faint until I return.'

A second later he disappeared.

Her wrist pained her; the agony was almost as much as she could bear, and she seemed in danger of fulfilling his prophecy when she heard the rasp of wood against the window ledge and he appeared.

'A ladder,' he said, and helped her over the open sash.

She saw nothing, but he guided her to the ladder's head.

How she got down she could never remember. She was trembling in every limb when at last she reached the ground. Still she could see nothing. The night was pitch black. Large, wet snowflakes brushed against her cheek, and an icy wind swept through the tree-tops, filling the night with a dismal sound, and chilled her to the bone despite her heavy fur coat.

'I'm afraid I shall have to carry the ladder, but in a little while your eyes will get used to the darkness,' he said, 'and you will see ahead.'

He shouldered the ladder, and she followed blindly. No light showed in the house, but presently they came to a corner which was, she remembered, the corner where first she had seen the red tank.

'Will you stay here or come with me?' he asked in a low voice.

'Where are you going?' she whispered fearfully.

'Looking for ghosts,' was the grim reply, and then she laughed a little hysterically.

'I think I had better see them too,' she said.

He was planting the ladder against a wall unbroken by windows. Presently she heard the grate of his feet on the rungs. Biting her trembling lip she gripped the sides of the ladder and began to climb. Half-way up an attack of vertigo almost brought her down, and the man above her must have been possessed of supernatural senses, for, even as she swayed, he caught her.

'A little farther,' he whispered, and with his aid she scrambled to the top.

She could see now clearly; she was on a flat leaded roof.

'Take off your shoes,' he whispered, and she obeyed.

They crept forward to the very middle of the oblong patch, and there she discerned something which looked like a small platform raised a few inches above the roof level.

'This may not be the place at all,' he whispered in her ear, 'but I've been drawing a mental plan of the house, and I imagine my guess is right.'

Stooping, he gripped the edge of the platform and drew it up an inch. No light showed, and, peering down, he saw that the trap covered a glass fanlight. Cautiously he lifted the trap still farther and laid it back, the girl at his side. Then from the room below came a sudden brilliant flash of light, and they looked down speechless, for in that flash was revealed the hideous paraphernalia of destruction.

The room was long and narrow, lined with white-glazed brick. In the centre was a large retort, near which was a heap of those marble chips that they had seen in the garden that afternoon. Attached to a pipe leading from the retort was a small electric pump which worked ceaselessly.

The girl could only stare in amazement. The significance of the retort and the working pump did not come to her. Her eyes were fixed upon a bearded man who lay, strapped to a narrow table, gagged and helpless.

'Binot!' she gasped.

The detective gripped her arm so fiercely that she winced. His eyes were on Bonnet, who stood in his shirt-sleeves, his hands thrust in his pockets, a smile of sardonic amusement upon his face, as he caught the glaring eyes of the prisoner on the table.

He was saying something, but the sound did not penetrate through the glass, or rise above the moan of the wind.

Gillette stooped and felt desperately for the edge of the fanlight. To his surprise it was not locked, but came up in his hands, and the queer, sickening odour of the room struck him in the face and made him choke.

'My friend,' Bonnet was saying in French, 'I suffer from a plague of detectives. First there was you, whom our admirable friend Nicoli brought to Tatton Corners because he feared, very rightly, that I would steal the eight million francs he brought with him. And you, I admit, were difficult! Then we have the admirable Detective-Inspector Gillette, accompanied by a girl who has a cock-and-bull story of being a relative of Nicoli.'

He laughed softly, and took up the long knife that lay upon a table near the bench and felt the edge with his finger. Then he laughed again.

'Our Gillette is dead by now,' he said calmly. 'I watched him join his young lady, and it is better to be dead than compromised. The beauty of it is that nobody will ever discover— '

He walked across to where the glaring Frenchman lay, and tried his knife again ...

Gillette flung open the fanlight and leapt upon the madman.

4

'BEFORE I came upon this perilous adventure I looked up Mr Bonnet in an old work of reference, and I found that his hobby was chemistry,' said Inspector Gillette, as they were travelling back to town, 'and when I discovered that the electric wall lamp was fixed on the end of a hollow pipe I began to wonder where the pipe led to. Obviously in building the wing, and for this especial room, Bonnet connected the wall bracket with a hollow pipe which led to his laboratory. Bonnet must have planned the murder some time ago; he had been in correspondence with Nicoli, an old confederate of his, for more than a year. That is to say, before the builders put trowel to brick on the new annexe.

'By some means which we may discover, but very likely shall never know, he persuaded Nicoli to bring an enormous sum of money to London, and the bait must have been a fairly golden one. Nicoli mistrusted his former friend, or else had no desire to travel with so much money without an escort, and he engaged Binot to follow him and watch him. When Binot found his master was dead, and there was no mention of the money, instead of getting back and reporting to Paris to the French authorities he decided to wait and investigate independently. I am not imputing any motive to Binot,' said Gillette, shaking his head, 'but human nature being what it is, I should imagine Binot wanted to get the money that his master had. He came, was captured, and he has been a prisoner for a month.

'To-night Bonnet decided to kill three birds with one stone. I am not sure,' said Gillette thoughtfully, 'whether it was just carbonic acid gas, or whether it was carbon monoxide. They are both very heavy gasses. They are both odourless, tasteless, and they could both be poured into a room while a man was sleeping or sitting.'

'But the moaning ghost?' asked the girl.

Gillette chuckled.

'The moaning ghost put me on to it. Obviously it was an electric fan placed behind the ventilator and operated from Bonnet's room. He turned a switch and the fan began to revolve. He touched a switch and it stopped. The fan, of course, was to clear the room of the gas, so that any person coming in afterwards would not detect the slightest trace of it. The other ventilators were fakes. The death room was designed for Nicoli and his millions— how many millions we may never know.

'Last night I had a talk with Bonnet, and dropped a hint that I knew his game, without exactly intimating that I understood the method he adopted. I did mention the fact that a fairly deadly gas can be made from marble chips treated with hydrochloric acid, and I guess that hit home, for he is sane enough to be annoyed by the ease with which he was bowled over. There would have been a sad accident last night, my young friend, if you had gone to sleep in that room without the warning candle— nothing burns in either carbonic acid or carbon monoxide— and without the knowledge that our dear friend was spending the night profitably in generating the real spirit of the death room.

'I hope I shall see you again,' said Gillette at parting, and held her hand. 'I can't promise you ghosts, and I won't advise you to look round the Black Museum. Do you ever write stories?'

'Sometimes,' she smiled.

'Tell me, is it a convention of literature that a girl marries the man who rescues her from— er— death and all that sort of thing?'

She went very red, but did not take her eyes from his.

'It is a convention— in detective stories,' she said.

Which seemed to Gillette, in the circumstances, a completely satisfactory answer.

________________________

10: The Limp of the Clan Chen

Everybody's Magazine, October 1921

THE pace of his Excellency Chi Li Chen slackened as he reached the edge of the snow-line, but increased again for a hundred meters or more where his skis fluffed into a pocket of snow that lay in the blue shadow of the Crêt d'y Beau. At the rim of the pocket the brown earth showed an uncompromising barrier, and he turned and checked in a flurry of flying white particles.

For a moment he stood, an odd little figure, leaning on his ski-sticks. His mask of a face was turned to the valley below and the green-gray spread of the lake. Then he shuffled forward to a promising boulder, sat down and, stripping his gloves, began slowly to unbuckle the straps which bound his feet to the runners.

He sat for a long time motionless as though reluctant to leave the solitude of the mountains. Then, searching slowly through the pockets of his woolen jacket, he produced a pipe and as slowly filled it, his thin yellow fingers caressing the polished bowl, his black eyes fixed absently on the valley slope below, white with the white of narcissi. His appearance was unpleasing, revolting almost at first sight. The cheeks were bosses of bone, the skin so tightly drawn over the eyes that they were thin slits, revealing eyes that glittered like black gems. The prognathic jaw out-thrust gave an almost sinister character to his face, and the conventional winter-sports kit he wore, the hairy stockings about his thin legs, the ill-fitting coat that hung loosely upon his narrow shoulders made him something grotesque, ludicrous, if the forbidding face had not stifled laughter in a vague sensed uneasiness.

He lit his pipe, puffing a solemn blue cloud into the sweet mountain air, and he permitted his thoughts to return to a personal matter. The man who had juggled with trained diplomatists at the Lucerne Convention and who had forced his opponents into a corner over the absorbing question of the Shin Chien concessions was as incapable of drifting to a speculation as he was incapable of drifting to a conclusion. He took the matter of the Lady Mi Li Chen from a mental pigeonhole and laid it open with all its memoranda, its cross-references and indices. Nor was it a dog-eared, soiled and tattered memory he produced, slurred with the romantic sentimentalism with which the years soften and color the hard and ugly angles of life. It was new, legible and unamended.

The minister plenipotentiary felt neither anger nor resentment at that moment either against the Lady Chen or his Excellency Viscount Kito. The girl had always hated him. That was a staple of the situation, a truth beyond challenge. From the day he brought her to his yamen in Kiao-Chow city she had been hostile, hateful. This he had known in advance, so that he had faced the drab potentialities open-eyed. Even when he had gone to the family temple to announce his betrothal to the spirits of his ancestors, and particularly to that Lady Chen who was such a model of the domestic virtues that the Emperor Ch'ien Lung had celebrated her qualities in a poem written by his own hand with a vermilion pencil, he had made no secret of his apprehension.

"I inform the noble spirit of Lady Chen that I am taking to my house Mi Chi Lou, a woman of beautiful appearance, but of a stubborn and unkind disposition, and I pray that the blessings of my illustrious ancestors who sleep on the Terrace of Night will bless my marriage," he said, and burned strips of gilt paper suitably and reverently inscribed.

It was a splendid marriage for Mi; for the Chen clan was the most powerful in the Middle Kingdom and was especially favored by the Daughter of Heaven. And Chen himself was not only head of that clan, but had proved himself efficient in the Six Arts. At the age of twenty-seven he had passed the examinations and had become successively Flower of Talent, Promoted Scholar and Fit for Office. Three months after he married her he assumed the proud title of "Dweller in the Forest of Pencils," for he had entered the Han Lin, the highest of the educational orders.

Chen blew a ring of smoke and watched it drifting, a whirling wheel of gray-blue framing for a second the hogback crest of the Juras.

The American university came later, after Mi had vanished from his house. He was too great a philosopher to feel the acute misery of self-pity. He understood without approving the fascinations of the well-tailored attaché at the Court of the Daughter of Heaven. Nippon was spending generously in those days, for she had not yet acquired the footing which the war against China gave her. There were receptions and dinners in the European fashion, and for a spell Mi had been almost bearable and he was glad that he had not followed the advice of the family council and divorced her, as he had every right to do; for she was violent and had given him no children. As to this latter failure she had said once that if she knew that she was to bear him a son she would throw herself into the big well. This at the end of a shrieking tornado of fury aroused by his mildest reproach. He had taken a stick to beat her; but his heart had failed, for she was the sun of his life--a sun eclipsed when he returned from a mission into Tibet; for she had gone, and the tall, good-looking Japanese attaché had sailed by the same steamer. To be finally eclipsed in the material sense three years later when she lay down upon the Terrace of Sleep where the dead dream through aeons of time.

Seventeen years! Chen knocked out the ashes of his pipe and bared his teeth as he recharged it. Seventeen years of wars, revolutions, studies, intrigues of court and embassy and at the end a garish council-room in the canton of Lucerne with its mirrors and its glass candelabra and its fussy old men with bulging portfolios and across the green table, face to face for the first time, his Excellency Viscount Kito, Minister Extraordinary to His Imperial Majesty the Emperor of Japan.

Not so slim as he was in those days when he pranced and prinked behind his ambassador in Peking. Not so smoothly modeled as when he whispered appropriate extracts from the Chinese classics into the petal ear of a twittering Lady Chen. They had bowed, excellency to excellency, their secretaries had unfastened bloated wallets and disgorged innumerable documents; but the wide-eyed spirit of Lady Chen had stared across the fat shoulder of one excellency into the unwinking eyes of another.

CHEN directed himself to wonder why Kito had come to Glion. The conference had ended abruptly and the fussy old men of all nationalities had sped Parisward by special train. He himself was on his way to Rome to confer with the ambassador before sailing to South America. Perhaps the inaccurate Gazette de Lucerne had announced his arrival in Rome. Otherwise Kito would not have brought his family to Glion. But being there, he would not shirk a meeting and was in truth toiling up the mountainside to intercept his enemy on his return.

Chen saw him a long way off and limped down the rough path toward him, carrying his skis across his shoulder. Chen limped because of a malformation of the left tibia which was the Chen heritage. All the Chens for a thousand years had been born with that curious shin-bone. It was as characteristic of the Chen family as is the jaw of the Bourbon, and even the impure stock of the clan would limp in imitation, so that it was said of Kiao-Chow where every other man was named "Chen" that it was "a city of short legs." He limped down the hill until he came to a patch of wood where the ground was a carpet resilient with pine-needles. Men had been felling the trees for fire-wood, and he found a trunk that enabled him to sit with his back to the sun and waited, putting his skis very carefully and orderly under his legs.

"Good morning, your Excellency." Kito's voice was loud and cheerful and he spoke in English.

Chen was standing now, his head bowed respectfully.

"Ir is an unexpected pleasure, your Excellency," he said, and they both sat, Kito on the softly cushioned earth.

"You have been mountaineering?"

The viscount glanced at the skis and his big good-humored face puckered again in a smile. "I am a little too fat for that form of exercise."

"Hardly mountaineering."

Chen could not smile. Nature had not so designed his face. He could display two rows of large teeth from gum to gum and this he did.

"It was quite a pleasant surprise to Iearn that you had broken your journey in Switzerland," said Kito again.

He was rolling a cigarette and his thick fingers were extraordinarily quick and skillful in this delicate operation. "I understood from the new Gazette that you had left for Boulogne to catch the South American packet."

So it was the Gazette which had brought Kito to the lake.

"Are you staying for long?" asked Chen politely, and the viscount, who was trimming the ends of his cigarette, did not look up.

"I think we shall go away to-morrow," he said. "The climate does not quite suit my son."

Chen stared past him to Les Avants, a speckle of white buildings on the far side of the valley.

"It will give me great pleasure to call and pay my respects to your Excellency's son," he said gravely, and Kito, who had finished fidgeting with his cigarette, struck a match. The flame did not quiver, nor did Chen expect to witness any visible sign of the mans perturbation. "I hope that you have many sons--such gifts are fortunes from heaven."

"Ii will be a great honor to me," replied Kito soberly. "My son, who is delicate, would call at your Exce|lency's hotel but that I fear the exertion would not be to his advantage. And he is the one man child of my house."

Chen waved his thin hands in sympathy.

"Are you comfortable at your hotel?" asked Kito still in a conversational vein. "There are not many people in Territet just now."

Chen showed his teeth again.

"Many more than are essential to my happiness," he said dryly, "a party of American and English ladies, one of whom insists upon discussing the 'mysterious East' with me. To my mind, the mystery of the East was solved in the days when Europe wallowed in barbarism. They have merely imposed their own mystery upon us. None so readily apply the principle obscurum per obscurius*."

[Latin: (to explain) the obscure by means of the more obscure.]

THE viscount shifted his legs to a more comfortable position.

"It was lamentable that the concession was not approved, your Excellency," he said, bringing to the occasion the atmosphere of the council chamber. "I can not understand why the powers should imagine that a little lease for twenty years would imperil the sovereignty of your republic."

"Twenty years is a very long time," said Chen. "I think it was Machiavelli who said that a government may in safety surrender its revenues of millions, but is mined by the concession of a ducat's worth of principles. It is conceivable that the lease would have been fatal to the integrity of the adjoining province."

He rubbed the bowl of his pipe along the palm of his hand, patted down the ragged ends of the tobacco and smoked peacefully through the silence which followed.

"Perhaps your Excellency was considering your own position, if you had given way upon this point," said Viscount Kito gently. "It might not have been necessary to have returned to Peking with a story of failure, or, for the matter of that, with any story."

Chen did not reply for some time.

"The censure of my government was a possibility which did not distress me," he said simply; "but if I had failed I could not have faced my ancestors."

And Kito nodded.

"Is your family here?" he asked unnecessarily.

"I have no family." Chen looked at the viscount for the first time.

"That is a terrible misfortune," said Kito gravely. "I should have thought with your Excellency's high position and honorable standing that your house would have been full."

Chen did not shift his gaze. The spirit of the little lady with the raven hair might have lifted a tremulous hand to her lips did she sit amidst the purple shadows of the pines watching the play.

"When the vine is burned there is no fruit," quoted Chen. "My very honorable lady wife has been amidst the flowers for many years."

Kito murmured his condolences. "My third wife is young and very lively," he said. "She is with my younger children in London and it is expected that she will bear her fourth child in a month if the gods favor me, though none of the women of her family have borne anything but girls. I am disturbed, however," he frowned, "greatly disturbed by certain dreams she has had and a succession of omens."

He discussed gravely his wife's unhappy experience. She had seen four shooting stars on one night and had heard a cockerel crowing at the moon. Then suddenly he rose and changed the conversation abruptly.

"One still hopes, your Excellency, that the recources of diplomacy are not yet exhausted in relation to the concession. We have endeavored to live in peace and harmony with our neighbors and may yet live."

Chen bared his teeth in that invisible smile of his. "After all, this is not a matter which especially and particularly affects the Republic. Only France favors your suggestion."

He walked down the hill at the big man's side with that curious up-and-down swing of his body which his infirmity produced and they spoke of policies and people, of distant cities, of embassies and their disadvantages, but never once did they speak of the Lady Chen who was asleep with the flowers.

Presently they came to a station on the little mountain railway and parted at Glion, bowing deeply excellency to excellency, and the stolid Swiss railway porters watched the genuflections with considerable amusement.

Mr. Chen was well satisfied with the comfort of his room. Its loftiness, the view from the iron balcony, the wealth of narcissus and daffodil and lavender-hued violets were narcotics to his active mind.

He paced his saloon in his nailed boots for half an hour, and then he rang a little hand-bell that stood on the table. His secretary, Li San, with the inseparable portfolio under his arm and his great horn spectacles on his nose, came instantly.

"Tao?" he greeted.

"Li San," replied Chen slowly, "his Excellency Viscount Kito is staying at the Beau Rivage Hotel with his honorable family. I will give myself the felicity of calling on him this aftemoon. Bring me paper that I may write an ode in his honor. Open also a tin of foreign tobacco and ask the concierge if there is in his library a copy of Machiavelli's Florentine History. I wish to verify a quotation I made this morning."

When the secretary had gone, Chen resumed his restless pacing, his hands were clasped behind his back, his eyes never raised from the carpet. And seeing his heart, the spirit of the Lady Chen may well have wrung her thin hands in tragic despair. Kito must not carry on his line. Kito, who had broken the thread that led back to Genghis Khan--generation on generation of lordly Chens without a break.

He passed presently into his bedroom and opened his trunk. Lifting out the tray and groping amid his clothing he brought out a small lacquered box which he carried to his room. From the box he took a short-barreled automatic pistol and slipped the magazine from the butt. Then he brought forth a sealed package of ammunition and very carefully opened the cardboard lid. One by one he pressed the cartridges into the magazine until it would hold no more. Then he took up the pistol and pulled back the steel "jacket" quickly, snapped the trigger and pushed the magazine back into the butt until it clicked tight. Then carefully, almost gingerly, he pulled back the pistol jacket and a cartridge was pressed into the chamber.

He set the catch at safety, looked at the deadly little thing lying in the palm of his hand and put it into his hip pocket. When Li San came back to the room, the lacquered box had disappeared and his excellency was standing by the window, looking out upon the lake. Li San laid a dilapidated book upon the table.

"There is only an English edition, Tao," he said.

"That will serve," replied Chen without turning round. "Li Sen, you are acquainted with the blessed words of the Master. Tell me, Li San, have I served the Republic well and without reproach?"

This time, he spoke in English, and Li San, a doctor of philosophy of the Imperial University and moreover a bachelor of arts of the University of Oxford, replied in the same language and without hesitation.

"Your Excellency has worked well for the Republic," he said.

"What said the Master?" asked Chen.

All his life had he been bound by the Confucian creed. There was not a character in the Lun Yu which he had not read a score of times. "There are three duties which a man owes," he said slowly. "They are to his parents and ancestors; to his emperor and State; and to his friends. And the greatest of these is his duty to his ancestors."

"'The Foundation of happiness is filial piety,'" quoth Li San.

"That is so."

Chen turned from the window and went to a small desk and wrote half a dozen lines in his crabbed caligraphy.

"You will take this to the chemist's, Li San, and if they are reluctant to make up this prescription you will tell them that I am a doctor of medicines."

Li San looked at the prescription, holding the paper close to his myopic eyes.

"'Hydrocyanic acid, a drachm,'" he read.

"You will also procure a small hypodermic syringe and then go on to Montreux. Opposite to the steamboat pier there is a confectioner's where they sell chocolates which are filled with wine--liqueur," he corrected himself. "Bring me one kilo of those--and return quickly."

Li San left the room without a word of comment and Chen went back to the big table in the center of the saloon, where his secretary had placed a pad of paper, brushes and ink, and without hesitation he began his complimentary poem to Viscount Kito.

He painted the complicated characters with extraordinary rapidity and he did not hesitate for a figure of speech. It was a poem about a gentle wind that came from the eastern seas when they were all dark with night and the zephyrs bore on their "soft palms" the jewels of Beauty and Wisdom and laid them at the feet of Kito. Like every educated Chinaman, he could construct couplets with facility; for had he not qualified for the Hin Sin by a poetical essay on the life of the Great Lord Confucius?

Li San came back while the ink was still wet and shining on the paper and placed the packages at his master's hand.

"Let this ode be tied with a white ribbon," said Chen, "and get ready for me all the letters and reports which require my signature. Make a very careful search for every document connected with the State and place them in an envelope for sealing."

His own private correspondence he destroyed before he went any further. When that was done, he opened the packages which Li San had brought, washed the hypodermic syringe, and collecting three of the chocolate confections placed them on the table. The label on the little phial which had come from the chemist bore the words in French: "Guard! This is death!" and he drew back his lips to show his teeth at the quaint wording. Then he settled to the serious business of the afternoon. Very gingerly he inserted the needle of the syringe into one of the chocolates and drew out a pink fluid. It was the highly flavored "liqueur" of the sweetmeat. This he did to the three and each time he squirted the contents into the little phial and noted with satisfaction that there was sufficient coloring matter to turn the contents of the bottle to a pale pink.

When he had emptied the three, he filled the syringe from the bottle and pressed home the needle into the hollow candy until it had taken its capacity and the liquid was oozing forth around the needle.

With a pinch of his fingers he closed the tiny puncture and presently he was finished. He put away the needle, emptied the remainder of the deadly acid down the bath waste, cleaned and packed the needle in its case and dropped it into his trunk.

Then he changed his clothes, dressing carefully in a tail-coat, patent boots and a glossy silk hat. He did not forget to change the little pistol from his baggy mountaineering breeches to the carefully creased trousers he assumed for the purpose of the call.

It was half-past four o'clock when he stepped out of the funiculaire at Glion and walked to the Beau Rivage, carrying a little parcel in one gloved hand and a small roll of manuscript in the other. The Viscount met him at the door of his suite and led him into the saloon. A tall boy rose at their entrance and made a reverence.

"May I present my unworthy son to your Excellency," said Kito, and Chen bowed and walked slowly toward the youth who stood in the place where he had risen.

He wore a dark-blue gown embroidered in black, and his face was thin and refined. It was the face of an aristocrat as surely as Kito's was the face of a plebeian.

"Will you permit my son to be seated, for he is not strong?"

It was not curious that Viscount Kito, Minister Extraordinary to the Court of the Child of Heaven, should be wearing native dress. It was more remarkable that he kept his hands concealed in his long sleeves, for that is the mark of courtesy which is not Japanese, Chen duly noticed this fact and suspected a concealed weapon, not without good cause. Perhaps the restless and fearful spirit of Lady Chen had whispered urgently, frantically into the stout man's ear, and he, without understanding, had grown fearful. He had to uncover his hands to receive the poem, and there was an irregular bulge in the capacious sleeve.

"Your Excellency is most kind," he said with a smile, and the boy, who had seated himself at Chen's earnest gesture, reached out and half rose to take the verse from his father's hand.

"Boy, keep still!" said the viscount sharply, and the lad sank back again.

"My son is a great reader of Mandarin," said Kito apologetically, and Chen's head turned slowly toward the door.

The boy did not look ill. There was a brightness in his eye and a certain suggestion of latent vigor in the very set of his shoulders that advertised rude health. He was quick in his movements, too, quick to drop his eyes under the angry glance which Viscount Kito had thrown at him.

"This boy dislikes his father," said Chen to himself, and was mildly interested.

"Have you seen this beautiful country before?" he asked, and to his surprise the boy answered in faultless Mandarin.

"No, lord; but I wish to go to the mountains and to ride upon the big water, but most I wish to see the river."

He half twisted round and pointed to the green Rhône which flows into the lake hereabouts.

"The master has said that it is good to look upon a river because its flow never ceases, and it nourishes all living things without labor. It is like virtue, for it loves the low places, yet cities follow its course."

He quoted the famous passage from the Lun Yu without error, and Chen's narrow eyes blinked twice. Then very slowly, and with deliberation, he unwrapped the package of chocolates he had brought, and there was neither pity nor remorse nor fear in his heart. He took one between his fingers.

"Whosoever speaks well of the sage his mouth shall be filled with sweetness," he quoted, and the boy opened his lips.

Before they could close on the morsel, Kito with a roar had sprung between them and had dashed the chocolates to the ground. He stood puffing, his face gray, his eyes a blazing hell of fury.

"My son is ill, Excellency," he breathed. "It is not permitted to give him sweet-meats."

So it had failed. Chen had foreseen the possibility. He turned blandly and unmoved to the shaking man.

"I quite understand," he said, showing his teeth. "It was foolish of me."

Both his hands were on his hips, his legs were apart and his fingers were touching that which was in his hip pocket.

"I am sorry, Excellency," rumbled Kito; "but it is forbidden-your Excellency understands."

"Oh, quite!" Chen's voice was almost brisk. He limped across the room toward the door. "It was very foolish of me," he said, and turning saw that the viscount was in his line of fire. And then a curious thing happened.

Kito's back was turned to the boy, and after a furtive glance the boy rose and stepped noiselessly to where the sweetmeat lay and was stooping to pick it up when in a strangled voice Chen cried, "Stop!"

Kito swung round and saw the boy in the act of stooping and went livid.

"Boy, walk to me!" said Chen softly.

"I forbid you," stormed Kito, seizing the boy's arm.

"Walk to me, or one of you dies," said Chen, and the automatic in his hand was suggestive.

Instinctively Kito released his hold and the boy, after a wondering glance at the man at his side, limped across the room. Chen's breath sounded like a whistle.

"You bade him sit still in one place that he should not walk," his voice was softer yet. "He must not walk lest I read the riddle of his halting feet. O my lovely son!"

"Go and dress yourself, little love," he said, and the lad, not looking at Kito, went stiffly from the room.

As for Kito, he was sitting on the piano-stool, his jaw fallen, his lips working tremulously, as Chen walked across the room, picked up the chocolate, and tossed it into the fire. The box followed.

"Your Excellency," said Chen in his queerly accurate English, as he brushed his hands together, "many years ago the Lady Mi Chen, the wife of my heart and soul, took a little journey because of her health to the land of your fathers. Your Excellency, who is so very wise, may know of her arrival. I myself was in Tibet for half a year on the business of the emperor. Tell me now, Excellency, when was her man child born?"

For the second time that day Viscount Kito licked his lips, for he was of the caste which does not lie, even if the origin of his family had been lowly.

"I knew a lady who hated her husband," he said, "and because she had found there was a child coming to her and to him, she hated him more, so she went with one who was a great lover of hers, and stayed and comforted him until the gods touched her lips."

There was a knock at the door, and Chen turned, expecting to meet his child. Instead was a prosaic chasseur with a telegram on a plate.

Kito took the message and broke the flap mechanically. "Excuse me," he said, with almost uncanny politeness.

He read the message three times, and then was speaking when the boy came back.

"Malki," he said, "this man is your father and you will go with him, and if I have treated you harshly I have also treated you kindly, so think well of me. Your Excellency may take your son and may he be as great a blessing to you as my little boy will be to me."

He looked rapidly at the telegram again, and then for a time he looked on Chen with moist eyes.

"My wife has borne me a son," he said in a tremulous voice.

Chen was silent for a moment, then:

"May I congratulate your Excellency?" he said; and they bowed, excellency to excellency.

__________________

11: The Great Reward

(A Novelette)

The Grand Magazine, London, Nov 1922

1: A Masterful Maiden

“WHY is it, Jordan,” asked Josephine, pinching her lips thoughtfully, somewhat to the detriment of articulation, “that so many men desert their wives?”

She frowned at the handbills pinned to the cretonne curtains of the dining-room; the portraits which adorned the majority of the slips frowned back. They were frowning men, foreordained to steal guiltily from their slumbering responsibilities and to invoke the energies of the law.

Jordan said nothing. In the first place, he was not interested in Josephine’s grisly quest, and had long since ceased to protest against her practice of using the dining-room curtains as a rogue’s gallery. Accustomed now to the display of police notices concerning deserters, larcenists, burglars, and house thieves, he could meet even the portrait of an occasional murderer at breakfast without turning a hair. In the second place—

“Jordan, Jordan! You’re asleep!”

Jordan Yeoman rumpled his grey hair, guiltily.

“I wasn’t asleep, Josephine— honestly I heard you— every word. You said something about wives getting their deserts.”

“I said nothing of the kind,” said his daughter, severely. “You were asleep!”

“Perhaps I was,” admitted Mr. Yeoman, and yawned. “Where is Georgina?”

Josephine tilted her chin resolutely. Jordan must be cured of this habit of asking mechanical questions. He was not a bit concerned in the whereabouts of Georgina, or, if he was, he knew that, ink-bespattered and wild of hair, she was sitting in the garret wrestling with her new play. Georgina began writing a new play every week. Sometimes it was completed. More often than not it went the way of other futilities.

“Where is Helen?” asked Jordan, patiently persistent, as he settled himself to a position of greater comfort in the deep chair.

Josephine did not answer. She knew perfectly well that he had been talking with Helen in the garden half an hour before. She had both seen and heard, for Helen, in her prim way, had been instructing the bored Jordan in the chemistry of farming— Helen came out first in the agricultural class at St. Margaret’s.

Josephine gazed absently upon the portrait gallery. Unwillingly she confessed that the collection was neither a thrilling nor a promising one. The rewards offered were fairly paltry, and the men of whom the police sought information were curiously vapid.

Josephine had this weakness; that she believed a day would dawn when there would walk into her ken a greatly desired criminal, for whose arrest a fabulous reward was offered. She pictured him as a small man, her inferior in physical strength. Between other rehearsals she had practiced, with Helen’s aid, the exact procedure she would follow.

Helen, whose sporting instincts had not been developed in the course of her stay at St. Margaret’s, entered a vigorous protest after the third practice.

“Really, father, I should like to oblige Josephine, but do think she is inconsiderate if she expects me to be knelt upon three times a day, and be mauled and gagged with an awful dish-cloth every time I come into the kitchen! Besides, it hurts— kneeling on one, I mean.”

“Where does she kneel, ducky?” asked Jordan, indiscreetly.

“I’d rather not say, father,” said Helen, in a tone which did not encourage further inquiry.

Josephine came to the table, pulled out a rush-seated chair, and with an effort addressed herself to the business of account-keeping.

It was a pleasant room, this in which they were, the prettiest in Crab Apple Farm. Spacious, airy, sweet-smelling, the men and women who had chosen its furnishings had been dead these two hundred years. Through the big open window you saw the corner of a garden, splashes of crimson and claret, dapplings of gold and blue. Beyond were the sloping meadows, and a flash of silver where the river ran.

Josephine was pretty, though nobody had told her so, except Georgina. But she insensibly discounted Georgina’s praise, for Georgie was at heart a poet, and given to extravagance of speech.

Helen, who had “taken” physiognomy as part of her science training at St. Margaret’s, said Josephine’s nose was too short and her chin too square. She did not think, either, that goldy-brown hair “went” with the peculiar shade of grey in Josephine’s eyes.

Helen felt it was her duty to explain these shortcomings to her sister. Josephine laughed, kissed her, called her “a snub-nosed reptile,” and dismissed her with a mince pie. Helen, who had studied hygiene at St. Margaret’s, knew exactly the effect of pastry upon the complexion, and dropped the pie into the pigsty, where it was greatly appreciated by a lady who had heard nothing of hygiene, but who knew that warm mince pie tasted good.

Though it was the month of June, a log fire smouldered in the great open fireplace, before which Jordan Yeoman nodded and dozed, whilst his capable daughter wrestled with corn and hay accounts.

“Jordan, you’re a fug! I wonder you don’t roast. Jordan!”

“What the dickens do you want?” he growled. “I’ve been up half the night with that infernal cow.”

Josephine showed her even white teeth in a smile.

“And the cow is alive to tell the tale,” she said. “Jordan, have you thought any more about letting the two rooms?”

He shifted uncomfortably.

“I hate the idea of a— a boarder, even a summer boarder. It is rather low-down, isn’t it, Jo? Helen says—”

“Blow Helen!” she answered, calmly. “Helen wants a new party dress; we all want clothes badly, and there is no money is the bank.”

He wriggled his shoulders like a man who was taking an unwanted shower.

“Of course, there is really nothing derogatory to one’s dignity in taking a guest,” he admitted. “The Saffords have one every year, and old Safford is rolling in money. I don’t like the idea particularly, but as you say, money is tight.”

“So tight that it can’t walk straight to Crab Apple Farm,” said Josephine, vulgarly. “Do you approve?”

“Well, yes. I’d prefer a maiden lady or a— ”

“Never mind about that,” interrupted his daughter. “I’ve already let the rooms.”

Jordan sat up suddenly. “The devil you have? My dear Jo, you’re masterful— that is the only word. Absolutely. Helen thinks—”

“That child is certainly thoughtful,” said Josephine, with a sigh of resignation.

JORDAN YEOMAN was a gentleman farmer. He had not chosen his profession; rather had it chosen him. The farm had come to him from his father, the one possession which had escaped from the ruin which followed the Weatherbee Bank smash in the ’sixties. His affairs had prospered, or declined, in ratio to the intelligence and enterprise of his successive managers. Just now he was his own manager. Life to Jordan was a placid current on which he was content to float.

“Something is pretty sure to turn up.” He reached out for his pipe and filled it.

“Mick!” she retorted.

“Mick who?” he asked, startled.

“Micawber!” she said.

He chuckled softly, and lit his pipe with great care and deliberation.

“Respect for grey hairs was never a weakness of yours, Jo. But, maybe, if I had been a stern father to you I shouldn’t have got half the fun out of life I have. The bishop thinks it is most unusual for a girl to call her father by his Christian name, and Mrs. Bishop is speechless when she hears you.”

“I wish she was,” said Josephine, grimly.

She leant back in her chair, and nibbled the end of her pen, her pained eyes on the sum of her calculations.

“Jordan, my boy,” she said, slowly, “we’re in a hole! The only thing that can save our affairs from everlasting demnition is the Tremendous Jones.”

“Eh?”

“The Tremendous Jones,” she repeated; “the lodger will help, but his assistance is the merest drop in a bucket. The Tremendous Jones or a fine healthy murderer with a whole heap of blood-money on his head.”

Jordan sniffed.

“You’ve been listening to Georgina,” he accused. “I’m not sure that this play-writing of hers has a wholesome effect upon our little household. I suppose the Tremendous Jones is the title of her newest play? And let me tell you this, Josephine,” he struggled up from the depths of his chair to emphasise a solemn warning, “I completely and uncompromisingly refuse to take part in any more of Georgina’s rehearsals!”

“You’ll do whatever is required of you, Jordan,” said Josephine, firmly. Then a thought struck her. “Perhaps the lodger can take a part,” she said, “I must suggest that to Georgina.”

2: A Sweet Disposition

MR. GALLET-MORPETH was a theatrical manager, of considerable wealth and influence, though there was little in his appearance to suggest his unhallowed calling. He was a stout, bald man, mild of face and modest of demeanour, and he smoked a pipe that was black and polished, and of a respectable size.

That pipe lay on his writing table, and he himself was standing before the scene model whistling softly when the telephone bell rang. Since he was quite alone, he had perforce to answer the call.

“Hello? No. I can’t talk to you now, Miss Staverly. I’ve got twenty people in the room. See the stage manager. No, I can’t put your song back, my dear, and if you are doing nothing in the play, why worry? Say, you get your salary, don’t you? It was a good song? Yuh! People are talking about the scandalous way you’ve been treated? Oh, you! They’re talking about it? I saw a crowd on the street as I came along. I wondered what they were mightily interested in. See Mr. Jackson.”

He sighed as he put down the receiver and pressed a bell, which was answered by his capable secretary, book in hand.

“Tell the stage manager that Miss Staverly says she will walk out unless her song is put back. Tell him to encourage her.”

“To do what?”

“To walk out,” said Mr. Morpeth, in his sad, even tones. “She has a six months’ contract, and she draws like a property magnet.” He tossed a letter across.

“This man wants three stalls for Thursday night for ‘Your beautiful drama, Clara Belle’— where are the returns for last night?”

The secretary found a printed form on which some figures were scrawled.

Mr. Morpeth read the amount given at the foot of the blank.

“Yes. Seventy in the house last night. I went in myself, and I thought they’d forgotten to open the doors.”

The girl gathered the hateful returns to the bundle on her knee.

“It is a frost, isn’t it?”

Mr. Morpeth’s laugh was without merriment.

“Frost? That play would give rheumatism to a polar bear!”

Secretaries to theatrical managers are not unused to such tragedies. Yet Gallet-Morpeth made fewer mistakes than any man in the business, and as she had been on her holidays when the play had been accepted...

“Did Mr. Jones read it before it was produced?” she asked, interested.

Morpeth shook his head.

“Of course he didn’t. It wouldn’t have been produced if he had. No, it never looked like being more than an artistic success. I put it on to oblige a friend. He’s a friend of mine no longer. Jones! Good lord, no! Now about these tickets. Send him— send him four stalls— it will prevent his feeling lonely. ‘Dear Sir, I have pleasure in enclosing four stalls for Clara Belle. Owing to the great success of this drama— this romantic drama— I am not able to send you more!’ No, Jones never makes a mistake about a play,” he went on gloomily. Send these back.” He picked up a bundle of plays from the table. “This and this and that. And this one, too, and that one.”

“Are they bad?” she asked, sympathetically.

“If you were as bad as they are, you’d be no lady,” said the sad Morpeth, rubbing his bald head irritably. “Now just take this. ‘Miss Georgina Yeoman, Crab Apple Farm (that’s a pretty name), Seven Corners. Dear Madam: I have read the two plays which you have submitted, and I like them, but am taking a further opinion upon them. I will write you again when I have had an opportunity of consulting Mr. Cicero Jones, my reader. Sincerely, etc.’ Here’s her letter.”

“She signs it George Yeo?” said Miss Temmit, casting a swift professional glance over the letter.

“Yes, that’s her nom de guerre. I wonder why people always take funny names when they get connected with the stage? Modesty, perhaps, though I’ve never noticed that in authors. Maybe it’s a sense of decency. That’s all I think.”

She had only been gone out of the room a second before she returned.

“Mr. Cicero Jones,” she announced.

The man who entered with a quick nervous step was young, and his horn-rimmed spectacles had the effect of emphasising his youth. He was tall, and because of his height appeared slender. But for those scholarly glasses, he might have been mistaken for anybody but a student of dramatic writing.

He was too neatly dressed to deserve the appellation of “artistic”; his hair was close cropped, his clothes well cut.

Morpeth crossed the room to meet him.

“Hullo, old thing— you’re the very fellow I wanted to see.” He pointed to the table. “Voilà!”

The nose of Cicero Jones wrinkled.

“Plays?” he asked, unpleasantly.

Morpeth nodded.

“Two very good plays— I think.”

“Well, buy ’em,” said the other decisively. “Buy ’em and make a fortune!”

“I want you to read them first,” began the manager.

Mr. Jones shook his head vigorously.

“No plays for a month— those are my doctor’s orders,” said Mr. Cicero Jones, with emphasis. “Do you realise that every play that is now being performed in this city was read by me and that they were the best of six hundred others that I read? Do you wonder why I am suffering from a nervous breakdown?”

Morpeth was concerned.

“Joking apart, are you really ill?”

The young man nodded.

“I am a sick man. My nerves are like that!” He held out his shaking hand. “I’m sorry, Morpeth, but I can’t do it. I’m going away into the country.”

“Where?”

“I shan’t tell you,” said Cicero Jones, emphatically. “I will not have the innocent countryside polluted with triangle dramas.” He picked up one of the manuscripts with every evidence of distaste. “Whose stuff is it— Mandan’s?”

“Mandan’s!” said Mr. Morpeth, scornfully. “Good lord, no! These are plays— real good stuff, I think. Amateurish in construction in certain parts, but that could be put right in no time. No, these are by a new author.”

Cicero’s lip curled.

“I know,” he said, sardonically. “Long soliloquies of why the woman left her husband in Act. I. Long soliloquies of why she is returning to him in Act II. Long soliloquies of why he won’t take her back in Act III. Curtain on two perfectly dead bodies lying in a blue spot lime!”

Mr. Morpeth smiled.

“Wrong! One of them is a farcical comedy— ”

The other waved aside his explanation.

“Let me guess— don’t tell me. Husband takes a girl out to dinner and meets his wife with another man. Second act in bachelor’s flat— ”

“Now, you’ll read these for me?” he wheedled, but his visitor leapt from the chair in which he had seated himself.

“No, no, no, no, no!”

His vehement refusal had the accompaniment of the telephone bell. Usually Mr. Morpeth did not welcome the intervention of temperamental actresses, but this was an exceptional occasion.

“Yuh— yuh? Hello, Kitty. Well, I don’t know. I’ve got what I think is a real good part for you. You’re on the stage all the time, and you’ve got every curtain. Well, I can’t tell you about this play yet— Jones won’t read it— yuh, he says so, he’s here sitting right here. All right. Kitty Majesco — she wants to talk to you.”

His smile was triumphant as he held out the receiver invitingly. Cicero Jones had a weak spot for Kitty.

“I don’t want to talk to anybody,” snarled the young man. “Oh, all right! Hello, Miss Majesco. Yes, good morning, I’m just leaving for the country. I’m awfully sorry, but I really can’t. My nerves are in a terrible state. Why don’t you read them yourself? Oh, I see, you don’t know what a play is like until you see it on the stage. Yes, there are a lot of people like you. But, Miss Majesco. Well, Kitty then. Oh, all right. Yes, yes, I know. The trouble with me is that I’ve got too sweet a disposition. A sweet disposition, I said!” he howled. “Good-bye!” Slamming down the receiver he glared at Morpeth.

“It is too bad. I want a holiday.”

“You’ll enjoy reading these,” said Mr. Morpeth, smilingly.

Mr. Jones made a noise signifying his scepticism.

“The real name of the author— ” began the manager, and Jones swung round on him.

“I don’t care a tinker’s curse what his name is,” he said, savagely. “I am not interested in his personality, his habits, his make of car, or his views on Bolshevism— all I’m interested in is a hammock swung between two apple trees, and rough meadow spangled with buttercups and a bit of cobalt sky, and a few fleecy clouds above, and the song of the skylark in the blue— ”

“Sounds like a good back-cloth to me,” said the soul-less Morpeth, “with lark effects from the orchestra, thunder off. Enter fair village maiden swinging sunbonnet. ‘It is twelve o’clock, and the young squire has not returned from the village— see, there he comes. Ta-ra-a-ah!’”

Mr. Jones had picked up the manuscripts from the table, and was thrusting them viciously into his bag.

“These will kill me,” he said, ominously, and you’ll be responsible. You’ve spoilt my holiday, you and that— charming actress! You’ve taken the joy out of the cornfields, and I hope you’re satisfied. Plays! George Yeo! George Whato!”

After he had slammed out of the room Mr. Morpeth gazed attentively at the door through which he had passed.

“George Whato!” he repeated, and shook his head.

Such flippancy was unusual in the staid Mr. Jones.

3: Say It With Flowers

MR. ERNEST CHARLES DOWLING was a modest disciple of the muses. A stoutish young man, comfortably circumstanced, the limits of his estate touched the hedge of wild woodbine that marked the northernmost boundary of Mr. Yeoman’s demesne. He was not a gentleman farmer, though he was a gentleman, and owned farms. A violently engined racing-car, a passion for rose-growing, and a taste in poetry occupied his pleasant days and ecstatic nights. He wrote about flowers and soaring birds, and waterfalls, and other articles of poetical interest.

He brought his car into the yard of Crab Apple Farm one afternoon, waited for a considerable time whilst he removed his duster, brushed his coat, and smoothed his hair. Then, taking a white bundle from the back seat, he tenderly stripped the paper covering from a bunch of roses, straightened his tie, and walked into the kitchen. There was no reason in the world why he should not have entered the house by the front door. It thrilled Mr. Dowling, however, to make his invariable entry by way of the dairy and kitchen.

Mrs. Mumble, the stay and prop of the Yeoman establishment, straightened herself up from her bread-board and gleamed benevolently over her spectacles.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Dowling.”

Chinky Dowling laid down the roses clear of the flour that almost covered the table, and drew a long breath.

“Would you give these to Miss Yeoman when she comes in?” he asked.

It was a fiction maintained by Chinky that Georgina was “out” when he called. This also was his standing excuse— had he ever been called upon to excuse himself— for his unceremonious entrance by way of the kitchen.

“She ain’t out!” said Mrs. Mumble, complacently. “She’s upstairs in her studio.”

“Study, Mrs. Mumble,” murmured Chinky.

“Study, is it? I always git ’em mixed up. Shall I call her?”

Chinky started nervously.

“No, no, Mrs. Mumble,” he hesitated. “There’s a note in the flowers,” he added.

“Shall I take it out?” asked the misguided woman.

“No, please,” he urged. ”It is— er— a little poem.”

Mrs. Mumble wiped her floury hands and regarded him with astonishment.

“You made it up yourself?” she asked. “Dear me, you must be clever, Mr. Dowling!”

The stout young man went red.

“Oh, well— of course, I can’t compare myself to Miss Yeoman.”

Mrs. Mumble shook her head.

“Ah, but she’s got brains,” she said, and sensing a lack of compliment, went on, heartily, “and you may have ’em, too, for all I know— but Miss Yeoman! She wrote another play last week.”

“Did she?” asked the awe-stricken Mr. Dowling.

“She did!” said Mrs. Mumble, proudly. “Her and Miss Josephine have been acting it all the morning. It’s remarkable! I don’t know how she does it. Only uses an ordinary pen, the same as you and me might.”

Mr. Dowling murmured that poetry took some writing, too.

“I dare say it does,” said the loyal housekeeper. “I often wonder how people can have the patience to write it; but I suppose it’s habit, like everything else.”

Chinky thought he heard a familiar voice at that moment.

“Yes. You’ll give Miss Yeoman the flowers?” he said, making preparation for flight.

“Certainly I will.”

“Er, you might mention that there’s a note there. You needn’t say it is poetry.”

Mrs. Mumble gave, him a reproachful look.

“Oh, Mr. Dowling, you know I wouldn’t put her off reading it.”

Ready to fly, he lingered, and the old woman on her favourite theme went on.

“Miss Georgina’s plays! The one she wrote at Easter. I cried over it— I did. About the mother and the little child! It upset me for a week. I never enjoyed myself so much in my life,” she added, inconsequently.

Mr. Dowling ventured to suppose that one of these days they would see them played, and Mrs. Mumble agreed.

“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” she said, stoutly. “I’ve known some remarkable things happen in my life. Who’d ever have thought my husband would have been killed by falling out of a balloon? Why, if anybody had told me that was going to happen I should have laughed!”

Chinky regarded her with alarm. And yet she seemed a kind-hearted woman.

“I wouldn’t be surprised at anything that happened to Miss Georgina,” said Mrs. Mumble. “I wouldn’t even be surprised if she didn’t marry very well indeed.”

“Er— yes,” agreed the young man, without any great heartiness.

“She’ll have to go away from here to do it. What can she find about here, Mr. Dowling? Just cheap people and nobodies!” The door flew open and Jordan Yeoman strode in.

“Hello, Chinky. Mrs. Mumble teaching you to make pies?”

Chinky, in an agony of apprehension, saw his retreat barred, and the possibility of an enforced meeting with the god-like Georgina made him go cold.

“Come along into the dining-room,” said Jordan. “Where are the girls— have you seen them, Ernest?”

“No, sir— I only just looked in! I’ve a-an engagement— ”

“Miss Georgina is in her study, sir,” said Mrs. Mumble. “Miss Helen is in the garden, and Miss Josephine is getting the room ready for the new gentleman.”

Jordan nodded.

“The boarder, eh?”

“Boarder?” gasped the alarmed Chinky. Jordan took him by the arm and led him into the big dining-room.

“Yes, the girls think it is a sin and a shame that we should have two rooms in the house lying empty all summer, so they advertised in one of the papers— you know the sort of thing. ‘Beautiful old farmhouse, electric light, etc.’”

Mr. Dowling wiped his damp forehead.

“But, good heavens— er— how will you like that, Mr. Yeoman?”

Jordan shrugged.

“I? I don’t care if it amuses them. I’m glad for them to get the extra money. So long as the gentleman isn’t too impossible.”

“It is rather a risk, isn’t it?” asked the agitated young man. “I mean, getting strange people in?”

Jordan laughed.

“You mean the possibility of his making love to the girls? Georgina is too engrossed in her plays, and I’d like to meet the man who had the courage to make love to Josephine. And as for Helen, why, she’d freeze him to death!”

“Of course, he may be quite old.”

“As a matter of fact, he’s comparatively young,” said Jordan. “We had his references from his bankers, and they were very satisfactory. Are you staying to tea?” he asked, as Mrs. Mumble bustled in, tray in hand.

“Oh dear no. I just dropped in to leave some roses for— er— Miss Georgina.”

“And a note,” said the helpful Mrs. Mumble.

“And, of course, a note,” said the other, hurriedly. “Is Georgina writing a new play?”

“Yes, I suppose she is, Chinky,” said Mr. Yeoman, carelessly. “I can’t remember when she wasn’t. I wouldn’t mind her writing plays if she didn’t ask me to rehearse them. Of course, it is Josephine who bullies me into it.”

“Miss Josephine is a little— domineering, isn’t she?” suggested Chinky. He had reason to hold such a view, and Jordan Yeoman’s eyes twinkled.

“Hello, has she been bullying you?”

“What I complain about, sir,” Mrs. Mumble saved the youth from his embarrassment, “is Miss Josephine’s language.”

Jordan grinned. Josephine’s violent vocabulary was his secret delight.

“She’s built that way, Mrs. Mumble. Why, my dear mother, God rest her, swore like a trooper! It is a fact. They say she started in her cradle, and yet she was as good a woman as ever lived. It is a family characteristic. An ancestor of ours told George III to go to hell, and got a knighthood for it, I’m not sure whether he got a knighthood or was hanged. Anyway, he was distinguished by his profanity. There’s Georgina!” he said, suddenly, at the sound of a footstep on the stairs.

Mr. Dowling hastily gathered his hat.

“I won’t wait. Good-bye, Mr. Yeoman.”

“Stay and have some tea,” urged Jordan. “You can see Georgina, and give her the flowers yourself.”

“And the note,” added the kindly Mrs. Mumble.

“No, thank you, I have to get back. Good— good-bye— ”

He was out of the room and half-way to the yard before Georgina came in.

4: Wanted For Felony

GEORGINA YEOMAN was by common agreement the prettiest member of the family, in spite of her untidy hair and her queerly masculine gait. She waved an inky hand to her parent.

“Didn’t I hear Ernest Charles, Mrs. Mumble?”

“Yes, Miss. He left you these flowers.” Georgina took up the roses.

“How lovely!”

“There’s a note inside by all accounts,” whispered Mrs. Mumble, hoarsely, and made mysterious signals.

“Where’s Helen?” asked Jordan, from the window.

“In the garden communing with nature. That child is too serious for this family. Helen, Helen!” she shrilled, and Helen Yeoman’s precise voice answered her.

Helen was slim and tall. Her hair was carefully drawn back to show a high, white forehead, and was plaited irreproachably. Her school-girl dress was worn decorously long, and from the toes of her trim shoes to the black ribbon in her hair she was all propriety. (“Helen,” said Josephine, describing her, “is the kind of kid that has never come to table with messy hands, and has never had a hole in her stocking. She’s inhuman.”)

She crossed to where Jordan was sitting in his favourite chair, and kissing him sedately on the forehead, sat down on a hassock by his side.

“Jordan, I’ve finished the play,” said Georgina.

“Have you, duck? I’ll bet it’s a winner!”

“It is lovely!” said Georgina, shamelessly. “Josephine says— well, ask Josephine.”

Josephine came in at that moment, and came with a crash and the utterance of words half-stifled.

“Who put that dam— damp cloth upon the stairs?” she demanded, wrathfully. “Did I hear the dulcet tone of Ernest Charles, or did my ears deceive me?”

“Leave Chinky alone,” said Georgina. “He brought me these flowers.”

“Hullo, Jordan, been to market?”

He nodded.

“Yes.”

“Sell anything?”

“No,” said Jordan, squirming.

“Did you see the bank man?” demanded the remorseless Josephine.

“I did,” said her father, defiantly. “He was very reasonable about the overdraft.” He dropped his hand caressingly upon Helen’s head.

“Is he going to increase it?” demanded Josephine.

Helen turned up a reproving face.

“I really don’t think you should worry dear father,” she said. “He must be very tired; aren’t you dear?”

Josephine’s sneer was almost audible.

“Oh, look at Helen,” she scoffed. “Here’s a picture for you, Georgie! Fair child crouched at ruined father’s feet—  caressing hand. Looks up at cruel sister with sorrowful eyes!”

“You just leave Helen alone, too,” said Jordan, good- humouredly.

“I can’t leave anybody alone, Jordan— not to-day. The day the lodger comes.” Josephine’s tone was dramatic; her extravagant posture, from Helen’s point of view, ridiculous.

“I think ‘lodger’ sounds awful. Why not ‘paying guest,’ Josephine?” she asked, severely.

“Because he hasn’t paid yet,” said the practical Josephine. “He’s ‘lodger’ till Saturday.”

Jordan’s face clouded.

“I hope he is not going to give you a lot of trouble,” he said, and Josephine for once agreed with him.

“I hope so, for his sake— if he does I’ll chuck him out!”

“Chuck?” murmured Helen.

“What would you say, angel— ‘shove’?”

“At St. Margaret’s,” said Helen, gently, “I used to fine the girls for slang. In fact, Miss Reppley said that from the day I became head girl the tone of the school improved immensely.”

“I wonder you can sleep at night. Any letters?”

“The post isn’t in yet.”

“Was there anything this morning?” asked Jordan.

“Nothing, it is the mail I’m thinking of. I wonder how they’ll like The Farers?”

“The manager hasn’t had it more than a year,” said the cynical Josephine.

“If you’ll forgive my saying so,” said Helen, “I don’t think they’ll accept it!”

“And why not?” demanded Josephine, hands on hips, glaring down at the youthful sceptic.

“It is much too violent— the language is so strong. Don’t you think so, papa?” Jordan waved helpless hands.

“What does it matter what papa thinks, you unmodern child? I certainly thought it was a pretty good play, and the last one was a real fine one. I read it, and it made me roar with laughter— what was it called— The Wanderer?”

Georgina’s face fell.

“That was supposed to be a tragedy, Jordan,” hissed Josephine.

“Oh, was it?” said her father, feebly. “I get all mixed with ’em.”

“No,” said Josephine. “I think The Wanderer is certain to be referred to the Tremendous Jones.”

“The who? Did you mention that name before? I thought that it was the title of a play.”

“Do you mean to tell me that you’ve never heard of the Tremendous Jones?” asked Josephine, amazed. “Why, he reads for every big theatre in London.”

“Reads?”

Georgina explained.

“Don’t you know that plays have to be read by an expert before they’re produced? Managers don’t understand plays! They keep a man to read for them.”

A light dawned through Mr. Yeoman’s clouded intelligence.

“I see. So Jones— why do you call him Tremendous?”

“Well, isn’t he?” asked Josephine, impatiently. “If he says a play is good it doesn’t matter what the critics say. And if he says a play’s bad—” She turned down her thumbs expressively, and a shocked Helen closed her eyes.

“Tea, everybody,” said Josephine, as Mrs. Mumble came in with the tea-pot. “Jordan, love, we want you after tea, so rush!”

“Oh, lord, what am I this afternoon?” Jordan’s face underwent a change.

“You’re Sir Milford Scarborough,” said Josephine, briskly.

“Sounds like a bad lot— ”

“He’s rotten,” agreed his daughter.

Helen, on her father’s right, heaved a deep sigh.

“That was the one expression we never allowed at St. Margaret’s, papa. I used to tell the prefects—”

“I bet they wept when you left school, little sister,” said Georgina.

“There was a certain amount of regret,” Helen’s voice did not want for complacency.

“Hypocritical little devils!”

“Any new rewards turned up, Jo?” asked Mr. Yeoman, tactfully, and Josephine jumped to her feet.

“Oh, yes. I got the Hue and Cry this morning.”

She flew across the room and up the stairs.

“I think it is so absurd, papa, don’t you?” asked Helen, and the cautious Mr. Yeoman offered no opinion. In a sense, Josephine, who had many of his qualities, was nearer himself when she was engaged in this fantastic hobby than she was at any other time.

“We’ve got to get money from somewhere, Jordan,” said his eldest daughter. “I thought with my plays I should have made at least a hundred thousand. Look at the fortunes that have been made out of Star of Baghdad? Why, they say that the manager buys a new car every Friday afternoon! And Jo may get a reward. You get anything you try hard for— pass the jam, Evangeline.”

Helen’s nose went up.

“I’m not going, to pass it until you call me by my proper name,” she said, haughtily.

Mr. Jordan threatened to sing. There was no more effective method of silencing all controversy and soothing discordance. Once he had carried his threat into execution— only once. The family remembered.

“Well, who is it now?” he asked as Josephine came running down the stairs, paper in hand. “The man who abandoned his wife and seven children, and left them chargeable to the town, or the believed-to-be-concerned-in-the-jewel-robbery?”

“No,” said Josephine, “this is a two thousand prize. Listen. ‘Wanted for felony, John Franklin, aged 25. Medium height, dark hair, grey eyes, clean-shaven, rather long face, in the habit of wearing horn-rimmed spectacles. Has a sullen manner, is short of speech, but talks like an educated man. Will probably be in possession of large quantities of bonds stolen from the Ninth National Bank. Very likely to make his way westward by road. He speaks several languages. He has a practice of stroking his chin, and his favourite pose is that of a man who is suffering or recovering from a nervous breakdown. The above reward will be paid by the bank for the arrest and conviction of the fugitive.’”

“Two thousand!” mused Jordan.

“Making his way west!” Georgina’s eyes shone. “What a wonderful situation for a drama!”

It struck Helen in quite another way.

“Poor man! How sad to think that one is hunted like a wild animal. Perhaps if he had had the influence of a good home—”

“Look what a good home has done for you!” said Josephine.

“I’m only thinking of some poor woman who is praying for his safety,” said Helen, gently.

“What about this poor woman who is praying to catch him?” demanded her sister. “Jordan, we must find some money. Have you any?”

“Very little,” said Jordan. “I’ll get a cheque to-morrow from the Dairy Syndicate. Do you want it pretty badly?”

Josephine nodded. She had meant to speak to him the night before.

“Mumble’s wages are due,” she said, “and Helen wants new underclothes.”

“Really!” said the outraged Helen.

“Well, don’t you?”

“I hardly think it is a thing to talk about to dear daddy.”

“Didn’t you know she wore— ”

Jordan interrupted.

“Jo, you’re indelicate. I’ll raise you something by Saturday.”

“Perhaps John Franklin will come along,” sneered Helen.

“If he knew the state of your undies, he’d fly into my arms,” Josephine retorted. “We can’t expect Mr. Jones to pay in advance.”

“Jones! Is that the young man lodger?” asked Georgie, who took very little interest in household affairs. “I wonder if he knows our Mr. Jones?”

“They’re all one family,” suggested Josephine, “descended from the original Jonah. What is wrong, Mumble?”

Mrs. Mumble had come into the room with a face of woe and a basket of eggs in her hand.

“That hen wouldn’t sit, Mr. Yeoman. I thought she wouldn’t. She sat there for a day and then she went back to the run.”

“Put ’em on the chair, Mrs. Mumble,” said Josephine.

“Now, what about these cammies of Miss Helen’s?” asked that lady, discharging two duties at once, and Helen stiffened.

“Mrs. Mumble!” she said, awfully. “Haven’t you any regard for propriety?”

Josephine pointed to the chair where the eggs reposed.

“Just take a look at ’em and see if you have!” she said. “Leave them, Mumble. We’ll have a court of inquiry when The Man has gone. Restrain your natural agitation. Helen.”

Georgina folded her serviette and nodded to Josephine. Together they rose.

“What about this rehearsal?” demanded the playwright, significantly, and Jordan wilted.

5: A Big Beam of Sunlight

TO a man with predilections toward a smooth-running life, it was something of a handicap and an inquietude to be related to stage-struck women. Not that either was stage-struck in the accepted sense of the word. Georgie wrote plays; to Jordan they were good, but then, he knew nothing about plays or authors.

But of all the drawbacks which this play-writing business presented, none equalled in point of inconvenience, amounting sometimes to a positive misery, this detestable practice of roping him in to read a part in one of Georgie’s rehearsals. Georgie invariably rehearsed every play she wrote, and she was writing plays all the time.

“Must I rehearse? These hasty meals are going to play the devil with my digestion,” he complained, but none the less obeyed.

“Help push the table over in the corner, Jordan,” said his energetic daughter. “Exercise is what you want.”

Mrs. Mumble, an interested spectator of the moving scene, waited.

“Will you be wanting me, Miss?” she asked.

Georgina consulted her script.

“Let me see, what were you?”

“I was the young lady that led the young gentleman into temptation,” said Mrs. Mumble, hopefully.

Georgina shook her head.

“That was the farce— no, this is the drama, The Wanderer, Mrs. Mumble— there isn’t a part for you.”

A disgruntled actress went back to the kitchen, and the peeling of potatoes.

A clear space was now made. Josephine, trained in dining-room stage craft, had rearranged the furniture to meet the requirements of the scene, and now turned her attention to Jordan. That worthy man had stealthily pulled his chair to the fireplace, and had unobtrusively disappeared from view.

“Jordan!” called Josephine, sharply.

There was no answer.

“Jordan! Damn the boy, he’s gone to sleep again!”

“Oh!” a horrified gasp from Helen.

“Well?” Josephine snapped, “it is a classical quotation— from Dickens. Jordan!”

Jordan woke with a start.

“What do I do?” he complained.

“You can sit where you are,” said Josephine. “You’re Sir Milford Scarborough.”

“Oh,” said Jordan, blankly.

Georgina rumpled his hair.

“You haven’t got much to say, so don’t grouch, darling,” she coaxed.

Everybody was ready. Mr. Yeoman, with his script on his knee, nodded heavily.

“Go ahead, Georgie.”

Georgina had retired to the vicinity of the stairs. Now she stalked tragically toward the dozing Jordan.

“‘Have you nothing to say to me?’” she asked, in hollow tones.

Apparently Jordan hadn’t.

“Go on, Jordan!” encouraged Josephine, anxiously.

Jordan blinked.

“Eh— er— what?”

“‘Have you nothing to say to me?’” repeated Georgina, and her father fumbled with the manuscript.

“‘Nothing,’” he read, rapidly and monotonously, “‘you have made your own bed, lie on it, lie on it—’ By the way, who made my bed last night, Jo?”

Josephine dropped into a chair with a moan of anguish.

“They forgot to take the extra blanket off, that’s all,” explained Jordan, hurriedly.

“Will you leave these sordid matters until after we have finished?” demanded the exasperated stage manager. “Get on with the play!”

“‘Have you nothing to say to me?’” asked Georgina, for the third time.

“‘Nothing,’” read Jordan. “‘You have made your own bed, lie on it, lie on it, lie on it!’”

“‘And this is the reward of my devotion,’” said Georgina, clasping her hands tragically. “‘For this I loved you, left my home, my friends, gave up my career! Ah, you can smile! When I see you standing there with your head held high, looking at me with contempt— I recognise the devil lurking in your eyes. My God! What a fool I’ve been!’”

Helen shuddered.

“I know you’ll think I’m a prude,” she said, “but there’s an awful lot of profanity in this play. Remember, Georgina, children may be taken to see this.”

“Oh, shut up, Helen! You can always tone it down for the matinees. Go on, Georgina.”

But Georgina had for the moment given up the attempt to rehearse.

“I can’t possibly get any idea how this is going if I am constantly interrupted. And I do so want to know how it will appeal to the managers.”

“I’m sure people won’t like it,” insisted Helen. “At St. Margaret’s we always cut the D’s and the G’s out of our plays.”

“Oh, smother St. Margaret’s!” said Josephine, wildly. “Go on, Georgina.”

Georgina took up her script again.

“‘What a fool I’ve been— what a fool I’ve been! But beware, Milford Scarborough! Beware! Ha! You start! So I have touched you on the raw! You need not frown at me! You cannot make me fear you. Heaven will not allow such a man as you to triumph! You smile!’— this is where you come on, Jo.”

“Oh, yes!”

Josephine leapt up with a muttered apology, and sought the place in the book. Presently she too stalked from the stairs, started violently, and drew back with a look of distaste.

“‘Lady Violet!’” breathed Georgina.

“‘What are you doing here, with my husband?’” demanded Josephine, sternly.

“‘Your husband, ha, ha, ha!’” sneered Georgina.

Josephine’s eyebrows rose.

“‘Your attitude is strange, Mildred Burton— Great God!’”

Helen made a disparaging noise.

“Shut your ears if it shocks you,” suggested Josephine, and was once more the injured heroine. “Now then— ‘What is this man to you?’”

“‘He is my husband!’” said Georgina, tragically.

Josephine started back.

“‘Ah, no! No! No!’”

“Four ‘no’s,’” murmured the disapproving prompter.

“’No. It is not true— it is not ter-ue!’” gasped Josephine. “‘My goodness! It’s not true. Milford! Say that it is not true! Speak!’” She dropped her hand on Jordan’s shoulder and shook him. “Here! Wake up, Jordan! You’re snoring when you ought to be sneering!”

Jordan came to consciousness with a painful grimace. “Eh, what— oh, yes. ‘Let him perish, let him perish!’”

Dramatist and stage manager howled together.

“You don’t start perishing anybody until the last act,” said Josephine, with painful calm. “You’ve got the wrong page, Jordan, let me show you. There you are— ‘It is false, false, false!’”

“Oh, yes, I see. ‘It is false, false, false’— what about a pipe?” he pleaded.

“You’ll get no pipe until we’ve finished this act,” hissed Josephine. “Now sneer! That’s not a sneer, that’s a sniff! Go on, Georgina.”

Georgina, with an injured glance at the offending amateur, resumed.

“‘Milford! You cannot mean that! Ah, no! You are jesting, Milford! You cannot deny your wife— your innocent child! You do! I see it in your eyes!’”

Jordan’s eyes were closed. His head hung sideways, and strange throaty sounds issued from his open mouth.

“‘You turn your head away. You laugh! You laugh! Ah, woe— woe! My heavens, he laughs!’” (“Och!” snored Jordan, his chin dropping to his chest.) “‘Then I am indeed lost! How can you look me in the face? Have you told me the worst, Milford?’”

“We’ll never keep Jordan awake,” said Georgina, in despair. “He always does this after tea. Really he is terrible. And I did so want to see how it would go.”

Josephine slipped her arm about her sister’s shoulders and hugged her.

“My dear, don’t worry, this is a great play. The bit we’ve done shows that. Honestly, Helen, don’t you think so?” Helen, thus appealed to, assumed a new importance.

“Do you wish me to be frank?”

“If you’re going to be frank,” said Georgina, “you can shut up!”

“Honestly, lovie-babe,” said Josephine, cuddling the frigid Helen, “don’t you think it will hit ’em in the eye?”

“Do you mean will it be a success?”

“Yes.”

“It might be,” Helen committed herself that far, and her sister chortled.

“There you are, Georgie— even this miserable little rat says it might be. This is the play that’s going to make you, Georgie— mark you woman! Oh, what a first night— can’t you see all your friends in front of the house applauding like mad?”

“Suppose they don’t,” said Helen.

“Why do you think we let ’em in for nothing?” demanded Josephine. “And can’t you see the papers in the morning. ‘The play was received with every mark of favour by an enthusiastic audience. There were loud cries of “author!”

“From the author’s friends?” suggested Helen, and Josephine glared at her.

“You’re just like a great big beam of Sunlight soap. Georgie, it is no use trying to wake our dear parent. Let us do the scene between Gwendoline and her sister. You know— where Gertrude confesses she killed Gwendoline’s lover.”

Helen shrugged.

“I’m perfectly sure there will be young men in the audience who will be absolutely revolted,” she said, “but, of course, it is nothing to do with me.”

Josephine lugged a screen across the room and unfolded it so that it obscured the door.

“Now we can get the illusion of being in the New Forest, she said. “Who starts? I think I do.”

6: Suicide Manor and Dead Man's Pool

MR. CICERO JONES had had a pleasant, and in some respects an instructive, journey from town. On the train he had the mixed fortune to meet an acquaintance, an elderly doctor whom, ordinarily, Cicero would have avoided. But to-day, with the gladsome spirit of early summer in his blood, and a joyous sense of release from labour in his heart,

He regarded even Dr. Talbot with benevolent tolerance.

It gave him a shock to learn that the doctor was travelling to the same station as himself, and he was relieved when he discovered that the gentleman of medicines would, on his arrival at his destination, travel in a direction immediately opposite to that which Cicero Jones had to take when he covered the four miles which separated the railway from Crab Apple Farm. The exact location of his holiday resort he kept to himself.

“Like the country, eh?” complained the old doctor, a hard, yellow-faced man who was a martyr to gout. “I hate it! Give me the city all the time.”

“You can have it,” said Cicero Jones, “and if anybody questions your right to take it, tell them I gave you permission.”

“You people think that all the tragedy and misery of life is found only in the cities— tucked away in the noisome and picturesque slums,” the doctor went on. “Bah! The real drama of life is played in these pleasant little country villages, these fine mansion houses.” He waved his hand to the passing country. “Look for sin amongst the roses, my boy, not behind the ash cans.”

“Anyway, they’re real sins and real tragedies,” said Cicero Jones, composedly. “If you had lived, as I have, in an atmosphere of artificiality, you would welcome even a country murder, so long as there was a real body to see and a real murderer to hang! That is why I have come, to get close to the realities, doctor.”

“Don’t get too close,” warned the other, grimly, “and then, grasping Cicero’s arm, he pointed to a stately white house that showed through a belt of elms on the slope of a distant hill. “Pretty picture, eh?” he asked, “but that house is owned and run by a lunatic! It is a fact! A homicide— and yet sufficiently clever to deceive the doctors who were sent to examine him. His wife and family live in terror of him. Few servants stay more than a week, and every house in the neighbourhood locks and bolts its doors before going to bed.”

“How pleasant,” said Cicero Jones, but he shuddered.

A few minutes later the doctor pointed through the other window of the Pullman.

“Do you see that beautiful red brick house by the lake?” he asked. “Looks fine, eh? You can almost see the gardens from here— they are the grandest in the country. The woman who owns that property is suspected of murdering her sister and doing away with the body in a lime kiln. It was never found.”

“How interesting!” said Cicero Jones, and swallowed hard.

“I tell you the country is the place for real horrors,” said the gouty doctor, thoroughly enjoying himself. “I could tell you stories which would make your hair stand on end with a little encouragement. Do you see that barn this side of the wood?” he pointed to a distant field.

Cicero nodded.

“Was anybody murdered there?” he asked.

“Six people,” said the doctor, impressively. “Murdered by a person who seemed to be the most harmless creature in the world. In fact, she was a patient of mine. It was rather a coincidence, too,” he mused, “because on that tree— the big tree you see without any leaves on— it looks as though it is dead, though it isn’t— old Sampson Bottlehook hanged himself, as his father had before him. And on the other side of Dead Man’s Copse— ”

“What is the name?” asked Cicero.

“They call it Dead Man’s Copse about here, but I don’t know the story of it,” said the doctor, carelessly. “It is probably to do with some crime of years gone by. But on the other side is the county hospital— you’ll see the mortuary in a minute, when we get round this bend, it is the only white block in the building.”

“I don’t know that I want to see it particularly,” said Cicero Jones. “That’s a nice-looking house,” he pointed, and then, hurriedly, “if anybody has been hanged or poisoned or gone mad there, you needn’t tell me about it.”

“That’s the Widdles’ house,” said the doctor. “No, there is nothing wrong with those people; fine, healthy, good-natured souls. They are patients of mine. The daughter is a little mad, but I don’t think dangerously so, but Widdle himself is a kindly good-natured fellow who wouldn’t hurt a fly. I always say that his keepers are absolutely unnecessary. Why, when he shot that poacher— ”

“Oh, did he shoot a poacher?” asked Cicero, weakly.

The doctor pointed out the identical oak tree, and the exact spot thereunder where the deed had been committed.

“I was going to say, I think he was well within his rights. Now, if you want a real lunatic— ” he was going on, but Cicero stopped him.

“I don’t want a real lunatic,” he said, “I want a real holiday. But if ever I do want a real one, doctor, I shall know where to come.”

He watched the doctor disappear on his crazy trap, and then climbed into a fly.

“Crab Apple Farm, sir, that’s a matter of four miles from here.”

OVER his shoulder the fly-man became conversational as his horse clop-clopped along the dusty road. “Yes, it is a good four miles. At least, it is four miles from Hangman’s Cross, and that’s not half a mile from the station. I’ll point it out to you. You haven’t seen Hangman’s Cross, have you?”

Cicero admitted that he hadn’t.

“You ought to see it.” The driver shook his head admiringly. “It was put up nigh on a hundred years ago to commemorate a poor farmer who was killed by some sailors. They hanged him where the cross is— that was the scaffold,” he explained. “I once met a very old woman in these parts' who remembered it, too. She was at the execution; said he took an hour to die.”

Cicero Jones sighed unhappily.

“The funny thing about it,” said the driver, after they had passed the worn granite cross, and he had stopped the fly in order to allow Cicero to get out and make a thorough inspection, “the funny thing about it is that that old farmer who was murdered used to live in that farm.” He pointed with his whip. “We call it ‘Gibbet House,’ though some call it ‘Suicide Manor.’”

“Why not call it ‘Wild Rose Cottage’?” entreated Cicero Jones.

“Because nobody ever wanted to call it that,” said the driver, gravely. “The funny thing about that house is that three people have committed suicide”

“Don’t tell me any more funny stories,” said Cicero, “or I shall laugh myself to death. Do you know Mr. Yeoman?”

“Very well, sir,” said the fly-man. “A very nice man, and highly respected in these parts. His daughter is a bit queer.”

“Eh?” said Cicero, startled.

“When I say she is a bit queer, I mean she is not quite all there.”

“You mean she’s mad?”

“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as saying that,” said the fly-man, “but she’s certainly got a funny way with her, and they do say that the language she uses is terrible to hear.”

Cicero looked at his watch. There was not another train back for three hours.

“Tell me the worst,” he said, recklessly.

“The worst— well, that’s about all. I’m not saying that she’s mad,” said the driver, with vague apprehensions of a slander suit. “Far be it from me to say that, but there is something queer about her, by all accounts. And even the rector never goes to that house.”

“Is it pretty country about there?” asked Cicero.

“Yes, sir,” said the driver, enthusiastically, “it is certainly the most beautiful country I have ever seen. There’s a lovely stretch of water quite close to the house. Dead Man’s Pool, they call it.”

“I should have been surprised if they hadn’t,” said Cicero, and for the rest of the journey was silent.

He took his suit-case from the driver and stood at the gate of Crab Apple Farm with a wistful look on his face until the carriage had disappeared. The front door was open, and he knocked. There was no response, but from somewhere within came the sound of voices raised in anger. He put down his suit-case, walked farther into the passage, and opened the door. And then he stopped.

“You want the truth?” asked the passionate voice of a woman.

Cicero Jones stood stock still.

“Yes, the whole truth. Where is Reginald?”

The second voice was that of a woman, too, and, peeping through the crack of a screen he saw two girls. The first was tall and pretty. Her hair was untidy, her breast heaved with pent emotion. She who faced her was not so tall nor in a sense so handsome. Her face was set in a mould of grim determination; her hands were clenched.

“You wish to know, sister?” she asked, slowly.

“Yes— I— wish to know,” said the other. “Your lover is no more,” said the smaller girl.

The jaw of Cicero Jones dropped.

“What?”

“I— I have killed him!” Her voice was intense.

The other started back with an exclamation.

And then Cicero saw the small girl bend forward and speak rapidly.

“It was for the honour of our family. It was to save our father learning the truth. I— I— knew that you were bigamously married. I discovered that yesterday.”

“You discovered— the truth?”

Cicero heard the gasp.

“Yes— that afternoon I met Reginald by the lake. I accused him! He sneered at me! All the dormant madness in me leapt to life! I sprang at him— he lost his balance and fell into the water! He tried to escape, but I thrust him down with my foot, down, down, down!”

Cicero stepped unsteadily into the passage and closed the door. For a while he could not breathe. He was perspiring profusely, and the hand that wiped his streaming face was shaking.

7: Let Him Perish

“HOW could you thrust him down with your foot?” asked Helen. “Wouldn’t he get hold of your— your—”

“Leg’s the word you want. Who’s that?”

She heard Mrs. Mumble’s voice in the passage, and she was talking to somebody, then:—

“Come in, sir. I didn’t hear you knocking. It is a good thing I came to the front door or you would have been kept waiting—”

“It is the lodger,” whispered Georgie.

“Helen, your cammies!”

Helen made a dart at the chair where eggs and underclothes lay, and, snatching a cushion, laid it on top of the whole, with the rarest presence of mind.

“You are Mr. Jones?” said Josephine, sweetly.

Cicero nodded. He could not speak. He could only stare fascinated at the girl who had discovered so drastic a method of saving the family honour. She was pretty in her less homicidal moments, he thought. Her mouth was sensitive, her skin flawless.

“You would like to see your room?” said Josephine.

“Er— yes— but I can go up myself. Just tell me where it is. I— I’ll find it,” he said, hastily.

“But I’ll take you.”

“No— oh no. It is not necessary, I assure you.”

Josephine was not quite certain whether she ought to show him to his room, anyway. She was sadly inexperienced in the handling of boarders.

“I see, you wish to go alone?”

He nodded.

“Yes, that was my idea.”

Josephine was making conversation, and her elder sister wondered why. It was not like Josephine to take so much trouble.

“They’re very nice rooms,” she said. “From your sitting-room you have a lovely view of the lake.”

Cicero Jones suppressed a cry.

“The lake! Oh yes. Are there any— any keys?” he demanded, urgently.

“For your room? I don’t think there are. But as I was saying, you’ll find the view lovely. To-morrow, if you wish, I’ll take you out to the lake.”

“Oh— yes, you will— thank you, but I don’t drink— I mean, I don’t float— swim—  wash— bathe, that’s the word!”

The suspicion born in Josephine’s mind was already taking definite shape.

“Will you be staying long?” she asked, watching him intently.

“No— a night, yes, until to-morrow,” said Cicero. He was hoping that to-morrow would dawn for him.

“Only a night?” For a moment a sense of consternation overcame her doubt.

“Yes— I— er— took the rooms for a month, and— of course, I’ll pay— I’d better pay in advance, hadn’t I?”

In her mind Josephine most fervently agreed, but she said:—

“It is not at all important.”

“I’d better.”

Her refusal did not seem convincing, even to Cicero Jones in his agitation. He counted the money, and his fingers were shaking.

“That is right, I think?” he said.

Now she was certain!

She made some excuse about getting a receipt, and hurried off to find Georgina, who had slipped from the room and was in the garden.

“Georgie,” she gasped. “It is him— he, I mean. Where is Helen?”

“He— who?”

“Come here— by the window— now peep through. Pretend not to look. You see, dark hair, long face, talks like a gentleman. Look how he fingers his chin.”

“You don’t mean that he’s— ”

“John Franklin, the bank robber!” Josephine whispered, fiercely.

“Merciful heavens!”

“And the trunk in the passage is full of stolen property. We never had so much money in the house before! Look! What did the Hue and Cry say? Pretends to be nervous; why, he’s shivering! Whoof!”

She had seen Helen enter the room.

“Stop her. Come in, Georgie!”

Her heart thumping painfully, she dragged Georgina into the house, but Helen had already taken the guest under her wing.

As they went in Helen was talking, Mr. Jones seated on the edge of a chair.

“Papa said that you have had a nervous breakdown, Mr. Jones?”

He nodded.

“We often had such cases at school. I was head girl at St. Margaret’s,” she explained, “and from what one learnt, a nervous attack leaves you with such an awful sensation— it has been described as making you feel like a hunted criminal.” The frantic signs Josephine was making were lost on Helen. Cicero saw her warning grimace, and nearly fainted. It was a house of terror— a house of strange sights and strange noises. He could hear a queer, strangled sound coming from somewhere, but could not locate it.

Jordan, in the depths of his chair, slept on.

“Are you staying with us long?” Helen asked, and Mr. Jones shook his head, with considerable emphasis.

“Er— no— I shan’t make a long stay,” he said, and Helen, in her grave way, nodded.

“I think you are wise— very wise,” she approved. “If one is restless one should humour one’s mood,” and Cicero regarded her with a new and sympathetic attention. That this little more than child should live in this atmosphere of sin and crime, he thought!

“She is no sister of ours, Georgie!” said Josephine, under her breath, and then, with her sweetest smile, “Helen!”

Helen turned. “Yes, Josephine?”

“Come here, love,” cooed Josephine. “I want you to see the beautiful rainbow.”

It was unpardonably rude to leave their guest alone, but the moment was a desperate one.

“Rainbow?” she said, incredulously.

“Yes, sweet.” She gripped Helen by the arm and breathed: “Get out and stay out!”

“Why?” gasped Helen.

“Do you know who this man is?” Josephine spoke rapidly in a low voice. “That’s him— the bank robber!”

Helen stared from one to the other and fainted.

Cicero Jones witnessed the sinister scene and leapt to his feet.

“What is wrong?” he asked, and in his agitation his voice seemed no more than a squeak. “Wha-wha-what’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” Josephine forced her face into a smile. “She always does this when she sees a rainbow.”

Between them they carried Helen into the open, leaving Cicero Jones alone.

There was another door, and he tip-toed toward it. Once out of this house of happenings he would breathe more freely. He had reached the door when, glancing round, he saw an inanimate figure huddled in the armchair by the fireplace. He stopped, stared, then came slowly toward it. How still it was!

“Dead!” gasped Cicero Jones; and at that moment the girls came back, leading a pale and shaken Helen between them.

“Dead!” wailed Cicero, and jerked his finger toward the man in the chair.

Jordan woke with a start and sprang up. He stared wildly from one to the other, then

“Let him perish!” croaked Jordan, with a dramatic power which Josephine had never suspected. “Let him perish!”

Mr. Cicero Jones sat down heavily in the nearest chair.

Josephine watched him helplessly. He was sitting on the eggs.

8: The Animated Clothes Basket

JOSEPHINE held a council of war.

What was romantically described as Georgina’s garret was, in reality, a reconverted lumber-room which bore no greater resemblance to a garret than that it had been used for the storage of furniture of odds and ends. It was a room of startling wall-papers and bizarre drawings snipped from French magazines. For the rest, it had that chintzy fragrance which dominated in Crab Apple Farm.

It was after supper before Mr. Cicero Jones had retired, that Josephine beckoned her sister apart.

“I have no doubt in my mind that this is the man,” she said, firmly, “and if I had, it would have been set at rest by the way he keeps his suit-case under his eye. Georgina,” she said, dramatically, “I am going to search that bag!”

Georgina nodded gravely. She felt the occasion justified the most unconventional methods.

“How are you going to do it, Josephine?” she asked.

Josephine sat upon a broad settee, her arms clasping her knees, a prodigious frown on her forehead.

“I have thought it out,” she said. “I shall get into his room and hide myself, and when he is asleep I’ll bring the suit-case to my room, open it— have you any odd keys, Georgina?”

Georgina searched a drawer and produced a bunch of rusty keys, ranging from the key of the stable-door to those queer and useless articles which are popularly supposed to lock and unlock writing-cases.

Josephine searched diligently, and selected six.

“Of course, it may not be locked,” she said. “But if I know, it is very certain that he will take no risks.”

“Helen is terrible,” said Georgina, and Josephine shook her head.

“Something will have to be done about that child,” she said. “Curse St. Margaret’s!”

“Education spoils some people,” said Georgina, “but I don’t think Helen would have been any different if she had been wholly illiterate.”

“She is brooding over something,” said Josephine, nodding wisely. “I know Helen! She has some uplift scheme which is going to play merry hell—”

“Josephine,” murmured her sister.

“Going to play the dickens with all our plans.”

There are some memories which, try as he will, even the best constituted of men cannot retain, though they have to do with the great crises of their lives.

Cicero Jones could never recall exactly what happened between five o’clock that evening and the hour at which Mrs. Mumble, with solemnity, so that the occasion had almost the value of a ritual, handed him a large china candlestick holding a strangely long candle. There was something funereal even in this act.

He dimly remembered that he had taken a meal with the family, and that Jordan Yeoman had explained at some length how it came about that a farmhouse, miles from any town, enjoyed the benefit of electric light. Why he had not fled back to town he did not know. There was some reason, some sense of coming benefits which he could neither define nor analyse.

He shook hands soberly with Jordan and followed Mrs. Mumble up the stairs.

The three girls had preceded him, and in Helen’s heart burnt a high resolve. She alone felt no trepidation at the thought of spending a night under the same roof as a bank robber. She knew that the worst of criminals was susceptible to the influence of a pure young girl. She had read of such things at St. Margaret’s.

“This is the room, sir,” said the amiable Mrs. Mumble. “There’s a lovely view from the window.”

The room was large and prettily furnished. The big linen basket which stood up-ended in one corner was the only superfluity.

“You can just see the place where the young lady drowned herself last summer,” said Mrs. Mumble. “Some of them think it wasn’t a case of suicide at all. And right over there, sir, there’s a beautiful view of Dead Man’s Wood.”

“You can’t see the cemetery, I suppose?” asked Cicero, but sarcasm was wasted on Mrs. Mumble.

“Not from this side of the house, sir. What you can see is the place where Lord Harringay broke his neck when he was hunting.”

“If I’m alive I’ll walk out to-morrow and photograph the place,” said Cicero, breathing with difficulty. “I feel that I ought to keep a souvenir of these beauties.”

Mrs. Mumble stopped by the door on her way out.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” she apologised. “I hope you’re not taking any notice of Miss Josephine!”

Mr. Jones frowned.

“Josephine? That’s the pretty one, isn’t it?”

Then a curious thing happened. The upended clothes basket near the bed moved never so slightly. It became of a sudden an interested, immensely intrigued clothes basket.

“Well, I don’t know that you’d call her pretty,” said Mrs. Mumble, grudgingly. “Personally, my idea of beauty is Miss Georgina.”

“I dare say,” said Cicero, nodding her out. “Good night, Mrs. Mumble. I think I’ll go to bed after I’ve done a little work.”

“Good night, sir. What I was going to say was, Miss Josephine gets a little hysterical now and again.”

The basket went back to its earlier position.

“Is there a key to this door?” asked Cicero.

Mrs. Mumble shook her head.

“No, sir. It is very curious. The key of this door disappeared the very day Mr. Yeoman’s grandfather died in this very room.”

Cicero laughed hollowly.

“Excuse my laughter, Mrs. Mumble— ”

“Wait, sir! Now I come to think of it, there is a key that fits this door.”

“Then for heaven’s sake get it,” said Cicero, irritably.

After she had gone, he placed his suit-case by the side of the table and sat down, his head in his hands, and at that moment the basket moved stealthily toward him.

Presently Mrs. Mumble returned with a huge and rusty key in her hand.

“Here you are, sir. I thought I’d find it. It was hanging in the still room.”

“Thank you,” said Cicero, and jumped. “Phew! I didn’t notice that!”

He was staring at the basket, which, in its travels, had reached the foot of the bed. He could have sworn—

“That? Oh, that’s the linen basket. It oughtn’t to be up here, but this is the spare room usually. Shall I move it, sir?” The heart in the basket beat a little faster, an unseen face screwed itself up demoniacally.

Cicero shook his head.

“No, no. It doesn’t matter, only I was almost sure—  Good night, Mrs. Mumble.” He went to the door with her, and the closed basket glided to the side of the table. In an instant it was raised and the suit-case had disappeared.

Mrs. Mumble hoped he would sleep well.

“Oh, I shall sleep well!” said the grim young man. “With Dead Man’s Wood on one side, and a beautiful view of Dead Girl’s Lake on another, and the place where Lord Harringay broke his infernal neck— . Yes, I ought to sleep well!”

“Pleasant dreams, sir,” said Mrs. Mumble, “and— ”

“Curse it! It’s locked!” The voice came hollowly from nowhere in particular, and Cicero sprang round.

“Eh?”

“I didn’t speak, sir,” said Mrs. Mumble.

“Strange. Where's my suit-case?” roared Cicero, glaring round.

“Your suit-case, sir? You brought it up here. That’s funny.”

She looked under the bed. In her experience, lost suit-cases had a habit of straying under beds.

“Oh, terribly amusing!” said Cicero, between his teeth. “I’m absolutely sure I brought it up.”

He dashed out of the room, followed by the old woman. Instantly the basket was raised, and a yellow suit-case thrust out.

A minute later and the two were back.

“I’m perfectly certain I brought it up here,” Cicero said, emphatically. “I remember putting it down by that table, and— ” He could only stand and stare.

“There it is, all the time, sir,” said Mrs. Mumble, and Cicero passed his hand across his forehead.

“Was it there before?” he asked, faintly.

Helen had heard the sound of scurrying feet, and looking very young and girlish in her blue kimono, she stood at the door.

“Have you lost something, Mr. Jones?” she asked.

“Mr. Jones has found it now,” said Mrs. Mumble. “Good night, sir. Good night, Miss Helen. Your father’s gone to bed, and so has Miss Josephine. Good night, Mr. Jones. Come along, Miss Helen.”

Helen turned with a gesture which only a kimono permits.

“I wish to speak to Mr. Jones,” she said, quietly, and the housekeeper was aghast.

“But my dear—”

“That is quite enough, Mrs. Mumble,” not without dignity.

Mrs. Mumble retired, inwardly protesting.

“I wanted to see you, Mr. Jones, to lend you a little book.” She had been primly standing at the door, but now permitted herself to venture into the room.

Cicero was for the first time amused.

“A little book? What is it, a ghost story?” he asked, and Helen shook her head.

“No; it is called, ‘If he had had his chance.’ I found it extremely useful when I was head girl at St. Margaret’s, in bringing wild, and turbulent spirits to a realisation of their opportunities.”

Cicero smiled. “Indeed? But I’m not a wild or turbulent spirit, Helen.”

He sat on the edge of the table, watching her, and saw that she had something more to say.

“I had to see you, Mr. Jones,” she said, at last. “I don’t think I should have slept if I hadn’t.”

Was she going to tell him about Josephine’s terrible secret? His own mind was not yet made up as to the course he should pursue. He ought to go to the police, and yet—

“I think one owes a duty to one’s fellow creatures,” said Helen, and looking round at the open door, leant forward, and in a low voice: “Mr. Jones— you are in danger!”

Cicero stood up.

“You are in mortal peril!” whispered Helen, and his blood ran cold.

9: The Down, Down, Down Girl

HE had expected this, and all that he feared was true! He was in danger!

How often had he read those words in a manuscript, and had jeered at the author because he had not found a synonym.

“You— you mean it. From— from— whom?”

“From— Josephine!” she breathed.

“Oh lord! From the down, down, down girl?”

Helen nodded mysteriously.

“I will tell you, Mr. Jones. No, I’ll sit here.” She declined the invitation of the chair he offered and vaulted on to the basket.

“One moment,” said Cicero, “Jo— Josephine is your sister?”

Helen tightened her lips.

“Yes, I often regret it,” she said. “First let me explain the extraordinary scene which you witnessed, a scene which can only be compared to the occasion when Miss Reppley came unexpectedly into the dormitory and discovered the senior prefect reading Three Weeks to the innocent children of the Fifth Form. We have a great secret in this house.”

So it was true! His breath came faster.

“I understand,” he said, quietly.

“My sister, who has a sanguinary, if literary mind, and who murders on an average three persons a week— one of whom is usually a child of tender years— ”

“Good God!” gasped Cicero, and Helen’s blue eyes reproved him.

“I’d rather you didn’t swear,” she said. “Naturally— ” she stopped suddenly, and rubbed her leg. Something had stung her left calf.

Cicero did not observe the incident. He was pacing the room, his hands behind him, his mind working furiously. Suddenly he stopped.

“But you— you poor child. Do you have to stand by?”

“I am helpless,” said Helen, shaking her head. “I have no authority. Now, if I were at St. Margaret’s—”

“But you say I am in danger?”

“Yes, deadly danger. Josephine would stop at nothing.”

For the tenth time that evening he employed his handkerchief, which was already moist.

“Then what do you advise me to do?”

“Make your escape whilst you can,” said Helen, firmly. “Wow!” She leapt to the floor with a scream, and rubbed herself at great speed. “Something stuck into me,” she exclaimed, and peered down at the basket. “It is a hair-pin! I’m sorry.” When she looked again the hair-pin was gone.

Again Cicero resumed his pacing.

“Suppose I do not clear out?” he asked. “What will happen to me?”

“Surely, Mr. Jones, you know,” she said, reproachfully. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but— but—” In an excess of emotion her voice grew husky, and shook, and her words sounded in his ears like the knell of doom. “You will go away to a place which is beyond the reach of your loved ones!”

Cicero Jones reeled.

“There is no time to be lost,” he said.

“Remember,” said Helen, “Josephine is a courageous woman— Hark!”

Cicero listened, with a queer tickling of his spine.

“I thought I heard a sound— a creaky sound,” said Helen.

Cicero crept to the door and peered into the half darkness of the corridor. He remembered vaguely that Georgina— was that the taller one’s name?— said that Josephine walked in her sleep. He came back to whisper an inquiry of the important Helen, a majestic figure, tingling with the greatness of the moment.

“That is part of the plot to trap you,” she said, instantly. “You think I am being disloyal to my sister— it can bear that interpretation. But I should be false to the principles which I acquired at St. Margaret’s if I didn’t try to help you.”

Cicero seized her small hand and wrung it. He felt that he could never repay her for her splendid heroism.

“Where is your sister now?”

Helen put her fingers to her lips and went noiselessly forth. She was gone two minutes, and came back as mysteriously.

“She’s not in her room!” she breathed. “Perhaps she is in the garden. She often goes there at night.”

They walked cautiously to the window and stared into the dark. Slowly the basket followed, making blindly for the door. There was a muttered curse, as it missed the opening, and cannoned sideways to where the two were watching, but neither heard.

“I see nothing,” said Helen, tremulously.

“And I. We— ow!”

Cicero’s hand had touched the basket, and he sprang round.

“W-what’s that?” he squeaked.

Helen looked.

“How you frightened me,” she whispered. “It is the linen basket!”

He could only point a wavering finger from one part of the room to the other.

“It was there— then it was there! Now it is here!”

A sweet smile dawned on Helen’s face, and she laid her small white hand on his arm. Had she been asked to describe her action she would have done so in those very words.

“Poor Mr. Jones,” she said, softly, “how well I understand your state of mind! Try to forget your trouble. You are distraught. If she is in the garden we shall see her. If she’s lurking— ”

“Wait!” said Cicero. “She’ll see us!” He walked to the wall and switched out the light. “Now open the window.”

They thrust out their heads, searching the dark garden left and right.

“I don’t see her, Mr. Jones, and yet I feel that she’s close at hand— ” Suddenly she shrieked.

“What— what—”

“Something pinched me,” howled Helen, “Oh— put on the light, please.”

He stumbled to the wall his hand groping wildly for a switch unfamiliarly located. At last he found it. The first thing he saw was an overturned linen basket.

Helen, ashen faced and wide-eyed, was leaning against the wall. He thought she was fainting, and jumped to her side. In truth she desired earnestly the privacy which would enable her to rub her leg where two vicious fingers had nipped her.

The basket he must have knocked over in his rush to the light switch, he decided; he did not think it was strange that it lay at the foot of the bed.

Helen waved his attentions aside. She was calm as last, loth to leave the scene in which she played a principal character. The house was silent— Cicero Jones extremely wakeful and apprehensive. Also he did not wish to be alone. Thus, both might excuse the impropriety of the interview.

“Would it pain you?” he questioned her, “if I asked you to tell me about your sister’s lover— the dark one?”

“Georgina’s?”

He nodded.

“Yes, do you know what happened to him?”

“Ernest Charles?” Helen knitted her brows. “Do you know, I haven’t seen him for quite a long time!” she confessed, and Cicero shivered slightly.

“I know that you haven’t,” he said, with significance.

“The last time,” said Helen, thoughtfully, “let me see— he was walking by the lake— with Josephine!”

The young man breathed heavily.

“Well, he’ll never walk by the lake with Josephine any more,” he said, soberly. “Why not? Because he’s down, down, down!”

Helen was not surprised. Ernest Charles was always a little depressed when he was with Josephine. In fact, Josephine had the knack of depressing most people. She said so.

“Now he’s suppressed,” said Cicero. “If he had a little more spirit— ”

“That’s what the poor fellow will never have,” said the grim Cicero. “Helen, what am I to do?”

Helen had already decided her plan.

“Stay here, lock yourself in, and put the key in your pyjama pocket.”

There was a groan, a hollow, heartrending groan that came from the farther end of the room.

Cicero blinked.

“Wh-what was that?” he asked.

“I think it is a water pipe.”

“What on earth are you doing here, Helen?”

Helen turned with a start. Standing in the open doorway was Georgina. She had the appearance of having been roused from sleep. It was an artistic effect.

“Come in, Georgina,” quavered Helen. She felt a little nervous.

“I heard your voice,” said Georgina, coldly. “I didn’t know you were entertaining our guest, Helen!”

“I had something to say to Mr. Jones.” Helen strove to recover her lofty rôle of woman of the world, and failed.

“Well, you can say it downstairs, my dear,” said Georgina, sweetly. “Mr. Jones, I’ve made some cocoa for you— won’t you take Mr. Jones down, Helen? He’d love to see your school certificate, and the— the prize you won for elocution.”

Josephine always said that that prize was a gift for Helen.

Mr. Jones hated cocoa, but he felt the disapproval that was Helen’s portion, and welcomed a graceful exit from a scene which might easily have been embarrassing. He waited at the door, expecting Georgina to follow.

“I want to put a new pillow-slip on your bed,” said Georgina, glibly. “I came hoping you were still awake. We are rather particular about pillow slips at Crab Apple Farm— er— a sort of family tradition.”

She heard their feet upon the stairs, and called, hoarsely: “Josephine!”

The door of a cupboard at the end of the room opened, and a dishevelled Josephine staggered forth.

“Did you find anything?” asked Georgina, eagerly.

Josephine straightened her wayward hair. “Do you think I should be fined for murdering Helen?” she asked. “Is it still a crime in this country to kill one’s sister? I could plead—”

“Did you make any discovery?”

“Nothing,” said Josephine, bitterly.

“The suit-case?”

“Locked, and none of the keys fitted! But the bonds are there— I heard the rustle of paper. I’m going to make sure— where’s Jordan?”

“He’s gone to bed. Jo! Do you think it is safe?”

Josephine sniffed contemptuously.

“Safe! He’s scared to death! Go downstairs and keep them there for half an hour. Encourage Helen to talk. Goodness knows, she doesn’t want any encouragement! Did you tell him I walked in my sleep?” Georgina nodded.

“It wasn’t necessary. I thought of coming back in the middle of the night, but I needn’t do that.” She lifted the suitcase and shook it. “Listen! Get my keys out of my dressing-case—”

The murmur of voices came to them, and Georgina flew to the door.

“Quick!” she gasped, “they’re coming back!'”

Josephine dropped the suit-case, gathered up her dressing-gown, and ran. The door of the cupboard had scarcely closed upon her before the two came back. And Helen was talking.

“...Of course, I told the house prefects that sort of thing must never happen again whilst I was head girl.”

“And I think you were right,” said Cicero, heartily.

Georgina was in a panic. If Helen had detained him another five minutes!

“Why don’t you take Mr. Jones into the garden, Helen? It is lovely on a moonlight night—”

Cicero Jones looked at the girl by his side, and their eyes met. So Georgina was in it! They wanted to get him into the garden!

“I don’t think so,” he said.

“Well, won’t you come into the garden with me?” asked Georgina, desperately.

“No!” said Cicero, emphatically.

“Mr. Jones doesn’t want to go into the garden,” said Helen, “and really, I don’t think father would like it.”

Georgina could have murdered her on the spot. She must get Josephine out of the room by some ruse or other. Suddenly Cicero felt his arm gripped, and he was dragged, protesting, to the window.

“The lake looks lovely,” cried Georgina, hysterically, “you can see it from here. Keep your eye fixed on the lake, and you’ll see the most wonderful sight. The ghost of Queen Elizabeth.”

“Don’t want to see it!” roared Cicero, dragging himself clear. “Don’t want to see it!”

Helen’s nose went up into the air.

“I think we had better go to bed,” she said, and Georgina closed her eyes and prayed. She was at the end of her resources, and it rattled her to know that Helen, watchful and superior, had recovered command of the situation. She could do no more. Raising her voice, she spoke, but it was the concealed Josephine she addressed.

“Good night I I’ll be on hand— but you’ll have to get out of this as best you can!” And she dragged Helen from the room.

She was threatening him! There was no longer any attempt at concealment. Openly and defiantly she had threatened him. He locked the door, and taking out the key, laid it on the window ledge. He did not undress. Sleep was not for him that night. He wished he had brought a book— but the manuscripts! Those blessed scripts Morpeth had given him. He never dreamt that he would be glad to read a play. He fetched them out of his suit-case and began reading, and, as he read, he grew interested. He was turning the second leaf of the second act when he heard a sound. Dropping the script to his knees, he listened. It was repeated, and he rose, his knees wobbling.

“Who’s there? There’s someone in that cupboard! Come out!”

He felt his hair rise as the door of the cupboard slowly opened, and Josephine came out. Her eyes were wide open, her hands outstretched as though she was groping for something. With deliberate, stately strides she walked past him to the door.

“She’s walking in her sleep,” gasped Cicero.

At the door the eerie figure fumbled for a moment.

“Where’s the key?” she asked, sharply— too sharply for a somnambulist.

“You’re awake!” He pointed an accusative finger. “You’re awake!”

Josephine opened and shut her eyes rapidly.

“Where— where am I?” she asked. “I remember— I saw you— you fixed your eyes on me— I wake to find myself here with you alone— you hypnotised me!”

Cicero could only beat the air feebly.

How far her acting would have carried her she could only afterwards surmise. At that moment there was a heavy step in the passage, and a sharp rap on the door. “Jones!” said Jordan’s voice.

“Your father!” whispered the horrified Cicero.

10: "You Must Return Them"

IT came upon them both that the position was an awkward one.

Josephine was already clutching her dressing-gown decorously; Cicero was wishing he hadn’t taken off his collar.

They were together, and the door was locked.

“Can I see you for a minute?” demanded Jordan’s voice.

“Your father! And you here in these— these perfectly horrible circumstances!” said Cicero, and Josephine was instantly penitent.

“I’m so sorry! Open the door, and I’ll explain.”

He hesitated for a second, then went to the window for the key. His hand shook so— she heard his oath.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’ve dropped the key out of the window,” he wailed.

“Tell him!’’ hissed Josephine.

“I’ve dropped the key out of the window, Mr. Yeoman,” shouted Cicero; “I locked the door and put the infernal thing on the ledge.”

“Why the dickens did you lock the door,” grumbled Jordan’s voice. “I’ll go down and get it.”

They stood in silence.

“Miss Yeoman, I swear that I had no idea you were here—”

“Of course you hadn’t,” said Josephine, full of remorse. “It was all my own stupidity. When he comes I’ll get into the cupboard. Mr. Jones, I’m so sorry.” She held out her hand.

“Not so sorry as I am,” said Cicero, truthfully.

“I’ve greater cause,” she said, and then: “I’m going to let you go.”

“Let me go?”

She nodded.

“You know what I mean. I feel very sorry for you now. It has come to me suddenly what this life means to you.”

Cicero scratched his head.

“I don’t understand you.”

“You have something in that bag— some papers. I won’t be more explicit. I know who you are.”

He could only look at her.

“And you’re sorry for me.” He gripped her hand. “You’re the first person I’ve ever met who has understood what a perfectly rotten job I’ve got.”

“You ought really to return them,” said Josephine. “I know I’m being Helenish, but you ought.”

“Return ’em both?” asked Cicero, incredulously.

“Are there only two?” asked Josephine, in amazement.

“Only two!” he said. “I don’t know why you’re taking this interest in me, and I’m afraid I must be guided by my judgment. It wouldn’t be fair to Morpeth—”

“Is he your— confederate?”

“That’s the very word! I should be rather letting him down. I don’t suppose a tragedy more or less matters with him—”

“Here’s the key— catch!” It was Jordan’s voice outside, and Mr. Jones ran to the window. He thrust the key in the lock and opened the door to— Helen.

Josephine shrank behind the bed-board.

“I’m so sorry, bothering you, Mr. Jones, but, you know, I am quite alarmed about Josephine. I’ve searched the house, and daddy has been into the garden,” said Helen, in distress.

“One moment whilst I— I— er— get my watch and chain,” said poor Cicero, and closed the door on her. He turned in time to see Josephine disappear under the basket— and he began to understand things.

Jordan was there when he opened the door, and behind him a quivering Helen.

“Have you seen or heard anything of Josephine?” demanded Jordan, who seemed worried. “Helen tells me that she is not in the house. I thought you might have been talking to her from the window. She has a trick of mooning about the garden at night.”

The basket was moving slowly but surely.

“Josephine?” said Cicero, recklessly.

“Good lord, yes. Saw her in the garden a few minutes ago. Just come over here, Mr. Yeoman, and Helen, please.” He almost dragged them to the table by which his suitcase stood. This he lugged to the table, and snapped open. The basket was travelling faster now; was half-way to the door. If he could hold their attention—

“I want to show you something,” he said, rummaging furiously in the case. “Something I don’t suppose any of you have ever seen.” He jerked out a small silver box. ”You’ll never guess what that is.” His voice was shrill, his tone intense.

Jordan thought he had been drinking, and was perfectly sure he had when the case was opened, to reveal nothing more remarkable than a safety razor. By that time the basket had scuttled through the open door. Jordan fell over it when he came out, and said things which Helen never dreamt a God-fearing man could say.

11: Poor Detectives

JOSEPHINE came down to superintend the breakfast, and Mrs. Mumble thought that she was unusually quiet. Even Jordan, who was not sensitive to the moods of his children, remarked upon her saddened attitude, and spoke earnestly of her liver.

The great opportunity had come to Josephine, and she had allowed it to pass. Theoretically, the business of handing over a criminal to the police was a very simple one, but in practice—  She liked the errant Jones. He had been so decent— so kindly. She liked him— just that and nothing more. She was not the romantic kind, she told herself. Georgina was. He liked Georgina. She could see that by the attention he paid to her at breakfast. She was sitting thinking when Mrs. Mumble brought in the post.

“Put ’em down,” said Josephine, dreamily,

Mrs. Mumble had fallen under the spell of the man’s charm, apparently, and stopped to contribute a word of praise.

“The way he’s getting on with Miss Georgina! You’d think they’d known one another for years,” she said, ecstatically. “And Mr. Dowling’s watching ’em, so jealous!”

Josephine roused herself.

“Chink— Mr. Dowling— is he here?”

“In the garden, Miss. He looked perfectly ghastly when Mr. Jones took Miss Georgina’s hand.”

“I don’t want to know anything about it,” said Josephine, brusquely, but the good lady was not so easily silenced.

“Miss Georgina might go farther and fare worse,” she remarked.

Josephine snapped her to silence, and was sorry.

“What about dinner to-night?”

“There’s lamb,” suggested the housekeeper.

“Lamb! Haven’t those cursed lambs grown up yet?” demanded Josephine, savagely. “I’m sick of lamb. What did he take her hand for?” she asked.

“She got a thorn in her finger from one of them blush roses; but he did it in such a way!”

The woebegone face of Ernest Charles Dowling appeared at the window, and Josephine beckoned him in. He welcomed the invitation.

“Can I have a word with you, Josephine?”

Mrs. Mumble, scenting drama, was reluctant to leave.

“Josephine,” he said, when she had gone, “you know— everybody knows— how I feel toward Georgina.”

Josephine, wilfully dense, shook her head.

“Of course you do,” he said, indignantly. “You must have seen— you must have noticed my— my state of mind!”

“Do you mean that you love Georgina?” she asked, bluntly.

“Of course I do. Dash it— of course I do!”

“There’s no ‘of course’ about it. Well, what of it, Chinky?”

“I thought she— she felt the same way,” said the miserable young man, and demanded wrathfully: “Who is this, Jones?”

“Well, he is— this Jones. That’s who he is. He differs from all the other Joneses by being this Jones,” said Josephine.

“They’re as thick as— as thieves!” Mr. Dowling’s eye was wild. “They’ve gone down to the post office together, and she’s only known him ten minutes!”

It was unfortunate that he should have come to Josephine that morning, for she was badly in need of a target for her general sense of discontent.

“Charles Ernest, you have no right in the world to call my sister’s conduct into question,” she said, viciously. “What are you to her? A carrier of flowers and punk poetry!”

“Punk!” said the horrified Ernest “What do you mean, punk poetry?”

“When a man rhymes ‘Tender’ with ‘Bend her,’ he’s a punk poet,” said Josephine. “Punk is an expressive word which I culled from the movies. Besides— ” She stopped when she saw his face.

“I— I’m feeling pretty bad about it, Josephine,” he said. “It isn’t natural for people to be in love with one another after they’ve only known each other for a few hours— it isn’t— right.”

“It is very, very natural and it is right,’ disagreed Josephine, “and say nothing before Helen. If she thinks you’re in love with Josephine, she’ll write to the papers about it.”

By her impatience Helen, too, had something to communicate. For the moment Josephine held her off.

“I suppose I am a fool,” said Ernest, despondently.

“Of course you’re a fool,” said the candid Josephine. “Any man is a fool who thinks a girl is to be won with verse and vegetables. They only please, and no woman wants to be pleased and pleased and pleased! You should have taken her when you had the chance.”

“Whatever is the matter with him?” asked Helen, when he had gloomed himself into the open.

“Nothing— now what is your trouble?”

“Do you know, Josephine, I’ve been thinking about Mr. Jones. I’m not so sure that I like him.”

“That ought to break his heart,” said Josephine, sarcastically.

“Don’t be horrid. I’ve done a lot for that man. More, perhaps, than any other woman would have done,” said Helen, and Josephine wondered if this was the head girl of St. Margaret’s speaking. “But— I don’t know, I seem to have taken a dislike to him to-day.”

“Why?”

“Well, he’s— fickle. This morning he has taken scarcely any notice of me—”

“And you put yourself in his way, too— I noticed that,” interrupted her sister.

“We had a secret in common,” said Helen, with dignity; “but there’s such a thing as cheapening oneself. What I’m worrying about is, are we doing right in sheltering this man? Are we doing our duties as good citizens— as loyal subjects of the king— for whom I pray every night?”

“Ought we have Mr. Jones arrested? Is that what you mean?”

Helen nodded.

“Yes. I’ve given him his chance. I’ve offered him advice. If he thinks more of Georgina’s opinion than mine— well, let the law take its course!”

“You bloodhound!” said Josephine, admiringly.

It was some time before Georgina came back from the village and, seeing her flushed face and shining eyes, Josephine’s heart sank.

“I’ve something to tell you,” she said, and Josephine followed her up to her study, determined to give what help she could to these strange lovers. It required an effort on her— exactly why the effort was needed she could not tell herself.

Georgie shut the door.

“He is the man!” she said, and her sister stared.

“I knew that all along— ”

“He sent a wire,” said Georgina, “a code wire! I saw it over his shoulder as he wrote.” She unfolded a paper. “Here it is, I copied it: ‘To Muchtalk. Both O.K. Buy.’”

“Muchtalk?”

“A code message to a companion in crime,” said Georgina, thrillingly. “Think of it! There’s Jordan!” She dashed out of the room and yelled down the stairs.

Jordan came up at a run. Into his uncomprehending ears Georgina babbled her incoherent story.

“But who is he?” asked the puzzled man. “I don’t think it matters who he is,” said Josephine, brusquely. “You haven’t played the game with him, anyway.”

Georgina looked at her aghast.

“But, Jo! I thought you wanted him captured?”

“Who is he?” asked Jordan again.

It was Georgina who replied.

“He is the— the bank robber!”

“Who?” asked Jordan, staggered.

“The man Jo was looking for— John Franklin!” She met Josephine’s reproachful eyes. There was a hint of tears in them, too.

“How can you, Georgie, after he has been so nice to you. And you to him!’’

“But— I— thought— ” began the bewildered girl.

“The man is fond of you!” said Josephine, vehemently. “Even Mrs. Mumble could see that— you— you led him on until he betrayed himself. It was rather hateful of you— what is amusing you, Jordan?”

Jordan Yeoman was shaking with laughter.

“You poor detectives! Franklin was arrested yesterday!”

12: Our Mr. Jones

THERE was a dead silence.

“Come down, it is in the newspaper.”

A solemn procession descended to the dining-room, and Jordan, with exasperating slowness, searched the columns, Helen, who had been flitting in and out of the room all the morning, a member of the audience.

“Here you are: ‘John Franklin, the man wanted in connection with the Ninth National Bank robbery, was arrested at Rochester yesterday morning.’”

“Then who is Mr. Jones?” asked the girls, in chorus.

“Who should he be— but Mr. Jones? Are those the letters?” He took an envelope from Helen’s hand.

“None for you, daddy, one for Georgie.”

“But,” began Josephine, “if he isn’t— ”

“Leave him alone,” said Jordan. “What is your letter, Georgie?”

She slit the envelope and took out a large sheet of paper. For a moment she could not grasp the meaning of the message the sheet carried, and then with a wild whoop she sprang up from the chair.

“They’ve gone— they’ve gone!” she cried, and danced her joy.

“What has gone, beside your mind?” demanded Josephine.

“My plays have gone to be read by the Tremendous Jones!” said Georgina, breathlessly. Listen:

‘Dear Madam,

I have read the two plays which you have submitted, and like them, but am taking a further opinion upon them. I will write you again when I have had an opportunity of consulting Mr. Cicero Jones, my reader.

Sincerely, H. Gallet-Morpeth.’”

Josephine screwed up her forehead.

“Morpeth? Where have I heard that name?”

“Morpeth is a town to the north of Newcastle, with a population of 76,000,” murmured Helen.

“And here’s a P.S. written in Mr. Morpeth’s own hand,” Georgina went on,

“‘Mr. Jones is taking your two plays with him into the country. I shall be able to give you his opinion very soon. These are the only two plays he is reading.’

“Isn’t it wonderful? Isn’t it ravishing, Jo? The Tremendous Jones! At this very minute he’s probably reading The Wanderer!”

“Don’t set your hopes too high, old girl,” warned Jordan. “This Terrific Jones— ”

“Tremendous.”

“Well, whatever he is, he might not like the stuff.”

“Isn’t it gorgeous— and what beautiful paper it is written on!”

Josephine took the sheet and read mechanically: “‘347, Leicester Buildings. Telephone... Telegraphic address’— what’s that word?— ‘Muchtalk’— oh, hell and treacle!”

“Josephine, my sweet daughter!” protested her shocked parent.

“He said he had two in his bag, and I told him to send them back!” said Josephine, in a hushed voice.

“Who— what?”

“Our Mr. Jones— is the Tremendous Jones!”

They looked at one another, speechless for a second.

“No!”

“The wire!” said Josephine. “He said they were O.K.— buy them! But he didn’t know that we were the George Yeos. And he didn’t know that George Yeo’s sister had tried to rob him and had broken into his room. Swear for me, Jordan darling! Helen, leave the room!”

“I shan’t! I certainly shan’t! It is very awkward, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean by robbing him?” asked Jordan, and the truth came out.

“I tried to steal his suit-case.”

“I have it!” said Helen. “Suppose I see him and explain everything— ”

“Father,” said Josephine, with quiet earnestness, “and you realise how serious the position is when I call you that— I must insist upon your muzzling Helen.”

“If I went to him very nicely and took him into the garden,” she suggested.

“Woman, be silent!” hissed Josephine. “ What we have to do is this. We’ve got to keep from him the fact that these plays are yours, Georgina. The word ‘play’ must never be uttered in this house.”

“Absolutely,” agreed Georgina.

“Any reference to the theatre is taboo.”

“Suppose I said to him— ” began Helen.

“Jordan, assert your rapidly vanishing authority!” ordered Josephine. “Couldn’t you send Helen to Aunt Marjorie’s?”

“I won’t go! I’ll be dashed if I go, so there!” said Helen, with determination.

Jordan was in a dilemma.

“I’m not in this,” he said. “You understand, I’m not in it, but at the same time I suggest to you that if you are going to carry out this plan of yours, you had better have some definite policy.”

“The policy is a simple one,” said Josephine. “No word about plays, in the first place. If we can convey the impression that we disapprove of the modern drama, so much the better.”

“If we only knew what the papers had been saying about plays lately,” wailed Georgina.

“I could tell you if Helen wasn’t here,” said Josephine. “The point is, that nothing must be said or done which can in any way associate us with the drama. You understand, don’t you, Helen, darling angel?”

Helen tossed her head with a hurt smile.

“Don’t be nasty, duckums,” Josephine pleaded. “You won’t give it away, will you? If you do, I’ll hang your cammy on the line with a big notice attached, ‘Helen’s Hundies’!”

As Helen said, a girl was helpless in the face of sheer vulgarity.

The plan was no sooner adopted when complications appeared in the shape of Ernest Charles Dowling, and he was in that mood of purpose when he could neither be persuaded to accompany Jordan to the sties nor be satisfied with Helen amongst the roses.

“I want to see Georgina,” he said. He was very pale.

Jordan signalled to his brood.

“Alone!” added Mr. Dowling.

“Alone, Chinky?” said Georgina, in surprise. “Why, is anything the matter?”

Josephine nodded to the door, and they stole forth, leaving Chinky to the fulfilment of his wish.

“I think it is so absurd making a mystery of a proposal,” said Helen, outside.

Josephine said nothing. The look in Chinky’s eyes told her all that she need know. Georgina would be happy. She was very fond of Ernest Charles, and kept his portrait in a secret drawer of her desk. Josephine used to think that she did this from humane motives, but apparently it was not out of consideration for people who dislike smug portraits of round faces and staring eyes that Georgina had hidden the photograph.

She sat down on the low garden wall— Omar’s wall they called it, because it divided the desert from the sown— and watched Jordan until he was out of sight. Then she saw the Tremendous Jones, and slipped down out of sight, flying to the cover of the rustic summer house which she and Georgina had built. He passed into the house, and a minute later Georgina and Chinky came out, and Chinky was radiant.

She turned her head away that she might not embarrass Georgina by witnessing their leave-taking, and when the young man had gone she joined her sister.

“Chinky is a darling, but— it complicates matters frightfully. Chinky says Mr. Jones is in love with me. I like Mr. Jones enormously. I think he is divine, but, of course, he’s not the kind of man I could love.”

“I should say that if you could love Ernest Charles, you could love anybody,” said Josephine, unpleasantly. “What do you propose?” she asked.

“I mustn’t let Mr. Jones know about my engagement.”

“That’s all right,” said Josephine; “but does that also mean that you have to lure Mr. Jones on to believing that his affection is returned? Because, if it does, dearly beloved sister, I’m like Jordan, I’m not in it!”

13: A Jones In The Family

CICERO JONES felt strangely and blissfully rested. Why this should be the case after a few hours’ sleep that followed upon the most nerve-racking night, he was at a loss to explain. But even Dead Man’s Pool had a beauty in the early morning sunlight. After all, the pool wasn’t responsible for its name, or the insanity of those who gave it such a name. And the farm was beautiful, and the home-made bread and the fragrant coffee, and the incessant quack of ducks.

He saw the girls in earnest consultation, and paused in the doorway to admire the straight back and clear skin of Josephine. There was something very vital, something immensely capable about her. She was so real, so alive in the sunlight of morning. So very much of the garden which had scented his room before he woke.

He walked across the little lawn to join them.

“I haven’t seen you since last night, Miss Josephine,” he said.

Josephine hoped he hadn’t seen much of her last night.

He had been to the village, and thought it was the loveliest old place he had ever seen. Helen arrived to confirm this view. It reminded her of Flaythorpe. That was near St. Margaret’s.

“The school drama had a scene painted showing the village cross,” explained Helen.

“The school dramatic society?” Mr. Jones was interested.

“Rather!” said Helen. “I used to produce— as head girl I was, of course, chairman of the society. Being brought up in an atmosphere of drama, naturally I knew all the tricks of the trade.”

“How interesting!” said Mr. Jones. What plays did you do?”

“The School for Scandal, The Pirates of Penzance, and we did an awfully good little sketch which Georgina—”

“Sent to you!” interrupted Josephine, explosively. “Yes, I remember. Of course, we know nothing whatever about plays.” Georgina’s glare was fiendish, but Helen, conscious of her superior tact and her ability to turn the conversation at will, smiled encouragingly.

“Are you interested in plays?”

“No; oh, no!” said Josephine, shocked. “Oh dear, no! We live a very quiet, natural life here. And the theatre is so artificial, don’t you think? Helen, love, will you help me bandage the cow’s nose? Come along, sweetie.”

How like Ernest Charles it was to put in an appearance at that moment! He was one of those men with the fatal facility of coming back. They did not see him until he was on them. His cold eye fell upon Mr. Jones, and he nodded stiffly.

“Plays?” he said. “Are you talking about plays?”

Josephine knew that the end was very near. “We were,” said the Tremendous Jones, pleasantly.

“Georgina writes under the name of George Yeo,” said Mr. Dowling.

He felt that he was helping to spread the fame of his fiancée, but he did not foresee the effect upon the boarder. Mr. Cicero Jones looked from one to the other in amazed wonder.

“Then you are George Yeo? What an extraordinary coincidence that I should come to this farm!”

“What an extraordinary coincidence that there’s a farm to come to!” said Josephine, unsteadily.

Half an hour later, long after Josephine had come away from the hectic group, congratulators and congratulated, Cicero walked into the kitchen. He came to the kitchen because he could find Josephine nowhere else. It was Mrs. Mumble’s day off, and Josephine was making a rice pudding.

She nodded gravely to him, and he took a chair.

“You— you don’t feel very bad about our— not telling you?” she said, and hung on his words.

“Feel bad about it?” said the young man, in wonder. “I don’t quite know what you mean.”

“That’s all right,” said Josephine, with a deep sigh. “They are wonderful plays.”

He nodded.

“I think they are. A lot of it, of course, is sheer melodrama.”

“Melodrama?”

“Yes, a little extravagance of language, and a little impossibility of situation, for example—”

“I know— I know!” she said suddenly, and then, striking an attitude, she recited: “‘That afternoon I met Gregory by the lake. I accused him. He sneered at me. All the dormant madness in me leapt to life. I sprang at him— ’”

Mr. Jones listened dumbfounded.

“‘He lost his balance and fell into the water. He tried to escape, but I thrust him down with my foot— down, down, down!’”

He put his hand to his forehead.

“Down, down, down!” he repeated.

“What a lunatic I am! It was in The Wanderer. Do you ever rehearse your sister’s plays?”

She smiled.

“We often do that. We were rehearsing that very scene yesterday when you came. Mr. Jones, I have a confession to make to you. Have you seen the notices pinned on the curtains in the dining-room?”

“The Wanteds and Missings?”

“You will think I am childish,” she went on; “but— well, we aren’t very well off, and I suppose that when one isn’t very well off one dreams of windfalls. I thought you were such. I have always had an idea that one of these days a celebrated criminal, for whose capture a big reward was offered, would come our way.”

“You thought I was— what?”

“A bank robber!” said Josephine.

So that was why she had come to his room! The inexplicable was most simply explained.

“Come here, young person!” he said, severely, and drew another chair toward him. “Sit down whilst I tell you what I think of you.”

Helen had, as she often confessed, seen in her life many remarkable sights. She hoped to see many more, but never had she dreamt that.

“I shouldn’t go in, father,” she said, quietly, standing guard on the outer door, “and I shouldn’t go to the summer-house, if I were you— Ernest and Georgina are there.”

“Rubbish! Who’s in the house?”

“Mr. Jones and Josephine,” said Helen, and shook her head. “I saw quite enough to convince me that we are going to have a Jones in the family. I think that Josephine at last has got her great reward.”

Jordan whistled, and went back to the pigs.

__________________

12: The Pet Of The Wigshires

THERE are regiments in the Army which are proud, and justly so, of certain regimental pets. One corps possesses a ram, another a deer, one a wolf-hound, and one at least claimed a bear that waddled ahead of the regiment. It is somebody's joy to lead the regimental pet with a white leather lead ahead of the band, and it happens in most regiments that that somebody is a drummer.

Now the Wigshire Regiment— its real name I will not give for obvious reasons— had no pet. They wore on their collars the Sphinx of' Egypt: but since no man had ever tamed a Sphinx to walk before a band, and since it must be a Sphinx or nothing with the Wigs— as they were called— the regiment treated the question of animated coats-of-arms with lofty contempt as something too childish to engage its attention.

It was lamentable that the Wigshires found themselves on four consecutive occasions with regiments favoured with divers representatives of the menagerie— lamentable for the reason that there began to grow up in the battalion a most pronounced feeling of dissatisfaction— and in no company was the discontent more strongly expressed than in the 'drums.'

Boy Steevens, a diminutive lad with a freckled face and a snub nose, was unusually bitter.

"There ain't no regiments in the Army, " he said, did this outrageous Boy Steevens, "that ain't got a dog or a goat or a performin' animal walking in front of the band— except us." There was a chorus of gloomy approval.

"You can't have a sp'inx, " protested Boy Carter, his mind running to logic, " 'cos there ain't no sp'inx— at least not a live one, an' the other regiments only have the animals that are on their collar badges."

This was apparently true, but did not help the drums to discover a solution to the difficulty.

"What's the nearest thing to a sp'inx?" demanded Boy Steevens suddenly.

This was a question which none present felt qualified to answer. A sphinx was unlike any representative of the animal world as could be imagined. A terrible problem indeed, and the Wigshires appeared to be doomed to oblivion if they depended for fame on a regimental pet which bore the slightest resemblance to the famed symbol of Egyptian oracle.

Suddenly there was a yell.

Boy Steevens, his eyes blazing with the splendour of his inspiration, had sprung up from the bed-cot upon which he sat. "I know," he cried, "I've got it."

The drums glared at him inquiringly.

"What?" demanded a dozen voices.

"A rabbit!" said Boy Steevens, trembling with excitement, "haven't you ever seen a rabbit— the same shape, the same funny look about its face, and his ears hangin' round his neck like the sp'inx. An' his two paws stuck out just like a sp'inx, an' waggin' his nose up an' down just like, I'll bet, a sp'inx did when he was alive!"

The drums were impressed. Even the most sceptical and cynical had to confess that there was some likeness.

"I'll bet, " said Boy Steevens rapidly, "that a sp'inx is only a skinned rabbit— we'll have a pet, an' I'll lead him."

But the voice of Boy Carter poured cold water on the proposition. "Rabbit ain't anything, " he said, "an' you can't train rabbits to walk in front of a band, because they don't walk— they just lop-lop this way an' that except when they're frightened. I know, " he added, "because I've kept rabbits."

But the drums had seized the idea and had adopted it as their very own with enthusiasm. A small baby rabbit was purchased secretly.

The drums undertook to train the rabbit in the way it should go. And when it was trained so that it should not stray from the straight path: when it had been taught— as Boy Steevens stoutly insisted it could be taught— to stand up on its hind legs and salute when 'God Save the King' was played, then that trained rabbit should be solemnly presented to the Colonel in full view of the regiment.

The training of the rabbit was a tremendous business. They trained him with bugles and they trained him with cabbage leaves, on the whole the cabbage leaves were the more successful. They marched in line (in the seclusion of a field two miles from barracks) blowing their bugles and the rabbit marched in front. He marched in front because they marched behind him. He did not go exactly in the way they wanted him to go, but they went the way he went, and when he stopped to munch grass they stopped too and pretended they intended stopping. They trained him lifting him by the ears, and they trained him by prodding him with a stick, and on the whole he went better when they carried him than when they prodded him.

But there came a day when Horace (for so they called him) really gave the impression that he had of a sudden realised his awful responsibilities; when he walked with stately lope before the frantic bugle march and— wonder of wonders— when it seemed that he understood that 'right turn' and 'left wheel' had some special significance for a marching rabbit.

It was time indeed for the secret to be revealed and for the presentation to be made.

There was a Commanding Officer's Parade due for the Wednesday, for the General commanding the district was coming to make his half-yearly inspection.

"Wednesday's the day," said Boy Steevens, a perspiring little figure as he sat on his cot polishing the brasses of his snowy belt. "Wednesday, chaps— or never."

He was inclined to be melodramatic, this Boy Steevens, and was given to the collection of cigarette pictures— sufficient evidence of a romantic soul.

Wednesday morning came, bright and spring-like, and no more gallant sight has ever been seen that the old barrack square presented with its great elms vivid with tender green, and the scarlet and white of uniforms upon the golden gravel of the square.

The regiment was drawn up in column, eight strong companies at intervals, and before them the drums in their white ribbon-lace and their epaulettes.

A shrill bugle call, and with a crash the rifles of the battalion came to the slope as the General in his cocked hat rode on to the square, followed by his staff. A sharp order and the rifles came to the 'present,' the bugles and the drums sounded the 'general salute.' One drum did not sound.

With a quick motion Boy Steevens raised the head of his drum and lifted out a struggling rabbit.

"Horace, do your duty.'" he hissed, and the sphinx of the Wigshires loped slowly forward till he crouched by the side of the drum-major. That officer was quite unprepared for the apparition . With a nervous little squeak he jumped sideways.

The obedient Horace, not unused to such gyrations, followed with two quick lopes.

The drum-major looked around helplessly. Very gingerly he prodded Horace with the end of his gorgeous staff.

"Get away, bunny", he cajoled, but at that moment came the Colonel's voice— "Battalion will advance in column. By the left— Qui-ck march!"

Crash, crash, crash went the drums of the Wigshires; the drum-major's staff spun round and the whole battalion stepped forward, their heads erect: their shoulders square. Horace leapt away at the first rattle of the drums, dashed madly a dozen paces, looked over his shoulder to see what had happened, and dashed as madly back again and fell in by the side of the purple-faced drum-major, loping steadily forward to the music.

"What the dickens is that strange beast, Colonel," asked the General as the troops swung past.

Colonel Umfreyville fixed his eyeglass. "Looks to me like a rabbit, sir," he said.

A smile broke the stern lines of the General's face— he was a notorious joker. "Do you know," he said drily,"I thought for one moment it was your sphinx.'"

Which shows that there is much in common between drummer-boys and Generals.

"Yes sir," said the tearful Boy Steevens when the parade was dismissed and he faced the laughing officers, "he's mine. I— I thought I'd train him for a regimental pet."

"You had better train him for your dinner-table," suggested the Colonel.

"No, no.'" said the General, who stood by, "that would be too bad; after all, I agree— he is not unlike the sphinx."

"Except that the Egyptian sphinx hasn't a ridiculous woolly tail, sir, said the Colonel, his lips twitching.

"Beg pardon, sir," interrupted Boy Steevens eagerly, "perhaps there's an English sphinx."

"I never thought of that," said the General gravely.

And thus the Wigshires adopted a regimental pet.

_______________________

13: Frank The Trumpeter

FROM out of the mists ahead came three horsemen galloping quickly. They rose over the crest of a distant hill and disappeared into a hollow. A long interval, and then they appeared again, riding in line, erect as though on parade, seemingly oblivious of the fact that somewhere behind them an unseen enemy was 'sniping' them at his leisure.

Some of the bullets fell short and sent little fountains of earth spurting up from the ground. Some went overhead with a shrill whistle. One at least struck Birchington. Fortunately it was a ricochet that had lost much of its force. Yet it struck the steel stirrup with sufficient vehemence to twist his foot round.

He laughed quietly and did not draw rein. Birchington, a trumpeter of Birchington's Horse, was the youngest soldier in the field that day— was, indeed, the youngest soldier in the army serving in South Africa. Had he been a regular soldier he would have been left behind with the other boys at the base camp, for nowadays drummer boys do not go into the firing line, nor trumpeters of cavalry either, for the matter of that.

But young Birchington, though only fifteen years of age, was a favoured individual. His father, Colonel Birchington, had raised a corps which bore his name, a corps composed of young Colonials, with a sprinkling of English gentlemen who had come to South Africa on the outbreak of war on the off-chance of finding employment with the Army in the field. Colonel Birchington knew the country well. After he had resigned his commission in the British Army he had settled down to ostrich farming in South Africa with his young wife. She had died soon after Frank was born, and since that day the two had been inseparable— the hard fighting Colonel and his baby boy.

The authorities had accepted Colonel Birchington's offer to raise his corps, but had demurred when he suggested that his boy should accompany him in the field.

"He is very young, Colonel," said the Governor.

"That I admit, your Excellency, " said the Colonel firmly, "but the enemy have many boys of even a more tender age in the fighting line— a British boy can take the risk if they can."

The Governor smiled a little sadly.

"You must have your boy, " he said; "after all, you know how to take care of him."

So Frank Birchington, to his joy, became colonel's trumpeter to Birchington's Horse. There was no need for him to learn the calls. From his childhood he had possessed a little trumpet, and his father's servant taught him every call from Reveille to Lights out.

It was a proud boy who rode away from his father's farm to join the column. With his well-fitting khaki uniform, his long glittering sword at his side, a revolver strapped at his waist, and a polished brass trumpet at his back, he made a picture of which any father would be proud. From the toes of his brown top-boots to the crown of his broad-brimmed sombrero hat he was a soldier's son.

Now as he came galloping back to headquarters, a scout to the left and right of him, and the monotonous klick-klock of the Mauser rifles behind him, it seemed years since he had left the farm: it seemed another life that he had led before the call to war had come.

"Get over to the left, Frank," said one of his companions a little anxiously as a bullet fell between them; "we shall have the kopje as a background and our khaki will not offer such a good target."

Obediently the boy turned his horse. He had learnt that bravery is one quality, and foolhardiness another, though they are often confused. There was nothing to be gained by taking unnecessary risks. His father had impressed this fact upon him in their first engagement.

Frank had stood up in a perfect hail of bullets.

"Lie down, Frank," his father called sharply. He himself was crouching behind a convenient ant-hill.

"I am not afraid, father," said Frank, exalted by the sense of danger.

"Am I?" asked his father quietly, and with a blush of shame the boy realised the arrogance of his courage, and sank flat to the ground.

"You've got to remember, my son," said the Colonel that night, when they sat together at their evening meal, "that you are only useful to your country so long as you are alive. In my old days we had a saying that 'dead heroes cannot peel potatoes.'

They took their meals together, for the Colonel was no spartan father who demanded that the difference in ranks should separate them.

Frank and his two comrades gained the lower slopes of the kopje and began to skirt it, and in half an hour they had reached the camp.

The Colonel rode out to meet them. "Well, my boy," he said with a smile, "you have had your first lesson in scouting, what do you think of It?"

"It was fine."' cried the boy; "that is the work I should like to do. It's awfully uninteresting here, dad— we've had two little skirmishes in ten days and neither lasted an hour.'"

The Colonel eyed him thoughtfully.

"I think we shall have all the fighting we want very soon," he said, but would say no more.

BIRCHINGTON'S Horse, with a battalion of infantry and three guns, moved out the next evening for a destination which was known only to the Colonel. He did not share his confidence with Frank, because boys are boys after all, and an indiscretion on Frank's part might have jeopardized the column's safety.

The country abounded in spies; every farmhouse was a secret meeting place from whence news regarding the movements of troops was distributed to interested quarters.

It was against one of these farmhouses that Birchington's column was moving. In spite of Frank's disgust at the inactivity of the column Colonel Birchington had made himself extremely unpopular amongst the marauding commandoes. He moved swiftly and by the nearest way. He never lost his column amid the innumerable spruits and river-beds which abound in the country.

News had been received that a laager had been formed near Van Robeck's farm. A laager meant an armed camp, and it was believed that it formed part of the force of none other than the redoubtable De Wet.

Frank rode by his father's side in the darkness— they had not left the camp until the sun had sunk behind the big mountains to the westward.

They rode in silence for a while, the Colonel busy with his thoughts, and Frank too excited at the prospect of the coming fight to talk coherently He was an important factor in a night engagement. Infantry and guns moving out of sight in the gathering darkness would advance or wheel or retire at the sound of the brazen notes he blew— other forms of command were impracticable.

"Frank," said the Colonel suddenly, "you understand that to-night of all nights you take orders from nobody but myself."

"Yes, father," said the wondering boy.

"A night attack is a hazardous undertaking," the elder man said, "and it can only be carried out by one man. My orders to you are not to be countermanded. If I am wounded— yes, yes," he stretched out his hand and clasped the boy's knee affectionately, "these things happen— you are to take my last order and carry it out."

"I will, father," said Frank, blinking back the tears that rose to his eyes.

No more was said, for at that moment Major Galley-Bolder, second in command, rode up. The Major was one of those short, fussy men, irritable and apprehensive.

So far he had not shone in action; indeed, there were people who suggested that he had behaved with a caution bordering upon cowardice. He did not like Frank, and the dislike was reciprocated. He reined his horse alongside the Colonel's with an awkward tug of his reins, for he was not a good horseman.

"What is the idea of this march, Colonel?" he asked, endeavouring to disguise the irritation in his voice.

In a few words the Colonel enlightened him, dropping his voice so that the men who rode immediately behind could not overhear.

"I think a night attack is perfectly unjustifiable," said the Major hotly "It is endangering life which would not be endangered if the engagement were fought in daylight; hang it..."

"I do not think we need discuss that aspect of the matter," said the Colonel quietly; "the farm lies on the other side of Volkston Gap and the road leads through the Gap itself. If we can get through without opposition I shall put the guns on the hill to cover the farm and attempt to surround it."

"It's suicidal,"stormed the other; "why there may be a thousand burghers there..."

"And there may be a hundred," said the Colonel; "anyway, that is my plan."

The Gap was the key of the situation. As silent as ghosts the column approached it just as the dawn came east.

The gunnery officer had received his orders; with half a battalion of infantry he moved across the veldt to the right to take up a position on the hills, and the column halted to give him a chance of establishing himself. A mounted orderly brought news he had successfully reached the foot of the hill before the Colonel passed the word to advance.

It is said that in that period of waiting somebody (contrary to the strictest orders) struck a match to light a cigarette, and that that somebody was Major Galley-Bolder. Whatever happened, the enemy was warned.

As the head of the column deployed into the little valley a heavy fire broke forth from the left.

The Colonel breathed a sigh of relief. There was no sign from the right, the enemy had not divided his forces, and there would be opposition to the guns.

Frank's trumpet sent out a shrill order on the morning air and the column dismounted. Another call— and they were taking cover and replying steadily to the fire above.

The enemy's fusilade increased in vigour; they held a good position, and were, as the Colonel had feared, stronger than had been reported. Worse, they were moving stealthily along to flank his party. He moved ahead— there was no safer way, keeping a steady fire on the hill.

The guns should be in a favourable position by now and waiting orders.

Then as if by magic the firing on the hill ceased, and with a wild yell men broke from cover and came charging down the hill-side.

"Fix bayonets!" cried Colonel Birchington, and Frank at his side repeated the order. The onrush ceased. The men above had never intended charging— they desired only to take a more effective position, and this they had done.

The Colonel, with a sudden sinking of heart, saw his danger.

"Guns to open fire," he said sharply.

Frank's trumpet was half-way to his lips when he saw his father sway and fall. He was by his side in an instant.

"Father! Father!" he cried, but Colonel Birchington was dead, a bullet had pierced his heart.

Frank staggered back, white of face. Then he remembered his father's instructions and raised his trumpet.

A. hand grasped the instrument rudely.

"What are you doing?"

He turned to meet the livid face of the Major.

"Sound artillery retire, d'ye hear!" almost screamed the officer. "We're trapped. There is no way out of this!"

He wrung his hands in frantic despar.

"Sound it— we may get out— if they start shelling from the hill, they'll hit us.'"

Frank wrenched his arm free.

"I've had my orders, sir," he said, and his voice was broken and hard. He raised his trumpet and the clear thrill of the notes echoed from hill to hill.

"Stop!" cried the second in comnand. "I am in charge now, you young fool— what did you sound?"

"Commence firing," said Frank, and as he spoke three quivering pencils of flame leapt from the hill-side, and the crash of the artillery came like a thunder-clap.

The enemy wavered, the fire slackened instantly, and ere the guns spoke again the foe was in full retreat.

Yet the major had been prophetic, for although the fight was won, the first shell had fallen short, and father and son lay together in death, and near by was the stricken figure of the second in command.

_____________________________

14: The Man Who Killed "X"

Weekly Tale-Teller, April 18―May 23 1914

Being a record of six remarkable cases, narrated by John Tyndall, MVO, Chevalier du Legion d'honneur, Commander of the Order of Isabella, and Detective at Large

1: The Man Who Killed "X"

I KNEW a lady once named Denver May—a fine, handsome doll of a woman with china-blue eyes, peach-like cheeks, and hair of gold, which was just getting a little bit old and had taken on a brown lacquer through which the gold shone.

I met her once professionally, I have spoken to her in a friendly way more than once, and the last time I spoke to her a dear friend of hers named Leggatt waited for me in the dark corridor of my hotel at 3 a.m. on a winter morning and tried to knife me with a long Italian stiletto which proved to be a veritable Fraggecci.

He did not intend comforting my dying moments with the knowledge that he it was who had done this thing, for he wore over his face a portion of a lady's silk stocking, in which, with a practised hand, he had cut two eye-holes. I have often wondered whether that stocking was May's, but the speculation is a fairly idle one.

Anyway, Leggatt misjudged the distance, and I gave him two— one to start him falling, and the other, en route, to keep him fallen. I believe I also kicked him a little when he was down, for I am a sportsman, and had no desire to die in a temperance hotel, to which the exigencies of my profession had brought me.

The last time I saw Denver May she was smiling sweetly at a wise old man in a red silk wrap and a white wig. He wasn't smiling. His lined mouth was drooped, and two deep furrows ran down either side of his face. He looked at her over his big glasses and said with almost pathetic sadness:

"As to the woman, she is a dangerous enemy to society. What is known of her?"

I stepped up to the witness-stand and said:

"She is a blackmailer, and because of her many men have committed suicide."

That is all I said, and May smiled at me from the big yellow dock as though I had paid her the most exquisite compliment.

The old man in the white wig shook his head helplessly.

"A danger to society," he repeated. "You, May Clement Schaffer, will be kept in penal servitude for fifteen years."

She went down from the dock with that little smile, but outside in the high, marbled vestibule, Leggatt sat crouched on a seat crying like a child.

I felt very sorry for Leggatt in a way. I realised how lonely he must be without the woman whose fortune he had shared— he on one side of the prison gate and she on the other.

In justice to myself, let it be said that I did my best to put them both on the right side— which is the inside.

But in the case of Leggatt there had been some picturesque and scientific perjury at the preliminary magisterial inquiry, and he had not gone for trial.

And here was Leggatt blubbering like a child. How sad! Did I laugh? I did.

He looked at me with his lamps at danger.

"I'll fix you for this, Tyndall!" he gasped. "You dog— laugh at me!"

Yes, he was sobbing his heart out, just as old Alderman Gollington, of Manchester, had sobbed when the pair of them stripped him of his last dollar on the threat of exposing a sin nearly half a century old; so he had gone sobbing, that old man, to the home they had wrecked, and hanged himself in the wine-cellar.

Mrs. Laurie-Franze, of Philadelphia, had wept with even greater passion when Denver May and her colleague had confronted her with the bundle of letters which meant separation from the husband she loved and the two little children she adored. She had pawned her jewels to satisfy May; she had robbed her husband and placed herself still further in their hands. She came to the end of her possibilities, and May with the cherub face, wanted more, Leggatt backing her up.

To-day Mrs. Laurie-Franze thinks she is a snake-charmer; she gives the attendants little trouble, except now and again, when she is very terrible indeed, and it takes six nurses to get her to the padded ward.

Laugh? I would laugh to see Leggatt in hell!

"I'll fix you," he said again between sniffles.

"I shall be doing a little fixing myself," I said. "Look out for me."

Did he try? I think he did. But a good blackmailer is a specialist. Exponents of laryngotomy are, as a rule, indifferent chiropodists, and criminals, who terrorise by threats are most indifferent assassins. So I found.

He handed me all the lethal equipment he could find. He brought to his assistance a man named Badger—James Badger, commonly called "Talking Jimmy."

What do you do with a beautiful box of chocolates that comes on your birthday addressed in a female hand, a beautiful box of chocolates with crystallised violets a-top?

I took mine to the tiny laboratory at the top of my home, and fed some mice with scraps of the sweet stuff.

And those mice died; they died very quickly. My doctor friends tell me that it is not in the public interest that I should tell you the poison, because it is one which is not very well known except to opticians. It is nothing so common as atropine.

I tied up the rest of the sweets, type-wrote an address, and mailed the box to Leggatt with a card inscribed:

Loving wishes from little Arthur.

but I fancy he did not eat them. That may have been "Talking Jimmy's" idea, for, in addition to being a glib spinner of tales, this James was a murderer, as I know.

And suppose you receive a parcel with a label of a well-known publisher, would you think they were books? I guess you would. But do books say "tick-tick-tick," even when they aren't paid for? I dropped my "books" into a pail of water and sent for the explosive expert from the War Office.

There was no evidence against Leggatt— not a smell of evidence against "Talking Jimmy," the one member of the confederation I had not met.

I sent for Big Bill Brady, and he came sort of sideways, ready to bolt.

"Bill," I said, "I pulled you out of bad trouble last fall, not because I love you or was affected by the tears of the lady who calls herself Mrs. Bill, but just because I was out shark-fishing and hadn't the time to waste on pike."

Bill asked Providence to destroy his eyesight and admitted the truth of my words.

"Now I want you to hop along and find Leggatt—he's the posher—and when you find him I want you to do him up proper."

"Mr. Tyndall," said Bill earnestly, "he's an American and uses fire-weapons; he's got pals that use fire-weapons. I'll do my best for you, but unless I get him— so to speak— tata-tatey, there will be no performance."

There was no performance— not the right kind of performance. The gentlemen employed their "fire-weapons" to such an effect that Bill has been drawing an allowance from me ever since on the score of being "temporarily incapacitated."

This was the position on June 17th when I read an announcement in the Times:

Deaths.

Leggatt. After a short illness at Monte Carlo. George William Leggatt, of Chicago and London.

Upon a distant shore he fell,

Away from home and kin;

We'll never see another lad

So good a friend as him.

The last words from his lips did fall

Upon that summer's day,

And this is what his faint voice said:

"Good-bye, my Denver May!"

American papers, please copy.

The invitation to the Editors of the Poet's Corner of American journalism was affecting. It affected me. A month later I discovered that the distressing news had affected one of whose existence I had been in ignorance.

A man made an appointment with me at my office, and I had the bad luck to keep it.

I always prefer making an appointment with a man, because I know just how to miss it and have plenty of time to invent an oh-cruel-fate lie to explain my absence. I said I'd see this lad at one and a-half, and at one and a-half I was keeping an appointment with a devilled sole, a teeny-weeny bottle of Mumm, and another lady at Boriani's in the Haymarket.

I went back to the office at four o' the clock, and there, sitting glum and stolid before the stove, burning my precious current was the appointee.

I looked at him sternly, then at my watch. I didn't know which to blame most.

"I thought I said half-past one," I remarked.

He looked bewildered.

"I know you did," he stammered. "It's now four o'clock— I was here at half-past one."

"Were you?" I asked incredulously. "Then where the devil was I?"

I waited for his answer, but he offered no solution to the mystery.

He was a tall, thin man when he unwound himself, clean-shaven, with a white scar on his left cheek. He had plastered hair and grey eyes, and under each eye was a puffy little sack.

The impression ho gave me was of supreme and hopeless patience. Here was a man who would sit and jaw to me by the hour about what Maisie said and what he said, and what Maisie's friend Dora said and what he said, and what Harry remarked to him and of the saucy answer he handed back to Harry.

I put my hat down on the table, rang the bell, and my secretary came in.

I was busily writing— "When I ring twice come in and say you've had a 'phone from Buckingham Palace requiring my immediate attendance."

I scribbled the finish and handed it to the girl.

"Order these at once," I said with a we-understand-each-other frown, and she left us.

Then I turned upon the man with the eyes.

"Now," I said, "deliver your address."

I leant back in my padded chair and waited for the worst.

I found myself wondering in the short pause whether it was money or wife which had sent him to me.

"Mr. Tyndall," he said in a measured, monotonous voice, "you have the reputation of being a great detective, though somewhat inconsequent. You are known as an expert criminal investigator, a man of considerable courage, immense resource and extraordinary agility of mind."

I inclined my head. He evidently knew me fairly well. I began to take an interest in this cadaverous man.

"I am warned that you are lazy," he continued, "that you have no apparent gifts of concentration—though this latter report I am not prepared to accept—and that you are not inclined to undertake work save at a figure beyond the reach of the average purse, unless it is beyond the ordinary range of criminal research."

"Some of what you say is true," I replied. "First I should like to hear what work you wish me to perform."

He looked round, my office hesitatingly, as if seeking inspiration.

"I hardly know how to begin," he said. "I have told my story to the police at Scotland Yard, and the only result which has so far accrued is that they have had me examined by three police surgeons with a view to ascertaining the state of my mind, and they have decided, with evident reluctance, I must confess, that there is nothing in my mental condition which justifies detention."

He paused and cleared his throat.

"I am a retired banker," he began, "my age is fifty-four, the general condition of my health is good, I am a Wesleyan, and comfortably off; in fact, I am, by most standards, a rich man."

"An excellent start," I said, "though reminiscent of the 'Arabian Nights.'"

"Three months ago," he went on, "I decided, after hearing a lecture at the Royal Society by an eminent philosopher on 'Life Values,' that, successful as I regarded myself, rich, healthy, and possessing the best collection of stamps which any American philatelist in England possesses, I had missed the big things, and, so far from having any cause for pride in my achievements, I had better reason for the bitterest shame.

"For consider— my life was lonely, useless, barren. No child called me father, I could not point to one single action of mine which had made the world a brighter and more beautiful place; there existed no finer monument to my industry than a swollen bank balance and a number of decayed postage stamps.

"It came as a revelation me; it became an obsession—this sense of valueless existence. Two months ago I decided to end my life."

I met his eye; there was no indication of madness. He spoke in a level, almost colourless, voice. The skin was healthy, his pupils of normal size. The hands resting on two bony knees were placid, the thumbs easily held, and neither rigid nor restless. The feet were placed nervously (the right foot rested a little on its outer side, the left foot was square on the ground).

His breathing was regular and deep; there was none of that shallowness and irregularity peculiar to the religious maniac, nor the heavy nasal exhalations which distinguish the homicide. His jaw was too small and too well-shaped for an epileptic. Altogether a normal man.

"I decided to end my life," he went on; "a life which at that particular time I saw only too clearly was futile and unproductive.

"You may be horrified— or rather you would be horrified if you possessed the normal mind and the normal outlook at such a decision. There are a hundred-and-one arguments which you could adduce to demonstrate the absurdity of such an action, but each one of these I could answer to my own satisfaction, and, after all, it is my view which 'counts.'"

I agreed.

"Having decided so much," the man (whose name, by the way, was Charles Delahay) went on, "there was only the question in my mind as to the method by which I should make my exit from a life of which I was heartily ashamed. From any violent means I shrank. Neither the shock of drowning nor the greater and system-racking violence of hydrocyanic acid nor the possible mischances of shooting appealed to me.

"Eventually, after giving the matter a great deal of thought, I hit upon what in my opinion was a method of fulfilling all humanitarian requirements.

"My scheme was to fill a tin can with chloroform and hang it over my bed, to make a tiny puncture in the bottom of the can, and, covering my head with a large, lint-covered cage, retire to rest, allowing the steady downpour from the vessel above to do its deadly work while I slept."

I smiled.

Chloroform so dropped and with so large a surface would volatilise harmlessly, and occasion no greater distress than a disordered palate.

"When I had almost completed my arrangements," Delahay continued; "when, indeed, the very drug was purchased and the tin can suitably perforated, I read a book."

He paused, inviting comment, but I offered none.

It was not the kind of story I had expected, and I was annoyed to find myself getting interested, for I have an extreme distaste for anything which suggests work.

All the time he spoke it was in a monotonous, low, even voice. It did not vary, rise, nor fall, however tragic was the burthen of his narrative.

"I read a book," he continued. "It was called— no, I forget the title, and the author I cannot for the moment recall; I rather think that it was a first novel. The idea of the story may be simply told. It dealt with a committee of men who were self-appointed judges and executioners. They set themselves the task of ridding the world of men who, by their misdeeds, had earned the extreme penalty—and by their clever evasions of the law had succeeded in going immune. It was a bright idea; more, it was a fine idea. In a flash I saw my destiny. To die by my own hand would only mean one other useless thing added to the tale of many acts of uselessness committed in my life. I saw my duty plainly. It was the removal of a man who would be better out of the world than in it.

"In this way I could accomplish both my objects. I would not only secure dissolution for myself, but I would secure it by as painless a method as the combined efforts of science could suggest and the experience of a decade could justify.

"Only one question remained for me to decide. Who was the sinner who deserved death who had so far escaped the punishment of the law?"

This was interesting. I leant forward and looked him straight in the eve.

"I see," I said softly, "you want me to suggest the man. I can give you as complete a list as any man in London. There's the chef at the Falgar who puts garlic in all the dishes. There's the new funny man at the Hippoleum—the forty-ninth ragtime inventor and exponent we have had in London since the season started. Then there's the man who writes long novels that begin in 1860 and finish in heaven— you know the man I mean, William Something or other; he'd be an excellent chap to start on."

Mr. Delahay smiled.

It was the first smile I had seen during the interview.

"No," he said quietly, "I do not think I am likely to practise on any of those gentlemen. Seriously, Mr. Tyndall, I want you to think of all the really bad men in London, that is why I came."

I frowned.

"Before dinner or after?" I asked.

"Seriously."

I regarded Mr. Delahay with something like indignation.

"Getting right down to the hard, bed-rock fact and cutting out all that pertains to the Lunacy Act of 1876," I said steadily, "do you seriously suggest that I, a respectable, honest and notorious detective, a member of several clubs, a holder of innumerable free passes into high-class theatres, one who is on nodding terms with princes and on fairly respectful terms with bank managers, do you think," I repeated, speaking with emphasis, "that I should suggest to you subjects for future coroners' inquisitions? I have listened," I went on, "with exemplary and touching patience, and my restraint has helped me to bear with you, but—"

He raised his hand and full-pointed my eloquence. There was a glint of humour in his eye.

"Do not be perturbed, Mr. Tyndall," he said. "I shall not ask you to find subjects for my vengeance— that has been found. I have committed the murder already."

To say that these words shocked me to the very foundation, is but to express in the mildest terms something of the thrill which they produced.

"Let me finish," he said. "For weeks, as I have hinted to you, the question of my victim was one which obsessed me night and day. I had no thought but the ever-present and absorbing problem—who should it be?

"From that moment a new interest came into my life. It made me a brighter, more cheerful man. I rose every morning with the exhilarating sense that the day held an interest for me. I went to bed and slept soundly on the comforting reflection that tomorrow would have its fullness.

"My acquaintance with the underworld was a small one, but by a diligent study of newspaper files I was able to acquire a working knowledge of criminality, and, indeed, I managed to compile, for my private use, a directory of bad men. It is, perhaps, unique. By submitting each man to a test of my own I reduced my list of eligibles to two—one was a man named Leggatt and the other a gentleman of whom you may have heard— James Badger?"

I nodded.

"Talking Jimmy," I said, "a confidence man, a friend of Leggatt's, a murderer and a liar."

Mr. Delahay nodded his head.

"So I gathered from a perusal of American files," he said. "Well, to resume, I reduced my list to these two men; which should it be? I might have killed both, but I foresaw difficulties. I decided on Leggatt."

I nodded.

"I heard he was in Monte Carlo. I made preparations for the journey, closed up my house, and crossed to France."

He lowered his voice impressively.

"The day before I arrived in Monte Carlo Leggatt died as a result of an attack of bronchitis."

"Bronchitis— how did he contract it?" I asked.

Mr. Delahay smiled again.

"That I inquired, curiously enough. It was the result of sleeping out of doors in a biting wind. He was dead. I saw the body, and felt that I had been robbed of my prey. I sought for James Badger. He was in America. I returned to London dispirited, and resumed my old life, but waited for the opportunity to carry my plan into execution on Badger, whose portrait, by the way, I have never seen."

"Nor have I," I answered, "but so far as I can remember his description he is a big florid man inclined to stoutness."

"Now I come to the extraordinary part of my story," said Mr. Delahay after a pause. "Three nights after my return I went to bed as usual at ten o'clock. I read for ten minutes in bed, turned off the light, and fell into a dreamless sleep. I woke at six with a strange feeling of tiredness and restriction. I sat up on the bed and found that I was fully dressed, even to my boots, which were stained with mud; for the night before had been a wet one. Nor was this the only remarkable circumstance."

He paused and turned his solemn eves upon me.

"By the side of my bed, on a chair," he said slowly, "was my revolver. I picked it up. There were six shells in the chambers—three of those shells had been recently discharged. I looked at my hands. They were clean, but on the cuff of my shirt were half a dozen spots of blood."

He paused again, and there was no sound in the office but the sound of our breathing. Mine, I noted, was easy and regular; that of Mr. Delahay was sharp and shrill.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked at last.

"Find the man I killed," he whispered, "and hand me over to justice."

"But perhaps you didn't kill anybody?"

He shook his head.

"Perhaps," I insisted hopelessly—"perhaps you only committed suicide?"

He turned impatiently.

"I tell you I killed a man— a fortnight ago—that night I walked in my sleep. And not only did I kill him, Mr. Tyndall, but with diabolical ingenuity I must have hidden him somewhere. I know this!" He brought his fist, into violent contact with his palm. "I know it, because every second night I go to the place where I have hidden the body and bring back a handful of earth!"

He fumbled in his pocket and brought out an envelope. He shook the contents on to my blotting pad. It was London mould—unmistakable.

"I have been to the police," he went on, speaking rapidly. "They think I am mad. Mr. Tyndall, you've got to get evidence to convict me—here!"

He took from his breast-pocket a number of bank-notes and counted out three hundred pounds.

"This is a preliminary fee," he said.

I took the money mechanically. I always take money mechanically. I am a human machine, and the cogs and levers of the rejecting-money apparatus were left out when I was constructed.

"I want you to watch my house tonight," he said. '"To-night I shall walk— follow me wherever I go. I shall lead you to the spot where my unknown victim is hidden."

"One moment," I said.

I rose from my seat and crossed the room. I unlocked a cupboard and took out a small black card, and Mr. Delahay watched me.

I took a pen, dipped the holder in the inkwell, and allowed two beady drops to fall on the card's dull surface.

"Hold this," I said. "I think I know a way of finding your dead man."

He took the card dubiously.

"Look at the ink. What do you see?" I asked.

"Ink," he replied.

I suppose I looked disappointed.

"Can't you see a strange riverside house, or a bleak cottage on a moor?" I asked.

He shook his head, and I took the card from him with one hand and passed him a sheet of notepaper with the other.

"Now what do you see?" I asked.

"A piece of white paper," he said, gazing at the notepaper steadily.

He wasn't psychic, and I relieved him of the sheet with a sigh and sat at my desk. Just then the secretary entered with the information that my presence was required at Buckingham Palace, and Mr. Delahay rose.

"You know my address," he said. "It was on the letter I wrote to you asking for this appointment. I may expect you to be on duty at, say, eleven?"

I nodded, and thus we parted.

I watched him down the stairs— a grave, deliberately-moving man. No passer-by would think for a moment that behind that sober expression lay a secret such as he possessed.

Five minutes later a taxi dropped me at Scotland Yard. I carried with me to the finger-print department the white paper which Mr. Delahay in the innocence of his heart had handled after I had blackened his fingers with the charcoal slip— the slip of card on which I had dropped ink for his amusement.

Augustus, cheeriest of record-keepers, cheered me with a nod.

Without a word I handed him the digit-stained paper.

"Augustus," said I, "here are certain whorls and lines and marks that pertain to your devilish craft. Whose finger-print is this?"

He took the finger-print and examined it carefully; then he went to a certain drawer, and, taking out a card, compared it. I thought he was a little excited.

"I thought it looked rather like the finger-print we found last night, but it doesn't," he said.

"Where?"

"On the cash box of the Eurasian Stibillini. He was murdered last night in Wind Street."

I whistled. It was vulgar, but I whistled.

"Don't whistle," pleaded Inspector Augustus Samson. "It's unprofessional. And, besides, they've got the murderer."

"What is his name?" I asked quickly.

"Delahay," said Augustus. "They arrested him last night."

"Last night!" I said in a dream. "Why, I've just left him."

Augustus regarded me queerly.

"Have a sleep," he said, and patted me on the shoulder with offensive patronage.

2: The Voice In The Night

LIES I do not mind, always providing that they are intelligent lies. When a man comes to me and says, "Sir, I have murdered a man or a gentleman, I do not know which, and I desire that you shall discover the gentleman I have murdered and bring me to justice," I am justified in believing that he is telling me an unnecessary lie, but a clever one. When I find that a man has given me a name which rightly is not his, I know he has told me a stupid lie.

Now this is a fact: that one Stibillini died on a certain night, and that one Delahay was arrested and charged with the crime.

I have heard men employ lightly the word "hate"; I have employed it so myself. But now I know what hate means. Two men and a woman were involved. A man and a woman loved one another, and the third hated the first and loved the second.

This is how matters stood between the Eurasian, Alexander Stibillini, the English person, Charles Gibbon Delahay, and Miss Millicent Galleon, before a voice in the night, a voice of hate, and of a man half demented with rage, brought Police-Constable Halliwell, of the "Q" Division, to play eavesdropper.

Alexander Stibillini was a wealthy young man; he had something like six millions to his credit in the Bombay branch of the Bank of Calcutta— they were six million rupees, but even in that currency the sum of his fortune was considerable. He was a handsome young man of the ivory and black type, and his finger-nails were marked with a half-moon of purple red. You seldom saw his finger-nails, because he wore gloves, beautiful gloves, by Dennison, of Bond Street, who charged him ten rupees a pair, two of which represented the fair value of the gloves, and the other eight the fair value of Dennison's label.

You might not see the Orientalism expressed in his nails nor in the furnishing of his house, for he had, with rare discretion, placed the contract in the hands of the most artistic of contractors, and had not added so much as a gilt French clock to the scheme of decoration; nor might you detect the strain from his conversation, for he was Oxford all through, and there was no evidence of the chee-chee enunciation whatever, except when he was very excited, and he was wise enough never to get excited.

You might, however, go back to the dark strain if you searched with malignant diligence the parish register of the Doolali English Church—St. James', I think it is.

Here, written in clerkly hand, is the record of a marriage contracted between James Xavier Stibillini (bachelor) and Ra Patima Bawallah. I do not know how the lady obtained her name, but Stibillini was undoubtedly Corporal Stibbings, of the 42nd Regiment, who had started business as a bookmaker in Calcutta, and adopted the romantic patronymic either from some false sense of shame at so questionable a calling or as a concession to the vanity and a bait to the known bastard patriotism of the chee-chee folk.

That was in '63, and far away, and all the movements of Alexander Stibillini's ancestors were restricted by heavy and expensive mausoleums carried out by a Calcutta mason.

Alexander apparently never spoke of his forebears in terms of pride.

Nor did he speak of them in terms of opprobrium. In fact, he never spoke of them at all. He vaguely referred to his "guv'nor" or his "dear old guv'nor," but in such a way that you would never suspect, unless you were one of those interfering devils who searched parish registers, that that "guv'nor" had any reason for concealing his finger-nails.

Mostly he spoke of Jesus College, Oxford, and the awfully good chaps he had met there, such as Lord Grimball, the young Earl of Dymart, the Marquis of Telfort, and other members of an effete and decadent aristocracy. He talked of these very frequently.

He also referred to "black people" and to "natives." He spoke of these with contempt. Yet the real white people never asked Alexander Stibillini to dinner; even the poorest subaltern, up to his neck in debt, would have blushed pinky red if he had been discovered in the act of hobnobbing with this handsome young millionaire.

For by the white man's code Alexander was black— as black as the ace of spades or the nine of clubs. And according to the stupid and insular views held not only by the Raj, but by every variety of white folk sojourning in India, this B.A. of Oxford was liable at any moment to go off the handle and be as black as the sootiest of his progenitors.

There were, of course, white people who came to his dinner; white men, suave, pleasant; men who were one degree removed in the social scale from Alexander himself. They were the "buts" of Anglo-Indian society; the "Very well-to-do, but—" and the "Yes, quite good family, but—" and the "Pleasant, but—"

They filled his board and told him he was a good chap, and borrowed his money with great verve and joviality; but they were no keys for the opening of society's door, or possibly society had hastily changed its lock, and Alexander conquered nothing but a growing and a natural antipathy to expenditure which produced no results.

Then there came to Bombay a new kind of governor—a governor who was dogmatic and freaky, and after the inevitable exchange of courtesies, in the course of which his excellency referred to Bombay as the mother province of India, to the Bombay aristocracy as the salt of the earth, and to the Bombay Press as the most intelligent of all Presses, he sat down to qualify himself as the best-hated man in India.

For although in the first flush of enthusiasm the local gentry, through accredited representatives, had acclaimed him as a very desirable governor with all the latest improvements, and the Press, speaking under stress of great emotion, had asked what Bombay had done to deserve so perfect a creature, there came, first a cold politeness into the leading articles, then a chilly hauteur, and lastly a bitter and unmistakable hostility.

The reason being that his excellency was obsessed with the illusion that Black and White were One Great Brotherhood. He took up Alexander Stibillini and introduced him to people who chafed under the introduction. He did worse. He tried to force the Apollo Bund Yacht Club to accept the nomination of a black man; a real native person, whose antecedents were written in the line of the East.

Whereupon Bombay, official and unofficial, rose in its wrath, discarded all the governor's protégés, cursed the governor grievously, and told him to go to the devil.

But Alexander had profited in the interim. He had been received, he had been dined, and he had met Millicent Galleon and fallen desperately in love with her; had proposed, been rejected, had wept at her feet (that was the native in him), had threatened to kill her sooner than abandon her to another (that was not the white man showing, either), and had been kicked violently from the front door of the girl's house by Charles Gibbon Delahay, a young and handsome planter from Ceylon, who had speculated wisely and well in rubber and tea, was fairly wealthy, and, moreover, the accepted suitor of Millicent Galleon.

This incident had occurred at a dance given by Colonel Galleon, of the 99th Punjab Scouts, to which Alexander had been invited, and he had left the house via the conservatory door— hurriedly.

He stood in the moonlit garden (this scene was described to me), the big palms throwing black shadows around him, and he swore by Shiva, Jah, the God of the Hebrews, by the Prophet, and by other divinities who need not be mentioned, that he would be revenged upon Charles Gibbon Delahay.

"I tell you, Mr. Delahay, you pig. I will kill you— I will ruin you!" he screamed, and, sad to relate, his voice was wholly chee-chee, staccato, shrill and unpleasant.

"I AM IN LOVE with a gracious lady," said Stibillini. He sat with Michael de Pezena and Augustus Saumarez in his elegant study, and he was nearer white in countenance than ever he had been before. "I know the ways of women, Augustus— they are weak— and one good blow at this swine of a man—"

"You are deplorably deficient in philosophy," said Michael. "Even gracious ladies fight considerably for oppressed lovers, and are apt to be wild cat-like in tenacity of purpose."

"We shall see," said Stibillini.

He came to London soon after the girl, and by that same token soon after the young man. He took a furnished house in Wind Street, Mayfair.

It was a little house, of an old-fashioned Georgian type, with a deep cavern of an area and two steps flanked by wrought-iron torch snuffers. The windows— there were two— of the ground floor front room were, save for the narrow area, flush with the street.

On the morning of the 24th of August, P.-C. Halliwell, of the "Q" Division, was walking through Wind Street. The time was 1 a.m., and the street was deserted and silent. The lighting of Wind Street was very poor, considering the aristocratic character of the neighbourhood, but the officer thought he saw somebody standing in the doorway of No. 77 (Stibillini's house). As if confirming this, immediately afterwards he heard a door slam, but whether it was the door of No. 77 or not he could not swear. He did not regard the circumstance as unusual. He went on, as was his practice, trying each door, and throwing the light of his lantern over the fastenings of the windows of the houses, till at last he came abreast of No. 77.

Here he paused, and with reason.

The blinds of the front room were drawn down, and the room itself was illuminated. Though the night was cold, both windows were open a little, and he had no difficulty in discovering that there were two men in the room, and that they were engaged in a violent quarrel. One of the voices he recognised as Stibillini's.

He had seen Stibillini on more occasions than one, and the millionaire had spoken to him.

Instinctively the officer halted at the window and listened. The Eurasian's voice was shrill and excited.

"I will not stand your threats any longer," he said.

After a little pause the other spoke.

It was a deep, low voice, not unmusical.

"You must give up all thought of Miss Galleon," he said.

"You are mad," cried Stibillini; "you are mad with jealousy! I respect and admire the lady too much to pursue her with attentions which are unwelcome. Why do you persecute me, Mr. Delahay?"

Another little pause.

"I will not only persecute you, you Eurasian dog, but I will kill you with this revolver if you do not swear that you will give up all thoughts of her...."

The listening "cop" was young and keen. He had never been engaged in a case of any importance, and he was anxious for advancement. To this end he spent much of his spare time in the schools, and not the least of his accomplishments was a knowledge of shorthand.

Delahay's voice ended abruptly, and there was a longer pause.

The constable whipped his notebook out, and, taking advantage of the silence, transcribed all that he had heard. He wondered as he wrote what the men were doing in that interval of silence. Then the voice of Delahay was heard again.

"...thoughts of her," it repeated in the same low, passionate tone. "You will sign this paper undertaking to return to India within a week or I will kill you."

"I shall do nothing of the sort."

"You will, by God!" said the voice.

"I will not. Put your revolver down. I am not afraid."

The policeman closed his book with a snap, and, stepping to the door of No. 77, knocked.

The door was opened almost immediately by Stibillini.

A dim light burnt in the hall, and by its rays the constable saw what he thought to be marks of an earlier struggle upon the Eurasian's person. His collar was unfastened, his dress-shirt crumpled, his hair awry.

"Anything wrong, sir?" asked the P.-C.

Stibillini laughed nervously, almost hysterically. He was terribly agitated, and the hand extended towards the policeman was shaking.

"Nothing— nothing, policeman," he said. He dropped a sovereign in the constable's hand. "Merely a little argument between two—two friends."

The policeman stood hesitating on the doorstop.

"You're sure everything is all right, sir?" he asked. "I've overheard certain threats—"

"It is all right. Good night, constable," interrupted Stibillini abruptly.

As the officer turned the door was closed.

P.-C. Halliwell waited for some time before the window, but he heard no more. He surmised that the men had gone to another room.

At 4.10 the constable reported the circumstances to the inspector, and was snubbed for his pains.

"Don't take too much notice of what you see and hear in Mayfair between 1 and 2 a.m.," said his superior, "or you'll make yourself unpopular, constable."

Half an hour later Halliwell was making his slow way through Half-Moon Street when he heard a police whistle blown, and running in the direction he overtook another constable, and was overtaken in turn by a fire-engine.

In Wind Street a little crowd stood surveying No. 77 with helpless interest, for No. 77, from basement to roof, was a mass of flames.

Later the firemen discovered the body of Alexander Stibillini dead, with a bullet wound through his head, and at 11 o'clock in the forenoon Charles Gibbon Delahay was arrested at his hotel in Piccadilly.

This much of the story I have told you because it is easy telling. I have clipped paragraphs from newspapers and pasted them together, except the description of Stibillini, which I acquired and elaborated from his whilom friends.

I had left Scotland Yard something confused. If my client Delahay was under arrest for the murder, how did he come to see me? And if he saw me after his arrest, how is it he did not know that Stibillini was his victim?

I went into the club to get some food and was hailed by Cummings. I didn't want to see Cummings; in fact, I think it is a mistake to allow solicitors to be members of literary clubs.

"I want you, Tyndall," he said, and remembering that he was a solicitor, his emotion was almost human.

"I am shooting in Scotland!" I snarled, but he was horribly serious, and it was about the Stibillini murder. I came back from Scotland instantly.

Down in the smoking-room he told me the story.

"Young Delahay is my client, and his father was a dear friend of mine," he said, speaking a little tremulously.

"Young Delahay!" I repeated. "How old is he?"

"Twenty-four," said Cummings.

That settled my Mr. Delahay.

"And it's horribly black against him," he went on, after he had outlined the case. "He can't account for his movements on the night. He admits he loathed Stibillini, and there is the policeman's evidence."

"Did he ever go to No. 77, Wind Street?"

"Never!" said Cummings vehemently. "He has sworn that he was never in the place in his life."

I interviewed the young man in his cell at Bow Street. A nice, clean-looking citizen, lean, and tanned by the Indian sun. He struck me as being as honest as the usual run of men. Outside I saw the gracious lady, and she was white and tense.

"It isn't true—it isn't true!" she wailed, clinging to Cummings' arm. "Gibby couldn't have done it!"

The solicitor comforted her with the conventional phrases of his craft, and whilst he was thus engaged I slipped back to the cells. The inspector in charge was a decent man, and gave me an opportunity of a private talk with Delahay, to which I was in no sense entitled.

"Tell me exactly what happened last night?" I asked.

Delahay ran his fingers through his hair.

"It sounds horribly improbable," he said slowly, "and you can believe it or not, as you wish. At 11 o'clock I received a note handed in by a special messenger, whom I did not see. The porter saw it was a rough-looking man in a new suit of clothes. He just left the letter and departed. The porter can confirm that."

I nodded.

"That may be used as evidence against you. The prosecution will say that it came from Stibillini, asking you to No. 77, and the policeman's evidence will support this. You say you haven't the letter?"

"I destroyed it," confessed the young man. "It was an extraordinary note. It was signed by a man I knew in India rather well, and was to the effect that he was in pretty bad trouble. I was under some obligation to him, and he asked me to keep his letter a secret. Yes, that is it— he asked me to destroy the note."

"I see," I said. "And you went?"

"Yes, I left the hotel at 11.30. He had given an address in South London. I took a street car to Brixton, and after a few inquiries I came to the road he addressed his letter from. To my surprise the house was empty. I had previously destroyed the letter, but I had taken a careful note of the address. It was No. 45, Beckenhall Road. The hour was late. I could not knock up people to discover whether I had mistaken the number, and I decided that it was a stupid hoax. It was nearly 2 before I reached the hotel."

"Again by street car?"

"Yes; there's an all-night service."

"Did you keep the tram-car ticket?"

Delahay shook his head with a rueful little smile.

"I seem to have kept nothing that would establish my innocence," he said.

"Did you know your friend's writing?"

"No, not very well. He never had occasion to write. It wasn't he; anyway, Cummings has cabled to India. Reynolds— that was the chap's name— is still in Meerut."

It was very interesting.

I left Bow Street and made my way to the hotel where he had been staying.

Yes, the hall-porter remembered a man.

"I noticed him because he wore a pretty evident suit of new clothing," said the urbane guardian.

"And had a new valise outside the door?" I suggested.

The hall-porter raised his eyebrows in astonishment.

"Yes, sir," he said. "I noticed that he had a new handbag or something of the sort."

"And was pretty anxious to get away— looked as if he were pressed for time?"

"That's right, sir," he said eagerly; "pulling out his watch all the time."

It was sufficient.

I went to the burnt-out scene of the tragedy, stopping on my way to buy a fair-sized magnet and dispatch two wires.

The police-sergeant in charge was inclined to be officious, but I showed him my Scotland Yard permit.

I devoted my attention to an examination of the room in which the fire had occurred.

"What is this?" I asked, turning over a heat-twisted entanglement of springs.

"That's a clock," said the sergeant. "Isn't it rum what a mess fire makes of things?"

There were rummer things, but I did not urge them.

I began to probe amongst the charred chaos on the floor, using my magnet as a probe. I attracted many objects, but by-and-by I found what I was looking for—two tiny nails, headless and blackened. A diligent search of an hour's duration revealed three more.

I returned to my flat at 5 o'clock to find a telegram waiting for me. It was from the captain of the Allermy liner, City of Bangor, and was handed in at Queenstown.

THE MAN YOU REQUIRE HAS LEFT THE SHIP, AND IS PROCEEDING TO LONDON.

Simple, wasn't it?

I do not give the full sworn statement of George Henry Smith because it is full of legal verbiage, but I tell you this —that a man in a brand-new suit of clothes with a brand-new valise who calls at a hotel at 11 o'clock and is fidgety over the time has a train to catch. There's an 11.30 emigrant train pulls out of Euston on Thursdays, and on the night of the murder somebody was very anxious to get that man out of England.

Here is a portion of George Henry Smith's statement:

"I am an out-of-work plasterer. On October 4th, ten days before I sailed for Canada, I was penniless and destitute. I was sleeping on a seat on the Thames Embankment when I noticed a gentleman walking slowly along. He was speaking to the men. To everyone, he gave something, a copper or a shilling or so. By-and-by he came to me.

"'What are you doing here?' he asked, and I replied that I was out of work.

"The moment I spoke he seemed to brighten.

"'You've the voice I want,' he said, and gave me a sovereign. He told me to get a new suit of clothes and come to his house in Wind Street. He was particular about the time. I went next night at 12.30. He was waiting to open the door to me. He told me he had sent his servants away. Then he told me what he wanted me for. It appears that he was going in for some theatricals. He was having a quarrel with a gentleman in the play, and he asked me to play the part of the gentleman. I'm not much of a scholar, but what there was to learn wasn't much.

"For two nights he coached me— how I'd got to raise my voice here and drop it there, and on the third night he made me speak my part into a phonograph. I spoke it about ten times before he was satisfied. On the thirteenth he told me he'd arranged my passage to Canada—a place I wanted to go to. I was to call at Wind Street at 10.30, and he'd give me a letter to deliver and fifty pounds.

"I got the letter and the money, but he made me wait till the very last minute."

So much for George Henry Smith.

I knew it was a phonograph long before I had seen the ruins of it in the burnt house or discovered the "needles" with my magnet, for did not the excellent P.-C. Halliwell in his notes tell us how there was a pause in the conversation, and how the voice of the stranger had begun all over again?

The Eurasian, who would hate the cold, had left his windows open for the policeman to hear. Moreover, he it was who had watched the constable from the shadow of the door, and when he was within distance had entered the house to set the phonograph in motion.

Stibillini shot himself because he was consumed with love and hatred, and by his suicide he hoped to encompass the death of the man who had found the happiness denied to him.

That was the native in him.

"WHAT ON earth made you say your name was Delahay?"

My client faced me in my office, and I am bound to confess that he was exceedingly apologetic.

"I saw the name in a newspaper," he said persistently. "I didn't want to give my own name."

"What is your own name?" I asked wearily.

"Coss," he said eagerly; "Felix Ferdinand Coss."

He looked wistfully at me and took an envelope from his pocket and poured the contents on his palm.

"Somewhere in London," he said bitterly, "lies a man I have killed; here is the very dust from his grave. Who is that man?"

"It wasn't Stibillini, that I'll swear," I said, preparing to leave the office. "I rather fancy the man whose death you will be responsible for is—"

"Yes?"

I looked at him for a long time.

"Yourself," said I.

"What do you mean?" he asked, and his face went yellow.

"Wait and see," said I.

I have an idea that the phrase is not original.

3: One, William Smith

MY Mr. Coss— heaven knows that I do not believe it is his real name— visited me this morning in his quiet, noiseless, hoping-for-the-best fashion, and asked for information.

He came to my office and knocked, and thinking he was a small bottle of burgundy and a chump chop which I had invited to lunch from a near-by restaurant, I said, "Come in."

"I'm afraid I'm a nuisance," said Mr. Coss.

He was very deferential for a self-confessed murderer who shot people in his sleep and hadn't sufficient acumen to make a note on his shirt cuff as to the identity of his victim.

"I'm afraid I'm a nuisance," he repeated, and sat down.

I said nothing. I do not think that he was very much afraid.

"You have no news?" he asked.

"I have no news," I answered. "I can only imagine that you dreamt the whole thing."

He shook his head.

"I do not pay £300 to detectives to investigate dreams," he said. "I have told you that I am absolutely certain that in my sleep I visit the spot where the man is buried."

"You have told me that so often that I sometimes believe it," I replied.

He was monstrously earnest as he leant over toward me.

"Why do you not shadow me?" he asked seriously. "Watch my house and follow me when I go out?"

I permitted myself the pleasure of smiling.

"Friend," said I, "you have been watched every time you have left your house. Whether you were awake or asleep when you went to the new musical comedy at the Jollity last night, I do not know— for myself I confess, that I was asleep before it was half-way through."

Surprise for Mr. Coss; surprise slightly tinctured with chagrin.

"I was awake, of course," he said. "But I returned—"

"You returned to your house at 11.38," I said, speaking from, memory. "You put on the hall light and went to your sitting-room on the first floor; at 1.25 you emerged from your house—"

"Did I?" he asked in surprise.

"You did," said I.

"But," protested Mr. Coss, "I was in bed and asleep at that time."

I looked at him.

"Did you undress in the dark?" I asked.

He frowned.

"No," he said. "Why do you ask?"

"Because from the moment you went in at 11.38 to the moment you came out at 1.25 your bedroom light was unlit."

I thought he sniffed, but I may have been mistaken. Yet there was triumph in his eyes.

"My bedroom is at the back of the house," he said gently, "and could not be visible from the road."

I nodded.

"I was watching the back of the house," said I with great amiability.

He hunched his shoulders, as a man does who is in no mood for trivialities.

"Where did I go?" he demanded.

Yes, he demanded the information with assurance, for he had paid a fee of £300, and expected to get some of it back in small talk.

"You went along the road for three hundred yards or so," I said; "once you looked round and saw nothing but a weary and belated hawker pushing a barrow and singing a merry stave or two. At the corner of Highcloud Road you stopped and looked back, as though seeking somebody, then you turned and walked slowly back to the house. You said 'Good-night' to a policeman whom you met half-way back, and re-entered your house at ten minutes before two. Am I right, sir?"

Evidently yes, for he looked down his nose.

"Which were you?" he asked, with a faint suspicion of a sneer. "The hawker or the policeman?"

I returned blandly, "I was the wheelbarrow."

He got up on his feet, a little of the dogged look which I had often noted upon his features.

"All I know," he said emphatically, "is this: somewhere and somehow I have killed a man— I am not a lunatic— I am not a criminal, as you know."

I bowed.

"You have taken my finger-prints," he went on, "without associating me with either class; whatever your suspicions may be as to my bona fides, you know that my money is genuine, and even an eccentric man does not give away £300 to demonstrate the fact that he is suffering from hallucinations."

I agreed cordially, and the timely arrival of Chump Chop, Esq., accompanied by that red-faced waiter from the "George" (I'm sure that that man drinks), was a pretty opportunity for putting my client out.

"Leave everything to me," I said. "I promise you that you shall hang within six weeks."

What a promise— and what a prophecy!

That afternoon I went over the circumstances and put them in order.

1. Arrival of Coss, who calls himself Delahay, who says he has murdered a man whilst he (Coss) was walking in his sleep.

2. He has, he tells me, adopted the name of Delahay on the spur of the moment, having seen the name in a newspaper. It happens that a Delahay has been arrested that day on a charge of murder. Neither Delahay nor Coss is guilty of the crime, as I might have known, and the name was probably given to stimulate my interest in the case.

3. Coss says he walks in his sleep, and periodically visits the scene of the crime, yet so far he has been no nearer the supposed scene, than one thousand yards from his house.

I went up to the Yard in the afternoon to see the Chief, and he was admirably hospitable.

"It is an interesting case," he said with a twinkle in his eye, "but I'm afraid we cannot hang your client unless he produces the body— by the way, do we know him?"

I shook my head.

"You haven't that pleasure," I said, "unless he has met you in his sleep and given you dream finger-prints."

The Chief tapped the blotting-pad absently.

"Very queer," he said. "I wonder if he has killed somebody— or is the whole thing a fake?"

I could offer no view, and rose to go.

"By the way," he said suddenly, "do you know Denver May and her pal Leggatt?"

"I know the lady very well," I replied. "May is doing fifteen years for blackmail, and Leggatt went to Monte Carlo, wrote some damned bad poetry, and died—American papers, please copy."

"Oh, yes, he died," the Chief observed. "I remember seeing the absurd obituary in the Times. But May is out."

"Out?"

"She is out," said the Chief grimly. "A Cabinet Minister's wife went prison-visiting and saw May gilding the angels in the chapel at Aylesbury, spoke to her, and May did her piece—the victim-of-another-or-too-young-to-know-right-from-wrong. Terribly sympathetic woman, Lady Sybil—anyway, May is out, being wept over at this moment by the Society for Putting the Police in their Place."

Excellent man, the Chief, with a sense of mordant humour—or a mordant sense of humour— whichever way you like to have it.

So May was about and Leggatt was dead.

Query: Would it be better that Leggatt was about and May was dead? I asked myself this on my way to the Lambs' Club, and was still asking the question when Charlie Pieds said savagely, "Two no-trumps, and for the love of Mike wake up that damn split!"

Me being the "split."

And I thought how antiquated these journalists are! Here was Charles, a wide man, an associate of criminals, Cabinet Ministers, and aviators, who should know that "split" was as obsolete a term to apply to a detective as is the word "tec," or "nark," either. Now, May knows that a detective is a "busy," or a "busy fellow," and that a policeman is a "flattie."

May— who hates me with a black and deadly hatred— May whom I sent with her baby face to fifteen years of hell— out—!

"I called for a spade," said Charles wearily, "and you gave me the ace of diamonds! Really, even for a policeman, you're dense!"

Leggatt hated me, too. How he sobbed in the big marble hall of the Old Bailey when May was sentenced! He would have given his soul for her—Leggatt was dead!

Dear me!

I left the Lambs' Club a ruined man. Once I had a reputation as a player of auction bridge, but now, as I descended the stairs, the very club waiters seemed to be whispering to one another, "There goes the man that led away from an ace-queen suit."

The Embankment was dark and cool, and free from sauntering pedestrians. It was distracting, too, by reason of the advertisements that blazed on the Surrey shore.

I found myself walking towards Blackfriars Bridge, with matters ordered in my mind.

Coss must be dismissed— if necessary I must hand back so much of his three hundred pounds as was left. I hated to do it—oh, heavens, how I hate to give money back to people! But there was no help for it.

I am not avaricious, nor am I a spendthrift forever needing financial assistance, but I know what I can do with money, and how much good, solid, back-aching work the possession of money can help one avoid.

I reached Cleopatra's Needle, and so did the man who had been watching the Lambs' Club and had followed me along the Embankment. On each side of the Obelisk there are steps leading down to the water, and after a moment's hesitation I turned into the recess and took a couple of steps down the granite stairway. Below I could hear the lapping of the black waters as they rose and chug-chugged against the lowermost step.

Then, at a moment which I deemed expedient, I turned and flashed an electric pocket-lamp upon the man who crouched behind me ready for a spring.

"Hello!" said I. "Who are you?"

His face was all lop-sided with fear and anxiety. He was paralysed with fright at my discovery.

"Who are you?" I asked again, and tapped with the muzzle of my revolver against his waistcoat button a till it rested in the region of his stomach.

"I'm— I'm nobody, sir," his teeth chattered through his shaking lips. "I— I just happened to see you go in— here— thought you were going to suicide,"

"Liar and thief," said I, without heat. "You came to do me in."

"If I drop dead this minute—" began Mr. Nobody.

"You will if you don't keep your hands away from your pocket," I said.

I caught him by the arm and pushed him on to the pavement.

I did not know him; I had never met him before in all my life. He was an under-developed man of twenty-eight, poorly dressed, his shoes were dropping from his feet, a dirty blue scarf about his neck.

Here are my notes:

Age, 28.

Height, 5.5.

Build, irregular—slight.

Eyes, blue—small (incipient cataract in right eye).

Nose, No. 15.

Teeth, bad.

Mouth, No. 17.

Hands, artisan—criminal.

Name, William Smith.

"I give you my word, sir," he protested as a taxi whirled us to my office, "if I never git orf this seat—"

"Oh, shut it!" said I.

In my office I looked him over.

"Ever been in prison?" I asked.

"If the Lord was to—" he began.

What a horribly monotonous devil he was.

Yes, he had been in prison; "three carpets and a stretch," he admitted, "with a bashing thrown in," he added on persuasion.

He had had the supreme distinction of having been tried for murder.

"But," said he, trembling with pride, "they couldn't prove I struck the fatal blow, to wit, Mary Ann Slowser, the deceased."

You observe he was versed in the terminology of the law, though somewhat hazed in its proper application.

I found him a whisky and soda, started my electric stove for his comfort—it was a coldish kind of night—and sat down to get my facts.

"Now, I tell you, Bill," said I, before we got started, "for Bill I suppose your name is?"

He nodded vigorously.

"If I was struck blind this minute, governor," he said conventionally, "my name is Bill."

"That you will be blind I do not doubt," I said, "for you have, unless I am mistaken, an ominous thickening of the right iris— you don't see well?"

"No, sir," he said, with all the absurd pride in infirmity which characterises the lower order, "I don't."

"Tell me first who sent you out to cosh me, William?"

Bill was considerably agitated.

"Mr.— I don't know your name— if—"

I stopped him.

"We will take it for granted," I said, "that in the event of your lying, you express the hope that you will be dead, blind, stiff, dumb, pink, blue, paralysed, and immortally damned, but do not waste time in oaths, for I am a busy man, a Wesleyan Methodist and a policeman. Who sent you?"

"Nobody," said Bill.

"Who sent you?"

"Nobody," said Bill.

"Come over here."

He got up and walked to where I stood.

"Who sent you?"

"Nobody," said Bill.

I feigned to hit him with my left. He was considerably astonished, and lay on his back on the floor for quite a time, addressing remarks to his gods.

"Get up," said I.

"Not me," said Bill.

"Get up," said I persuasively, "or I'll kick you to death."

I don't suppose I should have kicked him to death because I should have known where to stop. Anyway, Bill got up.

"Who sent you?"

"A party," said Bill, touching his ear with his hand and examining his hand disapprovingly at intervals.

"What sort of party, you paltry fellow?" I asked.

Bill saw it was business meant and nothing else.

"Lock me up," he suggested, and was on the point of weeping— "lock me up— send for a policeman, an' I'll give you in charge."

"Who was the party? Man or woman?" I asked—do you marvel at my patience?

"Man!"

I laid my hand with some difficulty upon his shoulder. He didn't want my hand there, and backed into a corner.

"Listen, Bill," said I, kindliness itself, "tell me the yarn and I'll give you a sovereign; keep it to yourself and I'll throw you out of the window. And if you start yelling I'll kill you. You are a burglar, Bill, and a murderer, Bill, and everybody will say, 'Serve you right.'"

He wasn't all fool.

"I'll split," he said after a while. "You're a bit too thick, you are, Mr. Tynedale— you ain't allowed to do this by lore, you know."

"Blow the lore," said I.

He had been approached by a man who knew his antecedents and had been promised £150 "in golden pounds" if he "did up" a certain, obnoxious person, to wit, me. Fifty pounds in cash down, remainder to be left at a certain public-house in Lambeth, with the mysterious words, "Bill's rent money." Employer unknown to Bill, about the same-sized man as himself, but stouter, spoke with a foreign accent which Bill thought was French, but since Bill regards all languages as French that aren't English, and France as the only country which may be truly described as "foreign" (Germany only being a political catch-word), this opinion was of doubtful value.

Employer met employed by appointment on Hungerford Foot-bridge, and handed Bill a type-written list of my appointments for the next two days. I took the somewhat grimy list and examined it.

Tvpewritten on a slip of common typewriting paper, with a "monarch" visible. Finger-marks— Bill's, obviously. Name of public house where employer would arrive with the words "Bill's rent money," the "Little Roebuck Arms," in South Esher Street. All these facts were duly noted on my pad.

"You understand. Mr. Tynedale," said Bill, and I stopped him right there.

"Who told you my name?" I asked.

"The party," said Bill.

"Did he call me Tynedale?"

Bill nodded.

"Of course that mightn't be your name," he said, "but no offence is meant—you see, sir, I wasn't goin' to do you in reely. My idea or plan, so to speak, was to put you to sleep comfortable, and then leave you—do you understand me rightly?"

I understood him very rightly.

I went to a drawer in my bureau and took out a sovereign and handed it over, and Bill thanked me kindly.

"I bear no malice," he said at parting.

"But I do," I replied, "so you'd better get out whilst you're alive."

Bill got out.

Who would employ a "Bill" to do me up?

Denver May might— so might Leggatt if he were not sleeping the sleep under a Christian symbol in Monte Carlo— others there were who would be glad to see me out of the way.

I went to bed that night, and for the first time for many years I locked the bedroom door. It was curious that I should have done so. And I took the key out and examined it. Excellent! There were oil marks on the ward. I went to the outer door of the flat and examined the key of that. Oil marks also. "God bless the unknown benefactor who had performed this little act of kindness," said I as I closed the door again. I rang for my valet, and he came in his pyjamas, blinking sleepily.

"Did a man call to-day to see about the locks?" I asked.

"He called this evening, sir," said servitor. "He brought a letter from the estate office—I watched him very carefully, sir—have you lost anything?"

"Nothing," said I.

The lock of his room had not been touched.

"I'm afraid you'll have bad news to-night," said I.

He was startled.

"Indeed, sir!" said he.

"You will hear that your brother has had a bad accident," I said.

"I have no brother," he said with a smile. "I have only a sister and an uncle."

"Your sister will be dangerously ill—does she live in London?"

He shook his head.

"Then I'm afraid," said I, "that it is your uncle or nothing."

I had hardly spoken the words when the telephone bell rang insistently. Henry went to the study to answer it, and came back with a face on which concern, wonder and suspicion ran neck and neck.

"My uncle's house has been burnt, sir," he said. "Did you hear anything about it?"

I shook my head.

"They want you to come at once, I suppose?" I suggested. "Your aunt is burnt and your uncle is delirious?"

He nodded.

"Did you hear, sir?"

"Hop it, Henry," I said irritably.

He dressed himself in a hurry and left. Turning out the lights I watched the street. There was a convenient taxi which he hailed—nay, it almost hailed him. I watched it disappear round the corner, and I knew that Henry would not come back that night, however much he might want to.

I waited a while in my bedroom, pulled down the blinds, and busied myself with my wardrobe.

"They," whoever "they" might be, had got Henry away; they had fixed my lock and the lock of the front door so that they could come in just when they wanted; it only remained for me to give them a welcome.

I waited for an hour, sitting in my felt boots behind the door of the valet's room, which commanded a view of the hall door and my own bedroom door, but there was no sound. But I am a patient man, and an hour or so is nothing to the hunter after big game.

Three o'clock struck and nothing doing. Four o'clock boomed, and still no sign. Five o'clock and light. There was nothing to hope for in the way of excitement. I came out from my place of concealment, the hammer of my revolver up, for others might easily play the game of waiting with equal patience.

The hall was clear. I opened the front door, the corridor was clear. I heard a step upon the stairs and stood ready.

It was Henry, my valet, dishevelled and weary; full of woe, a gramophone record of the Book of Lamentations.

"Out to Sevenoaks this here taxi drove me, sir," he said bitterly, "full lick through the Old Kent Road— Lewisham— me trying to open the doors— sort of locked they were— and the windows. When I got there he unlocks the door, I gets out, he bangs the door, hops on his seat and drives away!"

"Make me some coffee," I said, "and don't gas so much, dear Henry."

I was distressed to hear the native Bermondsey of him sounding through the enamel of the Belgravian servants' hall.

He clanked about in the kitchen, damning everybody and everything, forgetful of his incendiarised uncle and his poor burnt aunt.

I wrote a note to the Chief, asking for an interview.

I opened the window of the study for a little fresh air—they would scarcely shoot in broad daylight, even if they could. Happily, there was no fear of this, for the wall opposite is a blank one, being the end wall of the new Elysium Hotel.

I looked out on the birth of day and sniffed the sweet fresh air. Looking along the wall of the flats my line of vision was obstructed by the service lift which fed my kitchen and the kitchens of all the misters and missuses of our block.

What could be easier, thought I, than for the malicious minded to effect an entrance by that same service lift? There was a little balcony to the kitchen from whence Henry was wont to take in supplies and hurl down abuse upon the suppliers. A man could gain the window of my bedroom easily enough, up the lift, on to the balcony, and along the parapet. Fortunately the lift squeaked and clanked most appallingly. They might grease the runners—

By the Lord High Advocate, somebody had greased the runners!

I could see it from where I stood. The two posts of the lift literally ran with fat, and I do not doubt that the hoisting apparatus had been similarly treated.

I brought my head back into the room, and found Henry waiting with a steaming cup of coffee.

Why had they not made the attempt?

Perhaps they had. Perhaps they had entered the room and found it empty and had departed without attempting to search the flat. There would be no difficulty. I slept with my window open.

I put down the cup and went to my bedroom. The blinds were down, and I switched on the light. I can pull a gun as quick as any man—and I did.

Lying on my bed was a man— none other than my friend William Smith, the giver of the information.

I put up my revolver, there was no need to fire.

William Smith was already dead—had been dead some hours, shot through the heart, I gathered.

A dirty trick to play on me.

"OF COURSE," said the Chief, "they counted on your suspicions being aroused, and knew that you would be out of the room. They probably knew exactly where you were— clever devils."

Clever indeed! I know they were clever because I felt such an ass.

4: A Tilt With May

POOR William Smith! With your records of "stretches" and "laggings," of "carpets" and "bashings," with your infernally glib oaths, into the dark you have gone with a bullet through the left ventricle of your heart, slain by some person or persons unknown—a fact testified by twelve owl-like representatives of your fellow-countrymen.

Poor William Smith! You had relatives, too, a rusty-black sister, red-nosed with weeping, a tatterdemalion brother, holder of horses' heads when horses abounded, now a watcher of motor-lorries what time the lorry driver drinks his pint of ale.

All attested to William's qualities as a brother and a man.

"All," I say, for there was also an aunt. God knows that there is none of us so poor in relatives that we do not possess an aunt.

Aunt last saw deceased alive at eight o'clock on the fatal evening. Deceased had a sovereign which, it was necessary that he should explain to impeccable aunt, was honestly come by. They had two half-quarterns of whisky, and Elf said, "I must be getting on."

Alas! poor William Smith! His name was Elf, moreover—such are the mysteries revealed in death—his name was not even "Smith," but "Migger."

I gave my evidence, and, acting on instructions, I lied. For though I admitted that I knew "Migger," alias Smith, that I had met him and had given him a sovereign (the change was in his pocket when found), I did not state the peculiar circumstances under which we had met.

Nor did I disclose the fact that tucked in the dead man's waistcoat, as he lay upon my bed, was a typewritten note which ran:

Look out, Tyndall. The same for yours as soon as convenient.

The verdict was, as I have suggested, one of murder against some person or persons unknown.

With its insatiable passion for riders, the jury had added the evident fact that the carrying of firearms by unauthorised persons should be stopped.

I stood in the dingy court with a loaded Browning in each hip pocket, and heartily subscribed to those sentiments.

With me was my client, Mr. Coss, somewhat disappointed, as you may guess, for having heard (as he told me) that I had at last discovered the relic of a murder he had hastened joyfully in the hope that I had at last associated him with a crime.

We walked back to the West together.

"Where could I see you to-night?" he asked.

I quizzed him.

"You always ask me that question?" I said.

He looked at me steadily.

"Isn't it natural?" he asked.

"Very natural, and very proper," said I, "only when the late William Smith, or Elf Migger, as the case may be, attempted to assassinate me on the Thames Embankment, and when I had persuaded him to give me a little information as to the cause of his sudden uncharity, and the name or names of his employers, he handed me a typewritten slip, giving a full list of all my engagements, and exactly where I should be at certain hours."

"But," Mr. Coss broke in, hastily for him, "I am not the only person who knows your plans."

"You were the only person who knew I was going to the National Gallery at 1 p.m.; to a matinée of 'Peter Pan' at 3 p.m.; to the Lambs' Club at 5.30 p.m.," said I, "because I never had the slightest intention of going to any of those places, except the club, and only gave them to you because I did not wish to be found."

"H'm," said Mr. Coss. It seemed the only thing to say under the circumstances.

We went up to my office— I invited him up.

"Some time ago," said I, "you came to me with the information that you had decided, weary of life, to end it."

He nodded.

"You told me that you were induced, through the reading of a book, to change your plans, to choose the worst man in the world and kill him, taking your chance with the law!"

"I did."

"That you could not decide as to whom you would slay, though you sought diligently for the name of enemies of society, and that at last you hit upon two men, both of whom were associates of Denver May."

"That is so," he said. Then, quickly, "Who is Denver May?"

"These two men," said I, ignoring the question, "were friends of that arch-blackmailer, or blackmailess. One was a man named Leggatt and the other a gentleman named Talking Jimmy!"

He nodded again.

"Jimmy, neither you nor I have seen," I went on. "He has made one or two artistic attempts to put me amongst the glorious memories of the past, but I have not consciously seen him." He nodded. "But Leggatt went to Monte Carlo and died of pneumonia?"

"That is so," he agreed. "I found his grave, and felt hurt that I had been thwarted of my prey."

"I sympathise with you," said I, "whilst I deprecate the melodramatic language you employ. Leggatt, then is dead. Talking Jimmy is in—"

I paused.

"America," said Mr. Coss promptly.

"Talking Jimmy, the confidence man and spinner of wonderful tales, is in America; Denver May is living at 182, Panton Street as Madame Fournier—"

He looked at me sharply.

"I thought Denver May was in gaol," he said, "doing fifteen years."

"My friend," said I patiently, "a certain big-wig saw May gilding the angels in a Catholic chapel at Aylesbury and was moved to tears; she described the scene to her husband, and he was moved to tears: there may have been a cabinet council where everybody wept together, but certain it is that angel-gilding May is free."

"H'm," said Mr. Coss again. Then, "Well, what is the end of all this?"

"We were nearing the end," said I, "when the man whom I shall call Bill Smith, because the name somehow fitted him, was killed because certain people thought he had betrayed them. We were very near the end indeed."

He did not move in his chair; not a movement of hand or eye betrayed his emotion—if he felt emotion. When he spoke it was in that peculiarly monotonous tone which I knew so well.

"This brings us no nearer to the discovery of my victim, at any rate," he said. "I have paid you £300 as an earnest of my bona fides. I have asked you to track me down, to unravel the mystery of my assassination. The man I killed when I walked in my sleep— and buried. Here!"

He directed his hand into his pocket and produced a familiar envelope; shook out the too familiar dust.

"Last night," he said impressively, "when you were engaged elsewhere, I walked to the grave of my victim— here is a bundle of earth—"

What could I say?

"From this night onward your place will be watched," said I briskly, and his face brightened; "wherever you go, I will follow; to-night we clear up the mystery of the dream-murder. Allons!"

THAT AFTERNOON I called on Madame Fournier at 182, Panton Street. Madame occupied a suite on the second floor, and I was admitted by a trim little waiting-maid with a sad face.

"My girl," said I, in my heartiest, man-of-forty manner, "I wish to see your mistress."

The sad girl shook her white-capped head.

"She is lying down, sir," she said.

"Nevertheless, I will see her," said I. "What is your name?"

"Mary, sir," said the girl.

"Mary what?"

"Mary McCarthy," said the girl, big-eyed and innocent.

I grinned mirthfully.

"I like to keep track of your names," I said, "because the last time we met your hair was dark and your name was Golding, Henrietta Golding, and you were undergoing nine months for passing counterfeit coin."

"Damn!" said the little lady. "Come in, Mr. Tyndall— you make my neck ache."

Madame Fournier was not lying down; she was sitting up, and writing vigorously. She wore a dressing-jacket of old lace and a boudoir cap which was at once ravishing and expensive.

"Come in, Tyndall," she said with a smile, and put down her cigarette. "Won't you have a drink?"

"Tea," said I, "and only one lump of arsenic, if you please."

She smiled again.

"You amuse me," she said, "as if I didn't know that the whole of this house, back and front, wasn't watched by a young army of busy fellows. I'll bet there's somebody on the roof."

"You've won," said I.

She rang the bell, and the waiting-maid came in.

"Two cups of tea," she said, "and no cyanide for Mr. Tyndall— he's dieting."

"Well, May," said I, "and how did Aylesbury agree with you?"

She looked pretty straight at me with those china blue eyes of hers, and let out a long whiff of smoke before she answered.

"Fine," she said at last, but with no enthusiasm, "but somewhat dull."

I saw the red go up to her cheekbones, and guessed the black rage in her heart.

"Do you know what it means?" she asked, "prison for a woman like me with a certain sense of refinement, a love for pretty things, and a craving for ease?"

"I can guess," said I. "It is rather lamentable, is it not, that in this fine body of yours lives a cruel and as remorseless a spirit as it has been my lot to encounter— that side by side with this delicacy runs a ruthlessness and a cunning beyond understanding?"

She nodded sulkily, then burst into a peal of laughter.

It did one good to hear May laugh, so sweet and soft it was; to see the two straight rows of white teeth, the red lips, the splendid curve of her throat as she flung her head back.

She had blackmailed men till in a frenzy they had hanged themselves; she had driven one woman into a lunatic asylum; and here she was, the gilder of angels, the mover to tears, a free woman and laughing.

"You are so funny," she said, wiping her eyes with a ha'porth of silvery cobweb (so it seemed), "especially when you get on to the psychological track— now, what do you want?"

She was business-like and alert. She sat up in the high-backed chair at her desk and pulled greedily at her cigarette.

What I had to say could wait, for the maid brought in the tea and favoured me with a smile.

"You know Henrietta, obviously," said May. "Stay and have tea with us, dear," she said.

"Thanks— no," said the maid decidedly. "Tyndall gives me the creeps."

"He gives us all the creeps," said May ruefully, but I am not easily flattered.

"What is it you want?" asked May when the girl was gone.

"I want Leggatt," I said.

"Leggatt is dead," she answered.

"Yet you are not in mourning."

She shrugged her pretty shoulders.

"One has no time for mourning," she said.

"You are not even in mourning for William Smith?" I suggested, and she looked blank. I did not trouble to explain.

"May," said I, after a little pause. "I have come to plead for a man—yes, for a man," her start of surprise was not affected. "Years ago when you first started on your downward career, a man saw you and fell in love with you. A good man, too, who was attached to the police in Denver City."

"Who was he?" she asked with a natural interest.

"You never met him— he worshipped at a distance," I said. "He couldn't believe that you were bad, and when he found out it broke his heart. Oh, you heart-breaker!"

I shook my finger waggishly, but May was serious-minded.

"When you came to Europe he was here; it was his duty, as he conceived it, to thwart you in your various exploits. It was part of his duty to go into the box at the Old Bailey and say the words which sent you to penal servitude— yet in his heart of hearts he loved you."

She looked at me, rose slowly from her chair and came over to me.

"You?" she whispered.

I said nothing.

"You!" she whispered again, half to herself. "My God!"

So we stood, looking at each other, staring into one another's souls, seeking what comfort we could find. Denver May and John Tyndall, detective.

"You— you!"

She put up her hands and covered her face. The diamond that sparkled on the third finger of her left hand was the last gift of old Snow Taggett, whom she hounded to a miserable death.

"Go away, will you?" she said suddenly.

Her face was white— even her lips had lost their colour.

I went to the door and opened it.

"One moment," she said. "When I was released from Aylesbury somebody sent me three hundred pounds in notes—was it you?"

"Guilty," said I, and closed the door softly behind me.

Ah, well! Allow me this diversion. I know a Cabinet Minister who chews tobacco, and a judge of the Appeal Court who plays baccarat. Grant me something of romance and a memory fragrant as violets. For who cares in what muck-soil a flower grows. God help us all!

I WENT DOWN to Scotland Yard to see the Chief, but he was out. Superintendent Boscombe was in, and saw me at once.

"I think you'll have to take May again," I said. "She's been writing to old Lord Veralash— I saw an envelope addressed to him on her desk this afternoon, and a half-finished letter heavily underlined."

"That's bad," said Boscombe. "I suppose there's no use in watching pillar boxes for that sort of correspondence?"

I shook my head.

"G.P.O. or nothing," said I, knowing my May. "I suppose you keep one of your young gentlemen permanently employed keeping tag of her movements?"

"I keep two," said the superintendent. "How many do you think I ought to have?"

"Two hundred," said I.

NOW FOR Talking Jimmy.

For Jimmy is in London— that I'll take as many oaths to as the late William Smith would have taken. Jimmy the Talker, the plausible, the splendidly gab-gifted.

Ah, ha! Jimmy, watch me!

And Leggatt, the dead man of Monte Carlo. Decently interred vide my Mr. Coss, the wept and the sung, though the song were the veriest doggerel of an obituary inserted by a respectable journal at so much a line.

What of this Leggatt? If he is in hell—for where else could he be, the blackmailing, murderous dog—if he walks on the hot side of the Styx, then I am a grievously mistaken man.

My Mr. Coss returned to his suburban house at 9.30 on the night I saw May.

He came in a taxi-cabriolet, and argued with the driver as to the fallibility of the taximeter. Paid under protest. Cab dismissed. (No. 98,711, L.C. 14,713.) Coss goes to his door, looking neither right nor left. Enters, closes door. Light in the hall three seconds later. Light in sitting-room twenty seconds later. (He was, of course, scanning the letters which he had found in the letter-box.) Light out in dining-room at 9.53. Light on in back bedroom 9.55, Light out in back bedroom 10.27.

So far so good.

Mr. Coss, inscrutable and innocent murderer, we may suppose is tucked away between linen sheets in his striped pyjamas.

Three hours are supposed to elapse.

At one-thirty as the clock was striking the front door opens and Mr. Coss comes out, closing the door behind him.

An alert detective, watching him from the opposite side of the road, noted most of these happenings.

Looking neither to the right nor to the left, Mr. Coss strode quickly in the direction of Kensington.

The detective followed at his heels. With unerring instinct, as it seemed, the first man made his way toward Notting Hill.

He turned into Ladbroke Grove— at this end a broad sedate thoroughfare of large houses. His pursuer thought for a moment that the "sleeper" had taken Notting Dale for his objective, but in this he was mistaken, for he suddenly stopped in his stride, turned and passed through the gate of an empty house.

It was an old house, the detective could see this even by so scanty a light as a street lamp afforded. The garden was rank with weeds, the stucco broken from the damp walls, showing the naked brick beneath.

From the gate the detective watched Mr. Coss as he slowly mounted the six limestone steps which led up to the doorway. From his waistcoat pocket the elder man took a key, slipped it into the lock and turned it. The front door swung open and the man passed through.

The watching detective followed noiselessly. The door had been left ajar, but the watcher made no attempt to follow. Instead he returned to the garden gate, whistling a little tune thoughtfully.

It was a quarter of an hour before the door opened again and Mr. Coss came out. It is a remarkable fact that he did not attempt to shut the door behind him.

A splendid opportunity this for the watcher, if he desired a leisurely examination.

But did he? No.

Coss stepped briskly down the path and came to where the detective stood at the gate. The light from a street lamp nearly shone upon the detective's face, and Mr. Coss, the sleepwalker, the sub-conscious dreamer, became suddenly very much awake.

"Why— why!" he stammered, "I thought you were Tyndall!"

The tall man who had shadowed him shook his head.

"No, Jimmy," he said regretfully. "I am only a commonplace, detective chief-inspector."

"My name is Coss," said the other loudly.

"Your name is Badger— commonly known as 'Talking Jimmy.' Goin' quietly?"

Jimmy said nothing, but reached quickly for his gun. Then somebody hit him with a slug on the head, and that shook him up a little.

Whilst he was wondering in a dazed way whether it would be etiquette for him to lie down and nurse himself, the door of the house was flung open violently and a man came running out, pursued, it would seem, by half the metropolitan police force.

He took the steps in one leap. Then from nowhere in particular a man appeared and tackled him. A big man, who gripped the fugitive Leggatt by the throat and shook him considerably.

"It's all right, Tyndall," gasped Leggatt. "I'll go quietly!"

Like a fool I thought I had him beat, and released my hold. As I did so a fountain of fire zipped up at me, and a bullet perforated the brim of my hat. He shot twice at the police before he leapt the wall and disappeared.

I INTERVIEWED Jimmy in the cells.

"Mr. Tyndall, I am anxious to know for future guidance," he said intelligently, "in what way I erred. I gave you the best story I have ever invented in order to bait you to Leggatt. You had never seen me in your life. Will you, as a brother brush, offer a struggling artist a few hints on construction?"

I smiled; the appreciation of this maker of fiction was very flattering.

"With pleasure," I replied, "and I will group the main observations under headings.

"1. Leggatt dies at Monte Carlo in June. No man goes to Monte Carlo in June unless he is mad. The hotels are closed, the streets are like a furnace.

"2. He dies of bronchitis 'from sleeping out in a cold wind.' Cold winds in June!

"I am charging you with conspiracy, Jimmy," I went on. "I may even charge you with the murder of one William Smith."

"State's evidence for mine," said Jimmy promptly. "Produce your stenographer, and I'll give you the synopsis of a thrilling serial."

And this he did, to Leggatt's embarrassment. He did not mention Denver May, for which I was a little grateful, but he said a lot about Leggatt. Leggatt, who had died in Monte Carlo to allay my suspicions, who had come to life again— well, I guessed his plan by the big grave he had dug in the kitchen of the empty house.

A clever plan wasn't it?

As for Leggatt he is free for the moment, but I am coming along.

Continental papers, please copy.

5: An Adventure On The Côte D'azure

HERE was a man named Talking Jimmy, who, in conjunction with one Leggatt, shot and killed a poor devil of a convict named William Smith.

They shot him and they brought him in a cab to my flat—they and their confederates—and, having wilfully aroused my suspicions and lured away my servant— I assisted in the luring— they brought the body of William Smith on the service lift to my flat. There they laid him on my bed, and there I discovered him.

That Jimmy did the shooting, we know, because poor William Smith was killed by shots from revolvers of two different calibres, and it is also known that he was killed at King's Wharf, Lambeth, whither he had gone to meet his employers.

There was a man, I say, named Talking Jimmy, and you will observe that I italicise the word "was" because Jimmy is no longer with us, having died at Pentonville Gaol.

He died talking.

I saw him two days before his execution, and he sat at one end of a long table and I sat at the other, and he talked most of the time.

"And to think," he said, "that I paid you three hundred pounds or a trifle over fifteen hundred dollars to hang me!"

He laughed, and I think he was genuinely amused.

On one matter he sought information. Would he be hanged in his own clothing or in the sorry convict garb he wore?

I assured him that he would wear the clothes he wore at the trial, and he seemed relieved.

I stood for a long time in the governor's room wondering whether it was my duty to give him away and let the Law take its course, for I guessed that he was going to die as his sometime friends Lew Sillet and Ferdie Ross and Big Jack Cutler had died in the Tombs Prison, and as I knew the whole of that gang had died or were prepared to die.

In the end I left him to go out in his own way.

They brought his clothes at six o'clock the next morning, and he dressed himself, talking to the warders. He knelt by his bed, and they let him remain there for a quarter of an hour, and all the time he was talking to himself and they thought he was praying. He may have been, but it was not like Jimmy. Then he suddenly fell backward on the cell floor, and before they could get a doctor, the hangman with his oiled straps had been cheated. Jimmy was dead.

Cyanide of potassium was the poison— cyanide moulded into the shape of a coat button and coloured to match.

Jimmy had wrenched the dope from his coat without difficulty, and that was the end of him.

I read the story in an evening paper. In a way it spoilt a prophecy of mine, but, after all, what is a prophecy more or less?

Leggatt had gone— out of England, I had every reason to believe. Denver May, whom I saw on the day of Jimmy's passing, offered me no clue to his whereabouts. She was milder in manner than I ever remember her.

"Jimmy's gone," was all the reply she vouchsafed. "You know where he is— let Leggatt go."

I shook my head. I spend my life shaking my head to absurd suggestions.

"Would I let you go, May, if I had the chance of taking you?" I asked.

She smiled faintly. "I do not think so," she said. "But then you will never have the chance of taking me, so why discuss what you would do?"

I confess my heart beat a little faster at her words, and she laughed at me with her eyes.

"You're quite red in the face, Mr. Tyndall," she said mockingly. "Surely the prospect of missing the humble addition to your bag doesn't worry you?"

She knew that that was not it.

"I'm out of the business for good," she said quietly. "I've sent away Henrietta, and I'm earning my living by writing— not the old kind of writing," she added with an attempt at facetiousness. "And I only ask one favour from you."

"What is that?" I asked cautiously. And she laughed again.

"What a man!" she cried, appealing to the ceiling. "You should say it is granted before you ask it."

I smiled, but did not comply with the suggestion.

"I don't want you ever to remind me of the past," she said, and laid her hand upon my shoulder as she looked me straight in the eye. "I ask you that. I do not seriously ask you to spare Leggatt. He must take his chance. But you must not expect me to betray him. He loves me, and people do not betray those whom they love unless they are police officers."

I think she saw I was hurt, for she gripped my arm with both her hands and looked up into my face.

"I didn't mean that," she said impulsively. "It was a rotten thing to say. I shouldn't like you if you didn't do your duty. Ah, dearie—" She bit her lip and stepped back, rosy with confusion.

"Some day God shall judge us both," said I, and I took her— this blackmailer— took her in my arms and held her tight for the space of a minute.

I did not kiss her. I just released her and went away, and I never saw her again for seven months.

Leggatt was on the Continent, and Leggatt wanted catching. Everybody wanted to catch him, and everybody tried to catch him except me. I am not a lazy man, but I do not like being bothered, and nothing bothers me so much as work.

Leggatt by profession is a train robber and bank smasher, and when the French Government sent me some interesting particulars concerning repeated robberies of bullion on various trains and invited me across, I was not feeling well.

My symptoms were weariness whenever I approached anything bearing the faintest resemblance to duty, boredom in the presence of a client, however highly placed, and the only relief I found was auction bridge taken steadily from 3 p.m. to 3 a.m., with intervals for food.

So that when I heard that the Government of France had invited Bolsover to come to Europe to take up the case I said "Vive la République!" and would have given the Chicago detective a clear field but for the fact that M. Levine pointedly referred to my contract with the Government and demanded as politely as possible what the devil I thought I was drawing fifteen hundred francs a month for?

Curiously enough I never realised till long after the visit of Bolsover, until I knew "dead" Leggatt was alive, that he was the gentleman who was lifting bullion and filling in his spare time with visits to England.

Bolsover had been on his track for months before I went after him.

Everybody knows and respects Bolsover. Everybody else knows Tyndall. Tyndall, moreover, is a modest and lazy man and inconsequent. Everybody— the same "everybody" who knows and respects Bolsover— complains bitterly about the inconsequence of Tyndall.

Detective! Bah!

Now Bolsover is another kind of man. He is the man who tracked down the Denver Dynamitards. He is the man who unveiled the corruption of the San Dominico police department. He is the most brilliant detective in the United States of America. Examine his photograph. You can never hope to examine him, for if he meets you professionally he will be disguised. He is always disguised—sometimes as a Tough, sometimes as a Bluff. If you see a cable car behaving in an eccentric manner on the street, examine it closely. It is probably Bolsover. If you hear the pulsating drone of a monoplane in the dark hours of the night and a despairing shriek, have no fear for the safety of pretty Nina Valleacci, carried by force from her palatial home in Versailles by the emissaries of the B—k H—d, for somewhere in the whirling Gnome engine, hidden by chance in one of the flat sausage-like cylinders, is a lithe form with flashing eyes and .48-Colt automatic. It is Bolsover! And so forth and so on.

Bolsover in private life is an unpretentious man— at least, he would be if he were ever in private life. He wears a low collar, a low Derby hat, and a pair of low shoes. 'Lo, 'Lo! Bolsover, are you there?

His face is calm, immobile, impassive. His lips are tightly pressed on a cigar, and his hand is lightly pressed on his bank roll. He speaks in monosyllables, such as "Yes!"— "No!"— "Ha!"— "Gee!"— "Hell!"

This is the impression I have about Bolsover, and I have gained it rather from an erratic perusal of admiring journals than from any knowledge of the man.

It was in the summer, at a time when the patience of the French Government was all but exhausted, that Bolsover in the flesh was pointed out to me. It was at Ascot, and I was explaining to a Scotland Yard man why I hate work, when he said with a sudden start:

"Hello! there's Bolsover!"

I looked round for the horse. I had no idea it was running.

Bolsover had dressed for Ascot because he had learnt in his sleuth-like way that Ascot was a dressy function. Ordinary people wore frock or morning coats, glossy silk hats, and trousers of a dark grey stripe super-impressed upon a much darker grey. The daring ones wore spats of snowy whiteness, the gay ones wore carnations in their buttonholes. Bolsover wore a check suit which conveyed the illusion you were looking through a grating. He had a white straw hat with the red ribbon of his college. He had a home-made tie that said: "I'm a-coming!" very loudly. His yellow boots contrasted prettily with the verdant splendours of the lawn.

One of the stewards came to me and asked me if I could get Bolsover away to some quiet arbour, where naught broke the shaded silence but the drip, drip, drip of the soda water syphon.

"Why me?" I asked indignantly. "I've done nothing."

"He's frightening the horses," said the steward urgently. "And, moreover, the American ambassador has spoken to the Prince about it. If you want to avert an international incident and earn a Bath or a Garter or a pair of ball-bearing braces, now is your opp. Go where glory waits you."

Glory was waiting for me at the far end of the paddock. He was looking at the horses and the horses were looking at him. Bolsover was calm, but the high-spirited thoroughbreds were sweating, except one that is owned by a bookmaker, and he seemed to be laughing.

"Yes," admitted the detective, "I am Bolsover. I have come on business. I can say no more. My mouth is closed by the etiquette of my profession. I can give you a page— allowing for the pictures— but I cannot tell you why I am here, except that I am anxious to meet my brother sleuth, Tyndall."

He had the eyes of a faithful hound, and these he fixed on me.

"They say this Tyndall cuts some ice? Say, he's the gay insouciant? Now I want to meet him. But you want my story. Take this."

He cleared his throat.

"I was born in Hertford in 1868. My father was a blacksmith. My mother was a granddaughter of Elmina Potterfew, the nightingale of Wabash. At an early age I displayed a singular aptitude for criminal research, and I well remember—"

"Cut it out, dear lad," I said. "I am not on a space job. I'm on the pay-roll."

In a few words I explained the position, leading him to the road outside. He was an alert enough person, knew his Leggatt well, and was prepared to take advice. He would have given me a list of his successes, but I took him by the hand.

"Mr. Bolsover," I said, "we part here. Which is your cab, by the way?"

He indicated a yellow taxi, and I led him toward it.

Opening the door, I assisted him to enter.

"Farewell," he said sombrely, "we shall meet again."

"I'm afraid we shall," I replied.

In the excess of his emotion he could only utter one of his famous monosyllables. I watched the yellow cab out of sight and went back to the paddock.

RECALLING the events of that Ascot, I am somewhat muddled in my mind as to what really happened. I have so often told the story of how I shook hands with Bolsover that I am beginning to believe it myself. I distinctly remember, however, that every time he started in to tell me something about himself I handed him a galley proof of my own biography.

Bolsover's indecent curiosity had brought him to England— to London— to Ascot. He wanted to see his rival. He wanted to know the worst. I picture a disgruntled Bolsover disguised as a free lunch bar lying in wait for his English competitor. Had he disguised himself as a bridge-marker at the Lambs' Club, he would have in all human probability run down his prey between two and four any fine morning.

I did not see Bolsover again for a few months. He was a fantastic memory. My whole impression was of a strangely unreal person clad like a three-card merchant, wandering awkwardly on the exclusive lawn, elbowing American duchesses and royal personages with the careless insolence of a Pullman porter.

He was in France when I went after Leggatt in December, but with great ingenuity I avoided him. He sought one who called himself Pierre Lacroix, a notorious connoisseur in bullion, a lifter of gold in bulk, an anæsthetist of no small quality, shooter of obdurate bullion guards, and an impersonator of railway officials.

Up and down France, from Lille to Narbonne, from Bordeaux to the Haute Savoie—it was a chase of the Everlasting Elsewhere. My search was less energetic.

I searched the best hotels in Paris and stayed a week in each. I searched the Bal Tabarin. I searched Montmartre from 1 a.m. to 4 a.m. I searched the restaurants from 8 p.m. to 10 p.m. I searched the theatres, but never once did I glimpse the heavy face of Mr. Leggatt, alias Pierre Lacroix. And the bullion cars were rifled at irregular intervals.

I had been down to Chamonix for the winter sports, and had got rather badly knocked about through the overturning of a bob-sleigh on the Long Run. The unfortunate "skipper" had misjudged the pace coming round the hairpin corner, and instead of allowing that the sleigh was going at the rate of sixty miles an hour, he had judged it to be moving at about 1964.3 miles an hour, and, shutting his eyes, switched over the helm, and muttering "Save the women and children" had left the rest to Providence.

Yet let us not judge the steerman harshly, nor echo nor endorse nor yet condone the savage strictures of his three companions on the sleigh. These coarse men knew nothing of the temperamental structure of this highly-strung man.

It is a fact in his favour that prior to starting on the run he had received a telegram delivered by a devil of a chasseur, who had climbed the mountain-side to deliver it. But of this his companions were not aware.

They called him fool, dolt, chump, jay, ass, pin-head, pie-brain, lobster. They cried, "Oh!" "Ah!" and "Shame!"

They denounced, execrated, stigmatised, vituperated, abused, scolded, rated, railed, jawed, thundered at the silent form hidden in the snow. But I lay wan and still and motionless.

But I was not dead. I was waiting for the ambulance men to come along to protect me.

The new skip of the "bob" was a London doctor, and he spoke to me the following morning.

"You must give up bob-sleighing for seven years," he said. "In seven years a man renews himself, and at the end of that time you ought to have a new set of brains."

So I left Chamonix and went down— so I told everyone— to Monte Carlo, where a wanderer doesn't have to do a lot of thinking.

Ramdan— that was the doctor's name— came to see me off at the station, and so did the other members of the crew, some of whom could walk quite nicely with the aid of crutches.

"Where are you going next year?" he asked in a friendly way. "St. Moritz or Engelberg or Davos?"

"I haven't made up my mind yet," I said. "Probably to Davos."

"Let us know when you've decided," he said, "and we'll go somewhere else."

"Don't you want me?" I asked reproachfully.

"Not alive," he said. "Not unless you're on a dog-lead."

My electric train gabyed down the mountain out of hearing. I didn't hear what else he said because I put my fingers in my ears, and he didn't hear what I said because I didn't say anything until I was safely out of hearing. Then I called him a heartless hound, and other harsh words. He was a big man and played forward for Guy's, and I was intensely and passionately desirous that he should not play forward with this guy.

I worked a leisurely way across country till I struck the main Lyons-Mediterranean route, and, deliberately missing one train, I induced the chef de gare to an unimportant station to "flag" the Côte d'Azure. It is a train whereon millionaires and men of genius travel, an edition de luxe of the Empire express. Any lesser train was, I felt, unworthy of my quality.

The long thin conductor of the wagon-lit snarled respectfully, but let me go to bed in an empty compartment. He was a talkative man, I found, and informed me that the compartment had been specially reserved at Lyons. For whom do you imagine?

For the great Tyndall!

For the chiefest of detectives; for the thug-catcher, the bullionist, the sleuth!

He had missed the train at Lyons, said the conductor with a smile. My faith! but the reputation of Tyndall was world-wide! He had probably been searching a little game of baccarat.

"And it was important, you perceive, m'sieur," said the conductor, "that the detective should have come, because here on this—" he stopped suddenly.

"You are carrying bullion," I finished. "It is deplorable. It is monstrous."

He made me cosy, and I settled down for the night with the disquieting sense that I had not been a success as a winter sportsman. Thinking matters over, I decided that any sport which one had to do oneself was a bore. Golf was a bore, bridge was a bore, ski-ing was a painful bore. Yes, the only game worth while was the race-track, where all one had to do was to pay away money at intervals.

Thus ruminating, my mind went back to Ascot, and by easy stages to Bolsover. Shutting my eyes, I could see his somewhat shapeless face, his mottled complexion, his heavy black fringe-like moustache, clipped straightly at each end. I could hear his indescribable—

I must have been dozing, but that had wakened me.

"That" was a stinging "pang!" close to my ear, and was unmistakably a pistol shot.

I switched on the light and was out of my bunk in one motion. I thrust my feet into slippers, pulled on my dressing-gown, and from under my pillow took a small-calibre Browning.

Then I jumped out of my compartment into the narrow gangway.

It was deserted, but the door of the adjoining sleeping apartment was open, and I stepped in, and after a moment's hesitation felt for the switch.

I found it, and pulled down the tiny lever.

Lying half-dressed on the bunk was a man, his shirt splattered with blood, one dangling hand hanging limply over the side of the bed. I looked at his face.

It was Bolsover.

He was breathing. Moreover, he was not seriously injured. The bullet had clipped a piece from his left shoulder, skimmed the head between the parietal and temporal bones, and splintered the rosewood panelling beneath the window. He had been shot by a man who had been kneeling on the floor. (Open valise on the floor, contents disarranged). Bolsover had reached for the switch and the man had fired upward.

I rang the bell which called the attendant, and so stood, one foot and half my body in the gangway, till the wagon-lit porter came hurrying along buttoning his coat.

He took in the situation in a glance, and swore with reliable appropriateness.

"I will signal the train to stop at the next station," he said in French. "This is very unfortunate— very unfortunate."

"Do you know him?" I asked.

He looked at me pityingly.

"Knew him!" he exclaimed. "My faith! Knew M'sieur Bolsover!" He laid his hand on the prostrate man's heart. "I know him," he corrected himself, like the pedant he was. "He is engaged in tracking down the men who stole the bullion from the Lyons-Mediterranean last month. Ah, the brave fellow!" The tears came into his eyes.

"Can you not search the train for a doctor?" I urged.

He shook his head. "There is a doctor of music in the next car," he said, "and of the German— dense. No, m'sieur, we can do no more than watch our friend. Hélas! cut off in the prime of manhood."

I looked up at the conductor, black-moustached, big-faced, heavy-jawed, yet withal so tender a man in this, his moment.

"If the grand Tyndall was here!" he said mournfully. "You see, m'sieur, it is thus. The train carries two million francs. It is in a safe— impenetrable—in the next compartment."

He indicated another door which led through a diminutive wash-place into another berth. I opened the door. The adjoining sleeper was in darkness. I turned on the light. There stood the safe.

The seats had been removed to make way for it, the ordinary door leading into the corridor masked with sheet steel. The safe rested on two large lumber balks, probably to distribute the strain on the floor of the compartment.

The safe was untouched.

I returned to Bolsover, followed by the sentimental conductor. The wounded man was breathing heavily. I turned to the conductor.

"You are not the same conductor we had last night," I said.

"Hélas! no," he said sorrowfully. "That good man was taken ill at Lyons, m'sieur!"

Well he might display such agitation, for I had stuck the business end of a Browning pistol in that section of his anatomy which hovers everlastingly between diaphragm and pancreas.

"Elevate the digits, Leggatt," I said with linguistic freedom. "We will now search for the real conductor whom you have doped."

Into the empyrean aimlessly went his rude large hands.

"This is monstrous, m'sieur," he said. "I am known to the Government— to M'sieur Bolsover— to M'sieur Tyndall."

"True," I said, "for I am Tyndall."

And the remarkable thing is, that I am! But you would never have recognised me with the beard I grew at Chamonix.

NO, I HADN'T seen Bolsover for months, but I had written and wired to him every day, and he had written to me. A nice man, Bolsover, though somewhat talkative. I have asked him not to wire me again when I am winter-sporting. A telegram handed to a man just at the moment when he is starting on a five-kilometre trip down the most dangerous bobsleigh run in France is apt to upset him. Especially when it runs:

PICK UP COTE D'AZURE LEAVING LYONS TUESDAY, CARRYING TWO MILLION BULLION. PIERRE LACROIX WILL BE ON TRAIN DISGUISED AS CONDUCTOR. I AM IN CHARGE OF BULLION.—BOLSOVER.

"Well, you've got me proper," said Mr. Leggatt. (We were taking him to Lyons by the Rapide.) "But for those damned whiskers and eyeglasses I should have known you and shot you. I've been waiting for you. What about May?" he asked suddenly.

I did not attempt to enlighten him and he continued:

"She's going straight, she says," he grinned. "Gee! what women will do when they're in love!"

He looked knowingly at me, but I wasn't to be drawn.

"I suppose you know she's crazy about you?"

"Leggatt," I said softly, "if you talk to me any more about May I shall cut away the top button of your coat."

His face went livid, and his manacled hands went up unobtrusively to the button.

"Leave me that!" he whispered.

I nodded, and we didn't talk about May any more.

6: The Way Of Denver May

WHIRL and splash of water under your keel, whirl of wheel under your sleeping berth, hum of bonneted engine and icy-cold wind in your face—all to one end, to "get there."

I have got there often enough, and tasted the fruit spread for me by fate. Fruit bitter, of disappointment; fruit sweet, of achievement; fruit wooden, labelled nearly.

There's death for a man at some journeys' endings, cold cell and Dartmoor for others, freedom from terror, haven for weariness, and a quick-formed queue for panic for yet others.

That's all in a man's life who does police work; hard, heartbreaking, but good fun.

Leggatt on his way to Devil's Island sends me a letter asking for my intervention on his behalf and offering as some inducement new and interesting details concerning Denver May— crime unrecorded and unpunished. "Which you can easily prove. I think you might regard this as state evidence," says he; "and that it should count in my favour."

Yes, he opens his mouth wide enough; leaves May to the mercy of the police and the cold world. And May, you must remember, was his best friend. He had wept for her when she was sentenced—tears are ready and cheap to some eyes. I feel, for my own part, that I could not weep and live.

May is in the country, has a little house in Tellborough, a small cathedral town, and without making herself a nuisance with her good works, is doing no mischief save to caterpillars and snails which invade her garden. When she came out of Aylesbury an anonymous friend, who was an admirer of her talents, sent her three hundred pounds. As soon as she learnt who had sent the money she returned it with a little note to the effect that she was "provided for."

In other words May lived upon her nefarious gains.

FILLINGTON, a young and ambitious detective-inspector, newly promoted and eager for further promotion, came to me one day and was remarkably familiar, going so far on the path to my disregard as to call me "Tyndall" without the prefix which custom and respect dictate.

A tall young man with small brown eyes and a black little moustache, somewhat ruddy of face too, which added nothing to his charms.

"You know a woman called Denver May," he said, in the pseudo cross-examination style which is so popular with young police officers.

"I do."

"She is a blackmailer," he explained unnecessarily; "and she is a convict on licence."

"Her sentence was remitted," I corrected.

"Well," said the excellent Fillington, "I have discovered that she is living in a little country town—"

"In Tellborough, Kent," I put in; "where she is called Madame Fournier—yes."

He was disappointed. "Oh, you know that, do you? Well, I tell you what I've done, Tyndall. I've written to the vicar of Tellborough putting him in possession of all the facts regarding this woman."

"But why?" I asked. "Surely it is enough that the local police know?"

He smiled. "The fact is," he confessed, "I went down to Tellborough on my own to see her. I thought she might be able to give me a wrinkle or two about some people I want to get hold of very badly, so I hopped along. And will you believe me,"—his head swayed from side to side with emphasis—"she treated me as though I was dirt! Showed me out, in fact."

I nodded slowly.

"I see," I said; "and so you were considerably snubbed—"

"She made me feel such a fool," explained Fillington.

"You were made to feel so foolish that in the end you thought you would give May away—is that it?"

He deprecated the suggestion. He had acted in the public interest, and now he had come for approval.

Ah, well, my young Inspector Fillington, you must go through with your trouble. It was not in the public interest that you should have accepted large sums of money from a street bookmaker of Canning Town, though bookmakers' money is as good as anybody else's. A prying super-detective employed by Government may look upon your transaction with a lenient or a severe eye, taking all circumstances into consideration.

I did not omit the name of young Inspector Fillington from my "confidential," and he was broken in a month, was out of the police force in a year, and will write pamphlets concerning his grievances which nobody will read.

NOBODY DOUBTS that our worthy vicar of Tellborough was shocked. He raised his white hands to the level of his gleaming glasses and said, "This is very terrible, my dear," but "my dear" was flustered, though in a harder and a colder and a more practical way. If the vicar's wife knew, Tellborough knew, from Gibley Abbey to the slums by the brickfield.

Somebody wrote "blackmailer" on May's door; a lout threw a brick through a window. There was talk of further violence, but May came out on to the lawn one summer's evening, all Tellborough looking on, and did some trick shooting with her Smith-Wesson—and the deputation never called.

Her grocer and butcher refused to serve her, her baker followed suit. They had conscientious scruples, they told admiring friends. May got her goods from the stores in London—they had no scruples of any kind whatsoever.

People called on her. Young George Wilberfort came at ten o'clock one night with his coat collar turned up. May opened the door; her servants had yielded to conscience and departed, and new servants (French, and consequently without shame) were already en-route.

"What do you want?" asked May.

"A whisky-and-soda, my dear," said George, with desperate gaiety; "and a bit of a chat."

"I'm all alone in the house," said May.

"So much the better," said Lothario junior.

May hit him across the mouth with the flat of her hand and closed the door on him.

A young man, hurt in his vanity and struck by a woman, can make a bad enemy. George was the son of a landed proprietor and a gentleman by Act of Parliament. He joined the band of the conscientious, saying nothing to anybody about his evening adventure. The branch of the Wilberforts is an easy one to trace. Three generations ago it broke stones by the roadside on the male side, washed linen publicly on the female side. So it lacked the bit of breed that makes lying and all wrong-doing hateful.

The chief sent for me one day and handed me a warrant.

"You can go down to Tellborough," he said, "and take into custody an old friend of yours."

"May?"

"May it is," said the chief. "She's back at the old game."

I took the bundle of letters he gave me.

"What's the matter with you, Tyndall?" he asked quietly; "your hand is shaking and your face is as bleak as a Sunday in town?"

"Dyspepsia," I said. It seemed the least romantic thing to say.

There were seven letters; they were all addressed to George Wilberfort, Esq. Two were sent to The Hall, Tellborough, and the remainder to his flat in Piccadilly.

They were all typewritten and subscribed "May." Moreover, the envelopes bore the mark of Tellborough post office.

The letters demanded money— two hundred, three hundred, and five hundred pounds— on the threat of exposure.

"Typewritten?" I protested, "bit flimsy, isn't it?"

"Good enough," said the chief. "Go down and investigate, and when you think it is expedient, make the arrest."

I went out of Scotland Yard a criminal.

A taxi carried me to Cockspur Street to the Wagon Lit. I booked one single ticket to Yokohama via the Trans-Siberian Railway. Then I went back to my flat. My man was on his holiday; there was nothing to do but to write him a note enclosing him twenty-five pounds in lieu of notice. There were no letters to destroy. Certain records were in the safe at my office. I enclosed the key with a brief note to the chief and left that on my table also.

Then I took a revolver from the drawer of my desk, dropped in three cartridges, and slipped the weapon into my pocket.

From thence to my bank. I am one of those improvident people who dabble not in securities. My cash is always available cash, and there was nine thousand six hundred pounds to my credit.

I drew it all, with the exception of a hundred to meet floating cheques, and with some ninety odd notes for a hundred pounds in the inside pocket of my coat I caught the earliest available train for Tellborough.

May was in the garden when I arrived, and her French maid was a little dubious as to whether she should admit me. Eventually May came upon the scene. All my life I shall remember her as she looked that morning. She wore a blue dress—the blue of her eyes. It was cut in the fashion of the moment, all looped drapery, which in spite of its apparent vagueness, gave her figure gracious and definite shape. You saw a V of white breast, the whiter because of a creamy froth edging to the triangular cut. Her face was more aesthetic than ever I have seen it. She was paler and thinner of face, almost ethereal.

"Do I?" she said lightly, when I told her she was looking ill. "My dear Mr. Tyndall, isn't the very sight of you calculated to bring pallor to the guilty cheek?"

"How guilty are you. May?" I asked.

"As guilty as hell," said May, with a gesture of weariness. "But I thought we were never going to discuss these matters?"

"We were never going to talk of the past," said I. "But it's the present."

"The present!" She frowned at me in wonder.

"The present," I repeated.

She sank down into a chair and folded her hands on her lap.

"Exactly what do you mean?" she asked.

I told her, read portions of the letters and showed her my warrant.

She was like death now.

"So I shall have to go back to that horrible place," she said, speaking her thoughts aloud. "After all— all I have done." She smiled pathetically. "I suppose there is no use in my saying that I didn't write those letters; that I have never written a blackmailing letter in my life, that I never approached a single individual save one, to warn him, that was Lord Liverton."

I said nothing; it was too incredible.

"Leggatt is my husband," she said quietly. "I have been the veriest figurehead in the whole business, a willing figurehead, because one takes on the moral aspect of those in ascendancy. As to these letters, I did not write them. Perhaps you will believe that."

And she told me all about Master George Wilberfort and his gallantry.

I listened, and was silent long after she had finished. I never doubted that May was the prime mover and Leggatt— he died en-route to Cayenne, by the way— and dead Talking Jimmy were her willing instruments. One always credits a bad woman with superlative powers of evil, as one endows a good woman with virtues most impossible. Disillusionment in either case is painful. I spoke at last.

"May," I said, "Fate is all against you, and here am I, a police officer, sent to do duty."

"You must do it," she said, and once again the wistful smile trembled on her face, balanced with tears. "I suppose you don't want to handcuff me?"

She faced me, her hands behind her, her head thrown back.

"What is your name?" she asked suddenly.

I smiled.

"You know my name, May."

"But your Christian name?"

"John Tyndall," said I.

The little smile again.

"Is there anybody in the wide world," she asked, "bold enough to call you Jack?"

I nodded.

"Once there was," I said; she must have known that I meant my mother.

She inclined her head.

"Well, I'm going to call you Jack," she said. "That is the privilege of a criminal—to take outrageous liberties with the names of their captors. You shall be Jack to me," she said in a voice tremulous with tears.

"Sit down." I laid my hand on her shoulder and pushed her into a chair. I produced my wad of notes, and laid on the top the fat little bundle of railway coupons which would carry her to Japan.

"Put those in your bag," said I. "Collect your personal belongings and catch the next train to London."

She stared in bewilderment.

"It's all right," I smiled. "I'll take you as far as Calais and leave you."

She picked up the railway tickets and fingered them absently. Then she counted the notes very carefully and methodically.

"What will happen to you?" she asked quietly,

"People will be very annoyed," I said with a laugh.

"Show me your ticket to Calais," she demanded imperiously, and I produced it.

"A single ticket?"

Her eyes met mine in a questioning look.

"Yes— I can get another there," I said hastily.

"A single ticket—I see."

She nodded, picked up the notes from her lap and handed them back to me.

"I counted them to see the monetary value of your love," she said. "I gather that it is exactly all you have in the world."

I couldn't deny it.

"And a single ticket," she went on.

"And a revolver in your hip pocket to use the moment my train is out of sight because—because," she faltered on her speech, "because you have failed to do your duty."

She rose from the chair and resumed her old attitude.

"That is it," she said slowly. "I knew a man like you—he was my father. He went to his death as you would, for a woman unworthy to lace his shoes—as you would. No—no—no—no! Jack Tyndall!"

She shook her head, laughing now, laughing with sobs between.

Then she came forward with two quick steps and put her hands on my shoulder, and they slid and slid till they were round my neck—tighter and tighter her head pressed to my breast, and there she lay sobbing till I thought she would never stop.

My God, it was wonderful!

ONLY ONE chance for it.

Solemn promises from May to do nothing till I gave her permission, hurried journey back to town, cyclonic burst into Chief's office, and he, poor man, somewhat perturbed by the vision of an empty-handed detective for empty-handed I was, as I explained.

"I am perfectly satisfied that these three letters to Wilberfort are fakes," and I gave him a description of the young gentleman's rebuff.

"Very possible," he said. "Very, very possible; but the warrant was issued on sworn information and must be executed."

"Except," said I promptly, "when, as provided by paragraph 8 of the Act of 1848, objection is taken to the information."

"Go along and see the magistrate who issued it," said the Chief. "Get him to grant a stay, and don't come slinging your Acts of Parliament at my head, I beg you."

There was no difficulty about the stay: to make sure I called on Lord Charles in Downing Street. The Premier had secured May's release, and it was up to him to prove he wasn't an ass. I told him so.

"Quite right," he said. "A very sweet woman," he said at parting. "I can never believe that a girl with a face like that could be utterly bad."

After all, is Charles such an ass as people think?

That night when Mr. George Wilberfort went forth in his hired electric brougham to the Jollity Theatre I called on him. His servant let me in, and informed me that he would go and fetch his master if necessary. I told him it was not necessary— not at all. Far from it. I would wait until his master returned. What dog am I that I should drag him from his proper pleasures? I would wait in the ornate smoking-room, divan'd and orientalised with the orientalism which is neither Turkish, Moorish, Chinese, nor Byzantine, but in the main— Earl's Court.

Shaded lamps from a fake mosaic ceiling; thick Turkey rugs from Axminster under foot; the luxury and lack of ventilation peculiar to the planning young blood with a sneaking desire for the harem, and possessed of sufficient money to get the home together.

I sent the man out with a spoof message to Scotland Yard.

He went importantly, and brought back, in his face, something of the mysteriousness of his brief environment.

"Inspector Boscombe says 'All right,'" said the man furtively, as if the walls themselves had ears.

All right it was indeed.

I sat for three hours in the little smoking room, consuming cigarettes till the atmosphere was blue.

At the end of the time enter Mr. George Wilberfort, a flushed island of joy, entirely surrounded by chorus girls.

"Hel-lo!" said he, and paused, conscious of the fact that his guests demanded humour. "And who the devil are you?"

"My name is Tyndall," said I, "and I shall, perhaps, take you into custody on a charge of conspiracy and perjury."

One girl laughed because she thought the joke was on Wilberfort— she laughed, and stopped short in her laugh because she saw George Wilberfort's face.

"Go into the drawing-room," said I to the girls. "You'll find supper laid— Mr. Wilberfort may be with you in ten minutes."

They went— on tip-toe.

"What will my father say?" croaked the boy. "Good God! What will all the chaps say?"

"What made you do it?" I asked.

"How did you find out?" he countered. "You're Tyndall the detective, aren't you? How long have you been here?"

"All the evening," I said gravely. He jerked his head up and down despairingly.

"Of course, then you've found 'em." he said. "I was a fool— what an ass I've been— keeping the rough drafts of the letters in my flat! I typed 'em at the governor's office, and a devilish hard job it was, too, one finger at a time, and not knowing where any of the letters were. I got a chap to post 'em for me— did he give me away?"

I shook my head.

"It was a rotten thing to do," he said apologetically; "but you see she made me very wild. I'm an awfully proud chap, really, and she got me on the raw— as a man of the world you'll understand."

He appealed to me, then dropped his face in his hands, sitting on the edge of his downiest divan.

"Still, I can't understand how you could have found the drafts," he said suddenly. "Did you force the lock or anything?"

"Look and see," I said, and I followed him to his bedroom.

He had a big oak bureau that did tricks: it was such a bureau as is supplied by ingenious cabinet makers to the young aristocracy, and was the best of its kind I have ever seen or examined. It had electric cigar lighters and patent cigarette cases concealed in unexpected positions. It could be a desk or a clothes press, and was generally both.

Wilberfort drew out a drawer, touched a spring, and lo! one of the sides was hollow. And there was the evidence of his guilt in eight quarto sheets.

"You didn't take 'em away, then?" he asked in some surprise.

"No," said I.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because," I answered, as I folded the papers and put them in my pocket, "I couldn't find them."

No, though I ransacked the whole of the flat.

I left him with a word of comfort, and carried away a written statement signed by him to the effect that it was all a joke played upon him by a friend.

There would be no prosecution, I knew— I left him to the comfort of the chorus girls.

Whirr and thud of bonneted engine for me— trains move too smoothly, if faster, for a man carrying good news.

May saw me at three o'clock in the morning, and she saw all that I had to tell her in my face.

We sat talking through the night, till the sun came up and tipped the high trees with bronze-gold, till the birds began their shrill and jerky chatter; till the nodding flowers lifted their heads to the first slant gleams of gold that the sentinel trees let pass.

"I shall use your ticket," said May at last. "I can leave England the day after to-morrow."

"For Yokohama?"

"I shall buy a little house in a suburb of Tokio," she said. "And perhaps in a few years' time you will be coming to Japan and will call and see me— I shall be an old woman in a few years," she smiled.

"Look for a man with long white whiskers," said I. "That will be me— in a few years' time."

I left her before the town of Tellborough was sufficiently wide-awake to be scandalised.

I did not see May off, but she wired me from Moscow some days later, and I went to see the Chief.

"Leave of absence, Mr. Tyndall," said he. "Wherever are you going? Not to Japan?"

"To Japan," said I.

"To Japan," said he. "Why, you told me the other day that you weren't going to Japan for years."

"It seems years," I replied, "since I said that."

End

Table of Contents

Introduction

1: Mrs. William Jones and— Bill

2: The Adventures of George

3: According to Freud

4: Bondage

5: The Society of Bright Young People

6: The King and the Editor

7: Christmas Presents

8: Lord Exenham Causes a Sensation

9: The Death Room

10: The Limp of the Clan Chen

11: The Great Reward (Novelette)

12: The Pet of the Wigshires

13: Frank The Trumpeter

14: The Man Who Killed "X"