Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Trawling in Newspaper archives I gradually accumulate waifs and strays in the form of short stories. Often these are uncollected in book form, or are in collections so obscure that they can't be found. A few of those waifs and strays appear here, plus an assortment of crime/detective stories from other collections, some of which are on these forums, to make up a volume and give those waifs and strays a home of sorts. 1: The Conscientious Burglar / Grant Allen 2: Mr. Senn's Past / E. Phillips Oppenheim 3: The Prince of Wurttenburg / Stephen Leacock 4: The New Catacomb / Arthur Conan Doyle 5: Th

PAST MASTERS

Crime and Detective stories
from past masters in the

Life +70 Public Domain.

Selected by Pulpmeister

Contents

1: The Conscientious Burglar / Grant Allen

2: Mr. Senn's Past / E. Phillips Oppenheim

3: The Prince of Wurttenburg / Stephen Leacock

4: The New Catacomb / Arthur Conan Doyle

5: The Ginger King / A E W Mason

6: The Slane Mystery / Edgar Wallace

7: Cheese / Ethel Lina White

8: The Tragedy of a Third Smoker / C J Cutcliffe Hyne

9: The Azoff Diamonds / Fred M. White

10: Sheer Profit / William Le Queux

11: The Silent Witness / Max Brand

12: The Tea-Leaf / Edgar Jepson and Robert Eustace

13: The Vanishing of Mrs. Fraser / Sir Basil Thomson

14: Locked In / E. Charles Vivian

15: Will You Walk Into My Parlour? / "Sapper" (H C McNeile)

16:  Tobias the Terrible / Damon Runyon

17: The Comedy Of The Jewelled Links / Max Pemberton

18: The Great Portrait Mystery / R Austin Freeman

19: The Yellow Dog / J S Fletcher

20: The Empty Match Box / Aidan de Brune

______________________

1: The Conscientious Burglar

Grant Allen

From Ivan Greet's Masterpiece, 1893

GUY LETHBRIDGE had got into debt. That was reprehensible, of course; but when we were very young, most of us did the same thing; and in Guy’s case, at least, there were extenuating circumstances. When a fellow’s twenty-four, and has been brought up like a gentleman, he’s apt to fall into the familiar fallacy that “we must live;” and if he has nothing to live upon, why then he lives upon other people. Now, Guy Lethbridge was a painter, without visible means of support except his art; and he glided into debt by a natural and easy transition which even that sternest of censors, the judge of the Bankruptcy Court, might well have condoned as next door to inevitable.

The facts of the case were these. Guy had gone over to Germany with a knapsack on his back, an easel in his hands, and a pipe and a few pounds in his trousers pocket. He had no friends to speak of in those days, for his father was dead, and his mother, good lady, in her lodgings in Bayswater, could no more have sent her son a five-pound note from her slender pension, than she could have sent him the Koh-i-noor or the Order of the White Elephant. But Guy went abroad, none the less, with the reckless faith of the Salvationist or the impecunious artist. He meant to stay on the Rhine as long as his money lasted; “and then, you know, my dear fellow, I can smuggle myself across anyhow, in a cattle boat or something; and arrive with a sixpence and an immortal work at St. Catherine’s Docks some fine summer day, at six o’clock in the morning.” What a blessed thing it is, to be sure, to be born into this world with the easy-going, happy-go-lucky, artistic temperament!

So Guy went to Königswinter, with a glimpse by the way at Brussels, Aix, and Cologne, and settled himself down, pipe, easel, and all, to summer quarters at the bright and sunny Berliner-Hof. There, he worked really hard, for he was no saunterer by nature; his impecuniosity arose, strange to say, neither from want of industry nor want of talent, but from pure force of circumstances. There’s no sillier blunder on earth, indeed, than to believe that if a man doesn’t succeed in life he must needs be either an idler or a bungler. Only fools imagine that industry and ability can command success; wise men know well that opportunity and luck count at least as equally important. Guy Lethbridge’s time had not yet come. He painted all summer up and down the Rhine, making Königswinter his headquarters, and dropping down by boat or rail from day to day to various points on either bank that took his fancy. As for black and white, his quiver was full of them. The Drachenfels from the North, the Drachenfels from the South; the Rheinstein from above, the Rheinstein from below, the Rheinstein from St. Clement’s— he sketched them all till he was well nigh tired of them. Meanwhile, he worked steadily at his grand Academy picture of “The Seven Mountains from the Summit of the Petersberg.” His plan of campaign, in short, was own brother to every other struggling young artist’s. He meant to do “a lot of little pot-boilers for the illustrated magazines, don’t you know, or the weekly papers,” and to live upon those while he devoted his energies to the real Work of Art which was to raise him with a bound to the front rank of living painters. Wyllie had done it, you see, with his great Thames picture, so why shouldn’t Guy Lethbridge? The Chantrey Bequest was meant on purpose for the encouragement of such works as the “Seven Mountains from the Summit of the Petersberg.” The trustees were bound to buy it as soon as they saw it hung on the line at the Academy; for they are men of taste, and men of knowledge, and men of experience; and if they don’t know a good thing when they see it, what’s the use of an Academy, anyway, I ask you?

Incredible as it may seem, however, the pot-boilers failed to boil the pot. Guy sent his sketches, with elucidatory remarks, to the editors of nearly every illustrated paper in Great Britain and Ireland or the adjacent islands; who declined them with thanks, and with surprising unanimity. There were the same sketches, to be sure, which ran afterwards through eight numbers of a leading art review, and were then reproduced as an illustrated gift-book, which our most authoritative critic pronounced in The Bystander to be “the gem of the season.” But that was after Guy Lethbridge became famous. At the time, those busy editors didn’t look at the drawings at all, or, if they looked at them, observed with the weary sigh peculiar to the overworked editorial organism, “Ah, the Rhine again! Overdone, decidedly. The public won’t stand any more Rhine at any price.” For those were the days when there was a run on the Thames and our domestic scenery; and everybody who was anybody lodged his easel in a houseboat.

Thus it gradually happened that while the Great Work progressed, the pipe got smoked out, and the pounds evaporated. Guy had lived sparingly at the Berliner-Hof— very sparingly indeed. He had breakfasted early on his roll and coffee; bought a penn’orth of bread and a bunch or two of grapes for his frugal lunch on the hills where he painted; and dined à la carte, when daylight failed, off the cheapest and most sustaining of the land-lord’s dishes. His drink was Bavarian beer, or more latterly, water; yet in spite of economy the marks slipped away with surprising nimbleness; and by the end of September, Guy woke up one morning without even the talisman of that proverbial sixpence which was to land him in safety at the Port of London.

He had delayed things too long; hoping against hope, he had believed to the last that the Porte-Crayon or the Studio must surely accept his graceful and easy Rhenish sketches. He knew they were clever; he knew they had qualities; and he couldn’t believe in his innocent soul all the art-editors of his country were an amalgamated pack of Banded Duffers. Somebody must surely see merit at last in his “Royal Stolzenfels”; somebody must surely descry in the end the fantastic exuberance of his “Hundred-towered Andernach.” So he waited and waited on, expecting every day some change in his fortunes, till the fatal moment at length arrived when he paid his last mark for his lunch in the mountains, and found himself face to face with an empty exchequer, and nothing on earth to get back to England with.

It was a Wednesday when the fact of his utter penury forced itself finally upon him. He paid his bill by the week, and he had still till Monday next before he would stand in urgent need of money. Monday was pay-day, and his time would be up; it would then be either stump up or go; on Monday he must confront the last abyss of poverty.

To that extent only, Guy had got into debt. So I think you will admit with me his offence was a venial one. On Thursday he went to work on the Petersberg as usual. He was outwardly calm— but he ate no luncheon. In point of fact, he hadn’t a pfennig to get one with. He might have asked for something at the hotel, and taken it with him to the hilltop; but that would have been a deviation from his ordinary routine; the “arrangement” at the Berliner-Hof included only the early coffee and a simple late dinner; and Guy felt that to ask for anything more in his present impecunious condition of pocket would be nothing short of robbing the landlord. He was robbing him as it was, to be sure; but then, that was inevitable: he didn’t like to add by any unusual demand to the weight of his probably insoluble indebtedness.

On Friday morning he woke up ravenous. What was a roll and coffee to a vigorous young man like him, with yesterday’s unappeased hunger still keenly whetting the edge of his appetite? Unsatisfied and despondent, he toiled up the Petersberg once more— not for such as him the aristocratic joys of the cog-wheel railway; and in the eye of the sun he painted all day with unabated ardour at his “Seven Mountains.” He painted with wild energy, impelled by want of food and internal craving. It suited his theme. He got lights upon the Löwenburg that he never could have got after a hearty dinner; he touched in some autumn tints among the woods on the Drachenfels too poetical for a man who has eaten and drunk of German sausage and foaming Pilsener. At the same time, Guy was conscious to himself that hunger was rapidly turning him into a rabid Socialist. Hitherto, as becomes an artist, he had believed on the whole in our existing social and political institutions— baronial castles, lords and ladies gay in exquisite paintable silks and satins, the agreeable variety imparted to life by pleasing distinctions of rank and wealth, the picturesque rags and sweet tumble-down cottages of a contented peasantry. But now, when the unequal distribution of wealth began to affect him personally, he felt where the shoe pinched, and realized with a sudden revulsion of feeling that there was something rotten in the state of our Denmark. He said to himself more than once he wasn’t one of your vile Radicals who want to upset everything— the Church, the throne, the peerage, the cathedrals, art, literature, and science, at one fell blow; but he certainly would like to see a fresh deal of the money.

Tourists strolled up, jingling the nickels in their pockets; they sat down at the terrace of the hotel on the hilltop— the inevitable “restauration” of every German point of view— and ordered beefsteaks and Rhine wine with a lordly carelessness which to Guy, in his present straits, seemed positively inhuman. Why should these pampered creatures thus flaunt their wealth before the eyes of more deserving though less successful fellow beings? To be sure, in the days of his own opulence, when he still had a five-pound note of his own in his pocket, Guy had often done the same sort of thing himself, and thought no ill of it. But hunger is a great teacher of advanced political economy to men. As he painted and starved, with the vision of Monday’s bill floating ever before his eyes, Guy Lethbridge felt he was sinking by rapid and uncontrollable stages into abysses of pure unadulterated Communism.

Friday’s dinner served only to make him feel more conscious than ever on Saturday of an aching void. He was tired as well as hungry when he reached the hilltop; his hand was far from being steady enough for purposes of painting. Nevertheless, he worked on, those autumn tints glowing brighter than ever as the afternoon wore away. About four o’clock, an Englishman, whom he had seen more than once at the Berliner-Hof, strolled casually up to him. Guy disliked that Englishman; he was tall and blustering, and had an ineffable air of wealthy insolence, which in Guy’s present mood seemed peculiarly offensive to him. He was clothed in purple and fine linen, and fared sumptuously every night off roast pheasant and Heidsieck’s dry monopole. But this afternoon he came up with his hands in his pockets, and inspected Guy’s picture with the air of a connoisseur. “Jolly good light on the Thingumbob-berg” he said, shutting one eye and surveying it critically. “You’ve caught the colour well. If you go on like that, in the course of a century or so you ought, I should say, to make a painter.”

Guy was annoyed at the man for this complacent speech; for in his own opinion, though he was by no means conceited, he was a painter already. So he drew himself up, and answered stiffly, “I’m glad you like the light; I’ve spent some pains on it.”

“Pains!” the stranger echoed. “I should think you just had. It surprises me, the trouble you fellows will take over the corner of a picture. It’s the right way, of course; that’s how pictures are made; you can’t make ’em any other way; but I couldn’t do it, bless you— I’m such a jolly lazy beggar— fiddling and faddling for a week at a time over a tree or a trinket. I never did a stroke of work in my life, myself, and I admire you fellows who can; you must have such a precious reserve of energy.” And he took out a first-rate cigar from his case as he spoke, and proceeded, with elaborate dawdling, to light it. To Guy, whose poor pipe had been stopped for three weeks, the mere smell of that cigar was positive purgatory.

The stranger, however, was in no hurry to go. He sat down on a rock, and began conversing about Art, of which, indeed, Guy was forced somewhat grudgingly to admit he wasn’t wholly ignorant. Little by little, after a while, the talk glided off into other channels. True, Guy’s part in it was mainly monosyllabic; but the stranger, who had been put into conversational cue by a bottle of good wine at the restauration hard by, made up for all deficiencies on his neighbour’s part by a very frank garrulousness. In the course of conversation, it gradually came out that the stranger was a landed proprietor of means, in the horsey interest. His talk was of races. He wondered fellows could spend such a lot of time doing a really good picture like that for a miserable hundred or so— how it made Guy’s mouth water!— when he himself had won twenty ponies last week, over a special tip for the Leger, as easy as look at it. He went on to talk of so many winnings and so few losings, that Guy’s newly-kindled democratic fire blazed up fiercer than ever.

That evening, at the Berliner-Hof, Guy watched the stranger from his modest table in the corner, hobnobbing over a couple of bottles of sparkling Moselle, with two German officers, whose acquaintance he had picked up quite casually in the restaurant. He was talking German fluently at the top of his voice, laughing loudly between whiles, and offering to bet everybody a hundred marks even, on whatever turned up, with hilarious inconsequence. A hundred marks would have relieved poor Guy from all his embarrassments. He was almost tempted to take the man on spec. more than once, and pocket it if he won, or owe it, if he lost, to him. But that would be mean— nay, more, would be robbery.

Not such the stuff of which to make a successful burglar.

As Guy went upstairs to his room that night, he paused to ask the landlord the rich stranger’s name. German as he was, the landlord gave it with the bated breath of an Englishman: “Sir Richard Lavers,” he answered, in a most deferential tone. A man who can drink champagne like that, of course, secures the respect of every right-minded landlord.

Guy sat up late in his room, full of mingled perplexities. He couldn’t go to bed; but about half-past ten the moonlight on the river was so exquisitely beautiful that he stole down to the balcony on the first floor to admire it. He stood there long, making notes for future pictures. The balcony runs along the whole south side of the Berliner-Hof, looking out on the Rhine and the Seven Mountains. Guy paced it to the end about half-past eleven. The last window towards the west stood open down to the balcony; Guy glanced in as he passed, and heard loud, stertorous breathing. He recognized that stout snore. It was the English baronet’s.

Some nameless curiosity made him peer into the bedroom. The moonlight was flooding it, so that he could see everything almost as well as if it had been day. In the corner stood the bed, and the stranger’s clothes were flung carelessly on a chair; but on the table close by Guy observed, at a glance, his watch, a purse, a few tumbled papers.

That purse contained, no doubt, what remained of those ponies he had won on the St. Leger. It contained the ill-gotten wealth of those nights at the club, of whose baccarat he had spoken that afternoon with such unholy gusto. A loan of a fiver would just then be of incalculable benefit to Guy. When he sold the Seven Mountains for that paltry two hundred, as the baronet called it— though fifty pounds would have exceeded Guy’s utmost expectations— he could repay the unwilling loan with twenty per cent. interest. To borrow in dire distress from a man who confesses he never did a stroke of honest work in his life, and who lives like a canker on the earnings of the community, was surely no crime. It would do this fellow good to be stinted in his drink for three days in a week. Just a hundred marks! And he would never miss them!

The artistic temperament must not be judged too severely by the stern moralist. It acts upon impulse, and repents at leisure. Next moment, Guy found himself six paces in the room, his hand on the purse, his heart beating high, then standing still within him.

He meant to open it and take out a hundred marks. He would pay his bill next day, set out for Cologne, and send Sir Richard a written acknowledgment of the sum abstracted. The fellow, though blustering, was good-humoured enough. He would understand this move; nay, sympathize with its boldness, its slight tinge of the adventurous.

Just as he thought this, the stertorous breathing grew suddenly less regular. Something turned heavily in the bed in the corner. It was now or never— and the purse wouldn’t open! It had one of these nasty new-fangled clasps. Why do people always try to make life more complex for us? Do what he would, he couldn’t open it. More rustling in the bed; Guy grew nervous and ashamed. Great heavens! What was this? The man would awake, and take him for a burglar!

And a burglar he was, in truth and deed! As he realized that idea he recoiled with horror.

Before he could collect himself, however; before he could drawback from this half-uncompleted crime; before he could let conscience get the better of impulse— why, the man in the bed gave another sharp turn, and, scarcely knowing what he did, Guy, instead of dropping the incriminating purse, clutched it tight in his hand, and darted back on to the balcony. Thence, maddened by the wild sense of some one unseen pursuing him, he dashed away to the passage door, along the dim, dark corridor, stumbled up the great stairs, and groped his way, in an agony of horror, into his own bedroom.

Once arrived there, he locked and double-locked the door, flung that hateful purse on the table in the dark, and sank on to the sofa in a tumult of remorse, alarm, and terror. If he hadn’t been an artist, indeed, he would never have dreamt in the first instance of taking it. It was that impulsive artistic nature that misled him into translating his new political theories from the domain of abstract hypothesis to the solid region punishable by the Revised Criminal Code of Germany. For many minutes he sat there, wondering, doubting, fearing: had the man in the bed perceived him? had he recognized who it was? would he raise the whole house against the amateur burglar? And, oh, whatever came of it, let consequences alone, what hateful thing was this he had been so hastily led into? He held his brow in his hands and looked blankly into the dark. He felt himself a thief! He despised his own act with all the contempt and loathing of which his nature was capable.

At last he summoned up courage to light the candle, and in a mechanical sort of way, out of pure curiosity, began to examine the contents of the purse he had stolen. Worse and worse! This was horrible! German gold, English bank-notes, letters of credit, foreign bills of exchange, bankers’ cheques— untold wealth in every form and variety of currency. The man must have carried some seven or eight hundred pounds about his person. And that wasn’t all, either. There were letters in the purse, too— letters which, of course, Guy couldn’t dream of looking at; for he was a gentleman still, even though he was a criminal. Letters and memoranda, and little knick-knacks and trinkets, and— what touched Guy to the heart like the thrust of a sharp knife— one lock of a child’s light hair, half-protruding from a paper. Stung with worse remorse than before, the conscience-stricken burglar bundled them back into the purse, feeling hot in the face at this unwarrantable intrusion on another man’s privacy. To effect an involuntary loan upon a sleeping fellow-citizen, overburdened with too much wealth, and unduly surfeited with more than his share of our unearned increment, seemed to Guy in his present communistic mood a very small matter; but to go prying into another man’s letters, his documents, his keepsakes, his most sacred deposits— that was unpardonable crime, which his very soul shrank from.

It was impossible for him, then, to keep Sir Richard’s belongings. He began to reflect with deep regret on the inconvenience it would cause any man to be suddenly deprived, at a single swoop, of eight hundred pounds, his passport, and his visiting cards. For it was a big, fat purse, of most capacious dimensions; and it contained almost everything of a mercantile or identificatory nature which Sir Richard took about with him. Besides, there were the letters, the lock of hair, the knick-knacks. To hit a fellow in the purse is all very well in its way, but to hit him in the affections is unjustifiable meanness. Come what might, Guy felt there was but one thing now left for it. He must go straight downstairs again, in spite of shame or exposure, and restore that purse, ill-gotten gains and all, to that blood-sucker of an evil and inequitable social system, its lawful owner.

He opened the door once more, and peered out grimly into the passage. With head on one side, he strained his ear and listened. Not a sound in the house; not a creature stirring anywhere. With the purse in one hand, while he held his beating heart to keep it still in the other, Guy crept along the dark passage, and stole stealthily down the stairs, that creaked as he went with those pistol-shot creaks peculiar to stairs in the night when you’re trying to tread softly. In the corridor below he could see his way better, for the moonlight from the open window at the end of it guided him. He stepped out on to the balcony, and walked with a throbbing breast to Sir Richard’s window. Oh, mercy! it was closed. No chance of restitution. He tried it with his hand; it was fastened from within. The sleeper must have risen, roused by his flight, and shut it.

For a minute or two Guy hesitated. Should he rap at the panes, and try to attract the man’s attention? But no; to do that would be to expose himself unnecessarily to assault and battery; and if purses are sacred, our persons are surely a great deal sacreder. After a brief debate on the balcony in the cold, Guy came to the conclusion that it would be wisest now to return to his own room and wait for the morning before making restitution.

He didn’t undress that night; he flung himself on the bed, and tossed and turned in a fever of doubt till morning. Very early he rose up, and washed and dressed himself. Then, as soon as he thought there was any chance of Sir Richard being about, he walked boldly down the stairs, and, with trembling steps, made for the man’s bedroom.

He knocked at the door twice, rather loudly. No answer. Was the fellow asleep still, then? Hadn’t he dozed off the effects of that sparkling Moselle yet? Guy knocked a third time, still louder than before, and got no response. He turned the handle slightly, and peeped into the room. The bed was empty. Sir Richard must be up, and must have missed his money.

With heart on fire, the unhappy young burglar hurried down the front stairs, expecting to find the police already on his track. The man must have missed his purse, and risen early in search of it! As he went, a jovial voice sounded loud in the office. “It’s my own fault, of course,” the voice was saying, good-humouredly, in very bluff English. “I don’t blame anybody else for it. I’m afraid I got a little too much of that jolly good Moselle of yours on board last night, Herr Landlord; and the German officers and I took to bally-ragging in the billiard-room; and by the time I went to bed, I don’t deny I was a trifle top-heavy. But I wanted to pay my bill and go off this morning, for I have a serious appointment on Monday in London. It’s awkward, very.”

The landlord was profuse in his protestations and apologies. Such a thing had never happened in his house before. He couldn’t understand it. He would communicate with the police, and do everything in his power to have the purse recovered. Furthermore, if Sir Richard wished to go to London, the landlord (rubbing his hands) had known him so long and so well, it would give him the greatest pleasure on earth to let the bill stand over, and to lend him twenty pounds till the cash was restored and the thief was punished.

“I don’t say there’s any thief, though, mind you,” the jovial voice responded most candidly. “I expect it was all my own stupid carelessness. I’m such an ass of a fellow always for leaving money about; and as likely as not I pulled the thing out with my handkerchief in the billiard-room. I don’t doubt it’ll turn up, sooner or later some day, when you’re cleaning the house up. If it don’t”— the jovial voice sank for a moment to a lower key— “it’s not so much the money itself I mind— that’s only a few hundred pounds, and some circular notes which can’t be negotiated— it’s the letters and papers and private mementos. There were things in that purse”— and the voice still sank lower to an unexpected softness “that I wouldn’t have lost— well, not for a good many thousands.”

Guy’s heart smote him at those words with poignant remorse. He thought of the child’s hair, and blushed crimson with shame. Erect and solemn he strode into the office. “Sir Richard Lavers,” he said slowly, “I want to speak with you alone one moment in the salon.”

“Eh?” Sir Richard said sharply, turning round. “Oh, it’s you. Why, certainly.” And he followed the painter into the room with a somewhat sheepish air, like a detected felon.

Guy shut the door tight. Then he laid down that cursed thing with a shudder on the table. “There’s your purse,” he said curtly, without one word of explanation.

Sir Richard looked at it with distinct pleasure. “You picked it up,” he said, smiling.

“No,” Guy answered, disdaining to tell a lie; “I stole it.”

Sir Richard sat down on a chair, with his hands on his knees, and stared at him curiously for ninety seconds. Then he burst into a loud laugh, and exclaimed, much amused, “Well, anyhow, there’s no reason to pull such a long face about it.”

Guy dropped into a seat opposite him, and told him all his tale, extenuating nothing, in frank self-accusation. Sir Richard listened intent, with a smile on his mouth and a twinkle in his eyes of good-natured acquiescence.

“Then it was you who woke me up,” he said, “when I went to shut the window. Well, you’re a deuced brave chap, that’s all I’ve got to say, to come this morning and tell me the truth about it. Why didn’t you say you picked it up in the passage? I led up to it straight. That’s what beats me utterly!”

“Because it would have been a lie,” Guy answered frankly. “And I’d rather own up than tell you a lie about it.”

Sir Richard opened the purse and turned the things over carefully. “Why, it’s all here right enough,” he said, in a tone of bland surprise. “You haven’t taken anything out of it!”

“No, of course not,” Guy replied, almost smiling, in spite of himself, at the man’s perfect naïveté.

Sir Richard eyed him hard with a curiously amused glance. “But, I say, look here, you know,” he remonstrated quietly; “you are a precious inefficient sort of burglar, aren’t you? You won’t have anything now to pay your bill with on Monday.” For Guy had not concealed from him the plain reason for his onslaught upon the sacred rights of property.

“No, I must do without as best I can,” Guy answered, somewhat glum. For he stood still face to face with that original problem.

Sir Richard stared at him once more with that same curious expression. “Tell me,” he said, after a short pause, “did you look at any of the letters or things in this pocket-book?”

“Not one,” Guy answered honestly, with the ring of truth in his voice. “I saw they were private, and I abstained from touching them. Only,” he added, after a second’s hesitation, “I couldn’t help seeing there was a lock of light hair in a paper in one place. And of that, I felt sure, it would be wicked to deprive you.”

The baronet said nothing. He only gazed at his man fixedly. A suspicion of moisture lurked in his blue eyes. “Well, as long as I’ve got the papers,” he murmured at last, after a long pause, “I don’t mind about the tin. That was really a secondary consideration.”

“And now,” Guy said sturdily, “if you’ll send for the police and tell the landlord, I’ll give myself into custody on the charge of robbery.”

Sir Richard rose and fronted him. For one moment he was serious. “Now, look here, young man,” he said, with an air of paternal wisdom, “don’t you go and be a something-or-other fool. Don’t say one word of this to the landlord or anybody. You are a deuced clever fellow, and you can paint like one o’clock. That’s a precious good thing of yours, that view of the ramshackled old Schloss on the Drachenfels. You’re sure to rise in the end; you’ve the right cut of the jib for it. Now, you take my advice, and keep this thing quiet. If you don’t peach of it, I won’t— word of honour of a gentleman. And if you’ll allow me, I’ll lend you fifty pounds. You can pay me back right enough when you’re elected to the Academy.”

Guy Lethbridge’s face grew red as fire. That the man should forgive him was bad enough in all conscience, but that he should offer him a loan was really dreadful. It’s all very well for a virtuous citizen to relieve the overweening aristocrat of his superfluous wealth with the high hand of confiscation; but to take it as a gift from him— for a gift it would practically mean— and that at the very moment when one had to acknowledge an attempted crime, revolted every sentiment of Guy Lethbridge’s nature.

He drew back with a stammered “No, thank you. It’s very kind of you, but— of course, I couldn’t.” And then there arose between them the most comic episode of expostulation and persuasion that the rooms of the Berliner-Hof had ever yet witnessed. The baronet almost lost his temper over the young man’s obstinacy. It was ridiculous, he urged, for any gentleman not to accept a loan of fifty pounds from a well-disposed person in a moment of emergency. A fellow who could paint like that could never want long; and as for the passing impulse which had led Guy to take charge of the purse for an hour or two— why, the upshot showed it was only a passing impulse; and we all make mistakes in moments of effusion, late at night, after dining. Besides, a man in Guy’s position must be really hard up, and no mistake, before he thinks of relieving other people of their purses. And when a fellow’s hard up, well, hang it all, my dear sir, you can’t blame him for deviating into eccentric action. As for the fifty pounds, if Guy didn’t take it, it’d go upon a horse, no doubt, or a supper at the Gaiety, or something equally foolish. Let him be sensible and pocket it; no harm in a loan; and to be quite frank, Sir Richard said, he thought better of him for owning up to his fault so manfully, than he’d have thought of him if he’d never yielded at all to temptation.

Guy stood firm, however, and refused to the bitter end.

Sir Richard consulted his watch.

“Hullo,” he said, starting, “I can’t stand here squabbling over fifty pounds with you all the morning. I’ve got to catch the 9·25 to Cologne; my things are all packed; I must have my coffee. Now, before I go, for the last time, will you or won’t you accept that little loan from me? Mind, you’re a conscientious kind of chap, and your bill’s due on Monday. You’ve got no right to defraud your landlord when a friend’s prepared to help you tide over this temporary difficulty.”

That was a hard home-thrust. Guy admitted the logic of it. But he stood by his guns still, and shook his head firmly. All sense of sullenness and defiance was gone from him now. The man’s genuine kind-heartedness and sympathy had conquered him. “Sir,” he cried, wringing his new friend’s hand with unaffected warmth, “you’re a brick; and you make me ashamed of myself. But please don’t press it upon me. I couldn’t take it now. Your kindness has broken me.” And he burst into tears with a sudden impulse as he rushed to the window to hide his emotion.

Sir Richard hummed an air and left the salon abruptly. Guy went up to his own room, locked himself in all alone, and had a bad half-hour of it with his own conscience. He was roused from his reverie at the end of that time by a double knock at the door. It was the German waiter. “Wit’ Sir Richard’s compliments,” he said, handing a letter to Guy. The painter tore the envelope open. It contained— fifty pounds in English bank notes, and accompanying them this surprising letter:—

Dear Mr. Lethbridge,

You must accept enclosed few notes as a loan for the present. You see, the fact is, I’m not a baronet at all, but a bookmaker and bank swindler. The letters you didn’t examine in my purse would have put the police on my track; and I therefore regard this trifling little sum as really due to you. You need have no compunction about taking it, for it isn’t mine, and you can’t possibly return it to its proper owner. Take it without a scruple, and settle your bill— you can repay me whenever you next meet me. You’re a long sight a better man than I am, anyhow.

Yours faithfully,

Richard Lavers.

Guy crumpled it up in his hand with an impatient gesture. Take a swindler’s money! Inconceivable! Impossible! He seized his hat in his haste, and rushed down to the office.

“Where’s he gone?” he cried to the landlord.

And the landlord, taking his sense, answered promptly—

“To the station.”

Guy tore down the road, and rushed into the building just as the Cologne train was steaming out from the platform. He ran along its side, disregarding the vehement expostulations of portly, red-banded German officialdom. Soon he spied the dubious baronet alone in a first-class compartment. Crumpling the notes into a pellet, he flung them back at him fiercely.

“How could you?” he cried, all on fire. “More than ever, now, when I know who you are, I can’t touch those notes— I can’t look at your money!”

In another second that jovial face leaned, all smiles, out of the window.

“You confounded fool!” the loud voice burst forth merrily, “you’re the hardest chap to befriend I ever yet came across. Do you think, if what I said in that letter was true, I’d be ass enough to confess it— and in writing too— to a casual acquaintance? Take your tennis-ball back again!” and the pellet hit Guy hard on the cheek at the words. “Settle your bill like a man; and if ever you want to pay me back in return, you can find my address any day in Debrett or Foster.”

By this time even Sir Richard’s stentorian voice was almost past bawling-point. There was nothing left for it now but to pick up the notes and return to the Berliner-Hof. Though whether he should use them or not to pay his bill was a point of casuistry he had still to debate upon.

Next morning’s post, however, brought him a note from Cologne, which placed the whole question in an unexpected light for him:—

Dear Mr. Lethbridge,

We’ve both been fools. My ruse was a silly one. How extraordinary the right way out of this little difficulty didn’t at once occur to me! I was awfully taken by your picture of the ramshackled old Schloss; in fact, I thought when I could look up its price in the Academy catalogue I’d probably buy it, if it wasn’t too dear for me. But the heat of the moment put this idea altogether out of my head. Shall we say £200 as the price of the picture? The balance to be paid on delivery in London. Now think no more of the rest, and remain well assured that if ever this little episode gets abroad in the world it will not be through the instrumentality of—

Yours very sincerely,

Richard Lavers.

Sir Richard has settled down now as a respectable county member; and, except when occasionally exhilarated with champagne, is really a most useful pillar of society. He’s very proud of a picture in his dining-room of Sorrento from the Castellammare-road— a companion-piece to that exquisite autumnal view of the ruin on the Drachenfels and the Seven Mountains. Both are from the brush of that rising young Associate, Mr. Guy Lethbridge, whom Sir Richard discovered and introduced to the great world; but the frame of the Sorrento bears a neat little inscription:— “For Sir Richard Lavers, from his ever grateful and affectionate friend, the painter.” The owner has been offered five hundred down for the Drachenfels more than once— and has refused the offer.

____________________

2: Mr. Senn's Past

E. Phillips Oppenheim

Hearst's International Monthly, June 1922

MR. HUGH MANDERS, novelist and wanderer, was engaged in the wonderful task of absorbing sunshine. He sat upon a remote seat of the Terrace at Monte Carlo, his hands folded in front of him, his rakish grey Homburg hat a little on the back of his head, his eyes half-closed, steeped in the pleasant inertia of the moment. The sky above was cloudless. The sea which spread itself out at his feet glittered with a million points of silver. An oleander-and-mimosa-perfumed air hung lazily about him. He was extraordinarily well content with himself and his surroundings.

A vaguely familiar figure amongst the stream of occasional passers-by recognised and sought him out. Manders sat up and began to take notice.

"My friend Sarson!" he exclaimed, in some surprise.

"Sarson, at your service," the other remarked, as they shook hands.

Mr. Sarson, a valued myrmidon of Scotland Yard, seated himself, and the two men exchanged the usual banalities. There was nothing about the newcomer to denote in any way his profession. He was dressed in neat grey tweeds, and his shoes and gaiters had a touch of the elderly Englishman who spends his spring at Bath, the summer at Aix, and the winter on the Riviera. Only the sharp, incisive mouth and keen eyes gave any indications of a more extensive mentality.

"Business?" the novelist enquired, after a brief pause.

The other shook his head slightly.

"This is my annual holiday." he declared. "Except during the war, I have spent a month down here for many years. A happy hunting ground for you, Mr. Manders, I should imagine."

The latter gave vent to a slight grimace.

"It is a great place to collect impressions," he admitted, "but a very poor place for actual work. How can one reconcile oneself to one's desk with sunshine like this?"

Mr. Sarson smiled and glanced at his watch.

"What about luncheon?" he enquired.

"Capital!" the other assented, rising to his feet. "We'll try Ciro's bar for a cocktail first. Charles is a perfect wizard on a dry martini."

They strolled off together, mingling with the gay throng of promenaders, Manders greeting a few acquaintances, both enjoying to the full the spectacle of this conglomeration of pleasure-seekers from every part of the world. After their cocktail, they sat for a few minutes at a small round table on the Terrace. By chance, there was no one else within hearing.

"Mr. Manders," his companion said, lowering his voice to that smooth yet perfectly distinct undertone which indicated the discussion of an important subject. "I should like, if I might, to take you a little into my confidence."

"Go right ahead," Manders invited.

"It is true that I come to Monte Carlo for my holiday every year," Sarson went on, "but there has always been a certain method in my coming. Do you remember the Holdsworth murder case?"

"I think so," his companion replied. "Sordid affair, wasn't it—the girl was found dead in the man's rooms and he got away?"

"That is as much as came out in the Press," Sargon assented, "but, as a matter of fact, in the course of our investigations we came across some very startling and sensational facts. No less than five women who had been seen at different times in Holdsworth's company had disappeared, and have never been heard of since."

"By Jove!" Manders exclaimed. "As bad as that French chap."

"I sometimes wonder," Sarson went on reflectively, as he lit and smoked a cigarette, "whether the members of our profession are getting more stupid or the criminal classes more astute, but it is certainly a fact that during the last two years three of the greatest criminals of the day have slipped through our fingers and escaped. Mind you, the public doesn't know this. No need to publish our information when we can't catch the man. But confidentially I might tell you that there are at present eleven undiscovered crimes of a hideous character, the particulars of which have never been published because we have been unable to trace the criminal."

"My theory is," the novelist declared, "that the pursuit of crime has been taken up by a more highly educated type of person. Given exceptional intelligence—above all, nerve—and the odds seem to me three to one on the criminal every time. You see, he can lay his plans beforehand, and the detective can't."

"Holdsworth seems to have proved your theory," Sarson pronounced. "The man is a gentleman by birth, pubic school and university, and educated for the Bar. Then he went out to the East, dabbled in drugs, came back a strange, misanthropic sort of creature, and commenced his terrible life. I spent six solid months on the case, and at the present moment I have only two clues, neither of which has been of the slightest use to me. Vet," the detective went on slowly, looking down at the white, dusty road, "I would be willing to retire from the profession and count my life's work done, if I could lay my hands upon this one man."

Manders at once felt a vastly increased interest in the subject. His vis-à-vis was an unemotional person, hard-lipped and slow of speech, yet at this moment he was moved, and moved deep y. His eyes were shining like points of steel. His lips were a little parted, showing his firm white teeth. He looked like a man whose whole life was concentrated upon the achievement of a certain object.

"Tell me," Manders asked, "did you ever cross this man's path personally?

"Unfortunately, no," was the stern reply. "One of his victims, though, was my niece, my sister's only child. She was found dead in an empty flat in Mayfair; dead—and worse."

"Brute!"

"The man is a fiend," Sarson continued. "Most of our lot prefer to look upon him as dead. It saves our dignity. Personally, I don't believe it. I have a feeling that somewhere on the earth he still lives, biding his time, hoping that the years will bring forgetfulness."

The hour for luncheon was now approaching, and little groups of people came strolling along the arcade, the sound of their light laughter and pleasant murmur of conversation filling the sunlit air. The two men finished their cocktails and rose.

"Luncheon, I think," Manders suggested, "and a truce to gruesome subjects."

"By all means," his companion assented. An obsequious maître d'hôtel conducted them to their table. A very excellent luncheon was served, which both men thoroughly enjoyed. They chatted upon indifferent subjects, and watched their fellow-guests with interest. Towards the close of the meal, Manders pointed out a late arrival.

"I wonder who this is," he remarked, a little abruptly. "Rather a distinguished-looking man, in his way."

The newcomer was advancing towards an empty but zealously-guarded table within a few yards of them. He was a mane apparently of between fifty and sixty years of age, dressed in dark brown clothes, a little shiny with wear, with a black satin stock, fastened with a diamond pin. His patent leather boots were cracked in places, but shone like mirrors. His black-grey hair was brushed back from an impressive forehead. His horn-rimmed monocle seemed permanently fastened in his eye. His manner was gracious, but the manner of one accustomed to command. His features were heavy, his complexion curiously pallid, almost wax-like. He had not the air of a man in good health.

"I've seen him about a good many times," Sarson remarked.

"So have I," his companion assented, "but never anywhere else but here."

The object of their interest ordered his luncheon with the air of one issuing a royal command, writing his choice of dishes down with a heavy gold pencil, and aided in his selection by the head-waiter himself and two other maîtres d'hôtel. A small carafe of red wine was placed upon his table as soon as he sat down. His habits were evidently known and appreciated. Manders took the opportunity, a few minutes later, of calling the head-waiter to his side.

"Tell me the name of that gentleman?" he enquired.

"He is known as Mr. Senn," was the whispered reply.

"He is perhaps a person of consequence?"

"He is the head of a noble French family," the man confided, "the surviving members of which escaped to Russia at the time of the Revolution. They bought estates on the Black Sea, and lived there until the war. He was on the staff of the Grand Duke until the disintegration of Russia, and narrowly escaped with his life."

"He is still wealthy?"

The head-waiter shrugged his shoulders.

"One fears not. He has a little flat at the back of the town, and he is generally here for four months of the year. He denies himself little, but he seldom plays now, he who was once a great gambler. He comes here but once a week. Monsieur will excuse me."

He hastened away to greet some new arrivals. Manders was somewhat intrigued.

"Quite an interesting figure," he declared. "One often wonders what has become of the modern representatives of many of those noble French families."

"Queer sort of life, to spend four months in Monte Carlo and not to gamble," Sarson reflected.

The meal drew pleasantly towards an end, and at its conclusion the two men loitered for some time outside over their coffee and cigars. Presently Mr. Senn, leaning rather heavily upon his ivory-topped stick, came slowly out of the restaurant and turned down the arcade. In the bright sunlight, one realised more completely the cracks in his shoes through frequent varnishing, the distinct shininess about the seams of his coat. His Homburg hat, although of the best make, was last year's shape. The cuffs of his shirt, though spotlessly clean, were frayed. At the corner he hesitated. For several moments he stood looking across towards the Casino. Manders, watching him more closely than his companion, appreciated the wistful intentness of his gaze, the sad, restless longing which eventually made him turn abruptly away and climb the hill into the little town. The novelist, when he had parted from his friend; walked pensively back to his hotel. He found something curiously absorbing in his thoughts of Mr. Senn gazing so steadfastly towards the Casino.

The two men dined together again that evening, neither of them greatly disposed towards conversation. Sarson was in travelling clothes, and was leaving an hour or so later by the Côte d'Azur for Paris.

"I expect you're sorry to go," Manders remarked sympathetically. "It's a wonderful place for a holiday, this."

His companion nodded.

"You'll think I'm an obstinate man," he said, "but I never leave Monte Carlo without a deep sense of disappointment. For years I've fancied that some day or other I should lay my hand upon the man I was talking to you about this morning, and year after year goes by and ends ill failure."

"You haven't a lot to go on, have you?"

"I have very little to go on indeed, but on the other hand it is always easy to work backwards, and I have a very valuable fact to start upon. These things come to one's knowledge in a curious way. Holds-worth could not have the slightest idea that anyone in the world knew of his partiality for backing number fourteen whenever he was anywhere near a roulette table, and yet I know for a fact that this was almost an obsession with him. If he were here and had the money to play with, I am perfectly certain that he would back it and nothing else. That is why I have spent the greater part of my afternoon and evening, this year and for many preceding years, watching for a man who is backing number fourteen. Once or twice I have fancied that I have been on the track. I have followed several men's antecedents quite hopefully up to a certain point. The end, however, is always the same."

"Have you any description of him?" Manders enquired.

"The very vaguest, and that is twelve years old," the other acknowledged. "We know that he was of rather over medium height, inclined to be thin, and that he spoke always with a curious drawl, almost like a foreigner. "He had a deformity on the third finger of his left hand, a wart, or something of the sort, which he always kept concealed under a broad gold ring. Here's his police description," he went on, drawing a paper from his pocket and passing it across the table. "You have to remember, though, that it is twelve years old. Its only real use might be a negative one."

"I see," Manders murmured. "Any finger-prints?"

"None. The trouble is that the man has never been even under the supervision of the police."

"Rather a hard nut to crack," Manders remarked.

"It is indeed," his host assented. "On the other hand, I have always looked at it from this point of view. The man got clear away, his crimes are twelve years old, and he might reasonably suppose them to have been forgotten. What is to prevent him, therefore, from beginning them again?"

"I see."

"I doubt," the detective continued thoughtfully, "whether I should ever be able now to get enough evidence to justify a warrant, but if we once got a hold on him for a new misdemeanour, I think we might possibly be able to work backwards. However, I confess that I am beginning to lose heart. He is probably in South America. I think there is no doubt that he went there some time or other after his escape from London."

The two men drank their coffee, seated outside the Café de Paris during what was, perhaps, the most beautiful half-hour of the day. The whole place seemed alive with the soft, thrilling call of the coming night. The Casino was a blaze of illumination. The electric lights shone mystically amidst the green of the trees and shrubs. The still, warm air was fragrant with perfumes, the perfumes of flowers and shrubs, the scent from the women's dresses and hair. A red-coated orchestra was playing light-hearted music. A few tables away sat Mr. Senn, smoking cigarette and drinking a glass of absinthe Every now and then he looked towards the Casino. Manders pointed him out to his companion.

"That man still interests me," he remarked.

The detective scrutinised the silent figure of Mr. Senn, and nodded.

"A type," he admitted. "Monte Carlo is full of them."

He said no more; neither did Manders. But an hour later, when the latter returned from seeing his friend off, the rather melancholy figure was still seated in his chair, his face a little whiter in the gathering darkness. He was no longer alone, however. Seated by his side was a little French girl, who was chattering to him gaily, and whose merry peals of laughter rose often above the murmur of voices. Manders seated himself near and called for another liqueur. With wonderful patience, he remained there for an hour. The girl apparently began to get a little bored with her undemonstrative companion. Once or twice he leaned towards her and said something, and his eyes gleamed strangely in the blue twilight. The girl, however, shook her head. Towards eleven o'clock Mr. Senn rose, took a somewhat abrupt farewell of her, and disappeared, climbing the hill. Manders waited until he was out of sight. Then he calmly rose, took the vacant seat opposite the girl, who seemed on the point of departure, and raised his hat.

"You will do me the honour, perhaps, Mademoiselle," he invited, "of taking a liqueur with me?"

Mademoiselle hesitated. She was petite, charming, and apparently very young.

"Monsieur is very kind," she said. "I do not like to drink so much. I will take some coffee. I would rather," she added, laughing up into his face, "that Monsieur gave me a hundred francs for luck to go and play with."

Manders took out his pocket-book and slipped a hundred-franc-note into the little bag which she was carrying. She gave a cry of delight.

"Monsieur is generous!" she exclaimed. "Ah, but I see Monsieur is English. You have all so much money that you cannot spend, eh?"

"I can't allow that," Manders replied; "but some of us are fortunate enough to have some to spare for a pleasant occasion like his. Tell me about the man who was talking to you? He is a resident here almost, isn't he?"

She nodded carelessly.

"I suppose so. One sees him all the time. The girls call him the Marquis. He has very beautiful manners and no money."

"What was he asking you," Manders persisted, "when you kept on shaking your head?"

"Oh, la, la!" she exclaimed. "The same old thing! There is Suzette and Amie and I. I am called Ninette. He is always asking us to go and take supper with him at his flat. But why should we go, I ask you?" she went on, with an expressive shrug of the shoulders. "He has no money—that, or he is a miser—and he is very serious. Besides, I do not know why, but I do not think I like him very much. Why should one go and eat a poor supper in his little flat—I ask you, Monsieur?"

"My advice to you," Manders said, impulsively, "would be never to go."

She looked at him in surprise.

"But Monsieur knows him, perhaps?"

"I never saw him before this morning. I just have that kind of feeling. Where did you say his flat was?"

"In the Rue des Marguerites," the girl replied; "number seventeen. It is up the hill—a long climb...Now if you, Monsieur, were to ask one to take a little dinner," she went on, "or even a little supper at the Carlton, it would be a different thing. Monsieur knows well how to amuse himself, is it not so?"

Manders smiled. He realised that, notwithstanding her politeness, which forbade her to leave so generous an acquaintance, she was longing to be off to the Casino.

"You go in there and try your luck," he said good-naturedly. "We'll have that little dinner some day."

She slid away into the darkness, waving her hand to him.

Manders ordered another fin champagne and lit a long cigar. Gambling appealed to him very little, and the thought of the hot, crowded rooms, with their strange atmosphere of patchouli and sombre hysterics, left him very well content to remain where he was, listening to the music and the light chatter of the gay crowd. Suddenly he was aware of a menacing figure before his chair. Mr. Senn had returned, and apparently in anger. His eyes were tilled with resentment, the pallor of his cheeks seemed almost ghastly, his eyebrows were drawn together in a threatening frown.

"Sir," he said, "I have to demand why you choose to make me the subject of conversation here in a public place with a fille de joie?"

"I have not the faintest idea what you are talking about," Manders replied, taken aback by the man's sudden reappearance.

"What I say is simple enough," the other continued, struggling to control his voice. "This morning at Ciro's you or your companion asked questions concerning me from the head-waiter. That in itself is an impertinence. To-night I overhear you again discussing me with a chance acquaintance to whom you gave money. For what purpose did you give her money?"

"I can assure you," Manders declared politely, "that you are taking this matter too seriously. As for money, I gave it to the little one to gamble with. Why not? Sit down and take a fin champagne with me, sir."

Mr. Senn hesitated—and fell. He eyed almost covetously the bottle of old brandy with which a waiter immediately appeared.

"Monsieur," he said, "I drink to your good health and to a better understanding between us."

"I thank you, sir," Manders replied.

Mr. Senn sipped his brandy with the air of a connoisseur. His companion motioned the waiter to leave the bottle upon the table.

"I plead guilty," Manders confessed, "to the vice of curiosity. There is never a day passes when I do not ask a question about someone, as I asked the head-waiter about you at Ciro's to-day. Your appearance interested me."

"May I enquire what information you gathered?" Mr. Senn demanded with the remnants of a frown still on his forehead.

"That you passed as Mr. Senn," was the prompt reply, "but that you were really the head of an old French family, settled before the war in Russia. You served on the staff of the Grand Duke, and you have lost your estates. You live here on slender means, but you have the misfortune to preserve, naturally enough, the expensive tastes of your upbringing. You lunch once a week chez Ciro."

"And the rest of the week nowhere at all," the other remarked bitterly. "Your information is correct...And now as regards the little Ninette?"

"Sir," Mr. Manders acknowledged, "my curiosity here was perhaps less pardonable. I gathered only that you had invited her to supper, but that her knowledge of your finances had rendered the invitation unattractive."

Mr. Senn drained the contents of his glass, which his companion promptly refilled.

"That seems harmless," the other muttered. "But the money?"

"I simply gave it to the child to gamble with," Manders explained. "I do not play much myself, but it gives me pleasure to see others who enjoy it."

There was a strange intensity in the gaze of the man, who sat for a moment as though shivering with emotion. He looked at his companion as at some unfamiliar thing.

"You do not gamble?" he said in a low voice. "You do not feel the lure of that strange paradise yonder? The click of the ball, the limitless wealth to be gained there, mean nothing to you? You have never felt the thrill of watching with straining eves, watching while the wheel runs down and the little ball sits there in your number, your beloved number, and there come to you across the table the sheaves of bills, the pile of golden plaques, the price of a thousand luncheons at Ciro's, the price of Ninette's white arms and pouting lips, the price of all the elegance and softness and luxury of life..."

Manders shook his head.

"I'm afraid I am entirely without the gambler's instinct," he confessed. "I have all the money I require in life."

"Ah!"

The monosyllable was electric, amazingly expressive. Mr. Senn let the old brandy travel slowly down his throat while he looked across at his host with envious, hating eyes.

"You have already all the money you need for these things," he muttered.

"That is so," Manders assented.

"You have the advantage of me," his companion observed presently. "You know the name under which I choose to live. And yours?"

Manders produced a card. His companion read it out in the uncertain light, peering through his horn-rimmed glass:

MR. HUGH MANDERS,

176, CURZON STREET,

LONDON, W.

"It sounds opulent," was his grudging comment.

"I am comfortably off," Manders told him. "I also earn a little money, writing novels. Perhaps this accounts for my curiosity concerning people."

Mr. Senn put the card in his waistcoat pocket. Whatever suspicions he might have entertained, they had apparently disappeared.

"I once was wealthy," he confided. "Every penny of which I was possessed in the world has been lost to me in Russia. You wonder how I live, then, eh?"

Manders watched the ash on his cigar for a moment.

"Sir," he admitted, "I have pleaded guilty to an unjustifiable amount of personal curiosity. I do wonder how you live."

Mr. Senn drew his chair a little nearer. He leaned over the marble-topped table.

"There is an old lady," he said, "who keeps a café in one of the back streets up On the hill there. It is a café not as you or I would understand such a place, but a place for the cochers, chauffeurs, the ouvriers. She does a good business, and she is alone in the world. I keep her books. I get there occasional food and drink. I pay the rent of my apartment—a simple, ugly room. Once a week I lunch at Ciro's."

"It is a tragedy," Manders declared.

"My life," the other assented, "has been a thousand tragedies rolled into one."

Manders gazed across at the Casino.

"And yet," he murmured, "that attracts you still?"

His companion's face was suddenly Satanic.

"It tears at my heart-strings," he confessed. "To-night, as usual, I turned my back upon it. At the top of the hill I looked around, and back I came like a brainless moth. It was thus I heard your questioning of Mademoiselle."

There was another silence, rather a longer one this time. Manders threw away the end of his cigar and lit a fresh one. Then he uncrossed his legs and leaned over the table.

"Mr. Senn," he said, "I am in the broadest sense of the word an adventurer. I go up and down the world looking for places and people that interest me. Would you accept from me the loan of five thousand francs and try your luck behind the lights there?"

There are expressions even of joy which are horrible. Manders shivered, and he had a queer fancy that he sat hobnobbing with a wolf, leaping at its prey.

"You mean it?" his companion demanded raspingly.

"Certainly!"

Mr. Senn's left hand was upon the table—the hand of an aristocrat, but lean at the knuckle and talon-like at the finger-tips. He wore a broad band of gold upon the third finger.

"Give me the money," he begged fiercely.

It was a few minutes after ten o'clock when the two men entered the Casino. From the moment they crossed the threshold of the Rooms proper, Mr. Senn seemed to become absolutely oblivious of the presence of his companion. He watched a spin at each of the tables by the door, and then passed on into one of the further rooms. At the most remote table he paused to whisper to the croupier for information as regards the voisins of the last number. The reply apparently did not please him, for he turned back to a table which he had previously passed, hesitated for a moment, and then grudgingly drew out his roll of notes. For the first time he seemed to become aware of his benefactor's proximity.

"If you watch me," he enjoined in a hard tone, "do not criticise. I play in a method of my own. There is no logic in it, but neither is there any logic in fate. Chance and inspiration are first cousins. I play a game of chance, and inspiration alone directs me."

"Pray don't worry about me," Manders begged. "I'll just watch a spin or two and be off."

"If you watch two spins," was the reply. "I shall know whether you bring me luck or not. If I lose—go."

Manders nodded. His companion had leaned over the table, obtained some change in gold plaques, and sank into a vacant place near the head of the board. Manders, who was watching with only simulated indifference, felt a sudden throb of his pulses. His protégé was backing fourteen, en plein, carrés, and chevaux. He arranged his stake with deliberate care. Again Manders became aware of that broad band of gold upon his third finger.

"Vingt-quatre, rouge, pair et passe," the croupier murmured, a moment or two later.

Mr. Senn watched his stake swept away with unmoved countenance, repeated it, and sat nervously attentive. Again he lost. This time he looked around and waved his companion to depart.

"To-morrow," he muttered, "at midday."

Manders nodded, and turned away. He left the rooms, and made his way to the telegraph-office.

IT WAS JUST BEFORE noon on the following morning when Manders, approaching the cheerful little company who were dotted about at the round tables outside the Café de Paris, heard himself addressed by name. Seated only a few yards away was a transformed Mr. Senn, with Ninette on one side and her friend on the other.

"My benefactor!" the former exclaimed graciously. "Sir," he added, "if I do not at once restore your five thousand francs, it is merely a matter of superstition."

"You won, then?" Manders observed, raising his hat to the young ladies and drawing up a chair.

Mr. Senn smiled the rapturous smile of a man whose brain is flooded with pleasant memories.

"I played, so far as I can remember," he said, "thirty coups. Out of these, fourteen turned up nine times, thirteen eleven, twelve and sixteen once each, and fifteen twice. I won a matter of a hundred thousand francs. Manders, you will do me the honour of drinking with me?"

Manders hesitated, but refusal was an impossibility. While his prospective host gave orders to the waiter, and Ninette chattered away, telling him that she too had been fortunate in a small way, Manders studied him thoughtfully. Something of the man's dignity seemed to have vanished with his shabbiness. His new patent boots were almost too glossy, the brown clothes, although in the best taste and miraculously well-fitting considering that they must have been bought ready-made, still lacked the distinction of his older habiliments. The man seemed new and glossy all over. His amiability, too, sat upon him like an unusual garment. The saturnine attraction of his ill-humour had departed.

"Monsieur is truly wonderful," Ninette declared, edging her chair a little nearer to Manders and a little farther away from her new patron. "His money carries charm. Many long days have passed since I gained anything, but last night I, too, won—well, nearly a thousand francs. And Monsieur never plays himself?"

"Very seldom," Manders acknowledged. "If you are going to the Rooms this morning," he added, "I shall be delighted to try my fortune with you."

Mr. Senn intervened with a flamboyant gesture.

"Mlle. Ninette," he announced, "does me the honour to take luncheon with me shortly. I have ordered a table in the café. We shall lay our plans for the afternoon."

Ninette pouted.

"Would there not be time to accompany Monsieur first for a few minutes?" she ventured.

"Impossible!" Mr. Senn pronounced. "I am a man of regular habits. I lunch at half an hour after mid-day. It is now within twenty minutes of the time. We will take a small apéritif, dear child. This after noon we may visit the tables together."

She laid her fingers upon Manders's sleeve with a little grimace.

"I think that he is a mascot," she said, "this big English gentleman."

Manders looked at her with a kindly though rather a doubtful smile.

"I wonder," he murmured.

A man and woman passed by, exchanging greetings with Manders. Senn turned around in his chair and gazed after them. There was a little sparkle in his eyes.

"That woman!" he exclaimed eagerly, as soon as they were out of earshot. "You know her? How does she call herself? What is her name?"

"She is a Mrs. Preston," Manders told him. "That was her husband, Major Preston, with her."

Senn shook his head.

"No, no!" he protested, with an air of superior knowledge. "She has another name. I saw her in New York. Her pictures were in the newspapers. She called herself then Valia Dene."

Manders nodded.

"That's right," he admitted. "What do you know about her?"

"Not enough," the other muttered. "She is a very wonderful medium. I attended one of her séances in Brooklyn. It was amazing. I would give anything in the world—but that is folly!"

"Are you a spiritualist?" Manders asked curiously.

Mr. Senn picked up his ivory-topped walking-stick and rose to his feet.

"It is time we took luncheon, little one," he said to Ninette. "As to that," he added, turning towards Manders, "who knows? I have seen strange things in my life—things which have made me wonder. Who knows?"

LATE THAT afternoon, Manders came across Ninette, seated on one of the cushioned benches in the Casino. She was looking dejected and a little forlorn, but she cheered up at his approach.

"Ah, monsieur!" she exclaimed. "I looked for you all the time this afternoon."

Manders smiled.

"Been losing, eh?"

She shook her head.

"No, I have gained a little, yet I have not the heart to play. I am nervous. Look, monsieur."

He followed the motion of her head. Exactly opposite, seated at the nearest table, was Senn. The electric light threw a strange shade upon his colourless face, his hard black eyes, his indrawn lips. He sat in his usual place, as near as possible to his magical number, and there was something a little arresting in his immovability.

"Senn," Manders muttered. "I wonder how he's doing."

"Winning," she answered tremulously. "He wins now all the time. But I do not know. More and more I grow afraid of him. Who is he? You knew him before, perhaps?"

Manders shook his head.

"I saw him for the first time yesterday."

"I am foolish, perhaps," the girl went on. "He is generous, he has the manner, he speaks of serious things. And yet, I am afraid. I do not understand myself. To-night he has asked me to go to supper with him, not at the Carlton or the Café de Paris, but up at his apartment, up on the hill. And I do not know. Something tells me that I foolish, and yet I do not wish to go."

Manders sat down by her side.

"My child," he said slowly, "I know nothing of Mr. Senn, but I'd like to tell you this. There may be something in that instinct of yours. If you will take the advice of an elderly man, lunch with him, dine with him, sup with him where he pleases, entertain him in your own flat, if you will, but do not visit his apartment."

"An elderly man! Oh, lá, lá!" she mocked. "Yet," she went on, suddenly serious, "it is strange that you should advise me thus. You know something; is it not so?"

"Nothing at all," Manders assured her. "By the bye," he went on, "you have noticed the very broad gold ring he wears on the third finger of his left hand?"

"Beyond a doubt," she assented. "It is strangely shaped."

"I have an idea," Manders went on, "that he wears it to conceal some disfigurement. If you should discover that to be so, will you tell me?"

She laughed gaily.

"What vanity! I will tell you, of course. But see—he rises. That means that he has lost for three coups following. He changes his table always then. Look at him, monsieur, and tell me why I am afraid."

Mr. Senn came towards them, erect, distinguished, with a curious air of abstraction which seemed to enfold him as a dream. He passed them by as though he never saw them, studied the tables in the farther room for a moment, took a vacant seat and began to play. Ninette shook her head.

"He is uncanny," she decided. "I shall be his friend no longer."

"Find out for me," Manders said, as he rose to his feet, "what is underneath that ring, and I will start you on your way to fortune with a thousand-franc note."

She looked up at him with petulant gratitude.

"If you were only he!" she murmured.

MANDERS HAD the fancy to retire early that evening. At eleven o'clock, however, a little note was brought into his salon, a note enclosed in a mauve envelope which smelt of perfume, and addressed with characteristic and scratchy indistinctness. He opened it and read—

Cher Monsieur,—I have seen underneath the ring. There is a brown mole or wart, very ugly. No wonder he conceals it!

Cher monsieur, his luck is wonderful. He has now half-a-million francs. To-night I have promised to sup with him in his apartment, but still I fear it; but still I tremble at the thought.

Till to-morrow, dear friend.

Ninette.

Then Manders began to see visions. Slowly the hideous story which Sarson had told him began to unwind itself once more before his eyes. He saw the little house in Sydenham which had been the scene of Holdsworth's crime, with its tangled waste of garden, its cheerful lights inside, masking the horror that dwelt there. He heard the laughter of unsuspecting victims changing into the stifled cry of death; saw Ninette striving to drown her vague fears with tumblers of champagne; heard her throbbing, pitiful little cry come down to him from somewhere behind the town. Manders abandoned all hope of an early night. He thrust something hard and ugly into his hip pocket, took up a cane with a heavy malachite knob, and descended once more into the vortex of life.

At Ciro's he found Pierre, the chief maitre d'hôtel, busy, but willing enough to spare a moment to so good a patron.

"I am in some difficulty, Pierre," Manders explained. "The gentleman whom I asked you about yesterday morning—Mr. Senn, you called him—invited me up to his apartment this evening, but forgot to tell me his address. "I wonder whether you know it?"

Pierre smiled with the ready pleasure of one able to oblige.

"There is a saddler's shop, the last building in the Rue des Marguerites," he said. "Monsieur Senn has rooms above it and behind. It is a very small place, but Monsieur will find it without trouble." Manders gave the maître d'hôtel occasion to congratulate himself upon his memory, and sallied out once more upon his quest. A carriage took him to the corner of the Rue des Marguerites, a vehicle which, upon reflection, he left to await his return. It was a small, outflung thoroughfare, some of the buildings of which were as yet unfinished. The saddler's shop at the end was closed and dark, but by the side of the door leading into the shop itself was another, evidently used by the tenant.

Manders paused for a few minutes, with his fingers playing around the bell. There was no sound from within, no light above. The salon was without doubt upon the ground floor behind the shop. Manders decided upon strategy. The street ended abruptly at the outside wall of the saddler's shop, and he stepped over a low paling into what appeared to be a small violet farm, turned to the left at the corner of the house, stooped underneath an iron railing, and found himself in a trim little garden, in which were several chairs, some statues, and a small fountain. Opening out upon the strip of lawn were the French windows of Mr. Senn's salon, closed now, and concealed by a heavy curtain, through the chinks of which, however, came a gleam of light. The intruder drew nearer and nearer. Then he heard a sound which filled him at first with immense relief, but which a moment afterwards made him feel like a fool. It was the shrill, yet not unmusical, laughter of Ninette, followed by the popping of a cork and the sound of her host's measured tone...

Manders stood with his back to the wall and deliberated. Before him, the quaint little strip of garden stretched into the blackness of a pine wood, and high above gleamed unexpected lights from the small villas and peasants' dwellings dotted about on the slope. The smell of the violets from the field close at hand was almost intoxicating. It was still early. The girl might very well remain where she was for hours to come. Manders sighed and glanced at his watch, which he was easily able to discern by the light of the yellow moon. It was barely half-an-hour after midnight. He decided to wait until one o'clock...The minutes passed with incredible slowness. A slight breeze crept down from the hills, discovering the presence of a little grove of cypresses on the border of the violet farm. There was something soothing in the pleasant tranquillity of the night.

For the last time Manders glanced at his watch. It was five minutes past one. He had already outstayed his appointed time. Reluctantly he turned to depart. The voices inside were still careless and light-hearted. Still Ninette laughed, and still her companion apparently shared her light-heartedness. Manders reached the corner of the house and had barely turned towards the street when he heard the curtains drawn back and the little French windows opened. He stood still, out of sight though only a few feet away.

"Look, little one," he heard Senn say in his deep voice. "You see here my little demesne, where it is pleasant to sit when the sun shines. And beyond, the wood is asleep."

"I do not like it!" Ninette exclaimed querulously. "Let us go in. The night air is cold."

Senn laughed softly, and when the listener heard that laugh he was glad he had come. He heard something which was almost like a sob from Ninette.

"You frighten me," she faltered. "Let go my wrist. I shall go away if you are not kinder."

Again the laugh.

"But, little one, I might not choose to let you go," Senn expostulated. "I might choose to keep you here always. You do not love my wood. That is, perhaps, because of its name. They call it, you know, the Cemetery Wood. You would not wish to be buried there?"

Ninette's little cry seemed to come with a curiously muffled sound.

"You must not make a noise, little one," Senn went on. "There are no neighbours near, but those on the other side of the road might be curious. A man living alone, entirely alone, must be careful."

It took Manders precisely three long paces to get once more back into the street, and a matter of a couple of seconds for his finger to find the bell. With his other hand he undid one of the studs of his shirt, thrust his hat on one side, ruffled his hair, dragged his tie a little on one side, and listened intently. The throbbing of the bell drowned all sounds, yet he had fancied when first he pressed it that he had heard something—a stifled cry, or was it a shriek? Still the bell pealed and throbbed.

There were footsteps, soon enough really, although the time had seemed long to the expectant visitor. The door was thrown open. Mr. Senn stood peering out, a sinister-looking figure indeed. And behind him Manders could see, stealing down the passage, her great eyes shining with terror and hope, Ninette.

"What the devil do you want?" Senn muttered.

Then it became apparent that Manders was very drunk. He smiled fatuously, and endeavoured to pat Mr. Senn on the back.

"Fourteen!" he exclaimed. "Eleven times at the centre table! The croupier—friend of mine, that croupier—he whispered to me, 'Monsieur,' he said, 'if fourteen comes up centre table, within an hour fourteen comes up eleven times last table on left. The one great superstition of the place—always comes out right.' So here I am. Got a little fiacre at the corner. Come along down and break the bank."

Mr. Senn was very still, but there was a strange light in his eyes.

"How did you know where to find me?" he demanded.

Manders tapped his forehead and shook his head.

"Sorry," he confided; "fact is, I met a few of the boys. Can't remember anything as clearly as I'd like...Why, bless my soul," he added, "there's little Ninette!"

Ninette came running out, as pale as death. Senn, however, still blocked the way.

"You'd better come in and have a drink," he said to his unwelcome visitor.

"I'll drink while you make a fortune," Mr. Manders replied. "We'll all three go down together. Come along, Ninette."

So the three walked down together towards the fiacre at the corner of the street, and both Ninette's hands were clasped around Manders's arm. She clung to him like a child, and Manders's one little downward smile of encouragement was not in the least the smile of a drunken man.

They drove to the Casino, and without taking the least notice of his companions, with the light in his eyes of a man who goes to great things, Senn hastened in. Manders pretended to be sonic time finding money for the cocher. When he had paid him, he drew Ninette away and made her sit down with him before one of the tables at the café. She was still white, almost to the lips.

"That awful man!" she sobbed. "It was the good God who sent you."

Manders patted her hand.

"Listen, little one," he said; "there has been no run on fourteen, as he will soon find out. Your note frightened me. I have a grave suspicion concerning that man, so I followed you up the hill. You understand?"

"Yes," she faltered. "Oh, thank you—thank God!"

"Listen again," Manders went on. "Can you be a brave little woman for the sake of others who are not so fortunate as you?"

"I will do everything that you tell me," she promised, gulping the brandy which the waiter brought. "Down here I am not so afraid. But up there—it is a horrible thought, but there was murder in his eyes."

"Continue to listen, my child," her companion begged. "Show no fear of the man. Follow him in to the Casino. Forget your terror in his apartment. Laugh at yourself. Speak of me as very, very drunk. Go nowhere alone with him, but humour him. You understand?"

"But is it that you are of the police, then?" the girl faltered.

Manders shook his head.

"I am a friend of one who is," he told her. "He is on the way here. He arrives to-morrow morning. You will do all that I have asked? You will say that you have seen me to the hotel?"

"Rest assured of it, my benefactor," she promised, as they parted.

MR. HUGH MANDERS on the following morning showed every sign of having recovered from his debauch. His sunburnt cheeks showed no trace of pallor. He was as carefully dressed and distinguished as ever. He swung across the Square to where he saw Senn sitting in grim solitude.

"My friend," he said, pausing in front of him, "I have conic to present my apologies."

Mr. Senn scowled.

"There was no run on number fourteen last night," he declared. "You came to me with a lie."

"Isn't that rather a hard word?" Manders protested soothingly. "I don't know whether I showed any signs of it, but I will admit that I had had too much to drink. I was, in fact, compelled to submit to the indignity of being put to bed by the hall-porter."

Mr. Senn made inarticulate sounds which might have been taken to mean that he accepted the other's explanation.

"It cost me twenty-five thousand before I found out," he mattered.

"I am heartily sorry." was the apologetic reply. "Where is the little Ninette? I fear that she, too, has cause for anger with me."

"You broke up my supper-party, confound you!" Senn grumbled. "Ninette's all right, but she wouldn't come back again. You brought me down here on a fool's errand."

"I will atone," Manders promised. "To-day you will lunch with me. I have a table at Ciro's. I shall challenge Pierre to produce of his best. There is burgundy, not in the wine list—Chamberlin; brandy—Armignac. Pierre shall produce his treasures."

"I will lunch with you," Mr. Senn agreed, a little mollified. "At twelve-thirty precisely I shall be there," Mr. Senn promised.

Manders called upon his friends the Prestons at the Hotel Metropole, and spent some time in conversation with them. Afterwards he made his way to the station and met Sarson, who had travelled by the night train from Paris. At twelve-thirty he made his way along the Arcade to Ciro's, and when Mr. Senn appeared he found himself one of a little party of guests.

"Mrs. Preston, allow me to present my friend, Mr. Senn," Manders said genially. "Senn, this is Major Preston and Mr. Sarson. To-day I am not insulting you with a cocktail. We are going to drink wine."

Senn, after a moment's hesitation, accepted the presence of other guests with equanimity. From the first he attached himself to Mrs. Preston. They sat side by side, and soon their conversation became more and more earnest. Every now and then they drew apart and joined reluctantly in the general conversation—an obvious concession to good manners, for at the first opportunity Senn, in particular, turned back to his neighbour, eager to renew their more intimate tête-à-tête. Towards the close of the meal lie leaned a little back in his chair, drinking his wine with the slow appreciation of the gratified epicure. To his neighbour he talked with rapidity, apparently with eloquence. His contributions to the general conversation, however, remained scanty. It was only just towards the end, after the arrival of that dust-covered bottle of Armignac, that he seemed to thrust aside his reserve and throw any light upon the subject of that secret conversation.

"Whether in fear or hope," he pronounced, "the greatest desire mortal man has, is to see what is on the other side of the veil. There are some to whom the very thought must be agony, some who must dread the thought of a hereafter. Yet their thirst for knowledge is at least equal to the thirst of those who have preserved hope."

"I am not sure that I agree with you," his host declared. "I can understand the white man, who has nothing to fear from a hereafter, longing for some assurance concerning it. But take the case of a great criminal, now. What has he to gain? If there is a hereafter, it is governed by supernatural laws, and it isn't reasonable to suppose that the criminal is going to be accepted on the same basis as the righteous man."

Senn leaned eagerly forward.

"You miss the point," he protested. "Can't you see that the fear of the criminal and the hope of the just man both result in the same emotion—curiosity? One desires to solve the matter of his hopes, the other the matter of his fears."

Manders shrugged his shoulders.

"You may be right," he admitted. "Personally, I am well content to wait."

"I am not," was the muttered reply.

Major Preston swung the brandy reverently around in his huge glass.

"If you take my advice, all of you," he said, "you'll abandon all serious conversation and devote yourselves to the brandy. Mr. Manders, I salute you as a prince of hosts."

They drank Manders's health, and in due course the party broke up. Senn and Mrs. Preston, however, wandered away together.

"We are going for a little walk along the promenade," the latter observed, as she nodded farewell to her host. "I shall be in the Club presently."

The three men sat down together outside the Café de Paris. Manders fanned himself with his hat, for the day was warm.

"I suppose the idea's all right," Major Preston observed, "but it seems to me a little melodramatic. Why can't you go the straight ticket, Manders?"

The latter shook his head.

"There are eleven impenetrable years," he pointed out, "a great gulf, on the other side of which, as Sarson will tell you, the clue disappears."

"What you are aiming at is a confession, then?" Sarson observed.

Manders nodded.

"It is the novelist's point of view as against the detective's," he declared. "My theory is that the man is without doubt insane."

"But the little lady here whom you rescued?"

Manders went over to where Ninette was seated, a little distance away, and brought her back to the two men. She was still very pale and subdued.

"Ninette," he begged, "will you tell these gentlemen about last night when you were alone with Mr. Senn?"

"There is nothing to tell," she replied, "except—except that I know he meant to kill me."

"Did you see any weapons?" Sarson asked. "Did he threaten you at all?"

She shook her head.

"What I know, I know," she said firmly. "I saw it come into his eyes, the thought that he would kill me. They went red, and he looked at me like a wild beast. I tell you that I saw murder."

Major Preston moved uneasily in his chair. The detective, notwithstanding the warm sunshine, shivered.

"You see, gentlemen," Manders observed, "here is evidence which is no evidence. I think that our way is the best."

The end of these things contained certain phenomena which, notwithstanding his profound disbelief in all supernatural manifestations, nevertheless left a poignant and lifelong impression upon Manders's mind. For the three days following his luncheon party. Mrs. Preston was an altered woman, Gradually she seemed to lose her air of superb health and her cheerful woman-of-the-world poise. Her cheeks seemed to grow thinner, and her eyes larger. She abandoned her visits to the Sporting Club just as Senn abandoned the Casino. They sat together in quiet places and talked, and when she was invisible he took long walks into the country and came back covered with dust and with black rims of fatigue under his eyes. He was like an uneasy shadow, waiting for the hour to come.

In the end, the mise-en-scène was changed. They met one evening in the large salon occupied by the Prestons at the Hotel Metropole, but three minutes after they had taken their places, Mrs. Preston had turned on the lights.

"It is impossible," she declared. "There is an atmosphere here which is like a wall. Nothing can go out from me or can come to me. We must find a small, plain room and open space beyond."

The next night they drove up the hill and trooped silently into Senn's strange apartment. Mrs. Preston stretched herself upon a sofa behind a screen, and the French windows were thrown open to the cloudy night. Sarson, Major Preston and Manders were seated around the table, and facing the window, Senn. They sat on in darkness. Outside a wind was blowing, and there was the occasional patter of rain. Time passed, and then a voice from behind the screen.

"There is someone coming. There is someone coming for a man here whom no one knows, whose name—but no, I cannot hear his name...Wait! There are more than one. There are seven. One comes first...Wait!"

At this point Manders began to lose hold of himself, for out of that windy darkness it seemed to him that a shape approached the window. By his side he heard the breath of agony come whistling through the lungs of the man next to him, a sound like a sigh, and then a low voice.

"Is it you who have dared to call me back; William Holdsworth, I, the first of your victims? I am here. The others are coming."

Manders could have sworn that there was the vision of a white face, a sob, and disappearance. The man by his side had risen, had stood for a moment with hands outstretched towards the window. And then suddenly the gurgling of his breath ceased. They saw him through the darkness, his face as white as ashes, his eyes glaring and transfixed with horror. Then he sank down in a crumpled heap.

"Tell me, Ninette," Manders asked, three days later, "you spoke once of that moment when you saw murder come into his face. It was in the little salon?"

She sipped her liqueur and nodded.

"He was seated at the round table facing the window. Suddenly he rose to his feet, he looked across at me, and I seemed to see his fingers coming."

Manders took off his hat as though by accident, and rested it upon his knee.

"He died like that," he muttered

____________________

3: The Prince of Wurttenburg

Stephen Leacock

Nonsense Novels, 1911

As early as 1911, writers were having fun with the Great Detectives of crime literature. Parodist Stephen Leacock put the lid on it with this fine item, originally titled "Maddened by Mystery: or, The Defective Detective".

THE GREAT DETECTIVE sat in his office. He wore a long green gown and half a dozen secret badges pinned to the outside of it.

Three or four pairs of false whiskers hung on a whisker-stand beside him.

Goggles, blue spectacles and motor glasses lay within easy reach.

He could completely disguise himself at a second's notice.

Half a bucket of cocaine and a dipper stood on a chair at his elbow.

His face was absolutely impenetrable.

A pile of cryptograms lay on the desk. The Great Detective hastily tore them open one after the other, solved them, and threw them down the cryptogram-chute at his side.

There was a rap at the door.

The Great Detective hurriedly wrapped himself in a pink domino, adjusted a pair of false black whiskers and cried,

"Come in."

His secretary entered. "Ha," said the detective, "it is you!"

He laid aside his disguise.

"Sir," said the young man in intense excitement, "a mystery has been committed!"

"Ha!" said the Great Detective, his eye kindling, "is it such as to completely baffle the police of the entire continent?"

"They are so completely baffled with it," said the secretary, "that they are lying collapsed in heaps; many of them have committed suicide."

"So," said the detective, "and is the mystery one that is absolutely unparalleled in the whole recorded annals of the London police?"

"It is."

"And I suppose," said the detective, "that it involves names which you would scarcely dare to breathe, at least without first using some kind of atomiser or throat-gargle."

"Exactly."

"And it is connected, I presume, with the highest diplomatic consequences, so that if we fail to solve it England will be at war with the whole world in sixteen minutes?"

His secretary, still quivering with excitement, again answered yes.

"And finally," said the Great Detective, "I presume that it was committed in broad daylight, in some such place as the entrance of the Bank of England, or in the cloak-room of the House of Commons, and under the very eyes of the police?"

"Those," said the secretary, "are the very conditions of the mystery."

"Good," said the Great Detective, "now wrap yourself in this disguise, put on these brown whiskers and tell me what it is."

The secretary wrapped himself in a blue domino with lace insertions, then, bending over, he whispered in the ear of the Great Detective:

"The Prince of Wurttemberg has been kidnapped."

The Great Detective bounded from his chair as if he had been kicked from below.

A prince stolen! Evidently a Bourbon! The scion of one of the oldest families in Europe kidnapped. Here was a mystery indeed worthy of his analytical brain.

His mind began to move like lightning.

"Stop!" he said, "how do you know this?"

The secretary handed him a telegram. It was from the Prefect of Police of Paris. It read: "The Prince of Wurttemberg stolen. Probably forwarded to London. Must have him here for the opening day of Exhibition. 1,000 pounds reward."

So! The Prince had been kidnapped out of Paris at the very time when his appearance at the International Exposition would have been a political event of the first magnitude.

With the Great Detective to think was to act, and to act was to think. Frequently he could do both together.

"Wire to Paris for a description of the Prince."

The secretary bowed and left.

At the same moment there was slight scratching at the door.

A visitor entered. He crawled stealthily on his hands and knees. A hearthrug thrown over his head and shoulders disguised his identity.

He crawled to the middle of the room.

Then he rose.

Great Heaven!

It was the Prime Minister of England.

"You!" said the detective.

"Me," said the Prime Minister.

"You have come in regard the kidnapping of the Prince of Wurttemberg?"

The Prime Minister started.

"How do you know?" he said.

The Great Detective smiled his inscrutable smile.

"Yes," said the Prime Minister. "I will use no concealment. I am interested, deeply interested. Find the Prince of Wurttemberg, get him safe back to Paris and I will add £500 to the reward already offered. But listen," he said impressively as he left the room, "see to it that no attempt is made to alter the marking of the prince, or to clip his tail."

So! To clip the Prince's tail! The brain of the Great Detective reeled. So! a gang of miscreants had conspired to— but no! the thing was not possible.

There was another rap at the door.

A second visitor was seen. He wormed his way in, lying almost prone upon his stomach, and wriggling across the floor. He was enveloped in a long purple cloak. He stood up and peeped over the top of it.

Great Heaven!

It was the Archbishop of Canterbury!

"Your Grace!" exclaimed the detective in amazement-"pray do not stand, I beg you. Sit down, lie down, anything rather than stand."

The Archbishop took off his mitre and laid it wearily on the whisker-stand.

"You are here in regard to the Prince of Wurttemberg."

The Archbishop started and crossed himself. Was the man a magician?

"Yes," he said, "much depends on getting him back. But I have only come to say this: my sister is desirous of seeing you. She is coming here. She has been extremely indiscreet and her fortune hangs upon the Prince. Get him back to Paris or I fear she will be ruined."

The Archbishop regained his mitre, uncrossed himself, wrapped his cloak about him, and crawled stealthily out on his hands and knees, purring like a cat.

The face of the Great Detective showed the most profound sympathy. It ran up and down in furrows. "So," he muttered, "the sister of the Archbishop, the Countess of Dashleigh!" Accustomed as he was to the life of the aristocracy, even the Great Detective felt that there was here intrigue of more than customary complexity.

There was a loud rapping at the door.

There entered the Countess of Dashleigh. She was all in furs.

She was the most beautiful woman in England. She strode imperiously into the room. She seized a chair imperiously and seated herself on it, imperial side up.

She took off her tiara of diamonds and put it on the tiara-holder beside her and uncoiled her boa of pearls and put it on the pearl-stand.

"You have come," said the Great Detective, "about the Prince of Wurttemberg."

"Wretched little pup!" said the Countess of Dashleigh in disgust.

So! A further complication! Far from being in love with the Prince, the Countess denounced the young Bourbon as a pup!

"You are interested in him, I believe."

"Interested!" said the Countess. "I should rather say so. Why, I bred him!"

"You which?" gasped the Great Detective, his usually impassive features suffused with a carmine blush.

"I bred him," said the Countess, "and I've got £10,000 upon his chances, so no wonder I want him back in Paris. Only listen," she said, "if they've got hold of the Prince and cut his tail or spoiled the markings of his stomach it would be far better to have him quietly put out of the way here."

The Great Detective reeled and leaned up against the side of the room. So! The cold-blooded admission of the beautiful woman for the moment took away his breath! Herself the mother of the young Bourbon, misallied with one of the greatest families of Europe, staking her fortune on a Royalist plot, and yet with so instinctive a knowledge of European politics as to know that any removal of the hereditary birth-marks of the Prince would forfeit for him the sympathy of the French populace.

The Countess resumed her tiara.

She left.

The secretary re-entered.

"I have three telegrams from Paris," he said, "they are completely baffling."

He handed over the first telegram.

It read:

"The Prince of Wurttemberg has a long, wet snout, broad ears, very long body, and short hind legs."

The Great Detective looked puzzled.

He read the second telegram.

"The Prince of Wurttemberg is easily recognised by his deep bark."

And then the third.

"The Prince of Wurttemberg can be recognised by a patch of white hair across the centre of his back."

The two men looked at one another. The mystery was maddening, impenetrable.

The Great Detective spoke.

"Give me my domino," he said. "These clues must be followed up," then pausing, while his quick brain analysed and summed up the evidence before him-"a young man," he muttered, "evidently young since described as a 'pup,' with a long, wet snout (ha! addicted obviously to drinking), a streak of white hair across his back (a first sign of the results of his abandoned life)-yes, yes," he continued, "with this clue I shall find him easily."

The Great Detective rose.

He wrapped himself in a long black cloak with white whiskers and blue spectacles attached.

Completely disguised, he issued forth.

He began the search.

For four days he visited every corner of London.

He entered every saloon in the city. In each of them he drank a glass of rum. In some of them he assumed the disguise of a sailor. In others he entered as a solider. Into others he penetrated as a clergyman. His disguise was perfect. Nobody paid any attention to him as long as he had the price of a drink.

The search proved fruitless.

Two young men were arrested under suspicion of being the Prince, only to be released.

The identification was incomplete in each case.

One had a long wet snout but no hair on his back.

The other had hair on his back but couldn't bark.

Neither of them was the young Bourbon.

The Great Detective continued his search.

He stopped at nothing.

Secretly, after nightfall, he visited the home of the Prime Minister. He examined it from top to bottom. He measured all the doors and windows. He took up the flooring. He inspected the plumbing. He examined the furniture. He found nothing.

With equal secrecy he penetrated into the palace of the Archbishop. He examined it from top to bottom. Disguised as a choir-boy he took part in the offices of the church. He found nothing.

Still undismayed, the Great Detective made his way into the home of the Countess of Dashleigh. Disguised as a housemaid, he entered the service of the Countess.

Then at last a clue came which gave him a solution of the mystery.

On the wall of the Countess's boudoir was a large framed engraving.

It was a portrait.

Under it was a printed legend:

THE PRINCE OF WURTTEMBERG

The portrait was that of a Dachshund.

The long body, the broad ears, the unclipped tail, the short hind legs-all was there.

In a fraction of a second the lightning mind of the Great Detective had penetrated the whole mystery.

The prince was a dog!!!!

Hastily throwing a domino over his housemaid's dress, he rushed to the street. He summoned a passing hansom, and in a few moments was at his house.

"I have it," he gasped to his secretary. "The mystery is solved. I have pieced it together. By sheer analysis I have reasoned it out. Listen-hind legs, hair on back, wet snout, pup-eh, what? does that suggest nothing to you?"

"Nothing," said the secretary; "it seems perfectly hopeless."

The Great Detective, now recovered from his excitement, smiled faintly.

"It means simply this, my dear fellow. The Prince of Wurttemberg is a dog, a prize Dachshund. The Countess of Dashleigh bred him, and he is worth some £25,000 in addition to the prize of £10,000 offered at the Paris dog show. Can you wonder that—"

At that moment the Great Detective was interrupted by the scream of a woman.

"Great Heaven!"

The Countess of Dashleigh dashed into the room.

Her face was wild.

Her tiara was in disorder.

Her pearls were dripping all over the place.

She wrung her hands and moaned.

"They have cut his tail," she gasped, "and taken all the hair off his back. What can I do? I am undone!!"

"Madame," said the Great Detective, calm as bronze, "do yourself up. I can save you yet."

"You!"

"Me!"

"How?"

"Listen. This is how. The Prince was to have been shown at Paris."

The Countess nodded.

"Your fortune was staked on him?"

The Countess nodded again.

"The dog was stolen, carried to London, his tail cut and his marks disfigured."

Amazed at the quiet penetration of the Great Detective, the Countess kept on nodding and nodding.

"And you are ruined?"

"I am," she gasped, and sank to the floor in a heap of pearls.

"Madame," said the Great Detective, "all is not lost."

He straightened himself up to his full height. A look of inflinchable unflexibility flickered over his features.

The honour of England, the fortune of the most beautiful woman in England was at stake.

"I will do it," he murmured.

"Rise dear lady," he continued. "Fear nothing. I will impersonate the dog!!!"

That night the Great Detective might have been seen on the deck of the Calais packet boat with his secretary. He was on his hands and knees in a long black cloak, and his secretary had him on a short chain.

He barked at the waves exultingly and licked the secretary's hand.

"What a beautiful dog," said the passengers.

The disguise was absolutely complete.

The Great Detective had been coated over with mucilage to which dog hairs had been applied. The markings on his back were perfect. His tail, adjusted with an automatic coupler, moved up and down responsive to every thought. His deep eyes were full of intelligence.

Next day he was exhibited in the Dachshund class at the International show.

He won all hearts.

"Quel beau chien!" cried the French people.

"Ach! was ein Dog!" cried the Spanish.

The Great Detective took the first prize!

The fortune of the Countess was saved.

Unfortunately as the Great Detective had neglected to pay the dog tax, he was caught and destroyed by the dog-catchers. But that is, of course, quite outside of the present narrative, and is only mentioned as an odd fact in conclusion.

_____________

4: The New Catacomb.

Arthur Conan Doyle

From Tales of Terror and Mystery 1922

"LOOK HERE, Burger," said Kennedy, "I do wish that you would confide in me."

The two famous students of Roman remains sat together in Kennedy's comfortable room overlooking the Corso. The night was cold, and they had both pulled up their chairs to the unsatisfactory Italian stove which threw out a zone of stuffiness rather than of warmth.

Outside under the bright winter stars lay the modern Rome, the long, double chain of the electric lamps, the brilliantly lighted cafés, the rushing carriages, and the dense throng upon the footpaths. But inside, in the sumptuous chamber of the rich young English archaeologist, there was only old Rome to be seen. Cracked and time-worn friezes hung upon the walls, grey old busts of senators and soldiers with their fighting heads and their hard, cruel faces peered out from the corners. On the centre table, amidst a litter of inscriptions, fragments, and ornaments, there stood the famous reconstruction by Kennedy of the Baths of Caracalla, which excited such interest and admiration when it was exhibited in Berlin.

Amphorae hung from the ceiling, and a litter of curiosities strewed the rich red Turkey carpet. And of them all there was not one which was not of the most unimpeachable authenticity, and of the utmost rarity and value; for Kennedy, though little more than thirty, had a European reputation in this particular branch of research, and was, moreover, provided with that long purse which either proves to be a fatal handicap to the student's energies, or, if his mind is still true to its purpose, gives him an enormous advantage in the race for fame. Kennedy had often been seduced by whim and pleasure from his studies, but his mind was an incisive one, capable of long and concentrated efforts which ended in sharp reactions of sensuous languor. His handsome face, with its high, white forehead, its aggressive nose, and its somewhat loose and sensuous mouth, was a fair index of the compromise between strength and weakness in his nature.

Of a very different type was his companion, Julius Burger. He came of a curious blend, a German father and an Italian mother, with the robust qualities of the North mingling strangely with the softer graces of the South. Blue Teutonic eyes lightened his sun-browned face, and above them rose a square, massive forehead, with a fringe of close yellow curls lying round it. His strong, firm jaw was clean-shaven, and his companion had frequently remarked how much it suggested those old Roman busts which peered out from the shadows in the corners of his chamber. Under its bluff German strength there lay always a suggestion of Italian subtlety, but the smile was so honest, and the eyes so frank, that one understood that this was only an indication of his ancestry, with no actual bearing upon his character.

In age and in reputation he was on the same level as his English companion, but his life and his work had both been far more arduous. Twelve years before he had come as a poor student to Rome, and had lived ever since upon some small endowment for research which had been awarded to him by the University of Bonn.

Painfully, slowly, and doggedly, with extraordinary tenacity and single-mindedness, he had climbed from rung to rung of the ladder of fame, until now he was a member of the Berlin Academy, and there was every reason to believe that he would shortly be promoted to the Chair of the greatest of German Universities. But the singleness of purpose which had brought him to the same high level as the rich and brilliant Englishman, had caused him in everything outside their work to stand infinitely below him. He had never found a pause in his studies in which to cultivate the social graces. It was only when he spoke of his own subject that his face was filled with life and soul. At other times he was silent and embarrassed, too conscious of his own limitations in larger subjects, and impatient of that small talk which is the conventional refuge of those who have no thoughts to express.

And yet for some years there had been an acquaintanceship which appeared to be slowly ripening into a friendship between these two very different rivals. The base and origin of this lay in the fact that in their own studies each was the only one of the younger men who had knowledge and enthusiasm enough to properly appreciate the other. Their common interests and pursuits had brought them together, and each had been attracted by the other's knowledge. And then gradually something had been added to this. Kennedy had been amused by the frankness and simplicity of his rival, while Burger in turn had been fascinated by the brilliancy and vivacity which had made Kennedy such a favourite in Roman society. I say "had," because just at the moment the young Englishman was somewhat under a cloud.

A love affair, the details of which had never quite come out, had indicated a heartlessness and callousness upon his part which shocked many of his friends. But in the bachelor circles of students and artists in which he preferred to move there is no very rigid code of honour in such matters, and though a head might be shaken or a pair of shoulders shrugged over the flight of two and the return of one, the general sentiment was probably one of curiosity and perhaps of envy rather than of reprobation.

"Look here, Burger," said Kennedy, looking hard at the placid face of his companion, "I do wish that you would confide in me."

As he spoke he waved his hand in the direction of a rug which lay upon the floor.

On the rug stood a long, shallow fruit-basket of the light wicker-work which is used in the Campagna, and this was heaped with a litter of objects, inscribed tiles, broken inscriptions, cracked mosaics, torn papyri, rusty metal ornaments, which to the uninitiated might have seemed to have come straight from a dustman's bin, but which a specialist would have speedily recognized as unique of their kind.

The pile of odds and ends in the flat wicker-work basket supplied exactly one of those missing links of social development which are of such interest to the student. It was the German who had brought them in, and the Englishman's eyes were hungry as he looked at them.

"I won't interfere with your treasure-trove, but I should very much like to hear about it," he continued, while Burger very deliberately lit a cigar. "It is evidently a discovery of the first importance. These inscriptions will make a sensation throughout Europe."

"For every one here there are a million there!" said the German. "There are so many that a dozen savants might spend a lifetime over them, and build up a reputation as solid as the Castle of St. Angelo."

Kennedy was thinking with his fine forehead wrinkled and his fingers playing with his long, fair moustache.

"You have given yourself away, Burger!" said he at last. "Your words can only apply to one thing. You have discovered a new catacomb."

"I had no doubt that you had already come to that conclusion from an examination of these objects."

"Well, they certainly appeared to indicate it, but your last remarks make it certain. There is no place except a catacomb which could contain so vast a store of relics as you describe."

"Quite so. There is no mystery about that. I have discovered a new catacomb."

"Where?"

"Ah, that is my secret, my dear Kennedy! Suffice it that it is so situated that there is not one chance in a million of anyone else coming upon it. Its date is different from that of any known catacomb, and it has been reserved for the burial of the highest Christians, so that the remains and the relics are quite different from anything which has ever been seen before. If I was not aware of your knowledge and of your energy, my friend, I would not hesitate, under the pledge of secrecy, to tell you everything about it. But as it is I think that I must certainly prepare my own report of the matter before I expose myself to such formidable competition."

Kennedy loved his subject with a love which was almost a mania—a love which held him true to it, amidst all the distractions which come to a wealthy and dissipated young man. He had ambition, but his ambition was secondary to his mere abstract joy and interest in everything which concerned the old life and history of the city. He yearned to see this new underworld which his companion had discovered.

"Look here, Burger," said he, earnestly, "I assure you that you can trust me most implicitly in the matter. Nothing would induce me to put pen to paper about anything which I see until I have your express permission. I quite understand your feeling, and I think it is most natural, but you have really nothing whatever to fear from me. On the other hand, if you don't tell me I shall make a systematic search, and I shall most certainly discover it. In that case, of course, I should make what use I liked of it, since I should be under no obligation to you."

Burger smiled thoughtfully over his cigar.

"I have noticed, friend Kennedy," said he, "that when I want information over any point you are not always so ready to supply it."

"When did you ever ask me anything that I did not tell you? You remember, for example, my giving you the material for your paper about the temple of the Vestals."

"Ah, well, that was not a matter of much importance. If I were to question you upon some intimate thing, would you give me an answer, I wonder! This new catacomb is a very intimate thing to me, and I should certainly expect some sign of confidence in return."

"What you are driving at I cannot imagine," said the Englishman, "but if you mean that you will answer my question about the catacomb if I answer any question which you may put to me, I can assure you that I will certainly do so."

"Well, then," said Burger, leaning luxuriously back in his settee, and puffing a blue tree of cigar-smoke into the air, "tell me all about your relations with Miss Mary Saunderson."

Kennedy sprang up in his chair and glared angrily at his impassive companion.

"What the devil do you mean?" he cried. "What sort of a question is this? You may mean it as a joke, but you never made a worse one."

"No, I don't mean it as a joke," said Burger, simply. "I am really rather interested in the details of the matter. I don't know much about the world and women and social life and that sort of thing, and such an incident has the fascination of the unknown for me. I know you, and I knew her by sight—I had even spoken to her once or twice. I should very much like to hear from your own lips exactly what it was which occurred between you."

"I won't tell you a word."

"That's all right. It was only my whim to see if you would give up a secret as easily as you expected me to give up my secret of the new catacomb. You wouldn't, and I didn't expect you to. But why should you expect otherwise of me? There's St. John's clock striking ten. It is quite time that I was going home."

"No, wait a bit, Burger," said Kennedy; "this is really a ridiculous caprice of yours to wish to know about an old love affair which has burned out months ago. You know we look upon a man who kisses and tells as the greatest coward and villain possible."

"Certainly," said the German, gathering up his basket of curiosities, "when he tells anything about a girl which is previously unknown, he must be so. But in this case, as you must be aware, it was a public matter which was the common talk of Rome, so that you are not really doing Miss Mary Saunderson any injury by discussing her case with me. But still, I respect your scruples; and so good night!"

"Wait a bit, Burger," said Kennedy, laying his hand upon the other's arm; "I am very keen upon this catacomb business, and I can't let it drop quite so easily. Would you mind asking me something else in return— something not quite so eccentric this time?"

"No, no; you have refused, and there is an end of it," said Burger, with his basket on his arm. "No doubt you are quite right not to answer, and no doubt I am quite right also— and so again, my dear Kennedy, good night!"

The Englishman watched Burger cross the room, and he had his hand on the handle of the door before his host sprang up with the air of a man who is making the best of that which cannot be helped. "Hold on, old fellow," said he. "I think you are behaving in a most ridiculous fashion, but still, if this is your condition, I suppose that I must submit to it. I hate saying anything about a girl, but, as you say, it is all over Rome, and I don't suppose I can tell you anything which you do not know already. What was it you wanted to know?"

The German came back to the stove, and, laying down his basket, he sank into his chair once more. "May I have another cigar?" said he. "Thank you very much! I never smoke when I work, but I enjoy a chat much more when I am under the influence of tobacco. Now, as regards this young lady, with whom you had this little adventure. What in the world has become of her?"

"She is at home with her own people."

"Oh, really— in England?"

"Yes."

"What part of England— London?"

"No, Twickenham."

"You must excuse my curiosity, my dear Kennedy, and you must put it down to my ignorance of the world. No doubt it is quite a simple thing to persuade a young lady to go off with you for three weeks or so, and then to hand her over to her own family at— what did you call the place?"

"Twickenham."

"Quite so— at Twickenham. But it is something so entirely outside my own experience that I cannot even imagine how you set about it. For example, if you had loved this girl your love could hardly disappear in three weeks, so I presume that you could not have loved her at all. But if you did not love her why should you make this great scandal which has damaged you and ruined her?"

Kennedy looked moodily into the red eye of the stove. "That's a logical way of looking at it, certainly," said he. "Love is a big word, and it represents a good many different shades of feeling. I liked her, and— well, you say you've seen her— you know how charming she can look. But still I am willing to admit, looking back, that I could never have really loved her."

"Then, my dear Kennedy, why did you do it?"

"The adventure of the thing had a great deal to do with it."

"What! You are so fond of adventures!"

"Where would the variety of life be without them? It was for an adventure that I first began to pay my attentions to her. I've chased a good deal of game in my time, but there's no chase like that of a pretty woman. There was the piquant difficulty of it also, for, as she was the companion of Lady Emily Rood it was almost impossible to see her alone. On the top of all the other obstacles which attracted me, I learned from her own lips very early in the proceedings that she was engaged."

"Mein Gott! To whom?"

"She mentioned no names."

"I do not think that anyone knows that. So that made the adventure more alluring, did it?"

"Well, it did certainly give a spice to it. Don't you think so?"

"I tell you that I am very ignorant about these things."

"My dear fellow, you can remember that the apple you stole from your neighbour's tree was always sweeter than that which fell from your own. And then I found that she cared for me."

"What— at once?"

"Oh, no, it took about three months of sapping and mining. But at last I won her over. She understood that my judicial separation from my wife made it impossible for me to do the right thing by her— but she came all the same, and we had a delightful time, as long as it lasted."

"But how about the other man?"

Kennedy shrugged his shoulders. "I suppose it is the survival of the fittest," said he. "If he had been the better man she would not have deserted him. Let's drop the subject, for I have had enough of it!"

"Only one other thing. How did you get rid of her in three weeks?"

"Well, we had both cooled down a bit, you understand. She absolutely refused, under any circumstances, to come back to face the people she had known in Rome. Now, of course, Rome is necessary to me, and I was already pining to be back at my work— so there was one obvious cause of separation. Then, again, her old father turned up at the hotel in London, and there was a scene, and the whole thing became so unpleasant that really— though I missed her dreadfully at first— I was very glad to slip out of it. Now, I rely upon you not to repeat anything of what I have said."

"My dear Kennedy, I should not dream of repeating it. But all that you say interests me very much, for it gives me an insight into your way of looking at things, which is entirely different from mine, for I have seen so little of life. And now you want to know about my new catacomb. There's no use my trying to describe it, for you would never find it by that. There is only one thing, and that is for me to take you there."

"That would be splendid."

"When would you like to come?"

"The sooner the better. I am all impatience to see it."

"Well, it is a beautiful night— though a trifle cold. Suppose we start in an hour. We must be very careful to keep the matter to ourselves. If anyone saw us hunting in couples they would suspect that there was something going on."

"We can't be too cautious," said Kennedy. "Is it far?"

"Some miles."

"Not too far to walk?"

"Oh, no, we could walk there easily."

"We had better do so, then. A cabman's suspicions would be aroused if he dropped us both at some lonely spot in the dead of the night."

"Quite so. I think it would be best for us to meet at the Gate of the Appian Way at midnight. I must go back to my lodgings for the matches and candles and things."

"All right, Burger! I think it is very kind of you to let me into this secret, and I promise you that I will write nothing about it until you have published your report. Good-bye for the present! You will find me at the Gate at twelve."

The cold, clear air was filled with the musical chimes from that city of clocks as Burger, wrapped in an Italian overcoat, with a lantern hanging from his hand, walked up to the rendezvous. Kennedy stepped out of the shadow to meet him.

"You are ardent in work as well as in love!" said the German, laughing.

"Yes; I have been waiting here for nearly half an hour."

"I hope you left no clue as to where we were going."

"Not such a fool! By Jove, I am chilled to the bone! Come on, Burger, let us warm ourselves by a spurt of hard walking."

Their footsteps sounded loud and crisp upon the rough stone paving of the disappointing road which is all that is left of the most famous highway of the world. A peasant or two going home from the wine-shop, and a few carts of country produce coming up to Rome, were the only things which they met. They swung along, with the huge tombs looming up through the darkness upon each side of them, until they had come as far as the Catacombs of St. Calixtus, and saw against a rising moon the great circular bastion of Cecilia Metella in front of them. Then Burger stopped with his hand to his side. "Your legs are longer than mine, and you are more accustomed to walking," said he, laughing. "I think that the place where we turn off is somewhere here. Yes, this is it, round the corner of the trattoria. Now, it is a very narrow path, so perhaps I had better go in front, and you can follow." He had lit his lantern, and by its light they were enabled to follow a narrow and devious track which wound across the marshes of the Campagna. The great Aqueduct of old Rome lay like a monstrous caterpillar across the moonlit landscape, and their road led them under one of its huge arches, and past the circle of crumbling bricks which marks the old arena. At last Burger stopped at a solitary wooden cowhouse, and he drew a key from his pocket.

"Surely your catacomb is not inside a house!" cried Kennedy.

"The entrance to it is. That is just the safeguard which we have against anyone else discovering it."

"Does the proprietor know of it?"

"Not he. He had found one or two objects which made me almost certain that his house was built on the entrance to such a place. So I rented it from him, and did my excavations for myself. Come in, and shut the door behind you."

It was a long, empty building, with the mangers of the cows along one wall. Burger put his lantern down on the ground, and shaded its light in all directions save one by draping his overcoat round it. "It might excite remark if anyone saw a light in this lonely place," said he. "Just help me to move this boarding." The flooring was loose in the corner, and plank by plank the two savants raised it and leaned it against the wall. Below there was a square aperture and a stair of old stone steps which led away down into the bowels of the earth.

"Be careful!" cried Burger, as Kennedy, in his impatience, hurried down them. "It is a perfect rabbits'-warren below, and if you were once to lose your way there, the chances would be a hundred to one against your ever coming out again. Wait until I bring the light."

"How do you find your own way if it is so complicated?"

"I had some very narrow escapes at first, but I have gradually learned to go about. There is a certain system to it, but it is one which a lost man, if he were in the dark, could not possibly find out. Even now I always spin out a ball of string behind me when I am going far into the catacomb. You can see for yourself that it is difficult, but every one of these passages divides and subdivides a dozen times before you go a hundred yards." They had descended some twenty feet from the level of the byre, and they were standing now in a square chamber cut out of the soft tufa. The lantern cast a flickering light, bright below and dim above, over the cracked brown walls. In every direction were the black openings of passages which radiated from this common centre.

"I want you to follow me closely, my friend," said Burger. "Do not loiter to look at anything upon the way, for the place to which I will take you contains all that you can see, and more. It will save time for us to go there direct." He led the way down one of the corridors, and the Englishman followed closely at his heels. Every now and then the passage bifurcated, but Burger was evidently following some secret marks of his own, for he neither stopped nor hesitated. Everywhere along the walls, packed like the berths upon an emigrant ship, lay the Christians of old Rome. The yellow light flickered over the shrivelled features of the mummies, and gleamed upon rounded skulls and long, white arm-bones crossed over fleshless chests. And everywhere as he passed Kennedy looked with wistful eyes upon inscriptions, funeral vessels, pictures, vestments, utensils, all lying as pious hands had placed them so many centuries ago. It was apparent to him, even in those hurried, passing glances, that this was the earliest and finest of the catacombs, containing such a storehouse of Roman remains as had never before come at one time under the observation of the student. "What would happen if the light went out?" he asked, as they hurried on.

"I have a spare candle and a box of matches in my pocket. By the way, Kennedy, have you any matches?"

"No; you had better give me some."

"Oh, that is all right. There is no chance of our separating."

"How far are we going? It seems to me that we have walked at least a quarter of a mile."

"More than that, I think. There is really no limit to the tombs—at least, I have never been able to find any. This is a very difficult place, so I think that I will use our ball of string." He fastened one end of it to a projecting stone and he carried the coil in the breast of his coat, paying it out as he advanced. Kennedy saw that it was no unnecessary precaution, for the passages had become more complexed and tortuous than ever, with a perfect network of intersecting corridors. But these all ended in one large circular hall with a square pedestal of tufa topped with a slab of marble at one end of it. "By Jove!" cried Kennedy in an ecstasy, as Burger swung his lantern over the marble. "It is a Christian altar— probably the first one in existence. Here is the little consecration cross cut upon the corner of it. No doubt this circular space was used as a church."

"Precisely," said Burger. "If I had more time I should like to show you all the bodies which are buried in these niches upon the walls, for they are the early popes and bishops of the Church, with their mitres, their croziers, and full canonicals. Go over to that one and look at it!" Kennedy went across, and stared at the ghastly head which lay loosely on the shredded and mouldering mitre.

"This is most interesting," said he, and his voice seemed to boom against the concave vault. "As far as my experience goes, it is unique. Bring the lantern over, Burger, for I want to see them all." But the German had strolled away, and was standing in the middle of a yellow circle of light at the other side of the hall.

"Do you know how many wrong turnings there are between this and the stairs?" he asked. "There are over two thousand. No doubt it was one of the means of protection which the Christians adopted. The odds are two thousand to one against a man getting out, even if he had a light; but if he were in the dark it would, of course, be far more difficult."

"So I should think."

"And the darkness is something dreadful. I tried it once for an experiment. Let us try it again!" He stooped to the lantern, and in an instant it was as if an invisible hand was squeezed tightly over each of Kennedy's eyes. Never had he known what such darkness was. It seemed to press upon him and to smother him. It was a solid obstacle against which the body shrank from advancing. He put his hands out to push it back from him. "That will do, Burger," said he, "let's have the light again."

But his companion began to laugh, and in that circular room the sound seemed to come from every side at once. "You seem uneasy, friend Kennedy," said he.

"Go on, man, light the candle!" said Kennedy, impatiently.

"It's very strange, Kennedy, but I could not in the least tell by the sound in which direction you stand. Could you tell where I am?"

"No; you seem to be on every side of me."

"If it were not for this string which I hold in my hand I should not have a notion which way to go."

"I dare say not. Strike a light, man, and have an end of this nonsense."

"Well, Kennedy, there are two things which I understand that you are very fond of. The one is adventure, and the other is an obstacle to surmount. The adventure must be the finding of your way out of this catacomb. The obstacle will be the darkness and the two thousand wrong turns which make the way a little difficult to find. But you need not hurry, for you have plenty of time, and when you halt for a rest now and then, I should like you just to think of Miss Mary Saunderson, and whether you treated her quite fairly."

"You devil, what do you mean?" roared Kennedy. He was running about in little circles and clasping at the solid blackness with both hands.

"Good-bye," said the mocking voice, and it was already at some distance. "I really do not think, Kennedy, even by your own showing that you did the right thing by that girl. There was only one little thing which you appeared not to know, and I can supply it. Miss Saunderson was engaged to a poor, ungainly devil of a student, and his name was Julius Burger." There was a rustle somewhere— the vague sound of a foot striking a stone— and then there fell silence upon that old Christian church— a stagnant heavy silence which closed round Kennedy and shut him in like water round a drowning man.

Some two months afterwards the following paragraph made the round of the European Press:—

One of the most interesting discoveries of recent years is that of the new catacomb in Rome, which lies some distance to the east of the well-known vaults of St. Calixtus. The finding of this important burial-place, which is exceedingly rich in most interesting early Christian remains, is due to the energy and sagacity of Dr. Julius Burger, the young German specialist, who is rapidly taking the first place as an authority upon ancient Rome. Although the first to publish his discovery, it appears that a less fortunate adventurer had anticipated Dr. Burger. Some months ago Mr. Kennedy, the well-known English student, disappeared suddenly from his rooms in the "Corso", and it was conjectured that his association with a recent scandal had driven him to leave Rome. It appears now that he had in reality fallen a victim to that fervid love of archaeology which had raised him to a distinguished place among living scholars. His body was discovered in the heart of the new catacomb, and it was evident from the condition of his feet and boots that he had tramped for days through the tortuous corridors which make these subterranean tombs so dangerous to explorers. The deceased gentleman had, with inexplicable rashness, made his way into this labyrinth without, as far as can be discovered, taking with him either candles or matches, so that his sad fate was the natural result of his own temerity. What makes the matter more painful is that Dr. Julius Burger was an intimate friend of the deceased. His joy at the extraordinary find which he has been so fortunate as to make has been greatly marred by the terrible fate of his comrade and fellow-worker.

_________________

5: The Ginger King

A E W Mason

The Strand Magazine, August 1940

Inspector Hanaud in a rare short story

MONSIEUR HANAUD was smoking one of Mr. Ricardo's special Havanas in the dining-room of Mr. Ricardo's fine house in Grosvenor Square. The trial which had fetched him over from Paris had ended that morning. He had eaten a very good lunch with his friend; he had taken the napkin from his collar; he was at his ease; and as he smoked— alas!— he preached.

“Chance, my friend, is the detective's best confederate. A little unimportant word you use and it startles... a strange twist of character is provoked to reveal itself— an odd incident breaks in on the routine of your investigation. And the mind pounces. ‘Ping,’ you say, if you play the table-tennis. ‘Pong,’ you say, if you play the Mahjong. And there you are! In at the brush.”

“I beg your pardon.”

For the moment Mr. Ricardo was baffled.

“I said, ‘You are in at the brush,’” Hanaud repeated amicably.

Mr. Ricardo smiled with indulgence. He too had eaten his share of an admirable saddle of lamb and drunk his half of a bottle of exquisite Haut Brion.

“You mean, of course, that you are in at the death,” he said.

“No, no,” Hanaud protested, starting forward. “I do not speak of executions. Detectives are never present at executions and, for me, I find them disgusting. I say, you are in at the brush. It is an idiom from your hunting-field. It means that when all the mess is swept up, you are there, the Man who found the Lady under the thimble.”

Mr. Ricardo was in no mood to pursue his large friend through the winding mazes of his metaphors.

“I am beginning to understand you,” he answered with resignation.

“Yes.” Hanaud nodded his head complacently. “I speak the precision. It is known.”

With a gentle knock, Mr. Ricardo’s incomparable butler Thomson entered the room.

“A Mr. Middleton has called,” he said, offering to Ricardo a visiting-card upon a salver.

Ricardo waved the salver away.

“I do not see visitors immediately after luncheon. It is an unforgivable time to call. Send him away!”

The butler, however, persisted.

“I took the liberty of pointing out that the hour was unseasonable,” he said, “but Mr. Middleton was in hopes that Monsieur Hanaud was staying with you. He seemed very anxious.”

Ricardo took up the card reluctantly. He read aloud.

“Mr. John Middleton, Secretary of the Unicorn Fire Insurance Company. I am myself insured with that firm.” He turned towards his guest. “No doubt he has some reason to excuse him. But it is as you wish.”

Monsieur Hanaud’s strange ambition that afternoon was to climb the Monument and to see the Crown Jewels at the Tower, but his good nature won the day, and since he was to find more than one illustration of the text upon which he had been preaching, he never regretted it.

“I am on view, he said simply.

“We will see Mr. Middleton in the Library,” said Mr. Ricardo; and into that spacious dormitory of deep armchairs and noble books Mr. Middleton was introduced.

Hanaud was delighted with the look of him. Mr. Middleton was a collector’s piece of Victorian England. Middle-aged, with dangling whiskers like lappets at the sides of an otherwise clean-shaved face, very careful and a trifle old-maidish in his speech, he had a tittering laugh and wore the long black frock-coat and the striped trousers which once made the City what is was. He was wreathed in apologies for his intrusion.

“My good friend Superintendent Holloway, of Marlborough Street, whose little property is insured with us, thought that I might find you at Mr. Ricardo’s house. I am very fortunate.”

“I must return to Paris tomorrow,” Hanaud replied. For this afternoon I am at your service. You will smoke?”

From his pocket Hanaud tendered a bright blue packet of black stringy cigarettes, and Mr. Middleton recoiled as if he suddenly saw a cobra on the carpet ready to strike.

“Oh no, no!” he cried in dismay. “A small mild cigar when the day’s work is done. You will forgive me? I have a little story to tell.”

“Proceed!” said Hanaud graciously.

“It is a Mr. Enoch Swallow,” Mr. Middleton began. “I beg you not to be misled by his name. He is a Syrian gentleman by birth and an English gentleman by naturalization. But again I beg you not to be misled. There is nothing of the cunning of the Orient about him. He is a big, plain, simple creature, a peasant, one might say as honest as the day. And it may be so. I make no accusation.”

“He has a business, this honest man?” Hanaud asked.

“He is a furrier.”

“You begin to interest me,” said Hanaud.

“A year ago Enoch Swallow fitted up for his business a house in Berwick Street, towards the Oxford Street end of that long and narrow thoroughfare. The ground floor became his showrooms, he and his wife with a cook-general to wait on them occupied the first floor, and the two storeys above were elaborately arranged for his valuable stock. Then he came to us for an insurance policy.”

“Aha!” said Monsieur Hanaud.

“We hesitated,” continued Mr. Middleton, stroking one of his side whiskers. “Everything was as it should be— the lease of the house, compliance with the regulations of the County Council, the value of the stock— mink, silver fox, sables— all correct, and yet we hesitated.”

“Why?” asked Hanaud.

“Mind, I make no suggestion.” Mr. Middleton was very insistent upon his complete detachment. “It was held to be an accident. The Societe Universelle paid the insurance money. But Mr. Enoch Swallow did have a fire in a similar establishment on the Boulevard Haussmann in Paris three years before.”

“Enoch Swallow? The Boulevard Haussmann?” Hanaud dived deep amongst his memories, but came to the surface with empty hands. “No, I do not remember. There was no case.”

“Oh dear me, no,” Mr. Middleton insisted. “Oh, none at all. Fires happen, else why does one insure? So in the end— it is our business and competition is severe and nothing could have been more straightforward than the conduct of our client— we insured him.”

“For a large sum?”

“For twenty-five thousand pounds.”

Hanaud whistled. He multiplied the amount into francs. It became milliards.

“For a Syrian gentleman, even if he is now an English gentleman, it is a killing.”

“And then last night it all happens again,” cried Mr. Middleton, giving his whisker a twist and a slap. “Would you believe it?”

“I certainly would,” replied Hanaud, “and without bringing the least pressure upon my credulity.”

Mr. Middleton raised a warning hand.

“But, remember please, there is no accusation. No. All is above board. No smell of petrol in the ruins. No little machine with an alarm-clock. Nothing.”

“And yet...” said Hanaud with a smile. “You have your little thoughts.”

The secretary tittered.

“Monsieur Hanaud,” he said coyly, “I have in my day been something of a dasher. I went once to the Moulin Rouge. I tried once to smoke a stringy black cigarette from a blue packet. But the strings got between my teeth and caused me extreme discomfort. Well, today I have Mr. Enoch Swallow between my teeth.”

Mr. Ricardo, who all this time had been sitting silent, thought it a happy moment to make a little jest that if the secretary swallowed Mr. Swallow, he would suffer even more discomfort. But though Middleton tittered dutifully, Hanaud looked a thousand reproaches and Mr. Ricardo subsided.

“I want to hear of last night,” said Hanaud.

IT was the cook-general’s night out. She had permission, moreover, to stay the night with friends at Balham. She had asked for that permission herself. No hint had been given to her that her absence would be welcome. Her friends had invited her and she had sought for this leave on her own initiative.

“Well, then,” continued Mr. Middleton, “at six o’clock she laid a cold supper for the Swallows in the dining-room and took an omnibus to Balham. The employees had already gone. The showrooms were closed and only Enoch Swallow and his wife were left in the house. At seven those two ate their supper, and after locking the front door behind them went to a cinema-house in Oxford Street where a French film was being show. Toto et Fils was the name of the film.”

They arrived at the cinema-house a few minutes past eight. There was no doubt whatever about that. For they met the manager of the house, with whom they were acquainted, in the lobby, and talked with him whilst they waited for the earlier performance to end and its audience to disperse. They had seats in the Grand Circle, and there the manager found them just before eleven o’clock, when he brought them the news that their premises were on fire.

“Yes, the incontestable alibi,” said Hanaud. “I was waiting for him.”

“They hurried home,” Middleton resumed, but Hanaud would not allow the word.

“Home? Have such people a home? A place full of little valueless treasures which you would ache to lose? The history of your small triumphs, your great griefs, your happy hours? No, no, we keep to facts. They had a store and a shop and a lodging, they come back and it is all in flames. Good! We continue. When was this fire first noticed?

“About half-past nine, a passer-by saw the smoke curling out from the door. He crossed the street and he saw a flame shoot up and spread behind a window— he thinks on the first floor. But he will not swear that it wasn’t on the second. It took him a few minutes to find one of the red pillars where you give the alarm by breaking the glass. The summer has been dry, all those painted pitch-pine shelves in the upper storeys were like tinder. By the time the fire brigade arrived, the house was a bonfire. By the time the Swallows were discovered in the cinema and ran back to Bewick Street, the floors were crashing down. When the cook-general returned at six-thirty this morning, it was a ruin of debris and tottering walls.”

“And the Swallows?” Hanaud asked.

“They had lost everything. They had nothing but the clothes they were wearing. They were taken in for the night at a little hotel in Percy Street.”

“The poor people!” said Hanaud with a voice of commiseration and a face like a mask. “And how do they explain the fire?”

“They do not,” said Middleton. “The good wife she weeps, the man is distressed and puzzled. He was most careful, he says, and since the fire did not start until some time after he and his wife had left the house, he thinks some burglar is to blame. Ah yes!” and Mr. Middleton pushed himself forward on his chair. “There is a little something. He suggests— it is not very nice— that the burglar may have been a friend of the cook-general. He has no evidence. No. He used to think her a simple, honest, stupid woman and not a good cook, but now he is not sure. No, it is not a nice suggestion.”

“But we must remember that he was a Syrian gentleman before he became an English one, must we not?” said Hanaud. “Yes, such suggestions were certainly to be expected. You have seen him?”

“Of course,” cried Mr. Middleton, and he edged so much more forward in his chair that it seemed he must topple off. “And I should esteem it a favour if you, Monsieur Hanaud, and your friend Mr. Ricardo”— he gathered the derelict Ricardo gracefully into the council— “would see him too.”

Hanaud raised his hands in protest.

“It would be an irregularity of the most extreme kind. I have no place in this affair. I am the smelly outsider”; and by lighting one of his acrid cigarettes, he substantiated his position.

Mr. Middleton waved the epithet and the argument away. He would never think of compromising Monsieur Hanaud. He meant “see” and not examine, and here his friend Superintendent Holloway had come to his help. The superintendent had also wished to see Mr. Enoch Swallow. He had no charge to bring against Enoch. To Superintendent Holloway, as Superintendent, Enoch Swallow was the victim of misfortune, insured of course, but still a victim. None the less the superintendent wanted to have a look at him. He had accordingly asked him to call at the Marlborough Street police station at five o’clock.

“You see, the superintendent has a kindly, pleasant reason for his invitation. Mr. Swallow will be grateful and the superintendent will see him. Also you, Monsieur Hanaud, from the privacy of the superintendent’s office can see him too and perhaps— who knows— a memory may be jogged?”

Mr. Middleton stroked a whisker and smiled ingratiatingly.

“After all, twenty-five thousand pounds! It is a sum.”

“It is the whole multiplication table,” Hanaud agreed.

He hesitated for a moment. There was the Monument, there were the Crown Jewels. On the other hand, he liked Mr. Middleton’s polite, engaging ways, he liked his whiskers and his frock-coat. Also he, too, would like to see the Syrian gentleman. For...

“He is either a very honest unlucky man, or he has a formula for fireworks.” Hanaud looked at the clock. It was four.

“We have an hour. I make you a proposal. We will go to Berwick Street and see these ruins, though that beautiful frock coat will suffer.”

Mr. Middleton beamed. “It would be worth many frock-coats to see Monsieur Hanaud at work,” he exclaimed, and thereupon Mr. Ricardo made rather tartly— for undoubtedly he had been neglected— his one effective contribution to this story.

“But the frock-coat won’t suffer, Mr. Middleton. Ask Hanaud! It will be in at the brush.”

TO north and south of the house, Berwick Street had been roped off against the danger of those tottering walls. The Salvage Company had been at work since the early morning clearing the space within, but there were still beams insecurely poised overhead, and a litter of broken furniture and burnt furrier’s stock encumbered the ground. Middleton’s pass gave them admittance into the shell of the ground. Middleton’s pass gave them admittance into the shell of the building. Hanaud looked around with the pleased admiration of a connoisseur for an artist’s masterpiece.

“Aha!” he said brightly. “I fear that Misters the Unicorn pay twenty-five thousand pounds. It is of an admirable completeness, this fire. We say either ‘What a misfortune!’ or ‘What a formula!’”

He advanced, very wary of the joists and beams balanced above his head, but shirking none of them. “You will not follow me, please,” he said to Ricardo and Middleton. “It is not for your safety. But, as my friend Ricardo knows, too many cooks and I’m down the drain.”

He went forward and about, mapping out from the fragments of inner walls the lie of the rooms. Once he stopped and came back to the two visitors.

“There was electric light of course,” he said rather than asked. “I can see here and there plugs and pipes.”

“There was nothing but electric light and power,” Middleton replied firmly. “The cooking was done on an electric stove and the wires were all carried in steel tubes. Since the store and the stock were inflammable, we took particular care that these details were carried out.”

Hanaud returned to his pacing. At one place a heavy iron bath had crashed through the first-floor ceiling to the ground, its white paint burnt off and its pipes twisted by the heat. At this bath he stopped again, he raised his head into the air and sniffed, then he bent down towards the ground and sniffed again. He stood up with a look of perplexity upon his face, a man trying to remember and completely baffled.

He moved away from this centre in various directions as though he was walking outwards along the spokes of a wheel, but he always came back to it. Finally, he stooped and began to examine some broken lumps of glass which lay about and in the bath. It seemed to the watchers that he picked one of these pieces up, turned it over in his hands, held it beneath his nose and finally put it away in one of his pockets. He returned to his companions.

“We must be at Marlborough Street at five,” he said. “Let us go!”

Mr. Ricardo at the rope-barrier signalled to a taxi driver. They climbed into it, and sat in a row, both Middleton and Ricardo watching Hanaud expectantly, Hanaud sitting between them very upright with no more expression upon his face than has the image of an Egyptian king. At last he spoke.

“I tell you something.”

A sigh of relief broke from Mr. Middleton. Mr. Ricardo smiled and looked proud. His friend was certainly the Man who found the Lady under the thimble.

“Yes, I tell you. The Syrian gentleman has become an English gentleman. He owns a bath.”

Mr. Middleton groaned. Ricardo shrugged his shoulders. It was a deplorable fact that Hanaud never knew when not to be funny.

“But you smelt something,” said Mr. Middleton reproachfully.

“You definitely sniffed,” said Ricardo.

“Twice,” Mr Middleton insisted.

“Three times,” replied Hanaud.

“Ah!” cried Ricardo. “I know. It was petrol.”

“Yes,” exclaimed Mr. Middleton excitedly. “Petrol stored secretly in the bath.”

Hanaud shook his head.

“Not ’arf,” he said. “No, but perhaps I sniff,” and he laid a hand upon an arm of each of his companions, “a formula. But here we are, are we not? I see a policeman at a door.”

They had indeed reached Marlborough Street police station. A constable raised the flap of a counter and they passed into a large room. An inner door opened and Superintendent Holloway appeared on the threshold, a large man with his hair speckled with grey, and a genial, intelligent face.

“Monsieur Hanaud!” he said, coming forward with an outstretched hand. “This is a pleasant moment for me.”

“And the same to you,” said Hanaud in his best English.

“You had better perhaps come into my room,” the superintendent continued. “Mr. Swallow has not yet arrived.”

He led his visitors into a comfortable office and, shutting the door, invited them all to be seated. A large— everything about the Marlborough Street police station seemed to Hanaud to be large— a large beautiful ginger cat with amber-coloured lambent eyes lay with his paws doubled up under his chest on a fourth chair, and surveyed the party with a godlike indifference.

“You will understand, Monsieur Hanaud,” said the superintendent, “that I have nothing against Mr. Swallow at all. But I thought that I would like to see him, and I had an excellent excuse for asking him to call. I like to see people.”

“I too,” Hanaud answered politely. “I am of the sociables.”

“You will have the advantage over me, of seeing without being seen,” said the superintendent, and he broke off with an exclamation.

The ginger cat had risen from the chair and jumped down on to the floor. There it stretched out one hind leg and then the other, deliberately, as though it had the whole day for that and nothing else. Next it stepped daintily across the floor to Hanaud, licked like a dog the hand which he dropped to stroke it, and then sprang on to his knee and settled down. Settled down, however, is not the word. It kept its head in the air and looked about in a curious excitement whilst its brown eyes shone like jewels.

“Well, upon my word,” said the superintendent. “That’s the first time that cat has recognized the existence of anyone in the station. But there it is. All cats are snobs.”

It was a pretty compliment, and doubtless Monsieur Hanaud would have found a fitting reply had not the constable in the outer office raised his voice.

“If you’ll come through and take a seat, sir, I’ll tell the superintendent,” he was heard to say, and Holloway rose to his feet.

“I’ll leave the door ajar,” he said in a low voice, and he went into the outer office.

THROUGH the slit left open, Hanaud and Ricardo saw Enoch Swallow rise from his chair. He was a tall, broad man, almost as tall and broad as the superintendent himself, with black short hair and a flat, open, peasant face.

“You wished to see me?” he asked. He had a harsh metallic voice, but the question itself was ordinary and civil. The man was neither frightened, nor arrogant, nor indeed curious.

“Yes,” replied the superintendent. “I must apologize for asking you to call at a time which must be very inconvenient to you. But we have something of yours.”

“Something of mine?” asked Mr. Swallow, perhaps a little more slowly than was quite natural.

“Yes,” said the superintendent briskly, “and I thought that you would probably like it returned to you at once.”

“Of course. I thank you very much. I thought we had lost everything. What is it?” asked Mr. Swallow.

“A cat,” the superintendent answered, and Mr. Swallow stood with his mouth open and the colour ebbing from his cheeks. The change in him was astonishing. A moment before he had been at his ease, confident, a trifle curious; now he was a man struck out of his wits; he watched the superintendent with dazed eyes, he swallowed, and his face was the colour of dirty parchment.

“Yes, a big ginger cat,” Holloway continued easily, “with the disdain of an Emperor. But the poor beast wasn’t disdainful last night, I can tell you. As soon as the door was broken in— you had a pretty good door, Mr. Swallow, and a pretty strong lock— no burglars for you, Mr. Swallow, eh?” and the superintendent laughed genially— “ well, as soon as it was broken in, the cat scampered out and ran up one of my officer’s legs under his cape and clung there, whimpering and shaking and terrified out of its senses. And I don’t wonder. It had a near shave of a cruel death.”

“And you have it here, Superintendent?”

“Yes. I brought it here, gave it some milk, and it has owned my room ever since.”

Enoch Swallow sat down again in his chair, and rather suddenly, for his knees were shaking. He gave one rather furtive look round the room and the ceiling. Then he said:

“I am grateful.”

But he became aware with the mere speaking of the words that his exhibition of emotion required an ampler apology. “I explain to you,” he said spreading out his hands. “For me cats are not so important. But my poor wife— she loves them. All last night, all today, she has made great trouble for me over the loss of our cat. In her mind she saw it burnt, its fur first sparks then flames. Horrible!” and Enoch Swallow shut his eyes. “Now that it is found unhurt, she will be happy. My store, my stock all gone, pouf! Of no consequence. But the Ginger King back again, all is well,” and with a broad smile, Enoch Swallow called the whole station to join him a humorous appreciation of the eccentricities of women.

“Right!” the superintendent exclaimed. “I’ll fetch the Ginger King for you”; and at once all Enoch Swallow’s muscles tightened and up went his hands in the air.

“Wait, please!” he cried. “There is a shop in Regent Street where they sell everything. I will run there and buy a basket with a lid for the Ginger King. Then you shall strap him in and I will take him to my wife, and tonight there will be no unpleasantness. One little moment!”

Mr. Enoch Swallow backed out of the entrance and was gone. Superintendent Holloway returned to his office with all the geniality gone from his face. He was frowning heavily.

“Did you ever see that man before, Monsieur Hanaud?” he asked.

“Never,” said Hanaud decisively.

The superintendent shook his head.

“Funny! That’s what I call him. Yes, funny.”

Mr. Ricardo laughed in a superior way. There was no problem for him.

“’Some that are mad if they behold a cat,’” he quoted. “Really, really our William knew everything.”

Monsieur Hanaud caught him up quickly.

“Yes, this Enoch Swallow, he hates a cat. He has the cat complex. He grows green at the thought that he must carry a cat in a basket, yes. Yet he has a cat in the house, he submits to a cat which he cannot endure without being sick, because his wife loves it! Do you think it likely? Again I say ‘not ’arf.’”

A rattle and creak of wickerwork against the raised flap of the counter in the outer office announced Enoch Swallow’s return.

The superintendent picked up the Ginger King and walked with it into the outer office. Mr. Ricardo, glancing through the open doorway, saw Mr. Swallow’s dark face turn actually green. The sergeant at the desk, indeed, thought that he was going to faint, and started forward. Enoch Swallow caught hold upon himself. He held out the basket to the superintendent.

“If you will put him into it and strap the lid down, it will be all right. I make myself ridiculous,” he said, with a feeble attempt at a smile. “A big strong fellow whose stomach turns over at the sight of a cat. But it is so.”

The Ginger King resented the indignity of being imprisoned in a basket; it struggled and spat and bit as if it were the most communistic of cats, but the superintendent and the sergeant between them got it strapped down at last.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, sir,” said Holloway. “I’ll send the little brute by one of my men round to your hotel— Percy Street, wasn’t it?— and then you won’t be bothered with it at all.”

But Enoch wouldn’t hear of putting the station to so much trouble.

“Oh no, no! You are kindness itself, Superintendent. But once he is in the basket, I shall not mind him. I shall take him home at once and my wife will keep him away from me. It is all right. See, I carry him.”

Enoch Swallow certainly did carry him, but very gingerly, and with the basket held well away from his side.

“It would be no trouble to send him along,” the superintendent urged, but again the Syrian refused, and with the same vehemence which he had shown before. The police had its work to do. It would humiliate him to interfere with it for so small a reason.

“I have after all not very far to go,” and with still more effusive protestations of his gratitude, he backed out of the police station.

The superintendent returned to his office.

“He wouldn’t let me send it home for him,” he said. He was a very mystified man. “Funny! That’s what I call it. Yes, funny.” He looked up and broke off suddenly. “Hallo! Where’s Monsieur Hanaud gone to?”

Both Middleton and Ricardo had been watching through the crack in the door the scene in the outer office. Neither of them had seen or heard Hanaud go. There was a second door which opened on the passage to the street, and by that second door Hanaud had slipped away.

“I am sorry,” said the superintendent, a little stiffly. “I should have liked to say goodbye to him.”

The superintendent was hurt, and Mr. Ricardo hastened to reassure him.

“It wasn’t discourtesy,” he said staunchly. “Hanaud has manners. There is some reason.”

MIDDLETON and Ricardo returned to the latter’s house in Grosvenor Square, and there, a little more than an hour afterwards, Hanaud rejoined them. To their amazement he was carrying Enoch Swallow’s basket, and from the basket he took out a contented, purring, gracious Ginger King.

“A little milk, perhaps?” Hanaud suggested. And having lapped up the milk, the Ginger King mounted a chair, turned in his paws under his chest and once more surveyed the world with indifferent eyes.

Hanaud explained his sudden departure.

“I could not understand why this man who could not abide a cat refused to let the superintendent send it home for him. No, however much he shivered and puked, he would carry it home himself. I had a little thought in my mind that he didn’t mean to carry it home at all. So I slipped out into the street and waited for him and followed him. He had never seen me. It was as easy as the alphabet. He walked in a great hurry down to the Charing Cross Road and past the Trafalgar Square and along the Avenue of Northumberland. At the bottom of the Avenue of Northumberland there is— what? Yes, you have guessed him. The river Thames. ‘Aha,’ I say to myself, ‘my friend Enoch, you are going to drown the Ginger King. But I, Hanaud, will not allow it. For if you are so anxious to drown him, the Ginger King has something to tell us.”

“So I close up upon his heels. He crossed the road, he leaned over the parapet, swinging the basket carelessly in his hand as though he was thinking of some important matter and not of the Ginger King at all. He looked on this side and that, and then I slip my hand under the basket from behind, and I say in his ear:

“’Sir, you will drop that basket, if you don’t look out.’

“Enoch, he gave a great jump and he drop the basket, this time by accident. But my hand is under it. Then I take it by the handle, I make a bow. I hand it to him, I say ‘Dr. Livingstone, I presume?’ and lifting my hat, I walk away. But not so far. I see him black in the face with rage. But he dare not try the river again. He thinks for a little. Then he crosses the road and dashes through the Underground Station. I follow as before. But now he has seen me. He knows my dial,” and at Middleton’s surprised expression he added, “my face. It is a little English idiom I use. So I keep further back, but I do not lose him. He runs up that steep street. Half-way up, he turns to the right.”

“John Street,” said Mr. Ricardo.

“Half-way up John Street, there is a turning to the left under a building. It is a tunnel and dark. Enoch raced into the tunnel. I follow, and just as I come to the mouth of it, the Ginger King comes flashing out like a strip of yellow lightning. You see. He could not drown him, so in the dark tunnel he turns him loose with a kick no doubt to make him go. The Ginger King is no longer, if he ever was, the pet of the sad Mrs. Swallow. He is just a stray cat. Dogs will set on him, no one will find him, all the time he must run and very soon he will die.

“But this time he does not need to run. He sees or smells a friend, Hanaud of the Sûrété, that joke, that comic— eh, my friend?” and he dug a fist into Ricardo’s ribs which made that fastidious gentleman bend like a sapling in a wind. “Ah, you do not like the familiarities. But the Ginger King to the contrary. He stops, he mews, he arches his back and rubs his body against Hanaud’s leg. So I pick him up and I go on into the tunnel. It winds, and at the point where it bends I find the basket with the lid. It is logical. Enoch has dismissed the Ginger King. Therefore he wants nothing to remind him of the Ginger King. He drops the basket. I insert the Ginger King once more. He has confidence, he does not struggle. I strap down the lid. I come out of the tunnel. I am in the Strand. I look right and left and everywhere. There is no Enoch. I call a taximan.”

“And you are here,” said Ricardo, who thought the story had been more than sufficiently prolonged. But Hanaud shook his head.

“No, I am not here yet. There are matters of importance in between.”

“Very well,” said Ricardo languidly. “Proceed.”

And Hanaud proceeded.

“I put the basket on the seat and I say to the taximan, ‘I want’— guess what?— but you will not guess. ‘I want the top-dog chemist.’ The taximan wraps himself round and round with clothes and we arrive at the top-dog chemist. There I get just the information which I need and now, my friend Ricardo, here I am with the Ginger King who sits with a Chinese face and will tell us nothing of what he knows.”

BUT he was unjust. For later on that evening, in his own good time, the Ginger King told them plenty.

They were sitting at dinner at a small mahogany table bright with silver and fine glass: Mr. Ricardo between Hanaud and Middleton, and opposite to Ricardo, with his head just showing above the mahogany, the Ginger King. Suddenly one those little chancy things upon which Hanaud had preached his sermon, happened. The electric light went out.

They sat in the darkness, their voices silenced. Outside the windows the traffic rumbled by, suddenly important. An unreasonable suspense stole into the three men, and they sat very still and aware that each was breathing as lightly as he could. Perhaps for three minutes this odd tension lasted, and then the invaluable Thomson came into the room carrying a lighted lamp. It was an old-fashioned oil affair with a round of baize cloth under the base, a funnel and an opaque globe in the heart of which glowed a red flame.

“A fuse has blown, sir,” he said.

“At a most inconsiderable moment,” Mr. Ricardo replied. He had been in the middle of a story and he was not pleased.

“I’ll replace it at once, sir.”

“Do so, Thomson.”

Thomson set the glowing lamp in the middle of the table and withdrew. Mr. Middleton leaned forward towards Ricardo.

“You had reached the point where you tiptoed down the stairs— “

“No, no,” Ricardo interrupted. “The chain is broken. The savour of the story gone. It was a poor story, anyway.”

“You mustn’t say that,” cried Hanaud. “The story was of a thrill. The Miss Braddon at her best.”

“Oh well, well, if you really think so,” said Mr. Ricardo, tittering modestly; and there were the three faces smiling contentedly in the light of the lamp, when suddenly Hanaud uttered a cry.

“Look! Look!”

It was a cry so sharp that the other two men were captured by it and must look where Hanaud was looking. The Ginger King was staring at the lamp, its amber eyes as red as the flame in the globe, its body trembling. They saw it rise on to its feet and leap on to the edge of the table, where it crouched again, and rose again, its eyes never changing from their direction. Very delicately it padded between the silver ornaments across the shining mahogany. Then it sat back upon its haunches and, raising its forepaws, struck once violently at the globe of the lamp. The blow was so swift, so savage that it shocked the three men who watched. The lamp crashed upon the table with a sound of broken glass and the burning oil was running this way and that and dropping in great gouts of fire on to the carpet.

Middleton and Ricardo sprang up, a chair was overturned.

“We’ll have the whole house on fire,” cried Ricardo as the rang the bell in a panic; and Hanaud had just time to snatch up the cat as it dived at the green cloth on the base of the stand, before the flames caught it; and it screamed and fought and clawed like a mad thing. To get away? No, but to get back to the overturned lamp.

Already there was a smell of burning fabrics in the room. Some dried feathery grass in a vase caught a sprinkle of the burning oil and flamed up against the wallpaper. Thomson arrived with all the rugs he could hurriedly gather to smother the fire. Pails of water were brought, but a good many minutes had passed before the conflagration was extinguished, and the four men, with their clothes dishevelled, and their hands and faces begrimed, could look round upon the ruin of the room.

“I should have guessed,” said Hanaud remorsefully. “The Unicorn Company saves its twenty-five thousand pounds— yes, but Mr. Ricardo’s fine dining-room will need a good deal of restoration.”

LATER on that night, in a smaller room, when the electric light was burning and the three men were washed and refreshed, Hanaud made his apology.

“I asked you, Mr. Middleton, inside the burnt walls of the house in Berwick Street, whether it was lit with electric light. And you answered, ‘with that and with nothing else.’ But I had seen a broken oil lamp amongst the littler. I suspected that lamp, but the house was empty for an hour and a half before the fire broke out. I couldn’t get over that fact. Then I smelt something, something acrid— just a whiff of it. It came from a broken bottle lying by the bath with other broken bottles and a broken glass shelf, such as a man has in his bathroom to hold his little medicines, his tooth paste, his shaving soap. I put the broken bottle in my pocket and a little of that pungent smell clung to my fingers.

“At the police station at once the cat made friends with me. Why? I did not guess. In fact I flattered myself a little. I say, ‘Hanaud, animals love you.’ But it was not so. The Ginger King loved my smelly fingers, that was all. Then came the strange behaviour of Enoch Swallow. Cats made him physically sick. Yet this one he must take away before it could betray him. He could not carry it under his coat— no, that was too much. But he could go out and buy a basket— and without any fear. Do you remember, how cunningly he looked around the office, and up at the ceiling, and how satisfied he was to leave the cat with us. Why? I noticed the look, but I could not understand it. It was because all the lights in the room were bulbs hanging from the ceiling. There was not a standing lamp anywhere. Afterwards I get the cat. I drive to the chemist, leaving the cat in its basket in the cab.

“I pull out my broken bottle and I ask the chemist. “What is it that was in this bottle?”

“He smells and he says at once, ‘Valerian.’

“I say, ‘What is valerian?’

“He answers, ‘Valerian has a volatile oil which when exposed to the air develops a pungent and unpleasant smell. It is used for hysteria, insomnia and nervous ailments.’

“That does not help me, but I draw a target at a venture. I ask, ‘Has it anything to do with cats?’

“The chemist, he looks at me as if I was off my rocker and he says, ‘It drives them mad, that’s all,’ and at once I say:

“‘Give me some!’” and Hanaud fetched out of his pocket a bottle of tincture of valerian.

“I have this— yes. But I am still a little stupid. I do not connect the broken lamp and the valerian and the Ginger King— no, not until I see him step up with his eyes all mad and on fire on to the mahogany table. And then it is too late.

“You see, the good Enoch practiced a little first. He smears the valerian on the base of the lamp and he teaches the cat to knock it over to get at the valerian. Then one night he shuts the cat up in some thin linen bag through which in time it can claw its freedom. He smears the base of the lamp with the valerian, lights it and goes off to the cinema.

“The house is empty— yes. But the cat is there in the bag, and the lamp is lit and every minute the valerian at the bottom of the lamp smells more and more. And more and more the cat is maddened. Tonight there was no valerian on the lamp, but the Ginger King— he knows that that is where valerian is to be found. I shall find out when I get back to Paris whether there was any trace of a burnt cat at the fire on the Boulevard Haussmann.

“But,” and he turned towards Mr. Middleton, “you will keep the Ginger King that he may repeat his performance at the Courts of Law, and you will not pay one brass bean to that honest peasant from Syria.”

______________________

6: The Slane Mystery

Edgar Wallace

Australian Womens Weekly,  February 1936

A "Just Men" Story

THE KILLING of Bernard Slane was one of those mysteries which delight the Press and worry the police. Mr Slane was a rich stockbroker, a bachelor, and a good fellow. He had dined at a Pall Mall club, and his car being in the hands of the makers, he took a taxicab and ordered it to drive to his flat, which was in Albert Palace Mansions. The porter of the mansions had taken the elevator to the fifth floor at the time Mr Slane arrived.

The first intimation that there was anything wrong was when the porter came down to find the taxi-driver standing in the hall, and asked him what he wanted.

"I've just brought a gentleman here― Mr. Slane, who lives at No. 7," said the" driver. "He hadn't got any change so he's gone in to get it."

This was quite likely, because Slane lived on the first floor and invariably used the stairs. They chatted together, the porter and the driver, for some five minutes, and then the porter undertook to go up and collect the money for the fare. Albert Palace Mansions differed from every other apartment house of its kind in that, on the first and the most expensive floor, there was one small flat consisting of four rooms, which was occupied by Slane.

A light showed through the transom, but then it had been burning all the evening. The porter rang the bell and waited, rang it again, knocked, without, however, getting an answer. He returned to the cabman.

"He must have gone to sleep― how was he?" he asked.

By his question he meant to inquire whether the stockbroker was quite sober. It is the fact that Slane drank rather heavily and had come home more than once in a condition which necessitated the help of the night porter to get him to bed.

The cabman, whose name was Reynolds, admitted as much as, and probably more than, was good for him Again the porter attempted to get a reply from the flat, and, when this failed, he paid the cabman out of his own pocket two shillings and sixpence.

The porter was or duty all night, and made several journeys up and down his shaft. Through the open grille on the first floor he commanded a view of No. 7. His statement was that he saw nothing of Mr. Slane that night, that it was impossible for the stockbroker to have left the building without his seeing him

At half-past five the next morning a policeman patrolling Green Park saw a man sitting huddled up on a garden chair He was in evening dress, his attitude so suspicious that, the policeman stepped over the rails and crossed the stretch of grass which intervened between the pathway and the chair which was placed near a clump of rhododendrons. Ha came up to the man, to find his fears justified The man was dead; be had been terribly battered with seme blunt instrument, and a search of the pockets revealed his identity as Bernard Slane.

Near the spot was an iron gateway set in the rail leading to the Mall, and the lock of this was discovered to be smashed. Detectives from Scotland Yard were at once on the spot; the porter of Albert Palace Mansions was questioned; and a call was sent round, asking the driver Reynolds to call at the Yard. He was there by twelve o'clock, but could throw no light on the mystery.

Reynolds was a respectable man without any record against him, and was a widower who lived over a garage near Dorset Square, Baker St.

"A most amusing crime," said Leon Gonsalez. his elbows on the breakfast table, his head between his hands.

"Why amusing?" asked George.

Leon read on, his lips moving, a trick of his, as he devoured every printed line. After a while he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes

"It is amusing," he said, "because of the hotel bill that was found in the dead man's pocket."

He put his finger on a paragraph and Manfred drew the paper towards him and read:

"The police discovered in the rights hand pocket of the murdered man's overcoat a bloodstained paper which proved to an hotel bill, issued by the Plage Hotel, Ostend, on August 3. 1921 The bill was made out in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Wilbraham and was for 7500 francs."

Manfred pushed the paper back.

"Isn't the mystery why this half-drunken man left his flat and went back to Green Park, some considerable distance from Albert Palace Mansions?" he asked.

Leon, who was staring blankly at the farther wall, shook his head slowly; and then, in his characteristic way, went off at a tangent:

"This new law prohibiting the publication of details in divorce cases is something of a bore," he said. "Fortunately, the date in 1921. and the circumstances which surrounded the visit of Mr and Mrs Wilbraham to the Plage would have been given the fullest publicity if the case had come into court."

"Do you suspect a murder of revenge?"

Leon shrugged his shoulders and changed the subject.

George Manfred used to say that Leon had the most amazing pigeonhole of a mind that It had been his fortune to meet with. Very seldom indeed did he have to consult the voluminous notes and data he had collected during his life, and which made one room in that little house uninhabitable.

There was a man at Scotland Yard, ' Inspector Meadows, who was on the
friendliest terms with the three. It was his practice to smoke a pipe, indeed many pipes, of evenings in the little Curzon Street house. He came that night, rather full of the Slane mystery.

"Slane was a pretty rapid sort," he said. "From the evidence that was found in his house, it is clear that he was the one man in London who ought not to be a bachelor if about two dozen women had their rights! By the way, we've traced Mr. and Mrs. Wilbraham. Wilbraham was of course Slane. The lady isn't so easy to find; one of his pick ups, I suppose-"

"And yet the only girl he was willing to marry," said Gonsalez.

"How did you know that?" asked the startled detective.

Leon chuckled.

"The bill was obviously sent to give the husband evidence. The husband, either because he was willing to give his wife another chance or because he was a Roman Catholic, did not divorce her. Now tell me"?he leaned forward over the table and beamed on the detective?"when the cabman drew up before the door of Albert Palace Mansions, did Slane immediately alight?? I can tell you he didn't."

"You've been making inquires," said the other suspiciously. "No, he waited there. The cabman, being a tactful individual, thought it best to keep him inside until the people who were in the hall had gone up in the lift?-which is visible from the door."

"Exactly. Was it the cabman's idea or Slane's?"

"The cabman's," said Meadows. "Slane was half asleep when the cabman pulled him out."

"One more question: when the elevator man took this party to the fifth floor, did he come down immediately?"

The Inspector shook his head.

"No, he stayed up there talking to the tenants. He heard Slane's door slam, and that was the first intimation he had that somebody had come in."

Leon jerked back into his chair, a delighted smile on his face.

"What do you think, Raymond?" He addressed the saturnine Poiccart.

"What do you think?" said the other. Meadows looked from Poiccart to Gonsalez.

"Have you any theory as to why Slane went out again?"

"He didn't go out again," said the two men in unison.

Meadows caught George Manfred's smiling eyes.

"They're trying to mystify you. Meadows, but what they say is true. Obviously he did not go out again."

He rose and stretched himself.

"I'm going to bed; and I'd like to bet you fifty pounds that Leon finds the murderer to-morrow, though I won't swear that he will hand him over to Scotland Yard."

AT EIGHT o'clock next morning, when, with a cigarette in his mouth, Reynolds, the taxi-driver, was making a final inspection of his cab before taking it out for the day, Leon Gonsalez walked into the mews.

Reynolds was man of forty, a quiet, good-looking fellow, refined of speech and courteous in a particularly pleasing way.

"You're not another detective, are you?" he asked, smiling ruefully. "I've answered as many foolish questions as I care to answer."

"Is this your own cab?" Leon nodded to the shining machine.

"Yes, that's mine," said the driver. "Cab-owning is not the gold mine some people think it is. And if you happen to get mixed up in a case like this, your takings fall fifty per cent."

Very briefly Leon explained his position.

"The Triangle Agency― oh, yes, I remember: you're the Four Just Men, aren't you? Good Lord! Scotland Yard haven't put you on the job?"

"I'm on the job for my own amusement," said Leon, giving smile for smile. "There ,ice one or two matters which weren't quite clear to me, and I wondered if you would mind telling me something that the police do not seem to know."

The man hesitated, and then:

"Come up to my room," he said, and led the way up the narrow stairs.

The room was surprisingly well-furnished. There were one or two old pieces, Leon noticed, which must have been worth a lot of money. On a gate-legged table in the centre of the room was a leather hat box, and near the table a suitcase. The cabman must have noticed his eyes rest on these, for he said quickly:

"They belong to a customer of mine. I'm taking them to the station."

From where he stood, Leon could see they were addressed to the Tetley cloak room to be called for; he made no comment on this, but his observation evidently disconcerted his host, for his manner changed.

"Now, Mr. Gonsalez, I'm a working man, so I'm afraid I can't give you very much time. What is it you want to know?"

"I particularly wish to know," said Leon, "whether the day you brought Slane to his house had been a very busy one for you?"

"It was fairly profitable," said the other. "I have already given the police an account of my fares, including the hospital case― but I suppose you know that."

"Which hospital case was this?"

The man hesitated.

"I don't want you to think I'm boasting about doing a thing like that― it was just humanity. A woman was knocked down by a bus in Baker Street. I picked her up and took her to the hospital."

"Was she badly hurt?"

"She died." His voice was curt.

Leon looked at him thoughtfully. Again his eyes roved to the suitcase.

"Thank you," he said. "Will you come to Curzon Street to-night at nine o'clock? Here's my address." He took a card from his pocket.

"Why?" There was a note of defiance in the voice.

"Because I want to ask you something that I think you'll be glad to answer," said Leon.

His big car was waiting at the end of the mews, and he set it flying in the direction of the Walmer Street hospital. He learnt there no more than he expected, and returned to Curzon Street, a very silent and uninformative man.

At nine o'clock that night came Reynolds, and for an hour he and Leon Gonsalez were closeted together in the little room downstairs.

Happily, Meadows did not consider it necessary to call. It was not until a week afterwards that he came with a piece of information that surprised only him self.

"It was rather a rum thing― that cabman who took Slane back to his flat has disappeared― sold his taxicab and cleared out. There's nothing to associate him with the murder, or I should get a warrant for him. He has been straight-forward from the very first."

"IT'S VERY curious," said Gonsalez, when he condescended to tell the full story, "that the police never troubled to investigate Slane's life at Tetley. He had a big house there for some years. If they had, they couldn't have, failed to hear the story of young Doctor Grain and his beautiful wife, who ran away from him. She and Slane disappeared together; and of course he was passionately fond of her and was ready to marry her. But then, Slane was the type who was passionately fond of people for about three months, and unless the marriage could be arranged instantly the unfortunate girl had very little chance of retrieving her character.

"The doctor offered to take his wife back, but she refused, and disappeared out of his life. He gave up the practice of medicine, came to London, invested his savings in a small garage, went broke, as all garage proprietors do unless they're backed with good capital, and having to decide whether he'd go back to the practice of medicine and pick up all that he'd lost in the years he'd been trying to forget his wife, he chose what to him was the less strenuous profession of cab-driver. I know another man who did exactly the same thing: I will tell you about him one of these days.

"He never saw his wife again, though he frequently saw Slane. Reynolds, or Grain, as I will call him, shaved off his moustache and generally altered his appearance, and Slane never recognised him. It became an obsession of Grain's to follow his enemy about, to learn of his movements, his habits. The one habit he did discover, and which proved to be Slane's undoing, was his practice of dining at the Real Club in Pall Mall every Wednesday evening and of leaving the club at eleven-thirty on those occasions.

"He put his discovery to no use, nor did he expect he would, until the night of the murder. He was driving somewhere in the north-west district when he saw a woman knocked down by a motor bus and he himself nearly ran over the prostrate figure. Stopping his cab, he jumped down and, to his horror, as he picked her up, he found himself gazing into the emaciated face of his wife. He lifted her into the cab, drove full pelt to the nearest hospital. It was while they were in the waiting-room, before the house surgeon's arrival that the dying woman told him, in a few broken, half-delirious words, the story of her downward progress.... She was dead before they got her on to the operating table― mercifully, as it proved.

"I knew all this before I went to the hospital and found that some unknown person had decided that she should be buried at Tetley and had made the most lavish arrangements for her removal. I guessed it before I saw Grain's suitcase packed ready for that tragedy. He left the hospital, a man mad with hate. It was raining heavily He crawled down Pall Mall, and luck was with him, for just as the porter came out to find an empty taxi, Grain pulled up his machine before the door

"On the pretext of a tyre burst he stopped in the Mall, forced open one of the gates that led to the park, and waited until no pedestrian was in sight before he dragged the half-drunken man into the gardens.... He was sober enough before Grain finished his story.

"Grain swears that he gave him the chance of his life, but Slane pulled a gun on him, and he had to kill him in self-defence. That may or may not be true.

"He never lost his nerve. Reaching his cab without observation, he drove to Albert Palace Mansions, waited until the lift had risen, and then ran up the stairs. He had taken Slane's bunch of keys, and on the way had selected that which he knew would open the door. His first intention was to search the flat for everything that betrayed the man's association with his wife; but he heard the porter above saying good-night, and slamming the door, raced downstairs in time to be there when the man reached the ground floor."

"We're not telling the police of this, of course?" said Manfred gravely.

Poiccart at the other end of the table burst into a loud guffaw.

"It's so good a story that the police would never believe it." he said.

_______________

7: Cheese

Ethel Lina White

Argosy (UK), August 1942

THIS STORY BEGINS with a murder. It ends with a mousetrap.

The murder can be disposed of in a paragraph. An attractive girl, carefully reared and educated for a future which held only a twisted throat. At the end of seven months, an unsolved mystery and a reward of £500.

It is a long way from a murder to a mouse-trap—and one with no finger-posts; but the police knew every inch of the way. In spite of a prestige punctured by the press and public, they had solved the identity of the killer. There remained the problem of tracking this wary and treacherous rodent from his unknown sewer in the underworld into their trap.

They failed repeatedly for lack of the right bait.

And unexpectedly, one spring evening, the bait turned up in the person of a young girl.

Cheese.

Inspector Angus Duncan was alone in his office when her message was brought up. He was a red-haired Scot, handsome in a dour fashion, with the chin of a prize-fighter and keen blue eyes.

He nodded.

'I'll see her.'

It was between the lights. River, government offices and factories were all deeply dyed with the blue stain of dusk. Even in the city, the lilac bushes showed green tips and an occasional crocus cropped through the grass of the public-gardens, like strewn orange-peel. The evening star was a jewel in the pale green sky.

Duncan was impervious to the romance of the hour. He knew that twilight was but the prelude to night and that darkness was a shield for crime.

He looked up sharply when his visitor was admitted. She was young and flower-faced—her faint freckles already fading away into pallor. Her black suit was shabby, but her hat was garnished for the spring with a cheap cowslip wreath.

As she raised her blue eyes, he saw that they still carried the memory of country sweets...Thereupon he looked at her more sharply for he knew that of all poses, innocence is easiest to counterfeit.

'You say Roper sent you?' he enquired.

'Yes, Maggie Roper.'

He nodded. Maggie Roper— Sergeant Roper's niece— was already shaping as a promising young Stores' detective.

'Where did you meet her?'

At the Girls' Hostel where I'm staying.'

'Your name?'

'Jenny Morgan.'

'From the country?'

'Yes. But I'm up now for good.'

For good?.. .He wondered.

Alone?'

'Yes.'

'How's that?' He looked at her mourning. 'People all dead?'

She nodded. From the lightning sweep of her lashes, he knew that she had put in some rough work with a tear. It prejudiced him in her favour. His voice grew more genial as his lips relaxed.

'Well, what's it all about?'

She drew a letter from her bag.

'I'm looking for work and I advertised in the paper. I got this answer. I'm to be companion-secretary to a lady, to travel with her and be treated as her daughter— if she likes me. I sent my photograph and my references and she's fixed an appointment.'

'When and where?'

'The day after tomorrow, in the First Room in the National Gallery. But as she's elderly, she is sending her nephew to drive me to her house.'

'Where's that?'

She looked troubled.

'That's what Maggie Roper is making the fuss about. First, she said I must see if Mrs Harper— that's the lady's name— had taken up my references. And then she insisted on ringing up the Ritz where the letter was written from. The address was printed, so it was bound to be genuine, wasn't it?'

'Was it? What happened then?'

'They said no Mrs Harper had stayed there. But I'm sure it must be a mistake.' Her voice trembled. 'One must risk something to get such a good job.'

His face darkened. He was beginning to accept Jenny as the genuine article.

'Tell me,' he asked, 'have you had any experience of life?'

'Well, I've always lived in the country with Auntie. But I've read all sorts of novels and the newspapers.'

'Murders?'

'Oh, I love those.'

He could tell by the note in her childish voice that she ate up the newspaper accounts merely as exciting fiction, without the slightest realisation that the printed page was grim fact. He could see the picture: a sheltered childhood passed amid green spongy meadows. She could hardly cull sophistication from clover and cows.

'Did you read about the Bell murder?' he asked abruptly.

Auntie wouldn't let me.' She added in the same breath, 'Every word.'

'Why did your aunt forbid you?'

'She said it must be a specially bad one, because they'd left all the bad parts out of the paper.'

'Well, didn't you notice the fact that that poor girl— Emmeline Bell— a well-bred girl of about your own age, was lured to her death through answering a newspaper advertisement?'

I— I suppose so. But those things don't happen to oneself.'

'Why? What's there to prevent your falling into a similar trap?'

'I can't explain. But if there was something wrong, I should know it.'

'How? D'you expect a bell to ring or a red light to flash "Danger?"'

'Of course not. But if you believe in right and wrong, surely there must be some warning.'

He looked sceptical. That innocence bore a lily in its hand, was to him a beautiful phrase and nothing more. His own position in the sorry scheme of affairs was, to him, proof positive of the official failure of guardian angels.

'Let me see that letter, please,' he said.

She studied his face anxiously as he read, but his expression remained inscrutable. Twisting her fingers in her suspense, she glanced around the room, noting vaguely the three telephones on the desk and the stacked files in the pigeonholes. A Great Dane snored before the red-caked fire. She wanted to cross the room and pat him, but lacked the courage to stir from her place.

The room was warm, for the windows were opened only a couple of inches at the top. In view of Duncan's weather-tanned colour, the fact struck her as odd.

Mercifully, the future is veiled. She had no inkling of the fateful part that Great Dane was to play in her own drama, nor was there anything to tell her that a closed window would have been a barrier between her and the yawning mouth of hell.

She started as Duncan spoke.

'I want to hold this letter for a bit. Will you call about this time tomorrow? Meantime, I must impress upon you the need of utmost caution. Don't take one step on your own. Should anything fresh crop up, 'phone me immediately. Here's my number.'

When she had gone, Duncan walked to the window. The blue dusk had deepened into a darkness pricked with lights. Across the river, advertisement-signs wrote themselves intermittently in coloured beads.

He still glowed with the thrill of the hunter on the first spoor of the quarry. Although he had to await the report of the expert test, he was confident that the letter which he held had been penned by the murderer of poor ill-starred Emmeline Bell.

Then his elation vanished at a recollection of Jenny's wistful face. In this city were scores of other girls, frail as windflowers too— blossom-sweet and country-raw— forced through economic pressure into positions fraught with deadly peril.

The darkness drew down overhead like a dark shadow pregnant with crime. And out from their holes and sewers stole the rats...

At last Duncan had the trap baited for his rat.

A young and pretty girl— ignorant and unprotected. Cheese.

When Jenny, punctual to the minute, entered his office, the following evening, he instantly appraised her as his prospective decoy. His first feeling was one of disappointment. Either she had shrunk in the night or her eyes had grown bigger. She looked such a frail scrap as she stared at him, her lips bitten to a thin line, that it seemed hopeless to credit her with the necessary nerve for his project.

'Oh, please tell me it's all perfectly right about that letter.'

'Anything but right.'

For a moment, he thought she was about to faint. He wondered uneasily whether she had eaten that day. It was obvious from the keenness of her disappointment that she was at the end of her resources.

'Are you sure?' she insisted. 'It's— very important to me. Perhaps I'd better keep the appointment. If I didn't like the look of things, I needn't go on with it.'

'I tell you, it's not a genuine job,' he repeated. 'But I've something to put to you that is the goods. Would you like to have a shot at £500?'

Her flushed face, her eager eyes, her trembling lips, all answered him.

'Yes, please,' was all she said.

He searched for reassuring terms.

'It's like this. We've tested your letter and know it is written, from a bad motive, by an undesirable character.'

'You mean a criminal?' she asked quickly.

'Um. His record is not good. We want to get hold of him.'

'Then why don't you?'

He suppressed a smile.

'Because he doesn't confide in us. But if you have the courage to keep your appointment tomorrow and let his messenger take you to the house of the suppositious Mrs Harper, I'll guarantee it's the hiding-place of the man we want. We get him— you get the reward. Question is— have you the nerve?'

She was silent. Presently she spoke in a small voice.

'Will I be in great danger?'

'None. I wouldn't risk your safety for any consideration. From first to last, you'll be under the protection of the Force.'

'You mean I'll be watched over by detectives in disguise?'

'From the moment you enter the National Gallery, you'll be covered doubly and trebly. You'll be followed every step of the way and directly we've located the house, the place will be raided by the police.'

'All the same, for a minute or so, just before you can get into the house, I'll be alone with— him?'

'The briefest interval. You'll be safe at first. He'll begin with overtures. Stall him off with questions. Don't let him see you suspect— or show you're frightened.'

Duncan frowned as he spoke. It was his duty to society to rid it of a dangerous pest and in order to do so, Jenny's cooperation was vital. Yet, to his own surprise, he disliked the necessity in the case of this especial girl.

'Remember we'll be at hand,' he said. 'But if your nerve goes, just whistle and we'll break cover immediately.'

'Will you be there?' she asked suddenly.

'Not exactly in the foreground. But I'll be there.'

'Then I'll do it.' She smiled for the first time. 'You laughed at me when I said there was something inside me which told me— things. But I just know I can trust you.'

'Good.' His voice was rough. 'Wait a bit. You've been put to expense coming over here. This will cover your fares and so on.'

He thrust a note into her hand and hustled her out, protesting. It was a satisfaction to feel that she would eat that night. As he seated himself at his desk, preparatory to work, his frozen face was no index of the emotions raised by Jenny's parting words.

Hitherto, he had thought of women merely as 'skirts.' He had regarded a saucepan with an angry woman at the business end of it, merely as a weapon. For the first time he had a domestic vision of a country girl— creamy and fragrant as meadowsweet— in a nice womanly setting of saucepans.

Jenny experienced a thrill which was almost akin to exhilaration when she entered Victoria station, the following day. At the last moment, the place for meeting had been altered in a telegram from 'Mrs Harper.'

Immediately she had received the message, Jenny had gone to the telephone-box in the hostel and duly reported the change of plan, with a request that her message should be repeated to her, to obviate any risk of mistake.

And now— the incredible adventure was actually begun.

The station seemed filled with hurrying crowds as she walked slowly towards the clock. Her feet rather lagged on the way. She wondered if the sinister messenger had already marked the yellow wreath in her hat which she had named as her mark of identification.

Then she remembered her guards. At this moment they were here, unknown, watching over her slightest movement. It was a curious sensation to feel that she was spied upon by unseen eves. Yet it helped to brace the muscles of her knees when she took up her station under the clock with the sensation of having exposed herself as a target for gunfire.

Nothing happened. No one spoke to her. She was encouraged to gaze around her...

A few yards away, a pleasant-faced smartly dressed young man was covertly regarding her. He carried a yellowish sample-bag which proclaimed him a drummer.

Suddenly Jenny felt positive that this was one of her guards. There was a quality about his keen clean-shaven face— a hint of the eagle in his eye— which reminded her of Duncan. She gave him the beginnings of a smile and was thrilled when, almost imperceptibly, he fluttered one eyelid. She read it as a signal for caution. Alarmed by her indiscretion, she looked fixedly in another direction.

Still— it helped her to know that even if she could not see him, he was there.

The minutes dragged slowly by. She began to grow anxious as to whether the affair were not some hoax. It would be not only a tame ending to the adventure but a positive disappointment. She would miss the chance of a sum which— to her— was a little fortune. Her need was so vital that she would have undertaken the venture for five pounds. Moreover, after her years of green country solitude, she felt a thrill at the mere thought of her temporary link with the underworld. This was life in the raw; while screening her as she aided him, she worked with Angus Duncan.

She smiled— then started as though stung.

Someone had touched her on the arm.

'Have I the honour, happiness and felicity of addressing Miss Jenny Morgan? Yellow wreath in the lady's hat. Red Flower in the gent's buttonhole, as per arrangement.'

The man who addressed her was young and bull-necked, with florid colouring which ran into blotches. He wore a red carnation in the buttonhole of his check overcoat.

'Yes, I'm Jenny Morgan.'

As she spoke, she looked into his eyes. She felt a sharp revulsion—an instinctive recoil of her whole being.

Are you Mrs Harper's nephew?' she faltered.

'That's right. Excuse a gent keeping a lady waiting, but I just slipped into the bar for a glass of milk. I've a taxi waiting if you'll just hop outside.'

Jenny's mind worked rapidly as she followed him. She was forewarned and protected. But— were it not for Maggie Roper's intervention— she would have kept this appointment in very different circumstances. She wondered whether she would have heeded that instinctive warning and refused to follow the stranger.

She shook her head. Her need was so urgent that, in her wish to believe the best, she knew that she would have summoned up her courage and flouted her fears as nerves. She would have done exactly what she was doing— accompanying an unknown man to an unknown destination.

She shivered at the realisation. It might have been herself. Poor defenceless Jenny— going to her doom.

At that moment she encountered the grave scrutiny of a stout clergyman who was standing by the book-stall. He was ruddy, wore horn-rimmed spectacles and carried the Church Times.

His look of understanding was almost as eloquent as a vocal message. It filled her with gratitude. Again she was certain that this was a second guard. Turning to see if the young commercial traveller were following her, she was thrilled to discover that he had preceded her into the station yard. He got into a taxi at the exact moment that her companion flung open the door of a cab which was waiting. It was only this knowledge that Duncan was thus making good his promise which induced her to enter the vehicle. Once again her nerves rebelled and she was rent with sick forebodings.

As they moved off, she had an overpowering impulse to scream aloud for help to the porters— just because all this might have happened to some poor girl who had not her own good fortune.

Her companion nudged her.

'Bit of all right, joy-riding, eh?'

She stiffened, but managed to force a smile.

'Is it a long ride?'

Ah, now you're asking.'

'Where does Mrs Harper live?'

Ah, that's telling.'

She shrank away, seized with disgust of his blotched face so near her own.

'Please give me more room. It's stifling here.'

'Now, don't you go taking no liberties with me. A married man I am, with four wives all on the dole.' All the same, to her relief, he moved further away. 'From the country, aren't you? Nice place. Lots of milk. Suit me a treat. Any objection to a gent smoking?'

'I wish you would. The cab reeks of whisky.'

They were passing St Paul's which was the last landmark in her limited knowledge of London. Girls from offices passed on the pavement, laughing and chatting together, or hurrying by intent on business. A group was scattering crumbs to the pigeons which fluttered on the steps of the cathedral.

She watched them with a stab of envy. Safe happy girls.

Then she remembered that somewhere, in the press of traffic, a taxi was shadowing her own. She took fresh courage.

The drive passed like an interminable nightmare in which she was always on guard to stem the advances of her disagreeable companion. Something seemed always on the point of happening— something unpleasant, just out of sight and round the corner— and then, somehow she staved it off.

The taxi bore her through a congested maze of streets. Shops and offices were succeeded by regions of warehouses and factories, which in turn gave way to areas of dun squalor where gas-works rubbed shoulders with grimed laundries which bore such alluring signs as DEWDROP or WHITE ROSE.

From the shrilling of sirens, Jenny judged that they were in the neighbourhood of the river, when they turned into a quiet square. The tall lean houses wore an air of drab respectability. Lace curtains hung at every window. Plaster pineapples crowned the pillared porches.

'Here's our "destitution."'

As her guide inserted his key in the door of No. 17, Jenny glanced eagerly down the street, in time to see a taxi turn the corner.

'Hop in, dearie.'

On the threshold Jenny shrank back.

Evil.

Never before had she felt its presence. But she knew. Like the fumes creeping upwards from the grating of a sewer, it poisoned the air.

Had she embarked on this enterprise in her former ignorance, she was certain that at this point, her instinct would have triumphed.

'I would never have passed through this door.'

She was wrong. Volition was swept off the board. Her arm was gripped and before she could struggle, she was pulled inside.

She heard the slam of the door.

'Never loiter on the doorstep, dearie. Gives the house a bad name. This way. Up the stairs. All the nearer to heaven.'

Her heart heavy with dread, Jenny followed him. She had entered on the crux of her adventure— the dangerous few minutes when she would be quite alone.

The place was horrible— with no visible reason for horror. It was no filthy East-end rookery, but a technically clean apartment-house. The stairs were covered with brown linoleum. The mottled yellow wallpaper was intact. Each landing had its marble-topped table, adorned with a forlorn aspidistra— its moulting rug at every door. The air was dead and smelt chiefly of dust.

They climbed four flights of stairs without meeting anyone. Only faint rustlings and whispers within the rooms told of other tenants. Then the blotched-faced man threw open a door.

'Young lady come to see Mrs Harper about the sitooation. Too-tel-oo, dearie. Hope you strike lucky.'

He pushed her inside and she heard his step upon the stairs.

In that moment, Jenny longed for anyone— even her late companion.

She was vaguely aware of the figure of a man seated in a chair. Too terrified to look at him, her eyes flickered around the room.

Like the rest of the house, it struck the note of parodied respectability. Yellowish lace curtains hung at the windows which were blocked by pots of leggy geraniums. A walnut-wood suite was upholstered in faded bottle-green rep with burst padding. A gilt-framed mirror surmounted a stained marble mantelpiece which was decorated with a clock— permanently stopped under its glass case— and a bottle of whisky. On a small table by the door rested a filthy cage, containing a grey parrot, its eyes mere slits of wicked evil between wrinkled lids.

It had to come. With an effort, she looked at the man.

He was tall and slender and wrapped in a once-gorgeous dressing-gown of frayed crimson quilted silk. At first sight, his features were not only handsome but bore some air of breeding. But the whole face was blurred— as though it were a waxen mask half-melted by the sun and over which the Fiend— in passing— had lightly drawn a hand. His eyes drew her own. Large and brilliant, they were of so light a blue as to appear almost white. The lashes were unusually long and matted into spikes.

The blood froze at Jenny's heart. The girl was no fool. Despite Duncan's cautious statements, she had drawn her own deduction which linked an unsolved murder mystery and a reward of £500.

She knew that she was alone with a homicidal maniac—the murderer of ill-starred Emmeline Bell.

In that moment, she realised the full horror of a crime which, a few months ago, had been nothing but an exciting newspaper-story. It sickened her to reflect that a girl— much like herself— whose pretty face smiled fearlessly upon the world from the printed page, had walked into this same trap, in all the blindness of her youthful confidence. No one to hear her cries. No one to guess the agony of those last terrible moments.

Jenny at least understood that first rending shock of realisation. She fought for self-control. At sight of that smiling marred face, she wanted to do what she knew instinctively that other girl had done—precipitating her doom. With a desperate effort she suppressed the impulse to rush madly round the room like a snared creature, beating her hands against the locked door and crying for help. Help which would never come.

Luckily, common sense triumphed. In a few minutes' time, she would not be alone. Even then a taxi was speeding on its mission; wires were humming; behind her was the protection of the Force.

She remembered Duncan's advice to temporise. It was true that she was not dealing with a beast of the jungle which sprang on its prey at sight.

'Oh, please.' She hardly recognised the tiny pipe. 'I've come to see Mrs Harper about her situation.'

'Yes.' The man did not remove his eyes from her face. 'So you are Jenny?'

'Yes, Jenny Morgan. Is— is Mrs Harper in?'

'She'll be in presently. Sit down. Make yourself at home. What are you scared for?'

'I'm not scared.'

Her words were true. Her strained ears had detected faintest sounds outside—dulled footsteps, the cautious fastening of a door.

The man, for his part, also noticed the stir. For a few seconds he listened intently. Then to her relief, he relaxed his attention.

She snatched again at the fiction of her future employer.

'I hope Mrs Harper will soon come in.'

'What's your hurry? Come closer. I can't see you properly.'

They were face to face. It reminded her of the old nursery story of 'Little Red Riding Hood.'

'What big eyes you've got, Grandmother.'

The words swam into her brain.

Terrible eyes. Like white glass cracked in distorting facets. She was looking into the depths of a blasted soul. Down, down... That poor girl. But she must not think of her. She must be brave—give him back look for look.

Her lids fell... She could bear it no longer.

She gave an involuntary start at the sight of his hands. They were beyond the usual size— unhuman— with long knotted fingers.

'What big hands you've got.'

Before she could control her tongue, the words slipped out.

The man stopped smiling.

But Jenny was not frightened now. Her guards were near. She thought of the detective who carried the bag of samples. She thought of the stout clergyman. She thought of Duncan.

At that moment, the commercial traveller was in an upper room of a wholesale drapery house in the city, holding the fashionable blonde lady buyer with his magnetic blue eye, while he displayed his stock of crêpe-de-Chine underwear.

At that moment, the clergyman was seated in a third-class railway carriage, watching the hollows of the Downs fill with heliotrope shadows. He was not quite at ease. His thoughts persisted on dwelling on the frightened face of a little country girl as she drifted by in the wake of a human vulture.

'I did wrong. I should have risked speaking to her.'

But— at that moment— Duncan was thinking of her.

Jenny's message had been received over the telephone wire, repeated and duly written down by Mr Herbert Yates, shorthand-typist—who, during the absence of Duncan's own secretary, was filling the gap for one morning. At the sound of his chief's step in the corridor outside, he rammed on his hat, for he was already overdue for a lunch appointment with one of the numerous 'only girls in the world.'

At the door he met Duncan.

'May I go to lunch now, sir?'

Duncan nodded assent. He stopped for a minute in the passage while he gave Yates his instructions for the afternoon.

'Any message?' he enquired.

'One come this instant, sir. It's under the weight.'

Duncan entered the office. But in that brief interval, the disaster had occurred.

Yates could not be held to blame for what happened. It was true that he had taken advantage of Duncan's absence to open a window wide, but he was ignorant of any breach of rules. In his hurry he had also written down Jenny's message on the nearest loose-leaf to hand, but he had taken the precaution to place it under a heavy paper-weight.

It was Duncan's Great Dane which worked the mischief. He was accustomed at this hour to be regaled with a biscuit by Duncan's secretary who was an abject dog-lover. As his dole had not been forthcoming he went in search of it. His great paws on the table, he rooted among the papers, making nothing of a trifle of a letter-weight. Over it went. Out of the window— at the next gust— went Jenny's message. Back to his rug went the dog.

The instant Duncan was aware of what had happened, a frantic search was made for Yates. But that wily and athletic youth, wise to the whims of his official superiors, had disappeared. They raked every place of refreshment within a wide radius. It was not until Duncan's men rang up to report that they had drawn a blank at the National Gallery, that Yates was discovered in an underground dive, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes with his charmer.

Duncan arrived at Victoria forty minutes after the appointed time.

It was the bitterest hour of his life. He was haunted by the sight of Jenny's flower-face upturned to his. She had trusted him. And in his ambition to track the man he had taken advantage of her necessity to use her as a pawn in his game.

He had played her— and lost her.

The thought drove him to madness. Steeled though he was to face reality, he dared not to let himself think of the end. Jenny—country-raw and blossom-sweet— even then struggling in the grip of murderous fingers.

Even then.

Jenny panted as she fought, her brain on fire. The thing had rushed upon her so swiftly that her chief feeling was of sheer incredulity. What had gone before was already burning itself up in a red mist. She had no clear memory afterwards of those tense minutes of fencing. There was only an interlude filled with a dimly comprehended menace— and then this.

And still Duncan had not intervened.

Her strength was failing. Hell cracked, revealing glimpses of unguessed horror.

With a supreme effort she wrenched herself free. It was but a momentary respite, but it sufficed for her signal— a broken tremulous whistle.

The response was immediate. Somewhere outside the door a gruff voice was heard in warning.

'Perlice.'

The killer stiffened, his ears pricked, every nerve astrain. His eyes flickered to the ceiling which was broken by the outline of a trap-door.

Then his glance fell upon the parrot.

His fingers on Jenny's throat, he paused. The bird rocked on its perch, its eyes slits of malicious evil.

Time stood still. The killer stared at the parrot. Which of the gang had given the warning? Whose voice? Not Glass-eye. Not Mexican Joe. The sound had seemed to be within the room.

That parrot.

He laughed. His fingers tightened. Tightened to relax.

For a day and a half he had been in Mother Bargery's room. During that time the bird had been dumb. Did it talk?

The warning echoed in his brain. Every moment of delay was fraught with peril. At that moment his enemies were here, stealing upwards to catch him in their trap. The instinct of the human rodent, enemy of mankind— eternally hunted and harried— prevailed. With an oath, he flung Jenny aside and jumping on the table, wormed through the trap of the door.

Jenny was alone. She was too stunned to think. There was still a roaring in her ears, shooting lights before her eyes. In a vague way, she knew that some hitch had occurred in the plan. The police were here— yet they had let their prey escape.

She put on her hat, straightened her hair. Very slowly she walked down the stairs. There was no sign of Duncan or of his men.

As she reached the hall, a door opened and a white puffed face looked at her. Had she quickened her pace or shown the least sign of fear she would never have left that place alive. Her very nonchalance proved her salvation as she unbarred the door with the deliberation bred of custom.

The street was deserted, save for an empty taxi which she hailed.

'Where to, miss?' asked the driver.

Involuntarily she glanced back at the drab house, squeezed into its strait-waistcoat of grimed bricks. She had a momentary vision of a white blurred face flattened against the glass. At the sight, realisation swept over her in wave upon wave of sick terror.

There had been no guards. She had taken every step of that perilous journey— alone.

Her very terror sharpened her wits to action. If her eyesight had not deceived her, the killer had already discovered that the alarm was false. It was obvious that he would not run the risk of remaining in his present quarters. But it was possible that he might not anticipate a lightning swoop; there was nothing to connect a raw country girl with a preconcerted alliance with a Force.

'The nearest telephone-office,' she panted. 'Quick.'

A few minutes later, Duncan was electrified by Jenny's voice gasping down the wire.

'He's at 17 Jamaica Square, SE. No time to lose. He'll go out through the roof...Quick, quick.'

'Right. Jenny, where'll you be?'

At your house. I mean, Scot— Quick.'

As the taxi bore Jenny swiftly away from the dun outskirts, a shrivelled hag pattered into the upper room of that drab house. Taking no notice of its raging occupant, she approached the parrot's cage.

'Talk for mother, dearie.'

She held out a bit of dirty sugar. As she whistled, the parrot opened its eyes.

'Perlice.'

It was more than two hours later when Duncan entered his private room at Scotland Yard.

His eyes sought Jenny.

A little wan, but otherwise none the worse for her adventure, she presided over a teapot which had been provided by the resourceful Yates. The Great Dane— unmindful of a little incident of a letter-weight— accepted her biscuits and caresses with deep sighs of protest.

Yates sprang up eagerly.

'Did the cop come off, chief?'

Duncan nodded twice— the second time towards the door, in dismissal.

Jenny looked at him in some alarm when they were alone together. There was little trace left of the machine-made martinet of the Yard. The lines in his face appeared freshly re-tooled and there were dark pouches under his eyes.

'Jenny,' he said slowly, 'I've— sweated— blood.'

'Oh, was he so very difficult to capture? Did he fight?'

'Who? That rat? He ran into our net just as he was about to bolt. He'll lose his footing all right. No.'

'Then why are you—'

'You.'

Jenny threw him a swift glance. She had just been half-murdered after a short course of semi-starvation, but she commanded the situation like a lion tamer.

'Sit down,' she said, 'and don't say one word until you've drunk this.'

He started to gulp obediently and then knocked over his cup.

'Jenny, you don't know the hell I've been through. You don't understand what you ran into. That man—'

'He was a murderer, of course. I knew that all along.'

'But you were in deadliest peril—'

'I wasn't frightened, so it didn't matter. I knew I could trust you.'

'Don't Jenny. Don't turn the knife. I failed you. There was a ghastly blunder.'

'But it was all right, for it ended beautifully. You see, something told me to trust you. I always know.'

During his career, Duncan had known cases of love at first sight. So, although he could not rule them out, he always argued along Jenny's lines.

Those things did not happen to him.

He realised now that it had happened to him— cautious Scot though he was.

'Jenny,' he said, 'it strikes me that I want someone to watch me.'

'I'm quite sure you do. Have I won the reward?'

His rapture was dashed.

'Yes.'

'I'm so glad. I'm rich.' She smiled happily. 'So this can't be pity for me.'

'Pity? Oh, Jenny—'

Click. The mouse-trap was set for the confirmed bachelor with the right bait.

A young and friendless girl— homely and blossom-sweet.

Cheese.

________________

8: The Tragedy of a Third Smoker

Cutcliffe Hyne

C J Cutcliffe Hyne (1866-1944) wrote many novels and short stories. The first publication date of this short story is not known.

"I ABOMINATE detective stories," said the Q.C., laying down his cue along the corner of the billiard-table and going across to the shelf where the cigar-boxes stood. "You see, when a man makes a detective story to write down on paper, he begins at the butt-end and works backwards. He notes his points and manufactures his clues to suit 'em, so it's all bound to work out right. In real life it's very different,"— he chose a Partaga, looking at it through his glasses thoughtfully— "and I ought to know; I've been studying the criminal mind for half my working life."

"But," said O'Malley, "a defending counsel is a different class of animal from the common detective."

"Oh, is he?" said the Q.C.; "that's all you know about it." He dragged one of the big chairs up into the deep chimney corner and settled himself in it, after many luxurious shruggings; then he spoke on, between whiffs at the Partaga.

"Now I'll just state you a case, and you'll see for yourself how we sometimes have to ravel out things. The solicitor who put the brief in my hands was, as solicitors go, a smart chap. He had built up a big business out of nothing, but criminal work was slightly out of his line. He had only taken up this case to oblige an old client, and I must say he made an uncommonly poor show of it. I never had such a thin brief given me in my life.

"The prisoner was to be tried on the capital charge; and if murder really had been committed, it was one of a most cold-blooded nature. Hanging would follow conviction as surely as night comes on the heels of day; and a client who gets the noose given him always damages his counsel's reputation, whether that counsel deserves it or not.

"As my brief put it, the case fined down to this:

"Two men got into an empty third-class smoking compartment at Addison Road. One of them, Guide, was a drain contractor; the other, Walker, was a foreman in Guide's employ. The train took them past the Shepherd's Bush and Grove Road Hammersmith stations without anything being reported; but at Shaftesbury Road Walker was found on the floor, stone dead, with a wound in the skull, and on the seat of the carriage was a small miner's pickaxe with one of its points smeared with blood.

"It was proved that Guide had been seen to leave the Shaftesbury Road station. He was dishevelled and agitated at the time, and this made the ticket collector notice him specially amongst the crowd of out-going passengers. After it was found out who he was, inquiries were made at his home. His wife stated that she had not seen him since Monday—the morning of Walker's death. She also let out that Walker had been causing him some annoyance of late, but she did not know about what. Subsequently—on the Friday, four days later - Guide was arrested at the West India Dock. He was trying to obtain employ as coal trimmer on an Australian steamer, obviously to escape from the country. On being charged he surrendered quietly, remarking that he supposed it was all up with him.

"That was the gist of my case, and the solicitor suggested that I should enter a plea of insanity.

"Now, when I'd conned the evidence over— additional evidence to what I've told you, but all tending to the same end— I came to the conclusion that Guide was as sane as any of us are, and that, as a defence, insanity wouldn't have a leg to stand upon. 'The fellow,' I said, 'had much better enter a plea of guilty and let me pile up a long list of extenuating circumstances. A jury will always listen to those, and feeling grateful for being excused a long and wearisome trial, recommend to mercy out of sheer gratitude.' I wrote a note to this effect. On its receipt the solicitor came to see me - by the way, he was Barnes, a man of my own year at Cambridge.

"'My dear Grayson,' said he, 'I'm not altogether a fool. I know as well as you do that Guide would have the best chance if he pleaded guilty; but the difficult part of it is that he flatly refuses to do any such thing. He says he no more killed this fellow Walker than you or I did. I pointed out to him that the man couldn't very conveniently have slain himself, as the wound was well over at the top of his head, and had obviously been the result of a most terrific blow. At the P.M. it was shown that Walker's skull was of abnormal thickness, and the force required to drive through it even a heavy, sharp-pointed instrument like the pickaxe, must have been something tremendous.

"'I tell you, Grayson, I impressed upon the fellow that the case was as black as ink against him, and that he'd only irritate the jury by holding out; but I couldn't move him. He held doggedly to his tale— he had not killed Andrew Walker.'

"'He's not the first man who's stuck to an unlikely lie like that,' I remarked.

" 'The curious part of it is,' said Barnes, 'I'm convinced that the man believes himself to be telling the absolute truth.'

" 'Then what explanation has he to offer?'

" 'None worth listening to. He owns that he and Walker had a fierce quarrel over money matters, which culminated in a personal struggle. He knows that he had one blow on the head which dazed him, and fancies that he must have had a second which reduced him to unconsciousness. When next he knew what was happening, he saw Walker lying on the floor, stone dead, though he was still warm and supple. On the floor was the pickaxe, with one of its points slimy with blood. How it came to be so he couldn't tell. He picked it up and laid it on a seat. Then in an instant the thought flashed across him how terribly black things looked against himself. He saw absolutely no chance of disproving them, and with the usual impulse of crude minds resolved at once to quit the country. With that idea he got out at the Shaftsbury Road Station, and being an ignorant man and without money, made his way down to the Ratcliff Highway— beg its pardon, St. George's High Street. Using that as a centre, he smelt about the docks at Limehouse and Millwall trying for a job in the stokehold; but as that neighbourhood is one of the best watched spots on earth, it is not a matter for surprise that he was very soon captured. That's about all I can tell you.'

" 'I'm afraid it doesn't lighten matters up very much.'

" 'I never said it would. The gist of this is down in your brief, Grayson. I only came round to chambers because of your letter.'

" 'Still,' I persisted, 'you threw out a hint that Guide had offered some explanation.'

" 'Oh, yes; but such a flimsy, improbable theory that no sane man could entertain it for a minute. In fact, he knew it to be absurd himself. After pressing him again and again to suggest how Walker could have been killed (with the view of extorting a confession), he said, in his slow, heavy way, "Why, I suppose, Mr. Barnes, someone else must ha' done it. Don't you think as a man could ha' got into the carriage whilst I was lying there stupid, and hit Walker with the pick and got out again afore I come to? Would that do, sir?"

" 'I didn't think,' added Barnes, drily, 'that it was worth following that theory any deeper. What do you say?'

"I thought for a minute and then spoke up. 'Look here, Barnes; if in the face of this cock-and-bull story Guide persists in his innocence, there may be something in it after all; and if by any thousand-to-one chance we could bring him clear, it would be a red feather in the caps of both of us. Do you object to my seeing the man personally?'

'"It's a bit irregular,' said Barnes, doubtfully.

"' I know it is bang in the teeth of etiquette. But suppose we compromise, and you come with me?'

"' No, I won't do that. My time's busy just now; and besides, I don't want to run up the costs of this case higher than necessary. But if you choose to shove your other work aside and waste a couple of hours, just go and interview him by yourself, and we'll waive ceremony. I'll get the necessary prison order, and send it round to you tomorrow.'

"Next afternoon I went down to see Guide in the waiting-room at the Old Bailey. He was a middle-aged man, heavy-faced, and evidently knocked half stupid by the situation in which he found himself. He was perhaps as great a fool to his own interests as one might often meet with. There was no getting the simplest tale out of him except by regular question-and-answer cross-examination. What little he did tell seemed rather to confirm his guilt than otherwise; though, strange to say, I was beginning to believe him when he kept on assuring me between every other sentence that he did not commit the murder. Perhaps it was the stolid earnestness of the fellow in denying the crime which convinced me. One gets to read a good deal from facial expression when a man has watched what goes on in the criminal dock as long as I have done;  and one can usually spot guilt under any mask.

" 'But tell me,' I said, ' what did you quarrel about in the first instance?'

" 'Money,' said Guide, moodily.

" 'That's vague. Tell me more. Did he owe you money?'

" 'No, sir, it was t'other way on.'

" 'Wages in arrear?'

" 'No, it was money he had advanced me for the working of my business. You see Walker had always been a hard man, and he'd saved. He said he wanted his money back, he knowing that I was pinched a bit just then and couldn't pay. Then he tried to thrust himself into partnership with me in the business, which was a thing I didn't want. I'd good contracts on hand which I expected would bring me in a matter of nine thousand pounds, and I didn't want to share it with any man, least of all him. I told him so, and that's how the trouble began. But it was him that hit me first.'

" 'Still, you returned the blow?'"

Guide passed a hand wearily over his forehead. 'I may have struck him back, sir— I was dazed, and I don't rightly remember. But before God I'll swear that I never lifted that pick to Andrew Walker— it was his pick.'

" 'But,' I persisted, 'Walker couldn't very conveniently have murdered himself.'

" 'No, sir, no—no, he couldn't. I thought of that myself since I been in here, and I said to Mr. Barnes that perhaps somebody come into the carriage when I was knocked silly, and killed him; but Mr. Barnes he said that was absurd. Besides, who could have done it? '

" 'Don't you know anybody, then, who would have wished for Walker's death?'

" 'There was them that didn't like him,' said Guide, drearily.

"That was all I could get out of him, and I went away from the prison feeling very dissatisfied. I was stronger than ever in the belief that

Guide was in no degree guilty, and yet for the life of me I did not see
how to prove his innocence. He had not been a man of any strong character to begin with, and the shock of what he had gone through had utterly dazed him. It was hopeless to expect any reasonable explanation from him; he had resigned himself to puzzlement. If he had gone melancholy mad before he came up to trial, I should not have been one whit surprised.

"I brooded over the matter for a couple of days, putting all the rest of my practice out of thought, but I didn't get any forwarder with it. I hate to give anything up as a bad job, and in this case I felt that there was on my shoulders a huge load of responsibility. Guide, I had thoroughly persuaded myself, had not murdered Andrew Walker; as sure as the case went into court, on its present grounding, the man would be hanged out of hand; and I persuaded myself that then I, and I alone, should be responsible for an innocent man's death.

"At the end of those two days only one course seemed open to me. It was foreign to the brief I held, but the only method left to bring in my client's innocence.

"I must find out who did really murder the man. I must try to implicate some third actor in the tragedy.

"To begin with, there was the railway carriage; but a little thought
showed me that nothing was to be done there. The compartment would have been inspected by the police, and then swept and cleaned and garnished, and coupled on to its train once more, and used by unconscious passengers for weeks since the uproar occurred in it.

"All that I had got to go upon were the notes and relics held at Scotland Yard.

"The police authorities were very good. Of course, they were keen enough to bring off the prosecution with professional éclat; but they were not exactly anxious to hand over a poor wretch to the hangman if he was not thoroughly deserving of a dance on nothing. They placed at my disposal every scrap of their evidence, and said that they thought the reading of it all was plain beyond dispute. I thought so, too, at first. They sent an inspector to my chambers as their envoy.

"On one point, though, after a lot of thought, I did not quite agree with them. I held a grisly relic in my hand, gazing at it fixedly. It was a portion of Walker's skull— a disc of dry bone with a splintered aperture in the middle.

"'And so you think the pickaxe made that hole,' I said to the inspector.

"'I don't think there can be any doubt about it, Mr. Grayson. Nothing else could have done it, and the point of the pick was smeared with blood.'

" 'But would there be room to swing such a weapon in a third-class Metropolitan railway carriage?"

" 'We thought of that, and at first it seemed a poser. The roof is low, and both Guide and Walker are tall men; but if Guide had gripped the shaft by the end, so, with his right hand pretty near against the head, so, he'd have had heaps of room to drive it with a sideways swing. I tried the thing for myself; it acted perfectly. Here's the pickaxe: you can see for yourself.'

"I did see, and I wasn't satisfied; but I didn't tell the inspector what I thought. It was clearer to me than ever that Guide had not committed the murder.

What I asked the inspector was this: 'Had either of the men got any luggage in the carriage?'

"The inspector answered, with a laugh, 'Not quite, Mr. Grayson, or you would see it here.'

"Then I took on paper a rough outline of that fragment of bone, and an accurate sketch of exact size of the gash in it, and the inspector went away. One thing his visit had shown me. Andrew Walker was not slain by a blow from behind by the pickaxe.

"I met Barnes whilst I was nibbling lunch, and told him this. He heard me doubtfully. 'You may be right,' said he, 'but I'm bothered if I see what you have to go upon.'

" 'You know what a pickaxe is like?' I said.

" 'Certainly.'

" 'A cross-section of one of the blades would be what?'

" 'Square—or perhaps oblong.'

" 'Quite so. Rectangular. What I want to get at is this: it wouldn't even be diamond shape, with the angles obtuse and acute alternately.'

" 'Certainly not. The angles would be clean right-angles.'

" 'Very good. Now look at this sketch of the hole in the skull, and tell me what you see.'

"Barnes put on his glasses, and gazed attentively for a minute or so, and then looked up. 'The pick point has crashed through without leaving any marks of its edges whatever.'

"'That is to say, there are none of your right-angles showing.'

"'None. But that does not go to prove anything.'

"'No. It's only about a tenth of my proof. It gives the vague initial idea. It made me look more carefully, and I saw this'— I pointed with my pencil to a corner of the sketch.

"Barnes whistled. 'A clean arc of a circle,' said he, ' cut in the bone as though a knife had done it. You saw that pickaxe. Was it much worn? Were the angles much rounded near the point? '

" 'They were not. On the contrary, the pick, though an old one, had just been through the blacksmith's shop to be re-sharpened, and had not been used since. There was not a trace of wear upon it: of that I am certain.'

"Barnes whistled again in much perplexity. At length said he, 'It's an absolutely certain thing that Walker was not killed in the way they imagine. But I don't think this will get Guide off scot-free. There's too much other circumstantial evidence against him. Of course you'll do your best, but—'

" 'It would be more than a toss up if I could avoid a conviction. Quite so. We must find out more. The question is, how was this wound made? Was there a third man in it?'

" 'Guide may have jobbed him from behind with some other instrument, and afterwards thrown it out of window.'

" 'Yes,' said I, 'but that is going on the assumption that Guide did the trick, which I don't for a moment think the case. Besides, if he did throw anything out of window, it would most assuredly have been found. They keep the permanent way very thoroughly inspected upon the Metropolitan. No, Barnes. There is some other agent in this case, animate or inanimate, which so far we have overlooked completely; and an innocent man's life depends upon our ravelling it out.'

"Barnes lifted his shoulders helplessly, and took another sandwich. 'I don't see what we can do.'

" 'Nor I, very clearly. But we must start from the commencement, and go over the ground inch by inch.'

"So wrapped up was I in the case by this time, that I could not fix my mind to anything else. Then and there I went out and set about my inquiries.

"With some trouble I found the compartment in which the tragedy had taken place, but learnt nothing new from it. The station and the railway people at Addison Road, Kensington, were similarly drawn blank. The ticket inspector at Shaftsbury Road, who distinctly remembered Guide's passage, at first seemed inclined to tell me nothing new, till I dragged it out of him by a regular emetic of questioning.

"Then he did remember that Guide had been carrying in his hand a carpenter's straw bass, as he passed through the wicket. He did not recollect whether he had mentioned this to the police: didn't see that it mattered.

"I thought differently, and with a new vague hope in my heart, posted back to the prison. I had heard no word of this hand-baggage from Guide. It remained to be seen what he had done with it.

"They remembered me from my previous visit, and let me in to the prisoner without much demur. Guide owned up to the basket at once. 'Yes,' he said, 'I had some few odd tools to carry from home, and as I couldn't find anything else handy to put them in I used the old carpenter's bass. I had an iron eye to splice on to the end of a windlass rope, a job that I like to do myself, to make sure it's done safe. I never thought about telling you of that bass before, sir. I didn't see as how it mattered.'

" 'Where is the bass now?'

" 'In the Left Luggage Office at Shaftsbury Road Station. Name of Hopkins. I've lost the ticket.'

" 'Where did you put your basket on entering the carriage at Addison Road?'

" 'On the seat, sir, in the corner by the window.'

"And with that I left him.

" 'Now,' thought I, 'I believe I can find out whether you murdered Walker or not,' and drove back to Hammersmith.

"I inquired at the cloak-room. Yes, the carpenter's bass was there, beneath a dusty heap of other unclaimed luggage. There was demurrage to pay on it, which I offered promptly to hand over, but as I could produce no counterfoil bearing the name of Hopkins, the clerk, with a smile, said that he could not let me have it, However, when he heard what I wanted, he made no objection to my having an overhaul.

"The two lugs of the bass were threaded together with a hammer. I took this away, and opened the sides. Within was a ball of marline, another of spun-yarn, a grease-pot, and several large iron eyes. Also a large marline-spike. It was this last that fixed my attention. It was brand new, with a bone handle and a bright brass ferrule. Most of the iron also was bright, but three inches of the point were stained with a faint dark brown. From a casual inspection I should have put this down to the marline-spike having been last used to make a splice on tarred rope; but now my suspicions made me think of something else.

"I raised the stained point to my nose. There was no smell of tar whatever. On the bright part there was the indefinable odour of iron; at the tip, that thin coat of dark brown varnish had blotted this scent completely away.

"I think my fingers trembled when I turned to the bass again.

"Yes, there, opposite to where the point of the marline-spike had been lying— it was tilted up over the ball of spun-yarn— was a closed-up gash in the side of the bass. The spike had passed through there, and then been withdrawn. Round the gash was a dim discoloration which I knew to be dried human blood.

"In my mind's eye I saw the whole ghastly accident clearly enough now. The two men had been standing up, struggling. Guide had gone down under a blow, knocked senseless, and Walker had stumbled over him. Pitching forward, face downwards, on to the seat before he could recover, his head had dashed violently against the carpenter's bass. The sharp marline-spike inside, with its heel resting against the solid wall of the carriage, had entered the top of his skull like a bayonet. No human hand had been raised against him, and yet he had been killed.

"I kept my own particular ramblings in this case remarkably quiet, and in court led up to my facts through ordinary cross-examination.

"At the proper psychological moment I called attention to the shape of the puncture in Walker's skull, and then dramatically sprang the bass and the marline-spike upon them unawares. After that, as the papers put it, 'there was applause in court, which was instantly suppressed.' "

"Oh, the conceit of the man," said O'Malley, laughing.

Grayson laughed too. "Well," he said, "I was younger then, and I suppose I was a trifle conceited. The Crown didn't throw up. But the jury chucked us a 'Not guilty' without leaving the box, and then leading counsel for the other side came across and congratulated me on having saved Guide from the gallows. 'Now I'd have bet anything on hanging that man,' said he."

____________________

9: The Azoff Diamonds

Fred M. White

The Capricornian  30 Jul 1898

PRINCE SERGIUS MARAZOFF looked at the letter in his hand, and frowned. A recent lion in London society, he had been voted charming. His manners reminded people of Chesterfield and D'Orsay, with a dash of Bayard and the Cid thrown in. Wealthy princes in a state of bachelorhood are proverbially more fascinating than other people.

All the same the expression on the face of the Prince at this moment was anything but pleasant to see. The handsome features showed the wild Calmuc blood, the cruel Tartar strain. Under the thin veneer the tiger slept. The tiger looked out of Sergius's eyes at that moment.

The Asiatic vim seemed strangely out of place in one of the Long's most perfectly appointed sitting rooms. One does not look to see a panther lying before the fireplace in my lady's boudoir.

"A thousand curses on the woman," the Prince muttered. "Why does she worry, knowing that I am never likely to yield? And in any case, she is quite powerless to gain her ends."

Prince Sergius read the letter again. Then he tore it in a thousand pieces.

"Pshaw!" he went on. "What care I for her threats. Ten chances to one if I ever return to Russia again, and if I don't my estates are mortgaged to the last penny. The Czar will confiscate nothing there. The thing is a sham and delusion, to persuade people I have a stake in my own country. Personally, I prefer securities in London or Paris."

A gigantic servant in livery flung open the door.

"A lady to see your Excellency," he said.

"To see me! She has been here before, Fritz?"

"Even so, Prince. She left the letter last night. I said you were engaged, but she persisted. Your Excellency will instruct me."

Fritz came no further than the door. He knew his noble master in his present mood. The Calmuc was uppermost. A lurid light flashed in the eyes of the Prince, the light of murder.

"Throw her into the street," he said, hoarsely. "No, on second thoughts, you will show the lady up here, Fritz."

Fritz disappeared with more alacrity than befits a person in his exalted station. Prince Sergius might charm a ballroom by his graceful leading a cotillion, but he could also keep a servant waiting with a match for a cigarette until the flame burnt out against his fingers. He paid for this kind of thing.

Again Fritz flung open the door and a lady entered. That she had foreign blood in her veins was evident; that she was singularly beautiful was patent to the dimmest eye. Otherwise she could have passed for an Englishwoman of distinction. Sergius smiled as he indicated a chair.

"So you have found me out, Marie?" he said.

"I found you out long ago, Sergius," was the coolly contemptuous reply, rendered in the most excellent English. "I daresay you wonder what brings me here?"

"I don't wonder at all. But you won't get it."

"You have the diamonds here in England."

"To be perfectly frank, I have. They are in my possession, locked safely away at the present moment. You see, I am quite open."

"It mast be a novel sensation to you. I saw a paragraph in Truth to the effect that you had the Azoff diamonds here, also that you are to wear them to the Duchess of Grandsire's fancy dress ball on Friday."

"Correct again. I am going as an Indian Rajah."

The woman addressed as Marie laughed scornfully.

"And yet those stones are mine," she said, "as surely as you are my cousin. My mother on her death-bed gave those diamonds into your possession, and charged you to find me out and hand them over to me."

"Who told you so?"

"My old nurse Urza, who was present at the time."

"Then you accept her word in preference to mine?"

"Sergius, I would accept the word of the vulgarest guttersnipe before yours."

Prince Sergius's eyes grew lurid. Just for the moment he wished himself back in Russia again. But his voice rang steady enough.

"Listen to me," he said. "You were a Marazoff; you might be a princess to-day if your head had not been filled with a lot of rubbish about 'liberty' and the like. Then you crowned your folly by running away with a poor English author and marrying him. I am right?"

"Perfectly, and I have never regretted it."

"Possibly not. You look as serenely beautiful as ever. But your dress, pardon me, does not point to affluent or even easy circumstances."

"We are miserably poor," Marie Lorraine responded calmly. "My husband's profession never was a well-paid one. For the last three months he has been very ill. I have known the want of a meal. And all I ask now is that you will give to me what my mother intended I should have."

"Diamonds worth at the very least £100,000!"

"The value has nothing whatever to do with it. You know those jewels are mine. They were the personal property of my mother, and if she had not faded out of life so suddenly, I should have had them from her own hand."

"If you can prove the fact, they are yours."

"But I cannot. Otherwise you would not make the offer. Urza is dead also; and even if she were not, her word would weigh little against yours. At the present time I have just £27. When that is gone what will become of us heaven only knows."

Sergius crossed the room, and from a travelling bag produced a cheque-hook. He slapped it open with an irritating smile upon his face.

"A woman's conversation is like a woman's letter," he said. "All the gist comes in the postscript. Will £500 be enough?"

Marie Lorraine responded nothing. The Prince filled in a cheque for the suggested amount, and passed it over to her. Without the slightest semblance of passion Mrs. Lorraine tore the pink slip into minute fragments and puffed them contemptuously in the face of her companion.

"It is not charity I want," she said, "but my own."

"Meaning the Azoff diamonds of course?"

"Precisely. Once for all, are you going to continue to act the thief?"

The wrath of the listener boiled over. The warmth seemed to melt off the varnish and the vile stuff beneath stood revealed. An impetuous torrent of Russian poured from Marazoff's lips, a stream of brutal blasphemy that caused Marie to cover her ears.

"You coward!" she gasped indignantly. "You shall pay for this."

Sergius smiled again. The fit of passion had burned away.

"Don't talk nonsense," he said. "What can ye do to me."

"I can obtain possession of my own—and I will."

"Pshaw! You are full of your husband's romances. Revenge and Nemesis are all very well in books. In real life they go for nothing. Far better have taken my cheque and gone off as one of those sensible decadent heroines would do."

Marie Lorraine drew her cloak around her.

"I am going," she said. "Nor am I disappointed at the result of my errand. Why I really did come, you will learn later on."

So saying, the speaker swept down the steps and into the street. In Piccadilly a resolute looking young man with a fair moustache accosted her.

"Well, did you satisfy yourself, Mrs. Lorraine?" he asked eagerly.

"Perfectly," was the reply. "There is no mistake this time. You have the key and your friends will be there at the proper time."

"Oh, that's all right. You can safely leave the stage management of the farce to me. All you have to do is to see to the Amsterdam trip."

"My ticket I have already, and my disguise also, thanks to you. How nice it is to have a lot of friends who are actors."

Whereupon the two laughed, shook hands, and parted.

2

BY common consent the Duchess of Grandsire's fancy dress ball was looked forward to as the most brilliant function of an unusually brilliant season. The entertainments at Grandsire House, Grosvenor Square, were always on a most elaborate scale, but the present function bid fair to surpass them all.

To say that Royalty would be present would be to use a mere figure of speech. A thousand invitations had gone out, and the fortunate ones enjoyed to the full the envy and malice of those outside the pale. The mere possession of a card was in itself a passport to Belgravia. A thousand lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men. It was a fairyland of electric light, costly flowers, and gorgeous dresses gathered from the remotest recesses of the earth.

But there is no reason to attempt a description of such a pageant; nothing less than the gifted pen of a Morning Post reporter could do it justice. To be conspicuous amongst such a notable gathering was a distinction in itself, and it was given to few to obtain this cachet. It was universally awarded, however, to Prince Sergius Marazoff. His handsome and graceful form was seen to advantage in the gorgeous dress of an Eastern potentate, his turban and tunic fairly blazed with the famous Azoff diamonds. With the exception of a fortunate few American peeresses, Sergius Marazoff presented the greatest personal value from the auctioneer's point of view. If envious glances could have killed, Prince Sergius that night would have died five hundred deaths before as many pairs of gleaming eyes.

But time and the hour runs through the roughest as well as the smoothest day, and the flowers began to droop on the walls of Grandsire House. The dusky morn was creeping up from the east as Prince Sergius stood on the marble vestibule impatiently waiting for his brougham.

"Confusion to the fools," he muttered impatiently; "is there a cab to be got?"

A night cab with a driver half-asleep was crawling by at the same moment. Into this Prince Sergius stepped, closed the door after a muttered direction, and despite his rage fell into a doze.

He was aroused presently by the stopping of the cab, the throwing open of the door, and the glow of a lantern burning like some flaming eye inside. In a dreamy kind of way Prince Sergius became aware of the fact that he was in a narrow 'cul de sac,' and immediately opposite to a stone building, the windows of which were heavily barred with iron. Up a flight of steps was a substantial-looking door, beyond which could be seen a whitewashed passage. The holder of the lantern was dressed in blue, he had a row of pewter buttons on his coat and a helmet on his head. Outside the cab stood another officer of the law, similarly attired.

"What does all this mean?" the Prince demanded, haughtily.

"Your Highness is at Marlborough-street Police Station," was the gruff reply. "I have a warrant for your arrest."

"A warrant for my arrest? Absurd!"

"So it may be, your Highness; but I've got my duty to do all the same. You will have to get out, if you please."

Fuming with rage, Prince Sergius complied. At a sign from the sergeant the cab drove away, and Marazoff was led up the steps into the station and the door clanged behind him. Inside everything was bare but clean. At a desk in a kind of office sat an inspector with a big book before him. He bowed respectfully to the Prince.

"I greatly regret to put you to all this trouble," he said. "But my duty was to execute the warrant without delay."

"And having done so," Sergius sneered; "will you be good enough to read the charge, and send for my carriage without delay."

The inspector, politely, but none the less firmly, pointed out the impossibility of doing anything of the kind. Then he proceeded to read over the warrant received from the Russian police.

Prince Sergius was startled. Like most men he had had his youthful political indiscretions, but he had regarded them as relegated to obscurity long ago. And who could have so faithfully and accurately reported these peccadilloes to the Government of his own country. And how wise had he been to remove as much property as possible from Russian soil.

"They can't extradite me on that," he exclaimed.

"I am of the same opinion," responded the inspector. "But the legal forms will be complied with. You will be brought before the magistrates to-morrow, when doubtless an application for bail will be entertained."

"And meanwhile I am to be imprisoned here?"

Such appeared to be the case. In vain the haughty Russian stormed and raved. There were other indignities yet he had to suffer. All his money and papers were taken from him, his jewels and priceless sword, and when these were duly scheduled in a big ledger, Sergius had to feign the same as correct.

"They will be perfectly secure in the safe here," said the polite inspector. "I am quite distressed to cause you all this bother, but my duty would compel me to do the same in the case of a prince of blood."

With a bitter smile upon his lips and rage and fury in his heart, Sergius followed the inspector down a long passage. The latter opened a door with a key and displayed a cell with a truckle bed inside.

"Am I to sleep here?" Sergius gasped.

"Even so, your Highness," was the reply. "I regret the lack of accommodation. But we have so few distinguished prisoners."

Without another word the Prince threw himself on the hard mattress. Somebody should suffer for this he told himself. And then the door clanged and the key turned, and all was silence.

It was an hour later before the Prince slept. When he woke again it was broad daylight. The place seemed very still and deserted. After a long time a step was heard coming along the flagged corridor, and the door of the cell was opened after a long fumbling with the key. And then there appeared no blue coated policeman, but the Prince's own secretary, one Murray by name.

"Thank goodness I have found you," said the latter. "I began to imagine that you were the victim of some foul play. A letter came to me this morning describing your whereabouts and enclosing this key."

"But I am in Marlborough-street Police Station, Murray."

"Nothing of the kind, your Highness. This place used to be a house of detention, but it has been empty for years. Somebody has got into the place, and made use of it with the intention of robbing you. Are your jewels—"

"You are right, Murray. Of course that warrant was all a sham. Quick, follow me to the office. The jewels were placed in the safe there."

But, alas, those priceless diamonds were in the safe no longer. The safe was merely a deal cupboard, a 'property' affair. Inside was all Prince Sergius's papers, his watch, money, and sword intact, but the diamonds were gone.

In the next half-hour it was vividly impressed upon Murray that he had fully earned his last quarter's salary. Fortunately, he had brought with him a change of clothing for his employer.

"To Scotland Yard, quick," Sergius muttered, the veins standing out on his forehead like whipcord. "We'll have the miscreants yet."

BUT EVEN A RUSSIAN prince can't have all that he wants. Scotland Yard did take the matter up, but nothing came of it, for the simple reason that, Russian- like, Prince Sergius kept his suspicions of Marie Lorraine to himself. To implicate her would have been to cause an inquiry into the whole question, and perhaps the loss of the jewels in any case. And thus it came about that before the week was out the diamonds had been altered beyond all recognition, and disposed of in the great jewel mart at Amsterdam. Marie had been as good as her word, she had got her own again. And as to the police and inspector and the cabman, they had all apparently vanished into thin air.

There is one literary man in London with a beautiful wife who seems to thrive on letters amazingly, and that is Charles Lorraine. He frequently complains of being hard up for the plot of a story, but he is not the least likely ever to make public the true solution of the mystery of the Azoff diamonds.

__________________

10: Sheer Profit.

William Le Queux

Darling Downs Gazette, 4 December 1915

'THE game's worth the candle, isn't it?'

'Worth the candle, Jimmy! Why it's worth a level five thousand in your experienced hands. It's sheer profit!'

'From what I can see she's a silly little woman, vain, ambitious, and fancies herself good looking.'

Jimmy Jerningham, alias Davis and a dozen other names, smiled to himself, and contemplated the end of his excellent cigar. He was silting with his friend in the lounge of the Midland Grand Hotel in Manchester after a cosy little lunch. Charles Grayson, the other man, was a well-known 'crook' like himself, and the pair had brought off many a neat and profitable coup, for both wore good looking, smart, refined men of exquisite manners and expensive tastes, therefore the women fell an easy prey to them.

After a month in Dinard, where they had lost a fair sum at the tables, they had returned to England for the autumn. They were, however, never improvident, and both had several hundred pounds balance at their banker's. A 'crook' is only in peril when he is penniless, with money he can usually defy the police, with all their red tape and slowness of action,

The pair, dark haired, and well groomed, good looking scoundrels, were about to embark upon a dastardly but highly ingenious enterprise, and in order to discuss and decide they were holding a private consultation in the corner of the lounge, apart from the many other people there.

'I haven't been idle,' Jerningham exclaimed. 'I've been making enquiries in town. She has an allowance from her husband of ten thousand a year, as well as five thousand a year of her own.'

'How old is she?'

'Twenty-four— with a husband fifty.'

Grayson's face contracted on one side, the other remaining normal. 'They have a house in upper Grosvenor Street, a. country place outside Perth, and spend every winter at Cairo. She's just now up at Stratheagles. I had a letter from her this morning.'

And diving into his inner pocket of his blue serge jacket, he produced it for his companion to read.

'Seems pretty gone on you, eh!' was Grayson's remark, after he had scanned the note, and handed it back. 'Thinks you such a charming man, eh?'

'Apparently. But one never knows. Women are such strange creatures.'

'Well she's good up to five thousand, I should say.'

'What's her husband?'

'Pattenden, head of the Eclipse line of steamers to the West Indies. Bought a knighthood last year. Began life as a fruit salesman in Covent Gardens— Now a prominent supporter of the Government. Just got into Who's Who— the event of his life'.

'On such an invitation she's sent to you I suppose you'll go up on a visit, eh?'

'Sure; I've wired to her. I go north tomorrow, but I'll keep in touch with you.'

'Right, I'm there on receipt of a phone message, as usual.'

And the pair tossed off their Grand Marniers— cordon rouge, of course— and rising, strolled put into the busy everyday life of Manchester.

TWO DAYS later, James Jerningham, in immaculate evening dress, sat at the smart dinner-table at Stratheagles, the Scottish seat of Sir Herbert and Lady Pattenden, There were a dozen other smart men and women of the house-party, and the conversation was merry, for they were a vivacious, go-ahead crowd.

Sir Herbert, who was contesting West Merioneth, was away on his political campaign, therefore pretty Lady Pattenden sat at the head of the table, a slim and charming fair haired figure, in pale grey trimmed with rose. In her hair she wore a long white aigrette, and around her throat .the splendid rope of pearls which her husband, had purchased from the sale of effects of a well known but ruined peer. The luxuriant room, with its fine pictures, its great silver bowls of flowers, its shaded lights, and its up to date appointments, was essentially that of the parvenu, while the servants in breeches and stockings would have been more in keeping with the Elizabethan ducal home.

Jimmy Jerningham, elegant and smiling, sat on her ladyship's right hand, and was chatting merrily with her. They had met one afternoon at the tables at Dinard, where Ethel Pattenden had been enjoying herself alone, she being at the Hotel Royal with some friends of hers named Klein, the husband being a well-known foreign, broker in Throgmorton Avenue. A chance acquaintance had ripened into a friendship which on Jimmy's part was quickly cultivated, with the result that they had met several times in London, and she had dined with him once at the Berkeley, and now he been invited as guest at Stratheagles, the fine sporting estate a few miles out of Perth, on the Dunkeld road.

To-day the parvenu hostess exercises but little discretions as to whom she hands invitations, so long as her guests are good looking, amusing and up-to-date. There was never a time when outsiders could get into certain wealthy circles as today. Hence she had never enquired into Jimmy's antecedents, though he had already done so regarding hers, and knew much more about than she ever dreamed.

Dinner over, there was coffee in the big hall, and there again little Lady Pattenden reclined in a big easy chair near the huge wood-fine, and at her side, seated on the edge of the great club fender Jimmy sipped at his cup, and chatted to her about Egypt, a country he know so well. It is the stock-in-trade of the clever 'crook' to have travelled and stayed at the best hotels in the world, for the world judges a man by his coat and his conversation more nowadays than ever before.

'We go to the Savoy in Cairo early in November,' she was saying to Jimmy as, having taken her coffee-cup and setting it down, he handed her the silver box of cigarettes. He held the match for her, and then, stretching out her legs and displaying a neat silk-stockinged ankle, she settled herself to talk.

'I don't know if I can induce Herbert to go up to Luxor. He got so terribly bored and fed up on the Nile last time. He wants to go to Jamaica this winter on business, but I detest the place. I went once— but never again! We had a most horrible, passage home.'

'There's nothing like Egypt,' Jimmy declared, looking straight into her deep blue eyes. 'Like yourself, I prefer the Savoy to the Shepheard's. Too many Cookites at the latter. But of course Cairo isn't Egypt. I love the Nile and Assouan most of all.'

'So do I,' she declared. 'I didn't know you'd been up there. We were at the cataract the year the great dam was opened.'

And so they gossiped on. An hour later, when the men had gone to tho billiard room, and the women had either accompanied them, or gone to their rooms, Lady Pattenden found herself alone with Jimmy out on the terrace in tho moonlight, which that night shone brightly over the lake and the great park beyond.

It was a wonderful romantic night, and she sat in a corner with a white silk wrap over her head and shoulders laughing at his amusing chatter. She listened for an hour and then shook his hand and left him.

After that it became a habit to spend an hour together on the terrace each evening. The dainty little mistress of Stratheagles had already become aware that Jimmy Jerningham was an unusually attractive man, that his politeness and consideration was exquisite, that his conversation always charmed her.

One night, when alone in her room, after Mariette, her French maid, had retired, she grew angry with herself, recollecting how deeply she had been attached to her husband, and what an excellent fellow he was, even though he nowadays seemed to think more of money-making and political distinction than of her. And yet she was not under the spell of Jimmy's good looks, his voice, his charm of manner? Was she not thinking more of him than Herbert?

One evening, after Jerningham had been there about ten days, the whole party was invited to dine at a neighbouring house, and it was nearly midnight when they returned in cars, after a delightful evening. The men went promptly to the billiard room, and the women to their rooms, while at Jimmy's invitation, the hostess strolled out with him upon the terrace to have a final cigarette before retiring.

The night, was clear, but, with little moon, and Jimmy suggested a stroll after the heat of their host's rooms and the cramped car in which they had journeyed home. To this Ethel Pattenden had no objection, for they had already begun to treat each other as old friends.

Half way down the long beach avenue, towards the lodge gates, they sat upon one of the seats while he produced his cigarette case. She took one and lit it. For some moments they smoked in silence. Both were thinking. Then suddenly her companion seized her small ungloved hand, and. looking into her eyes in the dim light declared that he loved her.

'I am leaving tomorrow, Ethel,' he said. 'In these painful circumstances I cannot, remain longer, under your roof, for it is not fair to you— or to your husband. I know I've been a fool,'  he cried, 'but forgive me. I cannot leave without telling you the truth the secret of my heart— that I love you— only you!'

And before she was aware of it he had bent and kissed her upon the lips.  At that moment they were both startled by hearing a movement in the undergrowth close by them. A man came up, faced them, and laughed heartily. Then he walked away. Jerningham sprang to his feet in an attitude of self-defence, and both gazed after him breathlessly. But nothing more was heard.

'Who was he?' asked her ladyship in alarm.

'Nobody,' he replied. 'Some country lout. There is nothing to fear. Let us return to the house,' and linking his arm in hers he led her back to the terrace and into the drawing-room, where for a few moments he lingered,

They faced each other without speaking a word.  She was white as death, and in her eyes was a hard, haggard look, which told him of her unspoken sorrow at his immediate departure, and of her fear lest their secret should be discovered.

'Good-night,' he whispered at last, as he bowed low over her outstretched hand. 'Let us part― and forget.'

Then he drew her again into' his arms and kissed her, while she, in the delirium of the moment, did not make an effort to extricate herself from his embrace. They parted, and next morning at nine o'clock the express from Perth to King's Cross carried back to London the man who had declared his love and yet had acted so honestly.

A MONTH went by. Lady Pattenden, in reflection, realised how foolish she had been, and put aside all recollection of the tall, good-looking man who had come so suddenly into her life, and is suddenly gone out of it again. Her husband had concluded his political campaign, and won the election, and was able to give Ethel more of his society. They were back at Upper Grosvenor Street, and entered upon a new era of happiness.

One day, while out shopping in her car, she alighted before a shop in Regent Street, and was about to enter when a respectively-dressed man raised his hat and claimed acquaintance. Then in an undertone, he said:—

'Lady Pattenden, I have something to tell you which is greatly to your interest— a secret matter. It is most imperative that I see you to-day. I shall be in tho Mall, outside the Marlborough House, at three o'clock. If we walk across St. James Park together, we shall not be noticed.'

Her ladyship started at first, then recovering from her surprise, her curiosity was aroused, and she felt impelled to accede to the request. At three o'clock they met. The stranger, who, was exceedingly polite, walked at her side in the park, down to the ornamental water, and at last said:—

'I felt it my duty, Lady Pattendon, to tell you of a discovery I have made. I am a private inquiry agent, and my name is Mansell. In the course of my work I have found out that a scoundrel named Horton is coming up as a witness against you in a little affair— a little indiscretion we may call it— in Scotland with a gentleman friend of yours, a Mr Jerningham.

'What,' gasped her ladyship, turning pale, for she recollected the man who had discovered them.

'It is I fear, a rather disagreeable matter,' Mansell said. 'The fellow seemed to have watched you both when Mr. Jerningham was your guest in Scotland, and is now contemplating going to your husband and obtaining payment for. the information.'

Lady Pattenden halted and stood motionless while her companion watched the effect of the blow.

'But I— well, there was no harm in it, I assure you... I may have, been indiscreet.'

'Indiscretions, out of doors are always unwise.' he said gravely. 'I have only approached you with an idea of helping you out of the difficulty. A son of mine is an officer in the service of your husband's company, and therefore I felt it my duty to see you in secret, and warn you of what is intended.'

'But how can you, help me? I must see this man Horton?'

'By all means, Lady Pattenden, And if I may presume to advise you I would purchase his silence, for without a doubt Sir Herbert would be quite ready to pay for his dastardly espionage.'

'My husband is not that kind of man,' she replied bravely.

'Ah! You, do not know men. They become peculiar creatures when they suspect a woman.'

She was again silent. What he had said, was, alas! the truth. She saw that, at all hazards, she must be prepared to buy the silence of the eavesdropper. Those nights at Stratheagles she had hoped were forgotten, as she had already forgotten, yet her foolish indiscretion rose against her and might very easily wreck her happiness.

With the man Mansell, she discussed a plan of action; admitting that she was ready to pay. Then he at last made a suggestion. He would prepare a document, which Horton should sign on receiving the money, declaring that there was no truth in the allegations he had made, and, further, that he had spoken untruths concerning Lady Pattenden, and Mr Jerningham. Horton and he were to call up at Grosvenor Street the following day at noon,' and she would see them, her husband being absent at his offices in Liverpool.

Next day, punctually at twelve, two well-dressed men were shown into her ladyship's drawing room by the smart man-servant, one of them being Mansell, and the other younger, and more smartly dressed, Richard Horton alias Grayson. The latter was introduced when her ladyship, looking a pale, wan little figure in black— for she had spent a sleepless night— entered the room. Without any preliminaries business was discussed.

'Her ladyship is prepared to deal with you fairly,' Mansell said in a cold business-like tone. 'I have shown you the document. What do you want for your signature to it—?'

'I am prepared to remain silent, but I'll sign no document,' replied the crook. 'My intention has been to deal with Sir Herbert. I thought you said I was to see him?'

'No. I wish to come to terms with you,' her ladyship said looking him straight in the face. 'There's surely no reason why my husband should be disturbed in this small affair.'

'Not if you like to pay me.'

'How much?'

'Five thousand pounds. It's surely worth it— especially as that man Jerningham is a well-known thief.'

'A thief!' cried her ladyship, amazed.

'Yes,' Mansell exclaimed. 'I have discovered that he is unfortunately well known to the police, and only came out of prison last year.'

Ethel Pattenden saw the terrible scandal which might result if the truth leaked out. Both men observed how she wavered, and how eager she was to end the whole business. For a few moments the discussion grow heated, and Horton made many threats, until at last, pressed hard by Mansell— while the clever scoundrel Horton stood aloof— Lady Pattenden went across to the little writing-table, and there scribbled a cheque for five thousand pounds, while Horton, on his part, appended his signature to the previous paper.

A few moments later the pair in high spirits wore hurrying in the direction of Grosvenor Square where they found a taxi, and drove down to the Carlton, where Jimmy Jerningham was awaiting them in the smoking-room. The trio gleefully drank her ladyship's health, and then drove to Barclay's Bank in Vere Street, where Horton presented the cheque. As they did so two men entered the bank. One was Sir Herbert Pattenden— whom Horton, of course, did not know. The cashier handed over notes to Horton, in exchange for the cheque, when Sir Herbert's companion suddenly stepped up to Horton, and arrested him on a charge of blackmail, while outside three other detectives arrested the pair seated unsuspectingly in the taxi.

At the police station it was made plain that Sir Herbert, having his suspicions aroused that his wife's newly-made friend was not exactly what he had represented himself to be, had returned secretly to Stratheagles and kept watch. He had seen his wife with Jerningham, and also seen the man Horton, whom he had followed to London, and eventually discovered to be a well-known 'crook.' Observation had been kept upon his movements, and both Sir Herbert and the detective inspector had been concealed behind a curtain in the drawing room at Upper Grosvenor Street, and had listened to the scoundrel's threats of exposure, and had seen the poor, frantic woman draw her cheque to secure his silence.

An hour later, Sir Herbert, assuring Ethel of his complete confidence in her, revealed what he had done, whereupon she at once drove in her car to the police station, and, regardless of scandal, formally charged all three with conspiracy to blackmail, for which crime they were eventually sentenced at the Central Criminal Court to five years penal servitude, which well-deserved penalty they are still undergoing.

_____________

11: The Silent Witness

Max Brand

Black Mask, March 1938

Frederick Schiller Faust, 1892-1944. Writer of numerous books in several genres: western, crime, and medical drama (he created Dr Kildare)

RIDDLE pressed the Bentley bell and then held the doorknob while he stared through the glass into the downstairs hallway. It had the nakedly expectant look of all entrances to push-button apartment houses. The lock began to click rapidly; it kept on clicking after he had entered the hall and pressed the elevator button.

Everything happened very slowly. He heard the elevator door slam shut above him, a deep-voiced humming began in the throat of the shaft and descended gradually toward him. The lighted elevator slid past the diamond-shaped peephole. It halted. The inner door was pushed clanging back by the ghostly fingers of the machine.

He entered, pressed the button of Number 6, and watched the door slowly roll shut, obeying the electric mind. With a soft lurch the elevator started up the shaft.

At the sixth floor the automatic brake stopped the car softly and the inner door rolled gradually back. This mechanized precision, this mindless deliberation, screwed up Riddle's nerves to a breaking tension. He had to set his lips and his lean jaw and make ready to endure what he knew was ahead of him.

Then the outer door of the elevator was snatched open by Gay Bentley. She leaned against the edge of it with her eyes so big and dark that she looked like a white-faced child. Riddle put his arm around her and closed the door while she clung to him, saying: "Dick... Dick... Dick..."

He took her through the open door into the living-room of her apartment. It was exactly in order, disappointing the horrible expectation with which he had entered. The floor lamps cast two amber circles on the ceiling and two white pools on the floor. The huge litter of a Sunday newspaper lay scattered on the davenport and on the table there was a tall highball glass, almost full.

"Where?" asked Riddle.

She pointed toward the bedroom door. "I'll come with you," she said.

He shook his head. "You sit here. No, lie down."

"I'll go mad if I lie down," said Gay. Her lips began to tremble and her eyes rolled, so he picked her up and laid her on the davenport amid the rustling of the newspaper.

"You be quiet. Will you be quiet? Close your eyes!" commanded Riddle.

She closed her eyes and he crossed the floor with the sense of her light, firm body still making his hands feel strong. He needed that strength of spirit when he entered the bedroom and saw Tom Bentley lying on the bed, far over against the wall with his right arm stretched out, pointing an automatic at his friend in the doorway. But Bentley's half-open eyes were drowsily considering something on the white of the ceiling instead of Riddle, and a spot of deep purple appeared on his temple with one thin, watery line of blood running down from it.

Riddle went back into the living-room where Gay Bentley already was off the couch and sitting on the piano stool with her face in her hands. She started up to face Riddle. He wandered to the table and picked up the unfinished highball. When he tasted it, he found the whisky good but the drink was tepid; it had come to the room temperature.

"The police?" whispered the girl. "Do we have to call the police?"

He sipped the tepid highball again before he put down the glass.

"I want a drink, Gay," he said.

"Take this. It's mine but I don't want it."

"This? This is yours?" he asked, looking suddenly at her.

"Ah, but you like a man's drink," she nodded, unobservant. "I'll make you a fresh one."

She passed him on the way to the pantry, and clung close to him again for an instant.

"Oh, Dick," she whispered, "think what animals we are! When I found him, my mind stopped, and all I could do was to come out here and go through the motions of mixing a drink... Think of that! And then I remembered you. Thank God for you! Thank God for you!"

She went on to the pantry.

"How do you want it?" she called.

"Just like yours," said Riddle. He saw his own pale, thin face in the glass above the fireplace and stared at the gloomy image entranced.

"Just like mine?" she repeated, surprised. "But two lumps of ice, you always take."

"No. Just like yours. One lump. That will do," said Riddle.

She brought the drink back to him, and he sank down into a chair at the table. He put his chin on his fist and stared at nothingness. The girl stood behind him with her hands on his shoulders.

"Poor Tom!" she said. "I know you loved him, Dick, but try not to take it too hard. He was unhappy, you know."

"I knew," said Riddle, "and I kept away from him for a month... Was it money, Gay?"

"No," she answered.

"It had to be debts that drove him to it. There was nothing else," insisted Riddle.

"There was something else," she replied.

"What under heaven?" asked Riddle, jerking up his head so that his face almost touched hers.

"Jealousy, Dick," said the girl.

"Jealousy?" cried Riddle. "Jealousy of you, Gay?"

She made a pause, with her face still close to his, before she answered carefully and gently, as though to a child:

"You know we haven't been so very happy together, lately."

"After a few years, the bubble and zip goes out of most marriages," said Riddle.

"Ah, it was more than that," she answered.

"You mean there was a definite reason for his jealousy?" demanded Riddle. "You mean that there was another man?"

She was silent again before she answered just above a whisper: "Ah, Dick, you blind, blind fellow!"

Riddle reached up and caught one of her hands from his shoulder. "What the devil do you mean, Gay?" he asked.

"He knew I loved someone else," said the girl.

"Who?" asked Riddle.

She pulled to get free. "I don't want to talk about it. I can't talk about it," she said. "Not to you."

Riddle let her hand go.

"You mean that I'm the man?" he said.

She gave him no answer but walked across the room to the window and stood there looking out. A breeze came in from moment to moment and set her bright hair shimmering over the smooth and soft of her neck. She stood there an eternity of minutes. The silence between them—between her beauty and his friendship with the dead man—that silence sang on for minutes.

He tasted her drink on the table then, quickly, took a small swallow from his own glass. After that he glanced at his watch. The silence drew out in length like a dark thread...

"You know that Tom was my best friend?" he asked.

"I know everything," said the girl. "It was because he cared about you so much that I first began to care— too..."

Her voice broke a little. Riddle went to her and took her by the shoulders. He seated her firmly in a chair.

"That's all to be talked about afterward," he told her. Then, walking up and down the room, he said: "Tell me what you know about it."

She lay back in the chair with her head partly turned away from him and her eyes almost closed, and sometimes a smile that was characteristic of her when she talked appeared on her lips. Now, at thirty, wrinkles pinched her eyes a little at the corners but her smile was still very lovely. She talked slowly.

"I went out just before five. I couldn't remember but I thought I had a tea engagement with Martha Gilbert and I couldn't get her on the phone. I didn't find Martha. I ran into Jud Mowbray a little later, and he insisted on cocktails. I didn't want one, but I sort of had to... After a while I left him and got back here at around a quarter to six. And I found Tom—like that; and then I telephoned to you."

Riddle nodded.

"You saw Tom and he was dead—of his own hand. Then you poured yourself this drink and then you telephoned to me."

"What does the drink matter?" she asked, with a sudden curiosity.

"The police always want to know everything," said Riddle. "They eat up every detail. And I'll have to ring them in a moment. You poured yourself this drink about forty-five minutes ago, let's say?"

"Yes. Almost exactly."

He sipped her drink, carefully, and then tried his own. He said nothing—endlessly.

"Then by the time I arrived," he finally said, "your drink hadn't been standing more than twenty minutes, had it?"

"No. Of course not... Dick, what's the matter with you?"

"Nothing," said Riddle, standing up and seeing the white of his face in the glass again. Then he glanced at his wrist. A half hour had come—and gone.

He went to the telephone but paused there for a long moment until she asked: "What's in your mind, Dick?"

"I was thinking of the first days out of college when Tom and I were fighting our way up."

"You fought your way up," said Gay Bentley, "and Tom kept sliding back in spite of all his scratching. He was a derelict before the end and the only thing that drew him along was the towline you threw to him, Dick, darling..."

He picked up the receiver and began to dial.

"I want the police," he said.

"Not so soon, Dick!" cried the girl. "I don't want their dreadful, blunt faces near me. I couldn't stand them!"

"This is One Forty-two East Hargreave Street," said Riddle. "On the sixth floor, apartment D, Thomas Bentley is dead. It is murder..." He hung up.

"Murder? Murder?" cried the girl. "Dick, what are you talking about?"

"About a man I loved, and a woman I used to love, too," said Riddle, "and an alibi rotten all the way through."

He sipped from the glasses on the table, one after the other.

"This drink of mine has been standing here for half an hour, but it's still cold," he said. "It still will be cold when the homicide squad arrives and hears me testify that your glass was room temperature when I came in..."

"Dick, what do you mean?" she gasped. "What crazy idea is in your head?"

"My idea," said Riddle, "is that you were out of the house to collect your alibi, but you poured your drink, here, before you left, and all the time you were away the highball was going ahead like an automatic machine gathering warmth and registering murder. You killed Tom."

She went to pieces, flew at him, beggingly.

"Dick, throw the stuff out of the window! Dick, you wouldn't kill me, would you? Not like a rat; you wouldn't kill me, Dick, would you?" she sobbed to him. "I needed a drink— to do it! But, Dick, because I love you— oh, throw it away!"

He covered the glass with his hand. He could not look at her but he knew she was shrinking away from him now— toward the door. And then that she had slipped out into the hallway, running.

Now she would be pressing the button of the elevator frantically; but he knew with what an unhurried steadiness it would respond.

A siren screamed out of the distance and turned loose its howling in Hargreave Street. Riddle opened his eyes as he listened, and in the mirror the white image stared back at him in astonishment and horror.

______________________________

12: The Tea-Leaf

Edgar Jepson and Robert Eustace

I could not establish the first publication date of this story

ARTHUR KELSTERN and George Willoughton met in the Turkish bath in Duke Street, St. James’s, and rather more than a year later in that Turkish bath they parted. Both of them were bad-tempered men, Kelstern cantankerous and Willoughton violent. It was indeed difficult to decide which was the worse-tempered; and when I found that they had suddenly become friends, I gave that friendship three months. It lasted nearly a year.

When they did quarrel they quarrelled about Kelstern’s daughter Ruth. Willoughton fell in love with her and she with him and they became engaged to be married. Six months later, in spite of the fact that they were plainly very much in love with one another, the engagement was broken off. Neither of them gave any reason for breaking it off. My belief was that Willoughton had given Ruth a taste of his infernal temper and got as good as he gave.

Not that Ruth was at all a Kelstern to look at. Like the members of most of the old Lincolnshire families, descendants of the Vikings and the followers of Canute, one Kelstern is very like another Kelstern, fair-haired, clear-skinned, with light blue eyes and a good bridge to the nose. But Ruth had taken after her mother: she was dark with a straight nose, dark-brown eyes of the kind often described as liquid, dark-brown hair, and as kissable lips as ever I saw. She was a proud, rather self-sufficing, high-spirited girl, with a temper of her own. She needed it to live with that cantankerous old brute Kelstern. Oddly enough in spite of the fact that he always would try to bully her, she was fond of him; and I will say for him that he was very fond of her. Probably she was the only creature in the world of whom he was really fond. He was an expert in the application of scientific discoveries to industry; and she worked with him in his laboratory. He paid her five hundred a year, so that she must have been uncommonly good.

He took the breaking off of the engagement very hard indeed. He would have it that Willoughton had jilted her. Ruth took it hard too: her warm colouring lost some of its warmth; her lips grew less kissable and set in a thinner line. Willoughton’s temper grew worse than ever; he was like a bear with a perpetually sore head. I tried to feel my way with both him and Ruth with a view to help to bring about a reconciliation. To put it mildly, I was rebuffed. Willoughton swore at me; Ruth flared up and told me not to meddle in matters that didn’t concern me. Nevertheless my strong impression was that they were missing one another badly and would have been glad enough to come together again if their stupid vanity could have let them.

Kelstern did his best to keep Ruth furious with Willoughton. One night I told him – it was no business of mine; but I never did give a tinker’s curse for his temper – that he was a fool to meddle and had much better leave them alone. It made him furious, of course; he would have it that Willoughton was a dirty hound and a low blackguard – at least those were about the mildest things he said of him. It struck me of a sudden that there must be something much more serious in the breaking off of the engagement than I had guessed.

That suspicion was strengthened by the immense trouble Kelstern took to injure Willoughton. At his clubs, the Athenaeum, the Devonshire, and the Savile, he would display an astonishing ingenuity in bringing the conversation round to Willoughton; then he would declare that he was a scoundrel and a blackguard of the meanest type. Of course it did Willoughton harm, though not nearly as much harm as Kelstern desired, for Willoughton knew his job as few engineers knew it; and it is very hard indeed to do much harm to a man who really knows his job. People have to have him. But of course it did him some harm; and Willoughton knew that Kelstern was doing it. I came across two men who told me that they had given him a friendly hint. That did not improve Willoughton’s temper.

An expert in the construction of those ferro-concrete buildings which are rising up all over London, he was as distinguished in his sphere as Kelstern in his. They were alike not only in the matters of brains and bad temper; but I think that their minds worked in very much the same way. At any rate both of them seemed determined not to change their ordinary course of life because of the breaking off of that engagement.

It had been the habit of both of them to have a Turkish bath, at the baths in Duke Street, at four in the afternoon on the second and last Tuesday in every month. To that habit they stuck. The fact that they must meet on those Tuesdays did not cause either of them to change his hour of taking his Turkish bath by the twenty minutes which would have given them no more than a passing glimpse of one another. They continued to take it, as they always had, simultaneously. Thick-skinned? They were thick-skinned. Neither of them pretended that he did not see the other; he scowled at him; and he scowled at him most of the time. I know this, for sometimes I had a Turkish bath myself at that hour.

It was about three months after the breaking off of the engagement that they met for the last time at that Turkish bath, and there parted for good.

Kelstern had been looking ill for about six weeks: there was a greyness and a drawn look to his face; and he was losing weight. On the second Tuesday in October he arrived at the bath punctually at four, bringing with him, as was his habit, a thermos flask full of a very delicate China tea. If he thought that he was not perspiring freely enough he would drink it in the hottest room; if he did perspire freely enough, he would drink it after his bath. Willoughton arrived about two minutes later. Kelstern finished undressing and went into the bath a couple of minutes before Willoughton. They stayed in the hot room about the same time; Kelstern went into the hottest room about a minute after Willoughton. Before he went into it he sent for his thermos flask which he had left in the dressing-room and took it into the hottest room with him.

As it happened, they were the only two people in the hottest room; and they had not been in it two minutes before the four men in the hot room heard them quarrelling. They heard Kelstern call Willoughton a dirty hound and a low blackguard, among other things, and declare he would do him in yet. Willoughton told him to go to the devil twice. Kelstern went on abusing him and presently Willoughton fairly shouted: “Oh, shut up, you old fool! Or I’ll make you!”

Kelstern did not shut up. About two minutes later Willoughton came out of the hottest room, scowling, walked through the hot room into the shampooing room and put himself into the hands of one of the shampooers. Two or three minutes after that a man of the name of Helston went into the hottest room and fairly yelled. Kelstern was lying back on a blood-drenched couch, with the blood still flowing from a wound over his heart.

There was a devil of a hullabaloo. The police were called in; Willoughton was arrested. Of course he lost his temper and, protesting furiously that he had had nothing whatever to do with the crime, abused the police. That did not incline them to believe him.

After examining the room and the dead body the detective-inspector in charge of the case came to the conclusion that Kelstern had been stabbed as he was drinking his tea. The thermos flask lay on the floor in front of him and some of the tea had evidently been spilt, for some tea-leaves – the tea in the flask must have been carelessly strained of the leaves by the maid who filled it – lay on the floor about the mouth of the empty flask. It looked as if the murderer had taken advantage of Kelstern’s drinking his tea to stab him while the flask rather blocked his vision and prevented him from seeing what he would be at.

The case would have been quite plain sailing but for the fact that they could not find the weapon. It had been easy enough for Willoughton to take it into the bath in the towel in which he was draped. But how had he got of it? Where had he hidden it? A Turkish bath is no place to hide anything in. It is as bare as an empty barn – if anything barer; and Willoughton had been in the barest part of it. The police searched every part of it – not that there was much point in doing that, for Willoughton had come out of the hottest room, and gone through the hot room into the shampooers’ room. When Helston started shouting murder, Willoughton had rushed back with the shampooers to the hottest room and there he had stayed. Since it was obvious that he had committed the murder, the shampooers and the bathers had kept their eyes on him. They were all of them certain that he had not left them to go to the dressing-rooms; they would not have allowed him to do so.

It was obvious that he must have carried the weapon into the bath, hidden in the folds of the towel in which he was draped, and brought it away in the folds of that towel. He had laid the towel down beside the couch on which he was being shampooed; and there it still lay when they came to look for it, untouched, with no weapon in it, with no traces of blood on it. There was not much in the fact that it was not stained with blood, since Willoughton could have wiped the knife, or dagger, or whatever weapon he used, on the couch on which Kelstern lay. There were no marks of any such wiping on the couch; but the blood, flowing from the wound, might have covered them up.

There was no finding the weapon; and its disappearance puzzled the police and later puzzled the public.

Then the doctors who made the autopsy came to the conclusion that the wound had been inflicted by a circular, pointed weapon nearly three-quarters of an inch in diameter. It had penetrated rather more than three inches and supposing that its handle was only four inches long it must have been a sizeable weapon, quite impossible to overlook. The doctors also discovered a further proof of the theory that Kelstern had been drinking his tea when he was stabbed. Half-way down the wound they found two halves of a tea-leaf which had evidently fallen on to Kelstern’s body, been driven into the wound and cut in half by the weapon. Also they discovered that Kelstern was suffering from cancer. This fact was not published in the papers; I heard it at the Devonshire.

Willoughton was brought before the magistrates and to most people’s surprise did not reserve his defence. He went into the witness box and swore that he had never touched Kelstern, that he had never had anything to touch him with, that he had never taken any weapon into the Turkish bath and so had had no weapon to hide, that he had never even seen any such weapon as the doctors described. He was committed for trial.

The papers were full of the crime; every one was discussing it; and the question which occupied every one’s mind was: where had Willoughton hidden the weapon? People wrote to the papers to suggest that he had ingeniously put it in some place under everybody’s eyes and that it had been overlooked because it was so obvious. Others suggested that, circular and pointed, it must be very like a thick lead pencil, that it was a thick lead pencil; and that was why the police had overlooked it in their search. The police had not overlooked any thick lead pencil; there had been no thick lead pencil to overlook. They hunted England through – Willoughton did a lot of motoring – to discover the man who had sold him this curious and uncommon weapon. They did not find the man who had sold it to him; they did not find a man who sold such weapons at all. They came to the conclusion that Kelstern had been murdered with a piece of a steel, or iron, rod filed to a point like a pencil.

In spite of the fact that only Willoughton could have murdered Kelstern, I could not believe that he had done it. The fact that Kelstern was doing his best to injure him professionally and socially was by no means a strong enough motive. Willoughton was far too intelligent a man not to be very well aware that people do not take much notice of statements to the discredit of a man whom they need to do a job for them; and for the social injury he would care very little. Besides, he might very well injure, or even kill, a man in one of his tantrums; but his was not the kind of bad temper that plans a cold-blooded murder; and if ever a murder had been deliberately planned, Kelstern’s had.

I was as close a friend as Willoughton had, and I went to visit him in prison. He seemed rather touched by my doing so, and grateful. I learnt that I was the only person who had done so. He was subdued and seemed much gentler. It might last. He discussed the murder readily enough and naturally with an harassed air. He said quite frankly that he did not expect me, in the circumstances, to believe that he had not committed it; but he had not, and he could not for the life of him conceive who had. I did believe that he had not committed it; there was something in his way of discussing it that wholly convinced me. I told him that I was quite sure that he had not killed Kelstern; and he looked at me as if he did not believe the assurance. But again he looked grateful.

Ruth was grieving for her father; but Willoughton’s very dangerous plight to some degree distracted her mind from her loss. A woman can quarrel with a man bitterly without desiring to see him hanged; and Willoughton’s chance of escaping hanging was not at all a good one. But she would not believe for a moment that he had murdered her father.

“No; there’s nothing in it – nothing whatever,” she said firmly. “If Dad had murdered Hugh I could have understood it. He had reasons – or at any rate he had persuaded himself that he had. But whatever reason had Hugh for murdering Dad? It’s all nonsense to suppose that he’d mind Dad’s trying all he knew to injure him, as much as that. All kinds of people are going about trying to injure other people in that way, but they don’t really injure them very much; and Hugh knows that quite well.”

“Of course they don’t; and Hugh wouldn’t really believe that your father was injuring him much,” I said. “But you’re forgetting his infernal temper.”

“No: I’m not,” she protested. “He might kill a man in one of his rages on the spur of the moment. But this wasn’t the spur of the moment. Whoever did it had worked the whole thing out and came along with the weapon ready.”

I had to admit that that was reasonable enough. But who had done it? I pointed out to her that the police had made careful enquiries about every one in the bath at the time, the shampooers and the people taking their baths, but they had found no evidence whatever that any one of them had at any time had any relations, except that of shampooer, with her father.

“Either it was one of them, or somebody else who just did it and got right away, or there’s a catch somewhere,” she said frowning thoughtfully.

“I can’t see how there can possibly have been any one in the bath, except the people who are known to have been there,” said I. “In fact, there can’t have been.”

Then the Crown subpoenaed her as a witness for the prosecution. It seemed rather unnecessary and even a bit queer, for it could have found plenty of evidence of bad blood between the two men without dragging her into it. Plainly it was bent on doing all it knew to prove motive enough. Ruth seemed more upset by the prospect of going into the witness-box than I should have expected her to be. But then she had been having a very trying time.

On the morning of the trial I called for her after breakfast to drive her down to the New Bailey. She was pale and looked as if she had had a poor night’s rest, and, naturally enough, she seemed to be suffering from an excitement she had to control. It was not like her to show any excitement she might be feeling.

We had of course been in close touch with Willoughton’s solicitor, Hamley; and he had kept seats for us just behind him. He wished to have Ruth at hand to consult should some point turn up on which she could throw light, since she knew more than any one about the relations between Willoughton and her father. I had timed our arrival very well; the jury had just been sworn in. Of course the Court was full of women, the wives of Peers and bookmakers and politicians, most of them overdressed and overscented.

Then the judge came in; and with his coming the atmosphere of the Court became charged with that sense of anxious strain peculiar to trials for murder. It was rather like the atmosphere of a sick room in a case of fatal illness, but worse.

It was unfortunate for Willoughton that the judge was Garbould. A hard-faced, common-looking fellow, and coarse in the grain, he has a well-founded reputation as a hanging judge and the habit of acting as an extra counsel for the prosecution.

Willoughton came into the box, looking under the weather and very much subdued. But he certainly looked dignified and he said that he was not guilty in a steady enough voice.

Greatorex, the leading Counsel for the Crown, opened the case for the prosecution. There was no suggestion in his speech that the Police had discovered any new fact.

Then Helston gave evidence of finding the body of the dead man and he and the other three men who had been with him in the hot room gave evidence of the quarrel they had overheard between Willoughton and the dead man, and that Willoughton came out of the hottest room, scowling and obviously furious. One of them, a fussy old gentleman of the name of Underwood, declared that it was the bitterest quarrel he had ever heard. None of the four of them could throw any light on the matter of whether Willoughton was carrying the missing weapon in the folds of the towel in which he was draped; all of them were sure that he had nothing in his hands.

The medical evidence came next. In cross-examining the doctors who had made the autopsy, Hazeldean, Willoughton’s counsel, established the fact quite definitely that the missing weapon was of a fair size; that its rounded blade must have been over half an inch in diameter and between three and four inches long. They were of the opinion that to drive a blade of that thickness into the heart, a handle of at least four inches in length would be necessary to give a firm enough grip. It might have been a piece of a steel, or iron, rod sharpened like a pencil. At any rate it was certainly a sizeable weapon, not one to be hidden quickly, or to disappear wholly in a Turkish bath. Hazeldean could not shake their evidence about the tea-leaf; they were confident that it had been driven into the wound and cut in half by the blade of the missing weapon, and that that went to show that the wound had been inflicted while Kelstern was drinking his tea.

Detective-Inspector Brackett, who was in charge of the case, was cross-examined at great length about his search for the missing weapon. He made it quite clear that it was nowhere in that Turkish bath, neither in the hot rooms, nor the shampooing room, nor the dressing-rooms, nor the vestibule, nor the office. He had had the plunge bath emptied; he had searched the roofs, though it was practically certain that the skylight above the hot room, not the hottest, had been shut at the time of the crime. In re-examination he scouted the idea of Willoughton’s having had an accomplice who had carried away the weapon for him. He had gone into that matter most carefully.

The shampooer stated that Willoughton came to him scowling so savagely that he wondered what had put him into such a bad temper. In cross-examining him Arbuthnot, Hazeldean’s junior, made it clearer than ever that, unless Willoughton had already hidden the weapon in the bare hottest room, it was hidden in the towel. Then he drew from the shampooer the definite statement that Willoughton had set down the towel beside the couch on which he was shampooed, that he had hurried back to the hot rooms in front of the shampooer; that the shampooer had come back from the hot rooms, leaving Willoughton still in them discussing the crime, to find the towel lying just as Willoughton had set it down, with no weapon in it and no trace of blood on it.

Since the Inspector had disposed of the possibility that an accomplice had slipped in, taken the weapon from the towel, and slipped out of the bath with it, this evidence really made it clear that the weapon had never left hottest room.

Then the prosecution called evidence of the bad terms on which Kelstern and Willoughton had been. Three well-known and influential men told the jury about Kelstern’s efforts to prejudice Willoughton in their eyes and the damaging statements he had made about him. One of them had felt it to be his duty to tell Willoughton about this; and Willoughton had been very angry. Arbuthnot, in cross-examining, elicited the fact that any damaging statement that Kelstern made about any one was considerably discounted by the fact that every one knew him to be in the highest degree cantankerous.

I noticed that during the end of the cross-examination of the shampooer and during this evidence, Ruth had been fidgeting and turning to look impatiently at the entrance to the Court, as if she were expecting some one. Then, just as she was summoned to the witness box, there came in a tall, stooping, grey-headed, grey-bearded man of about sixty, carrying a brown-paper parcel. His face was familiar to me; but I could not place him. He caught her eye and nodded to her. She breathed a sharp sigh of relief and bent over and handed a letter she had in her hand to Willoughton’s solicitor and pointed out the grey-bearded man to him. Then she went quietly to the witness box.

Hamley read the letter and at once bent over and handed it to Hazeldean and spoke to him. I caught a note of excitement in his hushed voice. Hazeldean read the letter and appeared to grow excited too. Hamley slipped out of his seat and went to the grey-bearded man who was still standing just inside the door of the Court and began to talk to him earnestly.

Greatorex began to examine Ruth; and naturally I turned my attention to her. His examination was directed also to show on what bad terms Kelstern and Willoughton had been. Ruth was called on to tell the jury some of Kelstern’s actual threats. Then – it is astonishing how few things the police fail to ferret out in a really important case – the examination took a curious turn. Greatorex began to question Ruth about her own relations with Willoughton and the plain trend of his questions was to bring out the fact that they had not merely been engaged to be married but had also been lovers.

I saw at once what the prosecution was aiming at. It was trying to make use of the tendency of a British jury and a British judge, in a natural effort to champion morality, to hang a man or a woman, who is on trial for murder, for behaving immorally in relations with the other sex. There was no better way of prejudicing Willoughton than by proving that he had seduced Ruth under the promise of marriage.

Of course Hazeldean was on his feet at once protesting that this evidence was irrelevant and inadmissible; and of course Garbould was against him – he does not enjoy the nickname by which he is known to the junior bar for nothing. Hazeldean was magnificent. He had one of the worst rows with Garbould he had ever had; and he has had many. Garbould is a fool to let him have these rows. Hazeldean always gets the better of him, or seems to; and it does him good with the jury. But then Garbould was raised to the bench not for intelligence but for political merit. He ruled that the questions were admissible and put one or two to Ruth himself.

Then Willoughton lost his temper and protested that this had nothing to do with the case and that it was an outrage. Willoughton has a ringing voice of considerable volume. He is not at all an easy man to hush when he does not wish to hush; and they were some time hushing him. By the time they succeeded, Garbould was purplish-red with fury. Anything that he could do to hang Willoughton would certainly be done. But, observing the jury, my impression was that Willoughton’s outburst had done him good with it and that Hazeldean’s protests had ended its confidence in Garbould. When I looked at the faces, just a trifle sickly, of the counsel for the prosecution, I felt sure that the Crown had bungled this business rather badly.

Greatorex, assisted by Garbould, went on with his questions; and Ruth defiant rather than abashed, and looking in her flushed animation a more charming creature than ever, admitted that she and Willoughton had been lovers; that more than once when he had brought her home from a dance or a theatre he had not left her till the early morning. One of the maids had spied on them; and the Crown had the facts.

I was afraid, in spite of Hazeldean’s protests, that the fact that Willoughton had seduced her under the promise of marriage, as Greatorex put it, would do him great harm with the jury – very likely it would hang him.

Then Ruth, still flushed, but not greatly discomposed, said: “That would be a reason for my father’s murdering Mr. Willoughton, not for Mr. Willoughton’s murdering my father.”

That brought Garbould down upon her like a ton of bricks. She was there to answer questions, not to make idle remarks and so forth and so on.

Then Greatorex came to the breaking off of the engagement and put it to her that Willoughton had broken it off, had in fact jilted her after compromising her. That she would not have for a moment. She declared that they had had a quarrel and she had broken it off. To that she stuck and there was no shaking her, though Garbould himself took a hearty hand in trying to shake her.

In the middle of it Willoughton, who was looking quite himself again, now that the atmosphere of the Court might be said to be charged almost with violence, said in a very unpleasant, jeering voice: “What she says is perfectly true – what’s the good of bothering her?”

Again Garbould was to the fore, and angrily reprimanded him for speaking, bade him keep silent, and said that he would not have his Court turned into a bear-garden.

“With the bear on the bench,” said Hazeldean to Arbuthnot in a whisper that carried well.

Two or three people laughed. One of them was a juryman. By the time Garbould had finished with him I did not think that that juryman would have convicted Willoughton, if he had actually seen him stab Kelstern.

Willoughton was writing a note which was passed to Hazeldean.

Hazeldean rose to cross-examine Ruth with a wholly confident air. He drew from her the facts that her father had been on excellent terms with Willoughton until the breaking off of the engagement; that in that matter he had taken her part warmly; and that when the maid who had spied upon them had informed him of her relations with Willoughton he had been very little more enraged than he was already.

Then Hazeldean asked: “Is it a fact that since the breaking off of your engagement the prisoner has more than once begged you to forgive him and renew it?”

“Four times,” said Ruth.

“And you refused?”

“Yes,” said Ruth. She looked at Willoughton queerly and added: “He wanted a lesson.”

“Did he then beg you at least to go through the form of marriage with him, and promise to leave you at the church door?”

“Yes.”

“And you refused?”

“Yes,” said Ruth.

Garbould bent forward and said in his most unpleasant tone: “And why did you reject the opportunity of repairing your shameful behaviour?”

“It wasn’t shameful,” Ruth almost snapped; and she scowled at him frankly. Then she added naïvely: “I refused because there was no hurry. He would always marry me if I changed my mind and wanted to.”

There was a pause. To me it seemed clearer than ever that the Crown had bungled badly in raising the question of the relations between her and Willoughton since he had evidently been more than ready to save her from any harm that might come of their indiscretion. But then, with a jury, you can never tell. Then Hazeldean started on a fresh line.

In sympathetic accents he asked: “Is it a fact that your father was suffering from cancer in a painful form?”

“It was beginning to grow very painful,” said Ruth sadly.

“Did he make a will and put all his affairs in order a few days before he died?”

“Three days,” said Ruth.

“Did he ever express an intention of committing suicide?”

“He said that he would stick it out for a little while and then end it all,” said Ruth. She paused and added: “And that is what he did do.”

One might almost say that the Court started. I think that everyone in it moved a little, so that there was a kind of rustling murmur. Garbould threw himself back in his seat with a snort of incredulity and glowered at Ruth.

“Will you tell the Court your reasons for that statement?” said Hazeldean.

Ruth seemed to pull herself together; the flush had faded from her face and she was looking very tired; then she began in a quiet, even voice: “I never believed for a moment that Mr. Willoughton murdered my father. If my father had murdered Mr. Willoughton it would have been a different matter.”

Garbould leaned forward and snarled that it was not her beliefs or fancies that were wanted, but facts.

I did not think that she heard him; she was concentrating on giving her reasons exactly; she went on in the same quiet tone: “Of course, like everybody else I puzzled over the weapon: what it was and where it had got to. I did not believe that it was a pointed piece of a half-inch steel rod. If anybody had come to the Turkish bath meaning to murder my father and hide the weapon, they wouldn’t have used one so big and so difficult to hide, when a hat-pin would have done just as well and could be hidden much more easily. But what puzzled me most was the tea-leaf in the wound. All the other tea-leaves that came out of the flask were lying on the floor. Inspector Brackett told me they were. And I couldn’t believe that one tea-leaf had fallen on to my father at the very place above his heart at which the point of the weapon had penetrated the skin and got driven in by it. It was too much of a coincidence for me to swallow. But I got no nearer understanding it than anyone else.”

Garbould broke in in a tone of some exasperation and told her to come to the facts. Hazeldean rose and protested that the witness should not be interrupted; that she had solved a mystery which had puzzled some of the best brains in England, and she should be allowed to tell her story in her own way.

Again Ruth did not appear to listen to them, and when they stopped she went on in the same quiet voice: “Of course I remembered that Dad had talked to putting an end to it; but no one with a wound like that could get up and hide the weapon. Then, the night before last I dreamt that I went into the laboratory and saw a piece of steel rod, pointed, lying on the table at which my father used to work.”

“Dreams now!” murmured Garbould contemptuously; and he leaned back and folded his hands over his stomach.

“I didn’t think much of the dream, of course,” Ruth went on. “I had been puzzling about it all so hard for so long that it was only natural to dream about it. But after breakfast I had a sudden feeling that the secret was in the laboratory if I could only find it. I did not attach any importance to the feeling; but it went on growing stronger; and after lunch I went to the laboratory and began to hunt.

“I looked through all the drawers and could find nothing. Then I went round the room looking at everything and into everything, instruments and retorts and tubes and so on. Then I went into the middle of the floor and looked slowly round the room pretty hard. Against the wall, near the door, lying ready to be taken away, was a gas cylinder rolled it over to see what gas had been in it and it had no label on it.”

She paused to look round the Court as if claiming its best attention; then she went on: “Now that was very queer because every gas cylinder must have a label on it – so many gases are dangerous. I turned on the cylinder and nothing came out of it. It was quite empty. Then I went to the book in which all the things which come in are entered, and found that ten days before Dad died he had had in a cylinder of CO2 and seven pounds of ice. Also he had had seven pounds of ice every day till the day of his death. It was the ice and the CO2 together that gave me the idea. CO2, carbon dioxide, has a very low freezing-point – eighty degrees centigrade – and as it comes out of the cylinder and mixes with the air it turns into very fine snow; and that snow, if you compress it, makes the hardest and toughest ice possible. It flashed on me that Dad could have collected this snow and forced it into a mould and made a weapon that would not only inflict that wound but would disappear instantly!”

She paused again to look round the Court at about as rapt a lot of faces as any narrator could desire. Then she went on: “I knew that that was what he had done. I knew it for certain. Carbon dioxide ice would make a hard, tough dagger, and it would melt quickly in the hottest room of a Turkish bath and leave no smell because it is scentless. So there wouldn’t be any weapon. And it explained the tea-leaf too. Dad had made a carbon dioxide dagger perhaps a week before he used it, perhaps only a day. And he had put it into the thermos flask as soon as he had made it. The thermos flask keeps out the heat as well as the cold, you know. But to make sure that it couldn’t melt at all he kept the flask in ice till he was ready to use the dagger. It’s the only way you can explain that tea-leaf. It came out of the flask sticking to the point of the dagger and was driven into the wound!”

She paused again and one might almost say that the Court heaved a deep sigh of relief.

Then Garbould asked in an unpleasant and incredulous voice: “Why didn’t you take this fantastic theory straight to the police?”

“But that wouldn’t have been any good,” she protested quickly. “It was no use my knowing it myself; I had to make other people believe it; I had to find evidence. I began to hunt for it. I felt in my bones that there was some. What I wanted was the mould. I found it!”

She uttered the words in a tone of triumph and smiled at Willoughton; then she went on: “At least I found bits of it. In the box into which we used to throw odds and ends, scraps of material, damaged instruments, and broken test tubes, I found some pieces of vulcanite; and I saw at once that they were bits of a vulcanite container. I took some wax and rolled it into a rod about the right size and then I pieced the container together on the outside of it – at least most of it – there are some small pieces missing. It took me nearly all night. But I found the most important bit – the pointed end!”

She dipped her hand into her handbag and drew out a black object about nine inches long and three quarters of an inch thick and held it up for every one to see.

Someone, without thinking, began to clap; and there came a storm of applause that drowned the voice of the Clerk calling for order and the bellowing of Garbould.

When the applause died down, Hazeldean, who never misses the right moment, said: “I have no more questions to ask the witness, my lord,” and sat down.

That action seemed to clinch it in my eyes, and I have no doubt, it clinched it in the eyes of the jury.

The purple Garbould leant forward and almost bellowed at Ruth: “Do you expect the jury to believe that a well-known man like your father died in the act of deliberately setting a dastardly trap to hang the prisoner?”

Ruth looked at him, shrugged her shoulders, and said with a calm acceptance of the facts of human nature one would expect to find only in a much older woman: “Oh, well, Daddy was like that. And he certainly believed he had very good reasons for killing Mr. Willoughton.”

There was that in her tone and manner which made it absolutely certain that Kelstern was not only like that but that he had acted according to his nature.

Greatorex did not re-examine Ruth; he conferred with Hazeldean. Then Hazeldean rose to open the case for the defence. He said that he would not waste the time of the Court, and that in view of the fact that Miss Kelstern had solved the problem of her father’s death, he would only call one witness, Professor Mozley.

The grey-headed, grey-bearded, stooping man, who had come to the Court so late, went into the witness-box. Of course his face had been familiar to me; I had seen his portrait in the newspapers a dozen times. He still carried the brown-paper parcel.

In answer to Hazeldean’s questions he stated that it was possible, not even difficult, to make a weapon of carbon dioxide hard enough and tough enough and sharp enough to inflict such a wound as that which had caused Kelstern’s death. The method of making it was to fold a piece of chamois leather into a bag, hold that bag with the left hand, protected by a glove, over the nozzle of a cylinder containing liquid carbon dioxide, and open the valve with the right hand. Carbon dioxide evaporates so quickly that its freezing-point, 80 degrees centigrade, is soon reached; and it solidifies in the chamois-leather bag as a deposit of carbon dioxide snow. Then turn off the gas, spoon that snow into a vulcanite container of the required thickness, and ram it down with a vulcanite plunger into a rod of the required hardness. He added that it was advisable to pack the container in ice while filling it and ramming down the snow, then put the rod into a thermos flask; and keep it till it is needed.

“And you have made such a rod?” said Hazeldean.

“Yes,” said the Professor, cutting the string of the brown-paper parcel. “When Miss Kelstern hauled me out of bed at half-past seven this morning to tell me her discoveries, I perceived at once that she had found the solution of the problem of her father’s death, which had puzzled me considerably. I had breakfast quickly and got to work to make such a weapon myself for the satisfaction of the Court. Here it is.”

He drew a thermos flask from the brown paper, unscrewed the top of it, and inverted it. There dropped into his gloved hand a white rod about eight inches long. He held it out for the jury to see.

“This carbon dioxide ice is the hardest and toughest ice we know of; and I have no doubt that Mr. Kelstern killed himself with a similar rod. The difference between the rod he used and this is that his rod was pointed. I had no pointed vulcanite container; but the container that Miss Kelstern pieced together is pointed. Doubtless Mr. Kelstern had it specially made, probably by Messrs. Hawkins Spender.”

He dropped the rod back into the thermos flask and screwed on the top.

Hazeldean sat down. The juryman who had been reprimanded by Garbould leaned forward and spoke earnestly to the foreman. Greatorex rose.

“With regard to the point of the rod, Professor Mozley: would it remain sharp long enough to pierce the skin in that heat?” he asked.

“In my opinion it would,” said the Professor. “I have been considering that point and bearing in mind the facts that Mr. Kelstern would from his avocation be very deft with his hands, and being a scientific man, would know exactly what to do, he would have the rod out of the flask and the point in position in very little more than a second – perhaps less. He would, I think, hold it in his left hand and drive it home by striking the butt of it hard with his right. The whole thing would not take him two seconds. Besides, if the point of the weapon had melted the tea-leaf would have fallen off it.”

“Thank you,” said Greatorex, and turned and conferred with the Crown solicitors.

Then he said: “We do not propose to proceed with the case, my lord.”

The foreman of the jury rose quickly and said: “And the Jury doesn’t want to hear anything more, my lord. We’re quite satisfied that the prisoner isn’t guilty.”

Garbould hesitated. For two pins he would have directed the case to proceed. Then his eye fell on Hazeldean, who was watching him; I fancied that he decided not to give him a chance of saying more disagreeable things.

Looking black enough, he put the question formally to the Jury, who returned a verdict of “Not Guilty,” and then he discharged Willoughton.

I came out of the Court with Ruth, and we waited for Willoughton.

Presently he came out of the door and stopped and shook himself. Then he saw Ruth and came to her. They did not greet one another. She just slipped her hand through his arm; and they walked out of the New Bailey together.

We made a good deal of noise, cheering them.

________________

13: The Vanishing of Mrs. Fraser

Sir Basil Thomson

From Mr. Pepper, Investigator, 1925

On a lighter note than his "Richardson" series of Scotland Yard novels, Sir Basil Thomson write a series of short stories about Mr Pepper, the impetuous amateur crime solver.

IF I HAD ever had any doubts about the almost uncanny cleverness of Mr. Pepper they were dispelled by the way in which he managed the case of Mrs. Fraser. True, his first theory had to be abandoned; but it was he who brought the mystery under his searchlight and probed it to the bottom.

On arriving at the office one day, I found him frowning over a typewritten sheet which purported to be a translation from a paragraph from one of the Paris newspapers. The covering letter, I remember, ran as follows:

DEAR PEP,—

This is something you need to take care of. I would mail you the original but I think you don't read the lingo.

Yours cordially,

WINSTON E. SLACK."

It was the first intimation I had had that Mr. Pepper was called "Pep" by his intimates.

The cutting related to the alleged disappearance of a Scottish lady, Mrs. Fraser, in Paris, under circumstances which were highly suspicious, if they were true. Supplemented by information that came to me at a later stage, the story was as follows:

Mrs. Fraser and her daughter Mary had been passing the winter in Naples. They left in April and travelled through to Paris without stopping. At the Midi Station a porter trundled a vast trunk to the cab rank and called up a cabman with a pallid, broad face framed in a bushy red beard, who refused to accept the trunk. If it did not sow the seeds of disease in him, he said, it would certainly kill his horse. Mary Fraser, who was the linguist of the two, reasoned with him, and in the end persuaded him to accept the two, trunk and all, for ten francs. They drove to that little family hotel in the Rue Cambon, the Hotel des Étrangers, much frequented by English people with slender means. There followed a fresh dispute with Redbeard, who said that the trunk had strained the springs of his cab, and that sixteen francs was the least that he would take. Mary Fraser, being firm, came to a compromise for twelve; the cabman went off hurling his frank opinion of the English at the concierge, and Mary entered the hotel to find her mother collapsing on a seat in the hall. It fell to Mary to enter their names in the hotel register. She chanced to notice that the name just above theirs was "Dupont," executed with an elaborate flourish to indicate, I suppose, that the writer was a person of consideration.

The front room in the entre-sol was assigned to them. It was an old-fashioned room with a wooden bedstead, a peeling flowered wallpaper, and a threadbare carpet, but all was clean. Mary had to help her mother up the stairs and lay her on the bed. Her strength seemed to have given way. The porter staggered up the stairs with the trunk and dumped it on the floor: Mrs. Fraser groaned with pain at the noise. To her daughter's anxious questions, she answered faintly that she was feeling very ill: that she supposed it was fatigue; that she might sleep. But she was flushed and swollen, and Miss Fraser determined to send for a doctor, and went down to the Manageress.

A doctor? Yes, the Manageress knew a very good doctor— Duphot was his name. All her English visitors when they were ill sent for him and spoke well of him afterwards: she could get him to the hotel in five minutes. Presently Dr. Duphot made his appearance. He was the typical French doctor, as round as a ball, wearing a black beard cut like a spade. Mary explained the case as well as she could. The doctor listened without speaking, and then made a systematic examination of the sick woman. At last he stood up and addressed Mary Fraser:

"Mademoiselle, there is no cause for anxiety. I shall telephone for the necessary remedies. In the meantime, stay here with Madame. I shall return in a few moments."

Mrs. Fraser had sunk back exhausted. She was breathing quickly and seemed to be half-delirious. The doctor tarried, and at last Mary, unable any longer to bear the strain, went out to the head of the stairs to call him. She did not go down because from her position she could see his back and shoulders in the telephone box. He seemed to be speaking emphatically; and the Manageress was hovering about outside, listening. Why all this fuss about her mother unless she were very ill indeed? Mary could bear the suspense no longer: she was on her way down when the doctor left the box and met her on the stairs.

"You should not have left your mother. Mademoiselle!" he said gravely, leading the way back into the sickroom. "Now listen; there is no cause for anxiety, but it will save time if you go yourself to fetch the drug I require. My colleague, whose address is on this card, will give it to you. As soon as you receive it, come back. I have ordered a cab for you. You can quite safely leave your mother in my care. It is only for a few minutes: you will soon be back."

There seemed nothing to do but to obey. Mary ran down to the cab and drove off. The sun had set: it began to grow dark as the cab threaded its way through a maze of narrow streets. The distance seemed interminable. At last they crossed the Seine and plunged into another maze. Mary became uneasy and questioned the driver, who answered shortly that the house was now quite near. But it was dark when at last they pulled up at the door of a large block of flats. In spite of the distance they had come. Miss Fraser was surprised at the lowness of the fare. She climbed the interminable stairs to the fifth floor, and touched the bell. The door flew open and a florid woman in a decorated dressing-gown received her as the expected guest. She took her into a tiny sitting-room and bade her feel at home. The doctor was expected every moment: he had gone out on the very business of Mrs. Fraser's illness. And then she branched out into the wonders of Paris. Did Mademoiselle know Paris? Was she under the charm of this capital of the world, so different from London with its gloom and its fogs? She would buy dresses? No? Ah, there was the telephone. Such an infliction, these telephones. She bustled off into the next room and through the communicating door Mary Fraser heard half the conversation and understood about a sixth of it.

"Up till what hour?"

"Eleven?"

"Good"

—and the conversation ceased.

She waited many minutes: her hostess did not return. A clock struck a half-hour. The clock in the room marked eight: her wrist-watch nine-thirty. Heavens, had she been all that time? She would wait no longer. She distrusted this glib, plausible woman. A terror lest she had fallen into a trap began to take hold of her. She crept softly out into the hall to let herself out by the front door. It was locked. She was trapped.

In her terror she shouted "Madame!" The door of the telephone room was next to that of the sitting-room. She knocked and, getting no answer, turned the handle. That, too, was locked.

She beat upon it with her hands.

The door flew open and there stood Madame, flaming with indignation. What was this? Why all this noise? Locked in? Impossible! No one but their two selves was in the flat. She had not locked the front door and therefore, if it was locked, it was Mademoiselle herself. If she chose to leave just when the doctor was due—he had telephoned that he was coming—well, she was free to go. Mary saw her fumbling in her pocket for the key, and she was first to the door to pull on it. Madame tried it herself and cried, "Tiens! It is indeed locked, but how?"

Could she herself have turned the key in absence of mind? What an extraordinary thing! And so saying, she released the catch and threw it open. Before she could close it again Mary was through the gap and racing down the stairs, hearing imploring cries of "Mademoiselle!" growing fainter behind her.

Safe in the street she was not free from her troubles. It had begun to rain and not a vehicle, not even a foot passenger, was to be seen. She hurried from street to street all silent and deserted. At the last she saw the lights of a vehicle which stopped and discharged passengers. She ran and reached it breathless just as the horse began to move. It was a cab and a cab ready for a fare. She gave the name of her hotel and settled down for the interminable drive. But it was not interminable. Two streets, a bridge, the Place de la Concorde, the Rue Cambon, and in five minutes she was at her hotel. It was closed. She rang and a night porter—one she did not know—appeared and asked her politely what she wanted. She replied that she wanted to return to her room. The man admitted her and asked for her name. Fraser? Was she registered?

"Yes," she said. "Produce the register and I will show you." But the name of Fraser was not in the register, nor the name of "Dupont," the gentleman who wrote his name with a flourish, nor any other name that she had seen on the page.

"This is the Hotel des Strangers, isn't it?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle, but you must have mistaken your hotel."

She looked round the hall. It was the same. She asserted that she had been given No. 4 on the first floor.

"No, Mademoiselle," said the man, consulting the room list. "There is no one in No. 4."

"Then send for the Manageress." But this, it seemed, was not to be thought of. When Madame had once retired for the night it would cost him his place if he disturbed her. Mademoiselle had better try to find her own hotel: it must be one of the others in that street. But Mademoiselle was firm. If he would not call the Manageress she would, if she had to force her way into every room in the house. He went off unwillingly to do the deed that might cost him his place and presently Madame, in a dressing-gown and curling pins, appeared. It was the same woman, stern, uncompromising and cold.

"You wish, Mademoiselle...?"

"Madame, you know me. I want to go to my mother." The woman looked puzzled.

"Please explain yourself, Mademoiselle. I have never seen you before." Mary explained; the register was consulted; the woman persisted that she knew nothing of her story. No doctor had been summoned to the hotel that evening. None of the guests had complained of illness. But, as Mademoiselle appeared to be lost and the hour was late, she would let her sleep there. In the morning she could go to the British Consulate!

And so Mary was assigned a room on the second floor and when all was quiet she took her candle and crept softly down to No. 4 to find her mother. The number was on the door; she was in the room, but it was not the same room. There were no roses on an old wallpaper, but a blue art wallpaper, devoid of pattern: no wooden bedstead, but a brass bedstead of the modern kind: no worn carpet, but a staring new floor covering. The wash hand stand was of mahogany with a white marble top. The crockery was different, and so were the chairs. It was not the same room. She was worn out. In her own room she sobbed herself to sleep.

They brought her coffee in the morning, and when she went downstairs to pay for it she found that there was no charge. The Manageress, repenting of her rudeness overnight, was polite and even sympathetic.

At ten o'clock she related her story to the British Vice-Consul, whose only comment was to ask her for the address of her relations in England. It was clear that he did not believe her, but she gave him the address of her uncle in Kensington. He introduced her to a colleague, a pleasant man of middle-age, who took her out to lunch with his wife. She gathered that he was the Consulate doctor, and that he was probing her hallucination to its source. His wife, to whom she told her story, was the first person who believed her, and perhaps it was this sensible lady who procured her another interview with the Vice-Consul and an offer to accompany her to the hotel. He explained his mission to the Manageress, who consented to a questioning of the hotel servants on one condition—that the Police Commissary of the district should be present.

This functionary arrived presently with his clerk and a semi-official enquiry was opened. Mary told her story and the Commissary remarked judicially that two witnesses ought to be called —the redbearded cabman and Dr. Duphot. The clerk went to the telephone while the Manageress was answering the Vice-Consul's questions. She reasserted that she had never seen Mary Fraser before she arrived late in the evening, that no doctor had been summoned and no lady had complained of illness. The Vice-Consul scrutinised the hotel register and then the cabman was announced. He, too, had never seen Mary, had carried no large trunk, had driven no one to the hotel on the previous day. Yes, he had driven foreigners, of course, but never to this hotel for several weeks. And then the doctor— the same man with his square cut beard. He had never seen Mademoiselle in his life— nor had he been called to the hotel yesterday, or indeed for more than three weeks. His evidence was strictly professional and the more convincing on that account. The Vice-Consul asked to see the room, to question the concierge, and when all was done he took leave ceremoniously and escorted Mary to the Consulate.

She, poor girl, saw from his manner that he was now convinced beyond hope of redemption that she was mentally unstable, but at the Consulate she had no time for brooding: her uncle had arrived from London. Mr. Anderson, of Mincing Lane and Vicarage Gate, was not a sympathetic person. He had quarrelled with his sister, Mrs. Fraser, many years before and he had come over in response to the Consul's telegram unwillingly— from what he called a sense of duty which was really, though he did not know it, the insistence of his wife. After a brief interview with the Vice-Consul he announced that they were leaving by the train at four, and that they must leave for the Gare du Nord immediately.

It was a melancholy journey. Mr. Anderson made no reference to his sister, and if he spoke at all it was about the weather. Mary replied in monosyllables. Her aunt's warm-hearted welcome made up for much, but she, too, said nothing about her mother, nor about Paris or their travels. It was very late and all trooped off to bed. Mary did not sleep.

THE DETAILS of the story reached me at a later date. All that we had at first was the paragraph in the French newspaper which had published a garbled version of gossip from the Consulate clerks. Mr. Pepper was pondering noisily: I did not like to interrupt him, although to me the case seemed simple enough. Miss Fraser, I thought, must be one of those neurotic young women who imagine things. She must have lost first her memory, then her luggage and then herself. The hotel she pitched on as the site for her hallucination about the loss of her mother refused to admit her, and somewhere her mother must be searching for her and for all we knew might already have found her. Mr. Pepper fetched a book from the laboratory— an American book about Secret Societies— and while he was turning over the pages with his thick fingers I ventured to ask whether he had formed any theory. He made no answer until he had found the passage he was looking for, and then he said, "I want to hear what you think, Mr. Meddleston-Jones." I told him. He gave a short laugh.

"The young woman was telling the truth."

"Then you think it was a murder?— that she murdered her mother?"

"Not at all." There was a triumphant note in his voice that convinced me that he had solved the problem. I was puzzled and expectant.

"You noticed," he went on, "that the daughter described how she was spirited away to the other side of Paris and detained there for hours."

"To get her out of the way?"

"And that when she returned she found the room entirely changed—new wallpaper, new furniture, a new carpet."

"You mean that they re-furnished the room while she was away? But why, unless someone had murdered her."

"And that these two ladies had come from Naples?"

"Yes, but I don't see the connection  "

"Evidently you've never heard of the Mafia."

Light was beginning to dawn on me.

"You mean, Mr. Pepper, that she was kidnapped by the Mafia."

"I mean that this lady, Mrs. Fraser, had been dabbling in Naples with politics, as so many of your English women do; that the Mafia took her measure and hunted her out of the place; that she knew too much. First they tried to poison her on the train— a waiter in the restaurant-car dropped a pinch of powder into her food, but she was a Scotchwoman and it wasn't strong enough— and then they went to work in Paris in their usual way. They terrorised the hotel management, the cabman and the others; got the daughter out of the way, terrorised the furniture man and changed the room  "

"But the doctor?"

"Oh, he wasn't a doctor at all. He was the head of the Mafia outfit in Paris. I think I could lay my finger on him in five minutes."

"And Mrs. Fraser is dead?"

"Probably not dead yet: she is being held to ransom while they are going through her papers. If she can't pay they will drop her into the Seine in a sack, probably to-morrow or on Thursday."

"Do you know that Mrs. Fraser is the sort of woman who would dabble in Neapolitan politics, Mr. Pepper?"

"They all do, or if they don't the Mafia think they do, which comes to the same tiling."

"But this is frightful. What are you going to do about it?"

"I am going to get the Mafia outfit before they get me. That's what I am going to do. I may want you to run over to Paris some day this week. You speak French, I know." He had risen and was putting on his coat. I took the hint and made for the Club with my head full of the impending fate of that poor lady held to ransom in the attic of a filthy Italian lodging-house, with death hanging over her head.

The only man in the smoking-room was Jimmy Boyd, whose practice at the Bar was growing so fast that one scarcely saw him in these days. He laid down his evening paper and seemed inclined to talk.

"Someone told me that you were mixed up with that Yankee detective fellow. Pepper," he said. "What's all this nonsense about a Mrs. Fraser and the Mafia?" He pointed to a paragraph and gave it me to read. These reporters are extraordinarily indiscreet. Nothing escapes them. The paragraph was an English version of the French newspaper account, but it went on to say that Mr. Pepper, "the world-famous American detective," was engaged upon the case and that sensational developments were expected; that there was now reason to believe that Mrs. Fraser had been the victim of a widespread secret conspiracy, from which, unless it was unmasked by Mr. Pepper, no English traveller would be safe.

"What I want to know," said Boyd, "is the identity of Mrs. Fraser. It is a common name. In my dancing days I used to know a mother and daughter of that name. They lived in Hampstead when they were not travelling abroad. They were charming people. I wouldn't have anything happen to them for worlds."

I had to confess that I did not know them, and could not say where they lived.

"This Pepper fellow who is always getting his name into the newspapers  " At this moment a club waiter came up and, addressing Boyd, said, "You are wanted on the telephone, sir."

He left me for a few minutes and returned in some excitement.

"A most extraordinary thing, Meddleston-Jones. Do you know who called me on the telephone? Miss Fraser herself. She wants me to go to her in Kensington at once. Have you had lunch?"

I had not. "Because I want you to go with me. She asked me whether I knew anyone who could help her and begged that I would bring him with me."

I had no thought of lunch, nor had he. While we were bowling along to Vicarage Gate he told me about Miss Fraser's journey and her position in her uncle's house—disbelieved by everyone and treated as a person suffering from delusions. All this she had contrived to tell him on the telephone after two unsuccessful attempts to find him earlier in the day.

Miss Fraser was at luncheon when we arrived, but she came out of the dining-room at once. She was a handsome, slender girl of about twenty-five, a little nervous and overwrought, but perfectly collected. I hung back when she showed us into her uncle's den, something in her manner and Boyd's having warned me that they had better be left alone together. In earlier days, I fancy that there must have been a dawning romance between them.

Presently I was called in to hear the whole story from her lips. I don't know what Boyd had been saying about me, but she treated me as if I were a master of detective science—as if I were the Master himself. It was very flattering to my self-esteem. I was certain after hearing and seeing her that Mr. Pepper had been right: she was telling me the actual truth, but when Boyd said suddenly, "I believe that Mr. Meddleston-Jones is prepared to cross by the next boat if you ask him," I was taken aback. How could I do this without consulting Mr. Pepper?

"You see," said Boyd, "I don't speak French, and I've an important case on to-morrow or I'd come with you. According to the papers you, or this Pepper fellow, have got a theory and you can run it to ground while the scent is fresh. I see that you took notes of the names while Miss Fraser was telling her story. Will you go?"

I looked at my watch. There was just time to catch the four o'clock train. My chief himself had talked about sending me to Paris. Why should I not surprise him? Leaving Jimmy Boyd with Miss Fraser, who really seemed quite grateful to me, I went back to the Club to cash a cheque and to scribble a note to Mr. Pepper telling him that business had taken me to Paris for a day or two and that I would keep my eyes open while I was there. I gave him my Paris address in case he should wish to communicate with me. I pondered deeply over the case on my way over: somehow Mr. Pepper's theory, fantastic though it was, that the daughter was purposely got rid of while the mother was being spirited away and the aspect of the room was changed, did seem to fit the facts. For what other reason could the page in the register have been tampered with? Mrs. Fraser was poor; if the photograph shown to me by her daughter did not lie, she was unattractive, but the people who thought it worth while to take all this trouble to kidnap her and cover up their tracks were Southerners actuated by motives quite different from those of reasoning beings like ourselves—motives which Mr. Pepper seemed to understand and I did not.

I drove from the Nord Station to the Hotel des Étrangers in the Rue Cambon. I was received by the Manageress, who, to do her justice, did not at all look like a person who would be intimidated into doing what she did not want to do by an Italian with a pistol. I felt that if terrorising were resorted to in our relations it would be exercised by her without having recourse to any pistol. She did not seem to take to me.

She assigned me a room on the second floor at the back which lent itself to the comedy I intended to play on the morrow. At about nine in the morning I sought her out at the receipt of custom and complained about my room. I was, she was surprised to hear, a literary person, travelling for my health, and I had been medically recommended always to choose a front room on the first floor in every hotel I stayed at. Expense was no object. The lady was sorry but firm. She could not turn the people out of their rooms to meet my wishes: the front rooms of every floor were engaged. I was equally firm. I liked the hotel, but not its back bedrooms. I was writing my experiences for the English papers and if I had been comfortable, I should have liked to mention the Hotel des Étrangers in my article. As it was

"You write. Monsieur? Tiens! There is certainly a room, but it is newly-decorated, and smells of paint. Would Monsieur like to see it?"

I will not try to describe my emotions when I saw the room in which the drama or tragedy of Mrs. Fraser had been enacted. Miss Eraser's account of it was photographic in its accuracy. My luggage was moved down and I was at last able to lock the door against interruption. My first business was to search the room from top to bottom in order to discover who had supplied the new furniture in a desperate hurry. The furniture itself disclosed no maker's name, but when I turned back the carpet I was lucky enough to find half a torn billhead:

My conjectures about the case had now taken a more concrete form. There might be other more cogent reasons for getting rid of Mrs. Fraser than the suspicions of a secret society, and a news paragraph from Naples had given me a new line to work upon. If I was successful it was Mr. Pepper's wonderful intuition that had furnished me with the first clue and no credit attaches to me, his humble fellow-worker.

With the scrap of paper in my pocket-book I set out on foot for the Rue St. Jacques and visited in turn No. 3, 13, 23, none of which was a shop bearing any name ending in SJEAN, but No. 33 bore the name "Grosjean" in gilt letters over the shop window, and M. Grosjean dealt in wallpapers, paints and bathroom furniture. I walked in boldly and asked the young man for patterns of wallpapers. He showed me hundreds, but found me hard to please. Not one was of the shade of dark blue that I was looking for. I demanded an interview with the manager, who was vapouring about the office at the back. He emerged a little unwillingly, I thought.

"I have not seen all your patterns, Monsieur."

"Yes, Monsieur; we have no others."

"Forgive me, but the pattern I have set my heart on is that which you used in papering the front first-floor bedroom of an hotel in the Rue Cambon last Thursday. You remember, you did it in two hours at the special desire of the authorities?"

The curious change in his features warmed my heart. He was quite a nice-looking French paperhanger when he first came in; he was an unpleasant paperhanger to look upon when I had done with him. Alarm, consternation, suppressed fury possessed his expressive features in turn, and when words failed him and he was reduced to inarticulate hissing, I said suavely, "Used it all up, did you? Well, I am sorry. Good morning."

I took a cab for my next visit, feeling sure that my paperhanger was busy with his telephone.

THE POLICEMAN on duty in the police station of the Arrondissement was polite but perfectly firm in insisting that I should divulge my business before I had a private interview with his Commissary. He found me equally firm, and when I paltered with the truth and said that I represented The Times newspaper in London he departed from his desk to take counsel. Presently he returned and beckoned to me. The Commissary was suspicious and short with me. I said, "Monsieur the Commissary, is it an offence to tamper with an hotel register?"

"If you have a complaint to make, Monsieur, I am listening."

"I assume. Monsieur, that it is an offence. I am come to denounce the Manageress of the Hotel des Étrangers, in the Rue Cambon, of erasing the names of two English ladies named Fraser from her register."

His face was not pretty to look upon. He appeared to be biting his lips to keep the words in. I thought for a moment that he was going to shout for his myrmidons to drop me down an oubliette.

"No matter, Monsieur," I said lightly. "I am quite satisfied," and then as I was going out I dropped these words over my shoulder:

"For a newspaper like The Times I am more than satisfied. 'Bubonic Plague in Paris. The Eve of the Great Exhibition.' It will be a great sensation, Monsieur. Good day!"

I returned to my hotel, for now, I felt sure, I had nothing to do but to wait. I think that the telephone had been busy; the Manageress's eyes scorched my face once but did not linger on it. I knew what she was feeling, for I had myself allowed my eyes to rest upon the puff-adder at the Zoo. But I was easy and unconcerned as that unamiable reptile. Having left my card with the Police Commissary I told the porter that I expected a visitor and went into the salon to wait. Nor was I kept waiting long. The Manageress herself announced my visitor—M. Henri Bonchamps, of the Ministry of the Interior; a very diplomatic gentleman in silk hat and frock coat, brimming over with nervous amiability.

"Mr. Meddleston-Jones? Ah! Monsieur, I am enchanted to make your acquaintance." He looked at the retreating form of the Manageress and assured himself that the door was shut behind her, I put a chair for him and he sat down.

"I call upon you at the desire of the Minister himself. His Excellency would have come in person, but unfortunately he has been summoned to the Élysée and he felt that the business was not one that brooked delay. His Excellency has been shocked at learning only this morning that some of his subordinates have been guilty of proceedings that he condemns in the strongest manner. It appears that a poor lady, a compatriot of yours, Monsieur, arrived in Paris with her daughter a day or two ago. She complained of illness, a doctor was called in; he discovered her to be suffering from bubonic plague contracted, no doubt, in Naples, whence she had come.

"The doctor notified the police and thus far no exception can be taken. But at this point their zeal ran away with them. They ought, of course, to have informed the lady's daughter and the British Consul, but instead of this they began an elaborate course of concealment. The daughter was sent away on some pretext and during her absence the poor lady was removed to a hospital, where, unfortunately, she died the same night. They then appear to have deliberately deceived the daughter by pretending that the incident had not occurred. This was entirely indefensible and the Minister is taking very serious measures with all the officials and others concerned.

"You are, no doubt, a relation of the poor lady. Monsieur,— a relation closely connected with the Press in England. In tendering His Excellency's apologies, I am desired to say that the lady was reverently interred in the Père La Chaise cemetery. I have with me the certificate and the title to the grave which His Excellency begs you to accept on behalf of the lady's family. If there is anything else that you think should be done. Monsieur, you have only to suggest it. There is one request, one hope, I should say, that His Excellency desires to express. He does hope, he does most earnestly hope, that if possible no mention should be made in any newspaper of this most unfortunate occurrence. A mention of bubonic plague, for example, on the very eve of a Great Exhibition, would be deplored by us all— deplored even by your own compatriots in Paris. May I reassure His Excellency on this point?"

The gentleman had discharged his task with delicacy and skill, but I was not at all convinced that the Minister's indignation and regret had not made its appearance at the moment when he thought he had been found out. I had the documentary evidence, the case was cleared up; I had only to tell the Consul and return to London.

My first visit was to Vicarage Gate, where I broke the news to the Aunt and left her to tell Miss Fraser. She was very strongly against any publicity and on this occasion I resolved to tell Mr. Pepper something less than the truth. I felt that in all innocence he might happen to mention the case in the hearing of his Press agent and these journalists are so dreadfully indiscreet.

I presented myself at the office without saying a word.

"Well," said Mr. Pepper, "what was Paris like?"

"Cool and a little showery," I replied.

"Ah!"—a pause— "did you hear anything about the Fraser case?"

"Yes," I said, "you were right, Mr. Pepper, as you generally are, I believe that the furniture in the room was changed while Miss Fraser was out."

"Under threats from the Mafia?" He was beginning to crow.

"Under a threat of some sort emanating from Naples, Mr. Pepper— at least, that is what I think. But the poor lady is dead— so the police believe— and the British Consul desires that for the present everything should be left to him. Any publicity at this point would ruin everything."

"Ah, well. They will never get the guilty people. You'll see."

"I think you are right in that too, Mr. Pepper."

_____________________

14: Locked In

E. Charles Vivian

Townsville Daily Bulletin. 2 Jun 1936

Author of occult crime novels under the psuedonym Jack Mann,  fantasy writer E Charles Vivian also wrote a wide variety of other fiction under his own name, including crime short stories. This is a locked room mystery.

"TWENTY-THREE years ago," said Superintendent Wadden, "his father committed suicide. I remember, because it was the year after I married. And now— well, a family habit, by the look of it."

"Perhaps." Seated beside his chief in the big police saloon, Inspector Head made the rejoinder sound entirely noncommittal.

"Whaddye mean, man— perhaps?" Wadden snapped, accompanying the query with the glare of his fierce eyes; having been turned out at eight in the morning to investigate the reported suicide, he was a trifle short of temper. But Head, gazing at the road ahead, wisely ignored both the stare and the question.

"It's the next gateway on the right, Jeffries," he said to the driver of the car, "and stop a full 20 yards short of the front door. Don't drive up to it."

Laurels, backed by old cedars, hid the house as Jeffries turned the saloon into the drive. Two hundred yards or less revealed a tiled Elizabethan roof with spiralling chimneys, and such of the frontage as a gorgeous-leaved virginia creeper let appear showed century-mellowed in tint. To the left of the big main doorway two diamond-paned casement windows showed; over and between them was a single first-floor window of similar type, and against it a ladder was reared. And, Head noted as he got out from the car, no fewer than four of the diamond panes of this first-floor window were broken, and their leaden framing bent aside, as if to admit a hand from without.

"Wait, Jeffries— I don't think we shall need you," Wadden said as he got out from the saloon. "What about Wells, Head?"

"You'd better come along, sergeant," Head said to the fourth occupant of the car. "Bring your outfit, in case we need it."

Thereupon Sergeant Wells followed his two superiors towards the entrance, bearing the black leather case in which reposed a finger-print detecting outfit and a camera. Before Head, leading the way, could pull the big, old-fashioned bell handle beside the doorpost, the door itself swung open, and a stout, fair-haired man frowned out at him before glancing at Wadden and the sergeant.

"If you're Press," he snapped, "you can get out. I'll give you two policemen particulars for the inquest. It's purely formal."

Wadden gave him a glare from his fierce eyes. "Oh, is it?" he snapped back. "That's Inspector Head you're speaking to, and he'll take charge of the formalities. What's your name?"

"Keller," the other man said, far more meekly. "Percival Keller. Mr. Garnham is my half-brother— was, that is, till he shot himself."

"Then, for a start, we'll see the body," Wadden announced. "Was it you who telephoned us to come out here?"

"No," Keller answered, standing back for them to enter. "That was Kennett, Mr. Garnham's man. But I told him to telephone."

He gave Head another unregarded, resentful look, as if he were incensed at a mere police inspector masquerading in a well-cut lounge suit instead of appearing in uniform. But Head was surveying the magnificently carved staircase that went diagonally across the back of the big, square entrance hall, giving access to a gallery that ran along the sides and back of the apartment at first-floor level.

"A fine piece of woodwork," he observed, with apparent irrelevance to their task.

"Yes,"' Keller said, ingratiatingly. "One of the Garnhams brought it over from Italy in the eighteenth century and put it, up here. It came from a villa of Alexander Borgia's — his arms are repeated on the newels. Three of the doors on the gallery belong with it."

"And now, the body," Head suggested.

"I'll take you up," Keller answered. "Mere formality, of course. We had to break the outside window to get into the room— he'd locked himself in and left the key in the lock."

The three followed him up the staircase and along the left side gallery to a door that appeared as a museum piece— Cellini or Michael Angelo himself might have proportioned it and designed its ornament. Keller reached out for the handle, but Head spoke before he touched it.

"Who else has turned that handle this morning?" he asked.

"Kennett, and Mrs. Garnham," Keller answered, readily but with visible irritation. "Why? I tell you he'd locked himself in."

"And the keyhole?" Head queried blandly. "I see none."

Keller pressed a wooden shield, bearing similar designs to those on the staircase newels, and set quite a foot back from the edge of the door. It slid aside, revealing a keyhole a good two inches in length.

"I see," Head remarked. "Now we can go in."

Again Keller led and they followed. Halfway between the door and the window which Head had seen as broken from outside the house, lay the body of a delicately featured, scholarly looking man of early middle age, and by it an overturned chair that had stood at a flat-topped writing-desk so angled from the window that the light would fall over the left shoulder of one seated at the kneehole. Behind the right ear of the prostrate figure was a neat round hole, from which a very little blood had oozed to trickle down to the back of the dead man's neck and there congeal. A small, nickel-plated revolver gleamed ominously from the carpet, and, kneeling, Head took it up by inserting a pencil in the barrel, handing it to Wells, who took hold on the pencil and so avoided touching the weapon itself.

"Has anyone handled that thing, do you know?" Head inquired.

Keller shook his head. "Nobody," he answered. "Old Joe, the gardener, got in through the window and unlocked the door for us, and I warned him and Kennett and Mrs. Garnham, too, not to touch anything. And the doctor didn't touch it either, I know."

"What doctor?" Wadden put in abruptly.

''Why, his own doctor. Tyrrell, his name is."

"And where is Dr. Tyrrell?" Wadden persisted.

"I told him he needn't stay— he had an urgent confinement case." Keller explained. "He saw all he wanted to see for the inquest."

"Oh, did he?" Wadden snapped. "Well, I'll get Bennett, our own surgeon, out to make a proper examination. You appear to have taken a good deal on yourself, Mr. Keller. What's your jumping off point, Head?"

"I'll begin on this man Joe," Head answered. "He was the first into the room, it seems. Then I can decide whom to take next. Dust that revolver for any fingerprints, Wells—"

"You won't find any," Keller broke in. "He's lying on his right hand, but it's all bandaged up — he scalded it badly two days ago."

"See what you can find, Wells," Head insisted quietly.

"But— to what purpose?" Keller demanded irritably. "I tell you he locked himself in before he shot himself. Examine the window and then the door — see for yourself that he must have been absolutely alone in here. You're only making the tragedy worse for Mrs. Garnham with all this fuss— this useless fuss!"

"And now," Head remarked, even more quietly, "perhaps you will be so good as to find this man Joe for me, Mr. Keller. Would you mind?''

Down in the big entrance hall, while Wells busied himself over the revolver with his fingerprinting outfit. Keller escorted in from the back premises an oldish man, grey-haired and grey-bearded, and himself drew forward a chair as if to become a member of the party.

"We shall not need you, Mr. Keller," Head told him. "Thanks for the trouble you have taken, though."

Without replying, Keller went out. Then Joe, the gardener, owned to having been employed here for over forty years, rising from third gardener to headship, and also confessed to the fitting surname of Plant.

"And you discovered Mr. Garnham's body?" Head asked him.

"Saw it through the window, sir." Joe answered. "It'd be about seven o'clock this mornin' or a little past seven."

"And how did you happen to be up a ladder outside that window at that time?" Head inquired.

"Well, sir, about leavin' off time last night the master— Mr. Garnham, that is— come to me as I was lockin' up my things in the barn and said if I didn't cut back the creeper round that window he'd soon need a light in the room at midday. He told me to make it my first job today, but I'd hardly started when I saw him wi' the hole in his skull and the pistol alongside him—"

"Wait a bit," Head interrupted. "When you put up that ladder, were there any footprints in the geranium bed under the windows?"

Joe shook his head decidedly. "There was not, sir, and there's none now, either. I put down boards to prevent either footprints or ladder marks. But if you mean did anyone climb in or out of that window, sir, I can tell you it was impossible. I had to break four panes to shoot back the bolts from the outside, and if anyone had got in and closed it from the inside they'd be still in the room because the door was locked with the key on the inside."

"Unless Mr. Garnham let them out, Joe." Wadden interposed.

"Yes, sir, but since both the window and door were fastened inside the room like that, Mr. Garnham must have been alone when he shot himself," Joe insisted, respectfully but firmly.

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Wadden half-soliloquised. "Carry on with what you did, though."

"I got down the ladder, and went in at the back of the house," Joe continued. "Cook and Gladys — that's the housemaid — were in the kitchen, and I got Gladys to fetch Kennett, and then told him. He said get in by the window, because you'd have to ruin the door to force it, and unlock the door from the inside. While I was doin' that, he rung for Dr. Tyrrell and the police, which was you gentlemen, I take it."

"Did Mr. Kellar have anything to do with ringing for the doctor and for us?" Head asked after a thoughtful pause.

"No, sir. He hadn't come down, then. Kennett went to the telephone here," Joe pointed at the instrument, "while I went out at the front door to break the window and get into the room."

There was thus one— possibly unimportant— error in Keller's account of his own actions, Head reflected.

"And Mrs. Garnham — where was she?" he asked.

"I dunno, sir. Not up, I think. Gladys told me before you got here that Mr. Keller broke the news to her. I haven't seen her today."

"Married— how long?" Head asked next.

"It'll be— September they were married — yes, three years next month. But I don't see—" He broke off, doubtfully.

"Happily married, of course," Head persisted.

Joe Plant shook his head. "All the years I've been here, sir, I've never gossiped about the family and their affairs," he said.

"Quite right of you," Head approved. "This Mr. Keller, though. Do you count him as one of the family?"

"No, I don't." There was sudden heat in the reply. "A double-dyed waster, everlastin'ly spongin' on the master, who was always far too good natured. His mother was a widow, and he was a kid of five when the master's father married her, and even then he was a little devil. They say he spent every penny she left him, and that was a considerable lot, an' for the last two years he's been no more'n the mistletoe, with the master as the oak. A parasite, an' no more."

"Umm-m! This man Kennett, now?"

"Quite a good chap, sir. He was batman to the master in the war, and been here ever since he was demobbed. Him and I get on well."

"His duties being what?"

"Oh, a bit of secretarying, an' kept the two cars in order, an' looked after the master's clothes. An' he's the only one the master let have the run of that room— the one where the body is— to clean it. The master kept all his books an' papers in there, you see, sir."

"This is an old house, Joe," Wadden put in abruptly, "and old houses are queer, sometimes. Apart from the window and the door, is there any way into that room that you've heard about in your 40 years here?"

"No, sir," Joe answered with unhesitating sincerity. "You mean —"

"Nothing," Head interrupted him. "What other servants are there?"

"There's cook, and Gladys I spoke of, an' Rose— she's the parlourmaid. An' Mrs. Higgs comes over from Todlington three days a week to do rough work — sort of charring."

"Well, I think that's all we want you to tell us, for the present, Joe. Now send Gladys along to us here, and — do you know the general run of the house, though?"

"Every inch of it, sir."

"Well, when she comes along, I want you to take Sergeant Wells round and show him every room and explain what it's used for. That's all, thanks — we have to do these things, you know."

He signed to Wells as the gardener went out.

"The bedrooms, Wells— take each one as we handle the occupants, especially Keller's. I'm not happy about this at all. That pistol?"

"Old fashioned hammerless Smith and Wesson, Mr. Head, .32 bore. Only one shot fired. No print of any kind on it anywhere."

Head took it from him and inspected it.

"That muzzle looks very clean for a fired pistol," he observed.

"I get you, sir," Wells answered.

Head slipped the pistol into his pocket as Gladys entered the room.

STANDING side by side, Wadden and Head watched while Bennett, the police surgeon, conducted his examination of the body, and Tyrrell, the practitioner who had attended Garnham in life and so perfunctorily assumed his death as that of a suicide, also watched, having been summoned back to the house by Wadden. Eventually Bennett stood up.

"Instantaneous," he said. "At some time between eleven last night and one this morning. Quite instantaneous— hardly any blood."

"The perfect story-book situation," Wadden observed pensively. "Dead man on his own carpet, revolver beside him. Would he have fallen like that and dragged the chair over, though?"

"Hard to say" Bennett answered.

"Reflex muscular action after death is impossible to predicate."

"And he was certainly locked in the room," Wadden observed again. "We have done enough questioning and inspecting to be pretty certain there are no secret passages or anything of that sort. No chimney because no fireplace. Therefore, Head, if anyone else shot him, he got up and locked the door after dying instantaneously and letting the other man out, and then came back and lay down again."

"See Euclid on the point," Head said thoughtfully. "But— doctor, take another careful look at that hole behind his ear and then come down and out with me. Out into the garden."

He left the room and went downstairs, while Wadden merely went to the window of the room to watch. By the time Bennett got out into the garden, Head had arranged a stuffed and
mounted antelope head, which he had taken from the entrance-hall, on a sun-dial.

"Now, watch, doctor,", he bade. "This" —he took the revolver from his pocket — "is what killed Garnham. See this— the hair is about the same length as Garnham's behind his ear. Now"― he placed the pistol against the stuffed neck and pulled the trigger— "come and examine the hole," he invited, after the faint curl of smoke following on the explosion had drifted away. "For a good quarter of an inch round the hole, the hair is badly burned, as you see."

"Yes, I see," Bennett agreed, beginning to understand.

"Now, again. Watch this," Head bade.

With the pistol muzzle a good foot distant from the head, he fired again. Again Bennett examined the hole.

"Diffused scorching," Head pointed out, "and some shrivelled hairs where grains of only partially burned powder struck. A patchy burn, in fact. Now, just one more, at about eighteen inches."

WITH the surgeon watching very intently now, he fired again, and, even with the longer interval between the muzzle of the pistol and the skin, there were traces of burning round the bullet hole.

"Garnham was fair-haired," he remarked, "and there isn't a trace of burning round the bullet hole in his head. You showed us his right hand, and it's a pretty bad scald. Now— I'll hold this pistol only a foot from my own head, which would burn the hair if I pulled the trigger — and now tell me where the muzzle is pointing."

"Ah, you can't see it, of course," Bennett answered. "The bullet would graze the top of your skull — perhaps. It wouldn't get in behind your ear. And the muzzle isn't nine inches away, let alone a foot."

"Try it yourself, if you like," Head offered.

"Not I! There's another live cartridge in that pistol, isn't there? But I see your point. With that scalded and bandaged hand of his, Garnham couldn't have—"

"And, therefore, who did?" Head questioned, after waiting vainly for the end of the remark. "Also, what is the third way out of that room?"

"There isn't one," Bennett said. "I saw you and the super examine the room. Hullo! Barton! Now who told him Garnham was dead?"

For, passing the police saloon, a car drew up before the entrance to the house, and from it descended Lucas Barton, the principal Westinborough solicitor, with two obvious clerks. Head reached the open doorway in time to face the pompous, elderly man of law.

"Ah! Good morning, inspector," Barton said frostily. "May I ask what has happened to bring you here?" The accent on the pronoun was definitely satiric. "A broken window, I see. Burglary, perhaps?"

"May I ask what brings you here?"

Head retorted.

"I'm afraid not." Barton smiled. "My business is with Mr. Garnham. Excuse me, please."

He reached past Head for the bell-pull.

"Don't ring," Head said. "Garnham is lying dead inside there."

"He's what?" And Barton's hand dropped. "Nonsense, man."

"Why is it nonsense?" Head inquired curiously.

"Well— I mean— are you sure? He rang me at my home last night and asked me to be here at eleven, this morning, with a— well, to be here at eleven. And it is eleven, now."

The booming gong of a clock inside the entrance-hall confirmed his assertion. "But—" he added, as he took out his watch and looked at it — "he's not dead, surely? Can't be."

Head held up the pistol. "By this," he said. "But you, Mr. Barton, would only fetch two clerks out here for one purpose that I can think out. Because of this —" again he indicated the pistol— "I think it may be of some help in my inquiries if you tell me just why Mr. Garnham asked you to call here— with two men capable of witnessing his signature, at eleven this morning."

And, after only a momentary hesitation, Barton told.

"THE wife, or the half-brother," Wadden surmised.

"Or the confidential man-servant— or even old Joe Plant," Head added for him. "And until we can find out how the one who pulled that trigger got out of this room, applying for a warrant would be merely asking for trouble. Imploring, in fact. Now how?"

He looked round the spacious room. Garnham's body had been removed; the overturned chair lay as they had first seen it, except that it bore signs of having been subjected to examination for fingerprints. Wadden's gaze, too, roved round the apartment.

"The window," he said, "is quite out of the question."

"And the walls," Head added.

"Likewise floor and ceiling, as viewed and measured by me from below and above," Wadden completed. "Maybe you'd like to verify—"

But Head moved over to the entrance. "Remains a door, a very beautifully carved door, that once hung in a villa belonging to Alexander Borgia, I understand. And Alexander was a man of ideas."

He swung the heavy door wide open, and began a close scrutiny of its outer side, now exposed to the light from the window in the room. Within the top part of the heavy framing were two panels carved in low relief, with all the intricacy of detail of Italian renaissance work, to represent hunting scenes. Beneath these were a pair of plain panels, mellowed almost to blackness by age and polishing, and each a little more than a foot square, and then the lower third of the door was occupied by one very large panel, carved as were the two at the top, and representing Cupid leading a garlanded fawn toward — presumably — Psyche, a youthful and nude female figure with outstretched arms.

He passed his hand over the projecting points of the two top panels, touching one after another, and then, with extended fingers, trying them in pairs, but without result. Then he sat down on the floor, and, taking the door by its edge, moved it back and forth to get a reflection of midday light from the window on first one and then the other of the two smooth panels.

"Yes," he said at last, "it's worth a puff from Wells's blower. Please, chief — while I go looking for the key."

Wadden bellowed for the sergeant, who answered from where he waited in the entrance hall, and then appeared.

"Test both these smooth panels for prints," Head bade. "Don't mind me — I'm looking for something else."

He went on feeling, rather than looking, over the big carved panel beneath the smooth ones. Presently, with his fingers on Cupid's face, he emitted a little, inarticulate sound, but then shook his head and sat back, watching while Wells's blower revealed two sets of four prints each. They were almost perfect impressions of the top phalanges of the fingers of a pair of hands, and had been made by placing the fingers on the panel with the tips pointing upward.

"Photograph 'em, Wells," Head bade unemotionally,

"But what a blasted fool, to leave a set like that!" Wadden exclaimed, and blew with disgust at such folly.

"An open and shut case of suicide, chief, remember," Head reminded him. "And I'd say there was probably no chance to wipe these off— the sound of the shot might have disturbed someone, or the one who fired it might have been scared of being seen— outside the door, remember. But I want that key— I can't do a thing till I get it."

"What key?" Wadden asked.

But Head did not reply. He sat on the carpet, gazing pensively at the beautiful carving of the lower panel while Wells, kneeling, focussed the camera and took shots of the finger prints.

"Cupid is traditionally blind," he remarked eventually.

"Which is why the lady ain't worried about her wardrobe, probably," Wadden suggested. "It's a bit— well, frank, as a work of art."

"I wonder — let's try blinding her too," Head said.

Swinging the door back to its limit  to permit of pressure on its surface, he placed the thumb and middle finger of his right hand on the Cupid's eyes, and a finger and thumb of the left hand over those of Psyche. At this sudden pressure on all four points, the panel that Wells had photographed slid smoothly downward, leaving an oblong hole in the door under the lock. Head reached through and turned the big, highly ornamented key, which was still in the lock from the inside of the door, once or twice.

"Well, I'm damned!" said Superintendent Wadden.

Head stood up. "We won't try to close the panel again now," he observed. "I rather think you have to lift it most of the way and then slide it by pressing your fingertips against it."

"What made you think of it?" Wadden asked.

"Well, we'd eliminated everything but the door, and the dead man didn't lock it, since he didn't shoot himself. Take this door off its hinges, Wells— you and Jeffries. It will be exhibit number three. I think, if we make the revolver number one."

"Then what's number two, you secretive devil?" Wadden demanded.

"A ladys handkerchief, retrieved from a bag of soiled linen by Wells while I was questioning its owner," Head answered imperturbably. "She used it to wipe all the finger prints off the revolver before putting it down, and either didn't notice or didn't care about the ring of black fouling from the pistol muzzle that came off on to the handkerchief— stuff easily identifiable as a nitro powder residue."

"But— you've got to show a motive, man," Wadden protested.

"Of course, you didn't hear what Barton had to tell me," Head recollected aloud. "Garnham rang him last night and told him to get here at eleven this morning to consult about an action for divorce, naming this man Keller as co-respondent in the case. Also, and much worse, Barton was to draw up a new will, in which the lady was not mentioned. Knowing the secret of the door, she made her gamble— and if she'd held that pistol a foot closer to her husband's head, she might have won."

"But— Keller―" Wadden began, half protestingly.

"It's her handkerchief, and they are her finger prints on that panel— eh, Wells?" He turned to the sergeant.

"As nearly as I could see, they correspond to the ones I found on Mrs. Garnham's hair brush and hand mirror handles," Wells answered.

"Therefore―" Head pressed a bell push —"I think we might have the lady , in, and— oh, Gladys, I think your name is— tell Mrs. Garnham I should be glad if she'd see me in here, please."

He waited with his back to the door, covering from sight the hole from which the secret panel had slid away.

________________

15: Will You Walk Into My Parlour?

"Sapper" (H C McNeile)

From The Finger of Fate, 1930

JIMMY SEFTON sat outside the Angler's Rest at Drayminster with a puzzled look on his good-natured freckled face. On the table by his side was a tankard of ale, and an opened packet of Virginian cigarettes. It was five o'clock in the afternoon, and save for him the place was deserted. Soon it would fill up, when the mystic hour arrived which allowed unfortunate mortals who were not staying in the house to get a drink, but until then he would have the place to himself— a fact for which he was thankful. He wanted to think.

No one would have called Jimmy a brainy young man, but he had a certain shrewd common sense which often serves better than a quicker and cleverer brain. He might take longer in arriving at a conclusion, but when he did get there he was generally fairly near the mark. And now he once again proceeded to run over the chain of events that was directly responsible for his presence in Drayminster.

The first had been a dinner at the "Cheshire Cheese" some three weeks previously. At it were present Teddie Morgan and Bob Durrant, two journalistic pals of his, though Teddie Morgan, to be correct, was more than a pal. He and Jimmy had been at school together, and they had joined the staff of the Daily Leader at the same time. And that was five years ago— five years during which acquaintanceship had grown into real friendship. The fourth member of the party was a man called Spencer, who was more or less the stranger at the board. He, too, was a writing man, but his speciality was crime. And the principal interest he had for the other three was an intimate knowledge of Scotland Yard, an institution with which they had only a bowing acquaintance.

He could recall quite clearly the gist of Spencer's remarks. Dinner was over, coffee and port were on the table. And he could still see Spencer's thin aquiline features through the thick haze of tobacco smoke, as he recounted some of the cases he had had first hand knowledge of.

"You may take it from me," he said, "that there is not much wrong with our police system. It is the custom of lots of people to deride them as men of small brains and large feet, but nothing is farther from the truth. The local village constable may not be a particularly bright specimen, but for the matter of that the local French gendarme is not a second Newton as a general rule. And there's another thing too which lots of people are apt to forget— the difference between our legal code and those of other countries. With us the onus of proving a man guilty lies on the police: in France, for instance, the onus lies on the man proving himself not guilty. And the difference is enormous. There are half a dozen men at large in London to-day whom the police know to be criminals. But they can't arrest them because they can't prove it. In France they would be under lock and key in no time, and it would be up to them to prove that they weren't."

Spencer had talked on in this strain for some time, and then had come the information which had proved the first link in the chain of events that had since taken place.

"But they are up against it at the moment," he had said thoughtfully, "up against it good and strong. And have been for some weeks. Forged notes— on a scale never hitherto attempted."

His audience had pricked up their ears: this was something better than vague generalisations about police methods.

"They're not very chatty about it at the Yard, but I have my own channels of information," he had continued. And this is the biggest thing Of its kind they have struck yet. The headquarters of the gang are in this country, but they are not dealing with English notes. Which makes it so very much harder to track them. French and Belgian notes of fairly large denomination: American five and ten dollar notes are what they are making. And that is where the complication occurs. You see the usual method of running the headquarters of a gang of this sort to earth is by getting on the line of the men who pass the notes. A fiver, let us say, comes into a bank. That fiver is never again issued, but is destroyed. The bank people find it is a forgery. Scotland Yard then sets to work to trace the movements of that fiver back to the first person who handled it. And thus, if there are several, in time the man who originally passed it is found. From him, they go still farther back, because it is not the passer they want but the utterer— the forger himself. Now in this case there is a very grave difficulty. The forger is in this country: the men who are passing the notes work in other countries. And not only that, they are mixing up the currencies. They are getting rid of American notes in Belgium, we'll say, and French notes in Italy."

"How long has it been going on for?" someone had asked.

"The Yard has been down to it for about six months now," was the answer. "And though they won't admit the fact they are no nearer the solution now than when they started. As I said it is a very big thing. Two or three of the smaller fry have been caught abroad, and though they have been subjected to foreign methods of examination nothing has been found out. Probably because they none of them knew anything to pass on. The only vague clue, which may not even be a clue at all, is that two of these men bought their forged notes in Brighton, and the other at Bognor."

"Bought!" Teddie Morgan had cried.

"That is the usual method," Spencer had explained. "A thousand franc French note is worth roughly eight pounds. The man buys it— say for five. If he passes it he is three pounds to the good: if he doesn't he is jugged. But whichever happens the big man is a fiver in pocket. But to go back. The fact that Brighton and Bognor were selected as rendezvous for the transactions points to the possibility of the headquarters being in Sussex. But it is only a possibility."

And then Teddie Morgan had laughed.

"I will attend to the matter," he had said. "Tomorrow I leave for a well earned fortnight's holiday. The earth is mine to roam in: I shall select Sussex. And if anyone offers to sell me thousand franc notes for a fiver, I shall dot him one with a beer mug and summon the police."

Thus the first link in the chain. The party had broken up shortly after, and no one had thought any more about it. In fact until three days previously Jimmy Sefton had not known that Morgan had even gone to Sussex. And then had come the second link. It consisted of a picture post card showing the village of Drayminster. It contained the pointed information that that village had been classified fifth in order of beauty in England. It also contained the following message written in Morgan's sprawling handwriting:

"Tell Spencer that there is many a true word spoken in jest."

Jimmy had been busy at the time, and having put the card in his pocket had forgotten all about it, until that very morning, when the third grim link appeared in the form of a paragraph in the paper. He took it out of his pocket book now as he sat at his table and re-read it for the twentieth time.

"The body of a well-dressed young man was found in the river Dray yesterday afternoon by two farm labourers. It was discovered in the weeds some three miles from the picturesque old country village of Drayminster, one of the famous beauty spots of England. An empty fishing creel was slung round his shoulder. It is assumed that the unfortunate gentleman, who has been identified as Mr. Edward Morgan, a well-known London journalist, and who was staying at the Angler's Rest, must have slipped in one of the deep and treacherous pools of the river and been drowned. The current then carried the body to the spot where it was found. No trace of his rod has been discovered. The inquest will be held to-day."

And Jimmy Sefton had just returned from that very inquest. No difficulty about identifying the body; it was poor old Teddie right enough. From the medical evidence he had been dead about two days, and the verdict was a foregone conclusion. The landlord of the Angler's Rest, who had done the identification, had been asked by the Coroner as to whether he had not been a little alarmed when the days had passed by with no sign of his guest.

"No, sir," he had answered. "Mr. Morgan took the room for a week, and he told me that he might frequently sleep out. He was very fond of walking, and, as the weather was fine, he would very likely get a shake-down in a barn or under a hayrick."

Jimmy Sefton, who had explained to the coroner that he was a brother journalist on the same paper, and who was sitting at the back of the room, had listened to this piece of evidence in silent amazement. Not that he disbelieved the landlord— for a more transparently honest and upright man he had seldom seen— but for a very different reason. If there was one form of exercise which Teddie loathed with a superlative loathing, it was walking. He would take a bus to go half the length of Fleet Street rather than walk the distance. So that for some reason or other Teddie had deliberately lied to the worthy man whose naturally cheerful voice could even now be heard, suitably lowered for the occasion, recounting the details of the tragedy for every new arrival at the bar. Why had he lied?

Then Mr. Purley, who sold rods and flies and all the other paraphernalia of the angler's craft, had identified the deceased as the gentleman who had come to his shop to be completely fitted out four days previously— on Tuesday last. He had admitted he did not know much about it, but having been told of the marvellous trout fishing which could be got in the river Dray he had determined to try his hand at it. To this evidence also, Jimmy Sefton had listened in some surprise. Not, it is true, with that utter bewilderment which the landlord's story had produced in his mind, but still with considerable doubt. He could not picture Teddie being suddenly seized with a desire to become an angler. He knew his tastes— none better. He had loved all games, but except for an occasional ride he had never gone in for what are known as the sports. Shooting and fishing he had had no opportunity to try his hand at. So why this sudden craving to become a fisherman?

Jimmy Sefton called for another pint of ale.

"Do you remember," he asked, "when it was that Mr. Morgan told you he might be going on a walking tour?"

The landlord scratched his head.

"Let me see, sir," he said. "To-day is Saturday. He was out, I remember, last Sunday night, but took his meals here Monday. And Monday night he was out too. And after that I never saw him again. Perhaps a week ago he told me."

"I see," said Jimmy. "Thank you."

The landlord returned to the bar, and Jimmy lit a cigarette. According to Mr. Purley it was Tuesday when Teddie had bought his tackle. It was also on Tuesday that he had sent the post card to Jimmy. So that presumably either on Monday night or on Tuesday morning he had discovered something which had caused him to alter the blind of a walking tour to that of becoming a fisherman. What was it that he had discovered? And where? Was it really as his post card suggested, that he had by some extraordinary stroke of chance stumbled on the headquarters of the forgers? And if that was so— Jimmy Sefton's jaw tightened a little at this point in his reflections— if that was so, was the verdict of "Accidentally drowned," correct? Or had Teddie Morgan been murdered?

Jimmy was not at all an imaginative young man, and his first impulse was to call himself several sorts of an ass. Murders and gangs of forgers he told himself were part of the stock in trade of the sensational novelist. In fact he used every single argument he could think of to prove to himself that he was wrong. But it was no use: try as he would his mind kept reverting to that one big question. Had Teddie Morgan found out too much and been murdered?

After a while he made a sort of mental table of points for and against.

For.

Number One. Teddie's remark to the landlord concerning a walking tour was so obviously a lie that it was clear he had been doing something which he did not wish to talk about.

Number Two. If there was any meaning at all in his post card, and it was highly improbable he would send a card without any reason, that something had to do with the gang of forgers.

Number Three. If he had discovered them was it likely that a gang of such a formidable nature would allow the life of a stray journalist to stand in its way? They would undoubtedly murder him, and dispose of the body in such a way as to make it appear an accident.

Against.

Jimmy scratched his head: he could think of no point against, which could be summarised as tersely as his three points for. In fact the only other alternative to his theory was that Teddie had thought at one time that he had stumbled on traces of the gang, vide the fact of his post card and his absence from the hotel on two nights. Then he had decided not to go on with it, had genuinely decided to try his hand at fishing, and had, as the verdict said, been accidentally drowned.

Jimmy finished his beer in a gulp, and stood up abruptly. The frown on his face had gone: his mind was made up. Because he knew the great fallacy that underlay his alternative theory. Teddie was not the type of man to decide not to go on with a thing. Once he had his jaws into a job nothing could shake him off: it had been a characteristic of his ever since he was a boy. Therefore Teddie was still on it when he was posing as a fisherman. So that even if the verdict was right, and he had been drowned, the accident had not occurred because of his devotion to fishing, but because he was following up some trail. And once that was settled, the next step was obvious. Mr. Purley would receive a second order for a fishing outfit complete: Jimmy Sefton was going to take over from his pal. And the first thing to do was to get on the 'phone to his editor, because he had intended returning to London that night. He knew there would be no difficulty, especially if he gave a hint over the wire that he was on a scoop. So he went into the hotel to find the instrument. It was situated, as is so frequently the case in small hotels, in the office, which rendered any private conversation impossible. However he knew the editor sufficiently well to realise that the merest veiled hint would be all that was required. He put through the number and sat down to wait in the hall. Opposite him were a man and woman drinking a cocktail, and he glanced at them idly. They were both well dressed, and the woman, who was little more than a girl, was extremely pretty. And Jimmy, who was no more and no less susceptible than the average young man of his age, found his glance ceasing to be idle as far as she was concerned. Once she looked up and caught his eye, and it seemed to him there was just that perceptible addition of time before she looked away, that would constitute grounds for hope. Then the telephone bell rang, and he took the call.

"Daily Leader?" he said. "Put me through to the Editor. Sefton speaking."

With his elbow on the table, and the receiver in his hand, he was staring out of the window. Suddenly his eyes narrowed. The lower part of the window was shut, and served sufficiently well as a mirror for him to see that the man had risen abruptly, and was now standing close to the door of the office, studying the announcement of a local cattle show. There was, he reflected, nothing inherently suspicious in such an action, but he was in the mood when the most commonplace thing took on a certain significance. Was it interest in the cattle show, or the mention of the Daily Leader, that had inspired the sudden movement? Then he heard the Editor's voice at the other end of the wire.

"Hullo! Is that Mr. Jameson? Look here, sir: it is urgent that I should stop at Drayminster for two or three days. Things to arrange about poor old Morgan. Yes; urgent. I can't be more explicit: this machine is specially placed for the maximum of publicity. Right— thank— you, sir."

He put back the receiver, and for a moment or two he stood there motionless. The man had returned to his seat as abruptly as he had left it. And his return had coincided with the end of the call. Once again it was not impossible that that had been the exact time necessary to allow him to study the details of the show. Not impossible: but...And Jimmy was thinking of all that lay behind that 'but' as he turned to the girl in the office and made inquiries about a room. There proved to be no difficulty, and having fixed the details, he returned to his seat. He, too, would have a cocktail, and during its consumption he would continue the good work of finding out if his grounds for hope were justified. Also he might find out other things.

After a moment or two, the man rose and, picking up his hat, left the hotel.

"I'll be back in about twenty minutes," he said, as he stepped into the road.

"Don't hurry," answered the girl. "I shan't be dull."

She picked up a copy of the Tatler, and Jimmy lit a cigarette and waited. Had he made a complete boss shot, or had he, by a most astounding bit of luck, stumbled on a clue? In either case, he reflected, he was perfectly safe in carrying out his plan. Further he would soon know. If his suspicions were correct, within the next twenty minutes the girl would start a conversation with him. As he read it, that was the reason of the man's departure. And he wondered by which of the time-honoured methods she would dispense with the formality of an introduction.

She was displaying a considerable amount of extremely attractive leg— a spectacle to which he took no exception. And it was with almost a start that he averted his eyes from it to realise that the method to be used was the well known old favourite of no matches.

"Allow me," he murmured, as she looked round despairingly.

"Thank you so much," she said with a charming smile. "I ought to have a box chained to me; I lose them so invariably."

They fell into a light conversation, and he studied her covertly. From a closer range he saw that she was older than he had at first thought, saw, too, with the discerning eye of a man who in the course of his trade has rubbed shoulders with all the types that go to make up a world, that indefinable something in her face that no art can conceal. It lies principally in the eyes and in the mouth, and it spells danger. This girl was as hard as nails. But no trace of his thoughts showed in his face: no one could act the part of a guileless youth better than he, as many people he had interviewed had discovered in the past.

The man he gathered was her Uncle Arthur and she was motoring with him on a tour. Jimmy, whose face had brightened at the first piece of news, became perceptibly depressed at the second.

"I'd hoped you were staying here," he said gloomily.

"Are you stopping in the hotel?" she asked.

"For a few days," he answered. "A great pal of mine has just been drowned here, poor old chap."

"How dreadful," she said sympathetically. "I heard something about it this afternoon."

"The inquest was this morning," he went on. "Verdict of accidentally drowned. But I wonder."

For the fraction of a second the mask slipped. Had he not been looking for it he would have missed it, so instantaneously was it replaced. But in that moment of time he saw what confirmed his suspicions— he saw fear.

"How do you mean, you wonder?" she asked, and her voice was quite normal. "Is there any doubt about it?"

"Not in the Coroner's mind," he answered mysteriously. "But there is in mine. I believe," he lowered his voice, and glanced round the hall, "I believe he was murdered."

"Good Heavens!" she cried. "But who by? You sound so deliciously mysterious."

"I am going to let you into a great secret," he said. "And I am the only person in the world who knows it. Promise you won't say anything to a soul."

"Fingers crossed," she answered.

Jimmy leaned even closer to her.

"I believe," he said, "that Teddie Morgan was murdered by a gang of forgers whose headquarters are near here. I believe that somehow or other he did what the police so far have been unable to do— he located this gang. He wrote me a letter, in which he hinted at it, and from one or two things I've heard since I've been here I'm sure he was on their track. Now I'm a journalist," he went on with engaging candour, "and it will be a tremendous scoop for me if I can nab them."

"But how will you set about it?" she asked.

"Because if what you suspect is true they might kill you."

Jimmy looked at her knowingly.

"I'm going to become a fisherman also," he said. "That's where the clue lies— near the river. Only I shall be more careful than he was. And when I've found these people I shall give the information to the police. But it will be a Daily Leader sensation, and I shall have the writing up of it."

"How splendid!" she cried. "Here is my uncle returning, but I'm thrilled to death. I shall simply be dying to know how you get on. When I get back to Town I must ring you up at your office, and you must come and tell me all about it."

"I'd love to," said Jimmy fervently. "But you must promise you won't say a word to a soul."

"It's our secret," she whispered softly. "I do hope you succeed."

She rose, and giving him a delicious little smile, joined her uncle in the car. One little wave of the hand, eagerly returned by Jimmy, and then they disappeared down the road.

"Do you know who those people were who have just left?" he asked the girl in the office.

"Never seen either of them before," she told him, and Jimmy returned to his chair. Three points in all, he reflected, to go on. The sudden movement of the man, the reflecting expression on the woman's face, and lastly the fact that people who tour in motor cars generally carry luggage. On the one that had just driven off there had been none. In fact, he felt convinced that the arrow he had drawn at a venture had hit the mark. Those two people had something to do with it; he knew it. But, as Spencer had said, between knowing and proving there was a great gulf fixed.

He had acted deliberately in talking as he had. No harm was done if she was innocent: if on the contrary he was right, the next move would have to come from their side. Obviously they could not leave matters as they were. Though he had impressed on the girl that he wanted the whole thing kept a secret, he felt that in their position they could not bank on his doing so. They would feel that at any moment he might tell the police. And so it seemed to him that there were only two alternatives open to them. The first was to pack up and go: the second was to deal with him as they had dealt with Teddie Morgan. And of the two the second seemed the more probable.

For another ten minutes or so he sat on thinking: then a grin slowly appeared on his face. For a very amazing plan had suddenly dawned on Jimmy Sefton's brain— a plan which seemed to him quite unique in its simplicity. He looked at it this way and that, and in it he could see no flaw. A little acting: a little luck, and then, as he had quite truthfully said to the woman, the scoop of the year. And possibly some damned swine swinging for Teddie. Humming gently to himself he rose and left the hotel bound for Mr. Purley's shop. What the tune was is immaterial, but the words he had put to it had a certain significance.

"Will you walk into my parlour? said the spider to the fly!"

The invitation of the spider came earlier than he had expected, to be exact, at ten o'clock the following morning. The previous night he had been acutely aware of two men who had sat drinking in the bar until the hotel shut, and who had seemed to betray a more than passing interest in his movements. So much more than passing, in fact, that Jimmy Sefton had done a thing which he could never remember having done before: he had slept with his window bolted and his door locked. But nothing had happened, and, as he came down the stairs encased in his newly-acquired fishing outfit, it came as almost a relief to realise that the game was starting in earnest. For the girl herself was sitting in the hall.

"Hullo," he cried joyfully. "This is an unexpected bit of luck."

"I oughtn't to be here," she confessed. "But Uncle Arthur found a wire waiting for him at Worthing, and had to go up to London. And I had nothing to do. Please let me come with you. As I told you I'm just thrilled to death."

She clasped her hands together, and looked at him appealingly.

I promise not to get in the way, and I'd just adore to see what you are going to do."

"I don't know myself," he admitted. "You see, I haven't a notion where the gang is."

"Look here," she said after thinking deeply for a moment, "I've got an idea. You know where your poor friend's body was found, don't you?"

"I do," said Jimmy.

"Well, if you are right, and he was murdered, the brutes probably threw him into the water above that spot, and the river carried him down."

"By Jove! that's quick," said Jimmy admiringly.

"So let us get into my car and go by road to where he was found, and then explore the river upstream from there."

"You're a marvel," cried Jimmy, giving her a soulful glance. "An absolute fizzer. Let's start."

He deposited his creel and rod in the back of the car, and climbed in beside her. Up to date he reflected the fly was playing its part very creditably; moreover that intelligent little insect was becoming increasingly anxious to see the parlour the owner of which chattered unceasingly as they drove along.

"There's the spot," said. Jimmy suddenly, and she gave a little shudder.

"Poor fellow," she whispered. "However, what do we do now?"

But it seemed that the fly's brain was unequal to the task of deciding, and after a while the spider had another idea.

"About a mile further on," she said, "is one of Lord Cragmouth's places— Denton Hall. He is away, but I know him— and I know his butler. What about going there and asking the man whether he knows of any strangers who have arrived in these parts lately?"

For a moment Jimmy's brain spun round. What a headquarters— Denton Hall: one of the historic places of England. That it was the parlour at last he had no doubt, but for a second or two he was lost in admiration at the calm audacity of renting such a place for such a purpose.

"A marvellous idea," he said humbly. "What I should have done without you..."

His hand went to his forehead suddenly.

"Good God!" he muttered. "I'm going to faint. Could you— a little water— from the river..."

She sprang out solicitously and hurried down to the stream. But when she came back he had so far recovered as to be standing by the back of the car.

"I'm so sorry," he said. "I'm better now. Damned silly of me."

"Are you sure?" she cried. "Why not rest a little? Or if we go on to Denton Hall, I'm sure the butler would give you some brandy."

"That sounds good to me," he said. "But really I'm quite all right now."

He got in beside her again, and a few minutes later the car swung right handed past an old lodge into the huge grounds of Denton Hall. In the distance was the house with its broad terraces running down to the big ornamental lake, with its celebrated pagoda on the little island in the middle. Further on a line of weeping willows marked the banks of the river Dray, which passed right through the property.

The car drew up at the front door, and Jimmy's heart began to beat a trifle quicker. A glance at the butler did not inspire him with confidence. And as the door closed behind him he understood the feelings of the fly.

He looked up as three men came down the stairs, and the centre one was Uncle Arthur.

"Here he is," laughed the girl. "It was almost too easy."

"My God!" stammered Jimmy. "I don't understand...I...This is a trap."

The girl had lit a cigarette and was laughing softly to herself, but the three men had stood looking at him in silence.

"You are a very foolish young man," said Uncle Arthur at length.

"Let us come in here." He led the way into what,' was evidently the smoking-room.

"You are going to murder me, are you?" said Jimmy. "Like you murdered Teddie Morgan. But awkward, won't it be— having dead journalists lying about all over the place?"

"They are a tribe who can well be thinned out," answered the other genially. "Yes, Mr. Sefton, owing to your reprehensible curiosity, you are, as they say, for it. You see you left us with no alternative."

He lit a cigarette.

"I assure you I have given the matter deep and earnest thought," he continued. "I don't want to kill you, any more than I wanted to kill that other young ass. But I have to weigh in the balance your life against my future peace of mind. I should hate to think that at any moment I might meet you, and you might say— 'That charming well-dressed gentleman is a forger.'"

"And murderer," said Jimmy, lighting a cigarette in his turn.

"Have it your own way," conceded the other. "But you see my difficulty. Supposing I let you continue your hunt for my poor person— for the headquarters of the gang as you so realistically put it. In the course of a week you might have stumbled on something— just as your friend Morgan did. Will you believe it, what put him on to us was the fact that he happened to see my butler's face one day as he passed the lodge gates?

"Any judge would convict on that alone," agreed Jimmy affably.

"We have not all got your classical beauty of features, Mr. Sefton. Still the point is a small one: the result was what mattered. He became most intrusive: he even trespassed on my property. In fact we actually discovered him concealed by the edge of the lake watching that charming pagoda through field-glasses. He pretended he was fishing, Mr. Sefton— even as I gather you were going to do. Yet his rod was not put together, and his basket was empty."

Jimmy strolled over to the window and looked out.

"And so you propose to kill me!" he said thoughtfully. "Will it be done with your own fair hands, dear Uncle Arthur?"

He swung round, and suddenly the room grew strangely silent. For there was a look on his face that none of them could understand.

"Admirable things— windows, aren't they," he continued. "Without curtains you can see through them: with curtains you can't. Then they act as mirrors, uncle dear. Are you going to the cattle show you were studying the notice of when I was telephoning?"

Jimmy began to laugh softly.

"And you, my dear lady, should really learn to control your face. And you shouldn't say you are touring when you haven't any luggage."

With a sudden movement he flung open the window, and waved his hand.

"My God! It is the police." Uncle Arthur had sprung to his side. "The young swine has fooled us. There are a dozen of them. Quick— bolt."

"Not this time," said a deep voice at the door, and Jimmy recognised the speaker as Superintendent Naylor of the Yard, with Spencer and half-a-dozen men behind him. "So it's you, is it, Verriker? There have been times when I suspected it must be. Where's the plant?"

"I should think a visit to the pagoda might help," said Jimmy mildly, and Verriker began to curse.

"Good work, Sefton," cried Spencer. "But it gave us a bit of a shock when we got the address."

"So it did me," said Jimmy. "In fact I almost fainted in the car."

Verriker ceased cursing and stared at him.

"Do you mean to say you only found out where you were coming when you were in the car?" he said.

"Sure thing," answered Jimmy. "My dear Uncle Arthur, we have been playing a little game of the spider and the fly. And knowing the usual fate of the fly, this one decided to take a few precautions. The only trouble was that he hadn't any idea as to where the parlour was. That he was going to be invited in he felt sure, but he felt a little dubious as to the hospitality that would be extended to him there. So he invited down a few friends "— he waved his hand at the police— "to remain at hand, in case they were wanted. He thought it better that they shouldn't follow him, in case they were seen, and the spider should leave the parlour hurriedly. Besides he wanted the spider to tell him all that was in his heart. And then when he had found out his destination— he pretended to throw a faint. And being left alone for half a minute, he wrote a little message. And he put the message in a little tube. And he fastened the tube to a little leg."

"What the devil do you mean?" snarled Verriker.

"Why, just that this particular fly had taken your advice in advance about empty fishing baskets. You see— his wasn't empty. Inside it was a carrier pigeon."

____________________

16:  Tobias the Terrible

Damon Runyon

From More Than Somewhat  1937

ONE NIGHT I am sitting in Mindy's restaurant on Broadway partaking heartily of some Hungarian goulash which comes very nice in Mindy's, what with the chef being personally somewhat Hungarian himself, when in pops a guy who is a stranger to me and sits down at my table.

I do not pay any attention to the guy at first as I am busy looking over the entries for the next day at Laurel, but I hear him tell the waiter to bring him some goulash, too. By and by I hear the guy making a strange noise and I look at him over my paper and see that he is crying. In fact, large tears are rolling down his face into his goulash and going plop-plop as they fall.

Now it is by no means usual to see guys crying in Mindy's restaurant, though thousands of guys come in there who often feel like crying, especially after a tough day at the track, so I commence weighing the guy up with great interest. I can see he is a very little guy, maybe a shade over five feet high and weighing maybe as much as a dime's worth of liver, and he has a moustache like a mosquito's whiskers across his upper lip, and pale blond hair and a very sad look in his eyes.

Furthermore, he is a young guy and he is wearing a suit of clothes the colour of French mustard, with slanting pockets, and I notice when he comes in that he has a brown hat sitting jack-deuce on his noggin. Anybody can see that this guy does not belong in these parts, with such a sad look and especially with such a hat.

Naturally, I figure his crying is some kind of a dodge. In fact, I figure that maybe the guy is trying to cry me out of the price of his Hungarian goulash, although if he takes the trouble to ask anybody before he comes in, he will learn that he may just as well try to cry Al Smith out of the Empire State Building.

But the guy does not say anything whatever to me but just goes on shedding tears into his goulash, and finally I get very curious about this proposition, and I speak to him as follows:

'Listen, pally,' I say, 'if you are crying about the goulash, you better dry your tears before the chef sees you, because,' I say, 'the chef is very sensitive about his goulash, and may take your tears as criticism.'

'The goulash seems all right,' the guy says in a voice that is just about his size. 'Anyway, I am not crying about the goulash. I am crying about my sad life. Friend,' the guy says, 'are you ever in love?'

Well, of course, at this crack I know what is eating the guy. If I have all the tears that are shed on Broadway by guys in love, I will have enough salt water to start an opposition ocean to the Atlantic and Pacific, with enough left over to run the Great Salt Lake out of business. But I wish to say I never shed any of these tears personally, because I am never in love, and furthermore, barring a bad break, I never expect to be in love, for the way I look at it, love is strictly the old phedinkus, and I tell the little guy as much. 'Well,' he says, 'you will not speak so harshly of love if you are acquainted with Miss Deborah Weems.'

With this he starts crying more than somewhat, and his grief is such that it touches my heart and I have half a notion to start crying with him as I am now convinced that the guy is levelling with his tears.

Finally the guy slacks up a little in his crying, and begins eating his goulash, and by and by he seems more cheerful, but then it is well known to one and all that a fair dose of Mindy's goulash will cheer up anybody no matter how sad they feel. Pretty soon the guy starts talking to me, and I make out that his name is Tobias Tweeney, and that he comes from a spot over in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, by the name of Erasmus, or some such.

Furthermore, I judge that this Erasmus is not such a large city, but very pleasant, and that Tobias Tweeney is born and raised there and is never much of any place else in his life, although he is now rising twenty-five.

Well, it seems that Tobias Tweeney has a fine position in a shoe store selling shoes and is going along all right when he happens to fall in love with a doll by the name of Miss Deborah Weems, whose papa owns a gas station in Erasmus and is a very prominent citizen. I judge from what Tobias tells me that this Miss Deborah Weems tosses him around quite some, which proves to me that dolls in small towns are just the same as they are on Broadway.

'She is beautiful,' Tobias Tweeney says, speaking of Miss Deborah Weems. 'I do not think I can live without her. But,' he says, 'Miss Deborah Weems will have no part of me because she is daffy over desperate characters of the underworld such as she sees in the movies at the Model Theatre in Erasmus.

'She wishes to know,' Tobias Tweeney says, 'why I cannot be a big gunman and go around plugging people here and there and talking up to politicians and policemen, and maybe looking picturesque and romantic like Edward G. Robinson or James Cagney or even Georgie Raft. But, of course,' Tobias says, 'I am not the type for such a character. Anyway,' he says, 'Constable Wendell will never permit me to be such a character in Erasmus.

'So Miss Deborah Weems says I have no more nerve than a catfish,' Tobias says, 'and she goes around with a guy by the name of Joe Trivett, who runs the Smoke Shop, and bootlegs ginger extract to the boys in his back room and claims Al Capone once says "Hello" to him, although,' Tobias says, 'personally, I think Joe Trivett is nothing but a great big liar.'

At this, Tobias Tweeney starts crying again, and I feel very sorry for him indeed, because I can see he is a friendly, harmless little fellow, and by no means accustomed to being tossed around by a doll, and a guy who is not accustomed to being tossed around by a doll always finds it most painful the first time.

'Why,' I say, very indignant, 'this Miss Deborah Weems talks great foolishness, because big gunmen always wind up nowadays with the score nine to nought against them, even in the movies. In fact,' I say, 'if they do not wind up this way in the movies, the censors will not permit the movies to be displayed. Why do you not hit this guy Trivett a punch in the snoot,' I say, 'and tell him to go on about his business?'

'Well,' Tobias says, 'the reason I do not hit him a punch in the snoot is because he has the idea of punching snoots first, and whose snoot does he punch but mine. Furthermore,' Tobias says, 'he makes my snoot bleed with the punch, and he says he will do it again if I keep hanging around Miss Deborah Weems. And,' Tobias says, 'it is mainly because I do not return the punch, being too busy stopping my snoot from bleeding, that Miss Deborah Weems renounces me for ever.

'She says she can never stand for a guy who has no more nerve than me,' Tobias says, 'but,' he says, 'I ask you if I am to blame if my mother is frightened by a rabbit a few weeks before I am born, and marks me for life?

'So I leave town,' Tobias says. 'I take my savings of two hundred dollars out of the Erasmus bank, and I come here, figuring maybe I will meet up with some big gunmen and other desperate characters of the underworld, and get to know them, and then I can go back to Erasmus and make Joe Trivett look sick. By the way,' he says, 'do you know any desperate characters of the underworld?'

Well, of course I do not know any such characters, and if I do know them I am not going to speak about it, because the best a guy can get in this town if he goes around speaking of these matters is a nice kick in the pants. So I say no to Tobias Tweeney, and tell him I am more or less of a stranger myself, and then he wishes to know if I can show him a tough joint, such as he sees in the movies.

Naturally, I do not know of such a joint, but then I get to thinking about Good Time Charley's little Gingham Shoppe over in Forty-seventh Street, and how Charley is not going so good the last time I am in there, and here is maybe a chance for me to steer a little trade his way, because, after all, guys with two yards in their pocket are by no means common nowadays.

So I take Tobias Tweeney around to Good Time Charley's, but the moment we get in there I am sorry we go, because who is present but a dozen parties from different parts of the city, and none of these parties are any bargain at any time. Some of these parties, such as Harry the Horse and Angie the Ox, are from Brooklyn, and three are from Harlem, including Little Mitzi and Germany Schwartz, and several are from the Bronx, because I recognize Joey Uptown, and Joey never goes around without a few intimate friends from his own neighbourhood with him.

Afterwards I learn that these parties are to a meeting on business matters at a spot near Good Time Charley's, and when they get through with their business they drop in to give Charley a little complimentary play, for Charley stands very good with one and all in this town. Anyway, they are sitting around a table when Tobias Tweeney and I arrive, and I give them all a big hello, and they hello me back, and ask me and my friend to sit down as it seems they are in a most hospitable frame of mind.

Naturally I sit down because it is never good policy to decline an invitation from parties such as these, and I motion Tobias to sit down, too, and I introduce Tobias all around, and we all have a couple of drinks, and then I explain to those present just who Tobias is, and how his ever-loving doll tosses him around, and how Joe Trivett punches him in the snoot.

Well, Tobias begins crying again, because no inexperienced guy can take a couple of drinks of Good Time Charley's liquor and not bust out crying, even if it is Charley's company liquor, and one and all are at once very sympathetic with Tobias, especially Little Mitzi, who is just tossed around himself more than somewhat by a doll. In fact, Little Mitzi starts crying with him.

'Why,' Joey Uptown says, 'I never hear of a greater outrage in my life, although,' he says, 'I can see there is some puppy in you at that, when you do not return this Trivett's punch. But even so,' Joey says, 'if I have time I will go back to this town you speak of with you and make the guy hard to catch. Furthermore,' he says, 'I will give this Miss Deborah Weems a piece of my mind.'

Then I tell them how Tobias Tweeney comes to New York figuring he may meet up with some desperate characters of the underworld, and they hear this with great interest, and Angie the Ox speaks as follows: 'I wonder,' Angie says, 'if we can get in touch with anybody who knows such characters and arrange to have Mr. Tweeney meet them, although personally,' Angie says, 'I loathe and despise characters of this nature.'

Well, while Angie is wondering this there comes a large knock at the front door, and it is such a knock as only the gendarmes can knock, and everybody at the table jumps up. Good Time Charley goes to the door and takes a quiet gander through his peep-hole and we hear a loud, coarse voice speaking as follows:

'Open up, Charley,' the voice says. 'We wish to look over your guests. Furthermore,' the voice says, 'tell them not to try the back door, because we are there, too.'

'It is Lieutenant Harrigan and his squad,' Charley says as he comes back to the table where we are all standing. 'Someone must tip him off you are here. Well,' Charley says, 'those who have rods to shed will shed them now.'

At this, Joey Uptown steps up to Tobias Tweeney and hands him a large Betsy and says to Tobias like this:

'Put this away on you somewhere,' Joey says, 'and then sit down and be quiet. These coppers are not apt to bother with you,' Joey says, 'if you sit still and mind your own business, but,' Joey says, 'it will be very tough on any of us they find with a rod, especially any of us who owe the state any time, and,' Joey says, 'I seem to remember I owe some.'

Now of course what Joey says is very true, because he is only walking around and about on parole, and some of the others present are walking around the same way, and it is a very serious matter for a guy who is walking around on parole to be caught with a John Roscoe in his pocket. So it is a very ticklish situation, and somewhat embarrassing.

Well, Tobias Tweeney is somewhat dazed by his couple of drinks of Good Time Charley's liquor and the chances are he does not realize what is coming off, so he takes Joey's rod and puts it in his hip kick. Then all of a sudden Harry the Horse and Angie the Ox and Little Mitzi, and all the others step up to him and hand him their Roscoes and Tobias Tweeney somehow manages to stow the guns away on himself and sit down before Good Time Charley opens the door and in come the gendarmes.

By this time Joey Uptown and all the others are scattered at different tables around the room, with no more than three at any one table, leaving Tobias Tweeney and me alone at the table where we are first sitting. Furthermore, everybody is looking very innocent indeed, and all hands seem somewhat surprised at the intrusion of the gendarmes, who are all young guys belonging to Harrigan's Broadway squad, and very rude.

I know Harrigan by sight, and I know most of his men, and they know there is no more harm in me than there is in a two-year-old baby, so they pay no attention to me whatever, or to Tobias Tweeney, either, but go around making Joey Uptown, and Angie the Ox, and all the others stand up while the gendarmes fan them to see if they have any rods on them, because these gendarmes are always laying for parties such as these hoping to catch them rodded up.

Naturally the gendarmes do not find any rods on anybody, because the rods are all on Tobias Tweeney, and no gendarme is going to fan Tobias Tweeney looking for a rod after one gander at Tobias, especially at this particular moment, as Tobias is now half-asleep from Good Time Charley's liquor, and has no interest whatever in anything that is going on. In fact, Tobias is nodding in his chair.

Of course the gendarmes are greatly disgusted at not finding any rods, and Angie the Ox and Joey Uptown are telling them that they are going to see their aldermen and find out if law-abiding citizens can be stood up and fanned for rods, and put in a very undignified position like this, but the gendarmes do not seem disturbed by these threats, and Lieutenant Harrigan states as follows:

'Well,' he says, 'I guess maybe I get a bum steer, but,' he says, 'for two cents I will give all you wrong gees a good going-over just for luck.'

Of course this is no way to speak to parties such as these, as they are all very prominent in their different parts of the city, but Lieutenant Harrigan is a guy who seldom cares how he talks to anybody. In fact, Lieutenant Harrigan is a very tough copper.

But he is just about to take his gendarmes out of the joint when Tobias Tweeney nods a little too far forward in his chair, and then all of a sudden topples over on the floor, and five large rods pop out of his pockets and go sliding every which way around the floor, and the next thing anybody knows there is Tobias Tweeney under arrest with all the gendarmes holding on to some part of him.

Well, the next day the newspapers are plumb full of the capture of a guy they call Twelve-Gun Tweeney, and the papers say the police state that this is undoubtedly the toughest guy the world ever sees, because while they hear of two-gun guys, and even three-gun guys, they never before hear of a guy going around rodded up with twelve guns.

The gendarmes say they can tell by the way he acts that Twelve-Gun Tweeney is a mighty bloodthirsty guy, because he says nothing whatever but only glares at them with a steely glint in his eyes, although of course the reason Tobias stares at them is because he is still too dumbfounded to think of anything to say.

Naturally, I figure that when Tobias comes up for air he is a sure thing to spill the whole business, and all the parties who are in Good Time Charley's when he is arrested figure the same way, and go into retirement for a time. But it seems that when Tobias finally realizes what time it is, he is getting so much attention that it swells him all up and he decides to keep on being Twelve-Gun Tweeney as long as he can, which is a decision that is a very nice break for all parties concerned.

I sneak down to Judge Rascover's court the day Tobias is arraigned on a charge of violation of the Sullivan law, which is a law against carrying rods, and the courtroom is packed with citizens eager to see a character desperate enough to lug twelve rods, and among these citizens are many dolls, pulling and hauling for position, and some of these dolls are by no means crows. Many photographers are hanging around to take pictures of Twelve-Gun Tweeney as he is led in handcuffed to gendarmes on either side of him, and with other gendarmes in front and behind him.

But one and all are greatly surprised and somewhat disappointed when they see what a little squirt Tobias is, and Judge Rascover looks down at him once, and then puts on his specs and takes another gander as if he does not believe what he sees in the first place. After looking at Tobias awhile through his specs, and shaking his head as if he is greatly puzzled, Judge Rascover speaks to Lieutenant Harrigan as follows:

'Do you mean to tell this court,' Judge Rascover says, 'that this half-portion here is the desperate Twelve-Gun Tweeney?'

Well, Lieutenant Harrigan says there is no doubt whatever about it, and Judge Rascover wishes to know how Tobias carries all these rods, and whereabouts, so Lieutenant Harrigan collects twelve rods from the gendarmes around the courtroom, unloads these rods, and starts in putting the guns here and there on Tobias as near as he can remember where they are found on him in the first place, with Tobias giving him a little friendly assistance.

Lieutenant Harrigan puts two guns in each of the side pockets of Tobias's coat, one in each hip pocket, one in the waistband of Tobias's pants, one in each side pocket of the pants, one up each of Tobias's sleeves, and one in the inside pocket of Tobias's coat. Then Lieutenant Harrigan states to the court that he is all finished, and that Tobias is rodded up in every respect as when they put the arm on him in Good Time Charley's joint, and Judge Rascover speaks to Tobias as follows:

'Step closer to the bench,' Judge Rascover says. 'I wish to see for myself just what kind of a villain you are.'

Well, Tobias takes a step forward, and over he goes on his snoot, so I see right away what it is makes him keel over in Good Time Charley's joint, not figuring in Charley's liquor. The little guy is naturally top-heavy from the rods.

Now there is much confusion as he falls and a young doll who seems to be fatter than somewhat comes shoving through the crowd in the courtroom yelling and crying, and though the gendarmes try to stop her she gets to Tobias and kneels at his side, and speaks as follows:

'Toby, darling,' she says, 'it is nobody but Deborah who loves you dearly, and who always knows you will turn out to be the greatest gunman of them all. Look at me, Toby,' she says, 'and tell me you love me, too. We never realize what a hero you are until we get the New York papers in Erasmus last night, and I hurry to you as quickly as possible. Kiss me, Toby,' the fat young doll says, and Tobias raises up on one elbow and does same, and it makes a very pleasing scene, indeed, although the gendarmes try to pull them apart, having no patience whatever with such matters.

Now Judge Rascover is watching all this business through his specs, and Judge Rascover is no sucker, but a pretty slick old codger for a judge, and he can see that there is something wrong somewhere about Tobias Tweeney being a character as desperate as the gendarmes make him out, especially when he sees that Tobias cannot pack all these rods on a bet.

So when the gendarmes pick the fat young doll off of Tobias and take a few pounds of rods off of Tobias, too, so he is finally able to get back on his pins and stand there, Judge Rascover adjourns court, and takes Tobias into his private room and has a talk with him, and the chances are Tobias tells him the truth, for the next thing anybody knows Tobias is walking away as free as the little birdies in the trees, except that he has the fat young doll clinging to him like a porous plaster, so maybe Tobias is not so free, at that.

Well, this is about all there is to the story, except that there is afterwards plenty of heat between the parties who are present in Good Time Charley's joint when Tobias is collared, because it seems that the meeting they all attend before going to Charley's is supposed to be a peace meeting of some kind and nobody is supposed to carry any rods to this meeting just to prove their confidence in each other, so everybody is very indignant when it comes out that nobody has any confidence in anybody else at the meeting.

I never hear of Tobias Tweeney but once after all this, and it is some months afterwards when Joey Uptown and Little Mitzi are over in Pennsylvania inspecting a brewery proposition, and finding themselves near the town that is called Erasmus, they decide it will be a nice thing to drop in on Tobias Tweeney and see how he is getting along.

Well, it seems Tobias is all married up to Miss Deborah Weems, and is getting along first class, as it seems the town elects him constable, because it feels that a guy with such a desperate reputation as Tobias Tweeney's is bound to make wrongdoers keep away from Erasmus if he is an officer of the law, and Tobias's first official act is to chase Joe Trivett out of town.

But along Broadway Tobias Tweeney will always be considered nothing but an ingrate for heaving Joey Uptown and Little Mitzi into the town sneezer and getting them fined fifty bobs apiece for carrying concealed weapons.

________________

17: The Comedy Of The Jewelled Links.

Max Pemberton

From The Jewel Mysteries, 1894

I DO NOT know if there be any drug in the Pharmacopeia, or any clearly defined medical treatment, which may ever hope to grapple effectively with the strange disease of jewel-hunger, but if there be not, I have much pleasure in recommending this most singular ill to the notice of a rising generation of physicians. That it is a branch of that mystery of mysteries, la névrose, I have no manner of doubt, for I have seen it in all its forms— a malignant growth which makes night of the lives it plays upon; and flourishes to exceeding profit down in the very heart of tragedies. For the matter of that, the flunkies, who study in the kitchen— as the great master has told us— the characters of their governing acquaintances in the boudoir above over a quart pot and the Police News, get no little insight into the development of the social disaster which treads often upon the heels of jewel-hunger, as they read those extravagantly ornate reports of robbery and of mystery in which a highly moral people revels. These are but gleaners in the field— to them the inner life must remain hidden. No physician hoping to cope with the affection should turn either to gossips or to slanderers for his diagnosis. Let him get down into the caves of the trade, give his ear to the truer narrative which the jewel dealer alone can write for him, and he may hope for material and for success. And if he be wise, he will study both the comedy and the tragedy which such an investigation will bring before him, and will by this means alone set himself up as a specialist.

It is to such a one that I would recommend perusal of the following case which I record here as one of the comedies of my note-book— a story of meanness, cupidity, and stupid cunning; I doubt if there be any philosophy of medicine which could make preteens of solving it. There were but two principal actors mentioned in the argument, and, indeed, it might fairly be called a one-part play. The chief person concerned, Lord Harningham, I had known for many years. He was a man of whom a biographer wrote "that his long and unblemished career was a credit to his country," and to whom a book on the Decalogue was inscribed as to one sans peur et sans réproche. Yet they told you in the smoking-rooms that he had starved his first wife, and left his only son as the partner of a horse-coper in Melbourne, on the princely allowance of one hundred and fifty pounds per annum. His wealth, said common report, was anything from fifty thousand to a hundred thousand pounds per annum; and in his second childhood, for he was a septuagenarian when this comedy was played, he was suckled on the nourishing food of expiring leases and forfeited improvements until he seemed to exude sovereigns from every pore in his enormous body.

A meaner man never lived. All similes in converse were based upon his exploits. "As mean as old Harningham" was a phrase you heard every day at the "Bachelors." In the countless old stories they put upon him, telling how, at a tenants' lunch in Bedfordshire, he had cried, "Here's another quart of cider, and hang the expense!" how he had been seen in Farringdon Market buying his own fish; how he haggled with cabmen innumerable; how he had been stricken with a malignant fever on the day he gave away a sovereign for a shilling— there was but the echo of the general sentiment. The society prints were hilarious at the mere mention of his name. I recollect well his anger when a wag said in one of them, "It is rumoured that Lord Harningham is shortly about to give something away." He was in my office next day— a week rarely passed but what I saw him— and he laid the journal upon my table, beating it flat with a stick, and pointing at it with his ample finger as though his very touch would wither the writer.

"Please to read that," he said with forced calm but considerable emphasis, "and tell me if the scoundrel doesn't deserve to be hanged. He dares to mention my name, d'ye see! To mention me, and speak about my concerns. Ha! but I wish I had him under this stick!"

"Of course you don't know who wrote it," said I.

"How should I know?" he gabbled testily. "Do I go round to the taverns swilling gin-and-water with such gutter birds? Do I hobnob with all the half-starved limners in Fleet Street? Pshaw, you talk like a fool!"

I suffered his temper, for he was worth a couple of thousand a year to me. Presently he became calmer, and the humour of the thing dawned upon his dull mind.

"Ha!" he said, snuffing ferociously from the great diamond-studded box he always carried, "I shouldn't wonder if that's Master Bertie Watts— you know my nephew, eh? he owes you something, eh?— well, that's like him, and his scoundrelly impudence— the vagabond!"

"Did not I read somewhere that he was going to be married?" I remarked at hazard; but the notion tickled him immensely, and he rolled about in his chair, shaking the snuff from his box over his fur coat, and even upon my papers.

"Yes, you read it," he gasped at last, "a fine tale too. Why, what's he got?— four hundred a year in Whitehall, and what he can draw out of me— not much, Mr. Sutton— not much."

I had no doubt of that, but I kept my face while he went on to mutter and to chortle; and I showed him a bracelet of rubies, which he desired instantly to purchase. I had put a price of four hundred and twenty pounds upon it, meaning to accept three hundred, so that we haggled for two hours by the clock and had then done business. He took the rubies away with him, while I caused the further sum to be set against him in the ledger, where already there were so many unpaid items under the name. He owed me eight thousand pounds at the least, but I could not press the account, or should have lost him; and while I was often sore troubled for lack of the money, I knew that I should get it at his death, and so aided his jewel-hunger. This was prodigious. All the gems that I sold— watches, necklaces, tiaras, brooches, and breastpins, were conveyed at once to the great safe in his bedroom and there immured. No one ever saw them but himself. His wives, both of whom were dead, had scarce enjoyed the possession of a barmaid's jewellery. The passion of the collector, of the hungerer after stones, alone consumed him. Of all his meanness, this was the most contemptible— this hiding of fair treasure from the light it lived upon— this gross hoarding of beautiful things for one man's selfish enjoyment.

When he left Bond Street that day, crying at my door, "So I'm going to give something away, am I?— but I ain't, Sutton, I ain't"— and walking off as though he had found satisfaction in the negative thus conveyed to me, I picked up the paper, and read again that young Bertie Watts was at last engaged to the Hon. Eva Benley, and that the wedding was to be celebrated in a month's time. Every one in town said that old Harningham would do something for Watts when the time for the marriage actually came; and it was gossip in the clubs that her people had given their consent— for they were historically poor— only upon the sincere assurance from their daughter's fiancé that his uncle really was very fond of him, and would present him with a handsome cheque on the wedding day. But here was the announcement of the wedding, and the old curmudgeon had just said— being readier in speech with me, perhaps, than with any one of his few acquaintances— that he did not mean to give the young people a halfpenny. It did occur to me that possibly he might have bought the ruby bracelet for the exceedingly pretty girl to whom his nephew was engaged; but in this I was mistaken, as you shall presently see; and the interest of the whole problem deepened when I learnt later on in the smoking-room of my club that the marriage was likely to be postponed, and something of a scandal to ensue. Bertie Watts, they said, was going about like a ravenous beast, seeking what financier he could devour. His opinion of his uncle was expressed in phrases of which the chief ornament was appalling curses and maledictions. He declared he would have the whip-hand of him yet, would make him pay handsomely for all the trouble he had put people to— in short, behaved like a man who was absurdly in love, regardless of that financial prudence which is so dear to the sight of parents and of guardians. Even he, however, could not foresee the strange thing about to happen to him, or the very curious opportunity which was shortly to be his.

A week passed. There was no definite announcement of any postponement of the arrangements noted by The Hyde Park Gazette, nor did such part of society as is represented by the tonguesters, hear that Bertie had persuaded his uncle. The thing was a kind of deadlock in its financial aspect, until at last the world of Belgravia knew that the young lady's father, Lord Varnley, had consented to let the wedding be, and to trust to Harningham's better sense when the time of the accomplishment came. I saw Watts one day driving with his fiancée near the Achilles Statue, and thought that he looked glum enough; but he came to me on the following morning for a diamond aigrette, and although he couldn't pay for it I let him have it.

"It'll be all right in a month, Sutton," said he; "you know the old chap's hard enough, but he can't let me marry on nothing a year, can he now?"

I said that the thing was possible; and for his own sake ventured to hint that it was even probable, an opinion which he took in no good part, sucking his stick silently for a while, and then laughing with a poor little chuckle that seemed to come from the very top of his head.

"Well," he exclaimed at last, "it's devilish rough on a fellow to have a relation of that sort, isn't it?— a positive disgrace to the family. I wonder what the old blackguard is going to give me for a wedding present. Did he ask you to show him any American tickers, by the way? I shouldn't wonder if he presented me with a brass clock, and Eva with a guinea set in jet— he's mean enough."

"He bought a ruby bracelet here some days ago," I remarked, as in parenthesis.

"Did he now?" he exclaimed in a tone of pleasure. "I wonder if it's for the girlie! but, of course, it couldn't be. He'd die to give away anything that once went into his old safe. Look here, Sutton, couldn't you charge him an extra hundred, and go halves? I feel like something desperate."

I told him that that was impossible, and he went away with the aigrette in his pocket, and a very thoughtful expression upon his face. Before he did so, however, he had uttered the pious wish that his uncle might die of some tormenting visitation; and that he might be alive to dance on the day of the funeral. I must say that I sympathized with him, for he was a good-looking and kindly-hearted young fellow, who for many years had been led to believe that his relations would do something for him; and who was about to be grievously disappointed. Nor could I forget that he was engaged to one of the prettiest girls in town— and for her sake enjoyed a kind of reflected sympathy which was sincere enough on the part of every man who knew him.

The date of the wedding was now fixed, being the 21st of January, to be well ahead of Lent. I saw Watts very frequently during the following ten days, he coming with expectant persistency to ask me if his uncle had yet bought him anything; and remaining disappointed almost to the very eve of his marriage. In fact, the wedding was to take place on the Wednesday, and it was only on the previous Monday that Lord Harningham ascended my stairs puffing and blowing, and in a shocking temper, to make his purchase of a present.

"Sutton," he said, "this is the greatest tomfoolery on earth— that young rascal is going to get married after all, and I suppose I'll have to give him something."

"You can scarce do less," I said with a smile.

"Of course I can do less," he replied garrulously. "I can give him nothing at all, d'ye see; not a brass halfpenny. Look at the ass, maudling about the first pretty face he sees over a dinner table when he might marry money twenty times for the asking of it. Did I make such a fool of myself when I was his age?"

I assured him that he did nothing of the sort.

"Then what's he want to do it for? Thinks he's going to get something out of me, perhaps— out of me, but he ain't— not sixpence; not if they hadn't enough to get to the station with. Ha, ha! I'm not such a spendthrift as I look."

He talked in this strain for some while, and then fell to haggling over a gift. He told me that the custom of giving wedding presents was the insane fashion of an insane age; that he consented to follow it only in view of the fuss that society would make if his card did not lie on Lord Varnley's table when the other presents were shown. In this bargaining he displayed a meanness which was triumphant even for him. I must have shown him quite a hundred rings, pins, and watches, of all values, from fifty pounds to five hundred, before he could in any way make up his mind, and he did not cease to rebuke me for that which he called my preposterously extravagant insinuation. "Fifty sovereigns! a hundred sovereigns!" he kept exclaiming; "Why, man alive, do you think I'm made of money? Show me something cheap, something that five pounds will buy, d'ye see? any bit of stuff's good enough for a jackanapes like that."

"But not for your card on Lord Varnley's table."

"Why, what do you mean?"

"People who are uncharitable, you know, might say that it was a curiously insufficient present."

"D'ye think they'd say that?"

"I am sure they would."

"Pshaw!— so am I; that comes of being thought a rich man when you're as poor as a parson. I'm quite a poor man, you know, Sutton."

I listened to him patiently, and in the end persuaded him to buy Watts an exquisite set of jewelled links. These had a fine diamond in each of them, but their greatest ornament was the superb enamelling, worthy of Jean Toutin or Petitot, with which all the gold was covered. I asked one hundred and fifty pounds for these remarkable ornaments; and the old man, struck, like the artist he was, with the perfection of the workmanship, fixed his greedy eyes upon them, and was persuaded. He protested that they were too good, far too good, for such a worthless ingrate as his nephew, and that he ought to keep them in his own collection; but at last he ordered me to send them, with his card, to Lord Varnley's town house, and went away chafing at his own generosity, and, as he avowed, at his stupidity.

I saw no more of him for a week. The wedding had been celebrated, and Master Bertie Watts had conveyed away quietly to Folkestone as pretty an English girl as ever flourished in the glare of the West. Lord and Lady Varnley shut up their house during the week after the marriage, having sent the very numerous wedding presents to their bankers; and society would have forgotten the whole business if it had not paused to discuss the important question— How were the young couple to exist in the future on the paltry income of four or five hundred pounds a year? One half of the world may not know how the other half lives, but that is not for lack of effort on its part to find out. It was a matter of club-room news that old Lord Harningham had not relented— and, beyond what his nephew called "those twopenny-half-penny sleeve links," had not given him a penny. How then, said this same charitable world, will these silly children keep up their position in town when they return from the second-rate hotel they are now staying in at Folkestone?

Curiously enough, I was able myself to answer that question in three days' time— though at the moment I was as ignorant as any of them. The matter came about in this way. On the very morning that Lord Varnley went to Paris, it was known through the daily papers that there had been a robbery at his house in Cork Street, of a green velvet case, containing a crescent of pearls, turquoises, and diamonds. This was a present from one of the Embassies to his daughter, and must, said the reports, have been abstracted from the house during the press and the confusion of the reception. Later in the afternoon I received an advice from Scotland Yard cautioning me against the purchase of such a gem, and inviting immediate communication if it were offered to me. The theft of wedding presents is so common that I gave little heed to the matter; and was already immersed in other business when Lord Harningham was announced. He seemed rather fidgety in his manner, I thought, and hummed and hawed considerably before he would explain his mission.

"It's about those links I gave my nephew," he said at last. "They're far too good for him, Sutton— and they're too pretty. I never saw better work in my life, and must have been a fool when I let them go out of my possession— d'ye see?"

"Well, but you can't get them back now?" I remarked with a smile.

He took snuff vigorously at my reply, and then said,—

"Man, you're wrong, I've got them in my pocket."

I must have expressed my astonishment in my look, for he went on quickly,—

"Yes, here in the green case as you sold them. Do I surprise you, eh? Well, I'm going to give Master Bertie a bit of a cheque and to keep these things; but one of the stones is off colour— I noticed it at the wedding— and I must have a new one in, d'ye see?"

"I thought that you had already handed them over," I interrupted, quite disregarding his last request.

"So I did, so I did; but a man can take his own back again, can't he? Well, when I saw them at the house, I concluded it was ridiculous to give a boy like that such treasures, and so— "

"You spoke to him?"

"Hem— that is, of course, man. Pshaw! You're too inquisitive for a jeweller: you ought to have been a lady's maid."

"Have you brought them with you now?"

"What should I be here for if I hadn't?"

He laid upon my table a green velvet case, of the exact size, colour, and shape of that which had contained the links; but when I opened it I gave a start, and put it down quickly. The case held a crescent of pearls, turquoises, and diamonds, which answered exactly to the description of the one stolen from Lord Varnley's house on the day of his daughter's wedding.

"There's some mistake here," said I, "you've evidently left the links at home," with which remark I put the jewels under his very nose for him to see. He looked at them for a moment, the whole of his flabby face wrinkling and reddening; then he seemed almost to choke, and the veins in his forehead swelled until they were as blue threads upon an ashen and colourless countenance.

"Good God!" he ejaculated, "I've taken the wrong case."

"Your nephew gave it you, no doubt, but he must have forgotten it, for he's advertised the loss of this crescent at Scotland Yard, and there are detectives now trying to find it. I am cautioned not to purchase it," I said with a laugh.

The effect of these words upon him was so curious that for some moments I thought he had spasm of the heart. Starting up in the chair, with wild eyes, and hands clutching at the arms to rest upon them, he made several attempts to speak, but not a word came from his lips. I endeavoured to help him with his difficulty, but it was to little purpose.

"It seems to me, Lord Harningham," I suggested, "that you have only to write a line of explanation to your nephew— and there's an end of the matter."

"You think so?" he cried eagerly.

"Why not," said I, "since he returned the jewels to you?"

"But he didn't," he interrupted, cringing in the chair at this confession of a lie; "he didn't; and he'd prosecute me; he hates me, and this is his opportunity, d'ye see?"

"Do you mean to say," I exclaimed, beginning to understand the situation, "that you took the case without his permission?"

"Yes, yes," he mumbled, "they were so beautiful, such work! You know what work they were. I saw them at the wedding, and was sure that I should not have parted with them. I meant to send him a cheque against them— and when no one was looking I put what I thought was the case into my pocket, but it was the wrong one. God help me, Sutton what shall I do?"

Now it seemed to me that this was one of the most delightful comedies I had ever assisted at. Technically, Lord Harningham was a thief, and undoubtedly Bertie Watts could have prosecuted him had he chosen, though the probability of his getting a conviction was small. But it was very evident to me that here was the boy's opportunity, and that in the interest of his pretty wife I should make the best of it. With this intent, I played my first card with necessary boldness.

"Undoubtedly the case is very serious for you," said I, apparently with sympathy, "and it is made the more serious from the strange relations existing between your nephew and yourself. You know the law, I doubt not, as well as I do; and that once a prosecution has been initiated at Scotland Yard it is impossible to withdraw without a trial. Mr. Watts might get into serious trouble for compounding a felony; and I might suffer with him as one in the conspiracy. But I tell you what I will do; I'll write to him to-night and sound him. Meanwhile, let me advise you to keep out of the way, for I can't disguise the fact that you might be arrested."

He gave a great scream at this, and the perspiration rolled from him, falling in great drops upon the carpet. "Oh, Lord!" he kept muttering, "oh, that I should have been such a consummate fool!— oh, Heaven help me! To think of it— and what it will cost, I could cry, Sutton— cry like a child."

I calmed him with difficulty, and led him down the back stairs to a cab with a positive assurance that I would not communicate with Scotland Yard. Then I wrote to Folkestone a letter, the precise contents of which are immaterial, but the response to which was in the form of a telegram worded as follows:—

"Am inexpressibly shocked and pained, but the law must take its course."

I put this into my pocket without any delay and went over to Harningham's house in Park Lane. He had been up all night, they told me, and the doctor had just left him; but I found him suffering only from an enervating fear, and white as the cloth on the breakfast table before him.

"Well," he said, "what is it, what does he say? Will he prosecute me?"

I handed him the telegram for answer, and I thought he would have swooned. He did not know that I had in my pocket another letter from his nephew, in which Master Bertie informed me that I was the "best chap in the world," and I saw no reason to mention this. Indeed, I listened with infinite gravity when the old man told me that he was irretrievably ruined, and that his name would stand in all the clubs as that of a common thief. Jewel-hunger plainly accounted for everything he had done; but it was not to my end to console him, and I said in a severe and sufficiently melancholy voice,—

"Lord Harningham, there is only one thing to do, and for your sake I will make myself a criminal participator in the conspiracy. You must go to Folkestone with me this afternoon, and take your cheque book with you."

The groan he gave at this would have moved a man of iron. I saw tears standing in his eyes, and his hand shook when I left him so that he could scarce put it into mine. Yet he came to the station to meet me in the afternoon, and by six o'clock we were in Folkestone at a shabby second-rate hotel, called "The Cock and Lobster," inquiring for the bride and bridegroom. Mr. and Mrs. Watts, they said, were out on the parade; but we went to look for them, and surprised them coming from the Lees, as handsome a couple as you could look upon. She, a pretty, brown-haired English girl, her tresses tossed over her large eyes by the sharp wind that swept in from the sea, was close under the arm of her husband, who, at that stage, fearing to lose her touch, seemed engaged in the impossible attempt to cover her entirely with one of his arms. And in this pursuit privacy came to his aid, for the breeze was fresh from the Channel at the beginning of night, banishing all loiterers but those loitering in love; and the lamps flickered and went low in the gusts as though fearing to illumine the roses upon the cheeks of a bride.

When Master Bertie saw us he became as sedate as a Methodist minister, and, commanding a solemn tone acted the part to perfection.

"Uncle," he said, "I would never have believed it of you. But this is too serious a matter to mention here; let us go to the hotel."

We returned in silence, but directly we were in the hall the young man called for his bill, and speaking almost in a boisterous tone, cried:—

"We're going to change our quarters, uncle, and will begin by moving to the best hotel in the place. That poor girl is moped to death here, and now you're going to pay for our honeymoon— cost doesn't matter, does it, old man?"

The old man concerned started at this, his mouth wide open with the surprise of it.

"What's that?" he muttered. "What're you going to do?" But I whispered to him to be silent, and in an hour we were sitting down to a superb dinner— which he did not touch, by the bye— in the great saloon of the biggest hotel in the place. During the meal the bride, who scarce seemed able to do anything else than look at her husband, made few remarks, but Watts and I talked freely, quite ignoring the old man; and it was not until we were in the private room that the negotiations began.

There is no need to describe them. They lasted until midnight, at which hour the nephew of Lord Harningham had five hundred pounds in his pocket, and an allowance of five hundred a year. From the moment of assenting to these conditions until we entered the train next morning the old man never opened his lips, but he kissed the bride at the door of the hotel, and colour came again to his cheeks at the warmth of her lips. When at last we were alone in the carriage he gave a great sigh of relief and said,—

"Sutton, thank God that's over!"

"Nearly over, my lord," I replied with emphasis.

"What do you mean?" he cried. "Do you think that any one will get to hear of it? Why, man, what have I half-ruined myself for?"

"To keep your nephew quiet," I suggested pleasantly.

"And who else knows anything when he's settled with?" he asked angrily.

"Why," said I quite calmly, "you and I, perhaps."

He looked at me as though his glance was all-consuming and would wither me, but I met him with a placid smile and continued,—

"It seems to me that I want what Mr. Stevenson calls 'a good memory for forgetting.' Do you know, Lord Harningham, that if you paid my bill— gave me, say, eight thousand pounds on account, I believe my mind would be quite oblivious to the events of last night."

The shot struck home— in the very centre of my target. He thought over it for some while, and spoke but once between Sevenoaks and Charing Cross. His remark was more forcible than convincing, for he exclaimed suddenly, and à propos of nothing in particular, "Sutton to blazes with all jewels!" Then he subsided, and came with me quietly to my rooms, where he wrote a cheque for eight thousand pounds and signed it with considerable firmness. The ink was hardly dry, however, before he dropped heavily upon the carpet, and lay prone in a fit.

The shock of parting with so much money had been too much for him. He is now in Madeira seeking a climate.

__________________

18: The Great Portrait Mystery

R Austin Freeman

From The Great Portrait Mystery and other stories, 1918

i

AS A COLLECTION of human oddments, the National Gallery on copying day surpasses even the Reading Room of the British Museum, and almost equals the House of Commons. The spectacle that it afforded was a source of perennial interest to Mr. Joseph Fittleworth, as were also the productions of the professional copyists, humorously described in official parlance as students. For Joseph Fittleworth was himself a painter, with a leaning to the methods of the past rather than to those of the future, a circumstance which accounted for his professional failure. Which illustrates the remarkable fact that in these days, when even indifferent Old Masters sell at famine prices, while the unsold work of contemporary genius grows mouldy in the studios, an artist’s only chance of popularity is to diverge as far as possible from the methods of those great men of the past whose productions are in such demand.

Hence it had happened that Fittleworth had accepted with avidity a not very lucrative supernumerary post at the National Gallery where he could, at least, have his being amidst the objects of his worship, which we may remark included an exceedingly comely young lady, who came regularly to the gallery to copy pictures, principally of the Flemish school.

On this particular Thursday morning Mr. Fittleworth walked slowly through the rooms, stopping now and again to look at the work of the copyists, and dropping an occasional word of judicious and valued criticism. He had made a tour of the greater part of the building and was about to turn back, when he bethought him of a rather interesting copy that he had seen in progress in a small, isolated room at the end of the British Galleries, and turned his steps thither. The room was approached by a short corridor in which a man was seated copying in water-colour a small Constable, and copying it so execrably that Fittleworth instinctively looked the other way and passed hurriedly to the room beyond. The work in progress here interested him exceedingly. The original was a portrait of James the Second by Sir Godfrey Kneller, and the copy was so perfect a reproduction that Fittleworth halted by the easel lost in admiration of the technical skill displayed. The artist, whose name appeared from an inscription on his colour box to be Guildford Dudley, was seated, looking at his picture and the original, as he deliberately mixed a number of tints on his palette.

"I see you haven’t begun work yet," Fittleworth remarked.

The painter looked up at him, owlishly through a pair of very large, double focus spectacles, and shook his head, which was adorned by a tangled mass of very long, reddish hair.

"No," he replied, "I am just having a preliminary look before starting."

"Do you think your copy wants anything done to it at all?" asked Fittleworth. "It’s excellent as it stands, though just a trifle low in tone."

"Not lower than the original, is it?" demanded the artist.

"No," replied Fittleworth, "but it will be in a year or so, when the medium has darkened, and it’s a good deal lower than the original was when first painted."

The painter reflected. "I’m inclined to think you’re right," said he. "I ought to have kept it one or two degrees higher. But it isn’t too late," he added, briskly. "A day’s work or so ought to bring it up to the proper key."

Fittleworth was doubtful and rather sorry he had spoken. Raising the tone meant practically going over the entire picture afresh, which seemed a risky proceeding in the case of a finished, and highly successful, painting. He attempted gentle dissuasion, but, finding the painter resolved on the alteration, refrained from urging him further.

"I see," said he, "that the glass is on the original. Wouldn’t you like to have it taken off?"

"Oh, no, thanks," was the reply. "There’s no reflection in it from here."

"The glass lets the tone down a little," Fittleworth began; but there he paused, with his mouth slightly open, and the painter started and fell into a rigid posture, with his palette-knife poised motionless in mid-air. Astonishment was writ large on the faces of both men as they listened. And not without cause; for, clear and distinct, came the notes of a hautboy, playing a lively melody, and most evidently from somewhere within the sacred precincts of the building. Fittleworth remained for some seconds rigid as a statue, with his mouth open and his eyes fixed on those of the painter; but suddenly he recovered himself, and, without a word, darted from the room. Passing the water-colourist, who was looking over his shoulder and grinning, he entered the larger gallery, to find the easels deserted and the students trooping out of the door; and, following them, soon found himself in a momentarily-augmenting crowd of copyists, all surging towards the source of the music and all on the broad grin.

It was in the Venetian room that Fittleworth finally ran the musician to earth. There he found a dense crowd, collected round Titian’s Bacchus and Ariadne, and at its centre, a tall, thin man of grotesque and whimsical aspect, who wore a steeple-crowned felt hat and a long cloak, apparently quite oblivious of his audience. At the moment of Fittleworth’s arrival, he was giving a spirited and skilful rendering of the "Carnival de Venise" with somewhat florid variations, and meanwhile keeping a pensive eye fixed on the picture. Fittleworth, controlling his features as well as he could, pushed through the crowd and touched the stranger lightly on the shoulder.

"I am sorry," said he, "to interrupt your really admirable performance, but I’m afraid we can’t allow it to continue here."

The stranger rolled a solemn, and somewhat reproachful, eye towards the official, and pausing for a moment on a low note, sprang up an octave and opened a fresh suite of variations, of really surprising agility. Fittleworth smothered a grin and waited patiently until the bravura passage came to an end with a most astonishing flourish, when he once more entered his polite demurrer. The stranger removed the instrument from his mouth and, having waited for the applause to subside, turned gravely to Fittleworth.

"Do I understand," said he, "that you object to music in this establishment?"

Fittleworth replied in the affirmative.

The stranger shook his head solemnly. "That," said he, "seems to be an extraordinarily mistaken view. Surely you do not dispute the essential kinship of the fine arts?"

Fittleworth smiled evasively, and the stranger continued, amidst a murmur of encouraging giggles from the students:

"You will not deny, sir, that the different fine arts are but various modes of a general sense of beauty."

Fittleworth was not denying anything; he only objected to the hautboy.

"Then," the stranger persisted, unmoved, "you will admit that each of the modes of beauty is reinforced by exposition and illustration through the other modes. For my part," he added finally, "I regard appropriate and sympathetic music as indispensable to the due appreciation of pictorial beauty," and with this, he turned away and moved off through the gallery followed, like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, by an attendant multitude.

Fittleworth was in somewhat of a dilemma. There was no explicit rule against the playing of musical instruments in the galleries and the act was not in itself unlawful; moreover, the stranger’s plea, though fantastic and absurd, was advanced so suavely and plausibly that it was difficult to deal with. He was still smilingly considering what it were best to do, when the stranger halted before Claude’s "Embarkation of St. Ursula" and forthwith began a plaintive rendering of "Partant pour la Syrie." For awhile the humour of the situation was too much for Fittleworth, and the performance was nearly at an end before he had recovered himself sufficiently to renew his protests; but as the stranger moved away, he once more addressed him with polite, but urgent, remonstrance. The musician regarded him with reproachful surprise and again urged him to consider the intimate relation between the different modes of beauty, instancing the performances of Miss Maud Allen as a familiar and popular example; and even while Fittleworth was racking his brain for a suitable rejoinder, the stranger drew up abruptly before David’s portrait of Elisa Bonaparte, and fixing a fiery eye upon the picture, burst into the "Marseillaise."

Fittleworth felt himself becoming hysterical as the students cheered and the stirring phrases of the warlike melody rang through the building. It was useless to protest. The stranger only frowned, and rolled a compelling eye that demanded silence. Bewildered attendants watched the performance from afar with horrified stares and the crowd grew from moment to moment. After a brief appreciation of Fragonard’s "Happy Mother" (to the air of "La Vierge a la Creche"), he moved on into the Dutch Gallery, and pausing before a picture of Van Ostade’s, struck up with surprising spirit and verve "The Dutchman’s Little Wee Dog"; which brought down the house and, incidentally, put a term to the performance. For at this point, to Fittleworth’s great relief, an irritable old lady, who was copying a Rembrandt, came forward and demanded how she could "be expected to work in this disgusting hubbub." Fittleworth took the opportunity to point out to the musician that the galleries were at present filled with workers to whom his admirable performance, though delightful on a more seasonable occasion, was, just now, a distraction and a hindrance.

The stranger turned, and raised his steeple-crowned hat. "That," said he, with a low bow to the old lady, "is an entirely different matter. If my presence is a source of disturbance, there is nothing for it but for me to wish you a very good morning."

With this and another low bow, and an elaborate flourish of his hat, he turned, and adjusting the mouth piece of his instrument, walked away briskly towards the entrance hall, playing "The Girl I left behind me."

It was some considerable time before the galleries settled down again. The students, gathered into groups, eagerly discussed the fantastic stranger, and Fittleworth, passing from one group to another, was assailed by innumerable questions. It was getting on for lunch time when he found himself once more in the neighbourhood of the isolated room where the portrait was in progress, and he noticed, as he passed through the corridor, that the water-colourist had already left. He found Mr. Dudley staring discontentedly through his great spectacles at the picture on his easel, and a single glance showed him that there was abundant cause for discontent.

"What do you think of it?" the painter asked, looking up doubtfully.

Fittleworth pursed up his lips. "I’m afraid," said he, "you haven’t improved it. The tone is certainly higher but the likeness has suffered, and the whole thing looks coarse and patchy."

Dudley gazed gloomily at the canvas and nodded. "I’m afraid you’re right," said he. "I’ve mucked it up. That’s the plain truth."

"You certainly haven’t improved it," agreed Fittleworth, "and, if I might venture to advise, I would recommend you to clean off this morning’s work and consider the picture finished."

The painter stood up and surveyed his work savagely. "You’re perfectly right," said he, "and I’ll follow your advice." He closed his folding-palette and began rapidly to pack up his materials, while Fittleworth stood, gazing regretfully at the spoiled painting. When he had packed his box and brush-case, Dudley proceeded to secure the canvas, which was very neatly arranged for safe transport, being fixed by catches to the bottom of a shallow box, the sliding lid of which served to protect the wet surface.

"Are you going to take it away with you?" Fittleworth asked, as the painter slid the lid into its groove and fixed on the carrying straps.

"Yes," replied Dudley, "I will take it home and then I shan’t be tempted to tinker at it again when I’ve cleaned this mess off."

Having closed and packed his easel, he picked up his heavy colour-box, his brush case and a leather bag, and Fittleworth, seeing him thus encumbered, politely offered to carry the box which contained the painting; and so they walked together to the entrance-hall, where Fittleworth delivered up the shallow box to its owner, wishing him luck in his efforts to obliterate the traces of the unfortunate morning’s work.

About eleven o’clock on the following forenoon, Fittleworth halted by the easel appertaining to Miss Katharine Hyde for a few minutes’ confidential chat. He did not often allow himself this luxury, for the two young people had agreed that their relations inside the building had better be kept on a business footing. But every rule has its exceptions, and besides, as Katharine had not been present on the previous morning, she had to be told about the musical stranger. Fittleworth was in the midst of a spirited narration of the incident, when one of the attendants approached with a mysterious air.

"Beg pardon, sir," said he, "but there’s a Mr. Dudley has come to work at his picture and we can’t find it."

Fittleworth frowned. "Dudley, Dudley," he muttered, "isn’t that the— yes, of course." And, as a red-haired person with large spectacles advanced in the wake of the attendant, he said, "Have you been asking for your picture, Mr. Dudley?" The artist replied that he had. "But, my dear sir," laughed Fittleworth, "you took it away with you yesterday morning."

The painter gazed at him with owlish surprise. "I wasn’t here yesterday morning," said he.

Fittleworth stared at him, in silent astonishment, for a few moments. Then he exclaimed impatiently:

"Oh, nonsense, Mr. Dudley. You can’t have forgotten. You were working at the picture all the morning, and I helped you myself to carry it to the entrance hall."

The painter shook his head. "I was working the whole of yesterday in the National Portrait Gallery. You must have helped some one else out with my picture."

Fittleworth started, and was sensible of a chill of vague alarm. The painter’s appearance was so remarkable that a mistake seemed impossible. And yet he began to have an uneasy feeling that this was not the same man. There was the same long, red hair and the same enormous spectacles, but the face was not quite that of the man whom he had talked to yesterday, and the voice and manner seemed appreciably different. And again, a vague and chilly terror clutched at his heart.

"Shall we go and look at the attendance book?" said he; and as the painter agreed with alacrity, they hurried away.

"Your name is Guildford Dudley, I think," said Fittleworth, with his finger on the page that recorded yesterday’s attendances.

"Yes," replied Dudley, "but that’s not my handwriting."

Fittleworth reflected for a moment in a state bordering on panic.

"I’m afraid," said he, "there’s something wrong; but we’d better run round to the Portrait Gallery and verify your statement."

They hurried out together, and turning round into St. Martin’s Place, entered the Portrait Gallery, where a very brief investigation proved that Mr. Dudley had been engaged the whole of the previous day.

Fittleworth broke out into a cold sweat. It was evident that a fraud had been committed; and a most elaborate fraud for, among other matters, an attendance card must have been counterfeited. But what could be the object of that fraud? A copy, no matter how good, seemed hardly worth such deliberate and carefully-considered plans. Fittleworth and the painter looked at one another, and with the same horrible suspicion in both their minds they hurried away together to put it to the test.

As Fittleworth entered the small, isolated room where the counterfeit Dudley had been at work on the previous day, he drew a breath of relief; for there, at least, was the original, secure in its frame. But his relief was short-lived; for Dudley, who had followed him closely, strode up to the picture and, after a quick, critical glance, turned to him with raised eyebrows.

"That is my copy" said he.

Fittleworth felt all his terror reviving, and yet this awful thing seemed impossible.

"How can it be?" he exclaimed. "You see that the canvas is quite uninjured and the frame is screwed to the wall."

"I know nothing about that," replied Dudley. "I only know that that’s my copy."

Fittleworth directed an agonised stare through the glass, and as he looked more closely, he felt a growing suspicion that the painter was right. The brush work and even the surface of the original had been closely and cleverly imitated, but still— here Fittleworth turned sharply to an attendant, who had followed them into the room.

"Go and fetch a screwdriver," said he, "and bring another man with you."

The attendant hurried away and returned almost immediately accompanied by a workman, carrying a screwdriver. The frame of the picture, unlike some others in the gallery, was fitted with brass plates which were screwed to hard wood plugs let into the wall. By Fittleworth’s direction, the workman proceeded to unscrew one of the plates while his assistant grasped the picture frame. Fittleworth impatiently watched the screwdriver as it made about a dozen turns, when the man stopped and looked up at him.

"There’s something rummy about this screw, sir," he remarked.

"It seems to turn all right," said Fittleworth.

"Oh, it turns all right," said the man, "but it don’t git no forrader. Let’s try another."

He did so, but the second screw developed the same peculiar properties. And then a most remarkable thing happened. As the workman stepped back to direct a puzzled look at the screw-plates, his assistant must have pulled slightly at the frame for it began to separate visibly from the wall. The workman dropped his screwdriver and seized the frame which, with another pull, came away bodily, with the four screws loose in the plates.

Fittleworth uttered a cry of despair. A single glance at the back of the brand-new canvas put the fraud beyond all doubt, and another glance at the screws left little to be explained as to the methods adopted by the robber. To Dudley, however, who was unaware of the events of the previous day, the whole affair was a profound mystery.

"I don’t see how they managed it at all," said he, "unless they got in in the night."

"I’ll tell you about it presently," said Fittleworth. "Meanwhile, if you will lend us your copy for a few days, we will put the frame back; and mind," he added, addressing the attendants, "nothing is to be said about this at present."

When the picture had been replaced and the men had gone away, Fittleworth gave the artist a brief account of the happenings of the previous day, to which Dudley listened thoughtfully.

"I see the general scheme," said he, "but what I don’t understand is how that man managed to do it all in such a short time, and with people moving about the galleries, too."

"I think that’s all clear enough," said Fittleworth. "see, the actual exchange of the pictures need have taken less than a minute. Everything had been carefully prepared beforehand. The thieves must have come here on previous days with the dummy screws in their pockets, and it would be the easiest thing in the world to take out the screws one at a time and push the dummies in in their place. And as to loosening the canvas in the frame, two men could easily do that in a minute or two, when once the screws were removed, if they had a sentinel posted in the corridor. Comparatively few people come to this room, you know."

"But that would need three men at least," objected Dudley.

"Exactly," replied Fittleworth, "and I think there were three men; the hautboy player was one; his business being to draw every one away from the scene of action, and I feel no doubt that the water-colourist was another; a sentinel posted in the corridor to keep watch while the third man made the exchange."

"I see," said Dudley; "and when he’d made the exchange he oiled out the original, rubbed on some colour and put in a few touches on the high lights."

Fittleworth nodded. "Yes," said he, "that is what he must have done; and it would have been fairly easy since the picture was in such good condition and there were no cracks to cover up."

"Yes," agreed Dudley. "It would, it would. But, all the same, he must have been a pretty fair colourist and uncommonly skilful with his brush."

"Yes, he must," agreed Fittleworth, "and that suggests a very important question: this man obviously knew you well, as is proved by the exactness with which he personated you. He also knew exactly what you were doing and has known for some time past, for this was evidently a premeditated scheme, most carefully thought out. Moreover, the personator was clearly a painter of some skill, and even allowing for his make-up must have resembled you somewhat in appearance. Now, Mr. Dudley, can you think of anyone to whom that description could apply?"

The painter reflected awhile, and Fittleworth added, somewhat abruptly: "Who commissioned this picture?"

"This copy," replied Dudley, "and the one I was doing next door were commissioned by an American gentleman, named Strauss, who is staying at the Savoy."

"What is Mr. Strauss like?" Fittleworth asked.

"He is a tall, lean man, somewhat like the portraits of Abraham Lincoln."

"Ah," murmured Fittleworth, recalling the hautboy player. "How did you come to make Mr. Strauss’ acquaintance?"

He introduced himself to me a month or so ago, when I was copying at the Luxembourg; in fact," added Dudley, with a sudden flash of reminiscence, "it was he who suggested that excellent box to protect one’s work. He had one made for a copy that I did in Paris, and he provided me with two more for these two copies."

Fittleworth reflected profoundly. The modus operandi of this clever fraud was becoming more and more obvious. Clearly, it would be necessary to make inquiries about Mr. Strauss, and meanwhile, the Director of the Gallery would have to be told about the catastrophe; a horrible duty, to the execution of which Fittleworth braced himself with a sinking heart and with a suspicion that his official days were numbered.

An unwonted air of depression brooded that evening over the modest apartments of Miss Katharine Hyde, for Fittleworth had just recounted, in minute detail, and a hushed, funereal voice, the appalling history of the robbery.

"It’s a hideous affair," he groaned, in conclusion. "The Director took it very well, considering all things, but, of course, I shall have to go."

"Did he say so?" asked Katharine.

"No, but you know the sort of howl that will be raised when the thing becomes known. It’ll be frightfully uncomfortable for him, and the least I can do is to take the full blame, seeing that I actually carried the picture out. I shall have to offer to resign and he’ll have to accept my resignation. What I shall do or a livelihood after that, the Lord only knows."

"It’s dreadful for you," said Katharine, "with all your talents and accomplishments, too."

It is hard," agreed Fittleworth; "just as there seemed a chance of our being able to marry after all these years. I suppose I ought to release you, Katie, now that our prospects seem hopeless."

"Why?" she asked simply. "I shouldn’t want anyone else, you know; and as to my freedom, well, I’m free to be a spinster now if you don’t marry me. But we won’t give up hope. Perhaps the picture will be found, after all, and then you won’t have to resign. Is it a very valuable picture?

"It’s worse than that," said Fittleworth. "It was a loan, and I should say of priceless value to the owners for sentimental reasons."

Katharine looked interested, and being anxious to divert her lover from the subject of their personal misfortunes, asked for more particulars.

"The picture has quite an interesting history," said Fittleworth. "It was painted by Kneller in 1688, and the story goes that the king was actually sitting to the painter when a messenger arrived with the news that the Prince of Orange had landed in Torbay. The portrait was intended as a gift to Samuel Pepys to whom the king was greatly attached, and in spite of the agitation that the bad tidings naturally produced, he commanded Kneller to proceed and get the portrait finished so that his old friend and loyal servant should not be disappointed."

"And did Pepys get the picture?" Katharine asked.

"Yes; and what’s more, it remains in the possession of the family to this day, or, at least, it did until it was stolen. So you see, apart from its intrinsic value as a painting, it has this especial value to the family. I had sooner those brutes had stolen almost any other picture in the gallery, even the Raphael Madonna."

"Is there no clue whatever to the identity of the thief?" Katharine asked.

"There was one clue," Fittleworth replied, "but it has broken off short; an American gentleman, named Strauss, who commissioned the portrait. We looked him up at the Savoy, but he has disappeared, and nothing whatever is known as to whence he came or whither he has gone. He was undoubtedly one of the robbers, but he seems to have vanished into thin air."

"Oh, well," said Katherine, "I daresay the police will soon catch him and he’ll be sure to have taken care of the picture;" and with this hopeful prognosis, the subject was dismissed, at least from speech, though in the minds of both the young people the missing picture remained as a sombre background to all other thought.

As he walked to the gallery on the following morning, Fittleworth considered, for the hundredth time, the most prudent form of procedure. Should he write an official letter tendering his resignation, or should he adopt the less final and deadly plan of offering verbally to resign? He was undecided when he turned in at the gate and began to ascend the steps; but he reached a decision as he reached the third step from the top, at the very moment when he collided with a commissionaire who was also ascending in company with a brown paper parcel. He would resign, in the first place, at any rate, by word of mouth and see how they took it.

And having formed this decision, he proceeded without further delay to put it in execution.

The Director and the Keeper had apparently talked the matter over, anticipating this course of action. "Well, Fittleworth," said the former, "the matter doesn’t rest with me. If it did, I should say— Who’s this from, Jenkins?" The question was addressed to an attendant who had just brought in a brown paper parcel, addressed by name to the Director.

"Don’t know, Sir John," was the reply. "A commissionaire brought it. He said there was no answer and he’s gone."

The Director nodded, and as the man went out he scrutinised the parcel critically and examined the typewritten address label. "If the matter rested entirely with me," he resumed, "I should say— er— now, what the deuce can this be?" He turned the flattish, oblong parcel, over and over, and finally, picking up the office penknife, applied its edge abstractedly to the string. "I should say," he repeated— " if the matter rested with me, that is, which, of course, it doesn’t, that— it’s a box. I haven’t ordered any box. I wonder what the deuce— " Here he pulled the paper fairly open and Fittleworth uttered a cry of astonishment.

"What is it, Fittleworth?" Sir John asked; to which the former made no reply, but leaning across the table, quickly pulled out the sliding lid of the box. And then there fell on the room the silence of utter amazement, for, from the shallow box, there looked out composedly the familiar features of James the Second.

"Well," Sir John exclaimed, at length, "this is the most astonishing affair of all. I suppose it’s all right," he added suspiciously, unclamping the picture and lifting it out of the box. "They’re such uncommonly artful dodgers; still, I think there’s no doubt this is the genuine original. But why on earth have they returned it, after taking all that trouble to steal it?"

The three men pored over the canvas, searching suspiciously for any sign of change or substitution. But there was none. The surface of the painting was unaltered and apparently none the worse for its recent vicissitudes.

"They seem to have handled it carefully," Mr. Barnard remarked. "No one would dream that it had been covered up with fresh paint."

"No," agreed Sir John; "it hasn’t left a trace. They must have used a slow-drying oil and cleaned it off immediately. But," he added, turning the picture over, "they had the canvas off the stretcher. Do you notice?" He held the picture towards the other two, who eyed it narrowly.

"It seems to me, Sir John," said Fittleworth, after running his eye round the edge of the canvas, "that it’s only been off at one end. The tacks at the top and the upper part of the sides don’t seem to have been disturbed."

The Director looked at the picture once more. "You’re quite right, Fittleworth," said he. "The canvas has been off the stretcher at the lower end only; and what’s more, the bottom bar of the stretcher has been removed and replaced by a fresh piece. Do you see that? The piece that has been inserted is old wood but it’s different from the other three, and you can clearly make out the fresh surface that has been left in cutting the tenons. It is a very astonishing thing. What do you make of it, Barnard?"

Mr. Barnard could make nothing of it and said so. "The whole thing is a complete mystery to me," said he. "They may have damaged the old stretcher bar and had to replace it; but I don’t see why they wanted to unfasten the canvas at all."

"Neither do I," said Sir John, "but the main thing is that we’ve got the picture back uninjured, and, that being so, perhaps you would like to reconsider your resignation, Fittleworth."

"I don’t think I will, Sir John," replied the latter. "The affair is known to several people and there’s bound to be some sort of inquiry."

"Perhaps you’re right," rejoined the Director. "At any rate, we will hear what the Trustees say. Of course, if the matter rested with me— but it doesn’t; so, for the time being, I must accept your resignation."

ii

IT WAS PERHAPS fortunate that Saturday is a public day at most galleries, and so, an off-day for copyists; for in any case there would have been no work on this disastrous morning for Miss Katharine. Within a few minutes of Fittleworth’s arrival at the Gallery, she had taken up a position at the foot of the Nelson Column to await the promised report on the course of events. Fittleworth, on leaving the Director’s room, made straight for the trysting place, and was received with a bright smile and a small, outstretched hand, as they turned away together towards Whitehall.

"Well," asked Kate, "what has happened?"

"I’ve offered to resign," replied Fittleworth.

"And of course Sir John scouted the idea?" said Katharine.

"Oh, did he?" exclaimed Fittleworth. "Not at all. He did say that if the matter rested with him, he’d— "

"What?"

"I don’t quite know, but the great news is that the picture has come back."

"Oh, good!" exclaimed Katharine. "But, if it has come back, why on earth should you resign?"

"You’ll see if I tell you how it came back;" and here Fittleworth described the mysterious return of the picture and the still more mysterious change of the stretcher bar.

"But I still don’t see why you’re resigning," Katharine persisted.

"Then," said Fittleworth, "I’ll explain. You see, Sir John and Barnard are concerned with the picture, qua picture, and from that point of view, a stretcher-bar is just a stretcher-bar and nothing else. But there’s one point that they’ve overlooked— at least, I think they have. This was not only a picture: it was a family relic."

"But what has that to do with it?" asked Katharine.

"That question, my dear girl, is best answered by another. What did those men want with the old stretcher-bar?

"Well, what did they?"

"I don’t know," replied Fittleworth; "but as soon, as I saw that the bar had been changed, I realised that there was something more in this robbery than met the eye. Consider the facts, Katie. First you will see that these men were not common thieves, for they have not only returned the property, but have obviously been most careful not to injure it; which is quite unlike a criminal, who is usually perfectly regardless of the amount of damage he does. In the second place, you will notice that these men wanted the bottom stretcher-bar of the canvas, and wanted it so badly that they were willing to go to great trouble and expense to get it. Next, you will see that these are men of very superior intelligence. One of them is quite a skilful painter, and another an expert musician, and one of them, at least, is a person of great ingenuity. And now, consider the picture itself. It was painted for the King when the Revolution had actually begun and was to be given into the custody of a man who was the King’s trusty friend, who was a man of unswerving loyalty, of infallible judgment and discretion, and who was so perfect a man of the world that he was practically certain not to be involved in any of the troubles that were to follow. What does this suggest to you?"

"It doesn’t suggest anything," she replied, with a vague little shake of the head. "What does it suggest to you?"

"Well," he replied, "you will agree that for a small and precious object, the stretcher-bar of a valuable picture would furnish an ideal hiding-place; and seeing that three men who are obviously not fools have gone to immense trouble to get possession of this bar, I am inclined to assume that it had been used for that purpose."

"Really, Joe!" exclaimed Katharine, "what a delightfully romantic idea! And how Machiavellian of you to have thought of it! Shall we turn into the Park for a little while?"

Fittleworth assented, and as they had now reached the gates of the Horse Guards, they passed through, furtively watched by the gaudy sentinel, who stood, like some gorgeous tropical bird, keeping guard over the tunnel-like entry. The two lovers walked soberly across the great gravel expanse, and it was not until they had passed through the small gate into the Park, that they took up the thread of their talk. It was Katharine who spoke first.

"Have you made any sort of guess as to what it was that was hidden in that bar?"

"No, I haven’t," replied Fittleworth; "and it’s no use guessing. But this much I think is plain: those men must have had some pretty definite information, and as they couldn’t have got it from the picture, they must have got it from somewhere else; and the question is, where else could they have got it?

"Could some one have told them?" Katharine suggested.

"No, certainly not, for if anyone had known of the hiding-place, the hidden object would have been removed long ago. The only possible conclusion seems to be that a written record of the hiding-place exists and has been overlooked."

"I see," said Katharine. "You mean among some of the old family papers."

"Possibly," said Fittleworth, "but I think not. You see that, wherever the record is, these men have obtained access to it. Now, they can hardly be members of the family, for if they had been, they could have abstracted the stretcher-bar when the picture was in the private collection instead of waiting until it was in a public gallery. So that it seems to follow that the record that they have seen, is in some place which is accessible to the public. And if it is accessible to the public, why, you see, Katie dear, that it must be accessible to us."

"Yes," agreed Katharine. "I suppose it must; ii we only knew where to look for it. But perhaps my Machiavellian Joseph has thought of that, too."

"I haven’t had much time to think about it at all," replied Fittleworth; "but there is one likely place that occurs to me, and probably much the most likely: my old college."

"At Cambridge?"

"Yes, Magdalene. That was Pepys’s college, you know, and he bequeathed to it, not only the famous Diary, but a large number of manuscript memoirs on naval and political affairs, as well as prints and collections of ancient paintings. It is highly probable that the document of which we are assuming the existence is among the papers in the Pepysian library; but if it is, there is one little difficulty which will have to be got over."

"What is that?

"Why, you remember that the prudent and secretive Samuel had a way of writing his private memoranda in shorthand, which he evidently used for security rather than brevity; and that being so, we may be pretty certain that our hypothetical document would be in shorthand, too. That is rather a serious difficulty, though I fancy that the system that he used was not a very complicated one. I must find out what Rich’s system is like."

Katharine clapped her hands. "Rich’s!" she exclaimed. "How delightful! Have you forgotten that I am an expert in Rich’s shorthand?"

"I never knew," said Fittleworth.

"Oh, but I’m sure that I told you. It was when I used to copy drawings and manuscripts at the British Museum that I got a commission to make a facsimile of a volume written in Rich’s shorthand. Of course, it was necessary to know something about the system or I should have got the characters wrong, so I learnt it up from an old handbook, and by the time I had done my task I had become rather skilful. It’s really quite simple, you know, as compared with modern systems like Pitman’s."

Fittleworth regarded Katharine with admiring surprise. "What a clever little lady it is!" he remarked, "and how opportunely clever, too! Do you think it would take you long to teach me?"

"But what is it that you propose to do?" she asked.

"I propose to go down to Magdalene, and go through all the Pepys papers of the Revolution period, keeping an especially sharp look-out for any written in short hand. There are not likely to be many of these, for poor old Pepys’s eyesight became so bad that he had to give up keeping a shorthand diary after 1670."

Katharine reflected earnestly, and as they took possession of an empty seat in a secluded path, she wrapped her hand coaxingly around his arm.

"I’m going to make a rather bold proposition, Joe. Of course you can learn Rich’s shorthand without any difficulty. But it would take some time and a good deal of trouble, whereas I already know it and have had quite a lot of experience in copying and reading the characters. Now, why shouldn’t you take me with you to Cambridge and let me decipher the shorthand papers?"

Fittleworth took a critical survey of the toe of his boot, and reflected on the personal peculiarities of a mythical female of the name of Grundy; and Katharine, stealing a cautious glance at him, deciphered a cryptogram that was easier than Rich’s.

"Maggie Flinders would put me up, I know," she said a propos of the decipherment. "She’s a something at Newnham, and we’re quite old friends."

Fittleworth’s face cleared. "That gets rid of one difficulty," said he, "and the other difficulty I must get over as best I can."

"You mean the expense that the inquiry will involve?" said Katharine.

"Yes. You see, I have no doubt that something of considerable value has been stolen, and stolen through my thick-headedness; and if that something can be recovered, it’s my duty to get it back if I spend my last halfpenny in doing it."

"Yes," said Katharine. "I quite agree with you, excepting as to the thick-headedness, which is all nonsense; for of course the Director himself would have been taken in if he’d been in your place. So I’m going to make another proposition. I am just as keen on your getting this thing back as you are; in fact, your credit is my credit. Now, I have a little capital put by for a contingency that doesn’t seem likely to arise just at present, and I should like to invest some of it in our joint undertaking."

It is needless to say that Fittleworth objected violently. It is equally needless to say that Katharine trampled on his objections with scorn, and that when they rose from the seat, the inevitable thing had happened. As the poet expresses it: "Man has his will but Woman has her way." The joint expedition to Cambridge was an accepted fact.

iii

THE SERVICES of Miss Flinders were not required after all. An old friend of Fittleworth’s, a tutor and fellow of the college, who had married and settled down in Cambridge, had accommodation in his house for a pair of industriously studious turtledoves, and was even willing to provide them with a small study in which to carry out their researches.

So, Mrs. Grundy being thus appeased on extremely advantageous terms, the doves aforesaid took up their abode in the residence of Mr. Arthur Winton, M.A., and the permission of the Master of the College that of the Curator of the Pepysian Library having been applied for and obtained, the great investigation began.

It was a Tuesday morning, bright and sunny, when Fittleworth set forth on his quest. He carried with him, in addition to a quarto notebook, a half-plate camera of wooden construction, the property of Mr. Winton, who was an expert photographer and who had made the excellent suggestion that any likely documents should be photographed in order that they might be studied quietly at home and facsimile copies retained permanently for subsequent reference. So Fittleworth went forth with the camera in his hand and bright hope in his heart, picturing himself already restoring to its unconscious owner that (presumably precious) object of unknown nature, the very existence of which was unsuspected by anyone but himself. It would be a great achievement. His credit would be thereby completely restored and he must infallibly be reinstated in his not very lucrative office.

The first cool draught which blew upon his enthusiasm came from the material placed at his disposal. It was a colossal mass. Apart from the prints, drawings, maps and collections of poetry, none of which could be entirely disregarded— for even the poems might contain a concealed hint— there was an enormous bulk of miscellaneous papers, all of which must be gone through before any could be rejected. And, as he gazed at the collection with growing dismay, he realised for the first time the extraordinary vagueness of his quest. What was it, after all, that he was looking for? The question admitted only of the most ambiguous answer. He had but two fixed points; the Revolution and the portrait by Kneller. Of the connection between them he was totally ignorant, and so might easily miss the clue even if it were under his very eyes.

The famous Diary he dismissed after a brief glance of fond curiosity, for its last sad entry of May the 3rd 1669, was long before the stormy days when the catholic obstinacy of James brought its inevitable catastrophe. Other dated papers, too, could be set aside; but when all that was possible in this way had been done, the residue that remained to be studied was still appalling in its bulk. The first day was entirely taken up by a preliminary inspection, of which the chief result was profound discouragement. There followed a fortnight of close and strenuous labour, involving the minute study of countless documents on every possible subject, with fruitless efforts to extract from them some information bearing even indirectly on the picture. Day after day did he return to Katharine with the same dismal report of utter failure; and though his spirits revived under the influence of her bright hopefulness, yet as the job ran on and the joint capital dwindled, so did his optimism grow less. It was a bigger undertaking than he had bargained for. The mass of material and the formalities accompanying the examination of precious relics involved an expenditure of time and labour that was quite beyond his calculations.

And there was another discouraging element, of which for the present he said nothing to Katharine. As the days passed without a hint of any clue, a horrible suspicion began to creep into his mind. Suppose the whole thing was a delusion! That the substitution of the stretcher-bar was due merely to some chance accident, and that he was searching for something that had no existence save in his own imagination. Then all this labour and time and ill-spared money were utterly thrown away. It was a dreadful thought; and as it came to him again and again at increasingly frequent intervals, his heart sank and the future grew dark and hopeless.

It was on the fifteenth day that the first faint ray of hope pierced the gloom of his growing despair. On that day, amidst a collection of unclassified papers, he lit on something that at least invited inquiry. The find consisted of three small sheets of paper, evidently torn from a pocket memorandum book, each about four inches by two and a half, and all covered with microscopic writing in a strange, crabbed character which Fittleworth immediately recognised as some kind of shorthand. There was nothing to indicate the date, and, on applying to the librarian, Fittleworth was informed that nothing was known about the little papers excepting that they had belonged to Pepys, and were almost certainly in his handwriting. The script on them had never been deciphered, although several persons— one quite recently— had examined them; and the librarian was of opinion that they were never likely to be, as the writing was so small und so excessively shaky and badly written that it appeared to be practically undecipherable.

The librarian’s report was, on the face of it, discouraging. But to Fittleworth the very illegibility of the writing gave it an added interest, hinting, as it did, at a late period when the use of the shorthand had become difficult. At his request the Diary was produced for comparison of the style of handwriting; and, on comparing the first of the six volumes with the List, it was evident that there was a change in the character of the script, though even the last entry, where Pepys records the failure of his eyesight, was much clearer and better written than the microscopic scrawl on these three loose leaves. Which was highly satisfactory, provided only that the illegibility was not so complete as to render decipherment utterly impossible.

Having applied for and obtained permission to photograph the three leaves— each of which had writing on one side only— Fittleworth exposed three plates, and then, suspending his labours for the day, set forth homeward full of excitement and revived hope.

He was, just approaching the house when Katharine overtook him and, judging by his early return that something had happened, asked eagerly: "Have you got it, Joe?"

Fittleworth smiled. "I’ve got some sort of document in shorthand," he replied.

"Do you think it says anything about the picture?" asked Katharine. "But there," she added, with a laugh, "my excitement is making me talk nonsense. Of course, I’ve got to find out what it says."

"Yes," said Fittleworth, "you have; and I wish you joy of the job. It’s a fearful scrawl; so bad that nobody has been able to decipher it yet. The librarian tells me," he added, with a knowing glance at her, "that only three months ago, an American scholar, who had obtained permission to go through the collection, spent more than a week trying to decipher it with the aid of a watchmaker’s lens and had to give it up after all. So you see, my dear, that you have a very pretty little task before you."

Katharine looked at him thoughtfully. "That doesn’t sound very encouraging," she said; and then, after a pause, during which she reflected profoundly, with her usually smooth forehead furrowed by cogitative wrinkles, she looked up suddenly. "I suppose, Joe, he didn’t make anything of it after all."

Fittleworth laughed genially. "I was waiting for that," said he. "You are thinking that the American scholar may be a gentleman of musical tastes. I expect you are right and I hope you are, as that would prove that we are really on the track of our friends; but we shall be able to judge better when you have given us a sample of your skill. We shall be rather up a tree if you’re not able to decipher the thing."

The latter contingency Katharine declined to entertain, and the pair, resisting the attractions of tea, made straight for Mr. Winton’s dark-room. The three plates were developed without a hitch, and while two were drying in the rack, the third was taken to the window for inspection.

Well," said Fittleworth, as Katharine stood at lie window, holding out the wet negative towards the sky, "what do you think of it?"

For some seconds Katharine made no reply, but continued to gaze at the crabbed lines on the black background with a frown that gradually deepened.

"It’s very small writing," she replied, at length, and frightfully indistinct."

"Yes, I was afraid it was," said Fittleworth; " but can you make out anything of the— er— purport, or— er— or, what it’s about, in fact?"

There was a brief pause; then Katharine, looking him tragically in the eyes, exclaimed:

"My dear Joe, I can’t make out a single word. It’s absolute scribble."

There was another pause, at the end of which Fittleworth murmured the single and highly irrelevant word, "Moses!"

The impatience of the investigators would not allow them to wait for the natural drying of the negatives One after another, the plates were plunged into methylated spirit, and when dry, printed off rapidly on glossy bromide paper; and with the prints before her on a table by the study window, the agonised Katharine fell to work with Fittleworth’s pocket lens and a most portentous frown.

Five minutes passed. Fittleworth moved stealthily, but uneasily, about the room on tiptoe, now forcing himself to sit on the edge of a chair, and now forced by his excitement to rise and tiptoe across to another. At length, unable to contain himself any longer, he asked in a hushed voice: "Is it very awful stuff, Katie?"

Katharine laid down the lens and looked round at him despairingly.

"It’s perfectly frightful, Joe," she exclaimed. "I simply can’t make anything of it."

"Perhaps it isn’t Rich’s shorthand at all," suggested Fittleworth.

"Oh, yes it is. I can see that much and I’ve made out a ‘with’ and two ‘the’s,’ but the rest of it looks like mere scribble."

Fittleworth sprang from the chair on which he had been seated nearly ten seconds. "Oh, come," said he; "if you can make out that much, you can make out the rest. Only we shall have to go to work systematically. The best way will be to mark each word as you decipher it and write it down on a piece of paper. That’s the best of working from a photograph which it doesn’t matter about spoiling."

"I don’t quite see what you mean," said Katharine.

"The method I suggest is this," he replied. "First mark the three photographs A, B and C. Then, number the lines of each and prepare three sheets of paper lettered and numbered in the same way. Then, when you decipher a word, say on photograph A line 6, write it down on the sheet marked A, on the sixth line and the proper part of that line; and so on. Could I help you?"

Katharine thought that he could, and accordingly, he drew a chair to the table and proceeded to prepare three sheets of paper in the way he had suggested and to mark the photographs.

There is something about a really methodical procedure, that inspires confidence. Of this Katharine was immediately sensible, and when the two "the’s" and the "with" had been set down in their proper places, she felt that a beginning had really been made and returned to her task with renewed spirit.

"There’s a ‘his,’" she announced presently, "at the end of line 1, page B, and the first word of the next line is a longish one ending in ‘ty.’"

It isn’t ‘Majesty,’ I suppose," suggested Fittleworth.

"Yes, of course it is," exclaimed Katharine, "and the next word is ‘wt,’ followed by two short words ending in ‘ll.’"

"White Hall?" queried Fittleworth; and White Hall it turned out to be on further examination. The next proceeding was to search for a recurrence of these words with the result that "His Majesty" occurred six times in all, and "‘White Hall" twice.

"Now try the words adjoining ‘His Majesty,’ Fittleworth suggested. "Take the one on page B. We’ve got ‘His Majesty at White Hall.’ Now, what is before that?"

"There’s a ‘me’ and then ‘attack’ or ‘attach.’"

"‘Me attack His Majesty,’ "murmured Fittleworth. "That doesn’t sound right. Could it be ‘attend’?"

"Yes, I believe it is, and then the word before it must be ‘bidding.’ We’re getting on splendidly. Let us try the ‘His Majestys’ on page A. Line 5 seems to begin : ‘As to its‘ something, ‘His Majesty has’ something, ‘his‘— now, what has His Majesty done? Oh, I see, ‘written.’ ‘His Majesty has written his— "

"Instructions," suggested Fittleworth.

"No, nor wishes, nor— oh, I see ‘commands,’ and the next words are ‘in full in a’ something, ‘which he’ something ‘to me in a small’ something ‘box.’ Now, let us see if we can fill in that sentence. ‘As to its’ something, ‘His Majesty has written his commands’; now, as to his what? It seems to begin with a ‘d’."

"Destiny?" suggested Fittleworth, and as Katharine shook her head he proposed "destruction," "deposition," and finally, "disposition."

No, it’s not ‘disposition.’ It’s ‘disposal.’ ‘As to its disposal His Majesty has written his commands in full in a paper which he ‘— something ‘to me in a small’ something ‘box which he— ’"

"Gave, sent, presented, showed, exhibited…"

"’Delivered,’ that’s it. ‘Delivered to me in a small’ something ‘box.’"

"Wooden, ivory, leather, silver— "

"Gold," announced Katharine triumphantly, "’a small, gold box’; and the sentence runs on: ‘the said box being’ something ‘with His Majesty’s’ something, something, ‘and this box he bid me put by in some safe and ‘— it looks like ’secret place.’ I’m getting to read it much more easily now. Let us go hack to that ‘box.’ ‘With His Majesty’s’ something seal,’ I think."

"Private seal, perhaps."

"Yes, of course. Then it reads: ‘The said box being sealed with His Majesty’s private seal and this box he bid me put by in some safe and secret place.’ This is splendid, Joe. We shall make it out yet and you can see already that we’re on the right track."

"Yes; and we can see how those other gentlemen got on the track. But as you seem to be getting more used to the writing, wouldn’t it be as well now to try to begin at the beginning and go straight on?"

"Perhaps it would. But the question is, which is the beginning?"

"The best way to solve that difficulty would be to work out the first line of each page. Don’t you think so, Katie?

"Yes, of course; and I’ll begin with page A. Now, the first line seems to read: ‘bids me to carry ‘— no, it isn’t ‘carry’ ; I think it’s ‘convey‘— ‘convey it to Sir‘— Andrew, I think— ’Sir Andrew Hyde— ’"

At this point Katharine laid down the lens and turned to gaze at Fittleworth with a very curious expression of surprise and bewilderment.

"A namesake of yours, Katie," he remarked; "an ancestor, perhaps."

Yes, Joe, that’s just it. Only, in that case it would be ‘Sir Andreas.’" She scrutinised the paper again through the lens and at length exclaimed triumphantly, "and it is ‘Andreas.’ Let us see how it goes on: ‘To Sir Andreas Hyde, a cousin of my Lord Clarendon‘— yes, that is the man— ’who is to deposit it in some secure place in one of his houses in Kent.’ I wonder if he means the picture!"

"We shall see presently," said Fittleworth; "but meanwhile it is evident that this is not the first page. Just have a look at page C."

Katharine transferred her attention, as well as her excitement would permit, to the latter page; but after a prolonged examination she shook her head.

"This isn’t the first," she said, "for the top line begins with the words: ‘had concluded the business.’ Then page B must be the first. Let us try that." She brought the lens to bear on the opening words of page B, but after a brief inspection she sat up with an exclamation of disappointment.

"Oh, Joe, how tantalising! This isn’t the first either! There’s a page missing. You will have to go back to the library and see if you can find it."

"That’s rather a facer," said Fittleworth; "but I think, Katie dear, we’d better work out what we’ve got as these pages will have to be deciphered in any case, and then we shall be able to judge how much is missing. Let us have the first line of page B."

With a dejected air Katharine picked up the lens and resumed her task, slowly reading out, with many a halt to puzzle over a difficult word, the contents of page B.

"…to me a messenger bidding me attend His Majesty at White Hall. Whereupon I set forth and found the King in the Matted Gallery, talking with divers officers and noblemen. When I had kissed his hand he spoke to me openly on the affairs of the navy, but presently, making an occasion to carry me to his closet, did there open the matter concerning which he had sent for me. It appeareth that he hath caught some rumours of certain noblemen and bishops— even the Archbishop as he do think— having invited the Prince of Orange; which he did condemn as most fowle, unhandsome and treasonable. Now, recalling the misfortunes of his brother the late King and their royal father, he would make some provision lest he should be driven into exile, which God forbid. Here upon he spake very graciously of our long friendship and was pleased to mention most handsomely my faithful service and judgement in the service of the navy, and then he did come to the matter in hand. First he spake of Sir William Pepys who did bring his ship the ‘James and Mary’…"

That was the end of page B, and, as Katharine eagerly to scan the already deciphered first the other two pages, her eyes filled.

"Oh! Joe dear!" she exclaimed in an agonised voice, "what an awful disappointment! Don’t you see? It doesn’t run on at all. These are only odd leaves."

"M’yes," said Fittleworth. "It does look rather a take in. Still, we’d better go on. And as page C seems to refer to the conclusion of the business, whatever it was, we may as well take A next. Keep up your courage, little woman. I may be able to find the missing pages at the library. Now, what has page A got to say?"

Once more Katharine addressed herself to her task, wiping her eyes as a preliminary measure; and slowly and with many a halt to wrestle with an almost undecipherable word, the crabbed scrawl was translated into good, legible longhand.

"…bids me to convey it to Sir Andreas Hide, a cousin of my Lord Clarendon, who is to deposit it in some secure place in one of his houses in Kent. As to its disposal, His Majesty hath written his commands in full in a paper which he delivered to me in a small golde box, the said box being sealed with His Majesty’s private seale, and this box he bid me put by in some safe and secret place, and to speake of the matter to none, not even Sir Andreas himselfe, until after His Majesty’s death and that of the Prince of Wales (if God should spare me so long) unless, in my discretion it should seeme goode to do so. Also that I do make some provision for the delivery of the said paper in the event of my own death.

When I had returned home I considered at length where I should bestowe the golde box, and presently I bethought me of the King’s picture which Sir Godfrey is now about Painting and which His Majesty do design to give to me, and it did appear to me that the wooden frame whereon the canvass is strained should furnish a moste secure hiding-place. I made no delay to seek out Sir Andreas at his house at Lee in Kent, to whom the King had already spoken about the matter, and did deliver into his hand the said . . ."

Here the page ended, and, when she had written the last word, Katherine, alter a brief interval of numb silence, fairly burst into tears.

Fittleworth stroked her hand consolingly. "There now, Katie darling," he said in a soothing tone. "We won’t cry about it, though it is most confoundedly disappointing. You have done splendidly; and we are really picking up quite a lot of information."

"But what was it that he gave Sir Andreas? It couldn’t have been the picture, because he hadn’t got it then."

"No, evidently not. Let us work out page C. This is quite a short piece and looks rather like the end of the record."

Once again, Katherine dried her eyes and took up the discarded lens; and slowly— but less slowly than before— the decipherment proceeded.

" . . . had concluded the business, the tide serving, I did take boate to White Hall and there reported to His Majesty what I had done but said naught about the picture, reflecting that the secret shall be safer if t’is known to none save myselfe.

"This is a weighty business and do trouble me somewhat; indeede I do mistruste the King’s plan which hath too much of secrecie, and leaveth too much in the hands of one man, though that man be, God knows, honest in intention and wishful to serve His Majesty in all things, especially at this sorrowfull time. But I shall do as I am bid and if it please God that the affaire miscarry, at leaste it shall be through no lacke of zeale on my parte."

As Katharine wrote the last word, she closed the lens and handed it back to Fittleworth. "There!" she exclaimed, "that is certainly the end of the record and we are just as wise as to what it was that he gave to Sir Andreas as we were before. You will have to go back to the library to-morrow and search for the missing leaves."

Fittleworth held up an admonitory finger. "Now don’t be an impatient and unreasonable little person, Katie. It is most likely that the missing pages have disappeared altogether, so, before we spend precious time in searching for them, let us consider what we have got out of these.

"First, we know that the lost stretcher-bar contained a small gold box in which was an important document. That is a great point scored; a very great point, Katie; because, you will please to remember, it was pure guess-work as to whether there was anything at all in the stretcher until you deciphered these papers.

"Then we know that Pepys handed to Sir Andreas a something that was evidently of considerable value. We don’t know what that something was, but we know where it was deposited— at least we should if we could find out where Sir Andreas’s houses in Kent were."

"I can tell you that," said Katharine.

"You can!" exclaimed Fittleworth, gazing at her in astonishment.

"Yes," she replied complacently, "I can tell you all about it. You seem to forget that I am a Hyde. This Sir Andreas was the head of our branch of the family and I know all about him. We were just plain country gentlefolk, unlike our great connections, the Clarendons, and the Rochesters, but we have pretty complete family records, and I have studied them in great detail. Sir Andreas had three houses; one at Lee, near London, one at Snodland, near Maidstone, and a third, a small place called Bartholomew Grange, in the Isle of Thanet. Sir Andreas, who was a Catholic, was killed at the Battle of the Boyne, and the family seems to have become considerably impoverished soon after, for his son, Matthew Hyde, sold the houses at Lee and Snodland and went out to New England."

"And what became of those two houses?"

"I believe they were both pulled down and rebuilt. At any rate, they went out of the family. Well, Matthew remained out in New England until the beginning of Queen Anne’s reign— 1703, I think— and then he set sail for home in a merchant ship called the Harvest Moon. The Harvest Moon sailed out of Boston Harbour in December, 1703, and was never heard of again, nor, of course, was Matthew Hyde; and the estate— what little there was of it— went to his son, Robert, who had remained in England."

Fittleworth considered these facts in silence for some time, toying abstractedly with the papers. At length he spoke.

"I think we can guess what happened. Pepys kept his own counsel during the whole reign of Dutch William, but when Anne came to the throne (she was a daughter of Anne Hyde, by the way, and a kinswoman of yours), he looked on the succession as settled, and being then an old man, thought it time to inform Matthew of the existence of the document hidden in the picture and that other something that he had given into the custody of Sir Andreas. I imagine that he sent a messenger to Matthew with a sealed letter containing this information, that Matthew immediately sailed for England and was lost at sea; and that before the news of the shipwreck reached this country Pepys himself was dead (he died on the twenty-first of May, 1704). Thus the secret was lost, even as wise old Samuel Pepys had feared that it might be."

"But it isn’t lost completely," Katharine reminded him, "for this ingenious ‘American scholar’ seems to have got on the track of it; and the question is how are we to get on his track?"

"Do you know who owns the third house— Bartholomew Grange?" Fittleworth asked.

"Yes," replied Katharine. "I own it."

"You do!" exclaimed Fittleworth, staring at her incredulously.

"Yes. I thought you knew. My father was the last male of this branch of the family and I am actually the last descendant. The little house in Thanet is all that remains of the family estates, and the rent of it is what I live on— that and my copying."

"Then you could get access to it?

"Of course I could. The present lease runs out next year, I am sorry to say— for my rent will cease then and I shall have to pay the wages of the housekeeper, who is an old servant of our family. So I could easily ask to make a survey of the premises. But of what use would it be? We have no evidence that the mysterious ‘it‘ is hidden there, and if we had, we don’t know what it is or where it is concealed."

"No, my dear, that is perfectly true. But you are forgetting that we are in search of three men who probably believe (and perhaps with good reason) that they have the clue; and who almost certainly have the stolen gold box with them. If Bartholomew Grange is the only house remaining in the family, those gentlemen will undoubtedly look round there first; and if we are not too late, there we shall find them; and if we can’t make them disgorge by fair means I shall have them arrested for the robbery of the picture. Remember, the gold box is our immediate object; the rest of the inquiry can wait."

"And what do you propose to do next?" Katharine asked, as a flush of pleasurable excitement mounted to her cheek.

"I propose that you send a letter to your tenant to-night and that we start for town the first thing to-morrow morning and from there go straight on to Thanet. We can talk over details as we go."

Katherine gazed at her lover admiringly. "What a clever old thing you are, Joe!" she exclaimed.

"I should think I am!" laughed Fittleworth. "If it hadn’t been for my expert knowledge of Rich’s shorthand and the neat way in which I deciphered that— "

"Oh, go along, you old humbug!" Katharine exclaimed, making not very alarming hostile demonstrations. And, in a symbolical and strictly Pickwickian sense, he went along.

iv

THE ISLE OF THANET has a certain peculiar charm which lingers even to this day, despite the too-successful efforts of the speculative builder to annihilate it. A few years ago— at the date of this history, for instance— before the unlovely suburban streets had arisen to disfigure it, the north-eastern quarter of the island wore a pleasant air of remoteness that disguised its proximity to busy Margate and prosperous Broadstairs. It was in this quarter that the business of our adventurers lay, and, having risen with the lark and been fortunate in the matter of trains, they reached it quite early in the day.

"Ah!" exclaimed Fittleworth, sniffing the salt air with the joy of an escaped Londoner, as they left the outskirts of Margate behind, and took their way along the broad path by the cliff’s edge; "your worthy ancestor wasn’t such a bad judge, Katie. I shouldn’t mind living here myself. By the way, I suppose there is no chance of your tenant objecting to our looking over the house?"

"She can’t; and if she could, she would not. She is quite a nice person, a widow lady with two daughters. I told her in my letter who you were, and that we wanted to see what would have to be done to the place if the tenancy was not renewed. I also mentioned that you were an artist, and greatly interested in old houses; which is perfectly true, isn’t it?"

"Certainly, my dear. But I am a good deal more interested just now in three very ingenious gentlemen and a small gold box."

"It will be frightfully disappointing if they haven’t been here after all," said Katharine.

"It will be much more frightful if they have been here and gone away. That’s what I am afraid of. They have had a pretty long start."

"They have; but they couldn’t have ransacked the place without the consent of Mrs. Matthews, my tenant. But we shall soon know everything; that is the house, in among those trees."

The sight of their goal stimulated them to quicken their steps. Soon they came to a high flint wall enclosing thickly wooded grounds, and, skirting this reached a gate on the landward side. Entering, and advancing along a moss-grown path, they presently came in sight of the house, a smallish building of cut flint and brick, with the quaint, curved Flemish gables that are so characteristic of this part of the world.

"What a jolly old house!" exclaimed Fittleworth, halting to run his eye admiringly over the picturesque building with its time-softened angles and its rich clothing of moss, lichen, and house-leek. "Sixteen-thirty-one, I see," he added, glancing at the date-tablet over the porch, "so it was a nearly new house when Sir Andreas had it."

He rang the bell, and the door was almost immediately opened by a staid-looking middle-aged maidservant, who was evidently expecting them, and who greeted Katharine affectionately and cast an interested glance at Fittleworth.

"I am sorry, Miss Kate," she said, "that Mrs. Matthews is not at home. She had to take the young ladies up to town this morning, and she won’t be back for a week or more; but she left all the keys for you, and this note, and she said that you were to make yourself quite at home and do whatever you please. There are three gentlemen looking over the place, but they won’t be in your way."

At the last sentence, Fittleworth’s eyes lighted with a warlike gleam, and he glanced at Katharine. "Do you know what these three gentlemen are, Rachel, and why they are looking over the place?

"I heard Mrs. Matthews say, sir, that they are architects, whatever that may be. But they are wonderfully interested in the house. They have been about the place for more than a week, making sketches of the rooms and staircases, drawing plans of the grounds, tapping at the walls, and looking up the chimneys. I never saw such goings-on. They spent two whole days in the cellars, making sketches, though what they can see in a plain brick cellar beats me, sir. They went all round them tapping the walls with a mallet, and they even wanted to take up some of the floor, but, of course, Mrs. Matthews told them she couldn’t allow that without the landlady’s permission. Perhaps you’d like to see them, miss."

"Are they here now?" asked Katharine.

"One of them is— Mr. Simpson. He is in the Chancellor’s Parlour, making sketches of the wood work."

Katharine glanced at Fittleworth. "I think we had better see Mr. Simpson," said he; and on this, the maid ushered them through a long corridor to a remote wing of the building, where, at a massive door she halted and turned the handle.

"Why, he’s bolted himself in!" she exclaimed; and added under her breath, as she applied somewhat peremptory knuckles to the door: "Like his impudence!

The knocking evoked no response, nor was there any answering sound from within when it was repeated and reinforced by loud rapping with Fittleworth’s walking-stick. Rachel listened at the keyhole, and, as still no sound was audible, she exclaimed indignantly:

"Well, I’m sure! It’s a pretty state of things when strangers come to bolt people out of their own rooms."

"But," said Fittleworth, "the odd thing is that there doesn’t seem to be anybody in there. Can we see in through any of the windows?

"Oh, yes, sir," answered Rachel. "The window looks out on the Chancellor’s Garden, a little garden closed in by a yew hedge. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show it to you; though, of course, Miss Kate knows the way."

As they followed the maid out into the grounds, Fittleworth asked: "Why is this room called the Chancellor’s Parlour?"

"It is named after the great Lord Clarendon, the head of the family, you know," Katharine replied. "The tradition is that he used sometimes to come down here for rest and quiet, and that he occupied this wing which is cut off from the rest of the house and has its own separate garden. This is the garden, and that is the window of the parlour, fortunately not fastened."

The old-fashioned leaded casement was slightly open, so that Rachel could reach in and unhook it from the strut. As she threw it wide open, she announced:

"There’s no one in the room, but I can see that the bolt is shot. He must have got out of the window. I call that pretty cool, in another person’s house. And why wasn’t the door good enough for him, I should like to know?"

"Perhaps he didn’t want his work disturbed," suggested Fittleworth. "I see he has a large drawing on an easel. However, I will step in through the window and unbolt the door, while you go round."

He climbed in easily through the window, and, having unbolted the door cast an inquisitive glance at the absent Simpson’s arrangements. On a sketching-easel was a large drawing board covered with a sheet of Whatman, on which was the earliest beginning of a drawing of the carved mantelpiece. A table close by bore one or two pencils, a water-colour palette, a jar of water, a slab of rubber, and a number of brushes. The drawing— what there was of it— was expertly done, but represented, at the most, half an hour’s work.

"How long had Mr. Simpson been in this room?" he asked, as Rachel and Katharine entered.

"The three gentlemen came here yesterday and made some sketches, but Mr. Simpson didn’t bring his things till this morning. He came about nine, and at half-past eleven he came to me for a jar of water."

Fittleworth reflected, with a cogitative eye on the drawing.

"Well," he said at length, with a glance at Katharine; "I think we can manage without Mr. Simpson. As we are here, we may as well begin our survey with this room. Don’t you think so?

Katharine agreed; and when she had explained to the hospitable Rachel that they had lunched in the train, the maid said:

"Then I will leave you now. If you want anything you have only to ring. It’s an old room, but it has an electric bell. And if I might make a suggestion, it would be as well to close the window, so that Mr. Simpson will have to come in by the door in a proper and decent way."

As soon as she was gone, Fittleworth and Katharine looked at one another significantly, and the latter exclaimed: "What an extraordinary thing, Joe. Do you really think he got out of the window?"

I doubt it very much, Katie. But, at any rate, we will adopt Miss Rachel’s suggestion, and see that he doesn’t come back that way; and then we will have a good look round."

He closed and fastened the window, and stood awhile surveying the room. It was a smallish apartment, rather barely furnished with five carved walnut hairs, an oaken livery cupboard, and a ponderous draw-table with the thick foot-rests and massive melon-bulb legs of the period. A wide fireplace with a richly-carved mantel, and a door— apparently that of a built-in cupboard— were the only constructive features that presented themselves for consideration, excepting the panelling, which extended over the whole of the walls.

"There’s evidently something queer about Mr. Simpson’s proceedings, as we might expect," said Fittleworth. "According to Rachel, he was in this room from nine o’clock until at least half-past eleven. Now, what was he doing? He wasn’t drawing. If you look at the work on his board you can see that either you or I could have done it in ten minutes. But the handling shows that he is not a duffer. Then it being eleven-thirty, he went to the kitchen for a jar of water. What did he want that water for? He wasn’t going to colour. He had barely begun his outline, and there is a good day’s drawing in that mantelpiece."

"Yes," said Katharine, "that is rather suspicious. It looks as if he had gone there to see what the servants were about."

"Yes. Or to make a demonstration of being at work before he bolted himself in. That would suggest that he had already made a discovery. I wonder, by the way, what he has in that bag. Would it be improper to look into it?"

Whether it was improper or not, he did so, and as he opened the flap of the large sketching bag, which hung by its strap from a chair back, Katharine approached and peered in.

"That’s rather a queer outfit for a water-colour artist," she remarked, as he fished out a leather roll-up case of tools.

"Very quaint," replied Fittleworth. "So is this: what ironmongers describe as a case opener, and Mr. Sikes would call a jemmy. And what might this coil of rope be for? It is thin stuff— what sailors call a ‘lead-line,’ I think— ’but it is too thick for an easel-guy, and there’s too much of it. There seems to be about a dozen yards. But there! It’s of no use looking at his appliances; we know what Mr. Simpson was after. The question now is: Where is Mr. Simpson?

"I suppose," said Katharine, "he couldn’t be in that cupboard?"

Fittleworth stepped across and gave a pull at the projecting key. "Locked," he announced. "He couldn’t very well have locked himself in and left the key outside. I wonder if there is anything to be seen in the chimney. These wide old chimneys were favourite places for hiding-holes."

He slid the old dog grate out of the way, and, stooping under the lintel, stood up inside the roomy chimney. It was evident that the flue was not straight, for no light came from above, and, as very little light was reflected up from the floor, the cavity was in almost total darkness. Fittleworth struck a wax match, and, by the aid of its feeble light, explored that part of the interior that was within the range of vision. But closely as he examined it, nothing met his eye but the uninterrupted surface of blackened brickwork. Reflecting, however, that hiding-holes would not be made ostentatiously conspicuous, he stooped, and, reaching out to the andirons, picked up the poker.

"You are not going to hit him with that poker, I hope, Joe," laughed Katharine, who had unlocked the cupboard, and was now standing with the open door in her hand. Fittleworth reassured her as to his intentions, and, ducking under the lintel, stood up once more in the dark chimney. Having lit another match he began systematically to sound the brick work, comparing critically the notes given out by the successive blows of the poker, and noting the resistance and feeling of solidity. But the result was no more encouraging than that of the ocular inspection; the "percussion note" exhibited a disappointing uniformity, and the sense of resistance conveyed through the poker was that of a very solid brick wall.

He had been working several minutes, his attention concentrated on the unresponsive mass of brickwork, when he was startled by the slamming of a door. He stopped to listen, and then, after a brief interval, he was aware of a muffled cry and the sound of thumping on hollow woodwork. Instantly he stooped to look out, blinking at the unaccustomed light, and as he looked he uttered a cry of amazement.

The room was empty.

He sprang out across the hearth, and as he reached the floor the muffled call was repeated in a familiar voice, framing the word "Joe!" and the thumping recommenced, both sounds clearly proceeding from the cupboard. Striding across to the latter, he seized the key and pulled at it vigorously, but the door refused to yield. Then he gave the key a turn, where upon the lock clicked, the door flew open, and out stepped Katharine, laughing heartily, and yet not a little agitated.

"Oh, my dear Joe!" she exclaimed, "that wretched door gave me such a fright. I believe it is possessed with a devil. It seemed to entrap me with intelligent, calculating malice."

"Tell me exactly what happened," said Fittleworth. "How did you get in there?"

"I walked in, of course, you old absurdity. You see, while you were rummaging about in the chimney, I stood here with the door open, looking at all that clutter on the shelves. Then my eye caught that delightful old jar on the top shelf, and I stepped in to reach it down; but no sooner was I inside than that miserable door slammed to, and the wretched lock snapped, and there I was, like a mouse in a trap. It’s a mercy you were at hand."

"It is, indeed. But now that we’ve got you out, I think we will have a good look at that trap. It’s a queer arrangement for a cupboard. It has a spring lock, and you notice that the very solid brass hinges are of the skew pattern to make the door self-closing. I don’t see any reason for either."

"No; that was what I was thinking when I was inside. You want to keep people out of a cupboard, not to fasten them in."

"Exactly. So we will just prop this door open with a chair and examine this singular cupboard, or closet, minutely."

He pulled the door wide open, and, having fixed it in that position by means of an elbow chair, began his investigations, taking the door itself as the first item. Having tried the lock and examined the exterior, he ran his eye critically over the inner surface, and then he made a discovery. Near the top of the door was a small, square patch of wood, which yielded to pressure, and on pressing which the bolt of the lock slid back.

"Ha!" he exclaimed, "I smell a fox, Katie. Do you see? This is an internal release. Now what could that be for?

"Why, obviously, to enable a person who was shut in to let himself out. It is a hiding-place, Joe. Don’t you see? A fugitive who was closely pursued could step in and the door would shut behind him. Then the pursuers would come and give a pull at the key, and say, as you did, that a man couldn’t lock himself in a cupboard and leave the key outside. And then they’d go away."

Fittleworth smiled, and shook his head. "That is all very well, my dear girl, but suppose there happened to be a Katie among them who would have the curiosity to turn the key and open the door? That wouldn’t do. No, my dear, you may take it as practically certain that there is a way out of this cupboard. Your inquisitive pursuer would open the door and find the cupboard empty, and then the outside key would be highly convincing. Let us investigate."

He stepped into the cupboard which was about four feet deep and of which the back was occupied by five massive but rather narrow shelves, and looked inquisitively around. The whole interior— sides, floor and ceiling— was lined with solid oak boards, and the shelves were occupied by various articles that, to judge by their appearance, had slowly accumulated in the course of years. It was to these shelves that Fittleworth specially directed his attention and that Katharine.

"You notice," said he, "that all the shelves are more or less filled up with what you call ‘clutter,’ excepting the second one from the top, which has evidently been cleared, and quite recently, too, as you can see by the dust marks. Also that the back boarding has a hollow space behind it."

By way of demonstrating this, he gave one or two noisy thumps on the hollow-sounding back; but at the third blow he paused and turned excitedly to Katharine.

"We’ve hit it— literally— Kate. Do you see? This board is beginning to give. It is a hinged flap, of which the joints were hidden by the shelves. We’ll soon run Mr. Simpson to earth now."

As Katharine craned forward to peer into the cupboard, Fittleworth gave a vigorous shove at the movable board, driving it back several inches. Instantly there followed a loud snap and a thunderous rumbling, and the entire cupboard began to descend rapidly. Fittleworth clutched frantically at the shelf to steady himself, while Katharine, with a little cry of alarm, leaned over the brink of the well-like shaft, looking down, as if petrified, at her vanishing companion.

The cupboard continued to descend for about ten feet. Then it stopped, and, at the same moment, the bottom fell down, swinging like a trap-door on invisible hinges. It was well for Fittleworth that he had kept his grasp of the shelf, for otherwise he must have been precipitated down the shaft that yawned beneath him, a dark, apparently unfathomable, well. As it was, he had nearly been jerked from his none too secure hold, and he now hung by his hands, only his feet kicking in mid-air; an impossible position for more than a bare minute, as he realised at once from the strain on his fingers. However, after some cautious groping with one foot he managed to find the bottom shelf, and when he had got both his feet securely planted on this, the strain on his hands was relieved and he was able to look about him. Glancing up, he saw that only the back half of the cupboard ceiling had come down, so that there was a two-foot space above him, through which he could see the agonised face of Katharine thrust over the brink of the well.

"Can’t I do anything, Joe?" she cried in a terrified voice.

"Yes," he replied. Get that rope of Simpson’s and throw one end down to me and tie the other end securely to the leg of the table."

Her face disappeared, and, as the sound of hurried movement came from above, Fittleworth looked over his shoulder at the side of the well that was visible to him; which presented the smooth surface of the chalk through which the shaft had been cut, and at its middle a shallow recess fitted with massive iron rings, and forming a fixed ladder, which apparently gave access to the bottom of the shaft. He looked longingly at those solid rungs, rusty as they were, and considered whether he could reach across and grasp one, but his hold was too insecure to allow of his reaching out with that horrible dark pit, of unknown depth, yawning beneath. There was nothing for it but to cling to the shelf, though his fingers ached with the tension and his muscles were beginning to tremble with the continuous strain. He gazed up at the narrow opening, and listened eagerly for the sounds from above that told him of Katharine’s hurried efforts to rescue him; and as he listened, there came to his ears another sound— from beneath— a hollow, sepulchral voice, echoing strangely from the sides of the shaft.

"Is that you, Warren?"

"All right," answered Fittleworth. "We’ll get down to you presently. Are you hurt?"

"Yes; broken my ankle, I think. But don’t you hurry. Be careful how you come down."

Fittleworth was about to reply, when Katharine’s face reappeared at the opening above. "Here’s the rope, Joe," said she. "I’ve tied it quite firmly to the table leg, and I shall keep hold of it as well. Catch."

The rope came rattling down the shalt, and, as Katharine dexterously swung it towards him, Fittleworth caught it with one hand, and hauled on it as well as he could in the hope that the cupboard, partly relieved of his weight, would rise. But the force that he could exert with one hand was not enough for this. Pull as he might, the cupboard remained immovable.

Finding that this was so, and that the repeated efforts were only fatiguing him, he decided to risk grasping the rope with both hands; but the instant he let go his hold on the upper shelf he swung right out over the well, and his feet began to slip from the lower shelf. In another moment he would have been dangling free over the deep chasm— unless the thin rope had broken; but now, as he swung out within reach of the ladder, he made a snatch with one hand at an iron rung. Grasping this firmly, he was able, without difficulty, to spring across on to the ladder, and, as his feet finally left the shelf, the cupboard began, with loud rumblings, to ascend.

Fittleworth stood on the ladder looking up at the receding cupboard and at Katharine’s anxious face, and wondering what would happen next. His curiosity was soon satisfied. As the cupboard approached the top of the shaft, the floor began to rise, and would have closed completely but for the rope, on which it jammed, leaving a narrow chink through which came a glimmer of light. It was an awkward predicament, and Fittleworth was doubtful what to do; but, as he was considering, Katharine’s voice came through the chink.

"Are you all right, Joe?"

"Yes."

"You had better go down a little farther out of the way. The cupboard is coming down again."

Fittleworth hastily descended a few rungs to avoid a, knock on the head and then stopped, wondering how Katharine proposed to send the cupboard down. Before he had reached any conclusion, the rope was smartly drawn up, there was a jarring sound above and the cupboard began to descend, but more slowly this time, as if checked in some way. When it had descended a few feet, the floor, not having risen far enough to reach its catch, owing to the rope, began to fall down; and then Fittleworth, looking up, saw to his amazement that Katharine was clinging to the interior. As the cupboard reached the bottom of its run and came to rest, he climbed up the ladder until he was opposite and then looked round anxiously. But Katharine’s position was much more secure than his had been, for she was holding firmly with one hand to a massive brass peg that was fixed on the side of the cupboard, and with the other was grasping the rope which she had passed round a stout hook that was fixed near the floor— apparently for that very purpose— and then round the peg; thus she had been able easily to check the descent of the cupboard. These arrangements, however, Fittleworth was not able to see in the dim light which prevailed in the shaft, and remembering his own difficulties, he looked at Katharine in some consternation.

"How on earth are we going to get you up again, Katie?" he asked.

"Why," she replied, "you just run up the ladder and pull at the rope. I’ve got it firmly fixed to this hook."

Fittleworth crawled up a few rungs and gave a cautious pull at the rope, when the cupboard moved an inch or two upwards, whereupon he began to climb rapidly up the ladder. He was only hall-way up, how ever, when a hollow voice from below echoed appealingly.

"Don’t be longer than you can help, Warren."

"Good Heavens!" exclaimed Katharine. "What on earth was that?"

"Hush!" said Fittleworth. "That’s our friend Simpson." Then, raising his voice, he called out: "We’ll come down to you as soon as we can," and continued his ascent to the top of the ladder.

As soon as he reached the solid floor of the room, he seized the rope and began cautiously to haul on it; and as the tension increased, the great bronze chain which suspended the cupboard began to rumble over its pulley-wheel. In a few seconds the cupboard itself appeared in the opening; as its floor came flush with that of the room it stopped, and a double snap announced that the two catches— the one which supported the cupboard itself and the other which held the floor— had slipped into their places. Then Katharine, having tried the floor with infinite caution, let go the peg and stepped out into the room.

"Well," said Fittleworth as he handed her out, "I’m proud of you, Katie. It was positively heroic of you to come down for me in that way; and how cleverly you managed it, too. It’s not for nothing that you are a yachtsman’s daughter."

Katharine received these commendations with calm satisfaction, but her mind was evidently running on the unearthly voice that had hailed them from the depths, for she asked anxiously:

"How are we going to get that poor creature up, Joe?"

"We will consider that presently," replied Fittleworth. "Meanwhile, we will just put away the rope and make things ship-shape while we talk matters over."

"But," persisted Katharine, "we can’t leave the poor wretch down there in that horrible pit. Can’t we get him up now?"

"I think he’ll have to stay there until we’ve settled what to do. We shall want some further appliances, and probably some help. But listen!"

He coiled up the rope quickly and had just replaced it in Simpson’s bag, when the door opened and Rachel reappeared.

"If you please, miss," said she, "the two gentlemen, Mr. Furse and Mr. Tanner, have come to look for Mr. Simpson. I told them what had happened, and that you were here. Will you see them, miss? They’re in a most awful taking about Mr. Simpson."

As she finished speaking, footsteps were heard in the corridor and the two gentlemen entered without further ceremony, upon which Rachel introduced them, somewhat stiffly, and departed. Fittleworth looked at the two strangers curiously and had no difficulty in recognising in them the hautboy player and the water-colour copyist respectively, though it was clear that neither of them recognised him. Both were in, a state of great agitation, especially the musician, and it was be who addressed Fittleworth.

"This is a most astonishing and alarming thing, sir. Our friend Simpson appears to have vanished completely."

"Yes," replied Fittleworth. "a most surprising affair. I can’t imagine why he should have gone out through the window."

"Are you quite sure that he did?" asked the musician.

"Well," replied Fittleworth, "he’s not here, as you see, and he couldn’t have got out through the door, so he must have left by the window, unless he went up the chimney."

Here Fittleworth caught a reproachful glance from Katharine, and the musician, who had been introduced as Mr. Furse, rejoined: "I can’t help thinking that he must be somewhere on the premises. Would you object to our looking round?"

Fittleworth reflected awhile and ultimately ventured on a chance shot. "I think, perhaps, you may be right, Mr. Warren— "

The two men started visibly, and the musician interrupted: "My name, sir, is Furse."

"Very well," said Fittleworth, "Mr. Furse, then I think we had better have an explanation, as our activities overlap somewhat. I am acting on behalf of Miss Hyde, the owner of this house."

"But what has that to do with us?" asked Mr. Furse.

"I think you will see when I explain my business, which is connected with certain property of Miss Hyde’s, to wit, a small gold box, containing certain documents, relating to some of her other property."

For some seconds the two men stared at Fittleworth in speechless amazement; then Furse asked hesitatingly: "But what has this to do with us?

"Oh, come, come, sir," said Fittleworth impatiently, "it’s of no use to try to keep up this pretence. We know that you took the box and that it is in your possession at this moment."

The two men, who appeared completely dumbfounded, glanced quickly at one another, and Furse asked: "Do I understand that this box, of which you are speaking, is the property of this lady?

"Undoubtedly," replied Fittleworth. "This is Miss Katharine Hyde, the heir and only surviving descendant of Sir Andreas Hyde, whose name will be familiar to you."

"You don’t say so!" exclaimed Mr. Purse. "I had no idea there were any descendants living. Perhaps you will allow my friend and me to consult together on the matter."

Fittleworth was quite ready to agree to this, but he had no intention of leaving them alone in the room. Accordingly, he suggested the Chancellor’s Garden as a retired spot where they could converse at their ease, and proceeded to usher them out by the side door. Returning to the parlour, he found Katharine with the cupboard door open, listening intently for any sounds which might come up through the floor.

"You cold-blooded old wretch, Joe! "she exclaimed, "to sit there calmly discussing that trumpery box, while poor Mr. Simpson may be dying at the bottom of that horrible shaft."

"My dear Kate," protested Fittleworth, "we didn’t put him there. He shall be got up as soon as possible, but, meanwhile, l quite a valuable aid to our negotiations."

Katharine was shocked at his callousness and urged an immediate rescue, but Fittleworth, unmoved by her reproaches, calmly watched the two men through the window, as they paced the little green, evidently engaged in anxious discussion. The discussion was, however, quite a brief one, for in about a couple of minutes they turned, with an air of finality, and walked briskly towards the side door.

"They haven’t been long," Fittleworth remarked as they passed out of view and the side door was heard to open. "I wonder what they’ve decided to do? They can’t very well say they haven’t got the box now."

Fittleworth was right. As soon as the two men entered the room, Mr. Furse opened the proceedings in a manner quite frank and business-like.

"We’d like you to tell us, sir," said he, "exactly what you know about this affair and what you wish us to do."

"As to what we know," said Fittleworth, "I may say we know everything. The box, which was sealed with King James’ seal and contained an important document, was removed by you— very cleverly, I must admit— from the National Gallery seventeen days ago, and you have come here to search for the property that was deposited by Sir Andreas Hyde. As to what we wish, we simply desire you to restore the box to its owner."

Mr. Furse seated himself in a large elbow-chair and, placing his finger-tips together, addressed himself to Fittleworth.

"Now, see here," said he. "That box was never in Miss Hyde’s possession, and I guess no one knew of its existence, or of the existence of the other property that you mention; and I guess you don’t know, now, what that property is or where it’s stowed."

"You’re wrong there," said Fittleworth, rather casuistically; "we know exactly where it’s hidden, which is, I think, more than you do; but surely, all this is irrelevant. The property belongs to Miss Hyde and there’s an end of the matter. You’re not disputing her title, are you?"

"No, sir, we are not. To be perfectly frank with you, our position is this: we lit on the trail of this property by chance, and, being under the impression that it was without an owner, we laid ourselves out to salve it, and I may tell you that we have spent a great deal of time, money and trouble on locating it. Now, it turns out that this is not treasure trove at all; that there is a rightful owner living; and my friend, Tanner, and I have talked the matter over and have decided that we, personally, are prepared to surrender our claim on certain conditions, but of course we can’t answer for Mr. Simpson, nor can we act without his consent."

"What are your conditions?" asked Fittleworth.

"We should want our expenses refunded, and we want permission to search these premises for our friend."

"That’s not unreasonable," said Fittleworth, "and as regards the property of Sir Andreas, I am willing to agree; but I must stipulate that you hand us over immediately the box and its contents. You have them with you, probably."

"No, we haven’t," said Furse. "We could produce them, but, first of all, we want to look for Simpson. His case is actually urgent, for the probability is that he has got boxed up in some confounded secret chamber and can’t get out."

"You are quite right," said Fittleworth. "I know exactly where he is, and I will make conditions with you. You produce the box and its contents, and I will produce Mr. Simpson."

"And supposing we don’t agree?" asked Furse.

"Then I am afraid we shall have to retain Mr. Simpson as security."

The long, humorous face of Mr. Furse wrinkled into a grim smile, as he glanced inquiringly at his companion.

"What do you say to that?" he asked.

Mr. Tanner raised his eyebrows. "It seems to me, Warren," said he, "that this gentleman has got us in a cleft stick. I guess we’ve got to agree."

Mr. Furse rose and looked at his watch.

"It’ll take us well over an hour to produce that box. Say we are back here in an hour and a half?"

"Then," said Fittleworth, "I think we can promise that you shall find Mr. Simpson here when you return."

This arrangement having been agreed to, the two gentlemen departed, Fittleworth and Katharine escorting them to the front door. As they disappeared down the drive, the former turned to Katharine:

"Now, my dear, to the work of rescue. I think we shall have to take Rachel into our confidence, as we shall want her assistance."

As a matter of fact, Rachel was lurking in the background, having scented some sort of mystery, and Fittleworth forthwith put her in possession of such of the circumstances as it was necessary for her to know; whereat she was profoundly thrilled and highly gratified.

"There, now," she remarked, "that’s what comes of poking and prying about in other people’s houses. But how are you going to get him out, sir?"

"He’ll have to be hoisted up, I suppose," said Fittleworth. "Do you happen to have such a thing as a length of strong rope?"

He asked the question somewhat hopelessly, stout rope not being a common domestic appliance; but Rachel answered promptly: "There’s the well rope, sir, if you could get it off the windlass."

"I think we could manage that," said Fittleworth; "and then we shall want some weights, about two hundredweight altogether."

This presented more difficulty, until Katharine conceived the luminous idea of filling a couple of small sacks with earth, which solved the problem perfectly.

In a few minutes they had collected these appliances and a lantern, and carried them to the Chancellor’s Parlour, when, having bolted the door, they fell to work forthwith. First, the door of the cupboard was propped open with a chair; then Fittleworth laid the two small, but heavy, sacks of earth on the bottom shelf, and, the cupboard now being weighted, he set the point of his walking-stick against the movable board at the back, and gave a heavy thrust. Instantly there was a loud snap and the cupboard rumbled away down the shaft, like a primitive lift, and as the great bronze chain ran out, an enormous stone counterpoise was seen to rise at the side. As on the first occasion, the cupboard stopped about ten feet down and the floor dropped like the trap of a gallows. The next proceeding was to light the lantern and attach it to one end of the rope— the other end being secured, as before, to the table— by which Fittleworth lowered it carefully down the shaft until he had paid out some twenty-five feet. Then as its glimmer still showed nothing but the walls of the shaft, and the view was somewhat obstructed by the cupboard, he decided to go down and reconnoitre.

"I suppose that ladder’s all right?" said Katharine.

"It seems to be," he answered. "The rungs are rusty, but they seem quite firm and strong, and you may trust me to be mighty careful."

With this, he let himself over the brink and began slowly to descend, watched anxiously by the two women from above, testing each rung cautiously with his foot before throwing his weight on it. As he passed the suspended cupboard the voice of Simpson from below hailed him with the inquiry:

"Is that you, Warren?"

"No," answered Fittleworth, and continued to descend.

"Is it Bell?" asked Simpson.

Fittleworth again replied in the negative, but made a mental note of the name. As he passed the lantern he saw that it had descended to within six or seven feet from the bottom of the shaft, which was covered by a considerable heap of ancient rags and mouldering straw and twigs, thrown down apparently, by some humane person to mitigate the effects of an accidental fall. At one side was a narrow doorway, cut in the chalk, opening upon a short flight of steps, and on the top step a man was sitting, nursing his bare foot.

It was a curious meeting. The light of the lantern reflected from the walls of the narrow cavity, rendered the two men plainly visible to one another, and the recognition was instantaneous. Fittleworth, of course, "placed" his man without difficulty, but the other was evidently at a loss.

"I seem to know your face," he said, looking critically at Fittleworth; "but yet— where have I met you?"

"In the National Gallery," Fittleworth replied; and as the other’s face took on an expression of unmistakable alarm, he added: "I’ve not come with hostile intentions. We will talk over our little business later; for the present we have to consider how to get you out of this hole."

"I’m afraid," said Simpson, "that I can’t climb the ladder.’

"No, of course you can’t," replied Fittleworth, "we shall have to haul you up. But if I fix you in a loop at the end of the rope, you can help us by hauling yourself up with your hands. What do you say?"

Simpson thought the plan would answer admirably, and Fittleworth forthwith set about executing it. First, he called up to Katharine to lower a dozen feet more rope. Then, detaching the lantern from the end of the rope, he made a good-sized bowline knot in the latter, and fitted the loop round Simpson’s hips.

"There," said he, "I will go up now and help them to hoist, and, when I give the word, you take hold of the ladder and sit down in the loop of the rope. As we haul, you must help yourself up by the ladder, and be careful that you don’t knock that unfortunate foot of yours, which we must have attended to as soon as we get you up."

"It’s very good of you," Simpson began; but Fittleworth, considering that this was no time for the exchange of politenesses, began to re-ascend the ladder. As he stepped out on to the floor of the parlour, he briefly explained the arrangements to his two assistants, and then, having shouted down a warning to the prisoner below, the three began to haul steadily at the rope. It was probably an uncomfortable experience to Simpson, but the plan was highly effective, and in a minute or so the captive appeared at the top of the shaft, and was tenderly helped over the perilous edge.

As he stood on one foot, supported by Fittleworth, he gazed confusedly about the room, and asked:

"Where are the others? Warren and Bell, I mean."

"They’ve gone into Margate," replied Fittleworth, "but they’ll be back shortly. Meanwhile, if Mistress Rachel can lend us a bedroom, we will see you comfortably settled, and send for a doctor."

"There’s a spare bedroom over this," said Rachel, "and, as it’s all ready, we can take Mr. Simpson up at once, and then the boy can go off on his bicycle and fetch Dr. Finlay."

"I’m sure," said Simpson, "it’s exceedingly charitable of you all to take so much trouble about me. it’s more than I deserve, after— " he paused to look doubtfully at Rachel, who, for her part, looked as expressionless as a moderately benevolent graven image, and was equally uncommunicative.

"For the present," said Fittleworth, "we’ll confine our attention to your foot. When that has been attended to, and your friends arrive, we can discuss other matters."

As soon as Simpson had been comfortably settled in the cosy, old-fashioned bedroom, with a wet handkerchief applied to his ankle, the party returned to the Chancellor’s Parlour.

"Well," asked Katharine, "what is the next thing to be done?"

"The next thing," said Fittleworth, "is to make a little exploration on our own account. There is evidently a chamber or tunnel at the bottom of the shaft, and I propose to go down and see what’s in it."

"Then I’m coming down, too," said Katharine.

At this Rachel protested most emphatically. "You’d much better not, miss," she exclaimed. "Supposing you were to fall off the ladder!"

"I’m not going to suppose anything of the kind, Rachel. You’ll let me come down, won’t you, Joe?" she added wheedlingly.

"I don’t see why you shouldn’t," replied Fittleworth. "it’s quite an easy ladder to climb. But we shall want Rachel to keep guard at the top, as we do not want those two good gentlemen; so the housemaid had better be told that, if they arrive before we have finished our explorations, they are to be shown up to Mr. Simpson’s room, and are to wait there for us."

The disapproving, but obedient, Rachel received the instructions with resignation, and, having executed them and bolted the door, took her place at the edge of the shaft with an expression of deep foreboding. First, the rope was lowered to its former position, when Fittleworth, steadying himself by it, got on the ladder and descended a few rungs; then Katharine, also grasping the rope and herself frantically grasped by Rachel, essayed the first few perilous steps.

"It’s really quite safe and easy, Rachel," she said, as she clung tenaciously to the rusty bars and let herself down cautiously, rung by rung; and, with this assurance, the faithful handmaid was somewhat comforted, though she continued to watch the disappearance of her young mistress into the depths of the shaft with a face of horror and dismay.

The progress down the ladder occupied little more than a minute, and its completion was duly announced for the benefit of the watcher above.

"I suppose," said Katharine, as Fittleworth picked up the lantern, "that you didn’t see anything of the mysterious ‘it’ when you were down here before?

"No," he replied," we are going to find ’it‘ together, Katie; at least, I hope so. Be careful of those steps."

They descended the rudely cut steps, rounded by the damp and slimy with fungous growths, and entered a narrow passage, of which the end was lost in obscurity, and of which the floor descended at a sharp angle. Fittleworth held the lantern aloft, throwing its light on the greenish, sweating wails and the roughly-vaulted roof. There was something weirdly impressive in the aspect of this ancient tunnel, which had probably seen no light for centuries but that which now glimmered from the lantern. The lapse of time was marked not only by that eerie vegetation that clothed the wails, but by little stalactites that drooped from projections on the roof, and sparkling stalagmitic masses which had begun to grow up from the floor. But of traces of visitors there were none, excepting that, in one place, under the mantle of vegetation there could be seen on the wail some indistinct initials with a heart and the date 1594. Slowly the explorers advanced down the sloping tunnel, descending at intervals short flights of steps, which were placed at points where the direction of the tunnel changed, and still there was no sign of any concealed object or of any hiding-place. At length, on descending another short flight of steps, they turned into a straight length of tunnel, at the end of which appeared a bright spot of light, cold and bluish in tone as compared with the yellow glimmer of the lantern— evidently daylight. They hurried forward, and, passing a massive wooden gate, which had fallen back on its decayed hinges, came to a roughly-built wall of chalk masonry which blocked the tunnel. The spot of light corresponded to a space from which one of the stones had fallen or crumbled, and Fittleworth had no difficulty in climbing up and applying his eye to the hole.

"What are you smiling at, Joe?" Katharine asked, as a faint grin appeared on Fittleworth’s face.

His reply was to descend and assist her to take his place. It was a very curious scene that she looked upon as she peered through the opening; curious by reason of the contrast that it offered with this grim, old tunnel, wrapt in sepulchral darkness and charged with mystery and memories of a generation long since dead and forgotten. A sea cave with a floor of weed strewn sand and the shining beach beyond; and near its entrance a pair of very modern lovers, the swain industriously carving their joint initials with a very conspicuous heart, while the maiden stood by and encouraged him with admiring exclamations.

"So," said Fittleworth, as Katharine stepped down, "the world wags pretty much in our days as it did in the year 1594. But, meanwhile, we seem to be at the end of our explorations, and ‘it’ still remains an unknown quantity. I wish I hadn’t been so beastly cocksure with Warren, now."

"But it must be hidden here, somewhere in this tunnel," said Katharine.

"That doesn’t follow at all. The purpose of these works is pretty obvious, especially when we consider that the tunnel was cut at least as early as the time of Elizabeth. They form a combined escape and death trap. You see that we are looking in near the roof of the cave, and this wall is probably built over a flight of steps. The idea clearly was that a Catholic, or Protestant, as the case might be, could escape down the shaft and out through the cave to a boat. If the pursuers discovered the secret of the cupboard, they would probably be shot down the shaft and killed; and even if they came down the ladder, they could be ambushed at any one of these sharp turns in the tunnel."

"Then," said Katharine, in a tone of disappointment, "you think that ‘it’ may be hidden in some other part of the house?"

"I’m afraid that’s what it looks like," replied Fittleworth, "and, as we don’t know what ‘it’ is, or what its size may be, the search for it isn’t so very hopeful."

They turned and retraced their steps slowly through the zigzag tunnel and, as they went, they spoke little and apparently thought much. Arrived at the foot of the shaft, Fittleworth, with a reflective air, tied the lantern to the end of the rope, and called out to Rachel to pull it up to the level of the cupboard. Then they began the ascent, Katharine going first.

When they reached the level of the cupboard, Fittleworth paused and looked round.

"Wait a minute, Katie," said he. "I’m going to try a little experiment."

Katharine stopped in her climb and, looking-down on him inquisitively, saw him reach across and grasp one of the bags of earth. A good pull dislodged it from the shelf and it fell to the bottom of the shaft with a dull thump.

"Be careful, Joe!" exclaimed Katharine. "You’ll have the cupboard going up and shutting us in."

"I want it to go up a little way," he replied; and descending a couple of rungs, he put his hand to the bottom of the cupboard and pushed steadily upwards; when the cupboard, relieved of a portion of its weight, rose three or four feet and again came to rest.

"Eureka!" Fittleworth exclaimed excitedly. "I was right. I thought our secretive friends would not waste such an excellent opportunity."

He followed the cupboard up a few steps and, giving it another shove, sent it up a good six feet. Katharine gave a little cry of delight. In the side of the shaft, at the spot that had been hidden by the suspended cupboard, was a deepish recess, fitted with iron hand-holds, and pierced by a narrow doorway. Grasping one of the hand-holds, Fittleworth stepped on the ledge of the recess and entered the doorway.

"You’re not to go in without me," Katharine commanded, letting herself down in a mighty hurry.

"Very well," said Fittleworth. "Pass me the lantern across, and get a good hold of that handle before you step on the ledge."

He took the lantern from her and, backing into the doorway, watched her anxiously as she crossed to the ledge. The perilous passage accomplished, he backed into the doorway with the lantern, and she followed him into a short passage, and from this, into a small, square chamber. As he turned and held the lantern aloft they both uttered an exclamation of joy; for a single glance around the little cell, showed them that they had found the object of their quest. On the floor, near to one wall, raised from the damp surface on blocks of cut chalk, were three rudely-made chests, clamped with iron bands and guarded by massive locks. Fittleworth threw the light of the lantern on each in succession. All of them were roughly fashioned, as if by a ship’s carpenter, and each bore on the lid, in incised lettering, the same inscription: "Shipp, James and Mary. Stowe in ye lazaret"; and then in dotted lettering, as if marked with an awl or marline spike, "His Majesty’s Portion, W.P."

"‘W.P.,’" mused Fittleworth. "That would be Sir William Phips, whoever he was. Now, the question is, whose property is this? It’s His Majesty’s portion, but did the king hand it to Sir Andreas as a gift, or only to hold in trust for safe keeping?"

"Does it matter?" inquired Katharine, with feminine disregard for these niceties.

"Yes, it does," replied Fittleworth. "If it belonged to Sir Andreas, it is your property, but if it was the king’s, it’s treasure trove."

"Rubbish!" exclaimed Katharine. "King James’ family is extinct, so there’s no question about his heirs; and finding is keeping. Besides, it’s in my house and was put here by my ancestor."

"You’re a dishonest little baggage!" laughed Fittleworth, whose private opinions, however, on the moral aspects of treasure trove were much the same as those of most other sensible men, "but perhaps the document may give us some further information. At any rate, it is satisfactory to have found ‘it‘ ourselves. And now we had better go up and see if our understudies have arrived yet."

He helped Katharine across to the ladder and, as they emerged from the shaft, to Rachel’s unspeakable relief, the front door bell rang.

That’ll be Mr. Furse and his friend," remarked Rachel. "The doctor has been and gone away again."

"Then," said Fittleworth, "they had better be shown up to Mr. Simpson’s room, and, when they are ready to see us, perhaps you will kindly let us know."

He closed the door of the cupboard, and, as Rachel departed on her mission, he drew two chairs up to the table.

"There’s one thing I want to say to you," said Katharine. "Of course we have found this property, whatever it is, ourselves, but we should never have found it if it had not been for those three men. They are the real discoverers."

Fittleworth assented somewhat dryly, and Katharine went on: "They’ve had an awful lot of trouble, Joe, and they’ve been most clever and ingenious, and when we broke in upon them they were on the very point of winning the reward for all their labour."

"They hadn’t found the hiding-place," objected Fittleworth.

"No, but I feel sure they would have found it. They are evidently exceedingly clever men— almost as clever as you, Joe."

"Rather more so, 1 should say," laughed Fittleworth. "They did me in the eye pretty neatly."

"Well, at any rate," said Katharine, ignoring this. "they discovered it by sheer cleverness, did by taking infinite trouble, and it will be an awful disappointment to the poor things to have it snatched from them at the last moment."

"Well?" said Fittleworth, as Katharine paused interrogatively.

"Well, don’t you think we ought to let them have at least a substantial share of whatever is in those chests?"

Fittleworth smiled grimly. "It’s a most irregular business altogether, Katie. In the first place, I, an official of the Gallery, propose to compound a felony by receiving the stolen property, which I fancy we are not going to restore to the owner of the picture."

"Certainly not," said Katharine. "It wasn’t his. It’s mine."

And then," continued Fittleworth, "we propose to make a perfectly illegal arrangement with the robbers for disposing of certain treasure trove which is the property of the Crown."

Oh, stuff, Joe!" exclaimed Katharine. "It’s my property, or at least ours, and we’re going to keep it, you know we are. Now, how much are we going to give these poor creatures?"

"It’s your property, Kate," said Fittleworth, with a grin; "at least, you say it is, so you must decide."

"Very well," said she, "let us consider. There are three chests, one for you, one for me and one for them. What do you say to that?"

Fittleworth, though secretly approving, was disposed to adopt the cantankerous attitude of a trustee or adviser; but Katharine saw through him at once.

"I’m glad you agree with me," she said, ignoring his protests. "We shall enjoy our windfall so much more if we’re not greedy. So that’s settled. And I think I hear Rachel coming."

A moment later the handmaid entered to announce that Mr. Furse and his friends were ready to see them, and they adjourned, forthwith, to the bedroom above.

"I hope," said Katharine, as they entered, "that the doctor has given a favourable report, and that you are in less pain now, Mr. Simpson."

"Thank you," was the reply, "I am quite comfort able now. It seems that it was only a severe sprain, after all."

Katharine congratulated him on his escape, and Mr. Furse— or Warren— then opened the business with characteristic briskness.

"Now, sir, my friend, Pedley, late Simpson, is quite agreeable to our handing over the box and contents on the terms mentioned, which, however, must include immunity from any proceedings in respect of the picture."

"So far as I am concerned," said Fittleworth, "I agree, although such an agreement is quite illegal, as you know. But the arrangement is between ourselves and need go no farther."

"Quite so," said Warren. "But, does anyone besides Miss Hyde know that you were on our track?"

"No. We acted quite secretly, and as the picture has been restored, no action is likely to be taken by the authorities."

"Then in that case," said Warren, "and as you agree to our terms, I will hand the property to Miss Hyde, and will let you have an account of our expenses later."

With this he produced from his pocket a small paper packet, and, opening it, displayed a small, plain, gold box, somewhat like an exceedingly flat cigar case, which he handed to Katharine.

"The paper," said he, "is inside; and I may say, madam, that I believe you will find it an exceedingly interesting document."

Katharine, having thanked him, opened the little box and took from it a sheet of very thin paper, folded twice, and covered with writing of an antiquated style and very pale and faded. Opening the paper, she ran her eye quickly the writing, and then handed the document to Fittleworth. "Perhaps you had better read it aloud," said she. Fittleworth took the paper and examined it curiously. One side of it was occupied by what seemed to be a list or schedule; the document proper occupied the other, and it was with this that Fittleworth began:

James, by the Grace of God, King of England, Scotland, France and Ireland, unto our trusty and well-beloved Andreas Hide and all other such persons as may be concerned with these presents. Whereas the saide Andreas Hide hath on sundry occasions contributed divers sums of money for our use and service Now We do convey to the saide Andreas Our portion of the treasure which Captain Sir William Phips of New England did lift from the Spanish wracke at Hispaniola the saide share being of the value of thirty thousand pounds sterling as sett forth in the accompt on the backe hereof to be disposed of in manner following namely the saide treasure to be secured by the saide Andreas Hide in some safe and secret place to be held intact for Our use as occasion may require while the present troubles continue and soe to be held if need bee during Our life and that of Our Son James Prince of Wales to be faithfully rendered up to Us or to the saide Prince upon Our or his demand as Our or his necessities may require but upon Our death and that of the saide Prince the saide Treasure to revert absolutely and become the sole property of the saide Andreas Hide or the heirs of his body.

Given under Our hand at Our Palace of White Hall on the twentieth day of September in the Year of our Lord God 1688.

JAMES R.

As Fittleworth finished reading, he glanced significantly at Katharine, and Mr. Warren gave an approving nod. "So you see, Miss Hyde," said the latter, "there is no question of treasure trove. This is your own property, if you know where to find it. I need not say that if we had known of your existence, we would have notified you. Rather foolishly, we assumed that there were no heirs in existence— that the family was derelict, and, of course, the good old laws of treasure trove don’t appeal much to an American."

"Naturally," said Katharine. "May we see what’s on the other side?"

Fittleworth turned the paper over and began to read from the inventory on the back:

Three chests containing the King’s share of Captain Phips’ treasure as follows:

The first chest containeth,

Twenty-one bars of golde

Two large baggs pieces of eight

Six parcels dust golde

Three baggs coyned golde

One bagg two hundred large pearls

Two baggs unpolished stones (divers).

At this point Fittleworth paused. "Is it worth while," he asked, "to go right through the list? We shall have to verify the contents of the chests presently, and we know the total value."

"Yes," said Warren, "I guess you’ll find enough to pay our little expenses, with a trifle over. And that reminds me that we should like, if possible, to have the sum— which we will put at two hundred pounds— paid in the actual contents of these chests. It has been quite a little romance for us, and we should like some memento of it."

Katharine glanced significantly at Fittleworth, who then said: "I understand that Miss Hyde wishes you to consider yourselves as partners in this enterprise, and to take a substantial share of the treasure— "

"A third," said Katharine, "if you think that’s fair."

"Fair!" exclaimed Warren. "It’s a great deal more than fair, it’s exceedingly handsome; but I really don’t— "

"You see," interrupted Katharine, "you are really the discoverers, and it would seem such a tame ending to your little romance if you only took away a few trifles."

Warren was about to protest, but Katharine continued: "We shall be very unhappy if you don’t take a fair share. Remember, we should never have known anything about it but for your cleverness, and the daring way in which you borrowed that picture. Come, Mr. Warren, I will make a condition; you shall tell us how you did it, and then help us to get the chests out."

To these not very onerous conditions the three Americans agreed after some further protests and consultation between themselves, and Simpson, or rather, Pedley, then asked: "I suppose the chests are stowed in that place at the bottom of the shaft?"

"No, they’re not," replied Fittleworth. "They’re less than half-way down; but I hope you’ll be able to be present when they’re lifted, which is the next business that we have to consider, and a rather troublesome business it will be, I expect."

The business, however, turned out to be less troublesome than Fittleworth had anticipated, for the three enterprising American gentlemen, having read the inventory, and knowing the nature of the treasure, had already provided themselves with the appliances necessary for dealing with the ponderous chests.

These appliances, consisting of a powerful tackle, a set of chain slings, some wooden rollers, and one or two crowbars, were stored at their hotel, from whence Warren and Bell proceeded to fetch them without delay. Then Pedley, with his foot in a splint, was carried down to the Chancellor’s Parlour, and, the door being bolted, salvage operations began forthwith. The tackle was hooked on to the great bronze chain that suspended the cupboard, and the chests, one by one, secured in the slings, were dragged on rollers to the opening into the shalt, and finally hoisted up to the floor of the parlour.

The old room had doubtless looked on many a strange scene, but on none stranger than that which was revealed by the light of the hanging lamp and the candles that burned in the old silver candlesticks. The three chests, wrenched open, despite their massive locks, by vigorously-wielded crowbars, stood empty in a corner, and the five conspirators, seated round the ancient draw-table, gazed upon a treasure that made even its sturdy legs creak protestingly. Bars of gold— dull, soapy, and worthless in aspect— bags of gold dust, uncut gems and antiquated coins, lay cheek by jowl, with heaps of rings, trinkets, and ornaments of a suspiciously ecclesiastical character. At the head of the table Katharine sat, with the inventory before her, checking the items as they were called out by Fittleworth, with the impressive manner of an auctioneer. It was late at night before the ceremony was concluded; by which time the spoil, divided into three approximately equal portions, had been returned to the chests, of which one, allocated to the three adventurers, was duly marked and secured with the chain slings, ready for removal.

"There is one thing," said Fittleworth, "that I should like to know before we part. I can see pretty well how you got on the track of the treasure, but I cannot see how you ascertained which of the stretchers contained the gold box. I noticed that the canvas had been unfastened only at the one end, so you must either have known beforehand, or made a lucky guess."

Warren laughed complacently. "We Americans are a progressive people," said he, "and we have a way of applying recent scientific knowledge to useful ends. We didn’t know beforehand where that gold box was, and we didn’t have to make a shot. We just took the picture, in its case, round to an electrical instrument maker’s, and got him to pass the X-rays through it, while we looked at it through a fluorescent screen. We couldn’t see much of the picture, but we could see the gold box plain enough, so we just made a pencil mark over the spot on the paper in which the case was wrapped. Is there anything more you would like to know?"

"If it wouldn’t seem inquisitive," said Fittleworth, "I think we should like to know with whom we have had the pleasure of sharing the plunder."

Warren rubbed his chin, and cast a comical look of inquiry at his two friends; then, having received an assenting nod from each of them, he replied: "We are sharing one or two secrets already, sir, and if I mention that one of us is a Professor of History at a well-known university in the United States and that the other two of us are respectively Professor of European Architecture at the same academic institution and Conservator of a famous Museum, why, then, we shall share one secret more."

Three days later there arrived at the Captain Digby, where Fittleworth was staying, a letter from the Director asking him to withdraw his resignation. It was a gratifying circumstance, and he hastened to communicate it to Katharine. But in the meantime she had also received a letter— from her tenant, Mrs. Matthews— asking to be allowed to determine the tenancy in a month’s time. Katharine read her letter to Fittleworth, and then, laying it down, asked somewhat abstractedly:

"Didn’t you once say, Joe, that you would like to live in this old house yourself?"

"I did," he replied, "and I repeat it most emphatically."

"Then," said Katharine, "Sir John will have to accept your resignation."

_____________________

19: The Yellow Dog

J S Fletcher

From The Secret of the Barbican and other stories, 1913

i

THE MOMENT for which Hankinson had made such anxious and careful preparations during three weary weeks of watching and waiting had come at last. There, within a yard of him, was the old jeweller whom he meant to stun and to rob; there, in Hankinson’s hand, was the sandbag with which he intended to strike him down. And all about the two men, the one unsuspecting, the other quivering with intent, hung the heavy silence of midnight, broken only by the metallic tinkle of the valuables which the old man was slowly transferring from counter to safe.

Hankinson, thief and criminal from his youth upward, had at that time been out of prison for precisely a month. He had no particular desire to return to prison; but, on the other hand, he had no leaning towards the path of rectitude. Upon emerging from durance he had possessed himself of a small stock of money which he had safely hidden in view of emergencies; when it was in his pocket, he had left his usual haunts in North London and betaken himself to new ones in the purlieus of the Mile End Road. He took a cheap lodging there, and began to look around him in Whitechapel and its neighbourhood. And in time he saw what he considered to be a good chance. Lurking about in the busy streets, always with eyes alert, he saw at last a prospect of replenishing the gradually emptying purse. Thereafter he gave all his thought and attention to that prospect. The prospect quickly became a scheme.

There was an old fashioned, dingy jeweller’s shop in a small side street off Houndsditch; it was also a pawnbroker’s establishment. Three gilded balls overhung a passage entrance at the side. In that passage there was a sort of sentry box, in which the shutters of the front shop were kept. A curly-headed, hooked-nosed boy put up those shutters every night before going home. He was utterly indifferent to the shutters, that boy, when he had once put them up; but when he had gone away, whistling, Hankinson, under cover of the dusk, took a mighty interest in them. For long years of trained observation had made Hankinson’s eyes unusually sharp, and it had not taken him more than one glance to see that in one of these shutters there was a noticeable, an appreciable crack. You could see the light in the shop through it. Therefore, through it you could see into the shop.

Hankinson contrived to see into the shop through that slit a good many times. It was always at night that he made these observations, and he made them with delicacy and with speed. But within a week he learned a good deal. Much of what he learned was obvious in other ways— namely, that the shop was closed on Saturdays all day long; that from Monday to Thursday it was closed at nine o’clock in the evening; that on Friday nights it was kept open until eleven. But his observations through the crack in the shutter informed him that every night after closing hours, whether at nine o’clock or at eleven, Mr. Isidore Marcovitch, the old proprietor, a grey-haired, stooping figured Hebrew, busied himself, alone, unaided, in transferring his most valuable wares from his window and his counter to a large safe, which stood in the shop. And, dingy and old-fashioned as the shop was, there were valuables in it which made Hankinson covetous.

Hankinson made his preparations carefully. First of all, he convinced himself that this hiding away of goods was a nightly performance. Secondly, he made sure that the old man was always alone when the performance was gone through. Thirdly, he came to know that the only other occupant of the house was a girl— quite a young girl, presumably Mr. Marcovitch’s granddaughter— who appeared to live in the upper regions. Hankinson formed the opinion on good grounds— that this young woman retired to bed long before closing hours on Friday nights; at any rate, there was a window in the very upper room in which a light shone for awhile every night at half-past nine. He grew to be positively certain that, beyond this girl, there was nobody on the premises save Marcovitch himself, and that Marcovitch was the only waking thing in the house when he put his goods in the safe on Friday evenings. Obviously, then, Friday was the day of excellent choice.

But Hankinson did not content himself with outside observation only. He felt it necessary to see the inside of that shop at close quarters. Therefore he invented a good excuse for visiting it twice— by taking something to mend and calling for the mended article a few days later. On these occasions he inspected this new hunting ground with due care. After the second inspection he told himself that it was all right. The big safe in which old Marcovitch stowed his best things stood detached from the wall; between the wall and it there was a space in which a man could easily bestow himself unnoticed. The only difficulty was to secure an unobserved entrance to the shop. For long vigilant observation had shown Hankinson that when Marcovitch was not behind his counter the curly-headed Jew boy was there; and when the boy was not there, Marcovitch was.

Hankinson watched for his opportunity for two Friday nights. At ten minutes to eleven on the second the opportunity came. For some reason or other the old jeweller sent the lad out of the shop. A moment later he himself quitted the counter and disappeared into the rear premises. And thereupon Hankinson slipped in, and a second later had hidden himself between the safe and the wall. There were old coats and cloaks, dusty and musty, hanging there, and they made good cover. If Marcovitch, when he came back, had narrowly inspected these ancient garments, he might have found Hankinson’s nose protruding at one place and his feet at another. But Marcovitch suspected nothing, and Hankinson was well skilled in holding his breath.

The usual routine of the establishment went on placidly. The curly-headed boy presently put up the shutters and went away, pocketing his wages. Marcovitch locked, chained and bolted the door. He disappeared into the pawnbroking part of his shop. Hankinson heard more bolting and barring. Then, from some inner part of the premises he heard the sound of a withdrawn cork and a little gurgling and splashing; the old man, said Hankinson to himself, was about to refresh himself with a drink. Then came the scent of a strong, pungent cigar, and presently Marcovitch returned into view, a cigar in one corner of his bearded lips, a steaming tumbler in his hand. An odour of rum, strong, insidious, penetrated to Hankinson and overcame the nasty smell of the old garments. Because of his previous vigils, Hankinson was well acquainted with the accustomed routine.

Old Marcovitch began by unlocking the safe. Then he took out certain goods from the locked showcase on his counter. Better things came from a sort of wired-in enclosure which filled the centre of the window— an enclosure of stout wire, closely meshed and clamped. There were trays in that which contained rings and necklaces and ornaments set with diamonds and pearls. Some of these things were ticketed, some were not.

But Hankinson, having often glued his nose to the thick plate glass windows, had a good idea that he could easily stow away a few hundreds of pounds’ worth of stuff out of those trays in one of his pockets. Good stuff, he said to himself, lies in little room.

It was Hankinson’s intention to hit Marcovitch when the trays from the window and the counter-cases had been laid on the counter previous to transferring them to the safe. He had everything ready for the attack; the sandbag was already grasped in his right hand; in a left-hand pocket he had a gag all ready to insert in the old man’s jaws; in another pocket a length of cord wherewith to secure Marcovitch’s wrists. And the moment was drawing near, was almost there, when Marcovitch turned from his tray to the safe, took out of a drawer a small pocket done up in brown paper with a tissue paper lining, and with a low chuckle of delight, shook out on the counter a quantity of loose diamonds.

Hankinson grew hot and cold and hot again as the light fell on those sparkling stones. Here, indeed, was luck! Such luck as he had never expected. He was not learned in the lore of precious stones, but he knew diamonds from paste; and he had no doubt that these sparkling things were genuine products of the South African diamond fields.

And there was pretty nearly a handful of them. They must be good, for nothing but the thought of their extreme goodness would account for the self-satisfied way in which the old Jew chuckled as he bent over them, turning their shining facets over with his claw-like finger. And— now was the time.

Hankinson glided out of his cover, and brought the sandbag crashing down on Marcovitch’s bald head.

Marcovitch instinctively, spasmodically, threw up his hands. He emitted one groan, reeled, and was falling over on his side when Hankinson caught him. It was not part of Hankinson’s game that Marcovitch should fall heavily on the floor. He let the old man slide gently down; in two minutes he had securely gagged him; in two more minutes he had drawn his hands behind his back and fastened his wrists together.

And it was as he rose from the accomplishment of these things that he suddenly heard a strange sound— the sound of something alive, drawing in its breath in a queer sniffing, snuffling fashion, somewhere close at hand. Hankinson recognized that sound. It was the sound made by an imprisoned animal which snuffs at the crack of its prison door.

“Lumme!” whispered Hankinson to himself, “A blinkin’ dawg!”

He lost no time after that, and as he transferred the most valuable things to his pockets— diamonds here, gold there, he wondered how it was that he had never seen any dog about Marcovitch’s premises. Presently the sniffing sound died away; all became quiet again. And, without as much as a glance at the fallen man, Hankinson made round the counter to the door. In his opinion the man who has done his work effectually should go away as soon as his job is done. But going, he took care to turn out the gas.

Hankinson had manipulated the key, the chain and the bar, and was about to open the door in gingerly fashion, when he heard a sound at the rear of the shop. He turned, muttering a curse. A door had noiselessly opened, and there, holding a lamp above her head, stood Marcovitch’s granddaughter. She was in her nightgown, her hair— long, black, lustrous— fell far below her waist; her great eyes, dilated with alarm, shone like stars. And at her side, nuzzling against her knee, was the strangest, ugliest-looking beast of a dog that Hankinson had ever set eyes on.

It was queerly shaped, it was of no known breed, it was a vile yellow in colour, and it had only one eye. It was borne in upon Hankinson, amidst the rush of thoughts which this new situation forced on his consciousness, that he would have bad dreams about that dog, and he cursed it without knowing that he was even thinking of it.

There were other things to think of just then. Hankinson realized his danger. He made a sudden dash back. The girl set up a loud scream, dashed the lamp in his face, drew back with the agility of a snake and locked the door behind her.

Hankinson went, too, then. He groped his way to the street door and let himself out. As he crossed the threshold he had an unpleasant feeling of a sinuous wiry body that cannoned against his legs, and he kicked out at it in sheer frenzy of hatred. But when he reached the pavement and looked round him there was no dog there. And, with another curse, he made off.

There was nobody about just at that point, but there were people twenty yards away on either hand, and Hankinson’s chief desire was to mingle with and get beyond them. He turned to the right and sped swiftly away, and just then the Jewess girl darted out into the street from the side entrance and let out a yell that startled every midnight stroller within the eighth of a mile.

“Murder!”

Hankinson shot into the nearest entry. It was light where he entered it; it was black where he traversed it; it was light again where he left it. And flinging a glance over his shoulder as he turned at the end of it, he saw figures dart after him; also he heard a queer padding sound not so far away from his heels. He then knew that here was a serious business and he set his teeth and ran. There was a network of alleys and courts and queer places thereabouts. Hankinson dodged from one to the other as a rabbit dodges about in its warren when the ferrets are after it. But wherever he went he heard the queer padding sound, and he cursed that one-eyed, yellow dog to the depths of a dog’s tail.

And yet— once, twice, thrice, he looked round— at least once with his revolver in his hand— and never saw any dog at all, not even when there were patches of light which the pursuit, brute or human, must cross.

Eventually Hankinson, spent of breath, made two or three desperate twistings and twinings, and darted into a dark court. The next minute something seemed to catch him by the ankle. He made a violent plunge forward, dashed his head against a wall, saw thousands of stars flash and coruscate before his eyes, and felt a great buzzing and humming rise up somewhere behind his ears. And immediately after that Hankinson, for the time being, felt and saw nothing more.

ii

WHEN HANKINSON came back to consciousness he gradually realized that he was in surroundings of an undeniably strange sort. Save for a dull aching in his head, occasionally varied by a sharp stab of pain, he was not uncomfortable. He was lying on something very soft and warm; his head was properly pillowed; he felt that some hand had carefully tucked a covering around his limbs. He judged from these things that he was not, at any rate, in the detention cells of a police station; experience had taught him that in those places small consideration was shown to visitors. But it was no use opening his eyes, for he was in a queer sort of darkness— not an absolute black darkness, but a sort of deep, misty blue darkness, in the midst of which, high above him was a faint spot of ruby-coloured light. He could make that out, and he could tell that the darkness was blue and not black; more than that it was impossible to say.

But if Hankinson’s eyes could do little his nose was able to do more. His nostrils began to expand and to titillate under familiar odours. There was a queer, clinging, permeating scent all around and about; a scent of saffron and musk and sandalwood; it was heavy, thick, almost oppressive; it made him cough. There had been an unearthly silence about that place until then; Hankinson’s cough sounded like a report of a revolver let off in a vault. And when it died away and silence fell once more, Hankinson heard the sniffling and snuffling of a dog somewhere close by. Then he remembered everything and a cold sweat broke out all over him. And at that moment a flood of light was turned on, silently, and Hankinson, blinking upward, saw standing at his side, a gigantic Chinaman, clad in the costume of his own country, who looked down upon him with an expression which would have sat well on the face of a sphinx. This extraordinary vision so frightened Hankinson that he immediately closed his eyes and shut it out. Then he felt a cool hand laid on his forehead and heard a voice speaking in perfect English and soft, mellifluous tones.

“How do you feel now!” asked the voice.

Hankinson made so bold as to open his eyes again. He took another, a longer look at the Chinaman. The Chinaman wore spectacles, and it was impossible to see his eyes clearly, but his tones were propitiating, and Hankinson’s spirits revived.

“Bloomin’ queer,” he answered. He tried to move and for some reason found movement difficult. “ ’Ow,” he continued— “ ’ow did I come ’ere, guv’nor?”

“I carried you into my house,” said the Chinaman quietly. “I was taking the air at my door when you darted by me, followed by a dog. The dog suddenly caught you by the ankle and you stumbled and fell, and dashed your head against the wall. That,” he added, laying a delicate fingertip on a lump of wet lint which decorated Hankinson’s right temple— “that is where your head came into contact with something harder. It is well for you, my friend, that your frontal bones are of more than usual strength.”

Hankinson stared. Then he referred to the only part of the speech which seemed to him to be really pertinent.

“That there dawg, now?” he asked anxiously. “Wot about ’im, guv’nor?”

The Chinaman pointed to a door at the foot of the couch on which Hankinson was lying.

“The dog,” he answered, “is safely bestowed in there. He followed us in— and I took good care that he should not go out. He appears to be an animal of undoubted sagacity.”

Hankinson moved again, and again found that movement was difficult, if not impossible.

“I’m obliged to yer, guv’nor,” he said, “I— I’ll be movin’ now, if you ain’t no objections?”

The Chinaman shook his head gravely.

“Not yet,” he said. “It will not be well for you to move just yet. Let me advise you to rest quietly where you are.”

“An’ why?” demanded Hankinson suspiciously. “There ain’t nothink serious, is there, guv’nor? A crack on the ’e’d, now— that ain’t nothink. I got business, yer see, and—”

“And there are those who have business with you,” remarked the Chinaman. “The police.”

Hankinson felt cold again. But he managed to look surprised.

“Perlice?” he exclaimed. “Wot about the perlice then? I ain’t—”

The Chinaman stretched out an arm and pulled a small, wheeled table from behind Hankinson’s head. He silently directed Hankinson’s eyes to it.

“ ’Eavens!” muttered Hankinson.

The surface of the table was covered with an array of objects, pleasing enough in themselves, but not welcome to Hankinson under present circumstances. These objects were laid out in order neatly and systematically. There was a row of gold watches, there was another row of gold chains— good and solid. There were pendants, ornaments, bracelets— all of gold, for Hankinson had scorned anything of less value. And there were precious stones— some fine pearls— some excellent rubies— and in the centre of everything, on a rag of blue velvet, lay the diamonds over which the old jeweller had chuckled. Also, in one corner of the table lay Hankinson’s revolver.

Hankinson felt very sick as he looked at these things. Yet— it was about what he had expected. And all he could do was to glare resentfully at the bland features of the spectacled face. The Chinaman, however, remained unmoved.

“That,” he said, indicating the table, “will explain much. If you wish for further explanation— Mr. Marcovitch is dead.”

Hankinson jumped— as much as that curious inertia would permit.

“Garn!” he said, in a low voice. “Yer don’t mean it! It can’t be, guv’nor. W’y I on’y—”

“He was quite dead when the police entered his shop,” said the Chinaman. “You hit him too hard. And perhaps you are not very experienced in the use of the gag. However, he is dead, and the police are in pursuit of you.”

Hankinson began to whimper.

“Yer’ve trapped me!” he whined. “Yer meanin’ to ’and me over! Yer’d a deal better ’ave let me lie where I was. An’ yer’ve done somethink to me, an’ all— I can’t move.”

“That,” replied the Chinaman, “is the effect of a medicine with which I have treated you. Rest awhile, and the effect will pass off. I am not going to hand you over to the police. You are quite safe— quite safe, I repeat— so long as you do what I tell you.”

Hankinson stared. He was suspicious as ever, but there was a calm, confident assurance about the Chinaman which went far to allay suspicion. And suddenly his eyes brightened and his voice lost its whine and became almost cheery.

“You see me right, guv’nor, an’ I’ll make it all right wiv you,” he said insinuatingly. “ ’Struth, I ’adn’t no intentions o’ finishing the old man! An’ wotever you likes out o’ that little lot, it’s yours.”

The Chinaman pushed the table out of sight again.

“We can discuss that matter later on,” he said. “At present you must take some food, and after that you must sleep until evening, and then we will see about getting you away.”

Hankinson’s small eyes looked a sharp inquiry.

“Strite?” he asked. “No fetchin’ the perlice in while I’m here?”

“You can trust me,” answered the Chinaman. “It would not suit me to have police in my house. I have my own affairs.”

That reassured Hankinson. He set down his host as being one of his own kidney. And presently he ate the soup— good rich soup, with strength in it— which the Chinaman brought him, and after that he went to sleep quite calmly.

iii

WHEN HANKINSON woke again there were two Chinamen in the room with him. One was the big man of the previous interview, the other, also garbed in Chinese dress, was a younger man of about his own size and weight— an almond-eyed, stolid-faced fellow who was regarding Hankinson with an inscrutable expression on his immobile features. The big man was talking to the small one in gibberish which Hankinson did not understand. Catching sight of Hankinson’s opening eyes he broke off the conversation.

“You are quite better now,” he said, not questioningly, but in positive assertion. “You— now you may get up. There is food and drink ready for you in the next room. Come this way.”

Hankinson got up and stretched himself. Certainly he was all right then— not a trace of injury remained in him. And with this realization of recovery, a desire for action came upon him. He wanted to be out of that. Instinctively he looked round for the little table on which his loot had been laid out. But the little table was not there.

“In the next room,” said the big Chinaman with a grin. “Come.”

Hankinson followed the two men into a plainly furnished apartment, which evidently did duty as living-room and kitchen. There was a table set out in English fashion. Hankinson was motioned to seat himself. The smaller Chinamen sat down in a corner and stared at him; the big one served him with hot roast fowl. Never had Hankinson eaten such tender food in his life. And he gave him a bottle of stout to drink; it seemed to Hankinson that he had never tasted such nectar. He stuffed himself, he guzzled freely, wondering all the time what it all meant. And when at last he could eat and drink no longer, he shoved away his plate and looked his host full in the face with half-impudent inquiry. For Hankinson was very sure that the big Chinaman was not playing the Good Samaritan for nothing; he would want his fee, like everybody else.

“An’ now what, guv’nor?” asked Hankinson familiarly. “If it’s all the same to you, yer know, I should like to ’op it. I dessay it’s all right, but this ’ere neighbourhood ain’t what you’d call healthy, is it, now?”

The big Chinaman, who had taken a seat by his compatriot during the final stages of Hankinson’s repast, produced an evening newspaper and laid it before the guest. His long tapering fingers indicated bold headlines and other uncomfortable things about midnight murder and burglary. Hankinson’s pale cheeks grew paler as he read.

“Yer said as ’ow yer could get me away?” he muttered at last. “An’ I said as ’ow yer was welcome to what yer liked to take out o’ what I got— eh? How’s it to be, guv’nor?”

“I can get you away,” answered the Chinaman. “But— it will have to be out of England.”

“Out of— England!” exclaimed Hankinson. “ ’Struth! W’y, I ain’t never been out of England! I don’t know no lingo but English. Where would it be now, guv’nor? Not— not to where you come from, would it? ’Cause I understand that’s a longish way off.”

The big Chinaman leaned forward as if to attract strict attention.

“Now listen,” he said. “There is a Chinese ship in the river, lying off Wapping, which sails to-night for Amsterdam. Her captain will take you, on my recommendation, to Amsterdam. And in Amsterdam you can sell your— diamonds. When you have sold your diamonds you can take ship to America— or wherever you please to go.”

Hankinson silently ran over his inventory of the stolen goods.

“Diamonds, eh?” he said musingly. “There are other things than diamonds, yer know.”

“I have estimated the value of what was on you,” said the Chinaman gravely. “The diamonds are worth about two thousand pounds. You will get one-third of their value in Amsterdam. The other things are worth about four or five hundred pounds. You can leave those with me— my share.”

“Done!” exclaimed Hankinson. “But how am I to get down to that there ship?” he asked anxiously. “Seems ter me as ’ow there’ll be a pretty sharp look-out for me, guv’nor, and no error! How’s it to be done?”

The big Chinaman motioned to the smaller one.

“This gentleman,” he said, “will lend you some garments. You will go down dressed as a Chinaman after dark. I will prepare you— make you up with a little paint and other matters. And we will begin now— time presses.”

Hankinson cheerfully submitted to the proposed transformation. He stripped to his underclothing. He put on Chinese trousers and soft-soled Chinese boots; he was fitted with upper garments which amused him by their strangeness, and comforted him with their silky feeling. And then he sat down, and the big Chinaman produced a box of coloured pigments and delicate brushes and set to work on Hankinson’s head and face. He worked with the zest of a true artist, and the other Chinaman stood by and admired without moving a muscle of his features.

At the end of half an hour Hankinson was bidden to look in a mirror, and he stood up and looked and stared. It did not amaze him that he did not know himself; what astonished him was that the craftsman’s cunning had transformed him into the double of the other Chinaman! The big man, with a sly smile, had twisted his compatriot round so that he stood side by side with Hankinson, facing the mirror— and Hankinson gasped as he gazed at the two yellow faces.

“Gawd!” he said. “Why— it’s ’im!”

The big Chinaman allowed himself to laugh. He put a few finishing touches to his work, adjusted the cap and false pigtail, finally produced a truly Chinese umbrella. And then, in short, plain fashion, he gave Hankinson his instructions. He was to make his way to a certain wharf in the neighbourhood of London docks; there he would be met by a boat’s crew and taken on board the Chinese vessel. In his progress through the streets he was to preserve a sober, grave demeanour— above everything, he was not to hold converse with anyone, especially a policeman; if anybody accosted him he was to smile blandly and shake his head.

“Right, governor?” said Hankinson. “I’m on— mum’s the word. Now them shiners!”

The big man produced a small bag, open at the mouth; within it Hankinson saw gleams of sparkling fire. He made haste to stow it away in the pocket wherein he had already put his money. Then he gave the big man a firm look.

“There’s another thing,” he said. “I’m goin’ into strange parts and amongst strange folks. And I ain’t a-goin’ wivout my revolver. Hand it over, guv’nor. As it was, mind.”

The big Chinaman produced the revolver, showed Hankinson that it was fully loaded, and calmly dropped it into his own pocket.

“I will hand that to you in the street,” he said. “I am going to walk a little way with you. Now let us go.”

Without more ado he led Hankinson out of the house into the night. And as they passed out the younger Chinaman hastened to a window which commanded the way by which they went. He saw them pass in and out of the lights of the lamps— and suddenly he saw a couple of vague shadowy figures emerge from a dark place and steal after them. In his eagerness and excitement to see that part of the proceedings, he threw up the sash of the window and leaned out. And in that instant the yellow dog, which had been tied up in that room, completed its day’s task of eating through the stout cord that had prisoned it. The young Chinaman, leaning through the window, was conscious for a second of a sinuous body hurling itself past him. Before he had time to comprehend matters he saw that body vanishing round the corner. He shut the window then and retired to resume his usual sphinx-like demeanour.

The big man came back and grinned at his compatriot.

“They are after him,” he said briefly.

“I saw them,” replied the other.

The big man grinned again.

“It is fortunate that this fellow fell at my door,” he said. “He has served us well. Certainly he will never fall there again. We benefit very well. We have what he brought in— and he has some worthless bits of paste. It is good!”

The younger man made no answer to this. Nor did he mention that the dog had escaped.

“It is time that I go now,” he observed.

And without further remark he proceeded to divest himself of his Oriental garments and to put on the inconspicuous suit of grey tweed which Hankinson had recently taken off.

iv

TEN MINUTES later a figure dressed in Hankinson’s clothes much muffled about the neck and face, and having Hankinson’s cap pulled down over its nose, slipped out of that quiet house and went away by devious paths to other and safer parts. No figure followed it; the two figures that had lurked in waiting for it since dark were following Hankinson.

And Hankinson went on, knowing nothing. He was beginning to feel himself safe, and he did not care how much people stared at him as he walked in the glare of the gas. He had what he believed to be diamonds in his pocket. It had never even occurred to him that the big Chinaman might or would substitute paste for the genuine articles. He had a prospect of selling them to advantage. And he had his revolver. Therefore, being a bit of an actor, he went onward, always smiling blandly. Hankinson knew the nearest way to the wharf of which the big Chinaman had spoken, and it took him little time to get down there, all his thoughts were of his own business, and he had no idea that two yellow-faced, slit-eyed fellows, clad in slop suits of blue serge, were dogging his every footstep. Nor did he know that an ugly, uncanny-looking one-eyed mongrel was slinking behind him, keeping close to walls and to the fronts of shops, that one eye perpetually fixed on its object of pursuit.

Hankinson never saw that dog until he had walked on to the wharf— a deserted, desolate, cold expanse of timber, on which there was no business doing at that hour of the evening. There was a pale gleam of yellow from the window of a waterside inn at the other end of the wharf; a half-moon was far up in the cloudy sky; here and there a faint gas flame burned. In this poor light Hankinson suddenly saw the yellow dog’s one eye— baleful, malevolent. It turned him hot and cold, and he could do nothing but stare at it.

He saw nothing of a boat putting off from any vessel; thereabout, indeed, nothing of any sort seemed to be doing. There was, in fact, no sign of life on the wharf but in his own and in the dog’s presence. And the dog had sat down now, and did nothing but watch him. When the clouds cleared off the moon, Hankinson saw the dog’s one eye— and he cursed it under his breath in plain Cockney English.

It was in the midst of these muttering curses that the two slinking figures suddenly leapt out on Hankinson as he passed the stack of timber. There was a flashing of steel in the moonlight, and the soft silks in which Hankinson was masquerading. He fell over on his back as the knives were withdrawn, and convulsively twisted up and on to his side. He knew that blood was running from him like the spurts from a suddenly pricked wine-skin, but his brain was clear enough yet, and he mechanically snatched at his revolver and fired, left and right, at the two figures which were drawing back from him. And as his own eyes began to glaze he saw the two figures sway and fall— fall in the unmistakable fashion.

“Lor’!” gasped Hankinson as his head dropped. “Got— ’em— both!”

Then Hankinson died, and the yellow dog came near and looked at him.

Where you find the bodies of three dead men lying in the moonlight on a Thames-side wharf, one of them an Englishman dressed in Chinese garb, two of them Chinese men attired in reach-me-down slop suits, the Englishman stabbed, the Chinese shot, the Englishman with a collection of paste diamonds on him, the Chinese with next to nothing, and all three watched by a miserable one-eyed yellow dog, you have all the elements of a first-class mystery. There were two Orientals in different places who could have solved that mystery, but your true Oriental knows how to keep a still tongue, and the yellow dog, unfortunately, was unable to make humans comprehend him.

__________________________

20: The Empty Match Box

Aidan de Brune

Stratford Evening Post New Zealand. 4, 5 and 7 Dec 1929

"YOU SAY that you do not believe Geoffrey Hampden died a natural death," observed Martin  Frayne. "Any reasons for that statement?"

"Not one," Detective-Sergeant Grime answered curtly. "They think I'm a fool down at Headquarters― I've got the doctors and the men on the case against me. They swear that Hampden died from natural causes."

"And the autopsy?"

"Not taken place yet. Dr. Meadows stated that he believed the Professor- died a natural death. I pressed him and he hedged on heart-disease. That's the stock phrase of tie profession, when in doubt."

"Any wounds on the body?" The journalist spoke briefly.

"Not a scratch."

"No traces of poison?" Frayne persisted. "Surely you must have some reason; for believing Hampden was murdered. You state there was no wound. Surely it is not reasonable―"

"To call me a fool!" Grimes laughed harshly. "Why don't you, Frayne?  Turn me out on the cold streets and go to bed, forgetting my call. That'd be reasonable. I'm not!"

"No."  The journalist snuggled down in the lounge chair, drawing strongly on his cigarette. "Now, just "why did you come to me?"

"Because― I'm an ass— No, that's not true." The detective rose from his chair and strode the room unevenly. "Frayne, you're my last hope. I  remembered―"

Grime paused, turning to face his companion. Frayne did not move, or even look at the detective. A slight smile was curving his lips.

"I'm remembering the Stanley Ward case," Grime continued. "There—"

"In that case I  was up against the Police Department." The newspaper man turned to face the detective. If I remember rightly a certain Detective-Sergeant of high standing was particularly bitter in his attacks on me and—"

"Cut it out, man!" The detective winced. "Anyone makes mistakes. By the time you got to the end of that trail I was willing to admit my error. I'll say it again. You fooled the lot of us. We'd have hung Ward as high as the Town Hall clock— if you hadn't intervened. You did—and if I know our men, there's not one of them sore at you for preventing us making a hideous mistake."

"And because of that you come to me."

"Just that," Grime nodded. "You took from us the man we thought guilty, proving him innocent. Now I've come to you to see if you can't prevent us allowing a murderer to go free."

For moments there was silence in the room; half-study, half-sitting room. Frayne levered himself up from his chair, throwing the butt of his cigarette in the ash-tray. He stretched out his hand for a fresh "gasper".

"Well?"

"I don't know."

"You think Hampden died from natural causes?" persisted the detective, incredulously.

"I'm open to conviction." A light came in the journalist's eyes. "Let's have the facts, and I'll give an opinion; Even if you don't convince me there'll be good copy in your narrative. Sit down. How the blazes do you think I'm going to concentrate while you walk about the room?"

Grime crossed to the chair on the opposite side of the glowing fire. For some minutes he sat silent,  his hands stretched out to the dancing flames. At length he spoke.

"Godfrey Hampden was found in his study dead. He—"

"Is that how you recite your cases?" Frayne interrupted. "Start at the  beginning, man. Who found him?"

"Mrs Hampden."

"When?"

"About half past one in the morning."-

"What was the lady doing— wandering about her home at that hour. Been out, or―"

"She had been in bed." Irritation showed in the detective's voice.  "If you want all the piffle of recitation I'll start again."

"A good thing, too." Frayne levered himself from his chair, showing a  lean, tall figure, surmounted by a thin, hollow-cheeked face from which glowed a pair of keen, bright-blue eyes. "And, don't talk about 'piffle'. Things you people at  Headquarters regard as inessentials are often of consequence. A murder's not planned in ten minutes; often not in ten days."

"All right!" The detective winced at the imputation cast on his beloved department. "Here's the tale, with all rumours and surmises."

He paused a few seconds, then continued: "Geoffrey Hampden was, as you know, one of the cleverest men in Australia. Ostensibly a biologist, he did not confine his activities but has wandered freely publishing books of note on various scientific questions. He―"

"Taken as read," Frayne interrupted with a broad grin. "I read my 'Who's Who'— sometimes."

"Good!" The detective had recovered his normal poise. "No doubt 'Who's Who' has also informed you that he lives at 'Clovelly,' West South Head Road; that he is married —happily; that he has a family of two children— both grown-up. Perhaps, also there were notes of his clubs and honours."

"Correct," the journalist laughed. "I can also inform you that Hampden's son is a married man with three children, making your scientist a triple grandfather. That the other child is a daughter with ambitions towards political career— for which she did not receive a parental blessing. The preliminaries being settled perhaps you will get down to facts."

"I was called to Professor Hampden's house at one-thirty a.m. yesterday―"

"Having been roused out of the Inspector's armchair at the local station house," interposed Frayne. "You rubbed your eyes and looked at your watch. wondering why you were there and not at home in your comfortable bed. For the sake of mike, man—"

"Oh, well, if I must." Grime shrugged his shoulders. "Mrs Hampden informed me that after dinner Professor Hampden told her that he had certain work to finish that would take about a couple of hours. Mrs Hampden protested, for the Professor was not in the best of health. However he Had his way, promising that he would be in bed before eleven o'clock. Mrs Hampden went to her sitting room and read until nearly ten o'clock. Feeling tired she Want to bed and immediately fell asleep."

"Good!" The journalist purred his contentment. "You're doing fine, Grime. Keep it up."

"Go to Hades!" Grime smiled in good humour. "I've said Mrs Hampden almost immediately fell asleep. Something roused her about midnight. She switched on the light and glanced across to the Professor's bed. It was unoccupied."

"Professor Hampden was not in the room."

"He was not. Mrs Hampden lay for some  time, debating what to do; for the Professor was irritable and disliked being 'mothered.'  At length she decided that she would go down to the study door and listen. If as she suspected her husband had fallen asleep at his work, she would make some noise, sufficient to arouse him. She knew that when he was awakened he would glance at the  clock, and finding it past midnight would immediately go upstairs"

"She followed out her scheme?"

"Yes. She could hear no sounds from within the study and made a noise, but without result. At length, frightened, she hammered on the study door— without arousing the Professor."

"Then she became alarmed?"

"Yes."

"It had taken the good lady one hour and fifteen minutes to reach a stage of alarm. "

Grime stared at the journalist in amazement.

"I never thought of that," he exclaimed.

"No." There was irony in Frayne's voice. "I presume Mrs Hampden then went to the telephone and communicated with the local police station. The Sergeant at the desk aroused you and, after getting the sleep out of your eyes you went to her assistance."

"A wonderful deduction." Grime grinned. "As you infer, I went to 'Clovelly' and found Mrs  Hampden much agitated. At her request I hammered at the study door but obtained no reply. I tried the lock and found the door fastened. Then, after receiving permission from Mrs Hampden I burst in the door to find Professor Hampden lying on the hearth rug dead."

"So much for the preliminaries." Frayne nodded approval. "Now the facts. "You entered by the door. Where the windows open or closed?"

"Both windows were closed and locked."

"I presume there is a desk in the room. How was it situated— in relation to the Professor's body ?"

"He might have risen from the desk chair and fallen immediately on the hearth rug. The desk is close to the fireplace."

"And the papers on the desk― were they in disorder?  I mean than would be occasioned by a man getting up from his desk in the middle of his work."

"No."

"Any signs of a struggle?"

"None  whatever."

Anything unusual on the desk?"

"Nothing that I remember."

The  detective hesitated  "Except— it wasn't on the desk though, it was on the rug, almost under his hand, and it wasn't of importance anyway."

"What was it?" The journalist's voice tensed with excitement. "Speak up, man, can't you?"

Grime Looked Surprised. "It was only an empty match box. We all have 'em. Run out of matches, I suppose and got up to find a new box, just as―"

"Did he smoke?"

"Don't know."

"Pipe or cigar on the desk? Any cigarettes? An ash-tray?"  The journalist swung to face his guest. "Lor', man!  If you can only remember!"

"No-o." The detective hesitated. " I don't believe I saw any smoking stuff about. I'd have noticed  an ashtray, I'm certain, or―"

"Gas or electricity?"

"Electric lights." The police officer spoke more certainly. "Centre lamp and table lamp—both on. The telephone stood in the corner, on table by the fireplace. Say, Frane― what's the matter?"

The man had strode to the door, Without answering, he left the room, returning wearing his overcoat, his hat in his hand.

"What's the matter?"  He spoke in his usual drawling tones. "Only that we are going to West South Head Road, now."

A MASK had settled over Frayne's face as he followed Detective Grime into  "Clovelly". Almost immobile he had listened to Grime's description  of the room where the Professor had been discovered. In silence, he followed to the death chamber in which the scientist lay.

Before Grime had finished his recital the journalist led back to the study.

For a moment stood before the big desk at which the Professor had worked. It was flat-topped, and amid the litter of papers stood neither ash tray  nor tobacco container. Then the Professor had not been a smoker.  Grime's theory that the dead man had run out of matches while working had no foundation. There was no taper nor sealing wax on the desk.  Why then the empty box?

His meditations were interrupted by the entrance of Mrs Hampden Frayne started slightly, as the detective made the usual introductions. Why had he not thought of that before?

Mrs Hampden was the professor's second wife. The journalist remembered  reading that the scientist had married, some ten months before, an Adelaide lady― a  widow.

He glanced at her curiously. About twenty-eight to thirty years of age, fair and good looking. What had induced this woman to link her life with a man of sixty-five, dependent  on his salary from the University?

A mental picture of the household rose before Frayne's eyes. The professor, old and engrossed im his work; a young and pretty woman bound to him by the most  intimate of ties; a girl of twenty eight, nearly the age of her mother-in-law, playing at politics and  possibly neglecting what little home duties fell to her lot. A "Happy Family". A wide smile broke the firm line of his lips.

Mrs Hampden sat down on the lounge at the farther end of the room, looking from Frayne to the detective in acute interrogation. In a few words Grime explained the journalist's presence.

"But I thought my— the Professor― died from heart failure!" exclaimed  Mrs. Hampden.

The detective entered upon an involved explanation. Frayne watched the pair keenly.  He noticed that the widow's eyes continually wandered from the hearth rug to the mantelpiece, and wondered.

Suddenly he realised that there lay the empty match box.

Why was the young  widow watching the matchbox? The journalist was puzzled. He sauntered across the room and picked it up. There was nothing strange about it.  The slide-drawer was half-open. He noticed that one of the corners was dented.

Suddenly he looked across at Mrs Hampden. Her eyes were fixed on  him—no, on the matchbox he held. He turned and replaced it on the shelf. Why was the woman anxious? Could there be a connection between that common article and the professor's death

From the mantelpiece Frayne turned to the big desk, his brows puckered in thought. He turned over the litter of papers.

Grime had been wrong. The desk had been searched. Frayne came to the sheet of paper on which the Professor had worked. The last sentence was incomplete— ending in a splattering blot. On the paper lay a fountain pen, the nib badly bent.

For some seconds the journalist scanned the damaged nib. He took a small, powerful magnifying glass from his pocket. Under it the nib showed covered with black ink, amid  which were flecks of red.

Frayne lifted the sheet of paper and held It against the light. There was no puncture in it. Then, the blot had not been made by the point of the nib. Possibly the blot had been made when the Professor dropped his pen, before rising from his seat.

But what did the specks of red amid the black ink indicate. How had the nib been damaged? Neither question could be answered by the pen being dropped on the manuscript.  Then the damage to the nib and the specks of red had occurred after Hampden's death.

Frayne turned suddenly— to find Mrs Hampden watching him. Furtively. Almost he thought he read fear in her eyes. What did the woman know? A sudden elation came over him. He knew now that he was on the right track— if only he could read the riddle!

With quick decision he went to the door. In the room where the Professor lay, he hesitated. He had come there on sudden impulse, not knowing what he sought yet believing that near the dead man lay the key to the mystery.

For long minutes he looked down on the still form. At length he threw hack the sheet and commenced to search the body. He was unsuccessful until, his search almost completed, he lifted the left hand.

On the hall of the index finger was a small puncture, covered with ink.

He dropped the lifeless fingers and stepped back. He remembered asking Grime if the body held any wound— and the detective's negative reply.

Again he lifted the hand— now examining the puncture under his powerful glass. It bad not bled, although moderately deep. That was strange. For moments he meditated, tapping the rim of his glass against his teeth. The magnifying glass slipped from his fingers and rolled under the bed.

Frayne stooped to recover it. When he straightened he held a screw' of white paper. It was a letter.

A whistle of astonishment came to his lips as he read the agitatedly scrawled lines. He had guessed right when he first met Mrs Hampden. The aged Professor had married a young woman—with the inevitable consequences.

There was no hint of triumph in his manner when he re-entered the study. He strolled across to where Mrs Hampden and the detective sat.

Grime looked up, questioningly.

"Well."

"May I, Mrs Hampden?" Frayne offered his case. Almost mechanically the widow accepted a cigarette.

"A light, Mrs Hampden. Only common house matches." He laughed slightly. "Like the empty box Sergeant Grime found— er— on the hearth rug."

Again the frightened look came in the woman's eyes. She glanced unwittingly to where the match box rested on the mantelshelf.

"By-the-bye, Grime," the journalist spoke carelessly. "When did you put that match box on the mantelpiece?"

"I―"The detective hesitated. "l thought I left it on the hearth rug. Say, Frayne, you're making a to-do about that match box."

"It's interesting!" The newspaper man picked up the box, turning it carelessly on his hand. "You left it on the hearth rug? And the key?"

"What key."

"The key to the door. You remember the door was locked when Mrs Hampden came to find the Professor."

"Had to force it." The detective acknowledged. "Still―"

"The door was locked when you brought me here." The journalist interrupted. "I suppose you repaired the lock before you left the house?"

"Of course. Wasn't difficult. I had only loosened the screws and—"

"And the key?"

"I put it in my pocket."

"You found it— where?— when you first entered the room."

"On the floor."

"By the desk? You repaired the lock, shot the bolt and pocketed the key?" The newspaper man was insistent.

"Of course."

"Then no one could enter the room while you were absent."

The detective did not answer; he was staring at the journalist. "You told me the Professor was unwounded when you removed him to where he now lies," Frayne continued. "Then you locked this door and left the house."

"Yes."

The newspaper man smiled. He turned to the woman.

"You smoke a good deal, Mrs Hampden."

"Sometimes." The widow showed astonishment.

"And usually use house matches? Boxes like this one, Mrs Hampden?"

Frayne indicated the empty match-box.

The woman nodded, a startled look dawning in her fine eyes.

"Good! Now, may I trouble you for the second key to this door!"

"What do you mean?"

Grime sprang to his feet "Frayne, do you know you are accusing―"

"The second, key!" The journalist spoke imperatively. "'Mrs Hampden, where is it?"

"In my room." The woman covered her face with  her hands.

"Jove!" The detective faced Mrs Hampden," accusingly. "Then you―"

"A moment, Grime," Frayne interposed. "You found the key by the desk some seven or eight feet from the door. Had it dropped from the lock, it could not have fallen there. It is obvious Professor Hampden locked the door and carried the key to his desk. Later, it was swept on to the floor."

"That does not explain Mrs Hampden having a key," stated Grime.

"Does it not? It was obvious that someone entered this room after you locked it."

"How?"

"Mrs Hampden missed her husband from his bed. She came down and found this door fastened. An hour later Mrs Hampden telephoned the Police that she could note get into the room, yet she had a second key."

Sudden suspicion clouded the detective's face. He swung around  on the woman.

"Wait, Grime!" Frayne laid a hand on the detective's arm. "We have  another aspect of the case to consider."

"Well?"

"You told me there was no  wound on the professor."

"There is not!"

"The professor  jabbed his fountain pen into the ball of his left index finger. Rather a nasty wound."

"But―"

"Bye the bye." The journalist continued. "Did the professor have anything hand when you found Grime answered. "I wanted to force it open but the doctors dissuaded me. If I thought that―"

"I thought so." The newspaperman interrupted. He produced from his breast pocket a crumpled paper.

"With this letter our case is complete."

"I should say it was!" A light of triumph blazed in the detective's eyes as he scanned the writing. "Here's the motive! Lucy Hampden, I arrest you for the murder of your—"

"Wait!"  Frayne interposed. He glanced from the detective to the woman weeping on the couch.

"Mrs Hampden, will you tell the story of last night― or shall I?"

"That's not fair, Frayne." The detective's sense of fair play overcame his curiosity.  "I have to warn you, Mrs Hampden, that any statement you make may be used against you."

"Or in your favour." the journalist spoke significantly. "Perhaps I had better tell the tale. There may be points Mrs Hampden may miss."

"What more do you want than this?" Grime tapped the letter. Here's the motive complete―"

"A two-edged weapon. interjected Frayne. "Listen, you will remember I commented on the big interval of time between Mrs Hampden going to the study door and telephoning the police."

"Yes?"

"I suggest Mrs Hampden did not go to her room immediately after dinner. She followed her husband here, continuing the dispute that had arisen at the dinner table. Am I correct, Mrs Hampden?"

The woman nodded.

"Dispute?" Grime interjected. "Where so you get the dispute?"

Frayne laughed. "I tell a tale as badly as you, Grime. Let me commence again. Professor Hampden married a young and beautiful woman. Then, as many elderly  bridegrooms do, returned to his work, leaving his bride to amuse herself. By the way Mrs Hampden you will correct me if I am in error."

The widow made a sign of assent.

"Among her friends Mrs Hampden numbered a Mr Ralph Cummings. He is I believe a very young man―"

"He is only twenty― I am twenty-nine." Mrs Hampden murmured.

"Quite so." The journalist's keen eyes lit with a flicker of amusement. "I shall not be wrong if I believe that Mr Cummings believed he had fallen deeply in love with Mrs Hampden? Yes. And that he did not hesitate to express his feelings on paper."

"Here's the proof!" The detective again tapped the letter.

"How many of these letters were there, Mrs Hampden?" queried Frayne.

"Three."

"And the third impassioned screed fell by accident into Professor Hampden's hands― and he is a violently jealous man."

"I told him he must not write― that he was acting foolishly. Mrs Hampden commenced to cry again.

"Let me continue." Frayne continued after a pause. 'This letter arrived by the late afternoon post and became mixed with the professor's mail.  He opened it unwittingly. Mrs Hampden did not return home until just before dinner. During that meal the storm broke."

"He accused me of― of awful things. He said he would divorce me."

"The letter was indiscreet to a degree. The dispute continued through the meal, Mrs Hampden trying to convince her husband of her innocence. Suddenly professor jumped up from the table and went to his study. Mrs Hampden made to follow, but he slammed the door in her face and locked it, removing the key and putting it on the corner of his desk."

"But how did the murderer get in?" exclaimed the detective.

"Am I right so far?"

Mrs Hampden nodded assent. A light of hope shone in her eyes.

"Then Mr Hampden went to her room and remained there for some time. At length she decided to again seek a reconciliation with her husband, and went to the study. He would not answer to her knock, or call.

"Mrs Hampden returned to her room. She remembered that there was a second key to the study door. She found it and unlocked the door. The Professor was still jealously angry. For some time she tried to reason with him— and during that time she smoked at least four cigarettes—"

"Pure guessing!" Grime interjected.

"The  butts are in the fireplace. The actual number does not matter, except to indicate the length of time she stayed here. She lit her last cigarette with the last match in this box, then threw the box into the grate. It hit a corner of the fireplace and fell on the hearth-rug."

"So that's your match box clue!" laughed .Grime.

"Sufficient to show me that Mrs Hampden had been here smoking; for Professor Hampden did not indulge in that vice.

"l will now conclude my theory," continued the journalist. "Mrs Hampden claimed her letter. Impatient and fearful, she snatched it from the desk where it lay and ran to the. door. Hampden, after a struggle, succeeded in regaining possession of the letter, crunching it into a ball in his hand. In the struggle with Mrs Hampden he tripped and fell heavily."

"But how was he murdered?" asked the detective. "There was no wound on him, when, I found him."

"There is how— the puncture on his left index finger."

"Mrs Hampden watched her husband for some moments, then went to him. She found he was dead— that he had died from excitement and shock, reacting on a weak heart. In sudden fear she fled from the room, locking the door behind her.

"In her room, when more composed, she realised that she could not leave her husband in that condition. She rang up the police, determining to conceal the dispute,  and its  cause. I believe any reconstruction as correct, Mrs Hampden."

"Yes."

"And that in the excitement you forgot retrieve the letter immediately? It was not until after you, Grime and the doctors had left that Mrs Hampden remembered the letter. She determined to regain it for, without explanation, it was exceedingly compromising. She returned to the study and searched. It was then she picked up the empty match box  and placed it on the mantel.

"Not finding the letter, she remembered the Professor had crunched it in his hand just prior to his fall— and death.

"Fearful and dreading, she went  to the death-chamber to find that rigor mortis had set in— that she could not loosen his fingers. She searched for something to force the ball of paper out of his clasp. Finally, she returned to the study and fetched the Professor's pen. In her agitation she jabbed the nib into his left index finger. At last she retrieved the letter and thrust it into the bosom of her dress.

"Unfortunately, Mrs Hampden forgot that modern woman's clothes fit very loosely. The ball of paper slipped down to the floor and, accidentally she kicked it under the bed. I found it there when I dropped my magnifying glass!"

"Mere conjecture!" The detective snorted. "You say that wound on his finger was made after death. It might have been made during his life; the means whereby the poison was injected into his system."

"In that case the autopsy will show traces of poison." Frayne answered equably. "I'm staking my reputation against that. Again—"

"Well?"

"The wound did not bleed. A dead body will not bleed— and that puncture would have caused a live man to lose an appreciable quantity of blood. That was my first real clue. The second―"

"Go on, man!" The detective almost shouted. "The second―"

"The empty match-box. It showed Mrs Hampden was in this room when she inferred she was not— the rest I guessed— but you'll find I guessed right!"

End

Table of Contents

- 1: The Conscientious Burglar / Grant Allen

- 2: Mr. Senn's Past / E. Phillips Oppenheim

- 3: The Prince of Wurttenburg / Stephen Leacock

- 4: The New Catacomb / Arthur Conan Doyle
- 5: The Ginger King / A E W Mason
- 6: The Slane Mystery / Edgar Wallace
- 7: Cheese / Ethel Lina White

- 8: The Tragedy of a Third Smoker / C J Cutcliffe Hyne

- 9: The Azoff Diamonds / Fred M. White
- 10: Sheer Profit / William Le Queux
- 11: The Silent Witness / Max Brand

- 12: The Tea-Leaf / Edgar Jepson and Robert Eustace

- 13: The Vanishing of Mrs. Fraser / Sir Basil Thomson

- 14: Locked In / E. Charles Vivian

- 15: Will You Walk Into My Parlour? / "Sapper" (H C McNeile)

- 16:  Tobias the Terrible / Damon Runyon

- 17: The Comedy Of The Jewelled Links / Max Pemberton

- 18: The Great Portrait Mystery / R Austin Freeman

- 19: The Yellow Dog / J S Fletcher

- 20: The Empty Match Box / Aidan de Brune