Bloodstones, and other stories
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Adventure; Short stories
Description: An original collection of 10 novelettes and short stories by prolific British pulp writer H Bedford-Jones. 1. Isle of the Dead 2: Death in the Dark 3: A Discord in Avalon. 4: Bloodstones 5: Spy Against Europe 6: From the House of the Rat Catcher 7: A Slug at Destiny 8: The Sleeper 9: Gods Guard the Brave 10: The Devil Is Dead

BLOODSTONES
and other stories

H Bedford-Jones

MobileRead Forums, 2019

Contents

1. Isle of the Dead

2: Death in the Dark

3: A Discord in Avalon.

4: Bloodstones

5: Spy Against Europe

6: From the House of the Rat Catcher

7: A  Slug at Destiny

8: The Sleeper

9: Gods Guard the Brave

10: The Devil Is Dead

______________________

1. Isle of the Dead

Argosy Nov 1938

The world knew the beautiful Tiphaine; but only Agrippa, the master wizard, could read in her suffering something far more tangible than Satan's curse. A Halfway House story

WHEN I took Soulie to see Halfway House, I was far from anticipating any queer happenings.  Soulie, sallow and cavernous of face with a glossy black moustache, is a Frenchman who knows everything— absolutely. His learning is prodigious. He had heard of Halfway House and its founder, Sir Roger Balke, and was anxious to see the place.

"It's fascinating, to me," I said as we were in the taxicab. "Partly because it's a collection of macabre, occult and ethnologic objects from all over the world, everything from paintings to witch-doctors' drums; but more, because of its mystery. Sir Roger Balke himself is rather mysterious. A wealthy old man, by report, he's never been interviewed, little or nothing is known about him. He established Halfway House as a free museum, and that's all there is to it."

"But the mystery?" queried Soulie with interest.

"Everything there has an air of mystery," I told him. "Sir Roger does queer things with light; some of his lighting schemes are devilish tricky. I've even heard that he's made black light practical— not the absence of light that we call darkness, but a positive black light. That's rumour, of course. However, there are very odd angles to Halfway House. No guards, for example, yet nothing is stolen."

"Sir Roger has a reputation abroad," Soulie confided. "He's said to have spent years in Tibet and Egypt, and to have a passion for exposing false magicians, occult fakes and all that sort of thing. Do you know him?"

I shook my head. "I think I've seen him, but I'm not sure. No, I never met him."

We alighted at the old brownstone front, the door guard took our things and we went straight into the collections, which occupied the entire ground floor. No watchman were about. A few dreamy-eyed addicts of the occult wandered the rooms, and a group of art students were studying the section containing carved figures from the Congo and Dahomey. No one else.

"Didn't you once publish a monograph on the Swastika?" I said to Soulie. "Well, I know something that'll interest you. Nothing in this place, you know, is what you'd expect it to be. Sir Roger has some odd theories, I believe, which he puts into effect. I want you to look at a painting which is very singular. I fancy it may be a hypnotic picture. It's unsigned. Looks as though it might have been done by Roerich or some such master of light and colour. Really, it's superb."

I took him into the side room, the little room with its black drapes. A single picture was on the wall, and before the painting was a single, narrow showcase. Now, at first glance you would pass the picture by; anyone would. It showed only a man standing on a rocky height and looking across an expanse of sea— or snow. So curious was the play of colours that you could get either effect; at least, I could. The thing was gorgeous. And the more you looked at it, the more things you began to see in it, or to imagine.

Soulie was at once interested in the narrow showcase. Here were swastikas of various sorts, in stone or metal; a number of bronzes, all representing the vajra, or five darts bound together, a Hindu and Tibetan emblem; and many amulets of smaller size bearing these symbols.

"Why were these grouped together?" murmured Soulie abstractedly. He glanced up at the painting, and his eyes narrowed.

"That's a bit of the Breton coast, I could take my oath. What has it to do with these things? What has the vajra of Tibet to do with the swastika, which is the most universal symbol known?"

"Just what does the swastika mean?" I asked.

He shrugged. "No one knows. It's probably the earliest of amulets, one of the first symbols used by man. Its primordial meaning has been lost in the antiquity of the human race. A multitude of theories exist, certainly, but no knowledge."

There was a distinct flash of light from the painting.

"Hello!" I exclaimed, as the light leaped up and then became normal again. "A fuse must have blown somewhere."

The illumination of the picture was on the principle used by the ultra-modern interior decorators— a shaft of light exactly fitted to the picture, projected from a tiny aperture across the room. This light was not white, however. It was peculiar blend of hues that brought out marvellously the colours of the painting; the man's figure stood out as though in three dimensions.

"All very odd," said Soulie, returning to the bronze objects in the case. "A Tibetan vajra; another from Bali, degenerated into a bell, used in the worship of Siva. Strange how this emblem of Indra's thunderbolts was altered across the centuries! Symbols surviving from the earliest human race are today mere amulets or charms. The vajra, the thunderbolt of Indra, had some earlier Aryan form we don't know."

I pointed to the amulets, asking the difference between the swastika, with its arms or crambons to the right, and the sauvastika, with its arms to the left. He replied with his Gallic shrug.

"Who knows? There are many explanations. I recall one very fanciful account related by Cornelius Agrippa; it concerned some strange and terrible experience in his travels."

"Who was he?" I demanded. "A Roman?"

"Heavens, no!" Soulie broke into a laugh. "A German. Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa was the most learned man of his day; his book on occult philosophy is still a standard work on magic. He was renowned as a master of the occult; he was a soldier, had been secretary to the Emperor Maximilian, and somewhere around 1530 received an appointment at the court of Charles V. It was while he travelled to Brussels that the experience happened, in regard to the swastika. It shows how even the most sincere student can be deceived by false reasoning—"

I chanced to look up, and felt a startled chill. Whether it were the queer lighting effect, some mental quirk, or a trick of my imagination, that figure in the painting certainly had moved.

THE movement continued. The figure turned slightly, as though it were studying Soulie scornfully; it had a gaunt, impish face with a wide and humorous mouth, shaggy brows overhanging the eyes, and a short two-pronged beard. The vibrant hues softened now into a sunset radiance.

And then the man stepped out. With long, swift strides he approached a horse tethered among the rocks, mounted it, and urged the steed into a road that skirted the rocky shore. He was a sturdy, powerful man, clad in battered half-armour.

The tide was out. Sighting a peasant digging in the sand for cockles, the rider drew rein and hailed him, in a lusty voice.

"Comrade! Where is the dwelling of the Lady Tiphaine?"

The fisher crossed himself, and pointed into the golden sunset. "Straight ahead, at the island. God help you if you're an honest man!"

The rider laughed. "Honest, and a knight to boot, by grace of the Emperor! And a good Christian, which is more than I hear of you Breton folk. I thank you."

He rode on. Ahead rose gaunt rock crags, and beyond them, in the blinding glare of sunset, lay an island. More accurately, it had been an island until the tide drew back; now there was a narrow strip of glistening sand and black rock leading to it.

This was the Ile de Sein— the Isle of the Dead.

That thin strip of land was a good four miles in length, and a dangerous passage. Treacherous currents swept on either hand, lifting water over the bar at times, and further on the strip was hemmed in by menacing reefs. Except at the very ebb tide, this narrow way would be flooded. The rider put spurs to his horse. "Ultima Thule!" he muttered, looking at the island ahead.

He reached it at length, and barely in time; already, behind him, half the strip of sand had disappeared. He rode on in the fading daylight toward the jutting rocks, where a huge old structure appeared. There was no sign of life anywhere until, as the horse halted before the massive entrance of this lonely mansion, the iron-bound door swung open. Two savage-looking men came out— and then a woman. The rider stared at her incredulously.

"Who are you?" she asked in Breton. Then, when he did not answer, she repeated the question in Latin, and he understood.

"I am Heinrich Cornelius, a fitter, a knight, a soldier," he replied in Latin.

"I am travelling to Brussels, and on the way I have been visiting places of which I have heard in far lands. If the Lady Tiphaine will give me shelter, I seek guesting for the night."

"I am Tiphaine," she answered. "You are welcome; but I think you have come at a poor time."

Cornelius dismounted, took a few effects from his saddle-bags, and let one of the men lead his horse away. But he could not take his eyes from this woman before him; he stood there, gazing at her, until at last she said:

"Why do you look at me so hard?"

"I have seen all the women of the world," he answered, his voice quiet and grave, "but never one like you. The stories are true."

She flushed a little, then smiled. "You have heard that in this house you sup with the devil, and sleep under the hand of Satan?"

"Yes. I no longer believe it."

She smiled again, and extended her hand. He bowed over it, kissed her fingers, and took from beneath his breastplate a little amulet of rich green jade.

"I come bearing gifts, Dame Tiphaine," he said. "I think this will please you."

She studied the jade, on which was graven a swastika; then, after a moment, she looked up at him with troubled, anxious eyes, as if she were trying to read his face. At length she turned.

"Come. I knew by the stars a guest would be here; I have a place ready for you."

The Lady Tiphaine was not old, nor young. Now, as she walked, she carried her head proudly, and the gleaming white robe clung to her exquisitely-formed body. Her oval, beautiful face was turned away from Cornelius; but, following her, he was staring at her hair. It was pure white.

Tiphaine of Brittany was known above all other women, and the mark of her fame was that silken white hair. Satan, it was said, had turned her hair white because she was an enchantress and dwelled where the ancient wizard Merlin was born. There was truth in this; for the Ile de Sein had been Merlin's birthplace.

TIPHAINE paused before a door, upon which in the last dying daylight could be seen strange letters deeply burned into the wood.

"Did you come here by chance?" she said.

Cornelius shook his head, smiling. "No. I have heard of you; I wanted to meet you."

"I mean, today. You know what day this is?"

"Why, no! Sometime in June— to tell the truth, I've lost count of the days. I've been studying manuscripts at the castle of the Sieur de Rohan—"

"This is the fifteenth." Her wide eyes searched him. "It means nothing to you?"

"Nothing," he said, smiling again. She shrugged and pointed to the door.

"Nor this?"

He looked at the letters burned in the wood, and his shaggy brows lifted.

"Ah! At the age of twenty-four I was teaching Hebrew in the University of Dole. Yes; this is the magical name Abrakala— but whoever burned it here did not have much learning. It should be written with square letters in the Ashuri style, each letter separate."

Tiphaine caught her breath. "Then you know something of the mysteries!"

"I know all of the mysteries." Cornelius regarded her gravely. In the growing obscurity her face had become very pale. "All of them. And for the first time in my life I'm tempted to make use of the Seal of Merlin; from my first sight of you. Lady Tiphaine, the world changed and the stars fell."

She drew back a little, her eyes dilating. "The Seal of Merlin!" she echoed. "Then you do know what night this is— the end of the twenty-nine year period when the moon is eclipsed—"

"Oh!" he exclaimed. "So that's it!"

"Who are you?" she demanded fiercely. She caught his arm and shook it. "Who are you, to know such things? Do you know that tonight I work the spell of the living death? Is that why you came? Confess it!"

He froze at those words; he knew what they meant— he, Cornelius Agrippa, at whose command was the knowledge of all sorcery. And this was the darkest and most terrible of all necromantic horrors. He knew in that instant that this woman, so beautiful and grave, was wavering at the brink of hell.

"Why?" He uttered his thought aloud, his voice suddenly challenging. "What do you seek, Tiphaine? Answer me!"

She drew back, as if she felt the power in him.

"Not now, you who call yourself Cornelius. You are no ordinary man; I knew it when I first met your eyes. Rest, bathe, put on the clothes ready for you. I saw in the stars that some great person was coming. Meet me with truth, and I'll repay it. In half an hour."

She was gone, like a white wraith.

In a tumult of emotion, Agrippa pushed open the door. A lamp was flickering; here was wine, and water for bathing. Upon the bed lay outspread a white mantle with a golden sickle embroidered on the breast. There were sandals, too.

With a sigh of relaxation, Agrippa put aside his corselet and leather jerkin and his sword, his other things. He bathed, combed his hair and short pronged beard, tossed aside the white mantle, and stretched out on the bed. The only thing he had not removed was the tiny Crucifix hanging about his neck. A soldier, as his naked body showed by its wound- scars; a man in his early forties; and now a man deeply perplexed and disturbed.

Something wrong here, he knew. Agrippa had no love for the black art; he had mastered it in all its phases in order the better to combat its folly and empty superstition. He knew it was a stepping stone to higher knowledge, a step on which too many stumbled and clung in blind fascination. For Agrippa had attained, as once in an age a man may attain, this same higher knowledge.

"Perhaps I did come here by destiny," he muttered, "to save this woman. From what? Herself, perhaps. Ah, what eyes! Our gaze crossed, and we knew one another on the instant."

A deep-toned bell sounded softly through the ancient house, above the throbbing hammer of the surf outside. With a sigh. Agrippa rose. He dressed with great care, turning the white robe inside out before he donned it, placing certain objects in the wallet at his girdle. At last he picked up a slender poniard and bound it by a leather armlet to his left forearm. This night, he thought, there might be need for more than wizardry to protect himself— and Tiphaine.

HE FOUND her waiting in a room lit by fitful lamps, where a table was spread. It was a small chamber, low-ceiled with black ancient beams. Now and again the house shook slightly, as though shuddering at the angry touch of the sea upon the black rocks. Tiphaine was regarding him gravely, with tacit questioning. He bowed.

"I gave you only half my name. The remainder is Agrippa. I am a knight of—"

"Agrippa! The great Cornelius Agrippa!" She breathed softly, and gave him her hand. Her eyes were brilliant now. "Master, I am honoured. This house is yours."

Agrippa held her hand for a long moment, then brought it to his lips. The
blood was hot in him now; somehow it seemed as though he and this woman had known one another always, had waited for one another. She led him to the table, and he sat opposite her.

"Why did you turn the robe inside out?" she demanded abruptly, as though startled.

He helped himself to fruit, bit into it lustily, and his laugh rang out.

"You'll see, later. Why don't you build a good road to your house?"

"Soon there'll be no road at all," she said. "All the land there is sinking. When I was a child, wagons could cross; when I'm an old woman, there'll be only the sea."

"You'll never be an old woman," he exclaimed, laughing. "Age cannot touch you."

"That's truer than you think," she said and her eyes darkened. Then the cloud was gone. "And you are Cornelius Agrippa, the master! No wonder you spoke as you did. Do you know that the Druids buried their dead on this island? That around us, sunken in the sea, is the ancient country—"

"I know all that," said Agrippa. "And I know hell is very close to you."

The sudden change from laughter to stern gravity frightened her. But before she could speak, he was laughing again, describing incidents at the castle of Josselyn, where he had lately been staying. Then abruptly he began to relate tales of his soldiering; he talked swiftly and continually, as if she must not have the opportunity to speak. And Tiphaine listened, fascinated.

Suddenly Agrippa leaned forward, looking into her face, and gestured toward the window.

"Clear moonlight; no clouds. Are you set upon this night's work?"

"Beyond recall," she said, paling a little. "You asked me why—"

What he read in her eyes then made him lean forward, his face set.

"Put out your hands, palms up," he said. "Perhaps I can guess why; perhaps I already know why!"

"Impossible," she murmured, but she obeyed him. He sat staring at her hands; roughened as they were by the life here, they were lovely. He touched her fingertips, but his eyes were fastened upon her slim, strong wrists, upon the pulse that fluttered now and again. Among other things, this man of many trades had been physician to the Queen Regent of France.

He leaned back, and when she saw the sadness in his eyes she began to speak, rapidly.

"My life is loneliness, you see; I'm alone here, except for rough fisher folk. I've studied the mysteries, and in consequence I'm shunned. My hair is white; they say I'm marked by Satan. I'm a woman apart. I've sought solace in the stars, in magic, in the black arts— anything!" A passionate ring came into her voice. "Alone! Do you know what it means to be alone in the world of men?"

"All that," said Agrippa slowly, "is not the real reason why you plan such deviltry for this night. You seek to know— how long."

"Yes." The fire died out of her eyes. "Ah, you are indeed a master of magic, to guess such a thing!"

"Magic be damned," said Agrippa. The fluttering pulse had told him the secret; she was destined for short life, this lovely woman who had never known real living. If he could only listen to her heart, he would be sure. There might still be hope.

"That is not the real reason," he said with sudden sternness. "Someone else here. Who is it? Who's using you? Who is behind all this deviltry?"

She drew herself up with quiet dignity. "Deviltry? Don't be absurd. No one at all. I've asked Gilles de Raz and his brother Pol to conduct the work; they're here now, preparing for it."

"And who are they?" asked Agrippa, controlling himself.

"You must have passed the village of Raz coming here," she said. "Once their family were seigneurs in these parts; they're the last of the old race. They know all the art of the Druid priests, all the mysteries of the golden sickle— tell me, why is your robe inside out? No greater honour could be paid you than to offer you a priest's robe."

"I thank you; but I'm no priest of this magic cult," he rejoined. "I'll not wear it."

"Why not?" She spoke eagerly. "You are master of all wizardry. Will you not assist at this spell of the living death? Please! It's nearly time now."

He came to his feet, decision made.

"Yes! On one condition." He took from his wallet a thin chain of gold, on which hung a flat bit of lapis. Like the jade he had given her, this was engraved with a symbol, but a different one. "Let me put this about your neck, let me see if your heart is attuned to the sacred vibrations of the Name. Then let me meet these brethren."

"Certainly," she said, and rose.

He hung the chain about her neck.

Then, his hand on her shoulder, he put his ear to her heart. Through the thin white robe he could feel the warmth of her flesh and hear the swift beat of her heart. But it was for something besides the rapid beat that he listened, and he heard what he had most dreaded to hear. The deathly knowledge stilled his own racing pulses. Tell her? No! She knew already that she had no great while to live. He straightened up.

"Is there a cure?" she asked softly. And, looking into her eyes, he lied.

"There's a cure." He leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. "Now for those two magicians, those brethren! Where are they?"

"Outside at the menhirs, the great stones of the Druids. One moment—"

She caught up a crystal flagon from the table, put it to her lips and drained it. At her grimace, Agrippa started. A frightful suspicion seized him. He took the flagon from her, smelled it, tasted the  last remaining drops.

"What was in the cup? No, no it can't be―"

Surprised, she smiled a little. "A secret potion that Gilles de Raz gave me. I was to drink it just before going to the meeting. Why? Why do you look so strangely?"

Agrippa tasted the drink again. He felt a cold chill stealing through him, for he knew the taste of that witch-draught. Belladonna, daturine from thorn-apples, hemlock— the dread formula to produce delirium and death. Swift, horribly swift— and there was no antidote. He caught at the table-edge, controlled himself, and spoke with studied calm.

"Let me give you an additional potion," he said, reaching into his wallet. "It will make the effect certain. Quick! Water in the cup!"

She poured some. His fingers were shaking as he emptied a little vial into the cup. Unnoting his agitation, she smiled, lifted it, drank. A deep breath escaped him; there was but the one hope. He could not destroy all the effects of that witch-draught.

Tiphaine, very pale, lifted a hand to her brow. "Wait. I'll be back in a moment," she said, and hurried from the room.

Agrippa smiled grimly. That emetic, swift and powerful as the poison, would do the work; and presently she would sleep. But why did they want to kill her in this fashion, with delirium and madness? Here on this lonely isle, a knife would be swifter.

"Ah!" He was at the window, looking out upon the moonlit rocks. His startled gaze caught moving shapes there, figures in savage Breton dress, flitting across the moonglow. He stared amazedly. A score; two score; full fifty or sixty of them in all. And he had thought this isle empty of people! They must live in houses huddled among the rocks, he realized, like wild beasts. Her people, no doubt. Then he turned, as she came back.

White and wan, she staggered to a seat and sank down. Her eyes lifted to him.

"Your potion— it was like fire! It made me deathly ill. Like fire, burning me."

Agrippa smiled calmly. "Good. That shows it was effective; if you were sick,
so much the better." He eyed her keenly. He must hold her quiet for a space, interest her, take her mind from every thing else. Soon enough, she would sleep. "You have the jade I gave you, Tiphaine? And the lapis? Put them on the table. Look at them. On one is the swastika, on the other the vajra of Tibet and India. What does the swastika represent?"

She looked dully at the blue stone and the green stone.

"You know very well. It's the emblem of light, of fire. We use it tonight."

"It's nothing of the sort," said Agrippa flatly. "Think of the earliest man in his cave, cowering as the thunder rolled and the lightning struck around him. What is that vajra emblem? Five darts bound together, the centre one protruding. Strike it into the ground and you have five marks. Connect them, you have a cross; put a tag on each arm of the cross, you have a swastika. The vajra is nothing but a swastika developed from its primitive state, to represent the thunderbolts of Indra.

"And the swastika?" he went on, holding her attention. "To primitive peoples the letter Z represents the jagged lightning flash. Lay one Z across another, and you have the swastika full-formed. Not fire, not light— simply the thunderbolt! The very name has been preserved unchanged from the earliest ages in China; lei wen, the thunder-scroll!"

"But in magic," she said with an effort, "in spells and—"

"Bah!" he struck in. "The swastika
amulet is merely a charm to protect one against lightning. Tricksters who pretend to magic take old symbols and invest them with impossible meanings, muttering spells and incantations. All that is rubbish!"

"You don't deny the powers of magic?" she gasped.

"No!" cried Agrippa. "The true magician must possess faith and hope. The secret power of God is in all things; to draw forth that power, a magician must evoke its own surge within himself. The divine spirit is in accord with the human spirit; if a man keep his spirit pure, he may work miracles. Trickery leads to hell. Come! You're feeling better."

"Yes, yes; we must go, there's not much time." She rose, still deathly pale.

He regarded her with strangely softened eyes. Pity for her, a passionate longing for her, swept across his heart. This woman was no fool to be duped; this woman, who had never tasted life, whose heart-murmurs told him death was not far distant. She might believe in their mummery, up to a certain point— but why would they seek to kill her thus horribly?

"There are people here on the island?" he asked.

"Yes. My people. Others have come from the mainland by boat; we have two harbor's. There will be an assemblage to night. The eclipse is not total, but nearly so—"

SUDDENLY he had the solution, a solution so simple that it staggered him. They passed out into the moonlight, and she pointed to the upthrust menhirs. Once there had been a circle of the lofty stones, she said, but most of them had vanished. On that very spot, the enchanter Merlin had been born; and there among the stones was waiting her own tomb, hewn in the rock.

"Who inherits this place after you?" asked Agrippa.

"I've sold the reversion to Gilles de Raz. I have no heirs."

So his solution was correct. A furious rage gathered in him, as they approached those towering splinters of rock. He understood everything now; he scarcely noted that she had taken his arm, that her eyes were heavy, her footsteps uncertain.

The rocks upthrust by ancient hands were on the very edge of the water. Out there the moonlight glittered on faces. These people were there, silent, waiting, motionless as the stones themselves. Two white-robed figures came in sight. There was the mouth of an opening, a tomb; something was lying in it.

"Do these magicians of yours speak Latin?" demanded Agrippa.

"Of course," she said. "I've told them who you are. They welcome you."

Agrippa smiled grimly, as he led her in past the staring, silent faces to the high monoliths and the two waiting priests. They saluted him gravely. Both were bearded men. Gilles was powerful, short, wide of frame. His brother Pol was tall and scrawny.

"Honoured master, we are overjoyed to have your assistance," said Gilles de Raz. "The time grows short, Lady Tiphaine! Give us the sacred twigs."

A low, hollowed seat in the rock showed itself, with a golden casket beside it. Tiphaine seated herself and sighed; Agrippa perceived that drowsiness was upon her. She opened the casket and took out a bundle of dry mistletoe twigs, handing them to Pol. He began to work swiftly with them. Gilles de Raz went to the open tomb and dragged out a litter. The torso of a man was revealed in the moon light, a man stiff and cold in death.

"He was drowned two days ago," said Gilles. "Quickly, Pol! Another moment and the moon will be touched—"

Pol de Raz had made a swastika of the twigs, upon a wire frame. Agrippa glanced at Tiphaine; she was drooping in the stone seat. Fire blazed up; the twigs on the swastika began to sputter. Gilles, taking up an ash wand, stepped into the open.

The mocking, impish laughter of Agrippa rang upon the moonlight.

"So you transfer the light of the dying moon to the swastika!" he said. "You light the sacred twigs as the moon veils her face. And then what? Suppose you let me cast the spells here."

The two stared at him, startled. Out side, beyond the towering stones, the circle of faces looked on, silent, motionless. The voice of Tiphaine lifted, very sleepily.

"Let the master perform the rite. There is no other magician in al the world like Cornelius Agrippa. Help him, brethren, help him—"

The disc of the moon was touched on one side. The solid rock underfoot shivered a little, as the incoming tide hammered the reefs. Gilles de Raz wakened from his stupefied astonishment.

"You cannot interfere here! You do not understand the rite."

"I understand it perfectly." Agrippa laughed again, but there was something terrible in his laughter. "The false magician who tries to work evil, to do trickery and murder, deserves death. Bring out your dead man! When the swastika flames, when the incantations are said, when the face of the moon is darkened, the dead man will speak— ha!"

At the open mockery, Gilles de Raz turned in suppressed fury.

"What does this mean, blasphemer?" he cried. "Do you know that in this very spot the proper spells can draw down thunderbolts from heaven?"

"Very likely." Agrippa glanced at the high monoliths. "Given enough iron in those stones, and thunderclouds overhead, I'd perform the miracle without any spells."

He glanced again at Tiphaine. She had drooped over and was lying in the seat, asleep, breathing gently. The shadow was creeping across the moon. From the watching circle of faces came a stirring, a sound of uneasy voices.

"You profane the mysteries!" burst forth Gilles de Raz. "Withdraw, blasphemer— false magician that you are, begone!"

"Bah!" Agrippa laughed harshly as he looked at the man. "So you could not wait a little longer for her to die, eh? You try to murder her before these people, so you'll be held guiltless—"

"You are mad, insane!" cried Gilles, but fear lay in his voice. The rock under them quivered as the flooding tide surged.

"Too bad those people around can't understand my words," said Agrippa.

"Confess, tricksters! Your accursed witch-poison would drive her into raving madness and death. No blame to you, eh? No one would know you had given her the poison to take beforehand. And you'd remain masters of the Isle of the Dead, feared and reverenced throughout Brittany, glorious necromancers with wealth and power—"

The acid of his words sank in beyond all bearing. Gilles de Raz flung down his wand, and in the waning light something glittered in his hand. Agrippa's laugh barked forth in bitter mockery.

"What? You'd spoil your own false spells and sorcery with weapons, with unclean metal?"

A SLIGHT scrape sounded behind him. Pol de Raz was there, unobserved, in the very act of thrusting home a blade. It drove in, straight at the back of Agrippa; he staggered to the fierce lunge. A wild cry went up from the watching folk. Gilles de Raz leaped in, his own blade driving forward.

Unharmed, Agrippa tried to regain balance. He was unprepared for the ferocity of this attack. Unaccustomed to the sandals, he slipped on the rock surface and went down. Pol de Raz hurled himself headlong at the falling figure.

Desperate, Agrippa clutched him; they went rolling, twisting, writhing in an access of furious energy. A wild, wailing cry came from the watching people. They went fluttering away, drifting across the moonlight, scattering.

The two struggling figures hung together above the shore rocks, above the black water flooding in. A flash, another flash, a gasping cry that was choked mid way. Then Agrippa came clear and rose, his white robe torn clean away by the clenched hand of his opponent.

Gilles de Raz rushed at him with a wild cry, that rose into a scream of rage and dismay. A mail-shirt cloaked Agrippa from throat to thighs; in his hand was the long stiletto. He flung himself at Gilles; the two men grappled, slipped sideways, lurched down across the dead figure of Pol.

But, in their furious clutch, they were blind to everything. A gasping breath, a shrill cry, and they were gone together into the black waters that bordered the rocks.

The thin remaining crescent of the moon struck a dim glow upon the scene. All the people around had fled; the white figure of Tiphaine was motionless in the hollowed seat. In the half-light, a hand emerged from the water and gripped at the rocks. Another hand rose and joined it.

Agrippa, his dagger gone, drew himself up and stood erect, gasping, breathing heavily. With an effort, he got rid of the clinging mail-shirt and stood naked, shivering. He glanced around and then turned to the corpse, which was wrapped from neck to heels in another white mantle. This he removed, gently.

"Pardon, friend," he murmured. "I think you don't need this, and I do."

He wrapped himself in it, grateful for the warmth.

The moon crept out and farther out from the dark shadow. Her disc grew clear and round; her silver light flooded down in glorious radiance upon the sea and the high rocks and the island.

Tiphaine opened her eyes. Agrippa sat holding her in his arms; his strength was comforting to her bewildered senses. She glanced around. The litter and corpse were gone. The two priests were gone. The circle of people, the burning swastika were gone. The solid rock shuddered a little to the vibration of the thundering surges, whose crests were white in the moonglow.

"Awake?" said Agrippa, and took her hand in his. "Quiet, quiet! The potion I gave you will have no lasting effect; your mind is clearing already."

"But where are they?" she exclaimed. "The work—"

Agrippa laughed softly; the impish curve of his wide lips more pronounced.

"The great work is finished, the others have departed. Their spell failed, and mine prevailed. Ask me whatever you want to know."

She remained silent for a little, then sighed, and her fingers clenched on his.

"I think you know my desire already, master," she said. "I told you all my empty loneliness—"

"You told me all, and I answer all," said Agrippa. "I've wandered half across the world to find you; you've waited half your life for me to come."

"My life? It's a wasted life."

"I shall make it bloom, my dear," he said gently. She shivered.

"But the other thing? The thing you understood? Is there any cure?"

"When the gods offered Achilles long life and humble destiny, or a few days of glory, he took the latter," said Agrippa slowly. "So would any great spirit choose. So would I choose, or you."

"I don't understand." She stirred a little, so that she could see his face. "I'm not afraid of the truth, master. Is there a cure?"

Now Agrippa lied again; his hand was upon her heart, and he could feel, could sense, the fluttering murmur there.

"A cure? Yes," he said gravely. "The cure for all your lonely life, my dear, for all your dreams and mine, for all the empty hours and the vain longings and the hunger of the heart. There is a cure, and I bring it, if you will have it."

"I understand." Her fingers pressed his again. "Yet I could not bear to be alone here again, and you gone."

"I remain, my dear, as long as you wish; here is my destiny also."

"Then you remain for ever," she exclaimed joyously. "You'll never leave, never!"

Smiling, he bowed his head, and their lips met and held. From the moonlit reefs around came the murmurous voices of the waves; from the silvern water a stiff dead hand uprolled to clench at the air, and was gone again.

Never, she had said. Yet it was only a week later that Cornelius Agrippa, in his rusted half-armour, headed his horse along the narrow sands at low tide, coming to the high rocks of the shore beyond. It had been sunset when he came. Now it was sunrise, the level rays gilding the sea and the flat island with its jutting stones. Dismounting, Agrippa climbed among the rocks and stood gazing out at that island.

"The Isle of the Dead!" he muttered.

New lines were graven in his face, lines of grief, of empty despair. The tomb under those old Druidic rocks was closed now; it was no longer empty. As he stood staring out, the face of Tiphaine rose be fore him in the sunlight as it had been in life, lovely and glorious. Then it faded.

EVERYTHING faded. There was only the painting on the black-draped wail, the painting of a figure standing there looking out upon the water. I drew a deep breath and turned. Soulie, his black moustache quivering, caught my arm in a vise-like grip.

"Did you see— did you see what I saw— and heard?" he muttered.

"Apparently I did," was my reply. "I  told you the picture had a hypnotic effect."

"Hypnotic fiddlesticks!" he snapped. "It's more than that. Look, look there in the case."

I followed his pointing finger. There lay a disk of rare gem jade, graven deeply with the swastika, and beside it was a fragment of lapis, on which was carved the vajra.

"It's all very easily explained," I ventured. He checked me abruptly, at the same time pulling me towards the door.

"I don't want it explained. Let's get out of here— Halfway House, eh? Half way to what, to where?"

Outside, on the sidewalk, as we stood waiting for a taxicab, Soulie gave me a queer look.

"The devil of it is," he said slowly, "that Agrippa wrote this exact story, but the manuscript was never found: I discovered it last year, lost in the library of the University of Dublin. I left it there, carefully hidden. No one else has found or read it. Certainly you haven't. Neither has this Sir Roger Balke. So, how do you explain that, eh?"

I didn't.

________________________

2: Death in the Dark

Blue Book, March 1940

An American undertakes a bit of war service on his own hook, and runs into desperate adventure in the blacked out British metropolis.

GARRICK had pounded the jail doors for three days, before they sent for him. This was in London. He had been arrested without a word of reason and held incommunicado.

Now he found himself facing a Britisher in uniform, and a secretary of the United States Embassy, who regarded him with much less sympathy than did the Britisher. Carrick, who was furious and unshaven, eyed the two men gauntly and then pounced like an eagle. The secretary nodded to his embittered demands.

"You were arrested, Mr. Carrick, at the instance of the State Department."

This was a facer; it silenced Carrick with sheer incredulity. Before he could find tongue, the other continued, with an icy eye and a pleasant Virginia accent:

"The essentials of your case, Mr. Carrick, laying aside all secondary matters which might confuse the issue, are that you, an American citizen, have broken the neutrality laws of your country. You deserted your ship and sought to take part in the conflict here. Do you deny the charge?"

Carrick stared.

"I'm not on trial here," he snapped. "No, I shan't deny it. I can be of service. I demand to communicate with my friends and with a lawyer."

The Britisher leaned forward, a twinkle in his eye.

"I represent your friends, Mr. Carrick. We very much regret this unfortunate affair, believe me. Your friends have exerted every influence on your behalf. They have left London and gone on to their destination. I hardly think you need a lawyer."

"Arrested and clapped into jail— and don't need a lawyer ?" said Carrick hotly.

"You're here in England without a passport," said the secretary. "Your actions threaten to embroil your own country. Such men as you are dangerous, and we have demanded your deportation to the United States."

Carrick's gray eyes hardened; his hard-bitten, hawklike features drew taut.

"So I'm treated as a felon!"

"On the contrary, you're to be released here and now," said the Britisher.

"Against my protest," put in the secretary coldly. He extended an envelope. "I've been instructed to give you this temporary passport, to serve on your homeward voyage only. Good day, Mr. Carrick."

Carrick took the envelope, tore it across, and dropped the pieces.

"That for you," he said. "Now what?"

"Less impudence, Mr. Carrick, and more sober thought," observed the Britisher gravely. "Until passage home is obtained for you, report here at the jail each day at noon. You may go."

He walked out of jail and into the heart of London, a man half free.

He had little money, a hotel room, nothing more; the afternoon was wearing away. As he made his way to the hotel, middle-class hostelry behind Charing Cross, he was struck by the singular phases of this interview that had freed him. His friends were gone, yet had worked for him.

Informed that he was to be deported, he was not under surveillance— queer! That embassy secretary had been astonishingly frigid. Surely ambassadors had more important worries than poor devils who broke the neutrality laws in the endeavour to take arms against brute oppression and wholesale murder? Then that Britisher, obviously a friend and helper, but an extraordinarily chilly sort of friend, even from the English standpoint. It was all most puzzling.

When Carrick threw open the door of his hotel room, however, he stopped dead and stared. In the small grate a fire was burning. Sitting before it, feet cocked up on the coal-scuttle, reading a newspaper, was the same Englishman he had left in the jail office. And on the table was set out a bounteous "high tea."

"Oh, hullo!" The Britisher rose, hand outstretched. He was a smallish, deft man with inconspicuous features and brown moustache. "Gower is the name, Carrick; Intelligence, y' know. Glad to meet you under more auspicious circumstances."

Rather dazedly, Carrick shook hands. The other rattled on cheerfully:

"Dev'lish unpleasant and all that, having to comply with your country's regulations. The Embassy has done its duty. We've done ours. Now suppose we gather around a bit of tea and discuss the matter. You can be of immediate service to us here, if so disposed. I know all about you: speak German and so forth."

Carrick dropped into a chair. "My friends?"

"Gone, as stated. You're in my hands," returned Gower cheerfully, attacking a sandwich. "You can be of use to us, and to your own country as well. Things are a bit shaky, you know, over on your side."

Carrick ate and drank and listened, for Gower spared no words. With brute force and cynical lack of any honour or decency swamping the earth, with nations tottering, with the Russian tide threatening to sweep over Finland upon Sweden and Norway, the New World was in jeopardy no less than the old.

"We know some Nazi or Russian agents here," said Gower. "Others we don't know. Last night we jugged a chap who calls himself Ellsworth, who had come from America to make contact with one of these agents here. We propose to give you his papers and let you make the contact. Suit you?"

Carrick sat up. "You're damned right it does! You know the agent, then?"

Gower nodded. "Leaving him footloose— better to know him and all he does, than have to locate some other chap. The hope is that you can pick up something from him about the Soviet or Nazi people in the States, None of those fellows use their real names, of course."

Carrick glowed. The deportation talk was mere bluff. He was, rather, being given a chance to be of inestimable service.

"You see " Gower explained, "you're obviously an American. With Ellsworth's' papers, you can fit the part; no Englishman could. He's a messenger, bringing over money and coming for instructions— messages to take back. You need no special knowledge; his papers and the money are sufficient to identify you to Barrett— that's the name the agent here goes by. He's an Englishman, I'm sorry to say. Radical chap, y' know."

Gower talked on. Carrick discovered that time was short. He had to play the Ellsworth role that very night.

A LIGHT, slim weapon like a pencil, loaded with a single gas shell, was in his breast pocket that evening, as he walked up Chancery Row to find the lodgings of Mr. "Barrett."

By progressive degrees, however, Carrick's disillusion became complete. The house was a dingy one. He was shown to Barrett's rooms by a dilapidated slavey and obtained admittance without the slightest difficulty; the slogans and passwords of fiction were non-existent; the whole affair was prosaic in the extreme.

Barrett was an untidy, nervous man with a mop of hair and frantically earnest eyes in a thin face. He shook hands and showed Carrick to a chair.

"So you're Ellsworth!" he said. "Where's the money ?"

Carrick handed over the sealed envelope entrusted to him. Barrett ripped at it; his first and chief interest was apparently financial. Satisfaction filled his face. He glanced at the enclosures, took up a pipe and filled it, and nodded solemnly at his visitor.

"Good. You have done good work. You're well spoken of. Any trouble?"

"None," said Carrick laconically. "Expect any ?"

"No, no, but one can never tell. Did you meet Bliebman?" He spoke nervously, not awaiting a reply. "Wonderful man. Should be in Los Angeles by this time. I see you brought an order for payments from Charles Hartch. You know him ?"

"No," replied Carrick.

The other's eyes glowed.

"You must! He'll stir up America, I can tell you! Best man the OGPU has there, except possibly Bramnitsch. Now, I'll tell you verbally what isn't put into the instructions that are ready for you. May is the month. The subversive forces operating on the money of those Hollywood fools will strike in May. On this side, the same— Russia in the north, the Reich in the Mediterranean. The British navy is being slowly worn down and crippled, so the stroke at Malta and the Suez Canal will catch them off guard."

Carrick's nerves jumped. "How can the German fleet get out of the Baltic?"

"Bah! They're out now, some of them; their fleet will be augmented at the last moment. The loss of the Graf Spee is more than counterbalanced by their recovery of the Bremen. They'll make an aircraft-carrier out of her. I saw the plans when I was in Brussels last week. The Allies expect a stroke at the Balkans; there'll be none. Now, what news from Hamdon in New York?"

Garrick shook his head. "Sorry, I was told not to talk, even to you; everything is in that envelope."

"Hm! " The black eyes sparkled on him shrewdly. "Cautious, eh? I suppose it's for the best. Well, here's everything for you."

He produced a bulky envelope; Carrick pocketed it, then signed a receipt, in
the name of Allan Ellsworth. He shook hands with Barrett, who insisted on descending to the street door with him, and there paused for a low word.

"Are you going to see Hartswick? He's most anxious to see you."

"I hadn't intended to," said Carrick. "Where is he?"

"The third house down the street. Go see him now, tonight! He wants to send orders to those handling the American Bunds. Those of us in actual service have nothing to do with those Bunds— too dangerous."

Carrick muttered a vague assent; the door shut, and he descended the steps.

There he paused, and drew in a deep breath of air. It was incredible; all of it had happened with no mystery, with no thrill. He had come and gone, and it was over. The third house? No, better take no chances now. This was a sodden, unwholesome neighbourhood; best get back to Gower, who awaited him at the hotel, and make his report—

At this instant, the first sirens began to sound.

IN a moment, the street was hurled into frightful confusion. The houses vomited people rushing for air-raid shelters. The shrouded traffic signals winked out, cars were darkened. There was no panic, but the blackened streets were re-echoing with thousands of terrified voices.

Carrick had been given a gas-mask, which swung at his hip, and a flashlight. He was making for the Strand, and crossing the Street, when voices suddenly shrilled. A truck, no doubt an army lorry, came hurtling through the gloom, its driver yelling something; flagrant disregard of orders, but perhaps necessary.

A shriek burst, then a thin moaning sob. A figure was caromed into a group just ahead of Carrick— a man, hit by the passing lorry. Carrick flashed his light. An old man, white of hair, struggling feebly. The group melted and ran on for shelter, as Carrick angrily tried to halt some of them. The sirens were wailing like doomed souls.

Carrick lifted the frail dazed figure. He caught a gasp of words in German.

"Easy," he replied in the same tongue.

"I'll help you. Live near here?"

"There, there!" The old man pointed at the obscurity. Carrick supported him.

"All right, step out; I'll help you. German, are you ? A refugee?"

"Yes." The voice changed to English, pure and without accent. "They wanted my wealth, they took everything. They said I was a Jew— they lied! I escaped. England is good to me."

The words died away upon a quivering groan of agony.

Steps appeared ahead. Carrick flashed an occasional gleam of light, no more; the old man was staggering along with pitiful groans. They got up the steps. The house door stood wide open. One flight up, said the old man, most of his weight on Carrick as he sagged. He was keeping up with an effort.

On the stairs, he pressed a key into Carrick's hand and gave the room number. Then he pitched forward in a dead faint. The house was deserted; air-raid warnings were still wild in the sky. Carrick opened the door, dragged the old man inside, and flashed his light around. It was an ordinary lodging-house room, the single window covered over. Carrick lit a gas-jet, lifted the old man to the bed, and made a brief examination. There was no surface hurt, but a terrific blow had hit over the ribs, crushing them, and a trickle of blood over the white beard told of internal haemorrhage. There was nothing Carrick could do.

The man's face was striking— a virile, indomitable, magnificent face, with the beautiful fragility that sometimes comes to old men, lending a hint of almost saintly qualities. As Carrick studied that face, a sense of eerie solemnity, of an unseen presence, grew upon him. He knew death was hovering in this room.

He got up and looked around. The grate was heaped high with papers and the little sticks supplied for kindling in London lodgings. A few books on the mantel; no name in them. No personal belongings of any account. He frisked the old man. Nothing in his pockets but a few coins, and a ten-shilling note.

A half-empty bottle of brandy was on the dresser. Carrick got it, came over to the bed, and poured a little into the old man's lips. A tinge of colour came into the waxen cheeks. The eyes opened; blue eyes, keen eyes. Wandering, broken, heart-pumped words came in German.

"Who are you ? What has happened ?"

"Easy," said Carrick. "You were hit by a truck. You have friends, relatives? Tell me. Any doctor near here? Air raid somewhere— when it's over, I'll get your friends."'

The blue eyes rested upon him. They were piercing, intelligent, intensely alert. The lips moved slightly.

"Light the fire. Quickly!"

With a shrug, Carrick went to the fireplace and struck a match. Might as well humour the old fellow, he reflected. This place was better than being on the streets.

The contents of the grate blazed up fiercely. Something more there than mere bits of wood and scraps of paper, thought Carrick with momentary wonder. The flames actually lifted with a roar, as though kerosene or some such substance was present. It did not occur to him at the moment that the papers in this grate might have been arranged for swift destruction in emergency. He came back to the bed and looked down into the blue eyes.

"That warms the room a bit, eh? What's your name? You can trust me. Any friends around here I can call ?"

"No," came the answer. "Nobody. I'm dying.... You speak German— who are you?"

Carrick scarce knew where he was; that crack over the ear still had him reeling.

"An American. Like yourself, an enemy of Nazis and all they stand for. Afraid I can't do much for you. Does it hurt much?"

"Not at all. It is death; I can feel it," the other said calmly. "You are good to me, young man. You would not help the Nazis ?"

"Not by a damned sight!" said Carrick emphatically, and the other nodded.

"Good. Hate them— I hate them! There.... The sirens have stopped."

So they had, indeed. From the city drifted in that queer, inchoate sound  caused by a blend of voices, a multitude of human voices beyond counting, lifted in fear and emotion. A queer sound, to send a chill through the blood.

Carrick felt those blue eyes fairly drill into him as he sat. He could sense power in this old man, an uncanny power as of some unearthly force. Dying, that was it. Carrick had seen death before now; sometimes it wrought strange things.

"Won't you tell me your name?" he asked gently. "I'll get a doctor just as soon as—"

"Nonsense, Let me die in peace! My name? Martin Fenchurch. Get the book from the mantel; the Nostradamus."

Martin Fenchurch! That was no German name, assuredly. Perhaps one the old fellow was using. Best help the dying man by humouring, thought Carrick again; and rising, he went to the mantel.

There was the book in question, one of the cheap editions flooding the market. He came back to the bed with it, but old Fenchurch lay with his eyes closed; he had slid away into unconsciousness.

Carrick sat down quietly and let him alone, glancing curiously over the cheap little book.

THE name of Michael Nostradamus, famed in his lifetime as the greatest of physicians, had since his death in the sixteenth century been famed as the greatest of astrologers. His prophecies regarding France and Europe, veiled in mystic language, had for generations been given much erudite study, with scanty result. In every crisis of French history his rhymed quatrains were dusted off and studied anew.

Since the present war had begun, Nostradamus had become the rage on the continent. Editions of his prophecies had swept France. His alleged predictions were being expounded on all sides, with more or less plausibility. Carrick smiled in pitying incredulity as he glanced over the senseless bits of verse.

Then he found the old man looking at him again, and speaking faintly.

"Yes, I am Martin Fenchurch. You are a good friend. You have done well. Look in the prophecy— the first verse of the sixth book. Two words are changed in pencil. Read it to me, and I shall tell you the meaning."

Carrick skimmed over the pages until he found the verse in question. He read it aloud, mouthing the antique French words awkwardly, then reading the English version:

Autour des Monts Pyrenees grand Amas

De gent, neuf Arriens secottrir roy nouveau

Pres de Garonne, du grand temple du Mas;

Un Romain chef le craindra dedans I'eau.

About the Pyrenees shall be a great gathering

Of nations, nine Arriens to succour a new king,

Near the Garonne and the great temple of Mas;

A Roman leader shall be in dread of the water

Carrick smiled. "Well, Mr. Fenchurch, does that make any sense to you?"

"It means everything! " exclaimed the old man with an access of strength.

"Why should Nostradamus, four hundred years ago, have used the unknown word ‘Arriens?' But wait. Promise me you will write down what I say and send it to the Times! Send this verse, and its meaning. I want it published, to encourage and hearten the people of England, who have given me shelter and refuge! Promise me!"

"Very well. I'll write it down here and now," said Carrick. "And I'll send it by messenger to the Times from my hotel. It's early; they'll have it in time to use tomorrow, if they wish." He took out pencil, caught at a sheet of paper lying on the desk nearby, and copied off the verse. "Now for the meaning."

"It means that nine Aryan nations shall gather about the Alps to install a new king— Pyrenees means the Alps. Garonne means the Danube. A new king of Austro-Hungary! "

Carriers brows lifted slightly as he wrote. "And I suppose you can make sense from that absurd phrase, the Temple of Mas? There's no such god or deity."

"Of course not. That is formed from the initials of the Latin words Mores— Ars — Scientix — Austro-Hungary is the temple of ethics, arts and sciences! And a Roman leader; that's Mussolini. His fleet will be defeated by the Nazi fleet. Write it down, write it! And swear to me that you'll deliver it as you said!"

"Word of honour" said Carrick. The coincidence suddenly struck him— Italy's fleet destroyed! What had Gower said about the Nazi fleet striking at Malta?

Well, no matter. He bent over the open, empty desk and scribbled down the message. A promise to a dying man was a sacred thing, even if it were a bit of sheer folly.

All nonsense, of course. Carrick took absolutely no stock in the supernatural, or in this absurd prophecy. But he had promised, and that was enough,

"Sign my name to it," said the old man very faintly. "Envelopes— there—"

"Right," replied Carrick, and went on with the epistle.

He finished it, signed the name of Martin Fenchurch, reached for one of the several loose envelopes in sight, and addressed it. The letter folded, the flap sealed, he pocketed it and then turned to Martin Fenchurch, with a cheery word; but the word was stilled on his lips.

The old man was smiling; he had lapsed from unconsciousness into death.

Carrick verified the fact, then rose and glanced around. Nothing to keep him here now; best be gone and out of it while the house was empty. On impulse, he reached out to the cheap little copy of Nostradamus, and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He had noted numerous pencilled markings in the book, and the thought struck him that it would prove interesting to peruse at leisure. A memento of a strange experience, with its hint of the uncanny I

He turned out the gas-jet. Flashlight in hand, he stepped out to the stairs, saw the way ahead, extinguished his light, and felt his way down to the open front door. He came to it and paused, staring out at the blackness of the street.

SILENT now, this street. Not a light showing anywhere. Until the "all clear" sounded, Londoners would remain huddled in their shelters; it was a ghostly city of the living dead, and Carrick repressed a shiver. The sirens had ceased, there were no explosions. Another false alarm, of course; as yet, the threatened bombs had never fallen here in London. He patted his pocket, where the thick envelope given him by Barrett bulged at his chest. What a night, what a moment was this for crime or vengeance or sneak-theft I All London in cellars or bomb-proof shelters, doors unguarded—

"The fool! " The voice came from the sidewalk just below. Carrick, startled, realized it as somehow familiar. "Of course he wasn't Ellsworth. I gave him a dummy package and he was satisfied. This means, of course, they've pinched Ellsworth. We'd better get this stuff in the pillar-box at the corner— safest place is in the mails—"

"Then find Hartswick at once," said another voice, lessening in the darkness. "He'll know what to do.... Time to duck for it—"

The voice trailed away, with thudding of rubber-shod feet.

Carrick stood in swiftly shocked surmise. So Barrett had not been tricked after all! These papers in his pockets were dummies. Barrett and a confederate were dumping their most precious effects into the mail— yes, that was the safest place for such things. They were out and gone on this errand. No pillar-box for letters closer than the Strand.

Then they would go to look up the Nazi agent, Hartswick. There was time, there was time! This was the hour and the moment when all things were possible.

Even with the thought, Carrick was moving, descending the steps to the sidewalk, and striding swiftly. He would have to venture the flashlight. To find Barrett's house now, with all lights doused, was impossible for a stranger.

He made a guess at it, mounted steps to a doorway, and with his hand over the light sent a ray between his fingers. It picked up the number. Wrong; Barrett's house was the next one beyond. Back to the sidewalk, on to the next steps.

Here was the right one; he remembered it, even in the darkness, now that he stood at the door. The door was closed, but it was not locked. It opened to his push, and he stepped in. A deathly silence here, and a welcome one.

With gleams of the muffled flashlight to aid, he found his way upstairs and to the room of Barrett. The door was locked. Without hesitation, Carrick threw his weight against it, and the weary old wood gave way with a crash. Even in the brief time he had been gone, the room showed evidence of hasty work. The windows had been blanketed. Everything was in confusion. A bag, half packed, stood on a chair. Carrick went straight to a desk in the corner, from which Barrett had brought the envelope for him. Here were notebooks, neatly stacked for packing, and bundles of letters and papers. His light played upon them, and the name of Ellsworth leaped up at him. It was written across the corner of a fat envelope.

Next instant, the envelope was in his pocket. His light touched upon something else, and a laugh broke on his lips. Nostradamus! A copy, identical with the one in his pocket. His hand went out to it.

"Another souvenir!" he muttered ironically, as he took the cheap little volume. "I'm becoming a book collector; why not ?"

This, too, he pouched, and hesitated. It seemed a pity to leave all this plunder; however, that was Gower's business, and he had what he had come for. He took out the dummy envelope, tore it open, found it stuffed with blank sheets of paper, and left it on the desk to get rid of it and serve as a mute indication to Barrett that the American visitor was not altogether a fool.

Chuckling over this thought, he turned to the door. He was well satisfied. His coat pockets bulged with the Nostradamus volumes, and in the breast pocket reposed the real communication for Ellsworth. He had accomplished—

In the doorway, he halted abruptly.

A creak came from the stairs. Another. Before he could move, a pencil of light stabbed the blackness. It touched him, held on him. A startled oath sounded. At the same instant a heavy body struck him and knocked him off his feet, sending him backward into the room. Caught!

He fell over a chair, with a crash. The flashlight was knocked from his hand, and he sprawled, half dazed by the shock. A jet of red fire, a heavy report, and he felt the hot breath of a bullet that actually seared his cheek. He flung himself sideways, rolled, and came to one knee.

Two men, by their voices, cursing as they struck against the furniture. Again the ray of light flashed out. It touched Carrick. He leaped from the floor, straight at it, struck a man heavily, sent the light away and out as it fell, and his impact must have knocked the man over. He himself was free. Another shot roared in the room. Something touched him, a hand gripped his arm, and he struck hard and fast. His blows went home; he broke clear, but received a terrific slam above the ear that sent him reeling and dizzy, off balance. He came up against the door— against the edge, striking his cheek and mouth upon it, before he clutched it and stayed himself.

For an instant he clung there, sick and weak and his brain spinning. With an effort, he got out his one weapon, the slim little nickeled gas-gun; he threw off the catch and pointed it at the room, and the gas cartridge exploded with a sharp burst of rushing flame.

Carrick pulled the door shut and stumbled away. He heard wild voices from the room— voices of pain and raging dismay. Somehow he found the stairs and clattered down and was out in the night air again. Rain was falling now, a gusty drive of it. The "all clear" signal was thrilling in the air.

As by magic, life and sound erupted from all quarters, lights flashed, the world came awake and alive. Carrick, for a little, scarce knew where he was. His hat was gone, and the wet touch of the drizzling rain was grateful to his bruised face. Crowds were swarming in the street, voices buzzing high with excitement. Carrick paused, lit a cigarette, and stood quiet until his shaking limbs came back to full duty again. That crack over the ear still had him reeling.

He reached the Strand at last, slowly making headway through the foaming crowds, careless of the soaking rain. When he gained Charing Cross and got to his modest hotel, the man behind the desk stared at him.

"I say, sir, you look— one minute, sir! We've had telephone calls for you; this must be another." The clerk answered, and beckoned Carrick. "He just now came in, sir. Here he is."

Carrick took the phone and heard Gower's voice.

"This is Gower, Carrick. I had to run out on an important bit of work. How did the thing go off ?"

"All right," said Carrick. "I've got the stuff. Barrett is skipping out. You'd better collar him at once. I had to use the gas shell."

"Right! I'll see to it. Sorry I'm on something that will keep me, but I'll see that he's attended to. I'll be along in the morning. Congratulations!"

Carrick hung up, remembered the envelope in his pocket, and got it out. "Send this by messenger to the Times. At once, please. And send me up a hot drink of some kind, will you? I'm soaked through."

"At once, sir."

In his own room at last, Carrick took off the soaking coat and draped it on a chair-back, then sank into another chair, head in hands. His skull ached consumedly; a swollen bump over the ear spoke for itself. A tap at the door, and an elderly ultra-respectable servant came in with a tray. He was startled at sight of Carrick.

"Beg pardon, sir, but is there anything I can do?" he ventured. "You're not hurt, I hope? That air-raid was a sudden thing—"

"I'm not hurt, but I feel like hell," said Carrick, seizing on the drink and gulping it. "Thanks; this is all I need. I'll tumble into bed and be all right in the morning. Have me called at eight."

"Very good, sir,"

Carrick stripped and tumbled into bed. He was completely done up, and was asleep the moment he hit the pillow.. . .

He wakened to the echoes of a peremptory rapping at his door. Vaguely remembering that he had left a call, he answered it sleepily.

"All right, all right! I'm awake. Much obliged."

The knocking was repeated. Carrick sat up.

"Who the devil is it? What d'you want?"

"Open," came the curt response. "In the King's name!"

Astonished, Carrick tumbled out, went to the door, and unlocked it. Two men walked in, two strangers, who glanced about the room and then fastened hard eyes on him. One spoke.

"Mr. Carrick? I'm Captain Milne of the Intelligence."

"Oh!" said Carrick blankly. "Well, sit down. I'll get some clothes on—"

"One moment," broke in Milne. He extended a folded newspaper, a copy of the morning Times . "May I ask whether you recognize this?"

Carrick glanced at the section indicated. It was the letter column; and a laugh broke from him as he recognized the Nostradamus verse and the note he had pencilled, signed with the name of Martin Fenchurch.

"So they used it, did they? Too bad the old boy doesn't know,"

"Do you admit sending it?" demanded Milne.

Carrick looked at him in surprise. "Admit? Why, of course I sent it! Just what are you driving at, anyhow ?"

The two exchanged a glance; then Milne nodded and took a chair,

"Sit down, Mr. Carrick; let me warn you that anything you may say will be used against you. For some time past, we've been aware of enemy wireless messages on a very high frequency being sent out from London. A low-powered portable transmitter, using Nazi submarines as relay stations to Berlin. An hour ago, this station sent out a certain message dealing with Nostradamus."

He paused. Carrick thrilled suddenly to the name.

"So it means something to you!" went on Milne. "The message sent out was this letter in the Times, word for word. We've traced the letter to you as sender. The verses of Nostradamus are obviously being used as a code. We want that code, Mr. Carrick."

Carrick was absolutely thunderstruck, as the truth rushed upon him. Old Fenchurch had lied like a Trojan. Instead of being a refugee, he was a Nazi agent! The peculiar way those papers had blazed up— arranged for destruction, of course! Struck down in the street, Fenchurch had even in death made use of his rescuer to get the message sent; a verse in which he had changed certain words.

THE British Intelligence had worked fast, too. It was barely seven-thirty now, yet they had found him as the sender of the letter. Carrick smiled, reached for a cigarette, and shook his head.

"Gentlemen, you're fast workers! Yes, I sent the letter; in fact, I wrote it.

Here's the way of it." He told of picking up the old man, and of all that had followed in regard to Fenchurch. To his surprise, however, he read only an icy, sceptic comment in the eyes of his visitors.

"Martin Fenchurch?" Milne repeated. "Hm! Drake, run downstairs and telephone ; learn if any such death has been reported. Mr. Carrick, I don't believe a word of your story."

The second man left the room. Carrick looked at Milne, and knew that to save himself he must now give the entire story.

"I suppose," he said, "you'll let Mr. Gower, of your service, reassure you? He'll be here before long. In fact, I was on an errand for him last night when this happened."

Milne heard him with lips compressed, and shook his head slightly.

"I'm aware of your story, Mr. Carrick, and that Gower was assigned to your case yesterday. Unfortunately," he added, "at an early hour this morning Mr. Gower was killed while on duty."

Carrick stiffened. "Killed! But— good Lord, man I Who's in charge of my case now ?"

"I am," said Milne. "Gower sent you last night to contact a man named Barrett. Later in the night, Barrett was arrested by orders of Gower. What about your errand there?"

"Oh!" Bewildered, Carrick plunged into the story of what had happened.

WHEN he finished, Milne lighted a cigarette, reflected upon it, and shook his head.

"I see. If you have the papers to prove this story, Mr. Carrick, well and good. It all sounds rather fantastic, I must say, but we'll be glad to find it true."

"I've got everything," snapped Carrick. "The stuff for Ellsworth is in an envelope. And also, the two copies of Nostradamus. Here, they're in my coat—

He dived for his coat. It was not on the chair. It was not in the closet. It was not in the room at all— there simply was no coat. All his other clothes were undisturbed.

"The devil!" he exclaimed blankly. "I put it on this chair last night, because it was wet—"

His voice trailed away before the upraised brows and incredulous smile of Milne.

At this moment the other Intelligence man returned, with the brief report:

"Correct about the Fenchurch chap. Found dead in his bed. Cause not yet assigned. Not a refugee at all. Has been living there two years and more; supposed to be from Northumberland somewhere. Landlady denies indignantly that he might have been a German."

Carrick looked at the two men. Gower dead! That knocked things in the head.

They eyed him curiously. He pulled himself together.

"Milne, that door was locked when you came? Then somebody has been here and walked off with my coat."

"Likely story; stick to it," said Milne laconically. "Suppose you get into something, and we'll take a little trip together. Go down and get a cab, Drake."

"You mean that I'm under arrest?" blurted Carrick angrily.

"My dear chap, what d'you think?" Milne replied, as the other man departed again. "I'd like to believe your story, 'pon my word. You were well thought of; Gower had expected you to be valuable to us. Instead, you give us a song-and-dance. You saw Barrett last night, and immediately he tried to run out on us. You say that you informed Gower by telephone; there's no evidence of it. If you knew Gower was dead, you've cleverly made use of his name. Suppose you warned Barrett, Then you stuck this letter into the paper— rather clumsily, I must say; no doubt you depended on your story being believed. We're no' so saft, my lad, as they say in the north country. This Nostradamus thing is away over my head, over all our heads; but we know it's a code. So you just come along."

Carrick, in a whirl, began to get into his clothes. His coat, with its precious contents, was gone— that was the one amazing thing— and the terrible thing— which damned him.

"My face— that proves my story! " he exclaimed. "Look at this cut— feel my head!"

"No go, my son," said Milne. "I'm sorry. We'll see what Barrett has to say about all this."

Carrick grunted. He could imagine with what vicious glee the nervous little Barrett would welcome his plight — no doubt the man would lie himself black in the face to get Carrick into the soup. But the coat, the coat! That envelope for Ellsworth would prove—

"Damn it all, Milne," he burst forth, knotting his tie, "you've got to believe me I There were two of those Nostradamus books in my coat. One I took from Fenchurch's room, the other I picked up in Barrett's place as a souvenir. And the Ellsworth stuff—"

"Produce 'em," said Milne, "and see my face change! "

"But the names that Barrett mentioned to me!" exclaimed Carrick desperately. "They must have been real names of agents in America! That must be why he suspected me— Ellsworth no doubt had some verbal messages from those people!"

"Will you dress?" said Milne patiently. "It's eight o'clock, and—"

A rap at the door, and it opened, to show the elderly, ultra-respectable hotel servant. He came in deferentially.

"Eight o'clock, Mr. Carrick. And, sir, I took the liberty last night— you were asleep, but it grieved me to see your clothes in such a state— beg pardon, sir, but I took your coat and had it pressed a bit. These were in the pockets, sir—"

With a whoop, Carrick fell upon him. The two books— the bulky envelope— the coat itself, neatly pressed! The astonished servant stared, as Carrick seized the envelope and thrust it at Milne.

"Here you are! Here's what you want— the stuff for Ellsworth! Now everything's explained— here are the books, too. Now let's see your damned face change, will you?"

Milne said absolutely nothing. He tore open the envelope, glanced at the contents, and then seized upon the two small books. An exclamation broke from him. Before he could speak, the officer Drake came back into the room.

"A telephone call from headquarters, sir!" he said to Milne. "I took the message. That Fenchurch chap— turned out to be a little bit of all right after all, it did! They said to tell you he's been identified. Not Fenchurch at all. He's the chap we've never been able to nail— the Nazi agent in chief, Hartswick!"

Hartswick! Carrick 's pulse was leaping. Three doors down the street, Barrett had said. Hartswick!

"Lord!" exclaimed Milne suddenly. "Know what this book is, Carrick?"

"Eh ?" Carrick spoke almost stupidly, at sight of the volume Milne was holding up. "Of course— Nostradamus. That's the one I took from Barrett's room."

"With the complete code pencilled in," said Milne softly.

"Then you don't want the cab?" asked Drake.

"Want it?" A laugh broke from Milne. He put out his hand and gripped that of Carrick. "I should say we do! Carrick, get into that coat. Come along to headquarters. It's the greatest haul of the year— and it's all yours. Come along!"

Carrick, slowly comprehending, gave him a thin smile.

"Well, you were a truer prophet than old Nostradamus, Milne— your face has changed, and I'm glad of it! "

"If I'm any prophet at all, you'll be still gladder of it when we reach headquarters. Come along, my lad! Off we go! Exeunt omnes, as the stage directions used to say— exeunt omnes, with alarums and excursions! "

And Carrick obeyed, with a warm heart and gratitude to the gods.

________________________________

3: A Discord in Avalon

New Story, July 1914

1

"ONE to Avalon. Thanks."

Allan Quentin plunged from the ticket window and at a half run made the gangway of the waiting Cabrillo just as the plank was being hauled in. With a laughing nod to the men, he was across the gap, drew a breath of secure relief, and started forward to obtain a seat.

There was the usual confusion of the usual last moment, with every one debating as to the best seats, and the possibility of finding any seats at all dwindling with alarming rapidity. The frown that had drawn Quentin's black brows together deepened when he observed that most of the passengers shared his dislike of the sunny side of the boat, but his quick eye caught a vacant place forward.

He beat a shivery little man to it, settling down with a sigh of huge satisfaction, and laughingly advised the refrigerated gentleman to take the sunny side and thaw out; whereat the other grinned and obeyed. Quentin ran a quick eye over the rest of the passengers, observed no one who attracted his notice except one very large, bull-necked man in blue clothes and blue derby, and thereupon cast out everything from his mind save sky and sea and the blue-ridged Catalinas ahead.

It was his first outing in three years, and he was enjoying it with his whole soul — though he subconsciously noted that the bull-necked man had very high blood pressure, and that two of the tourists were undoubtedly "lungers." For, though Quentin had left his office and practice behind, he could not leave his profession likewise.

He had promised to meet Tommy Wells and Bunt Green, for a three days' fishing trip down the coast, but it was with some difficulty that he had gotten away. While he was a young surgeon — as surgeons go — he was both strong of jaw and well established in Los Angeles ; having buried a few wealthy patients and cured at least one, he was made both financially and socially.

Tommy Wells and Bunt Green were social lights who had more money than horse power, and who confined themselves chiefly to the Country Club at the Catalinas, where they lived a languid existence on golf and fishing and Scotch and kindred pursuits. Quentin had cured young Green of fever impregnated with too much golf and Scotch, and, while by no means intimate with the pair, he saw no reason why he should not enjoy himself at their expense.

He gave his shoulders a little shake, looking back at receding San Pedro, and flinging off all worries. Men said that Allan Quentin was a good surgeon but too hardened for his age; yet this was because they noted his cold gray eyes, tight mouth, and rather aggressive carriage, and utterly failed to note the deftness of his fingers and the level brightness of his smile.

Thus far, he had taken no notice of the occupant of the chair next to his; but now his attention was attracted by an unusual movement on the part of the man in the blue derby, whose eyes were fastened at his side. Quentin eyed the man, sized him up as a detective or plain-clothes man— then shivered slightly at a light contact. He glanced down to see a hand stealthily approaching his coat pocket.

It was a woman's hand, slender and well shaped, perfectly manicured and with unexpected dimples over each knuckle. Its white perfection was unadorned by rings, although he noted a circle on one finger which told the tale of a ring recently removed. Then he glanced at the owner of the hand.

She was leaning forward in her chair, her eyes fastened on the ocean, while a look of faint anxiety was evident in her features. Her whole attitude was one of strained concern, uncertainty ; but even as he looked down at her, the hand left his coat. With a little sigh of relief, the girl settled back into her chair; the look of half-fearful worry vanished from her face, and her hand dropped into her lap again.

Quentin was thoroughly puzzled. His first thought was that she was a pick-pocket, for the Catalina boats made an excellent place in which light-fingered gentry could ply their trade upon tourists; also, the bull-necked man in the blue derby was unquestionably a detective, and seemed to be watching the girl.

He looked down at her more keenly, for women whose hands went exploring were not apt to resent obtrusive stares. But she seemed to have lost all interest in him. It was as though that quick, light touch on his coat had sent flying some wandering uneasiness— and yet the notion was absurd.

His gray eyes softened as he watched her. The face was not beautiful, and still it bore an expression of patience which lent it indefinable sweetness. To Quentin it seemed that this expression might have been born of much suffering, though she had no appearance of ill health, in spite of the frailty of her throat and arms. Her oval face had a broad brow around which rippled a cluster of golden-brown waves of hair, and Quentin suddenly found it hard to eye her with his usual indifference to things physical.

She had removed her hat and the sea breeze was lifting her hair gently, loosing it and sending stray strands playing about her cheeks. A smile curved her lips and she tossed her head backward with a deep breath, as if she could not get enough of the salt-scented, sun-filled air.

Then their eyes met— or Quentin thought they did. And upon that, his conceit received a sudden shock, for he perceived that she was staring through him, past him, as though he did not exist. He thought at first that she had noted his detection of that stealthy hand, yet her face was quite calm and unflushed.

"Well?" he said quietly, coolly forcing the issue. "Your hand is a very light one, but I happen to be somewhat sensitive to touch."

He received another glimpse of eyes that met his quite frankly and yet evaded him. They held a peculiar quality in their violet depths— a quality that caused him swift remorse at his own words, and sent unwonted sympathy into his face. Then she gave a quick little rippling laugh and responded :

"Oh, you caught me? Well, I had to see what kind of person you were!"

Quentin was anything but prepared for such frankness.

"Yes— but―" he hesitated.

"Why was I feeling your coat? Isn't that what you want to know?"

"Why, if you don't mind— it really doesn't matter, you know," he stammered, feeling suddenly that he had blundered. She reassured him, laughing softly :

"You see, I could tell from the feel whether you were a gentleman or not."

"Sorry you couldn't tell from my face," he smiled, amused. She turned half away, a little flicker of pain crossing her own face. "And how did you class me?"

"Well," she hesitated, still looking away, "of course, I might make mistakes, but I can often tell by the cloth. I have studied it "

"But why?" he insisted, wondering if she were trying to lie her way out of a difficulty. If so, it was a poor effort, he thought.

"Can't— can't you tell why?" She turned swiftly, her face to his. Again he felt that swift quality of her eyes, and he leaned back with a catch of his breath.

"Forgive me," he said quickly. To himself he added bitterly: "And I call myself a surgeon!"

The girl was blind.

However, he had little chance to reflect on his own brutality, as he termed it, for she leaned forward confidingly.

"Let me look at you."

Her fingers ran lightly over his face, then she settled back without comment.

"Well?" he urged, smiling a little.

"Guess !" She rippled out a laugh.

Upon that, Quentin began to make himself agreeable; she seemed to be glad to get away from the topic of her blindness, and yet she appeared to sense the quick sympathy in him which was hidden from most eyes. His quiet poise had its effect, and soon she was chatting and laughing with him, listening to his description of the mountains behind and the sharpening outlines of the Catalinas ahead with unalloyed delight.

It puzzled him. What was she doing on this trip, purely a sight-seeing one, if she was blind? She was absolutely alone also, as he found by delicate questions which attained their object; yet she was well dressed, and evidently a girl of high intelligence and strong character— and he was undeniably puzzled.

More than once he found the eyes of the man in the blue derby fastened now on the girl, now on himself, in an oddly irritating fashion. Quentin reflected that the man was doubtless a policeman or detective on vacation, and was not above seeking prey in the shape of an unprotected girl. For he did not think it hard to see that the girl was blind.

The two hours" trip sped by rapidly, and long before Avalon Bay. opened out he had quietly determined to see that she was cared for, unless friends were at the boat to meet her.

"You explain everything so clearly," and there was a hint of sadness in her tone when he had told her of the wharf ahead and the boys swimming about the ship and diving for coins. "And you don't seem to weary of it!"

"Well, you're an admirable listener," he smiled. "How is it that you're alone?"

She looked away, and, reproaching himself instantly for a brute, with some fear that he would be misunderstood by her evidently sensitive nature, he swung to the subject of the boys around them. The chatter and calls which floated up from the youngsters were amusing in the extreme, and speedily drew a rain of small change from the passengers.

"Aw, come on, sport! Don't be a piker! Loosen up, old man !" shouted an urchin at Quentin, who laughed and tossed out a quarter. There was a rush after it, a storm of spray, and one grinning youngster came up with the coin in his cheek and a yell for more.

"Come it again! You didn't throw straight, mister!"

"I do wish you could see all this!" laughed Quentin in the girl's ear.

"Thank goodness, I can hear it," she answered delightedly. "Oh, throw out some more money! I love to hear them yelling and splashing!

"Did he get it?" she added quickly, feeling the sweep of Quentin's arm.

"You bet he did— caught it in his mouth and was yelling for another before I got my arm down," he chuckled.

"But here we are at the wharf — may I help you through the crowd?"

"Is — is there a crowd?" she faltered, suddenly relapsing into timidity.

"No, except on the gangplank. There's a rule here in Avalon, I understand, that all on shore must stay behind chalk lines until the steamer passengers are unloaded and have a chance to decide where they want to go. Are your friends to meet you?"

"I— I— no, I think not," she replied, her hands twisting at her handkerchief. Then she had turned lightly to him, laughing again. "Oh, I've so longed to come here! Do take me ashore, if it won't be too much trouble."

"I'll be delighted," he replied gravely. He wondered, however, why she was so delighted at the trip; perhaps her over--acute senses gave her some perception of the things about her, after all.

"Come!"

He guided her to the rear of the crowd, which was streaming thinly down the gangway. Ahead of them were the clamouring guides and touts and fishermen, staying well back of their chalked lines, while beyond these were the narrow streets rising against the hill, with the sun-blue sky and bay striking back the gorgeous hues on every hand. He looked down at the girl's face, and. saw it quivering with delight; it was as if she actually felt the colour of everything, and the hand that rested on his arm was trembling.

"Would— would it be imposing on you"— she half turned to him —"if I asked you to take me to the Metropole? After that I'll be all right, for my friends did not expect me, you see―"

"It's a pleasure," he reassured her, admiring her nerve in making this trip by herself. If she had friends at the hotel, she would soon be in good hands, though he felt a little thrill of disappointment at the idea of not seeing her again.

A burly form shoved past him, and he saw it was the man in the blue derby, who was making his way out to the end of the plank. Quentin and the girl pressed forward in his track, and a moment later were standing at the edge of the throng.

Since there was no mistaking the big hotel, he took her arm and they started toward the gate. There, however, he saw the man in the blue derby standing, watching them, and his anger began to rise. If the fellow was trying to enjoy himself, Quentin decided that he would get a lesson shortly. On the other hand, he suddenly thought the man might have been set to keep watch from afar on the girl ; her friends might like to give her the impression of freedom, yet keep a careful guard over her.

As they came to the gate, however, Quentin lost this impression quickly.

The detective, if such he was, stepped forward with a sharp glance at Quentin, and caught the girl's arm.

"Just a minute, miss," he said roughly. "I'd like to know your name."

2

QUENTIN caught the man's hand and flung it off curtly.

"What does this mean, my man?" he asked, his gray eyes very cold. The other flushed, then nodded his head at the startled girl.

"No offense, mister— I'm Bert Osgood, from Los Angeles headquarters. Is this young lady a friend of yours?"

"Yes," replied Quentin, seeing that he had misjudged his man.

"Let me have your names, please— I'm on a little job over here, but if I've made a mistake I ain't meaning no offense."

There was evident hesitation in the detective's manner, and he had spoken so softly that the girl had plainly heard nothing beyond that first startling sentence. Quentin thought swiftly; he did not know the girl's name, but through his mind raced one that he had heard on Dolly Burlington's lips, and he seized on it to be rid of the man.

"This is Miss Enid Elsmere, and I'm Doctor Allan Quentin, of Los Angeles. It's all right, officer— I guess you dropped on the wrong party."

The detective's black eyes swept across his face, then the man nodded and drew back with a gesture of apology- Quentin took the girl's arm again and quietly led her through the crowd.

"What's the matter?" she asked, looking up at him. "Who was that man ?"

Quentin searched desperately for some answer that would satisfy her without causing her needless alarm.

"Just a beggar," he lied easily, and his voice was convincing. "It's all right."

He motioned the crowding touts away, and when they had passed beyond the mob he found her gazing at him with apparent wonder on her face.

"But how in the world did you know my name?" she asked simply.

Quentin gasped: "Your name?"

"Certainly. I heard you tell "

"I said your name was Enid Elsmere, for lack of a better. My own name I gave."

"Then you are Doctor Quentin?"

"Why, of course !" he laughed, for there was wonder in her face. "But you don't mean to say that your name is really Enid Elsmere?"

"Yes," she said softly, then drew closer on his arm. "But can't we get to the hotel, and then talk? This is too— too public," and she glanced around, or seemed to do so, nervously. "You have helped me, and I feel that I owe you an explanation— and I would like more help "

"Come along," he said briefly, and determined that she was the best liar he had. ever met. He did not know who the real Elsmere girl was, except that she was some acquaintance of Dolly Burlington; but if this blind girl had been in fear of a detective, if she had really been exploring his pocket

"Rot!" he said to himself, looking down at her face. "This may be the long arm of coincidence, after all."

He guided her up the steps into the big building, waving off the clustering bell boys, and led her across the palm-strewn lobby to a rather secluded corner, where he placed her in a chair and dropped into another at her side.

"Now," he began quietly, "tell me who Enid Elsmere is, please."

He saw that her hands were twisting nervously at her handkerchief again.

"Are you a friend of Doctor Burlington, please? Have you heard him speak of me?"

Quentin looked hard at her, startled in turn.

"No, Miss Elsmere. I know Hall Burlington slightly, but I know his daughter Dolly quite well. I have heard her speak of an Enid Elsmere as an acquaintance, that is all."

"Oh !" There seemed to be relief in her tone, which puzzled him. "Does Dolly call you Quent?"

"She does," he replied in new wonder, and she hesitated again. What could it mean? Why had he never heard of Enid Elsmere except in such a superficial way that the name had never provoked a question?

"Then you are―" She stopped with a furious blush, and he laughed out:

"No, Miss Elsmere. I'm sorry you've heard gossip, but Dolly is really in love with another man, and we're just playing the game to keep Mrs. Burlington contented pro tem. Dolly's a good chum, and I'm helping her out. But you haven't told me who you are."

"I'm Doctor Burlington's niece," she answered in a low voice.

Quentin felt his suspicions revolve again. He had known of Burlington for years, first as an indifferent physician living on indifferent means, and later with wealth from some unknown source, leaping into prominence socially and professionally— a quiet, heavy-jawed man who talked little. Mrs. Burlington, he knew well, had huge ambitions for Dolly, which he was helping Dolly to defeat. But he had never heard of a niece.

"I did not know he had a niece," he said quietly. "Miss Elsmere. if you are in any difficulty, I wish you would allow me to help you. Why are you over here alone? Surely the Burlingtons, who live at Long Beach, would have been glad to meet you?"

There was trouble in her sightless face, and she hesitated again.

"I— I have lived with them for three years," she said slowly. "If you were not a friend of my uncle's, I would be more ready to trust you."

Quentin stared at her, thunderstruck.

It occurred to him that she was clever; she might have known of the Burlington family, she might have seized at a straw and made it into a rope— but it was hard to believe. Surely there was nothing about Hall Burlington to inspire those last bitter words of hers.

"My dear girl," he said finally, "I am merely an acquaintance of — of your uncle. If you are in any trouble, you may tell me in professional confidence."

"Even if I said that I hoped never to enter his door again?" she shot out with swift and passionate intentness.

"By Jove!" whistled Quentin to himself. "This is getting in deep!" Aloud, he reassured her briefly: "I make no reservation, Miss Elsmere."

"I will trust you, then, if you will see that I am taken to Mr. J. M. Mathews, who has a summer residence here on the island, and if you will promise not to reveal my whereabouts for at least two months. Will you?"

"Where such a promise is necessary it is seldom safe to trust," he responded. "None the less, I promise, and I will be very glad to help you."

Her hand fluttered to his arm in relief, then fell to her lap again.

"Then I will tell you," she said, simply as a child. "Three years ago I was left in care of Doctor Burlington. He is not really my uncle, though I have always called him so; I think he was a college mate of my father's. When I was orphaned, it was arranged that Doctor Burlington should have the use of my income, and should bring me up as his own daughter.

"This went well for the first year, but after that conditions grew insupportable, Doctor Quentin. I am of age, yet he controls my money unless my sight should be restored, which he assures me is impossible. He has kept me secluded, and although Dolly and I love each other dearly, not even she is allowed to mention me to visitors. People understand that there is an invalid in the house, perhaps, but no more. Even Dolly seems to think that her father is acting for the best— oh, it is terrible!"

She paused, her voice breaking. Quentin was biting his lips in helpless bewilderment at this strange story, truth of which seemed patent in her face and voice ; his doubts had vanished utterly, and as he thought of Burlington in this new light, the thing began to assume probability.

"The Mathews," she went on, "are the only .people who take any interest in me, for they were friends of my father's also. Doctor Burlington has assured them that my sight cannot be restored, but I intend to make a fight for it— Mr. Mathews will help me, when he understands everything, for he's a very fine lawyer. But you are a doctor— do you think―"

"I do not know, Miss Elsmere," replied Quentin very gravely. "I am not an eye specialist, and Burlington is really a good physician―"

"But don't you see?" she burst out. "He wants my money— as long as I am blind he'll have the use of it, and he'll keep me blind !"

"Great Scott!" exclaimed Quentin. "Look here, Miss Elsmere, this thing can't―"

He paused, for the dumb anguish in her face convinced him. He found his hand trembling, and shook himself together; recalling Burlington's sudden wealth and consequent rise in the world, he began to believe her.

"I can't tell you anything without a careful examination," he went on slowly. "But have you no proof of this thing?"

"None," she shook her head, "except my own convictions and things my uncle has let drop from time to time— but nothing definite. When I slipped out of the house this morning, I met some man in the street who steered me to the electric station, and helped me on a San Pedro car. The rest was easy. But Mr. Mathews will take care of me, and I do wish you would look at my eyes! I feel that I can trust you―"

She broke off, and he patted her hand quietly, soothingly.

"Later, Miss Elsmere, I promise you that I will do so. For the present the main thing is to get into touch with These Mathews people, and I'll soon see about that. I am to meet a couple of friends at the Country Club this afternoon, so as it's barely noon now, I'll find out where the Mathews people are. We'll have lunch here; then, after the Mathews take care of you, I'll be off to the club. J. M. Mathews, isn't it?"

"Yes, James Mortimer."

"All right. Wait here a moment."

He walked over to the desk and smilingly waved back the pen shoved at him by the desk clerk.

"No, I'll only be here for lunch, and we don't care to register. Do you know  where a J. M. Mathews lives on the island?"

"Yes, sir— you'll find it quite a little walk, but easy to locate, just off Buena Vista Park. If you walk, the path's pretty steep, but you can go up by the incline railway just as well. It's the only residence up there, and Mr. Mathews only built last winter, after giving up his legal work in the city. Anything I can do for you?"

"No, thank you. I merely want to know where the house is."

Quentin turned, but as he started across the lobby he saw the burly form of Osgood, the headquarters man, come up and lean over the counter, talking to the clerk. He saw the latter fling a quick look in his direction, but it was improbable in the extreme that they were speaking of him, so he returned to his charge. It was agreed that, as she was tired, he would leave her at the hotel after lunch while he brought Mathews down to take care of her, since he could meet his friends at the club any time that afternoon.

So, without forebodings, he passed in to a very happy luncheon.

3

AFTER LUNCHING, Quentin obtained a room for his charge, and left her at the elevator, in charge of a maid. Then, getting a telephone booth, he called up the club, found that both Tommy Wells and Bunt Green were on the links, and left word that he would arrive about five. Whereupon, with the afternoon before him, he left the hotel and walked down Crescent Avenue with no more worry upon his mind than Enid Elsmere.

She, however, provided worry enough. When he had passed the public gardens and the Greek theatre, and had swung aboard the little railway car which would lift him to the park above, he had almost reached the conclusion that her incredible story was a lie.

He had known Dolly Burlington for years, but the intimacy between them had been only a firm friendship. Yet it seemed impossible that he should not have known— hold on! Had not Dolly written him while he was in his senior year at Stanford that her father had been appointed ward of an invalid girl? If she had, the memory was hazy, but once it had lodged the thought could not be shaken off.

He had spent a year in Europe, partly in study, partly in care of a wealthy paralytic, and it was possible that these changes had come about in his absence. In the two years since his return he had been fairly busy establishing himself in Los Angeles, had had little time to spend with the Burlingtons at Long Beach, and Dolly had been too much occupied with her own love affair to do other than accept a situation to which she must have become accustomed— providing Enid Elsmere's story was true.

Upon that the car had stopped. Quentin, who had never visited the Catalinas before, in common with most people who lived close by, obtained his direction from the conductor and made his way along the edge of the Buena Vista grounds.

Presently he came upon the place he sought — a snug home built in Swiss chalet style on the mountainside and having a goodly private garden, even though it was set so near the park grounds that it seemed almost a part of them. Observing that a wide veranda opening off the hillside had as much the appearance of a front entrance to the house as the stone steps which led up from a lower level of walk, Quentin chose the former route, walked the length of the veranda, and rang at the side door.

His ring brought no response, and he pressed the bell again and again. At length he was just turning in disgust when there came a shuffling step, the door was opened, and a wizened old man looked at him curiously.

"Well ?"

"I'd like to see Mr. Mathews," answered Quentin.

"Not to hum, sir."

"Mrs. Mathews, then," he said, wondering if there were a Mrs. Mathews.

"No, sir. They ain't nobody to hum, 'cepting me."

"Well, where are they, then? I've got to see Mr. Mathews or one of the family as soon as possible." Quentin felt an absurd impulse to laugh at the little old man, who was plainly impressed with the importance of being left in charge of the place.

"I'm right sorry, sir," and the caretaker scratched his head, "but I ain't sure when they'll be back. Both on 'em went in on the eight-o'clock boat this mornin', and if they stay over in Los Angeles for a show to-night they ain't liable to git hum right sudden. May be back to-night, mebbe to-morrow. Sorry, sir."

Since there was no help for it, Quentin beat a retreat in no little consternation. This unexpected turn of affairs left him somewhat up a tree, he reflected. As planned, the fishing expedition was to leave Avalon that night for a point thirty miles down the coast, where three days would be spent fishing. He decided that he would go up to the club later in the afternoon, arrange to meet the other two men when they came down to embark, and trust to luck that Mathews would be back.

"If he isn't," he thought, "I'll have to chuck the fishing trip, that's all. And I guess I'd better do it anyhow; I'd sooner spend a few hours with that blind girl than with a couple of boozing millionaires, even with the fishing thrown in."

Reaching the Metropole again, he went direct to the girl's room, and the maid admitted him. He reported the issue of his mission briefly.

"Now," he concluded, in his cheeriest professional tone, "would you like to rest this afternoon? Or would a trip to the submarine gardens interest you ?"

"Oh, by all means!" Her suddenly eager face fell. "But I must not detain you, Doctor Quentin. It's been very good of you to―

"Nonsense!" he laughed. "My dear Miss Elsmere, I have positively nothing on hand more than a run up to the Country Club later in the afternoon, and we'll be back before three, as the tourists must catch the last boat back to Pedro. So come along, if you're sure you don't need rest."

"Rest!" she cried, a passion of longing in her voice. "Anything rather than this uncertainty! It seems as though I'd done nothing but just rest for years and years, and if you'll tell me about the gardens I'll be perfectly happy !"

That settled it to Quentin's entire satisfaction. Ten minutes later they went down, but as they crossed the lobby to the street stairs, Quentin saw the figure of Osgood leaning against the desk once more. Reflecting that the detective was no doubt waiting for the afternoon boat home, he dismissed the matter altogether.

Together with a crowd of sight-seers, they piled into one of the sunk-bottomed launches, and were soon on their way. Quentin found that his task was a light one, since the spieler called out through his megaphone what the objects were beneath the glass cockpit, and the surgeon had only to amplify what was said. They passed Sugar Loaf and Moonstone Beach, and Quentin realized, to his own surprise, that the intent eagerness of the girl beside him was drawing him on into a colour phrasing of words that he had not known he possessed.

She impressed him strangely, as she sat with her sightless eyes fixed on the glass square beneath them. The cramp in his own neck as he leaned over the railing was becoming pronounced; why, then, did she assume the same position which was of no value to her? With that, however, he remembered the sensitiveness of the blind, and wondered no longer ; she merely wished to attract no attention or comment.

He considerately kept his voice lowered as he leaned beside her, and while a few of the other passengers undoubtedly took them for a honeymoon couple, Quentin's hard gray eye cured them instantly of any knowing smiles that might have lingered.

"What are the abalone shells like?" she asked, as a diver went over the bow.

"Concave shells, iridescent and glittering. They are beautiful enough beneath the water, but lose most of their colour. Here, I'll take two of those!" he added, raising his voice as the diver came up, dripping, almost beside him, with four or five shells for sale among the tourists.

Her childlike glee over the wet shells, and the way she clapped one to either ear touched him strangely. She had all the frank gayety of a child, yet she had told him that she was twenty-one; and when he looked at her and saw what little impress her affliction had upon her, Quentin began to feel a slow anger rising against Doctor Hall Burlington. Suddenly, while she kept the shells over her ears, entranced, he became aware of two men talking at his side, and the first words gripped him.

"Yep — blind as a bat if any one catches her. Slick dodge, ain't it? They say she's the slickest dip ever kept out o' court, too. She's been workin' the Catalina boats off and on, but I expect they've put the cops after her too late, as usual. She's prob'ly beat it — by jolly, ain't that pretty now ?"

The speaker leaned over, silent for a moment as the boat passed over a vale of feathery, swaying blue sea violets, interwoven with feather-boa kelp and shells and the flicker of darting fish. But Quentin sat motionless, his mind in a whirl, until the second man took up the thread of conversation. The girl still listened to her shells.

"Does the pitiful 'help-the-blind' stunt if she gets caught, eh?"

"Not by a blame sight! Dresses like a lady, they say— if a guy nabs her, she's made a mistake and that's all 'cept the apologies."

"Some class, eh?" commented the other. "Well, there ain't any blind game going to work on me, that's sure. I ain't got much, but I need it more'n other folks "

"Where are we passing now?"

Quentin heard the murmur at his ear, and turned to find the girl waiting for him to continue his talk. With a tremendous effort he forced his mind free of what he had heard, but the beauty of the trip was spoiled for him, and he was glad when at length they turned back to Avalon once more.

None the less, although he managed to maintain his usual attitude, there was an undercurrent running through his brain which it was hard to quell. What had that conversation meant? There was one way to find out, and when they had reached the hotel again he took it. Promising to return for dinner, he left Enid at her room and visited the desk clerk, bluntly asking him if it was a fact that a woman pickpocket was "working" the boats, and if she played blindness when detected. The clerk eyed him a little queerly, he thought, then nodded with a laugh.

"Of course, we're keeping it dark, sir. But I think that there's no more danger. She's not known by sight, but the bulls have a good description, and unless she beats it pretty quick they'll nab her. This is on the quiet, you understand, sir."

"Certainly; thank you," nodded Quentin, and passed out on his way to the Country Club, his, mind a whirlwind of conflicting doubts. Was Enid Elsmere the pickpocket?

She had heard that name from his lips, and had promptly related a most incredible story concerning a man of unblemished social and professional standing; what was more, he had swallowed it whole. With but a slight knowledge of Hall Burlington's family she might easily have fabricated the whole thing. And over against this he could only set his knowledge of human nature, the appeal of her blind face and her whole manner— but was she blind?

"By heavens," thought Quentin, his lips tightening, "I'd stake a good deal on that face of hers! And yet "

The doubt crawled and twisted like a maggot, and he could not down it. If she had seen the detective on the boat, she might have played a desperate hand to win; but he was forced to admit that it had been magnificently played, despite the craziness of her story. What would her ultimate intent be in that case?

It was not hard to guess. At present she was vouched for by him— though he was unknown on the islands— and had found shelter at the hotel. If his doubts were well founded, she would remain there until the afternoon boat back to San Pedro, then she would quietly slip off and "beat it."

"All right," decided Quentin, as he swung up the last few yards of Metropole Avenue, passed the tennis courts, and on to the Country Club, "I'll not return until the boat has gone back. It'll be pretty good proof that she's told the truth, if I find her waiting; we'll leave the matter on the knees of the gods until then."

As he turned up the steps of the clubhouse he felt in his hip pocket for his bill fold and cardcase which contained the greater part of his money. Then he stopped suddenly, and went through his other pockets.

The wallet was gone.

4

THERE CAME a rush of feet, a vociferous burst of voices, and Quentin was hilariously pulled up to the cool veranda by the two men who had rounded the clubhouse walk, golf bags in hand.

"You're a nice one to give us the slip like that!" cried Bunt Green, forcing him into a Singapore chair, while Tommy Wells sent a steward clattering away after drinks. "Think you're kind of privileged because you've a few initials after your name, eh? Cut it out, doc, cut it out— do you get me ?"

Quentin forced himself into coherence. He saw that the pair of them had been dividing punishment between golf balls and Scotch, according to their wont, and he felt suddenly as if he had stepped into unclean waters.

"Not by about umpty miles, Bunt," he returned, looking at his challenger with the calm deliberation of one who understands his fellow man, even though he misses the drift of things. "Sorry I missed the early boat, fellows "

Green interrupted him with a roar of laughter, while Tommy Wells, with
the flabby chops on either side of his double chin dancing with mirth, leaned over the table and howled. Wells was a bit past the talking stage, but Bunt Green winked in a wisely understanding way and slapped Quentin on the back with another roar.

"Zow-wee! Did you get that, Tommy? Don't he look like an innocent little lamb, though ? Just like little Willy when he says 'I didn't did it,' and wipes the jam off his nose."

"You— you'zh make him flush wish— wish shame," blurted Wells thickly, but it was resentment and not shame that drove the red into Quentin's face.

"Come across, boys," he urged easily, making the best of it. "Throw me a line, for I'm on the rocks."

He felt there was something behind this that he could not understand.

"Innoshence abroad— hic— innoshence―" began Wells, then slumped back in his chair as the steward brought the drinks. Quentin waved him away impatiently.

"Say, what's the matter with you chaps?" he inquired calmly. "Wells, you'll go off with a snap one of these days; I've warned you already about drinking as you do, with your high blood pressure."

"Oh, Tommy's all right," grinned Bunt Green, lighting a cigarette with an unpleasant twinkle in his eye. "Innocence abroad is right, doc. Didn't suppose that we might take it into our heads to meet that boat, did you? They do say this is a great little ol' place for a honeymoon."

"Who's — who's zhe skirt?" inquired Wells heavily, leering.

In a flash Quentin understood — and the comprehension was sickening to him. The mere thought of Enid Elsmere, pickpocket or no, in connection with these sodden scions of wealth was repulsive to him.

"I think you'd better explain yourselves," he said, dangerously quiet.

"Still playing the game like a little man," complimented Bunt with mock ceremony. He made a wabbly curtsy which drew another howl of laughter from his friend, waved his cigarette somewhat unsteadily, and winked again. "Oh, don't bother to explain, old man. You see, we met that boat — and that's all."

"Sure, tha'sh all," repeated Wells vaguely, spilling half his Manhattan over his white flannels, and laughing again at himself.

Quentin had tried to contain his anger, but the half-veiled inference drove his gray eyes hard and cold. He regretted his hasty acceptance of the invitation to this visit from men he hardly knew, yet he could not have foreseen this exact occurrence.

"I think you two chaps had better get a couple of brain dusters instead of more whisky," he said coldly. "If we're going to―"

"Look here," and Green drew himself up with the swift exasperation of a good-natured man more than a little under the influence, "do you mean to insinuate that I'm not sober, doc?"

"No," returned Quentin bluntly. "I mean to insinuate that you're just about  plain drunk, Green. If you're going fishing to-night, you'd better get to bed for a few hours and get a bit sobered  up. Same to you, Wells."

Wells laughed vacantly, but Green flung his cigarette over the railing and got shakily to his feet, anger in his face.

"You're drunk yourself, doc. You're blind drunk, and I'm going to put you to bed―"

"Shut up, you fool !" broke in Quentin roughly, as another party of golfers passed their table with curious glances.

For answer, Green caught the whisky bottle from the table and swung it full at him. Quentin rose from his chair, caught the wildly swinging arm, saved the bottle, and then very determinedly flung Green down into his chair, where he lay gasping for air. He turned to the hurrying stewards.

"You'd better take care of Mr. Green and Mr. Wells at once," he said quietly, then turned and walked off.

"Wait!" implored Wells, trying to rise. "Wait, doc — I shay, ol' man "

Quentin strode back to the street, unheeding, and drew a long breath. He felt as though he needed cleansing before going back to Enid Elsmere.

The thought stopped him like a blow. What was he to do? It seemed to be a cold certainty that she was not only the pickpocket in question, but that she had neatly "touched" him for most of his money. He had ten or twelve dollars left, but no more.

"By George, though, I can't believe it!" he cogitated, walking slowly along. "Yet the thing fits together so damnably! Her hand was at my coat pocket when I first noticed her, and if she had been stalling to remove my suspicion she couldn't have done it better than she did. Then she caught at the name I gave Osgood — and it sure took a lot of work to get the story out of her! She either made it up on the spot, which seems most likely, all things considered, or else she was telling God's truth. I'm blest if I know what to believe!"

With that, he sat down on a bench to think it over. Glancing at his watch, he found that he had half an hour before the last boat left for the mainland. Unless he was to catch it, he must stay overnight, and twelve dollars would hardly stand the strain of two rooms at the Metropole. Yet, if his doubts were correct, she would not wait for his return — and then there was the Mathews affair, which might have been a lie also.

"Oh, Lord !" he groaned, dropping his head and staring at the ground. What kind of a balled-tip ruddy mess have I stumbled into? If I convict her in my own mind, and skip out for home, my conscience will prick forever after. If that impossible tale of hers is true, she needs help mighty badly. I think I'd sooner be taken for an easy mark, though, and lose a little coin in the process than be scared out of helping a person who might be in need of me. Well, what do I stand to lose, anyhow ?"

His money was gone in any case. In half an hour he could return to the hotel, and if the girl had slipped away he would simply take her room till he morning, for he had enough money left to cover it. If she was still there it would be a fairly sure indication that his suspicions were unjust, for she would hardly remain to meet the Mathews unless she was sure of her ground. In which case, Mathews could foot the bills.

Quentin shook his head hopelessly as he remembered that his only means of identifying himself should need arise lay in that missing bill fold that contained his cards, money, and letters. However, he had nothing worse in prospect than an overnight stay on the island.

"I'll do it," he said, rising at last. "I'll let the gods decide. If she's at the hotel, I'll give her eyes a test or two and abide by the result. And I'll go the limit, too — I'll neither think wrong of her nor say wrong of her, and if that confounded bull shows up again I'll give him something to think  about."

With that he flung back his shoulders — and found the detective, Osgood, coming toward him with calculating eye. Quentin paused, angry at himself and at the man, but Osgood nodded coolly and confidently.

"Sorry to trouble you, doc — say, is that Miss Elsmere with you a blind lady?"

"She is," returned Quentin coldly. "She is also a relative "

He stopped suddenly. If the girl's story were true, no word must get out
of her relationship to Hall Burlington, at least until she had been placed with friends. Osgood stared at him curiously.

"Yes?"

"She's a relative of friends of mine, and in my care professionally," continued Quentin. "Why are you interested in her? Do you take her for that woman pickpocket?"

"Well, I'd take her in all right if it wasn't for you," grinned Osgood. "O' course, your word goes with me, doc. You ain't got a card with you?"

Quentin laughed despite himself, and reported the loss of his pocketbook.

To remove any possibility of suspicion remaining, he went on to say that Miss Elsmere could be identified by Mr. Mathews, at which the other nodded.

"All right, sir; all right. I'll report that pocketbook of yours — sorry you got stung, doc. It was prob'ly on the launch, while you was looking over the rail. Well, much obliged, and sorry I troubled you."

Quentin nodded, then wondered how Osgood had known he was on the launch — unless the detective had been trailing him. He looked after the man, who was going on up the avenue, and then thoughtfully continued his way down the hill.

The last steamer of the day had gone, and it was with no little suspense that he requested the desk clerk to call up Miss Elsmere's room with his name.

"Go right up, doctor," came the answer, and Quentin walked to the elevator with a song in his heart. The die was cast— a simple test or two, and he would doubt no more.

She greeted him with outstretched hands, her maid remaining in the alcove-like bedroom, and the frank delight in her face was so wholly unassumed that Quentin's heart smote him. He found that she was tired, and preferred talking quietly to going forth upon the island again, and she was genuinely glad to hear that his fishing trip had been "unavoidably" called off, and that he could remain with her.

So, dismissing the maid, he took her down to the palm-shaded corner in the lobby, where they sank into the soft chairs and talked. He not only made one or two simple tests, such as passing his finger close before her eyes, but he also told her of the loss of his pocketbook and frankly asked if she had any money. Her childish ripple of laughter disarmed his last suspicions, and she smilingly replied that she had ten dollars, which satisfied Quentin that for the night at least they would be able to pull through.

While they talked, during the hour that remained before dinner time, she told him more of her story and of her life under the roof of Doctor Burlington. The fact that she was of age mattered nothing, for as a dependent the physician had been given the custody of her person and the use of her income; while an appeal to the courts would of course result in her release, she had been kept in rather gilded seclusion, Burlington evidently knowing nothing of the clear, incisive brain which lay behind her broad brows.

"I wonder now that I had the courage— or rather, that I never had the courage to slip away before," she said finally. "It is so good of you to help me— and I am so sorry that I must be such a burden upon you "

"Never mind that," returned Quentin soothingly. "We'll take a stroll to the Mathews' cottage to-night, and if they haven't come back I'll leave a note telling of your presence here. Unless they return to-night or in the morning, we're apt to have trouble, I fancy. Burlington will trace you here easily enough, through the men who helped you at Long Beach and San Pedro— but don't
worry," he added quickly, as her face shadowed over, "I've three days of freedom; I'll wire my housekeeper for money to-night, and we'll soon tumble your worthy uncle off his high horse."

So, having quite restored her cheerful optimism, he tucked her hand under his arm, and they went in to dinner together— for dinner clothes have little place in Avalon.

"Well, what will you have to start with?" he smiled, picking up the carte.

"Anything plebeian and understandable," she retorted. "You order, please."

"Certainly," he answered, mentally thanking himself that he had learned the trick of ordering for a fair companion. Dolly had been wont to assure him that a woman could not help adoring a man who could order fittingly without questioning her — and he smiled to himself at the thought. He was beginning to wish that Enid Elsmere could take a lesson or two in adoration from Dolly Burlington. Having ordered, he laid aside the card — and looked up to see Bert Osgood calmly sitting three tables away, apparently paying them no attention whatever. But it suddenly occurred to Quentin that if this blind girl were in reality afraid of justice, she could find no better refuge than the Hotel Metropole, sheltered as the patient of a surgeon of some little repute.

With a little shock, he crushed the thought down sternly, and a song rose once more in his heart at the smile of the girl-woman who sat across the table and gazed at him with eyes that saw not.

5

MORE THAN ONCE it seemed to Quentin that the girl was on the point of making some confidence — hinted at by the fleeting expression of her face, not by any words; more than once he saw her glance in the direction of the detective's table as though she sensed the presence of some disturbing factor.

"I hope we'll find Mathews there tonight," he said finally, when dinner was all but finished. "Burlington will be over by the morning if he's traced you."

Swift alarm shot into her face.

"Then— if I dared―"

"Well?" he smiled, as she paused abruptly. "Is there anything you have not told me, Miss Elsmere?"

"Yes— I— no," and the struggle in her face was gone. "No, doctor; I must play out the game―"

"What do you mean?" He leaned forward, wondering what lay behind those words. "You can trust me absolutely, Miss Elsmere."

"Oh, it is not that, indeed! But my— my uncle must not see me."

"He shall not, believe me," and Quentin settled back in his chair. After all, her agitation at Burlington's name was quite natural, he told himself; yet — what if Burlington should prove to be in the right? If the girl had a brain tumour, it was possible that her sight could be restored, but as he watched those violet eyes Quentin found it hard to believe that Enid Elsmere was either so afflicted or was even blind. At times the fixed, vacant expression was lost in her face, and in those moments the violet eyes seemed to be scanning him, reading his very thoughts. It was uncanny, and to quiet his doubts he rose.

"I must send a telegram and get a room here, so if you'll wait I'll be back in a moment, and we can start out for the Mathews place."

She nodded smilingly, and Quentin departed to the lobby. Here he registered, got a room not far from that of Enid, and sent a wire to his housekeeper, instructing her to wire him twenty dollars that night without fail. So, with his immediate future provided for, he returned to the dining room, and in ten minutes left the hotel with Enid on his arm.

As he helped her into the car at the incline, he forgot that conversation on the glass-bottomed launch, the loss of his pocketbook, and his fleeting doubts. She settled near him with a shivery fear as the car began to lift.

"Why, it seems like— like some of me was missing!" she gasped. "As if it had suddenly left me alone and I wanted it right back!"

"What a queer child you are!" he laughed joyously, holding her arm in his.

"How— am I different from other girls?"

She laughed a little, as though the idea were not half unpleasant, and Quentin wondered. It swiftly occurred to him that such a thought should have been terribly jarring on the sensitive nerves of a blind girl— or so at least he would have supposed.

"Confound it!" he exclaimed mentally. "Here I am doubting again!" He resolutely cast all doubts from him, and answered her question with a confident pressure on her arm.

"You're different, Miss Elsmere, and I'm glad of it. You can give cards to all the girls I ever knew, and then beat them; the only thing they have on you is sight, and that you may regain, I trust."

"Do you think I can?" She turned her face to him eagerly, and Quentin saw that her eyes were wide set, as though she were looking through and beyond him. It struck him to the heart.

"I do not know," he made earnest answer, careful not to raise any false hopes. "I know of only one cause for such blindness, and that would be a small brain tumour, which could be removed easily. Only a very careful examination can determine."

With that the car stopped, and he helped her out. He paused a moment, holding her hand in his.

"Please promise me one thing; that you will take the thought of regaining your sight very quietly, Miss Elsmere. By upsetting your nervous system you can impair any good I might be "

"I thought you said where it was necessary to extract a promise it wasn't safe to trust?" she asked, laughing a little. He saw that her poise had been regained, and smiled at the way she had turned his words on himself.

"Surely," she went on, more gravely, "I will do all I can to help, doctor, it is entirely to my own interest to do so."

He could not help wondering at her calmness, and he admired her the more for it. At the edge of the park they paused 'while he stood looking down at the moonlit view beneath, and described, it to her. The curving bay with its white-sailed yachts and other swarming craft, the little city of Avalon with its gleaming lights, and farther on Sugar Loaf and Bachelor Point. She responded to his words as if she felt the utter beauty of the scene, then caught at his arm suddenly.

"Listen! There is music!"

He turned, and caught the first notes of the band concert floating up from the Greek theatre in the valley below. It was "La Paloma" they played, and Quentin suddenly decided that the air was not so hackneyed, after all; indeed, this girl on his arm seemed to him not a little like a helpless dove— and to curb the sentimental influence of the night and the thought, he led her to a seat close by.

"Physician's orders — moonlight and music," he laughed. "Ten to one the Mathews people will be doing likewise, if they've come home. If not, there's no hurry."

She did not answer; he saw that she was content to rest and listen to the music, and he himself was far too well satisfied to disturb her. The moonlight softened her face remarkably, deepening its shadows until he could see only the strong curves of brow and nose and chin.

Hardly speaking, they sat for a short half hour while the moon rose higher and lost its warm, early glow. Quentin's reverie was interrupted suddenly when she laid her hand on his arm without turning to him.

"Come!"

He looked down at her wrist, and caught the glint of a silver bracelet watch, with two initials set over against the dial in brilliants. He stiffened suddenly, then spoke:

"Why are the initials 'M. P.' on this bracelet, Miss Elsmere? They are not yours ?"

She started, but turned a perfectly calm face to his.

"No — the bracelet was given me by a friend, Mary Palmer, three years ago. She set her own initials in it so that I— I would not forget her."

Despite the quiet words, Quentin had a helpless feeling that the explanation was lame. But he savagely forced down the thought, though he stored away that name in his mind, and without comment led her along toward the Mathews cottage.

As they drew closer to it, he saw, with no little dismay, that the house was dark and seemingly empty. Turning in at the gate, he led Enid up the path, though he found that she was wonderfully apt at evading trees and bushes even without his warnings.

When they reached the side entrance, Quentin pushed at the bell in vain, though he could distinctly hear the faint answering ring. There was no doubt of it: the Mathews had not returned.

Nor was the caretaker in evidence. Quentin usually carried a small pocket electric flash lamp, and after seating the girl in one of the porch chairs he drew it out and flashed it swiftly over the door. No, all was closed and screened, and the sight of the girl's silent despair when he told her the result caused him to do some swift thinking.

The failure of Mathews to return home was annoying in the extreme, he cogitated, and it might easily prove much more. Burlington was not apt to have great difficulty in tracing the girl, and he could either take the regular morning boat to the islands or else he would get a launch from Long Beach and come over. In that case, every moment would count.

"I can bluff Burlington or lead him off the trail," he reflected, "but I'd better leave a note here telling Mathews to get down to the hotel on the jump. He might gain time by coming over in one of the Long Beach boats, since he's coming from Los Angeles. I guess I'll do that."

So, taking the girl's hand in his, he placed the flash lamp in her palm and set her finger on the button.

"If you'll hold that just so, I'll write a note to your friend and leave it, and we can get back to the hotel," he said, and since it was necessary for her to hold the light steady he was slow in loosing her hand— quite unaccountably so. In fact, the contact thrilled him very pleasantly. Then, with the thought that he was taking advantage of her implicit trust, he stepped away and explored his pockets for paper and pencil.

Finding an old prescription blank, he scribbled a hasty note, merely telling Mathews that his presence was urgently needed at the hotel by Miss Enid Elsmere and asking him to lose not a moment in getting there. Signing the paper, he read over the note to the girl for her approval.

"That will do nicely," she said with a decisive nod. "Where will you put it? Is there a mail box?"

"Nothing doing in that line," he chuckled. "The mail box is back at the front gate. I'll open the door, or else slip it under."

Taking the light from her, he flashed it over the door again, but found the outer screen door fastened. As the opening was tight, he drew out his pocketknife and without trouble inserted the blade so that the catch raised, and he swung the screen back.

"If my friend Osgood could see me now," he chuckled inwardly, "he'd be apt to run me in on general principles, I guess I"

As he expected, he found the inner door locked. So he stooped over and slipped the note inside, and rose with a feeling of relief. After all, Burlington might not be over in the morning, and Mathews would be easily able to handle the legal difficulties of the girl's situation. In any case, he himself had three days to spare, and he could remain and take care of Enid, if necessary.

"I feel unaccountably like a thief," he laughed under his breath, as he flashed the light across the door again and closed the screen.

"It does feel silent and deserted." She shivered a little.

He put away his flash lamp and was just turning to take her arm when another stream of light shot full into his face, blinding him. He stood in astounded surprise, and involuntarily his hand went to his pocket in search of his own light again. But a deep voice halted him abruptly :

"Hands up, there — quick!"

Protruding across the ray of light, Quentin saw the ugly barrel of an automatic, with the hand holding it. The sharp light blinded him to all behind.

"What's this— a holdup?" he demanded hotly, but obeying the command.

"Maybe. You two crooks will go back with me now, I guess !"

And into the moonlight stepped the burly figure of Osgood, the detective.

6

IN A FLASH Allan Quentin realized the damning incrimination of his position. Were it not for the girl, it would be laughable; Enid had risen with a stifled cry, and Quentin saw that she must now be told all.

He himself had nothing to fear beyond some humiliation, for if Osgood took him back to Los Angeles he would speedily be cleared. But it was another thing with Enid Elsmere. Mathews was the only man who could keep her from Burlington, thought Quentin, and were she to be forced from the island it might go hard with her.

"Confound you, Osgood!" he cried angrily, as the girl came to his side and put her hand on his shoulder appealingly. "I've done nothing to be arrested for! What's the meaning of all this, anyhow ?"

"None o' your back talk," growled the detective, his former suavity completely vanished. "Step down here, you !"

"Not on your life!" returned Quentin. "What for?"

'"For housebreaking, you fool! That's one thing, and I've got more if you want 'em. You're a slick one, you are! Not slick enough to fool me, though."

Still standing at the top of the steps, Quentin forced himself into calmness, and attempted to argue with the man, feeling at the same time that he would more cheerfully plant his fist on the heavy chin. He explained his business at the cottage to the extent of saying that he was leaving a note for Mr. Mathews, and stated that the note beneath the door would be proof in his support, if it could be got at. To his renewed dismay the detective only laughed scornfully.

"Look here, doc, you pretty near put it over on me to-day, all right. I had you framed up as a galoot pure and simple, but I guess I had it wrong. You prove your identity and do it in a hurry, unless you want to feel the bracelets."

Quentin's chest heaved in helpless anger. He knew that he was undone, for his lost pocketbook held his cards, letters, and check fold; yet this charge was so ridiculous that it irritated him beyond endurance. It occurred to him that there would be a wire from his housekeeper at the hotel for him, and with new confidence he set forth this fact.

"Nothin' like that goes here," laughed Osgood heavily. "You might's well give up that game, bo. I'll take in the lady dip over there for housebreaking, and you, too ; also, I got a charge of assault against you. By the time headquarters shakes you down a bit, I guess we'll get your record yet."

"Eh! Say, are you crazy?" exclaimed Quentin. "What kind of a charge are you faking up, anyhow? You'd better go slow, Osgood."

"Come off, come off!" grinned the detective, snapping off his electric torch as Quentin descended a step in his amazement. "You made a bad job up at the club to-day, and you'll do time for it. The town constable got a report on it, and I knew right off who the guy was — and it's you."

"Great Scott!" gasped Quentin. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, beat it !" exclaimed Osgood disgustedly. "Didn't you assault a guy named Green up there this afternoon? Anyhow, he's laid a charge against you, and you're it, doc. So trot along lively now, and the lady as well."

With that it all flashed over Quentin, and he emitted a groan of dismay. His two psuedo-friends had put up a fine joke on him in revenge for his action of that day ; he could picture the drunken glee with which Wells and Green had framed up the charge, and then had doubtless gone off on their trip. If he went in to Los Angeles to answer it, as he must do, and if Enid were to be cleared by the only means possible — that of establishing her identity, Burlington would at once assert his legal rights, and she might have to endure no little mental suffering before her friends could get her away from him.

The girl was standing on the top step still, in silent consternation; she seemed to be leaving it all in his hands, for she must have understood what was passing. Did she believe all this rigmarole? He groaned again at the thought that this absurd affair might have ruined him beyond repair in her ears— for she could know only what she heard. He broke out in desperate earnestness :

"Why, man, that was only a joke put up on me by a couple of men who had been drinking a little too much! You can phone over to the city and get my description and establish the whole thing "

"Look here," broke in Osgood roughly, "I ain't going to spend all night talking to you. I got a charge or two against you, and you're going to answer it, that's all. You can do your jawing to headquarters in the morning."

"But, you idiot, this lady is blind and is in my care! We're going to be at the Metropole to-night, and you've nothing against her that can stand. You go slow on this thing, Osgood, or you lose your star. I'll go back with you to-morrow, if you wish, when Mr. Mathews has returned and can take care of Miss Elsmere here. But don't you try any bullyragging with me, or you'll be sorry. I'm no hobo "

"Oh, I've got your number," and Osgood laughed as he pushed up the automatic in the moonlight. "Step down, doc. Good alias you got there, eh?"

Quentin saw that there was no help for it, and slowly descended the steps. Enid followed him, her hand still resting on his shoulder for a guide; her fingers tightened suddenly, and he knew that it was a silent expression of confidence in him. Slight as the thing was, it steadied him and buoyed him up wonderfully.

At the same time it served to remind him that she was utterly dependent on him. The whole miserable tangle resolved itself in his mind; he knew only that this girl's entire future depended on him and on his extricating them both from the toils cast about them by the detective.

As he gazed at the man, who was fishing in his pocket for something that jangled, while at the same time keeping his automatic carefully in place, Quentin sensed the wild anger that was surging up in him. It was so unreasonable— that this brute should hold Enid Elsmere's future in his thick hands and never know it! The self-assurance, the confident power of the detective's whole manner flicked Quentin on the raw; the thought of being handcuffed was too much altogether.

"You're not going to handcuff me, my man," he asserted flatly. Osgood glanced at him, noted the ice-cold gray eyes and the quivering nostrils, and promptly shoved his automatic against Quentin's breast.

"No games, now," he warned threateningly, menace in his heavy face.

"I made you a fair proposition," said Quentin, forcing himself into calm. "I'll go along with you, but Miss Elsmere is under my professional care, and she's going to remain at the Metropole―"

"Cut it out!" snapped Osgood, his left hand fetching out a pair of handcuffs, glinting bright in the moonlight. He shoved his jaw forward in ugly fashion. "I've had enough jaw out o' you, bo. You'll march down to the hotel, and if she's still keeping up the blind game she can have you for guide, see? Now stick out your mitts, you two — your right to his left, girly !"

He chuckled at his own jest as he dangled up the handcuffs. Until that instant Quentin had not realized that Osgood meant to iron the girl. He heard a little frightened gasp break from her lips, and the hand went from his shoulder. For a second he gazed at the detective, incredulous.

Osgood read his startled unbelief for fear, and grinned. But a flame of rage had swelled up in Quentin's brain as he comprehended the detective's intent. Iron this helpless girl! A mad fury settled on him— but it did not destroy his caution.

He lowered his left hand, half turning as if to bring down the hand of Enid with his right. At all costs he must prevent this outrage, and the greater danger to her that lay behind it, he felt. So, as Osgood lowered his automatic and reached out with the open handcuffs, Quentin swiftly struck down with his open left hand and knocked the weapon a dozen feet away.

Osgood was taken completely by surprise. He ripped out one savage oath, then Quentin's fist drove into his mouth and sent him staggering back. Quentin followed him with a leap, in desperate fear lest he draw another revolver, but before the detective could recover himself he had landed a second blow to the mouth.

He missed the chin, but Osgood was goaded into rage, and rushed at him with a shout of fury. Instead of avoiding the rush, Quentin stepped into it, took a glancing blow on the cheek, and brought up his right from the waist with all his force.

There seemed little power in the blow, so swift was it; but the detective's arms flew out, his head rocked back, and, with a single groan, he fell in a crumpled heap over Quentin's feet. It was a clean knock-out.

Quentin's mind worked fast in that instant. A glint from the gravel path caught his eye, and he stooped quickly to grasp the handcuffs. He knew that he must get this fellow out of the way and silenced, at least until a few hours had passed. How he was to manage it he did not quite see, but with the irons on him Osgood would at least be beyond making any more mischief for the present. He well knew that this whole affair would mean future trouble for himself, but he would manage to get out of it somehow, and the main thing now was to put Osgood where he would be safe for a time.

So without hesitation he brought the man's wrists together and snapped on the handcuffs. Then he straightened up — and saw Enid Elsmere standing just beside him, the automatic held in her hand. For a moment he stood paralysed with astonishment. He had knocked the weapon into the bushes, he remembered ; if she was blind, how had she secured it? Was she blind, after all?

"Where— where did you get that gun?" he panted hoarsely. "How could you know where it "

"I heard something fall," she said simply. "I found it — oh, what has happened? Why don't you tell me what you've done? I can't see! I can't see !"

Her wail of despair smote him, and, as she dropped the weapon with a little cry, he caught her and held her for a moment, thrilled out of himself by the clinging softness of her arms.

"It's all right, Enid," he exclaimed quickly. "That was a detective who tried to arrest us. He thought we were thieves, and I knew that he must not take us back to the city. I had to knock him out, little girl— keep cool, please do!"

At his explanation he felt the swift contraction of her muscles, the sudden convulsing fear that seized her.

"Oh, it is terrible !" she cried chokingly. "I— I had not meant this— I thought it was all for — I was afraid you were a―"

And with that she fell in a limp faint, and Quentin lowered her to the steps.

He straightened up, mopping the perspiration from his brow, and looked from one to the other of the two silent figures in blank consternation.

"Good Lord!" he exclaimed softly. "Now I am in a mess!"

"Well, I'm dummed! Say, what's goin' on here?"

At the voice, Quentin whirled about and saw the old caretaker standing a few yards away. Too late — the thing he had feared most of all had happened! Quentin leaned over and picked up the automatic, quietly shoving it into his coat pocket as he faced the amazed caretaker.

7

THE CARETAKER'S face was a battle-ground for fear and curiosity and suspicion, with the odds about even. Quentin drew a little breath of relief as he saw recognition join in the conflict, and smiled.

"Any word from Mr. Mathews yet?"

"Not yet, sir. What's all this goings-on ?"

Curiosity had won the battle, for the caretaker craned forward to stare at the white form of Enid, and looked up again in awe. Quentin watched the little old man with wild incoherence in his brain.

"She ain't— ain't dead, sir? Who's this here man?"

Of a sudden a desperate plan flashed on the surgeon. Thinking over his first meeting with the old caretaker, he could not remember having given the fellow his name ; and, as coherence came to him, he swiftly weighed the chances. When Mathews came all would be well — if Enid's story was true!

"Get some water to revive this lady, and get it quick !" he ordered, making a plea for time. "I'll explain when you get back. Hurry up, man! She's fainted."

"Law!"

The little old man's face shot from wonder into sympathy, and he shuffled past Quentin, who stood motionless.

Should he take the risk? He was staking everything on the girl's story, even to his good name. When this thing came into court, as it seemed likely to do, he would have to stand or fall by her; if she was not blind, but was the woman pickpocket using him as a screen

He recalled that revolver incident. Not even the sensitive ear of the blind could fully account for her swift seizure of the weapon in the moonlight. Quentin glanced down at her face, and its pure beauty, its womanly appeal, sundered all his doubts once more and drove him to quick decision.

"I'll do it," he thought grimly. "The lie will make me or break me. I've got to hold every one off until she gets into touch with Mathews, and if she's lied to me, then God help her !"

There came a glare as the old caretaker turned on the house lights, and Quentin plunged forward to his knees over Osgood's body. The whole scheme had come to him now ; it would hold things off until the morning, at least ; and, while it would eventually cause a worse muddle than ever, it promised to save Enid Elsmere— which was the main thing just at present.

Swiftly going through the detective's clothes, Quentin found a number of cheap printed cards and letters, which he transferred to his own pockets. The money in the man's pockets he left untouched, but unpinned the star from his vest and fastened it inside his own coat.

Satisfied at length that Osgood had no means of identification left, he started to rise; on second thought he completely emptied the man's pockets of money and all else, determining to make a thorough job of it. Osgood was breathing heavily, and Quentin rose at length to find the old caretaker shuffling excitedly from the open front door with a cup of water in his hand..

"All right; thanks," he said, and knelt beside Enid. "Hold up the lady's head and pour some of this on her face."

While the old man obeyed, Quentin swiftly opened the close-fitting neck of the girl's dress to give her air and loosen her throat. A little locket of gold fell out into his hand ; as he replaced it, he noted instinctively that it bore the letter "M" inset with brilliants. His lips clenched grimly; it was not too late yet to―

"For pity's sake, don't wash me away!"

Her hand caught at his, and with that his resolve clamped down hard.

"Wake up, it's raining!" he cried, forcing a laugh.

She pulled herself up.

"You may think it's fun to be ar―"

"Don't talk now," he exclaimed swiftly. "Here, lean back against the steps, and keep quiet."

With the words, he pressed her hand hard; whether she caught his meaning or not, she obeyed him, and a second later he rose and found the old caretaker watching him curiously.

"Well, I suppose you're wondering about all this, eh?" he smiled easily. "Here's my card."

With that he handed over one of the detective's cards, at the same time flinging back his coat to display the borrowed star. The old caretaker's jaw dropped, and he looked up from the card with a blank stare. Quentin gave him no chance to speak, but touched the still-unconscious Osgood with his foot.

"Miss Elsmere and I came up to see if Mr. Mathews was home, and we found this fellow trying to break in. In the ensuing discussion the lady fainted. Will your master be back in the morning?"

"Why— why, yes, sir," gasped the old man. "Gosh, a thief on the Catalinas! Who'd 'a' thought of such a thing! We ain't had no such thing happen for 's long 's I can bring to mind "

"Well, I want you to take care of him for me," and Quentin smiled at the quick alarm which the old man manifested. "He's handcuffed— don't worry. If you have a bit of rope, I'll tie his legs and leave him. Have you got a shed around here?"

"Yes, there's a shed in behind yonder, but — but — gosh! Let the constable―"

"No, this is my affair." broke in Quentin quickly. "Also, Mr. Mathews will want to see the man himself."

The caretaker, visibly impressed by this argument, went shuffling off after his rope. Quentin turned to the girl, and, catching her hand, raised her to her feet.

"Don't say anything now,"' he spoke swiftly. "I've taken the only course possible, and I'll explain later."

She nodded. Remembering the note, and fearing that the caretaker would read it and discover the signature, Quentin darted up the steps, found the paper on the floor of the hall, and with his pencil quickly rendered the signature illegible. He stepped down to find the caretaker returning, and exchanged the folded paper for the rope the old man bore.

"Give this note to Mr. Mathews the moment he returns. I'll come up in the morning and take care of this fellow."

With that, he stooped over Osgood and bound the man's ankles firmly. The caretaker picked up the hapless detective's feet, Quentin lifted his shoulders, and with much labour they bore him around the corner of the cottage to a small shed. As they set him down, the thump fetched a groan out of him, and Quentin made all haste to be off: When they stood outside in the moonlight again, he laid his hand impressively on the old man's arm.

"You'll have to bring him some food and water in the morning, my friend, but don't believe any yarns he may try to tell you. He may make out he's a policeman himself, or any such thing, but you let me and Mr. Mathews deal with him."

"Sure I will!" retorted the old man fervently, and when they reached the side entrance again Quentin hurriedly bade him good night and led Enid down the path.

"Do you feel all right, Enid?"

"A little mussy— and very foolish," she laughed shakily. "I'm sorry I deserted you at the very worst moment !"

"Oh, tell me something!" he exclaimed, pausing as they reached the inclined railway. "You started to say that you were afraid of something that I was, when you went off. What did you mean?"

"I don't know," she replied, her head turned away. "If you don't mind, doctor, I wish you'd take me right back. I— I feel rather shaken."

Cursing himself for a brute, yet unable to forget her words and the sight of that locket, Quentin said no more as they returned. But that letter "M" reminded him of the bracelet; he wondered grimly if Mary Palmer had also given Enid the locket by which to remember her!

This thought grew on him, and when he recalled what he had just done for her sake, how he had staked his whole reputation on the truth of her story, doubt rose in him and gripped him. When they entered the hotel, he made up his mind ; instead of seeking the elevator, he led her to a chair across the lobby, and quietly seated her.

"Now," he began, his eyes on her face, "I saw that locket about your neck, Miss Els'mere. I do not want to appear suspicious, but I robbed that detective of his credentials and locked him up. He suspects that you are a pickpocket who is known to play at being blind if detected. This afternoon some time my pocket was picked. Your name does not tally with the initials on your jewellery. All this means nothing to me, believe me. I have promised you my aid, and even if you have lied to me, even if you were a thief, I would be only too glad to lend you my assistance. All that I ask of you is to tell me the truth. If your story was the true one, I apologize, for I really want to aid you."

He saw the swift struggle that shot into her face, and as her eyes rested on his, it seemed that they must indeed be looking at him, for that fixed stare had vanished abruptly. But, despite the torture evident in her features, despite its reflection on his own heart, he said what he had meant to say, and waited.

Her hands twisted in her lap, and against all reason Quentin felt a mad impulse to cover them with his own. Then she calmed herself with a quiet effort, her face pale.

"I can only say that when we see Mr. Mathews you will be forced to believe me, Doctor Quentin," she said quietly. "I am sorry for all this dreadful affair that has come upon you; I do not want you drawn into my troubles "

"Say no more, please!" he cried, with a little laugh, rising. "I was a brute, and I am sorry myself. Now come to the elevator, and I'll say good night."

No more words passed between them, but at the door of her room their hands met in silent parting. Then Quentin returned to the office, obtained a large envelope, and sealed up the money and papers he had taken from the detective, writing the other's name across the flap.

"Kindly take care of this," he said to the night clerk. "Mr. Osgood will call for it to-morrow, unless I do myself."

This settled, he visited the telegraph desk and found a message awaiting him. Ten minutes later he sought his own room, supplied with money, a most undesirable alias, and a police star whose magnitude appalled him.

"This bit of nickel is going to get me into a bad fuss," he thought, gazing at the thing. "Well, I may be able to bribe Osgood to shut up, if the thing gets straightened out in time. If it doesn't, I know a rising young surgeon who is going to be in dutch! But I only wish Enid hadn't slipped me that Mary Palmer yarn. That gets my goat."

Think it over as he would, he could arrive at no conclusion. Finally he phoned a call for eight in the morning and went to bed, wondering if the awful muddle would leave him any chance to sleep. But, contrary to his own expectations, the memory of Bert Osgood trussed up in his shed merged into the lap of the waves under the hotel windows, and Allan Quentin ended his first day in Avalon in greater peace than he had passed it.

8

AT EIGHT-TWENTY Quentin was drinking in the fresh air of the new morning from the wharf, as Enid had promised to breakfast with him at nine. The situation seemed not nearly so bad as it had appeared the night before; Mathews would be over in the morning boat to relieve him of his charge, and it seemed less probable that Burlington would be able to track Enid by the one or two men who had helped her at Long Beach.

However, her manner worried him. There was a good deal that lacked explanation, and Quentin began to fear that her blindness was in reality due to a brain tumour; after all, she had only put him off when he had set the matter frankly before her last night. The thing that forced him to believe in her was her appeal to Mathews, for by quiet inquiries Quentin had found that the man was a retired lawyer of some prominence and of high repute. Yet it was a bitter job to quell his forebodings and compel himself to belief; his greatest aid in this was the remembrance of the girl's face. It haunted him, and filled him with strange longings— what a pity she had this affliction, he thought!

He roused himself at sight of a trim launch cutting in around the headland, and caught, the words "Long Beach boat" from a group of boatman lounging near by. As he made out the two figures sitting in the launch, Quentin started; it seemed as though a cold hand had gripped suddenly at his heart. Well he knew that erect, precise figure which had as usual retained its frock coat and silk hat, even on a launch trip.

As the boat drew in to the wharf, Quentin's sudden fear passed into exhilaration. He noted the rather flaccid face, the quick-darting blue eyes, the massive jaw under the crisp gray moustache, and laughed. Since Doctor Hall Burlington had come, Enid must have told him the true story, after all! He forgot all else in that swift thought— even to the bound detective who lay in the shed behind the Mathews' cottage; and realizing that he must get Burlington off the track, he stepped forward to meet the launch as it drifted in.

"Hello, Burlington !" he called easily. '"Got a hurry call?"

Burlington's quick blue eye picked him out, and the other waved a hand in reply. The launch drew up, Burlington seized Quentin's hand and mounted to the wharf, then tossed a gold piece to the boatman in payment.

"Morning, Quentin — you're just the man I want to see," and he took the younger man's arm. "Come along— are you on vacation?"

"Partly," responded Quentin, falling into step. He noted that Burlington's manner was not wholly free of agitation. "What's up— an operation?"

"No," and the other glanced around, then halted. "Are you free to help me a bit, Quentin? Professional confidence, understand."

Quentin met his eye and laughed lightly.

"I guess so, Burlington. I've a patient at the hotel, but my time's my own. You must be in a devil of a hurry, to come over in a little launch like that, man!"

"I am," and the other grimaced, then fell to mopping his brow. Gazing at him, Quentin felt sudden dislike of the man; to him Burlington had always seemed rather formal and precise, but now it was as though a mask had been stripped away. Quentin no longer doubted every word of Enid's story, and his mind raced desperately. He knew that at all costs he must keep Burlington from seeing that hotel register, and he suddenly resolved on a bold course.

"Did you come over yesterday?" The blue eyes shot into his suddenly.

"Yes— I brought over a girl from Los Angeles. Why?"

"You didn't happen to notice anything of a blind young woman on the boat, did you ?"

"Sure," and Quentin laughed again, holding the blue eyes to his. "My patient is a young woman, and blind. What's the matter, Burlington?"

"Her name!" The other gripped his arm, his face flaming a dull red. "What's her name, Quentin?"

"Why— Miss Palmer," lied Quentin, as the name flashed into his mind. The older man's hand fell away, and he mopped at his face again with a sigh of relief.

"I beg your pardon, Quentin — I'm a little overwrought, I fancy." At the pause Quentin chuckled inwardly ; his bold ruse had worked, and it was evident that the other man held no suspicions. Burlington hesitated, then laughed harshly, taking Quentin's arm again.

"I'm in rather a hard position, Quentin. I had charge of a girl — a blind young woman who's unfortunately afflicted with flightiness." He was getting back his usual precise air by this time.

"Yes?" encouraged Quentin.

"As I say, she is addicted to melancholia and odd conceptions — imagines that she's an abused heiress and all that. Nothing dangerous, but a very interesting case, no doubt due to a brain tumour. I'm hoping that an operation will fix her up first rate. But yesterday morning she got away — we had her under observation, you understand. From various persons I found that she had got to a San Pedro car and had been inquiring about the islands, and there seems to be no doubt that she came over here yesterday."

"Well, that's easily fixed," suggested Quentin craftily. "A word to the constable here and he'll be able "

"No, no !" Burlington cried suddenly, halting him again with evident haste. "She is very sensitive, and anything in the nature of a scene might throw her into hysteria, Quentin. It's a matter for me to handle personally, and if you'll give me your help I'll be very glad indeed."

"Certainly, I'll do whatever I can," and Quentin's cold gray eyes and resolute face gave no hint of the double meaning in his words. ''How's Mrs. Burlington and Dolly? Have you had any breakfast?"

"No — they're all right," came the confused answer. Quentin had a hazy idea of getting Burlington off to one of the smaller hotels for breakfast.

"You'd better take a day off and run out before long, old man; you look  rather run down. By the way, I think we had better go up to the Metropole and start inquiries there, and I'll get a bite to eat."

Quentin's heart leaped. This was the very thing he had feared. If he could only keep Burlington away from the Metropole register, he might be able to waste time until the morning boat came in. And if Mathews did not come then, he would simply have to make an open break with Burlington and take Enid under his own protection — though he had a very hazy idea of the law in such cases. However, the main thing was to keep the two apart for a time.

"What was the girl's name?" he temporized, wondering how to manage things.

"Elsmere — Enid Elsmere," came the answer, and his last doubts of the girl fled away. "Still, she might not use her own name, Quentin. The easiest way to track her will be by her blindness."

"Well, look here," and Quentin halted in desperation. "I'll run up to the Metropole and arrange to get away, and also make inquiries. You cover the Stamford and Hermosa, and I'll meet you at the latter place for breakfast. How's that?"

Burlington drew a hand across his heavy lips and nodded.

"All right, Quentin. Hadn't you better have a description of the young woman ?"

"It might help," smiled Quentin, thinking that he needed little description of the person in question. He glanced at his watch and found that he still had fifteen minutes to spare. "There'll be no trouble in locating her, though."

"Hope not," grunted Burlington, the blue eyes darting around them until Quentin felt some uneasiness lest Enid come forth for a morning stroll. "However, I know exactly the clothes she wore when she got away. She's a rather small young woman, about twenty-two in appearance, though in reality she's not so old ; black-haired and gray-eyed, wearing a deep red dress of some soft stuff, with a dark-gray wrap."

"Eh?" Quentin suddenly felt as though his entire structure had been riven asunder. "Just go over that again, if you don't mind."

The other repeated his description, but Quentin was only sparring for time, trying to keep his amazement concealed. Those few words had staggered him, swept him out of his depth.

"Good heavens !" he thought, groping after some fragment of sanity in he wild mix-up. "Enid is violet-eyed, brown-haired, and has a white dress— and she's pretty near as tall as I am! Am I crazy, or is Burlington?"

There was nothing but the most precise earnestness in the other man's manner, however. He would have no reason to give a false description of the girl, reflected Quentin; but this thought led him into a new maze of probabilities. It was unlikely in the extreme that there would be more than one blind girl out of the lot, for that would be stretching coincidence too far. Yet the detective had been after a blind girl, his own charge was blind — or said she was blind, and here Burlington was after another one!

So far, the only one of the three who had materialized was his own girl. She had claimed to be Enid Elsmere; but was she? She did not answer Burlington's description, and Quentin felt a swift and horrible doubt of her. Was she the woman pickpocket, after all? Had she deliberately builded on the name of Enid Elsmere, with some knowledge of the state of things in Burlington's household on which to base her structure of lies? The only other possibility was that Burlington had given him a false description, and this seemed utterly improbable, out of the question. There was no reason for it, and Quentin looked up with helpless struggle in his eyes.

"Go ahead to the other two places, Burlington. I'll meet you and we'll either breakfast at the Hermosa— or come back to the Metropole."

The other strode off with a curt nod. Quentin's last words had been born of a desperate idea, a frantic effort to cut this whole weird Gordian knot at one blow. If Burlington had given him the true description of his ward, then the girl at the Metropole was posing under an assumed name.

In that case, a meeting between them would only serve to show her that Quentin had pierced through her deception, and it would undoubtedly provoke a straightforward explanation between them.

On the other hand, if Burlington had lied in his description and she was the real Enid Elsmere, the thing would come to a show-down then and there. Burlington would be taken in his own net, and if he attempted to claim the girl, Quentin decided that he himself could then step in with some semblance of right.

"Just the same," he thought, as he leaped up the hotel steps, "I'll stick by her. If she's a pickpocket, I'll be a whole lot mistaken; but whatever she is or does, I'll give her one more chance to come across with the truth. By George, I can't believe that she has been deliberately acting a part all this time !"

Prompted by a sudden thought that he might find two Enid Elsmeres registered, he strode over to the desk only to have the hope destroyed. Also, the day clerk made a reference to the envelope waiting for Osgood which showed that he was inclined to be suspicious, and Quentin hastily assured him that the detective would call for it that day. He turned to the elevator, wondering miserably how he was going to get out of the net that he had tangled around himself.

At Enid's door he found her waiting for him, and her quiet poise, her air of utter confiding trust in him, almost shook him from the resolution he had taken. Yet — at sight of him did a shadow of alarm flit over her face, as though she read the conflict in his eyes, or did she merely sense it subconsciously?

He laid this to his imagination, however, when he took her hand and answered her greeting, trying to keep his voice level. As he led her from the elevator across the lobby, toward the dining room, he spoke lightly.

"If you don't mind, I'll get you seated, then I'll run over to the Hermosa and bring back a chap I want you to meet, Miss Elsmere."

Try as he would, he could not keep his voice quite firm, and the glance she flashed him only heightened his self-accusation. Then she nodded and smiled.

"Certainly — I'll be glad to meet any of your friends."

"We won't call him a friend," laughed Quentin uneasily, beginning to reproach himself already. "Anyway, you sit down here and I'll be right back. Oh, yes — I think that I'll introduce you as Miss Palmer, too. Your absent girl friend won't object to that, I trust?"

"As you please, doctor," she replied, seating herself.

Quentin hurried away, a little chilled by those final words. He found Burlington waiting for him on the steps of the Hermosa, precise and dignified as ever, but with uneasiness resting in his never-quiet blue eyes.

"What luck, Burlington ?'*

"None, so far. You did not find her at the Metropole?"

"No, but my patient is waiting to breakfast with us. Come on over, and after breakfast, if nothing has happened, we'll soon locate your patient."

Burlington nodded, his eyes resting on Quentin for a second; then with a rather patronizing manner which was peculiarly offensive to the younger man, he took Quentin's arm, and they walked back to the other hotel.

The next five minutes would take him out of the labyrinth, thought Quentin— in one way or the other.

9

"BY THE WAY," asked Quentin, halting on the steps of the hotel and determining swiftly to see just where Burlington stood, "from whom did your patient escape? She was not confined, I suppose?"

The other shot him a quick glance, but Quentin's face expressed only interested curiosity and sympathy.

"No. She was— er— being taken care of by friends who lived at Long Beach. It was not thought that she would try to get away, for her mind has never run to violence or anything of the sort. She merely slipped out alone, got a man in the street to help her on the car, and that was an end of it. Her friends wanted to call in detectives and all that sort of tiling, but I happened to find the man who had helped her, and that made all straight. She's over here somewhere, and should be easy to locate."

That clinched the matter in Quentin's mind. He tried, to recall any girl answering the description of Enid, on the boat coming over, but could not. In fact, he had been too much absorbed with his own blind girl to watch other people.

"Well, my friend and professional brother, you've lied neatly," he thought grimly, as they entered the hotel. The thought halted him mentally, however. Had Burlington lied to him, after all?

He had doubted Enid's story in the first place, though she had substantiated it by her seeming knowledge of Burlington's family. If her story had been true, Burlington had just now lied to him; yet Burlington had described an entirely different girl as the one for whom he was searching, which would rather tend to back up his own story.

"I can't make head nor tail of it," groaned Quentin to himself. "I'll simply introduce 'em, and that will put the whole thing on the knees of the gods. And I feel blamed sorry for the gods !"

Pleading that there was no time to waste on formalities, he steered Burlington past the desk without registering, they left their hats at the dining- room entrance, and he led the way toward the table at which Enid Elsmere still sat. He reflected that if she had lied to him, it would be poetic justice that he should introduce her by the name of Mary Palmer.

Before they reached the table, Quentin had found the answer to his mental questionings. He saw Burlington's eyes fall on the figure of Enid, then flicker on without any change to the next table. The girl had not been recognized.

This settled one doubt, only to raise another; how could she have known of the blind girl in Burlington's care? The physician's presence proved that there had been such a person, and Quentin had no more doubts that the girl's story had been a true one, whether true as regarded herself or not. However, a moment later they had reached the table, and there was no time to reflect on the situation.

"Miss Palmer, allow me to present Doctor Hall Burlington— Burlington, my patient, Miss Palmer."

Burlington bowed in his precise manner, but the girl's face suddenly flamed scarlet, then became dead white ; Quentin could almost have sworn that there was sight in the violet eyes that went from one to the other of them.

"You are now breakfasting with two famous professional men, Miss Palmer," he went on, forcing a laugh. Now that he had found out what he wanted to know, he refused to torture the girl further. If she was a pickpocket— well and good ; it was still to be explained how she had known of his own intimacy with Dolly Burlington.

"But it is the gentlemen who are honoured," added Burlington, with heavy gallantry. "You are a native daughter, Miss Palmer?"

"No," she faltered, but with an evident effort regained her self-control. "No, I am an Eastern girl, Doctor Burlington. I am merely spending a few months with friends— in Los Angeles."

With this the waiter bustled up, and the girl had a chance to recover, which she did slowly. Her manner gave Quentin no doubt of her evident shame and distress, but at thought of his own simple-minded faith in her story, Quentin felt little remorse at his action.

None the less, he steered Burlington into a line of talk which he could keep up indefinitely; the Long Beach physician had bought heavily in real estate during the past year or two, and consequently was a "booster" of the most virulent type. He talked at length until breakfast was served, Quentin and the girl having only to throw in a word here and there to keeping him going.

Another crisis was coming from a source which Quentin little suspected, however. Before breakfast was half over, a waiter brought him in a note which he tore open with a word of apology to the others. It was a very brief and curt request that he visit the office. Wondering what was up now, he excused himself, and went out to the desk, finding there the clerk with whom Osgood had been talking on the previous day. The clerk nodded at him and led him into the interior office.

"Doctor," he said challengingly, "you left a package here for that bull, Osgood, last night. Osgood had reserved a room here, and he's not shown up; I'll have to have an explanation — I may as well tell you frankly that he suspected that lady with you of "

"Go easy," warned Quentin, and at the icy flame in his eyes the clerk drew back. "Where Osgood is isn't my business or yours, either. As for that lady, she's a patient in my charge, and if you know Doctor Burlington, of Long Beach, you'll find him at breakfast with us now, and he can identify me. You've made a mistake, young man, and you'd better back water pretty hard, and do it quick."

The clerk tried to stare him down, but the result was only to send him into a stammering apology, and Quentin knew that his bluff had gone down. None the less, he insisted on sending for Burlington, and when that individual arrived and identified him in some surprise, Quentin promptly closed the incident.

"Merely a matter of cashing a check," he explained to Burlington as they returned to their table. The other waved his hand loftily, sat down with a pompous air which ruffled Quentin afresh, adjusted his cuffs, and fell to his breakfast. Quentin smiled at the girl and was astonished to see a little colour rise in her cheeks— as if she had seen the smile and took it for an assurance. From that moment he was convinced that she was no other than the pickpocket, and that she was no more blind than he was.

The delicate irony of forcing Burlington to help him out. made him chuckle again, but he longed for Mathews to show up that the tangle might be Complete. Certainly this girl had been confident in her appeal to Mathews, and Quentin wondered if every one who came into contact with her was to be drawn into some wild imbroglio. Osgood had certainly suffered therefor, and just at present Burlington seemed to be in for future trouble also!

"Now, Miss Palmer," he said finally, "Doctor Burlington and I are going out to look up a professional case, into which he has drawn me on consultation. You won't mind if I leave you for an hour or so ?"

"Of course not !" She smiled up at him with a rather pathetic effort at brightness, he thought. "But you'll take me to my room, first?"

"By all means!"

Burlington shook hands with her in his most precise air, and Quentin led her from the dining room, keeping up the farce. She said nothing until they had stepped from the elevator, then Quentin turned her around gently.

"Well, Enid Elsmere?"

She put out her hand to his arm impulsively.

"Doctor Quentin, you made a promise to Enid Elsmere to help her to escape from her guardian. You gave me to understand that your promise was ironclad. Do you wish to be released from it or not?"

Quentin was taken aback by her firm voice, and as he searched her face he found it impossible to believe that this girl was a shamed, discomfited thief. She was making no plea ; she was merely asking him a direct question.

"My dear girl," he said softly, Iris hand closing on hers, "please let this matter drop until I can get back for a talk. I know very well that you have not told me the truth, but that does not affect my willingness to stand by you; even if you are a thief, as the detective believed yesterday, my promise stands. When I met Burlington, and he told me about the girl he was seeking, I saw from his description that it was not you he was after; now, do you want to see Mr. Mathews, or shall I stave him off also?"

"No," she returned, with a half-sobbing laugh. "Oh, if he were only here now I would be able to tell you everything! Come to me when you get through with Doctor Burlington— I will explain to you then if I can. Please— please continue to trust me !"

"Look up at me, Mary Palmer," he said, and her head came up ; but if the vacant, fixed stare in the violet eyes was assumed, he could not tell. "Now, under the circumstances— if you'll pardon my language— wouldn't any man who granted that request be nothing short of a damned fool?"

She flushed. Then, to his amazement, a laugh flickered across her face.

"Yes— but I still make it."

"All right— it's granted," he smiled cheerfully, unable to resist the charm of her. "I'll be back as soon as I can shake Burlington, and get straightened out. I don't know whether you're blind or not, or whether there are three blind girls wandering around Avalon, or whether your name is Enid Elsmere or Mary Palmer— but I'll bank on you, and you can depend on me to the limit."

Her face changed — confidence and regret and perplexity following each other in swift succession. Quentin saw that the violet eyes had lost their fixed expression, but that might have been because of the tears that glittered in them.

"Oh, I― I wish I could have known that yesterday!" she faltered. Then, pushing him back as she averted her head to hide her tears, she left him quickly and entered her own room.

Quentin flung back his shoulders aggressively as he returned to the elevator. So, then, the whole matter was at last out in the open! She was the pickpocket and no other — yet for the sake of her indefinable appeal, for the sake of her smile and the touch of her hand, he was going to help her elude justice at the cost of his own good name and reputation, it might well be.

"Then I'll be a damned fool to the limit," he reflected bitterly. "But I won't believe her a thief until she has told me so herself."

Fate had not yet finished with him, however— or rather, he was still serving as a shuttlecock between fate and Nemesis. As he left the elevator, he saw the desk clerk, Burlington, and another— a pudgy man in policeman's clothes— talking quietly together and evidently waiting for him. The clerk turned to him with puzzled deference.

"Here he is now. Doctor Quentin, this is the island constable, Mr. McBean. I'm sorry, sir, but you seem in hot water all around to-day!"

"What's the matter now?" smiled Quentin, wondering if his fight with Osgood had become noised abroad. The pudgy constable eyed him in hesitation.

"Why, sir, I didn't know exactly what to do — you see, a couple of gentlemen at the club yesterday "

"Oh, that !" Quentin laughed again in relief. He remembered that Osgood had said something about the constable in connection with the reported assault. "You're looking that up?"

The pudgy constable, whose lack of duties made his office a sinecure, nodded doubtfully.

"Yes, sir. Doctor Burlington says that you're all right, though―"

"Of course, I am," laughed Quentin, and at that he explained exactly how the affair at the club had come about, and stated that it was no doubt a joke perpetrated by Green.

"I guess that's right, sir," said McBean, grinning. "I've been talking to the people up there, and Mr. Green was a little off colour, I'm afraid. He's gone off fishing, so if Doctor Burlington will vouch for you we'd better let the thing hang over. It won't do to give the island a bad name, you know."

"Of course, of course," broke in Burlington, in evident haste to be off after his quarry. "I'll answer for Quentin, my man— any one in Los Angeles knows him. Now come along, Quentin. We can't waste any more time."

So for the second time Burlington had extricated him from a difficulty! Quentin grinned inwardly as he followed the other to the steps; he saw a good many more difficulties ahead, notably that of Osgood. But these could all wait, and now he put himself at the disposal of Burlington with a very cheerful heart.

They discussed the affair in hand, and, after a brief talk, decided that they could do nothing except make a canvass of the half dozen smaller hotels. In order to save as much time as possible, they divided these between them,, and Burlington strode away with the tourists sending amused glances at his formal attire and shiny "topper."

As Quentin had no intention of wasting his time on a search to which he felt that Enid Elsmere — or Mary Palmer — held the clew, he promptly sat down on a bench and prepared to report failure on Burlington's return. He preferred to postpone his talk with the girl until he had Burlington off his hands.

"Well, I'm in good and deep," he reflected ruefully, biting the end from a cigar and settling down. "Now let's get cleared up. My Enid is probably named Mary Palmer, and appears to be a woman thief whom Osgood is after. Osgood is locked up in Mathews' shed and therefore may be eliminated as a factor. But what about Mathews? If the worst comes to the worst, I can hire a launch and skip out with Enid— or whatever her name is— and get home and wait for arrest.

"If I was a hero of romance, I'd probably lure Burlington up to that shed and pile him in with Osgood. By George, though! If he hadn't backed up Enid's yarn by his own errand here, I'd find it hard to believe of him! I can't pretend to like him a whole lot, but it doesn't seem exactly probable that such high-flown villain stunts could be put over outside of a dime novel. Anyhow, I'm getting to be a beautifully finished liar myself!"

This last admitted of no dispute, and the outlook seemed dismal in consequence. He saw now that he had made a mistake in taking Osgood's identity on himself with the old caretaker, on the previous evening. That in itself might lead to undesired complications, unless Mathews arrived in time. And what would happen then? Since the girl's story had been untrue, where did Mathews come in except as another disturbing factor.

"If I don't go mad first," he laughed hopelessly, flinging away his cigar, "I am due to catch it from all concerned! Well, there's Burlington's silk tile coming down the hill, so now for another bunch of lies, I suppose."

It flashed over him, as he stood waiting, that Mary Palmer no doubt had his pocketbook for him. That must have been what she meant by her final exclamation : "If I had only known that yesterday!" Her explanation, then, would take a very material form ; and the sooner made the better, for when he had plenty of ready cash in hand he could visit Osgood and undoubtedly bribe him off his private revenge. Even though Osgood had arrested him falsely, there might be trouble in prospect.

"Well, any luck, Quentin?"

He turned, to find Burlington once more mopping his heavy face, with his pompous air somewhat dissipated.

"Nothing doing," returned Quentin briefly, eying his confrere. "Seems to me you're a whole lot excited over the matter, Burlington. By the way. I just recalled the fact that I'd heard that girl's name before — seems as though Dolly had mentioned an Enid Elsmere to me."

Burlington's cheeks flushed slightly, then mottled. He forced a harsh laugh.

"You're twisted, Quentin. It's rankly impossible. Now, I'm sure I don't know just what to do— a house-to-house canvass is absurd, of course."

"Had Miss Elsmere any friends here?" asked Quentin craftily.

"No, no, of course not !" exploded the other testily. "Since she's not at the larger hotels, we might as well start systematic inquiries along the water front. She can't have got very far without being seen."

Quentin nodded, thinking rapidly. He might as well accompany Burlington and keep him occupied in the quest, since there really was an Enid Elsmere, and since the physician was plainly in no little mental distress over the disappearance. Also, he determined to probe Burlington's mind and make sure of his ground on the heiress question before he committed himself to any definite break with the other. But first he must telephone the girl and let her know why he could not return immediately.

"I'll step into the drug store here and call up Miss Palmer," he said. "I'd better let her know that this thing is apt to take all morning."

Burlington nodded and dropped on the bench, while Quentin strode to the corner store, and got the Metropole on the telephone. When he inquired for Miss Elsmere, he found that she had gone out; and in response to his amazed questions the operator switched his friend, the desk clerk, on the wire.

"Yes, doctor," explained that individual, with a touch of malice in his voice, "a message came for her just after you went v out with Doctor Burlington. She also went out."

"What— alone?"

"Yes, sir— and blindness didn't seem to bother her much, either."

"Good Lord!" gasped Quentin inwardly. Then, aloud: "Didn't she leave any word ?"

"Yes ; she said she'd be back in an hour or less, sir. Oh— by the way, did you lose a pocketbook yesterday, doctor?"

"You bet," uttered Quentin weakly, wondering if she had left it for him. "Why?"

"It was just turned in a minute ago— one of the boatmen found it yesterday in his launch, looked your name up at the hotels, and left it lot you."

"All right," said Quentin. "Get his name, and I'll reward him. Good-bye."

He staggered out into the sunlight, too dazed to do more than rejoin Burlington and allow himself to be patronized without protest. After extracting that promise of trust from him— the girl had skipped out! It was the last straw.

10

"A BLIND GIRL? Why, no, Doctor Burlington! You haven't lost one?"

"Oh, no — no, not at all — she is with friends, and I was merely looking them up," and with this Burlington backed Quentin away from the information bureau at the pier, and made all haste to flee.

Quentin chuckled.

"He was more interested in asking questions than answering them, Burlington! I guess the best thing to do would ,be to chuck the whole thing into the hands of the police. They'll find your blind girl soon enough."

"Heavens, no! My reputation, my standing " And Burlington rumbled "on with more confusion than coherence, until at length he pulled himself together. The quick and vivid interest manifested by the officials in his questions had entirely disconcerted him, and Quentin had not assisted greatly in restoring his composure.

Since that telephone conversation with the desk clerk, indeed, Quentin had grown beyond fearing anything. While they wandered along, he had kept a sharp lookout for Mary Palmer, but without success; also, he had managed to probe through a good deal of his companion's pompous and precise air, to find a growing dismay underneath it.

"I can't see your objection to the police," and Quentin baited him coldly. "The girl is nothing to you except a patient; it doesn't reflect on you that she got away, since she was not confined in your house. Of course, if she was insane or something of that sort, and you had kept her hidden away, it would be different."

Burlington hunched his heavy shoulders in something like a shiver, though it was a very warm day, and his face remained mottled ; his blue eyes were darting about in desperate fashion, and Quentin was beginning to pierce to the real man underneath the mask so constantly presented to the world.

Nor did he find it good. Burlington's usual restraint and calm precision were shattered, and as the time dragged past with no result from their quest, the older man's anxiety and terrific earnestness were increased tenfold, dominating all else, and Quentin's merciless jabs, the more merciless because of their apparent innocence, drew blood.

"Well, it looks as if Mary Palmer had ducked to let me take what's coming," reflected Quentin. "I guess I'll drag down another honourable physician and surgeon, just the same; Burlington's a heap more of a crook than Mary Palmer, I'll bet a dollar!"

As they passed the Metropole while making the rounds, Quentin stepped inside and secured his lost pocketbook, which he found all intact. His suspicion that the girl had left it for him had been shattered ; there was no doubt that he had lost it aboard the launch the previous afternoon, and with no little relief he peeled off a ten-spot for the boatman, found that the girl had not returned, and rejoined Burlington outside.

It irritated Quentin that he should be spending his time on this aimless search w hen he had more important things to concern his energies. So Mary Palmer had had a message! From whom? Was it possible that Mathews had — but he could not see just where she had any connection with Mathews, despite her anxiety on the subject. So he gave over thinking of it, and endeavoured to drive the whole affair from his mind.

"Here, sit down and rest a bit," he exclaimed, when another half hour had gone by without result, save that Burlington's '"poke" collar was going down fast. Quentin's quiet coolness irritated the older man.

"Confound it!" he returned, though he obeyed the order. "You're a cold-blooded beast, Quentin !"

"I don't see the necessity of getting worked up over this," said Quentin calmly, seating himself beside the other. "By the way, Burlington, what became of that ward of yours? Didn't I hear something about your being given the guardianship of some one, two or three years ago?"

Burlington started slightly, and his blue eyes settled on Quentin uneasily.

"Eh? Why— did Dolly tell you that?" he exclaimed savagely.

'"I don't remember where I heard it," answered Quentin lightly. "I'll have to ask Dolly about it some time."

"You needn't bother," grunted Burlington. "Yes, the story was true, but I got rid of the responsibility immediately afterward. I had almost forgotten it myself. Here, have a cigar?"

Quentin accepted the weed, enjoying to the full the other man's nervous and abrupt demeanour. That Hall Burlington was a scoundrel he no longer doubted.

"It's a cinch that all the crooks aren't in the rogues' gallery," he told himself, as he watched the mottled and uneasy features of the erstwhile pompous physician. "I guess I'd sooner be in my shoes than his, right now."

Upon this he remembered that he had something coming to him when Mathews arrived to release the imprisoned detective, and asked Burlington about the boat. To his dismay, he found that the first one over from San Pedro was that on which he had come — the noon boat, which meant that he had two hours to wait. As Burlington noticed his surprise, he stated that he expected to meet a Mr. J. M. Mathews, and inquired if the other knew him.

"By mere name only," returned Burlington nervously. "A lawyer of some reputation, I believe. I trust you're in no legal difficulty, Quentin?"

"Oh, no— merely a personal matter," laughed Quentin, and chuckled inwardly as Burlington rose with an oath.

"I can't sit down any longer, Quentin. Come on — I'm going to find that young woman — I've got to find her! This confounded anxiety is going to make a nervous wreck of me if it isn't settled."

He seemed to be that already, thought Quentin as he rose. Since they had already covered the larger hotels — or at least Burlington thought they had— and the chief places of interest along the curve of the harbor, they struck down toward the canvas city. More than once a splash of dark red among the crowds lured them in vain pursuit, and the farther they went the more Burlington lost of his precise air and dignified pose. He had plainly counted it a small task to locate Enid Elsmere in Avalon, and Quentin managed to forget his own troubles in watching Burlington's poise grow beautifully less.

He had never liked the older man particularly, for Burlington's cold manner was not calculated to attract men to him. Now that this was stripped from him, Quentin liked him even less; underneath the mask lay a sheer brutal violence which was somewhat of a surprise to him, while it bore out the story told him by Mary Palmer — though he could not see how she had become aware of it. That was a problem which Quentin resolutely shut out of his mind, however; in some way the girl had learned how things stood, and since she had skipped out in order to avoid an explanation, he was determined to probe Burlington to the depths.

Finally they ran across Constable McBean, and in helpless despair Burlington called in his services to find Miss Elsmere; since McBean's principal duty was to keep anything in the nature of a disturbance under cover, he nodded solemnly in pledge of secrecy, and bustled off without delay.

"Good God!" breathed Burlington hoarsely, mopping at his face as he watched the retreating blue form. ''I can't stand this suspense, Quentin! We should have found that girl without any trouble— I wonder what could have happened to her?"

"Perhaps she found friends," suggested Quentin cruelly, and the other groaned.

"No. She — she was practically unknown." Burlington glanced around wildly, and Quentin made haste to get him out of the sun. The older man looked startlingly close to apoplexy, he thought.

"If — if she gets hold of people, Quentin — she'll play on their sympathies and make all kinds of trouble for me. Confound it, I'll have her examined for insanity if we get hold of her "

"Eh? I thought you said she was nothing to you?" broke in Quentin mercilessly.

"She's not." Burlington wrenched at his collar, and his heavy jaw shoved out as he glared suspiciously at the younger man. "What are you trying to insinuate, Quentin? You'd better watch your words― "

"Come, come, keep your self-control, Burlington," said Quentin sternly. "I'm not insinuating anything — you're the one to watch your words, I guess."

"I beg your pardon," muttered the other, trying to collect himself. "I'm a bit worked up, old man ; you'll have  to overlook what I say. Come on, let's get up to the Metropole and sit down a bit in the cool. I'm afraid I'm getting old, Quentin."

The younger man laughed, and started along beside him to the hotel. A moment later, however, he suddenly caught sight of a hatless figure a short half block away, and stood paralysed. There was no mistaking the heavy, undershot jaw, and the burly form— and worse yet, the other had seen him. He must have left the key of those hand-cuffs somewhere in Osgood's pockets, Quentin thought. Nemesis had come upon him!

11

"I GUESS you'll have to identify me again, Burlington," said Quentin coolly, watching the detective bearing down upon them. "Here comes a chap who took me for a housebreaker last night when I was up at Mathews' cottage. I had a scrap with him and left him tied up."

"You seem to be making the most of your holiday," grunted Burlington, stopping.

Quentin laughed a little. Fairly breathing forth rage and vengeance, Osgood came striding down on them; his face was purple with suppressed fury, his clothes were torn and awry, and he looked anything but prepossessing. Quentin quietly reached for his pocketbook, extracting a twenty-dollar bill, and stood holding it unostentatiously as the detective raged up with fists waving.

"You — you — you " gasped Osgood, choked by his own vehement anger.

"Hello, old man!" chuckled Quentin pleasantly. "Been detained?"

The detective managed to emit an oath, but he was unarmed and plainly had not any great desire to taste Quentin 's fist again, without the requisite backing.

"You come along with me, you dirty crook !" he stormed, careless of the passing tourists who paused to watch him curiously. "I've got the goods on you now, all right, and I'll land you for ten years "

"Here, what's all this row?" demanded Burlington with some asperity. He had managed to regain some of his customary air;- which, in conjunction with his silk hat and frock coat, impressed the detective to the point of giving definite and coherent answer. "You can't go on like this in the street, my man. What does this mean, anyway?"

"It means that I'm a headquarters man," returned Osgood truculently, transferring his attentions to Burlington, who instantly ruffled up. Quentin reached up, took the star from his vest, and silently folded the twenty-dollar bill under it. "Don't you come any of your gay stuff on me, or I'll pull you along with this pal of yours. What's your name?"

"My name is Burlington, my man — Hall Burlington, M. D., of Long Beach," stiffly answered the other, his ire restoring all his pompous air. "A little more of your impertinence, sir, and I'll have the officials deport you from the island."

There was nothing weak about Hall Burlington. For all his rage, the keen eyed detective gave back before the other's bristling dignity; accustomed to judge men, Osgood was sobered down on the instant, being placed on the defensive.

"No offense," he blurted out. "Only you're trailin' around with this fellow, and he's playing the doctor game likewise."

"I take it you're a detective ?" queried Burlington. Quentin saw that his bullying instincts were fully aroused, and chuckled to himself.

"I am that," retorted Osgood bluntly. "And if you're what you say, show me. I ain't aiming to be offensive, doc, but I'm goin' to am in this guy and do it prompt."

"I fancy not," exploded Burlington. "This gentleman is Doctor Allan Quentin, and is very well known to me; if you have any doubt as to my character, sir, you may make inquiries of any of the officials here. Now explain the meaning of this outrage, or I shall take this matter up with your superiors. I don't fancy being made the butt of a crowd of people by a bull-headed plainclothes man."

As he spoke, Burlington glared around at the curious tourists who had assembled ; some of these moved on hastily, others gave him brazen applause, which was as a red rag to a bull. Osgood flung a black look at Quentin.

"Doc, you're the goods, I guess; since this guy is your friend, I'll put it up to you, and you can come over and go bail for him if you want to."

With that, Osgood gave a succinct description of what had happened on the previous evening from his point of view, briefly prefacing it with his tale of the pickpocket and concluding with the story of how he had gotten away from the shed.

"My name was on my gun belt, and when I made that old fool of a caretaker understand what was what, half an hour ago, he unlocked me, and here I am. Now, doc, I ain't got my gun, but if your friend here wants to start anything, I guess he'll get all he's after. This thing is kind o' balled up, but I know what assault is, all right."

Quentin stepped forward, holding out the star and smiling a little.

"Here's your badge, Osgood. You might need it."

The detective gave him another black look and reached out ; as his hand closed around the star and he felt the folded bill, he glanced down quickly. The black look vanished, and Quentin drew out his pocketbook, telling of how it had been located.

"Now, Osgood, here are cards and papers to establish my identity," he laughed easily. "As for our little scrap, you forced that yourself, but I'm quite willing to make it right with you. I told you the exact truth last night when I said that I had put a note under the door for Mr. Mathews "

"I know that," interrupted the other, shoving the bill into his pocket with a furtive grin. "I seen it this morning after I'd got free. Now if the other doc here will step over to the pier, we can fix this thing up with the officials, I guess."

Quentin grinned to himself. Great was the power of money! That twenty- dollar bill had changed the detective's whole outlook on life in a flash; from a blustering, vengeance-seeking minion of the law he had become a person very anxious to oblige. Of course, Burlington's aid had been all-powerful, and the production of .the pocketbook had substantiated the story, yet at the back of the change in Osgood had been that folded bill under the star. After all, one's point of view largely depends on the cash in hand, thought Quentin.

He reckoned without his host, however. At this instant the detective paused and directed a puzzled look toward him.

"Say. I clear forgot about that girl! Maybe the other doc here can straighten that up, too— I mean that there Miss Elsmere you was toting around."

"Eh? What's that? Miss Elsmere?" Burlington halted suddenly, his heavy jaw falling as he stared at Osgood.

Quentin's face went white. Now the fat was in the fire, indeed! Suspicion had darted swiftly into the detective's face once more, Burlington was staring from one to the other of them in bewildered surmise, and Quentin saw that the show-down was imminent with no sign of Mathews in guise of rescuer. However, since Mary Palmer had disappeared, it did not matter.

"Never mind this chump, Burlington," said Quentin hastily. "He's a bit twisted about things "

"Not much !" exclaimed the physician savagely, his ugly jaw shoving out. "This detective has been in touch with the young woman, and I intend to find out about it. Now, my man, I want to know where you heard the name of Miss Elsmere."

Quentin subsided. The game was up, indeed, and he would need all his energies if he was to come out of the thing decently. He suddenly perceived that Burlington would be an exceedingly ugly customer to deal with.

"I don't know a whole lot, doc," answered the detective slowly. "This here friend of yours can tell you more than I can. I was sent from headquarters to nab a woman thief, like I told you. I spotted a blind girl with this guy on the boat, yesterday, comin' over from Pedro. I butted in and asked the skirt's name, this guy answers up that it's Miss Enid Elsmere, and says who he is, so I thinks maybe I've made a mistake. That's all I know about the lady, except what come after, like I told you."

During this brief recital Burlington's face became black with suspicion and suppressed rage. When Osgood finished, he whirled on Quentin; but for all his anger there was a hint of fear in the darting blue eyes.

"Quentin, you met Miss Elsmere on the boat?" he exclaimed, forcing himself into calm. Quentin, seeing that he still held a lash over the older man, smiled slightly, although his eyes hardened.

"I did not," he returned flatly. "Nor did I see anything of her."

Burlington gasped, and took a step forward with outstretched fist, baffled fury in his face.

"Don't lie to me, Quentin!" he stormed. "I'm no―"

"Look here," and the cold acid of Quentin's voice bit through his vehemence and quieted him. "I don't propose to be called a liar by you, Burlington. This thing can be explained, but I want an apology from you for that word, and I want it now."

Osgood grinned furtively as he listened. The steely note in Quentin's voice, which had failed to warn the detective on the previous evening, had its effect on Burlington, whose eyes rested on Quentin's. The younger man's icy coldness pierced Burlington's rage and sobered him on the instant.

"I didn't mean to be hasty, Quentin," he retracted. "But there's something behind all this, and I'm going to get to it. Have you been trying to play with me, sir? Why have you been concealing your knowledge of this young lady, and pretending to help me in seeking for her?"

Osgood suddenly remembered his personal property, and the effects of the twenty-dollar bill faded out. He pushed forward, facing Quentin with swift truculence.

"Say, where's my money and the stuff you took from me, hey? This thing ain't been squared up yet "

"Oh, shut up!" broke out Quentin, and at the flame in his eyes Osgood retreated a pace. "Your stuff is at the hotel desk, waiting for you. Now get out of this, and let me settle matters with Burlington. Your injuries are wholly personal, and you'll find your money all safe and sound."

He impatiently shoved the burly detective aside, but Burlington had not yet done with the man. Catching his arm, he whirled him about.

"See here, Osgood — what was this blind girl like whom you saw with Quentin on the boat?"

The detective gave prompt reply.

"She had fluffy brown hair, wore a white, tailored suit, and was neat as a pin. The dip I was after had played the fine lady, so―"

"What? You're sure her hair was not black! Was she tall or short?"

"Tall, doc. Tall and fair."

"Good heavens!" Burlington took a step back, brushing a hand across his eyes in bewilderment. Osgood's tone was too positive to admit of doubt, and Quentin laughed shortly.

"You see, Burlington, the girl Osgood saw with me was Miss Palmer and no other. Now let's get out of this— we can go to my room at the hotel, and I'll have it out with you if you want it."

"Wait!" cried Burlington hoarsely, staring at him. "Why did you give her Miss Elsmere's name? How had you heard anything of Miss Elsmere? If her name was Palmer, why did you lie to Osgood about it ?"

"By thunder, that's right, doc!" blurted out the detective, whirling angrily on Quentin. "So you gave me a bum steer, eh? I guess we ain't out of the woods on this thing yet, bo! Now come across lively, or there'll be trouble."

Quentin gave him a contemptuous look. The gathering crowd irritated him, for he had no mind to expose his hand in public, and since the thing had to come out, he determined to take the aggressive before Burlington had a chance to do so.

"All right," he said shortly, facing Burlington. "If you want it straight, my friend, you can have it. I've been doing a heap of lying this morning, Burlington, and it ends right here. I happen to know all about Enid Elsmere, your villainy in connection with her, your keeping her hidden away in your house, and all the rest of it. What's more, you've got to move mighty softly if you're going to side-step the biggest scandal that ever woke up this part of the world."

His quiet but intense words had all the effect for which he could have wished. The big physician's bloodshot face went white as he listened, then became mottled again; he breathed stertorously, and there was terror in his wild stare, but it was the terror of desperation. His square jaw clamped shut swiftly, and when Quentin had finished he seemed suddenly to regain the air of masterful poise which had been stripped from him.

Seeing that transformation, Quentin knew that it boded trouble. Burlington was desperate ; the fact that Quentin knew his secret meant exposure and disgrace for him, and social ruin at the least. For a moment he did not reply, while the amazed Osgood stood looking from one to the other in questioning conjecture. Quentin's abrupt change from defence to attack had set him all adrift.

"Let's get out of this," exclaimed Burlington, once more becoming aware of the crowd. His sudden calm was anything but reassuring. "Quentin, we can't settle this thing here in the street. Come along to your room at the hotel."

"Here, I guess I'll trot along," broke in Osgood, as Burlington took a step away. Quentin hesitated.

"This matter is between ourselves," he began, but the physician swung around with a savage oath.

"No, by Osgood, you come along with us and see this thing through. I fancy I'll have some use for you in a mighty short time."

And, catching his malevolent look, Quentin led the way to the hotel with foreboding in his heart. He could not fathom Burlington's intent, but he saw that the man was dangerous— terribly dangerous, and the more so for his forced calm.

12

THERE WAS a strained silence on all three of the men as they strode into the hotel lobby. Osgood went over to the desk, and Quentin followed him; while the detective was getting the envelope containing his personal belongings, Quentin made inquiries after the girl. He found that she had not returned, and doubted no longer that she was the pickpocket and had seized the chance to get away. Osgood looked up at him with a grin.

"Well, doc, I ain't got any hard feelings; I guess you're square, after all. But what's the row between you and the other doc?"

Quentin glanced across at Burlington, who was waiting by the elevator, and shrugged his shoulders.

"Come along and see. If I'm not much mistaken, you'll be able to make an arrest yet, Osgood."

As they crossed back and rejoined Burlington, Quentin determined to force the issue squarely. What the points of the law were, he did not know ; but he fancied that he could at least make a charge against the Long Beach man which would force the matter into the courts. There was no doubt that in some manner Mary Palmer had learned Burlington's secret, perhaps through the under channels used by crooks to obtain such knowledge; the thought that she was indeed a thief struck Quentin hard, but he knew now that the story was true enough.

With tense silence still prevailing among the three, they reached Quentin's room. Burlington dropped into a chair, smoothed back his greying hair in his most precise fashion, and faced Quentin.

"Now, sir," he said, breathing hard, but forcing himself into self-control, "you will kindly explain your veiled charges against me. I am bitterly surprised in you, Allan Quentin, and unless you make a satisfactory explanation, you shall suffer for it."

"I do not intend to explain," returned Quentin coldly. "That will come from you. I suppose you will admit that Enid Elsmere is your ward, and that owing to her affliction you have the use of her income?"

"Yes, you scoundrel!" burst out the other, quivering with rage. "I'll not only admit it, but I'll make you admit where you got that information―"

Quentin smiled.

"By your own words you confess that you have kept the matter quiet, Burlington. Your friends know nothing of her being in your house; you've deliberately attempted to keep her sequestered so that you might enjoy her money; you've lied to her about her condition, and since you told me this morning that the girl you were after had a brain tumour, a simple operation would have fixed her up. The courts may have given you control of her, Burlington, but I doubt whether you'll keep it long."

With that, he turned to Osgood, who was chewing an unlit cigar.

"I don't know what charge covers this case, Osgood, but I guess you understand enough of the situation. Now, I demand that you arrest Doctor Burlington there on my charge, and I will appear against him; the girl has escaped from his hands, and she'll be located quickly enough when this thing gets into the open."

Osgood reached down into his pocket and produced his handcuffs hesitantly.

"Well, doc, I ain't quite sure myself, but I'll take a chance "

"Not so fast, there!" Burlington leaped to his feet quickly. "I intend to lay a charge here myself. Osgood, you saw Quentin with a presumably blind girl yesterday, whom he passed off as Miss Elsmere; since you've heard what has passed between us, you know that Miss Elsmere was my ward by legal right, and if I've thought fit to keep her secluded, that's my affair and not yours. I've been trying to cure her without an operation "

"And you've been three years doing it," broke in Quentin hotly.

"Confound you, shut up!" roared Burlington. "Osgood, arrest that man!

I charge him with conspiracy and attempted blackmail ; he and that pretended charge of his, whom he passed off on you as Miss Elsmere and on me as Miss Palmer, are in this thing together. I charge them with kidnapping my ward and getting her out of the way, in a conspiracy to extort money from me. I'll fix you, you damned scoundrel !"

Quentin's mouth tightened into a set line as he faced the other, longing to plant his fist on the big jaw. Burlington acted out his part well, helped by the furious rage which consumed him; the young surgeon saw that Osgood was wavering, and perceived at once that Burlington had managed to turn the tables on him very neatly.

Also, he knew what the others did not — that Mary Palmer had slipped away, that she was the "dip" for whom Osgood was looking, and that when this complication came out the charge made by Burlington would -be tremendously strengthened. On the whole, things looked pretty black, he thought.

The others did not know this, however, and there was still a chance to bluff his way through safely. Burlington's charge was also bluff, but with skill it could be turned into a thing of reality ; Quentin alone knew how real it might be when the facts about Mary Palmer were brought to light.

"Look here, Osgood," he said, fighting for time, "Doctor Burlington has been going all over the island this morning hunting for Miss Elsmere "

"Thought you said that skirt with you was the lady?" put in the detective bluntly.

"I did— but her real name was Mary Palmer. I knew that Burlington would be after his ward, who had escaped, and I merely wanted to lay a blind trail that might deceive him. In that way, the girl would have time to reach friends. Now, there's the situation. By his own words and actions, Burlington has proved that he's been attempting malpractice ; I'll add that to my charges as well, if it'll do any good."

"You scoundrel!" flamed Burlington, taking a step toward Quentin, his fists waving threateningly. "You needn't try to get out of your scrape by laying charges against me! Officer, either arrest that fellow, or I'll have you broke!"

Osgood grinned slightly.

"I guess not, doc — it'll take more than a pair of you to break Bert Osgood. One of you guys has to be arrested, I guess, but as far's I can see, the odds are even. Why don't you toss up a coin and settle it? The only thing I can see is to pull the both of you and let you scrap it out with the desk sergeant!"

Quentin laughed, as his sense of humour awoke to the occasion. Burlington, however, was only maddened the more.

"Confound it, do I have to arrest him myself? I'll call in the officials here, unless you act at once! Get hold of his woman accomplice, and do it lively; if you refuse to arrest him, I'll take care of the scoundrel."

"That suits me," and Osgood rubbed his jaw with a reflective grin at Quentin. "That's a good idea, doc. Where's that lady pal of yours?"

Quentin gave up. Osgood's keen perception had pierced to the nub of things— which happened to be Mary Palmer— and there was no use putting off the inevitable any longer.

Had not Burlington interfered at this junction, Quentin would simply have placed the whole affair in the detective's hands, and let things take their course. But at Osgood's exclamation, Burlington hastily turned toward the door, with savage determination in his features.

"I'll attend to her myself!" he declared hotly. "You take care of Quentin, and I'll bring the woman here "

With this, Quentin's cold restraint gave way. Deciding instantly that he would at least have the satisfaction of putting Burlington in his place, he darted forward and whirled in front of the door with a swift push that sent Burlington staggering back.

"That's enough from you!" he cried, his eyes flaming. "You're not going to bully any more women, Burlington— unless you do it inside State's prison."

The other leaned against the table a second, glaring and panting heavily. In that instant Quentin knew that he must subdue or go under; Burlington's powerful face expressed determination to silence him at whatever cost. The whole future of each man depended upon the outcome.

Yet in Burlington's face Quentin read a swift cunning that he could not fathom, a purpose which was hidden from him. He was soon to learn its import, however.

"Get away from that door, Quentin!" snapped the older man, stepping forward once more. "Bear witness that I'm only trying to get out of this room, Osgood―"

Goaded beyond endurance, Quentin wasted no more words. Burlington came at him. and, without hesitation, he drove out his fist; the blow caught the other on the cheek and sent him reeling, but Burlington attempted no return.

"Arrest him— for assault!" he gasped, clinging to a chair. Too late, Quentin saw the plan, but he gave Osgood no chance to intervene. He had played into his enemy's hand, but he determined to do it thoroughly while he was about it.

With a swift step forward, he sent his fist crashing into Burlington's mouth, and the larger man bent back across the table. He writhed away, but again Quentin's knuckles found him, this time for a clean blow under the ear. Burlington shot headfirst into the corner, and Quentin found the burly detective gripping his arms.

"Easy does it, doc — easy does it!" exclaimed Osgood firmly. Quentin looked him in the eye, half wrenched away, then the cold flame of anger died out of his face, and he laughed shortly.

"All right, Osgood. I'll not touch you or him, either. Let go!"

"You're under arrest, sir," said the other quietly, stepping back. "Now let's see what you did to the big doc. Say, you've got a great little kick in that right of yours! Look at him!"

Quentin looked down at Burlington, who was slowly gaining his feet, and noted with great satisfaction that the three blows he had landed would leave their marks for some time. The detective pulled up the fallen physician, and shoved him into a chair, but Burlington staggered up, still furious.

"By ―, put that man under arrest!" he foamed, beside himself with rage. "He's assaulted me―"

"I've got him under arrest, doc," said Osgood, forcing him back into the chair. "Now, you sit down and cool off a minute."

"I'm cool enough, my man," retorted Burlington. "You'd better get hold of the woman and arrest her also on my charge."

"You'd better not, Osgood," put in Quentin calmly.

The detective coolly disregarded him, and stepped to the wall telephone.

"What name does she go under here — what's her alias, doc?" he asked, turning toward Quentin. The latter gave up the struggle.

"Miss Elsmere."

While Osgood was communicating with the office, Quentin stared disgustedly at the floor. He had made a fine mess of things now, he reflected. He had virtually forced himself under arrest, the hand of circumstance had clutched about his neck, and Burlington would have little difficulty in  making good his charge of conspiracy when the whole miserable story had been dragged into court.

After all, what had he on which to base his own charges? Nothing but the word of a woman he did not know,  and who was herself a fugitive from justice, combined with some trifling circumstantial evidence which Burlington could easily explain away. Still, there would be court records of Burlington's guardianship, but unless the real Enid Elsmere was to be produced as a witness against him, Burlington would have an easy time squirming out of Quentin's charge— especially when the latter had been placed under arrest for assault, and might be facing a hatched-up conspiracy charge.

"Say," exclaimed Osgood, turning from the telephone with a black look, "I guess you done me out of pinching that dip after all, doc. She went out o' here this morning, about as blind as I am."

"What!" roared Burlington, leaping up. "Is she gone?"

"Gone is right, big doc." Osgood was far recovered from the influence of that twenty-dollar bill by this time, and showed it plainly. "But I got this guy. and I got him right now. Doc, slip out your wrists for the bracelets, and no fooling."

Quentin, beyond words, put out his hands as Osgood came up. There was a clink and a click, and the handcuffs were upon him. At this instant the telephone bell rang, and Osgood answered it.

"Sure!" he said quickly. "Send 'em up."

He hung up the receiver and turned with a grin.

"It's all right, doc," he said, addressing Burlington. "That there woman we're after just came in, and she'll be up here in a jiffy. We'll nab 'em both at once."

Quentin looked up, then dropped his head with a groan. The whole thing had been useless — Mary Palmer had returned, only to walk into a trap, and he was powerless to save her or himself from the toils that he saw fast closing about them both.

A moment later there was a knock at the door. Burlington started up, but the detective waved him back with a confident grin, and moved over so that he was in position to grip whoever entered.

"Come in!" he cried, and the door opened.

13

"YES'M, you're pinched," grinned Osgood, with his hand on the shoulder of Mary Palmer. She faced him, seemingly without surprise, and Quentin saw that she had given over all pretence of blindness.

"On a charge of conspiracy, young woman," thundered out Burlington impressively as he came down the room wagging his forefinger. "Officer, I shall appear before both of these persons "

"I don't think you will, Burlington," came a voice from the doorway. And then silence fell suddenly, and Burlington stood as if paralysed.

Looking at the doorway, Quentin saw there an elderly man of commanding presence, whose Southern goatee fairly bristled with indignation. One arm was about the shoulders of a girl— and Quentin emitted a gasp as he saw that she was clad in red, with black hair that flew over her shoulders.

"Come in, Uncle Jim," said Mary Palmer quietly. "This is Doctor Quentin, who seems to be once more under arrest!" And she flashed Quentin a bright smile. "Doctor, this is my uncle, Mr. Mathews. And this— is Enid Elsmere."

Burlington said no word, but collapsed into the chair behind him, his fingers clawing at the table, and his face suddenly gone to a mottled hue.

"And this," went on the girl, motioning toward the detective, "is the Mr. Osgood of whom I told you, uncle."

Quentin rose, smiling.

"Sorry I can't shake hands, Mr. Mathews," he said, and the tension was broken.

"Take those handcuffs off Doctor Quentin, Osgood!" ordered Mathews, putting Enid Elsmere behind him and advancing. The girl stood, weeping, her face in her hands. "I think you know me, sir?"

"Why— yes, Mr. Mathews," gasped the detective, with unexpected deference. "I didn't forget that murder case, sir "

"Then do as I say!"

"Sorry, sir," and Osgood shook his head. "This gentleman assaulted the big doc over there, and I had to pinch him whether I wanted to or not."

Mathews whirled on the crumpled figure in the chair.

"Withdraw that charge, Burlington, and do it quickly!"

At the cold menace in his voice, Burlington shivered, gasped, and nodded at the detective. A moment later Quentin rubbed his wrists, and Osgood stood with the handcuffs dangling, looking from one to the other in perplexity.

"Arrest this man Burlington," went on Mathews, but before he could finish, the other sprang up with a choking cry:

"No— no, for God's sake, Mathews! Not that!"

"Sit down— shut up, you hound, or I'll thrash you myself!" exploded Mathews, and Burlington crumpled up again, utterly unnerved. "Now let's get this thing straight."

Mary Palmer had her arms about the blind girl, and as Quentin stepped over and glanced into the latter's face, he knew that here there was no deception. Then he looked at Mary Palmer— and found the violet eyes smiling into his.

"What does all this mean?" he asked slowly.

At the question, Mathews turned to him and motioned Mary Palmer to speak. The girl laughed happily, glancing from Osgood back to Quentin, and addressing both at once in her rather confused explanation— which was perfectly clear to both, however.

"Why, my uncle— Mr. Mathews here— was to meet me in Los Angeles, on my way from Phoenix to visit him. I missed him and came on alone. At San Pedro I found poor Enid here, afraid to speak to any one, and when I asked her what the matter was she burst into tears and told me the whole story— just as I told it to you, Doctor Quentin. I did not know what to do, but the poor girl was helpless and in distress, and said she wanted to find my uncle, who would protect her. She was afraid that Doctor Burlington would come after her, so I found a policeman and asked him if he would take care of her.

"He happened to know my uncle by sight, and had seen him that morning— yesterday, but now it seems a year ago! He promised to take care of Enid and to hand her over to my uncle when he came back after having missed me, and I went on the boat to go on to the island. Then I saw you, Mr. Osgood, and you looked at me so hard that— that it made me afraid, and— and―"

"And so you made up to me and played blind, eh?" laughed Quentin. Suddenly he understood the whole thing. Mathews had arrived at San Pedro on his way back, had been met by the policeman and the real Enid, and had hastened over to the island. That explained the message which had come for Mary Palmer, and why she had gone out. Upon meeting Mathews, she had brought him back— and what about the pickpocket ? Quentin whirled on the detective, smiling.

"I guess you lose out on your lady dip prisoner, Osgood! Kind of bad on your reputation, isn't it?"

"Oh, I don't know," and the detective rubbed at his chin as he cast a glance at the crumpled figure in the chair.  "As near's I get you, Mr. Mathews, I'm to pinch the big doc over there, eh?"

Weeping unrestrainedly, the blind girl loosed her arms from around Mary Palmer and turned, with a little pleading gesture that was terribly pathetic.

"No," she cried, her voice choked with sobs. "Please, Mr. Mathews, please don't―"

"All right, little girl; all right," and Mathews gathered her in his arms for a moment, comforting her. Then, as he lifted his head and gazed across her streaming black hair, his voice bit into the crumpled figure.

"Burlington, get out of here! This guardianship shall be turned over to me by the courts, unless you do it of your own will inside of three days. Now— get out, and do it quick !"

The big man rose heavily. Despite his anger, despite the swift attempt to ruin him, which had so nearly succeeded, Quentin felt a thrill of pity as he looked on the man's ghastly face; Burlington appeared utterly crushed, and the terrific mental agony stamped in his features was too much for the younger man. Quentin took an impulsive step forward.

"I don't think any of us want much publicity out of this, Burlington. For the sake of your wife and Dolly, I'll see that the whole thing is kept quiet."

The other did not reply. With a pitiful effort at self-possession, he tried to recover his old pompous manner, failed dismally, took the silk hat handed him by the grinning Osgood, and the door slammed. Mathews looked over at Quentin with a twinkle in his eye.

"You seem confident of your ability to hush this thing up, young man!"

"I am," retorted Quentin, "provided that Osgood will keep quiet―"

"Oh, I'm satisfied," murmured the detective easily. "I'm used to keeping my head shut, doc. But you can't always tell about a lady―" And he glanced meaningly at Mary Palmer.

"No," she added merrily. "How do you propose to shut my mouth, Doctor Quentin?"

"Well," and Quentin smiled into her eyes, "I do know one very effective method of doing it; but I've only known you one day— and there are other folks around―"

"Don't mind me, doc," exclaimed Osgood hastily, and the door slammed again.

_________________________

4: Bloodstones

All American Fiction, Nov 1937

A Novelette of Romance and Adventure in the Land that Law Forgot

1  Red as Flame

GARTH reached out for Dysart's tobacco pouch. He had buried Dysart an hour previously, and thought he might as well use his late partner's tobacco. You must see him as he performed this trifling action, on which his entire future existence was to depend. Stripped to his shorts, his body lean and hard and brown with the Malay sun, with clipped, yellow hair and very bright blue eyes beneath the white mark of his sun-helmet — eyes now haggard and worn with strain, laughing no longer. Brown arm and hard brown hand adrip with sweat. Garth was waiting for the rains to break, waiting with all his heart and soul.

The rubber plantation was not far from the Siamese border. As Dysart had said before gasping out his life in a hurry, between Siam and hell.

Dysart had been out here eight years, Garth only two, but Garth knew hell lay on four sides of him right now. The outbreak of cholera would not pass until the rains came.

His fingers touched the tobacco pouch, took it from its peg, and opened it. As he began to tease out some of the tobacco into his pipe, he thought about sending home the word to Dysart's family in England. A letter, of course. No hurry; what with the cholera and the plantation, he had his hands full at the moment.

"And I'll have lawyers up from Penang to settle the inheritance, and Dysart's share of the plantation," he muttered with a slight frown. "Thank heaven we were full, equal partners! ... Don't know much about his family. Apparently he wasn't on any too good terms with 'em. I suppose some of his papers will turn up with the address."

He frowned again. A hard, craggy man of thirty, Dysart had been. He had come out as a creeper, or assistant manager, on one of the big company plantations, had made money, and was not too careful how he made it. Still, he had been square as a die with Garth. A reliable man, if not a bosom friend. Garth was all for hard work and damned little sentiment. You could tell that by the frosty gleam of his blue eye.

"I'll make a go of it; I've learned the ropes," he went on, as he stuffed his pipe. "That is, if I don't go under with the cholera. We've lost a hundred out of five hundred coolies to date, and Lord knows how many Malays and women ; fifteen hundred acres to keep going somehow. I'll pull through. If we — Hello!"

Something hard in the tobacco touched his fingers. He leaned forward and turned over the pouch, emptying it. Something tinkled on the teak boards of the table. Garth sat staring at the three scarlet-glinting stones— glorious stones, of a deep glowing crimson. Rubies, exceptional rubies, cut by native cutters up at the mines in the northern hills.

Garth knew nothing of stones. He needed to know nothing. One look was enough. Three rubies, dark as frozen blood, spoke for themselves. Here was a fortune. How had Dysart come by them? Not honestly, that was certain.

His mind slipped back. Dysart had been away for a week or more on a hunt. The cholera had burst suddenly during his absence. He had returned here, had died within two days. Not once had he mentioned rubies. These were the facts. But Garth had heard stories galore about Burmese rubies. Smuggled, stolen... Dysart had brought these back with him, hidden in his tobacco pouch. Rubies like these must have been stolen from the mines; these three stones spelled a fortune.

Garth caught his breath, leaned back, and held a match to his pipe as his eyes gripped the three splotches of red. Swiftly as his brain rejected  it, the temptation hit him just the same, hit him hard.

Here he was alone, ruler of his little domain, well off the beaten track. The railroad was a half-day's travel by pony or cart. The managers and foremen were either Chinese or native. Not a soul would know or suspect. The three red stones were his for the taking. A fortune — all his.

And what would it mean?

An end to this terrific labour that gutted soul and body. Labour and peril by day and night; incessant concentration on the trees, on the rubber-machinery, on the men who worked it. He was everything from midwife to expert mechanic, in this place. And now three little red stones would end it— would bring him more in an hour than he could earn from this plantation in years. He could give the damned thing away.

A smile lent his lips a wry touch. "But it's mine; or half of it. I've worked it up, I've made it. I own it. These stones belong to Dysart's heirs. That's the simple way of it. Too bad, but so it is."

Garth looked at things like this, always. Even Dysart had urged him to take a Malay girl, as others had, but Garth merely smiled, seemed a trifle tempted, and did not. It looked very simple to him, unfortunately. There can be something terrible about this simplicity, about a man who sees things like that.

He put the stones back into the pouch, and the tobacco on top of them, and hung the pouch up on its peg. He looked around the empty little house of bilian poles and split-bamboos, one room with a "bath" behind, raised on poles above the ground. His own bungalow, across the kampong, was exactly like this one; but death had hit here. Dysart was gone, and his Malay woman too, both dead: even the servants were dead. Well, the place had been disinfected.

With a shrug, Garth reached out again, this time to the water bottle. He poured some of the reddish fluid into a glass and drank it with a grimace. Permanganate of potash everywhere, to chase the cholera out of corners; even in this water. At least he was alive, while—

Sepak, his servant, came running and stood before him breathing hard.

"Tuan! A bullock cart is at the gates; the guards have stopped it. A woman is in it. A white woman. She wants to come here."

Garth's jaw fell. "A white woman? Who is she? Who is with her?"

"No one, tuan. That Babu from the railroad village— may Allah curse him for an infidel!— is driving the cart."

Garth reached out again, now for his topee and clothes. There was some mistake about this, of course. The woman could not be coming here. She was probably trying to reach the new mission-school over at Kuala Pedang, and had got her names twisted.

Wearily, for he had already tramped miles that day, Garth emerged into the sunlight of the clearing and cursed his stiffened legs as he climbed down the ladder to the ground. Across the kampong or compound was his own place. He avoided it and took the path to the main road, past the factory with its crude rubber-milling machine, on out to the main entrance of the plantation. Sepak trotted at his heels.

"What is the news from the village?" demanded Garth.

"The news is good, tuan," Sepak replied. "No more are sick. The rains are coming in a few days at most. Two of the Tamil coolies were caught trying to pass the guards this morning."

"Have them flogged," snapped Garth. Why the devil would these poor fools never learn the value of quarantine? "Anything else?

"Tuan, the village sent word. Pesap the hunter found another man with his wife, and the other man is Sakya, the arrow-maker. Instead of killing the two, Pesap is awaiting your judgment; he has them tied up."

"Go to the village. I will come there and give judgment as soon as I've talked with this woman and sent her on her right road," said Garth.

Sepak darted off toward the Malay village, while Garth strode on to the gates, where his Sikh guard had halted a bullock cart. He saw the woman talking with the stalwart, turbaned Sikh. An eager thrill shook him as he approached and took in the cool, slender length of her eager greeting, her level gaze and well-balanced features. Not too pretty, luckily; but she had character. There was something intensely calm and serene about her.

"Mr. Garth, isn't it? I'm Ellen Dysart." Garth made a gesture of surprise. "It can't be true — what this man was just telling me. About my brother."

The world turned around for Garth. He wanted to curse the Sikh for talking, and could not. Dysart's sister? Coming out here like this?

"Eh?" he said. "I didn't know you were coming."

"Nobody did. I just came out from England, you know. I wanted to surprise him." Her face held a queer hurt agitation. "Tell me, please! It can't be true."

Garth nodded, and took a quick breath, facing the worst.

"Sorry, but it is. He was buried this morning. Look here— this is a mess! You have no business here. We've got a cholera epidemic going full steam. I'm terribly sorry to be so blunt and rude, but you just can't —"

Her face stopped him; he thought she was going to collapse, she went so white.

"You don't understand," she said, and to his surprise her voice was quite firm and steady. "Alan and I were quite alone in the world. I was coming out to make my home with him. I've nowhere else, you see. No one at all..."

"Well, you've got to stay away from here just now," said Garth, staring at her. He had been on a tension for days now; his nerves began to go. "I'm alone here and there's the devil to pay. You take the night train and go on to Kuala Lumpur for a few days; the rains are due any day, and then you can come back safely."

She wrinkled up her forehead, repaying his stare, and shook her head.

"I'll just take over my brother's place, thanks," she said. "You seem to need a bit of help. I've had nurse's training—"

"You clear out," snapped Garth. "I don't want any woman around— especially you. I've no time to be polite and talk airy nonsense with you and help you get over the shock of your brother's death. I've buried a hundred of my men and I've got several hundred more to see through this business. May be dead myself tomorrow. You can see that I don't want any more grief than I have already."

She flushed a little, not comprehending the American slang, taking his last words quite literally. "Thanks, I don't need any help, and I'll keep my grief to myself, Mr. Garth. But I think you need a bit of help. I've every right to take my brother's place; and I mean to do it."

Every right! Why, of course. By her own words, she was Dysart's heir. She owned half the plantation now. She owned— good Lord! The rubies, yes. A savage laugh broke from Garth.

"Want to step right into hell, do you?" he broke out. "Why, you poor silly female, yon don't know the first thing about the life. Just the ordinary existence here would do you up in a week's time; but now we've blazing fury on all sides. No doctor. The mission chap died, and the nearest men are too busy with their own cholera to look at us."

"And you're on the ragged edge, aren't you?" she said. Garth found himself gasping mentally at her inflexible, cool precision. Then she struck into his very thoughts. "Yes, I mean it. Alan was your partner. If he's dead, then I'm part owner here. I mean to take over, that's all. You can't stop me."

"Damn you!" blurted Garth, and turned very red. "Oh, see here! I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I'm just a bit done up—"

"Don't mention it; I can swear rather fluently myself, if necessary," she said, and smiled a little. Her smile was good to see; it lit up her features marvellously. "Will you tell this Hindu what to do with my luggage, please?"

Garth swallowed hard. He made a last effort.

"Please, Miss Dysart, go away and come back later! I tell you, I don't want you here now. It's no place for a woman. The stink in the village would knock you over, and I must go there right off. I can't be catering to a lot of feminine prejudices. I've got to work —"

He broke off, conscious that he had descended to trifles. He gave the Babu a helpless look, and then gestured. "Leave the memsahib's luggage here."

"With alacrity, sahib, and thanks to God that I need come no closer," said the Hindu, tumbling luggage out of the cart. Garth held open the gate.

"Come in then. . . . You'll be sorry."

She shook hands, and smiled again.

"Perhaps you'll be able to get some sleep tonight, Mr. Garth."

Garth stifled impolite words; true, he had been up all night with Dysart. The two of them walked on together; he stumbled now and then as he walked, wearily.

2: A Woman Can't...

IN THE village, he gave simple and direct judgment in the matter of Pesap the hunter, the unfaithful woman, and the terrified, bound arrow-maker. "Let Pesap divorce his wife, after the law of Allah. Let Sakya then take her to wife, without dowry. Since he hungers after her, let him have her. It is finished."

The Malays applauded with open appreciation. Garth picked out servants for Ellen Dysart and sent Sepak to have Dysart's bungalow put into shape and get up her luggage. Then he walked with her through the village.

The stench was frightful. Death was here and there, but no new cholera cases had developed. The barracks of the Tamil and Chinese labourers were next on the tour of inspection. And they were not pretty places either. Reports from the watchmen, from the guards told off to disinfect the wells, and Garth could turn his steps homeward toward the evening.

In the cool kampong, he took her to the bungalow and up the ladder, and showed her the rear room.

"Baths," he said laconically. "They'll bring up tubs of water. Dine with me at the other bungalow in an hour. Oh, one thing more!" He indicated Dysart's black leather tobacco-pouch hanging on its peg. "Bring that over with you. I'll have a half-hour's sleep. I'll feel more like talking."

So he left her, to shave and bathe and get a spot of sleep before dressing in the hot sunset.

At the back of his mind, even while he slept, lay the three red stones. Not the woman; he was too weary to waste thought on her. The rubies — that was the big thing. He could appreciate what it must mean. Such stones were no aimless mine-offal; they would be known and numbered in native minds, the subject of whispers and jungle rumours. They had turned up here, far from Burma and the mines — how? In only one way: by the path of blood. The secret was gone with Dysart, but not lost.

No matter how or where Dysart had got them, all this world of hill and jungle must even now be vibrant with drums and voices speaking of them. Whether smuggled out of Burma, stolen from some Siamese temple, or filched from a native-hoarder, no matter ; there would be the drums, in any case! Stones did not just disappear, in this part of the world, without all sorts of repercussions.

Ellen Dysart listened, wide-eyed, as Garth told her all this and more, after giving her one cautious glimpse of the three red drops.

"Keep 'em in the pouch. Nobody would dream of looking there," he concluded. "And don't look at them yourself, unless you're sure you're all alone."

"But what are they worth?" she asked.

"A fortune. I suggest that you take 'em and go, tomorrow morning."

"I'm going to work in the village and barracks in the morning, thanks."

"You can't. You don't know the people. You don't talk Malay."

"Give me two of your Sikhs who understand English. I'll take all this end of the job off your hands. Later, I can catch on to the plantation work."

"Don't you understand?" He regarded her curiously, searching her eyes, her features, her firmly slender and capable hands. "You've no need. Those stones make you rich. Hire a man to come in and help me run the outfit—"

She smiled slowly. "Don't you understand? Having money isn't being rich. I must have something to do. I want to do this work, take over Alan's place."

"A woman can't."

"Men have always said that," and now she laughed softly. "Wait and see."

He saw her safe home, and returned to sleep in the sweating night, wondering at the spirit of her. True to her word, she had kept any grief to herself; yet he knew she must have grieved.

Those accursed red stones weighed on his mind as though they had been hung about his neck. He wished with all his heart she would clear out with them.

THE rains broke that night in a flood. Day brought a new world; the cholera was wiped away as by magic. Ellen Dysart, however, had plenty to do before the village and the barracks were half to her satisfaction. Each day that passed dragged at Garth. He had a horrible certainty about those red stones. He waited, as he went about his work, in the uncomfortable assurance of hearing something about them; he could only hope that Dysart had kept clear of crime in obtaining them.

So heavy grew his feeling that, in the lull of returning normality, he made one determined effort to get rid of Ellen Dysart and the rubies together— for her own sake. He appreciated her work and herself; indeed, he appreciated her far too much, he told himself. Their meals, together their daily contacts, had brought a new light into his life here. His daily grind now covered all that he and Dysart had formerly split between them; mornings divided between ground-clearing and the rubber-work, afternoons in processing the latex, and in making the rounds of the cattle and labour-lines, and in settling disputes among the workers and the Malays. Yet he knew he must get Ellen Dysart and the rubies out of here.

So, of a morning, he walked her grimly about the plantation, explaining the thousand and one details of the day's work. They ended up in a far corner where Chinese coolie gangs were clearing lalang weed preparatory to tree-plantings.

"From muster-roll in the morning to inspection of the cattle sheds at night," he told her, "this is man's work. I don't doubt your ability. I do doubt your physical strength. Beyond all this, you're a woman, and to any woman there are numerous practical drawbacks in tackling this job."

"Will you kindly mention one of them?" she retorted with challenging air, and tapped her khaki-drill skirt with the riding-crop she carried.

"Not necessary." Garth turned his back. "Now, while I take a glance at the work over there, suppose you lift your skirts and take a look at your legs."

An instant later he heard a faint, startled cry, and grinned. When, at her command, he swung around, she was standing pale and shaken.

"Where did those awful things come from?" she gasped.

"Leeches are everywhere, with the rains. You can't keep the bloodsuckers out," he rejoined. "That is, during the day. They get in around the eyelets of your boots. Your brother and I could pick each other clean occasionally, but that's obviously out of the question with you and me. Another thing, you can't very well go about alone." He flicked a hand at the trees, where monkeys by the score were chattering.

"If you took a tumble and were knocked out, those little dears you were admiring a few minutes ago would be all around you. And what would happen? They'd tear off your skin in shreds and leave you for the ants to finish. Or the ants themselves— you'll strike red ants before you know it, and you have to strip and get 'em off in a hurry. Can you? I fancy not."

Her face had gone gray with realization. "Oh!" she said, expelling a slow breath as she stared at him. "I see. You're rather brutal about it. But do you think that I'm going to be deterred by that sort of thing?"

"I rather think you are," he said gravely. "I've only touched the edges. You'll find out all sorts of things for yourself, and you won't like 'em, either. May as well face the facts once and for all. Women like you just weren't made for this sort of a job."

"I shan't admit it," she exclaimed. Colour lifted in her cheeks; her gray eyes flared suddenly. "I can do my part, even if it's not out here. I can look after the dressing stations for sick coolies. I can run the bungalows, I can attend to a dozen things that'll lighten your end of the work!"

"Much better," said Garth, "to go back to civilization and hire a white man to represent you here, and lighten my end of the real burden. You can do it, with those three aces your brother left behind."

"You really don't want me here," she said slowly, as though just realizing the fact. The hurt look in her eyes stung him, almost stung him into blurting out the truth ; but he checked himself and smiled.

"Right. You should be able to see, even from the most elementary Mrs. Grundy standpoint, that it wouldn't do. You've pitched in beautifully at a moment of crisis ; you've given me simply invaluable help. Now your job is to clear out gracefully and leave me to run the show, either on a partnership basis or —"

"You are brutally frank about it," she said. And smiled a little.

IT WAS just then that Garth became aware of something unusual. The working gangs had halted, to stare. Following their gaze, he sighted a tall white-clad figure approaching by the path that led from the jungle. The odd thing was that, at this far corner of the estate, the man could have arrived only out of the jungle itself.

"But where could Alan have got those rubies?" the girl went on. "He might have bought them from some trader, I suppose—"

"Not with the loose change in his pockets," intervened Garth hurriedly. He shoved aside this query, and the necessity of shielding Dysart's true character from this girl. "Wait here. There's a stranger coming. Let me speak to him alone."

He left her standing, and went hastily to meet the newcomer. The man was excessively thin, fairly young, and deep eyes burned in his dark hatchet-face. He was very spruce, with a black moustache, but his whites told of hard jungle service and his topee was patched as though a hole had been knocked in it at one time.

"Hello! Where did you spring from?" demanded Garth.

"Morning. Oh, we're camped a little way off. My name's Pembroke," he said, in English faintly clipped and accented. "This must be Dysart's plantation. He invited us over to look in."

Garth shook hands, as a matter of custom; he was astonished by the steely hardness of the long skinny fingers.

"Dysart's underground," he said bluntly. He was, inwardly, all in a jangle of warning nerves; his fears had come true. Dysart must have run into this man on his hunting trip. "He got back here, came down with cholera, and died in no time. I'm his partner— Garth."

Pembroke was startled into immobility. His tightly-drawn features froze, his gaze burned into Garth. "Dead! You've got cholera here?"

"Quite an outbreak," Garth said cheerfully. "It's over now the rains have come. So Dysart ran into you, eh? He didn't have any chance to talk about his trip, sorry to say. That's his sister yonder. You'll come along to the kampong and lunch?"

"Don't mind if I do, thanks." Pembroke made a slow reply, as his eyes drifted about. "Dysart dead! That's terrible. I don't know what Barday will say to that; it'll hit him hard. Barday's my partner, you know. Left him in camp to run over here. We're running lines for a French company just across the border."

Garth chatted with a nimble tongue, but his brain was busy. Surveyors carving new plantations from the jungle were not rare; the explanation was plausible; still, he somehow felt it to be a lie. Pembroke was no Englishman. Surveyors from across the Siamese border would have no business here. Pembroke's errand lay with the dead Dysart, and Garth could guess what it might be.

As they walked on and he introduced Pembroke to Ellen Dysart, Garth became critically appraising. The slight but significant sag of the white trousers told of a pistol in the hip-pocket.

Pembroke filled and lit his pine; the tobacco was English shag, not French at all. "I heard, of course, there was a spot or two of cholera about," he observed. "Didn't know it had struck here, though. I say, these leeches are cursed bad !"

"They are," Garth agreed drily. "Run along, Ellen. We'll follow."

She left them and hurried ahead, laughing, brightly eager. The two men halted and rid themselves of the pests.

"So she didn't come until after Dysart died, eh?" observed Pembroke, as they went on together. "Too bad. He was all right when he got here?"

"Oh, quite," said Garth. He was being pumped now, and he relished it. "He got in a bit late in the evening. When I saw him next day, he was down with the plague, and died before the next dawn. It was rather virulent when it struck; I found a whole family of six Malays dead in one house, even before the case was reported. The ants had already eaten their eyeballs. We've disinfected pretty well."

Pembroke merely nodded and glanced about the kampong, which they were entering. Obviously he had no particular fear of cholera. "I must have a chat with you after lunch," he said negligently. "Surely the two of you aren't alone here?"

"At the moment, yes. A couple of police officers will be over for tea later in the day; we usually have one or two visitors around," Garth lied.

Luncheon went off very pleasantly. Pembroke spoke very fully about himself, about his partner Barday, about their work of surveying; he showed himself a man of some charm, of rough experience and ability, but decidedly "not a sahib", as the saying goes. This leaked out in tiny ways. Garth guessed him to be ruthless and determined. Ellen, he perceived, liked their visitor not at all.

She left them, after the meal, and returned to her own bungalow. Pembroke lit a cheroot, rubbed his thin hawk-nose, fastened his intent gaze on Garth, and plunged abruptly into his business. "About Dysart. He spent a day with us, in camp. Odd he didn't mention it, or the imitation rubies."

This was clever, and Garth was just a trifle slow on the intake. His eyes must have flickered involuntarily at the word imitation.

"Imitation? Rubies? What on earth are you talking about?"

"Just that. Barday had three imitation stones and Dysart took a fancy to 'em. He wanted to have some fun with the traders here, he said, so Barday gave them to him. I suppose you turned them up among his things?"

Garth shook his head. "He didn't mention them, or meeting you. In fact, he was a bit light-headed when I talked with him, and he was gone quickly, you know. I went through his clothes after he died, and I'm certain no such things were in his pockets or on his body. The hunter who went out with him didn't come back, and we've not known what happened to the man. He was a Malay, and a good chap."

"Yes," and Pembroke nodded. "He was with Dysart at our camp. Well, I'd best be getting back," and with this, he dismissed the subject.

Garth walked out with him, saw him off, exchanged cheerful farewells and came back home again, frowning, in search of Ellen Dysart.

3: Raid by Night

SHE was silent, despondent, bitter as Garth spoke of her departure. Her objections had been broken down. Then, at his mention of the rubies, a quick light came into her eyes. She broke out suddenly.

"I know what you think, what you've never said! Alan couldn't have bought those rubies; they're too valuable. And you've been trying to evade the question with me. Well, you don't need to evade. I know Alan was no angel. Perhaps he stole them—"

Garth intervened. He had to tell the truth about this visit from Pembroke, and he pitched into it headlong. She listened without comment, though a light frown touched her brows. Garth went on quietly.

"Pembroke's yarn about the imitation rubies, proves your brother didn't steal them; otherwise the chap would have come right out with it. Perhaps this Pembroke came by them dishonestly. No matter. We don't know what happened. The hunter who went with Alan has never come home. He's dead. The rubies are yours, if you can keep them; no use being too damned virtuous about such things anyhow. Will you get out of here in the morning with them? There's no train you could catch, now."

She nodded. "Yes. I can't fight you— or rather, fight conditions here. I realize it now. You've been very good, and very patient. I'll get things packed up this afternoon, and you'll be rid of me in the morning. Glad?"

"No," Garth said gravely. "Glad in some ways— sorry in many ways."

He glanced up, as a low, mournful cry rang from the trees, a cry so human that the girl gave him a sharply startled look. "What was that? It sounded almost like a woman."

Garth smiled. "A mother, at least. Did you hear the words? Tingal anak— farewell, children! It's a little bird that dies when her young are hatched, and that's its cry. Does sound like the Malay words, for a fact. Well, see you later!"

He swung off, to get about his work, and left her to pack.

He was sorry — more than he cared to admit. As the rain broke and came down in a deluge that halted everything, he finished his afternoon inspection gloomily. It would be vastly different, alone here. She had transformed the whole place. Her capability, her quiet force, her very presence, had come to bulk enormously for Garth; these few days had changed everything for him. The rubies had changed everything, too. These made things easier for her, and she could leave without fear of financial distress.

Garth's premonitions were all gone now. His fears had been realized with Pembroke's arrival and now he could face the matter with a smile. Pembroke would return. Yes, whenever he and his precious pal had framed up some course of action— perhaps tomorrow. Garth would be ready for them. His Sikh guards would be ready. The rubies would be gone. And if Pembroke got ugly about it— well. Garth could also be ugly, at times.

The two of them had a bang-up dinner that evening, and afterward smoked and talked and listened to the radio— an English "wireless" Garth had picked up in Penang. The rain rather spoiled it, however. Thunder was pealing from time to time, lightning streaking across the hills, and the rain coming down in intermittent floods that drowned sight and sound.

"If those two men are really camped in the jungle," Ellen Dysart said, "they must be having an uncomfortable evening."

"Serve 'em right," and Garth shrugged. "I'm sending out a couple of the hunters in the morning, to keep an eye on them and report. I expect the truth is that they collared those stones in Siam or up in Burma, and your brother collared them in turn. Fortunes of war. You're the winner, and a good thing."

She laughed. "You're really human tonight! I'll be sorry this time tomorrow. Even if you are a brute, you're rather a pleasant sort of one."

Thanks." And Garth flung her a quick grin. "You're an angel — a real one. What, you're not going?"

"Yes, it's late, and there's a lull in the rain." She had risen, and, after a glance at the clock, Garth did not object. With a flashlight he accompanied her across the dripping kampong, saw her safe home, eyed her piled-up luggage, and with a curt goodnight, went back to his own place in a rather savage humour. She would be gone tomorrow, and he hated the thought.

T HE ceaseless rustling drum of the rain on his thatched roof sent him to sleep. He woke once, in silence, to find the squall lulled again, and drifted off as a new downpour began. When he wakened again, the lamp on his table was alight, and he sat up in abrupt alarm. He was no longer alone.

"What the devil!" he exclaimed sharply.

"Careful, Garth. Put your feet to the floor, and this Sakai will plump a dart into you. I fancy you know what that means. Take it if you want it."

Pembroke was standing there, lighting a cheroot, eyeing him with unconcerned gaze. Not at the thin, tall, dripping figure did Garth stare, but at the squatting little Sakai in the doorway behind — the naked jungle man, who held only a bamboo tube at his lips and watched him with a reptilian gaze, steady, unwinking.

No Malay this, but a man the Malays feared — a Sakai, one of those aborigines who had peopled all this land, before they were driven for refuge into the jungle recesses. Little pot-bellied, they were scarcely superior to beasts, in human shape, armed with the sumpitan or blow-pipe whose poisoned darts brought sure death at a touch.

Garth relaxed. He was no fool; he could appreciate the threat, and all that it signified. Deadlier than a cobra's sting were the tiny sumpitan darts. His own pistol had been hanging over his bed; the peg was empty now. Pembroke had taken the weapon and belt, and was wearing them.

Gathering himself on the bed, Garth sat cross-legged and immobile. Beside him were his pillow and "Dutch wife"— the long, bolster-like pillow indispensable in the steaming tropics.

"Well?" he demanded. "What's the big idea, anyhow?"

"The rubies Dysart brought here," said Pembroke calmly. "You gave yourself away today. You lied too strong. Dysart snaffled 'em from us. We killed his Malay and precious near got him as well. But he got clear. Now we want the rubies."

"No can do," said Garth.

The other shrugged, pulled up a chair, and sat down, puffing at his cheroot unconcernedly. "Thought you said they were imitation?"

Pembroke merely smiled at him, most unpleasantly, and said nothing. The Sakai grunted something, and Pembroke replied. These little croaking sounds meant a good deal. Few men know the Sakai language. So Pembroke was an old-timer in the jungle, had perhaps been born there.

The silence, the waiting, began to get on Garth's nerves, as did the beady snake-eyes of the crouching savage.

"Better tell me where they are," Pembroke said unexpectedly, lifting his voice a trifle to be heard above the increasing downpour of rain, "before Barday finishes getting grub from your store, and goes after Miss Dysart. That pal of mine is apt to knock her around a bit. Rough, he is, when he loses his temper."

Garth flushed, made an impulsive movement and checked it as the sumpitan was moved slightly. Pembroke chuckled.

"Aye, he's watching. Better than a gun, he is. A gun may misfire, but not he."

Garth nodded, reached out for the pillow and put it against the wall, behind him, leaning back against it and relaxing.

Won't talk, eh? Nice place you have here." Pembroke glanced around. "One or two things I fancy; noted 'em today. Hope you didn't have a boy sleeping in your store. Barday'd probably kill him, and I don't like killing. Not with bullets. You take these darts, and they're better all around, and silent. Where are the rubies?"

"Can't tell what I don't know," said Garth. The other grunted and went on pulling at his cheroot.

The rain pelted down. The savage emitted a fetid, unwashed door, though the rain had washed his skin hard enough. Garth sweat as he sat there, knowing himself perfectly helpless. The rain drowned all sounds. Barday was raiding the store— and no one was there. The storekeeper had died of the fever; another was being broken in, but he did not sleep on the premises.

"So you collared the rubies yourself, eh? And didn't tell Miss Dysart anything about 'em," Pembroke spoke again, loudly. "So maybe she can't tell. And maybe you'd better."

Garth licked his lips, nervously. Three red stones, however valuable, were as nothing against the peril he was risking to save them. These men would not spare Ellen Dysart to win their point. And as for Garth himself―!

"By the way" — and Pembroke eyed him amusedly —"if you don't talk, we're taking Miss Dysart along with us. And you, too. We'll be across the border into Siam or Indo-China before anyone knows that you're gone."

Garth grimaced. They believed he had taken the rubies and had said nothing to Ellen Dysart — which would be the natural thing, from their viewpoint.

A big tarantula moved across the wall seeking cockroaches whom the light had roused to motion. Pembroke spat at the moving blotch.

"Call your pal off." Garth broke out desperately, abruptly. "Leave Miss Dysart alone! Don't trouble her. I'll give you the rubies."

After all, the matter was simple enough. He had adjusted himself to the situation, had focused on it, and found his own course clear.

Pembroke nodded with a satisfied air and stood up. "After the way you looked at her today, I figured it that way," he said. "Where are they? Here?"

"No. In the store," Garth said. "In the safe. Wrapped in a cloth, in the money box. I hope," he added bitterly, "you'll have the decency to leave the money."

Pembroke laughed. "That goes without saying. The combination?"

Garth told him, and he repeated it over, with a nod.

"Right. You sit tight; if you put foot to the floor, or make a false move, you get drilled. Those darts have ipoh poison on them ; and if you know anything, you know that leaves you stiff in less than a minute. If you've told me wrong, heaven help you!"

He croaked something at the Sakai and stepped out into the night.

SILENCE again. Garth shifted uneasily, took out the pillow, replaced it with the Dutch wife, muttered to himself while the unwinking beady eyes of the Sakai dwelt upon him, his blowpipe ready at his lips. Garth could count, he know, on no help whatever from servants or natives; no one was close by. Nothing would bring help, in such a night, except fire; and there was no fire. His one weapon had gone with Pembroke.

So, to his mind, it had become all very simple. As he sat there thinking, he weighed everything and came to a balance.

His years of hard labour, his time of drudgery here, his sweat and effort— for what? A stake with which to go on to more profitable things. He had carved out his own destiny here. Beyond this present moment, he had ambitions ; not a plantation, but a rubber factory of his own. Others had done it. He could do it, and make money.

And now all must be gambled on the turn of a hand. He smiled thinly, All life in Malaya was a gamble. Nonetheless, he shrank a little as he sat waiting under those beady eyes. Death in sixty seconds or less— no joke about that. It was a hard thing to face, almost as hard as quitting, but not quite. Harder still, because of Ellen Dysart. And if he lost his gamble, he lost her as well, and all the future that she made so brightly shining.

These things ran through his mind, in a matter of seconds. Then he stirred and shifted, very careful not to look at the naked brown savage. The lamp, on the near corner of the table, was almost between them, but the Sakai, squatting, was below its light and not blinded by it.

Entirely absorbed in what he was doing, Garth arranged the two pillows and then shifted them again. The Sakai, who had probably never before in his life seen a pillow, watched him with unwinking stare. Garth ignored him. In fact, he turned half away from him, as he adjusted the pillows to his liking. The Dutch wife was the heavier and longer of the two, but the head pillow was large and wide and downy.

The rain lessened and ceased, abruptly. Garth, sitting cross-legged on the bed, lost his balance and put out a hand to the wall to steady himself. His other hand was under the Dutch wife— under it and clutching it. He gained his balance, caught hold of the head pillow, and turned.

As he turned, he sent the unwieldy Dutch wife into the air with a heave— into the air, straight at the lamp and the squatting figure beyond it.

4: Checkmate for Rubies

ALL in the one lightning-quick motion, Garth whipped the wide pillow about and held it before him like a shield. There was a spat as the blow-pipe dart hit the pillow, and a crash as the Dutch wife smashed the lamp and went on to strike the squatting figure. Another spat! Garth was doubled up behind his feathery shield as the room was swallowed in darkness; then, pillow and all, he came up and leaped with the push of the bed spring to help him.

That Dutch wife could not help falling foul of the long bamboo sumpitan; it had been a good gamble, and it won. Garth cleared the corner of the table and came down on top of pillows and blowpipe and naked, squirming jungle-beast. The house shook to the crash. Then Garth was grabbing out in a wild frenzy of fury and panic, and his fingers took hold in oiled and stinking skin. He had the wild man by throat and arm, and grappled for very life.

Rolling, twisting, squirming like a snake caught by a mongoose's teeth, the Sakai erupted in torrential energy a dynamo of tortured steel-coils.

Garth was lifted into the air and flung down again, but kept his grip. Over and over they rolled, crashing into chair and table and bed.

Another roll. Then from the Sakai burst a horrible strangled cry ; he had come down square upon the hot smashed lamp. He recoiled with a spasmodic contortion that flung both men clear across the floor of the room. All the while the Sakai was fighting like a madman, clawing and tearing.

As they struck against the wall. Garth felt a stab of keener, cleaner pain. Then they were through, smashing through the split bamboos and out, falling to the ground half a dozen feet below. They came down with a crashing shock, and Garth passed out in a shower of fiery stars. . . .

Painfully, he wakened in the steaming wet grass, and groped about.

How long had he lain there? Not a great while. The naked body beneath him was still warm and he himself was still aware of the shock; but the jungle man was limp and dead; his neck was broken. Rain was pelting down again in a deluge.

Garth, in the pitchy blackness, gained his feet and took shelter under the house. He leaned against one of the ironwood props; something was wrong, he did not know just what. Part of his wild scheme had failed. Instead of setting fire to the house, the lamp had been extinguished. There was a dull growing hurt under his arm; suddenly aware of it, he felt for the spot. His fingers came upon the haft of a little knife, whose blade was gripped in his side. So the Sakai had held a knife!

Was it poisoned? In a swift access of fear, Garth gripped the haft and tugged out the blade. A small, curved, after it ; he could feel the sticky fluid on his hand. His fear passed. The Sakai used poison only on their darts, otherwise he would have been dead by now.

His pyjama coat was torn and shredded. He got it off to use as a bandage to stanch the blood. As he fumbled with it, his fingers came in contact with a long, thin object hanging in the cloth. He drew it clear, and a cold shiver of realization seized him. It was one of the poisoned darts, that must have missed him by a hair!

Somehow Garth got a crude bandage in place, then paused, peering through the rain. Go back up to his room and dress? No point to that. He had no weapon there. His rifle was at the Dysart bungalow. He caught a flash of light from the direction of the store, at the edge of the kampong, and this decided him. He must reach Ellen Dysart, warn her, then get word to the guards or to the village!

He started across the clearing, holding the little knife and the poisoned dart. He was weak and dizzy, still badly jarred from that fall, but exultation filled his brain. He had accomplished the impossible, and now the rest would be simple enough.

Something brushed against him in the wetness of the night. A moving object crashed into him; he pitched over in blind panic. There was a grunt, a startled squeal, a rush through the grass. Garth staggered up, between a groan and a gasp of laughter. A pig, strayed from the village and foraging, nothing worse! For a moment he stood, swaying on his feet, his sense of direction lost; then he found himself and went on, but now that hurt under his arm was savagely tearing him with pain. The rain was so heavy that it blinded him, its rustle filling the darkness with imagined shapes and movement.

Then, mercifully, the black bulk of the other bungalow rose before him. Here was security; here were weapons, companionship, his job accomplished. With untold relief he felt the ladder under his hand, and dragged himself up.

"Ellen! Ellen!"

He had forgotten her luggage, piled and ready. As he lifted his voice above the pelting drone of the rain on the thatch, he walked into the lot of it and was flung sprawling. He heard her cry out something, caught a burst of light as her electric torch flashed on, but an excruciating wave of pain shot through him and wiped away the world. For the second time, he lay unconscious. And he had told her nothing.

THIS time, his wakening was to light and unreality. There was the warmth of her hands upon him, her breath upon his face, her presence close to him, her voice in his ears; then abrupt cessation; an electric, startled silence— broken by a laugh.

"I told you he was a sharp 'un. Barday! Pretty picture, this. Keep your eye on the lady. Now we'll soon have what we came after—"

Garth lost the words; the picture filled his brain, as he rose on one elbow. He was lying on the floor, on the mats that covered the bilian poles. In the rays of the lighted lamp, Ellen Dysart stood staring at the two men in the doorway with dismayed recognition and alarm in her eyes. She had just finished applying a bandage to Garth's side, and still held fragments of his sopping red-wet pyjama coat.

"Mr. Pembroke!" she ejaculated.

"Yes, it's me," broke in the tall, thin man, his face more saturnine than ever. "Meet my pal, Barday. And stand right still, miss. Either you or Garth knows where those rubies are, and we want 'em."

She shrank back a little. Barday was a big man, wide of shoulders, bearded, his dripping features heavy and brutal. He grinned at the girl.

"Now, you!" Pembroke took a step forward, and snarled down at Garth. "Pulled a fast one on me, didn't you? Sure, we found the Sakai ; and then the light brought us here in a hurry. Now, hand out those stones fast."

He planted his foot heavily in Garth's side — the hurt side. Under the pain of it, Garth sank back and his senses swam for an instant. Ellen Dysart burst out with one angry cry and flew at Pembroke. Barday swept her into a bearlike embrace, laughing as she fought and struck at him. He held her close, helpless, winding about her arms the folds of her wrapper.

"I say, Pem, she ain't 'alf bad!" he exclaimed jovially. "Wouldn't mind 'aving 'er along of us. What say?"

"Chuck it, you fool," snapped Pembroke impatiently. "Hello! The Sakai did some damage before you scragged him, eh?" He snarled down again at Garth, and drew back for another kick. "Come on, speak up! Where are they?"

Garth heaved up on his elbow again. The little knife had vanished. Under his hand was the tiny hardwood dart, its point black with poison that the rain had not affected. He almost put his hand on it as he evaded the kick, and shrank from the deathly touch. The force of Pembroke's boot stretched him out anew, for he was weak and helpless.

"The rubies! Is that what you're after?" Ellen Dysart gasped out the words. "All right, take them and go away. You can have them. Anything! Only go—"

Pembroke swung around.

"So you know about 'em, do you? Good!" he exclaimed with satisfaction. "Come on, Barday, loosen up with her; she's not your kind. We want to get those stones, get back and break camp, and be on our way over the border before morning. Now then, miss, talk up! Where are the stones?"

The bearded Barday, sullenly, drew back from the girl, but still held on to her wrist in one hand by way of caution. Ellen Dysart shrank, her wrap all wet and stained from contact with his dripping clothes. She gathered the folds about her throat with her free hand, turning a white face to Pembroke.

"There!" She pointed to a suitcase open on the floor beside her bed. "In that tobacco pouch. Now get out!"

Pembroke chuckled. "We'll make sure first, miss," and he went over to the grip and stooped for the pouch that was in plain sight.

Garth, his head still swimming, sat up. That first kick had damaged him; his whole side felt stiff and sore and wrecked, but after an instant his head cleared. Weapons? Not a chance. The girl's pistol — Dysart's pistol — hung over the bed at the other side of the room. The rifles were leather-cased  and hanging high on the wall, unloaded. No, not a chance. He was licked.

"Well?" A deep growl broke from Barday, as he watched. "What about it, Pem? No tricks, you blasted 'alf- caste! If you turn 'em up, you 'and 'em over. It was you lost them to Dysart. My turn now to 'ave them."

"True enough," said Pembroke, without resentment. He was turning out the tobacco pouch into his hand. "Ah! All ship-shape this time — look !"

He picked out the three red stones and held them in his palm, the pouch and the tobacco in the other hand, and came toward them. He extended his hand into the light from the lamp. The three red stones burned there, glittering and glowing. Garth had come to one knee, holding to a chair, and the sight of the three rubies fascinated him. Well, they were gone, lost; after all, it might be for the best. But he hated to be beaten by these blackguards. Evidently, they had brought with them only the one Sakai. Any other of their men would have waited in camp.

Barday's eyes glittered on the rubies, greed filled his face, his breath came hoarsely over his heavy lips. Pembroke, more controlled, nodded and popped the three stones back into the pouch, the tobacco on top of them.

"That's where Dysart hid 'em," he observed complacently. "Might as well keep 'em there. Good place. Catch!"

He tossed the pouch. Barday caught it in his free hand, and stuffed it into a pocket. Pembroke drew out a cheroot and leaned over the lamp to light

"So we'll be off," he said. "I'll take your flashlight, miss; we can use it. Did you fetch the stuff from the store, Barday?"

"It's outside," grunted the other.

He glared at Garth, who still clung to the chair. While some strength was coming back, Garth was in no haste to show it. His brain had been working fast, fighting against all temptation. The best thing was to let the rubies go, of course; yet he hated to do it

For the sake of Ellen Dysart, he must crush down his burning hatred of these two men, his unwillingness to accept defeat, his flaring truculence.

"Clear out, the two of you!" cried Ellen Dysart indignantly. "I've given you the rubies; now go! We don't want to see you again, ever; we'll not put anyone after you—"

"I'll make sure of it anyhow," said Pembroke. He moved toward Garth, his dark eyes burning. At this instant a hoarse laugh escaped Barday.

"Blimey, if she ain't got pluck!" he said, and jerked suddenly at the wrist of Ellen Dysart, pulling her toward him. "I'll just 'ave a goodbye kiss—"

Pembroke paused to swear at him angrily, but Barday was already clutching the girl in his huge embrace. That was his mistake; she was aroused now, no longer caught by surprise and dismay.

A sudden howl of agonized fury burst from the bearded man.

As Barday crushed her against him, as he lowered his face to hers, Ellen Dysart put both hands to his beard, caught hold of it, and tore.

Blurting out wild oaths, Barday tried to get away from her. Then his arms swept out. One of his fists caught her full in the face and knocked her backward, sent her sprawling; she lay in a heap, motionless, while Barday pawed at his bleeding face.

Garth, scooping up something from the floor, was on his feet.

"Here, none o' that!" Pembroke swung toward him hastily. "You fool, she's not hurt— anyhow, you're not worth a bullet—"

Garth, silent, deadly, was coming straight at him. Pembroke launched a blow and it caught Garth in the mouth, staggering him. He came in and grappled. One harsh curse broke from Pembroke— then a frightful scream, as he saw what Garth held, what had scraped across his throat.

He put hand to holster, and ripped out his pistol. But Garth, with a crazy laugh, had turned from him and was already springing at Barday, who gaped blankly as he came. Then they were together, striking out insanely. Another scream from Pembroke.

"Out o' the way, Barday— he's got a sumpitan dart— give me a shot at him—"

The little sliver of wood plunged home. Barely in time, for Barday's fist lashed out, and Garth was knocked away headlong. Barday jerked the tiny shaft out of his hairy chest. A drop of blood, as red as the rubies, hung there.

The pistol blazed and crashed. Garth, struck of balance, felt the hot burning breath of the bullet as it seared his cheek. Then he fell against the table in a limp heap. The lamp fell with an explosion that echoed another shot from Pembroke.

Darkness engulfed everything. A bedlam of frantic, furious oaths filled the air ; the floor of ironwood poles shook as Pembroke and Barday broke in panic for the open, cursing each other. Blue flames were running along the mats, catching the grass and the inner thatching, flickering across the room, when Garth dragged himself erect. That he had escaped Pembroke's pistol was a miracle, but he had no time to think of miracles now. Already the flames were crackling fiercely.

He reached Ellen Dysart, tugged at her senseless figure, and somehow managed to lift her in his arms. The effort raked his side with pain, sent a thudding agony all through his head;  Pembroke's second bullet must have grazed his skull. He wavered, stumbled, and caught himself. A wave of heat and flickering flame rushed at him and spurred him to frenzy.

Somehow he reached the ground with her, and went reeling out across the kampong. The rain drenched them instantly. Then it ceased altogether. With a breath of relief, Garth arrived at a safe distance from the burning house. He was about to set down his burden, when he stumbled over something. He looked down and saw that Pembroke lay there. A final thrust of energy, and he turned aside to leave space between them. Wild hysteric laughter tore at him. No need to ask now about Barday! The three red stones, the rubies of dark blood, would not be far away. Sixty seconds, at the most — and the sumpitan poison dropped you like an ox. Barday's body would not be far off... and with it, the rubies...

He half fell in the grass beside the girl, and sat holding her warm body against his own, watching the bungalow with a dull wonder. There was no burst upward of the flames, owing to the drenched roof-thatch. The crackling roar, the popping of bursting bamboos, was already passed its peak and waning.

Ellen Dysart moved and stirred. She did not draw away from him; her arm went about him as she lifted her head.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "The house—"

"Everything's all right," said Garth quietly, and held her closer. "Forget it all. Never mind the fire. It'll bring our men in no time."

The ruddy flames touched the trees about the clearing, reflected from their glittering wetness. Birds began to waken, monkeys to screech. From the girl came a little shaky laugh.

Garth turned to her. "What is it?"

"My luggage," she replied. "All of it— in there. Everything I have. Now I can't possibly go tomorrow—"

Garth burst into laughter; it sent a stab through his side, and he winced. "No, I guess you'd better stay," he said, looking into her face as the flames lessened. "I may need a bit of nursing. Besides, things are all different now— oh, hello! There's blood on your mouth, and your lips are swelling, where that brute hit you—"

"It's nothing. I wasn't aware of it, really," she said, then felt her bruised lips and grimaced. "What do you mean? How are things different?"

"Every way, my dear," said Garth. "Listen! The fire has wakened all the birds—"

They heard it from the trees across the rain-wet kampong, that mournful voice lifting to them with its cry: "Tingal anak! Tingal anak!"

"Oh! That bird!" she said. Garth drew her face closer to his own.

"Yes, that bird. You heard what it said, and it's true. ‘Goodbye, children!' Goodbye to us, as children. Goodbye to everything that was. Life begins now, my dear, for us both."

Silence fell upon them for a moment, until shrill voices began to sound, and the dying flames touched the figures and gay sarongs of Malays running. Ellen Dysart stirred and drew her face away, but Garth smiled.

"Never mind; don't worry, my dear. They don't know what kissing means. Thank heaven we're not Malays!"

"Thank heaven!" she said, and laughed shakily as they kissed again.

_________________________

5: Spy Against Europe

Argosy Feb 1935

1: Double-Crossing Rats.

WHEN John Barnes stepped aboard the Imperial Airways plane at Croydon field, he was taking his life in his hand, and knew it. When he stepped out of the plane at Le Bourget and got into the bus headed for downtown Paris, Death was chuckling at his ear. His one chance was that nobody suspected what he was doing.

Back in London, just before he left, the American ambassador had made things quite clear.

" It's a new deal all around, Barnes, at home and abroad. We're fighting these Europeans with their own weapons for a change. Remember, you've no earthly connection with Washington! You and the other chaps in the game are taking your chances— long chances, Barnes. You're devoting your time, money, and lives to a cause. You'll have no reward except the satisfaction of serving your country. If you're caught— goodnight!"

"Thanks," Barnes said laconically. "Instructions?"

The ambassador handed him an envelope. "Here. Chew up the paper and destroy it before you land at Le Bourget. This assassination of King Boris and the other in Marseilles has turned things upside down; vital information is en route to us, and it must reach Washington at once. There's a leak in the Paris embassy; we can't trust it. If you can get the message here— well, it's up to you."

Aboard the plane, Barnes memorized his instructions. With them he found a list of eight secret agents who had been caught and killed within the past month. None were Americans, but the grim significance of this list was obvious. Barnes knew Europe. He had lived abroad for several years. He had been in business in Paris. Level-eyed, quiet, seldom losing his head, Barnes was no Herculean figure; that was how he got results. Few people suspected his capabilities.

That other men, like himself, were unofficially serving their country, that he had been drawn into a free-lance game against all Europe, was great news. As the bus headed along the cobbled, ugly streets of Paris slipped past. Barnes stared out at them unseeing, his mind active, racing.

A new deal, now! America, unofficially, was taking a hand in the game. The very thought held a tang of adventure. No dirty spy stuff; that was barred. Europe was back in pre-war days now. Intrigue, suspicion, assassination, war trembling on every frontier; a secret, merciless war going on beneath the surface. Barnes had caught echoes of it here and there; he knew what he was heading into. A new deal, eh? Yes, European diplomacy was going to get a hot jolt.

His primary instructions were simple. He was to go to the Hotel Dupont in the Rue du Selz and there await from Sheldon some word, which might come in an hour or a week. Sheldon was trying to get out of Belgrade, which was no easy matter. If he reached Paris alive, he would no doubt be trailed and shadowed.

"Then it's my job to get the information, whatever it is, out of France," Barnes reflected. "But the Dupont! Why pick on that joint, of all places?"

He knew the Hotel Dupont by reputation, which was bad. The little downtown hostelry was no better than a house of assignation. To anyone who knew Paris, the place had an evil stench. However, orders were orders.

Upon reaching the bus terminal at the Crillon, Barnes picked up his one small bag, which was little more than a brief-case, and set out afoot for his destination. He did not know Sheldon; a former newspaper correspondent, who had become the mainspring of America's new initiative against the massed intrigues of Europe. He had a full description of Sheldon, however, and could not mistake his man.

Barnes sauntered along the narrow little Rue du Selz. Gone were the old gay dollar-grabbing days when tourists had flooded Paris. Now the shops looked dingier, the prices were down, only French faces appeared in the streets. Paris was still staggering under depression and the resentment of unpaid national debts.

There was the old Dupont. A mere entry way between two store fronts. Pushing into the place, Barnes found himself in a narrow little hall; a desk on one side, an elevator on the other, a flight of stairs in the rear. At the desk was a man, swarthy, sharp-eyed, who folded up a newspaper and rose.

" Good morning," Barnes greeted him in French. "I'd like a room, a double room. It's just possible that I shall have company later. With bath."

The other beamed. "All things can be arranged, m'sieu. A fine chamber on the third is vacant. Fifty francs."

Barnes protested this price, which was presently cut to forty. He filled out the police registration slip; as instructed in his orders, he gave the name of John Smithson. The police, he knew, would not bother to check up on his identity unless some trouble arose. And if this happened, Barnes intended to be gone before his real name could be involved and his passport impounded.

As he was finishing with the various blanks on the paper, a young woman descended the stairs and came to the desk, leaving her key. Barnes glanced up and thrilled to the sight of her face; dark and lovely, with eyes to hold a man in dreams. Those eyes dwelt upon him for an instant, and he fancied that a startled flame rose in them. Then she was gone out the doorway to the street.

"You are lucky, m'sieu!" and the greasy proprietor winked at Barnes. "M'amselle Nicolas is also on the third— eh, eh, what is this? Tiens, tiens! Smeethson— name of a little black dog! M'sieu, there was a gentleman here inquiring for one of this name, not twenty minutes ago. He would soon return, he said."

"When he returns, send him straight up to my room, if you please."

The other nodded and opened the elevator door. Barnes was taken up to the third— which, in America, would be the fourth. The ground floor is not counted in France. His room was comfortable enough. It had one window opening on a little iron balcony, and a makeshift bathroom, with all plumbing exposed, the pipes running along the wall.

Left alone, Barnes lit a cigarette and went to the window, which looked out on a court. Probably there were not twenty rooms in this whole "hotel," which was merely a slice from some ancient building, refinished and painted liberally.

"This is a devil of a hole in which to do any waiting," he mused. "But, since it must have been Sheldon who asked for me, I'll not have long to wait. I wonder why that girl gave me such a queer look? Nicolas, eh? Names mean nothing. She was a beauty, all right."

It was past noon; no wonder he felt hungry. A house telephone was on the wall. Barnes gave the proprietor a ring and ordered a meal. Then he began to pace up and down the room. Just what was he in for, anyway? He had not the least idea. Even the ambassador had not known.

Only Sheldon knew just what was up, it seemed. With a shrug, Barnes dismissed his pondering, threw open the window for air, and was tempted to step out on the balcony. He refrained, however. Best not to show himself there.

A waiter arrived with a folding table, spread out an excellent luncheon, and departed with his pay. Barnes drew up a chair, poured some wine, and pitched into his meal. He was nervous and uneasy. He had the distinct feel of something about to happen. His usual calm, his cheerful audacity, was darkened; his high spirits were dulled.

Suddenly came a sharp rap at the door. Before he could respond, the knob was turned.

The door opened and closed again, to admit a man. It was Sheldon; thin, red-haired, with a big nose. A man of forty. He looked at Barnes and grinned.

"Hello! So you got here, eh ? I'm Sheldon. Had your description."

Barnes reached for the other's hand, eagerly.

"Barnes is the name— as you seem to know. Join me?"

"You bet. Grub looks good; I'm famished. Got here this morning and have been imagining things ever since. How soon can you clear out for London?"

"In five minutes."

Sheldon dropped into a chair, his back to the open window, and seized on a glass of wine.

"Not quite so fast, but almost, is necessary. You know what's up?"

"I know nothing," Barnes replied. The other was eating as he spoke.

"Hell of a mess. This murder of King Boris has precipitated no end of trouble; we don't know if it means war or what. I had to come via Germany, and couldn't get out. Barely got a plane before the Nazi pincers closed down. I expected they'd have spies waiting to meet me here, but nothing so far. Boy, I've got the goods!"

His blue eyes gleamed exultantly. From his pocket he drew a small but heavy brown envelope, most impressively sealed, which he tossed at Barnes.

"This is a fake, in case you're caught. It's a good fake, too." From his wrist he unbuckled a watch, which he passed over likewise. "Here's the real stuff; get it to the ambassador in London at all costs."

"This watch?" queried Barnes.

"Exactly. Never mind explanations ; the less you know, the less you'll give away."

"Right," said Barnes. He gave Sheldon his own watch and buckled on the one given him; it was not running, he observed.

"We've got a hell of a big strike," Sheldon ejaculated between bites. " The lowdown straight out of Belgrade— secret treaties with Italy and so on. The less you know the better, I suppose."

"Who's against us in this deal ?"

"Everybody," snapped Sheldon. "We've got what nobody else has, and what they're all after. Me, I'm all shot to pieces. My nerve's gone."

"Any special instructions?" Barnes demanded, pocketing the sealed envelope. Sheldon gave him a shrewd look.

"Yes. This is no kindergarten game we're in. These birds have their countries back of 'em; you and I don't When you've been in it as long as I have, your nerves will go, too. Suspect everybody! And remember, murder is nothing in this business. They're on to me, all right, but let's hope you've not been spotted. I'll let 'em follow me, while you get across the Channel in a hurry."

"Right. How did you come to pick on this hotel?" queried Barnes.

"I know the chap who runs it; he's part-way straight. There's a hell of a fine girl here— the Nicolas girl. She's been working for Bulgaria, but somebody double-crossed her and I hear she's in Italian pay now. I believe she's in Rome at present."

"She was here when I entered," Barnes said. " The man at the desk called her by name. Very pretty, with dark eyes."

"What the devil! Then somebody lied to me— as usual," Sheldon exclaimed. " No matter. I've not slept for two nights. Lock the door, will you? I was warned they'd try to murder me; I haven't felt safe until now." Barnes went to the door and shot the bolt.

"Wouldn't you be safer in a big hotel like the Lutetia?"

"Nope. They probably know already that I'm here. You'd better be moving. Spare no expense; you may need this, take it." He flung on the table a big wad of various European currencies. " Get out to Le Bourget and hire a special plane; an English one."

"Thanks." Pocketing the money, Barnes began to pack up his few belongings. He went into the bathroom, getting his toilet things. " Who's your danger from?"

"All directions," came the voice of Sheldon. "We're safe enough from the English; they're not interested this time. Boy, with this information we can blow all the others high, wide and handsome! All these double-crossing rats I"

"Hope so." Barnes was packing his toilet articles. "Finish up the grub. I'll get some more at Le Bourget. The room's paid for, by the way."

A grunt from the other room made response.

Swiftly, Barnes repacked. He was in the game at last; elation filled him, all his depression was gone. Now he was alert, eager, tense.

Another half hour and he would be at the air field, then swiftly winging back to England!

" When I reach London, I'll send a wire, so you can take it easy," he called. Sheldon made no response. When he finished his packing, Barnes carried his little bag out into the other room. Then, abruptly, he came to a dead stop.

Sheldon had fallen over sideways in the chair, his head lolling. From the back of his neck protruded the haft of a long, heavy knife.

At this instant came a harsh, determined pounding on the door.

"In the name of the law, m'sieu!" came a stentorian voice. " Open!"

2:  The Brown Envelope.

BARNES glanced swiftly about. Sheldon was dead; murdered a moment ago. One glance at that horribly lolling head told the tale. By whom? The room was empty. Ah—  the open window, the balcony! Someone had been outside there—  And, in a flash, Barnes knew that this same balcony was his one hope of escape. He knew what threatened him and his precious burden. Let him be caught, accused of this crime, let the French have any handle by which to detain him, and his mission was ruined. It was his job to get through with that information— at all costs!

His hesitation lasted no more than ten seconds. His bag bore nothing to reveal his identity; he dropped it beside the dead Sheldon and darted to the window. There, to his surprise he found that the balcony was not merely confined to his own window, but ran around all the windows of the courtyard. Thus, anyone could go from one room to the others of this same floor. The balcony was now empty, however.

"Made to order for hotel rats, diplomats and assassins!" Barnes thought grimly. A tremendous burst of hammering came from the door of his room. He stepped outside.

To tell whence the assassin had come, was impossible; the rooms to the left, however, would be closer to the stairway. Barnes turned left at a venture. A low cross-bar of iron, over which he stepped, and he was at the adjoining window. Closed and locked. He passed on. At the next, he found the door-like sash also closed. A splintering crash came from behind, a burst of voices; his room had been entered. A moment more, and he would be discovered here.

The window sagged under his hand. He pushed, threw his weight against it; the double sash flew open, and he staggered into the room.

To his vast relief, the chamber proved to be empty.

He closed and fastened the window again, then glanced around. The room was smaller than his own. Women's clothes were in sight. Could it be possible?

Was this the room of the Nicolas girl, which was on his own floor? With a shrug, he dismissed the thought, and stood listening.

The tumult of feet and voices continued. Realization of his own predicament grew upon Barnes with acute force. Smithson would certainly be accused of the murder. Should he walk downstairs now, at once, daring everything? Audacity, always audacity! So thinking, Barnes went to the door and reached for the knob.

At this instant, a key was inserted from the outside.

A laugh, a man's laugh, came clearly to him. The door was unlocked and thrown open, thrown back against Barnes as he slipped aside. It momentarily concealed his figure.

"Very well, I have kept my promise," said a woman's cool, poised voice.  " You are in my room. Now clear out— and do it fast!"

"Bah! Don't play the fine lady with me. Shut the door and be sensible," said the man, in a light and bantering tone. " What's all the commotion about?"

"I don't know and don't care," the woman replied. "Get out!"

A laugh, a heavy thudding slap— then the door was slammed shut and locked.

Against it stood the Nicolas girl, flushed, angry. For an instant she did not realize the presence of Barnes, who thus stood revealed. Then her eyes dilated in evident fear. Pallor flashed into her face. She shrank back a little against the door.

" So I was right!" she murmured in English. " When I saw you downstairs, I should have taken warning. I guessed that you must be the man—"

"Apparently you made a very good guess," Barnes said coolly. He was not the person to miss so obvious a cue. Next instant she drew herself up, her dark eyes ablaze.

"You dare not, you dare not touch me!" she exclaimed. " There are police in the building now; at a scream from me, they will come!

"What's more, Sheldon should be here at any moment; Sheldon, do you understand? This is France, my friend, and not Russia."

Barnes was startled. "So it is, Miss Nicolas. What is Sheldon to you ?"

"Nothing. He is a friend, and an honest man. No assassin like yourself!"

"Be sensible. I've no intention of harming you," and Barnes smiled faintly. He was badly shaken by what had taken place. Above all, he was conscious of the hatred and fear straining in her eyes.

"Liar! You are trying to trick me, eh ?" she said scornfully. " As though I didn't know they were sending you! As though I haven't been watching every day, every hour! Only, I expected it would be Borescu. Come, who are you?"

Barnes produced and lit a cigarette, with assumed composure.

He was fascinated by her beauty— a perilous beauty. After what Sheldon had told him, he knew her for one of those magnificently alluring women who play an old, old game in Europe. What cause they serve, whose pay they take, to whom their reports go, remains obscure; except when one of them is stood against a wall and shot. And not bad women, either. Sheldon had said this was a fine girl, and Barnes could well believe it. Character and brains, not loose morals, are needed to play such a game as hers.

"You just mentioned a Rumanian name with which I am not familiar," Barnes said.

"Borescu? The murderer? Well, never mind evasion. Just who are you?"

"If I told you that," Barnes replied calmly, " you'd know far too much. In plain words, I'm not the person you take me for. I was hiding in this room."

"Nonsense. You even know my name."

"Certainly. Sheldon told me about you. He thought you were in Italy."

"Sheldon!" Her lovely eyes dilated again. " Then he is here ?"

"Ten minutes ago, yes. He was murdered, two rooms from here."

Her features tightened; a flame of swift, passionate anger leaped in her eyes.

She believed in him, but she betrayed no shock, no grief. Evidently Sheldon had been nothing to her— nothing more than a friend.

"He was an honest man, that American. And you killed him?"

"No," said Barnes. "Why go into all this business of explaining? It takes too much time, and you'd not believe me anyway."

She regarded him steadily for a moment, and made a sudden gesture.

"I believe you. I may be a fool, but I know when a man tells me the truth. So I made a mistake, and you say he is dead; who are you, what are you doing here?"

"Trying to get out into the street unseen." Barnes smiled in his shy, whimsical manner.

"Ah, I knew he would fail!" she muttered, then collected herself. "Yes, yes, you are right not to trust me. We can trust no one. That is our punishment for thefts, lies, seductions, murders. And it is called patriotism— bah!  Well, I knew Sheldon; he was a good friend. Now I must go to London. And you? Where do you go?"

"To London also," Barnes repeated. "I hope to hire a plane."

Her eyes narrowed, then she broke into a quick smile. "I see! Then you are completing Sheldon's errand! Good; we shall go to London together. Aren't you afraid I might try to rob you ?"

"Yes."

So lovely, so charming was her smile, that Barnes was astonished once more.

"Oh, I like you! Suspect everyone, eh? Sheldon would have told you that. He told me he expected to meet someone here. Well," and she turned quickly aside, to show a small automatic pistol in her hand, " if I wished to rob you, I could do so. Come along! Let's get out of here before I get knifed in the back! That's Borescu's specialty."

"What's that?" Barnes started slightly. His eyes hardened. "His specialty! It was a knife in the back, thrown from the open window, that killed poor Sheldon! If I thought the murderer— but no. I can't remain here, or delay."

She laid her hand on his arm, looked steadily into his face.

"My friend, I know men; that's my business. I believe you, I like you. What you have just said, proves that Borescu must be here somewhere. Well, I am afraid; I confess it. Certain people have sworn to kill me, and here in this place I'm out of my depth. Give me three minutes, and we'll leave together. Agreed?"

Barnes nodded, and lit a fresh cigarette.

Without more ado, she set to work throwing her things into a bag; the art of light travel was clearly an old story to her. A curtain across one corner of the room provided a closet. She stepped behind this curtain, and he caught a flash of her bare arms above it. She was changing her clothes there.

Barnes looked away. Something at the window caught his eye, a moving object outside and clearly visible through the lace coverings of the sash. A hand and arm, moving across from beside the window, clutching at the knob of the sash and trying to open it.

Then the arm was drawn back. The window had opened a trifle.

Barnes quietly went to the window. Someone was outside on the balcony, waiting and listening. He got behind the slightly opened sash and waited. Miss Nicolas was humming a soft, gay tune.

She had come out from behind the curtain, and was closing her bag.

The hand appeared again. The window-sash was pushed inward. The figure of a man came swiftly into sight; a small man, crouched there, balanced, peering forward into the room. His arm swung up, and a knife was in his hand.

Barnes slammed the sash full against him, all his weight upon it.

There was a crash and tinkle of broken glass, a wild exclamation. The assassin was hurled back against the ancient iron railing of the balcony. It broke under his weight. From the courtyard echoed up a frantic scream, that ceased abruptly.

Barnes found the girl at his side, staring at the broken window, the empty balcony.

"It was he, Borescu!" she breathed. "I saw his face as he fell—"

"Get going," snapped Barnes. "Hear those shouts? It's my one chance to get out, while everyone's around his body. Step on it, girl! I hope the murdering devil is done for!"

He darted to the door. She caught her bag up and joined him; the stairs lay before them, empty. They hurried down together.

A moment later they reached the first floor landing. The stairs were still empty. But below, in the narrow hallway that served as entrance, stood two agents of police. Barnes knew that they were stopping all egress from the hotel. At this instant a burst of frantic voices from the courtyard alarmed the two agents; they swung around, broke into a run, and disappeared. Evidently the body of Borescu was causing a terrific commotion on all sides.

Next moment, Barnes stepped out into the street, holding the girl's bag. She took his arm, very calmly.

"The death of that assassin will make you a hero, my friend."

"Forget it," Barnes broke in curtly. He motioned to a taxicab that swerved in to the curb. " We're well out of a bad mess. Now, I'm going to put you into this cab. You go to Le Bourget, and if I don't show up in half an hour, play your own game."

"What?" Dismay rose in her eyes. "Do we not go together?"

"Not much."

The girl turned to him swiftly. "I don't know your name, but I owe you much," she said earnestly. "Believe me, I shall not forget. I understand; you wish to part with me now, and perhaps you are right. But in London, if you need aid, telephone Charing Cross three eleven and ask for Nicolas. I always pay my debts. Good-bye, my friend!"

And, to the utter astonishment of Barnes, she flung her arms about him and kissed him twice on the lips. Then she caught the bag from his hand and was gone into the cab.

"Le Bourget!" came her voice. " Quickly!"

The chauffeur grinned delightedly at the staring, dumfounded Barnes, and the taxicab went whirring away.

"Whew! What a flame of a girl she is!" thought the American. He signalled another cab. "Going by air, is she? Well, she's welcome. It occurs to me that, with so darned much dirty work going on, this airport is the one place in Paris that's liable to be unhealthy. That's where poor Sheldon slipped up. He came by air, and they knew it, and this knife artist was waiting for him."

He stepped into his cab, ordering the driver to the Hotel Terminus.

With this grim sequence of events at the Hotel Dupont, Barnes had abruptly changed his entire course of campaign. Air was the quickest system of transport, but for this very reason was also the most dangerous. Let the Nicolas girl go by air if she were fool enough to do so! Not he. Barnes wanted to reach London alive. And dinned into his brain was the determination to accomplish his mission— at all costs.

His taxicab drew up before the dingy old pile of the Hotel Terminus, that once famous but of late rather notorious hostelry beside the Gare St. Lazare. Barnes left the cab, went straight into the hotel, and at the desk he secured a twenty-franc room, for which he paid in advance. He filled out the police registry slip in his proper name, displayed his passport, and was then shown to his room. He explained that his luggage would arrive later.

After five minutes he left his room and descended to the cafe.

Here he secured a sidewalk table and ordered a sandwich. It was twelve forty. At one ten, as he knew, a train left for Havre, an express that would reach there before dinner time. The question now in the mind of Barnes was whether he had thrown off any possible trailers. Even if not, he still had another string to his bow.

That evening the regular English line left Havre for Southampton, which it reached early in the morning. Altogether the slowest, safest and most comfortable route between Paris and London. Nobody in a hurry would dream of taking it.

At the next table, he observed a jovial fat man who had an expansive gold-toothed smile and a half bald pate. This gentleman settled himself with an aperitif and a copy of L'Echo de Paris, and absorbed himself in the news. Barnes idly read the side of the folded paper that was toward him. But he watched the time as well.

One o'clock precisely. Barnes rose, flung down a note to pay the waiter, and then passed into the hotel by the front entrance.

He passed out at the side entrance immediately after. Heading straight into the station, he bought his Havre ticket, passed the gates, and lingered on the train platform to buy newspapers and magazines from the pushcart there. Preliminary toots of the engine, the calls and whistles of the guards, rang out. The train began to move. Barnes hopped aboard.

There was no crowd. Barnes presently found a first-class compartment that was empty, and ensconced himself in it comfortably. He lit a cigarette, opened a newspaper, and patted the breast pocket in which the brown envelope reposed. Then he suddenly dropped the newspaper and reached into his pocket.

The brown envelope was not there. Gone!

3: Bribery.

IN the other breast pocket, Barnes found his passport and papers intact, of course. He thought back, swiftly.

True, that brown envelope had been a trifle large for his pocket; but who could have seen it? Who could have taken it? Certainly it had not dropped out. Suddenly he recollected how Miss Nicolas had flung her arms about his neck and kissed him with warm gratitude. At this, his eyes twinkled.

The smart little skirt! She had pulled the job off neatly. At thought of those impulsive kisses, and her quick getaway, his lips twitched amusedly.

"Much good it may do her!" he reflected. "If she did put one over on me, she hasn't gained much by her agility. And to think of her handing me all that line of talk, then calmly picking my pocket! So she's working for Italy, eh? Looks as though Sheldon had told her too much, friend or no friend."

The information that he carried was obviously of interest in more than one quarter. Everybody in the business was out to hijack him, apparently, and there were no rules in the game, as he had been warned. He had just saved the Nicolas girl's life, and she turned around and picked his pocket.

The guard came through, verified the first-class ticket of Barnes, and punched it. Five minutes later, a figure darkened the compartment door, opened it, and entered.

"With your permission, m'sieu? Thank you."

Barnes nodded. Then he took a second look at the man who settled down on the opposite seat— a look of incredulity, of startled recognition. Here was the fat man of the Hotel Terminus cafe!

The other met his look and smiled, showing the gold teeth.

"We have met before— ah, I remember! M'sieu was at the next table in the cafe, of course!" the fat man said cordially. " M'sieu is an American, yes? One observes the shoes, naturally. And the first-class travel. Me, I slip in after the guard has gone through, and it costs me nothing. But perhaps m'sieu does not speak French?"

Barnes shrugged. From the very slight accent, he took the man to be a German.

"Afraid I don't understand you, mister," he returned with a nasal drawl. "Don't mind me. I'll take a nap as we ride."

With this he pulled his hat over his eyes, laid back his head, and to all appearance dropped off to sleep. It was no trick to open his lids very slightly— enough to let him look down his nose at the fat, half-bald man opposite.

Barnes was by no means certain whether this might not be a mere coincidence. The fat man sighed, laid aside his hat, and mopped his shining dome. Then he took from his pocket a newspaper, folded in the French fashion, and began to peruse it attentively. The newspaper was the same Echo he had been reading at the cafe table.

It was folded in exactly the same way, he was reading precisely the same story, now as then.

That settled his doubts. And after a little he observed that the fat man, while pretending to read, was in reality furtively studying him.

Presently a man came past in the corridor. The fat gentleman glanced up, and behind the folded newspaper his hand made a gesture. The man outside nodded and passed on. At this, Barnes concluded that things were threatening to grow uncomfortably warm. He opened his eyes, looked at the fat man, and smiled.

"Just how many of you are there aboard?" he asked in French.

Without the least astonishment, the fat man laid aside his newspaper.

"Ah! You Americans are brusque and to the point, eh?"

His broad features fairly radiated jovial good humour as he spoke. And suddenly Barnes perceived how fearfully dangerous such a man might be. With a nod, the other went on in fluent English:

"I am glad to find you frank; one can do business with such a person." The little eyes bored shrewdly into Barnes. "You are no fool, Mr. Barnes. You are a wise man, I see."

"Eh?" Barnes started. "How the devil do you know my name?"

The fat man burst into a hearty, roly-poly sort of laugh.

"Oh, that is a mere detail! When you arrived this morning from London, we received you, without ostentation, of course. We knew of your coming, my friend. In the little hotel, out of the little hotel again, with that charming young lady! You see, I am quite frank. Now, would it please you to talk business? You are an American, and you know the value of money."

Barnes lifted his brows slightly; this was frankness with a vengeance! So his very coming had been known from the start.

"Undoubtedly, money has value," he agreed. This fellow must have the prevalent European notion that all Americans would sell their souls for money. "You, however, have the advantage of me."

"Ah, a thousand apologies! My name, Mr. Barnes, is Rothstern. Let us see, now. Would a hundred thousand francs interest you? I am naming my highest figure. I warn you."

A glitter came into the eye of Barnes. " A hundred thousand francs? It certainly would, if I could get hold of it. That all depends on how it could be earned."

"Very easily. I ask only a few moments to look over the papers Mr. Sheldon confided to you. No one will know; the hundred thousand francs is ready."

THE eyes of Barnes widened in very real astonishment for an instant— astonishment that any secret agent could be so obtuse, so blundering. Still, this was evidently the nature of Rothstern himself. Barnes shook his head gloomily.

"Just my cursed luck," he muttered. "No harm in letting you see the papers, if I had them. I discovered it not five minutes ago."

"Discovered what ?"

"The envelope's gone," Barnes said, with a dejected air. "All those business memoranda are gone! The girl you mentioned— she kissed me when we parted. No one else could have taken the envelope. A hundred thousand francs lost!"

The little eyes bit into him like gimlets.

"Come, come! You think to fool old Rothstern with such a story? It is true that she kissed you goodbye. But to tell me—"

Barnes angrily broke in upon him.

"You don't believe me? Wake up to yourself. Good heavens— a hundred thousand francs just to look over those business agreements Sheldon made? Why, it would be like finding money!"

His voice was shrill, impetuous, dismayed. " And now the envelope's gone! If you doubt my word, look for yourself. I've no luggage, search me!"

And Barnes began to tumble things out of his pocket. " It was a brown envelope, sealed with red wax. I haven't got it, I tell you; it's gone! She must have taken it."

The fat features became grimly intent and appraising. The vehemence of Barnes was impressive. His agitation, his intense chagrin, his boyish excitement, could scarcely be doubted. Rothstern nodded again.

"So! You tell me such a story and expect me to believe it? Well, it is true that you could not hide the envelope, unless you put it behind your seat-cushions there.

"The brown envelope; yes, that is the one. You will let me see in your pockets, my friend?"

Barnes threw out his hands. "Of course; frisk me if you like. I tell you she got it; and she was going to London by air, too!"

"She is not such a fool," grunted Rothstern. Evidently he had come to the conclusion that Barnes was very much of a fool. "Will you kindly stand up—"

Barnes leaped to his feet. He had been in doubt as to his own course, but now it was plain enough. Rothstern had swallowed the bait of the brown envelope, and so had the girl. What had threatened to become a tragedy aboard the Havre Express, was now turning into comedy or even farce.

So the American made not the least protest as Rothstern swiftly searched him. He seemed quite as anxious as the other man to find the envelope, and even turned out his shoes at the grumbling demand. He carried no papers except his passport and a few personal letters, and it was obviously impossible for him to have concealed that brown envelope anywhere, without the flimsiest search turning it up.

"There are still the seat-cushions," Rothstern said, desisting at last from the search. Barnes, who had put on his shoes again, swore heartily.

"Look all you please. I'm going to the diner for a bottle of beer. But see here! I've told you what became of the envelope and where it is. I should get something for that, at least."

"Swine head!" the other grunted in German, then grinned. " All right that is true. Here is a hundred francs, my friend."

Barnes took the banknote and walked out.

Not for nothing had he played his cards so carefully. Now Rothstern knew him as a mercenary American more than willing to betray his trust for a few dollars. Others would learn of it. The character so craftily established might, at some future time, prove invaluable to him.

BARNES was still sitting in the diner, lingering over his bottle of beer when the train entered Rouen. Exclamations of astonishment came from the waiters when it became evident that the non-stop express was, for once, halting. They peered out of the windows, and so did Barnes.

For the merest moment, the train halted and then rolled on once more. A smile touched the lips of Barnes as he saw three figures hurriedly crossing the platform to the station— the fat shape of Rothstern, and two other men. Barnes raised his glass.

" To your health, my friend!" he murmured under his breath. "At least the first round goes to the despised American amateur. And the first, let us hope, will be the last so far as you're concerned. You're at liberty to trail the girl, who can take care of herself and give you a headache to boot."

Presently he returned to his compartment, and for the remainder of the journey perused his magazines and newspapers undisturbed. That is to say, from without. As the train was nearing Havre, a very serious disturbance arose in his brain.

He was turning the pages of an illustrated French weekly, when the face of Miss Nicolas suddenly looked out at him. No doubt about it— the same! But it was the line of text below her picture that widened his eyes: "Mile. Marie Nicolas, fiancée of the Grand Duke Alexis."

Alexis! That rascally old roué of a Russian exile, notorious all over the world for his rascality— about to marry this girl! The thing was preposterous.

"Still, it's none of my business," and Barnes shrugged. " Damned shame, though. That sprig of nobility has been in more scandals and dirty messes than most, which is saying a lot. Well, better forget about it. Maybe it's not true. Even if it is, it's nothing to me."

So he dismissed the matter, a little scornfully, as one does when any charming member of the opposite sex becomes involved in the wrong way.

When the train pulled into Havre, he found himself with time to burn; the boat for Southampton would not leave until nine that night. He strolled about the old streets of the port section, and came at length to the long quays where the English boat and the little ferries for Deauville and Trouville lay berthed by the sheds of the customs inspectors. He stopped in at a nearby cafe and dined at his ease.

Later he sauntered on to the Southampton boat-shed. Taking nothing for granted now, he stood about smoking and narrowly watching the few people in sight. Freight was being sent aboard, and a number of cars returning from Continental trips. Barnes half expected to catch sight of the huge Rothstern again. Nothing would have astonished him by this time.

However, his critical eye discerned nobody who was in the least way suspicious. He purchased his ticket at last. With some jests upon his lack of any baggage, he passed through the customs shed and went up the gangplank. His passport had been looked over and returned without question, which argued that the Paris police might be looking for Smithson, but were not looking for John Barnes.

A steward led him to the cabin which he had engaged for his exclusive use. It was one of the de luxe cabins on the upper deck. He paused before it, as the steward unlocked the door and switched on the lights. Then he was aware of a voice coming from the adjoining cabin.

"No, no!" It was a low, tense voice, which brought Barnes around like a shot. The window of this next cabin, almost at his elbow, was a trifle open. "No, no! I tell you it is impossible! It would be murder!"

It was the voice of Miss Nicolas.

4: Marie's Treachery.

BARNES quietly tipped his steward and dismissed the man. Then he switched off his cabin lights and stepped outside again. His feet made no sound on the resilient decking. Hereabouts all was deserted; few of these more expensive cabins were used, unless there happened to be a crowd aboard.

Barnes stood poised, waiting, outside that adjoining cabin window. That girl here— why, it was incredible! Or was it? Now he recalled what Rothstern had said about her going by air to London—"she would be no such fool." But how the devil could she have reached Havre, when she had not come on the express? By air, of course; or even by auto. She had let him think she was going to Le Bourget. Perhaps she, too, had figured this slower channel crossing as the safest.

In this, however, she had been far wrong. Barnes listened, then caught his breath. The man's voice that he heard was cold, suave, deadly. An English voice, assuredly.

"Don't try to charm me, you little fool; and they said you were smart! You flew to Deauville to lose yourself in the casino crowds, you caught the ferry over here, slipped aboard— and here I am. And do you know why? Because Rothstern was too cursed clever for you. He telephoned me to look out for you here. Come along; we know you have it. Turn it over or I'll squeeze your pretty little throat still tighter. I'd like to squeeze the life out of you as well! Damn you!"

There was an incoherent, strangling sound, a cough.

"I— I haven't got it!" the girl's voice gasped.

" You lie. We know all about it.  You took it from him when you kissed  him good-bye."

Barnes turned, and rapped sharply at the door of the cabin. There was an instant of startled silence. Then  the man's voice made response.

"Who is it? What do you want?"

"Beg pardon, sir; it's the steward." Barnes made no effort to disguise his voice. He knew the girl was sharp enough to recognize it. "Shall I close your window, sir?"

A suppressed oath. "No! Go away!"

"Very good, sir."

Barnes tried the cabin door. It proved to be locked.

"Confound you, I told you to clear out!"

At this moment a shadow drifted across the deck. It became a man, who closed in upon Barnes and touched his arm, and spoke quietly.

"Here's half a crown for you, steward. You'd best get below decks and leave off bothering passengers who want nothing."

"Oh, thank you very much, sir!"

In the dim radiance reflected from the lights on the quay, Barnes made out a man of about his own height. So there were two of them! He took the proffered coin and turned away. Then he pivoted sharply, abruptly, and his left slammed home in a brutally low body-blow.

There was a gasping groan; the shadowy figure collapsed like a punctured balloon.

Barnes stooped swiftly. He caught hold of the limp figure, dragged it into his own cabin doorway, then inside, and stepped out again. He closed and locked the door. As he did so, the door of the adjoining cabin was flung violently open.

"What's going on out here?" It was the man's voice. "Stacey! Where are you?"

Barnes laughed softly, and stepped into the shaft of light, and down it full into the doorway.

" I'm afraid Stacey has gone on a long journey," he said lightly, whimsically. "At least, the police seem very glad to have hold of him."

He produced a cigarette and lit it, but his eyes missed nothing. This staring man was tall, bony-featured, wide of shoulder. The face was powerful, lean-jawed, ugly. At the back of the cabin, one arm flung out against the upper berth, stood Miss Nicolas. Her hair and dress were disordered; one hand was at her throat, her wide eyes were upon Barnes.

"Who the devil are you?" snapped the Englishman.

Barnes waved his cigarette airily.

"A competitor, my friend, a competitor. Now, Miss Nicolas, hand over the brown envelope, if you please. You know me. My men are below and on the quay. The envelope you took from the American— quickly! Otherwise, you go to jail and this gentleman will follow his friend Stacey. At once, if you please!"

The crisp authority of Barnes' voice, his air of easy assurance, and the disappearance of Stacey, all seemed to cause the dark Englishman inexpressible alarm. He took a step backward, one hand flitting toward his armpit. Barnes merely regarded him with a smile, and the hand dropped. This man was dealing with the unknown; he was beaten.

" My friend," Barnes said pleasantly to him, with a glance at his wrist-watch, " you have exactly five minutes to get off the ship and the quay. As you know, it is a contravention of the French law to carry weapons. Get out, and do it fast. Now, Miss Nicolas, hand over the envelope."

The girl awoke. Her hand went to her bosom; she produced the envelope, now folded and crumpled.

With a subdued oath, the dark Englishman strode past Barnes, and was gone. Barnes swung the door shut. He took a quick step forward and caught the brown envelope from the girl's hand. He glanced at it, then gave her a quizzical look.

" Seals unbroken! Upon my word, you've wasted a lot of time," he said coolly. " And for a young lady so quick with her pistol where I was concerned, you were certainly meek enough when that rascal choked you."

She pointed to the floor. Her pistol lay there. Quick colour rushed into her cheeks.

"You don't know him; Truxon is a devil!" she gasped out. "Oh, are you real? It can't be— it's impossible! How did you get here?"

Barnes perceived that she was close to hysterics.

" My dear Marie, you're scarcely the bold bad woman of fiction," he observed, with his warm and twinkling smile. " Upon my word, the more I see of you, the better I like you. Now, tell me why you took the envelope from me, in the first place. Second, why you didn't open it?"

The girl stooped, picked her pistol from the floor, and tossed it into the lower berth. She patted her hair into place, glanced at her torn dress. Barnes began to see that there must have been quite a struggle here before he happened on the scene.

"I owed Sheldon a good turn," she said, and looked him in the face with a hint of frowning wonder in her eyes. "I wanted to help him; and you seemed such a simpleton. You said you were going by air; only a fool would do that, when the air ports are so carefully watched. Why should I open it? I meant to deliver it—"

She broke off abruptly. The quiet smile of Barnes brought a flame of anger into her dark eyes.

"For whom are you working, Marie ?"

"None of your business; so you don't believe me? Oh, what a fool you are— no, no." She checked herself abruptly. "No; it's you who made a fool out of me. You're clever; good lord, who'd have thought it of you? Walking in here like this! I owe you everything, yes; but you've made a fool out of me—"

"And you can't forgive it ?" Barnes chuckled. " Calm down; keep your head. Nobody's a fool, I'm afraid. It's entirely due to me that Rothstern trapped you here. But who was this Englishman who just walked out?"

"Truxon, of course."

"I honestly hate to corroborate your idea of my simpletonian quality — but who may Truxon be?"

"Still playing innocent, are you?" she said, with an air of scorn.

"If I weren't as innocent as a lamb, I might be in your shoes. You seem to be petrified with terror of everything around you. Borescu puts you in a sweat. This Truxon shows up and you bleat frantically—"

She became white with fury. Barnes paused, listening.

"I take it from the context that Truxon is working with friend Rothstern; yet he's apparently an Englishman. It's too complex for my simple brain. But am I correct in thinking that we're off at last?"

She nodded slightly, as though in relief. Excited voices were sounding faintly from the quay, winches had ceased rattling, and now the ship shuddered to the reverberation of her deep whistle.

"Tell me!" broke out the girl abruptly. "You must know that Truxon and Stacey were broken, smashed, fired out of the English service last year— and lucky they got no worse. But where is Stacey? I know he was watching while Truxon was in here. You had no men, no police— that was all bluff."

"Of course." Barnes started suddenly. "What the devil! I locked Stacey in my cabin. I'd better turn him loose and get rid of him—"

As he strode outside, he was thinking that after all he had learned everything he needed to know— except what he most wanted to know. The girl hesitated, then switched off her cabin lights and followed him.

BARNES found his own cabin door ajar, the room empty. Stacey, obviously, had come to himself and escaped.

"The bird's flown— good!" he exclaimed.

Together in silence, they sauntered to the rail and stood watching the arc-lights of the quays float past and recede, the duller lights of the town blending in a mass and falling away, as the ship pointed out for the Seine estuary. Then Barnes was aware of her quiet voice beside him. She was herself again, composed and poised.

"I can't figure you out. Are you really as new in this work as you appear?"

"You flatter me." Barnes laughed a little. "Question for question. Are you really going to marry the Grand Duke Alexis?

She gave no evidence of surprise at the question.

"Certainly not. He thought I was, of course; on his part, he was merely after my money. It was all part of the Bulgarian affair, which is quite off the boards by now. But you haven't answered my question."

"My own question ought to answer it. I wish that I knew more about you. Then you are Bulgarian ?"

"Heavens, no!" She broke into a short, amused laugh. "I'm an American, silly! Because my father had various electrical concessions over here I began to handle some deals for him, then I gradually worked into the game. It's not a nice game, at times, but I've made a place for myself. I just came from Rome. They made me a very flattering offer there, and it really tempted me."

"Tell me the truth," Barnes urged her quietly. "For whom are you working?"

"You wouldn't know the truth when you heard it," she said bitterly. "At the moment I'm working for no one, and tonight I'm a very humble and defeated person."

Barnes shrugged lightly in the darkness. So she would not come through and be frank! Yet the story that she told had fascinating possibilities; he almost believed it. He found himself liking her strangely, perilously. He liked her very weakness in the face of danger; too efficient a woman loses her most enchanting heritage.

"Yes, I'm new to the business," he said musingly. "So new, that I didn't even take it very seriously, I'm afraid, until— well, poor Sheldon's murder jerked me awake. Well, that's past; it's all over now. We're off for England, and all's well."

"You're optimistic," she said ironically. " You're taking up this business seriously?"

"I hope so."

"For whom, then? Who pays you?"

After information, was she? He laughed to himself. She would not believe the truth.

"Nobody. If some of us put ourselves, our money, our ability, at the service of our country, can anything in the way of money pay us?"

"I know; that's what Sheldon said," she replied in a low voice, to his astonishment.  "Oh, I do wish you'd been in it before now! There are so many unsettled things a man like you should have handled, that were frightfully messed up by our diplomatists! Let's hope the new deal extends far and lasts long. Well, I wonder where Rothstern is now?"

"Probably in Paris, gnashing his teeth."

She laughed. " Not he! This business is a gamble; that's why I like it. There are no personalities; if you lose, take it like a sport and try again. But this Truxon is plain bad; so is Stacey. They're hired mercenaries, dishonoured men, rascals, working today for the brownshirts, tomorrow for France. So you think we've left all trouble behind, eh?"

Barnes pointed back at the flashing lighthouse.

"There's the answer. Thank you for the ‘we.' It's flattering."

"Your optimism is incorrigible. Well, comrade, goodnight and pleasant dreams!"

"Same to you. If you need me, call; I'm in the adjoining cabin."

He liked her firm, quick handshake. In fact, he warned himself frankly, he liked her altogether too much.

IN his own cabin, he found no traces of his late captive. How Stacey escaped from the locked cabin was a mystery, but it was significant.

"They're a tricky, fly lot, all this crowd of comic-opera assassins," Barnes reflected as he prepared for bed. " Keep one step ahead of 'em and you've got them cinched; that's the recipe. Hand 'em a new deal and they don't know what to make of it. So Marie didn't break into the envelope, eh? Just trying to help out a poor benighted countryman, eh? That's a good line, but I'd hate to trust her very far. Ten to one she's guessed that the brown envelope is a fake. Queer that Sheldon would do so much talking to her; he wasn't the kind to shoot off his mouth without a reason."

So pondering, he fell asleep with the envelope under his pillow.

An insistent hammering at his door finally aroused him to sunlight and the voice of a steward. The boat was docked, everyone was being turned out; and as he had left no call for breakfast, Barnes was just out of luck on this head.

He examined his effects; everything was intact, and there had evidently been no intruders. Dressing hurriedly, Barnes stepped outside and knocked at the adjoining door. No answer. He tried the door and flung it wide open. To his astonishment there was no indication of occupancy; even the berths were made up. Yet the girl had been in this cabin. Seeing the steward pass, Barnes summoned him. To his inquiry, the steward gave him a blank look.

"No, sir, that cabin was not occupied. You had the only one on this deck, sir."

"What? When you brought me up here last night, people were talking in there!"

"Yes, sir, a gentleman did have the cabin engaged, but he went ashore again before we left Havre."

Barnes made his way to the reception sheds. Who had lied to him, and why? He had certainly accompanied her to that cabin after their stroll on deck. Had Truxon engaged it, then? Perhaps; she might have had an entirely different cabin, and had said nothing about it. Yes, she had a shrewd little head and no mistake. Trusted nobody. She was as sharp as a whip— and what a good liar! Besides, he reflected, a fat tip to the steward would have caused that individual to lie fast and hard about the cabin being unoccupied.

The customs and passport formalities were quickly settled. Finding that he had ten minutes to spare before the boat-train departed for London, Barnes dashed into the refreshment counter for a bite to eat.

He was gulping his coffee down when there came a quick, lithe step behind him. He sensed her presence and swung around. Yes, she was there at his elbow, her eyes glinting with dark lights of danger.

"You! Well, I thought you'd skipped out!"

"You would think so," she said in a low voice, not without its touch of scorn. Despite everything, then, she still thought him something of a simpleton.

"I'm in debt to you, and I pay my debts," she went on under her breath. "Truxon went ashore at Havre. He flew across ahead of us. Now there's a small army of the worst rascals in Europe out to get you. Half a dozen of them are planted on the boat-train. They'll stop at nothing, and you'll never reach London alive."

"Whew!" Barnes whistled softly. "Looks as though we needed the good old interference play, eh?"

"Come along with me," she said, not asking him, but as though giving him the order. " I have a car and a chauffeur waiting. Hurry! We can drive up to London before the train gets there, and they'll not suspect. Come on."

She turned and was gone, giving him no chance to argue or question. Barnes followed her swiftly. In a flash he perceived that she had pitched upon the one chance to get through without trouble. He caught up with her at the station entrance.

"What about an appeal to the police?"

The question was rather inane and he knew it. She merely gave him one disdainful look, and went on to where a Daimler was drawn up. A chauffeur in whipcord held open the door. She entered; Barnes followed her in. The door slammed. The chauffeur slipped under the wheel on the right side, and next minute the car thrummed away and shot out like an arrow.

"By all means, this beats the train!" exclaimed Barnes, as they flashed through the streets of Southampton at top speed. To his astonishment, she flung him a look of sheer anger.

"You'd fall for anything, wouldn't you?" she snapped. "And I thought you were smart in spite of appearances!"

Barnes, mystified, blinked at her. Then sudden comprehension rushed upon him. Had she trapped him, after all?

He had no time to think, to speak. Even as he realized what must have happened, how easily he must have walked into her trap, the brakes squealed. The car turned a corner, ground to a halt, and a man from the curb leaped on the running-board. Next instant he was in the car, as it went on again. Barnes looked into a pistol.

" Keep your hands on your knees," snapped the stranger. "Sure he's the right one, Marie?"

"Yes," she said calmly.

5: Caught!

BARNES looked at the man, who occupied the jump-seat facing him and the girl. The stranger was dark, grave, intent; he meant business. Barnes turned to Miss Nicolas.

"I congratulate you," he said coolly. "I rather fancied that your confidences of last night were— shall I say, a little too frank to be real?"

"You would," she rejoined cuttingly. The reiteration of this phrase got under the skin of Barnes, brought a flush to his cheeks; her scorn of him bit deeply.

"Was there any truth at all in your recent story about Truxon being here?"

"Yes," she said.

Silence fell. The car rushed on. They were out of the city now, following a surfaced but narrow road at tremendous speed. The chauffeur was expert. He avoided other vehicles in the swiftly-jerking, abrupt English fashion that always brought the heart of Barnes into his mouth; he could never get used to English driving.

"Well," and Barnes turned to the girl again, with the whimsical smile which seemed to anger her, " my eagerness in leaping to your aid would appear to have been wasted, eh?"

"You seem to have a lot to learn," she returned, level-eyed and coolly poised again.

"Undoubtedly. You don't seem overjoyed at the success of your stratagem."

Colour came into her cheeks. "I hoped you'd have too much sense to fall for it."

"You really are an excellent liar, you know."

"Call me an actress and be less insulting."

"Insulting? Not a bit of it. I think you're splendid!" Barnes said warmly. She bit her lip, and her dark eyes flamed at him.

"Will you hand over what you carry, Mr. Barnes? Or must we use other measures?"

Barnes shrugged. "I have no choice. You've got me."

With a sigh, he drew the brown envelope from his pocket and handed it to her. She seized it impatiently— and flung it through the open window of the car.

"Simpleton! There's nothing but blank paper in that envelope. No more trickery, if you please! Hand over the real message!"

Barnes broke into a laugh of such genuine amusement that it brought confusion to her features.

"So you didn't waste your time after all, Marie?" he exclaimed. Blank paper, eh? But that blank paper held secret writing, my dear—"

"It did not," she exclaimed flatly.

At this instant, as the Daimler roared along the twisting, narrow lane between the English hedgerows, the chauffeur uttered a sharp cry and slammed on his brakes. They were around a sharp curve, and here the road was blocked. Two cars had halted, the drivers were talking together. The horn of the Daimler blared at them.

"Look out!" cried the girl suddenly. "Look out—"

Her partner, on the jump-seat, flung open the door and leaped out. There
was a shot, and he staggered, then fell forward on his face. Several men had appeared from the hedge on either side of the road. They ran at the Daimler, pistols in their hands. The girl made an impulsive movement to rise, but Barnes swept her back with his arm.

"Quiet," he said calmly. "There's Truxon. Keep your head."

Truxon, indeed, coming forward to the side of the Daimler, while another man held the chauffeur covered and helpless. Truxon; lean, dark, savage of face, and there at the roadside was the man Stacey. The girl murmured his name. Barnes looked out at him with interest. A rather weak, vicious sort of face; this fellow Stacey had none of his friend Truxon's vigorous be-damned-to-you hardness.

"Good morning to you," said Truxon, unsmiling, lean, narrow-eyed, looking in at the two of them over his pistol. " Will you step along with me, or must I use force?"

"Just a minute," interposed Barnes. "I'm rather anxious to get up to London. If money will talk—"

"Nothing will talk except what I'm after— and you know what that is," Truxon said, meeting his gaze inflexibly. "Which of you has it, I don't know; you'll both come along. Yes or no?"

Barnes glanced at Miss Nicolas. She was white, her eyes desperate; obviously, this man Truxon inspired her with actual terror. She nodded and rose. Barnes followed her out of the car. Truxon, with a word of direction, piloted them over to one of the two waiting cars and got in with them. He told the man under the wheel to wait, and sat there with his pistol covering Barnes.

The other men flung themselves on the Daimler, beginning a minute search of the car. The partner of Miss Nicolas was lifted and placed inside; whether he were dead or wounded, Barnes could not tell.

A warning cry arose. Another car was coming along the road from Southampton. Truxon flung a command at Stacey, who walked back along the road and met it when it stopped. After a moment Stacey came along to the car in which the three sat, and was holding the brown envelope. He handed it to Truxon, with a grin.

"This was thrown out of their car a few miles back," he said.

"All right. Come along with us. Tell them, if they find nothing, to separate and let the Daimler go. That fellow is only shot in the leg. They can tie him up a bit."

Stacey fulfilled his errand, came back, and got in with them. Truxon flung an order at the driver, and the car moved off.

Barnes took the hand of the girl beside him, and patted it.

"Cheer up, Marie; you made a good try for it—"

"Shut up!" snapped Truxon. "Talk when you're asked, not until, unless you want a crack over the head."

Barnes nodded and kept quiet He began to understand the paralysis of the girl before this man, whose lean, hard savagery held something inhuman. None the less, after a moment, he ventured to speak again, this time directly to Truxon.

"I'm apparently the person you want. You have me. Is it necessary to bother this young lady?"

Truxon grinned at him. "And let her go with the message, eh? Don't come anything like that. Either one or the other of you has it; and I'll get it. Now shut up."

The car swerved abruptly out of the surfaced road and turned into a lane.

This ended at a pleasant old house, green trees about it, a low wall encircling the whole place. The gates stood wide ajar. The car swept in and halted directly before the house door. Truxon got out.

"Come along," he said, waiting, his pistol ready.

Barnes alighted, gave Miss Nicolas his hand, and caught a pressure from her fingers as she followed. Stacey came last. All four went into the house. The driver of the car left it where it was, and went around to the back of the house.

Truxon led his guests into a reception room, where an iron-jawed, elderly woman stood waiting. He nodded to her.

"All right, Wiggins; stand by. You two, sit down."

He tore at the brown envelope and brought to light a wad of blank paper sheets. He glanced at them, and handed them to Stacey.

"As I thought, a ruse. Just to make sure, have them tested at once for any secret writing. Marie, hand over that little pistol you don't know how to use. Quickly!"

The girl fumbled in her hand-bag. Wiggins, the hard-faced woman, came to her and caught the pistol out of her hand. Truxon nodded.

"Take her along, Wiggins, and go over her. Lock her in the east bedroom until I'm ready to talk with her. Report to me as soon as you've searched her. Run along, Marie; no protests, or I'll send Stacey to lend a hand with the search."

Stacey grinned at this. The girl flashed him a glance of contempt, then without a word accompanied Wiggins out of the room. Truxon turned to Barnes.

"All right. Will you hand over the paper we want, or not ?"

"Paper?" repeated Barnes, with a puzzled air. "My dear fellow, that envelope was the only thing I have in the way of papers, upon my word! Surely you'll believe me?"

"Absolutely," said Truxon, with his mirthless grin. He handed over his pistol to Stacey. " Your job is to watch him every minute. Don't bungle it. Evidently there was nothing in the car. I doubt if she'll have anything. He's our meat."

Truxon went over to the door, that opened into the hall, and closed it. He came back and looked at Barnes.

" All right. Strip."

BARNES obeyed without any useless protest. Realizing the prominence of the wrist-watch if he were naked, he tossed it on top of his shirt, finished stripping, then retrieved his cigarette case and took out a cigarette. Truxon snatched it from his hand, split it open, found only tobacco, and, with a grunt, handed him a cigarette and a match from his own case.

Barnes lit the cigarette with a mild word of thanks.

Truxon slit every cigarette in the case of Barnes, examined the case narrowly, then examined Barnes from hair to toe-nails. He worked rapidly and in silence, but with obvious efficiency, while Stacey lolled in a chair and held the pistol. Upon a couch nearby lay a long dressing-gown of silk, obviously made ready in advance. When he had finished with the person of Barnes, Truxon picked this up and gave it to him.

"Thanks," Barnes said as he got into the silken gown. "I must say that your foresight in all directions is admirable."

Truxon paid no attention, but fell upon the clothes at one side. Every garment was examined minutely. The shoes bore the brunt of this, their heels and soles being slit; satisfied that they held nothing, Truxon bade his prisoner put them on again, and went on with his search. There remained his money, including the roll of notes Sheldon had given him, and the articles from his pockets. These Truxon put on a table, and sat down to his job.

The passport covers were slit and inspected. The pen and pencil were opened up. The larger coins were tested for hollow cavities. The paper money was held to the light and scrutinized under a magnifying glass, note by note.

Barnes waited, smoking, in silence. The wrist-watch, he had already guessed from its being out of order, was merely a hollow bluff enclosing the message. He tried to keep his mind off it, lest Truxon catch the mental wave. His personal letters came next. Truxon glanced over these, then tossed them through the air to Stacey.

"Have these looked over with the blank paper. Under the postage stamps, remember. I don't think we'll find anything there, but neglect nothing."

Truxon picked up the wrist-watch. He looked it over, examined the strap with care, then pried off the back of the case. He pried off a second and inner back. Like many cheap European watches, this consisted of small round works contained in a square case. Over the works, Truxon held the magnifying glass, scrutinized them and then the lids and the whole watch with care.

Then, with a shake of the head, he snapped on the two back lids.

Barnes pressed out his cigarette in an ash tray. Nothing in the watch after all, then. No message. What the devil did it mean?

6: Escape?

THERE came a sharp rapping at the door. Truxon rose, betraying no disappointment, and waved his hand at the clothes and other things.

"Take whatever you want, except the clothes," he said to Barnes, carelessly. " You'll not need them for a bit."

Stacey chuckled evilly at these words. Truxon strode to the door and opened it to show Wiggins outside.

"Nothing, sir," she reported. "I've locked her in there, but of course she can break out by the windows and get to the front entrance-roof."

"It'll do for the present," Truxon said. " I'll attend to her after a bit."

Barnes was standing at the table, stuffing the money, passport and other things into his dressing-gown pockets.

Suddenly he was conscious that Truxon, from the door, was eying him
keenly. Oh, clever Truxon! Just in time, Barnes was aware of the trap. He picked up the wrist-watch, looked at it, tossed it aside, pocketed his cigarette case. Then, as an after-thought, he took up the watch and negligently stuffed it into a pocket with the money.

Truxon came over to him.

"Barnes, I'm going to have that message," he said with calm, impersonal detachment. "It is now on your person. The chief terms of any secret Jugo-Slav entente wouldn't require much space. Well, you can imagine the next stage. I trust you'll not make things unpleasant for us? Here's your chance to hand it over."

Barnes looked at him, wide-eyed. "The next stage? Oh, come, come! Surely you don't hint at medieval methods ?"

"If I must, I'll burn it out of you inch by inch," Truxon said quietly. " Yes or no?"

Barnes merely shrugged.

"Come along," Truxon ordered curtly. " Stacey, follow on. We'll leave him in safety while you go over those papers."

Barnes knew now that he was a lost man; Truxon meant those words to the letter. And, when he had again picked up his possessions, he did exactly what Truxon had meant him to do.

He naturally would make sure of whatever held the hidden message. Somehow, of course, the secret must lie concealed in that wrist-watch.

He followed Truxon out into the hall, with Stacey at his heels. A stairway went to the upper floor of the house. Truxon strode on past this staircase, flung open a door underneath it, and disclosed a corresponding stairs that led down into the cellar. He turned a light switch and started down.

"Come on," he ordered.

Barnes followed him. On the second step, the American caught his toe, stumbled, and to save himself from falling, put out a hand to the wall. From the corner of his eye, he saw Stacey directly behind him and above.

Now, in a split second, Barnes acted. He caught Stacey's pistol-wrist and jerked at the man with all his strength, bending low as he did so. Caught off guard, Stacey was instantly unbalanced. The pistol exploded, drawing a sharp, agonized cry from Truxon below; probably the bullet struck him. Then Barnes had literally pulled Stacey over his head and sent him hurtling down through space, to crash into Truxon's figure.

With one leap, Barnes was back, catching at the door. He swung it shut, found a bolt, and shot it. Then, gathering up the dressing-gown about his knees, he dashed for the open front door and that car that still stood outside.

He was out of the house now, under the entrance portico, jumping for the car. As he reached it, a sudden laugh of exultation broke from him. The ignition key was still in the lock!

There was a crash, a tinkle of bursting glass. Barnes swung open the car door and glanced back. He saw Miss Nicolas scrambling from a window to the portico roof just above, and at the same instant, a pistol exploded somewhere. The bullet whined past his head and pinged off the side of the car.

Barnes leaped in, turned the key, and started the engine. As it roared, another bullet burst the windshield in his very face. The engine roared, and  he reached for the gearshift lever. The girl was hanging from the edge of the roof. She came down with a rush, dropped, was up again.

The car moved. Miss Nicolas, panting, came scrambling in beside him, slamming the car door, sinking down breathless. The car pointed out for the open gates. Another bullet came crashing through, and another— Barnes fell over sideways. He knew that the girl's hand had caught at the steering wheel, her other hand opening up the throttle. He slumped down, falling into darkness.

" Looks like— you win," he muttered, and then went to sleep.

WHEN Barnes opened his eyes and looked up, he blinked in astonishment. He remembered everything very clearly, up to a certain point. But he could not credit his own eyes. For there, standing beside his bed and smiling down at him, was Marie Nicolas— and with her, the ambassador!

"Welcome back, Barnes," said the ambassador quietly. "Glad to hear you're not badly off after all. I must say you've accomplished something new to London— coming to an embassy in a dressing-gown! You know Miss Nicolas, I think?"

"Too well," said Barnes faintly.

"Well, man— the message?" The ambassador pulled up a chair. "Did you bring it through? Miss Nicolas is one of us. She thought she could handle things better than you could; she was going to bring you safe on from Southampton despite yourself. Where is it? Didn't Sheldon give you a wrist-watch for me?"

"Oh— that!" Barnes gulped hard. " My dressing-gown pocket—"

On a nearby chair lay the silk dressing-gown. The girl snatched it up.

From its pockets she tumbled everything out on the bed. With a swift exclamation, the ambassador pounced upon the wrist-watch.

"Thank heaven!"

One of us! One of us! Barnes could only lie there, staring at Miss Nicolas, those words burning into him. One of us!

Drawing out a penknife, the ambassador pried the crystal from the watch. With the blade, he carefully broke off the two hands. He then lifted up the cardboard face inscribed with hours and minutes. This came clear; beneath were several thin slices of paper. He detached these, then sprang to his feet.

" Excuse me, please. I'll have these decoded instantly."

Barnes found himself alone with Miss Nicolas. She sank down on the edge of the bed and met his gaze, a little colour rising in her cheeks.

"Oh, don't look at me like that!" she broke out. " I'm supposed to be in Italian pay; yes, I'm really one of you, as he said. I should have told you, perhaps; but I dared not. Sheldon knew; he warned me not to let a soul suspect the truth. I really do some work for Italy, you know. I'm an utter fool. I've made a mess of everything. And you— oh, how you tricked us all! You, with your innocence, your naive cantrap, your pretended childishness; a Sphinx, that's what you are! A rascal!"

She laughed a little as she looked down at him, a hidden tenderness in her eyes. But Barnes blinked suddenly. His face changed. He came to one elbow.

" What an idea!" he exclaimed.

"My dear Marie, you've done something— upon my word! No, no; never mind now. Later on, perhaps. The Sphinx! The Sphinx! Exactly the thing!"

And, forgetting her, forgetting all else, he stared up at the ceiling with a glow of eagerness lighting his face.

___________________________________

6: From the House of the Rat Catcher

Weird Tales, March 1944

Beneath the paratrooper lay Sicily, but a Sicily of centuries ago, of historic cities and temples, of ageless intrigue!.

THE barrel-like interior of the plane was gloomy. Joe Grimes twisted in his bucket-seat to ease the weight of the hundred-pound load— weapons and gear— that bulked him so hugely out of shape. The other paratroopers, Army men, not Marines, bulked equally ghostlike in the obscurity.

They talked around him, joked uneasily, smoked, vomited; the ship dropped, pulled up jerkily and rolled, for the moonlight air was bumpy and a high wind was blowing.

It was July 9th, 1943. Under that moon, somewhere ahead, lay Sicily, waiting.

"Hey, Joe!" said a voice in good-natured joshing. "How you making it?"

"Okay," replied Grimes.

"Well, no goofy business this trip, bud! This is one place you ain't been in before now."

There was a laugh; it relieved the tension.

"Maybe not," rejoined Grimes, with his rumbling, hearty laugh. "Wait till I get there and see. Ain't airsick anyhow, and I sure been that before!"

A little kidding had a wonderful effect on taut nerves. Everybody relaxed and took it more easily. Grimes was burly, tough, hard as iron. Everybody in the outfit liked him and he liked everybody. Little he cared if they called him Goofy Joe! Any nickname was an honour in this gang. Finest of the fine— you had to be a superman first, then a paratrooper. That was top-hole in the Service.

It was odd, though, how his nickname had risen. Back home in training days, even back on the transport coming over, it was the same thing. Over and over the feeling had come to Grimes, sometimes vaguely, sometimes clear-cut— he had done this before, he had been here before, he had seen such-and-such a thing before. Because he talked too openly about it at first, the nickname had come.

It was good-natured, it meant nothing much. Mentally he was tops and they all knew it. Like most nicknames in the corps, it went by contrasts. To call him Goofy Joe was a good joke, because he most emphatically was not in the least goofy. So he liked it.

One of the officers who probed into his half-fancies had claimed they were actual memories, or remains of memories, from other lives. To Grimes, that was a lot of baloney. These days, when the feeling came, he said nothing about it; he had learned his lesson. What started him off on one of these spells was hard to say. Anything might do it— a bump when landing, a dazzling light, anything at all. If he tried, he could not bring it on.

All this slid out of his mind as a word was passed along, and men tensed. That wide blotch ahead in the moonlight was dark Sicily. They were almost there! Ruddy tongues of fire jumped across the horizon, relics of the tons of bombs dropped by the day's air raids. The plane droned on monotonously. An officer was talking, giving a refresher speech on details everybody knew; Grimes scarcely heard it. Flak was bursting and be wondered if any of the planes would be hit; good thing the bucket seats were bullet-proof!

His nerves jumped suddenly; everyone came taut, as the red warning light flashed on. He rose. The grotesque, shapeless figures around came erect and began to hook up the release lines. Flares had been released and were floating over shores and rocky shelving hills. He was waiting, they were all waiting, for the red light to become green.

In this moment, this fraction of a moment, of waiting, time suddenly stopped for Joe Grimes. (You know yourself how the last ten minutes of your homeward ride may be either a cold, hungry, nerve-tortured eternity or a laughing conversational orgy that is gone in a flash.) For him, it stopped.

He was conscious of the orders. The plane was circling somewhere back of the town of Gela; this group was hours ahead of the fleet and landing. It had special work, before the Rangers came ashore there and took the town. It had to work on that long hill back of the town and locate the hidden battery commanding the sweep of shore. Intelligence had sure word of those hidden guns; they must be found at all costs. His own tactical group had to locate that battery and knock hell out of it. Otherwise the shore landing would be a welter of blood and death.

This was a long process in his mind, this reflection and remembrance. Then
time clicked again for him, with a roar of sound. The red light had gone. The green light was on— his mind had been working in that little instant of change. The others were rushing and pushing to get out. Five hundred feet, speed one hundred and ten— they were going out, he was going out— he was out. The first Americans into Axis Europe!

"Geronimo!" He was yelling the word with the others, the jumping word that expanded throat and muscles and met the drop and atmospheric pressure. Not the cuss-words used by the Marines—"Geronimo! Geronimo!"

Then he was floating, keeping his legs together, readying them for the landing, hauling them up. The earth was close now. Chutes were all around him. He had a glimpse of his wrist-watch dial, as his hands gripped the cords; the exact moment registered. 12:40. He knew this, he was certain of it. 12:40.

Here was the ground. He was dropping into blackness out of moonlight. He touched, and rolled over and over, gloved hands gripping at the cords, fumbling for the chute release. Another man barged into him. They yelled at each other and yelling, struck head on. The helmets clashed. That was Clancy, dammit...

For Joe Grimes, everything went out in a shower of sparks and tumbling stars.

HOW long it lasted, he could not tell.

He was slow in coming around and felt stiff with cold. He was vaguely conscious of the moonlit night, then heard a voice beside him. He recognized by its authority and decision that it was an officer's voice, though it was none he knew or remembered.

"He's had a bad crack but he's all right. I'll stay with him and bring him in. Get on with you, everybody! You know the orders. Clear out. Leave us alone. I'll say a prayer."

A chaplain, of course. Grimes tried to lift his head, but grunted and relaxed as a wave of pain dizzied him. He was blissfully free of his crushing load; guns and gear were gone, thank heaven!

Almost at once, however, came new crisis. The man beside him leaned close and spoke guardedly at his ear.

"You've come around; all right, use your head! We're in a tight pinch. They'll be back in a minute to kill us both. Roll over. Crawl. Don't make a sound. Follow me."

The urgency in that voice roused Grimes to action. Groggy as he was, he managed to obey the orders, inching himself along the ground after the other man. The shadows were black and fathomless, but ahead the moonglow and starlight dimly revealed enormously wide stone stairs. The voice drifted back to him.

"Well done! Now for the stairs; once up, we're safe for the moment. I'll tackle 'em first. Keep to the right, where the shadow falls."

Grimes grunted assent. He must have been out quite a while, he reflected, for he had been stripped of baggy suit and high boots; not so much as a knife remained. A faint scramble and the other man was bounding up the stairs, keeping to the shadows. He picked himself up and followed, dizzily. He stubbed his toe and swore with hearty emphasis.

A laugh sounded. There was the other man, holding a hand to him, hauling him up to a platform between two uprights. These uprights were legs. Above them, towering in the moonbeams, was a colossal statue whose bulk shadowed them.

"Good work. Take it easy, now," said the unknown. "If we get out of this, we'll be damned good; it's going to take some figuring. They've got us blocked on all sides. I'd be dead now if you hadn't come along just when you did. Those blasted guards of mine are in the plot; luckily, they didn't know I was on to 'em."

Grimes could see the speaker now. He was a big fellow, bareheaded, handsome, with a powerful head and shoulders; he wore what looked like a loose flowing nightgown of rich scarlet trimmed with gold. Then, turning his gaze, Grimes saw something else— and the sight knocked him speechless.

There, curving far out in the moonlight, was the same sea-edged shore he had seen from the. plane hatchway. The flares were gone now but the moonlight was stronger. The rocky ground and the little town of Gela were gone. In their place was a city, even whiter and larger than Tunis, that stretched clear from the shore up to this point, the long shoulder of hill behind and above the town.

Nor was this the bare rocky cactus-clad scarp pictured to him and the other men; all his memories of those instructions, of his comrades, of the invasion, were growing dim and fading out. Above rose the colossal figure, an image of a man holding a bow. Behind, occupying the crest, was a stone platform that ran back to the pillars of a temple. It, like the city below, was snowy white and shimmering in the moon light.

"It's a dream!" muttered Grimes. "I got knocked daffy and I'm still dreaming!"

Beside the great steps and running back along the side of the temple and beyond, were dark, tall trees. Grimes looked at the grove and heard them sighing and rustling in the sea-breeze. The other man laughed, and extended to him a small leathern bottle.

"Here, there's a drop of wine left; polish it off. Dreaming? Far from it."

"This isn't Gela," muttered Grimes.

"It certainly is. Gela, my eye! I suppose you'll say next that I'm not Gelon, dictator of Gela and of Syracuse— tyrannos of all eastern Sicily! Or that you're not Eacarces, my bodyguard, the one faithful man, the only one I can trust in this emergency! Finish that wine; it'll clear your head. Apollo!" Gelon lifted an arm to the towering bronze statue above them.

"Apollo Loxias! Apollo the Inspirer! Your friend Gelon is in a pinch and needs help. Produce it! These rascally Carthaginians from Africa and some of his own people have caught him off guard...."

"Caught off second, by gosh!" muttered Grimes. "Eacarces, huh? That's a hell of a name."

This was almost his last coherent thought as Joe Grimes. He gulped the wine, and it cleared his head. The situation came into focus. He was indeed Eacarces, this was indeed Gela. There was a girl, Chryseis, who lived in the lower part of the town; her old man had a whole fleet of tunny-boats an-d was well off... yes, things were coining back to him.

His skull was ringing a bit; he had received a nasty crack when he fell, in getting back to Gelon with the warning. And Gelon had bluffed the handful of guards, sending them on so casually... there was a man for you, by heaven! Perhaps more than man; there was something godlike about him.

Eacarces looked at the dim figure with heartfelt admiration. He had been a professional runner and boxer, a wandering athlete along the Italian coasts. Gelon had picked him as bodyguard. The two men clicked from the start. Each possessed the same quality of arms, brave faith. Each man rang true.

Gelon, of course, was an aristocrat. He was master of Syracuse as well as of Gela and Agrigentum; he had fleets, armies, enemies— and friends. This time, his friends had gone back on him and he had been trapped, here in his own city. Carthaginian agents, envious nobles, traitor guards, had combined to trap him. Now, stripped for the moment of all power and wealth, a hunted fugitive, Gelon perched under the colossal statue of Apollo— and his strong, manly laugh rang out as heartily as ever, even with death close upon him. He had no fear of anything or anyone. A man's man, Gelon!

The magic of the moonlit night, the star-struck carpet of the sky, the shimmering sea and the white outspread city, was potent even in this desperate moment. Beginning on the far side of this very ridge were the vast grain-fields, sweeping on across the uplands to the hills. This long-bearded wheat was the wealth of Sicily; it grew in quantities incredible and was exported to the whole world. The granaries of Gela, stretching along the shore by the river-mouth below, were bursting store-houses of wealth....

"To work, Eacarces!" The vibrant, energetic voice broke him abruptly from his reflections. "Those rascally guards of mine lost their chance to kill me, thanks to you; but we're in a tight spot. Every egress from the city's under guard. The barracks, the waterfront, the arsenal, the walls and gates, are patrolled. If we don't get away to safety before daylight, we're lost."

"Right," assented Eacarces. "That big cavalry base of yours at Pantelica is only twenty miles away. No traitors there!"

"Sure. How'll we get there? Fly over the walls?"

"Oh! We'll have to get out of here first."

"Precisely."

"Well, there's the answer." Eacarces jerked his thumb toward the temple. "The priests of Apollo—"

Gelon laughed harshly, scornfully.

"They're in the plot, too. I heard today that the oracle had given out word that Gelon would find life or death at Gela. The usual double meaning, of course; but that shows the priests are lined up against me."

"Well, make the oracle fall your way! Get out of here and you'll find life!"

Gelon grunted and made a gesture.

A torch was flaring at the temple entrance. The usual midnight ceremony of a visit to the oracle was going on, but the torchlight showed something else. A faint glitter shone out to right and left of it; armed men, soldiers, were patrolling the temple walls and grounds.

Down below, where the great stone stairs began, showed other torches, and still others flitted here and there through the streets. The hunt was on.

"Caught like rats! Without so much as a weapon!" growled Gelon angrily.

Eacarces started slightly; rats! That reminded him.

"Is it midnight yet?" he demanded.

"A little past." Gelon pointed to the temple, from which were coming a dozen or two men across the platform, heading for the stairs and the streets below. "The midnight visit to tire oracle is just over. Why?"

Eacarces stood up, swept up dust from the stones, and smeared his face.

"I've thought of something. You can stick it out here for an hour. If I'm not recognized as your bodyguard. I'll be back then."

"If recognized, you'll be killed."

"Quite so; but I'll pass for a slave, and remain alive."

"You can get a fistful of gold pieces by betraying me."

Eacarces chuckled. "I can get a basketful by saving you! I'm a practical man."

Gelon uttered a laugh. "You're a fool! Where are you going?"

"If I told you, then you'd say to stay here. Instead, trust me." He held out his hand to the other man, who gripped it hard. "You talk to Apollo, I'll talk to someone else of less authority— wait! Give me that gold pin from your peplon."

The dictator asked no question, but removed a handsome gold brooch from the neck of his royal scarlet tunic. Eacarces took it; and naked to the waist like any slave, darted away. The file of worshipers were on the stairs. He slipped in among them. No one paid any attention.

Below were soldiers and torches. The group was halted, then passed, and scurried off. All were in haste to reach their homes safely. When they broke up, Eacarces darted away, chuckling.

The House of the Rat Catcher, in the lower street opposite the Syracusan wine-shop; this was his goal. He had a date there with Chryseis, and had all but forgotten it until that curious train of drought sparked his brain; then he had remembered something else. Goats! Rats led to goats, by way of a sulky-eyed girl.

And goats might— by the barest possibility— be the answer to his desperate problem.

"She'll be in a stew over being kept waiting," he reflected as he hurried along. "Fact is, I promised to take her to watch the dancing at the Sunken Gardens— that's out now. This brooch may save the day. She's a regular little gold-digger, that gal!"

He collected more dirt en route and smeared his face anew. If recognized, he was done for; the bodyguard of the dictator was far too well known. True, Gelon was dictator here; he had inherited the rule of Gela, but after mastering her rival Syracuse had made that city his home. This provoked jealousy and hatred in Gela, and Carthaginian agents scattering gold had done the rest. Those African bandits would step in and loot all Sicily once they had the single strong ruler out of the way, and could destroy the cities piecemeal. Gelon had built up a united rule from Syracuse to Gela and beyond to Agrigentum—

THERE was the House of the Rat Catcher ahead, surrounded by trees; a public gift to a man from Rhegium who kept the granaries dear of rats. Its gardens ran dear down to the Gela river. And there, under the trees, was a cloaked shadow. Eacarces hurried up.

"Well, you certainly took your time!" broke out Chryseis. "Do you know how long you've kept we waiting here, with the city full of rioting soldiers and the gods only know what's going on? And—"

"Listen, my dear, I can explain everything," began Eacarces. She halted him in new anger.

"Explain! You dare to keep a date with me in that costume— oh!" She gasped at closer sight of him. "Do you think I'm going to the Sunken Gardens with anyone who looks like a slave? Keep away from me! You're filthy, dirty, you beast!"

"Well, I saved this, anyhow." Eacarces held up the brooch in the moonlight. It was a truly regal gaud, hand-chiselled out of massy Egyptian gold, and a different sort of gasp came from her at sight of it.

"I had this and a necklace to go with it. I got into that riot of drunken soldiers and was lucky to save my life. They tore off most of my clothes and rolled me in the mud, but I hung on to this. It's a beauty, eh? Gelon gave it to me."

"Is it real?" she exclaimed, awed by the touch of it.

"Of course. Well, that's why I'm late. And we can't go to the Gardens tonight. The boss is leaving for Syracuse in an hour and of course I must go along. We'll have to put off that date till next time I'm around this way."

Chryseis murmured something, anything. She was fondling the brooch and lost in admiration of it. Why, it was heavy enough to buy a couple of slaves!

"A dozen, if you pick one of those Tyrian dealers; they're nuts about gold," Eacarces said carelessly. "Look, honey; I've only got a minute or two. Must get back. Do you remember telling me once about following a goat, when you were a kid, and getting smack into the oracle of Apollo, up back of the temple?"

With an effort, she brought her mind back to him. She pinned the brooch into her tunic and reached forward and gave him a hearty smack.

"There, sweet man, that's for thanks! Dirty or not— why, of course I remember! I'd probably have been whipped to death if the priests had ever found out about it."

"Tell me again. I've got a bet with a guard captain that I can reach the oracle without going through the temple. I'll work him up well and make the bet a really fat one, and split with you when I win it, next trip."

"You'll win something you don't bargain on, if those priests catch you!" she said.

"Me? The dictator's bodyguard? Not much. Whisper it, honey!" He slipped an arm about her, wiped his face with a corner of her robe, and found her lips. She laughed.

"Well, you know the big statue, and the wall around the grove to the right of it. It begins at the steps. You follow that wall. It's all grown up with trees and brush. You come to two cypresses together, very tall, taller than the other trees, after you've gone a long way."

"On the hillside above town, yes," he said. "But that's where the solid rock begins."

"Oh, no! I thought so too, till I saw the goats coming in and out. The wall's broken down there, by some old trees. It was a terrible climb, I remember, but it takes you into a cleft in the rock, exactly like some god had carved it along the hillside. You can't see it from anywhere. Well, you get to the top and turn left. That's the end of the cut, and comes into a grotto. The oracle is there."

"So. And the other end of the cut? Where does that go?"

"Oh, I don't know. Somewhere out around the hill— clear past the city walls anyhow."

He kissed her again, swiftly, passionately. What an ideal bargain all around— from her standpoint, from his own, from that of Gelon! Never had a gold pin served variant purposes so well. She had no objections to going home alone; indeed, he rather suspected that she would head for the Summer Gardens without him to show off her splendour.

So he got clear of her and made for the hillside and the temple once more.

He kept a bright lookout, passing from shadow to shadow, threading his way along the narrow streets that climbed the height. A furious exultation seized him and bore him onward. That glorious temple stood just at the edge of the city walls, and at this one point, outside them. There was no doubt whatever that he had learned something of the utmost value, not only for the moment, but also for the future if Gelon wanted to punish his angry city! That is, if it were true.

She might have lied. She might have made the whole thing up. Even were it true, long years had passed. Perhaps that broken wall had been brought to light, that cleft in the rock discovered and walled up! Goats that pointed the way to one, might have pointed it to others since then.

At this thought, chilled as he was, he broke into an anxious sweat. That cleft in the rock, unseen and unknown, suddenly became the biggest thing in the world to him.

It loomed so large in his mind that he even forgot his face, wiped clean on the robe of Chryseis. But he thought of it suddenly, when he panted around a corner and broke into a glare of light from torches, and hands grabbed at him. Here were half a dozen armoured men, men of the guards, men who knew him!

"Eacarces!" shrilled up the yell of recognition, as they gripped him.' "Where is he? Where's the tyrant? Speak, you damned dog—"

"In the temple!" blurted out Eacarces. "Gone to the temple— sanctuary— the altar of the god—"

Hot voices yelped. A spear-point drove at him, a sword slashed at him. Both reached him; he slumped and sprawled on the .stones with blood spurting. They were off with an excited blether of voices, in a mad rush of frenzied haste.

Staggering, he came to his feet. They were just under the stairs. He looked up and saw the torches flaring along past the pediment of that colossal statue of Apollo; torches and guards together swept up past the statue and on toward the temple beyond.

Eacarces stumbled forward, hand pressed hard against his side. The spear had done small damage, but the sword-cut was a bad one, under the ribs and deep. He came to the great stairs and paused there. His voice lifted bravely.

"Gelon! Come down, come down quickly! Quickly!"

A timid soul would have feared a trap, would have hesitated and hung fire. Not Gelon! He knew the voice, he knew the heart. From between the legs of the giant statue his figure slipped out and came running down the limestone stairs.

"This way! No time to waste!" said Eacarces, turning aside to the dark thicket along the retaining wall.

They reached it together, pressing on among the trees and brush that clad the steep slope. A faint tumult reached them from the temple; it was being searched. Gelon laughed at the sounds. On and on they fought their way, whipped by branches, seeking ever the two high cypress trees reaching into moonlit air. Eacarces babbled out what he had learned, as they went along. Blood was running down his leg, his energy was failing.

"There they are!" exclaimed Gelon. "A cleft in the rock behind, you say? I never, heard of it. No matter! If it's there, we've won!"

They came to the cypress trees and shoved in for the wall behind. Matted undergrowth checked them, but they got through.

"By the gods, you're right!" cried Gelon. "The wall's crumbled— climb for it!"

That was a climb indeed for the sound man, a horror for the hurt man. Gelon dragged Eacarces up the last length of it and stood up.

"It's there— look!" Awe was in his voice, as he viewed the unsuspected cleft that followed the line of the ridge. But Eacarces, clinging to a tree, sobbed for breath and could see nothing.

"Go on," he said. "Go on, I'll follow. Let me wait— get my breath— make  sure no one is after us. Turn right, be sure and turn right—"

Gelon, fiercely exultant, plunged away as bidden, and was gone to safety.

EACARCES lifted his head. Everything was silent here, though it seemed that a breath of faint voices stirred in the high cypress branches. His eyes cleared. Far below lay stretched the city, white and shimmering in the moonlight. Northward were the wide plains of golden grain, stretching afar to the dark line of the hills and broken by the little river, which lifted the eye to the snowy crest of Etna in the distance. His gaze followed the line of hills as they dropped and lowered to. the eastern shore by the Scalambrian cape— then everything blurred.

He caught at the tree. He could feel the strength, the very life, pouring out of him. Everything went black. Only that awful feeling of his life-stream gushing forth, and voices in the trees, voices that increased with strength, speaking his name:

"Eacarces! Eacarces!"

A HAND was shaking him, a voice was at his very ear. He looked up. The moonlight was there, but everything else was gone— trees and temple alike. Nothing here except bare naked shelving rock, and the dark, baggy figure above him.

"Joe! For Gawdsake wake up, Joe! You ain't hurt!"

"That was Clancy's voice— good old Clancy! With an effort, Joe Grimes sat up; all the weight of his equipment was upon him again. He found voice.

"Did he get away? Did he get away?"

Clancy shook him savagely. "Come on! The colonel's here and there's hell to pay — we can't find that damned battery. The directions are all twisted."

Dazed, struggling to comprehend, Grimes looked at his wrist, pulled back his glove, and saw the luminous dial there: 12:42. His jaw dropped, his eyes bugged out. Why, it had been 12:40 just before he hit the ground— the damned watch had stopped! But it had not stopped. He saw the sweep-second hand clicking around.

From somewhere came a growl of voices. He caught his name. Clancy shook him again.

"Come on, ya big mutt! Quit dreaming! Come on!"

He heaved himself upright, Clancy lending a hand. He looked around— what the devil! There was the same sickle-sweep of curving shoreline, the distant hills, the cape dark in the moonlight....

Something came to put life in him. He lumbered forward at the dark cluster of figures and broke in upon them without ceremony or formality.

"Hey! I think I can find that place! It runs parallel with the ridge. It lays over here to the right, just along past where the temple used to be—"

"Migawd, he's off again!" groaned somebody. "Goofy Joe! Been here before, have you?"

He swung on them fiercely. "Never mind! I know damn well what I'm doing! That place lays off to the right, and you can't see it till you climb slap into it—"

The voice of the colonel cut in with quiet decision.

"Lead the way, Grimes. And if you lead us wrong, by God I'll take you apart!"

He turned and lumbered away, and broke into speed. He could remember fighting along through that thicket of trees, right along this same slope. No cypresses up above now; no wall, but just the same he had the feel of the place. He pushed ahead confidently, surely. Off to the left the moonlight disclosed a little steep scarp of rock, in no way different from the rock around, but he pointed at it with his tommy-gun.

"There y'are! I told you! Up and over that—"

They went at it. A startled Italian yell quavered up from nowhere. Then they were into it before they knew it— into the long concealed battery there, guns emplaced out of sight— Eyeties running and yelling, guns stuttering away in red smashes. Then, when things had scarcely started, the show was all over, with masses of men holding up hands and waving white cloths in surrender.

A little later, the colonel strode up to Grimes and Clancy.

"That was damned good work, Grimes," said he heartily. "You were the only one of us all who kept his bearings. Boy, it was perfect! Spread farther along that ridge yonder; they say Nazi tanks are coming up."

When they were alone, Clancy put his head close in the moonlight.

"Good work, my eye!" he said softly. "Joe, you were havin' one of your fits again. I know durned well you were dreaming, after we hit! I had a hell of a job fetching you out of it."

"You're a damned liar. I was just— just getting my bearings," said Joe Grimes. Clancy's big hand slammed him on the shoulder.

"Okay, feller! Keep it up, anyhow! You'll get your chevrons out of this job, so keep it up!"

"Aw, nuts," said Goofy Joe, and  grinned happily.

______________________________

7: A  Slug at Destiny

Adventure, Nov 1930

THE THREE of us were in Jack's Bar when Laverne walked in. There was not much to be said for any of the three, myself included. Halvers was a Limey, a little, red headed, cowardly rat who used bold words to hide behind; Limey stood for Limehouse in his case, but he had stuck with us when we jumped the Anna Nelson.

Freed was a big boned, laughing, blond devil with a broken nose and a bullying way, and pleasant enough if he got it. He hailed originally from Iowa, and what came between Iowa and Port Austin was a long story and most of it drunken and dissolute. It was Freed who had smashed the mate's head with a firebar when we swam ashore from the Anna Nelson. I was the third, John Irwin to wit; and when Laverne walked into Jack's Bar I was just as drunk as the other two and that much more of a fool, since I knew better.

Laverne walked in— we did not know then who he was, though every one else in the place did— and looked around. He looked at us and we at him. He was wide shouldered, and the chest at his open shirt front was a mat of curly black hair; his head was cropped, and under his faded billycock hat was a face to remember— big nosed, square jawed, blue eyes and black lashes, a look on him that struck out at you. A bad man he was from all standards, but he was no liar.

Port Austin, with the Arafura Sea on one side and Australia over the southern horizon, is the convenient name I'm using for another place altogether. You may recognize the place, but we'll let it go at that; I have no wish to be hauled back for what happened then and later.

Laverne walked up to us where we stood at one end of the bar. We did not have his name then, of course, nor did we have his right name until sometime later; but every one else in the place knew who he was. His gaze flicked over Halvers, touched lightly upon Freed and came to rest on me, to whom he addressed his blunt words.

"So you're the three who jumped the Anna Nelson last night, eh?" he said. His voice was resonant, calmly restrained and mild; yet it gained instant attention.

"What's it to you?" I asked.

"A good deal," he returned easily. All the others around were watching us and listening, but little he cared. "Aye, a good deal. Her mate's dead, and it's a hanging job, and they're putting the police after you this minute."

At this Halvers whined an oath. Freed laughed and swigged down his liquor, but his eyes drove to the door. I looked at Laverne.

"Well, what's it to you?" I demanded again.

He nodded slightly, his hard red lips curving in a smile.

"A good deal," he answered again. "Tide's at the flood in a few minutes, and I'm going out with it. I need three men—  your kind. Hard work ahead, but a hundred a month in gold dollars; twenty quid, provided you live to earn it. Speak up quick."

"What sort of a barge have you?" inquired Freed, hesitant.

Laverne still looked at me as though he were not at all interested in any one else; however, he made prompt reply.

"Schooner, auxiliary power, three-man crew. Chartered to a Holy Joe. All hands work."

"Where to?" piped up Halvers. "I say, Cap'n, where to?"

"What the hell do you care?" I flung angrily at him. "You're on, Cap'n. Ready?"

"Aye, and you'd better be," said Laverne. "Come along."

He turned and stalked out of the place so rapidly that he was gone almost before we realized it. Subdued oaths and guarded calls came to us from every hand; no joke sailin' with the likes of him; chances enough to get clear— best leave the devil be and skip into the bush. D'ye mind how him and that Jap pearler fouled gear and took to shooting it out?...

I was outside now, following the wide shouldered figure, and the confused voices died out behind me. Liquor or not, I was frightened; facing a murder charge under English law is no attractive gamble. Freed was stumbling along behind me, his feet hard to control, and Halvers was on a trot, trying to keep up with Laverne's long legged stride.

"Hey! This ain't the way to the consulate!" said Freed suddenly. "We got
to be signed on regular—"

"Shut up!" said Laverne without looking around. His voice had a rasp in it. "Go back to the consulate, if you want to. Close up, now. Stow your yap!"

We were upon the waterfront now, in the little street where the Japs and Chinese hang out; you may recall the scene. Untidy street, cabins on either side, women's voices calling, and the clean fine stars blotted out by the sins of men.

A few people were lolling along the street, and Japanese voices rose chattering and laughing. Suddenly one voice crackled up, and a lithe dark shape hurtled in upon us. I caught a knife flash, saw Laverne duck and swerve, heard the solid clump as his fist landed hard.

The dark shape went reeling and staggering into the shadows and was gone.

"All right, Shimoku!" said Laverne without excitement. "I'll get you for this— later."

All the while we headed on, not stopping, the three of us crowded in behind Laverne, and in another moment the beach shanties opened out before us. Stars and riding lights glinted in the harbor; if any one had hoped to get Laverne alone our presence dissuaded them, for we had no further trouble at all. Laverne laughed and pointed to the lights of a steamer out beyond the reef.

"There's your Anna Nelson lads," he said. "Tinkering at her engines and sicking the law on you. Stay by her if you like. Here's my boat— Hop up, Sooey! Got my men and we're off."

A whaleboat lay before us, a small figure uncurling itself from the stern; Laverne and his cook must have rowed ashore by themselves. We shoved her out and put off, with some trouble, since she had a heavy load of boxes and bags aboard. Laverne took the steering oar threading our way among the pearling luggers and trading craft dotting the roads.

I knew, if the others did not, that there was something queer about Laverne. He was not paying able seamen a hundred gold per month unless there was a crooked note about his ship, or cargo, or destination. However, what matter? As long as we got out of the frying pan now, we could take our chance about getting out of the fire later on.

We came in under the rail of a small schooner, rocking gently at her moorings, and Laverne sent up a hail. A shrill treble voice made response.

"All set, Cap'n! The reverend's asleep. Got clearance?"

"Yes." Laverne turned to us. "All up, lads. We'll bring in the boat as she is and unload later. Snap into it, you three. No time to lose, and no loud talking."

Sooey was already over the rail and gone like a monkey. As we followed I noticed that the schooner showed no riding lights. Then we were abruptly into fast, silent work, with Laverne driving us and his treble voiced mate, a hulking fat figure in the starlight, padding about like a baby elephant. At the moment, all three of us took for granted that this hurried silence was because Laverne wanted to get us clear of Port Austin; but we might have had more sense. There was more of a menace than the Anna Nelson, had we known it.

Click of davit ratchets, clatter of turning capstan, slatting of canvas and squeak of block— there was none of these sounds. The hawser was slipped and buoyed, the whaleboat was trailed behind, the schooner slid silently away with the tide and the strong current that pulls out past Harkness Point. It was twenty minutes before Laverne, at the helm, lifted his voice to the big mate in the bow.

"All right, Steve. Boat in first."

We fell to work, got in the boat and emptied her load on the deck. I was taking stock of Steve while we worked. The big fellow said little, fell to the job with the rest of us and possessed all the amazing agility which is sometimes found in a fat man. He was no bully; that treble voice of his was ludicrous, but he knew his business.

We were outside the point now and had the land breeze. Our dull brown canvas went up, and the schooner heeled over gently. Laverne called to me.

"You— your name?"

"Irwin."

"Take the wheel. Hold her as she is—"

A test, this; there was no binnacle light. I held her by the stars, and she steered sweetly. Laverne watched me a moment, then turned to Steve, who was at his elbow.

"We've thrown 'em off. Shimoku tried to knife me in town. I didn't wait."

Steve grunted.

"Bet you a dollar, Cap'n, they're after us this minute."

Laverne made no response. I stood at the wheel and wondered. A preacher asleep below, this strange departure— what did it all mean? Well, so far as I was concerned, it meant that I was out of Port Austin, and glad of it. The rest could wait.

WE WERE at sea when I wakened and got on deck. The fumes of liquor were gone and I was hungry, but my brain was sharp enough. The schooner was kicking right along in a dead, glassy calm; land was out of sight; and I judged she was doing seven knots with her gas engine. Her name, painted on a boat slung near me, was the Kestrel.

Freed was at the helm and no one else was in sight. He waved a hand to me, but I disregarded him for the moment, located the galley, and Sooey rewarded me with a mug of hot coffee and a mess kid of excellent stew. These I took aft and communed with Freed as I ate. He was enjoying himself, as the reckless, challenging blue eyes bore witness; with him, yesterday was gone and forgotten, he was ready for more trouble, and cared not a whit whence it came. This craft, according to his reckoning, was made for trouble.

"What's a preacher aboard for?" he said, jerking his head at the cabin skylight. "And not a soul on deck except us. They's a rack o' rifles down there. I seen 'em plain. Three of us for'ard— four, with the chink. Three aft, talkin' over breakfast this minute. No discipline; no nothin'. Deck's a mess, too."

It was a mess and no mistake— a puttied deck, like all these craft in the hot seas, unwashed, with lines coiled any old way and nothing tidied up. No fresh paint anywhere; nothing shined up. This looked queer to me, for I had put Laverne down as a seaman.

"Better go slow," I said. "Better not take things for granted; this Laverne is deep."

"Deep my eye!" grunted Freed in scorn. "He's got a scrap on with some Jap pearler, that's what, and needs us to do his fighting. Where's that damned Limey?"

"Asleep," I said, and took my mug and mess kid back to the galley. As I returned our after guard was coming on deck.

Laverne and Steve, the fat mate, and after them the Holy Joe— coming up on deck, with a look around and a long stare at us. The mate showed up in daylight as a fat faced chap, but his jaw was solid enough; he and Laverne were in pyjamas. The preacher was a little man with white hair, a bronzed face like a dried nut, and sparkling eyes; he wore clericals but they were of tailored white tussore silk, and the man himself looked like ready money. He wore a big amethyst ring with a crest cut in the stone. When he nodded and smiled to us his eyes were friendly.

"Well, lads," said Laverne with his hearty, but calm, manner, "we're off. Where's your pal?"

"Asleep," said Freed, and Laverne looked at him steadily for a moment. "Asleep, sir."

"That's better. Go fetch him." He looked at me. "Take the wheel."

Freed gave me the course and went forward to rouse up Halvers. Laverne and Steve stood talking at the rail, low voiced. The preacher came up to me and spoke.

"You're an American, I understand? My name is Bracken— Dr. Theodore Bracken. If we're to be shipmates for the next week or so—"

"Hey, Doctor!" Laverne hailed him, and jerked his head. "Come over here, will you? One point about this we want to get straight."

The doctor joined them. I could not help wondering at his presence aboard here; he answered some question, then came back to me, ruffling up his white hair with one very capable looking hand. Old he might be, but he was spry.

"Never been in New Zealand, I suppose?" he asked.

"Yes, until the end of the year," I told him. "I was in Feilding for about three  months— on the newspaper there."

"Eh? Eh?" His sparkling eyes pierced into me. "You know Tom Miller, do you?"

I laughed at his surprise.

"Of course. Tom gave me my job; a square shooter and a real man. I'm going back in the game with him one of these days."

"Well, well, upon my word!" said Bracken.

He went back to the rail and talked excitedly, and I saw Laverne give me a half scowling, half amused glance.

Now, however, Freed appeared, and by the big fellow's swagger I saw that Halvers must have fetched some liquor aboard. Behind him trailed the little red headed Cockney; and I felt an odd distaste for them both. Good rowdies in a pinch, good men to fight beside; but a brief exchange of words with a man like Bracken was enough to jerk me out of any feeling of companionship with the pair. The very sunlight and sea wind seemed to put distance between us.

"Now, my lads, let's to business," said Laverne crisply as he faced us. "My name's Laverne, master of the Kestrel. This is my mate, Steve. This is my passenger and charter party, Dr. Bracken. Your names?"

We gave them, and he nodded.

"Good. We made our terms last night — twenty quid a month. We're all white men aboard here, except the cook, and things can be pretty free and easy— if you let 'em be so. But you're going to work hard; we're all going to work hard as the devil, and we're going to start in now. Any objections?"

Halvers touched his forelock and peered around as though expecting work to tap him on the shoulder; but Freed laughed, his eyes on those of Laverne.

"If there's slaving to be done, I guess niggers can do it, can't they?" he said. "No use beating around the bush, Cap'n. Not with us. We're no chickens, and can put two an' two in the pot to make four. What's your game, anyhow?"

Laverne nodded again, as though he had expected this line of talk. He gave the mate a glance.

"I expect, Steve," he said mildly, "you'd better show Freed just what our game is. He's that sort."

"I figured so," said Steve in his shrill voice, and moved down on the three of us.

His fat features were cherubic enough, but his eyes gave warning.

"Look here—"

Freed started to speak, but Steve's fist checked the words. What a wallop it was! Freed staggered back, then tore in with an oath, but he never touched Steve. Unexcitedly, Steve landed a jab that brought Freed's arms down, and then crossed his right and knocked Freed clear across the deck. He was after him like a cat, caught him again as he was rising, and stretched him flat. As an exhibition of quickness, it was marvellous.

Halvers stood half crouched, alert, venomous, hand at side. Laverne regarded him calmly.

"Try it, Halvers."

"Who, me?" The little rat relaxed. "Not me, sir. It ain't me style, to be givin' lip to an order."

"Good idea," said Laverne. "Get your breakfast and turn to."

Halvers went forward. Freed was up now, hanging on to his jaw and looking murder at Steve, who regarded him stolidly.

"Had enough?" asked the mate.

"No, you—"

Before the epithet was finished. Freed toppled over, and this time he took a good battering. It was enough for him, and he went forward with Steve. Laverne turned to me, and a queer smile broke on his square, blue jowled features. Dr. Bracken, who had watched the proceedings without comment, produced a pipe and pouch.

"Sad but necessary, eh?" he observed, his eyes following Freed and the mate.

Laverne grunted, holding me with his eyes.

"Feel like work, Irwin?" he demanded.

I nodded.  "Naturally, sir."

"Any questions to ask?"

"I don't see why you don't save fuel.  Might need it later."

He followed my look to the catspaws creeping over the glassy water, then clapped me on the shoulder.

"You'll do. You're just the man I want. Take the wheel. Doctor, and we'll get some canvas on her. Wind coming up at last. Oh, Steve!"

So Bracken, to my astonishment, stood up to the wheel as though he'd been doing it all his life, and the rest of us pitched in. Freed was cured of his insolence, if not of his curiosity, and he was a good hand. In no time at all the Kestrel was leaning over to a freshening breeze. She must have been recently cleaned, for she slipped through the water like a witch.

This began our work— and as Laverne had said, it was real work. We broke out paint and stores and went over the little schooner from waterline to truck— quite literally. Where she had been a faded red, we made her a glistening white; holystoned the deck, varnished the spars, and even made some changes in her rig. A whole box of brasswork was broken out, and we stuck that on her here and there— rails and so forth. It was all gimcrack stuff, but it helped enormously in changing a dirty little trading schooner into a privately owned pleasure craft. We changed the name to Wastrel, and there were ready made brass letters to be applied, too. The Wastrel she became, of Auckland, N. Z.

All this took time, days of it, and it took hard labour. All of us pitched in, stripped to the waist, except Sooey, who kept to his galley, and Bracken, who took every other trick at the wheel as his share of the labour, alternating with Laverne. For the rest of us it was plod-plod work, with never a breath as to rhyme or reason, and no explanation except what we could frame up for ourselves. As the final touch brand new canvas was broken out to replace our brown, patched sails.

We kept no regular watches, except at the wheel; the weather was fair and we travelled right along with hardly a hitch at the lines. Freed made no more trouble; he was too dog weary to think of it, and we were so well fed that we were content enough.

And curious, too. Halvers thought that we were going pearl raiding. Freed conjectured we were going to make a descent on some island and pull off a piratical job. I did not waste time thinking about it. We had happened along at the right moment to fit it with Laverne's plans— this was clear, and this was enough. He and Bracken had cooked up this cruise quite awhile back, as everything proved; their arrangements had taken time and money.

I liked Bracken, though I saw little of him. He was a gentleman, and when he wanted things done he had a way with him; he had given orders in his day, and from a quarterdeck, I judged. As the work progressed I took note that Laverne seemed to take a liking to me. Now and again he dipped into my past, in a friendly way, and from casual inferences I gathered that he was ready enough to trust me; but he never opened his head about the purpose of our voyage.

Then, out of a clear sky, I had trouble with my companions, for the first time.

It was sunset, and we had just finished with the new canvas after a gruelling day. Freed was drawing up buckets of water to empty over us, and I relieved him at the rope. Halvers slipped on the wet deck, and as he went down Freed gave him a playful shove that sent him clear to the opposite scuppers. I laughed and emptied the bucket into Freed's face, never thinking of it except as a joke. To my amazement, he whirled on me, sputtering oaths.

"I've had my eye on you, blast your dirty hide," he roared, suddenly furious. "You need your needin's and you'll get 'em now—"

With this, he let me have it, and next instant we were at it hammer and tongs.

Freed, I believe, must have always resented my mode of speech and action, which was not his; perhaps he fancied a feeling of superiority on my part. At any rate, his actions held all the fury of a secretly cherished grudge and he did me a good deal of damage before I realized he was in earnest. Fortunately, I am a rather large person in build; so when I got the heft of my body into one good punch, it stopped him, and my next rocked him back on his heels. I knocked against Halvers, kicked him out of my way, and was boring in for the finish to the solar plexus when I saw Freed's eyes flick past me. I whirled around to find Halvers lunging in with a knife, rat teeth exposed in a snarl.

It was fast while it lasted, but it did not last long. I hooked Halvers under the chin, knocked his knife overboard, took a fast one from Freed and then went into him proper. He was finished by the time Laverne, who had seen the rumpus from aft, got to us. The skipper gave me a grin and a flick of his head.

"Come on below. Want to see you."

Steve padded aft and took the wheel. I followed Laverne down to the cabin, where Bracken was sitting at the table. Laverne got out a bottle of squareface and three glasses and poured a good drink all around.

"Irwin's all right, Doctor," he said. "Just as I thought. It's worth having the others to get hold of him. Here's luck to us, and a health to Cap'n Bracken of the Wastrel!"

"It's none of my business," I said, when we had put down the drink, "and you haven't asked for my opinion; but I know that port officers are pretty strict in these parts, and I don't see how Dr. Bracken can get by with it—"

They both chuckled at this.

"Don't worry," said Bracken. "I've the papers all shipshape and proper, my friend. But we want to ask you something, Irwin. Some men do as they're told; others have brains; you may recall the basic philosophic maxim of teaching according to the capacity of reception. Now, we've made preparations to commit a certain act which, in the eyes of the law, may be considered a crime. We have an excellent chance of getting away with it and of making a good deal of money. It may, however, involve fighting. We'd like to have you with us. We can use your brains. Our friend Steve, I might say, is not a factor in the game at all, for reasons you'll know later on. Now, where do you stand?"

I had to laugh at this amazing proposition.

‘‘Gentlemen, let's go easy," I returned. "Are you a clergyman. Bracken, or not?"

"From now on I'm Captain Bracken of this ship," he said rather curtly. "Never mind what I am or am not, otherwise. I have every confidence that what we propose to do is ethically right, if that's what you're driving at. It's not piracy or anything of the sort— except as appearance might indicate."

I glanced at Laverne and both of us broke into laughter.

"Well, what is your ethically right and legally wrong action, then?" I asked.

"That I refuse to tell you," said Bracken. "Only Laverne and I know of it. No one else is going to know of it in advance."

That stumped me, for a moment.

I sat down at the table, poured another drink and fingered the glass as I met the sparkling eyes of Bracken. That little old man, brown and hard as a nut, was the real boss here— the brains behind Laverne's brawn.

"What," I asked thoughtfully, "about Shimoku?"

The shot went home. Bracken frowned and compressed his lips, and Laverne broke into a sudden hearty laugh.

"I said he had brains!" He clapped Bracken on the shoulder. "Didn't I tell you?"

I leaned forward.

"Come, gentlemen," I said coolly. "You can't expect a man to run his neck into a fighting mess unless he knows what he's fighting for. I'm a seaman by necessity and lack of silver, but it's not my trade; I'm a newspaper man. As such, I have a fairly comprehensive idea of laws, courts and so forth. I might rob for money, but not unless I was starving. I wouldn't rob just to get money. I don't care to be a thief. I don't care to have the law chasing me all my life. Money isn't worth it. But— there are exceptions."

"Hm!" said Bracken, while Laverne scowled at me. "I admire the delicacy of your reasoning, which isn't really worth a tinker's dam. Let's go at it another way. If you overpowered a thief and took a twenty-pound note from him, would you keep the note or try to find the rightful owner?"

"I'd keep it," I said promptly.

Laverne put down his glass and exploded in an oath.

"Damn you and your arguments, Irwin!" he rasped, his voice no longer calm. "We're bound for a spot in the western Carolines, we're going to take away a fortune from a rascally Jap, and you're in on the job with us. Understand?"

I met his black rimmed blue eyes and smiled.

"I rather think you're right," I said. "Here's luck!"

There our talk ended— on that word. I was dead beat with work, Freed had hammered me a bit, and I wanted sleep. So I went and took it, postponing further talk until later. One thing had come of it all; I was pretty much on an equality with Laverne and Bracken now.

With the next day I found that the old comradeship was clean gone; I had enemies, and vindictive ones. Freed did not disguise his dislike, and Halvers merely growled when I spoke to him. So we ceased speaking, the three of us, and that held things in abeyance without curing them by a long shot.

We were all of us too busy finishing up the alteration of the old Kestrel to take time off for indulging our personal animosities, however. Laverne was making a good job of it, not overlooking any details. All this while we saw not a sail breaking the horizon, and the wind holding, we were not forced to burn up petrol.

I could see now why three white men had been wanted as crew. Try as she would, no usual trading schooner or pearler with her complement of blacks, could very well pose as any yacht or pleasure craft; but we could now hope to get by with it very decently. Bracken was no trader; this stood out all over him. As for the rest of us, Laverne outfitted us with white uniforms. He even had natty caps with Wastrel on them in gold letters. These were served out with orders to lay them by until the time came.

The transformation even extended to the cabin, which was tricked out with new stain and varnish and a few fancy pictures; and with this we were all set. Freed and Halvers never did any talking before me, but as the days passed I gained a fairly accurate idea of what they thought about it all. A word here, a look there, spoke volumes; so did their very caution, their subservience. But one night I got an inkling of the truth, when they exchanged a few words on coming off watch, thinking me still asleep.

"Go easy, now, with Steve," said Freed under his breath. "None o' your damned lip, get me? We want to help 'em pull it off."

"Blime, I ain't crabbin' it!" whined Halvers. "But I'd like to put a knife in 'im, s'elp me! I'll remember, matey; right y'are."

"You'd better, damn you!" said Freed. "Whatever it is, they ain't goin' to pull it off without a scrap. Watch your step, get me?"

"Aye," said Halvers.

They were lying low for the present— and they always would lie low, I told myself as I held the Wastrel to her course under the swinging stars. A vast contempt for the pair of them filled me; I despised myself for having companioned with them so recently. That, however, had been necessity, and now our ways had sundered. Freed was bold enough and bad enough, but Laverne had him backed down on both counts, or I missed my guess. I was under no illusions about Laverne, but at least he was straight and no coward. Freed was crooked, and Halvers was a rank coward, so Laverne could handle them well enough. And this, so far as I was concerned, let them both out.

Bracken and Laverne said never a word more about their plans, but I became rather thick with Bracken, for we often talked together, especially at night, and I got glimpses into his past. He was, or had been, a preacher; he had also been a navy man, probably in his younger days or during the war. Superficially he was a gentle, lovable chap, but under the surface he had a streak of cold fire. He knew New Zealand intimately, and I gathered that he had been located there for a long time, though his people were from around Norfolk, in England.

As to Laverne, he was a rough and tumble chap with enough brains to have pulled himself out of the rut. He must have been trading around among the islands for years; he knew everything and every one, to hear him talk. And, what was more important, many of them knew him. Morals, scruples, ethics— he had none at all. Like most men who get anywhere, however, he had a little code all his own, and stuck to it.

"Remember that mate of the Anna Nelson, do you?" he said to me one day, like a bolt from the blue. "Well, I figure I know which one o' you three lads bashed in his head."

"Maybe you do," I said.

He grinned.

"Uh-huh. And you watch out for him, my lad. He won't fancy havin' you or the Limey tell the judge what you know, if you're ever forced. He won't fancy it by half! Chew on that, and don't you forget it."

This, indeed, gave me something to think about in relation to Freed.

"Look out for him your own self," I returned.

Laverne rolled a cool oath on his tongue.

"Remember when I walked into Jack's Bar and looked the three of you over?" he said. "I knew then and there that I wanted you, Irwin— just you. Freed's good for fist bait and maybe bullet stoppage; Halvers is a sewage rat, but the both of 'em can do work for better men till they kick in. Huh! Don't worry about me. Not for a minute! I've lived with a damned sight worse rogues than those two, and buried 'em afterward."

Which, I made no doubt, was true enough.

There came an afternoon when Laverne and Bracken both worked hard over their calculations, and that evening took star sights and did more figuring. Going on deck at midnight, eight bells, I found the wind dying out and Steve at work down in the engine room with a lantern. He was not starting the engine, however.

Bracken took me to the rail, linking his arm in mine.

"Wind's dying, but it'll lift again with daybreak," he said. "I'm going to turn in and leave you on watch; call me if you see any lights, or if the wind springs up again. Otherwise, smoke up and take your ease. We'll raise the island with daylight and be there soon after."

"What island?" I asked.

He chuckled.

"Nanmuk, if that means anything to you— which it won't," he returned, and left me. Then he came back to me, as though repenting his close mouthed attitude. "Cheerio, lad," he said softly. "You'll have it all soon enough; aye, and perhaps more than you look for! Never heard of the Croft case, eh? Well, Croft's real name was Bracken, and he was my brother—"

"Ho, Bracken!" Laverne's head came up from the companionway. "Come along below and go over a few things before I turn in, will you?"

So Bracken abruptly left me to the stars and my reflections.

Croft was his brother, eh? That put a new light on affairs, and I racked my
brains trying to recall the Croft case. The story had broken while I was in Feilding, and I recalled that Tom Miller had been greatly exercised over the matter, which for a time had threatened international relations. Then, like such things, it had blown over and been relegated to the hands of some investigating committee, and so forgotten. But Bracken, it appeared, had by no means forgotten.

Details of the affair slowly came back to me as I watched the stars and the empty darkness of the horizon; but I could not get the key detail to link up with Bracken. Croft had been his brother, yes— a trader long established in a little nook of the Carolines. Ever since these islands were given Japan under the post-war mandate, Croft had had trouble; and it had ended in his death. No one knew what had happened. A tramp schooner had wandered in, had found Japanese established there, and no sign of Croft except his grave. That was all I could recall of the story. It had provoked all sorts of trouble, but nothing had come of it. And the key link was missing.

Toward dawn the wind sprang up, and I called Bracken. He set a course for the N. N. E. and got Steve and Laverne on deck, and he took the wheel while the three of us worked over a mysterious and damnably heavy packing case we had fetched up from the hold the previous evening.

I had already observed a large iron plate made fast to the deck almost at the stern rail, behind the helm, and now discovered the reason. The packing case yielded up a small and highly polished brass cannon of ornate design; the metal plate had been especially made for it, and within twenty minutes it was securely bolted in place. Apparently such a cannon as would be carried by a private craft for saluting, it was in reality a rapid fire three-pounder that had been touched up with a few brass mountings and, with a tarpaulin lashed tightly in place about it, was soon snugly stowed.

"You must be anticipating a regular naval engagement," I said to Laverne as we finished the work.

"I am," he returned. "We may wish yet that we had brought along an anti-aircraft gun as well. Go rouse up those lads for'ard; everybody in uniform, too—"

"Land ho!" came Bracken's voice.

Day was breaking, and now we saw what we had been too busy to see— a bluish bulge over the horizon, dead ahead. Laverne went into the shrouds like a cat and took a look.

"That's Nanmuk, all right," he sang out jubilantly. "Good work, Bracken! A couple of hours and we'll be in, with the breeze that's coming up. No doubt about it. See the dot over to the east'ard? That's the reef with the clump o' trees. All right, Irwin! Rouse 'em up!"

I went forward, wakened Freed and Halvers and got into my uniform. We had reached our destination.

YOU MAY well believe that I was astonished when we came close hauled into the little bight that was Nanmuk anchorage and saw what was there.

As the charts show, Namuk is only a dot to the south of the group, several of which cloud the northern horizon. It is an island just above the water, lying nearly flat and pear shaped. The stem of the pear, to the eastward, runs off in a false atoll among a labyrinth of coral reefs to a hummock two miles distant, crowned with a tuft of palms. Thanks to the coral, the only safe anchorage is the little bight at the western side, an indentation in the shore which gives protection against any but a west wind, which is not prevalent there.

The morning was still young when we heeled into the cove, came about and let go our canvas as we rounded to anchorage. Laverne's whistle shrilled, and we cast off the tarpaulin of the gun and fired a blank cartridge; very smartly we did it, too, for all our stares at what greeted us.

We had anticipated the sight of a trader's iron roofed house and store and sheds nestling under the trees. Instead, we found a wide clearing in which was set a square structure of dazzling white coral blocks. A quarter mile to the left, at the upper tip of the cove, were two large godowns of the same construction, with a coral rock jetty that extended a hundred feet out from shore. Against this jetty lay a little bathtub of a steamer, booms out and winches rattling; she was loading from hand cars pushed out on rails along the jetty. Behind the godowns were the thatched roofs of native huts. Close to the steamer was anchored a schooner.

Near the large square house were wireless masts, and a flagstaff atop the house carried the Rising Sun flag. Numbers of black men were in sight, and not a few trim little Japanese, all in white uniforms.

"Whew!" I heard Bracken exclaim as he lowered his glasses. "All right, Laverne! Dip the ensign."

Our ensign was dipped, and a Jap dipped the flag on the staff in response; then a boat came out toward us from the jetty as we dropped our hook and made snug. Two yellow men in uniform were in the stern; four others rowed.

Now I noticed for the first time that Steve had vanished from sight. We put out the gangway. Bracken stood by the companionway, and I heard Steve's voice come faintly to him from below. He turned to Laverne at the gangway.

"All right. He says that's Shimoku himself— the elder brother. Watch your step."

Laverne touched his cap.

I stared at the boat. So there were two brothers Shimoku, were there? Not hard to place which of the two men in the boat was the boss. One man was young, alert, surgeon's case in his hand; probably the port doctor. The other was older, with a gray moustache and deeply seamed face—  a broad, cheerful face wearing a smile as the boat came in alongside.

The two men came aboard, received a smart salute and looked around amazedly as they went aft to greet Bracken. I could not hear what was said; there was a good deal of bowing and handshaking, then Shimoku went below with Bracken and the doctor came with Laverne to where the three of us, with Sooey, were lined up for inspection.

"There iss no need, sir," said the doctor, after a glance at us. "I thank you. I go ashore now and the boat comes back after awhiles, yess."

So he was taken back, and Laverne set us to work getting the gear stowed ship-shape. The boat returned to us after landing the doctor, and presently Bracken came on deck, with Shimoku at his elbow. He beckoned to Laverne.

"Mister," he announced, "this is Captain Shimoku, president of the company that owns this island and the trading hereabouts. This is Mr. Laverne, my chief officer. Captain Shimoku. If you can have some fresh vegetables and fruit sent aboard, and perhaps a pig or so, Mr. Laverne will attend to payment."

Laverne saluted. Bracken said that he was going ashore for luncheon, and went down into Shimoku's boat, and they were rowed away to a small landing near the square house.

"All right, lads," said Laverne to us. "Let's finish getting everything stowed, then we'll rig the awning and be done with the job, and you can get out of the sun. Irwin, you stand watch."

So, presently, I was alone on deck, comfortably stretched out in a Singapore chair; Freed and Halvers were below. Laverne appeared, looking none too easy in his duck uniform, and got rid of an oath as he joined me.

"Devilish hot, eh? Well, we've bit off a hot one and no mistake. That tinpot over yonder can cook our goose; we gambled she'd be away, blast the luck! I know her. She carries a gun or two and has new engines."

Accepting a cigaret, I gave him a whimsical look and a light.

"It does look like a job," I observed. "Ready to talk now? Who are the Shimoku brethren?"

"Main bad 'uns," he said gravely. "This chap scragged Croft— the cap'n's brother— and took over everything. Paid not a farthing, either. His brother is cap'n of a pearling lugger; the one we met at Port Austin, d'ye mind. He knows me. This chap does not. Nobody here knows me, so we're safe enough."

"Yes?" I returned. "And what about Steve?"

Laverne gave me a sidewise look and chuckled.

"Not so slow, are you? Steve was manager here for Croft. Was away with his schooner when the smash came, and hunted up Bracken. They know Steve, and he knows them. Steve told Bracken about the stuff here; Steve, you see, managed it all for Croft, who was pretty old toward the end."

"Clear as mud," I observed. "Start at the beginning, will you? Is it pearls?"

He nodded.

"Croft pottered around and located a bed over among the coral reefs to the eastward; a virgin bed, never touched. He was a queer old coot; didn't care much for money, made enough to be comfortable here, and so forth. He was at outs with his family, I gather. He and Steve got out the best of the bed and had the shell here on the beach when Shimoku blew in one day— not this one; t'other. Those Japs can smell pearl fifty mile away. Anybody can, for that matter, if the wind's right."

He chuckled and dragged at his cigaret.

"Shimoku went off, but Croft saw trouble coming and sent Steve out to look up Bracken. Offered him half of all the pearls. Steve came back with word from him, found Croft dead and the Jap company installed here, and skipped in a hurry. Then things got into the international dispute class, but it never came out that Croft's real name was Bracken, d'ye see? So that's the lay of it."

"Fine!" I commented. "And you've come back to arrest Shimoku for the murder, eh? Or else to get the pearls. Neither one's very likely to happen."

Laverne winked at me.

"Cheer up, old boy! You see, Croft hid those pearls, and told Steve where they'd be if anything went wrong. Wouldn't send 'em out, like a fool, until he'd heard from Bracken. They're over on the hummock where nobody ever goes. All we need to do is to get a boat ashore there, get me? Half an hour will do it. Bracken is handing out some talk about scientific work and collecting corals and so forth. If they don't smell a rat, we'll get the boat ashore tomorrow. If they do— well, we meant to land in spite of hell or high water, and we'll do it, but we may have a row. And time's short."

"Why? The other Shimoku will be after you?" I asked.

"Exactly. We're old enemies, him and me." Laverne showed his big white teeth in a snarl, just like a dog. "I raided his pearl beds once, and raided that schooner of his once. He's scored on me likewise. Wiped out six of my men— all but me, in fact— about three months back; but it cost him something. I got three sticks of dynamite down his companionway, and sent his schooner and a cargo o' shell to Davy Jones. He got away, blast him!"

I frowned at him in some wonder.

"But won't his brother know your name?"

"Not yet." Laverne broke into sudden hearty laughter. "My right name's Lew Steele. What I'm sailing under now is for this cruise only."

LEW STEELE! I had never suspected it, of course; I had heard the name, but had never met the man. According to all report, he was a second Bully Hayes— nothing less than a pirate, and a brutal one. I caught a twinkling glance from Laverne.

"Heard of me, have you?" he asked.

"Some. In pretty bad door, by all accounts, aren't you? But I'm satisfied if you are. Why don't you slip down for'ard and tell those precious pals of mine who you are and a bit about your business here?"

He nodded slowly, fingering his chin in a way he had when thinking.

"Not a bad notion by half, Irwin. By the way, I figure we have two days before the other Shimoku gets here with his lugger. But figures may lie— and anyhow, he may not get here."

Laverne rose and stretched.

"I rather think we will, though; he probably recognized Steve and may guess what we're doing. You see, they know there are pearls somewhere about. So long."

He sauntered away forward and vanished. That he fulfilled his errand was evident when I next saw Freed and Halvers. They were excited enough, and treated Laverne's orders with an obedience that was almost ludicrous in its alacrity; but they did not show any friendliness to me. That is, not until the hot and weary afternoon was half gone. Then, as we were overhauling the whale-boat and filling it with water to swell the seams. Freed gave me a look and a grin.

"Know who he is— Lew Steele, huh? That's different. Bygones are bygones, kid. Suit you?"

"You bet," I assented. "It's all hang together or be blown to hell, so let's stick."

Halvers grimaced at me from the other side of the whaleboat.

"Bloody well right, I say," he whined fawningly. "White men 'ad best 'ang together, wot? These 'ere Japs fair gives me the creeps!"

Which was as it should be; but I did not trust either of them around the corner.

Along toward four in the afternoon. Bracken came out alone. When we aw the boat fetching him, Laverne gave me a sign and I went below to the cabin. Steve was there, well back from an open port facing the island, binoculars in his hand. He was sweating, for it was hot down below and hotter still in the windless cove.

"My Lord," he said plaintively, "this is a hell of a job! Well, we'll find out something now, and no mistake."

We did, too. Bracken came aboard and passed up some baskets of vegetables and fruit and paid for it, then dropped below with Laverne and tore off his hot coat.

"I've been devilish polite for about five hours," he exclaimed. "Never saw anything to equal it; I might have been the Lord High Admiral in person! This Shimoku is a deuced pleasant sort of chap, if you take him aright, but one has the feeling that underneath his smile he's a cat. Big cat. Tiger."

"He is," said Laverne seriously. "Him and his brother both. What news?"

"Bad. Politely bad, but bad," returned Bracken. "That steamer came in yesterday and will be here for a couple of days at least. Their company collects the stuff here, it seems, from the other islands, and the steamer carts it away. So we may as well face that much of risk. Fancy I pulled the wool over Shimoku's eyes fairly well. As Steve says, there's some fancy coral around the hummock. I'm going to get an early start in the morning and go over there to get some specimens."

"What?" Laverne's blue eyes blazed out. "It's all right, is it?"

Bracken wiped sweat from his nut brown cheeks.

"Quite all right. Shimoku's going along to guide me and so forth, in a boat of his own."

We were silent for a moment. Steve rumbled an oath, his fat face scowling. Laverne's blue jowled cheeks were suddenly inflamed.

"The devil!" he snapped out, that seldom heard rasp in his voice, fingers gripping at the table edge. "Know what that means, Bracken?"

"Am I a fool?" There was a tension upon us all as Bracken made answer. "It means that we must look alive, gentlemen; and I've mapped out the details. Here you are! I'll take the whaleboat; Laverne, Irwin, Freed and Halvers at the oars. We leave an hour before sunrise, to get there and back before the heat of the day. Steve, how long will it take us to reach the hummock?"

Steve pursed up his lips, then replied:

"An hour or less. You'll get the morning breeze and can use that going over. Wind dies down after sunrise, for half an hour or so, then comes up steady."

"As I thought." Bracken nodded, his eyes sparkling. "Give us an hour and a half, Steve. Then start the engine and slip the cable."

"Like hell!" growled Laverne. "How many bowers d'ye think we carry?"

"We'll pick up the one we left at Port Austin when we get back." Bracken flung him a smile. "Steve, you take the ship out with the engine, and pick us up off the hummock. Even if they suspect something, they'll be slow in following; we'll take the chance of that. If we can get through the coral where the teamer can't follow, well and good; if we can get off to sea, better still. We'll have to make a fight of it, that's sure. One good thing, the glass is falling and tomorrow may bring wind."

"It may bring hell also," said Steve seriously. "There are some bad electric storms at this season."

Bracken waved his hand.

"We'll chance that. The main thing is to get to the hummock and bring the stuff aboard. After that— fight. As to what happens at the hummock, I'll handle all that myself."

As he said this and looked at us I caught a light in Bracken's eye that made me doubt whether he had ever been a preacher in reality. Then I leaned forward.

"One thing you've all forgotten, or overlooked," I said. "These Japs aren't fools, you know, and they've got wireless masts. And the other Shimoku could have sent a radio message from Port Austin. You may be sitting in a very pretty little trap, for all you know."

Laverne and Bracken exchanged a startled look, then Bracken shrugged.

"We'll chance it," he said. "What about a drink, eh? Good idea."

WE GOT off as agreed, with the gray dawn lifting through the sky and the stars paling.

Captain Shimoku hailed us from his boat and preceded us; he was in a skiff with small outboard motor, and only two men were with him.

"Now what d'ye think of it, eh!" said Laverne to me, as we ran up the whaleboat's sail and slipped through the dark waters with the land breeze. His tone was exultant. "The blighter has played into our hands for fair! We'll maroon his men, take him along, and couldn't have a better hostage. Eh?"

"Looks like it," I admitted. "But a Jap isn't easily fooled."

"Well, we've gone to a hell of a lot of work just to fool this rascal for a few hours, and we've done it. Lay over to port, all hands! Now we're making time."

The whaleboat leaned over to the breeze as we slid out of the little cove, and we sped along in the wake of Shimoku's boat, which made good time, the putt-putt of her exhaust echoing back from the trees of the shore. Bracken, at the steering oar, gave us our instructions in a low voice.

"Laverne, pass out a pistol all around. Let the rifles be. Keep the guns in your pockets until you see me act. Freed, you'll carry the spade. Everybody leave the talking to me."

From below the tarpaulin covering the bottom of the boat Laverne took out loaded automatic pistols and passed one to each of us. I saw rifles there, too, before he turned back the canvas and covered them.

The gray daylight slowly increased in strength until, as we swung around the tip of the pear shaped island, the reefs and tree crowned hummock ahead were clearly in sight. We were about a hundred yards behind the skiff, which circled the outer reefs and then headed directly for the little hummock. This circling took some time, and the red sun rays were shooting up the eastern sky as we drew in toward the hummock. I noted Laverne squinting hard at the main island and he caught my scrutiny.

"Nothing in sight," he muttered. "I reckon we've got him fooled, all right— looked too good to be true."

Bracken's voice came to us.

"I'll take Shimoku. Laverne, you look after his two men if they remain in the boat. If they come ashore, Irwin will help you cover them."

The hummock was not above a quarter mile across— a dune heap of white sand tufted with palms and thickly grown with brush. Shimoku was heading for a strip of beach on the south side and, as our canvas flapped, ran the nose of his skiff on the sand. The breeze had died out.

We got out the oars and rowed in. I half anticipated some trap and so had Laverne, as I could see by his tense attitude and searching scrutiny of the shore. If Shimoku had picked up a radio message from his brother and had sent men over here in the night, he could not have worked a neater game than to let us take him to the treasure and then nab us. However, we might have saved our worry. Bracken's ruse had worked. It was low tide, and the jagged coral teeth showed all around the hummock. This was the sole landing for a boat, and the white coral sand showed no marks of any landing or footprints.

Shimoku stood waiting for us to come ashore, his attitude one of smiling unconcern. His two men, who were Japs, drew their boat up a bit in the sand and put a thick fender under her stern so the outboard propeller would not sink in the sand, then squatted down at one side and looked at the sky. All was clear in the east and south, but masses of cloud were piling up in the west.

"We can not stay ver' long," said Shimoku pleasantly as we scraped the sand. "It make plenty bad weather soon. Maybe too soon. Squall, lightning— no typhoon."

"As long as there's no typhoon, we don't care," said Bracken. "All out! Stand by with that cord, Halvers."

"Aye, sir," said Halvers, as we jumped out and pulled up the whaleboat a bit.

I felt almost sorry for Shimoku in this moment; he was so smiling, so courteous, so unsuspecting. Bad he might be, but who of us was not? I think he caught some subtle warning as he stood there, for I saw his face change and take on a look of queer wondering surmise while Bracken approached him. And with reason, for our little old nut brown skipper wore a new manner— an air of determination, of almost electric energy. Freed stood by the boat, while I sidled over beside Laverne, and Halvers followed Bracken.

"Something I want to tell you, Cap'n Shimoku," said Bracken, his voice suddenly crisp and clear as tinkling glass. "Something you never knew. Poor Croft was my brother."

For perhaps half a minute there was silence. The two squatting Japs, who evidently spoke no English, blinked at us and did not move. Shimoku, standing looking into the sparkling gaze of Bracken, must have comprehended everything in a moment. His heavy lidded eyes became murderous; his mouth drew down, then he bit at his lower lip, showing blackened stubs of teeth. He was not pretty. I lost all my half sympathy for him.

"So this explains it?" he said, hissing his words. "You look like him."

"Thanks," said Bracken. "You murdered him and seized everything he owned here. No use sparring; I know the whole thing. I'm not of your stripe, thank heaven! If I were, I'd put a bullet into you first and talk later. As it is, you can have your chance; go along quietly and you'll not be hurt. You know what I'm after."

Shimoku nodded slightly, then his gaze shifted to Laverne with a puzzled look. Laverne laughed.

"You damned yellowbelly, got an idea about me, have you?" he said. "Yes, you're right. I'm Lew Steele, and that blasted brother of yours knows me pretty well. Now you know who you're up against, what you going to do about it?"

The colour drained out of Shimoku's face, and his eyes were positively venomous. He only lifted his hands, however, with a gesture of helplessness.

"You are ver' smart," he said quietly. "You have caught me, yes?"

"Tell your men to stand up and do what I make 'em do," said Laverne, and his pistol came out in his hand. Bracken's weapon leaped out and covered Shimoku, who paid no attention to it but spat a few words at his men. They stood up and, obeying a gesture from Laverne's pistol, stood back to back.

"Shoot 'em if they budge, Irwin," said Laverne to me, and I covered them.

Laverne went back to the boat and picked up a coil of light line. Halvers, who had a length of it, went up to Shimoku and frisked him; finding no weapon, he began to tie the arms of the Japanese behind his back. Under Bracken's orders he left a length of the line by which to keep his prisoner on the leash.

Laverne, meantime, was making a good job of the two men, trussing them back to back and tying up their legs to boot. When he had finished, he toppled them over into the sand and they stayed there.

Bracken took Shimoku's leash and motioned Halvers back.

"Stay here and watch the boats," he said. "If another boat shows up, give us two shots. Laverne, lead the way with Freed— you have Steve's instructions down by heart. Irwin, you bring up the rear. Let's go!"

So off we started into the brush, with Bracken prodding his captive ahead of him, and me following their trail.

The job was done; at least, the ticklish part of it was done. We were safe enough to get away with the loot, provided we found it, and the only uncertainty was as regarded Steve and the Wastrel. With Shimoku in our hands, we had gained everything. It spoke pretty loudly for what manner of man Bracken really was, that a roughneck bully like Lew Steele would take orders from him and gladly.

No one spoke; we marched along in the heat, struggling through the brush after Laverne and Freed, and Shimoku took his medicine like a man. If there had been any trail here, it was long since blown out or overgrown. Twice we stopped, then went on when Laverne had located himself. Any sight of the sea or the island was shut out by the brush; and, although the sun was only just over the horizon, there was already enough heat to be uncomfortable. The western sky was now all spotted with patches of black cloud, though not in any solid mass.

Then we found ourselves in an opening at, I should say, the centre of the hummock, with the tuft of palms rising high overhead. Laverne had halted beside a fragment of coral rock close to one of the trees, a jagged and uneven triangle rock.

"Here we are, Bracken!" he said, kicking at it. "Beside the corner away from the tree— that right?"

"Aye," said Bracken. "Let's get at it."

Freed put his spade into the sand and fell to work. He was sweating, more from excitement than from heat, and had discarded his uniform jacket. Naked to the waist, blond hair bleached by sun and wind, muscles rippling, he gave me a sudden impression of animal ferocity held in restraint; when he shook his hair aside and looked up at Laverne, the broken nose increased this impression. I felt a desire to scream out, to do something—

Then I remembered, and looked up at the sky. All of us were nervous, fidgety, apt to explode at abnormally slight irritation. Not only was there the tension of the supposed treasure at our feet, the suspense between exultation and discovery, but there was also the weather— the air was suddenly oppressive, had probably been so all morning without our realization. Only Shimoku did not share in our feelings. He stood motionless, silent, his eyes veiled and dead, like the eyes of a fish. A low roll of distant thunder, that shook the island beneath us like the smashing impact of surf, never got a quiver out of him. He was beaten and knew it.

Freed paused to rest, and Laverne took the spade and leaned his broad shoulders to the task, with a muttered oath of impatience. There was a hush, a terrible dead stillness, over everything; the rasp of the spade, the panting of Freed, the door of sweat filled ears and nostrils. I saw Freed looking fixedly at Captain Shimoku.

"Struck something," said Laverne, and straightened up. He handed the spade to Freed. "Go ahead and finish it."

Freed stepped into the hole and scraped away, not looking up. I glanced at Shimoku and saw a change in his attitude. His eyes had opened and he looked more alert; what had passed in that exchange of looks with Freed? Then I laughed at myself and got out a cigaret. Nonsense, all of it; Freed would not dare anything.

"Feels like a box," said Freed.

Bracken stirred and held a match to his pipe.

"It's a small trunk with tinned meat and stuff in it," he said. "Croft had some notion of decamping and living on this island in case of necessity; he never did it. What we want is a mahogany box that's inside the trunk. Uncover it and smash off the lid if you can."

"Aye, sir," said Freed.

Almost insensibly, we had drawn closer to the fragment of coral rock and the hole in the sand beside it. The spade rasped and scraped; leaning forward, I saw that Freed was laying bare the top of a little old cheap trunk; it was not even a solid seaman's chest. As I looked, the spade drove down clear into it, with a rending crash of wood and canvas. Laverne reached out and pushed Freed aside.

"Here, let me finish it," he said. "Better be careful here—"

Freed scrambled out of the hole, his naked torso glistening with sweat. He was standing beside Shimoku now, and Bracken put the leash in his hand.

"Here, catch hold— and keep an eye on him!"

A crackling smash, and an exultant exclamation from Laverne! He had wrenched and broken away the top of the little trunk, and now flung it out of the hole. We crowded forward and looked down at what lay there.

We had won!

IN THE light of all that happened, it has since occurred to me that something must have passed between Freed and Shimoku which I missed— perhaps only a word or two. Or Freed and Halvers may have known more than we thought, may have schemed up their deviltry beforehand, though this seems hardly likely. Perhaps all was done on the spur of the moment, indeed, and as it appeared at the time.

Laverne had exposed the top of the little trunk to view— the white sand was trickling down in torrents from the side of the hole. There were tins and wrapped packages, and in the centre a stout mahogany box with a brass handle in the top. Laverne stooped to pluck at it, then abruptly straightened up.

Two pistol shots came to us, reverberating, imperative, from beyond the wall of brush and trees. The signal arranged with Halvers.

All of us were transfixed for an instant; then Bracken's voice broke the silence.

"All right, Laverne, take it on the jump!" he cried sharply. "We'll follow—"

He leaped into the hole, as Laverne scrambled out, departing at a flat footed run. Bracken gripped at the handle of the mahogany box, a little affair, a foot long and eight inches wide, and with an effort dislodged it. He lost his balance and came to one knee in the loose sand. The box, about six inches deep, seemed heavy as lead.

"Give us a hand, Irwin," he said, heaving it up.

I leaned over and took it from him. The box was, indeed, of extraordinary weight; there were other things than pearls in it. Necessarily, I clutched it in both hands as I stepped back from the hole.

And at this instant things happened.

I had a brief glimpse of a moving figure, of a flash of steel in the sunlight; then I reeled and sank down under a terrific blow in the back of the head. Freed must have moved with superhuman rapidity. He had cut the bonds of Shimoku, leaving the knife in those yellow fingers, then had snatched up the spade and lashed a blow at me. And he had got me, no doubt about that. Probably he had meant to avoid any sound of shooting.

For a few seconds, no more, I was knocked out, then dazedly wakened to find myself clutching at the nearby palm trunk, holding myself there half erect. Blood was hot on my neck; my skull was afire. Freed, a hazy, wavering figure, had snatched up the mahogany box and passed out of my vague vision. The trees danced— I could not focus my gaze on anything— and yet I was aware of something horrible and frightful close at hand.

Then I saw it more plainly, realized that Freed had departed, running, on the trail of Laverne. This did not matter; nothing mattered except the awful scene below me. Shimoku stood there above the body of Bracken, red streaming knife in hand. He had just arisen and was shaking his weapon as he poured a hot stream of abuse upon the dead man. Poor Bracken was dead— the back of his white jacket was all scarlet where Shimoku had plunged the knife into him again and again in a frenzy of murderous rage.

A choked cry broke from my lips. Shimoku heard it and whirled, staring up at me; I shall never forget the sight of his face, for it was contorted with passion, and he was actually foaming at the lips. He had forgotten all about me, or had thought me finished.

The sound of a shot plunged heavily upon the silence, jarring me. Shimoku caught at his breast, snarled something at me, then his knees gave way and he fell backward and rolled on top of Bracken. He lay head down in the hole and I knew that he was dead, quite dead. But it was a long moment before I knew who had shot him— before I found my hot pistol in my own hand and my trembling fingers shoved it back into my pocket.

I was hurt, no doubt about that, and the strength was going out of me. I slid down until I was sitting there, leaning back against the tree bole, and explored my hurt. The spade had struck me glancingly, cutting a bad gash, and I was thankful to feel the bump that was already egg shaped, splitting my hurt scalp; it meant that there was probably no fracture underneath. I got out my knife and split up my jacket and shirt, and made a bandage which was rough but promised to serve the purpose. Then I sat back, weak and sick, resting.

A shot, then another, broke in upon me, but very dimly; nothing mattered. They were faint and at some distance. I did not care what had become of anyone else, or what became of me, at the moment. I closed my eyes, everything reeled dizzily and I was gone.

When I came to myself, a deluge of wind and rain was bursting over me. I looked around; the world was strange, and no wonder. The sun was still shining, yet the trees were bending in a smother of wind and spray, rain was coming down by the bucket. The squall had broken. As I sat there a tremendous detonation split the earth and heavens wide open, and everything was a white flare of lightning that played all around. The very air was filled with it; the glare lingered a full five seconds, until it seemed that the whole world was afire, and I felt the electric shock of it in the water filled atmosphere. That shock jarred me awake, and when the glare passed, I was on my feet, clinging to the tree, staring around.

Some time must have passed, for the two bodies in the hole below were now half covered with sand washed down by the torrential rain. As I stood there the wind suddenly ceased and was gone. A moment later the rain lessened and went driving away; but the sun passed also, and I looked up to see that the on sweeping masses of cloud had covered it from sight. It was hotter than ever; there was no letup from the oppressive atmosphere, in which one could hardly breathe.

Suddenly I wakened. Where was Laverne? What would become of us all? Steve was no doubt standing out to meet us or pick us up, if he had been able to get the schooner safely out of harbor. With this thought plucking at me, I turned and, at the edge of the clearing, was able to pick up the tracks of Laverne and Freed, going into the brush.

I followed them as fast as I could make it, which was none too rapidly. The rain had done me worlds of good, however, and except for a mighty tender head I was pretty well myself again. Bracken's murder had hit me very hard, and as I went along I cursed Freed savagely. It was all his doing, of course. He and Halvers had cooked it up between them and from their point of view they had turned a very neat job, a damnable job.

I stumbled along through the heavy brush, without any sight of what lay ahead, intent only upon following those tracks, which the brush protected from wind and rain. The sun came out for a fitful moment, then was gone again. There was a wild rush of wind, but that died out almost instantly; another vivid glare of lightning filled the whole sky— there was no flash to this lightning, no direct point to it. It seemed to be everywhere like a vast explosion rather than a shooting spurt of electricity; there was no thunderbolt at all.

THE WESTERN sky and zenith were black now, and across the blackness ran masses of snow white cloud— a most curious effect, with occasional detonations and vivid electrical displays drowning everything in liquid fire. Amid one of those terrifying displays I found myself in thinner brush, and came out abruptly on to the beach where we had landed. I stopped short and stood blinking around.

Our own whaleboat was afloat, twenty feet from the shore— lifted and floated off by the rising tide. The smaller skiff with outboard motor was gone completely; she was not in sight, but thanks to the obscured sun and the blackened heavens, the horizon was so lowered that I could not have seen her half a mile distant. No craft whatever was' in sight except the rocking whaleboat. It was not hard to conjecture that Freed and Halvers had made off in the skiff, whose motor assured them of moving through the calm and squalls alike. At the present moment a dead calm had fallen, though overhead the white scud moved rapidly.

Closer to hand, I gained fresh testimony as to the sort of men who had pulled this job. The two Jap seamen lay to one side on the sand, as I had last seen them; but now they were dead—  each of them deliberately pistolled through the head. Halvers had done this, of course; we had heard the two shots as he murdered them. It was a wanton bit of cruelty, a deed which showed the rat-like nature of the little beast.

Almost beside me, and at the edge of the brush, lay Laverne, face down. Over the side of his face and the shoulder of his jacket was a splotch of rain washed scarlet, but I could not take time now to see whether or not he were dead. He had been struck down as he emerged from the brush. No doubt Halvers had been waiting there to catch him from behind as he passed.

I stumbled forward to the beach and flung myself into the water, desperate and panic stricken by the situation.

It was no trick at all to swim out to the craft, but getting aboard was impossible for me. I was too weak to manage it. However, a line was hanging over her bow, and I got hold of this and towed her in until I could stand on bottom; and the rest was simple enough. I pulled her up as far as possible, then went staggering up the beach toward Laverne, with no hope of finding any life in him.

When I was within a yard of him I saw his body heave over; then he sat up and blinked at me. I sank down in the wet sand and broke into laughter— insane, horrible laughter. The very sound of it must have pierced through him, for a wild look came into his face and he reached forward, gripping my ankle.

"Stop it, you fool— stop it!" he cried out. "Blast it, where's Bracken?"

"Dead," I told him. "Aye, and buried by this time; and Shimoku along with him. Where are you hurt?"

He did not answer me, but came erect, snapped out an oath, put his hand to his head, then strode down to the whaleboat.

He had stowed provisions aboard her, it appeared, for he came back with a bottle of cognac, knocked off the neck neatly and swallowed some. He held it down to me and I gulped the liquid fire. It brought me around almost at once.

I think Laverne had been much under the influence of Bracken— perhaps unconsciously patterning on the older man, the gentleman. At all events, he was abruptly changed, and much for the worse, as we sat here discussing the situation; now the old Lew Steele shone out of his savage, bloodshot eyes, and his cool poise was lost in a flood of snarling hot oaths.

"D'you think Freed and Halvers made the schooner?" I asked, as he stared out at the dark horizon.

He nodded.

"Yes. Those damned rogues weren't made to be drowned. That skiff was fast, and by this time they're safe aboard her."

"They they've killed Steve, eh?"

He laughed grimly.

"Not a chance. Could two of 'em work ship in this weather? Not much, my lad. Hm! Steve's a good sort; he'll not quit on us. He'll not let 'em get clear, never fear! Ten to one he's got the engines disabled, hoping for a chance to get back here. They'll have to depend on canvas— and there's a long lee shore of reefs about here. Let's get to work, Irwin."

He rose, stretched his huge frame and looked up. Rain, sweeping across the water, had blotted out the horizon to the south, though not a breath stirred here, nor a drop of rain; but now, without warning, sea and sand and brush seemed wrapped in a terrific veil of fire, and the crash was ear splitting. It brought me to my feet, trembling, but Laverne shook himself like a great dog and turned to the whaleboat, which was a third filled with rain water.

"Catch hold," he said.

I joined him and, pulling her around, we dumped her over, then back. Laverne got into the stern locker, which was dry, and jerked out a cloth, which he gave me together with his pistol.

"Dry and clean 'em, yours and mine," he said. "And one of the rifles. Let the
others be." I fell to work, while he examined the whaleboat and her regulation stores, which were all aboard; so were some cabin stores he had stowed away the previous night. We got her into the water and then stood clinging to the gunwale, panting. The effort had hurt us both cruelly, but when I spoke of looking after him. Laverne only grunted and felt of his head.

"Leave be," he said. "Something hit me. I heard a shot as I went down. Glancing shot that scraped my skull and bounced off; nothing to speak of. The fools thought I was dead, and they'll find out different."

"But you're not setting out in this boat?" I demanded. "In this storm?"

His eyes narrowed savagely upon me.

"Storm? Call this a storm?" he said, and followed it with a disgusted oath.

"Nothin' but a few squalls and a lightning show. If you were in the Mozambique channel, you'd see this sort o' thing every day regular, and a real storm to boot! Storm— my eye! Here, have a dry cigaret and I'll stow 'em away with the guns; we'll catch a lot o' water out yonder. Bailer handy? Aye."

As he spoke he gave me a cigaret, lighted it and his own, and put the rest of the packet away in the stern locker with the two pistols. Over us hung a dead, ominous silence, but I caught a thin whistling away somewhere up in the sky.

"But," I objected, "surely we can't hope to find the schooner— and it's safe here—"

"Safe hell, you fool!" snapped Laverne, exploding. "How long 'fore them Japs will be comin' over to look up their boss, eh? I know 'em. All we'd catch is bullets and no questions asked. As for findin' the schooner, leave that to me. If you're scared, stay here and be damned."

"Scared!" I said. "Of course I'm scared; but be damned to yourself, you big stiff! I'll go anywhere you'll go, squall or no squall."

He grinned at that and then fell sober.

"Good man," he said quietly. "I was tryin' to stir you up a bit, get me? We got no chance here at all, not a chance. We got a slim chance to ride through the weather yonder, and a slimmer one of findin' the schooner— and if we miss, we can haul up for the group to the north'ard, by night. We shan't starve, and we got a breaker o' water. Ready? We'll have wind in a minute—"

We got the whaleboat out, shipped the rudder and tiller, lashed the oars in place, and two minutes later were scudding seaward amid a wild smothering welter of foam, rain and wind that hit us like a solid wall.

AS YOU very likely know, handling a whaleboat under sail is an extremely ticklish business at the best of times, particularly before the wind; handling her as we did, amid puffs and squalls from all directions, in a sea that was rapidly rising, called for a skill and address which was, to me, superhuman.

Laverne managed it, and so adroitly that we scarce took a drop of water, except from the rain that beat down in sheets from time to time. This kept me hard at work bailing, and I kept lookout as well, for Laverne had no time to star gaze. Once, indeed, I thought we were done for, when in the middle of a rain squall an electrical discharge opened up and we were bathed in liquid fire and stinging needles.

But we kept the sea, now in sunlight, now in smothering foam, now in wild swooping squalls or spells of dead calm; it was the maddest sea and weather I ever hope to see. Hour upon hour slipped past with Laverne sitting like a rock over the tiller with hardly a word -out of him all the time.

At the moment it seemed like stark insanity, for our horizon was lowered to very little, and after the first squall I never so much as caught sight of the hummock or the island itself. Yet Laverne never hesitated, was never at a loss. He was gambling everything, of course, on his faith that Steve Would disable the engines of the Wastrel and thus force Freed to depend on sail alone. Given this premise, Laverne, who knew his vessel intimately, could pretty well figure out what she would be forced to do, in order to avoid striking the long line of reefs to the east and northward. Yet to me it seemed that we were going nowhere, were merely indulging in a wild and aimless quartering of the yeasty waters.

Neither of us were in very good shape; my head ached intolerably, though the swelling gradually went down, and mentally we were both unstrung by the murder of Bracken. I never once thought about the box of pearls, except to hope that its weight had drowned Freed; and to give him his due, I think Laverne had forgotten about it also. Once or twice the wind carried me a drift of hot curses, and I knew the thought of Bracken was burning at him. What would happen if by some miracle we did pick up the schooner, never crossed my mind. I was miserable.

Hour after hour— and then, before I realized it, we were heeling over to a spanking, steady breeze, and the western sky showed blue, then gold. The sun streamed out across a maze of tossing, white crested seas, with warmth. Laverne's hard lips cracked in a smile, and he rubbed the salt out of his eyes.

"Weathered it, my bully, weathered it!" he exclaimed. "Now take a look as we rise; but I think we've worked too far to the east'ard."

Wherever we had worked, there was not a scrap of anything in sight as the horizon lifted and we ploughed up to the crest of every sea. The dark masses broke up into fleecy white clouds streaming away, and the hot sun dried us out and whitened the brine upon our skin; and Laverne, fishing out the boat's compass, whistled over it and set a course. He caught my sceptical look and chuckled.

"Don't believe it, eh? Well, I'm none too sure myself— but there's nothing like luck and brains to depend on! And I know old Steve pretty well, aye, that I do! We'll see. Now let's have a bite and a sup, eh?'

Food made a wonderful difference in everything, but we went easy on it; as Laverne said, we might be at sea for a week or two, and couldn't take chances. Our brief meal finished, I took the tiller and he crawled forward and dropped asleep; I was pretty done up, but stuck to it until hard on sunset, when I thought I could make out a speck to the north. My call got him up in no time and he took a long look.

"Smoke smudge," he declared finally. "That's the blessed tinpot, out looking for us. Fat chance! Well, that proves I'm right, Irwin. We're headed right. She's off to the east'ard of the island. We've run far south and haven't picked up the schooner, so most like she's worked around to the west'ard. We'll pick her up tonight or tomorrow, sure."

"Eh?" I stared hard at him, wondering at his confident manner. "What makes you so all fired certain, man? Freed wouldn't hang around these parts. He'd cut for distance the first thing."

"Freed be damned!" said Laverne joyously. "He's no seaman, and Steve is. They won't dare murder Steve, I tell you! They'll need him, and need him bad. And Steve will keep the Wastrel close by if he has to chop down her top hamper! But he'll not."

"Oh!" I said. "You mean— navigation, eh? That's why they'd need Steve?"

He shrugged.

"That's one reason, aye. And Steve, d'ye mind, is no fool. He's a sharp beggar if there ever was one, that Steve is!"

"Well," I returned, "we're not even sure that Steve picked up their boat."

"We're sure of nothing, and that's the gamble." Laverne laughed, his old ringing, deep throated laugh, but there was no laughter in his grim eyes. "What's the good in life that's all certainty? Devil a bit. We're born to die, born to lose, with the odds all against us, and nothing certain except that maybe we can slug fate under the jaw and get an even break. And, lad, ain't there a glorious feeling to it when we do just that!"

"What about God?" I asked.

He gave me a curious, almost wondering look.

"I dunno," he said, and shrugged again. "God's what man makes Him, I've found; He don't bother us much. I'm no frog, to be creeping into some damned church and prayin'. I do my prayin' with brain and muscle, get me? And whatever God there is. He lends a hand if He feels like it."

"God helps those who help themselves, eh?"

"That's me," said Laverne with a nod. "Now you crawl up under them thwarts and get some sleep, so's you can spell me later. You look dead beat. Don't get too far for'ard, either; where the tarp is spread, get me? She's better trimmed that way, and I want to get some speed out of her. God, if I could only come in on them two lousy sons o' dogs before daybreak!"

There was a prayer, despite his recent words, and I smiled to myself as I crawled forward and stretched my cramped legs beneath the thwarts. Whether he knew it or not, Laverne could pray; and somehow I found his intense self-confidence contagious. From any sane and logical standpoint our situation seemed utterly mad, yet I dropped off to sleep with Laverne's laugh ringing again in my ears. Like most seamen, he hated the sea and joyed in beating her; and he knew his business. We were not whipped yet.

When I wakened the stars were out and spray was in my face; we were soughing along steadily, with the black figure of Laverne cramped over the tiller. I lay quiet, waiting; had he called me? No sound came from him, but, after a moment, I caught a slight vibration, felt rather than heard.

"What's that?" I demanded, struggling up. "Did you hear something?"

"Aye," came his voice, thrilling and vibrant. "You likely caught it clearer where you lay. A gun?"

"Sure, a gun— that's what it was!" I exclaimed. "Our gun on the schooner?"

"Most likely," said he. "It's about midnight. You might spell me a bit. Know the stars, do you? Come here and line 'em up and hold her steady as she is. Call me in a couple hours, if nothing else shows up."

IT WAS vain to seek anything on the starlit ocean; there was no flash of light, nothing to give us any further hint, nor did we hear the gun again. Yet the very sound showed us that something was or had been happening there beyond our ken.

To the tune of this spurring realization I took the tiller and held her steadily driving forward, labouring up the seas and hissing down them again, monotonously yet with eternal vigilance required at the tiller. There was an abnormal amount of phosphorescence in the water that night; every wave crest was alight with white fires, and our wake left a track that I could follow out of sight.

So an hour passed and another, as nearly as I could judge without timepiece or sun. I was about to call Laverne when, from the corner of my eye, I saw a star wink and go out, and wink again; a low star upon the horizon. I looked at it and saw nothing— looked away and saw it wink anew.

"Laverne!" I called. "Hi, Lew! Lew Steele!"

That got him up, with an oath and a laugh as he comprehended where he was.

"What makes a star wink when you look away from it, and show nothing when you look at it?" I asked, pointing.

"I dunno," he said. "They do that sometimes. Funny what you can see when you ain't looking direct at a thing— my good Lord! That's no star, mister! That's Steve makin' some signal, or I'm a Dutchman! Here, gimme that tiller. Now, by glory, we'll see something!"

He took my place excitedly, shifted the helm a bit, ordered me to break out grub and a dram of liquor.

"No need o' starvation rations now!"  he went on eagerly. "What you and me want is fighting food, get me? Look at her, would you? Ain't more'n three mile off; that's the horizon limit for a boat. Six mile from a ship's deck. My Lord, she ain't more'n a couple mile from here, Irwin. It's a light winking as she rolls, get me?"

"That's funny," I said, pausing in my work. "Look off to starboard. See it? Looks like a black mass or a small island— but it couldn't be that—"

Starlight is deceptive, particularly starlight at sea, with phosphorescence glinting in the water; it is hard to coordinate eyesight and brain realization. Even Laverne looked for a long while at the dark spot off to starboard, and then, just as he started to speak, we heard a voice, a thrill, thin voice that seemed to be hailing us.

"By glory!" exclaimed Laverne, with a jump. "It can't be— but it is, by glory! Wreckage afloat, and two boats. Quick, now! Out wi' the sheet; out with it! Climb up to wind'ard there and hang on—"

With a hiss and a rush we slewed more before the wind and went away from there fast, losing sight of the dark mass almost at once. Laverne was quivering with excitement.

"Know what that was, Irwin? Know who that was, eh? Shimoku's voice, the damned little yellowbelly! I've heard it 'fore now, more'n once, and that there was Shimoku himself. He was after us all right, knew where we were bound for, blast him! That explains the gun we heard awhile ago, remember? Freed slapped a couple shells into him, blew his cursed old maggoty lugger out o' the water! Now she's gone down and he's there with a boat or two. Wish he was dead as a doorbell in hell, I do! Like to have emptied that rifle into him, but it wouldn't do. Might give us away and, by glory, we're going to come up wi' the Wastrel 'fore dawn! Somethin' wrong  with her or she wouldn't be rollin' like that."

We wolfed down some grub, swigged at the cognac, took a good drink each of the precious water— now, it seemed, no longer so precious. Even I could see now that the winking star was in reality a light, fallen below the horizon with our approach, which came and went with the uneven regularity of the rising seas. Then, far off to starboard, a thin stream of light lifted into the zenith, fell, rose again. Laverne saw it and laughed curtly.

"The Japs on Nanmuk, d'ye see? Or, likely, on that tinpot steamer. Perhaps heard the gun; makin' searchlight signals. Take the tiller; let's see what we got ahead here."

He balanced himself on the midships thwart, staring long and fixedly toward the swinging light for which we were hurtling through the water. Then he dropped back, cursing floridly.

"Hell of a mess! Looks like she's dismasted. Near's I can tell that's the answer— prob'ly the lousy scuts let her get caught in a squall. No, by glory!

More like, Steve done it, a-purpose!" Eagerness thrilled in his voice and he suddenly clapped me on the knee. "D'ye see, Irwin? Ain't that what I said, eh? Steve had the helm and let a squall take her aback, most likely ripped the sticks out of her. And like I said, he's got her engines disabled. That's Steve all over— sooner go to hell than let them two dogs get away with their play. And he's down below, prob'ly in his cabin, showin' a light they wouldn't know or guess about."

He got out the two pistols and shoved one at me, with a couple of spare clips, loaded. And when he laughed, it was with a fierce and angry note that boded ill for Freed and Halvers.

LATER on we discovered that Laverne's conjectures were correct, almost to a dot. They were verified close enough, for that matter, when we crept up on the rolling Wastrel and found that she was stripped clean as a bone of all her gear, except for the stump of her foremast. Nor was there any sign of wreckage in sight.

After the squall that stripped her, as it proved, they had sense enough to cut the wreckage adrift but make fast a line, riding to this sea anchor through all the rest of the blow. Then, with darkness, Steve had cut it adrift. Angered, Freed had knocked him in the head while Halvers held a gun on him, and they locked him below, forward. This had not prevented Sooey from obeying orders, however, and showing a light. As we drew up on her, Laverne laughed softly.

"That light's in Bracken's cabin, starboard side, d'ye see?" he exclaimed. "And they've got the engine room hatch off and are at work. Catch the glow above her deck as she rolls? Listen to 'em, now, by glory; they got it started!"

Indeed, we heard the sharp staccato noise of her engine for a moment, then it ceased. We were heading in beneath her counter, and Laverne touched my arm.

"Let go all! To hell wi' the whaleboat! We daren't risk losing our game by tryin' to hang on to her. Fend off with an oar as we drift in, and watch out for the roll, mind! Take it on the jump and never mind me. I'll be along."

Both of us had forgotten all about our hurt heads, or had become so used to the dull throb that it mattered nothing.

Laverne guided the boat with cunning hand. The seas were no longer high, but the Wastrel was in the trough, and had a nasty roll— so much of a roll that there was no trouble in catching the rail as she came down, but it took great nicety not to get ourselves crushed. I waited until Laverne gave me the word, then jumped, and made it.

As she came up, I scrambled inboard with the long, slow heave, and was over. Then, clinging to the rail, I waited, saw Laverne dimly below me as we came down, saw him make the leap— and miss clean. The whaleboat was smashed in and under the schooner's side.

Laverne had missed, but I had not; my right hand got him by the jacket collar, and he reached up, getting an iron grip on my shoulder as the hull heaved up. Next moment we were on the deck together in a tangled mass, and I heard him laugh under his breath. It had been a near thing and he enjoyed it with vibrant, eager gusto.

"Strike me pink if it ain't a bleedin' wyste o' time, and I'm done, I am!"

The whining, shrill voice of Halvers came to us, and Laverne's hand pressed me down. We lay in the starboard scuppers, amidships, amid a tangled mass of lines. The voice came from across the deck, and with the roll, we could see the figure of Halvers there, outlined blackly against the stars.

"By God, I'll burn Steve's feet till he puts it right!" came Freed's angry roar. He, too, rose opposite us, and again Laverne's hand enjoined quiet. "I said all the while it was that son of a dog that put them engines on the bum— and he's goin' to fix 'em up pronto!"

"Leave 'im be till morning," said Halvers. "I'm fair set on havin' a look into that there box, matey. We've settled that 'ere ruddy Jap and all's clear, so let's into 'er and see wot them jewels is like. A bit of a drink wouldn't be 'arf bad, neither. Wot say?"

"You're on," rejoined Freed. "Get a bottle and fetch it down to the cabin, and we'll have a look at the plunder. Then we'll get some sleep till sunup."

They moved aft, on the port side.

We lay quiet, and a grim exultation filled me; we had them now, and no mistake about it— had the pair of them under our hands! But it was Laverne's game; he had fairly won the right to play it out, and I was only too glad to let him have the playing. There would be no mercy for those murderers whose cold deviltry had left Bracken there in his grave.

"Easy, now," muttered Laverne in my ear. "Watch the cabin skylight. She's open."

I assented, as we cautiously sat up and waited. Presently we saw a glow of light fill the skylight, aft; evidently Freed had never a thought that it might lead to any possible danger thus to show lights. Nor, at the moment, did it occur to us that this light might draw foes, for the sea was vast and dark; and our minds were entirely on the two men below.

Laverne and I crept aft. The cabin skylight was partly open, and as we crouched there we could see the top of Halver's red head, for he sat at the table facing us; we could not see the table itself, or Freed.

"Ah-h!" came Freed's voice. "A good drink like that perks you up, eh? Want to look in on Steve and see is he dead?"

"To 'ell wiv 'im," whined Halvers excitedly. "Let's be at the bleedin' box. Where's that 'ere chisel I 'ad?"

Laverne touched my arm, drew me back a little, put his lips to my ear.

"Wait here," he said. "I'm going to look up Steve. He'll want to be in on the fun, d'ye see? Probably up for'ard. No hurry. Dawn's at hand; we can see better by daylight."

"Right," I said, and he stole away.

I returned to my station, intent upon the scene below, what I could see of it. I felt a murderous itch to be at those two rogues, but Laverne was showing sound sense in getting hold of Steve. And, as he had said, there was no hurry— or we thought there was none. So I settled in place again, bracing myself against the steady roll of the schooner.

Sounds of rending wood, triumphant oaths, followed by a sudden startled silence and a gasp from Halvers.

"My eye! Gold sovereigns, strike me ruddy pink if they ain't!"

"Huh!" exclaimed Freed excitedly. "That ain't no fortune, you red headed fool. Here, what's this here drawer? Thought so. Cotton, huh? If we— oh, my gosh! Would you look at 'em!"

Another silence, then a long whistle.

"I say!" whined Halvers shrilly. "Are they real, matey? Strike me if they don't look like the pearls in the sixpenny store! Let's see 'ow many—"

"Hands off!" snarled Freed. "Go easy, now, will you? Yeah, they're real, all right. I guess that slob Irwin'd stick his eyes out if he could see these, huh? Blast him, I wish I'd hit him twice as hard! There, you count that side. Mind you don't stick your black nails in 'em, either. Pearls are mighty soft."

Now a mumble of counting, and I grinned to myself. Freed might well wish he'd hit me harder, especially if I got my hands on him.

"Thirty-two 'ere," said Halvers.

"And one makes twenty-nine," said Freed. "Sixty-one of the beauties! Lord, would you look at 'em! Ain't they soft and glowing. Red? Turn up that light a bit. Tell you what I'll do, just to be a good spert. I'll give you the gold and I'll take the pearls."

"Huh? Like 'ell you will!" Halvers' voice was hot with excitement. "We'll divide 'em even, that's wot! See 'ere— I'll match you for the odd, matey. Take a sov— 'ere you are."

A dull click of gold, and Halvers laughed eagerly.

"Thirty-one for me, thirty for you, matey! Sink me if they ain't different colours, too!"

"Sure," said Freed. "White are the best. Them pink and greys ain't worth near so much. Tell you what, Red— you been a good sport, you have. I'll treat you right. You pick out the white ones, and I'll take the coloured ones— hey! What you lookin' at?"

I drew back hurriedly, for Halvers had glanced upward.

"Nothing," came his whine. "Bli'me, matey, it give me a turn, it did that! Looked like the face o' that 'ere bleedin' Irwin, it did!"

A chair scraped back, and I heard Freed cursing.

I got off the skylight and stood up, hesitant. They would certainly come up to take a look around, then Freed would call Halvers a fool for his pains, and they would turn in for some sleep. But I must not stay here. Laverne was somewhere forward.

I started forward along the starboard rail, feeling my way to avoid the lines that cumbered the deck. As the schooner rolled, something rumbled in the scuppers and smashed against my ankle, bringing me to my knees, gripping at the rail and cursing under my breath. I felt to see what it was and discovered a three-pounder shell— probably brought on deck to be used in the gun aft, and then forgotten and left to trundle in the scuppers.

And, as I made this discovery, I perceived something else, something below me in the dark water, something which for an instant left me starkly paralysed with terror and realization. A boat was down there under the ship's rail, and the faces of men, half a dozen of them, were looking upward in the starlight.

It came to me in a flash.— the wreckage, the two boats, the voice of Shimoku calling. If we had found the Wastrel, thanks to that swinging light, they had done so likewise. And if those Japs got aboard here—

Quick as thought, I stooped over and lifted the shell with the down roll of the ship. Below was the black shape, with streaks of phosphorescent fire out in the water; gray dawn was coming into the sky, I realized, as I hurled the shell straight down.

It went through that boat like a streak, went through with a rending smash of planking. A man's scream, wild and terrific, pierced up at me; then pandemonium cut loose.

I had forgotten that we had seen two boats with the wreckage. And the second boat had already sent her men aboard, on the port side, with Shimoku at their head.

Only the sheerest of good fortune saved me in this instant. I started to leap forward, caught my foot in the bight of a line and plunged headfirst along the deck by the coaming of the engine room hatch, my foot still entangled in the line. I twisted around to free myself, then relaxed and stayed where I was.

Shrill voices had leaped out from across the deck, mingling with the screams and wild cries of the men in the sunken boat alongside. A pencil of light streaked out, the light of an electric torch stabbing aft. This little shaft of light struck full upon the figure of Halvers, gaping, open mouthed, pistol in hand, as he leaped from the companionway and then straightened up.

A pistol shot smashed out, then two or three more almost together. I saw Halvers turn around as though some one had spun him about, fling out his arms and pitch into the scuppers. Then a roar of fury— Freed's voice— and the sharp barking of a pistol fired as rapidly as it could be worked. The streak of light vanished abruptly, and the wail of a man's shriek arose, punctuated by more reports.

Shimoku's voice lifted. I recognized it at once, among all the others, as the one we had heard from the wreckage. That voice held a tigerish, inhuman quality, like no other I ever heard; small wonder Laverne had recognized it. A man came running, then plumped down full upon me and squeaked out with shrill panic as he went down. I gripped him and smashed his head into the deck, and he fought me savagely, until I got a lift to him and whanged down his head against the solid edge of the hatchway; at this he went limp and was out of the fight.

I rose, pistol in hand, and stood waiting. Insensibly, the dawn had begun to break, and I could dimly make out moving objects. Pistols were cracking and men shouting, and I heard Freed's wild roar from aft, where there was a whirling commotion of figures. Then a new note, a new voice that thrilled me— and with a bellow Laverne was somewhere in the middle of it all. I could not distinguish him, but I could hear his curses as he fought.

Almost beside me, a dripping figure uprose— one of the men from the sunken boat, who had clambered aboard by teeth and toenails. I turned to him, and a pistol belched at me from one side, as a second man ran in upon me from across the deck. With this I more than had my hands full.

The dripping figure plunged at me, gripped me as my gun exploded, sent me down to the deck, and both of them were on me now. I shot, and shot a train, wildly. One of them fell away, his feet kicking at us as he died, but the other had me by the throat, clinging desperately, clawing at me with frantic fingers. In vain I hammered at him with fists and gun butt; we rolled over and over, landed in the scuppers—

And I was uppermost!

Ten seconds later I scrambled to my feet, and a terrible spectacle confronted me. There beside the skylight, caught in the light from below, was Freed, towering over three little brown men. One he held in both hands, a limp rag of flesh; the other two were clinging to him, knives stabbing into him and out again. Blood was spurting from him as I looked. I flung up the gun in my hand and fired, and one of them fell away; then Freed reached around with one hand, gripped the other knife man by the neck and took two plunging steps foreward. I heard his wild, hearty animal laugh for the last time, as with the downward roll and lurch of the hulk, he went over the rail, still gripping fast to his two victims.

So Freed paid for his sins.

Of what followed I have no very clear memory, except in one thing. Steve went darting past me, blood over his face; the two of us mixed into the melee, and that ended the fight. Squealing, shrieking out at this unexpected assault from behind, Shimoku's men broke; they went overside to regain the boat dragging there. Presently, except for those who would never move again, they were gone. All of them, that is, except Shimoku himself.

In the growing light the figures stood out clearly enough, there in the stern beside the mounted gun. They were fighting furiously, the two of them; Shimoku with a knife, Laverne empty handed, gripping the knife wrist with his left, driving in blows with his right. He was naked to the waist, and crimsoned. I took a step forward, but Steve, panting, caught me and shoved me back, and growled something I did not get. And then the spell of it enthralled me and held me motionless.

This Shimoku was very wide in the shoulder, large for one of his race; he was putting up a terrific fight. His free hand jabbed into Laverne again and again, until Laverne bellowed with rage and pain— cunning, swift ju-jutsu blows. Suddenly Shimoku stooped, heaved, pulled Laverne over his shoulders, but Laverne's grip held. They went down together, rolled to the rail and the knife tinkled on the deck.

Then, as they came up, Laverne's fists hammered in. Thwack-thwack! He beat at Shimoku, beat him back, but it was like hitting a rubber man. The Jap bent over, swooped aside, was clear of the rail— and snapped in a lightning palm edge to Laverne's neck. It was a cruel blow; I saw Laverne throw out his arms and stagger, and Shimoku launched himself full in the air, hurtled up in a leap to finish it.

He never finished it. Laverne whirled about, caught him in midair, and the two of them smashed against the rail. I heard the sound of it, just before Shimoku screamed out; one frightful, inhuman scream, as his back gave way and he doubled up across the rail. Then he was gone. Laverne was standing there, heaving, wiping blood from his eyes, laughing like a madman and cursing between his laughs.

That's the end of it. You can see the rest for yourself. Steve unplugging the gasoline feed line; the Wastrel, her fuel tanks still full, chugging her seven knots through the water, day after day, until we got a jury rig on her; pearls littering the cabin floor until we had time to pick them up— all of it. And Laverne is sitting beside me in a Sydney hotel while I write this, with Steve reading over the pages, and both of them admiring it all vastly— and what's money in the bank, after all?

Laverne says he knows a good thing up in the islands, a rich and racy thing that would just suit the three of us. It'd take a bit of money, but if we pulled off the job— well, why not? There is some fun in slugging destiny under the jaw and winning out.

____________________

8: The Sleeper

Weird Tales, Oct 1934

Ranjit Singh, the East Indian necromancer and stage magician, was dead and buried, so they said— but what was that thing in the mummy-case?

I MET Ranjit Singh several times, back in the early days when his "sleeping" act was becoming famous. In fact, as an ardent newspaper man, I studied the act with the idea of exposing it, until Ranjit convinced me. A great guy, this Ranjit Singh!

Yes, he was good. I had not thought about him for a long time, not for years, until the sight of that mummy somehow reminded me of him. Why Jim Bledsoe would want an Egyptian mummy in his apartment, I still fail to see, but there is no accounting for tastes. Bledsoe was older than when I knew him in the old days. That scrawny, cavernous face of his showed his age terribly and always did give me the shivers. When I ran into him on the street, however, he was so heartily glad to see me that I went home with him. However, I regretted it. I dreamed about his deep black eyes, his long slithery fingers, and that silent, ghastly laugh of his. They haunt me now, as I write.

Possibly you remember Ranjit Singh? He started out as a small-time magician, and worked up to doing his "sleeping" act before crowned heads, a good many years ago. He was no more Hindoo than I am, but I could never get him to admit his real birth. He was swarthy, but not black, and handsome as a Greek statue.

That man had something on the ball. He was no faker, because I convinced myself, and I was sceptic enough. Ranjit was supposed to go into a trance, and he did go into a trance— but not where the women were concerned! He could wind any woman on earth around his little finger. They fell for him right and left, and pulled him into some bad scrapes, because he did not have sense enough to leave married women alone.

Many and many a time I watched his act close at hand, watched him like a hawk. Back in those early days before he took up with Jim Bledsoe, his manager and helper was an old chap called Ali— a real Hindoo, scrawny, with a wispy white beard and no lost motion, who could squat on his heels by the hour. I have heard that Ranjit Singh got all he knew from this same Ali.

Despite all our science, catalepsy and self-hypnotism are still closed subjects to us, and mysterious enough. The fact that Ranjit Singh was buried alive for days at a time seemed preposterous to me; I meant to expose him and even told him so. He only laughed and offered me every facility— and made his offer good! There was a devilish charm about the fellow. He had a personality that no one could resist.

BEFORE describing my meeting with Bledsoe, the other day, let me tell just how Ranjit Singh did his act, and why he convinced me. In preparation, he would fast for several days. Then, the audience assembled, Ali would lead him out and Ranjit would lie on a couch in full sight, fold his hands over his breast, and go to sleep.

It was not really sleep; it was catalepsy. Ali, with two assistants from the audience, would pull a linen bag over Ranjit's entire figure and tie the draw-strings above his head. They would lift him into an ordinary padded coffin, without air holes, screw down the lid, and lower the coffin into the prepared grave— usually a dozen feet down. The earth would be thrown in.

No illusion, mind! No trickery of any kind. I have watched that grave day and night. I have paid men to watch it, and paid other men to watch the watchers. When the coffin was exhumed, after days or even weeks, I have been one of the assistants. Always the same scene, always the same result. I even had doctors who certified to it.

Always Ranjit's brain was warm, the rest of the body cold and shrivelled. Ali would bathe him with hot water and olive oil, and massage his limbs. Gradually they would relax. There was no pulsation in the heart or the wrist, but it would slowly come. His mouth, when opened, showed the tongue curved back. Ali would rub the eyelids with oil, an electric heater being applied to the top of  Ranjit's head. Gradually respiration came back; sometimes the man was violently convulsed. The glazed eyes would take on life. When Ranjit Singh finally rose and spoke a word or two, the show was over.

Yes, Ranjit had something, and no mistake!

I HEARD, in course of time, that old Ali had died, and that Ranjit had taken up with Jim Bledsoe, who was a born showman despite his queerness. Bledsoe took Ranjit abroad and made a great hit; then I never heard any more from them. What with the war and various other things, I forgot them both over a period of years.

Then, the other night, I ran into Bledsoe on the street. There was no mistaking his cadaverous, black-clad figure, though his hair and moustache were now gray. He called my name, and wrung my hand heartily. His grip was cold, clammy, sent a shiver through me.

"You must come up to my place and have a drink and a chat!" he exclaimed. "I'm delighted, delighted! Come along; we'll go over old times. I'm all alone."

"Alone?" I repeated, fearing to ask after his wife. One is always afraid to ask, when years have intervened. Besides, Jim Bledsoe had been utterly devoted to his wife. "You don't mean―"

He hooked his arm in mine. I drew away from his touch; I would have backed out then and there, but for his reply.

"Yes, my dear fellow; I'm alone," he said. His voice was indescribably mournful "I see your meaning. She was lost to me, lost to the world, years ago. Do come! It'll do me good to talk with you. I've been horribly lonely of late."

Despite the sensation of revulsion that he inspired, I felt instantly sorry for him. I was alone, too, and knew what it meant. Talking the sorrow out to an old friend is the only help left in the world. So I complied. Not that he was melancholy— not in the least!

It was only a short walk to his apartment, which was luxurious in the extreme; clearly enough, Bledsoe was under no financial difficulties.

He ushered me into a huge living-room; it was the sort of place one might expect such a man to have. At one side, standing on a slant, was a magnificently painted mummy-case. All about the room were queer objects— Pharaonic carvings in wood and stone, Chinese masks, African gods in black wood, a brass pentacle, used in divination, and so forth. Bledsoe drew up a tantalus, opened a humidor, and threw himself into an easy- chair.

As we talked, gradually breaking through the crust of the years, my eyes dwelt frequently on an oil painting near by. It showed a nude woman; a small painting, but so exquisitely done, so lovely in every detail, that it reached the  heart. Bledsoe caught my glances, I was aware, but he made no comment.

"Last I heard of you," I said at length, "you were handling that cataleptic chap, Ranjit Singh. Whatever became of him? I tried hard to expose him once, but failed."

Bledsoe's black eyes glittered with a spark of flame, and he laughed in his silent manner, which sent a chill up my spine.

"Not you alone, my friend! Yes, many tried to expose him, but there was nothing to expose. Real! Ranjit Singh was real, no faker! His trance was real. He was a great money-maker, too. Our success really was the foundation of my fortune."

He laughed again, without a sound. His sallow, cadaverous face lit up, and those long, smooth fingers of his played with his Corona.

"Poor Ranjit!" he said, and shrugged. "You know, we were great friends. He
initiated me into all his secrets— and I can swear to you, as one friend to another, that his act had not one particle of illusion or trickery about it! He was simply possessed of the God-given gift, that was all. In Egypt, as the result of investigation by some French savants, he remained buried for five weeks— five weeks, do you understand?"

He gave me a shrewd, excited look, as his voice rose.

"It seems incredible," I rejoined, and he laughed silently at this.

"So they said; but we proved it to them!"

"What became of him?" I queried.

He puffed at his cigar for a moment. Through the blue haze, I saw his eyes darting at me, probing me, like red jewels in a grotesque mask. I noted how white and perfect his teeth were, despite his age.

"Poor Ranjit!" he said, and a sigh escaped him. I sensed a certain cunning in his glance, and wondered if he were trying to conceal something. "He broke down at last— the strain got on his nerves, I imagine. We had made plenty of money, too. Yes, he went to pieces. He determined one night to return to India— this was after we had come back to Egypt. He knew his nerve was gone, and quit. You know how it is with such people."

I nodded. This was quite true. There comes the sudden snap— and it is over.

"He didn't go on with his magic, then?"

Bledsoe made a gesture of contempt.

"Magic! Illusion and trickery, all of it. No, he did not need to return to that. He caught the next boat through the canal, and a few months later I heard he had died in Bombay. But this was while I— while we were in Paris, where I was having troubles of my own."

"Queer that he should go to India!" I commented.

Bledsoe gave me a sharp, flaming look.

"He was a Hindoo, you know! He had come from there as a boy."

Ranjit was nothing of the sort, as I  well knew, but I did not intend to get into any argument with Bledsoe about it. I had the feeling that if he got too excited, he would go smash. To change the subject, I looked up at the picture on the wall.

"An extraordinary thing you have there!" I exclaimed. "It has an odd fascination, Bledsoe. The colouring, the workmanship, is exquisite; the figure has a delicacy, a touch of fairy beauty, that's remarkable. By gad, there's something haunting about that face!"

"There ought to be," he said. "Felicien Hans did it for me."

His face had darkened. His voice was curt, ugly, vibrant with deep and sinister emotions. But his words left me really astonished.

Felicien Hans, of all people— the genius who died in a madhouse! I never knew that Hans did or could do such pictures as this. He was famous for his pictures of the ghastly, the macabre, the horrible; in all he did was a certain awful blasphemy against God and man and nature. Much of his work could not be published, so unspeakably lewd was it. And to think that he had done this delicate, lovely canvas!

"No wonder there's genius in it," I commented.

Bledsoe looked up at me, and I surprised in his face so deep and terrible a look, that its unutterable tragedy gave me a positive shock.

"My friend, that is her portrait," he said in a low voice. "Hers! We had to come to it, I know; I do not think you ever knew her!"

Embarrassed, I shook my head.

"No. And I didn't mean to touch on any unhappy subject, Bledsoe―"

"Oh, be at ease, my friend! It relieves my soul; to speak of her, to tell you the truth, is to share my own load!" he said with earnest animation. A flame lit his face; a flame that alarmed me, frightened me.

"It is no long story," he went on, laying aside his cigar. "You see, we were both quite fond of Ranjit Singh. Poor Anna was subject to frightful headaches, and Ranjit could banish them with the touch of his hand. They were like two happy children!"

I started slightly— was it possible? Had Ranjit Singh, who could never refrain from any woman who took his fancy, come between this couple? Then, as Bledsoe went on, I saw my mistake.

"When Ranjit left us so suddenly," he pursued, "Anna was quite well for a time. We went to Paris. Then she broke down; she became subject to hallucinations. Yes, my friend, I must tell you the worst," he went on gravely, solemnly. "Her mind failed. Nothing could help her. She begged for Ranjit, but by this time we had news of his death. She came to think that he was with us still. She fancied that he was in the same house with us, in the same room!"

A s he spoke, I was conscious of a frightful sensation. Some telepathic quality leaped from his mind to my own, inspiring me with acute horror. I realized that my fingers were trembling, my heart was pounding.

"That is all," and Bledsoe, perhaps perceiving my agitation, leaned back suddenly in his chair. "Nothing could be done for her, my friend. She is still alive, still there in Paris, well cared for— hopeless! And I have never had happiness since then, although a certain satisfaction comes to me at times―"

He broke off abruptly and sat in an attitude of dejection. But I caught a glimmer from his black eyes, knew he was directing keen, crafty glances at me. With an effort, I struggled to break loose from the singular sensations he had evoked in me, and putting down the cigar, I lifted a drink to my lips. The liquor warmed me instantly.

"I'm sorry, Bledsoe," was all I could say. "I had no idea of such a tragedy in your life―"

"Oh, the worst of it lies in the past," he exclaimed, in a lighter voice, and awoke from his dejection. "I am glad we have touched upon it; I feel much better. The old loneliness, the ache, is relieved! By the way, here is something that might interest you to see. Perhaps you'll recognize it."

He went to a table and opened a drawer. I wanted to get away, to get out of this place, but could not decently go at once. The cunning in Bledsoe's eyes, the gleams of crafty mental agility, gave me the idea that he, too, might be a little mad.

Coming back, he handed me a ring, set with a lapis lazuli scarab.

"Ranjit gave me this when we parted," he said. "Do you remember it?"

Did I, indeed! Far better than he knew. Ranjit Singh always wore it. On one occasion he had mentioned to me that this ring would never leave him, that it had never left his finger and would be buried with him. Ranjit had some deep belief in it as a charm, I imagine. And he had given it to Bledsoe? Well, perhaps....

"Yes," I said, returning it. "I recall he invariably wore it. Well, old man, I must run along— it's later than I realized!"

"And I'm not very cheerful company, eh?" Bledsoe laughed silently, and slipped the ring on his finger. "But before going, come and look at my mummy. It's rather remarkable, they tell me, because so well preserved. The face is exposed, and has never changed from the time I unwrapped it. I got it, of course, before the present rigid restrictions on the removal of antiquities from Egypt."

He crossed to the gorgeous mummy- case, and I followed him, more anxious than ever to get away. That noiseless, ghastly laugh of his, his tragic story, was on my nerves.

Taking hold of the heavy lid, Bledsoe lifted it away and stood it against the wall. Beneath was a heavy plate-glass lid which he had fitted to the case; as he explained, it kept out the air and lessened the chance of the mummy falling to dust, as so many of them did upon exposure.

There, wrapped in the innumerable wrappings of the dead, was the mummy, intact. I was astonished by the sight of the exposed face; it did not have the dried, skin-and-bone appearance of most mummies. Still, it was shrivelled enough. The singular thing was that the hair, moustache and beard were intact.

"A bearded mummy!" I exclaimed.

"'Why, Bledsoe, I never heard of such a thing!"

He was enjoying my amazement.

"It is probably unique," he observed. "Perhaps it is not an Egyptian at all— who knows? Some day I must have the inscriptions translated."

I turned away. Something in that face wakened a chord in my memory; odd as it seemed, it made me think of Ranjit Singh as I had frequently seen him before he was wakened from the cataleptic trance. I flung another glance at the mummy.

"Queer!" I murmured. "This chap has rather the look of Ranjit, somehow— or is it my imagination?"

"No, no," Bledsoe said, and chuckled. "Do you know, I have fancied the same thing myself, at times? Well, old man, I wish you wouldn't go―"

Go I did, however, and drew a breath of sane relief when I emerged alone into the night air. That cackling chuckle of Bledsoe's still rang in my ears. And I dreamed of him, of his noiseless, hideous laugh, and in my dream saw his long hands, with the lapis scarab on the smooth finger....

I have had enough of meeting old friends.

______________________________________

9: Gods Guard the Brave

Blue Book, July 1937

A stirring novelette of desperate adventure, on strange tropic seas.

SLOWLY, very slowly, the little schooner was standing in for Mutsamudu Road from the westward, for this was the best approach during the present southeast monsoon, now at the verge of changing.

Douglas stood near the wheel, intently watching the green rising mass of Anjouan Island through the glasses. He was tall, spare, firmly knit, and carried his head high. The lines of his sun-browned features were harsh and strong, the gray eyes were very level and steady, cornered by weather-wrinkles.

The Arab captain, who stood at the helm near by, turned and flung him an uneasy glance, and spoke in a low voice.

"Rais Douglas, if you do not return aboard within an hour—"

"Then slip your cable and run for it," answered Douglas calmly. "There's no warship in harbor; you can get clear. Tomorrow is the 25th, which means the break of the monsoon. Even were there pursuit, you could elude it; a hurricane will come tomorrow, certainly."

"Desert you, in their hands?"

"Bah!" Douglas laughed. "Don't borrow trouble, Yusuf. No one here will recognize me, after five years. Remember that I'm on the articles as first officer; act accordingly, and no one will suspect anything wrong."

He resumed his careful study of the  great triangular peak ahead. From this direction, it appeared to be a succession of forested mountains rising one above the other, the summit veiled in fleecy cloud. Comparatively few white men had ever looked upon this island lying with its companions midway in the Mozambique Channel, with Africa to the west and Madagascar to the east. Yet here had generations of Arab sultans held sway, fighting the Portuguese and the Hova kings, pirating up and down the eastern seas; sultans who were gone and forgotten, with their armadas and their wars and their loves, in the mist of time.

A sultan still ruled here, however, though he was now only a fat gentleman who ran his sugar plantation and indulged the lusts of the flesh, while the French ran his sultanate. None the less, he was a sultan; that was one reason Douglas had come here— or rather, returned here. If there were other reasons, they were locked within his heart.

Very slowly the schooner glided into the deep indentation of coast where lay the capital, Mutsamudu; the long promontories to north and south stretched like the arms of an octopus to enfold her.

A close observer would have gathered a singular impression from the appearance of this schooner and the men aboard her. Seven Arabs clustered in the bows; their captain was at the helm beside Douglas; bearded men, hard and lean and silent, their eyes fastened upon the island ahead with an air of attention, of expectancy, of suspense. Before them all lay life or death; and they knew it.

The schooner was small, dirty, slovenly, but beneath the grime that covered her struck out an occasional flash of snowy white, a passing glimpse of polished brass, as though the dirt were not accidental but deliberate. Her lines were beautiful, and when she leaned far over, close-hauled, the sun flashed on bright and unfouled copper along her bottom.

"The wind is failing, Rais Yusuf," said Douglas suddenly. "Best take in the drag, for I want to get in soon after the siesta hour. And hoist the signal to the forepeak; Ram Chandra will have eyes on the lookout."

The voice of Rais Yusuf lifted along the deck. His men moved to obey. They brought in a dripping canvas sail that had been dragging behind the schooner, bellying out in the water and retarding her speed enormously. Then, as she came about on the other tack, they darted to the lines. Rais Yusuf let out an angry bellow.

"Sons of unholy mothers, remember your orders! Move slowly! Foul your lines! Do we want these Frenchmen to think us good seamen?"

The men obeyed, with grins and jests. The Portuguese flag was hoisted. Douglas, who had gone below, now came on deck again. Instead of his spruce whites, he wore soiled and crumpled garments. His erect bearing had become a lazy slouch.

"Make the Fontaine anchorage off the coconut plantation," he said to Rais Yusuf. "The bay's empty, all right. The Messageries steamer was here yesterday, and won't come again for a week. We've arrived exactly right."

The Arab nodded.

This wide-flung bay, which looked like the half-sunk centre of a vast volcano,— and was exactly that,— showed empty except for a few native fishing-boats, two anchored Arab dhows, and a number of those craft called boutres, peculiar to the Comoro Islands, their masts leaning forward instead of aft.

The gray eyes of Douglas sparkled, and an eager smile touched his lips. One became suddenly aware of the gay springing spirit beneath his mask of repression; yet his air was thoughtful as he gazed. What would he find here, after five years? Enemies, certainly. One friend, a task to do, a risk to run! And Hellene? Probably long since gone to France or elsewhere with her husband. Five years is a long time. And Douglas had not written his cousin. She had left his protection, had defied him, had chosen her own course. For all he knew, she might be dead. Yet she had been his cousin, his more than sister. Perhaps, after all, he should have kept in touch with her.

He flung back his shoulders, rejecting such unwelcome thoughts. Looking at the old lower town, close to the water, he found it unchanged. A rising sea of thatched roofs, of stone houses with narrow, twisting streets, dominated by the old citadel behind. From the customhouse at the southwest corner of town blew out the tricolor of France, and again from the tribunal, up past the black minaret of the mosque.

Upward flowed the newer town, along the steep road bordered by agaves, on to the Homba plateau behind. Public offices of all kinds, the hospital, finally the Residency above them all, another flag fluttering over its tiled roof.

Christmas Eve then— with the monsoon roaring out of the northwest on the morrow! Was she here, perhaps? Did she too think of other days when they had celebrated Christmas with holly and hilarity in another world— they two, cousins who had all their lives been as sister and brother? Yes, he had done wrong to abandon her. If she had married Renaud against his orders, if she had defied him, that was her doing; but he should have kept an eye on filings.

Again he forced down the tormenting, surging thoughts, and turned to the Arab beside him, an ironical smile on his lips.

"There ahead," he said, "are thirty thousand natives and seventy whites. Only two among them all know what is to be done. But here aboard us are eight of you, and all know."

Rais Yusuf's sharp eyes glittered.

"The six men are of my own family," he said quietly. "The cook is not, but I answer fully for him. Death may overtake all of us, but not shame. You need not fear that any tongue here will blab; we shall not even go ashore."

"I do not fear it," said Douglas, and laughed a little. "Indeed, it is far more likely that one of the two men ashore will loose an incautious word! That is my fear."

"Not Ram Chandra," said the Arab stoutly. "An infidel is he, a pagan Hindu, but a man among men. In Aden, in Zanzibar, in the Mauritius, his word is better than any bond."

"Nay; not the Hindu, but the Sultan!"

"May Allah avert the evil! " said Rais Yusuf. Then he stepped from the wheel.

"Here, play your part. Now I become the master. Remember, we speak no French. Use Swahili with us, and French with the port officers. Their boat is putting out from the douane now."

Douglas nodded as he took over the helm.

"I have the papers ready," he said. "Leave the talking to me."

He held the schooner straight on her course, in silence. The men grouped at the rail, also in silence. Rais Yusuf donned a clean jellab and seated himself on the transom, smoking, leaving everything to his mate, as one of his stripe might do, were that mate a white man.

Now they came aboard, the trim, brusque Frenchmen. Less than fifty of them altogether were on this island among the teeming thousands of brown folk. Douglas played his part well, not too well, gaining the contempt of the officers but not their suspicion.

"Schooner Abas of Lorenço Marques, for Anjouan and Zanzibar." He handed over the documents. "We have a small shipment of trade goods for a merchant here named Ram Chandra, who is giving us a lading of sugar and rum for Zanzibar."

"Ram Chandra, eh? The Sultan's agent. Yes, yes, everything is correct," said one, and the port doctor lined up all hands for pratique, feeling their breasts, looking into their faces. The anchorage was indicated, and Douglas voiced the desire to go ashore and see Ram Chandra at once, since he was supercargo as well as mate.

"Of course," came the reply, with a shrug. "You'll find his barges putting out in no time, to get your cargo. I see you've not much for him. All clear! Any weapons aboard ?"

"None," said Douglas, feeling the weight of the pistol under his arm. "Unless these Arabs have knives, m'sieu. It is possible, of course—"

They left him lounging against the rail. Fifteen minutes later, he was heading ashore for his gamble with destiny, a smear of dirt across his unshaven face, and his shoulders slumped forward.

It was five years since Douglas, then using a nom-de-guerre, had been in these waters. In those days he had barely avoided a French prison. To help unfortunate natives escape the tyranny of civilization is no joking matter; but he had got clear.

Now he was back, on much the same errand; but men were here who had known him before. He could take no chances. Prison doors were still wide.

He shambled along the narrow, twisting little streets, cap pulled down over his eyes, a cigarette drooping from one corner of his mouth. About him were old stone houses, many in ruins, a perfect maze; yet he knew his way perfectly.

The streets were dark, sombre, unwholesome. He passed the Monkira mosque with its black minaret, dominating the terraces and thatched roofs of the lower levels, and glanced sidewise at the doorkeepers and the rows of slippers. Around, everywhere, every moment, surged the passing throngs, men in long yellow robes, with fez or white cufia, gorgeous leather sandals, gay sashes and curved daggers. Brown men, Hindus, yellow Malagasies, street gamins, negroid Makoas, here and there a Chinese merchant; a very few women, cloaked except for one eyehole. The crowds teemed, chattered, smelled to heaven.

So he came to the Amombo quarter, where the old palace of the Sultan, the treasury, the tribunal of the cadi who dispensed the law, and the houses of the richer natives clustered above the lower town. Still farther up the steep hillside were the official buildings, with great clusters of hibiscus and roses scenting the unlovely air below; but Douglas was not going up there. Here lay his present goal, in the busy bazaar of the Hindu trader Ram Chandra, just off the Pangare, the great square of public celebrations and dances, and the bullfighting peculiar to the Comoros.

He turned into the cool depths of the bazaar and waited.

No word was spoken. Here from the upper level one could see all the ocean outspread, to where Grand Comoro emerged from the horizon, its volcano smoking among a sea of clouds. A little thing like a schooner could be clearly descried. There could be no mistake about the ship. There could be none about the man, for whites were few― not seventy in the whole of Anjouan.

Sure enough, a fat Hindu came forward, salaamed to Douglas, then beckoned him quickly back through the depths of the bazaar into a rear room. Then along a passage, out through a garden, in at the side entrance of a large stone house. Presently he was ushered into a cool room where a spectacled, black, heavy-set man sat smoking a water-pipe.

When the door had closed and the two men were alone, Ram Chandra motioned to a chair, indicated the bottles and glasses on the table, and smiled.

"I was expecting you, sahib. Drink and be at peace!" he said in excellent English. "Here we cannot be overheard ; in this room is safety. I rejoice to see you as you are. I might not have recognized you, had I not expected you."

Douglas laughed, threw aside his cap, straightened his shoulders, and poured himself a drink. Then, with a sigh of relief, he settled back in his chair and regarded this Hindu whom he had known of old.

"A good thing we know each other!" he said. "I'm here, Bahadur Ram Chandra."

"Tut, tut! My only title is that of merchant, in these degenerate days," said the other. "Well, you know what is to be done."

"I know nothing at all," returned Douglas. While the other eyed him in surprise, he reached out and took a cigarette from the open tin on the table.

"You know nothing? Yet you are here?"

Douglas grinned. "I heard your agent in Zanzibar talk, yes. On the strength of it I picked up Yusuf, went down to Lorenço Marques, and here we are. But most men lie; you alone tell the truth. I know only what you will tell me."

The Hindu chuckled. "Well, sahib, I too lie on occasion; still, it is better to have things clearly understood. You know that the Sultan is wealthy. His great plantation, his treasures, his stock in development companies, all have created vast wealth for him. His oldest son has come to the age of fifteen. The French desire to deport this Said Ali to Reunion and let him live out his life there. He hates them. They distrust him, regard him as dangerous. They wish a younger, more pliant son to have the succession."

"What sort of lad is this Said Ali?"

"Said Ali is a man among men!" And a hint of warmth came into Ram Chandra's voice. "Brave, intelligent, old beyond his years. The Sultan desires him to make the Mecca pilgrimage at once, to enhance his reputation, and then receive an education at the Al Azhar university in Cairo, where the boy's uncle now lives. The French refuse flatly to allow it. They wish to smother the boy's life among luxuries and women, in the midst of the Indian Ocean, out of the world."

Douglas nodded, puffing silently at his cigarette. He knew the way of the French with petty rulers, particularly where trouble boded.

"The Sultan can trust no one," pursued the Hindu. "His council are selfish, greedy men who depend wholly on the French. Said Ali cannot leave here, normally; the French talk daily of transporting him to Reunion, and will do it very shortly. The Sultan has sworn it shall not be. It means life or death to the boy, or rather a living death of soul and body. There is no one here who could be trusted— no one! But I heard that you were at Zanzibar."

Douglas inclined his head gravely at this compliment.

"Anjouan," he said, "is a great place in its own eyes; but what is of vast importance here, becomes less than nothing in the great world."

"Exactly, sahib! Once away from here and in Cairo, Said Ali would be safe; the French would shrug their shoulders and secure the succession to a younger son. That matters not! The point is that here, he is condemned to a living death. The Sultan loves him passionately, and desires him to go out into the world, live a full life."

"By the Lord!" said Douglas. "Who wouldn't ?"

"But any man who tried to leave with him, would surely perish. You understand ?"

"It seems to me," said Douglas with a slight shrug at the query, "that you yourself are taking risks in arranging such a thing."

"True, sahib. However, money is only made by taking risks, and I am a merchant. And besides," added the Hindu slyly, "the Resident here loves money, so I am not greatly worried over the affair, even should blame attach to me. And I shall see that it does not."

"Very well, then. Just what's the proposition?" demanded Douglas. "If you think I'm going to take the boy and half a dozen filthy native attendants, you think wrong."

Ram Chandra sucked complacently at his hubble-bubble.

"Not so, sahib. The boy needs no one to hold his sandals. He goes alone, poorly dressed, a workmen like others; he comes out to your schooner tomorrow with my men. Two bundles are prepared, wrapped in sugar-cane, to go aboard your craft with other bundles of cane and provisions. One holds his proper robes and personal effects. The other holds a fortune in banknotes, which the Sultan sends with him."

Douglas lifted a quizzical eyebrow. "Aren't you afraid of the temptation?"

"Not with you, sahib. For you, I have answered to the Sultan with my head. He has heard of you from others, and knows that the French hate you. We need only settle the details. This evening at the hour of sunset prayer, the Sultan goes to the grand mosque with Said Ali riding beside him. This is in order that you may see the boy as he passes, and know him again in the morning when he comes."

Douglas glanced at his watch.

"Time's getting short. Your plan?"

"My barges are already around your schooner, taking out the cargo consigned to me," said Ram Chandra. "By evening, it will be finished. At sunrise the consignment for Zanzibar will come aboard. I am not sending a great quantity ; all will be stowed ere noon. Said Ali will slip aboard, and you will attend to hiding him away. Then depart— losing no time. You should be away by noon."

"If there's a breeze," corrected Douglas. "There may be none until afternoon. But tomorrow is the 25th, eh? The day the monsoon should break, since it hasn't broken today. Hm! Then anything's possible, after all. Yes, your plan is good."

"At Zanzibar, you must arrange about landing Said Ali. That will be your affair."

"It's easily handled," said Douglas. "However, I may not go to Zanzibar. You can't tell what will turn up. If troubles arises, I may go elsewhere. The Mauritius, Seychelles, Bombay itself! The future must answer."

"No matter," was the complacent response. "I have an agent in each of those places and in many others. Once landed, Sa'id Ali will be looked after by my agent. Here is an order on the Zanzibar agency for a thousand English pounds, the agreed sum. That is your pay, sahib. When you submit a list of all other expenses, including the pay of Yusuf and his men, it will be at once settled."

Douglas pocketed the folded paper without reading it. If Ram Chandra said what it was, then it was exactly that and nothing else.

"Agreed! " And he came to his feet. "I must get back. Sorry I'll have to land again and watch near the mosque at sunset; too many people here who might know me."

"There was no other way, sahib."

"True." Douglas looked fixedly at the Hindu. It was in his mind to ask about Renaud, but he thought better of it. He changed his purpose abruptly.

"Tell me!" he said slowly. "I need not ask in regard to your discretion; but is there any danger that the Sultan may have talked?"

The other was silent for a moment— a bad sign.

"Sahib, I trust only my own lips. He would not talk knowingly. Still, he is an old man and given to pleasures, and you know how words fly in the women's quarters. He need not even utter a word; a look, a gesture, might be construed to mean anything. Yes, sahib, there is always danger."

"Right."

Douglas closed the discussion with the one word, and turned to the door. It was opened before him. The attendant appeared with a salaam, and he was on his way out again.

"There is always danger" The phrase lingered with him as he passed among
the throngs of natives on his return to the waterfront. Their eyes drove at him as he passed; he was more slouchy than ever, his face drawn out of shape, his walk a shamble. When, now and again, he descried the trim white figure of a French official, he turned aside and looked into the open front of a bazaar or shop. Years back, a photograph of him had gone the rounds, and he knew these Frenchmen had long memories.

By the time he was being carried out to the schooner, however, Douglas had lost his apprehension. After all, five years had passed.

He smiled wryly to himself, as he looked back at the town, wondering again if Captain Renaud were still here. In the old days, Renaud had been the representative of French justice, sitting in court beside the cadi— silent for the most part, giving his orders deftly to the native cadi. A waspy, vindictive man, Renaud, but a great linguist. If Helene had not married Renaud, things might have been very different today.

"Well, he's probably back in Paris, or else transferred to Madagascar, and a
great man up-country!" thought Douglas with a shrug. "A smart fellow, Renaud, and bound to make his way. Only a smart fellow could have married Helene against my will— damn him!"

He dismissed it all and turned his thoughts ahead.

Upon reaching the schooner, he found the consignment to Ram Chandra nearly out of her. He took Rais Yusuf into the stern, where none could overhear.

"Zanzibar cargo coming aboard at sunrise, finished by noon," he said. "We'll get off by then. The cargo's just a blind, of course. I must go back ashore in half an hour for a look at the young man, so I'll know him in the morning."

"Shall I go instead?" asked the Arab, his eyes anxious. "For me there is no danger, and it is folly to take risks."

"No; I must trust my own eyes, not those of another. But I think all's safe. What about the weather tomorrow?''

"The northwest monsoon is coming, and coming hard," answered Rais Yusuf. "The glass is going down. As yet, no warnings from the signal-station on the hill, but they'll be up before sunset."

"Then, in the morning, attend to the clearance papers. We'll get off before noon if it's possible."

"Against the monsoon, Rais Douglas, it will be hard to make Zanzibar or anywhere across the channel."

Douglas smiled, and nodded toward the peak.

"With a lookout up there, signalling the other islands and the naval station at Mayotte, we'd be fools to try and make Zanzibar! They'll look for us toward the mainland, but we'll be elsewhere."

Crafty admiration glinted in the dark eyes of the Arab.

Sunset was approaching when Douglas again set foot ashore and started for the upper town. Never once did he forget himself. Never did he lose the slouching walk, the lacklustre expression, the stooped shoulders— he was certain of this, afterward. Nor did he catch sight of any face he knew, brown or white, except two of the officers who had come aboard upon their arrival, and these feigned not to see him. Any white man who worked on a native trader was beneath contempt.

Knowing by what way the Sultan must come to the Monkira mosque, Douglas made for this street, sauntering along, stopping for a drink, killing time until the flag went up in the black minaret for the eshe prayer, and the muezzin's call rang forth.

Then, suddenly, the throngs were split asunder. Guards appeared, and behind these came two mules, gaily bedizened. On one rode the Sultan, on the other a slim, alert figure at which Douglas stared hard. No difficulty in remembering this handsome, open countenance just touched with pride. Behind followed several councillors, garbed in richly broidered dark coats over their snowy garments, the glittering hilts of daggers at their waists, turbans about their heads.

So they were past. The muezzin above droned out his call to prayer, and Douglas turned to regain the waterfront.

Then he halted abruptly.

In the press of natives he felt something shoved into his palm— a folded paper. He looked around quickly. At his elbow, closely held against him by the throng, he saw a native with grizzled hair and beard; not one of the Arab race, but a black Makoa, an aborigine. This man's gaze was fastened upon him.

DOUGLAS brought up his hand and opened the crumpled bit of paper. His astonished thought was that there had been some mistake; or perhaps, this Makoa had once worked with whites and was now begging. However, when Douglas saw the clear and beautiful writing, an acute shock left him immobile.

When he perceived his own name, when he understood who must have sent this unsigned note, he stood speechless, gripped by incredulity and a certain terror. The message was brief enough:

James:

Come with the bearer, I implore you. He is safe. He knows you. His brother was one of those you rescued in the old days. Come!

She had written it, then— Helene! She was still here!

The crowd was thinning out now. Douglas turned, met the eyes of the Makoa again, and jerked his head. The other followed him out of the throng, over beside a wall, and Douglas spoke curtly.

"You know me?"

"Yes, Rais," answered the other in Swahili. "Once I was a chief and talked with you. Now I am a gardener in the palace grounds, no better than a slave. But I do not forget."

Douglas felt a chill at his spine. These Makoas, who had not even any religion, were little removed from animals. And she had sent this man, had trusted him?

"Where is Captain Renaud now? Still here?"

"Now he is adviser to the Sultan, Rais."

Douglas swiftly reflected, a tumult of emotion whirling through his brain. If he assented, if he went to see her, the risk was terrible. It was useless. All danger aside, it was wrong....

If he refused to see her— But something in his tortured spirit cried that he could not refuse. Desire drew at him, and the folly of it repelled him. He was torn this way and that. Yet the fact remained that here were two people who had recognized him, knew of his presence. She had sent to him.

"The palace gate is open, Rais," said the Makoa abruptly. "Captain Renaud lives in the house at the corner of the grounds, but he is not here. He has gone to Hellville, to Nosi Be. It is safe. Come."

Douglas assented, with an inward curse at his own heart-hunger.

In the Comoros, night swiftly follows the sunset. As the Sultan's guards were chiefly for show, and the rear gate of the palace was unwarded, none observed the slouching white figure following the gardener into the palace grounds.

Once inside, they turned away from the approach and quickly crossed toward a bungalow at one corner— a new white bungalow with tiled roof, half concealed behind guava bushes and masses of purple bougainvillea. More and more, Douglas was wondering why this Makoa should be trusted on such an errand. That was not like Helene— so to trust a native.

The Makoa suddenly swerved from the bungalow to a gravelled side path, and indicated a little summerhouse among the masses of vines. He spoke softly.

"There, Rais. I remain on guard. Go."

Douglas stepped forward, hand slipping under his coat. Now for the first time, suspicion entered his mind. Perhaps a trap, set by Renaud in person! The man was crafty. He must go through with it, however. Too late to back out.

So he stepped to the entrance and pushed aside the rattan lattice there. His hand fell from the pistol. It was no trap! She was standing there, awaiting him, her figure gloriously clear in the gathering obscurity. That was like her, he thought swiftly. She had always seemed to bear an inward light—

"You, Helene?" said Douglas calmly. "I am here."

His hand went out to hers, and the contact with her fingers was like a grip on his very heart.

"It has been a long time, James," she said quietly, her voice low, rich, a little broken. "I was at the fish-market, waiting, when you came ashore, and recognized you."

"So you sent that man to find me. Am I expected to thank you?"

She was silent for a moment; then her hand drew at his.

"Come here and sit beside me, James. There are some things I must say— hard things. I do not know where to begin, now that I have the chance to say them."

Douglas made no response. He followed her, settled beside her on a divan, waited. After a moment she spoke again.

"Tell me something. Do you think I'm the sort of woman to whine my way out of a bad bargain, James? Am I that kind?"

"My dear cousin, you're the best sport I ever knew," he said simply.

"Will you take me away from here with you?"

He stiffened, incredulous. "No. Good God, of course not!"

"Listen, James! I've no one in the world but you; I've hoped daily for you. The man is inhuman, cold, cruel, brutal. You warned me, I know. I married him against your will; you hated him, and he you. Well, now it's life or death for me; this place is a living hell. Won't you help me?"

"Not if it means taking you away."

"For you, I have answered to the Sultan with my head. He knows the French hate you," said Ram Chandra. "Ere noon. Said Ali will slip aboard; you will attend to hiding him away. Then depart."

At the absolute finality of his voice, she caught her breath in the darkness.

"Have you ceased to care anything about me? We two were children together, James; we had no one else; we meant everything to each other. We were brother and sister. And from the day of my marriage you went out of my life, when I needed you most. Was it because I refused to take your advice, defied you, married him in spite of you?"

"No," said Douglas. "It was because the French were after me— at first."

"And later, you left me to my own destiny. Well, now you're back. And now I beg you, I implore you, to rescue me!  I need rescue, James, more than any man you've helped, anywhere."

"I can't, Helene." The voice of Douglas was deeply stirred. "I'm bound in honour—"

"Because I'm his wife, his slave?"

"God, no; not at all! I'm bound to others, who depend on me."

He was glad that she could not see the struggle, the heartache, that was in his face.

"Where has all your laughter gone?" she said wearily. "Do you know why I trusted that Makoa to bring you here? Because he too has suffered. You got his brother away; my husband knew it. Therefore that man has suffered! Upon him was taken out the hatred meant for you. He and I are partners in misery. I've hoped and waited; both of us have, believing that some day you would come back— as my husband also thinks you will. He always looked for your return. You must take us both, this Makoa and me— you must!"

"I could take him, but not you," said Douglas. His voice was hoarse, unnatural.

"Why not me?"

"It would ruin things for me. Besides, I couldn't sneak in here and take you; I don't do things in that fashion. I'd have it out with him face to face. No, I can't sneak—"

"Not if he knew you were coming?"

DOUGLAS froze. "What do you mean by that?"

"Tell you later. Is that your only reason for refusing?"

"The least reason of all, to be honest. I'm on a certain mission here. I'm bound to it by every tie of honour. The life and happiness of other men hang on it; they trust me. Wealth hangs on it; not my wealth, but theirs. I'm doing their work. If I took you away, I'd jeopardize everything, give a handle for charges against them and me. All of us would suffer. I've taken their pay to devote my whole energy to one sole purpose; if I did otherwise, it would be a betrayal."

"I can't understand that attitude," she said. "Will nothing appeal to you, shake you?"

"Nothing."

"You, who always used to laugh at everything—"

"I've learned to laugh with everything, not at it. Listen to me, Helene! I'll come back for the two of you, in a month. I'll make another trip. I can manage it—"

"Impossible," she responded curtly.

Then she was silent for a space. He could hear her rapid breathing at his side, could sense her torment of spirit. His own was no less.

But there was a practical side to his refusal. Renaud would at once know who had taken Said Ali away; pursuit would be implacable, widespread, unrelenting. Whereas otherwise, the French would never know how or whither until the boy reached Cairo, and this was the chief end in view. So Renaud had always feared his return, eh? The brute must have been tormented by that fear.

No, the two things would not mix; on this Douglas found himself adamant, no matter what it might cost him. He could not fail those men who confided in him. Years had gone to build up this confidence, this perfect trust of which he was so proud, and he would not gainsay it by the mad impulse of a moment.

"A month from now, Helene," he said slowly, "I'll be back here. A month isn't long. I'll have it out with him, settle with him— kill him if I must! But I'll arrange it—"

"Be quiet," she said sharply. "All that is quite impossible. You don't understand in the least. Go to the window there at your right; from it you have a view of the town and harbor. Pull aside the curtain and tell me what you see."

Puzzled, Douglas hesitated a moment, then obeyed. He reached the window in the darkness, and bared it. Outstretched below lay a portion of the town, feeble lights glimmering, and beyond this shone the dark harbor under the stars. He could even pick out the riding-lights of the schooner.

"Nothing unusual, Helene."

She laughed a little, mockingly.

"Nothing unusual! Are you such a stranger here, then? Or have you forgotten everything? Look at the signal station, at the shore west of town."

"Ah!" exclaimed Douglas, with a start.

He perceived now what she must mean; the five small harbor leading lights, four of which were visible from this point. These lights were shown only when the Messageries steamer was due, on the 24th and 30th of each month— or when some other vessel was expected.

"Well?" he demanded, turning and coming back to the divan. "The harbor lights, eh? What ship is expected?"

"The patrol cutter from Nosi Be, with my husband aboard."

Douglas relaxed, and laughed softly.

"Cheer up, then. Even if he arrives tonight, he'll learn nothing about me. I don't go ashore in the morning; and by noon we'll be gone, so I'm safe enough.  As far as you're concerned, it means only a few weeks more. I want him to be here when I take you; by heaven, let him have the whole naval station with him, and I'll still take you! It isn't your last chance by a good deal, Helene—"

"It's yours, though," she said. Something in the vibrant timbre of her voice checked him, startled him, aroused his quick alarm. He sensed that her inward restraint had snapped. Before he could speak, however, she went on swiftly.

"So you would take away a boy, you'd take a Makoa savage; but you'd not take me?"

"A boy?" Again Douglas felt the sharp stab of uneasiness. "Look here, what do you mean?'

Her low, rich laugh struck through him, half sadly.

"You refuse to take me away from here? Very well; we shall say no more about it. But I shall pay you good for evil, James. Why do you think my husband went to Nosi Be? Because he knew you were coming here. Only, he did not know you'd be here quite so soon."

"He— he knew?" echoed Douglas. "But that's impossible—"

"Bah! That old fool of a Sultan blabbed it one night, after too much cognac and kif and hashish— blabbed it to him direct. My husband learned you'd be here at the break of the monsoon to take Said Ali away. He flung it at me, taunted me, tortured me with his plan, told me how he'd make sure of you. Now listen carefully."

She paused. Douglas sat as though stupefied by this burst of information.

"He knows you'll come in a sailing vessel, counting on getting clear during the first storms of the monsoon. He boasted that his plan was not to capture you at all, but to destroy you and Said Ali together. He intends to smash the hope and pride of the old Sultan, and at the same time remove you, who have been his constant dread. That's his way.

"Down there in the harbor are two dhows, fast ones. He has two others waiting at Bambao, on the other side of the island. With him will come the coast-guard cutter. From her, officers and gun-crews will go to the four dhows, which have guns aboard. The steam cutter heads toward Zanzibar; the four dhows spread out to cut you off. Understand, not to prevent you from leaving ; he wants that! They mean to run you down after you've left. The signal station on the peak above will keep them informed of your exact course. Do you comprehend all this?"

"Only too well," said Douglas quietly.

In this moment, indeed, he knew he was lost; he could see no way out. Instantly the schooner stood out of the wide-spread bay, the station on the peak of the island, always in communication with the other islands, could keep him in sight for thirty miles or more. Their signals would tell the five pursuers exactly where to find him, no matter how he might change his course. Those dhows were fast as the devil, he knew well. With native seamen, with oars as well as sails, knowing every reef and current as well as he did himself, able to keep the sea in foul weather or fair, they had him trapped.

In whatever direction he might run, they would corner him unavoidably. Those five would be on him like dogs upon a fox, and with as little mercy. Mere capture was one thing, but escape from an implacable enemy determined on his destruction was something else again. And he had walked into this trap so beautifully!

"Good-by, Helene," said Douglas. He stood up in the darkness, and his hand found hers, with a firm, eager pressure. "Within a month, you may expect me back— if I get away."

"I shall see you before then, perhaps," she said. "Au revoir."

He passed out, whistled softly, and the Makoa led him out of the palace grounds.

Douglas went straight to the bazaar of Ram Chandra. Everything must be abandoned now, all plans laid aside, the scheme given up. Thank heaven he had been warned in time! The Hindu, who alone, held all the arrangements between his fingers, could check everything.

At the bazaar, however, he found that Ram Chandra had departed two hours ago for Domoni, at the other end of the island.

Douglas found himself completely blocked, stunned, bewildered.

"That accursed pig-eating infidel," said Rais Yusuf, speaking of Ram Chandra, "is very clever. Look you! All plans laid, he went to Domoni. Why? So that no blame for this affair could attach to him."

Douglas nodded. The Hindu had spoken of evading blame....

Breakfast was over. The sun was up in a glassy, leaden sky; the cargo was coming fast inboard; and the patrol cutter lay over at the town anchorage. Douglas had been watching her through the glasses.

She was hoisting anchor now, apparently leaving before the storm broke. For this was Christmas Day, as Douglas remembered with irony, and ere night the monsoon would come down out of the northwest with all the unspeakable fury, the bizarre and terrible electrical displays, known only to the Mozambique channel.

The two dhows hung idle, ready to sail. Aboard them, Rais Yusuf had descried a tarpaulined heap in each bow; guns, no doubt put aboard from the cutter long before daylight. And at daybreak had departed a boutre, one of the small sailing craft of the islands. She must have borne the guns and crews for the other two dhows, waiting around on the other side of the island— the base of the triangle that ran due north and south.

"I'm going below," said Douglas abruptly, and turned. "If and when the boy comes, bring him to me."

Rais Yusuf merely stroked his beard and nodded, watching the cutter with anxious eyes. The glass was still falling.

Down in the cabin, Douglas got out his charts and pored over them. Of old he had known every reef and vigia in these waters; each one of the powerful and treacherous currents that whirled about the islands was an old enemy. None of the native pilots, even, had his intimate acquaintance with all such matters. And now he must stake his life upon what he knew. Whether or not Sai'd Ali were with him, he and this schooner were slated for destruction. Of this he was assured. And all because a besotted old fool had blabbed!

Even the monsoon, upon which he had counted, was now against his escape. If he slipped off under cover of storm and then beat up against the northwest wind to the mainland, the cutter would certainly catch him. If he ran before the wind, he could not avoid the Madagascar coast. If he tried to work to the northeast and make the Seychelles, two dhows would head him off. No doubt, he reflected, Renaud had picked the best seamen available, men who would not fear even the hurricanes of the channel.

An hour later, while he was still vainly seeking some way out, feet sounded on the ladder. Rais Yusuf appeared, ushering before him a begrimed figure clad in filthy native garb. One glance at the face of this stalwart youth, however, and Douglas came to his feet. He extended his hand and spoke in Swahili.

"Welcome, Said Ali, and peace be upon you."

"And upon you, peace," responded the boy with dignity despite his appearance.

"I am Rais Douglas. This is my friend Rais Yusuf ben Hamid. We have bad news for you, Said Ali; you must return home. For the present, we have to give up the whole attempt. It has become known."

The eyes of the boy flashed, but he said nothing. Douglas laid the situation before him, showing from the chart how the triangular shape of the island precluded any possible evasion of the five sea-wolves awaiting them. Nor did he hide the personal animosity borne him by Renaud, and the intentions of the latter.

"And you?" asked Sai'd Ali when he finished. "What shall you do, then?"

"Attempt the impossible," responded Douglas with a shrug. "For us, it does not matter; go or stay, we should be slain. But you cannot be imperilled, my son."

"Allah upon me! " exclaimed Sa'id Ali quickly. "May fire cover my head, but not shame! I go with you." "Not so," spoke up Rais Yusuf. "We are answerable for your safety—"

"I am answerable for myself!" came the proud retort. Douglas perceived that they dealt with a boy indeed, but in this boy was the spirit of past generations. "Nay, the matter is settled, for good or ill. For me any retreat is impossible, even did I wish it. Say no more! By God and His Prophet, I accept your fate as mine."

"I refuse the charge," said Douglas. "You must go ashore."

"Listen to me," broke out the boy, with a certain calm desperation. "Letters have been written and sent, telling whither I go. They cannot be recalled. The Resident will learn everything! If this chance fails, then I shall be sent away to Reunion by the next ship. I win or lose everything with you; do you hear me? It is my only chance."

There was a long moment of silence, broken by a muttered oath of admiration from Rais Yusuf. Then Douglas, with a swift warm smile, extended his hand again to the boy.

"Very well; so be it. Rais Yusuf will show you to your cabin. Leave me to work."

He was alone again— alone, and desperately planning.

RAIS YUSUF went ashore to get his clearance papers. Douglas, going on deck, stowed the last of the cargo. The cutter had moved out, was vanishing over the horizon in a gusty trail of smoke.

The two dhows, stealing forth from the wide bay, were separating; one headed straight out to the westward, the other was making northwest with the wind. The base of this triangled island was a straight line north and south on the other side of the peaks, while the apex pointed to the west.

Douglas had already resolved to head straight north, swerve to the east, round the tip of the island— and head for the north end of Madagascar, to the east. Thus, he would have only the two dhows from around the island to reckon with. If he could give them the slip, well and good; of this, however, he had little hope.

One of the men who had been stationed aloft, came down with word that Rais Yusuf was on the way out in a boat from shore. They could leave at once.

"And something else, Rais," said the man, frowning and pointing to a speck along the great sickle-sweep of the coast to the north. "All the fishing-boats are hauled up; but there yonder is one that has been standing off and on for some time."

"I noticed it,"— and Douglas nodded carelessly. "Some natives going up to the landing at Oani, no doubt, or else to fetch in nets. Call all hands. In with the anchor, and stand by to send up the canvas when Rais Yusuf arrives."

The breeze was brisk, though it would probably die at noon; they were getting away a trifle early. The leaden, hazy sky bore out the prediction of the falling glass. When the storm would come, it was impossible to say. All the fury of the northwest monsoon was gathering to swoop down out of the sky. It might break within the hour, it might hold off until night. But when it came, with it would come the added terror of those tremendous electrical displays peculiar to this locality.

As soon as Rais Yusuf was over the rail, the boat that fetched him put quickly about, anxious to get back. Douglas turned as the Arab joined him.

"If the hurricane comes swiftly, we have a chance; otherwise, none. In that case, are you willing to sacrifice the schooner in order to get clear?"

"Eh? I do not see how— but yes, of course! Life is better than death. Besides," added Rais Yusuf slyly, "the Sultan's agent promised to reimburse me if the schooner was lost."

Douglas broke into a laugh, and sent orders blaring down the deck. The six men and cook already bringing in the anchor and sending up the jib. The lateen sails of the two dhows were low on the horizon to west and northwest.

"Did the two bundles come aboard with the provisions?" asked Douglas.

"Below with the boy," said Rais Yusuf. "The course?"

"Northwest with the breeze for a little; then wear and lay her over suddenly for the north end of the island."

With a nod, the Arab took the helm. Douglas sprang to lend his weight on the lines; the canvas was fluttering up, bellying out. The schooner canted over a little to the thrust, gathered a bone in her teeth, and leaped through the water like a bounding deer.

Douglas swore under his breath as he stood at the rail, awaiting the right moment to wear. With this schooner he had counted on doing much; stowed below were extra spars, extra canvas; for she could carry sail like a yacht. Now, however, all his plans were cast adrift, for shellfire could outspeed her; and with the hurricane coming at any moment, extra canvas were folly. It was one thing to sweep in and go dashing away, matching ship and wits with pursuers ; it was quite another thing to try to break out of a steel trap.

No, he must resort now, Douglas knew, to the last desperate gamble. He had made some slight preparation against such a contingency, but only a slight one. It was life or death, with the cards stacked against him. And as he knew well, his one and only slim chance now was to fall afoul of a dhow that did not have Renaud aboard.

"Where is the suitcase I brought aboard at Zanzibar?" he demanded. "You took it, Yusuf."

"Stowed under my bunk," said the Arab.

Douglas nodded. "Right. Wear, then! And haul her close up for the island tip."

The Arab's voice rang out. The mainsail swung in. The schooner put about, abandoned her course, and lay over until her lee rail was a hissing welter of rushing foam, as she went racing for the north.

"By Allah!" yelled Rais Yusuf suddenly. "What is that boat yonder? She is making signals to us!"

"To hell with her; we have our own troubles," snapped Douglas— but looked, none the less. The small boat, previously noticed, was certainly standing out as though to intercept the new course of the schooner, and a figure in the bow was waving a length of cloth.

"What the devil!" exclaimed Douglas in astonishment. "Anyone could imagine that she had guessed our course and was waiting for us! Here, give me your binoculars." He took the Arab's glasses and focused on the boat ahead, now a scant quarter-mile distant.

AFTER a moment, Douglas lowered the glasses. He stood as though stupefied for an instant, then swung around on Rais Yusuf.

"Take the glasses. Look! If you see what I see—"

The mystified Arab seized the glasses, while Douglas held the schooner steady.

"A woman and a man, Rais; a Makoa!" exclaimed Yusuf. "The man is signalling us. The woman— may the angel seize my forelock!— the woman is knocking loose a plank! Aye, the water is pouring into their boat! What madness is this?"

"No madness," said Douglas in a bitter voice. "Determination! Here, take the wheel. I'll get forward and pick them up."

Speeding forward, he summoned two of the men. All the crew now perceived that the boat must be picked up; they were wondering, alert, suspicious, wary of some trap. Douglas alone knew that it was no trap, and making ready a line, he watched the small boat with flinty gaze. Now he understood her parting words about seeing him soon. She was forcing him to take her off, forcing him by smashing out that plank in the boat.

Despite himself, admiration and a joyous wonder softened his hard gaze. What a woman she was! He might have done exactly the same thing in her place, gambling hard and desperately for life or death. That boat was waterlogged now, half sinking.

In this mood he flung the line to the Makoa.

Rais Yusuf handled the schooner like the master seaman he was. She turned, swooped, poised like a bird in flight with the boat under her counter. The Makoa came over the rail like a cat. Douglas stooped, caught the hand of Helene, pulled her up, just as the schooner filled again and went rushing away on her course. He clapped the Makoa on the shoulder and spoke to the wondering Arabs.

"A friend! Make him one of you. Although an infidel, he is a chief."

He beckoned to Helene and strode aft. She followed with some little difficulty, since the lee rail was awash and the deck sharply canted. But upon reaching the helm, she caught hold of the spokes opposite Rais Yusuf and held herself up. Douglas saw that she was laughing, her eyes eager with joy and excitement.

"Last night this woman, who is my cousin, wanted me to take her away," said Douglas in Swahili. "I refused. Now she has made me do it."

"Not she," said the Arab shrewdly. "Allah alone is the dispenser of all things, Rais, and no man can escape the destiny meted out by the angel. By Allah, I wish such a woman would ask me to take her! She is worth it."

Helene broke into another laugh, looking from one to the other of them.

"Do you think I know no Swahili?" she asked in that tongue. "Well, James, I see that you are not angry with me, after all."

Douglas shook his head. "It's as Rais Yusuf says, I suppose," he returned helplessly. "What is written, is written. I hadn't thought of it that way. You know we've practically no chance at all?"

"No matter," she said coolly. "Death comes only once. Let my husband have supreme defeat or a perfect victory; I'm content with the wager, since you're pitted against him."

"You do me too much honour," said Douglas sardonically.

"Your husband, woman?" broke in Rais Yusuf, looking hard at her. "Who is he?"

"Captain Renaud," she answered.

"Bismillah!" ejaculated the Arab, and gave Douglas a long look. "Now I begin to see a few things that have been puzzling me. Excellent, Rais, excellent! For the first time, I am better satisfied with things."

"Why?" asked Douglas, astonished.

The other grinned. "Because, by God and the Prophet, you will now fight with tenfold energy! And a woman like this is worth a death-grapple."

Somehow, Douglas felt that the Arab was right.

The admiration of Rais Yusuf was justified. With the sharp breeze whipping her cloak about her, Helene Renaud was more lovely than most women; she was more lovely, too, than the girl Douglas had known five years ago. For now she had the developed surety, the poise, that comes to a woman from sorrow and anger and the need of battling against the world.

A net held in her mass of yellow hair.

Below it her face was delicate, high-carven, her starry eyes alight with eagerness. Her long body was firm, supple— eloquent, like her face, of strength as well as beauty. She turned suddenly to Douglas.

"I have news for you! He came last night; I saw him for only five minutes, but it was enough. He knew you were here. He taunted me, struck me. He was like a maniac. Look!" and loosening the cape at her throat, she showed bluish marks on the white skin.

"He had already guessed just what you would do," she went on eagerly. "He sent out the other ships to make certain you would not escape that way; but he himself went around the island, to the two dhows waiting there. He said you would go around the island to the north— and he wanted to meet you himself, head you off, sink you and destroy you!"

All this was said in rapid French, which Rais Yusuf understood perfectly. A blaze leaped in his eyes as he looked at Douglas.

"Good, Rais, good!" he cried out. "Then we can cheat him after all! We can head straight out west across the channel—"

"With those two dhows and the cutter waiting?" cut in Douglas. "Not a bit of it. That cutter is the chief danger. No, we shall do exactly as he foresaw, up to a certain point. I'll not be sorry to meet him; it is better so. If we knew which dhow would carry him—"

"I know! " broke in Helene. "It is a black one, a Majunga dhow, with a gun forward and another in the stern. He likes her because she is small and fast; he owns an interest in her, too."

"Good! " exclaimed Douglas, swift animation in his eyes. "Now, Helene, get out of our way. Stay here if you like, but don't interfere or talk. And when I give the order, you get below quickly and stay there, if I can't take you."

"Very well," she assented quietly, and moved over to the weather rail, away from them.

All this while, the schooner was rushing northward toward Saddle Rock, the reef off the northwest tip of the island. Douglas looked out ahead, squinted at the horizon, and then took over the helm from Rais Yusuf.

"No sign of the storm yet awhile," he said. "Unluckily, the wind's going down, ahead of us. A good thing we have that Makoa! We'll need every hand at the lines. You told me at Zanzibar that you had some rifles hidden aboard?"

"Yes, Rais," answered Rais Yusuf. "In a secret compartment of the hold. But what good are rifles against guns?"

"Much, in the right hands," said Douglas grimly. "Go you and get them ready. And assign two men to take charge of those bundles belonging to Said Ali, in case we abandon ship."

The Arab started, gave him a searching look.

"As Allah liveth! You are not going to run her ashore?"

Douglas broke into a laugh. "Not I! But neither am I going to Zanzibar, nor to hell, if I can stay on this earth! "

"Amen to that, Rais," and Yusuf departed, grinning.

A man was sent aloft. He reported no sign of the cutter's smoke on the horizon. While the two dhows were now both heading north, proving that they were aware of the schooner's changed course, they were too distant to be factors in whatever might happen here. It was a scant five miles to the tip of Anjouan, which the schooner at her present speed would cover in twenty minutes or less— but out beyond the tongue of land, the sea showed a falling breeze, almost a calm.

Douglas cursed despairingly, although he had known the wind would fail with noon. Storm might possibly save him; but the hurricane was holding off. With any sort of breeze he might at least put up a seamanly fight for it. In a dead calm, however, the schooner was a helpless victim, unable to move, while the dhows had sweeps. With every moment it seemed that destiny was putting forth some fresh claw to rip away what hope remained to him.

True, he had one weapon and one alone. And in a dead calm that weapon might prove of supreme help, instead of a mere despairing stroke at his enemies. But it could be used only once, perhaps not at all. Everything was fluid, dependent on what the minute would bring forth. Blast the whole shabby business! Renaud had been too smart for him, that was the truth of it. Too crafty and vindictive. How he must have come to hate the very thought of Douglas during these five years!

NOW they were reaching out to pass Saddle Rock, and Douglas reflected swiftly. Although Renaud had guessed his course aright, he could not be certain and would therefore take no chances. One dhow would be down toward the south tip, in case the schooner came that way. The other dhow would be here off the north end— probably the black Majunga dhow, with Renaud in command of her. A fierce eagerness shot through the veins of Douglas. He glanced around to see Rais Yusuf approaching.

"The rifles are ready, Rais! One for the Makoa also."

"Stand by to give me a hand with the wheel," said Douglas. "Everything hinges now on what we find. I predict the Majunga dhow will be ready for us."

"May Allah avert the omen!" muttered Yusuf in his beard.

Another moment and they were reaching out opposite the sharp pointed tip of the island, and beyond it. Helene still stood at the weather rail, but Douglas saw her not, heeded neither her nor anyone else. His whole attention was fiercely centered on what lay ahead. He handled the spokes mechanically, waiting like everyone else, all attention centered on what would be raised when the sharp promontory fell away.

One of the men forward saw it first, let out a shrill yell. There was the black Majunga dhow— not close in to the island, but off to the northeast, a good two miles to seaward, tacking up as though to cut them off.

Douglas studied her for an instant, verified her course, and then turned to gaze southward. The other dhow appeared five miles down the coast, likewise reaching up for the north and her prey. And here beyond the island, the wind was dying rapidly, coming now only in fitful puffs.

"Hold the course, Yusuf," said Douglas unexpectedly, and left the wheel to the Arab.

Feet wide apart, braced to the heave and thrust of the deck, he studied first one enemy through the binoculars, then the other. Here was the moment of decision. The crisis impended now, at this instant, when he must make his plan for good or ill.

Swiftly he weighed every chance, every detail. Within the leaden sky the sun hung like a brazen-red ball, and distant lightning was streaking the northwest— not in flashes and sharp crepitations, but in silent, lingering flares of pale light. The monsoon was about to break; whether in ten minutes or an hour, was impossible to forecast. The southeast wind failed and the schooner swung to an even keel. The second dhow, down the coast, was bringing up the last puffs.

As he gazed, hope died out within his heart; for to the last, against all conviction, he had thought he might be wrong, that he would meet the other dhow first. His scant shred of a plan had depended wholly upon that. For he was confident that, all orders to the contrary, only Renaud would deliberately destroy him.

Only Renaud would possess the vindictive, bitter personal hatred that could cause him to open fire on a defenceless craft and blow her out of the water, with the intent of sinking every soul aboard her. And now it was with Renaud that he must deal after all; for the black Majunga dhow was racing to cut him off.

The decision was made. Douglas lowered the glasses and looked at Yusuf, who was watching him expectantly, anxiously.

"Steady as she is," he said calmly. "The Majunga dhow is smaller than the other, but fast as the devil. Keep the course."

"But she is heading for us, Rais!" "No." Douglas smiled thinly. "We are heading for her, rather."

SUDDENLY Helene was at his side, catching at his arm, turning him.

"Do you know that he is aboard that dhow?" she exclaimed. "He has used her before; he will be on her now!"

Douglas met her wide, startled eyes with a quiet nod.

"I hope so," he said. "In ten minutes she'll open fire. In twenty minutes she'll either be alongside us— or we'll be sunk. That's the gamble."

His gaze dwelt steadily upon her. Only the compression of his lips, the thin whiteness about his nostrils, told of the strain he was under. She drew back a pace, staring at him, then broke into a quick, low laugh.

"All right, my dear! " she said. "Either way!"

Douglas turned and met the look of Rais Yusuf,— the tortured, wild, fierce eyes driving into him,— and under his gaze the Arab relaxed a little.

"By Allah and Allah! Can man escape his destiny ? Give the orders, Rais."

"Steady as she is." Douglas turned and beckoned. "Come, Helene! Time
to go below."

He passed down the companionway without awaiting her, peered into one cabin after another, then saw Sa'id Ali sitting on a bunk and looking at him. No longer was the boy a filthy native workman, but was now dressed in splendid garments from the open bundle at his feet.

"News, Rais Douglas?" he demanded. Then he caught side of Helene in the passage behind Douglas, and his eyes widened suddenly.

"Aye. Come into the main cabin. I leave this woman in your charge. What ever happens, remain below until I send for you. It is life or death, and much depends on obedience."

"I, too, have given orders, Rais; thus I have learned to obey," said the boy proudly.

That he recognized Helene was evident in his look, but he made no comment, uttered no word to her, merely passed into the main cabin and sat there on the lee cushions. The schooner was heeling over again under a puff of wind. Douglas turned to Helene, met her eyes, and his hand touched hers for a moment.

"For good or ill — au revoir!" he said.

"Au revoir," she replied quietly.

So Douglas left them. He took a key from his pocket, darted to the cabin of

Rais Yusuf, and from beneath the bunk pulled a large suitcase. He unlocked it, flung it open. Here was a mass of stuff he had brought along— everything from false passports to extra pistols.

He carefully felt in the midst, pulled away clothes tightly packed around two square boxes of corrugated board, and extricated the boxes with a look of satisfaction. Each was eight inches square. He picked up the boxes and rose. The deck was again on an even keel; the puff of wind had died out.

As he came to the foot of the ladder, he caught the dull report of a gun. A six-pounder, from the sound.

He came to the deck, his voice reaching out at Rais Yusuf. The latter barked sharp orders. The flapping canvas was hauled in.

"She fired across our bows, Rais!" called the Arab excitedly.

DOUGLAS nodded, an unusual pallor in his countenance as he looked at the Majunga dhow. For life or death, the die was cast. The dhow was a scant half-mile distant, and she had also lost the wind, but her sweeps were out and pulling. To south and east, the sea was becoming glassy; the breeze had died out completely. The second dhow, though still far away, was creeping slowly along with her sweeps flashing in regular strokes.

Putting down his two boxes under the rail, Douglas straightened up. Would Renaud sink the schooner offhand? Everything depended on this. He glimpsed three white figures in the bow of the oncoming Majunga, a score of natives at her sweeps, others standing at her rail with rifles aglint. No one was tending her after gun.

Suddenly his tense calm was broken. He darted at Rais Yusuf, seized the binoculars, focused them on the black dhow. A frenzy of incredulous emotion gripped him. The three Frenchmen were waiting, stood motionless beside the brass gun. A petty officer and two men, alone. He swept the deck of the dhow with the glasses, then lowered them.

Renaud was not aboard the Majunga dhow after all!

A sudden blaze of energy in his eyes, Douglas turned to the Arab— then staggered. . . . Without the least warning occurred one of those amazing and incredible phenomena for which these waters were famous— or rather, infamous.

All about the schooner, across the water between her and the dhow, came a blinding flash of light. There was a sharp coruscating crackle. Hissing electricity was everywhere ablaze, filling the air; no bolt from above, but as it were a great outburst of fluid light. Then it had vanished, leaving every man shocked and speechless, immobile for a long moment.

"Allah!" burst forth the cry from forward, a cry of sheer fright. "Allah!"

Douglas recovered, looked down at the two boxes, remembered everything. He leaped into life and action, as he saw the black dhow sweeping onward.

"Quick, Yusuf! Drop everything!" he cried. "Get forward with your men. Have the rifles ready under the rail, but don't use them unless we're fired upon, understand? No killing unless we're forced to it. Leave matters to me!"

Rais Yusuf wiped sweat from his face and beard, and went stumbling forward.

Douglas stooped, tore open the two boxes, and scattered sawdust on the deck from them. He straightened up with a glass sphere in each hand; as he held them, they were invisible. He stood there openly by the rail, as the schooner listlessly drifted, her canvas brailed up. The men clumped forward in the bows, along the rail, in plain sight.

The Majunga dhow drove in upon her quarry, the long sweeps flashing, sending her swiftly across the glassy water. She too had been momentarily dazed and blinded by that furious electric burst. Far off to starboard leaped out a flash and a blaze, as another coruscating fire shone out and was gone again.

Tense, motionless, Douglas stood, as the black dhow came closer, then turned to come alongside. He could see the eyes of the natives rolling up at him. He encountered the alert looks of the officer and two men at the bow gun, and heard a hail in French. Most of the brown men were at the oars, with rifles ready beside them. Half a dozen stood ready to fire. An order came from the petty officer. The brown skipper hailed the Arabs on the schooner's deck and threw a line.

Rais Yusuf caught it. He hesitated and looked at Douglas, who gave no sign; then he made the line fast. The dhow swung in. Her crew abandoned their oars, seized their rifles, and gathered along the rail ready to board.

A moment before the two craft came together, Douglas threw up his arm. He hurled one of the glass spheres, then the other. The first struck forward, beside the gun; the second fell amidships, full among the crowded men, with a tinkle of shattered glass.

The petty officer cried out in sudden alarm, but too late. As the bulwarks crashed together, a frightful chorus of yells, shrieks, cries echoed up from the brown men crowded there. The gas from those shattered glass balls curled around them, choking, invisible. Tear-gas, no more; but enough to paralyse all their actions. The three whites were staggering, blinded, helpless.

Rifles exploded. Rais Yusuf and his men brought up their concealed weapons, opened fire.

Some of the brown men were shooting; bullets were whistling across the schooner's deck and pinging into her rail. But sudden blind panic and fright seized upon those men. They broke back, flung down their arms, and ran for shelter. No heroes were they, seeing their white leaders helpless, and mysterious death, as they deemed it, striking all around them. Terror of the unknown filled their hearts.

"Board, Rais?" yelled Yusuf hoarsely.

Douglas lifted his hand, shook it in negation. At this, Yusuf came running aft, bawling out frantic pleas to board the dhow. When the Arab came close, Douglas raised his head, which had sunk on his breast.

"Make fast the lines," he said dully, the animation gone out of his face. "I had two gas bombs, no more. Herd those sheep down below and fasten the hatches on them. Tie up the whites, take their caps, roll them out of the way. It should be safe enough now."

Yusuf turned and shouted. Two of his men leaped aboard the Majunga dhow, which was decked fore and aft. The brown men offered no further resistance but let themselves be driven below and confined, taking with them those who stumbled about in agony. Two or three bodies remained, for Yusuf had shot to kill.

A puff of wind came and died. Then another. Safe enough now to board her, yet Douglas said nothing. His brain felt dull, his thoughts were in a whirl. Somehow his whole plan must be changed; he had realized it as the firing began but now it eluded him. He could not grasp what must be done.

He had meant to seize the dhow, then shell the schooner and sink her. The other dhow would come up before suspecting anything amiss and then would catch it hot and heavy from the guns. But now— no, no! It must all be changed: Some detail had occurred, altering everything, but he could not fix his mind upon it. He seemed slipping.

Of a sudden Yusuf turned and peered sharply.

"By Allah! There is blood coming through your jacket!"

"Yes." Douglas spoke out desperately, with a great effort. "You must understand, Yusuf— take me over there beside that bow gun. Have two men don the caps and jackets of the French— don't abandon the schooner after all! Changed the plan— tell you later—"

With this, he staggered. His voice died out, and he would have fallen forward had not Yusuf caught and lowered him to the deck.

WHEN he came to his senses, he was on the forward gun-platform aboard the dhow, whose long black shape was still alongside the schooner, on the side toward the second dhow. The bodies had disappeared. Rais Yusuf, looking grotesque in the cap and jacket of the petty officer, was leaning above him.

The two craft were gently crunching together in the glassy swell. Yusuf was getting a bandage and compress in place, over the left side of Douglas. Another Arab, wearing the cap of a French seamen, was helping him.

"So, Rais, awake now?" exclaimed Yusuf. "A little higher; right! The bullet broke a rib, tore out some flesh and skin, and passed on its way. Nothing to worry about. Young Omar was killed. Steady, now! Nearly finished."

"Good man," said Douglas faintly. "Well, we were wrong. He's aboard the other dhow; I mean Renaud. How far away ?"

"Nearly two miles, but driving on fast."

"The woman? Said Ali?"

"Still below, on the schooner. There, it is finished."

"Help me up."

Douglas came to his feet. His mind was clear now. It all rushed over him suddenly; the brown men down below! There was the thing that had eluded him. No doubt binoculars from the other dhow were trained on them by this time. Renaud would be watching.

"Quick, Yusuf! " His voice broke out fiercely urgent with returning strength. "Throw those discarded rifles overboard. Get out the prisoners, beat them out, set them at the oars I Get the schooner between us and that dhow, or turn both ships— swiftly! Before they realize the truth! "

A wild blaze of comprehension leaped in the eyes of Yusuf. He leaped away, yelling at his men. Douglas sagged back against the rail, then relaxed to its support and glanced about. The deck of the schooner, was bare. One man dead; but the Makoa would make up that loss. There was no faintest breath of wind, and the water was like molten glass. The sky was turning yellow— a bad sign.

From their shelter below, brown men erupted, driven forth to the sweeps. Two of the Arabs clambered aboard the schooner to handle the lines. The dhow began to move as the oars went out, and gradually crept around. Rais Yusuf came back to the gun-platform.

"If the storm breaks now, Rais—"

"It won't break in time; that dhow is coming up fast." Douglas spoke with his old crisp energy. "Our only chance is to catch her off-guard. What kind of a gun is that aft?"

"A mitrailleuse. An old type."

"Can you work it?"

"Yes, by Allah! " A fierce blaze flared in the eyes of the Arab. "Then you mean to let her come close?"

"Of course. Send me two men here, to handle the shells for this gun. I'm
able to manage it. We must disable her, sweep her rowers with your fire, and then get aboard the schooner. If we fail, she'll draw off and sink us. We must cripple her with the first burst. Explain everything to your men—"

Rais Yusuf was already gone.

NOW the sweeps were dipping more strongly. The long black dhow was brought around, until the schooner partially concealed her from sight of those aboard the oncoming dhow.

"James! "

Douglas, who had sat down to examine the gun, also to conceal his face and figure from the binoculars of Renaud, glanced up. He saw the face of Helene at the port window of the schooner's cabin, and waved his hand.

"All's well!" he called cheerily. She was not ten feet away. "He was not aboard here after all. Make fast everything below there, will you? The hurricane will break any minute, and we'll need everything tight. And both of you stay there until I come."

Her face vanished, and the port was screwed shut. Thank the Lord, muttered Douglas, for that kind of a woman!

RAIS YUSUF was in charge now. He knew exactly how to manipulate the dhow so that Renaud would suspect nothing amiss. Still made fast with two lines, she was slowly backed out astern of the schooner. The brown men were intimidated, kept cowed at their sweeps. Douglas and the two Arabs who had come to help him were stretched out beside their gun, waiting. As he lay looking up at the sky, he saw a tremendous burst of electricity off to starboard— a silent flare, yet sending the air in shuddering waves all around.

Off to the northwest, a tiny patch of white glittered in the sky. One of the Arabs saw it and cried out sharply. Douglas sat up and looked over the rail. The monsoon was breaking at last— it was only a matter of minutes! But too late to intervene. A cloudy haze surrounded the peak of Anjouan; the signal station there had long been lost to sight. Off to the westward was a curl of smoke. The cutter was coming up, but was still under the horizon. She would never sight the schooner now.

And the other dhow was within a quarter-mile, sweeps dipping rapidly, surging her along over the glassy water.

Sudden pandemonium burst forth in the waist of the Majunga dhow. The brown men there, sighting that white patch in the sky, seeing it rapidly swell and enlarge, bleated with fear; their chorus of wild cries was roughly silenced by Rais Yusuf and his men, waiting to jump to the machine-gun aft.

Douglas started to rise, opened his lips to give the order to Yusuf. And at this instant, when everything hinged on action at exactly the right moment, there was a terrific crash that rocked both ships. A thunderbolt this time, a bolt from that yellowish leaden sky above; then another and another, as though some awful power were hurling them directly at the drifting ships. All around they struck, to right and left. Douglas felt the deck shiver beneath him to the blazing fusillade. Electricity filled the air. The repeated shocks deafened every ear, paralysed every arm, filled every brain with sound and fury. The tremendous white flashes blinded every eye.

Yet neither ship was struck.

The brown men had flung themselves down. They huddled together in the waist, their voices rising like faint rat-squeaks after those terrific detonations.

Douglas sat up, then staggered to his feet, and a despairing oath came to his lips. The second dhow was close, so close that she was swinging about, the oars lifted on one side. So close that he could see every detail aboard her, brown men and French standing ready, guns manned.

"Yusuf! Fire!"

His cry pealed aft, as he sank down to his gun. Renaud was caught, yes, but too late to be stopped. At this close distance, there was no missing. Sighting his gun, Douglas caught the sudden scurry of men aboard her as Renaud perceived his awful error, and for an instant he saw Renaud standing in the stern, shouting orders. Then the gun under his hand exploded, and the shell went slap into the bows of the enemy.

At the same moment, Rais Yusuf's mitrailleuse began its spiteful barking.

Another shell was slid into the breech, the block swung shut; another explosion rocked the deck. The gun platform on the other dhow flew asunder as the shell struck. Yells and shrieks filled the air— Yusuf was raking the whole crowded deck with his flowing stream of bullets. That dhow was wrecked, crippled, disabled ; but she was not stopped. Of her own impetus she drove on, for the side of the schooner.

Then Douglas was frantically shouting at his men, awake to disaster.

The two Arabs aboard the schooner hauled on the lines. The brow of the Majunga dhow crept in beneath the counter of the schooner, and Douglas joined the wild scramble of the Arabs to get aboard.

He looked over his shoulder again. No doubt of it— everything else was forgotten now, swept away! The white patch filled the whole sky. Down from the horizon was sweeping a black line, a wall of water. In the air was a humming, a strident whistling roar that increased with every second.

The monsoon was breaking. And as Douglas came to the schooner's deck, with the strong arm of Yusuf aiding him, the crippled, shrieking dhow of Renaud crashed alongside.

With an unearthly roar, the wall of water and spume was upon them.

In this frightful moment it was impossible to realize coherently what was happening.

The three vessels, crashing together, reeled and rocked. The hissing, roaring spray covered them completely. The wind, bursting down with tremendous velocity, tore at them as they huddled for an instant, then wrenched and  whirled them apart like chips.

And in this indescribable chaos, Douglas desperately caught a handline at the lee rail as the schooner canted over. He barely saved himself from going completely over the side in the smother. Then, almost at his very elbow, he dimly visioned another figure— a man who had come leaping for the main shrouds, who was clinging there like a leech, then drooping away.

A faint cry from this other man reached Douglas. He turned, saw that the man still held by one hand, his body blown out from the rail by the terrific blast of wind. His contorted face stared into that of Douglas.

It was the face of Renaud!  Like a flash, knowing all too well what he was doing, Douglas reached out his free hand and caught that of the Frenchman, and drew Renaud to a safe grip beside him. The two of them clung there. The wind whipped the breath out of them, while the schooner heeled farther and farther over. The two dhows were lost to sight in the welter of spray and water and hissing froth.

Whether any of the three craft would survive, was doubtful.

The schooner heeled over farther, until her weather rail and the deck above gave the two clinging men surcease from the furious wind and spray. Douglas caught his breath as he met the strained, tense, tortured gaze of Renaud. In this moment, with the wind roaring overhead, with death opening beneath them, their eyes spoke all they were unable to utter aloud.

And then, swiftly as it had come, the first blast of the hurricane passed.

The hissing roar of water and foam was gone. The wind was gone. The two dhows were gone— whether sunk or whirled away to leeward, none could say. Slowly the schooner swung back to a level keel.

In the intense and terrible silence that now fell, in the obscurity that had covered the heavens and everything around, Douglas caught the voice of Rais Yusuf from up forward. The Arab was trying to get a rag of sail spread before the main fury of the tempest came sweeping down.

Renaud moved. His hand went under his coat as he stared at Douglas, a frightful spasm of hatred contorting his face. He opened his mouth to speak.

His words were drowned in a deafening burst of thunder, a tremendous smashing impact of blinding light that shook the ship like a leaf. The deck and spars and rigging were outlined in liquid fire, hanging in great balls. Douglas felt the hair lifted on his head, felt his body twisted and shaken by the electric fluid. With a chill of unutterable horror, he saw the face and figure of Renaud painted in a greenish blaze, the distended eyes still staring at him, the lips still parted in a contorted grimace.

The blinding light was gone. An instant of contrasting darkness. This was split by a terrific concussion as a thunderbolt hit the water close by. In the intense and intolerable glare of white radiance, Douglas was knocked to the deck, sent sprawling headlong— but he saw that the figure of Renaud was no longer at the rail. The place was empty.

Douglas rose. Rais Yusuf came rushing aft with two men. Again a strident, sibilant roar was swooping down out of the sky. The schooner was struck, whirled around, sent driving away by the scrap of canvas forward. As the Arabs sprang to help him, Douglas looked back and thought he could descry a white shape amid the foam and spray.

Then it disappeared.

In the shelter of the companion hood, Douglas paused, put his lips to the ear of the Arab who supported him.

"Tell him,"— and he motioned toward Rais Yusuf, who was braced at the helm,—"to head for the Seychelles. Hold her up to west by north— clear Madagascar! I'll work out a course."

The Arab nodded and reached to draw the hood shut.

Douglas passed on down to the cabin and those who awaited him there. He staggered, and leaned against the wall for support. Renaud was dead, yes; despite everything, Douglas felt shocked and filled with unutterable horror.

Then he went on, and threw open the door of the main cabin, to give his news to those awaiting him.

__________________________

10: The Devil Is Dead

Adventure, Feb 1937

McHARG shook hands blithely and strode out of the club. Martha Brundage glanced after him, and Strong read her eyes. C. O. G. Strong, who owned half Burma, stroked his white moustache and barked out his comment.

"A fine chap. Been out here three years. Knows his way around. But no damned good."

A hard man, Strong; a shrewd man, a cruel man at times, given to positive statements. And positive statements are usually open to suspicion. Strong loved the growl and slash and rending teeth of a good fight, and Aloysius McHarg did not. A constitutional difference, that was all, and Strong disliked him for it. This was odd, because most rough men liked McHarg. Not all, however.

Porky liked him, for one. Porky was an Australian, a bruiser, an ex-pearler who now ran a bar in Rangoon; a straight-talking, hard-hitting ruffian, and no gentleman. It was Porky who had taken the green kid in hand when McHarg first came out, saved him from error and got him a job with the Strong outfit.

Now, leaving the club, McHarg presently wound up for a drink and a chat in Porky's bar. It was his last afternoon in Rangoon, the last of his two weeks. Like a dream fortnight, to be here in civilization again after the long months up-country, with Brundage the only white man in a hundred miles of head-hunters. Being assistant to Brundage at the trading station up in the Khammur Naga district was no joke. This roar of traffic, the flags, the cars, the clubs and races and hotels— this was new life. Besides, here he was Aloysius McHarg. Back up-country, he was just Nipper.

He sat at a table with Porky, who eyed him with thoroughly concealed affection and hit him with hard, abrupt words. The place was filled with a roaring, laughing mob of men and was blue with smoke and oaths. Porky ran no fine gentleman's bar. Under cover of the general tumult, the two could talk peacefully.

"Something wrong with you. What is it?" said Porky bluntly, watching him with shrewd gaze. "You don't like the trip with that woman. I hear you're taking her back up to join her brother. You don't like Brundage, eh?"

McHarg grimaced slightly. "He's all right in his way."

"Aw, lay off the smooth talk! He's a bull elephant and bad. Spit it out. What's eating at you? Come on, spill it. There's always a cure."

The frontal attack smashed down McHarg's defenses. After all, this man was his friend

"Afraid not, in this case," he said wearily. "The hunters, the company men, the district commissioner who comes over once a month— well, they don't think much of me, Porky. The Hindu trader, the two Chinese, the Arab merchants, all go to Brundage, not to me. The natives are scared of Brundage, not of me."

"Yah! Being scared don't mean respect," growled Porky. "Nipper, they call you. Who started that name?"

McHarg flushed. "You know that, do you? Brundage started it."

"Sure. The others see he ain't got much use for you, and they trail him. Now, you, take it between the eyes! Well built, well made, strong as a horse, you are, and no coward. No coward. But you don't like a showdown. You slip and slide out of a fight. You got brains and you use 'em. Ain't it so?"

McHarg lowered his gaze and nodded.

"True enough, Porky. I don't like a fight; there's no sense in it. I can lead the natives, but Brundage bullies 'em. That's not my style. Blood and shooting? No. There are better ways than brute force."

"Not in a man's world, there ain't," slapped out Porky with decision. "You slip out of a crisis, that's it. I've seen it a long while back. When did you last have a stand-up and knock-down fight, me lad?"

"Never. That is, not since I was in school."

"I thought as much. Take this straight, now!" The other leaned forward. "And Gawd help you if you miss it! You got to learn one thing right: that you can hit and hurt, that any person, any thing, is vulnerable. That there's nobody can't be hurted. Let it sink in; let it stick like a burr to your brain. Too damned sensitive!"

McHarg nodded gloomily. Sensitive, yes, too damned much imagination. When one fingers a gun, it doesn't pay to have imagination that outruns the bullet and shrinks from the consequences.

Suddenly he started from his abstraction.

"Nipper! Nipper! Here, you damned pup!"

Porky had turned and was roaring out the words. McHarg sat staring, frowning, flushing, until he realized what it was all about. Porky was calling a dog— a dog, by that name!

The animal came cringing forward, obviously frightened stiff of Porky and yet not daring to disobey. What a creature he was, to be found here in Rangoon of all places! A pop-eyed, twist-tailed Boston bull, no less. Young but nearly full grown, scrawny and thin, collarless, abject and ungainly, huge jaws open and tongue hanging. He shot looks of terror at Porky, crawled forward, and waited to be beaten.

"Yah!" A snort of contempt came from the man. "There, take him along, McHarg. A cur that ain't worth a damn; maybe you can make something of him. Present for you, with my compliments. Drop in and see me next time you come down, and good luck."

He rose, shook hands and went lurching away.

McHarg had no chance to refuse. The word stung him; the fact that Porky had named this dog Nipper, it was significant. He leaned over and patted the ugly head. Kindness, eh? Why, the poor little tyke would have a hell of a life with Porky!

Yielding to impulse, McHarg rose and walked out of the place with the dog. Behind, Porky's shrewd gaze followed him speculatively.

McHarg took the dog to his hotel room, fed and fondled him, watched him scuttle about in cavorting playfulness after his bath. When McHarg took off his belt, the pup went cringing into a corner. So Porky had beaten him with a belt, eh?

"Here, Nipper!" McHarg laughed suddenly. "Nipper! You'll keep the name, by glory!"

Nipper came and tongued his hand, stared from his popping eyes, grinned with his absurdly huge mouth. Starved for kindness as for food. McHarg gave him both, not quite realizing his own impulse of protection, born from the very appeal of this infinitely worthless creature to his own heart.

ON the next morning, C. O. G. Strong haw-hawed with derision when he brought Miss Brundage to the train, turning her over to McHarg's keeping for the trip up-country. He glared at the pup and spoke his blunt mind.

"A more damned useless thing to take into the hills, I never saw! He'll be at the mercy of everything. Good lord, McHarg, are you out of your mind? Any kind of terrier would do; but this— this grinning caricature! How long d'ye think he'll remain alive up there?"

Porky's talk was lingering in McHarg's brain. Evasion, always evasion? Evasion be damned! He gave Strong one quick, direct, angry look.

"Probably ten years," he replied coldly. "Maybe more."

Strong grunted with surprised resentment. Then Martha Brundage chipped in, petting Nipper and settling him comfortably in the compartment. She knew enough about Burma to know that Strong was dead right. So did McHarg, but stuck by his guns. So the guard whistled, the train jerked, and C. O. G. Strong was left behind them.

During this journey, the three of them got well acquainted. McHarg was shy, but no shyness could long endure with Martha Brundage.

If she had the confident air, the almost brutally frank tongue, of her brother, she also had the most disarming smile in the world, the sunniest dark eyes, the most charming of impulses. None of your calculating women playing for effect, but quick to fire or laughter; one of those rare beings who light everything around them with a gladsome eagerness.

She liked Nipper, and showed it, although not blinking the truth that he was the very last sort of dog anyone would want to take up-country. Any shaggy village cur would rip him to pieces in five minutes.

So they reached the railhead, left the train, and civilization began to fall away into the background. Two smart little half-Malay syces, house servants whom Brundage had sent down, were waiting with riding and pack animals. Martha had a world of luggage along, as might be expected. Before it was stowed, McHarg wished they had a dozen servants instead of two.

They struck straight out for the hills and the Khammur Naga country.

There was one excellent quality about Nipper; he obeyed like a shot. This rather alleviated his nuisance value, for he was given to a mad, wild chase of everything in sight. Not that his teeth could do much damage, but when he gripped a thing he did like to hang on. And he could grip like death itself.

That first afternoon they ran into Minchen on the road, unexpectedly.

Minchen was assistant commissioner in the Naga district. He was a pink cheeked, bright-eyed young Englishman, filled with the spirit of authority, and just now bound for Rangoon on leave. He was overjoyed to meet Brundage's sister.

"But I say, Nipper, where did you get the dog?" he exclaimed.

"The name is McHarg, if you're speaking to me. Quite a dog, eh? How did you guess his name was Nipper?"

Minchen flushed a trifle with embarrassment. He quite got the point, as he also caught the curious glance Martha Brundage shot at McHarg.

"Oh, I say!" he said awkwardly. "What a ghastly face the brute has, eh? By the way, will you tell Brundage to keep an eye out over your way for two beggars who've done some looting up in the ruby concession district? Frenchmen. If they show up, send word in to the commissioner. They may turn up anywhere. Just got the word as I was leaving."

"I'll remember it," said McHarg. "Anything left in the dak-bungalow at Susol, or did you clean it out in passing?"

Minchen grinned. "Still a fowl or two, I fancy. That babu in charge needs jerking up, though. Frightfully glad to have met you! See you when I return. I'll be over."

McHarg rode on with his party. After a little, Martha Brundage gave him a glance and a smile.

"Nice chap, that. You know, I thought for a moment he addressed you as ‘Nipper'."

"His mistake," said McHarg shortly. Then he brightened, looked at her with a laugh. "Bosh! Why lie about it? Your brother fastened the name on me. You know, I've been wondering about something. Remember our luncheon with Strong? He said a queer thing, but true, that's stuck in my mind. He said I'd never discovered that people and things were vulnerable. I'm not one of these heroic fighting chaps, you know; I can't recall ever being in a fight since I was in school."

"Too many brains?" she said. He frowned quickly.

"Perhaps. You're poking fun now?"

"I think not." She met his wide, clear gaze for a moment. "Do you know, Mr. McHarg, I fancy we'll prove very good friends."

They fell into talk of intimate things, dreams and younger days and odd incidents and people. McHarg touched on heads, and knowing the natives well, became enthusiastic on the subject. These Nagas up around the Khammur district were old hands at the game. They still sneaked heads when the chance offered.

"But not as you'd think," he said, earnestly. "Only an enemy's head will do, or that of some one not in the village, some strong chap. They think the head lends force and strength to the whole tribe. Like some savages who eat the heart of an enemy; not that they like heart, but they believe it lends them vigour, spiritual strength. These Nagas used to be keen for white heads, and still have some hidden away. Not that there's the least danger, these days."

She laughed, dimpling rosily. "I'm not worried, I assure you! Any snakes up there?"

"Yes." He looked worried. Snakes always brought that look to his face. "King cobras aren't rare. I'm scared stiff of them. Gives me a shiver even to see the things in a cage. Glad to say I never met one on the loose. I like smoked heads much better. There's something understandable in that theory; the soul-force is in the head, and if the head of a strong man's brought into the village and cured, all the village shares in new energy. Nothing to snakes, especially cobras, except what we don't understand. They're technically deaf, you know, and hear by ultra-sonant vibrations through the tongue—"

McHarg could talk, with her; usually he hardly talked at all, except with natives, whom he knew rather intimately. He was a mine of information on odd matters.

In fact, she robbed the journey of all its hatefulness; he detested going back to Brundage, but her presence was a blessing. He detested Brundage, too. That was one reason he had a separate kampong — very good thing now, too, for she would share the compound and bungalow of Brundage, naturally. McHarg would be glad of his own place again. He had his own things there, and some of them were queer things enough, but his own. Like the two Malay servants he had taken on. Not many Malays among the half savage Nagas, and it was not everyone who could get on with the Malays, either, singular little people, deceptively submissive, with a deep and fierce pride. Brundage, for instance, could get nowhere with them, though his dominance was vastly admired by the Nagas.

It was a long day's journey to the government rest house. They made it toward sunset. The babu in charge, a Calcutta Hindu, scurried about to make the place presentable. The two syce servants, cooks, jacks of all trades, were invaluable; they were of a hill Malay people, pleasant and courteous. Dinner went off well, and McHarg sought his own room and couch, dead tired. Nipper slept on the foot of his bed. He doused his candle, which drew moths, and undressed by the light of his electric flashlight, an indispensible companion of the night trails.

Over his bed hung a queer object some traveller had left in the place. It was a whip, a cruel thing with a stocky braided hide grip and a flexible wire length. When McHarg touched it curiously, Nipper shrank into himself, cringed, darted terrified looks around. McHarg laughed, petted the dog into happiness again, and switched off the light. He was asleep in two minutes.

Yap-yap-yap-yap!

McHarg wakened, sat up, reached for his flashlight. The dog was barking; the excited, frenzied, savage note in the barks brought McHarg wide awake on the instant. His light flashed on. He saw a sight that positively paralysed him.

There across the room a king cobra was upreared, weaving its inflated, angry hood in the air. Nipper was darting in and out, feinting attack, while that deathly hood weaved and waited to strike. McHarg found voice, frantic. At his call, Nipper only waxed the more savagely intent. The fool dog did not have sense enough to know he was baying certain death. Probably those pop-eyes of his could not see clearly what sort of victim he had treed. Another moment and he was done for.

McHarg leaped out of his cot. He had no weapon. His fear for the dog was overwhelming; it gripped him with horrible force. Sobbing out incoherent curses, he caught the whip from the wall and swung it, lashed out full swing at the weaving death. By sheer mad luck, the cruel wire thong slashed about the neck below the hood, and at McHarg's jerk the head was nearly severed.

Nipper hurled in, got a death-grip on the thrashing coils, and settled down ferociously to his job. He was still at it when the two syces came running in. McHarg was trembling, bathed in sweat, trying vainly to get the dog loose. But the king cobra was dead.

It was the first lesson in vulnerability.

2: "A Brave Fool... "

McHARG brought the whip away with him. As a potential weapon, it delighted him. Here was something that did not provoke his imagination, like a pistol did. He could grasp this, could gauge its effect to his own will and desire.

Nipper did not like that whip. He soon found it was not for him, and ceased to cringe, but kept a wary eye on it none the less.

Before they were an hour on the road, a village mongrel three times the size of Nipper came along; with a snarl and a yap and a whirl of dust, the two were at it. McHarg dismounted. He flung himself on the two animals, frantically, ineffectually, beating at them, his one thought to save Nipper from slashing extermination. His hands and arms were bleeding, when he heard Martha's voice, cool and capable.

"I have your pup. Get a grip on that big brute if you can."

She had Nipper by the legs. McHarg got his whip-stock between the slashing jaws of the mongrel and gripped the animal's head. But Nipper, teeth locked in the shaggy fur, would let go for nothing. One of the syces pried his jaws apart and he got a fresh hold before Martha Brundage could jerk him clear. At length she got him away, however.

Then the mongrel, red-eyed, came for McHarg like a flash. The whip-butt knocked him away, and the lash came down on him. The dog yowled, took another vicious cut, then turned tail and streaked away, yelping.

"I like this whip; it goes in," said McHarg, panting, bright-eyed, exultant. "Is Nipper hurt much?"

"Cut up a bit. Better get some iodine on your own cuts," Martha said. "I have some in my bag."

Nipper licked his own hurts, licked McHarg's hands, arid Martha applied the iodine.

"You certainly took chances," she said, "jumping at those brutes as you did!"

"Never thought about it," McHarg said. "I was so furious at this fool pup I could have killed him. He hasn't the sense of a sparrow."

He caressed the dog, swearing at him, and Nipper stretched his enormous mouth in a grin. After this, McHarg kept him on a long cord in lieu of leash, mothered him, bathed his slashed hide when they halted. He was watchful, alert every moment lest Nipper go plunging into some new disaster.

They had three more days on the road, which in due course dwindled to a mere hill trail.

By this time they were quite definitely friends. Martha Brundage had a quiet poise, a sense of justice, which her brother lacked; beneath her impulsive frankness were deep places, too. McHarg learned about the chap who had died, two years back, and he vaguely comprehended that her very telling about it was an admittance to equality, an admission of liking, of friendship. He had wondered why such a girl was not married; now he knew.

And, what with practising on brush and leaves and branches, McHarg was becoming a very good shot with that whip.

On their last morning out, a scant twenty miles from their destination, they came very abruptly on the debonair Peter Woods.

He was sitting beside the trail, broiling a bird on a spit over a tiny, smoke-less fire. At sight of them he sprang up in astonishment and delight, and swept off his battered topee. A tall, lithe, lean man, his garments torn and stained, who bore himself with a jaunty air. His black-moustached face was brown and hard, deeply lined, but he had an infectious laugh, a gay voice and reckless, brilliant dark eyes that danced with inner fires. McHarg, who was in the lead, drew rein. Nipper ran to the stranger, was patted, and made friends instantly.

"Well!" exclaimed McHarg in astonishment. "And who may you be?"

The other flourished his sun-helmet and bowed to the girl.

"Peter Woods, dear sir and madam, at your service," he exclaimed. A resonant voice, reckless and wild as the dark eyes. "I fear you have me at a disadvantage. You are not, I fancy, of the police?"

"Hardly," said McHarg, giving his name and presenting Woods to the girl. "A bit strange to find you here all alone."

"Undoubtedly," and with a cheerful smile, Peter Woods explained. "You see, I was on my way up to do some topographical work, and two rascals held me up this morning. Two accursed French thieves, who stole everything I had and made off."

"Hello!" said McHarg eagerly. "Two Frenchmen, eh? The same Minchen spoke about, Martha! Which way did they go?"

Mr. Woods was regrettably vague on this point, because they had taken his horses and plunged off the trail. His servants had gone in search of a village, and he himself was awaiting their return, which was unaccountably delayed.

"Luckily I dropped a pigeon," he said, quite gaily, "and was about to have a bite to eat when you showed up. Perhaps you'll join me?"

Martha Brundage laughed. "No, but we can supply you with some food. And if you'll join us, we can give you a lift—"

"A thousand thanks, but I must await my servants here," said Woods, eyeing her with open admiration. "May I ask whether you live in this district?"

Martha talked with him while McHarg had some food broken out. He was extravagant, debonair, almost impudent, and quite charming. When they said farewell, McHarg rode on frowningly, silent, until Martha Brundage rallied him on his preoccupation.

"Eh? Oh, that chap back yonder," he exclaimed at her question. "Didn't you realize that his whole yarn was a lie? Spoke like a gentleman. Probably some rascal off on his own—"

"Rascal?" she broke in. "A lie? What on earth makes you think that?"

"No horse sign in the road," McHarg said shortly. "The next village is only four miles on; his servants, if he had any, would have been there and back long since. No one was ahead of us on the road, or we'd have known it. Last, he had a pistol in his jacket; the pocket sagged. He'd have held us up if he dared. He sprang that yarn, probably having heard about these two Frenchmen, and got some grub off us, and is on his way somewhere this minute."

"Upon my word! Are you sure? Why, Nipper took to him right off, and you know that a dog—"

"Bosh!" cut in McHarg rudely. "That fool pup would make friends with the devil himself. A dog's like a woman; they'll fall for a smooth tongue and a pat on the head."

"You're rather glib about it," said Martha tartly. "If you thought he was such a rascal, why didn't you do something?"

"I'm no policeman. If the poor rogue has broken jail or something, why should I bother? The natives will take his head quick enough if they run across him."

"Are you serious?" she asked, regarding him narrowly. "Do you mean these natives, where we live, would actually take white men's heads?"

"If they caught a white man alone in the jungle, why not? Certainly they would, if they took the notion. They're not going to do anything that'd bring the police down on them, of course, but they'd take a chance quick on some hunted rat like that chap."

"Well, whatever you say, he was a gentleman."

"He was not," said McHarg.

"At least, if he's what you think, he has the courage to buck the jungle and hills and natives all by himself. I doubt if you'd do it."

"I'd have too much sense," McHarg snapped.

"You'd better be more like your dog, then, and less like yourself. A brave fool is better than a wise craven, any day."

"Thanks," said McHarg bitterly. "A woman's always safe in calling a man a coward."

She flushed at this, then paled.

"I'm sorry; forgive me. That was unjust and I didn't mean it."

"You did. and I don't blame you." McHarg's face cleared. He nodded to her amiably. "I've called myself a coward, often enough. No doubt I am. Well, suppose we forget it all. I'll be seeing your brother soon enough."

SHE did not know what he meant by this, but she found out when they got in, that afternoon.

Brundage was bull-necked and aggressive, very efficient, riding roughshod over anything and anyone in his way; a dark, heavy-jowled man, with a laugh that did not always spell mirth. He was large, powerfully built, and had the strength of three.

A shadow fell upon McHarg's spirit the moment they rode into the compound.

"Hello, Nipper! Well, sis of all people! Didn't expect you until next
month!" Brundage came forth, hearty, delighted. His attitude of tolerant contempt toward McHarg went deep, of a sudden, and McHarg quietly effaced himself. He took Nipper and went to his own bungalow at the rear of the compound, behind the store, where his Malays had arranged a separate compound for him. Brundage had the big compound and bungalow across from the store.

When McHarg walked in, with Nipper ranging behind him, he halted in amazement. His two Malays were there, scowling, surly, without more than bare greeting.

And someone else was here in the main room— Hamed ben Yusuf, the Arab trader, seated on a mat in the centre of the floor and dictating accounts to a half- caste scribe. The Arab looked up, touched brow, lips and breast with murmured salaam, and went on with his work.

"Get out of here," said McHarg. Hamed looked up again, a slight smile touching his bearded lips. His calm contempt that ignored all orders was insufferable.

"Tuan," he said, "I was told to work here by Tuan Brundage—"

Something in the bearded hawk-face reminded McHarg of the poised cobra's weaving head and hood. He was scarcely conscious of his own motion, his action. This insolence from an Arab was past bearing.

Hamed ben Yusuf screamed in mingled rage and pain as the whip-thong swept across his face and breast. He came erect like a spring uncoiled, a knife bared in his hand. McHarg chopped with the whip, as at the end of a branch. The cruel thong looped about the bare brown wrist and arm, cut into the flesh, and Hamed screamed again as the knife clattered down. Then he went out of the bungalow with a rush, and his clerk after him.

McHarg looked at the astounded Malays, whose faces had cleared of scowls.

"Throw out everything belonging to that rascal. Bring in my things from the horses."

They grinned and made haste. McHarg took Nipper on into his bedroom, glanced around and saw that his own things were intact, and awaited the storm.

It came swiftly. Brundage strode in like a thundercloud and halted. McHarg held a light to his cigarette and nodded pleasantly.

"What is the news?" he asked, in the customary Malay formula of greeting.

"The news is good," returned Brundage mechanically, then flushed. "Why, damn you, what d'you mean talking  Malay to me? What d'you mean, kicking Hamed out of here? Nipper, you'd better change your tune in a hurry—"

"That's Nipper there," and McHarg pointed to the dog on the bed. "My name's McHarg, to you."

"My God! Are you drunk, or gone off your head?"

McHarg smiled, though his heart was pounding furiously.

"Let's clear the record, Brundage," he said. "I've had enough of your tolerance and contempt; now you've gone too far. As long as we're both here, you'll show a proper respect for me, as a white man, before the natives. This compound is mine, and not company property."

Brundage was well aware that he had overstepped; but it infuriated him that McHarg should resent it. He came close, a savage glare in his eyes.

"You damned milksop, you dare to talk that way to me? Why, I'll take you apart and then kick what's left to roost in the native village! I'll wring that damned neck of yours if you don't apologize and do it quick. You're all done here!"

"Better get yourself in hand," said McHarg quietly. "You know how strict orders are about preserving harmony in front of natives. As for being done, that's bosh. You've no authority to hire and fire."

Brundage cursed softly but luridly. His eyes were fastened on McHarg, narrowed, savage. Silently, McHarg drew the flexible thong of the whip through his fingers, with significant gesture, his gaze steady.

"You damned little—"

He shot out a hand to grasp the whip. McHarg brought down the butt, heavily. With a howl of fury, Brundage grasped his forearm with his left hand and danced in pain.

"Blast you! Broken my arm—"

"Not this time," said McHarg, flushing. Vulnerable, by the lord! Even Brundage was vulnerable! "Clear out of here, unless you want what Hamed got."

He knew instantly that the challenge was a mistake, and pallor came into his cheeks. Brundage started for him, then checked himself. The two Malays were in the room, fetching McHarg's grips and belongings. Even so, Brundage hung fire for a moment, but orders were orders. White prestige must be upheld at every cost. The company was stern as the devil about it; not even a quarrel was permitted before native eyes. The man who lost his head in that way was all washed up as quickly as C. O. G. Strong got wind of it.

"We'll settle this tomorrow." Brundage choked down his wrath. "You'll learn who's giving orders here, or I'll put a bullet into you! Mind that, my man. And be over for dinner at the usual time, for the sake of appearances."

"Appearances be damned," said McHarg calmly. "I'm not eating with you. Have a family dinner with your sister and leave me out. I'll drop over after dinner; no use letting her see anything is wrong."

"As you like," growled Brundage. "I'll not be there after dinner. Got word this afternoon that if I get over to that Naga village on the ridge, seven miles across, sometime this evening, I can pick up several smoked heads they'd like to get rid of. We have a standing offer for them from several museums, and I'm riding over tonight."

"Morning would be safer," said McHarg. The other sneered.

"Yes, that sounds like you! This is something has to be grabbed tonight. One of the villagers tipped me off; he's going with me. You come over later and keep Martha entertained, blast you! I'll entertain you tomorrow, right enough."

So Brundage went striding out, and McHarg never saw him again; tomorrow was an eternity away.

McHARG dined, none too well; hitherto, he had shared commissariat with Brundage, but his Malays rose to the occasion after a fashion. They were quite fascinated by Nipper's ungodly looks and friendliness.

His meal finished, McHarg staked out the dog on his long cord in the compound and went into the Naga village. He had undertaken some small commissions in Rangoon for Chunda Das, the Hindu trader; and coming to the compound of Chunda, McHarg was presently seated with the Hindu, smoking and chatting briefly. Drums were going and singsong voices lifting in the village and he inquired the reason.

"Only the gods know. These savages have been stirred up of late; it is the planting season and they propitiate their false gods for good crops," said Chunda contemptuously.

He regarded the Chinese, the Arab, and the Nagas as infidels and savages. The Chinese traders regarded him and the others with equal disdain. Hamed ben Yusuf looked down his nose at all of them as infidels and barbarians accursed of Allah, so the matter was rather equal. Yet the Nagas were not so bad. Barbaric enough, but industrious folk who raised excellent crops and put money in the traders' pockets.

"There is a matter you should know," Chunda Das said. "Those two bandar-log who serve you, those Malay monkey folk, tried to keep that accursed Arab dog out of your house, and Brundage Sahib beat them. It is not a good thing to beat the monkey people, sahib. These two have taken wives from the village, and like all monkeys have a certain pride."

"I will straighten things out, Chunda Das. Thanks for telling me."

McHarg went to the Brundage bungalow. more angry than he cared to admit. A Malay does not look up to much, but to beat him is a tactical error of some magnitude. Brundage had no business doing it anyway.

He found Brundage gone, and Martha alone, and settled down comfortably with her to talk of everything anew. Brundage had given her no inkling of any trouble with his assistant; he had, however, observed that he expected to make use of her in getting his accounts straightened out. At this, McHarg chuckled.

"You know, we make a perfect team, Martha, your brother and I. Accounts are pie for me, so I usually handle all the books and reports, while he takes care of the mean jobs. Such as his job tonight, for example. I'd think twice before trying to barter these Nagas out of any smoked heads, even heads that had served their purpose and grown weak in force, as these chaps look at it. Ticklish business, let me tell you. It takes nerve to walk in on these fellows and walk out with their tribal gods. They're not above putting a spear into anybody who plays horse with their religious beliefs, such as they are. Your brother does it magnificently."

She laughed. "Yes, he's splendid; but he was always a bit weak on figures. By the way, he had a notice from the district commissioner to look out for those two Frenchmen we heard about. They committed murder and robbery up in the hills, in the Bayak ruby district, and are supposed to be making for the Indo-Chinese border and French territory. Their names are Jacques Falaise and Pierre Dubois."

McHarg sat up suddenly, staring at her in abrupt dismay.

"Good lord! Pierre Dubois! Why—  why, that explains everything!"

"As how?" Her brows lifted. "What is there to explain?"

"That chap we met this morning!" McHarg was excited. "Pierre Dubois— Peter Woods, of course! He had left his partner somewhere and was scouting for something to eat; probably the two of them were half starved. Perhaps his partner was right there and kept out of sight. And he had the nerve to tell us that two Frenchmen had robbed him!"

"You may be right," she agreed slowly. "In fact, you must be right. What are you going to do about it?"

"Right now, nothing. It's up to your brother to send word to the commissioner. I don't know whether I would or not. Those chaps may be criminals, sure, but I hate raising the hue and cry, starting a man-hunt—" He broke off with a shrug.

"You've changed, since I met you," she observed, smiling. "It was a good thing for you to get that dog."

"Nipper?" He gave her a look. "I don't know. It's not that. Well, I suppose it was a bit of everything," he concluded lamely. His face darkened at thought of Brundage and the things that must be cleared up between them.

He dreaded the morrow. He still dreaded it when he turned in, later, with Nipper at his feet. Yet at thought of Brundage dancing around and holding his wrist, he was a bit relieved. The man was vulnerable. Anyone was vulnerable, as a matter of fact; it was a surprising but comforting thought. He had to thank Porky for it, for a good deal.

With morning, the whole course of his life was changed.

3: Blood On The Saddle

McHARG was finishing his breakfast when Martha Brundage broke in upon him. Her brother had not returned. And McHarg wasted no time lying to her about it; he knew at once that something must have happened, something unexpected and unpleasant.

He questioned the servants, his own two Malays, went to the godowns and store, went into the village. Most of the men were in the fields, for the planting was going on. He was totally unable to learn anything about the villager who had gone over with Brundage to the Naga village on the ridge. While lie was still questioning, the horse Brundage had ridden came in, with blood on the saddle.

McHarg called in some of the men, who were hunters, and sent them out, offering rewards for news of Brundage.

He himself rode over to the village seven miles away; but as he feared, his trip was fruitless. The Nagas there knew nothing about Brundage, had not seen him, and had no heads they desired to give up. McHarg judge them honest, but somebody had lied. He was up against a blank.

When he got back home, there was news of the worst. Hunters had found the body of Brundage and had brought it in. Just the body. Not the head. That was gone. And when he had gone over the situation, McHarg found himself helpless to lay any blame at any door. The police would have to do this. He sat down and wrote a note to the commissioner, and also mentioned Peter Woods. He sent off the note by one of the servants. It might be days before it brought results, of course, even if it found the commissioner at home. With the assistant gone on leave, the note might chase him all over the district.

Martha Brundage was alone with her shock and grief.

McHarg sought Chunda Das, who sent one of his sons to act as clerk. Until now, McHarg had done the clerical work; he must carry on otherwise until somebody was sent up from Rangoon to replace Brundage. By noon, he was at work getting his report in shape, and before the afternoon was far gone, Aloysius McHarg was facing a decision that left him aghast.

For the accounts were definitely off, by so many rupees that it was no joke at all. There was no mistake about it. The books were juggled. Brundage had simply been short about a thousand rupees.

McHarg, shocked but not in the least grieved by the fate of his superior, sent away his new clerk and faced the matter himself. His report had to go in at once, with word of Brundage's death, to Rangoon. He had to sign it. And it was a very, very simple matter to send in the accounts exactly as they were; it was the thing to do; it was, McHarg knew, the thing he should properly do. But, queerly, he could not make up his mind to do it. The very fact of his own past ill-feeling toward Brundage checked him. And there was Martha to think about.

He evaded the decision long enough to bury Brundage, with Martha and the servants and half the Nagas of the village looking on, and the traders. He read the funeral service and saw that everything was done right; it was not a matter that admitted of delay. There was no grief for Brundage, no stir caused by his death, for death came to all men. However, Hamed ben Yusuf and Chunda Das and the two Chinese traders were most uneasy. If a white head was taken, anything would be possible.

Martha went back to her bungalow, shaken but holding up outwardly with brave heart. McHarg went back to the store and put his head in his hands, with Nipper sniffing about, and fought out the matter. Reading the funeral service had not helped things a bit. He had the queer conviction that to do his simple duty would be to take horrible advantage of a dead man. It would damn the memory of Brundage unavoidably; it would hurt and damage Martha Brundage. It would make himself feel like a dog, McHarg thought. He had detested, even hated, Brundage alive; but Brundage dead commanded his loyalty.

The only alternative was to hold his peace and make up the shortage, which would just about clean out his meagre savings. He did it. He wrote and signed the report, got all clear, and arranged for a man to take it down-country and get it into the post with the morning. And that was off his mind.

He invited Martha to dinner, but she preferred to be alone. Talking with his two Malays, McHarg learned from them that men in the village must certainly have taken the head of Brundage. The man who had started for that other village with Brundage must have thought up the whole scheme. It was not unusual for a Naga to devote himself to the good of the community, to risk punishment for the sake of obtaining a head that would increase the crops and benefit the whole village.

McHarg offered a big reward for the discovery of this man, but the Malays said it would probably be impossible to find the party. Trim in their sarongs and jackets, jaws working on betel paste, they gave him no hope. The police might do it, of course; that was the business of the commissioner.

After dinner he looked in on Martha. She was over the worst of it now. He discussed things with her, calmly; ways and means, plans, the immediate future. When she spoke of her brother, horror sat in her eyes. The thought of his head, in some native hut or out in a tree overlooking some field, as was the Naga custom, broke her down. McHarg comforted her, temporized, promised she would yet see her brother's head laid to rest with the body. Queer, he thought, how much weight she attached to this. It was natural, but it was queer just the same. Brundage certainly would not care a hang whether his head were being smoked or looking over a field with crows pecking at it. But this girl cared a lot.

McHarg went home. He was about to turn in, when Nipper flew into a frenzied barking. McHarg caught a scratching at his door, and opened it. Tock Lung, one of the Chinese merchants, slipped into the room and stood blinking at him, panting, fearful while the dog sniffed at his feet.

"What is the news?" said McHarg in Malay.

"Tuan, it is bad. Do you know the man Ng Karam?"

McHarg nodded. One of the hunters in the village, a surly fellow who lived alone, a man too old to have wives, since he had no money or land.

"Ng Karam came to me tonight," said Tock Lung. "He wanted credit with which to buy a woman. He offered me a pistol in exchange. It was the pistol of Tuan Brundage with the silver plate on the butt. I told him to come back in the morning."

"Go home and say nothing," McHarg told him. "If there is a reward, it is yours."

The Chinese departed. McHarg stood motionless, a pulse throbbing at his temple, his breath coming short.

Ng Karam was the man, of course. It had never occurred to his savage mind that the pistol looted from Brundage would fasten the murder on him. He had the head of Brundage now. And the pistol.

McHarg wiped the sweat from his palms. There were two or three ways of handling this thing; one was to report to the commissioner, who might come in a week. Another was to take all the servants, arm them, and move in to the attack at once. It should be done at once. But Brundage would have gone right to the compound of Ng Karam, alone, on the spot, in the darkness. McHarg shrank from this, shrank horribly, until he remembered almost the last words Brundage had said to him. Morning would be safer, he had said, and Brundage had sneered at him.

"Yes, that sounds like you! This is something has to be grabbed off tonight—"

"Tonight, at once," muttered McHarg, glancing around frantically. "She would want it done, too. If she knew about it, she Would go herself, go like a shot. There's no way out of it. If I take the Malays, the whole damned village would be up in arms. If I go alone, it's between me and Ng Karam, maybe. That's the chance, anyhow. If I could only wait till morning—"

He could not, and knew he could not.

He wiped his palms again; his hands were cold, clammy. The thought of that village at night, that hut in the compound, was terrible. But there was no one else to do it, unless he let Martha Brundage do it.

WITH a deep, quick breath he caught up his flashlight and reached for the whip that was in the corner. The gnarled brown figure of Ng Karam rose before his mind's eye, surly features, spear and old rifle, a dark corded figure of lean muscle. Vulnerable, yes; even a hunter of tigers was vulnerable. Even an Arab was vulnerable, as the knife of Hamed ben Yusuf was there to prove.

A feeling of suffocation possessed him, as he strode out and left Nipper behind. His imagination flew on and on. Even if he got the head, the bare thought of carrying it home himself was horrible. He strode on, the flashlight winking before him.

He was past the bazaars and in the village now. There could be no secrecy; the dogs knew him, but barked savagely until they caught his scent. The little compound of Ng Karam was apart from the others at the edge of the village.

McHarg came to it, sent the light in ahead of him, and sent his voice also. He stooped and went into the hut, which was large enough inside. Movement and voices were stirring all through the village.

The light caught the uncoiling, rising figure of Ng Karam, hand on rifle.

"Sit down," said McHarg abruptly. The hunter hesitated, then squatted respectfully. "I have come to speak with you. There is a present of cloth and tobacco and other things for you tomorrow at the store, enough with which to buy a woman."

The dark figure, blinking into the ray of light, relaxed a little. McHarg fingered the whip and stirred it along the floor.

"There is something else. The voice of Tuan Brundage came to me this evening. He was very angry. He was collecting all the devils from the jungle to move in upon this village, and chiefly upon you, Ng Karam. You will be paralysed in every limb, and your hand will shake so that you cannot use a gun or a spear, and no woman will enter your door. So, because we are friends, you and I, here I am to help you and protect you."

"There is no need," muttered the hunter.

"There is great need," McHarg said with emphasis. "Tomorrow you will be paralysed, and a curse will lie upon the fields and the planting, and the devils will uproot everything. The voice of Tuan Brundage will not help this village but will bring all the devils down upon it. The only way to avoid this, and to obtain the present that is waiting for you, is to give me the pistol of Tuan Brundage, and also his head."

"I think that voice lied to you," said the hunter, but most uneasily.

"It did not lie. Instead, it said that if you refused I was to use his whip upon you as I did upon Hamed ben Yusuf. It is a whip inhabited by a devil, and it eats the heart and soul out of a man whom it strikes, and takes his courage away. So now stand up, Ng Karam, and I will show you what happens—"

"There is no need," said Ng Karam hastily. "The pistol is here under the mat, and the head is hanging over the fireplace in a wicker bag."

McHarg was a trifle surprised at this ready conquest, but there was a reason. As it was no question of crime and punishment, but rather of man to man friendship, Ng Karam did not hesitate to speak very freely; for indeed he was conscious of no crime whatever. His ambition to help the village had been laudable, entirely so, but if Brundage was now angry and bringing in all the devils, that was something else again.

The fault lay at the door of others, as anyone with ordinary good sense would appreciate; and he felt sure McHarg would so appreciate it.

This was true. McHarg listened with incredulity that became dismayed conviction. All was explained now. Neither Ng Karam nor anyone else in the village would have been eager to kill Brundage, even to get his head. But when someone else had done that job, and the head was there to be taken, that was very different. A mistake, doubtless, since Tuan Brundage was angry about it, but a natural mistake.

"You are right," said McHarg, feeling a little sick. "If he had been an enemy, you would have greatly benefited by having his head; anyone can comprehend this. But he was not an enemy. You took him to his death, and it was a great error. However, let nothing be said about it, and the devils will be appeased. And you shall have your present in the morning."

McHarg knew exactly how the commissioner, in his capacity as magistrate, would look at the affair. This savage was not guilty of any crime, from his viewpoint, and would not be punished. The crime lay elsewhere. So, with the remark that the talk was ended, McHarg took the pistol from under the mat, lifted down the heavy wicker container from above the fireplace, and went out of the hut.

The darkness was peopled with stirrings and voices, but he paid no heed. There was more to be done, and it had to be done now. And' he had to do it. Stooping a little under his burden, half in fear at any instant of a spear or arrow from the darkness, he headed back for his own compound. His two Malays lived close to the bazaars, and as he passed the house of one, he sent the shaft of light at it and lifted his voice.

"Sebak! Bring Tali and come to my house at once. I have need of you. Do you hear me?"

"It is an order, tuan," came the muffled reply.

McHarg went on, without a shudder by reason of the thing he carried. The darkness was still vivid with terrors for him, sweat was streaming from him.

He came to the compounds at last and was turning in past the store, when from the dark Brundage bungalow came the challenging voice of Martha.

"Is that you, Mr. McHarg? What's up? Nipper has been kicking up a row."

"You— I think you'd better come over," he replied hoarsely. "Can you use a pistol?"

"Of course I can," she rejoined promptly. "Shall I bring mine?"

"Yes, if you will."

He went into his bungalow, where Nipper received him with extravagant joy, and put the pistol and wicker container on the table. Luckily, the wicker gave no sign of what it contained, except for one splotchy stain; he could not have borne to look at the head. It would have turned his stomach completely, he thought.

When he had the lamp going, he flung a blanket over the things on the table, and went to the store, unlocking it. He knew Brundage had a pair of handcuffs there, and he found them, by aid of the flashlight. As he came out, he met Martha Brundage, crossing from her own compound.

"Sorry; I had to get into some clothes," she said. "What's up?"

"I can't tell you at the moment," McHarg said. "Do you understand Malay?"

"No."

"Will you take these and stand by with your pistol?" he said. "I never shot one and wouldn't be much good with it. I don't know just what will happen. I called you in on sheer impulse, you know—"

They came up the steps and into the lighted room. An exclamation broke from her.

"Good heavens! You look like a ghost. What on earth is it?"

"Murder."

"Oh! You can't mean—" She shrank, staring at him. McHarg nodded, wearily. "I think so. Wait and see. Sit down over there. Keep your pistol in hand. If they pull a knife, let 'em have it."

The two Malays came in hastily, and stood at attention. McHarg picked up
the whip and nodded to them.

"Take the blanket off the table and look at what lies there."

They moved forward to the table and Sebak pulled off the blanket. They looked at the pistol, at the wicker basket, then up at the eyes of McHarg. A certain fatality came into their brown, flat faces; a resignation, a passive acceptance.

"I have not known you to be liars," McHarg said quietly. "By Allah, men of your blood are not liars! This is well known. Yet you have lied, casting the blame for Tuan Brundage's death upon the people of this village. Why is this?"

They glanced at the wide-eyed girl with the pistol steady in her hand, and back to the calm, level gaze of McHarg. Sebak made reply, without any evasion.

"Tuan, our honour demanded that he should die, because he beat us when you were gone."

"So I have heard," McHarg replied. "And I do not mind telling you that I meant to take up that matter with him in the morning."

"It was our affair, as Allah liveth, tuan."

"Who struck the blow?" McHarg asked. "There was no mark on the body."

"In the head, tuan. We both fired together."

McHarg went white as death, glanced at the wicker basket, and shivered. Before this resignation, this complete apathy, he changed all his plans and did not touch the handcuffs in his pocket. He knew these men, and their ways. He knew that their own notion of honour bound them as no steel could bind them.

"Each of you, put your kris on the table," he said. They produced the flame-bladed steel knives from beneath their sarongs, and laid them down. "If I order you to go to your own houses and stay there until the commissioner arrives, will you do so? Then swear, that your honour may be involved."

They swore by Allah, by the beards of their fathers, by the spirits of their ancestors, that they would obey; and McHarg knew the oath would be kept. They would face the magistrate, speak as they had just now spoken, and if the peculiar justice of the white man punished them for salvaging their honour, they would accept the matter. It was the nature of their people.

Then, at his nod and gesture, they went out. McHarg dropped into a chair, and was aware of the dilated eyes of the girl fastened upon him.

"Well?" she exclaimed "You took him to. "I don't understand all these. Where are—"

"Those two men murdered your brother," said McHarg wearily. "They admitted it. There was no need of any weapon. They'll be available when the commissioner comes."

He reached down and fondled the head of Nipper, mechanically. Then he met her eyes and smiled a little.

"Hadn't you better turn in? It's been a hard day for both of us. Very good of you to come over; I thought I might need help, you see."

She rose. "But one thing, tell me; you haven't got— got it back—"

McHarg nodded silently. She sent one frantic, half comprehending glance at  the table, and her face went livid.

Then she turned and went out of the room. McHarg jumped up, joined her, sent the flashlight beam ahead of them. She did not speak until they were at her bungalow steps and it was then only a low "good night."

"So the job's done," muttered McHarg, coming home again. "By God, it's done! Hardest day of my life; perhaps the best paying. Yes, I've changed, sure. And it's done—"

He was sadly mistaken about that.

4: 'Death!'

THEY breakfasted together.

McHarg had been up and around for some hours. He told her, across the table, that the head of Brundage now lay with the body; and it was safe from molestation. She shivered a little, thanked him with her eyes, and shifted the subject.

"There's something I must tell you," she said. "I was bringing up some cash for— for him. A thousand rupees. He had, used the money here, from the company funds, and now I suppose you had better replace it."

McHarg took the money. He was confused, speechless, taken off guard. She looked him in the eyes and spoke quickly, sharply.

"What is it?"

"The money," he stammered. "I— I've already attended to it. I found the shortage and made it up. You see— well, it's all straight now. I'll just keep this."

Warmth flooded in her face.

"Oh! And you did it because of him, you covered it up— why didn't you tell me?"

"Not yesterday. I might have told you later, of course," he said, flushing. "Really, it didn't matter."

"For him!" she said in a low voice. "You did that because you liked him so!"

McHarg flushed more deeply. Then he revolted against the temptation.

"No, Because I didn't like him. Because we didn't get on at all. We had a row night before last," he exploded sharply. "And that's why I couldn't let it go that way, I couldn't let everybody think he'd been short and so forth. Just because I didn't like him at all. There, damn it! I suppose you have to know the truth, so take it. I'm sorry. I can't help it."

Conscious that she would be furious with him for this revelation, he rose from the table and walked out. He had Nipper on a short leash, because of wandering village dogs, and went straight over to the store. The son of Chunda Das was there, and so was the hunter Ng Karam, come for his promised present. McHarg rewarded him handsomely and sent him away rejoicing. Then there was the Chinese merchant, Tock Lung, to be fittingly rewarded; McHarg took care of this, also, and went over to his own bungalow to leave Nipper there. His two Malays had come to work as usual, but he had sent them home again, thanks to a natural if unwarranted shrinking from any contact with them.

He took Nipper into the bedroom, told him to stay there, closed the door, and turned to find an amiable stranger holding a pistol on him.

"Do you speak French, m'sieu?" asked the stranger affably.

"But yes," blurted McHarg.

"Hands up, then. Turn your back, if you please. Ah, no weapon! Sit down."

Deftly frisked and found unarmed, McHarg confusedly dropped into a chair, staring. Subconsciously, he knew the explanation, yet could not believe it true.

The man was ragged, strained and scratched, blurred with beard; a trim, alert little man very square in the shoulders. His features, beneath their grinning amiability, held a vicious intentness. His eyes glittered unpleasantly upon McHarg.

"Permit me, m'sieu; Jacques Falaise," he said. "Ah! You have heard the name, eh? Well, it is no matter. Allow me to reassure you. No harm is intended; we are not robbers. We need clothes, food, horses, and shall pay for what we take. Understand? In fact, we shall pay in advance. Thus."

Tucking his pistol away, Falaise thumbed a little sack of leather from his pocket. McHarg watched, fascinated. He comprehended that this was one of the two Frenchmen so badly wanted by the police. Where was the other, the debonair Peter Woods?

Falaise selected from his little sack a roughly red-flashing stone and laid it down approvingly on the gray blanket that still covered the table. The wicker basket that had been under the blanket was gone; but the pistol of Brundage still reposed beneath that blanket, unguessed. McHarg recalled the fact, and tensed.

"Tiens!" said the Frenchman, putting away the sack. "Regard, now; a ruby, my friend. For what we take, it will pay well, eh? You see, we are honourable gentlemen. For the past couple of hours we have been watching your affairs, preparing our descent upon your coasts, as my partner Dubois might say. It is well to have things go off in friendly fashion, with no regrettable mistakes. Do you agree?"

"Certainly," murmured McHarg, dry lipped. He wondered where Peter Woods might be. The thought of Martha Brundage began to torment him. Falaise put his head on one side and surveyed him, bird-like, the eyes glittering.

"You remember on the trail, when you met Dubois? I ran to hide. Dubois would not hide; he would not give up that pigeon he was cooking. Our only food in three days. And then you gave him food. Ha! I tell you we feasted then; that Dubois, he has a way with the women. Did she not say, afterward, that he was a charming fellow?"

"Si," McHarg assented, mechanically. Falaise cackled out a laugh.

"So you do speak French very well, my friend! You know when to say si and when to say oui; what more could anyone ask? Well, I must take a look around. Do not move from the chair or I shall be forced to become unpleasant. Hello! This is curious."

He picked up McHarg's whip and inspected it, heavy butt and flexible, cruel thong. McHarg watched him dully, conscious of utter futility. The pistol hidden under the blanket was of no use whatever. Before he could get it, this man could shoot him a dozen times over. And he himself had no skill with a pistol. No; best to play safe, accept what came, and get rid of these fellows peaceably. They meant no harm. All they wanted was to get away in safety.

Falaise threw open the door of the bedroom. There was a surprised yap from Nipper, a rush, a snarl. Falaise stepped back hurriedly. An oath broke from him; he lashed out with the whip, lashed out again. The dog yelped sharply, cringed away.

McHarg lost his head and came out of the chair like a flash, flinging himself at the man in hot fury. Falaise swung around and struck. The butt of the whip caught McHarg over the eyes, sent a shower of stars across his brain, and he dropped. Nipper edged ever to him and licked his face, and rolled frightened eyes at the Frenchman.

"Name of a name! What a face it is!" cackled Falaise in mirth. "It is formidable, this face; a terrific thing, but it does not bite. Here, my friend! I am sorry I hit you. My hand upon it. Me, I am unbrave; a brave fellow can always apologize."

He patted the dog, and Nipper gratefully wagged his ridiculous broken twist of a tail and licked his hand.

McHARG wakened, dizzy and aching, to find himself in the armchair, tied to it by both wrists. Nipper lay watching him, contentedly. From the bedroom came the voice of Falaise, humming a gay tune; then came the man himself, swaggering, dressed in the new suit of whites McHarg had bought in Rangoon.

"The boots are trifle large, but no harm there," he observed. "Ah! So you are now awake! Well, I warned you. Lucky thing for you we want no shooting to give the alarm, or you'd have a bullet in your gizzard this minute. A handy weapon, this whip. Do you like the blue cravat, or should I have taken the brown one? This is not bad—"

Falaise surveyed himself in the mirror. Then he flashed around, caught up the whip, and darted to the door. Hasty steps outside, a hasty knock. Into the main room burst the son of Chunda Das, the new clerk from the store.

"Sahib! Memsahib Brundage cried out for help. There is a man—"

The whip-stock landed with a sickening thud. The young Hindu toppled over, and Falaise fell upon him. McHarg watched, horrified, as the Frenchman worked fast, binding his victim hand and foot with a towel he ripped up, gagging him with the necktie and then rolling him against the wall behind the door. Nipper yawned cavernously and kept watchful pop-eyes fastened on the whip.

"So! It is the brown cravat after all." Falaise stepped into the bedroom, and came back knotting the brown necktie about his collar. "A shave must wait, but I shall accept the loan of your razor, m'sieu. What was it this man said to you?"

"He had no chance to say it," muttered McHarg. Sweat was on his face;

Martha had called for help, and there was no help. Peter Woods must be over there at her bungalow.

"You lie." Falaise picked up the whip. He lashed out with it suddenly, giving no warning. McHarg stifled a scream as the lash bit across his legs. The vicious in the unshaven features revealed the true nature of this man before him. "You lie! Tell me what he said—"

The whip poised for another blow. McHarg shrank, blinked, kept silent. Then Falaise checked himself, listening. He went to the door, peered out, and with a laugh flung the door wide.

"My children! Welcome, a thousand welcomes! Our party is now complete."

Martha Brundage came into the room, erect, angry, defiant. Her eyes struck at McHarg, and widened at sight of the blood on his face. She came over to him quickly, saying nothing, but putting her fingers to his cheek with a tender gesture of reassurance.

Peter Woods stood in the doorway, more debonair than ever now, fresh shaven and clad in garments of the dead Brundage. His hard, lined features were resolute and cruel, the darkly brilliant eyes flamed with sardonic fires.

"Complete, yes," he said in French. "But the charming lady, my friend, needs a bit of persuasion. This fellow— ah, you had trouble, eh? Very well. He is safe. And the dog; hello, my amiable eyes and jaws! Ciel! What eyes he has!"

He petted Nipper, who greeted him warmly. Then, coming erect, he thumbed his black moustache and fastened his gaze on Martha Brundage, smiling. McHarg, looking at the girl's wrist before his face, saw it was reddened and swollen; defiant as she was, he divined that Peter Woods had subdued her, that she was in terror of him. He wrenched at his bound arms, and desisted, helpless and futile. The dizziness passed, but the pain in his head remained. Do something! He must do something! But he could do nothing, and realizing the fact, slumped down in his chair.

Falaise, however, turned upon his partner with an explosive outburst.

"You, I know you, Pierre! You have your eye on her. It is madness, you imbecile. We must get horses and food and get out of here, and reach the border. The frontier, it is not far. We cannot go crazy about a woman. Plenty of women in Saigon."

"Not like this one," said Peter Woods, complacently. "Why hurry?"

Martha Brundage trembled slightly. She could understand. Beneath this man's jaunty exterior lay the real brute, close to the surface.

"Name of a dog! I tell you, we must clear out at once!" snapped Falaise angrily. "You found liquor over there; I know the symptoms."

"The most admirable liquor in the world!" exclaimed Peter Woods, and twirled his moustache. "A lovely woman, tender and compassionate and amiable. However, Jacques, you're quite right. Get a sack of provisions from the store, and get two horses saddled, and we'll get off. Or shall we make it three horses, mademoiselle?"

Martha Brundage whitened.

"You animal!" she said in a low voice.

Peter Woods chuckled and shrugged, and made a gesture to his companion. Falaise, with a grunt, walked out of the bungalow and slammed the door.

"And now we may speak English," said Peter Woods, and glanced at Mc-Harg. "Why, my friend, you look at me with a positively murderous expression! You, mademoiselle, will be more charitable. There is nothing to fear. Do you remember one of your English authors put a French expression into one of his books? ‘Courage, my friends! The devil is dead!' Now, that's a fine phrase. Forget the devil, my little one; he's dead. Enjoy yourself. Look at poor Peter Woods, condemned these many weeks to the solitude of the jungle. Would you not give him just one friendly kiss? These poor brown people do not know how to kiss, you know. But I do."

Laughing, he took a step toward the girl. She shrank a little, then drew herself up, still white with fear and anger.

"Enough of this!" she said, but McHarg could detect the quiver in her voice. "Take what you want and clear out. No more of your insults, you animal!"

The Frenchman laughed softly. Beneath his laughter, he was all aflame.

To McHarg, things suddenly appeared in a new light; as with a glimpse of clear vision, he saw this man infinitely more dangerous than corded savage or the aggressive Brundage, a man more invulnerable, more deadly, than any reptile. And he saw Martha Brundage helpless despite her defiant air. helpless and quivering with fear, a woman who could go to pieces all in an instant. No longer mistress of all around her.

"Take what I want, eh?" Peter Woods repeated amusedly, his white teeth flashing. "Come! Thanks for the invitation, my dear. I'll do just that—"

He lunged, bronzed fingers clamping about her swollen wrist. A little cry of pain broke from her. McHarg plunged wildly at his bonds, cursing, but his efforts were futile.

The girl twisted about, slapped in a blow that drew blood to the lips of Peter Woods. Infuriated, he flung out his strength savagely and broke down her resistance. His arms clenched upon her, around her, drew her against him. Her cry was stifled by his lips, that left red marks upon her mouth and face.

With a spasmodic effort she broke his embrace, but slipped and fell. The man laughed, looking down at her with eyes aflame.

"What, my little one? Is it possible that—"

McHarg kicked out. A short kick, true, but the boot was heavy. The edge of the thick sole caught Peter Woods just under the ear, at the angle of the jaw. The man gave one convulsive twitch and then pitched forward on his face and lay quiet.

Nipper, who had been watching the scene with ears pricked up and a stare of curious interest, rose and ambled up close, sniffing at the face of the unconscious man, and then licked at his blood-dripping mouth. But Peter Woods did not respond.

"Martha! Martha! For God's sake wake up!"

Jerking his chair forward, McHarg stirred the girl with his foot. She came to one elbow, rose dizzily, and stood swaying. McHarg's voice drove into her with the impact of a blow, so edged and vibrant was it.

"Martha! That knife in the corner, on the floor— the knife! Cut me free, damn it—"

The knife of Hamed ben Yusuf lay there in the corner, unobserved. With a half hysterical gasp, the girl saw it and started for it. McHarg stared down at the still face of the man before him, the strong, cruel, debonair features all quiet in repose. So in spite of everything this man of steel was vulnerable! Vulnerable, to one savage kick sent right!

She was coming back now with the knife, stumbling over the body of Peter Woods, recovering, sawing at the bonds with the deadly blade. It bit true and sharp. McHarg's hand came free. He caught the knife from her and next instant had freed his other hand. He was on his feet, eager, exultant.

From his pocket he dragged out the handcuffs, forgotten there from the previous night. He went to the recumbent man and brought the arms together, snapped home the bracelets.

"His pistol!" rose the girl's voice. "He has a pistol under his coat!"

McHarg grunted. He groped for the pistol, turned the man half over, and drew forth the weapon. A pistol, yes, rusted and broken, empty, useless. McHarg threw it into the corner. He turned to Martha Brundage, saw her sway, and caught her. In his arms she relaxed for a moment, and then clung to him.

"My dear! And I'm so useless, so good for nothing, and you're hurt—"

"None of that, now. It's all right, it's all over," he said and smiled into her eyes. He kissed her, and stroked her hair. Her sobbing breaths quieted. He kissed her again, and her lips responded, and she smiled. A new light sprang in his eyes. "Martha! Do you mean it? That you— that anyone like you could care for me, when you called me a coward—"

"Don't!" she said softly. She got herself in hand, straightened up, smiled into his face and touched his forehead with her fingertips. "I never called you that. It wasn't so. You remember what this— this animal said? ‘The devil is dead!' Well, that's true, in another sense. You've conquered—"

She checked herself, shivered a little, and her eyes dilated in startled alarm. The voice of Jacques Falaise came to them, from outside.

"Pierre! Pierre! Come on, imbecile. I have the horses, everything. We must get off!"

McHarg stared at her for an instant, a flush in his cheeks. Then he darted to the table and threw aside the blanket there. A sparkle of red went flashing across the floor, unnoticed. He caught up the pistol of Brundage and threw off the safety catch. The loads were intact. He grunted with satisfaction.

"If I have to do the police job, by God, I can!" he said. The voice of Falaise came to them again, urgent, insistent. Then came an oath, and the quick tread of the trim, wide shouldered man on the veranda steps outside.

McHarg looked at the wide-eyed, startled girl. He smiled confidently, reassuringly, and nodded brightly.

"The devil is dead, my dear!" he said.

Then he went to the door and flung it open.

End

Table of Contents

- 1. Isle of the Dead
- 2: Death in the Dark
- 3: A Discord in Avalon.
- 4: Bloodstones
- 5: Spy Against Europe
- 6: From the House of the Rat Catcher
- 7: A  Slug at Destiny
- 8: The Sleeper
- 9: Gods Guard the Brave
- 10: The Devil Is Dead