Author: H Bedford-Jones
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Short fiction
Description: A collection of short stories and novelettes, including a John Solomon short story. The texts were taken from Internet Archive scans of mostly Blue Book magazines, the issues of which are noted. The John Solomon story references the case of Mary Briggs and the Giant Rant of Sumatra, for Sherlock fans, although Holmes is not mentioned. 1: Three-Piece Dollar 2: The Pearl of Price 3: The Phoenix Tourmaline 4: British Agent 5: Test Pilot Number One 6: The Case of the Deathly Barque 7: Pearls From Macao 8: The Brute's Emeralds

THREE PIECE DOLLAR
and other stories

H-Bedford Jones

2020

Contents

1: Three-Piece Dollar

2: The Pearl of Price

3: The Phoenix Tourmaline

4: British Agent

5: Test Pilot Number One

6: The Case of the Deathly Barque

7: Pearls From Macao

8: The Brute's Emeralds

___________________

1: Three-Piece Dollar

Blue Book  Feb 1933

ERSKINE was one of those men who— even as you and I— are not what  they seem.

He had been sent up from Singapore  to manage the Gomorrah mine; he knew  tin-mining, spoke Malay and Chinese, and looked just the sort of man to be  imposed upon. He was small, wore spectacles ; his sandy hair was usually  mussed, his freckled nose turned up a bit, and he had a serious, practical expression. The mine was three days north  of Yunnan City, and he had no objection to being stuck up there in the hills by himself with the mine and its village of Chinese workmen.

Erskine was unmarried, said that he had no time to waste on social affairs, and disproved it by having a gorgeous time each month-end when he came down to Yunnan City. The foreign colony liked him. It developed that he had the most amazing knowledge about all sorts of things, and he could dance superbly. Also, he began to enlarge the production of the mine before he had been there three months; so all in all, he was a distinct acquisition, at least, among those who knew him well.

Calverly did not know him well, of course. The big, drawling, handsome blond Englishman turned up in Yunnan City one day, accompanied by the Vicomte de Plancy, a very polite, sleek little man with spiky black mustache and sloe eyes, who drove their Citroen car. They had unkind things to say of the boasted highway north from the Tonkin border  and the car was laid up for re pairs.

Since Plancy was an authentic vicomte and Calverly a pleasant and briefly plausible fellow, and Yunnan had the reputation of being the most hospitable of all Chinese cities, things went well. The two of them put up at the Hotel Terminus and were still there a fortnight later when Erskine arrived for his regular monthly visit. Calverly was at the desk when he strode in and asked for his regular room.

"Beg pardon," said Calverly, "You're not Erskine of the Gomorrah Mine, by any chance?"

"The same, the same," said Erskine, peering through his spectacles. Calverly put out his hand, eagerness beaming in his face.

"Calverly, J. R. C. Calverly. My dear fellow, you're the one man up here I've been most anxious to meet! Heard of you at Singapore and at Trengganu. You were with the Consolidated people down there, eh? They told me you were one of the best tin experts in the field. I've a letter of introduction to you, somewhere in my luggage. We'll have it out."

Erskine was embarrassed by this flattery. He was tired and dirty and hungry, and had a sack of mail to run through; he arranged to dine at the club with Calverly, and then went to his room. Later, when he had shaved and bathed, he was sitting clad in spectacles and shorts, glancing over the stack of letters, when M. de Mersuay, whose position corresponded to that of freight-agent for the French railroad running up from Haiphong, dropped in to see him about tin shipments. When their business was over, Erskine inquired about Calverly.

"An amiable gentleman," said Mersuay, fingering his chin-tuft. "With him came the Vicomte de Plancy, of the lesser nobility. I do not know their business here, but it is said that they are interested in mining concessions."

"Plancy is well known ?" inquired Erskine.

"Of a certainty. He resigned recently  from the Annamese Customs; I do not the know the reasons. He is not, perhaps, too scrupulous in minor details."

Mersuay hesitated. "Still, who knows? Gossip amounts to nothing. One must form his own conclusions."

"Exactly," said Erskine, ruffling up his sandy hair.

"How long shall you be with us this trip?" inquired the other.

"A week at least," said Erskine. "Who knows ?"

He dined that evening with Calverly,  and met the Vicomte, who was also at the club.

DURING THE three days following, Erskine saw a good deal of both Calverly and Plancy, who opened out their affairs to him very frankly.

It was true that they had a mining concession in mind, and were thinking of taking over a silver mine in the hills east of the city. Erskine was only too glad to impart any information at his command, and they questioned him at length in regard to the various details of mine-operation under the existing and constantly changing laws promulgated by the Yunnan governor, the supply of native labor, and so on.

On the fourth day, while Erskine was lunching at the club with Doctor Aintree, talking hospital procedure and enjoying the view over the lake, Calverly dropped in upon them and plumped himself down at their table. He was in high excitement.

"Everything's arranged— the red tape and all that rot," he announced, beaming. "The governor approved the arrangements this morning. I say, Erskine! Plancy and I are putting everything we can raise into this concession, you know. I've had a bit of experience, and so has he, and we can carry on once we're started; but getting started is the rub. I'd jolly well hate to get off on the wrong foot, and you're the very man to help us out."

"Yes?" said Erskine. "In what way?"

"Advice," responded Calverly. "I'd like frightfully, old chap, to get your opinion of the ground we have in mind."

"Afraid my opinion isn't worth much," said Erskine, looking embarrassed.

"Nonsense! You're the one expert up here. You know, this Black Dragon mine is a long day's ride from here, up toward Sinfan-chow. With the preliminaries settled, we're going up day after tomorrow to take a look at the property before signing the papers. We've got guides, and we'll take along a few chop-boxes and a couple of boys. What about going with us ? You can name your own fee and all that; it'll take two days of your time, more likely three., as we'd have to be there the best part of a day."

Erskine ran his fingers through his unruly sandy hair.

"I don't know, Calverly," he said slowly. "Afraid I couldn't take the responsibility of such a thing. If anything went wrong—"

"Bosh! " struck in Doctor Aintree, who liked Erskine and knew his abilities. "Weren't you telling me that you'd put in two years up in the Honan silver district? Ye know verra well, John Erskine, that ye've not your equal as a mineralogist in all south China! It'll do no harm to give an opinion."

"Precisely!" exclaimed Calverly eagerly. "You'd have no responsibility, old chap; an opinion on the silver veins is what we're after. Plancy would take my say-so, but we should have an unbiased verdict from an outsider. Don't be moldy, Erskine. Say yes, like a good fellow! "

Erskine smiled in his bashful, awkward way.

"Well, I suppose so," he said. "But I'd not be charging any fee, Calverly; that's out of the question. I couldn't draw my salary and be doing odd jobs on the side, you know."

The big Englishman clapped him heartily on the shoulder.

"Right! I say, you're a good egg, and we'll appreciate it, let me tell you! Besides, you speak Chinese far better than I; these local dialects are the devil and all! Plancy can't waggle 'em worth a farthing, and we can't trust these native interpreters."

"To tell the truth," confessed Erskine, his eyes twinkling, "I've heard about that Black Dragon mine and have meant to take a look at it for my own people, but I never got around to it. Think you can trust me?"

Calverly looked at him and grinned,
as he put forth a hand.

"Absolutely. It's a bargain. Shake!"

Erskine shook hands, looking a bit confused, and Calverly jovially called for a drink all around to celebrate.

"If you change your mind about the fee, don't hesitate to say so!" he exclaimed. "I'll drop in on you in the morning, as soon as we've perfected arrangements. I understand we can use horses, as the trails are good. Deuced good thing. I abominate these mountain mules! "

He departed, having an engagement to lunch with others, and Erskine gave the Doctor a whimsical glance.

"There I go," he murmured. "Three days among the hills, instead of enjoying life here! And if they buy the property and go bust, they'll blame me."

"Not a bit of it," said Aintree stoutly. "Good sportsmen, both of them. I've heard the Vicomte well spoken of; he's a polo enthusiast, and that means a good deal. I can't say I cotton to Calverly particularly, but don't ye borrow trouble. Be frank, and shame the devil!"

Erskine laughed, and reverted to hospital topics.

ON THE following morning Calverly and Plancy found him in his room. The Vicomte was a vivacious and engaging companion, always very courteous, but full of high spirits; he had a heavy Bourbon jaw, and his black eyes were always flitting about. He expressed his delight that Erskine had consented to give an opinion, in well-chosen terms that left Erskine looking more awkward than ever.

"That's quite all right," he rejoined. "What about arrangements?"

"All settled," boomed big Calverly. "There's no rest-house up there, but we'll put up at an abandoned hill-temple a mile or so from the location. I say,

Erskine—no bandits around here, I suppose ?"

Erskine shrugged. "Off and on, yes. They don't bother foreigners, though; no anti-foreign feeling in Yunnan. And the Government has things pretty well in hand here. We have about the safest province in China, I understand."

"Hello! " Calverly looked at the table where Erskine had been at work. "Experiments? You're not drinking spirits I hope? Not neat, at any rate."

Erskine glanced at the bottle of alcohol, and laughed.

"No," he said with a whimsical expression. "I always seem to get stuck, somehow. Last night it was bad dollars— at least, I think they're bad. I was about to try 'em out. Would it interest you? Here, look at them. The chops are Canton, but Canton's quite a way off."

He picked up two Mexican dollars and the other men drew up to examine the coins. Owing to the prevalence of bad money in China, silver dollars are  usually stamped with the chop of money-changers, the chop serving as guarantee. In Canton, this chop is applied with a steel die, the use of which, after a time, defaces the coin itself and changes its shape.

"What makes you think these are  bad?" asked the Vicomte with interest. "They look good enough."

"They don't ring true," said Erskine, pouring alcohol into a shallow dish. "Did you ever hear of three-piece dollars? I fancy we have a couple of them right here. Drop in yours, Calverly."

The Englishman dropped the dollar from his hand into the dish. Erskine struck a match and touched off the alcohol.

"It's almost incredible to what lengths of labor and time these Chinese will go, for the sake of a few cents' worth of silver," he said, his eyes sparkling with animation as he watched the bluish flame dancing up. "A striking commentary on the cheapness of labor, too. Wait till I get a glass of water—that stuff will be too hot to touch."

He obtained the water, and when the flame of the alcohol died out, poured in the water and cooled off the coin. He picked it up, and it fell apart.

"I say! " exclaimed Calverly with interest. "Three-piece dollars, eh! Good name for it, too—"

"Yes, I always get stuck," said Erskine plaintively, but with a chuckle none
the less. "Here you are. Look, Plancy! The face of the dollar has been removed, the silver scooped out and replaced with brass to give it the proper weight; then the coin was soldered together again. Apparently pure silver and correct weight. Melt it apart, and you have two faces of silver, and a neat little chunk of brass. Oddly enough, the chunk of brass is the only one of the three pieces that isn't false— there's a paradox for you! "

His visitors gone, Erskine returned, picked up the "three-piece dollar" and inspected the fragments with a slow smile, as though he saw more in them than two hollow faces of silver and a little chunk of brass.

THE THREE got off in the morning, taking along a guide, two servants, and a couple of spare horses loaded with chop-boxes of provisions. All three Chinese had been furnished by the hotel and were reliable, steady fellows.

Until noon they followed the main caravan highway toward Sinfan, then struck off by a narrower but fair enough road into the hills. Erskine, once afield, lost his shyness and became a different person, talking volubly, interested in everything around. Neither he nor the Vicomte carried rifles, but Calverly had borrowed a shotgun from the British consul, in the hope of knocking over a pheasant or two. An hour after they branched from the highway, he bagged a brace without leaving the road, and was the happiest of men in consequence.

Erskine found that the Vicomte was a true Frenchman, on the head of business; he had a shrewd grasp of detail, boasted of his influence with the colonial administration, and was an open admirer of the Gomorrah mine. His knowledge of it, indeed, somewhat surprised Erskine. True, the mine was owned by a Singapore syndicate, and it was an exceedingly wealthy property, but Plancy had a more intimate acquaintance with its earnings and reports than Erskine himself. Which, of course, merely went to prove his business acumen.

The afternoon was far advanced when they came up the winding valley trail leading to the Hei Lung, or Black Dragon, mine and village. Their guide halted at a fork in the trail, and informed them that the main road went on to the village and mine, the right fork going directly to the temple and spring a mile from it.

Since it was already late, and they must make habitable the abandoned temple, it was decided to go straight to the latter and get their camp in shape, and inspect the mining property in the morning. Twenty minutes later they sighted their destination.

The beauty of the site was astonishing. In the depth of a hillside nook whence gushed forth a bubbling, plunging stream of the clearest water, an ancient and half-ruined temple was overhung by the trees. The graceful arched approach and stone-paved terrace, with guardian lanterns of stone, were perfect. The building behind was largely ruined and the images of the gods had departed, but a portion of the central hall could be cleared in short order, and the roof-tiles were in place.

All hands fell to work, the horses being hobbled to graze behind the temple; the guide departed for the village, where he had friends, and the two servants put up the folding table in the terrace and laid out the evening meal. It was ready by the time the three had cleared enough of the central hall to hold their blankets; there were no reptiles or insects of any sort, and when finished, they enjoyed a quick bath in the crystal-clear waters of the spring, which was famed for its purity. They sat down to supper, in the sunset, feeling like new men.

Afterward, when the cold stars had appeared overhead and the chill mountain air made their blazing fire a cheery and delightful thing, they sat about the blaze and smoked, and became human as men will at such moments. When, later, he looked back at these hours and recalled the jovial fellowship of Calverly, and the urbane, half-cynical philosophy voiced by Plancy, and their rather intimate confidences, Erskine could not but feel a bewildered wonder at the intricacies of life, and the possibilities of human nature.

The three at last abandoned the dying fire to the two servants, and rolled up in their blankets. Erskine lay awake for a long while, a little resentful at coming here to this uncomfortable bed on the cold stones, when the village would at least have afforded them a house and more creature comforts; for Erskine did not enjoy roughing it in the least. Also, the hearty snores of Calverly disturbed him.

The temple was built in the ancient fashion, exactly as skyscrapers of today are built— of great ironwood beams in skeleton structure, filled in and masked by stone walls. The stones, on the interior, were dotted here and there by phosphorescent fungi; and Erskine eyed these as he lay in the darkness. Various Chinese legends recurred to his mind in regard to such lichens and their supernatural and baleful attributes. After a bit, without disturbing his companions, he rose and slipped outside. Lighting a cigarette, he gazed out across the dark starlit hills until his uneasiness had worn away and he was chilled; then, returning to his blankets gratefully, he rolled up, and was asleep in five minutes.

WHEN he wakened, a blinding ray of light was striking directly in his eyes. He came to one elbow, blinking. The ray of light came from an electric torch; outside, he caught a shrill chattering of frightened Chinese voices, silenced by a curt, harsh command. Then he realized that he was being kicked, and he sat up hurriedly.

"What the devil!" he exclaimed. "It isn't daylight yet—"

His voice died out. At one side he saw Calverly and the Vicomte standing, their hands in the air. The flashlight was held by a figure standing over him, who reached forward and patted his pockets, glanced at his belt, found no weapon and stepped back a pace.

"Get up!" came the order in Chinese. "Join these other two foreign devils.

Keep your hands in the air. Quick! "

"Better toe the line, old chap," came the voice of Calverly. "This fellow seems to mean business, and I fancy he's got our boys attended to, outside. Seems to have a nasty temper, the blighter! Feels as though he'd kicked a couple of my ribs loose."

Indeed, blood showed on the lips of Calverly; evidently he had offered resistance. Erskine, who had slept without removing anything but his boots, pulled them on and then struggled to his feet, still bewildered. Other men came into the room, bearing lanterns. Like their leader, they were Chinese, and wore ragged khaki uniforms. In a flash, Erskine realized they must be bandits, probably soldiers who had deserted and taken to the hills.

The leader, a squat, broad-faced man, gave a curt command.

"Tie their hands behind them."

The others, four in all, obeyed, one keeping his rifle trained on the whites, while his comrades bound their arms together. Erskine was wide awake by this time, and made urgent protest to the leader.

"You will be severely punished for this outrage—"

One of the men struck him across the mouth with a curt order for silence. The Vicomte shrugged, and Calverly grinned in resignation.

From outside came a wailing cry, then a shriek of agony, followed by harsh voices. The two servants were dragged into the room by other men, and the leader turned to them and began an interrogation. Bleeding, terrorized, the servants answered his questions without reserve, telling who Erskine was, and who the others were. The leader gave an order, and the two were dragged out.

Then he turned to the three whites, strode up to them, stared at them with hard and glittering eyes.

"I am Chang Chin," he said calmly, speaking slowly, that they might understand perfectly. "I heard that you were coming to look at the Black Dragon mine. You expect to buy it. However, I do not like foreign devils. Two of you came here to buy the mine; instead, you shall buy freedom. One of you already has a rich mine; it shall buy his freedom. If not, you shall die. Do you understand?"

"Well enough," answered Erskine, at a nod from the Englishman. "You are a bandit, I suppose? None of us are rich men—"

"I am not here to argue," cut in Chang Chin with level finality, "but to give you my orders. You,"—and he thrust his finger at Erskine,— "will remain here. One of the others will remain. The third will go to Yunnan City in half an hour.

He will reach there in the afternoon. On the next day at noon, he will come alone, with the money, to the point where the road for this place leaves the highway. He will bring twenty thousand dollars in bank-notes for the freedom of his companion, and another twenty thousand for the freedom of this man who mines tin. My men will be on the watch. If he does not come alone, if soldiers leave Yunnan City, the two who remain will be killed at once. We shall not stay here, in any case, so it would be very foolish to send soldiers; I would not be found, and the other two would be killed. And remember, I mean gold dollars, not Mexican dollars."

"You will be hunted down later," said Erskine. "You cannot escape. The whole province will be roused against you; the frontiers will be closed."

Chang Chin regarded him fixedly. "If you utter any more threats, foreign devil, I will send one of your ears to Yunnan City with your friend. You will have half an hour to decide which one of you departs. Arrange it yourselves."

Bidding two of his men to remain at the door on guard, and to watch the foreign devils closely, he strode out—a compact, businesslike, unhurried man who would obviously carry out his threats to the letter.

Calverly sat down, stretched his arms in their bonds, and laughed. "My word! This is a ruddy go, what? Erskine, did I understand that either I or Plancy takes the message to Garcia?"

Erskine grunted. "Yes."

Seated on the blankets, they stared one at another for a moment.

"But—but this is something formidable!" burst out the Vicomte, in a sudden passionate flood of speech. Words rushed from him; he cursed, reproached himself, poured out a torrent of invective of excited protest. "It is an impossible sum—twenty thousand dollars gold, for each of us!"

"No," said Calverly. "Remember, we have over fifteen thousand between us, Plancy."

"But it will strip us!" cried the Frenchman, aghast. Calverly merely shrugged.

"Fortunes of war, old chap. Erskine here— his mine will put up for him. The British and French consuls will make up what we lack. Which of us goes?"

They argued about it, while the gray dawn lightened into sunrise. The Vicomte resolved to plead with Chang Chin to lessen the ransom demanded, and he called to the guards. One of them came, grinning, and escorted him outside.

"No use, but let him try it," said Calverly. Erskine nodded.

"By all means. How's your side?"

"Eh ?" Calverly glanced at him. "Oh, my ribs? Quite all right, thanks. I suppose that rascal will steal the shotgun, eh?"

"Undoubtedly." Erskine blinked and reached out his bound hands for his spectacles. With some effort he got them adjusted. "He hasn't robbed us; that's a blessing."

Calverly laughed. "What do a few dollars matter, when he expects to get forty thousand? Will your company come through?"

"Very likely," said Erskine.

"Lucky beggar!"

Erskine did not respond. He admired the phlegmatic calm of the Englishman, and wondered whether even a pair of broken ribs would have altered it. He spoke up and addressed the remaining soldier, asking the latter to get out his cigarettes for him and light one. The man came over to them and complied, taking a cigarette himself and then pocketing the case with a laughing jest.

"Do you come from this province?" Erskine asked him.

"Yes," said the man. "We are from the governor's army, and this is better than a life of drill! Especially, as you will soon make us all rich."

Now, there are all kinds of dialects, particularly in Yunnan, and in the course of his life here Erskine had gone into the matter quite thoroughly. When Chang Chin had addressed them, he had spotted the bandit leader's dialect as tinctured with Annamese expressions and intonation. This soldier showed the same peculiarity, proof positive that neither of them were Yunnan men.

Erskine relapsed into thoughtful silence, unobservant of the glances Calverly bent upon him from time to time. Presently the Vicomte was brought back, cursing luridly. Chang Chin had refused any compromise, and their time was up. One must depart at once.

"You go, then," said Calverly calmly. "Your consul can wangle the governor into doing nothing. Don't let him start out a few regiments of troops to find us; no use in being found with a slit throat. Eh, Erskine?"

"Correct, of course," said Erskine. "No doubt about it, this bandit will keep his word. We'd better send in letters by you, Plancy. I'll send a code wire to my company in Singapore, and you can get a reply right off."

"Never thought of that!" exclaimed Calverly, with a loud laugh. "Excellent idea! But we can't write with our arms bound—"

Chang Chin entered with several of his men. Broad daylight had broken by this time. The bandit approved the suggestion at once, ordered the three unbound, and they secured writing materials from their still unplundered effects. Calverly dashed off a note, and Erskine carefully wrote out a telegram in code, to be forwarded to Singapore. The Vicomte took these, shook hands, and was escorted out.

At an order from Chang Chin, Erskine and Calverly were again bound, and a cloth was wrapped about their eyes. Then they were led outside, aided to get into the saddle, and presently went riding away, with the chattering, laughing voices of men around them. Not, as Erskine noted, the voices of Yunnan men.

NOON found the two captives unbound, confined in a grass-thatched forest hut with their few belongings, two rifle-armed guards stationed constantly at the door. Chang Chin and the eight men who composed his bandit following were encamped in the open, beside the hut. The jungle clearing was walled about by trees and giant vines. The horses grazed near by; Erskine estimated they had been a good hour getting here, and Calverly agreed.

"An hour at least, perhaps more. Well, what's the odds, old chap? If Plancy does the business, we'll be free tomorrow."

Erskine merely nodded, having become rather taciturn. It was odd, he reflected, that their chop-boxes and their personal effects had not been looted; their two servants had disappeared entirely. Chang Chin had forbidden them to talk with the guards. Erskine noted that the bandit leader was neglecting no precautions, having stationed sentries out on the trail leading to the clearing.

"It's a well-planned job, what?" said Calverly, mouthing his pipe. "The blighter knew we were coming here— said as much. He's in touch with somebody in Yunnan City, of course; all these outlaws have a spy system."

"I think you're right," said Erskine dryly.

Calverly gave him a sharp look.

"Eh? Yes, of course. Yunnan City will be in uproar tonight, what? Cable stories going out, no end. Consular officials buzzing around, and what-not. If Plancy gets us back safe, there'll be a reception committee and a banquet. Popular heroes, eh?"

"The prospect is distasteful," said Erskine. "I think I'll take a nap, if you don't mind."

He yawned, stretched out on his blankets, removed his spectacles, and was presently sound asleep. Calverly surveyed him sourly, dug a pack of cards from his belongings, and began a solitaire game.

THE HOURS dragged on. The afternoon was nearly over when Erskine wakened, sat up and donned his spectacles, and found Calverly dozing. The two guards at the entrance were alert and vigilant, he perceived.

Erskine lit a cigarette. Then, sitting humped over, his hand stole in under his left armpit and caressed the slender, flat automatic that was slung there. The touch of it gave him security and confidence. Calverly did not know he had it, and Chang Chin had not discovered it in his hurried search. That the weapon might well prove useful, Erskine knew very well, but he was not talking about

"Oh!" said Erskine. "You'll have to give up the concession, eh ?"

"Absolutely! Plancy had six or eight hundred pounds in the pool, all he had. Poor chap—he'd saved up for years. You know how these Frenchmen are."

"Yes. How long have you known him?"

"About a month before we came up here. I ran into him down in Annam, where we played a bit of polo, and then he chucked his job, and we went in for a shooting-trip." Calverly grinned over his pipe. "We chucked that when we heard about this Black Dragon mine that was going begging up here. Looked it up, then sold out my share in a rubber plantation, and here we are."

As darkness approached, Calverly and Erskine rummaged in the chop-boxes, produced biscuit and sardines, and made a fairly satisfactory meal. Now, as at noon, one of the guards shambled in with a gourd full of clear cold water, although there was no stream in sight. Erskine tasted it, smiled a little, and made no comment.

"You're taking this affair dashed coolly, old chap," observed Calverly, when their meal was finished, and tobacco-smoke rose gray upon the twilight.

"Why not ?" said Erskine with a shrug. "You are too. Will the loss hit you hard ?"

"Clean sweep," said the Englishman cheerfully. "Don't mind saying that most of our capital was mine."

Erskine glanced at the empty water gourd, and changed the subject.

"We're not so far from our temple," he said reflectively. "We were taken uphill for a time, then halted, then went downhill; I could tell by the pitch of the saddle. This water we've been drinking is from the Black Dragon spring. Same taste. We were brought back close to our deserted temple."

"Eh? Perhaps you're right!" exclaimed the Englishman. "Look here, what price trying to get away tonight?"

Erskine shook his head decidedly. "I'm no fighting man, Calverly," he said. "And it couldn't be done— these beggars keep an eye on us all the time. I've thought of it; we'd be fools to try it. My company will have the money paid over, and it's much better to lose the money than be cut up."

"Oh, quite so," admitted Calverly with a disappointed air. "I suppose you're right, dash it! What's that you have there?"

One of the guards had brought in a lamp as darkness drew down. Erskine had drawn out an envelope and dumped down three pieces of metal, and was playing with them reflectively.

"Three-piece dollar," he rejoined laconically, and went on fingering the two silver dollar-faces, and the thin, glittering nugget of brass, moving them about on his blankets as though playing some abstruse game with the varying combinations of the three objects. After a time he glanced up.

"You gave Plancy authority to get your joint money?"

"Yes, of course. It's all in the hotel safe, in drafts on Saigon. The Banque Industrielle in Yunnan will cash 'em."

"And my company will order the bank to hand over cash, too. All right, then— Plancy can get the cash without trouble. And he's wise enough to come alone, or with a guide."

Calverly nodded. "Don't worry. The authorities won't interfere. They know it's best to obey orders when dealing with these bandit chappies. They may indemnify us later on, eh?"

Erskine shrugged and went on playing with the fragments of his three-piece dollar, smiling a little to himself as he moved them about. A stir at the door; and he looked up to see Chang Chin striding in. The bandit regarded them and spoke curtly.

"Go to sleep now, foreign devils. A couple of hours past midnight, we leave here to reach the appointed place. I shall take you with me. If the money is paid over, you shall go free and join your friend. If any tricks are tried—"

He gestured significantly, a sweep of his palm across his throat, and strode out again. Calverly looked at Erskine and chuckled.

"Let's hope Plancy doesn't try any tricks, what?"

"He won't," said Erskine, and swept the three-piece dollar back into its envelope. "I think I'll write a short note before we turn in—where's that pencil? Thanks."

He scribbled briefly on a scrap of paper, thrust it into the envelope, and pocketed the latter, with a satisfied air.

THE Vicomte de Plancy, upon reaching Yunnan City, became the center of a whirlpool reaching out to all financial, diplomatic and news-gathering circles of the provincial capital. The palace of the governor leaped into commotion, and consular officials dashed madly about hither and yon. Through it all, the coolest heads were those of Plancy and of the grim old governor, who was quite aware that a false move would mean the death of the captives.

That the treasury of the state would be called upon to indemnify the foreigners, was immediately made clear; and the governor agreed without hesitation. He went into consultation with the Vicomte and the assembled consuls, and Plancy's very fair proposal was accepted. The banks there would put up the money, as the Gomorrah people in Singapore had agreed by wire to pay their end, and if Plancy returned safe with his two companions, the governor would at once indemnify the expended sums. If unfortunate fatalities resulted, there would be large claims for indemnities, which would have to be paid; otherwise, not. It was a very good bargain for the governor, who thus escaped vexatious foreign claims, and Vicomte de Plancy was the object of many congratulations for having thought of the agreement.

As old Doctor Aintree put it, no one suffered at all except the Yunnan treasury, and everyone benefited; which was as it should be. If the governor permitted bandits to exist in his borders, he ought to pay for the luxury.

No objection was raised in any quarter to obeying the instructions of the astute Chang Chin, and early next morning Vicomte de Plancy departed with a guide and the money. Since he would be back before nightfall, a celebration was arranged by the foreign colony, and showers of hearty best wishes followed him as he rode forth. The guide who went with him was in reality an agent of the governor's, and a very high official, though he did not look it.

An hour before noon, the two of them reached the branch road leaving the highway for the Black Dragon village and mine.

As they turned into the road, a curt voice from the trees bade them halt, and Chang Chin himself rode out, pistol in hand, to meet them.

"Have you brought the money, foreign devil ?" he demanded.

"I have it," said the Vicomte promptly. "The whole sum, in cash."

"Good. Come with me and get your friends, who are close by. Your guide can wait here until you return. It will not be long. And pay me the money as we go."

The Vicomte handed over the little sealed package, containing notes of large denominations. Chang Chin broke it open, then turned his horse around, beckoned to the Vicomte, and moved on up the road, inspecting the money the while.

Calverly and Erskine, who had been halted with most of the bandits around them, saw their companion return with Chang Chin. The Vicomte waved his hand to them, but the bandit ordered his men to horse, then turned to the three.

"Go," he said. "I should kill all three of you foreign devils, but I will keep my word. You are free."

He put in spurs and went away at a gallop, his men streaming after him as fast as they could mount and ride.

The three shook hands warmly. Vicomte de Plancy was eager, vivacious, bubbling over with delight. He told of the guide awaiting them, told of the man's real position.

"Undoubtedly he's reporting to the governor," he exclaimed. "You see, my friend? It is good news! We do not lose our money. The governor must repay us—we shall lose nothing at all!"

Calverly, wildly delighted, smote Erskine lustily on the back, and swung up into the saddle, for two horses had been left them. The three set out for the highway, Vicomte de Plancy telling excitedly of what had transpired at Yunnan City.

"So you paid over the money, eh?" said Erskine.

"And you should have seen him counting it!" Plancy broke into a laugh.

"He had never seen billets of such a size, eh? Well, my friends, I am overjoyed! It has been a strain, let me tell you. Most people thought the bandit would take the money and then kill us all. Pouf! I knew the rascal would keep his word."

"Yes?" said Erskine dryly. "I believe you did."

"Eh?" The Vicomte darted him a glance, thumbed the spikes of his waxed mustache, and frowned slightly. "Eh? Your meaning, my friend?"

They had come within sight of the guide, who walked his horse toward them.

Erskine drew rein, and slipped his hand under his coat.

"Plancy!" His voice had a sudden edge of steel. "Hands up— quick!"

The little automatic leaped out, flat and ugly in the sunlight. The Vicomte's jaw fell, and slowly he put up his arms.

"Is this a joke, my friend?" he asked.

"No," said Erskine. "Calverly! Wake up, man, wake up! Search him— look  through his coat pockets! Go through that saddle-bag of his! "

"Stop! " cried out the Vicomte, his face contorted by anger. "This is an outrage, this is beyond belief—"

"Shut up!" snapped Erskine. "You fool, I saw through the whole thing! Go on and search him, Calverly. You'll understand quick enough."

Calverly hesitated, then dipped into the Vicomte's coat pocket and produced a slender packet of bank-notes.

Five minutes later, packet after packet had been produced, from pockets of the Vicomte and from his saddle-bag. Pale, furious, helpless, he stood in silence while Calverly and the impassive yellow guide ran over the amounts.

"You'd better slip off and join your Annamese friends," said Erskine, "before our English comrade begins to thrash you— he appears to be considering it. Quick! Any of your own money that's left after paying expenses will be handed over to your consulate— you can claim it at will. And here's a little present for you, a departing gift, as it were—"

He thrust an envelope into the Vicomte's hand, just as Calverly turned   from the heap of bank-note packets, with  a roar of gathering rage.

The Vicomte de Plancy took one look  at the Englishman's face, then made a  tremendous leap, gained his saddle again,  and thrust in his spurs. He was gone  like the wind, with the bellowing curses  of Calverly pursuing him. At a safe distance he slowed down sufficiently to tear  open the envelope Erskine had given him.

Into his hand fell the fragments of  the three-piece dollar, and a sheet of  paper bearing the brief scrawl:

"There is another moral, my friend. The  two faces may be hollowed out, but after  all they remain silver. The brass is nothing but brass. I trust you did not pay  Chang Chin too much for his work?"

With a chattering scream of inarticulate rage, the Vicomte flung the note and  the metal into the road, and drove in his spurs like a madman.

____________

2: The Pearl of Price

Blue Book  March 1933

DURING five days the Nautilus had been whirled like a chip before the blast of the typhoon. Carson had obtained no sight of sun or stars since the blow first hit. Driven far off the course from Manila to Honolulu, blown somewhere into the northwest, he had not the slightest idea where he was. Somewhere, he guessed, near the almost unknown Hermes reefs.

Not that the Nautilus minded the weather a bit. She was a trig little schooner, almost a miniature, spotless and beautiful in each detail. A yacht, said most men, and they were not far amiss. Carson, a quiet, deep-eyed alert man, had found pearls after many a weary year, and had found the schooner as well. Then luck had come still faster, since he had no need of it.

There were not many in the crew. Looey, the wrinkled, sharp-eyed Chinese cook. Klang, the mate, a Malay of princely blood, as his fine, regular features testified, who had taken this name of "wanderer" to avoid using his own. Three other Malays, and his faithful man Sumbing, "the Scarred One." Not many, but every man worth while.

When Carson fell heir to the Nautilus, he inherited her secrets also. She had ever been careless about the law. Carson was careless about it himself, though he did not run counter to it. There were things aboard, however, best kept out of sight, and he had left them alone.

On the sixth morning the clouds broke, and a ray of sunlight sifted down from the east, almost level. The ray picked up a chip tossing off to starboard; a boat, whirling on the face of the rising waters. The huge seas were slow, tremendous, impossible to imagine unless one has experienced such things, with an elemental force almost beyond conception. With so short a crew, it were madness to launch a boat. Klang, who had the helm, sent for Carson and bore down on the drifting craft. She was half swamped. Two bodies drifted face down in her, and a figure was in the stern, erect.

Somehow, Klang managed it. When Carson came on deck, the line had been flung and caught. The single figure was just coming aboard, the schooner falling away again before the wind. The boat was drifting away down the seas. A glance told everything; Carson turned to the figure now lying face down on the deck, senseless.

Klang joined him. Together they lifted the limp figure down the companion into the cabin. Then Carson sent the Malay to order coffee. He threw aside the lashed-down oilskin hat, exposing a coil of braided golden hair. A woman! He stared incredulously for an instant; then he poured brandy between the pale lips, and drew blankets about the roughly clad, splendid figure. After a moment the eyes opened—blue, vivid eyes.

"You're all right," said Carson awkwardly. "Here are clothes. Dress when you feel like it. Hurt?"

"No," said a deep, calm voice. "Just cold."

"Warm up, then.... Ah, here we are." The yellow steward brought coffee in a pannikin. Carson helped the woman swallow it, then rose and went on deck, leaving her to sleep, as he thought.

"Good Lord! Now we're in for it," he muttered with distaste. "A woman! That's the devil's own luck. No place aboard here for a woman. And what a beauty!"

He was still thinking of her when suddenly she appeared before him, wearing the clothes he had laid out, holding the deck with feet as steady as his own, swaying a little to the rush and thrust of the long rollers.

"Why—thought you'd sleep for a bit!" he exclaimed.

She smiled. "I'm all right, Cap'n. Thank you for saving me."

She glanced about the schooner's decks, and her fine eyes lighted up. She could appreciate a craft like this. Carson said nothing. Yes, she was a beauty.

Slim and slender, with a calm, poised look in her face, a quiet strength in every line of it. Wide-browed, wide of mouth and chin, thin of nostril; her shoulders wide, too, strength in her arms and the fine slim lines of her figure. Then she turned to him, her blue eyes alight and vibrant

"What a splendid schooner this is! Cap'n—"

"Carson, ma'am."

She put out her hand. "Thank you again. I'm Helga Skyborg. My father was Cap'n Nels Skyborg of—"

"Of the Arafura Lass?" exclaimed Carson. Swift interest came into his face; his steely eyes quickened. "Why, I knew him well, years ago! We were pearling together all one season off the nor'-west coast! Where is he now? What's happened?"

"He's dead," she replied calmly. He saw a sudden sharp hurt in her deep blue eyes, but they did not falter, held his steely gaze calmly. "Two days ago. You were his friend? Carson.... He has spoken of you. I have heard of you more than once, Cap'n."

"We quarreled," said Carson. "I had a bad temper in those days. We weren't friends after."

"But he spoke well of you," she returned, to his surprise. "He said you were a just man. The quarrel was his fault."

They were silent for a little. Carson was astonished anew, that she should have spoken so of her father, so lately dead. He was amazed at such a meeting, at the woman herself.

"How old are you ?" he asked.

"Twenty-four." She looked at him gravely. "You will help me now?"

"Of course." Carson did not get her meaning. He thought she meant to aid her as a castaway, to see her safe ashore, cared for. "I'm bound for the islands, but this blow has knocked us galley-west, quite literally. You bet, Helga. I'll see that you're taken care of."

"That's good," she answered quietly. "We're not so far from the reefs now. I got away with two men, but they were both shot, dead. I was hit over the head—"

"Eh?" Carson came alive suddenly. "What are you talking about? What's happened ?"

"Murder," she said. "They murdered him, and tried to carry me off! "

"Oh!" said Carson, and swallowed hard. "Who? Mutiny?"

"No. Two men. They got my father to bring them to the reefs. They knew where pearls were, and we were going to fish on shares—"

"Where was all this?"

"The Hermes reefs."

"But no pearls are there," said Carson, frowning. "No beds. Those are American waters—"

"They've been found there, last year," she broke in. "Japanese pearlers began to strip the beds. These two men were kicked out by them, their schooner burned. That part was all true enough.  They engaged my father on shares. We  got there and found the beds and set to  work. They had bribed some of our  men."

"Come down to the cabin," said Carson abruptly. "Time for breakfast. Looks as though it were clearing off."

Her story gave him a jolt, sure enough, wakened him, rid him of self-consciousness. He forgot he was dealing with a woman. She caught the changed voice, the changed manner, and gave him a swift, curious glance.

Pearls in the Hermes reefs? That was a surprise, sure enough, but Carson had been out of touch with the pearling business for a year or more, since taking over the Nautilus and making the strike that had enriched him.

Fifteen hundred miles northwest of Honolulu—he knew the reefs, had even been there once, years ago. Few men knew of those inhospitable, dreaded coral shoals, unsurveyed since a United States ship had charted them and placed them under the Stars and Stripes nearly a hundred years before. They were off the beaten track, desolate, waterless, unvisited and unknown.

Looey had breakfast ready and waiting. Carson, eying the woman, saw that she had been through a good deal,  but it meant little to her sturdy Norse blood. What would have shattered another woman left her calm-eyed, unmoved, well-poised as ever. He began to admire her secretly. With her, he was more at his ease now. One could forget —sometimes—that she was not a man. Carson, at least, was the sort who could forget.

"Let's have it, now," he said casually,  as they ate, while the Nautilus swung up the seas and went skidding down the long descents. "Who are these two chaps ?"

"Maguire and Benders are the names."

"Hm!" The steely eyes narrowed. "I've heard of Maguire. Old-fashioned bullying type. Good pearler, and little good said of him. Who's this Benders?"

"More dangerous," she replied. "It was he who shot my father. He's a small man, smooth-faced, looks like a boy. He wanted me."

That gave Carson a mental picture of Benders, sure enough, and put a bad taste in his mouth to boot. He asked for no details, then or later. They were unimportant, as against the facts.

He shifted the subject, spoke of the Nautilus, and she nodded quickly.

Easy to see how Carson loved this little trim schooner of his, how she was his whole life, his world.

"Nothing like her afloat," he said, a glow of pride in his eyes. "You're safe
enough now, so cheer up. Nothing with sails can catch us. Later on, I'll show  you some pearls, maybe. Real pearls. This is no pearling lugger, but she's made the grade all the same. I know every plank in her, every bit of teak and brass, every line and spar, like I'd built 'em."

"She's a lovely craft," said Helga, and looked him in the face. "And you're the right man to own her, Cap'n. But about those two men, now, Maguire and Benders—"

"Who's with 'em?" he asked. "How many ?"

She made a gesture. "All of them. You see, Maguire furnished the crew. His own men."

"How did your father take you on such a cruise, with a crowd like that?"

"Why not?" she asked, giving him a level look. "I have a master's license."

"You!"

A smile touched her eyes and lips, a fleeting smile at his astonishment. And Carson found her abruptly transformed. He had not seen her smile previously; it changed her whole expression, reminded him suddenly and powerfully that she was a woman, a very lovely woman.

"Are you one of the old-time seamen who snort at the idea of a woman master?" she asked gaily. "But there's got to be a Skyborg with a master's ticket, you know. That's what Father always said,"—and her face changed at mention of him. "I've sailed with him often, the past few years, and got my master's ticket only three months ago."

"Why aren't you married ?" asked Carson.

"Why aren't you?" she shot back. "Or are you?"

He shook his head and got out his pipe. "Never clicked, somehow."

"Same with me. I'm not worried about it. A lot of women just want to marry a man; seems cheap to me, somehow. I want to marry more than that. It's hard to explain—"

"I get you," and Carson nodded quickly. Then he subsided. He was amazed at himself for discussing such things. "Pearls in the Hermes reefs? Are you sure about it?"

"A ten-per-cent yield," she said. "We've been there two weeks."

Carson whistled. The usual percentage was one pearl to every thousand shell.

"Virgin bed, eh?" he exclaimed. "Deep?"

"No. Beyond fifty feet there's coral mud. Oysters can't live there."

Carson got out his charts and presently discovered one showing the Hermes reef, or what was known of it. The atoll was nearly twenty miles long by twelve wide and was formed by a series of reefs, most of them covered at high water, two or three being dignified by the name of islands. All were of living coral.

"The beds are all inside the lagoon," said Helga, pointing. "There's about fifteen fathom, in the deepest part, and most of the reefs are steep-to. The oysters are among the coral. The reefs outside the atoll are dangerous, with bad currents. We had to anchor fourteen miles off—and here, at Southeast Island, we had a camp. No big shell. The largest was about seven pounds."

"How many men are there now?" asked Carson again. "Kanakas?"

"No, whites. Two Filipino divers, Maguire and Benders; six hands forward, including the cook."

"What d'you expect me to do?" demanded Carson. "Walk in and tell them to hand over the lugger and the babies?"

"Why not ?" Her direct gaze was fearless, simple as that of a child. "They've committed piracy, mutiny, murder! They don't dream any other ship is in these seas. And some of those babies are around fifty grains. It's worth while, isn't it?"

Carson shrugged, and pointed to the wall safe.

"If you're interested in pearls, there's a box full of 'em. I'm not."

She surveyed him with a puzzled expression.

"I don't understand. You wouldn't help me get those pearls?"

"No," said Carson. "I tell you, I've seen too much blood spilled over those babies. I don't like it. I don't like fighting. And let me tell you, those chaps won't knuckle down like lambs! Not a bit of it."

She said nothing for a long moment, but studied him as he sat smoking moodily.

"It means a good deal to me," she said, at last, gently.

Carson looked up.

"What does? The pearls?"

"Of course not. The lugger."

"Oh!" said Carson. His face changed subtly. He could understand this, entirely. This schooner of his had come to mean more than pearls or anything else to him. "Yes, I suppose the lugger's yours now. Yes. That's true. Is she much of a craft?"

Her deep eyes brightened. "Nothing like this one, of course. It's not what she is, but what she stands for. She's ours—I mean, mine. That is, if we can get her back."

"Sure," said Carson, with a nod. "A poor thing, sir, but mine own—as somebody said. Yes, we'll have to do it."

"You will?" Her hand went out, caught his wrist in a quick, impulsive grip. "Promise?"

"No." Carson met her gaze, and his whimsical smile softened the hard-cut lines of his face. "No, Helga— I never promise."

"But— but I thought you said—"

"I said we'd get her back for you. That's enough." He patted her hand, then drew back. "And we'll do it, somehow. Sure!"

WITH the sail pulling her forward in the light, steady wind, the whaleboat threaded her way among the reefs. Klang was in the bow, watching for coral, his four men ready to take to the oars if necessary. Carson was at the tiller, alert, vigilant. Steering a whaleboat before the wind, even if she be a light, smaller than ordinary craft, requires care.

Oddly enough, he had caught no sight of the Arafura Lass. He had carefully come up on the reefs in order to surprise her at her old anchorage, but she was gone. Whether she had changed positions deliberately, or had run off to sea before the recent blow, he could not tell. It was not likely that Helga Skyborg had been mistaken about her position, however.

In order to determine matters, Carson was forced to take to the whaleboat and visit the lagoon island. He disliked to do it. He hated to leave the Nautilus, even for an hour. Much worse, he hated to leave her with no one except the woman and Looey to guard her. He must have the men with him, for if becalmed in that lagoon without oars, the whaleboat would be helpless.

The whole thing was distasteful to him, abhorrent. He was more than anxious to wash his hands of it entirely. He cursed the hour that had brought the woman aboard him, and then ashamedly took back his curses and damned destiny instead. Having given her his word to get back her lugger, he was bound to it. By good luck, however, he found a steady breeze and the whaleboat swept on toward Southeast Island, which commanded the entire lagoon. He would be back aboard the schooner long before night, he figured, and his uneasiness wore away.

"Damned bad luck we couldn't come on the lugger and grab her!" he muttered, not for the first time. "If they've moved her position, she may be anywhere within a forty-mile radius, and as they're at the center of the circle and the Nautilus is at the circumference— blast it all! I don't like it a bit."

The sun struck down steady, warm, glittering. There was scarcely a wave breaking the surface of the shallow lagoon, protected as it was by miles of outflung reefs. The islets that rimmed its long oval rose only a few feet above the water. The Nautilus was long since out of sight, and Carson was not worried by his inability to sight the Arafura Lass. He knew that from a small boat, in a calm sea, the horizon is limited to three miles.

Southeast Island, for which he was making, lifted ahead, a mass of coral and guttering sand. Carson lifted his glasses and again inspected the islet. It appeared deserted. But Klang turned his head and grinned.

"They are there, tuan! " he called aft. He had, without glasses, detected something which Carson had missed, some indication that the islet was not deserted.

The whaleboat swung out a little, headed around a promontory of the islet, luffed, sped straight for the curve of beach now visible. Two boats were drawn up high on the white sand. A pile of stores at one side, two small, low tents, no sign of any man, greeted them. Now, with the wind no longer abaft, the nauseating reek of rotting shell smote them full force. There was the shell itself laid out on the sand to rot and open —a mass of it, over to the left. The islet, jagged with white coral upcrops above the sand, seemed deserted.

Then, without warning, a man arose from the jagged coral, coolly strode down to the pile of stores and stood there, waiting for them to land. The sun glinted on the rifle in his hands. He was a tall, brawny figure, clad in tattered shirt and trousers, a mop of red hair flaming above a square, aggressive countenance. His appearance, thus, was a silent menace that Carson did not miss. Other men were hidden along the coral, no doubt, rifles ready. Carson stood up and waved his hand. Then he spoke softly, in Malay.

"Keep your guns down, out of sight! Push off as soon as I land. Klang! The lugger will be either at the northwest channel or off the western reefs. If I take off my hat, go at once. Try the western reefs If you see her, take her. Shoot anyone you find aboard. Leave two men to work her around, then come back to pick me up. Understand?"

"I understand, tuan," said Klang, in the bow.

FINDING the islet occupied had changed things in a flash. Until now, Carson's plans had been indeterminate, unsettled, formless. Now that he had found them here, it was certain that the lugger was not far away, probably unguarded. He dared not sheer off and go in search of her, lest those two boats on the shore come after him, get ahead of him—for she had to be found first. Better to chance things, throw these rascals off guard if possible. They would never dream that he had picked up Helga or knew the truth about them.

The oars were put out; the sail flapped idly, the sheet let fly. The red-haired man beside the pile of stores made no move, but stood grimly watching. The little whaleboat slid in, her nose touching the sand, and Carson went forward. Klang came aft to the tiller, passing him. The boat careened; then Carson stepped off and stooped, shoving her out. This would be construed as a mark of confidence by the watching man, and evidently was so construed. Carson waved his hand to the Malays and spoke in English, loudly.

"Go on back to the schooner. Take your time looking for likely ground. No hurry."

The sheet was drawn home. The boat leaned over, slipped away through the water as the sail caught. Carson turned to the man facing him, and gambled heavily.

"Didn't know you were around here," he observed. "Thought the place was deserted. Came in by the nor'-west channel and have been poking about."

There were three places the Arafura Lass might be found. One to the south-west, one to the west, one to the north-west. She was not in the first sheltered anchorage, and now—

The other grinned. "That channel is no good this monsoon," he said. "Should 'a' left your craft off the west reefs. Maguire is my name."

Carson removed the sun-helmet he had donned for this trip among the hot reefs, and ran his fingers through his hair, not offering to shake hands. Klang would get that signal.

"Maguire, eh ?" he said. "Glad to meet you, Cap'n. My name's Carson."

The other started slightly. His pale gray eyes narrowed, and his weather-seamed, aggressive features hardened.

"Carson!" he said slowly. "Well, I'll be hanged! I've heard of you, sure. Glad to meet you, Cap'n. I s'pose you smelled this shell clear down to Brisbane, huh? Always heard you had a nose for shell, and I guess it's true. Thought only the Japs knew about this place."

"That's how I learned," said Carson amiably. He got out pipe and pouch, and glanced around. "To judge from the shell, rumor spoke truth," he added. "I never supposed there was any shell about here."

"Nobody else did neither," returned Maguire, "until some Jap dropped in and tried, and got the truth. I s'pose it's all over the seven seas, now," he added glumly. "And we'll have a fleet o' luggers bearing down in no time. There was a Jap lugger here when we come, but she was in among the reefs. That blow we had the last three days got her. Drove her over there to the east and finished her among the reefs. Not a man got clear."

"Hm!" said Carson, and met the other's gaze. "Sure it was the blow?"

"Yes, said Maguire, and laid down his rifle. "Oh, I know what's in your mind, blast you! But it ain't so. No use fighting over this. There's enough for them that comes first, and then the game's up. We're here ahead of the season, and it's been damned unsafe, let me tell you; no place for a lugger to lay up in the bad monsoon. Well, you aint figuring on running anybody out of here, I hope?"

Carson shook his head and laughed. "Do I look like it, Cap'n?" he said mildly, with an amused air.

"Well, I've heard of you," retorted Maguire. "You're nobody's fool."

"Neither are you, by all accounts," and Carson chuckled. "My boys are taking a look at the ground, cruising about the lagoon. I won't touch any beds you're working. If we can come to a friendly understanding, why not?"

"Fair enough," said Maguire, and turned. "Benders! Come along, you chaps." He gave Carson a look. "See anything of any other craft?"

"Not a sign of any lugger the whole way. From Manila."

Maguire nodded. It was clear that he had fears of Japanese intrusion.

SIX hands forward, Helga had said, and two divers. Here were the divers, then— two small, slender brown men, first to come down from among the coral outcrop. Four other men with them. Unshaven, furtive-eyed rascals, these, typical scum of the waterfront. Last came Benders, whom Maguire deigned to introduce as his partner. He was a small man, little over five feet in height, but Carson knew instantly he was twice as dangerous as the burly Maguire. His pock-marked features, his brilliant black eyes, his lithe and agile step, all expressed the pugnacity which certain men of small size affect, as though only too ready to prove themselves better men than their larger companions. And the degenerate, boyish look of those features!

Benders showed more than this in his manner, however; it held a virulence, a reptilian venom, whose force astonished Carson. The man nodded to him and stroked a frayed black mustache.

"Heard of you, Cap'n. Tryin' to run us off, are you ?"

"Now, Ben, lay off o' that!" said Maguire warningly. "Cap'n Carson ain't that sort. We're all friendly. You, Steve, get to work and fix up grub. Gettin' on to noon, and the Cap'n joins us. Ben, you change your tone—"

"You mind your own business and I'll 'tend to mine," snapped Benders viciously. "No offense meant, Carson. We got a good thing and I don't aim to see nobody do us out of it, that's all."

"Don't blame you a bit," said Carson amiably. "You have a lugger of your own ?"

"Aye," said Maguire, seating himself in the sand. Carson's whaleboat had disappeared, and apparently no one had paid it further attention.... Two men aboard the Arafura Lass, he reflected. Klang should be able to take care of them.

"Aye, an old craft we found at Manila," went on Maguire, watching his men, who had drifted down near the boats, with the exception of the cook, and were shaking dice. "The Jenny," and not much of a craft either, but good enough for this job."

"I suppose you've got your beds buoyed?" said Carson. "If so, we'll know where not to go. Don't want any trouble if we can avoid it."

"Sure, sure," agreed Maguire heartily. Benders lit a cigarette and gave Carson a look.

"Don't care about whether we found any babies, huh?" he inquired. "Ain't interested in it a bit, huh?"

Carson's eyes dwelt upon him for a slow moment—a steady scrutiny that brought the angry blood into the man's face.

"Not a bit," he responded lazily. "I'm not interested in your property. If you want to pick a quarrel, you'll have a hard job."

"That's just his way, Cap'n," said Maguire. "He don't mean—"

"You blasted fool, will you speak for yourself?" snarled Benders, whirling on him for one blazing instant. Maguire's shaggy red brows drew down. His pale and unlovely eyes filled with a gust of hot passion; then he laughed and mastered himself. But his fingers clenched and clenched again as he sat.

"I'll tell ye flat out what I mean," said Benders, turning to Carson again. "We've struck a good thing, and now you come barging in. There's enough for two or for six; there's more'n we can touch, before the whole Jap fleet will be along to strip the reefs. But who's to know that you're on the level, huh? You aint no saint, Carson. I've heard things of you, sure. You don't pull the wool over my eyes, then cut my throat some dark night! Not much. You might's well know from the start that we're on the lookout, and you can be the same."

Carson laughed a little.  "That's fair enough, Benders," he returned. "I'll be the same, you bet! So you're serving notice on me, are you? Warning me that you'll be along some night to jump me, eh?"

Maguire exploded in an oath of exasperation.

"No!" he bellowed. "Damn it, Carson, don't listen to that little fool! Why'd we want to jump you ? Nothing of the kind! We got enough right now without wanting more. Ben, you're a cursed spitfire—"

Benders leaned forward like a flash and struck him across the mouth.

Maguire did not strike back. He reached out one foot, hooked Benders about the ankle, and threw him off balance. Then his bulk heaved forward. It reminded Carson of an octopus catching an open tridacna with one tentacle and then hitching himself forward on the giant clam bodily. The men came and stood around, grinning.

Maguire's tactics puzzled Carson. He had caught Benders by both wrists, held the man's arms out, and despite struggles and squirming, planted his knees on the smaller man's body. A torrent of foul curses poured from both men.

"Listen, you rat!" roared Maguire. "I've taken a lot off you, and I'm done! If you were any other man, I'd rip your damned black heart out, understand? None of your cussed tricks with me either! You pull a knife and I'll blow the top of your head off. Get me?"

"All right, Cap'n," said Benders, with surprising meekness. He ceased to struggle. "But we're splitting up here and now. Divvy up the babies that's my share. I'm quitting."

"Quit and be damned," retorted Maguire, rising. "Suits me right enough. I can sleep nights if you aint around. You can take your share and walk away. Where'll you go?"

"With Carson," said Benders, getting to his feet and shaking off the sand. "Carson, you give me passage with you. Don't care where. I'll pay you, pay you well!"

"Sure," said Carson. "But suppose we let the whole thing drop right now. I see Steve has some grub ready, and I'm hungry. Fresh fish, eh? That's good. Have to get some myself next low tide. Suppose we eat, and let everything else slide."

THERE was no driftwood to be found; Steve did his cooking over a spirit lamp, and made a good job of it. Carson enjoyed his meal. He had quite recovered his usual good spirits by this time.

To his astonishment, he found that Benders was apparently firm in his purpose to break off with Maguire, nor did the latter oppose the break. Between the two men existed a deep-sealed enmity, although the seamen were ail with Maguire. The man Benders, to tell the truth, was utterly alien to all these others. Carson put him down for some crafty waterfront shark, who had perhaps rigged the whole game as regarded Skyborg and the Arafura Lass.

"Mind you," said Benders, "I'm takin' passage with you, Carson, but we're not partners, see? I'm satisfied with what I got already. Maguire, you can have the rest of the takins here, and we quit complete. No more fishin' for me."

Carson chuckled. "How do you know I won't cut your throat some dark night, Benders?"

The little man gave him a vicious glance, as Maguire guffawed at this.

"I can take care o' myself, Cap'n. And you're better to trust than this hunk of cheese here. How much do you want for passage? Where you bound?"

"Honolulu. Won't charge you anything," said Carson, and gave Maguire a wink. "Cap'n Maguire will pay me to get you off his hands—eh, Cap'n ?"

"You're damned right," said Maguire.

Benders loosed a torrent of oaths at him.

"Watch your step, Maguire," he concluded. "Or else. I'll do some talking."

"You try it, Ben, you try it," said Maguire calmly, but with a certain ferocity in his look that startled Carson.

"Two can talk. And these men o' mine know a few things."

Benders glared around the circle of faces,. Carson intervened smoothly.

"All hands pipe down. If you're going to break up, do it friendly, with no threats. Benders, you can tell me what you've learned about the pearl beds here, and where Maguire's fishing, and that'll more than pay your passage. Suit you, Cap'n?"

"Oh, sure," responded Maguire. "Long as you aint aiming to conflict with me, anything's agreeable. We'll split up the babies here and now. A third to you, Ben, a third to me, a third to the men. That's what we agreed."

He produced a chamois bag, and all hands fell to dividing the take of pearls, with much oath-starred wrangling.

From what he saw of those pearls, without making any close examination, Carson was again surprised. Some were large. All were apparently of exceptional luster. That virgin, untouched beds had been found here, was evident. He perceived that both Maguire and Benders knew pearls, also, and as the partition went on, it was clear that a fortune had been snatched from the hand of the luckless Cap'n Skyborg.

TIME passed; although he watched sharply, Carson saw nothing of his returning boat. The four men ran out one of their two boats and departed with the Filipino divers, heading across the atoll to one of the reefs just awash as the tide ran out. The division of pearls came to a snarling conclusion. Benders tucked his share into the pockets of a belt which he donned under his shirt.

"That your craft?" asked Maguire, pointing to a fleck of sail just visible off to the westward. Carson, who had just picked it up, nodded.

"Probably."

"Well, I'll open some shell," said Maguire, and grinned at Benders. "You aint in on this take, neither! You can set there and see what you missed."

Benders curled his lip in a snarl.

Maguire went over to the rotting shell, filled a bucket with water, got out his big clasp-knife, and fell to work opening shell. Carson watched the boat, tacking down toward the islet, and presently made out that she held but two men. This showed that Klang had found the Arafura Lass, had taken the lugger and sent her around to join the Nautilus.

He could see clearly enough why Maguire was glad to be rid of Benders. The vicious little murderer of Cap'n Skyborg was no household pet. He was out for trouble all the time, he was irresponsible, one could not predict what he would say or do. Probably Maguire himself feared a knife in the throat some dark night.

SUDDENLY Carson was aware of Benders mouthing low words to him. "Cap'n! That your boat coming?"

"Aye," said Carson.

"We're here alone with him," said Benders, jerking his head toward the broad back of Cap'n Maguire. "What say? He's got the babies in his shirt. You and me—split 'em. Huh?"

Carson felt a little sick as he met the venomous eyes, read their glittering message. Barely in time, he checked his impulsive words, remembered that both these rascals had been concerned in murder and worse. Thought of Helga Skyborg killed any chance sympathy for Maguire.

"Not me," he said calmly. "I won't interfere, if that's what you mean. It's not my show. If you carry it off, I won't claim any of the babies."

"You won't help him, huh?" muttered Benders.

Carson shrugged. "Nor you. That's fair enough."

Benders left him, strode across the sand toward the outspread shell. Maguire glanced around and held up one hand.

"Twenty-grain baby, Ben! See what you lost now, damn you!"

"Don't matter," said Benders. He took out a cigarette and lighted it, then snarled down at the seated Maguire: "Soon's that boat gets in, I'm gone. Looks like a lot o' men in her, too. More than we seen before."

Startled, Maguire turned to glance at the approaching whaleboat.

Like a flash, Benders fell upon him. His agility was incredible. The knife in his hand drove up and down, again and again, every stroke deep into the broad back of Maguire. Carson could not have interfered if he would.

A FRIGHTFUL cry burst from Maguire. He flung out his arms. The pearl flew from his hand and glinted in the air, falling to the sand. Benders hurled himself at it. Maguire came to his feet. Streaming with blood, he caught up the water-bucket and hurled it. Struck full across the head, Benders pitched forward. Maguire took a step, then crumpled; he was dead as he struck the sand.

It had all happened swiftly, in the fraction of an instant.

Carson rose, looked out at his whaleboat. She was standing in for the beach, Klang and Sumbing alone in her. Maguire's boat was off across the lagoon, a couple of miles distant, still fishing.

Going to Benders, he stooped over the man, who was unconscious, and removed the money-belt with its pearls. Then he turned to the dead Maguire, and from the body took the chamois bag. Here in his hand was everything for which men had sinned and died, everything for which these ruffians had brought crime and terror into a woman's life. An ironic grimace twisted Carson's features.

"So much death, so much suffering, for so little! " he murmured. "Well, you go with the lugger, to her. After all, what better destination? You belong to her, you can insure her future, you can repay her for what you've done to her, damned glittering baubles!"

Carson, having devoted most of his life to pearls, had come to hate them.

The boat was in now, her nose scraping the sand, Klang leaping ashore. Carson turned again to Benders, reflectively, making a decision which was to mean much to him. He had intended taking Benders along, had intended it from the start, to let him face Helga and later a court for the murder of her father.

But now he changed his mind. Who was he, to drag the little reptile to the bar of justice? Far better to leave him here, marooned with his latest victim, their lugger gone, only a small boat for him and his scoundrelly companions. The Japanese pearlers would be along soon enough. They would not starve. And loss of the pearls would be more bitter punishment to Benders than any the law could bring upon him.

So, with a nod of decision, Carson turned to face the eager Klang.

"You found the other schooner?"

"Yes, tuan," said Klang, his aquiline features, so different from the usual dish-faced Malay countenance, all alive with active thought. "We found her and did not waste cartridges. We put the steel into those two men aboard her. She is now circling around the outermost reefs and they'll bring her to our own ship."

"Very well," Carson pointed to the other boat, updrawn above high water mark. "Knock a hole in that boat, and we depart."

In his pocket was a stub of pencil. He went to the pile of stores, from an opened box took a tin of tomatoes, and tore off the paper wrapper. On the inside of this he wrote briefly:

For murder of Cap'tt Skyborg, payment  received.

Carson, agent for Helga Skyborg,

Master of Arafura Lass.

This paper he tucked under the hand of the still senseless Benders, then turned to his own whaleboat. Klang had knocked a gaping hole in the other boat, and now joined him. The whaleboat was shoved out, the sheet was hauled in. Carson settled down at the tiller as she heeled over and took the breeze, running to the southward across the lagoon. He looked back once at the two figures sprawled in the sand, and smiled thinly. At his feet were three rifles. The three men who had gone aboard the Arafura Lass had taken their rifles with them.

Sumbing, the scarred one, lifted his dog-face and sniffed the air.

"I smell fog, tuan," he said. Carson frowned, glanced around.

"Fog, with the wind blowing? Has Allah smitten your senses?"

"That is as may be, tuan. But here are reefs, far and wide, and the tide out, and I can smell fog."

CARSON grunted, but was uneasy none the less. The whaleboat drove
on, gathering speed, with Klang perched in the bow, watching for coral pinnacles ahead. Sumbing chewed his betel-paste and spat scarlet over the leeward rail, and Carson watched the canvas, the tiny outflung reefs ahead, stretching on across the horizon toward the waiting Nautilus.

Behind them, on the sand. Benders sat up and caught sight of their rag of sail as he came to a cursing awakening, and saw whither they were heading.

It was a little after this that the wind failed altogether, and a bank of fog swept down and closed in opaquely upon the atoll, as it frequently does in those reef-thick waters.

FOR Helga Skyborg, the day passed monotonously. Wrinkled old Looey told her tales of Cap'n Carson, and the bright horizon remained unflecked and undimmed until mid-afternoon.

Then, as she went aloft with the glasses for the tenth time, Helga discerned two things. Off to the northeast lifted a grayish dimness; she knew it for fog, such as she had seen twice since coming to these reefs, and her heart contracted. She had forgotten to warn Carson of this peril, for in these waters it was a very real peril.

Off to the westward, however, she saw something else that made her forget the fog entirely. A tiny scrap of sail showed there, was gone, showed again. Watching it steadily, she knew it at last for the topsail of her own lugger—recognized it, indeed, where anyone else would have been uncertain whether it was a sail or a distant gull. She called down to Looey, exultantly.

"It's the lugger! He's got her, Looey! They're coming with her!"

Both of them took for granted that Carson was coming with the lugger. So they paid little heed to the fog-bank that so swiftly enclosed and hid the reefs. The lugger had circled well out of it, and held the faint breeze, and the fog did not quite come to the Nautilus, for she lay moored in the south channel where the wide rush of water broke the fog and checked its course. The Arafura Lass closed in gradually, the wind dying out
by degrees, but it was a long while be¬
fore she drew down within hail.

By this time, Helga had discovered only the three Malays aboard her. When she hailed them, she had no luck whatever, for she knew no Malay and they little English. Then Looey took a hand, when they had let drop the lugger's anchor and were swinging close by. Looey spoke Malay excellently; he was one of those Chinese from Gunning Api who have forgotten their own tongue across the centuries.

He learned what had taken place, so far as the three knew it, and passed the information to Helga. At her command, he ordered the three to lower a boat, but there were none remaining on the lugger. Perforce she and Looey got the cutter of the Nautilus into the water and rowed it across the gap, and so Helga came to the deck of her own lugger again.

She sent Looey and the three Malays back to the Nautilus in the boat, and
would listen to no protest. She wanted to be alone on this lugger, alone with her memories, alone with the sense of ownership and possession. She had much to do aboard here, before it could be cleansed of every last trace left by its recent occupants.

Accordingly, she fell to work down in the after-cabins, where the presence of her dead father lingered strongly. Maguire and his men had respected nothing aboard here, had not even respected her own cabin and her belongings,—but she wasted no futile tears over this. She made the best of things as they were, and from her father's old plundered sea-chest took what Maguire had disdained— an old-fashioned revolver. She loaded it and put it to one side, and went on with her work.

With the cabins in such shape as contented her orderly soul, she suddenly noticed that darkness was drawing down. She hurried on deck. The afternoon had nearly sped, and the edges of the fog had sent out tentacles to enclose the two schooners. She hailed the Nautilus and Looey made answer. The three Malays had gone off in their boat, taking the fog-horn, to try and find Carson. Occasionally Helga caught the thin, distant note of the horn, or thought she did. It was hard to make certain.

She got a lantern alight and set to work in the galley, after breaking out some cabin stores, and soon had a meal ready. The fog, she knew from experience, might last for a full day or more, until a breeze came up to dispel it. No lights showed aboard the Nautilus, and Looey was incapable of rigging any, so she rigged an oakum flare and replenished it from time to time, to guide Carson or the Malays if they showed up.

It was while doing this that she found the three rifles on the transom of the cabins, where the Malays had left them in their hurry to get aboard the other craft. So the three men had gone off unarmed! Not that it mattered greatly; possession of the two schooners was the chief thing.

Then the voice of Benders came to her out of the mist.

She was standing at the rail when she heard it, plainly, clearly, uplifted in a curse. For an instant, paralyzed by it, she stood peering down at the water.

There was no boat, there were no other voices. She broke into a shaky laugh, listened again, but heard nothing. Beyond doubt, her ears had deceived her. A squeaking block, a rasp of anchor-chain, the cry of a bird—her subconscious
fears had translated some such sound into the voice of Benders. She straightened up, resolutely throwing off her anxiety, and went to replenish the flare.

Time passed, with only the dull booming of surf on distant reefs to mark its going. After a long while, Helga went down into the after cabin, lit the lamp slung in gimbals, and began to enter up the rough log left by her father. She became absorbed in this, entering what had happened, her rescue by Carson, and their return to the reefs.

As she was writing the last words, she distinctly caught the thump of a boat against the lugger's side, followed by the clump of a booted foot on the deck overhead. It flashed across her instantly that the Malays wore no footgear. Therefore, Carson must have returned. Carson—or another!

Swiftly she rose, caught up the old revolver, darted into the passage and started up the ladder.

SHE was nearly at the deck, when a voice halted her like a shot, and held her aghast, dismayed, paralyzed for a moment. It was the voice of Sandy, one of Maguire's crew.

"Not a soul in sight," it said. "Decks clear empty, Benders. Light in the after cabin."

"Somebody's down there, huh?" This was the voice of Benders. It wakened
fear and horror in the crouching girl. She was incredulous. She could not realize how the man had come here. "I'll just take a look. Question is, who lit that flare, huh? Where's our two men gone?"

"Clear enough now," broke in another voice. This was Limey, a rat-toothed
little ruffian. "Blimey, that chap Carson fooled us proper! His boat went off and coppered the lugger, and his men fetched her around! The fog got him and he aint back yet, like you figured—"

"You there, Steve?" said Benders, a quick, rising thrill of excitement in his voice. "Get into the boat again, all of you except Limey— go grab that other schooner, quick! Before they wake up. Must be some one aboard her. Limey! You stop here with me. Don't go down. Wait!"

Hasty feet pounded the deck in obedience.

Helga crouched, her breath coming fast, a thousand expedients flitting across her brain—all of them useless. She was trapped here. There was only old Looey aboard the Nautilus, and none to warn him. They were going aboard her now, to take her by stealth. That was why Benders and Limey were waiting on deck above, until Steve and the others had the Nautilus, before descending and causing any commotion here.

There was none to warn Looey—except herself.

She straightened up, crept up the steps, peered around the coaming. A mutter of voices, two dark shapes close by, at the rail, one of them her father's murderer. It was just such a night as this that Benders had put two bullets into her father's back. The thought of it steadied her, brought her to herself. She could not tell which of these two was Benders. No matter!

The old revolver swung up, leveled. She pressed the trigger. There was a click and a snap—the old cartridge had missed fire. A sharp exclamation from the rail, a low cry of warning.

Desperately she pressed the trigger again. A shot this time, a burst of fire, but the bullet went wild. She had missed her chance. A figure leaped at her, as the hammer fell again. Limey caught that bullet squarely. It blew off the top of his head. None the less, his body pitched against her with all its dead weight, carried her off her feet, sprawled with her at the bottom of the companionway. She dragged herself upright, just as the ray of a flashlight from above struck full upon her.

"You!"

The yell of recognition burst from the man above. She flung up the revolver— it snapped, and snapped again. In this awful instant she remembered, for the first time, that her father had said something about getting the firing-pin repaired. Then Benders was coming down the ladder like a fury, swift to realize his advantage.

He was upon her. A cry burst from Helga—a wild scream of anger, of panic, of horror. She struck out with the useless weapon in her hand. Benders was already smashing at her with the long, heavy flashlight. It struck her over the eyes; dazed her. She slipped in the blood of Limey, at her feet. As she did so, Benders brought down the flashlight, full across her head, and she pitched forward senseless.

Disregarding a commotion, a spatter of shots, from the other schooner, Benders flung open the cabin door, saw it was empty, then turned and dragged Helga into the light. He pounced upon her eagerly, his eyes aflame neath the bandage around his head. With his knife, he slit the breeches of the dead Limey into strips, and bound the wrists and ankles of the girl.

Then, rising, looking around, Benders caught sight of the logbook on the table. He went to it, saw the entries she had made, and devoured them greedily. Thus, he came to a perfect comprehension of all that had taken place. And as he read, he laughed softly.

"This cinches it! " he muttered. "They believe already that Carson murdered Cap'n Maguire, and when they read this, they'll never believe anything else! Neither will anyone. This clears away everything for us all, gives us an out! We'll loot Carson's ship, pick him up and get back the pearls, set fire to his ruddy craft—and sail into any harbor as cool as you please! Lay the piracy on him. Aye! With his reputation, he can stand it. And he won't be able to do any talking back, neither—not when we get done with him! Carson, by glory, we've got you and we're sitting on top of the world this minute!"

A hail drifted across from the Nautilus, a hail in the voice of Steve the cook, to let him know that his exultant statement was correct.

Even after the fog closed down, the breeze lasted—no new experience to Carson. He had seen the heaviest fogs come at the same time with a stiff breeze.

With coral underfoot, however, the sail must come down. Otherwise, it was suicide, for coral pinnacles were everywhere, and with no sun to reveal them, watching were vain. So the canvas came in, Klang and Sumbing put out the oars, and Carson steered their slow progress entirely by compass. Slow or not, their first intimation of coral was when they ground into it.

They got off again, water streaming into the boat. Carson abandoned the tiller and worked with the bailer, grimly. Progress had to be abandoned, however. It was impossible to see twenty feet away from the boat. Twice they barely missed submerged reefs, which would have torn out the frail bottom of the whaleboat. Carson gave up, and drifted with the current, which at least tended in the right direction.

So the afternoon dragged on into darkness, maddening in its slowness.

Carson found that the Arafura Lass had been taken with grim simplicity. Klang had sailed up to her, Sumbing had gone aboard with him, and the curved knives had done the rest. He shrugged and made no comment. The other three men could take her around the reefs and join the schooner, had probably done so long ere this.

Night closed down. Twice the note of a fog-horn reached them, only to recede and vanish in the thickness. Then, with startling clarity, the muffled crack of a shot whipped across the fog, followed by others. After that, silence.

"As Allah liveth!" exclaimed Klang. "Those shots were not far away, tuan!"

Carson made no reply. He knew the futility of trying for direction in this fog. A horrible uneasiness had beset him. It had been criminal to leave the Nautilus defenseless, he told himself, not to mention the girl Helga. His mind went back to those men who had been with Maguire. He knew at once that they must have out-smarted him, must have stolen past while he lay there idle and helpless in the fog. An agony of apprehension seethed within him, but he gave no sign of it. He sat staring into the blackness, a stricken man. There was almost no sea at all, and the ceaseless long thunder-roll of surf had sunk to a distant rumble. The boat swayed on the slowly heaving water, and Klang, taking the bailer, fell to work.

"We are not far from the ships," spoke up Sumbing abruptly, and lifted his face. "I can smell men, tuan."

Carson wakened. He was roused from his abstraction not by these words, which he recalled only after a moment or two, but by a coolness on his cheek, a breath. He came to himself, and straightened up.

"Unstep the mast!" he ordered abruptly, but kept his voice low. "Give me the bailer. Pass back the mast along the thwarts. Both of you spread out the sail like a tarpaulin for'ard, and get beneath it. Quickly, now!"

They must have thought him mad, must have stared blankly toward him there in the darkness. This concealment looked utterly asinine, at such an hour, under such conditions.

"Aye, tuan," said Klang, and the boat rocked as he moved forward.

"Take the rifles with you," said Carson. "All three of them. Be ready if I speak."

THE fog rushed past them; though they could not see it, they could feel the breeze. It spurred them, and they realized why Carson had spoken. They did not know his reason, nor did he himself, save that he was on the alert, vigilant, filled with dread and forebodings. Then a star, and another, glimmered overhead, though the fog still closed them in like a moving, rushing wall, fleeing silently as the wind drove it in swirls and eddies.

Carson moved to the 'midships thwart and began to bail, for the water was gaining fast. The two Malays were lying covered by the canvas, just forward of him. At this moment the mist was gone as though cleft by some unseen knife. An uncanny golden light was spread over the sea, for the moon was just rising, and stars gleamed down coldly. The fog went sweeping away in two high gray walls, farther and farther.

Not two hundred feet away was the Arafura Lass, her lanterns glimmering. The Nautilus lay more distant, dark and apparently deserted.

Carson started half erect, then sank back again. Swift, eager commands leaped to his lips, only to be checked. Imperceptibly but steadily the moon was rising, flooding everything with clear golden light, revealing his boat and his every action with startling distinctness. And from the lugger, not from his Nautilus, came a clear sharp cry in a woman's voice.

"Carson! Look out! They—"

The cry was checked, cut off short. "Lie quiet," ordered Carson in Malay, softly.

He was perplexed, bewildered, one would have said frightened, had his nature been subject to fright. A light glimmered on the deck of the Nautilus and was gone again. Men were there, then. Not his own men, or they would have hailed him. And Helga was aboard the lugger, had tried to warn him! Benders, then, had taken both craft.

All this passed in the flash of an instant. Water came about his feet. He bent with the bailer, flung it over the
gunwale in steady spurts of flashing phosphorescence, heard the two men under the canvas stir a little as the water reached them. He looked up toward the lugger, saw a man leap to her rail, and knew him for Benders.

"Ahoy, Carson! " came the voice, thinly in its exultation. "Come aboard, Cap'n, and finish our talk! Hit the coral, did you? Where's your other boat and your men?"

The other boat? For an instant hope thrilled Carson. He stood up, looked around, but saw nothing of the other boat.

He was safe enough for the moment, and knew it. The pearls! Benders wanted them first, his life next. And now he had his choice. He could make for the Nautilus, or for this lugger where the girl Helga was plainly held captive. One wrench at his heart and soul; this was all. He did not hesitate, did not consider anything else possible, but turned toward Benders.

"Looks like you've got the best of me," he answered. "Yes, hit the coral, hit hard. Both men gone. Where's the other boat, then?"

Benders uttered a cackle of derisive laughter.

"Gone looking for you in the fog, the fools!" he answered. "We got rifles trained on you. Don't try any tricks, Cap'n. You come aboard and hand over them babies."

Carson stooped, bailed furiously for a moment, thinking hard and fast. Aboard the Nautilus a flame leaped out; the bullet sang overhead, and the whiplike rifle-crack echoed. Benders hurled a wrathful yell at the schooner.

"Steve! Quit shooting, you fool! It's all right, Cap'n— you come along here."

"I'm not doing so badly, thanks," returned Carson, again standing up. He
knew that his occupation had been clearly discerned. "Might run up the sail, now that I've a breeze, and clear out. Thanks for telling about my other boat."

Benders let loose a volley of startled oaths.

"You try it, and we'll drill you!" he said, then calmed down. "Tryin' a , are you? Bailing your head off. Yah! Don't come anything like that over me, Cap'n! You'll do no running with a hole punched in your boat! We've got both craft, and I've got your pearls right here— your pearls, savvy that? Out of your cabin safe behind the panel! You  step along here and hand over them babies you got off me and Maguire, and I'll let you take your ruddy schooner and clear out! That's a fair offer, aint it?"

"Aye," said Carson, "if you mean it." He stooped again, bailing rapidly, but faster than was necessary. Again a low word in Malay:

"After I go aboard, follow quickly but quietly."

"I mean it, all right," hailed Benders with eager volubility. "You run for it, and we'll fill you full o' lead before you get your mast stepped! Come aboard and hand over the pearls, and you can have your schooner. Give you my word of honor, Cap'n!"

"Aye?" returned Carson. "How about the men with you? They agree?"

Benders turned and spoke. Voices broke out around him in quick assent. Carson listened, his senses set to distinguish them. The two Filipinos and another. Three men with Benders, then, on the lugger. Probably three on the lugger, since there had been six in all. He scarcely heard what the little murderer had said about his pearls, although the words showed that Benders was speaking the truth and had found them.

"All right, then," said Carson, and leaned over, bailing hard.

"Four aboard there," he muttered in Malay. "Come quietly."

"Throw your gun overboard! " ordered Benders. Carson stood up, threw out his hands.

"Haven't any gun, you idiot! If I had, I'd drill you here and now!"

Benders laughed. "I believe you would at that, Cap'n! All right. Come on."

Under the ladder another boat swung, empty, on the dark side away from the Nautilus. Carson got out an oar, tugged at it clumsily, moved his craft through the water by degrees. He broke off to bail again, then resumed the oar. Little by little, his whaleboat edged in, until a man at the rail heaved out a coil of light line, and Carson caught it. They drew him in, and he edged his craft between the lugger and the boat, to the ladder.

At the rail above stood Benders, leaning over, peering down at him. "Ye needn't do no more bailing, Cap'n," he said mockingly. "Come along."

Carson reached out for the ladder, then checked himself. Across the moonlight from the Nautilus, now hidden from him by the bulk of the lugger, came a sound that he recognized on the instant, with incredulous dread; the rattle of chain going out through the hawse. The men there had knocked out the shackle, the chain was running out, the schooner was adrift. He knew he was right when he heard a vitriolic oath from Benders.

In a flash it all came to Carson. A low cry was wrenched from him, a cry of deep hurt, of wordless agony. He knew what they meant, knew they were turning the schooner adrift, meant to keep this lugger themselves, get rid of him.

"What are you up to?" he exclaimed, to cover his one sharp cry. "What's going on?"

"Nothing, you fool," retorted Benders, furious at seeing him standing below at the ladder. If he shot Carson there, the pearls would be gone. "Come along. They're fetching your craft alongside it. Hand over the pearls, then take her and clear out."

"All right," he said, and reaching out for the ladder, swung his weight to it.

He went up with swift, lithe steps, then paused at the rail. Benders had stepped back, a pistol in his hand. Carson looked at him in the moonlight.

"Careful, you little rat!" he exclaimed sharply. "Don't be tempted to use that gun on me, understand? Shoot me, and you'll never see those pearls of yours."

Carson swung himself over the rail, dropped to the deck, and turned aft. A glance had shown him that the two Filipino divers and Benders' other man were slightly forward.

"What d'ye mean by that?" snapped Benders, his voice startled. "Hey, Cap'n! Where you think you're going? Halt, there!"

Carson chuckled and obeyed. He had found what he was seeking among the confusion of gear and litter that strewed the deck— the bight of a two-inch hawser. He stopped beside it, and turned to Benders. The latter and his three men were all intent upon him. One glance he cast at the Nautilus, and heart-sickness gripped at him. She was a little farther now, evidently in the grip of the swiftly running current. Well, no matter! He had made his choice and must abide by it. The fools!

"Give me a cigarette," he said calmly, alert for the first sign of a brown shape coming over the rail. "Then I'll tell you where to find those pearls. Fair enough?"

"You bet, Cap'n," said Benders. "Watch him, you men!"

Carson slipped his foot under the end of the hawser.

"That schooner of mine isn't coming closer," he said. Benders, fumbling in his pocket, looked toward the Nautilus, and a grin touched his lips.

"She aint, for a fact," he said. "You might's well make up your mind to it, Cap'n. You don't get that schooner till I've got the babies—"

A silent dark shape came over the rail like a shadow, was followed by a second. The seaman, Sandy, uttered a startled exclamation. Carson's foot jerked up the end of the hawser, and catching it, he lashed Benders across the face with the hemp, flung himself bodily at the little man, bore him to the deck before Benders could realize what was happening.

A wild shriek from Sandy was echoed by terrified yells from the two Filipinos. A rifle cracked out, and Carson felt the thud as the bullet plowed into the deck beside him. He could see nothing of what was going on, however. Benders was fighting like a thrashing snake to get his pistol clear of Carson's grip, to get himself clear, to writhe away and reach his feet. And Carson had his hands full.

There was no second shot. The two Filipinos ran for it, screaming horribly, terrorized by those two leaping shadows whose knives flashed in the moonlight. Presently only one was screaming. Then he, too, fell silent.

In his day Carson had gone through his share of rough-and-tumble fighting, but never had he encountered an opponent like Benders. The little man fought with demoniac intensity. The pistol went clattering, unregarded. The two men thrashed across the deck, intertwined. Presently Klang and Sumbing, their keen-bladed knives red, darted up and attempted to take a hand, but dared not, lest they harm Carson. Over and over went the two. In that mad and frenzied whirl of battle, Carson felt a sudden stab of pain, caught a yell of warning from Klang. Too late! Benders had loosed a knife.

He felt it bite into him, again and again. A thumb had wrenched at one eye, nearly blinding him. Then, suddenly, he had the knife-wrist in his left hand, bending it back as they twisted and fought, and his right drove in again and again with frantic fury. Benders uttered a terrific scream, but it was choked as Carson's right hand closed about his throat. One wild spasmodic effort, one violent convulsion that hurled both men headlong against the rail with its frenzied, mad ferocity.

Then Carson realized that he was fighting a limp object, that the two Malays were dragging at him. He came to his feet, panting deeply, half blinded, and against the rail lay Benders with head and arm oddly twisted, grinning horribly in a set, unchanging grimace.

Carson tried to speak, but the stars whirled and he plunged into darkness. Klang caught him, lowered him to the deck, and the two brown men leaned over him.

WHEN he came to himself, Carson was alone, in the streaming moonlight.

He lifted himself painfully, sat up, leaned back against the rail. He was bewildered, very weak, but found that his arm and side had been hastily bandaged. Benders must have cut him up badly, then. He caught at the rail, lifted himself half erect, flung one long, agonized glance around the waters.

The Nautilus had disappeared.

He dropped back again and sat with his head drooping, all the bitterness of
loss wrenching at him. A moment later there was a light, firm step and he looked up to see Helga coming to him, leaning over him with a cup.

"Here is coffee," she said. "Put it down, Cap'n."

He obeyed dumbly. She was wearing woman's clothes now, a white blouse and a skirt; the moonlight brought out the strength of her splendid features, her wide-shouldered body. She stooped, and took a little bundle from the deck and laid it in his lap—a large bandanna kerchief, knotted compactly.

"What's that ?" asked Carson.

"Your pearls. From the schooner. Klang took them from Benders before he went."

"He went? Where?" Carson looked up, shoved aside the pearls.

"He and the other Malay. In the boat—"

She sprang quickly to the rail, as the distant crepitation of rifles came to them, a whole burst of shots. Then she turned and shook her head.

"Nothing visible. There's still fog over the reefs." Helga came and sat down beside him and took his hand.

"Cap'n, I want to thank you. Not for this alone, but for— for everything," she said, in her low, rich voice. "From the very beginning, when you picked me up."

"It doesn't matter," said Carson in a toneless, dead response. "The schooner's gone. I know it. I can feel it. Nothing matters. Everything's gone, with her."

She was silent for a moment. Then her words startled him.

"Don't be a whining boy, Carson. That's not like you."

His head lifted under the sting.

"You don't know what that craft meant to me! " he said with swift, hoarse passion. "She was my life, everything had. I loved her, do you understand? She's pulled me out of hard places, stood by me, worked for me, given me beauty and something beyond, something—"

"You talk like a beachcomber who has just lost his woman," she said.

Carson choked down an oath, sat silent. The comparison was apt. It hit him like a blow. He remembered suddenly that when he had picked up this girl she had just lost her father, her own lugger, everything she had—and she had not whined.

"By God, you're right!" he said. And for Carson, who never took the name of his creator in vain, these words spelled tremendous feeling.

"You have your pearls, at least," she said after a moment. "And there were others in your pockets— those you took from Maguire and Benders, I suppose. I found them when I was binding you up; they're safe, in the galley. I'll give you my share of them. Keep them. Take this lugger, if you like. Keep her. She's not a beauty, but she's good. I owe you everything. I want to make up to you—what you've lost was lost for me."

"Don't be a fool," said Carson roughly. "Pearls be damned!"

They sat for a long while in silence. Presently she rose and looked across the waters. Carson heard the creak of oars, but did not look up.

"Both boats," she said. "Klang in the first. The other three in the second."

Then indeed Carson knew the Nautilus was gone, or those men would not have returned. He sat unmoving, but presently asked for a cigarette. His jacket lay at one side. Helga found a cigarette, gave it to him, struck a match. Klang and the other Malays came up over the side and stood before him, then squatted in the Malay fashion of respect— even Klang, who rarely showed respect to any man.

"Well, what news?" asked Carson in the customary Malay phrase.

"The news is bad, tuan," returned Klang, regarding him stoically. "At the edge of the fog, those men put your ship on a coral ledge. They were drunk, all of them; they had broken into the liquor store. We went aboard and slew them, but the ship was sinking. We tried to get her papers, your things, but she went down very swiftly, slid off the ledge. She is gone."

All of them watched Carson fearfully, and the girl Helga, standing there straight and slim in the moonlight, held her gaze steadily upon him. He puffed at his cigarette for a space, then tossed it away, up and over the rail. In the silence, they heard the hiss as it struck the water. Carson held up his hand.

"Give me a lift, Helga, will you?" She helped him to his feet. He looked out over the water, then turned to Klang and smiled.

"Good!" he exclaimed. "As Allah liveth, ye are true men. Better that the ship is lost, than you. Get to work here; bring in the boats, lift the anchor, send up canvas."

Klang leaped to his feet. "Tuan-ki," he cried, giving Carson the title of royalty, "only God knows the destiny of man! We who follow you, are proud to be your men."

He made a gesture to the others, and they leaped into action. But Carson turned to the girl and laughed a little, and pressed her hand.

"Helga, thanks for waking me to sense," he said abruptly. "What a fool a man can be at times! Shake."

She gave him a quick, strong grip, and her eyes were suddenly glorious and starry as she looked at him, but when she laughed, there was a catch in her throat.

"Fifteen hundred miles to Honolulu!" said Carson. "Let's go, Mister."

"Aye, aye, sir," she responded, and saluted smartly.

After all, there are better things in life than ships, and better friends to love, and better company in which to go questing across the horizon of the years. Fifteen hundred miles is a long way, but sometimes all too short.

___________________

3: The Phoenix Tourmaline

Blue Book Nov 1930

FREEMAN walked ashore at Saigon, went to the Continental Hotel, registered, and looked at his watch. It was four o'clock.

"Send my luggage to my room," he said. "If I do not return tonight, hold it for me."

He went next to the offices of the Compagnie des Charbons, which owned the big coal-mines that fed all the coastwise steamers, sent in his card to the president, M. Maignien, and in less than one moment was in the presence of that gentleman—a thin-cheeked, dark-eyed man with an untidy grayish beard that was struggling to engulf his sharp-nosed features.

"I received your cable at Singapore, M. Maignien," said Freeman in French. "I did not cable you of my arrival, lest the business be of a private nature."

Maignien shook hands very joyfully, then glanced at his watch. "You have luggage?"

"It is at the hotel."

"Good; I'll send for it. This is Friday—excellent! Now, pardon me for a few moments while I arrange for my absence; we shall go to my villa in the hills, and return on Monday. Be seated, M. Freeman, be at home; a few details to arrange, no more!"

Freeman sat down and lighted a cigarette in his calm way. He was Asiatic buyer for the great firm of Haldeman & Co., whose establishments in Fifth Avenue and Rue de la Paix handle the largest jewel business in the world. Freeman knew all there was to know about precious stones. His draft on the firm was good for practically any amount. From a Malay sultan in Singapore he had bought for his firm the famous Nurmahal pearls, paying half a million in cold cash.

Maignien bustled in and out; he was a rather fussy gentleman, and nervous. When he had cleared his desk and finished his directions, he closed the door and sat down.

"I cabled your firm, monsieur, and they gave me your address; so I cabled you," he said. "If we can arrange a price, I desire to sell my collection—all of it. For twenty years I have been here in Saigon, and my investments have been fortunate. I have some good stones."

"I know them well," said Freeman, "although I have never seen them. You have the Siamese Twins, probably the most perfectly matched pair of perfect black pearls in the world; you have the seven rubies that disappeared from Burma in 1867, called the Tears of Buddha. You have the lapis-lazuli pendant made for the Dowager Empress of China; you have the fourteen absolutely flawless, but unluckily table-cut, diamonds that belonged to the Emperor of Annam. You—"

"How—how do you know all this?" asked M. Maignien.

"That is my business," said Freeman.

"Well, there is something you do not know, then—something rarer, if not actually more valuable, than all the rest."

"Rarity makes value for my firm," said Freeman.

"That is why I cabled."

"And what is this supreme wonder? A new acquisition "

"I have had it for two years," said Maignien. "You must wait until you see it. I do not wish my family to know your business; my wife and her brother, to be exact. It is better for you to be interested in coal for an American or Singapore shipping firm."

Freeman merely nodded. In his business of buying, not merely jewels, but rare jewels, he had long since learned that those who sold to him usually did not want his business advertised. Not that Freeman would have dealt for an instant with any but the legitimate owners of stones; but these owners seldom wanted anyone to know that they were selling.

He knew of Maignien's collection; as he said, that was his business. Any flawless gem can of course be sold by Haldeman & Co., but they can more readily sell at a far higher price a stone which has association or history. And such things formed the collection of Maignien—a very rich man since the war. Fourteen flawless diamonds of antique cut would not fetch a great price; but if those fourteen had belonged to the Emperor of Annam, they would go for a prince's ransom.

Oddly enough, as he sat there, Freeman was curious about that villa in the hills. For he was well aware that there are no hills anywhere near Saigon, which is set in the midst of wide rice-paddies and mangrove flats. Being acquainted with French psychology, he waited half-amusedly to see what M. Maignien's "hills" would prove to be.

He was so interested in this point that he forgot about the great rarity he was shortly to see.

THE CONVEYANCE in which Freeman traveled upriver with his host was a very handsome motor-launch in which Maignien commuted to and from the city. The two men sat beneath the awning, and the elderly Frenchman went into some detail as to his reasons for selling his collection. It was rather nervous detail, Freeman noted.

"My wife is a trifle younger than I am," he said, pawing at his beard. "She is, in fact, my second wife, and she longs to return to Paris. I am comfortable here, but after all, I have attained a certain age, and Paris beckons; it will be good to go back. I am not poor, and there will always be an income from the coal mines. But Paul— my wife's brother, you comprehend— well, my friend, I must confess that I do not care greatly for this Paul."

Freeman smoked and said little, listening with a rather cynical comprehension of what the situation must be.

"Paul has been with us for two months," said Maignien, his gaze flitting along the river's bank. Mention of Paul disturbed him, apparently. "He has a little money, a trifling income; not a great deal. He came out to take a position in the mines, but his health would not stand it, so he is with us. Nom de Dieu! He will not be with us long. Three days ago I told him he would take the next boat for France, or resume his position up north in the mines. This is his last week with us. My wife was tragic about it, but what would you? My home is my home."

"The position," observed Freeman, "has its difficulties; but it would have much greater ones, were you not a man of firmness and decision."

"I am not weak— I can be imposed upon to a certain point, no farther," returned Maignien, and this was true. "Me, I have never liked this vaurien Paul, nor has he liked me. No trouble, you comprehend; but the feeling is there below the surface. And as for these jewels, they represent wealth, which is safer in the bank. Here it is very nice to have them, to play with them, to show them to my friends; but of late I have lost my taste for them, to be honest. Twice there have been attempts made upon them."

"If you keep them in your home," said Freeman, "you are most unwise. A good many people know of your collection, my friend."

Maignien gestured vaguely. "That is why I cabled you."

Freeman perceived that this man had lost his self-confidence, realized the fact, resented it, and was helpless about it. Age, perhaps; domestic worries, the exigencies of a younger wife in a far country.

"How long have you been married?" asked Freeman slowly.

"A year and a half, this time," returned the other. Freeman said nothing, but his eyes narrowed. He felt vaguely sorry for M. Maignien.

"Ah!" exclaimed the Frenchman suddenly, and lifted an arm. "There—there, my friend! You see the hills, and my house. Is it not a charming scene?"

Eight or ten miles from town, conjectured Freeman. There were indeed hills above the river— gentle little eminences, all of fifty feet in height, with massed jungle behind. The clearing had been nicely done, a number of larger trees being left— great drooping casuarinas, and several vivid flame-trees. Between two of these slight eminences was built the house, with gardens around, a low wall, and boat-house and enclosed swimming-pool at the water's edge. Fountains played, the garden paths had been graveled—expensive work, here—and the finely timbered house was extensive and opulent.

Servants appeared as the launch drew in to the landing; M. Maignien was certainly treated with great respect by his domestics. And with affection by his wife, for she appeared at the entrance to the screened veranda and waved a hand, her husband blowing a kiss in return.

Freeman eyed this exchange sardonically, and watched his luggage being taken in hand.

He walked up to the house with his host, and midway met his hostess and was introduced. He was not particularly astonished to find Madame Maignien a good twenty —perhaps more— years younger than her husband. She was a statuesque lady with a large nose, a wide and unhandsome mouth, and a firm chin; plenty of character in that face, thought Freeman. Her greeting was little short of effusive, and the affectionate embrace she tendered her spouse was not at all French in its lack of reserve. Also, Maignien seemed a trifle astonished, though greatly pleased, by her warmth.

"And where is Paul?" he asked.

"Oh, he is mounting his butterflies and packing those already mounted," she returned, and gave Freeman a bright smile. "Paul is my little brother, you understand, monsieur. He loves butterflies, and mounts them beautifully on plaster-of-paris blocks behind glass."

"That is true," said Maignien. "His work is really excellent; you must see his specimens. —By the way, my dear, I have a cabin for him on Monday's boat. He will be glad to hear it."

"You are so good!" And the lady regarded her spouse with glowing affection. Freeman began to feel a trifle uncomfortable. He did not like hypocrites particularly, and his cynical eye perceived that to which Maignien was superbly blind.

The interior of the house was charming in its way, if not in what Freeman considered the best of taste; no expense had been spared upon it, at all events. As the three of them passed through the music-room, Freeman's eye was caught by the portrait of a dark young man, which stood in a silver frame upon the piano.

"Ah!" he exclaimed. "And this—"

"My brother," said Mme. Maignien. "Paul Lenormand. Is he not handsome?"

"Very," said Freeman, looking hard at the portrait. "I am envious, Madame!"

She laughed pleasantly, made some casual answer, and Freeman went on to his room.

He found his luggage already there, and promised to rejoin his
hosts after a bath and a change. The room was large, pleasant, cool, and opened upon the garden; the rattan blinds were triced up, for the sun was already dropping out of sight and a breeze was drifting in. Freeman stood motionless for a long minute, looking out upon the garden. Then he started slightly, hearing a voice that came to him with faint but penetrating clearness—a man's voice, irritated and alarmed.

"Diantre! A man—an American, you say ? To remain until—"

That was all. Freeman frowned a little as he stared out upon the hillside with its walks and flowers and fountains; then he compressed his lips and turned to his luggage. He opened a suit-case, fingered through its contents with exploring hand, and took up the pistol for which he had obtained a permit before landing. It was empty, but in another moment he had slipped a loaded clip into the butt.

Then he put the pistol away again.

"Paul Lenormand, eh?" he said, and his lips curved in the sardonic smile which many men had little liked to see.

"Poor Maignien! But why, I wonder, the butterflies?"

Unfortunately, he had no answer to this question, for some little time.

FREEMAN shrank from telling Maignien the stark truth. Beneath his ironic outer shell he had, like many Americans, a stratum of sensitive nature that was almost sentimental, and he could well see that his news would give Maignien a mortal blow. Besides, Freeman was in the dark as to certain things and wanted to ferret them out. And there was always the chance that he himself could remedy the situation and avoid wounding poor Maignien ; a false mercy, yet a very natural feeling.

Contrary to Freeman's expectation, dinner proved to be not only very pleasant, but even a gay meal; obviously Paul Lenormand had accepted his dismissal with good grace, and there was not a trace of strain between him and his brother-in-law. Lenormand was much younger than his sister. He was the dark, rather sleek type of man, thin and lissom, which has become associated with the term gigolo ; his dark, direct eyes held a veiled menace, and his manners were beyond criticism. He said quite frankly that he would be glad to return to Europe, and he spoke of Maignien's kindness to him with a hint of emotion that moved the older man almost to affection. Clearly, Maignien regretted his unkind words to Freeman, regarding this young man.

Freeman talked coal with his host, expressed a vivid desire to see the collection of jewels whose fame had reached him, and showed much interest in the work of Lenormand with butterflies; he accepted an invitation to visit the latter's workshop in the morning. Madame Maignien proved herself a charming woman, and all in all Freeman would have enjoyed himself amazingly—except for what he knew.

"Yet what can the man do?" he asked himself repeatedly. "He cannot steal the jewels; he could not get out of the country at all, and he could not hope to conceal their loss. There can be no question of Maignien's death; in such an event, his widow would inherit—ah, but would she? However, a mere murder would not necessitate this careful preparation. No, there is something behind all this, something I do not yet know."

He knew that his own identity, and his business here, was not suspected by Madame Maignien or her brother.

Dinner over, cigars half finished, brother Paul went to the music-room, where he played the piano with a masterly touch and chatted with his sister. Maignien escorted his guest to view the famous collection of gems.

The two men passed to a small study and smoking-room at the rear of the house, and Maignien paused before a little door in the wall of the study. He had the average Frenchman's faith in locks, provided they were large and cunning enough. From his pocket he drew a key-ring, and smiled at Freeman.

"You see, mon ami, I do not leave these things about foolishly,'" he confided. "This little room is of massive teak, has no other entrance—not even a window—and the only keys are in my pocket. Once inside, the thief finds a massive steel box to which I alone hold the key—a box too heavy to be readily carried off. Voila!"

He flung open the teakwood door to disclose a small room, no larger than a closet. Upon the floor reposed an old-fashioned safe that opened with a key.

From this safe, Maignien brought forth over a dozen boxes and cases, which he disposed upon the table in his study. He selected a large morocco case, retaining it in his hand, then drew up a chair for Freeman.

"There, monsieur, examine at your pleasure; the supreme wonder I reserve until you have seen the others. Here are fresh cheroots; they will fetch us more coffee presently."

So saying, he sank into a chair, and Freeman turned to the jewel-boxes on the table. One by one, pencil and paper at his elbow, he examined the contents of those boxes and jotted down a list of them, together with a code system of letters that represented the probable resale price of each and the price which he was willing to pay. All were here, the famed gems of which he had heard: the Annam diamonds, the Tears of Buddha, the Siamese Twins, and many others, with a number of lesser but highly valuable stones. Last he came to the lapis pendant made for the old Empress Dowager; a pendant of the finest lapis, so exquisitely carved that it had been two years in the making, kept within box after box of gorgeous brocade and wrapped in a fragment of imperial silk tapestry.

At last the inspection was finished, and solemnly Maignien laid before him the morocco case.

"You have seen them all, my friend; but here is something which you have never seen, and of which I doubt if you have ever heard. It was not catalogued with the others."

"Catalogued?" Freeman looked up suddenly. "I did not know these stones had been catalogued at all."

"But yes." Maignien rose and took from a shelf a thin brochure. "This was privately printed for me at the Government printery; the illustrations are life-size. Only a half-dozen copies were struck off, as presents for official friends."

Freeman frowned thoughtfully as he examined the little brochure. He found all the stones listed and described, with what was known of their histories, and each was pictured in very handsome colored plates. He examined the booklet minutely, comparing the illustrations with the actual gems, and their exactitude astonished and startled him. Here in his hand was the answer to his chief problem.

"When was this printed?" he asked abruptly.

"Two years ago. Unfortunately, the supreme wonder was not then in my possession, so it is not shown there."

Freeman pushed aside the brochure and opened the morocco case. Maignien remained silent; he knew there was no need of telling this man what he was looking at.

Screwing his glass into his eye, Freeman examined it minutely. It was a small, flat block of crystal, three inches by two, half an inch thick.

Each side was carved fantastically with a phoenix design— most intricate work, obviously Chinese in origin. One side of this crystal was a rare and delicate sea-green; the other side was an equally delicate rose pink—the thing was a perfect example of the Chinese love of working up a parti-colored stone into a design wherein the natural colors would play a part. The crystal was pierced to be used as a pendant.

Freeman took the glass from his eye. "This is not so very old," he said, "but it is the most beautiful tourmaline I have ever seen, monsieur. It has a history?"

"I do not know," said Maignien. "I got it from a Chinese refugee from Yunnan. He called it the Phoenix Tourmaline, and would tell me nothing about it. There is a glow to it, eh?"

"More than that," said Freeman, and fondled the tourmaline in his palm.

It deserved the name; used as he was to stones, this crystal of two colors gave him something to think about. There was something fascinating, even to him, in the deep, soft glow. Another close examination showed that it was a flawless gem crystal, not the usual type where the greater flaws and imperfections have been cut out. This must have been a perfect block of Nature's fashioning, and the two colors were fused in an even line.

Then, under the strong glass, Freeman saw something else no casual eye would have noted. Outlining the intricacies of the carving, here and there at the inner points of the design, was a faint line of white. Freeman removed his scarfpin and with the point followed these lines, loosening a fine white powder. He tasted it, but made no comment.

"What is it ?" asked Maignien curiously.

"A little dirt," said Freeman. "Perhaps some one polished the thing and did not clean it thoroughly." He laid down the glass and the gem. "Monsieur, you have a remarkable collection here. You have no family to whom you would leave these things— no children by your first marriage, perhaps?"

"But yes, monsieur— two sons, who are in France," said Maignien. "However, in my opinion it would be better to leave them money than such treasures as these, which might be stolen upon my death."

Freeman nodded. He comprehended everything now—or at least, if not everything, then enough to give light upon the subject uppermost in his mind.

"Do you wish to discuss price, monsieur?" he asked courteously. "Or let it wait until tomorrow, perhaps?"

Maignien shook his head, and dabbed at his brow with a silk handkerchief.

"No. I understand how you Americans do business, monsieur; let us do it your way. I must confess to a nervousness, a species of apprehension; it has weighed upon me for some time. Perhaps it is sheer imagination; perhaps it comes from my heart, for which I am undergoing treatment. At all events, let us see!"

For an hour or more they sat there, discussing the collection piece by piece, stone by stone, discussing price and costs and markets. Freeman was astonished by the ease of it; these negotiations should have required weeks, for thrifty Gallic merchantmen long since squeezed the Queen of Scots and all her countrymen out of France, and no matter what his wealth, your Frenchman would sooner haggle than do anything else, except eat.

Maignien, however, showed none of this racial trait. The bargaining was in francs, and it came to a very large sum; but when it was ended, Maignien's figure was within five thousand francs of the figure Freeman had set himself as purchase price. He waived the five thousand, and made his flat offer. Maignien considered a moment, then nodded.

"Good; I accept," he said quietly. "You are a gentleman, monsieur; me, I do not desire to prolong these negotiations. Let us do business in your American way."

"Agreed," said Freeman, and produced pen and paper. "I'll make out a bill of sale, and the stones become my property. They remain in your keeping until you have cabled in regard to the draft I give you—no, I must insist on this detail. You can send a cablegram down to the city tomorrow, and receive an answer at once. I'll give you a sight draft on my firm, which the Banque de l'Indo-Chine will accept at face on Monday. Better, perhaps, to have them send the cable tomorrow."

So it was agreed. The bill of sale, itemizing the collection, was written out and signed, and the gems were Freeman's property.

He joined Maignien in a drink to celebrate the bargain. Yet he showed none of his real exultation; he had done a tremendous stroke of business, but he knew he had an unwelcome task remaining ahead of him.

When he retired that night, he took the automatic pistol from his grip and placed it in his jacket pocket.

"Tomorrow," he murmured, as he turned out the light, "I shall have a brief conversation with M. Paul Lenormand— a very brief conversation, I hope! "

He was to regret most bitterly that he had postponed this conversation until the morrow. But what one of us can see ahead to another day ?

FREEMAN wakened early.

"The collection is now my property," he reflected, as he leisurely dressed. "Therefore I can rightfully take up the matter with Lenormand, give him twenty-four hours to be gone, or less. It will save Maignien the shock and pain which the exposure would cause him. It may even save a tragedy all around."

So thought Freeman, in his simplicity— forgetting that the swift shock of the knife is always better than the slow agony of an ulcer.

When he went downstairs he met a soft-voiced servant who escorted him to the dining-room and there brought him rolls and coffee—they had not known he was up and around. Monsieur Lenormand had been at work for half an hour; his workshop was in a summer-house at the upper end of the garden. Freeman inquired if the young man always rose thus early, and found that he did not. He made no comment.

He breakfasted lightly, then strolled out to the garden. He filled and lighted his pipe, and made his way along the graveled path toward the pavilion at the upper end—a little octagon building, gay with vermilion and gilding, being built in the Chinese fashion. As he drew near, his feet crunching on the gravel, Lenormand came into the doorway and looked out at him, then cried cordial greeting.

"Good morning, monsieur! You are about early. Welcome to my little workshop! Come right in and let us see if we can find entertainment for you!"

So saying, the young man ducked out of sight, as though he were engaged at some important work—or had something to conceal. Freeman wondered.

Stopping, he entered at the doorway, and stood gazing around. Before him was a long, wide work-bench at which Lenormand stood. Upon the floor was a half-emptied sack of plaster-of-paris. At one end of the bench were little squares of glass, binding tape, tools, butterflies pinned to cards. Along the bench stood molds, and square cakes of hardened plaster from these molds.

Lenormand waved his hand gaily. "There, monsieur—a touch more, and we have it! Allow me to present you the finished product. Not bad, eh?"

IN his hand Freeman took the finished product—a plaster cake five inches square. In the center of this, held in a depression shaped to its general outline in the mold, was a gorgeous blue-and-gold butterfly of large size. Over this had been fitted a glass, held in place by a passe-partout binding. The work was neat, and the result beautiful.

"What species of butterfly is this?" asked Freeman.

"Alas!" Lenormand grimaced. "I am no scientist, monsieur. I collect the beautiful; that is all. It interests me. See, I have nearly sixty completed over there in that pile. These few will be finished before noon; then I pack them all. It interests you?"

Freeman nodded, and looked at the bench. Upon it were nearly twenty molds, into which the plaster had apparently just been poured. Before each was set a butterfly, ready for mounting when the plaster had hardened, also a glass to fit the square of plaster.

"Isn't there danger of breakage?" asked Freeman.

The young man shrugged. "Perhaps; but as you see, each is two inches thick, and they will be well packed. And what would you? It is an amusement; it interests me."

Freeman looked at him, removed his pipe, and was about to ask a question that would most certainly have startled, perhaps even terrified, brother Paul. A sound checked him, however.

This sound was the long, shrill scream of a woman, coming from the house.

Lenormand looked up; the color drained out of his face as he met Freeman's eyes. The plaster-set butterfly in his hands dropped and broke.

Then as the scream was repeated, both men dashed out of the place and ran across the garden. A frightened native servant met them at the door.

"Quickly, messieurs— poor M. Maignien is dead!"

There ensued a very chaotic quarter of an hour.

LENORMAND took charge, for Madame Maignien was prostrated temporarily, and Freeman lent a hand. Maignien was dead, indeed; he had fallen asleep and had died peacefully in his sleep, no doubt from the aneurism of the heart to which he was subject. Lenormand summoned Lon-tran, the native boy who ran the launch, and was about to send him to the city when Freeman intervened.

"Perhaps, monsieur," he said quietly, "it might be better if I myself went for the doctor? I could then tell him what I know, on the way back."

"You would be so kind? By all means, then," assented Lenormand, with obvious relief. "I will give you his address—"

So Freeman set off for Saigon in the launch, which was urged to fullest speed. All the way downstream he sat wordless, smoking most of the time, eyes fastened upon the water and the mangrove-bordered rice paddies.

"If I had only warned him! " he thought. "Yet— of what could I have warned him?"

Upon reaching Saigon, he did not go to the address of Maignien's doctor. Instead, he went direct to the Prefecture, sent in his card and certain documents, and was immediately brought to the presence of M. le Préfet, a very trim and soldierly man, who returned his documents and shook hands with him impressively.

For ten minutes Freeman talked, while M. le Préfet listened with every symptom of astonishment.

"But, monsieur!" he exclaimed, when Freeman had finished. "If this is as you say— which I doubt not at all — it is an affair of honor, of domestic life. And there has been no crime."

"That remains to be seen," said Freeman. "You will come?"

"But of a certainty!" The Frenchman rose. "Our own doctor shall accompany us— he can perform the autopsy, while I proceed with the official inquiry."

So the launch sped back up the river, with M. le Préfet, a police surgeon, and six trim native policemen keeping Freeman company, not to mention the secretary of M. le Préfet.

Their arrival created something of a sensation, but Lenormand met them and conducted them into the house. Madame had quieted somewhat, and would be able to appear. While a table was being set up in the salon and M. le Préfet arranged his numerous documents, the surgeon examined the body and returned with word that Maignien had apparently died from a heart-seizure. Then he vanished again, without asking permission from anyone, to conduct the autopsy by himself.

M. le Préfet opened the inquiry, while his secretary wrote rapidly. The servants gave their testimony; then Madame Maignien appeared, and the official greeted her with great sympathy, for grief had ravaged her features and her voice was very feeble.

Yes, she said, she had entered her husband's room to awaken him, as was her daily custom; and upon touching him—

There she broke down, sobbing. M. le Préfet excused her; nay, he forced her to go to her own room and rest, for there was no further immediate need of her testimony. When she had departed, the prefect requested that the clothes and personal effects of the deceased be brought to him, and they were fetched and set upon a chair beside him.

He went through the pockets and laid various articles upon the table; last of all he laid a folded paper. Then he looked at Lenormand and Freeman.

"Now, messieurs! First, M. Freeman, if you please. Your papers?"

Freeman produced them. The prefect looked them over and returned them.

"Correct. Your business?"

"I am a buyer for a firm of jewel merchants," said Freeman. "My business here was to buy the jewel collection of M. Maignien."

Lenormand started, began to speak, then checked himself. His eyes widened upon Freeman, and a slow pallor grew in his cheeks.

"You accomplished this business?"

"Last night. Here is the bill of sale." Freeman laid the signed paper on the table. "I gave M. Maignien a draft for the amount indicated."

"It is here." And M. le Préfet opened the folded paper he had taken from the pocket of Maignien's coat.

"Touching the property which I purchased, monsieur—" began Freeman.

"In due time, monsieur," said the prefect coldly. "M. Lenormand—your papers, please."

Lenormand produced the ever-necessary French identity card.

The prefect studied it, then laid down upon the table and transfixed Lenormand with a quiet stare.

"An excellent forgery," he said. "I believe, monsieur, that your real name is Bourisson?"

Lenormand's face was beaded with perspiration. His eyes were ghastly.

"I— yes, monsieur," he said in a low voice.

"Two years ago," went on the prefect, "you were implicated in a jewel swindle in Kobe, Japan, and expelled from the country?"

The hunted gaze of Lenormand flicked from one to another of the faces around him.

"That—that is true, monsieur," he murmured.

"Then you are not the brother of Madame Maignien ?"

Desperately Lenormand pulled himself together.

"Monsieur! " he exclaimed in a sudden burst of rapid speech. "Consider—we have loved each other for years! She married this older man—she did not love him in the least—"

"Monsieur," intervened the prefect gravely, "I am concerned only with your offense in bearing a false identity card. Unless a crime has been committed, your love-affairs do not interest me in the least; and apparently no crime has been committed here. That a lover should forge his identity in order to be near his mistress,"—and he shrugged,—"is perhaps an offense which might gain the sympathy of the judge. And I am not the judge."—Then as Lenormand sank back in his chair, the prefect looked at Freeman.

"Monsieur, you can identify these jewels, which are your property?"

"Certainly," said Freeman quietly. "They are itemized on the bill of sale. Also, there is a catalogue with illustrations of them."

"Let us obtain them." And the prefect rose, taking from the table Maignien's keys. "You can assist me, gentlemen, if you will be so kind. Ah—"

THE surgeon entered, came to the table, and spoke in a low voice.

"Very good," said the prefect. "You will return to Saigon at once and proceed with the analysis."

And he led the way to the study of Maignien.

There he examined the door of the teakwood room; it was locked, and bore no signs of any forcible opening. He unlocked it. Inside, he unlocked the safe and, with two of his policemen assisting, bore the loads of jewel-boxes to the table in the salon. When everyone was in place again, he motioned to Freeman.

"Very good, monsieur. Will you have the kindness to examine the jewels?"

Freeman opened the case containing the Siamese Twins. They looked up at him, grayish-white, dusky, beautiful. He went from box to box, and the prefect checked off the list on the bill of sale as he proceeded. Last of all he opened the morocco case containing the Phoenix Tourmaline, and named it.

All this while, the gaze of the man called Lenormand remained fastened upon him in a sort of terrified fascination and suspense.

"Then, monsieur," said the prefect, "the collection of jewels is as you left it last night?"

"No," said Freeman. "The jewels have been stolen, and duplicates have been put in their places, monsieur."

There was a tense, startled silence. Then Lenormand leaped to his feet.

"But you, monsieur, are the only person who has left this-house today!" he cried out.

Freeman looked at the young man gravely, steadily, but did not reply. M. le Préfet squared around in his chair.

"So! It would appear that a crime has been committed, after all," he observed, and gave Freeman a glance of admiring wonder. "M. Lenormand—"

"You cannot accuse me!" exclaimed Lenormand passionately. "I have not been out of this house except to welcome you. Jewels such as these could not be quickly nor easily hidden— and these jewels were in place last night, as M. Freeman admits! If these are duplicates, how did they get in the boxes ? Where are the originals ? No one has touched them since last night. The keys have not left the possession of M. Maignien. You cannot accuse me, I tell you—search my room, search everywhere! But— the exchange of false for real might have been made by this American last night; and he might have taken the real stones to Saigon this morning!"

"Quite true," observed M. le Préfet placidly. "What say you, M. Freeman ?"

"I have several things to say." And Freeman held a light to his cigar. Then he turned to the prefect. "Will you have the goodness to instruct M. Lenormand to answer my questions? Or wait—perhaps I can reconstruct for you all that has passed."

He paused, examined his cigar, then puffed at it contentedly.

"Two years ago," he said, "M. Maignien was unwise enough to print a few copies of a catalogue describing his jewels in detail, with colored illustrations, life-size. A year and a half ago, he married for the second time. How and where and why, I am not aware. But I would suggest that an investigation into the past of his wife would disclose acquaintance with our friend M. Lenormand."

"You lie! " cried out Lenormand, white with anger—or other emotion. Two of the policemen moved quietly in, one on either side of him.

"Now let us imagine," pursued Freeman calmly, "that a copy of M. Maignien's catalogue fell into the hands of M. Lenormand, whose photograph is very well known to men in the gem trade as that of a gentleman not to be trusted. With such a catalogue, it would be no great trick to have duplicates made of each item in this collection; the work would take a little time, and some money. Then, let us say, Madame Maignien's brother— who very possibly is her lover in reality— shows up here and is made welcome by a simple, unsuspecting old man. In his luggage are concealed the duplicates of the jewels. But what does he find when he arrives here? That, since the catalogue was printed, M. Maignien has acquired another jewel— a jewel almost beyond price for its rarity, if not in its intrinsic value. Possibly the brother sees this jewel—it is this, the Phoenix Tourmaline."

Freeman opened the morocco case and laid bare the duplicate—which was beautiful enough in itself, despite its false coloring.

"Being an expert, the brother knows its value, and resolves to have it with the rest," he went on. "But how to make a duplicate? He is a cautious man; he dares not try to photograph it. He knows that there could be no safety in actually stealing the jewels outright. However, he has been able to get access to the keys that unlock the little room and the safe; he has made duplicate keys. So what does he do? He takes the Phoenix Tourmaline, and being a very good workman, makes a cast of it, in plaster-of-paris. Then he brushes it off and puts it back—which was a mistake. He should have washed it very carefully. When we find the real Phoenix Tourmaline, it will show faint but distinct traces of the operation. Now he sends the cast to Japan, where a duplicate is made in colored glass, following the intricate design and so forth. Receipt of this delays him here in Saigon a full six weeks longer than he had intended to stay. But the duplicate finally arrives—"

Lenormand came to his feet. He was furious, raving denials, accusations, until presently he got himself in hand and, deadly pale, uttered a simple and eloquent rebuttal which was astonishing in its coherence, by contrast with his preceding words. It was as though terror had shocked him into clarity of thought.

Reflectively M. le Préfet listened to him, allowed him to finish, and then turned to Freeman. "Monsieur, there is much in what this man says. Your hypothetical case has really no objective. Reflect! Supposing such a crime as you depict were contemplated— where would be the reason ? The woman in the case would naturally inherit after the death of her husband; there would be no object in all this work, all this trouble and expense, of making duplicates. You have insinuated that the murder of her husband was contemplated—"

"Your pardon, M. le Préfet, I have insinuated no such thing," said Freeman stolidly. "I do not believe that M. Maignien was murdered. I do not believe that his murder was so much as contemplated. Let me remind you that I have not finished my hypothetical case."

The prefect gestured significantly and sat back in his chair, while Lenormand gazed at Freeman with slow astonishment in his eyes.

"The duplicate arrives from Japan," continued Freeman, in his calm, inexorable voice. "All is now complete. The brother-in-law has become a nuisance; the husband fears him, procures him passage for France, kicks him out. He goes, taking the genuine jewels, leaving the false ones in their place; he knows that the husband seldom inspects them, and that by the time the substitution is discovered, he will be safe in Bangkok or elsewhere beyond extradition, even could the theft be proven against him. And later he divides with the woman, his mistress. That is the way the crime was pictured in theory. In actual fact, we know that something went amiss. A man— myself— came casually and recognized Lenormand as a jewel swindler. So!

"You raise the question of motive; very good— I was coming to that., M. Maignien was subject to heart-seizures. He was elderly, excitable; he could not last very long. If he did, the end might be hastened. But if and when he died— would his wife inherit? Not so, as I understand your law, M. le Préfet. By a former marriage, there were two sons, now residing in France. There would be a division of the property, of which the collection formed a large part."

A subdued exclamation escaped the prefect.

Then Lenormand rose, deadly quiet, and spoke in a firm voice.

"M. le Préfet," he said, "all this is very clever; but it is nonsense. My crime is that I loved another man's wife; I confess it, and," he added with a certain impressive dignity, as he glanced around, "I am willing to suffer for it— if the court declares it to be a crime! As for these jewels— that is another matter."

"You are right," said Freeman. "It is another matter altogether. When they were stolen, they were my property. Therefore it is my right to demand that you be arrested for the theft."

"There is no proof, monsieur," said Lenormand firmly. "All you have said is theory. You have brought no proof against me; I deny every word of your fantastic theory! It is I, on the contrary, who demand that you be arrested for the theft. You substituted the false stones for the genuine ones. Your next move will be to repudiate the check that you gave in payment."

"Not at all," said Freeman, looking at the man steadily.

"Come, monsieur," said the prefect, a trifle uneasily. "This man speaks the truth. There is no proof whatever of your charge. Nothing could establish your theory, except—"

"Except finding the jewels in his possession." Freeman beckoned to one of the policemen. "With your permission, M. le Préfet—"

He spoke, low-voiced, to the little brown man, who saluted smartly and left the room.

"An impressive bluff, monsieur!" Lenormand uttered a curt laugh. "But I have not those jewels. How could they be hidden? How could they be taken out of the country, indeed?"

"In a very simple fashion which I am about to explain," said Freeman. "If I am wrong, it will be shown, and my whole theory will then fall to pieces."

With a grunt, Lenormand resumed his chair; across his face swept waves of suspicion, startled doubt, swift incredulity and hope. Sweat sprang on his brow, and he wiped it away....

The policeman re-entered the room, came to the table, saluted, and laid down one of the molds from the work-bench in the summer-house. At sight of it, Lenormand's eyes dilated with terror.

"If I wanted to get the jewels away," said Freeman quietly, "I would collect butterflies and mount them— in this manner."

He twisted the wooden screws at the sides of the mold, which opened. Upon the table rested a white block of plaster, bearing a depression in the shape of a butterfly. Freeman picked it up—then suddenly dashed it down upon the floor.

The plaster was shattered. From its fragments came a shaft of light; there in the afternoon sunlight lay the Phoenix Tourmaline.

Lenormand fell back in his chair in a dead faint.

"But, monsieur, how on earth did you know?" exclaimed M. le Préfet, regarding Freeman with a certain awe. "You had no previous knowledge—how could you have evolved this theory, so accurate in each detail?"

"That," returned Freeman, with a faint smile, "is my business, monsieur!"

_____________________

4: British Agent

Blue Book  May 1941

THE man with the gray eyes made a covert warning gesture. His companion fell silent, as the waitress approached with the meal they had ordered.

The little tavern, in a side street of war-ravaged Danzig, was blue with tobacco-smoke and buzzing with tongues. Burghers, merchants, soldiers, crowded the place; half the languages of Europe were in the air. When the waitress was gone, the man with the gray eyes relaxed and attacked his soup, with a quiet word in English.

"You were saying, Beauchamp—"

"That the world has turned over, is flying apart," said the other gloomily.

"This upstart dictator has become, before we realized it, the greatest figure on earth. He has either conquered, or subdued into alliance, the whole of Europe. All laws, human and divine, have been abrogated. We're seeing civilization itself perish, Courtney."

"Your words are careless, my dear Beauchamp," said Courtney. "The conqueror does not destroy civilization; he makes use of it. What he does destroy are the ideals and culture of the world. And don't talk too loudly. I think those fellows at the next table are secret police. They're everywhere, these days."

"What does it matter?" Beauchamp spoke wearily, with the air of one who has lost hope. "England is stagnant, in ruins, blockaded, her commerce gone, her influence lost—a little island fighting against the whole world! The dictator is swollen with the loot of Europe. His alliance with Russia has made him supreme. Italy is in his grip; he has literally enslaved entire nations. Freedom of speech and press is wiped out—"

"You forget one thing," said Courtney cheerfully, his gray eyes flickering about the tavern vigilantly, as he spoke. "His boasted invasion of England has failed, and must fail; we hold the seas."

"What good will that do us, in the end ?" The gloomy Beauchamp fell upon his soup and gulped ravenously, after the manner of a peasant; he played his part well. "His armies seem inexhaustible. All the powers of hell are behind him. Massacres, shootings, executions, rapine, follow his flag. Universities and centers of learning are demolished, ancient systems of culture have perished. New order, forsooth! He's establishing what he calls a new order for the whole world, and has begun with Europe, his slave."

"Attend to the soup; it may hearten you a bit," said Courtney. "You know, it's getting damned hard to find decent food anywhere! Europe's in for starvation and frightful epidemics this winter and next spring. But, Beauchamp, your entire argument is wrong. Our dictator friend has done quite well for himself, I admit; he's gradually coming face to face, however, with his destiny— with the force he cannot destroy or even face."

"You mean England?" grunted the other.

"I do not mean England, unless you consider England as a mere agent. Time and time again, such waves of destruction have overflowed the world, when everything fine and noble and divine seems to have perished utterly; yet it has survived. Do you know why? I'll tell you. Think a moment; you remember Jeanne d'Arc ?"

"Eh?" Beauchamp scowled. He was not good at history. "French girl—yes."

"Well, the secret lies in her story. She revealed it to the whole world, had the world only been able to—" Courtney broke off abruptly. His voice changed. He leaned over the table, stuffing bread and sausages into his pockets. Deadly alarm was in his eyes; but it was quiet, controlled, unpanicked.

"Quick, Beauchamp! I'm done for if that chap sees me. I must run. To business! When will you be back with the reports we need?"

"Soon as I can get to Warsaw and meet the Vienna chap who's to meet me there."

"Warsaw's your territory. Keep it. I've come from London for those reports; must take 'em back. Must stay here in Danzig till I get 'em. The devil! I never dreamed that Steinbach was in this part of Europe... he knows me too well. Can you be back here in five days?"

"Yes." Beauchamp had lost his gloomy aspect. He, too, was on the alert. "Five days, yes. I have good horses. But where to contact you?"

"Here in this tavern, the Rothenstern. Friday night. I'll be here or have word for you. Kill your horses if you must, but make it! Every day's of vital importance. Good luck, and God keep you!"

As he spoke, Courtney rose. His square shoulders slumped, his lean figure drooped. The worn old peasant's coat enveloped him, the hat-brim was pulled over his face. Staggering a little, as a countryman who had drunk too much, he weaved across the tavern floor and was gone.

Beauchamp grunted admiringly, yet scornfully. God! He had ceased to believe in God, though he was himself one of the cleverest British agents in Europe. He was not alone in this. Many people had ceased to believe in anything, these days of horror.

It was the autumn of 1809. The dictator whom they had been discussing was Napoleon, the upstart who had made himself from a peasant into the master of Europe, and who aimed at mastery of the world. This had happened before, and would happen again; but to such minds as that of Beauchamp, it was something new and horrible and meant the end of the world.

To such minds as that of Courtney, however, it meant something very different.

HE REACHED the doorway of the tavern in security. There, just as the dark safety of the street outside was within reach, disaster almost caught up with him. A French officer, entering, shoved him aside with arrogant hand. He fell back against the wall, his wide-brimmed hat was knocked aside. The officer glimpsed his face and was shocked into a momentary paralysis of recognition. Then Courtney dived into the street and was lost in the darkness.

He cursed his luck as he sped away. Bad enough to find Steinbach, the deadliest secret agent of Napoleon, here; worse, to have been seen and recognized by Villestreux. What horrible chance had brought them to Danzig, to the Rothenstern tavern, this night of all nights? They were the two men in France who knew him, who had best reason to know him. Steinbach, the right arm, and Villestreux, the left arm, of the French secret service, that terrible organization which reached out to the ends of Europe, striking down with pitiless efficiency the enemies of the dictator.

"Now they'll know I'm in Danzig; now there's no safety anywhere," thought Courtney as he strode through the narrow streets of the old city, recently reduced by the French after a bloody siege. "And I can't leave till my work's done."

No, he could not leave. He had come from England for the reports from Vienna, Warsaw and St. Petersburg, from the agents like Beauchamp who risked their lives daily to keep the British service afloat amid these deathly waters.

Courtney was the peer of them all. In Spain, in France itself, he had fought them tooth and nail, until a bullet through the body laid him out for six months; he was, reportedly, dead. With this advantage he was now back in the game, only to be recognized tonight, at the very start. It was cruel luck.

Leave? It was out of the question, until he got Beauchamp's reports on Friday. Even more important was to meet Dawson, who was coming from St. Petersburg. He would be here on Thursday at the latest. London was hanging desperately upon Dawson's report. If Russia could be detached from her alliance with the dictator, then there was great hope for England; otherwise the outlook was gloomy.

Never, indeed, had it been gloomier. The Flanders expedition had been a ghastly failure. There were revolts in India. The Spanish expeditionary force had ended in defeat and embarkation. Scandinavia had been forced into alliance with the dictator, and one of his marshals, Bernadotte, would be Sweden's next king. The two-year blockade had brought starvation close to home. Only at sea had England managed to remain supreme.

And now, midway of the war, the entire cabinet had changed in London— whether for good or ill, no one knew as yet. As a crowning blow, the United States had passed the Non-intercourse Act; and once more England's commerce, which was barely keeping her alive, received a body-blow.

Courtney hurried along. His avenue of retreat was secure; a bluff-bowed fishing lugger, a tiny craft lurking among the islands and sending into Danzig twice a week for word from him.

In one of the waterfront streets, where the French siege guns had wrought havoc, he came to the dimly lit basement shop of a cobbler, and paused. The street was empty ; all was clear. The cobbler was at his bench, hammering away. Courtney stooped and entered; as the door swung, a bell jangled in the depths of the house. The cobbler looked up, grunted recognition, and pulled another bell-cord beside his bench; this was to tell those upstairs that all was well and the new arrival was a friend.

"All clear," said the cobbler, an old one-legged man. "But he has a caller, a lady."

"Who is she ?" demanded Courtney.

The cobbler shrugged. "How should I know? French, I think. Here he is now."

A rear curtain was brushed aside. Into the shop stepped the old, bent, white- haired man whose establishment here and whose sharp wits made this the focal point of northern Europe for the secret service. Leaning on his stick, his bright eyes peering at Courtney, old Dominie Claverhouse spoke under his breath.

"What's wrong, man? Where's Beauchamp ?"

"Skipped," said Courtney. "And I must find other lodgings. Can't risk drawing the hounds on you. Steinbach is here; so is Villestreux. I saw them both. By the devil's luck, Villestreux saw and recognized me."

"Get back to England," said the Dominie curtly.

"Impossible. Beauchamp returns with his reports on Friday night. And Dawson will be here from St. Petersburg not later than Thursday."

"Very well," rejoined the Dominie. "Come upstairs. Peter, draw the shutters and keep watch on the street from above. Come along, Courtney. Elaine de Courland is here—the very person to solve your riddle."

Courtney followed him to a back passage, which opened upon a steep stairway.

"Never heard of her," he said. "If you say so, of course she's safe."

Claverhouse cackled a laugh. "As the dead! The Cossacks have killed most of her family, the French have looted her estates. She has money enough and lives here quietly. She'll take care of you, and I can reach you at any time if you're with her."

Courtney made no response, but trailed him up the stairs. A woman refugee, eh? Young, no doubt beautiful; addlepated and languishing, with hysterics in the offing, and ready to betray anyone if their vanity were injured, these women! The lean, hatchet-faced Englishman with the gray eyes did not like to trust any woman; but women unfortunately seemed to like to trust him. They could, more's the pity.

In the bare, sparsely furnished upstairs room, he bowed to the Dominie's introduction. The candlelight did not reveal but softly cloaked details. Courtney perceived that she was not tall, that she had a sweet, mobile face, that she was enveloped head and shoulders in a woolen peasant shawl.

"Mademoiselle," said the Dominie in French, "permit me to introduce my friend Allan Courtney. He must remain in Danzig until Friday night. Two French secret agents have recognized him tonight. If taken, he will be shot at once. Anyone who shelters him will be shot. He refuses to allow me to run this risk—not that he loves me, but because my work would be jeopardized."

THE little laugh that bubbled from her was delicious to hear, but it held a steely trenchant note that warned Courtney he was dealing with no ordinary woman.

"I see," she rejoined. "So you have in mind to ask that I take the risk, eh? Very well; I agree. Please come at once, M. Courtney, for there is no time to waste. Au revoir, my friend; you know how to reach me."

She extended her hand; the Dominie kissed it gallantly, and Courtney, who had not so far uttered a word, offered her his arm. She accepted. The Dominie brought Courtney's small satchel, containing his few personal effects, and himself let them out by the street door.

"Do you live far from here?" asked Courtney.

"In the next street. As far as heaven is from hell, when the French bombs and shot were falling; they reached here, but not to my street." Her voice quickened. "Careful, at the corner! If there's a patrol, we must get out of sight."

There was no patrol. The streets here were empty. They came to a high, narrow old house that was quite dark. She dropped his arm and hastened up the steps; when he followed, she was holding open a door. All dark inside; he stepped in. The door closed. An inner curtain was drawn aside and an old manservant appeared, holding a silver candlestick.

"A guest, Hans," she said in French, so Courtney might understand. "He will occupy my brother's room; the clothes-closet is at his service. Show him the way. —Have you dined, M. Courtney?"

"I've some bread and sausages in my pocket," he rejoined.

She laughed softly. "Good! We dine in half an hour. We're alone in the house with Hans, who has served me for thirty years; you are safe with him."

Courtney bowed and departed up a stairway with the old servant. The candle was the only light in the house, apparently. The flickering gleam struck upon huge portraits, thick carpets, a glow of silver, but Courtney could see almost nothing.

The old servant lighted candles in a room of exquisite appointments, a man's room. The wardrobe was filled with garments of finest texture and cut, linen of the best.

"Where is your master, Hans?" Courtney asked.

"He is not here, monsieur," replied the old servant, and departed. Cautious, eh ? Allan Courtney laughed, and hastily stripped off his peasant garments.

He bathed, shaved, dressed. The clothes fitted him fairly; the change was striking. He emerged a different man, gravely handsome, his nervous wariness gone; only the hard glitter behind his gray eyes betrayed that he was no dawdling fop. When he opened his door and blew out his candles, he found the hall lighted, the stairs and the rooms below in a glow of candelabra. Tapestries and portraits and clusters of arms adorned the walls; he was in an atmosphere richly subdued, luxurious in the extreme.

He realized, now, that this was an adventure, a fabulous dream made real. When he bowed to Elaine de Courland, he was certain of it.

She, too, was transformed. Not a girl, but not over thirty, he judged. .Her damask gown, her jewels, her high proud head, the regal loveliness of her features, astonished him; she was a woman of superb poise, of perfect control, and her outward loveliness was but the reflection of her real self.

Dinner was served in a dining-room paneled with old black oak; the silver, the china, the linens and viands were not only fine but remarkable. An ancient house filled with ancient treasures, Courtney comprehended. Across the table they spoke of art and music, of books, of travel; not stiffly and formally, but with a delightful intimacy. And as they talked, his wonder at this woman, and his admiration of her, grew each moment. Yet, in their conversation, no personal note intruded. She would not ask questions of a guest.

Dinner over, she led the way into a drawing-room and seated herself at a harpsichord, tinkling away idly, smiling at him.

"You do not use snuff?" she said. "Then smoke, by all means; I smelled tobacco on your clothes as we came."

Courtney obeyed, with a sigh of comfort. He had not eaten such a meal since he left London, and admitted as much.

"May I be permitted a question?" he went on. "I did not recognize the crest on your silver, but then I don't know much about German heraldry."

She ceased to smile. "The house of Courland was broken up and scattered long ago. This it all that remains of it. The estates are gone. The family is gone."

He started. Courland— the Dukes of Courland! Of course; long ago scattered and gone.

"But your brother?" he asked quietly.

"He is dead," she said. A sudden flash came into her face and was lost again.

"He was murdered by French agents; rather, by an Alsatian in the French service."

"Forgive me," he said gently, but she smiled again.

"Why? One must always learn; the desire to learn betokens interest. There are many things I would like to ask you. I have heard your name. I know that you are one man whom the tyrants hate and fear—" She paused. "And then, monsieur, consider how similar are the names we bear: Courland, Courtney! That is destiny at work, doubtless."

HE forgot that he wore the clothes of a dead man; not that it mattered in the least to him. For, as he discussed his work, his adventures, the world around and the incredible things happening to it, he discovered in this woman a deep and sympathetic comprehension very like his own. She was not baffled by the mad events of today.

And yet they had closed in terribly upon her life. She was a refugee; French and Russians alike hated her whole family, and the dictator's secret police did not disdain to oppress or kill women.

"The future? I have none," she said simply. "If I could reach England, yes; but it is impossible. I have ceased to think about it. I must hide away here, and trust that no one will learn of me, or remember me. Presently, when the French find that this house belongs to me, they will come and loot it, and seize me. That will be the end."

"You shall have a better fate; I shall see to it! " he exclaimed, then relaxed and smiled. "Not that, at the moment, I'm able to change destiny; Steinbach has seen to that."

Her brows lifted. "Who ?"

"Steinbach—the devil in person, who serves France. He's here; I saw him tonight, he knows that I'm alive and within his power. By this time, the city is probably being searched for me. That's why I'm in danger."

"Oh! Like all the world; will Europe ever be itself again?"

"Certainly," he rejoined, puffing at his pipe.

She abandoned the harpsichord and looked at him for a long moment.

"You seem quite sure. You have strength and poise and knowledge.... I think you must be a good swordsman ?"

"Oh, fair enough." He laughed a little. He was the best rapier in London.

"Quite sure? Of course. All this is
nothing new, this destruction of the moral law, of spiritual and intellectual truth, by brute force. Every so often it happens, and the brute force meets the same eternal obstacle, and perishes. Just so will Bonaparte perish, and all his boasted new order."

"What is this eternal obstacle you mention?" she demanded quickly. "Are you one of those silly people who believe Right must conquer Wrong—when we see it denied all around us every day? That God must always conquer Satan— when we feel the devil's whip on our backs?"

"No." His face, his eyes, became gravely earnest. "I was trying to explain it tonight to my friend Beauchamp; rather useless, I fear. It's not merely man's will to survive; it's something more startling, more direct. It's an unseen force which has never permitted, and never will permit, the Beast to conquer and flourish. He may conquer, yes; then it destroys him. He disintegrates, before its unseen power."

Her eyes dilated. "Either you are quite mad, or you have perceived a great truth! What is this force?"

He was silent for a space. "You may understand it; most people would not. You recall the story of Jeanne d'Arc?"

She gestured impatiently, alight with eager interest.

"Of course. What about it?"

"She appeared in times not unlike these, and saved her country. She brought it erect again. At such a crisis, this unseen force works in queer ways, and through queer agents—but always, invariably, it so works! Jeanne was in intimate contact with it. She heard it speak to her, she obeyed it. Remember the ‘voice' which she heard? This unseen force, I tell you, is the same eternal verity behind all the worlds: Divinity. Things divine. Man struggles and builds to reach the divine, and ever reaches a little farther. Some Napoleon, some Attila, some Genghis Khan, ravens and destroys him and his works, yet he and they persist, because divine things are at work—"

Awkwardly, he ceased to speak; he could not put the thought further into words. No need. She sat rapt, staring at nothing; she had comprehended, and it made her slim bosom rise and fall, her thin delicate nostrils dilate, her whole face become radiant. At length, with a catch of her breath, she wakened from her reverie and turned to him.

"I see, I see; you are treading upon dangerous ground, my friend! You dare to affirm the existence of a God, when the dictator of the whole of Europe denies the fact?"

"Nonsense I I'm not talking religion at all," exclaimed Courtney half angrily. "I'm talking about natural forces, eternal verities which we cannot understand, whose very existence is revealed only to certain chosen persons.... Say no more of it, I beg you."

"Not so; it is an idea, and ideas are precious things," she rejoined, and with a smile came to her feet. "I know you must be weary; we shall have time enough to talk, these next few days, so good night."

He went to his own room; and yet, oddly, he knew that she had dismissed him abruptly because she wanted to be alone with this idea of his. She grasped it. She knew it true.

And it remained between them, as a bond. They did not speak of it again, for morning brought new outlooks, yet it was there. It was at least a hope, given to a woman who had been empty of hope.

NEWS came with day: news of activity throughout the city, of all exits barricaded, of all boats and ships in the harbor searched. The waterfront was gone over with a fine-toothed comb; once satisfied that the man they wanted was not in this quarter, the French clapped a rigorous blockade on every road and exit, then set about a house-to-house inspection of the city.

So Courtney learned on Monday evening, having seen his hostess only briefly, at meal hours. She went out on Tuesday morning, muffled in the peasant clothes and shawl that she invariably wore on the street, carrying a market-basket. Courtney, who had discovered a small, gloomy but well-stocked library adjoining the drawing-room, was busy there when the servant Hans appeared in great agitation.

"Monsieur! " he exclaimed, for he also spoke French fluently. "They are here; they are in the street! The soldiers!"

"Where is your mistress?" asked Courtney, not turning around. "Has she come back?"

"No, she is at market—"

"Admit the soldiers when they come," he rejoined, and lifted his head from the pile of books on the table before him. A thunderous banging came from the door. "Quickly! Admit them, I say! I am your master, tell them!"

Hans fled. Courtney tumbled open some more volumes, seized quill and inkstand and paper, and fell to work.

He heard them coming, pounding on the stairs, clattering on the polished floors. Two officers strode in and halted at sight of him. One extended a paper.

"A search-warrant, monsieur. We are seeking a notorious criminal."

Courtney looked up, with an air of irritation. Spectacles were on his nose; his hair was disordered and well grayed with powder; a gray mustache clung to his lip; his face was yellowed and darkened and streaked with lines of age.

"What is it, what is it?" he said in German. "I do not understand."

The officer explained in German. Courtney waved his quill.

"Search, then! It is nothing to me. The house is at your disposal. Do not bother me."

The two officers grinned at each other and departed. Presently the house was cleared. Barely were the soldiers out, when Elaine de Courland came hurrying in, and with a quick word to Hans, rushed to the library. She stopped short in the doorway, at sight of the transformed Courtney, and an exclamation of relief broke from her.

"You! It is a miracle—"

"Careful," he broke in. "Get to the kitchen, quickly! They'll be back. It's an old trick; search a house, depart, and then come back again in a few moments. Hurry!"

She was off on the instant. Sure enough, ten minutes later one of the two officers came striding in without ceremony and came straight to the library. He tossed down a paper before Courtney.

"Mein Herr, I forgot to give you this certificate. It shows that your house has been searched, in case others come."

"Yes, yes; why do you disturb my work?" growled Courtney, and the officer departed.

Tuesday passed. Wednesday dragged out its slow hours. Hans went to the
cobbler's shop and came back with word that all was safe there; the Dominie had survived the search-ordeal. On this night, Elaine showed herself charming, radiant, filled with life and gayety. What a woman she would be, thought Courtney, once away from this world of terror and constant fear!

ON Thursday morning came a caller, from the Dominie. It was the bluff, hard-jawed Hamburg man who captained the lugger that hung among the islands; he had come into the city by boat.

"I'm hoping to leave tomorrow night," said Courtney. Elaine was with them; he made no secret of the matter before her. In his heart he had determined not to go alone. "If not, then the next night."

"The harbor is closed an hour after sunset," said the shipman, worried.

"An excellent time to get away," Courtney declared. "I'll be waiting at the first boat-stairs this side the customs-house, the same place you set me ashore. If not tomorrow night, then Saturday night. I think, however, it will be tomorrow."

"The boat will come," said the shipman, and took his departure.

This day, Thursday, Courtney noted an abrupt change in his hostess. Finding that he played chess, she produced a board and they whiled away the hours at the game; yet she was not herself. She seemed on a nervous tension. She was distraught, regarded him queerly. He wondered whether the risk was getting on her nerves.

At dinner, she spoke of her brother. He had been the idol of her life, it appeared; she had loved him devotedly, passionately. It was only six months since his execution; he had been working against France, serving the German revolutionary party. They had shot him.

"I would do anything on this earth, anything," she said with deliberate emphasis, "to avenge his death, to strike down his murderer! "

Courtney thought for a moment that she was talking at him, seeking to enlist him. This was very far from her intent, as he later knew, but the notion irked him.

"It is the risk we all run, mademoiselle," he said. "We are lucky if we get shot, indeed—that is, if we're caught or betrayed."

Her gaze chilled upon him. "So? You English have no heart."

"On the contrary, we have so much that we fear to let it appear on the surface." He smiled. "You catch my meaning, I trust, even if the figure of speech is faulty."

She changed the subject, as though offended, and that evening he saw nothing of her. But Dawson came; Dawson, from St. Petersburg—at sunset the Dominie brought him, so well disguised that Courtney scarcely knew him.

His reports were definitely a blow. At the moment there was no chance whatever to entice Russia away from alliance with the dictator of Europe; every means had been tried and had failed. For London, it would be sad news. To Courtney, it was only another setback in a world filled with setbacks. He took the dispatches that Dawson entrusted to him, shook hands, and was left alone again.

Friday came, a chill, cloudy day pregnant with rain or with snow—for winter was close at hand in these northern regions.

Courtney passed the morning in the library, reading, forcing his mind to calmness. His reward came toward noon, when Hans said that a Polish fish-peddler was asking for him. It was Beauchamp, gloomier than ever and highly nervous.

"With Steinbach and Villestreux both here, Danzig is the devil's own pitch-pot!" he said, refusing even to sit down. "Here are the messages from Prague and from Vienna, and my own reports to boot. Suppose anything happens to you?"

"Then you're out of luck too," said Courtney lightly. "What news?"

"The worst. The Austrian alliance with Bonaparte has been confirmed; huge slices of territory are being handed over, huge monetary payments made. There's some talk that he's to marry Marie Louise, the emperor's daughter. From Warsaw, I've only the same bad news. He's creating an entirely new Polish state; at least, that's what I've picked up. From Prague—well, this report will speak for itself. Kendricks was betrayed and was shot for espionage; we'll have to appoint a new man there. Poor chap! He was at Harrow with me."

Beauchamp departed.

Courtney made his dispatches into a compact bundle. Too bad about Kendricks; this hit him hard, for Kendricks had been an old friend and comrade. He looked up, at a step, to see Elaine de Courland. She was going out; to his astonishment, she had eschewed the peasant garb and was really lovely with her furs and a glint of jewels.

"Are you leaving tonight?" she asked.

"Yes. All finished. But you—"

"I'm tired of smelly clothes and of hiding," she cut in, checking him. He had been on the point of telling her that she, too, was leaving this night. Her cold manner stopped the impulse. "I'll be back in time for dinner. An early dinner, since you'll be leaving as soon as darkness falls. Here! I wish you to wear this, if you please. It belonged to my brother. I'd like to know that you're wearing it."

She handed him a sheathed sword, a beautiful blade with jeweled handle, and then left him. Courtney was perplexed by her air, by her words; but when he looked at the naked blade, he was delighted. It was a rapier in a thousand, of finest steel, and a most princely gift.

"Queer! " he thought. "What the devil's in her mind, I wonder?"

THE afternoon dragged. He made ready, picking out a heavy fur-lined coat of the dead man's, and giving his old peasant costume to Hans for burning.

"And," he told the old servant, "get your things ready, and the pick of what your mistress will want—of jewels and money, no more than can be carried lightly. I may take you both with me to England tonight, but I'm not sure. I haven't asked her yet. I'm leaving that until the last moment."

Hans, confused and overjoyed, bustled off.

Sunset approached, but there was no sun to set this night. A thin drizzle of rain was beginning to fall, to the great delight of Courtney. Darkness would come early. In fact, the gloomy house grew dark long ahead of its usual time, and Hans lit candles in the drawing-room where Courtney sat pondering moves on the chessboard, to kill time. The sword lay on the table beside him; he had no intention of cumbering his movements with the weapon before he left the house.

A rattle at the front door. It opened and closed again with a slam. She was back, then! Suddenly Courtney, hand extended to one of the pieces on the board, froze. He heard voices from the entry hall, her voice—and another's. A man's voice—a voice he knew, and it sent an incredulous, gasping chill through him.

He looked up, his face white and shocked, as Steinbach came striding into the room. Behind him was Elaine, closing the door and standing against it.

"So!" On the word, Steinbach halted. "A trap, baited upon a pretty hook! So this is the gentle love-nest she promised me! I might have known it! "

He was as though carved of ivory—a pallid man with cold eyes and expressionless but striking features. He was garbed in the height of fashion, a fine gentleman; but he was no gentleman.

"Quick!" From the woman burst a wild gasp. "The sword—this is the reason I gave it to you! This is the man who murdered my brother! Kill him, kill him! I have brought him here—"

"Yes, she brought me here." Steinbach was smiling. A laugh, a rare thing with him, came to his lips. "Good evening, M. Courtney. We meet once more."

All this brief while, Courtney had not moved. His hand was still extended to the chessman. Now of a sudden, his palsied brain calmed. He saw the whole thing, and could have groaned aloud. In her blind and furious desire for vengeance, a wholly natural but frightfully dangerous desire, Elaine had lured Steinbach here to his death—or so she fondly expected.

The Frenchman toppled forward. The candles were blown out. The voice of Hans, the voice of Elaine, pierced the darkness.

But Steinbach was laughing with grim, confident amusement.

"What, my honest Englishman, no move to kill me ?" he said lightly, tauntingly. "You seem astonished. Is it possible you did not send her, after all, to bring me ?"

"No, upon my word," faltered Courtney. The young woman stared at him in wild and incredulous horror. Steinbach turned, still laughing, and surveyed her.

"Your brother? What's all this talk? You lied to me about your name?"

"Yes, you devil!" She flashed into abrupt movement. A little brass pistol came into her hand. "I'm Elaine de Courland.... Ah, you know me now, do you!"

Steinbach looked startled. "So that is it!"

"Yes, that's it," she cried, her voice shrill. "I shall kill you myself. What are you laughing about, monster?"

Courtney, not rising, not moving, spoke up with sharp vehemence.

"Elaine! Put down that pistol—down with it!"

As he very well knew, Steinbach could have wrested it from her with little danger; she held it far out from her body, at arm's-length. But Steinbach was smiling, keenly amused.

"Our friend gives you good advice," he said. "What am I laughing at, pretty one? Why, I've treated with lovely ladies long before now, let me tell you. And if you kill me, it'll do you no good. My comrade Villestreux followed us. He's out in the street now, with a dozen men, waiting to hear my whistle. Yes, put down the pistol."

Her eyes distended, her arm slowly, slowly fell. She stared at Steinbach, then darted a frightful look at Courtney.

"A lie!" rang out her voice. "A trick, a lie—"

"Not in the least," spoke up Courtney with calm assurance. "If you had broached your plan to me, I would have told you it was useless; you cannot catch Steinbach with so simple a lure."

Steinbach bowed his head slightly. "Thank you, M. Courtney. Will you have the goodness to surrender quietly? I don't like your motionless attitude, upon my word."

"There's reason enough," said Courtney, relaxing a little in his chair. "I've a badly twisted ankle, thanks to a fall down the steps this afternoon, and can't stand on my left foot at all. Otherwise, I assure you, it would have given me great pleasure to kill you. I'm afraid the game's up. You've got me where I can't run. Would you do me one favor?"

"Possibly," said Steinbach, eying him narrowly.

"Then let's not have any scene. I've no concealed weapons, upon my honor; not so much as a pistol. I didn't expect this call, you see. However, I have a good deal of information in regard to certain large sums of money. So call in Villestreux by himself, leaving his men outside, and we may do a bit of bargaining. I'm done for, but this young lady should not be molested. And you can't find the money unless I tell where it is."

Desperate—a desperate gamble, his voice and face under desperate control. He had no choice now. She had brought about this horrible crisis, and he had to get out of it if he could; it was a long chance. Still, he knew how venal Steinbach was, how the man was avid after gold; it was the ruling passion of his

"Hand over the pistol, mademoiselle," he went on quietly. Now, at every cost, he must make the man believe in him. "Perhaps, Steinbach, you'd prefer that she call Villestreux?"

Steinbach relaxed a little.

"Yes. If you think I'm fool enough to take my eyes off you.... Ah, thank you!" He took the pistol that she extended. "Yes. Call M. Villestreux. I'll speak to him when he comes to the front door. A little talk will harm no one."

Elaine de Courland was stricken to the very soul; Courtney almost pitied her in this moment. She had all but collapsed. Her flaring, flaming spirit had been struck down. Courtney's words had horrified her; realization of her folly, of Steinbach's cunning, had absolutely demolished her. As she turned to the door, she staggered, then recovered.

"Sit down, Steinbach. Sorry I can't do the honors, but my whole leg is in spasms of pain." Courtney picked up his pipe and stuffed it. His air was casual. "Bad luck, eh? Otherwise, I'd have got away. Well, I can offer you a bit of gold if it'll do me any good: a thousand guineas in English gold. Securely hidden, too."

He leaned over, grimaced with imaginary pain, and lit his pipe at the nearest candle. Through the smoke, his gray eyes leaped and drove. The pistol that Steinbach held loosely.... Alas, the silly woman! One might have known. The priming was all fallen out. It was at cock, and he could see the empty pan. He could see the glint in Steinbach's eyes, too, at his mention of the guineas. Gold was rare in Europe, .these days.

"That, plus the reward for your capture, will not be bad," said Steinbach.

From the hall, they could hear Elaine calling. Her voice was choked with emotion as she called the name of Villestreux. After a moment they heard his response, and Steinbach let out a bellow.

"Pierre! Come in, come in. Leave the men outside. Come in! A surprise for you!"

Through his pipe-smoke, Courtney's eyes were flickering about. He was planning every word now, every movement. His life depended on how well he timed what must be done; he could not afford to miss by an inch. Even so, he might possibly be killed—but that was always the risk. How lucky, now, that he had laid the naked sword on the table, unsheathed! This was the only break of luck in the whole affair.

And he knew he dared waste no time on Villestreux. There was a man who would not be tricked; he was all for action, impetuous and determined. Luckily, Villestreux was no mere police agent but a soldier. He did not depend upon whistles, as Steinbach did. God, what luck where most needed!

And here came Villestreux into the room, a smallish, agile man in uniform. He halted at sight of Courtney. He was thunderstruck.... And this was the instant on which Courtney must gamble.

Steinbach was laughing a little for sheer enjoyment of his comrade's stupefaction, as Courtney rose. He stepped on his left foot, winced sharply, staggered, threw out his hands— then, swift as light itself, he had the rapier and was whirling about. And even as he swung around, he was lunging, with every movement calculated.

Steinbach came half out of his chair. The pistol flashed in the pan. The point of the rapier drove through his throat; even his rise had been anticipated. But Courtney had overlooked one thing; the high wooden chair-back. The rapier-point, driven through and through Steinbach's throat, plunged into the wood and stuck.

True, Courtney freed it almost at once, but this brief instant had given Villestreux time to act. A shout burst from him; his sword slithered free, was thrusting forward. Barely did Courtney catch it on his own steel and parry the thrust.

A raving, furious passion seized Villestreux. He hurled himself at Courtney, cutting and slashing. Evading, stepping backward, parrying, Courtney almost went down under that mad rush. Yet his voice came with insistent energy.

"Elaine! The door—bar the front door! Call Hans. Out the back way!"

Villestreux had him cornered. He slipped away, caught a slash across his left arm, but the steel did not cut through the cloth by luck. Stay here fencing all night? Devil take it, no! Courtney backed to a chair, hooked his left arm about it, and sent it scurrying at the Frenchman. It caught Villestreux about the knees and staggered him. As he came to balance again, Courtney was in and at him, thrust and lunge, rapier driving and slithering past his steel.

Villestreux was struck, was struck again. A desperate cry broke from him as the blood spurted; that was his last effort, for the rapier crossed his guard and plunged into his chest, and Courtney sprang backward.

"You—you devil!" gasped out the Frenchman. His sword fell; he clutched at his breast and toppled forward.

The candles were blown out. The voice of Hans, the voice of Elaine, pierced the darkness. Courtney, sheathing the rapier and fastening the belt, was guided to them; Hans held the fur coat for him.

"Out the back way," he panted. "Lead. Chance it.... If they're not there, we can make the boat-stairs. You're going to England, Elaine, you and Hans.... No talk! Lead."

Her hand found his, and led him.

Luckily— luck again, he thought— there was a back way; not every house had one.

They came out into a silent street, muffled by the slight rain, Hans bearing the burden of what he had packed. Courtney felt Elaine's hand slide through his arm. Bewildered, swept away by her emotion, she scarce knew what she said. He silenced her abruptly.

"Never mind, never mind. Calm down. I don't blame you a bit; it came out right enough after all. Now forget it."

She calmed; the chill rain, the night air, aided. To distract her thoughts, Courtney spoke of the news brought by Dawson and by Beauchamp—none of it was good news.

She made an effort to discuss these things, about which she cared so little. Then they were at the dark stretch of wharves. Here Courtney knew his way, and presently came to the deserted boat-stairs by the customs-house. All three of them descended to the landing at the edge of the dark water.

"All right," said Courtney with assurance. "We're safe. The boat will come; after that the lugger and England. Feeling all right now, Elaine ?"

"I don't know. Everything's gone—" She paused. "So there's nothing but bad news! I'm sorry. The world has turned upside down for us, for everyone."

"It'll come right, never fear," Courtney rejoined.

Her fingers tightened on his arm.

"Do you still believe in your theory?" she breathed. "You have seen how hopeless everything is; no help anywhere, only the worst of news from all quarters! Your England has no statesmen, no soldiers, no generals of any fame. The dictator has the finest on earth. Oh, it is so hopeless, so dark! "

Courtney sighed. "True, I suppose; yet my conviction endures. The men who attempt to obliterate all divine things are, eventually, destroyed by those same unseen forces. They work slowly, through agents who gradually come to the front. We had hoped that Sir John Moore was such a person; he was our best soldier. But now he is dead, his army in Spain has been destroyed and driven out."

"Then England has given up fighting the dictator in Spain?"

"No," he rejoined. "No. They've sent another man, I hear, one who has gained some success already. He's not too well known. I'm afraid he can do nothing there."

"Who is he?"

"Oh, a chap who had most of his fighting experience in India. His name is Wellington.... Ah!" He broke off suddenly, leaning forward, searching the dark water. "There's the boat! All's safe, my dear!"

A chap named Wellington.... All was indeed safe; the world was safer than Courtney could know or dream.

__________________

5: Test Pilot Number One

Short Stories, January 10, 1940

IT WAS A HOT afternoon in Paris, which means that it was hot. Giraud was bald as a billiard ball, absolutely; he was mopping his bald pate when he made his surprising statement.

"If it hadn't been for the first test pilot in aviation history," he observed, "the first submarine mail would have been a total flop."

He had come over from home about some airplane contract with the French government. Although born French, Giraud was an American citizen. Further, he was an Early Bird, one of the oldest pilots alive and probably the best.

I ran into Giraud, we both ran into Pollack, and Pollack took us up to the aviators' club in the Bois de Boulogne, near the Porte Maillot. Pollack was growing bald too, these days. He was a spot ahead of me, but both of us were better off than Giraud, who had not a hair on his head behind his eyebrows.

"Germans pulled the first submarine mail during the war," said Pollack.

"Nope," stated Giraud in his positive way, running his eye over the room.

This club was a curious place, more American than French; most of the members, like Pollack, were old Lafayette Escadrille men. It was hung with trophies of all descriptions, souvenirs, mementoes of famous fights, flights and crashes.

"I have a letter in my pocket you boys ought to frame and hang up here," went on Giraud, ordering another drink. "But I mentioned the first test pilot—that was Forain. He was French-American, like me. And he had too many brains to keep his hair—like me. I might even add, like others." His twinkling gaze touched on me and Pollack. "Forain was a good technician. One of the first to volunteer for the air service."

"I never heard of any Forain," Pollack said thoughtfully.

"Before your time. Back in 1870— the first air mail."

Pollack looked bewildered. "No air mail then, man! Or submarines either!"

"No? Think back to the siege of Paris," said Giraud. "The Prussian idea was to break down the morale of Paris and France by cutting off the capital completely. They did so. They even found a secret telegraph line sunk in the River Seine, and cut it. Paris sent out a regular service of balloons, the first air mail. The pilots were aeronauts, seamen, volunteers; they got the mail out, but could get none in. Hence, the submarine mail."

"I think you're cockeyed, but you're interesting," Pollack said. "To qualify as submarine mail, it would have to be a government project, with special letter rates and so on."

"That's what it was," retorted Giraud. "The Prussians even stretched nets across the Seine to keep out floating bottles. No balloons could get back to Paris. Then, in the greatest secrecy, a project was devised that promised full success. That's where Forain's girl came in."

"Pilots had girls in those days? Impossible!" I exclaimed. Giraud chuckled raucously.

"And what a gal! Marie Leon was a bright star in a dark sky. She lived near the old Nationale bridge, in a tremendously lousy quarter of Paris. Her folks were communists. All that quarter was composed of communists, who hated uniforms and authority. But not Marie; she had brains! Also, she had a job in the post office of that quarter. And she had Forain. And Forain intended to get Marie out of this environment and start fresh back in America with her. There's the needed background."

Giraud took out his wallet and produced a transparent envelope containing an old stained, discolored letter.

"I wish I had a picture of that gal," he said, wistfully, shaking his bald head. "If you're ever in Cincinnati, I can show you one. Her grandchildren live there. At the time, she was only nineteen, but there was no nonsense about her. She conveyed an impression of quiet capability, of true steel—that's it, true steel! May not sound much, but it's a big thing to find in a woman. When you looked into her face, as Forain gazed into it that night on the bridge, you felt this quality in her."

THAT NIGHT on the bridge, a cold December night in clear white light of stars, Forain had the feeling full force as he met her, clasped her hand, leaned on the railing of the bridge. It was not her shapely body, nor her alert, vivid intelligence and loveliness of feature; it was something deeper.

"You know, I feel as though I could count on you for anything, for ever!" murmured Forain, bringing her fingers to his lips. "I've had that feeling since our first meeting."

She laughed softly. "You're the same sort of person yourself, my dear! Just to know you makes life different. But I'm afraid of these meetings—for you. There's a storm gathering, the Commune is taking form; my father, my brothers, our friends, are in it. All the lowest classes are talking about loot and bloodshed and, revolution. And if you're seen here, in this army overcoat, it'd be just too bad."

"Bah! The bridge is guarded," Forain glanced at the pacing figures of sentinels under the bridge-end lights. "Besides, it's too cold for anyone but lovers to be in the streets! Besides, my dear, this bridge is going to make history; and you're going to help in the making."

"The history of our love and lives?" she demanded archly. Holding a light to his pipe, he grunted dissent, then leaned his elbows on the railing and spoke under his breath, warming her cold hands in his own.

"Here's a secret of the deepest, Marie; a word to anyone might mean disaster, for Prussian spies are everywhere: A plan has been devised to bring mail into Paris. I've been working on it as technical expert."

Her fingers closed his lips.

"Don't tell me! I don't want to know any government secrets, my dear. It's too dangerous."

"Wait," he broke in. "Here I need your help, I need it vitally!"

"That's different." She drew the shawl tighter about her head and relaxed. "You can count on me:"

"Of course; isn't that exactly my thought?" He laughed joyously. "They say not five people in Paris know the project; you make six, and the most important of all! For upon you will depend its success or failure. All the wise men, all the officials, laugh at me; you shall help me laugh at them."

"With all my heart; and together we'll laugh at the whole world!" she exclaimed. "But first, the siege must be finished."

"And the Prussians defeated; this project will have tremendous effect upon French morale," said Forain. "I can't tell you about it now; too blasted cold here. Can you come over to the factory tomorrow afternoon?"

The "factory" was the Gare d'Orleans, turned over to Godard Bros., government contractors who turned out the air mail balloons.

"Yes; I could get there about three, for an hour," she said. "But to reach you is impossible. It's the most closely guarded place in Paris."

Forain laughed, and fumbled in his pocket. From the other side of the city drifted a rumble and mutter; the Prussian batteries were thundering. He extended a folded paper to the girl.

"Here's a special pass I got for you; it'll remove all difficulty."

She took it, tucked it away. "Good. Expect me, then, at three." She turned sharply, and caught her breath. "Ah! Here's trouble. My brothers—"

"Slip away, quickly!"

"Not I," she spat out scornfully.

FOUR MEN were slouching along across the bridge, so obviously low-class Parisians that the sentries paid no heed; Marie's two brothers, and two friends, gutter rats who had somehow evaded military service.

They came on silently, intent, shuffling about the two figures and halting.

"Fine gentleman from America, eh?" said one. "Army coat. You'll be stood against a wall with the rest of the aristocrats, if you live that long."

"He won't," said one of Marie's brothers. "You! We've warned you before this to let our sister alone—"

Marie flamed out furiously angry words. With the callous cruelty and contempt of his kind for a woman, her brother caught her arm and dragged her toward him, slapped her across the face—and was driven headlong in the muddy snow by Forain's fist.

"To me, comrades! To me, soldiers!" Forain lifted his voice, seeing a glint of steel in the starlight. He whirled on the nearest figure, lashed out again, dodged a knife, and drove his fist into a third.

Amid cries of rage and dismay, the four took to flight—soldiers were coming on the run, and this use of fists outraged all Parisian standards violently. Only American savages used their fists, especially with such pronounced effect. Marie, seeing the peril over, also took to her heels and was gone. The two soldiers ran up.

"Ha, comrade!" exclaimed one, at sight of the army overcoat. "Don't you know better than to play with the women in these parts? The canaille around here would sooner knife one of us than kill a Prussian!"

"Your uniforms frightened them off; thanks a thousand times!" said Forain, with a laugh. He passed over a coin. "Drink to love at the nearest bistro, comrades, with my compliments!"

"Better luck next time," was the ironical response. "Look, comrade; if these devils of communists ever get their way, it's death and rape and loot everywhere! They'll burn Paris if the Prussians don't."

"After which," Forain said cheerfully, "the rest of France will stand them against a wall, eh? Well, good night!"

He swung off for home, little thinking that in this exchange of words had lurked prophecy, and that the ashes of Paris would be quenched in the blood of thirty thousand communists. That this encounter might result in oddly unpleasant results for him was far from his thought; he reckoned the matter ended, and only hoped that Marie would escape disagreeable consequences.

The Gare d'Orleans, next afternoon, was a busy place, despite the absence of all rolling stock. Forain, who was very largely a freelance worker, came back from a belated luncheon to find that Rampont, head of the entire postal administration and organizer of the air mail, was somewhere about the place, and proceeded to run him down.

In the vast shed of steel and glass, warmed now by gas, immensely long tables with women workers were installed; here the percaline fabric of the bags was sewn. Bags in all stages of completion hung from the high rafters—the distinctive yellow and red or blue bags of the Godard manufacture. Some were being oiled or varnished. Others were undergoing the contract tests—suspension, inflated, for ten hours, and afterward sustaining a weight of five hundred kilograms.

FARTHER ON, a corps of marines detached for this work were weaving the willow baskets or fabricating the rope net-work that surrounded the bags and sustained the baskets. The place was a pandemonium, and equipment lay on all sides—grapnels and coils of line, instruments of various kinds, ballast bags.

Rampont, an active, energetic man of forty, abandoned his talk with the engineering staff at sight of Forain, and took the latter aside.

"Any word from outside, M'sieu?" asked the American.

"Yes; a pigeon came in today with a message from the government at Tours," was the eager reply. "The process has been tested satisfactorily; the government has accepted it.

"A special rate of one franc has been established for the service. Construction of the spheres is going forward. The first ones will be launched on January 2nd, ten days from now; four per day will be put into the Seine."

"And my recommendations?" asked Forain. The other shook his head.

"My friend, nothing is said about them. I'll say frankly that no one has taken them seriously; the formula which you gave for phosphorescent paint has been ridiculed."

"So?" Forain's eyes narrowed. "Then I'll tell you something. I've written to Robert, who's handling matters on the outside for the project. I've given him the formula and told him to use the paint. I happen to know him rather well, and I'm certain that he'll test out my methods. After all, it's in behalf of France. I get nothing out of it."

Rampont spread his hands. "My dear fellow, I'm quite helpless! Your theory is good, I admit; but apparently there's been a lot of trouble, in the administration, over this whole project."

Forain grunted. "Do you know where the test will be made?"

"No. I imagine at Bray-sur-Seine, just above the Prussian-occupied territory."

"Then on January 5th we'll have results. If my calculations are right."

"Perhaps then, perhaps never," said Rampont, with a shrug. "By the way, the Prussians have had the kindness to send us some bad news. The Ville de Paris, which left on the 15th, was brought down or was landed in enemy territory; total loss. The General Chanzy, which left day before yesterday, was caught in a change of wind and landed in Bavaria, total loss."

Forain whistled. "Bad! When are you going to put me up for active service and give me a balloon?"

"When you cease to be of greater service here, my friend. Patience! You're on the list of accredited pilots. Continue, I beseech, with your work here."

Forain left the huge train-shed frowningly. Two balloons down within a week! Bad indeed; a heavy loss in air mail, besides.

Both landed in enemy territory. This indicated that his experiments, his work on different instruments, was badly needed. He had devised simple indicators, but he must do better.

The pilots were, as a rule, seamen or volunteers from other branches of the service, and after a minimum of crude training took out the mail on their first solo flight. Experienced aeronauts, like aneroids and other instruments, had been rapidly used up in the first two weeks. The siege had now lasted full three months, balloons were going out every two or three days as conditions favored, and the problem of affording inexperienced pilots simple apparatus to indicate speed, height and direction was no easy one to solve.

AT THE GAS-PITS where the ascensions took place, in the train yards beyond the station, Forain passed the guards and found two inflated bags ready for testing. The mail went out only at night, to avoid de Prussian gunfire; thus, during the day he had the place to himself. By means of captive balloons, he was making some extra-contract tests, and working on his instrument devices as well.

Five to three. His preparations made, he spoke to the workmen.

"In five minutes I'll go up, with a passenger, remaining an hour. One thousand feet; the usual signals, for hauling in or letting up. Remember, we're trying this new type of basket and heaters, so be ready for any emergency."

The heaters were foot-warmers of new type, holding hot water, for the comfort of pilots; no flame, of course, could be installed close to the gas-filled bag.

At three o'clock, almost to the instant, Marie appeared, displayed her pass and her papers, and greeted Forain with smiling eagerness. He handed her into the basket and followed, with a pretty compliment on the new coat she was wearing; at his signal the lines were cast off. The balloon, attached by a single cable, soared up and up. Marie clung to the edge of the basket, overcome by the novelty and wonder of all Paris spread below her—or at least, a goodly part of it.

Then, turning, she found Forain beside her.

"Alone at last, with the stars and the angels and the sunbeams!" he exclaimed, and taking her hands, kissed her. She flushed, glanced around, and with a burst of laughter kissed him again.

"There! In sight of all Paris!" she exclaimed merrily. "And to think no one could see! But, my dear, I've news for you." She sobered, as though the cannon-roll from Mont Valerien had brought recollection. "Those brothers of mine have sworn vengeance."

"Bah! They don't worry me, except as you're concerned. Any trouble last night?"

She shrugged. "Naturally; it'll pass. But give them credit for vicious hatred, my dear. Watch yourself. Such men hate all good men like you, and I'm afraid for you."

Forain made light of her fears, held her in his arms, and laughed at her delight as more of Paris unfolded. There was little wind; the balloon was scarcely pulled over at all by its anchoring cable. With the heaters, the keen December cold was unnoticed.

"Now to business; look at Paris, while I make some notes," said Forain. "Then we're free to talk."

NOTEBOOK in hand, he jotted down observations on the new basket with its placements for ballast, mail pouches, apparatus; on the heaters and their position, on the value of the two strapontins, or folding seats, attached to the basket edge. Then he put up the notebook, finding the bag tugging in a freshening breeze, and signaled with a flag. The balloon was brought down a hundred feet, and once more floated level.

"Sit down, be comfortable," he said, and stood beside her, hand in hand. "My dear, now for the project. It's going through. We know that the Prussians have stretched nets across the river, so nothing can float down to Paris; they've seconded the nets with sunken booms to prevent anything slipping under. The only thing they don't guard, and can't guard, is the river bottom itself."

She grimaced whimsically. "But these devils of Prussians can do even that!"

"Not likely. The idea is to take a zinc ball, or rather oval, about the size of a child's head; this will hold from five to eight hundred letters. It is soldered tightly, hermetically sealed, weighted so it sinks to the bottom. Around this ball are fins; just as a water-wheel is turned, these fins are turned by the current, so the ball is carried along the bottom. It will, in short, find its own way down to Paris. Simple?"[1]

"Apparently," she said cautiously. "How can it be kept secret?"

"Not a soul knows or will know, but the few people in on it. Anyone desiring to get a letter to Paris puts on one franc postage, instead of the usual twenty centimes, and marks the letter "Paris, by way of Moulins on the Allier." Letters so marked go to this secret way; and theoretically are picked up here at Paris."

"How?" she demanded. Forain laughed, delighted by her acumen.

"There's the rub; if they escape Prussian nets, they'll escape ours. Experiments prove that these balls find their own way past all obstacles. However, the spot where they'll be picked up here is under the Pont Nationale, the bridge close by your charming home. The first go into the river on January second, and I figure they'll show up here not later than the fifth. A sunken metal net will be stretched under the bridge to catch them."

She knit her brows, looking at him, puzzled. "The river's shallow there, except at one place," she said, slowly.

"Correct. And oddly enough, my dear, there's a strong secondary current along those shallows. Now we come to the point."

Forain paused. "None of those balls will be picked up. I've predicted this. Not a single one!"

"Eh? Why not?"

"Because the asinine officials won't listen to me. They'll fish each day along the upstream line of the net dredging for the zinc balls. They'll find none. Certainly they can't see any that may be down there, twenty to thirty feet under the water! And in the course of twenty hours, I figure, such a ball would dig its own way through the mud beneath the net and be gone downstream. Therefore the problem as I see it is to have those zinc balls make their presence known."

"By ringing a bell when they hit the metal meshes?" she asked.

Forain whistled. "Hello! That's an idea; no one has thought of it. It might somehow be possible by using this new electric fluid. Still, nobody knows much about electricity as yet. No; I've devised a way. I've found a paint, made with a phosphorescent material, which will cover the ball. Upon reaching the net, the ball stops; at night it'll shine strongly."

"Won't the paint wash off?" she objected.

Forain laughed. "Not my paint! Once dry, it must be exposed to strong sunlight for two days, to collect light. Then it'll show, as a faintly radiant presence, even from the bottom of the Seine."

"And you say nobody will use it?" she asked indignantly.

"Use it? They ridicule the very idea! However, one of the four balls put into the Seine on the first day will be treated as I suggest. If it comes through, if it's recovered, I'm vindicated; it means a lot! On the night of the fourth, the fifth, the sixth, we must watch—you and I. We must take a look every hour. Eh?"

She clapped her hands, jubilant. "Good! Good! We'll do it, yes! And if that ball comes through, and none of the others are found—"

"Then, my dear, your husband-to-be will get a government job such as he wants! We can be married at once, in other words, and let America wait till the end of the war!"

All of which, one must admit, was a deliriously happy project to the two most important people in Paris; or rather, above Paris.

By the time the hour was over, every detail was arranged. Marie, a government employee by virtue of her job in the post office, was to be furnished with a special pass; for after the first of the year that bridge and its approaches would be guarded night and day.

"I'll make the arrangements tomorrow," Forain promised as they were hauled down.

"But guard yourself!" she cautioned anxiously. "My brother Jules has sworn to wash out the memory of your blows in blood, and the others with him; they mean it, they mean it most dreadfully! You can come to watch for the balls, since there'll be plenty of soldiers around then; but meantime, stay away from our quarter completely. I'll meet you anywhere you say, but stay away from the Bercy quarter!"

FORAIN, THOUGH he laughed at her fears and at Jules Leon as well, promised.

He had no difficulty in getting the desired pass, by telling Rampont frankly about the scheme. The director of posts laughed heartily; with Christmas a day away, even the bitter Christmas of the siege, he was indulgent to lovers. He added a special order which released Marie from her post office duties the first week in January—a girl, he said amiably, who is spending half the night working on a cold bridge, has no business trying to work by day. This, in reality, was an indication that he favored Forain's hopes in more than one direction.

A mail balloon got off each of the three days before Christmas; then fog and unfavorable weather intervened. The next departure was on the 27th, and Forain suddenly found himself loaded down with work. The Bayard took out some of his new equipment on the 29th, and for two days he scarcely slept, working feverishly to equip the waiting balloons; snow and storm held off any departures during those days.

On New Year's Day, Marie evaded the vigilance of her family—who, she stated, were indulging in a sound holiday drunk—and spent the afternoon and evening with him, at such festivities as the stricken city afforded. She warned him anew.

"Jules is more furious than ever; threats, threats, threats! His friends openly predict revolution. They have arms, for half of them are in the Republican Guard. Careful, my dear, careful! If there's any uprising, Jules will seek your life first of all. I'm afraid he won't wait for that, either. His words and hints alarm me to the depths!"

"Marriage will end all that," Forain said. "I was talking yesterday with Vandenberg, the American business man who represents many firms here. He's interested in my luminous paint. If my ball—our ball!—comes through, we can get money instantly. Vandenberg will advance it for a share in the discovery. We can be married that same day—eh? Yes?"

Her eyes warmed upon him, and she put out her hand to his.

"Done. It's agreed, my dear! If the ball comes, it's a lucky omen for all our lives!"

And then, next morning, Forain took up the Newton. She was leaving the following day, a brand new balloon, just past her inspection tests; the basket had been newly hung, and he was testing it under flight conditions.

A thousand feet, two thousand feet in air; snowy Paris was spread beneath him, and the mutter of the guns was continuous. He went about his work, completed it, and waved the flag for the cable to be hauled in. Today, up the Seine, the zinc balls were launching!

Slowly the bag came down. Forain, leaning on the edge of the basket, caught sight of a group of figures close by, on the roof of a shed in the railroad yards. Workmen, by their blouses, faces upraised, staring at him. They were close, so close that he laughed and waved his cap at them.

To his astonishment, he saw—too late—that one of them held a rifle and was aiming at him. Supposing it some joke, he waved again. He was nearly down now, on a level with them. The rifle spurted smoke; a second rifle appeared and spurted smoke. Something struck him. He was whirled around, and dropped in a heap on the floorboards of the basket.

After this, he had evil dreams; they were not coherent at all.

WHEN HE wakened, it was to darkness, flickering lights, the groans and cries of hurt men sounding all around. He was in a bed. A woman approached, bearing a light; a nurse. She looked at him, uttered an exclamation, and bent over him.

"Do you know me? Is your mind clear?"

"The devil!" exclaimed Forain weakly. He tried to rise and could not. "Of course it's clear! Where am I?"

"In a hospital. Lie quiet, now! I'll send for M. Rampont at once."

She flickered away. Rampont, eh? That made sense, anyway. Another nurse came, refused to talk or answer questions, fed him, and departed. He examined himself; his left arm was bandaged, which scarcely accounted for his weakness. He remembered now—the men on the shed, the rifles. He knew in a flash who was responsible.

No telling, however! If he gave the name of Jules Leon, the result would be terrible for Marie. Paris was rabid about spies. Her brother would be called a spy, a Prussian hireling, would be mobbed, torn to pieces! It would not be credited to any private feud. She, too, must suffer.

Decided on this point, he touched his face and started. Beard! How long had he lain here? His brain leaped to alarm. This beard, and weakness, spelled days. What about the watch on the bridge, and the submarine balls?

This query was still flaming, unanswered, when Rampont came. He advanced to the bed and Forain flung the question at him.

"How long have I been here? What does it mean?"

"Patience!" The official sat down, grasped his hands warmly. "My friend, you were shot on the second; it is now the evening of the fifth. You lost much blood before your wound was bandaged, you had fever. Now all is well, but you'll be here for another week. I had you brought to this temporary hospital, near my own house."

"The balls! The zinc balls!" exclaimed Forain. "Have they come through?"

Rampont made a gesture of negation. "None, so far; not one. Now tell me—"

"Wait!" broke in Forain. "Has any watch been made at night? Good lord, man, is everything lost because I was laid up?"

"My dear fellow, all the technical men say your idea was nonsense," Rampant said compassionately. "Your paint would wash off, would be covered with mud, would not show. Let us forget the whole affair.

"The important thing is for you to tell us what you can in regard to this attack. Prussian spies, obviously; your life is invaluable to us, and they know it. Did you see the men who shot at you?"

Forain nodded. "Some men on the roof of a shed near the tracks."

He went on to tell, mechanically, the little he knew, and said nothing of what he suspected. His mind was occupied entirely with the failure of his cherished project. The thought of Marie leaped into his brain.

"Where is she? Marie Leon? Does she know about this injury to me?"

"No one knows," said Rampont. "I've kept the matter secret—"

"Then, for the love of heaven, Monsieur, send word at once to Marie Leon!"

So agonized was Forain's manner, that the kindly official at once consented. He glanced at his watch; nine o'clock. He promised to send an orderly immediately. As for the zinc balls, he shrugged anew. He himself, and everyone else, had given up hope of any result from the harebrained scheme.

He did so. More, he returned an hour later, bringing some little delicacies that the hospital could not supply, and also an astonishing bit of news.

"I had forgotten about that girl of yours, Forain," he exclaimed. "The weather's been abominable; the Newton got away yesterday, but a fresh snowstorm is upon us tonight. My office has been like a madhouse.

"Ah, that girl! What devotion! My messenger brought back word that he had found her—where, think you? On the Pont Nationale! On the bridge unsheltered from the blast. She has been there the past three nights. Watching for your confounded luminous ball, of course. She comes and goes, they say, or remains there by the hour."

Forain groaned. Watching for him, watching for the zinc ball—both! She must have thought he had failed her entirely, thanks to the accursed secrecy flung around him; she must have blamed him for never sending her a word or a line! Yet she had stuck to the task assigned, bitter weather or not. The eyes of Forain filled with tears.

"I know what you're thinking." Rampont spoke gently. "I regret that I forgot all about her; a thousand distractions have surrounded me, mon ami."

"True as steel, true as steel!" murmured Forain, and then smiled quickly. "Monsieur! May I ask a favor, a personal kindness?"

"Whatever I can do, with all my heart!"

"Then send for Marie now, tonight, at once! Get an official from the Mairie, get the formalities waived, and have us married. She needs protection from that confounded family of hers."

Rampont, on whose shoulders weighed the responsibility for the entire air mail service, beamed joyously at this added burden. For so important an official, and in time of war and siege, with Prussian shells bursting in Paris, formalities were no barrier.

"Expect us, my friend, in an hour!" said he gaily, and departed. Before he could close the door, an excited voice called his name; an orderly appeared, panting.

"M'sieu! An important summons! The guard officer at the Pont Nationale demands your presence there—it is urgent, urgent! And a young woman is outside, demanding you and demanding this man Forain—"

Rampont exploded in a storm of Gallic oaths. Forain, who had heard the words, called out excitedly. A moment more, and in upon the room burst Marie.

"It is there, it is there!" she cried. "M. Rampont? It is there! I saw it! I pointed it out to the commanding officer—oh, my dear, my dear!"

She flung herself down beside the bed and caught Forain's hand between her cold hands, tears burning in her eyes; tears of happiness, of grief, of excitement, of triumph.

And Forain, pressing her fingers to his lips, looked up at the staring Rampont.

"Do you still want—the ceremony?"

"Thunders of heaven, yes! More than ever!" burst out Forain with a laugh.

Rampont disappeared. Marie broke forth with a flood of questions, of self-reproaches and bitter words about her brothers. They had boasted to her that Forain had his deserts; she had been half frantic these past days, being unable to learn anything about him.

"But now all's well, my dear!" she sobbed. "All's well! What was it he said—what ceremony was he talking about?"

Forain smiled, and touched her dark hair with his fingers.

"My revenge upon your family and all the others. A revenge to last for life!"

GIRAUD broke off and left the story there. We came back again to the bar of the aviators' club, with the hurly-burly of the Bois and the Porte Maillot just outside.

"But what about this crazy zinc-ball scheme?" queried Pollack.

A twinkle in his eye, Giraud picked up the old letter in its transparent envelope. He bared a folded-over sheet showing a single stamp, a Paris address, and heavily scrawled below this, the magic formula: "Moulins, par Allier."

"There's the answer." He held it up reverently. "It has lost one stamp, it's water-stained, but it's a letter from that first ball to come through! Not that this truly submarine mail succeeded, mind you! Of fifty or more that were sent, only one other arrived; the rest turned up anywhere along the Seine for years after the siege. The war ended, you see, before the success of the luminous paint could be established and put into use."

"Technically, I suppose it's submarine mail," conceded Pollack grudgingly. "But what about those two lovers? Did Forain get rich off that luminous paint?"

Giraud passed a hand over his bald dome, gave me a whimsical wink, and glanced at Pollack's thinning locks.

"No. He got rich off a hair-restorer he invented! I think I mentioned that he had a tendency to baldness—eh? I'll give you the address in Cincinnati, and you can get the recipe from the family. You can see for yourselves what the restorer did for me!"

Pollack surveyed us blankly, and then broke into a grin. "I get you, feller! The drinks are on me."

________________

6: The Case of the Deathly Barque

Argosy 9 Feb 1935

"Matilda Briggs was not the name of a young woman, Watson," said Holmes in a reminiscent voice. "It was a ship which is associated with the giant rat of Sumatra, a story for which the world is not yet prepared.

―Adventure of the Sussex Vampire

STATEMENT by Mr. John X. Carson:—

DURING The period of his retirement at Limehouse, John Solomon was approached by all manner of people, able fund of specialized knowledge, his singular mental processes, his uncanny and I acted as his buffer, his contact man. Many of the affairs in which we were engaged together, such as the one herein described, were referred to Solomon by Scotland Yard, and I suppose might be termed detective work.

In certain incidents, notably the horrible episode of the Atkinson brothers real crimes were involved; or, as in the frightful matter of the Sleeper, crimes beyond the realm of criminology. John Solomon was no student of crime; he detested it. His remarkable fund of specialised knowledge, his singular mental processes, his uncanny way of grasping at the essential heart of a mystery, form the most interesting part of all these cases. In the present instance, for example, despite repeated murders there was no crime involved—as I think he, and he alone, sensed almost from the start.

IT was, I remember, a drizzling, blustery afternoon in March, and I was busily dictating letters in Solomon's private office, when the telephone rang. I responded,

"Hello, Mr. Carson? Inspector David speaking. I'm on a job that might interest Mr. Solomon—the investigation of the barque Matilda Briggs, due at Greenhithe tomorrow from Brest. Do you suppose I might step around and see him?"

I did not hesitate, for David was one of the Yard's best men and on more than one occasion had worked intimately with Solomon.

"By all means," I replied. "He's been feeling a bit down in the mouth today and talks of going back to Egypt and Port Said. A sure sign his liver's out of whack. Drop in and haul him out of the depression, if you can."

"In half an hour," said David, and rang off.

I passed on through the blind office into the shop, to apprise Solomon. To my disgust he gave me one blank look and then ignored me utterly. He was selling an old ship's lantern to a tourist lady from Ohio, and was absorbed in the deal.

Solomon took this ship chandlery business seriously, oddly enough. He had made his start as a ship's chandler in Port Said, and now, despite his unlimited resources, he had settled in Limehouse in the same line. This shop, with its heaped-up mixture of rope, canvas, ship's stores, chronometers and heaven only knows what else, was the dingiest place in the dingiest section of London.

Yet Solomon's keenest pleasure lay in tending shop. I watched him as he argued and chaffered with the lady from Ohio, who doubtless took him to be a regular Limehouse character, and wondered at the man. He wore baggy, slipshod old garments and carpet slippers that were out at the toes. His gray hair stuck out at odd angles. His pudgy but perfectly expressionless features, his mild blue eyes, the old clay pipe in his mouth, gave not the slightest hint of his actual abilities. He was absorbed in selling that ship's lantern.

And finally he sold it. Half a crown, I think, was the price. He wrapped it up and the lady, giving me an uneasy glance, departed. She was probably shaking in her boots all the time, having heard no end of stories about the desperate characters and dangerous dives of Limehouse. Then Solomon turned to me, with a twinkle in his eye.

"Well, Mr. Carson? Werry sorry I am to keep you waiting."

"David just called," I said, and told him of the message. He nodded placidly, but his eye lit up all the same.

"Werry good, sir. I'll just call Mahmud to mind the shop."

The shop safely in the hands of the intelligent young Arab who usually served there, we repaired to the private office, and in due time Inspector David arrived. He was a brisk, capable man who was surprised at nothing Solomon did or said, as a rule. This time, however, was an exception.

"Make yourself at 'ome, Inspector," Solomon said cheerfully. "Since the murderer must be aboard that 'ere ship, it beats me why you'd want 'elp, but werry glad I am to see you."

"What?" exclaimed David, staring. "Then you know all about it ?"

"No, sir," and Solomon chuckled, as he whittled black tobacco from his plug into his palm. "You said as 'ow the ship was a-coming from Brest, and you're inwestigating. That means the French police 'as called in Scotland Yard. Why? Nothing less'n murder, I says. It's all werry simple, sir."

Inspector David relaxed, laughing, and swept a glance about the room. Anyone just in out of the blustery rain must have found this office remarkably comfortable, with its cosy fire and air of luxury. David was not astonished by the wonderful old Ispahan rug on the floor, the amazing collection of tapestries and arms and bric-a-brac around the walls— he had seen it often enough. But he nodded gratefully at the drink I mixed and set before him.

"Simple enough, yes," he observed. "At the same time, Mr. Solomon, the affair of this sailing vessel is just a trifle too obvious; it's a nasty piece of work, and has me worried. It's clearly a question of a homicidal maniac, always an unpleasant business. The barque will arrive tomorrow afternoon at the Greenhithe docks of the owners."

"I thought sailing vessels were rare these days?" I put in. Inspector David assented.

"They are. The Matilda Briggs, Mr. Carson, is an old keel owned by the firm these forty years and kept going largely from sentiment, since she barely pays her costs. She is returning from a run to Mediterranean ports with mixed cargo. Her master, Captain Fleming, is by all accounts a most reliable man. She left Greenhithe early in December last and went direct to Malta, where we first heard of anything amiss. To be exact," and David consulted his notebook, "it was on December 30th, the day she left Malta for Marseilles."

John Solomon carefully stuffed his old clay pipe, which smelt most vilely. His placid blue eyes surveyed the inspector for a moment.

"And was it murder, sir?" he asked, with a wheezy sigh.

"It was. A native boatman was found dead close to the ship. No details have been ascertained, except that the nature of his death paralleled that of the other victims. The barque loaded cargo at Marseilles, taking on a consignment for Barcelona. She cleared on January 19th and sailed with the tide early next morning. After her departure, a woman of the port was found dead on the wharf to which the vessel had made fast. The woman had been murdered during the night. Her throat was horribly mangled."

"You mean as 'ow it was cut," interjected Solomon, scratching a match.

"Not at all; that's the frightful part of it. Not cut but torn, mangled, the flesh ripped away and even missing entirely!"

Solomon, holding the match to his pipe, lifted slightly startled eyes.

"Dang it," he ejaculated mildly, "was there animals aboard the barque, then?"

"No animals of any kind," Inspector David returned. "Not even a cat. The Marseilles police did not connect this murder with the ship. At Barcelona, nothing happened. A shipment for Brest was taken aboard. After passing the Straits, the barque ran into nasty weather. She was badly knocked about and made a very slow passage. In the course of this run, the junior mate, a Mr. Haskins, was one morning found dead in his bed."

David paused, nodded at a sharply inquiring glance from Solomon.

"The same way, sir. His throat mangled, and not a thing to show who had done it. This, you must understand, was the first known of the murders to those aboard. Three days later one of the apprentices, a lad named Sotherby, was killed in the same ghastly fashion. He had entered the after hold with a lantern, to inspect certain repairs below decks. When he did not return, they searched and found him dead. These two murders were reported upon reaching Brest, but I know no details.

"On the very night the ship left Brest, the night watchman was found on the wharf there and the French police got in touch with us. Apparently the case is simple, despite its horrible phase."

"Too simple," Solomon said gloomily, puffing at his pipe. "The simplest things is the 'ardest to come at, as the old gent said when 'e kissed the 'ousekeeper."

THE inspector shrugged. "The facts are patent. The murders were identical. In each case the throat was badly mangled, but no other injury seems to have been inflicted. Plainly, one of the barque's crew is possessed by a maniacal frenzy. Granting the French police average intelligence, it seems certain that the murderer is at this moment aboard the ship; they would know if anyone had gone ashore at Brest and remained."

"No, sir," said Solomon positively.

He swung his desk chair a trifle, cocked his feet up on another chair, and his mild blue eyes rested steadily on the police officer. "It wasn't no maniac. It was a stowaway, I says. Just like that."

David shook his head. "A stowaway could not live for months aboard a sailing vessel, unseen and unsuspected."

"Maybe. But It all depends on them 'ere two murders aboard ship," said Solomon. "Then we'll know for sure, when we 'ave the details. It's a stowaway. There ain't no other way out of it."

"If you mean that for a pun," I said, "it's a poor one. So is your theory, John. The inspector is dead right. A stowaway might exist unfound for a week or so, no more. Such a notion isn't logical."

David, I could see, was astonished and irritated by the positive statements of Solomon. So was I. His position was absurd.

"We'll see about that tomorrow," he said, with a wheezy chuckle.

"hen you'll run down to Greenhithe, sir?" asked the inspector. "Excellent! We might make the trip in a police launch, if you like."

Solomon nodded. "I 'ave an old friend as lives in Greenhithe," he observed. "Might be as 'ow you've 'eard of him, though I ain't seen 'im for a matter o' five years. Colport, the name is. Sir Ronald Colport."

"Oh, of course!" exclaimed the inspector quickly. "The great brain specialist, eh? I believe he's been retired for a number of years. The greatest brain man in Europe, they used to call him. Wasn't there some talk about his being inclined to radical ideas and rather singular experiments?"

Solomon sucked at his pipe.

"A great man can afford to be  talked about, I says. You might 'ave 'im in if so be as you find there 'ere maniac you talk about, Inspector. Let Colport examine 'im. It's a 'ard job to tell when anyone's crazy, as the old gent said when 'e took 'is third."

"Not a half bad idea, sir," assented Inspector David, and after arranging about meeting us on the morrow, took his leave.

In no uncertain terms, I took Solomon to task for his nonsensical insistence that a stowaway was responsible for the murders. Although he heard me out with a twinkle in his blue eyes, I could see that my words put him in a stubborn humor. Presently he laid aside his pipe and shook his head.

"Just the same, Mr. Carson, you slip a pistol in your pocket tomorrow afore we start. Mind that!"

ON the following afternoon we met Inspector David and with him went aboard a fast police launch. It was still drizzling, but with a promise of letting up.

The Matilda Briggs, we learned, would be at her owners' wharf under heavy police guard by the time we reached Greenhithe. I was not looking forward to the trip with any keen delight. Being an American and blind to what the English call the beauties of their beloved river, the Thames on a rainy day made no appeal to me. None the less, the mystery of it exerted a certain fascination.

"Mr. Solomon," said the Inspector, who treated John with a great deal of respect, "I've been thinking over your stowaway idea. A dozen men are awaiting us on board, and I'd like to send the entire crew below and make a thorough search of the vessel, first thing. Then, later, we may interview the crew. Needless to say, no one goes ashore before we arrive."

"We shall 'ave to 'ave lights," said Solomon.

"All prepared," the inspector said cheerfully. "I've neglected nothing."

Darkness was indeed closing down when we passed the training ships and drew in upon Greenhithe. David pointed out the barque to us; she was just being made fast at her owners' docks, at the far end of the town. Close to them, reaching up the hillside and along the water, were villas and a number of rather pretentious residences.

"I see that my men are ready," the inspector said. "Any suggestions, Mr. Solomon ?"

"No, sir. Only," Solomon added
apologetically, "I'd like to be askin' of the master one or two questions. It don't never 'urt to ask the question, as the old gent said when 'e kissed the 'ousemaid."

We landed. As I was afterward to recall, the barque lay a few feet from the edge of the wharf, held off by buffers and made fast by heavy lines. A gangway had been run across to her deck. The crew, after knocking the battens from the hatches and removing the tarpaulin coverings, made no protest upon being sent below to their quarters. The inspector posted his men, and Captain Fleming was introduced. He was a bluff, hearty man of fifty.

He joined Inspector David and the police about the forward hatch. Two police remained on the wharf to guard the gangway, and the search was got under way. Solomon, who seemed to take no interest in it, moved along the deck with me into the lee of the deck house, well aft, for shelter from the drizzle.

"That's 'is 'ouse," and Solomon pointed with his pipe to a large villa surrounded by a wall.

"Whose house ?" I demanded.

"Sir Ronald Colport's, o' course," said Solomon.

"A warm fire and a drink wouldn't be a bad notion," I commented. "We'll wait to see if your stowaway turns up, of course. If not—"

Solomon nodded assent. Presently he moved off to talk with the two constables on the wharf, and I lost track of him.

After a bit, Inspector David and his forces moved aft, having found absolutely no one hidden below. There was a bit of joking among the men, a couple of whom had been whitened from head to foot by a burst flour-cask while moving the upper tier of cargo.

I heard Solomon's voice calling me, from somewhere forward, and following it I found him just emerging from the forward hatchway, which was still open. He had flour about his boots, and in his hand the headboard of a cask. He was looking intently at the deck.

"Look at 'em!" he exclaimed.

"Quick, Mr, Carson, afore the rain washes 'em off!"

The note of excitement in his voice impelled me. I saw a number of white flour-patches on the deck, rapidly vanishing under the fine drizzle. Solomon had brought a flash light and threw it on them.

"The men's boots left 'em," I said. He shook his head.

"Not much. They ain't packed down 'ard, sir. And if I ain't mistook, whoever made 'em 'eaded for the rail. Quick! Ask them constables on the dock—"

I got his idea, and going to the rail, called to the two men there. No one had left the ship anywhere along the rail, they assured me. Their flare covered the whole length of the wharf-side.

"No luck," I said, rejoining Solomon. "You thought your stowaway might have left those patches, eh? Well, he didn't, unless he slipped into the water—and he'd have to jump, not slip. He'd have been seen."

"Dang it!" said Solomon, and examined the headboard of the cask in his hand. Upon it I saw numerous heavy gashes, as though made with an adze. Then, hearing Inspector David call us from the after deck, Solomon went to the rail and gave the circular board to one of the police on the wharf, telling him to take good care of it.

We found that the police search had drawn a blank. There was no stowaway aboard; there were no signs or indication of any stowaway. Captain Fleming placed himself entirely at our command, and led us down to one of the after cabins. Here Inspector David questioned him briefly in regard to the two men who had been murdered aboard ship.

"The murdered mate, I believe, slept aft."

"In the next cabin," rejoined the old captain. "That's where he was killed."

"And the apprentice ? He was killed in the after hold?"

"No, sir. The lad had gone down for'ard. We had sprung a bad leak under the bow and he went down to see if the repairs were holding."

"Then the for'ard 'atch was off," said Solomon, sucking at his empty clay pipe. "And when the mate was killed, was the 'atches off likewise?"

"The for'ard hatch, yes. That was when we were making the repairs I just mentioned."

"And at Marseilles?" went on Solomon. "And at Brest? Was the 'atches off then?"

"Yes indeed," said Captain Fleming. "They are battened down the very last thing. When you come to interview the men—"

"We ain't a-going to," Solomon observed placidly. "It ain't no manner of use. Cause why, there ain't no murderer aboard this 'ere ship."

At this flat statement, Inspector David swallowed hard and regarded Solomon with an air of stupefaction.

Before he could speak, however, one of his constables knocked and entered, beckoning him aside. The inspector joined him at the door, listened to what he said, then turned to us with a startled word.

"Good heavens! Mr. Solomon, I've just been sent for. Will you come with me, please? What you just said was correct, remarkable as it seems. Sir Ronald Colport has just been found in his own garden, yonder. Murdered, sir! Murdered in the same terrible fashion!"

WITHIN a few moments we had reached the scene, to admire the precision with which the police had already worked. A terrified servant, aware of the police at the wharf close by, had summoned them. The inspector's men had roped off the body and were searching the grounds.

Sir Ronald, an elderly but by no means enfeebled man, had apparently been dead only a few moments. His body lay face down near the side entrance of the house. He must have died instantly, for his throat had been torn out in a very horrible fashion. The rain had quite ceased by this time, and after one look at the scene, I was content to join Solomon in the open portico of the house, where the dead man's old butler stood also, gray-faced, horrified.

Presently Inspector David joined us, sent the butler into the house to get us a bite to eat, then spoke softly.

"My. Solomon, this is positively incredible. There's not a mark, not a footprint; and after three days of rain the soil is soft. Sir Ronald had stepped out for a short walk. His own foot¬ prints are plain to see. There are no others."

"Ain't 'is shirt wet ?" asked Solomon Suddenly. Giving him a startled look, the inspector nodded.

"Yes. I dare say you'd like to think your stowaway swam ashore and grappled with him, and murdered him? Impossible, Mr. Solomon. Not a footprint, I tell you. And what earthly reason would bring even a maniac to such a deed? No, no; there's something mysterious and horrible about this affair, sir."

"There's something werry mysterious and 'orrible about a maniac, too," observed John Solomon. The inspector shook his head.

"Perhaps my men will turn something up. The local police will soon be at work outside. The bushes here in the garden certainly cannot hide a man."

This was obvious. The walled enclosure was of some size, but contained no garage, no other building than the old house itself. This was a large central structure with two wings; one of which held the servants' quarters and kitchen. Except for the cook and gardener. Sir Ronald had lived here alone with his butler, Osgood. Two old men nearly of an age who had been together for many years past.

At Solomon's suggestion, I turned into the house with him, and Osgood conducted us to the library. This butler was gray, with deeply lined, powerful features. Before we had more than glanced around, Inspector David joined us.

The interior of this ancient English mansion conveyed to us all, I think, the same impression of mystery, of tragedy. It was one of those places that seem inhabited, but not lived in. The library, with its solemn racks of books, its severely oak-paneled walls, its insufficient lights, was typical of English discomfort and was extremely depressing.

Osgood could throw absolutely no light upon the murder. He himself occupied a room in the east wing, adjoining that of his master. Sir Ronald depended on him for minor services and desired to have him close at hand.

"There are only the two rooms in the east wing, then?"

"That's all, sir."

"Suppose you give us a look at them. Here, use my flash light."

THERE were only lamps and candles in the house—neither gas nor electricity. Personally, I have never been able to understand why so many Englishmen positively shut out the comforts and benefits of civilization; but then, I am an American.

Osgood led us to the east wing; except in the central portion the house had no upper floors. The two large bedrooms here had a connecting door. In Sir Ronald's room showed a second and farther door which the inspector tried without avail. He turned to Osgood with a question.

"The door has been closed up, sir," the butler replied. "It formerly opened on the garden, but Sir Ronald disliked an outside door from his bedroom and had it closed."

David nodded. "Well, suppose you lay a fire in the library and see if cook has a snack ready for us. You might serve it in the library, too."

"Very good, sir."

Osgood conducted us back to the library, then disappeared. Solomon went out for a turn in the garden by himself; he was thoughtful and preoccupied. A handsomely bound little volume lay on the table, and I picked it up. It proved to be an address which Sir Ronald Colport had delivered before the Royal Society some years previously, and fell open of itself, as a much-used book will do, at a certain page which bore copious marginal notes in pencil.

A cheerful fire was lighted, a table was brought in, and Osgood laid it. Solomon came back into the room, with word that the men outside were still searching vainly. I showed the book I had found to the others, and the annotated pages.

"Talk about your radical theories," I said. "He was evidently working on this one for a long time. He predicted that wheat and other foods, impregnated and radiated, would prove a tremendous stimulus to the brain, forcing it as one forces plants. A chemical reaction bringing the brain cells to abnormal proportions, combined with certain vitamins—"

"Let's 'ave a look at that 'ere book," exclaimed Solomon, and taking it from me, he pored over it.

When Solomon laid down the little volume, he took out a pencil, jotted down a few notes on the back of an old envelope, and passed the paper to Inspector David. His blue eyes were sparkling—the only sign of emotion in his pudgy, expressionless face. David read the jottings, looked startled, then gave Solomon a long regard, and nodded.

"Right, sir. Osgood!"

"Yes, sir?" The butler paused in his work and looked up.

"Bring in the meal whenever it's ready, and leave it. I want these gentlemen to go across the gardens with me and talk over an idea that's just occurred to me—we'll be back in a few minutes. Don't bother to show us out. Come along, Mr. Carson."

While a bit mystified, I gathered that the Inspector was obeying a suggestion that Solomon had made in his notes, and rose. We all went out of the library and Solomon took my arm. At the house entrance, the inspector turned back. Solomon led me outside and slammed the door heavily.

"Quick, Mr. Carson!" he exclaimed. "This way—"

A moment later we stood at one of the uncurtained windows of the library. Osgood was not in sight. The room was empty.

"What the devil's all this?" I said in a low voice.

"That 'ere east wing, sir, is a good eighteen foot longer'n them two rooms inside," Solomon said. "The door 'e showed us ain't walled up at all. Lied to us, that's what 'e did! Now watch. If I ain't mistook—there 'e comes! And 'e thinks we're out of the way, so to speak. That 'ere book you found, give me the 'ole blessed thing—watch 'im!"

I WAS bewildered. That the staid old butler could be suspected of the murder was arrant nonsense. Before our eyes, he came across the library with a swift stride, glanced around, then stepped to the fireplace. The hand of Solomon tightened on my arm.

Moving rapidly, Osgood pressed a spring that released a panel of the oak wall. Behind it appeared the door of a small safe, which the butler opened. He took out a large sheaf of papers, closed the safe and the panel, and stepped with the papers to the nearby fireplace. He was in the act of throwing them into the fire when Inspector David halted him.

The wretched man shrank back, terror in his features.

"Come on, sir," and Solomon chuckled. "Fell into the trap, 'e did, like a good 'un! Now we're a-getting somewheres."

We returned hastily to the library, where the inspector had placed the sheaf of papers on the table. I glanced at them; they were nothing but notes on experiments, it seemed.

"Well, my man, you have some explaining to do," said the inspector curtly. "You lied to us about that room beyond the two bedrooms. You've attempted to destroy these papers—"

"I had to do it!" cried out the butler frantically. "I promised him I would destroy his notes—I knew everything, I had helped him. God forgive me! If anything happened, he made me promise—"

"Very well," intervened the inspector. "You've kept your promises. Now do your duty, my man. And no lies this time."

The unhappy, deeply agitated butler led us into the hall and then on through the bedrooms—first his own, then that of Sir Ronald. Both Solomon and the inspector held their flash lights, and as we followed the other two, Solomon jogged my arm.

"Best 'ave your pistol ready, sir," he murmured. "I ain't noways sure, but—"

I assented. Osgood came to a halt before the farther door which he had said was closed up. He produced a key, with shaking fingers, then turned imploringly to Inspector David.

"It—it may be dangerous," he said in broken accents. "One of them must have escaped. That is what killed him. I cannot understand it! He put new locks on the cages only last week; he meant to use padlocks in future, but had not obtained them yet. He said they would learn to work the bolts—"

"Open up," intervened the inspector coldly.

I must confess that to me it seemed we were dealing with a madman, for Osgood whimpered and babbled as he undid the top and bottom locks of the door. Then it swung open. The four of us stepped into a large room, and I heard Solomon murmur something about having paced off the length of the wing outside.

A distinct animal odor assailed us. About the walls, in cages ticketed with notes, were rats, mice, guinea-pigs. At the far end of the room were two cages of extraordinary size and strength.

"Animal experiments, eh?" said the Inspector. "Come, come! Nothing illegal about all this—good heavens!"

He had swung his light on the two large cages. "Osgood, what are those creatures?"

"Sumatran rats, sir," the butler replied. "They're the ones—"

WE approached the two cages, and a sort of horrified astonishment fell upon all three of us. One cage held an enormous female rat with a number of young, all of such abnormal size that incredulity gripped me as I regarded them. The mother must have been well over two feet in length, whereas an ordinary rat seldom attains eleven inches. In the other cage, staring at us, was a male rat of even larger size—so large as to be perfectly astounding.

"Dang it!" I heard Solomon murmur. "Look at them 'ere eyes!"

I am not easily disconcerted, but I admit that the eyes of this male rat sent a chill of horror through me. They were filled with a singular expression of hatred; it was an actual intelligence like that in the eyes of a man. I drew back. Those eyes followed me. Then a sudden wild cry burst from Osgood.

"Get away, get away! He was afraid of it— they've learned how to open—"

The sentence remained unfinished. What now took place occupied but the fraction of a moment.

Those cages were fastened by formidable bolts. As we looked, the male rat reached forward. I saw his paw creep between the bars and fasten upon the bolt of the cage door. Even when he moved it, swung it back, I scarcely realized the truth. The female rat, as though at some signal, was performing a like action. In their steadily glaring eyes was a horrible malevolence.

"For God's sake, look out!" cried Inspector David.

All in perhaps ten seconds. The male rat darted out of his cage and leaped. He rose in the air, rose straight at my throat. The shining glitter of those eyes against the light, the bared, hideous teeth, sickened me, even as I fired.

Luckily, I kept my head. The nauseous thing crashed down upon the floor; I fired again and again, in a mad instinct of destruction. Barely in time, too. Inspector David was fighting off the huge female in frantic horror as my bullets took effect.

I scarcely remember how we got out of that horrible place. The inspector hastened outside to reassure his men, who had heard the shots and were shouting at us. By the time we had regained the library, David rejoined us.

His features contorted, his voice broken, Osgood sank into a chair and made a clean breast of everything.

"I knew what he was doing, of course. If—if anything went wrong, I promised to seal up the door and destroy his notes. That would let them all starve to death. But, gentlemen, what did happen to him? They were both in the cages, you saw them! They could not get out or in by the ventilator! If one of them had killed him—no, no! We had stopped up the ventilator, after the first one escaped three months ago—"

"What's that ?" broke out Solomon. "One of them 'ere rats escaped?"

"Yes, sir, early last December. It was never found. It was the first one Sir Ronald experimented upon—"

"Good Lord!" I exclaimed. "Then that explains everything, Solomon! The creature went aboard that ship at the docks and was carried away. It remained hidden. It emerged only when the hatches were off—your stowaway, John! You were right after all!"

"Yes, sir," assented Solomon. "And what's more, it come back 'ere wi' the ship, and swam ashore, and them 'ere police never seen it."

"Go to your room, Osgood," said the inspector quietly, touching the broken old man on the shoulder. "No blame attaches to you."

The butler stumbled out of the room. I seized upon the sheaf of papers taken from the wall safe. Inspector David joined me at the table. We began to examine them, and found them to be voluminous notes concerned with Colport's experiments upon the giant rats of Sumatra. As we glanced through the sheets, the frightful truth was brought home to us. At length I shoved away the papers and looked up.

"This is beyond belief, Solomon! The vitamin feeding to increase size, the use of pituitary extracts, the forced growth of the brain cells, the grafting of human brain tissue upon the rat's brain—good heavens! This is not science—it's a menace to civilization!"

"It's 'orrible," said Solomon in a wheezy voice. Inspector David leaned back, wiping his brow. "It's a crime against the 'uman race, that's what I says."

And leaning forward, he caught up the sheaf of papers. The inspector started up.

"Here! What are you doing?"

"Destroying these 'ere notes," said Solomon.

"You can't! I can't allow it—that's evidence, sir—"

"Evidence be damned," and Solomon dropped the papers into the fireplace and swung around, his blue eyes alight and blazing at us. "I ain't a-going to be no party to letting loose that sort o' knowledge on the world! If Scotland Yard don't like it, then let 'em take up the matter wi' me, just like that."

Inspector David subsided, still mopping his brow. A timid knock sounded, and Osgood came into the library. He advanced to the table and took matches from a tray there.

"Excuse me, gentlemen, but I must have matches. My room is dark."

"You'd better close your windows," said Solomon grimly. "That 'ere rat that escaped is the one that killed Sir Ronald. Come back in that 'ere ship, 'e did."

"Thank you, sir." Osgood's shoulders sagged, and a drawn pallor stole into his cheeks. "Please ring if you lack anything, gentlemen. Good night."

He left the room. The inspector swung around on us.

"Mr. Solomon, you must have guessed some of this aboard the barque. Your statement that the murderer was not aboard—"

Solomon, whittling tobacco from his plug, nodded and placidly explained. That trail of flour to the rail, the cask head he had found scored either by an adze or by enormous teeth, had suggested something of the truth to him. Later, the absence of footprints near the body of Sir Ronald confirmed the theory of some animal. The monograph written by Sir Donald, the deliberate lie of Osgood about the existence of another room—all this had formed a chain leading to the discovery of the truth.

"Then," cried out Inspector David, "do you realize what it means? The creature which committed these murders, which killed Sir Ronald—is still at liberty!"

"Yes, sir," assented Solomon calmly. "If I was you, Inspector, I'd 'ave a search made for that 'ere rat, and werry sharp about it too—"

Solomon's voice was checked. I leaped from my chair. Through the whole house rang a most appalling scream, a scream that chilled my blood and made me whip out my reloaded pistol. The inspector dashed for the doorway, his flashlight ready.

"Come along!" he cried, and I ran after him. As the door of the butler's room swung open, his electric beam picked up the body of Osgood on the floor; then it picked up something else. At the closed window of the room beat and fluttered an enormous shape frantically seeking to escape as it must have entered. A thing, now turning its head and its bloody slavering jaws, staring at us with half human eyes—

Once again my pistol spoke, this time deliberately. A moment later, the creature was stretched out dead, beside the body of its final victim.

LATER, John Solomon sat with me before the library fire, stuffing tobacco into his clay pipe. At one side of the hearth was a crinkly swirl of gray ash. Solomon leaned forward and stirred it with the tongs, then picked up a coal for his pipe.

"There goes the last of them 'ere notes," he said, " and a werry good job, I calls it. It don't never pay to put things down in writing, as the old gent said when 'e took 'is third."

"Has it occurred to you, John," I asked slowly, " that this creature, created by these two men, came back here by a sort of implacable destiny to cause their death? Even your effort to warn Osgood only made his death more certain. If you had not told him to shut his window, if he had not gone directly to do that, ignorant that the rat had already stolen into his room—"

Solomon gave me one look that checked my words. Then he lifted the coal to his pipe, and puffed steadily; but I saw that his fingers were shaking.

____________________

7: Pearls From Macao

Magic Carpet Magazine  July 1933

A vivid thrill-tale of a desperate voyage on the China Sea, with murder striking from the shadows again and again, and a beautiful girl on board

CLEGHORN, who was usually as rough and abrupt as his own name, regarded the other with evident suspicion. He was a small, dapper man, sleek of hair and dress, and Cleghorn towered above him. A long scar ran down the left side of his dark features.

"Yes, I'm Joe Cleghorn. What d'ye want of me?"

"Business, good business," said the other. "Darby is my name."

Cleghorn stopped short, staring. Interest flashed into his sharp blue eyes, into his weather-roughened, large-boned features under the mop of sun-bleached hair.

"Hello!" he exclaimed. "Darby, eh? Might you, by any chance, be Cap'n Noel Darby of the Maniteer? Out o' Frisco?"

"That's me, mister. Cards on the table, I says, and all shipshape."

"Don't mister me, then," said Cleghorn. "I ain't your first officer. I'm a master and got the ticket to prove it. What's more, I got a ship."

"And I ain't," returned Darby. "That's exactly why I want to talk with you.   There's money in it for you, Cleghorn. A lot o' money. Not to be sneezed at these days, eh?"

True enough, and in Cleghorn's case most vitally true, Cleghorn owned a two-thirds interest in his own ship, although he was a young man, the youngest master ever to sail out of San Francisco, they said. And right now he was in a jam, a bad jam, for lack of cash.

"What is this, dream money or real?" he demanded.

"Real," said Darby softly. "And a thousand-dollar advance, in cold cash. Where can we talk?"

A thousand in cash? That meant everything, at the present moment. Cleghorn nodded to a cafe across the street.

"If you mean smuggling, running dope, or filibustering, I'll waste no time on it," he said bluntly. "Otherwise, we can slip over there and have a drink on it."

"Fair enough," said Darby, and took his arm. "It's all on the level. Come on."

They were in the French settlement of Tientsin, and the beer was good. Both men were thirsty, neither was in a hurry to speak. They looked out at the passing flocks of Chinese and whites, at the rattling trams, at the rickshaws and carts, and Cleghorn waited for the other to broach his business.

Not for nothing had Captain Cleghorn been knocking around Orient ports for the past few months with the Hermione. He had heard of Cap'n Noel Darby down at Singapore, and had heard nothing good. Darby got into trouble with the Dutch in Surinam, skipped out, was caught and arrested at Singapore, got away, and was on his way to Siam when he lost his ship on a reef. He was a dope-smuggler, a little of everything in a bad way.

Cleghorn knew this, but he needed the money fearfully. His agents had provided no cargo here, after he brought up coal from Saigon; what with demurrage, harbor charges, wages and repairs, he needed a cool thousand before he could clear down the river to sea. His partners back in the States had gone broke. Cleghorn was savagely determined to save his ship, but how to do it was another matter.

Darby produced a whole sheaf of banknotes, thumbed them off, laid them down on the table.

"French notes, but good," he said. "Come to a thousand dollars gold."

"Leave it lay," said Cleghorn. "What's the job?"

"Charter party between friends," said Darby. He had a brisk, suave manner, and his bird-like eyes drove around swiftly. "Ever hear of the Adamastor?"

"No."

"Portuguese tub owned in Macao, on the Yokohama run," replied Darby. "Last month she was smashed up on one of those islands the other side of Dairen, on the south Manchurian coast. There's a string of reefs there, bad 'uns. She pitched dead on one of them in that typhoon that swept the coast then. All hands lost except the cap'n, a Portugee named Silva; he died a day or so after being picked up. One other was saved, but not reported. I've got him aboard now. He was supercargo. Another Portugee, Aranha by name."

"You've got him aboard—where?" demanded Cleghorn. "Got a ship here?"

"No. Got in today aboard the Lyautey from Saigon; she's lying down at Taku, and we're stopping aboard here till tomorrow-"

"Who's we?" probed Cleghorn.

"Me. Aranha. Couple more chaps. Four of us. Satisfied?"

"Aye," and Cleghorn nodded. "Forge ahead."

"The wreck's high and dry on this island, charted as Fourteen — barren reef," said Darby coolly. "Cargo of cotton goods and machinery, ruined of course. Native fishermen have probably looted everything loose by this time. Look at this. Bought her from the underwriters."

He produced a sheaf of papers, cablegrams, letters, and set several of them before Cleghorn. The latter perused them cannily, but his suspicions of forgery were unjust. They were authentic. They showed that Noel Darby, master, had legally purchased the wreck of the Adamastor, wreck and contents both. Cleghorn nodded and returned them.

"You don't waste time."

"Not me. Well, there you are. Cards on the table and all shipshape, eh? Heard about you soon as I got in, and have been looking you up. Chap pointed you out to me."

Cleghorn nodded again. He was suspicious of Darby, and would ordinarily have passed him up without a moment's delay, but now—well, a thousand cash meant everything.

"I want to charter you," went on Darby. "I can pay a thousand down, this here thousand. That just about strips us. We've put all we can rake and scrape into this deal. I can offer you this cash, and a fifth interest in the takings, for a month's charter party. The job should last no more'n a week, but we'll say a month to make sure."

"Yeah?" inquired Cleghorn. "Well, come across. What's in the wreck?"

"About three dozen bales in No. 1 hold," said Darby in a low voice, "right on the top tier. On the manifest as cotton cloth, and baled to match. Any looting fishermen would pass it up sure, even if they got into the hold, which is doubtful. The cap'n didn't tell about it; and he's dead to boot. Aranha knew what it was, bein' supercargo. It was shipped that way, and by the Adamastor besides, to save import duty. Some Jap syndicate was behind it."

"Well," said Cleghorn impatiently,

"I'll bite; what is it?"

"Ginseng. Manroot," returned Captain Darby.

"Never heard of it." Cleghorn frowned, his bright blue eyes striking out at the smaller man. "Hold on! You don't mean ginseng, that medicine root we grow at home?"

Darby grinned, showing blackened, bad teeth.

"A distant cousin," he explained. "Ask anybody here. Grows in the shape of a man. The Chinks think it has great powers and go crazy about it. This was the pick of the north Manchurian crop; it comes from there only."

"Hell!" said Cleghorn in disgust. "And you wasting my time on junk like that!"

"Junk?" exclaimed the other, staring. "Look here! Prices on it run according to the roots. One with a real man's shape can go into any money—five, ten, twenty thousand gold! And this was the pick of the crop, get me? Thirty-six bales of it lying there, and if each bale wasn't worth about fifty or a hundred times its weight in dollar bills, I'll eat my hat! Opium's nothing to it, cap'n. The Chinks are wild about it, honest, like they are about snakes in wine and dragons' teeth and so forth. There's the thousand. Yes or no? I've got the location exact. We need your ship, we can't raise any more cash, and that's the only reason we're offering you a fifth share in the gamble. Take it or leave it!"

Cleghorn eyed him suspiciously. It was possible, of course; on the other hand, this Noel Darby was a slick rascal and might be putting something over on him. Still, there was the money for the taking. If he lost, at least he would be square with the world. His powerful hand went out and closed on the sheaf of bank-notes.

"Done," he said, and glanced at his watch. "Three o'clock. Come along to the consul's office and get the charter party signed up. Suit you?"

"All shipshape," said Darby, his little glimmering eyes filled with satisfaction. "When can you sail?"

"As soon as I pay my bills and get clearance. Say, midnight? The Hermione is down at the anchorage, downriver."

"Suits me," said Darby, and rose. "Let's go."

"But mind you," and Cleghorn paused, for his beer was unfinished, "mind you, no tricks! No dope or smuggled arms. I've worked years to get me a start; my share in this ship means a lot to me, and my ticket's clear. It's all I have in the world, and I mean to keep it clear."

Darby laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "All shipshape and cards on the table!"

They parted at the consulate, after signing the papers. Cleghorn picked up his first officer, Adams, and got him rounding up the crew, while he himself set to work paying his bills. He paused, however, to ask the consul in regard to ginseng.

"Ginseng?" and the consul laughed. "Manroot, eh? The Chinese are absolutely crazy about it, cap'n. I can take you into some of their shops where a bit of root a foot long is held at ten thousand dollars! Some of it is literally priceless. The Manchurian wild root is of course the best—takes the most fantastic shapes-"

Cleghorn went his way, thinking about three dozen bales of such stuff. When he had asked a few more questions here and there, he became convinced that Darby had told the truth. In such case, the value of those bales, in any Chinese city, must be staggering. Whether the stuff would still be aboard the wreck, was a question; but Darby was no fool, and was gambling heavily. Fair enough! And having bought the wreck and contents, his legal right to it was unassailable. The chaps who had shipped it as baled cotton cloth and insured it as such were the losers.

Cleghorn was so thinking, as he stopped in at the office of his agent to impart the news and ask for any mail. The agent was busy with a woman, and Cleghorn waited. He gave no heed to the woman, until she turned to look at him. Then he saw that she was young, dark, and utterly magnificent.

"Captain!" He realized that the agent was speaking to him. "I wish to present you to Miss Silva. She wishes to speak with you. Will you go into the private office? If you please―"

"Well! I've had a great time finding you, Captain Cleghorn!" Her hand folded in his like a rose-leaf; he bulked above her, those wide, hard shoulders of his looking very big, and he knew his hair must be tousled. It always was. Then he found himself in the private office, alone with her, and her first words gave him the shock of his life.

2

"TELL me, quickly!" she exclaimed, as she took the chair opposite him.  "My father was the captain of the Adamastor. Did you ever hear of her? or of  him?"

Cleghorn looked at her steadily. She was excited but her eyes were cool, capable, very steady. In repose, her features were quiet, lovely. In animation, they became imbued with an astonishing energy and vigor. Her English was perfect.

"Yes; not an hour ago, miss," said Cleghorn bluntly. "But you don't look like—well, like a Portuguese―"

She broke into a quick laugh, but he read swift anxiety in her eyes.

"Names don't matter, cap'n. My mother was American; so am I. Who told you of her?"

"Of your mother?" and Cleghorn's blue eyes twinkled.

"No; of the ship."

"The chap who has bought the wreck. A Cap'n Darby."

She caught her breath sharply, stared at him, then sank back in her chair.

"Then he got ahead of me! He has chartered your ship?"

Cleghorn nodded silently.

"And I had counted on getting you!" she said. "I heard of your ship—I wanted your help. There's no one else I can get here. Will you take me as a passenger, please?"

Cleghorn's brows drew down. "No. Haven't a passenger license, miss. And besides— well, it'd do you no good. Everything aboard that wreck is owned by Darby. You couldn't get away with the stuff, if that's what lies in your mind."

Her eyes widened. "What stuff?"

"The ginseng, of course."

"Great heavens!" She uttered an astonishing laugh. "Are you crazy or am I, cap'n? There's no ginseng aboard that ship, that I know about!"

"So? Then let's have your yarn," said Cleghorn whimsically. "Perhaps somebody has lied to me. I know Darby is after some ginseng aboard her."

"That may be," she replied thoughtfully. "I got here yesterday from America; I found a letter from my father, the last he ever wrote. There is something aboard that wreck, cap'n, which I want. I mean to get it. I must get it! It's all he had to leave me."

"What is it?" demanded Cleghorn.

She met his eyes for a long, steady moment, then drew a deep breath.

"You're straight," she said quietly. "I'll trust you. All my father had in the world is in his cabin aboard that wreck. I learned this morning by cable that some Captain Darby had bought the wreck from the underwriters; it was in the papers, too. He couldn't be after my father's things. No one else knew about them. They were in a little compartment of his cabin wall. You must take me with you!"

"No can do," said Cleghorn calmly. "If you'll allow―

"I'll pay you," she exclaimed. "I'm not broke. I've been at school in San Francisco, and I have money left."

"Hold on," said Cleghorn, laughing. "Why not let me do the job for you? Can't take you on an old tinpot hooker like mine, one woman with a lot of tough waterfront rats. And it's a tough mob, let me tell you. Rats? They're lice. No, it wouldn't do."

"But you must," she returned. "It would do perfectly well. That's all nonsense about a woman not being safe alone with a lot of men. She's safer than if alone with just one or two. Besides, I can take care of myself."

"Yes, you look it," and Cleghorn grunted ironically. Just the same, he knew there was a lot in what she said. Plenty of skippers' wives or even daughters went along these days. Hm! "All the same, tell me how to get the stuff and I'll do it."

"No," she said flatly.

"Get the point, miss," said Cleghorn, frowning. "Darby has chartered the hooker. He can take you aboard, but I can't, legally. That is, if you were signed on―"

"Is he signing on the crew, or are you?"

"I am, blast it! Don't ask so many questions―"

She laughed quickly. "All right. Sign me on as assistant cook. I'll really be one, too; I can give your cook pointers."

"And Darby will raise hell about it and put you off at Taku."

"I'll chance that if you will."

"Hm! Another thing. Your father's personal effects may be retained by Darby, especially if he thinks they're valuable. You can't get them without his consent."

"He'll give it. Why not sign me on under another name?"

"Bosh! This is no story-book," snapped Cleghorn. "I'll not sneak up on any man, and that's flat. Tell you what I'll do! I'm catching the five o'clock train down to the anchorage. You meet me at the train. If Darby is there, all right. If he's gone ahead, I'll take you aboard and you can talk with him when he comes aboard tonight, around midnight. Then, if he refuses to take you along, you go ashore."

She nodded quickly. "Done. It's a fair gamble, captain. And if I go ashore, I'll tell you how to get the things, and you get them for me."

Cleghorn shrugged. "If I can." He rose and took her hand in his again, wondering at its softness and pink beauty. Like a rose-petal, he thought again. Then she gave him a quick, firm grip and he whistled to himself. Not so soft after all, eh?

"Good-bye, miss," he said quietly. "Five o'clock train. I'll get a place for you."

"Good-bye, and thank you," she rejoined, and left.

Cleghorn came to the outer office and watched her depart, a slim, slender figure of a woman, all in gleaming white silk. He groaned to himself at thought of such a girl aboard the Hermione with his crowd. Then the agent came up to him, with a ierk of his head.

"Magnificent creature, cap'n, eh?" he exclaimed. "When she was a kid, she used to take voyages with her father—old Silva was a good sort. White and straight. Too bad he kicked out! She's well known up and down the coast."

Cleghorn swung around suddenly. "Just what d'you mean by that?"

At the look in his blue eyes, the agent shrank suddenly.

"Lord, man! Nothing bad. Only that she's beautiful—isn't that so? Her dad wasn't one of these Macao half-breeds, but a real Portuguese; fine chap, I tell you. Married an American woman. Well, good luck to you!"

Cleghorn swung away with a nod. There was no sign of Cap'n Darby at the Tientsin East Station; he had probably gone down-river by steam launch. Cleghorn got a compartment, reserved places for dinner in the restaurant car, and saw the Silva girl hurrying through the gates two minutes before the train left. He met her, caught her bag from the porter, and swung her up to the right car, barely in time.

Only then did he really take stock of the change in her. The white silks were gone. She wore a neat, trim outfit of serge, a belted coat of the same, a blue beret that held in her luxuriant dark hair, and looked very efficient and businesslike.

It was an hour's run to the Tangku station, and two hours by launch on down to the Talcu anchorage. In this time, many things happened—at least, to Joe Cleghorn. He found himself talking to this girl with unwonted freedom, talking about himself, about San Francisco, about everything he knew and was. He told her how he had beat his own way up from the bottom, how it had been hard going, how he lacked much that she seemed to have. And she understood perfectly.

"You've got one thing that's rare,'' she said to him, as they watched the Taku lights glimmering ahead from the prow of the launch, and he pointed out the lights of the Hermione. "You're straight and unafraid. You wouldn't cheat Darby— and yet you know quite well that he'll put it over on you if he gets the chance."

"Oh, do I?" growled Cleghorn, astonished. "What makes you think that?"

"His record. I've been looking him up. And you're no fool."

He broke into a laugh. "You're a good one yourself, miss!"

"So far as you're concerned, cap'n, it might as well be Marie from now on."

"Thanks," he rejoined. "You know, that—well, that sort of—blast it all! What I want to say is, if you do charm him and go along with us, I'll watch out for you."

"For who?" she questioned archly.

"For you—oh, I see! For you, Marie."

"That's better."

Cleghorn indeed felt, somehow, that this permitted use of her name meant a good deal; it put him in the place of a protector to her. And he had the idea that if she made the trip, she was going to need a protector.

He was not long in confirming this belief. When he had followed her over the rail, and stowed her in a cabin temporarily, he came back and faced his dumfounded officers: Adams, the lean Seattle man, with big nose and scrawny throat; Horton, the second officer, chunky and always more or less drunk; Macintyre, a red-headed youngster who had wangled his ticket out of the examiners and joined Cleghorn as chief engineer, though his assistant was twice his age.

"She ain't going, is she?" demanded Adams dourly.

"She is," said Cleghorn. "And you mind your manners before her, mister. At that, I ain't so sure about her going, either."

"1 hope to hell she don't," said Horton gloomily. "Crew's skipped out. Jumped us today and beat it out of here on a Clyde boat that was short-handed. Wait till you see the ungodly lot o' wharf-rats Adams fetched aboard! Beach-combers are angels alongside that gang."

"Well, whip 'em in shape," said Cleghorn. "That's what you're here for. Four gents who chartered us will be aboard before midnight. Everything shipshape when they come. We go with the tide."

"Shipshape, my eye!" Macintyre guffawed. "Wait till you see the drunken scum, cap'n! Might's well say navy style and wish for the moon. Say, when do you introduce us to the dame?"

"Get below and mind your engines," snapped Cleghorn, and the others grinned.

CLEGHORN took one look at the ten alleged able seamen forward, and went to find his passenger. A worse crew he had seldom seen; frayed and sodden dregs of humanity, all of them drunk. His former men had taken the chance to ship and had skipped out, leaving their overdue wages unpaid, but he was scarcely the gainer for that, he reflected bitterly. A few hours more, and all would have been well. Even the steward had gone.

"Well, miss, we'll be off in an hour," he said with his usual cheerful air, as he joined Marie Silva. "By the way, I forgot to tell you. Darby has three others in his party. One of them is from your dad's ship. The supercargo, chap named Aranha."

She stared at him for a moment, her eyes dilating. He saw the color drain out of her face; then she began to tremble.

"For God's sake, what's the matter?" he exclaimed. "What have I said?"

She recovered herself quickly. "Aranha!" she repeated in a low voice. "That man? It is impossible! No one else was rescued-''

"Cap'n Darby picked him up, somewhere; gave no details," said Cleghorn, frowning. "Said that Aranha did not report his rescue. It was him knew about the ginseng in the hold. He knew about it, having been the supercargo."

She looked startled. "Aranha the supercargo? But that's not so! He was my father's second officer!"

"Eh? Something wrong here, Marie," said Cleghorn. "1 don't think Darby was lying. He'd have no reason to lie about it. What's wrong with Aranha, anyhow, besides this?"

She hesitated. "Nothing, except that I've always detested him. Father was certain that he smuggled stuff, but could not prove it, and Aranha was a good officer and had an interest in the ship."

A knock at the door. "Party coming aboard, sir," came the voice of Adams.

Cleghorn turned to Marie.

"You stop here. This is your cabin if you go; next to mine. I'll fetch Darby in here, and mind you don't mention Aranha to him. I'll straighten this out somehow later on."

She nodded, and he left the cabin.

Had Darby lied about the man? Somehow, prone to believe anything of Darby as he was, Cleghorn did not think so. Possibly Aranha had lied to him. In that case, had Aranha told the truth about anything? Things began to look fishy to Joe Cleghorn, but he dismissed the matter momentarily.

The four men coming over the rail were headed by Darby, no longer looking slick and suave, for he now wore rough serge and an old cap from which the insignia had been ripped. He performed the introductions. Aranha came next, a slender, swarthy man of about forty, with white teeth that glittered when he smiled, and a square, pugnacious face. The other two men brought Cleghorn a surprise. Stoutsman was a red-faced, bulbous-nosed fellow, thick-set, pig-eyed; Rapp was lean, hard, sour of face, with red hair and mustache. Both looked to Cleghorn like seamen.

"Mr. Adams! Will you show these gentlemen to their berths?" said Cleghorn, introducing his mate. "Cap'n Darby, I'd like a word with you, if you please."

"When do you jerk up the hook?" asked Darby, following him to one side.

"As soon as you give the word. Something for you to settle, first. Come along."

Cleghorn knocked at the door of the girl's cabin, took the astonished Darby inside, and introduced her. He sketched briefly just why Marie Silva was here and what she wanted from the wreck, and watched Darby as he did so.

"That's exactly the way of it," exclaimed the girl quickly, when he had finished. "I'll not be a bother to you, Cap'n Darby, and—"

"Lor' bless you, miss!" broke in Darby, with a jerk of his head. "Cards on the table, I says, and all shipshape. If you can put up wi' things, a lot o' men and all that, then we'll have no kick."

"You don't mind, then?" she returned eagerly. "You'll let me get my father's things?"

"Miss," said Darby earnestly, "I ain't trying to rob the dead, nor a woman neither. So far's I'm concerned, you can take what you like out o' that wreck."

So it was settled. Cleghorn revised his opinion of Darby somewhat, for it seemed to him that the man was quite in earnest, and he accompanied the other outside after a nod to the girl. Then Darby turned to him, fingering the long scar on his left cheek.

"Square of you, cap'n," he said. "Some would ha' took her along and asked afterward. Ain't she a beaut, though! Sure, she's welcome to her dad's personal property."

"By the way," observed Cleghorn, "I dropped on to something today. It happens that your friend Aranha was the second officer aboard Silva's barge."

"Sure, I know it," replied the other easily. "Supercargo also. He said as much."

"Oh! Then it's all right."

Half an hour later, the Hermione had her hook out of the mud and was standing out across the gulf of Dairen and the tip of Manchuria, a day's steaming to the eastward.

3

WITH morning, Cleghorn had taken over the bridge when Aranha appeared and nodded to him. The sour-faced Rapp followed, spat over the rail, and eyed the water.

"Doing a good eight, eh?" said he.

Cleghorn gave him a glance.

"Seaman, are you?"

"Who, me?" Rapp grinned. "Not much. Never been to sea a day in my life, except coming up here from Australia, and wish  I'd never come, you bet."

Clumsy, thought Cleghorn, and turned  away. Rapp and Aranha went over to the  lee rail and stood talking together in low  tones. Only a seaman could have glanced  over the rail and known exactly what the  ship was making. Why lie about it?  Cleghorn was irritated. Presently Aranha  came to him.

"Do you want the location of the wreck, cap'n?"

"I have it, thanks," said Cleghorn. "The island charted as Fourteen, isn't it? We'll make the south'ard of the reef chain and run up to her in the morning."

"Right," said the other. By daylight, his square, choppy features looked an olive shade, an unhealthy greenish, and Cleghorn did not take to him a little bit. "Fourteen's little more than a reef awash at low water."

"How d'you know the wreck's still there?"

Aranha shrugged. "Should be; she's solid, hard and fast on the reef. Another big blow would break her up, but there's been none."

Horton appeared, to Cleghorn's surprise, and beckoned him to the head of the ladder.

"Go on down, Adams' cabin," he said under his breath. "I'll take over."

Cleghorn gave the second officer a sharp look. Horton was sober, had a queer lock in his eyes. With a nod, Cleghorn slipped down the ladder, turned into the passage, and made his way to the cabin of the mate. He knocked and went in.

Adams lay on the deck, face down, a puddle of blood about his body. He had been knifed twice under the left shoulder, and was dead. The body was cold, but no rigor mortis had set in; murdered within an hour, probably just after turning over the deck to Cleghorn.

Two cabins away, Cleghorn found the chief, his door hooked back, scribbling away at a letter; he was always writing letters to his wife. Cleghorn entered, closed the door, and told the astonished Macintyre what had happened.

"How long have you been sitting here like this, with your door open?" he demanded, in conclusion. Macintyre ran his fingers through his red hair, and frowned.

"Since breakfast—over an hour, anyhow."

"Well, who's been along here? Nobody could get to the end of the passage without passing by your door."

"Lord, cap'n! I haven't been watching," said the young chief. "Let's see. Adams came down from the bridge, said hello in passing. Since then, I don't recall anybody except that Portygee chap. Aranha. He went on deck a while back. But he has the cabin next Adams."

"A lot of help you are!" exclaimed Cleghorn. He stuffed tobacco into his pipe and lit it. "Two red-headed galoots on one ship, huh? You and Rapp―''

"That's right, that fellow Rapp did come along!" said Macintyre suddenly. "Just before Aranha went up."

"Sure. They came on the bridge together."

"Nope; I remember now. Rapp came along. Aranha went on deck. After a bit, Rapp followed him."

"Yeah? Picked him up and then came to the bridge, eh?" Cleghorn scowled. "This is one hell of a thing! We've had a red-handed murderer aboard here, and no telling who he is. Your story ain't evidence, so far's Rapp's concerned. Nothing to show he did it."

"Let me run in there and take a look- see," said Macintyre. "Back in a minute. I might pick up something; got a detective streak in me, you know."

He vanished. Cleghorn grunted, and followed him. He found Macintyre on his knees beside the dead man. The engineer glanced up, then rose and held out something. A black horn button.

"This was in his hand, gripped hard. Been torn loose. Find a chap with a button off his coat—eh? What's the matter?"

Cleghorn's face changed. He recalled now that Aranha's coat had two buttons off. If this matched the remaining buttons—well, after all, was that evidence? Still, Aranha could not get away. There was no hurry. Cleghorn handed back the button.

"Take care of that. Mark it with a knife, put it away for evidence."

"What are you going to do?"

"There's a lot I could do, and maybe should do," said Cleghorn slowly. "But just now, I'm going to do nothing. Wait and watch your step."

H e left the cabin thoughtfully, and started for his own cabin, at the other end of the passage. Just before he came to it, the door of Marie Silva's cabin, adjoining his, was flung open and a man came out with a tray. It was Tomkins, a ratty little cockney who had signed on as steward. He touched his cap, and Cleghorn stopped him.

''Been down at the other end o' the passage since breakfast?"

"Me? No, sir. I fetched the lydy's trye a bit ago, and just come for it, sir."

"Any of the men been hanging around here?"

"Lord love you, cap'n! I should sye not."

Marie appeared at the open door, and Cleghorn dismissed Tomkins with a gesture.

"Good morning!" Her hand came out to his, her smile was bright and cheerful. "What are you looking so sober about this morning?"

"Oh, business," returned Cleghorn. "Coming up topside? It's fine, fresh and clear."

"I'll be along in five minutes, yes."

He went into his own cabin, opened the locker, and taking out a blunt pistol, shoved it into his hip pocket. Then he sought the bridge again, and found Horton at the rail, talking with Aranha and Rapp. The second officer came over to him, inquiringly.

"Know anything about it?" asked Cleghorn.

"Not a thing, sir. I looked in on him, and came straight up."

"Right. Say nothing about it. Log it, and then have him prepared for burial tonight. Mac can tell you all I know."

Cleghorn went over to the two at the rail, exchanged a word with them and eyed the coat of Aranha. It was held by one black horn button. Two were gone. One had been pulled clean out. No doubt of things now, in Cleghorn's mind, but he said nothing.

He did not doubt that Aranha was the murderer. To come out with an open accusation, to put the man under lock and key, could of course be done; he had sufficient proof as it was. Still, Aranha could not leave the ship, could not get away, and there must have been a cause for the murder. This baffled him completely. Adams had been stabbed from behind; the killer must have been watching, must have sneaked in and given it to him. There had been no fight. Adams had never seen the man before last night, and had said so. What earthly reason was there for the killing, then?

Cleghorn stepped inside, spoke to the man at the wheel, a bleary-eyed, unshaven ruffian, saw that the course was right, and came out to the rail again. A sharp word broke from Rapp; the two men, there at his left, whirled around and stood staring, slack-jawed, consternation and dismay in their faces. Cleghorn followed their eyes, and saw Marie Silva just topping the ladder. She caught sight of them and halted. Her eyes widened.

"You!" she exclaimed sharply. Aranha moved, came toward her, removed his cap and began to speak. She thrust him aside as though he did not matter, and moved toward Rapp.

"You, Peterson! What are you doing aboard here?" she demanded. Rapp took a step backward.

"No harm, miss, no harm," he replied sullenly. "I'm in on a deal wi' Cap'n Darby. We've chartered this here hooker, miss."

"Oh!" exclaimed the girl. She glanced around, saw Cleghorn at the other side of the bridge, and turned toward him abruptly. He saw anger in her eyes; then it was gone. "Well," she observed cheerfully, "it certainly is a fine morning, cap'n! Do you allow the cook's assistant on the bridge?"

"Any and all times, you bet," returned Cleghorn. He saw Rapp and Aranha go down the ladder, and gave her a quick look, his blue eyes very keen. "His name is Rapp aboard here. Where'd you know him?"

"A year ago, when I was home from the States for vacation," she answered steadily, "that man was dad's chief officer. Peterson, his name was then. Dad caught him in some crooked work. Peterson tried to kill him, and went to jail. I don't know just what the crooked work was; dad wouldn't tell me, so it must have been something pretty dirty."

"I see," observed Cleghorn, and rubbing his chin, gazed Out at the horizon for a moment. "Hm! He was chief officer, Aranha was second. Now they're with Darby, in on this ginseng deal. Well, the puzzle picture gets more and more involved."

"Cap'n Joe, I want you to read dad's last letter, the one I found here awaiting me," she said abruptly. "We're not going to pull at cross purposes, you and I, and I don't want to hide anything from you."

She put an envelope in his hand. Cleghorn met her dark, confident eyes, and spoke on impulse.

"That's a bargain, then. My chief officer was murdered this morning. Don't know who did it; stabbed. Keep your mouth shut about it."

He turned from her, took the letter from its envelope, and unfolded it. The epistle was brief. After an introductory paragraph, it read:

"In case anything happens to me suddenly, as it may, I want you to know that I am leaving everything in the place you know of. Nobody

"I turned over a very good deal last month with So Hsien of Macao. He went broke; his gambling house was cleaned out and he needed ready money. I bought his collection of pearls for cash, and have put them away for you. Pearls are always in demand, and these are remarkably fine as you know. Everything is in the tin box, and safer than in any bank."

Cleghorn looked at the girl, as he returned the letter.

"Anybody else read that?"

"Why, no—oh! You mean it's not safe to keep it around? I hadn't thought of that, but you're right. Thanks." She shredded the letter and envelope into scraps, and tossed them fluttering down the wind, then looked at him with a smile. "There! And—you understand why I didn't want to say more, at first?"

Cleghorn nodded. "Sure, Is the amount large?"

"I don't know, but I fancy it must be. Dad put aside a good deal. But tell me, what was that about your chief officer?"

Cleghorn told her, briefly. As he was concluding the account, Cap'n Darby made his appearance, and Cleghorn beckoned him.

"Morning. Just the person I wanted to see. It's about that chap Rapp, cap'n. What's his business?"

Darby looked surprised, touched his cap to the girl, and answered promptly.

"Why, he's a broker of some sort! Aranha got him into the deal, as I didn't have enough cash to put it through, and Stoutsman rather fell down on me at the last minute."

"Oh! Broker, is he? You didn't know that his name's Peterson and that he was first officer under Cap'n Silva last year?"

Darby's gaze narrowed. "Eh? No, that just can't be so―"

'Well, it is," broke in Marie Silva coolly. "What does it mean?"

Cleghorn was watching Darby. The latter gave the girl a quick, probing glance, and his lips compressed for an instant. He was startled, obviously.

"Miss, I don't know," he rejoined slowly. "Why he'd lie to me, I don't see. I'll have it out with him here and now-"

"No," said Cleghorn, and Darby looked at him. "Wait, cap'n, wait! There's luck in leisure, as the saying goes. Who's this Stoutsman? A friend of yours?"

"He runs a saloon in Hong Kong," said Darby. "Used to be a seaman. I've known him off and on for some years. He's in it for a vacation and has a split in the proceeds. He couldn't put up as much as he'd thought, at the last minute, so we got Rapp into it."

"Yeah?" Cleghorn eyed him sardonically. "Thought you knew your way around better'n all that!"

The other started. His eyes lit up sharply, keenly.

"Eh? What are you driving at?"

"I dunno," said Cleghorn. "But there's something fishy back of all this. If I were you. I'd keep mighty quiet, and watch out sharp. And don't go leaning over the rail on dark nights."

"You're crazy!" scoffed Darby.

"Well, suit yourself." Cleghorn shrugged. Darby looked from one to the other of them, grunted, and left the bridge.

Marie Silva's anxious gaze went to Cleghorn. "You have some idea about it. What is it?"

"Can't tell, Marie. Looks to me as though Darby had been neatly taken in by three crooks. Can't see any reason for it, though, and so far as the game itself goes, they may all be simply playing it their own way. Darby's the last person in the world to be shystered."

"So any one would think," she assented dryly.

Tomkins appeared on the bridge, touched his cap, and asked if he might make up the girl's cabin. She nodded, and he departed. Then Horton came up, a moment later, saluted Marie, and gave Cleghorn a glance.

"All set, sir. Shall I take over, now?"

"No. It's your watch off; keep it so."

"The chief wanted to see you, sir."

"Tell him to come up here, then."

Horton departed, and Marie Silva presently left the bridge also. Cleghorn, keeping an eye on the course, exchanged a word or two with the bleary rascal at the helm, who gave his name as Martin.

"Quartermaster in the B. P. line, sir— once," said the man.

"Australia, eh?" Cleghorn stared out at the horizon. Rapp had mentioned Australia; probably came from there originally. "Hm! Peterson said he knew you down that way."

Martin darted a sharp look at his expressionless face.

"Well, that was some years ago, sir," returned the man.

Cleghorn's pulse leaped, but he ventured nothing more. The red thatch of Macintyre was rising on the ladder, and he went outside to meet the young chief engineer.

"What's on your mind, Mac?"

"Nothing much. Only I can't find hide nor hair of old Charley Gray."

Cleghorn frowned. "What d'you mean? Assistant engineers don't vanish, do they?"

"Never knew 'em to before this, cap'n. He's nowhere aboard, unless he's stowed away somewhere in a bunker. And a queer thing happened, too." Macintyre hesitated, then went on. "You knew that nice new Browning pistol I got in Hong Kong, last thing? Well, it's gone."

"What d'you mean? You think Charley took it and jumped overboard to spite you?"

Mac's eyes had no laughter in them.

'Well, it looks that way, for a fact. That gun was under my pillow last night, and it's gone now."

"Oh!" said Cleghorn. "Steward cleaned up your cabin? Go ask where he put it."

"I just asked him," said Mac. "He knows nothing about it. Swears up and down there was no gun under my pillow when he made up the berth."

"Believe him?"

"He seems an honest little rat. Damned if I know what to believe!"

"Same here," confessed Cleghorn. "Looks mighty queer, all of it. I don't savvy about Gray, though. He must be somewhere about the ship, Mac."

"He's not. He's supposed to be on duty now, too. Think we'd better make any general search for him?"

"No," said Cleghorn slowly. "No. something's up, Mac, and I don't know what it is. Best lay low and keep your eye peeled. Here, take my gun and keep it on your hip. I've got another in my locker. By the way, look in Adams' cabin for his, will you? He keeps it in his wash-stand drawer, right side. If you find it, bring mine back."

"Right," said Mac, and dropped the automatic into his jacket pocket.

Cleghorn, alone at the break of the bridge, gripped the rail hard and frowned at the sun-glittering water. Something very queer—yes! One at least of those men forward, who had come aboard the previous evening, knew that Rapp was really Peterson. Then, the murder of poor Adams. And now a mysterious disappearance. Charley Gray, the assistant engineer, was a rough old rascal, strong as a horse, with a bitter tongue, but true as steel. How on earth could he have vanished bodily? Such things just were not done. He was no doubt somewhere around the ship, perhaps dead drunk in a corner.

Then Cleghorn found Marie Silva ascending the ladder hastily. She stood before him, flushed, her dark eyes excited and angry.

"There's something horribly wrong here, Cap'n Joe!" she broke out. "My bag was locked, and had a pistol in it. Now it's been cut open—a long gash down one side—and the pistol is gone. Nothing else is missing. Tomkins discovered it himself and called me in to see the cut bag."

As Cleghorn had half anticipated, Macintyre did not return his automatic, for Adams' weapon was clean gone. And so was the second pistol in Cleghorn's locker.

4

EVENING found the mystery still unsolved.

Three things stood out sharply, with puzzling prominence. Charley Gray had simply vanished; he was not aboard the ship. Adams had been murdered, and if Cleghorn suspected the murderer, he said nothing, but buried his chief officer calmly. Then, the disappearing pistols. Some one had raided the officers' cabins; some one had cut open Marie Silva's bag and taken the pistol from it.

Cleghorn found his own futility maddening.

Moved by his own helplessness, he that evening confided in Darby. The other three of Darby's party were having a card game in the mess cabin, Horton was on the bridge, Marie Silva had gone to her own cabin. Cleghorn found Darby in the stern, smoking, looking out at the silvery moonlit wake. He told him bluntly what had happened.

"You've searched up for'ard?"

"Yes," said Cleghorn bitterly. "We've searched everywhere. No sign of Gray. No sign of any pistols."

"Well," and Darby tapped his pocket, "nobody's got mine, anyhow! I dunno what it can mean, for a fact. That Rapp-Peterson thing looks bad. You say one of the men for'ard knew him, eh? Might be those three sharks had hooked me, somehow, but why? No sense to it. We're all four partners. Piracy? Ain't likely. They'd not want this ship. Nothing in her to loot. It's a wonder," he added bitterly, "you ain't suspected me of some crooked work!"

"I have," said Cleghorn frankly. "But I can't see any particular point to suspecting you of anything. As to the murder of Adams— well, I know who did that."

"Spit it out, then," snapped Darby. "All shipshape, I says, and cards on the table! Who?"

"Aranha." And Cleghorn told of the button. Darby swore disgustedly, turned around to the light, pointed to his own coat.

"Hell's bells! Might's well say I did it myself. Same sort o' slop-chest buttons, and one's torn off here. That's no damned good, at least to prove anything. But it does beat all how you can lose not only them pistols, but a perfectly good engineer, aboard a lousy little old well decked coasting tramp like this!"

Cleghorn caught his arm suddenly.

"What's that? Hear it-"

"On the bridge!" snapped the other. "Come on."

Darby dashed away. Cleghorn followed him forward, hearing again that thin, wailing cry, and then it was cut short. Some one had called him. It was his own name that had shrilled down the moonlight.

Upon reaching the bridge, the two stood staring at each other. Horton stood there, calm, inquiring; he had heard nothing. Cleghorn withdrew, and at the foot of the ladder waited for Darby, and growled an oath.

"Somebody called me, I could swear to it!"

"Aye," assented Darby. "Some one called 'Joe Cleghorn'! Heard it myself. All quiet on the bridge. I'll pop below and take a look. Want to get a couple cheroots anyhow."

He departed. Cleghorn went to the rail, glanced at the forward well deck, glanced aft. He made out nothing amiss, nothing suspicious. The deck lights were all burning. He strolled on aft by the engine-room hatch, and then turned at the quick step of Darby thudding along the deck. Darby extended a cheroot.

"Here. All quiet below, cap'n. Dashed if I can savvy it!"

Cleghorn struck a match; they lit the cheroots. Darby turned to the rail, leaned on it—and then sprang suddenly back with a startled oath.

"What's this? Look here, would you―"

Cleghorn saw him staring at his hand.

He touched the rail, found something wet and sticky. Next instant a match showed them the truth. On the rail, dribbling down to the scuppers, was wet, fresh blood. A lot of it.

"That card game still going on?" demanded Cleghorn grimly.

"Yes. My Lord! Where'd this come from?"

A frightful premonition seized upon Cleghorn. He turned, then paused.

"Watch out!" he said sharply. "Run up and tell Horton, like a good chap. I'll be along in a moment."

Then he was gone, through the open door, down to the engine-room gratings. Half-way down, he paused and shouted at the men below.

"Where's Mr. Macintyre?"

"Ain't here, sir," came back the response. "Went topside for a breath of air a while back. Ain't come down yet."

Cleghorn was stunned for an instant. He retraced his steps, his brain in turmoil, passion boiling within him; by a tremendous effort he kept his head, forced himself to be cool, quiet. That was poor Mac's blood on the rail. He had been stabbed and flung over, and had cried out as he fell. Dead now, beyond any helping.

"Here is something that I found by n the rail," came the voice of Darby.

From him Cleghorn took a little silver pencil with pocket-clip. It was one he himself had given Macintyre. Cleghorn stood there, trembling; grief and fury rushed upon him at once, and then a stifled groan came from his lips.

"It's Mac, the chief," he said in a low voice. "Murdered like Adams. Good Lord! What does it mean? Who's the killer? There must be an insane man aboard here, a madman —and Mac had been warned, too. He was on guard. Now we know how Charley Gray vanished. What's behind it?"

He turned upon Darby. In the moonlight his eyes glittered, his face was convulsed, he was filled with suspicion and hatred. At a word, at a look, he would have seized the smaller man before him like a rat.

Then his passion died out. Darby's scarred features bore a look that could not be mistaken—a look of earnest stupefaction, of deep alarm. The man was sincere.

"Him, of all people!" exclaimed Darby. "Lord, I'm sorry. He was a fine chap, cap'n; what the devil's to do about it? D'ye think Aranha―

Cleghorn caught at the name.

"Will you see if he's left that game since we were there? See what they say. Keep on your guard-"

"Right," said Darby briskly. "I'm with you all the way, cap'n. Back in a minute."

As he departed, the chunky figure of Horton appeared.

"Hullo, cap'n. What's up? Darby told me about the blood-"

"Mac's gone," said Cleghorn. "And, by the lord Harry, if I find out who's the bloody murderer, I'll wring his neck! Noticed anything queer?"

"Mac!" Horton caught his breath sharply. "Who, me? Not a thing, sir. Who done it?"

"How the hell do I know? Would I be yammering here like a fool if I knew?" cried Cleghorn in a tortured voice. "Watch yourself, old man. It's some of this damned gang we've got aboard us. Look out for that Aranha. None o' them have been killed—and look at us! You and me next. I can't figure this game, but look out!"

"You bet," assented Horton calmly. "I'll get back topside."

Cleghorn was alone once more. He moved out of the moonlight, stepped back inside the door of the engine-room entrance, paused there. No use questioning the men down there; if they did know anything, they'd lie, of course. His thoughts flew to Marie Silva, up there in her own cabin. She must be warned about all this deviltry. She might be the next to go. Cleghorn was stung afresh by his own helplessness, his inability to do anything. He was convinced that Darby was not concerned in it, however; the sincerity of the man was beyond any mistake.

A shuffle of feet on the deck outside, then a voice. The words petrified him.

"―leave her alone, see? Peterson's got her picked out."

"Trust him," came the response, with a low, evil laugh. "Remember him and that dame down in Batavia?"

The two figures passed, oblivious of the man in the shadow. One was Martin, the quartermaster. The words burned into Cleghorn. He stood motionless, then heard Darby's brisk step.

"Hey, cap'n! Where are ye?"

Cleghorn stepped out. Darby flung his cheroot over the rail.

"Game just broke up," he said. "I asked the steward; nobody had been gone, he said."

"Damn the steward! I'll bet he's in on this, too. Listen!" Fiercely, Cleghorn told what he had just overheard.

Darby whistled softly.

"Some o' these men you shipped are in on it, sure!" he exclaimed. "Let's you and me go have a talk with this Rapp, mister."

"You're on," said Cleghorn grimly. "Meet you in five minutes below the bridge. I've got a slungshot tucked away in a drawer, and I'll get it, then join you."

Cleghorn started for his own cabin. So this devil Rapp was behind some of this work, eh? At all events, the girl was in no danger; that was one good thing. And now that he was warned, Rapp-Peterson was going to cough up information, and do it in a hurry.

Thus determined, Cleghorn turned into the passage, passed the door of the girl's cabin, shoved open his own door, and reached for the light. His figure was illumined by the light in the passage, the cabin was pitch-black. As he put out his arm, something moved before him. Every sense alert, he ducked, and swerved quickly to one side.

A furious blow glanced from his head—had he not ducked, it would have brained him. Half stunned, he hurled himself to one side, and collided full with an unseen figure. His hands shot out. A grim and furious satisfaction seized Cleghorn as his fingers sank into the throat of a man, sank in with a terrible grip―

Another smash over the head, and another. Blinded, he sank in his fingers the deeper. The two struggling figures hit against the door, and it slammed shut. Now there was perfect darkness. In his ears, Cleghorn heard the hoarse, frenzied panting of a man, felt the smashing blows of the other's fists and of some blunt weapon. He had not the slightest idea who it could be, and cared not. This fellow had been waiting here to get him, and had come within an ace of it.

That man, gripped about the throat by those fingers of iron, gasped terribly, struggled with blind and frantic desperation to loose the grip, and could not. His strength began to fail. Again Cleghorn caught a terrific smash over the head, and this fourth blow all but knocked him out.

He lost balance, but did not lose his grip. He dragged down the other with him; they fell heavily, rolled against the closed door, and lay there sprawling. Flashes of fire beat before Cleghorn's eyes. He tried to rise, and could not. He felt his senses slipping away. With an effort, he held himself motionless, let all his strength, all his will-power, flow into his hard-gripped fingers.

Even when everything went black before him, there was no slackening of his frightful hold.

5

W HEN Cleghorn came to his senses again, daylight was creeping into  the cabin, stealing across his face, wakening him.

He sat up abruptly.

At first he remembered nothing, for his head was very sore and aching, and he was in a most uncomfortable position, twisted with another man, lying solidly against the door. Then, as he put both hands to his head and squirmed aside, he suddenly recollected what had passed the preceding night. With a start, he turned to the still, motionless figure lying there face down, and lifted it. The body was quite stiff. The face, when he had turned it over, was horrible to see, and black.

It was the face of Rapp. In the man's hand was a slungshot. Fallen on the floor, where it must have slipped from his hold almost at the first, was a long, keen-edged knife. Probably the same knife that had slain Adams and Macintyre.

But now— daybreak! Morning! What had happened, meanwhile?

Cleghorn staggered to his feet. He was bruised and sore, his head felt like a battered apple, but he was himself again and it took a lot to damage him beyond recourse. He caught up the water-bottle from the rack and drank thirstily, heavily. Then he looked at the stiffened body of Rapp, and felt only satisfaction. Here he had the murderer, no doubt of it— and besides, what Rapp had told the men in regard to Marie Silva put him beyond the pale.

Rapp had been in collusion with the men, of course; had known one or two of them in times past. What was his objective here? Well, no matter now. And why had no one come during the night? Sudden sharp alarm pierced Cleghorn. Horton would have looked him up, surely. Had anything happened to the second officer? Aranha must be involved in this affair, probably had murdered Adams. That button still stuck in Cleghorn's mind.

Going to the body of Rapp, he examined it and grunted as he rose with a pistol in his hand. What was more, it was his own missing pistol, the one that had been taken from his locker. This settled things with a vengeance. He pocketed it, then picked up the slungshot. Donning a fresh jacket, he slipped the springy weapon up his sleeve, hauled the body of Rapp away from the door, and stepped outside.

came to him from the adjoining cabin. He heard Marie Silva speak.

"You say he hasn't been around?"

"No, miss," returned Tomkins, the steward. "Sound asleep and 'is cabin locked. Cap'n Darby tried to get in and couldn't."

Cleghorn turned away. He could talk with the girl later. At present, he had other and more pressing things on his mind. First, what about Horton?

He went down the passage to the latter's cabin, tried the door. It was locked, and the key was on the outside. Cleghorn turned it and walked in.

Horton lay in his berth, breathing stertorously, fully dressed. Beside him on the floor was an empty cognac bottle. Another lay in the berth. Cleghorn picked up this latter and sniffed it, about to take a swallow; then he checked the motion. The brandy had an odd smell. He looked at the unconscious Horton, and a whistle escaped him. His first disgusted contempt passed away.

"Doped, by gravy!" he muttered.

"Somebody got him drinking, then gave him a doped bottle! Well, they got him out of the way without killing him, that's sure. Then locked him in. Hm! Rapp didn't do this, anyhow."

He went outside, saw nothing of Tomkins, and started for the bridge.

From the ladder, he looked down to the forward well-deck and saw two or three of the hands there staring up at him. He went on grimly. Mounting, he came face to face with Darby, who stood in talk at the starboard rail with Stoutsman. They broke off short, staring.

"Man!" exclaimed Darby, unconcealed pleasure in his eyes. "We thought ye were sleeping your head off! Horton's dead drunk."

"Doped, you mean," said Cleghorn. Glancing into the pilot house, he saw the man Martin there, gawking at him, and smiled grimly. Then he looked at Stoutsman, whose red, bulbous-nosed face was all shot across with surprise and bewilderment.

"Couldn't knock you up last night," went on Darby quickly. "Couldn't get in at all. Looked bad, cap'n. Stoutsman, here, knows a bit about engines, and he's got things running sweet down below. You know, we can't find Rapp anywhere? Didn't turn up for breakfast."

"He won't turn up for any more breakfasts," said Cleghorn calmly. "He's the dirty devil who stole our guns and has done this murdering. He was waiting for me last night and damned near got me. He's settled. What d'you know about it, Stoutsman?"

"Who, me? Not a thing, cap'n," stammered the red-faced man, so plainly lost in puzzled anxiety that Cleghorn cleared him at once of any complicity in the murders.

Then, glancing around the horizon, Cleghorn started. The Hermione was no longer out at sea, but steaming along toward a scattered group of reefs and long, barren islands. Across the north and west rose the Manchurian mountains. He perceived at once that she had somewhat overshot her mark and was coming up now to the reefs. He glanced at Darby.

"Your work?"

"Aye," said Darby with a nod. "In half an hour we'll be at the reef. It lays behind that mass o' rock off the port bow. We'll raise her clear in three or four minutes."

"Good," said Cleghorn. "You and I will have to run her until Horton's on his feet; Lord knows when that'll be!"

He turned into the wheelhousc.

Martin gave him a startled, shrinking glance, and Cleghorn came up close to him, pulled the slungshot from his sleeve, and dangled it before the quartermaster. The implement was of braided leather in different colors, beautifully woven.

"Recognize that, do you?" said Cleghorn. "Now, my lad, you're going to come clean—or else you'll feel it as well as see it. Rapp's dead, savvy? Peterson, as you knew him. He's dead, and I killed him, and I'll do you the same in about two minutes."

Martin's face went gray, livid, ghastly.

"So that—that's why he—he ain't been around!" he muttered.

"That's it. He's down in my cabin, dead and stiff, and you'll join him pronto unless you talk," said Cleghorn.

Martin shrank suddenly, and cowered away from him.

"I'll talk, cap'n, I'll tell you everything!" he gasped.

Cleghorn caught sight of Darby, outside, and beckoned. The other came in by the port door and stood listening, his scarred features anything but handsome.

"I met Peterson on the street and he says to ship aboard you," said Martin. "He says we'd have a bloody good thing of it, sir. That's all I know―"

"You lie like hell!" snapped Cleghorn. "Last night you and another man were talking about Peterson and that girl down below―"

He swung the persuader, and Martin let out a cry.

"That's true, sir! Sure! There wasn't no harm in it, sir! Peterson told us queer things were going on aboard here, and to look out for the lady, that he had his eye on her for himself. That's all he said. I don't know nothin' about the murder, cap'n! I swear it! He says last night he'd be around and give me and Swipes some orders, and he ain't come."

"You'll go to join him," said Cleghorn, "if you don't watch your step."

Darby beckoned, and they went outside, to the end of the bridge.

"That clears it up a bit," said Darby. "Rapp had some sort of game afoot, eh?"

"And wasn't alone in it. What about Stoutsman?"

"He's no saint, but he ain't mixed in it," said Darby emphatically. "That man there knows more'n he's told."

"Sure; but he's told enough. Try to get any more out of him, and he'd lie a blue streak," replied Cleghorn disgustedly. "Aranha?"

"I dunno." Darby frowned. "If he is, then Rapp's death will knock him silly. See here, we got to pay attention to business or we'll go on the reef! I know the ground here. I'll con her up to the anchorage myself. There's the wreck, by gosh!"

For the moment, everything else was forgotten. Indeed, Aranha came up the ladder, saw Cleghorn with a start of recognition and astonishment, then turned and stared like every one else.

The reef ahead, disengaging itself from the high rocky islet which had concealed it, now showed plainly to view. The tide was now high, the half-mile long reef was almost awash. Midway of its length and driven clear of the water, the wrecked Adamastor lay upon her starboard side, half in a deep pool that ran the length of the reef. Her spars were gone, her bows were stove in, but her superstructure seemed intact. Darby was examining her through his glasses, and now lowered them with an exultant word.

"The hatches ain't been touched! I'll take her, cap'n. There's twenty fathom steep to this side of the reef."

He disappeared inside the pilot house, and a moment later the ship came to half-speed.

Aranha turned, met the gaze of Cleghorn, and smiled composedly.

"You haven't seen Rapp, I suppose?" he asked.

"Yes," said Cleghorn. "He's down in my cabin now."

"Oh!" Aranha's brows went up in surprise. "Then I'll just run down and call him, eh?"

Cleghorn shrugged, and watched the other depart with a grim smile. As Aranha went down one ladder, Marie Silva came up the other, her lovely features excited. She gave Cleghorn a glance and a swift greeting, and turned to look at the island as soon as she was on the bridge.

"Oh! Isn't it pitiful?" she exclaimed hastily. "Are you going close up, cap'n?"

"We are," said Cleghorn. She swung around to him.

"I forgot—everything's all right, isn't it? The steward said you were sleeping―"

"Everything's all right, you bet," he rejoined, his eyes twinkling. "And you're going in the first boat with me, Marie, so you'd better get ready. It'll be rough work there on the reef; looks all coral, pitted and full of holes. Got any heavy shoes?"

"I'll get them, yes," she returned, and left the bridge hurriedly. Cleghorn turned to where Darby stood beside the quartermaster, giving instructions. The ship was on quarter-speed now, nosing up to the island. Darby touched Martin on the shoulder.

"Get for'ard and break out that anchor. Good holding-ground in twenty fathom."

The engine telegraph swung to "Stop" and the monotonous clank of the engines ceased; all vibration left the ship and she surged forward slowly, steadily. Two hundred yards from the reef, the cable began to rattle and bang in the hawser; presently the ship swung at rest, her nose to the reef, for the tide was on the turn.

"Well?" Darby faced Cleghorn inquiringly. "What's the program?"

"Up to you, cap'n," responded Cleghorn. "I'm going to give the lady a hand, that's all."

"Then we'll take Aranha, Stoutsman and six men. Suit you?"

Cleghorn made a gesture of assent, went out to the bridge rail, and bawled the orders at the men below. They trooped aft to get the No. 1 boat into the water. Then Aranha came up the ladder, his dark eyes staring at Cleghorn, his face ominously set.

"Well?" he demanded, breathing hard. "What's it mean, cap'n?"

"Oh, you found him, did you?" Cleghorn chuckled. "Means that he tried to do me in like he did the others yesterday. Bloody murderer, that's what he was! And I'm not so sure but what you had a hand in it as well."

Aranha faced him steadily. "Careful, cap'n!" he said in a low voice. "Is that an accusation or not?"

"No, it's merely my opinion, and you're welcome to it," said Cleghorn. The other shrugged.

"You seem to want trouble! Well, I'll not oblige you now; I want to have a look under the hatches of that wreck. When we return, we'll settle this affair."

"Suits me," said Cleghorn. "Darby, hold the boat for me, will you? There's something I want to look up below."

Going down, he met Tomkins, and told the steward to call up some of the men and drop the body of Rapp overboard with a weight to the heels. He left the aghast steward staring after him, and went to Macintyre's cabin.

He spent a good ten minutes in searching it thoroughly but fruitlessly. There was no doubt that Mac had taken care of the telltale button and scrap of cloth. but it was not here. With a grunt, Cleghorn accepted the blow.

"Either he kept it in his pocket," he reflected, "or else his murderer got in here and looked it up. Aranha or Rapp? No telling. Seems silly to think those two chaps would come aboard here with one or two men, to pull murder and piracy! Still, there's a reason back of it, if I could only find it."

Alert, wary, watchful of everything, he went to the galley and got a steaming mug of coffee, wolfed a hunk of bread, and then went to where the boat was waiting under the side. Six men were in her, with Aranha and Stoutsman, and Darby was just helping Marie Silva down. Two minutes later Cleghorn shipped the tiller, and the boat struck out. Behind her, the men left aboard stared down over the rail, watching.

The morning was still, almost a calm. Not even a fishing-craft was in sight, but against the horizon were two smoke smudges, no doubt steamers making for or leaving Dairen. This string of bare reefs and islets was waterless, uninhabited.

"Couldn't have better weather for the job," observed Stoutsman. "Nasty place if a blow came up! We ought to be gone by night, eh, Aranha?"

The latter nodded in silence. His gaze was fastened upon the wreck in rapt excitement. Marie Silva, crowded beside Cleghorn, was also watching the wreck, whose almost perpendicular deck was toward them as she lay. Cleghorn was watching the reef, however, and picked out a spot for landing as the boat surged forward.

"Bow oar! Lay out with that hook and stand by," he ordered.

6

THEY WERE ASHORE, scrambling across the face of Fourteen, as the reef was charted.

One man remained with the boat, the others trailed along. Cleghorn and Marie followed Aranha; the others spread out, all seeking the best path across the uneven surface of pitted coral, dotted with pools, and much of it slippery with weed from its recent submergence.

"It'll be a job," said Cleghorn, as he helped the girl across a pool close to the canted deck of the wreck. "You know Iris cabin, of course?"

"Yes. On the starboard side of the passage, easy to reach."

"Won't find much loose stuff," observed Cleghorn grimly, with a glance over the deck above. "Natives have been here."

This was evident. Everything not smashed loose had been cut adrift, even the windows having been hacked out. That the hatches had not been touched showed that the wreckers were probably passing fishermen in a hurry.

Cleghorn paid no further attention to Darby's party, who scurried about and clustered about the forward hatch. He was busy trying to get into the cabin passage beneath the bridge, which was not easy by reason of the sharply canted decks. When at last he had cleared away the debris of a jammed, smashed door, the girl passed through and he followed, clawing a precarious way along the sloping deck.

The cabin doors were all opened, smashed, jammed, blocking the passage until forced out of the way. A quick cry from Marie, as she disappeared into a cabin.

"Here, cap'n! It looks all right,

It looked far from all right, as Cleghorn perceived on scrambling through the doorway. The floor was a litter of smashed crockery, furniture, moldy bedding, everything imaginable piled up; any object of utility had been carried off. Lockers, chests, drawers were all open and plundered.

Marie Silva, however, had gone to the bed, a French brass bed screwed to the floor, and was working her way around to the head of it. Cleghorn looked at the wall but could see nothing here except a cracked mirror in a wooden frame screwed in place. When she came to this, the girl paused and flung him a laughing glance.

"Now you'll see why everything was sure to be safe! Even if the ship had gone down to the bottom, it would not matter―"

Her face changed abruptly. Fear flashed in her eyes. Cleghorn whirled suddenly and saw Aranha just coming erect in the doorway, watching them with an amused expression. The pistol leaped out.

"What d'you want?"

Astonishment filled the dark, aggressive features as Aranha saw the gun.

"Nothing, cap'n!" he exclaimed hastily. "I—I came to say that Cap'n Darby can't get those hatches open, and asked if you'd come and lend a hand."

"No," said Cleghorn bluntly. "Tell him to play his own game and I'll play mine. Get out of here and stay out."

Aranha flushed angrily, but shrugged and scrambled away. Cleghorn went to the door and watched from there until he saw the man clear out of the passage. Then he returned again.

"All right, Marie! That blighter was curious; Darby sent no message at all. I'd gamble on it. Go ahead, he's gone."

The girl produced a short, blunt screwdriver with good purchase. Evidently she had come fully prepared, knowing exactly what to expect here. She fell to work at the mirror-frame, and a whistle of admiration broke from Cleghorn when he comprehended.

Silva had chosen his hiding-place admirably. No one would have given two glances at this broken mirror screwed against the wall. The very fact of the glass being cracked directed the attention elsewhere.

Then, as he watched, Cleghorn remembered Aranha. The rascal had looked dumfounded at sight of that pistol. His calm, unhurried appearance, his first amusement, the way in which he had entered without the least concealment, went to show that he had not anticipated finding Cleghorn armed—or did it? If Darby had really sent him, this would explain his manner just as fully.

"Slick," thought Cleghorn angrily. "The devil is a smart one, smooth as butter? I'll bet a dollar he's been in cahoots all the time with Rapp; and he sneaked that button out of Mac's cabin, too. But what's their game? That's what stumps me. If I knew that, I'd know just what to hang on him, and why."

After all, he reflected, things had happened with remarkable rapidity. When he was knocked silly last night, holding Rapp in his hands, not twenty-four hours had passed since leaving port. There hadn't been much time or chance to run down killers, with all the things that were happening and the work to be done. But now it would be different. Dairen was just over the horizon, steamers coming in and going out could be reached at almost any time with a smoke signal or rockets, and if Aranha tried any tricks, he would get into hot and quick trouble.

Then Cleghorn's thoughts shifted as the girl finished her task. The last screw was coming out, and without an effort she pried the mirror-frame away from the wall and lifted it to the bed, carefully. Where it had been, there was revealed a small square door in the cabin wall. Opening this door, Marie produced a tin box six inches wide and a foot long, laid this on the bed, then took up the mirror again.

"I'll just replace this first of all," she said. "No use advertising what we've done."

"Right," he approved. "Let me get around there—I'll do it for you."

Joining her, he fell to work and in no time was driving in the last of the screws. She started to open the box with a little key that was on a chain about her neck, and seeing this, Cleghorn heaved the mattress back upon the bed-springs, and opened out a handkerchief on this.

"Pearls mean money, and so does a tin box like that," he said significantly. "Whatever's in it, throw into the handkerchief and make a bundle you can tuck out of sight. If you carry that box, everybody aboard will know you've got something worth having. With all the goings-on we've had―"

"Oh!" she paused, her eyes widening. "I meant to ask you about it, but we've hardly had time to talk since sighting the wreck. I haven't seen Mr. Macintyre around today, and that sour-faced man, Rapp, hasn't appeared―"

"And won't," replied Cleghorn. "Both dead, Marie. Make up your mind to it, we're bound to have trouble before we're through. I can't explain. I don't savvy it myself, but once we get what we're after, there's going to be some explaining done aboard ship."

She looked at him for a long moment, searchingly, then bent her gaze again to the box in her hands. Unlocked, this came open, and she dumped out the contents on the mattress. There were a number of small Chinese boxes, covered with bright brocades; a sheaf of bank-notes, a heavy purse, probably containing gold by the peculiar dead clink as it fell; and a legal envelope with papers inside.

"Pearls in those boxes, eh?" observed Cleghorn. "Well, the boxes are devilish unhandy, and to be frank, I think all this stuff is risky. Suppose you dump out the pearls and knot the handkerchief around them. They can't hurt unless you crush 'em. Stuff the other things out of sight. Carry the envelope, and I'll carry the box."

"You will? The empty box?" She gave him a sharp glance. "But I thought you said it might cause too much comment―"

"Sure. I'll throw it away into the pool, and they'll see it's empty. You'll be carrying the envelope. It'll look like we didn't find much."

"I see."

She obeyed, without further discussion. Cleghorn knew nothing about pearls. Whether the glittering rosy globules that piled into the handkerchief were real or imitation, he had no idea whatever. When the last box had been turned out, Marie pushed the cotton and boxes to the deck, knotted the handkerchief, and thrust the little bundle into her breast. After it went the sheaf of notes. The purse she handed to Cleghorn, who grunted at its weight.

"Carry this, please. All ready, if you are."

With a nod, he pocketed the purse and turned to the door. Upon reaching it, he was relieved to find the passage quite deserted.

Tin box in hand, he made his way along, the deck of the passage sloping sharply to his right, the left wall under his feet. Because of the splintered door ahead, exit to the outer passage beneath the bridge was no simple matter. Cleghorn had to clamber around it on his hands and knees, the tin box under his arm, and then let himself slide down into the scuppers.

"I'll go first," he said, on reaching the smashed door, "and catch you." He worked his way around the door, slid down the sharp slope and then caught sight of the quartermaster, Martin, at one side. Martin was grinning at him. Something whisked around him, and Cleghorn felt a tug that flung him sideways into the scuppers. A rope—he had been noosed-

There was a burst of laughter as they fell upon him.

7

IT WAS quite true about the ginseng in the No. 1 hold, although Aranha had somewhat exaggerated the quantity, Aranha himself was in a fury of rage and terror over what he had seen that morning in Cleghorn's cabin. The death of Rapp was a frightful blow to him. The men knew it by this time, too. As they straggled over the reef toward the wreck, he knew they were discussing it. His own thoughts and eyes followed Cleghorn and the girl, however, and as he watched Marie Silva's lithe, slim figure climbing aboard the wreck, his eyes narrowed with a hungry, predatory glint in them.

He watched them disappear, then turned from the others and followed. No one observed him, for all were intent on getting aboard and reaching the closely battened forward hatch. He made his way into the superstructure, sublimely confident. What better moment than the present? Give them time enough to show him the way, that was all. Cleghorn would be unarmed, he felt certain—for he had quite forgotten about Rapp having a pistol.

This Cleghorn was altogether too clever, too dangerous, he reflected as he slowly made his way after the two. There was that button, so carefully preserved; that would have been a bad thing in any Admiralty court. But he had it now, had even sewn it back into place on his jacket. He looked down at it and laughed softly. They would have to go a long way to catch him like that!

At the opening under the bridge, he paused to listen and glance back. Stoutsman and Darby were at the hatch below, the five men were coming along to join them. No hurry there; the men would await his signal before doing anything. Martin was in charge; a good man, this Martin. Then he heard Cleghorn say something, there inside, and after a cautious look, made his way in after the pair.

He waited again cautiously. Silence; this worried him. The girl would know just where the hiding-place was, of course. She would go straight to it and open it up. Aranha clawed his way along the sloping deck, paused there outside the jammed door. Then he heard her speak, exultation ringing in her voice. She was showing Cleghorn the secret.

"Even if the ship had gone down to the bottom, it would not matter―"

She had it open, then! Aranha lifted himself, came erect, moved into the doorway, hand on pistol.

To his mortification and dismay, he saw nothing—but the girl saw him. Cleghorn whirled around, pistol in hand, and only with an effort did Aranha compose himself, slide out of the trap somehow, get away. He cursed as he made his way forward again and joined the group about the hatch. The wedges were being knocked out, the hatch was nearly off.

Aranha caught the eye of Martin, and nodded. So Cleghorn had a pistol after all! Then it was impossible to wait longer. If they waited until he got out here, anything was possible. The last stroke must be delivered here and now. They would get Cleghorn when he came out. And the girl. Aranha smiled at this thought.

Martin passed a low word to the ether four men.

Stoutsman was on one side of the hatch, mopping his bald head, and on the other was Darby, leaning forward, directing tire men who cleared the hatch. This was raised up on one side and lifted over to the deck, sliding down into the scuppers with a subdued crash. The hatchway showed boxes and crates in mad confusion, the hold but partly filled, all the cargo there shifted into a solid mass on the starboard side.

Darby leaned over, peering down. Aranha came beside him, with difficulty keeping his footing on the sharp slope. Without a word, Aranha threw up his arm; the sunlight glittered on a knife in his hand. It was buried to the haft in the back of Darby. The latter, knocked forward by the blow, pitched headlong down into the hold and was gone from sight. Not a cry had come from him.

At the same instant, Martin and another man whirled on Stoutsman. He sensed their attack, started back, clapped hand to pocket with an oath of alarm. A man behind tripped him, Martin slammed in a blow under his jaw, and Stoutsman, knocked off his feet, went head-first through the air. He landed in the scuppers and lay inert. Martin slid after him, the other man also, with a glitter of knives; then, after an instant, they rose sheepishly and looked up at Aranha, who stood knife in hand by the hatch.

"Hell!" said Martin. "He broke his own neck."

There was a grin, a quick laugh. The knives were put up.

"Who brought that coil of light line? Where is it?" demanded Aranha.

"Right here, sir," said a man, showing the coil.

"Good thing we did," said Aranha coolly, "since there's not a scrap left aboard here. Cut it in two lengths. Martin! You and your pal there get into the scuppers under the bridge entrance and grab the skipper. He'll be along in a minute. You, Swiggs! Fetch the other length and come with me—get up above the doorway. We'll make sure of the lady."

"Hey!" exclaimed Martin, frowning. "Why not douse him first off, cap'n? He'll talk if we leave him live."

Aranha showed white teeth in a laugh.

"Who's going to let him live, you fool? I want him alive, that's all you need know. When we go aboard, he'll be dead enough."

They went to their positions as he had ordered. Martin and the other, below, hid themselves at one side of the passage, Martin making his line into a running noose. Aranha, above, waited intent and hawk-like, and then drew back when he heard Cleghorn coming, heard him say that he would go first.

Cleghorn came out, glanced around, slid down toward the scuppers. Martin noosed him very neatly; both men fell upon him, throttling him, subduing him before he had a chance to put up a fight. Marie Silva appeared by the jammed door.

Uttering a laugh, Aranha was upon her with a swoop, passed his line about her arms and body, caught her to him despite her struggles, and looked down at Martin.

"Tie him to the rail there, anywhere!" he ordered. "Then―"

A curse of furious pain broke from him. The girl in his arms had kicked him; new she brought up her knee, drove it into his groin, broke clear of him entirely. The line wound about her arms and body, however, kept her from using her hands. Aranha's companion slid down and caught her, and both of them pitched down the deck. Martin took hold of the girl as she fell, and next instant they had her tied and helpless, while the furious Cleghorn cursed them from where he sat lashed to the rail. They broke into laughter as Aranha joined them, his dark face livid with pain and anger.

"What's this?" he exclaimed, picking up the tin box. "Empty, eh?"

He went to Cleghorn and frisked him, taking his pistol and the purse. Looking into this, he gave a short laugh and flung it at Martin.

"Here! Divide that up among you— earnest of what's to come! Then lay for'ard and get into the hold, and look for the wicker bales I told you about. Nothing else like 'em there, so you can't miss 'em. Oval, wicker, about six foot long. I'll be along presently."

They departed, leaving the girl by the rail.

Aranha ignored her likewise, and turned to Cleghorn. He produced a cigarette, lit it, and smiled into the blazing blue eyes.

"Oh, you are very clever, cap'n, very clever!" he jeered. "But you are clever
too late, eh? You were not clever when all your crew went off and you had to get more men. No, you never thought that maybe those men went off so my men could ship with you, eh? My men, all of them. After that fool Darby and his friends put up enough money to serve us. Poor Rapp! You killed him just too late. But then, so much the better for me, eh?"

Cleghorn glared at him, helpless, unable to move a muscle. Under these taunts, he perceived the truth of everything—the bitter, ghastly truth. He had suspected Darby, but that man of admittedly bad record had simply been a dupe in the hands of this plausible scoundrel. He and Rapp; the two of them had limed the twigs with a likely tale, had caught Darby and Stoutsman, had got enough money to put over die deal, and here they were. The crew of the Hermione, already behind in wages, had been lured away. Other men, ready and waiting, had taken their place. And it had been done swiftly, perfectly, with a smoothness betraying the brains behind the scheme. Murderous, foul, black brains—for what? Mere ginseng? Far from it. Cleghorn had a glimmering of the truth now, the elusive motive for all this.

Aranha snapped away his cigarette and turned to Marie Silva. He bowed mockingly, met her dark, riotous eyes as they burned at him.

"Miss Silva, you know me, eh?" he observed. "This tin box, it is empty. This purse of gold, it is not very much. You see, not long ago I watch your father one night. Somebody slipped me word that Su Hsien who owned the Flowery Palace gambling-house had gone broke, that he had sold all his collection of pearls to your father. So! That was a valuable tip, eh? And one night I watch, I see your father with the pearls and the tin box. If you look close, you'll see the hole drilled through the partition between his cabin and mine."

Aranha grinned, took out another cigarette, lit it with a flourish.

"But the hole, alas!" he went on, "was not big enough to see where the tin box went. The hiding-place! That I could never find. Then came the typhoon, the wreck. Your father did not take the tin box away with him, that was certain. I was picked up, I kept it secret, got in touch with Rapp and Darby. We found you were coming. Darby thought it was all ginseng—ha! We meant to get there before you; or I did. But you fooled us. You came on the same boat, on the boat we chartered. And Darby, like a fool, gave you permission to come. Well! The rest is clear enough."

He shrugged, waved his cigarette, fastened his eyes upon the girl.

"Now—come!" he exclaimed sharply. "There are pearls and bank-notes; it is a fortune, a real one! The pearls of Su Hsien were famous in Macao. The tin box is empty. Here is Cap'n Cleghorn, a fine man. You like him. Perhaps you want to see me ait his throat, eh? Well, it will not be pretty to see, Miss Marie."

He chuckled and slid a knife into sight.

"What do you mean?" demanded Marie Silva, composedly. "You blackguard!"

"Names don't hurt," observed Aranha. "You hand over the money and pearls, and everything will be all right. I'll not hurt you―"

"Careful!" broke out Cleghorn. "He's a damned liar, Marie. He has other intentions toward you; I heard the men talking about it. Look for'ard, there. You can see poor Stoutsman in the scuppers, half over the rail— murdered!"

"You tell, maybe?" said Aranha, watching the girl. Color flooded into her face under his gaze.

"No, you murderer!" Her voice struck up at him defiantly.

"Oh!" Aranha chuckled softly. He moved closer to her. She lay on the inclined deck, her feet in the scuppers, and he balanced himself beside her, then looked at Cleghorn with a smirk. "What about you, cap'n? Suppose I leave her alone, eh? I don't want her with me. Don't worry! I can get girls of my own, real girls with fire in their blood. I wanted Marie unharmed until I got the pearls—not for the reason you think. No, I don't want her with me. You tell me, and I'll not touch her. But if you don't tell me—eh! You understand. Well?"

"Go to the devil," said Cleghorn. He made a sharp attempt to divert the man's thoughts. "Don't tell him where we put them, Marie―"

"No use, no use," broke in Aranha. "So you won't tell?"

His knife moved down. The girl shrank before the blood-stained blade, before the grinning face of the man above her. Sweat broke out on Cleghorn's brow. He saw the knife touching the flesh of her white throat, pressing against the skin with slow, insistent pressure―

"Damn you, I'll tell!" he cried hoarsely. "Leave her alone, you dog!"

"Oh! I thought maybe you would," and Aranha straightened up. "That's why you weren't killed, cap'n. So? Where are they? Maybe I search her and find them, eh?"

The girl flashed a sudden look at Cleghorn—a glance he could not fathom, although in it he read warning, alertness, purpose.

"Set me free first," she exclaimed. "Set me free, and I'll show you where they are."

"Eh?" Aranha stuck forward his head, like a turtle, and peered down at her. "Set you free first—you promise, your word of honor?"

"Yes," she returned steadily. "I'll get them."

"All right," he said. "But mind, little girl, you pull a knife on me and you'll die quick! I'm ready for your tricks."

"I have no trick," she said quietly. "Are you afraid of a woman, then?"

Aranha leaned down and began to cut at the line binding her, while Cleghorn looked on with bitter eyes. There was no help for it, of course; if the fellow had taken a notion to search the girl, he would have found them.

"There!"

She came to one knee, wavered uncertainly, then rose and stood in the scuppers, leaning back above the rail. Aranha stood close, suspicious, the long knife ready. But the girl merely reached into her dress and produced the bank-notes.

"Here," she said, holding them out.

Aranha snatched them.

"Well? The pearls—"

"Here." She got out the knotted handkerchief, and held it toward him.

8

ARANHA reached for the knotted handkerchief, it slipped from the girl's fingers. He grabbed for it wildly.

What ensued came with lightning rapidity.

Arm outstretched, the man leaned far forward. The pearls went down over the rail, to fall on the coral below. The girl's arm flashed out. She half hit, half pushed the leaning man. Flung off balance, he dived head-first over the rail for the rock ten feet below.

Marie's hand slipped into her breast. She flashed out a tiny, dagger-like knife, flew at Cleghorn, and slashed at the line confining him. A cry went up from the men forward, one of whom had seen what happened. Cleghorn found her flushed face close to his, heard her panting breath at his ear.

"Quick! Jump down, get his gun—it is our only―"

He was free. A yell from forward, and another. He came erect, looked over, saw the figure of Aranha sprawled on the rocks below, saw the man's arms moving a little with convulsive effort. Then Cleghorn hurdled the rail and landed square on Aranha's body, without thought of mercy for his human cushion.

The chance! She had won him a chance after all!

His hands slid over the body of Aranha. He found a pistol, jerked it out, darted forward. A man had just leaped over the side, a second was following, Martin was on the rail with a pistol in his hand. Cleghorn threw up his weapon and pressed the trigger.

At the first shot, Martin pitched back and was gone. The man on the coral before him had whipped out a pistol, but his bullet missed. That of Cleghorn did not; the man went down, shot through the head. The second man struck the ground, then held up his hands in the air.

"Hey! Don't shoot!" he yelled frantically. "I give in!"

"You other two, come down here or you'll get no quarter!" blared Cleghorn. "Quick! You, Marie—come here! I need you!"

Almost at once, the girl joined him, excitement flaming in her face. She went to the prisoner, took a knife and pistol from him, and the other two men dropped from above and let her disarm them also.

"Run to the boat!" ordered Cleghorn. "Shoot the man there if you must—don't let him get away-"

The girl turned, broke into a run, and was gone.

Cleghorn surveyed the men grimly. They had been thunderstruck by the sudden reversal of affairs, supposing Aranha to be dead, as Martin certainly was. The three of them, panic-struck, had surrendered, the girl had flung their weapons into the pool; but now they glared at him, cursing volubly, realizing what it meant if they were taken into port as prisoners. Cleghorn laughed.

"Aye! You'll hang, right enough, all of you! But you'll work first. Pick up Aranha and carry him to the boat―"

He broke off abruptly, his eye caught a movement on the ship. There on the bridge was a figure in whites—the chunky figure of Horton. Exultation thrilled in Cleghorn at the sight. He saw Horton lift a pistol and fire in the air as a signal. Marie Silva, at the boat, had the man there under her weapon. He stood with upraised hands.

Cleghorn turned.

"Where's Darby?" he demanded. One of the men sullenly jerked a hand toward the wreck above.

"In the hold. Aranha knifed him."

"So? Then-"

Cleghorn had forgotten the slimy weed under his feet at the edges of the pool. He took a step. Suddenly his feet went out from under him and he pitched down, losing his weapon.

Instantly all three of them were leaping at him, desperate, frantic. They were upon him like wild beasts. Aranha had stirred, was not dead, came to one elbow, gasping out something inarticulate. Cleghorn rose to one knee, slipped again, just as the first man crashed into him bodily, sending him sprawling.

All three piled on top of him.

Fists and boots thudded into the prostrate, writhing, struggling figure under them. All three men realized instantly that it was their chance for life and freedom. Cleghorn finished, they could take their weapons again and shoot down the girl; as to what was passing aboard the ship, this was far from their thoughts just now.

But, despite their efforts, the man beneath them slowly uprose, shook them off as a bear shakes off dogs fastened to him. One drove in a blow to the mouth, so that the blood gushed from his lips; but now he was on his feet, and Cleghorn's fist smashed in against the man's throat and burst his Adam's apple. Then he turned upon the other two, and beyond them saw Aranha coming erect, still clutching his knife, but dazed and bewildered. The sight spurred him terribly.

The two closed in on him. He ducked, lashed in one lightning blow that doubled up the first man, then staggered under a fist to the ear. Slipping again on the wet weed, he went to his knee. The man thought him down, and rushed in to finish it. That was unlucky for him, because Cleghorn leaped up to meet him, came up with a crushing right to the face that sprawled the last of his opponents senseless.

Then he flew at Aranha, who was staggering forward. The knife flamed in the sunlight, but it did not descend. Even as it glittered, Cleghorn darted in and struck, struck again. Aranha threw out his arms and fell over on his face, and lay still. Painfully, Cleghorn wiped away the blood from his mouth, then stooped for his lost pistol.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, beside Marie Silva in the sternsheets of the boat, with Aranha at his feet and the groaning, bleeding men bending over slow- moving oars, Cleghorn held the boat out toward the ship, where Horton's figure showed that he was in charge. Suddenly Cleghorn turned to the girl.

"We'll make Dairen tonight and be done with it. But wait! We must go back—I forgot about the pearls―"

"I didn't," she said, and smiled into his eyes as she touched her breast. "I have them. But there's the ginseng―"

"Devil take the ginseng!" exclaimed Cleghorn, and laughed. "Give way, you dogs— lean on those oars!"

The unhappy men obeyed, with terror in their hearts, and the boat came slowly under the ship's side. The men at the rail, cowed by Horton's gun, lent a hand.

"And that," said Cleghorn, "is that! But there's more to come."

And the girl, meeting the flame in his blue eyes, flushed suddenly. But not from fear.

__________________

8: The Brute's  Emeralds

Detective Fiction Weekly 23 Feb 1935

1: Du Puis, alias Castro

IT was frequently Riley Dillon's custom, of an afternoon or evening, to stand in pleasant talk with the house officers or the assistant managers of the Waldorf, which sometimes put surprising information in his way. Not only was he a permanent guest of the hotel, but his friendly, whimsical air, his charming personality, had made him a universal favorite.

No one suspected that he was not a retired lawyer, or perhaps a lucky broker who had got out ahead of the crash. Not a soul in New York, indeed, was aware of his actual occupation. Even Philp, the stolid private detective who transacted so many orders for him, was quite unaware that Riley Dillon was what is popularly termed an enemy of society, or that his chief interest in life was precious stones.

At three-thirty of; Monday afternoon, December 24th, Riley Dillon was chatting with one of the house officers near the elevators, when he noticed two people who left a car and-paused for a word before separating.

The face of the man jerked astonished recognition into him— half recognition, that is. Riley Dillon never forgot a face, even if it had changed greatly. But the face of the woman positively made his heart skip a beat, so lovely was it .with its indefinite sadness, yet so filled with animation and sheer beauty.

A young face, with a hint of loneliness, of inner agitation, that instantly fired his imagination.

Riley Dillon had an eye for a beautiful woman, but he was never deluded by mere surface beauty. This girl, he knew, had the intangible allure more powerful than all else in the world, the beauty of personality.

"D'ye know that man, McCabe?" Dillon asked. The house officer nodded.

"As it happens, I do, Mr. Dillon. Not twenty minutes ago the floor clerk sent down a red ticket on him."

"Which means—"

"That he was entertaining yonder lady in his room. I investigated and found the door open; it was quite all right. He's a gentleman named Castro, from Buenos Aires."

Dillon, who knew the gentleman was nothing of the sort, smiled a little.

"D'you mean, McCabe, that I couldn't have a lady visitor in my room?"

"Being what you are, sir, you'd arrange beforehand at the desk, nr you'd leave the door open. Strait-laced? We are, for a fact. This is the most careful hotel on-earth, Mr. Dillon. We have to be, with our clientele—"

A bellboy came up to them. "Telephone, Mr. Dillon. On the floor extension."

Dillon  went to the phone rack-near the desk, striding blithely along. He had the fed of great things-in the air this crisp December day. He could sense an electric alertness which hinted at impending events. When he had picked up the telephone, he was certain of it.

"Philp speaking, Mr. Dillon, if you want that report on the Park Av'noo Martyns—"

"By all means. Go ahead."

"Well, this dame is French, from the name. Homer Martyn married her last year abroad. He inherited that tobacco fortune a couple of years back, and has been raising hell on the money. They don't get on. No children. Frankly, he's a bad egg. A week or so ago Winchell's column predicted a separation very soon—"

"Never mind all that," cut in Dillon. "I wanted detailed information on their movements."

"I got it. Can you leave a man speak?" wailed Philp indignantly, "it cost me money, but I got it. Tonight they're dining alone at your hotel, on the roof. That means sloppy weather because he hits the liquor hard. Tomorrow night, a Christmas dinner with the Van Beurens in 36th Street. Wednesday night they entertain, and fly to Miami next day;"

"Fine," Dillon responded. "That's all I need to know. Send in your bill as usual, and a merry Christmas to you, Philp."

"Same to you, sir, and many of them."

Whistling a cheerful air, Riley Dillon betook himself to the elevators and caught an express to the Starlight Roof. Here there was a great bustle going on, and decorations for the evening were being installed. The genial master of ceremonies approached and greeted Riley Dillon in French,  "I'd like a table tonight for myself alone, Rene," Dillon said. "I think the Homer Martyns have a reservation?"

"For nine-thirty, m'sieur. Everything is taken already, but for Mr. Dillon we can always make an exception. I can give you a table near the Martyns, if you like."

The matter arranged, Dillon took the down elevator to the fifteenth floor and sought his own room.

HIS campaign to secure the Martyn emeralds had opened. As to later details, he was supremely unworried; Riley Dillon never let the forelock of Opportunity slip his grasp. If this French girl who had married the dissolute heir to the Martyn millions wore those gleaming green stones tonight, Dillon meant to get them before the dawn.

First, however, came something else. From his trunk he took a fat volume of clippings, turning over the pages with his deft, nervous fingers. Suddenly he paused. A newspaper clipping, three years old and from a French paper, stared up at him. The text proclaimed that here was a picture of Raoul Du Puis, the most famous jewel thief in Europe. Convicted of a clever robbery in Marseilles, Du Puis had slipped out of the country and escaped.

Dillon took a pencil and sketched in a beard and mustache on the portrait of Du Puis.

Now the face became that of Mr. Castro from Buenos Aires.

"Faith, I thought as much!" muttered Dillon. "He couldn't change the eyes."

The lean, mobile features of Riley Dillon, which could beam with such warm friendliness, now became harshly alert. The gray eyes beneath his black brows, which could flash so gaily, now narrowed in suspicion. Riley Dillon did not believe in coincidence. That the cleverest jewel thief in Europe should be stopping at the Waldorf just at the time the Martyn emeralds were coming here to dine—no, no! That was not coincidence.

Mr. Dillon had no interest in protecting the Martyn emeralds for their owner, but he had a vital interest in protecting them for himself.

He collected jewels; not ordinary stones, but gems that were famous or of fabulous worth. Their value did not concern him. He loved them for themselves. His life was wrapped up in them. The whole background of his existence was a mosaic of precious stones.

He was one of the greatest experts in jewels extant, but not a soul suspected it.

Dillon did not gather gems by commercial methods. He was, in simple words, a thief; but he had his own rigid code of ethics. He never stole for profit. With him it was a game, a jaunty, keen pitting of wits and deft skill against all the world. This was why he lived in the Waldorf, the most carefully policed hostelry on earth, whose entire staff could sniff a scoundrel under a hundred layers of rank, social position or wealth. It spoke volumes for Riley Dillon that he was the most valued and popular of all the hotel's patrons.

Sitting down to his telephone, he called the French consulate. There was delay; an affair three years old is not easily brought to light. Finally Dillon had the right party.

"I believe," he said, "that here in New York I have seen the man Du Puis. In case I make certain of the identification, what action should I. take ?"

"May I call you hack in an hour, Mr. Dillon?" was the reply. "I believe the police department here have certain papers regarding this man, who is a Belgian. There would be the matter of extradition and so forth. I can give you full details a little later. At the moment, I recall that the man can be identified by a blue dagger tattooed upon his left wrist, and a large reward is offered for him in France. Say, in an hour?"

"Thank you," said Dillon, and hung up.

He was satisfied that he could have Castro ejected from the hotel in ten minutes. Otherwise, he was not yet certain of his ground; besides, there was a reason for hesitation. And then —there was the face of that girl. Riley Dillon was an incorrigible sentimentalist where a woman of striking and delicate beauty was involved.

He juggled the facts mentally. The Martyns would arrive this evening at nine-thirty. Homer Martyn was a dissolute waster; his wife was an unknown quantity. They were on the ragged verge of separation. Castro had entertained a lady this afternoon, a woman too lovely to be associated with such a rascal. Had this any connection?

With a sigh, Riley Dillon opened his rosewood humidor, selected one of his special Havanas, and trimmed it. He lit it with his accustomed care. To ruin the aroma of such a weed by overheating, would have been no less than sacrilege.

He phoned the desk and inquired the number of Castro's room. He was well aware that each telephone call in this hotel was recorded, that every detail of action or of conversation was filed with the minute precision of a detective headquarters. To his quick astonishment, he found that Castro's room was upon this very floor, the fifteenth. Like his own, it was on the east side of the building.

Going to his dresser, he selected a gold-rimmed monocle having a thick glass, and looped the black ribbon about his neck. He picked up his hat and green ebony stick, and next moment was en route to 1542— occupied by Mr. Castro of Buenos Aires. Riley Dillon believed in removing possible rivals in person, and painlessly.

"And faith," he murmured, almost regretfully, "I'd remove him entirely if it weren't for what I saw in Paris three years ago today! I'll just remind him of that."

2: Three Rooms on Floor Fifteen

COMING to Castro's door, Riley Dillon tried it and then entered without knocking. Castro, who was in the act of trimming his beard, whirled and stared blankly. Into the dark eyes came a flicker of uneasiness.

"Well, M. Du Puis," said Riley Dillon in French, "shall we talk about things?"

Under the clipped, pointed beard, Castro's face became livid; then he pulled himself together quickly.

"Will you be seated, m'sieur, and tell me who you are?"

"No. You shouldn't roll up your sleeves— that left wrist tells me who you are."

Dillon screwed the monocle into his eye. It shoved up his black brow, enlarged the eye, and lent him a slightly grotesque appearance of cold dignity. In fact, it converted him into a very different man from his usual genial self.

"You may guess as to my identity," he went on. Castro, who had glanced at the blue dagger tattooed on his wrist, was facing him defiantly. "I prefer to keep you-on the uncertain edge of doubt. I desire to inquire as to your business here in New York."

"It—it is entirely private," faltered Castro. "A family matter."

"Oh, of course! By the way, do you remember a certain Christmas Eve in Paris, three years ago?" said Dillon calmly. "I saw you on that occasion; rather, you were pointed out to me. Judge of my astonishment, my dear chap! A man of your reputation, a clever rascal of a jewel thief, entertaining a dozen urchins from that orphan establishment in the Bois de Boulogne! It has always left me with a friendly feeling toward you, upon my word."

A strangled cry broke from the other man.

"If you intend to arrest me, get it over! You are from the police?"

"Guess. I know everything you have done here in New York. I know that this afternoon, for example, you had a visitor—"

An expression of anguish crossed the bearded features of Castro; anguish, so poignant and genuine as to leave Dillon startled.

"Do not drag her into it, I implore you! With all my heart, I beseech you to show mercy to her, this day before Christmas! Take me, but do not let it become public. This is all I ask."

"It's a good deal." Dillon regarded him curiously. "You're a criminal."

"You think so?" said Castro bitterly. "I was once a criminal, true. Since then I have gone straight; I have become an honest man. I made money in South America and repaid all those whom I defrauded in France. But you will not believe this."

"The law won't believe it," said Dillon calmly. Yet in his heart he was tempted to believe it. The tragedy in those dark, steady eyes told more than the spoken word.

"I'll give you a chance," he went on. "No one else knows your record. I shall say nothing of it, unless you make one step over the line. If you make one attempt at jewel-lifting, you're sunk. Understand? Don't try to be clever; instead, be wise. I'm giving you this chance—well, let's say because of those orphans back in Paris. That's all."

And turning, he left the room.

Well, he had warned the fellow off; that should be enough. After all, it was Christmas Eve, and something in the man's appeal had touched him. Gone straight, eh? Not very likely. They all said that, when they were nipped. He regretted that Castro had said no more about the girl with the lovely, sad eyes. Riley Dillon was curious about that girl. She was worth while. And why had Castro displayed such agitation at mention of her? It was hardly a love affair. With a shrug, Riley Dillon went his way. The incident was closed.

Not quite closed. At five that afternoon he received a letter by messenger from the French consulate in regard to Raoul Du Puis. A reward of one thousand dollars was outstanding for information that would lead to the man's arrest. It could be effected by a word to the lieutenant in charge of such matters at headquarters; the requisite papers had long since been filed with the police here, in case Du Puis should flee to America. Oddly enough, the letter said nothing about fingerprints. The one complete and certain means of identification was the blue dagger tattooed on the left wrist of Du Puis. With a careless laugh, Riley Dillon pocketed the letter. By this time, he reflected, Mr. Castro of Buenos Aires was no doubt packing and on his way.

Thus Dillon dismissed the whole affair. He had the Homer Martyns to think about now. And the glorious Martyn emeralds—the two most perfectly matched bits of green corundum in existence!

WHEN nine-thirty arrived that evening, Riley Dillon was seated in the lobby. He occupied one of the big chairs near the desk, biding his time over the evening papers. He was at ease and unhurried. There was plenty of time to go to the roof.

As has been mentioned, Mr. Dillon did not believe in coincidences. His disbelief was positive and logical. He had written what he thought about it in that anonymous but extraordinary monograph entitled, "The Fine Art of Theft," whose ironical pages had left the police of two continents gasping and infuriated.

"What we term coincidence is merely an effect," he had written. "For every effect there must be a cause. As a rule the cause is human. Therefore the effect is the result of a finite human purpose which must be discovered or at least taken for granted. Look always for the design, the agent, the cause, the human equation—but never assign it to chance."

So, when he glanced up from his paper and caught sight of the same girl who had been with Castro that afternoon, he did not assign it to coincidence, Instead, he caught his breath at sight of her, transfixed.

She was now regally attired in evening wear, jewels sparkling in her hair, a sable coat about her shoulders. Beneath her arm the girl carried a small leather case, which to Dillon's knowing eye looked remarkably like a jewel-case. She swept past Dillon and went to the desk, which was behind him.

"I want a room on the fifteenth floor, please," she said abruptly. Her voice was very clear and ringing, with a faintly foreign accent. "I'll register for it myself; it is just for the night. I'm to meet my husband here, and if he decides to remain, he can then register for himself. Meantime, I may have visitors. I suppose that's all right?"

"Absolutely, Mrs. Martyn," responded the desk clerk. "I can give you the suite 15 H on the east side, if that'll be all right. Do you wish to go up now?"

"No. When my husband comes, we're going to the roof."

"Then I'll phone the floor clerk, and you can pick up the key there until one o'clock. After that, all keys are sent to the desk."

Martyn! Riley Dillon sat staring blankly at nothing. Mrs. Homer Martyn. This was the girl with the sad, lovely eyes who had visited Castro that afternoon. And now she had demanded a room on the same floor Castro occupied. Coincidence? Devil a bit of it. Dillon himself was on the fifteenth floor; but that was different.

Abruptly, her ringing voice came to him again. She was directly behind him.

"Will you have this case sent to Mr. Castro, please? See that it's delivered to him in person."

"At once, Mrs. Martyn."

She was evidently well known at the hotel. Now she passed in front of Dillon again, crossed the lobby, and took one of the couches there. After a few moments, a young man came hurriedly into the lobby, looked around, and hastened to join her. Their greeting was not cordial. At least on his part; it was irritated. Dillon surveyed him critically.

Homer Martyn was heavy-jawed, his features were flushed, sullen, and puffed by dissipation; his eyes were arrogant and brutal. The girl rose, refused his arm, and departed a little ahead of him, head high, level gaze sweeping about. Martyn followed her.

So she had taken a room here for the night. Why? Domestic trouble, of course. She must be on the very brink of leaving her husband; affairs between them must have come to a crisis. And Castro had somehow caught her in his outspread net. The rascal had victimized her with his smooth ways. She must have sent jewels in that case to Castro. Were the two great emeralds, owned for a century and more by the Martyn family, in that case?

A soft whistle broke from Riley Dillon as he came out of his chair. Had the wily Castro tricked him?

"Faith, there's only one real coincidence in all this affair," he thought with a whimsical smile. "And that's the one that puts me on the fifteenth floor also. And unless I miss my guess, it'll be a damned unlucky coincidence for Mr. Castro this night!"

3: The Rascal and the Brute

WHEN, a little later, Riley Dillon made his entrance upon the Starlight Roof, his gray eyes swept around and found what they sought. Castro was alone at a table, in the far corner.

Dillon went to his own table, which adjoined that of the Martyns, well back from the dance floor and near the corner window. Once seated, Riley Dillon handed his waiter an envelope.

"A bit of a Christmas present for you, me lad," he said cheerfully. "Also to make you remember that I'm keeping this table for the entire evening. I may be called away from time to time, but I'll be back. Now, don't be bothering me with any menu, but bring me a good dinner. No wine, thanks."

If he were to become possessed of the Martyn emeralds this night, he could not afford to dull the fine edge of his brain with alcohol.

Unobtrusively, he concentrated his attention upon the couple at the next table. At all events, the Martyn emeralds were not yet in Castro's hands. They were worth getting, those stones; Riley Dillon eyed them a little hungrily as they glimmered on the white breast of the girl. Two huge, pear-shaped emeralds of deepest green. They were hung upon a flimsy, lace-like necklace of platinum and gold, hand worked, but far too frail a thing to carry such massive stones. Old and flawed as they were, they were wonderful. Probably Castro meant to have them cut up into smaller stones, flawless and far beyond diamonds in commercial value.

Homer Martyn was drinking, and no doubt had been drinking before coming here. His wife drank nothing. The tension between them was quite evident, and Riley Dillon appraised them both very easily. The girl was aristocratic, high-strung, lovely. She would shrink from any public scene. The man was, very simply, a brute. She was no doubt in actual fear of him; he wore a vicious air as he eyed her.

Dillon rose, with a word to his waiter to delay his dinner. He had the situation in hand; he knew now exactly what must be done. First of all, cheat Castro, keep the rascal from tricking this girl. Noting that Castro was apparently quite engaged with his meal, Dillon strode out of the place.

Five minutes later, he was downstairs in his own room.

Riley Dillon at work was no longer the sauntering, whimsical, negligent gentleman of leisure. Now he was like some efficient machine, keenly alert, every movement deft and accurate.

From his suitcase he took what seemed a fountain pen. He unscrewed it. On the desk fell a metal shank and a number of metal segments which fitted together cunningly. By means of these bits of metal he could duplicate any key which he desired—an invention of his own, albeit for obvious reasons unpatented.

He already knew the exact pattern of the pass-key of the hotel. In fifteen seconds he had fitted together a key to serve the same purpose. He tried it on his own door to make sure, then slipped out of the room.

Here on the east side there was no floor clerk; that was one less item to worry about. Fifteen forty-two was down the next angling corridor. There was no one in sight as he came to it, inserted his key, and entered. The door closed behind him.

Dillon knew already every detail of the room. The case set up by the girl, if not in sight, would be in the steamer trunk in one corner of the room — a trunk of transparent leather such as one finds abroad. Within thirty seconds Dillon had satisfied himself that the jewel case had been carefully stowed away. He knelt before the trunk. It was locked.

A French lock, of course, in which the tumblers were turned twice instead of once. From his pocket, Dillon took another of those singular fountain pens, and opened it up. This one contained tiny segments, intended for small locks. He fitted a few together; made a key that turned the lock.

The lid of the trunk came up. There before him was the leather case. Dillon caught at it and sprang the lid. Jewels glittered in the light, a profusion of jewels of all sorts, such as a woman might acquire from the check book of a wealthy husband. A very handsome little fortune was here.

"Such a fool!" muttered Dillon angrily. "After I warned him, too! Well, I've saved these for her, at all events."

He poured everything into his handkerchief, knotted the corners, pocketed it. The jewel case he returned to the trunk, which he then locked. Next minute he had switched off the lights and was sauntering along the corridor.

Back in his own room now. Swiftly, he deposited the loot in a bureau drawer, then returned to the elevators and so to the Starlight Roof. He came back to his table without a glance at Castro's corner, but was aware of the man there.

"The entree now, sir?" murmured his waiter, and Riley Dillon nodded.

The Martyns, he noticed, were still quarreling. The girl's eyes were angry, the man was flushed and jeering. That he was in very ugly mood was clear, yet the woman's restraint was still in force.. Possibly they were appearing here for some social reason.

Riley Dillon's interest grew with his curiosity. He could well imagine what tumult occupied her heart, and with all his soul he admired her fine spirit. She spoke little. Only when her gaze met the eyes of her husband did a glint of scorn and contempt flash into them. And to think that this splendid creature should be caught in the crafty net .of that scoundrel Castro!

"It's a fool I am," Riley Dillon told himself, "but she'll be needing a helping hand before this night's gone, I'm thinking. And now I'm in position to give it."

Perhaps she sensed his interest. Her eyes rested lightly upon him, dwelt for one cool instant, then roved away. Riley Dillon was more guarded after this warning. Knowing she was caught between two fires, his heart went out to the girl. On the one hand, this drunken brute of a husband, and on the other the crafty rascal who was looting her.

Suddenly the floor was cleared, the lights were dimmed. Veloz the dancer was about to do her act.

There was a burst of applause, a whirl of riotous color beneath the spotlight, and every eye was fastened upon the moving figure of grace in the white radiance. Every eye save that of Riley Dillon. He, and he alone, sensed the explosion at the next table, saw the swift movement.

Homer Martyn lurched forward. His arm shot out, and from his wife's neck he tore the flimsy chain of platinum and gold with its pendant emeralds.

"They belong to the Martyn family, not to you!"

His voice came through the crashing music, followed by a volley of abuse. He stuffed the necklace into his waistcoat pocket. In the dimmed light, Dillon could not see the face of the girl. She rose, disdainful and cold, and made her way from the room, the jeering laughter of her husband following her.

Presently the lights flashed up again. Homer Martyn was muttering loudly to himself, so loudly that in the silence Riley Dillon caught his words.

"So that's the end, is it? I'll show her—damn her!"

That's the end! She must have uttered these words as she rose and departed. Martyn staggered to his feet, waved aside the waiter, and made his way among the tables. Riley Dillon cast one glance across the room. Castro had disappeared.

After a moment Dillon, too, rose and strode out of the place. He was in time to pick up Martyn as the latter lurched into a down elevator, mumbling to himself. The man had drunk hard and deep this night. Riley Dillon stepped in after him.

"Lobby floor," grunted Martyn, flushed and ugly.

They left the car together. Martyn headed straight for the desk, and Dillon strolled slowly after, coming to the desk alongside him as Martyn spoke with the clerk.

"Gimme a key to my wife's suite. Yes, I'll register—sure. Sign anything. I'm the one paying for the damned suite. Put it to my charge account."

The desk clerk turned to Dillon, inquiringly. Riley Dillon smiled.

"I must have left my key in the room, and the door's locked. Will you kindly give me the spare key?"

He tucked it into his pocket with a word of thanks, passed ort to the mail desk, and there inquired for mail. There was none. He produced a cigarette, lit it. By this time Homer Martyn was heading away from the desk for the east elevators. Dillon followed him carelessly. Once out of that car, in the corridor, he might have a chance at the necklace. Right waistcoat pocket. He could see a glint there as the necklace was half-exposed.

The two men entered the car.

"Fifteenth," growled Martyn, on whom his last drink had told strongly.

"Same for me." Riley Dillon said pleasantly.

The car stopped. Martyn stepped out. Dillon delayed; he never neglected such trifling details as alibis. He could always catch up with this staggering drunk. He exchanged a smiling word with the elevator operator, put a Christmas tip in the man's hand, then left the car. The door clanged behind him.

Straight down the corridor was Riley Dillon's room. Martyn was heading past it, lurching as he walked. Another figure appeared unexpectedly. The two men halted. Dillon, in astonishment, stepped into the alcove of the stairs to remain unseen. He heard a gust of voices—Castro! This other man was Castro! Why, the slick devil!

Suddenly there was a scuffle. An oath exploded from Martyn; for an instant the two figures were as one. Then Martyn staggered across the corridor, brought up against the wall, and sank down. Castro turned and strode rapidly away. Not toward his own room, as Riley Dillon noted. He was going toward Mrs! Martyn's suite. His figure disappeared.

Dillon darted forward, then came to a halt. Martyn was close to his own door, and was struggling to gain his feet. Castro must have knocked him down.

"Help me!" gasped Homer Martyn, aware of Dillon. "For God's sake— a lift—"

After all, the man was better out of it; a drunk would only complicate matters now. Riley Dillon turned, unlocked the door of his room, then took Martyn by the arm and got him on his feet. A groan came from Martyn. He clutched Riley Dillon's arm, and somehow stumbled forward into the room.

Dillon tried to get him into the armchair near the bed. The drunken man missed the chair. He came to his knees and pitched forward, caught at the bedside, saved himself. Rather disgusted, Dillon aided him to rise, then forced him abruptly into the chair.

"Sit there," he said. "Take it easy. You're all right."

Homer Martyn peered up at him, then his head fell forward on his breast. Suddenly Riley Dillon came alert. He stooped, reached forward. For the first time, he recollected what he was after. Then he straightened up, his gray eyes cold.

The necklace was gone from Martyn's waistcoat pocket.

"So that was it, eh " Dillon was out in the corridor in ten seconds, leaving his room door closed but unlocked. " Frisked him and knocked him down, eh? Well, Castro me lad, I warned you! Now you'll take your medicine."

The letter from the consulate was in Dillon's pocket. Castro was with Mrs. Martyn; he had the rascal where he wanted him. Dillon himself might lose the Martyn emeralds—for this time—but he would save that lovely girl, at least. He would save her jewels from Castro, and unmask the rogue to his face.

He came to 15 H, then checked himself abruptly. The door was open an inch or so. From within the room came the voice of Castro.

"Where are the emeralds? You should add them to the rest."

"No, no!" It was the clear, ringing voice of the girl. "He—he tore them from my neck, upstairs. That was the last straw. That was why I left him, told him everything was ended. But the emeralds aren't mine, you see. They belong to his family. That was really why he tore them from me—an insult, a final indignity. No, let them go. I have enough without them to live on."

Riley Dillon smiled to himself. Thanks to him, she would have enough! He rapped at the door sharply, then thrust it open and stepped into the room. He closed the door behind him and stood looking at the two. His monocle was in his eye; his look was cold, dignified.

They sat by the center table. The girl stared at him, startled, wide-eyed, a hint of recognition in her look. Castro was as though petrified. Pallor crept into his bearded features.

Riley Dillon saw the telephone on the desk and stepped toward it.

"Pardon me, Mrs; Martyn," he said crisply. "I'm a stranger to you; but not to this man here. I have to warn you that he's a well-known jewel thief and confidence man, with a record against him and a conviction in France. The police are now awaiting a call from me in order to arrest him. I have the proof in my pocket if you wish to see it."

From Castro broke a low groan. Again his eyes became haunted, tragic, as he stared at Dillon. The girl was white-faced; she seemed incapable of speech, of movement.

Riley Dillon laid his hand on the telephone. "Du Puis," he said, "I gave you fair warning. You disregarded it. You played your dirty game with this young woman. You got her into your net. You tricked her into sending you her jewels. Well, me lad, you're sunk. You don't leave this room until the police arrive."

He lifted the telephone receiver.

Suddenly the girl shot from her chair. Like a flash she was upon Dillon, catching his hand, thrusting down the receiver on its rack, staring into his face.

"No, no!" she gasped out. "You don't understand—you don't understand ! He is my father!"

4: The Hatless Man

I T was Riley Dillon's turn to be frozen speechless. From the girl, still clinging to his arm, was pouring an impassioned, frantic torrent of words. Her father! No one suspected it, no one knew it; her father was supposed to be dead. But she knew of her father's past. He, from afar, had always watched over her. If Homer Martyn learned this secret he would not hesitate to use it against her, bring her into public disrepute, make life a living hell for her.

Riley Dillon swallowed hard. Now he understood Castro's terrible agitation at the mention of this girl.

"I sent for him," she hurried on in agonized, pleading words. "I had him come here to New York, to help me. I am afraid of my husband. He—he is a brute! I had no one else. And he came, my father came, although it meant danger for him. He was safe, in South America. But he came here to help me."

Now Castro came forward and took the arm of his daughter. A strange, helpless dignity sat upon him, as he drew her from Dillon.

"It is no use, my little one," he said. "This man is a detective, and detectives have no heart. Well, m'sieur, take me if you wish, but leave her alone, spare her—"

"Good God!" exclaimed Riley Dillon, taking a step backward. The monocle fell from his eye. "Detective ? I'm no such thing. No, no. Why, I never dreamed this, man—I never suspected it!"

"I thought you knew everything?" said Castro, with a trace of disdain.

"I told you the truth this afternoon, m'sieur. All those whom I defrauded have been repaid. In Buenos Aires I am a man of reputation, I have position, money. The future lies before me. The past, alas, cannot be denied! And the law has no mercy. Look!" He stretched out his left arm to show the tattoo mark there. "Here is something that can never be removed, and it damns me. This thing stands ever between me and my daughter, m'sieur. It is my punishment for the past. You understand ?"

"I understand," murmured Riley Dillon.

"Ah, have pity upon him!" exclaimed the girl suddenly. "Look! I gave him my jewels, everything I could lay hold upon. He was to sell them for me. I shall divorce this brute to whom I am bound, and go to South America. And you would call the police—"

"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Riley Dillon devoutly, and gathered himself together. The test of a gentleman comes in such an instant as this; and Riley Dillon met it in his own fashion. That charming, warm smile of his leaped out, transfiguring his face. He put forth his hand impulsively to the man before him.

"Castro, forgive me! I apologize to you; by gad, you're a better man than I am! Give me your hand on it."

"With all my heart, m'sieur." The strained, haggard man suddenly relaxed in a beaming smile as he gripped hands. "Thank the good God! After all, it is the eve of Noel—"

"Yes, Christmas Eve, begad!" Dillon exclaimed.

Then he checked himself. A terrible thought flashed into his mind—those jewels he had abstracted from the trunk! He could not hand them over now. He could not let these people know what he was himself. No, his one way out was to replace them and let the matter be closed.

He thought fast as he introduced himself to the pair, told them he was living here in the hotel. He painted for them a word-picture of an amateur detective and did not spare himself in the painting.

"Will you wait here for me, please ?" he hurried on, eagerly. "I have done you a great wrong, Castro; I'm as glad as you are to have discovered it! It's close to midnight now. We must have a bottle of champagne together—perhaps we may return to the roof. But first I must visit my room and pick up a telegram that's waiting for me there. Will you wait here ?"

They would. Castro was suddenly alight with gaiety, with friendliness, in the reaction to his terrific strain. His daughter, with tears in her eyes, thanked Dillon; and Riley Dillon bent over her fingers and kissed them, with his old-fashioned courtesy.

"Back in ten minutes!" he exclaimed gaily from the doorway, and left the room.

As he strode along the corridor, he cursed himself for a fool; yet he was amazed at the situation he had uncovered. Now he could understand why Castro, meeting Homer Martyn in the corridor and hearing the man's mumbled threats, had lost his temper and struck the fellow down. Martyn, of course, had not known him from Adam.

There was an element of ironic humor about the whole thing that brought a twinkle to Riley Dillon's gray eyes, a laugh to his lips, as he thrust open the door of his own room. Homer Martyn still sat in the chair, chin sunk on breast, his heavy, stertorous breathing filling the room with rasping sound.

IT was the work of a moment for Dillon to prepare the two keys he needed. Then he took out the handkerchief stuffed with jewels, swiftly made it into two smaller parcels in case he encountered anyone in the hall, and pocketed these. Next instant he was on his way again to Castro's room. He came to the door. At this instant—he remembered it ever afterward with silent thanks—a chambermaid came out of a room down the hall. Instead of using his key, Riley Dillon rapped at the door, lest the maid recognize him and know that he had no business here.

Then he took hold of the door handle. To his astonishment-the door opened. He stepped into the room— and it was lighted. Three men stood there, facing him.

"Why, it's Mr. Dillon, of all people!"

The night manager of the hotel, a genial Irishman whom he knew well. And with him, two other men; In a flash, Dillon knew them for what they were. Detectives.

"Hello!" His brows lifted, and a whimsical smile came into his face. "I was looking for Castro, but this seems to be a reception committee. What's up, Killackey?"

The hotel man threw up his hands. "Looking for Castro, eh? So are these birds from headquarters. Boys, this is Mr. Dillon, who sent in the tipoff about Castro."

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Dillon," said one of the two detectives, stepping forward. " You see, we got tipped off by the French consulate about your message, and we came up to collect this guy Castro, as he calls himself."

Riley Dillon sparred for time, perceiving the gulf that had opened under his feet. For a moment he was absolutely aghast.

"But I said nothing about Castro!" he exclaimed sharply.

"Oh, it wasn't hard to run down which guy you referred to." The detective chuckled. "Ain't many speakIng French with the help around this hotel. We couldn't locate you—"

"You didn't try very hard," snapped Dillon. "I've been on the roof all evening. I suppose you wanted to collar the reward yourself, eh?"

The shot went home. "Well, when it comes to that," blustered the detective, "how come you're so thick with this guy as to walk into his room?"

"Because I made an engagement with him for the shank of the evening, me lad," responded Dillon blithely.

"We had a drink or so, and I've been feeling him out to see if he's the man you're after. Upon my word—"

"One look at his wrist will tell quick enough," said the other.

"Finger-prints?"

"Nope. This guy Du Puis got away from the Frog police in Marseilles before they had a chance to mug him or print him. But the tattoo-mark is all we need."

"You see, Mr. Dillon," intervened the night manager, "the best way to avoid trouble and publicity was for these boys to wait here until Castro shows up. We don't want any fuss around the hotel. So I'm waiting with them."

"So I observe," said Dillon cheerfully. His brain was racing fast. He was up against it now and no mistake. Let Castro be caught by these dicks? Never!

"Look here!" he exclaimed abruptly. "Why can't I give you chaps a hand? I know Castro. I can look about the place and fetch him here."

"Swell idea," said one of the detectives. "We're liable to be here all night, and I got to fill my kid's stocking sometime before morning."

"Good!" Dillon nodded. "I'll do it. But first I'll have to call Mrs. Homer Martyn. Let's see! She's in Suite 15 H. I'll have to postpone our dance. We were going up to the roof."

He went to the telephone and sat down to the instrument, his gray eyes dancing, a merry devil of delight in his laughing face.

To pull the thing off right before these men, right under the noses of the two dicks—what could more delight Riley Dillon's heart?

The three men sank back into their chairs as he called the suite. The voice of the girl answered. He sent up a mental prayer that her wits might be quick and sharp.

"Hello! This is Mr. Dillon speaking. Please give me Mrs. Martyn—no, no, I want Mrs. Martyn!"

"But this is she—"

"No, no! Give me Mrs. Martyn. Faith, have ye had too much champagne to hear me?"

He glanced at the detectives and winked, shaking his head significantly. Then, to his untold relief, came the voice of Castro.

"Hello! This is Mr. Dillon. Like a good soul, will ye let me beg off that dance for a matter of ten minutes or so? I'll have to be going to the lobby floor and seeing a man who's asking for me there. What's that? Going right up to the roof now, are you? Then I'll meet you at the elevator in two minutes. Yes, by the floor clerk's desk."

"Very well, m'sieur," came the low, controlled voice of Castro? "I comprehend."

Dillon slapped down the receiver and rose with a laugh.

"Now, me lads—" and he looked hard at the two headquarters men— "I'll split the reward with ye, half and half; mind that. And my half of it, Killackey, goes to whatever charity you care to name; remember it. I'll be seeing you as soon as I can locate the rascal."

And he strode out of the room.

THANK the Lord for Castro's sharp wits! The man had to be saved now at all costs. Riley Dillon felt a cold chill at thought of what must have happened had he not returned to the man's room. There was not a minute to waste. Yes, it could be worked perfectly. The whole scheme flashed across his agile brain, complete in every detail

As he walked rapidly along, he took out the letter from the consulate, produced a pencil, and quickly scribbled on the back of the letter. He was making for the west wing now, and the lighted widening of the floor clerk's space came into sight before him. Ah, the floor clerk! Later, she might report his meeting with Castro—well, he must risk this. No way of avoiding it. And at best, it was a long, slim chance.

Castro was waiting, and under the eyes of the floor clerk, turned. Dillon greeted him, took his arm, and led him over to the elevators, pressing a down button. Under his breath he spoke rapidly.

"Two detectives in your room. Not an instant to waste. Do as I say."

Castro nodded, his eyes suddenly alight and feverish. The elevator door clanged open, and Dillon thrust him in.

They emerged on the lobby floor. Here, as Dillon knew, was the desperate gamble. If another dick were waiting here all was lost. Luckily, neither a dick nor a hotel man was in sight at the moment. Dillon whisked his companion around the comer into the lounge, plumped down on a sofa, and drew the other down beside him.

"Listen hard, now," he said rapidly. "You'll have to walk out of here as you are, and do it on the jump. Drop everything and go. Have you money ?"

Castro nodded. "But—"

"No buts, me lad. Skip from the hotel. Go to the drug store on the comer opposite, telephone back to your daughter and explain to her. Take a taxicab down to the vicinity of the Pennsylvania Station. You can get a suitcase and some clothes easily in that neighborhood. From the station, you can get either a late train or connections for the airport at Newark. Take either a plane or a train to Chicago— to Chicago, d'ye hear ?"

Into Castro's hand he thrust the letter from the consulate.

"They've no finger-prints on you, thank the Lord! But that mark on your wrist—the letter makes it. clear, And on the back, I've written the name and address of a doctor in Chicago who can remove that tattoo-mark."

Castro, who had followed him alertly, suddenly slumped.

"M'sieur, it is useless," he said quietly. "Such marks cannot b e removed. I have tried the best doctors. It is possible to remove the skin, yes, but then a scar remains."

"Devil take you, will ye listen to me?" broke in Riley Dillon. "This Chicago man can do it; he uses the Variot process, which not one man in a million knows about. It'll cost you pain, begad! The design is pricked, nitrate of silver is rubbed in, and tannin then follows. When the job's done, there's hardly a scar.

"Here!" Dillon pulled out the two handkerchief-bundles. "Here are your daughter's jewels. I got 'em out of your trunk. How? Never mind that; faith, I had to lie to those detectives! But I got 'em. Take 'em along."

"God bless you!" said Castro simply, then started. "But you—you will get into trouble over this."

"Devil a bit of it," Riley Dillon laughed. "No listen: before your plane or train goes, whichever you can grab first, send the hotel a wire. State that you've been called unexpectedly to Washington, tell them to hold your baggage, that you'll be back in three weeks. That'll throw them off the Chicago trip."

"Eh? But—"

"Shut up. At the end of three weeks, your wrist will be healed. Come back here, come openly, face the music! When they find that tattoo mark is gone, that you're really from Buenos Aires, that Mrs. Homer Martyn knows you and vouches for you—why, devil and all! You can laugh at the lot of 'em. D'ye understand ?"

Castro drew a deep breath, his eyes like stars.

"If this is so, if the work can be done—yes! Ah, m'sieur, you have given me new life, new hope—"

"Stop your gab and get out of here on the jump." Dillon leaped up and put out his hand. "And don't thank me. Thank those poor little devils of orphans back in Paris, three years ago. Off with you, and a Merry Christmas!"

CASTRO departed, hatless, coatless, as he was. Riley Dillon turned back to the elevators, and found one of the house officers standing there. He produced cigarettes and asked for a match.

"I suppose you haven't seen Mr. Castro about?" he asked idly. "Or do you know him?"

"Yes, I know him by sight, Mr. Dillon. Haven't seen him, though. I just got a call from the night manager to pick him up and send him to his room, if I did. Someone there is waiting for him."

Dillon, with a nod, stepped into the elevator.

He was elated, joyous, keyed up to a pinnacle of alert gaiety. He had just managed the impossible, as only Riley Dillon could manage it, and he laughed again to think of the detectives waiting there in Castro's room. As for Castro, he had sketched a perfect campaign, which the man was fully capable of following to the letter. For Castro the future was clear, and deserved to be.

Then, abruptly, Riley Dillon remembered the Martyn emeralds.

At the thought, he shrugged. Castro had taken them from Homer Martyn, no doubt thinking to add them to his daughter's jewels. Well, that matter could take care of itself. The emeralds were gone, that was all there was to it.

"Better luck next time!" thought Riley Dillon, leaving the car on the fifteenth floor. With a nod and a cheerful greeting to the floor clerk, who would be on duty clear into Christmas morning, he turned toward his own room.

What next? To get rid of Homer Martyn, of course; and see that he did not molest his wife. Give her a chance to receive that call from her father and be set at ease. It were best, perhaps, to take one of the hotel managers into consultation. If Martyn were drunk and incapable of making trouble, he could be put to bed and left to himself in another room.

Dillon pushed open his door and switched on the lights. Martyn was slumped down in the chair. Startled, Riley Dillon suddenly stopped short, staring at the man. Then he took a quick step forward. That stertorous breathing was hushed. There was no sound in the silent room. Dillon reached forward and touched the slumped figure.

Homer Martyn was dead.

5: Payment

HERE was a troubled gathering of hotel officials, and at Dillon's suggestion one of the headquarters men was summoned from Castro's room.

"Mr. Dillon," explained one of the house officers, "found a drunk unable to navigate, just outside his door, and it being Christmas Eve and all, brought him into the room and plopped him into a chair. Now the man's dead and turns out to be Mr. Homer Martyn of Park Avenue. There's no earthly reason to doubt Mr. Dillon's story—"

There was none, as the house physician stated. That Martyn had died from acute alcoholism, and possibly heart failure, was fairly obvious and would be confirmed by an autopsy.

Riley Dillon, with a sigh of relief, found himself alone in his room and everything clear sailing. He called the roof, ordered the cheek charged to his account and his table given up, and undressed. He was ready for bed.

"Faith, it's been a busy night!" he reflected, as he stepped to arrange the pillows to his liking. "And so far as I'm concerned, an empty night— except for the thought of a bit of good work well done. If we— ouch!"

His foot had struck something under the bed. .He stooped, and then a sharp exclamation broke from him. He remembered all of a sudden how Homer Martyn had plumped down, had clutched at the bedside to save himself.

Dillon rose, holding up the necklace with the pendant emeralds. It must have slipped from Martyn's pocket, unobserved, in that fall.

He held "the emeralds to the light. Green and lovely, they shimmered like living things.

"Payment!" he murmured. Then he slowly shook his head. "Payment! And would I be taking payment for what I've done this night ?" he went on, with a touch of scorn. "Ye brought mortal peril to a poor man this night, and ye pulled him out of it again. If ye took payment for that deed, it's a sorry fellow you'd be."

He lifted the receiver. A twinkle came into his eye.

"Besides," he added, "there might be questions asked as to what became of the necklace, if that girl remembers about it. Hello! Give me the night manager, please. I want to report something I've found."

End

Table of Contents

- 1: Three-Piece Dollar
- 2: The Pearl of Price
- 3: The Phoenix Tourmaline
- 4: British Agent
- 5: Test Pilot Number One
- 6: The Case of the Deathly Barque
- 7: Pearls From Macao
- 8: The Brute's Emeralds
- 1