Author: H Bedford-Jones
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Short stories
Description: Another collection of H Bedford-Jones' short stories and novelettes, retrieved mostly from Internet Archive's on-line resources. The cover is adapted from the cover of the Blue Book Magazine in which the title story appeared, painted by Herbert Morton Stoops (1887-1948) 1: Evening at the Black Bull 2: Warlock Finn 3: Irregular Brethren 4: The Miraculous Buddha 5: Mustered Out 6: The House of Skulls (novelette) 7: The Wolf Woman 8: The Sword of Michelangelo 9: Blow, Bugles! 10: Berber Loot

THE WOLF WOMAN
and other stories

H. Bedford-Jones

2020

Contents

1: Evening at the Black Bull

2: Warlock Finn

3: Irregular Brethren

4: The Miraculous Buddha

5: Mustered Out

6: The House of Skulls

7: The Wolf Woman

8: The Sword of Michelangelo

9: Blow, Bugles!

10: Berber Loot

_____________________

1: Evening At The Black Bull

("Coasts of Chance" series, No 1)

Golden Fleece Vol 1 No 1, October 1938

MY FRIEND HABERLEIN comes into my office and calmly settles down and raises hob with my business in a most annoying manner. I can't resist him; no one can resist him. He has a hypnotic charm that amounts to genius. If he says: "Stop!" the clock on the desk ceases work— he's that kind.

When he came in yesterday, I saw at a glance that he was all lit up; not with liquor but with a new idea. He pulled up a chair, fastened his black and glittering eye upon me, and let me have both barrels.

"Harry, I've been looking into history. I'm making a collection of what's positively the most fascinating line of stories you ever heard! You know, a lot of queer things happened that don't get into the history books; odd, trifling matters that changed the course of human events, in a greater or lesser degree. Who knows that, if a man hadn't stopped to shave, Bonaparte would have gone to the guillotine? It's a fact."

"Tell it to the marines," I said crossly. "Here I've got a pile of work―"

"Well, listen!" he said, and with a groan  of resignation I listened. "What I've got on my mind right now, is rich stuff. In the middle of the seventeenth century, when Cromwell ruled in England and Mazarin in France, a piddling little unknown robber baron over in Italy changed the whole course of the world's commerce and even history; and it all happened because a scoundrelly Frenchman couldn't keep his hands off a gal! Can you beat that?"

"I don't believe it," was my weak response. Haberlein leaned forward.

"I'll prove it to you. Leghorn, at that time, was one of the greatest free ports in the world, the greatest center of commerce in the Mediterranean; even the Moslem merchants could come there unmolested. The English, however, had settled Leghorn heavily and were in practical control of commerce there. Leghorn was in the territory of Tuscany, ruled by the Grand Duke, one of the last of the old Medici family. Got it?"

I nodded. He shoved aside my papers, spread himself on the desk, and pitched in.

''That's just the background. France hated and feared England; the war for all the commerce of the east was on, but it remained underground. With that in mind, I want you to look at the Italian coast, at the highway north of Leghorn and Florence. I want to make you see the man who was whipping his horse along, riding hell for leather, in a late afternoon. He was only a short distance outside the town of Corthia, for which he was making—"

THE MAGIC of that voice persuaded me, moved me, haunted me. The yellow spurting dust of the road, the chestnut trees, the sharp Italian hills, uprose before me. And the man, who with whip and spur urged his lathered, wheezing horse along the curving road.

A little man, ferret-nosed, with very wide shoulders and very long arms, and in his sharp features a peculiar deadly expression. At an inbend of the road, the Tavern of the Black Bull suddenly appeared, and a sigh of relief escaped him.

It was a pleasant inn, to anyone who knew not its evil name, with high oak trees shading the courtyard from the hot Italian sun. A structure half of outward stone, half built into the steep hillside.

The staggering horse clattered to a halt in the courtyard, the rider slid down. No grooms came forth; no one was in sight save the innkeeper, a burly man who stood in the entrance and emitted a cheery but wary word of greeting.

"Welcome, Ser Nicolo! Whether pursuing or pursued, you've come to the right place! Are you followed?"

"No, blast you! Do I have to be a fugitive because I'm riding hard?" The little man, not so little now that he stood on his feet, stumbled stiffly across the stones. "A fresh horse, quickly! I must reach Duke Raymond of Corthia at once!"

"You'll do that without killing another horse." "The duke will be here at any moment; he's overdue now. He's riding out from town on business."

"The usual business, eh? Good!" Ser Nicolo dapped the other on the shoulder. "Inside! You're going to have business and plenty of it, in another hour or less."

In the vast, gloomy ordinary of that sinister inn, Ser Nicolo settled himself comfortably at a table, opposite the innkeeper.

"What news?" the latter demanded. Ser Nicolo gulped down his wine and grunted.

"For Raymond, not for you."

"Careful, Ser Nicolo!" said the burly man. "You may be the most famous spadassin in Italy, your stiletto the highest priced and surest but after all, you're a hired bravo. This is Duke Raymond's tavern, and I'm in his confidence."

Ser Nicolo grinned faintly. "True. News? Well, Cromwell rules in England, Mazarin rules France for the boy Louis, and Raymond rules in Corthia. A fine weapon, a fine gem, a fine woman— Raymond welcomes any of the three. I bring him jewels and a woman— the daughter of a Genoese merchant and her lover, a puling Frenchman. They'll be here in an hour. Enough said?"

"Enough, aye! Hello, here's Francesco now; his job must be finished."

SOMEWHERE in the cavernous recesses of the place, whose immense oak beams were black with age and smoke, a massive door creaked open. A low, shuddering sound echoed faintly; the groans of a man in mortal agony. A swaggering figure came forward to the table, a stout fellow whose bare forearms and leathern apron were splashed with ominous crimson; he flung down a folded parchment.

"There it is, signed and sealed and witnessed," he said.

The innkeeper took it.

"A good thing for you Raymond is late! You've been slow."

"I had to string up the stubborn devil three times and then go to work on him with hot pincers," said Francesco. "But he gave in at last. He can still walk."

"Give him a horse and turn him loose. Then tell Maria to prepare the big upper chamber; guests are coming. Is the meal ready for Duke Raymond?"

"Aye. And speak of the devil— there he is!"

A clatter of hooves from the courtyard, a ringing, impetuous voice; the host went rushing out, grooms appeared from nowhere, and the Black Bull took on life. Ser Nicolo gulped hastily at his wine and stood up to meet the man he served.

Raymond of Corthia strode in, bidding his half-dozen guards make themselves scarce in the kitchens. He took the parchment, glanced at it, and tucked it away with a nod. He looked at Ser Nicolo, and came eagerly to him, like a hawk pouncing.

"What's this? You, Nicolo? Corpo di Baccho! I thought you were in Genoa!"

Ser Nicolo bowed; greatest assassin in Italy he might be, but to Raymond of Corthia he was mightily respectful, and with reason.

Ruler of a tiny hill-estate that was no more than a town, with a few square miles outside it, Raymond was slim and straight and powerful; no man could stand before him with wit or weapons, and none had ever found mercy at his hands. His dark features were all alive with a cruel and mocking energy. No woman, it was said, could resist his gay spirit and his crafty tongue. He was feared, dreaded, hated, from the Alps to Tarentum, and no one dared lift finger against him. From Venice to Naples, the threads of political intrigue were in his hands, and he pulled them shrewdly; ambassadors were sent to him as to a king, for his counsel and help. He was behind the scenes on many a stage, but was still ruled by three passions greater to him than any ambition.

"So! Something's up, eh?" He swung a chair around, sat down, poured wine and sipped it. "Weapons, jewels or women?"

Ser Nicolo repeated his story. Raymond listened; he was clad all in black, with a bulk to his shoulders that hinted at chain mail under the black velvet.

"I didn't see the woman; I hear she's fair and young," concluded Ser Nicolo. "But the two of them skipped out with all the old man's jewels— the finest lot of gems in all Genoa, I hear. They're headed for Rome. The Frenchman is some sort of soldier; he speaks Italian."

Raymond frowned slightly. "Ha! That's curious. The Grand Duke of Tuscany has been fool enough to disregard my advice, and let Mazarin cozen him into turning the English out of Leghorn; do away with all free trade and put Leghorn into the hands of French merchants. I've been expecting some courier from Paris— well, well, this would hardly be the man, if he's running away with a Genoese damsel! Nicolo, we'll handle this little matter ourselves, you and I."

"Gladly, my lord," and Ser Nicolo smiled in his thin face. "Their coachman is my man. That leaves the Frenchman alone. Shall I dispose of him?"

"Not before I give the signal," Raymond glanced up, as the innkeeper approached. "Dinner? Not yet. In half an hour; I'll have two guests to join me. Get the board ready. Keep those men of mine out of sight, and don't let them drink too much. I may need them. Bring a flask or two of my own wine. Ha, Nicolo! You know steel. Look at this! A gift from the Grand Duke at Florence, to make up to me for disregarding my counsel. The old fool! Think what the Medici have come to, that such a man should rule Tuscany!"

He whipped out his sword from its sheath and Nicolo took the long straight blade, eyeing it shrewdly. A beautiful piece of steel, with the watered markings of damascened work, inlaid along one side of the blade with an Arabic inscription in gold. The eyes of Ser Nicolo glittered, and Raymond laughed softly.

"You like it? Then, in testimony of my love for you, keep it!" Raymond unbuckled the belt, passed it and the scabbard across the table. "No, I insist! You need a sword, Nicolo. My dagger is all I need."

He touched the extremely long poniard at his right hip. Ser Nicolo gulped out his thanks for the princely gift and waxed warm in his enthusiasm. The eyes of Raymond dwelt upon the man for an instant, a touch of cruel amusement in their dark depths, then flitted to the table that was being set with linen and silver and Venetian glass— strange treasures to find in a roadside inn! But then, the Black Bull was a strange place.

A MAN from outside came running in; the coach was approaching and men were posted to stop it if need were. Raymond rose and sauntered outside. There was a creaking, a rumble and a squeak of brakes, a banging of hooves; a coach with four horses appeared and swung into the inn-yard. The driver was a gangling fellow with the scarred features of a bravo, and shaggy red hair dangling about his ears; a rogue, thought Raymond, and a rascal.

The coach door opened. A man in dark but handsome attire leaped out and burst into vehement French, to which the driver replied; master and man. Raymond gathered. As the driver pointed out, one horse was lame. Perhaps another could be procured here. The Frenchman turned to the innkeeper, who swore that extra horses were rare as green cheese from the moon. Then Raymond stepped forward, with his graceful, gallant bow.

"Your pardon I" he said, in his most charming way. "I'm named Messire Raymond, I'm a gentleman of Corthia, and if you'll do me the honor of joining me at dinner, it'll give me the greatest pleasure in the world! The food here is superb, I assure you. The beds are like those of the blessed saints in Paradise, The sun is sinking— why go farther and fare worse?"

The Frenchman's face cleared. A face that looked young but was not; a face outwardly handsome, but to Raymond's shrewd eye full of craft and guile and braggadocio.

"Why, messire, thank you!" he answered in Italian. "I'm the Sieur de Castelmore, a gentleman of Gascony, traveling with my wife to Rome. If this place is safe—"

"I know of none safer in all Italy," said Raymond, smiling. "Let your wife join us, and our happiness is complete! Perhaps she'd like to judge of the accommodations. Landlord! Your best room for my friends; they'll join me at dinner, so prepare accordingly!"

The graceful assurance of Raymond settled everything, as it usually did. A man used to having his way, nearly always has it.

The Frenchman, he noted, wore a long, plain rapier; then he observed nothing else, as Castelmore handed out his traveling companion and presented Raymond to her.

She was tired; as she said frankly, they had traveled fast and hard since leaving Genoa. Yet she was radiant, lovely as a flower, so instinct with youth and character and nobility that Raymond was actually stupefied for a moment. When he stooped his lips to her fingers, did they gently press his own? When he looked into her eyes, did a flash of appeal strike out at him? He was not certain; but for an instant his heart leaped high. Debauched, depraved, callous as he was to all fine things, here in this girl's face and eyes and voice was something that stirred forgotten memories within him.

He conducted them to the stairs. She was holding a leather casket beneath her arm, as though it were precious. Beneath the dark coat of Castelmore was a bulge, as though something precious lay there. Promising to be back in five minutes, they departed with the host to seek their room, and Raymond went striding back to Ser Nicolo.

"My good Nicolo, you're positively a fool for once," he snapped. "That man is a scoundrel; he looks young and is not. The lady is an angel! Ten to one he's tricked her by promises of marriage, into leaving home with her jewels. She's no common merchant's daughter, if I know anything of character."

Ser Nicolo shrugged. "Her jewels, and herself as well, may be better in your keeping than in his, then."

"Right. Keep your eye on me. When I overturn my glass, go to work on the rogue and blood your new blade. Mind you, no foolishness! Kill him and have done."

"With all my heart," said Ser Nicolo, his lip twisting wolfishly. Killing was his trade.

From the hidden kitchens in the rear, which were used in summer, came fowl and meat fresh from the spits, fruit of the earth and the tree, bread and sauces galore; a very banquet to be heaped along the board, with rare wines from the private stores of Raymond. Outside, the setting sun reddened and died. Inside, silver candelabra were brought out and set along the table, blazing with candles of the finest wax that gently perfumed the air as they burned.

Ser Nicolo departed to wash. The burly host came up to Duke Raymond with a low word.

"Lord, next time you have a fine sword to give away, remember me."

"What?" Raymond looked up at him and suddenly broke into laughter. "But not such a sword as that, my honest friend! That was a gift from the Grand Duke Ferdinand himself; and when the Medici send gifts, it pays to look well at them. Ser Nicolo, unluckily for himself, did not look too well; and, still more unluckily, has wormed himself into too many of my secrets, and his sold one or two of them to the Duke of Mantua."

DONNA LUISA, as the girl was named, looked more radiant than ever; she had donned a dress of sky-blue velvet sewn with seed pearls, which rarely became her delicate, fragile loveliness, her pale golden hair and unafraid blue eyes. Raymond introduced Ser Nicolo as a gentleman of Padua, and the four sat down to the board, Castelmore and his lady opposite Raymond and Ser Nicolo. If the Frenchman was not amazed at sight of the Venetian glasses, a treasure such as only kings could know, the girl certainly was.

With every passing moment, Raymond's admiration became more profound. The girl was more French than Italian; she had an amazing grasp of practical things, even politics, and her swift intelligence delighted him. Talking, he learned she had spent six months in Paris, with the family of Cardinal Mazarin. Her father, it seemed, had known Mazarin. Why had she left Paris? At his question, she hesitated, slightly confused.

"The customs, the life— well, it was distasteful." Her clear, pure eyes rested upon him. In them he caught another flash of appeal, almost of terror.

"There, they think all women are alike, given to loose ways—"

"Come, come, women were made for love!" intervened Castelmore. He did not appreciate Raymond's intense interest in the girl; he made the fact plain. So, upon a smile, Raymond suddenly turned all his attention to the Gascon, with subtle flattery.

"You've been in Paris? At court, perhaps? Yes, you have the manner of a courtier. Tell me, what's the gossip about the plans between our Grand Duke and Mazarin— putting Leghorn into French hands? Come, come, it's no secret here! I know all about it, and so do you."

The wine was ardent, and Castelmore was presently persuaded to talk. He had thought the new treaty was a state secret, but since it was not—

"It's a tremendous stroke of business!" be exclaimed. "For centuries Leghorn has been a free port. The English are securely entrenched there. Now that'll be changed; out they go, and the Dutch as well! It means that the entire balance of trade and commerce in the Mediterranean will be altered, will be swung to France!"

"It means more than that," Duke Raymond said softly. "It means war! The English will stir up Venice, Rome and other states against Tuscany. The French will go to war. Armies will be inarching through Italy— and I do not like that. It will be bad business for me. I should like to stop this treaty."

The Gascon bellowed with laughter. "You, stop the diplomacy of France? That's a good one! You, change the plans of Mazarin? That's rich! No, no, my friend! The Cardinal has already arranged with your Grand Duke, has approved the proposals, has drafted with his own hand the final terms! Once approved by your Grand Duke, the French envoy in Florence will settle the matter and draw up the treaty. Then the fat's in the fire, eh? And you talk of stopping it I As well stop the finger of destiny!"

"Perhaps," said Duke Raymond, smiling, "even that is not beyond my power." and with his hand he knocked over his priceless Venetian glass, and broke it.

Just what happened was not very clear, at least to the staring, bewildered, quivering Donna Luisa; but to the cynically amused Raymond, it was clear as daylight. Castelmore, like all Gascons, was a swelling fount of braggadocio. Ser Nicolo was gentle, but terrible and deadly as a viper. Words rose high, and Ser Nicolo slapped the Gascon across the face; with this, steel scraped out of scabbard.

Donna Luisa cried frantic protest, but Raymond's fingers clamped down on her wrist, his smiling, intent eyes pierced into hers, his voice gripped at her,

"Quiet, madonna, quiet! He is not your husband. Didn't you ask to be relieved of him? Well, keep your mouth shut and see what happens."

What happened was that honor demanded blood; and all was done very courteously, as between gentlemen. At Duke Raymond's suggestion, the two doffed doublets and went to the wide hearth, before the great spits that were not used in summer; and, again at his word, the steel crossed and clanged.

Silent, pale as death, the girl watched.

The art of fence was not, in this day, greatly practiced. It was cut and come again, sword in one hand, dagger in the other; steel was made for killing, not for the light fantasy of fencing. The Gascon was a shrewd, strong, masterful swordsman, but the eye of Raymond saw that Ser Nicolo, with his long arms and nimble skill, was the better man at this business.

They fought, with mounting flame of fierce rage, with clash of steel and rasp of hot oaths— and suddenly there was a snap, a clang, a wild cry. Ser Nicolo's blade flew asunder; the Gascon's long steel drove past his guarding poniard, drove through his throat, and stood out a span behind the nape of his neck.

"Ah!" observed Duke Raymond, on the sudden silence. "I was right. That gold inlay did extend too far through the steel; it's very lucky I was not using that sword myself! That is, lucky for me. Unlucky, let us say, for the Grand Duke, who gave it to me."

He glanced around. The innkeeper was standing among the shadows, watching the proceedings. At a slight gesture from Raymond, he disappeared.

Castelmore. panting, freed his weapon, He wiped it and slid it into his scabbard.

"The devil!" he exclaimed. "Now I've killed the rascal!"

"You certainly have," said Raymond coolly. "And there's a law in Corthia that anyone who kills a man in duel, is hanged by the neck until he's very, very dead."

The Gascon stared at him from bloodshot eyes.

"It was forced upon me!" he burst out. "Besides, no such law applies to me. I'm not a subject of Corthia. I enjoy diplomatic immunity! I bear a message from the court of France to the Grand Duke of Tuscany! Letters to the Grand Duke himself!"

"So I thought." said Raymond pleasantly. "It's nice to have the question settled. But all the same, the law applies to you."

There was a stir In the shadowed recesses of the great room. Figures appeared; armed men came forward. Two of them held pistols, and advanced upon either side of the Gascon, and the pistols were cocked.

"Your sword, messire," said a third, coming up behind Castelmore.

The latter knew himself trapped and lost. He glared, helpless; he found frantic voice.

"I thought there was something queer about all this! Who are you? Who arc these men? What does it all mean?"

Raymond smiled. "It means that the law of Corthia is enforced, for I am the law— I, Duke Raymond of Corthia! Take him outside and hang him, and do it quickly. But first, give me the folded packet that is under his shirt."

The packet of papers was given him. Donna Luisa, staring at him with eyes of horror, uttered one shrill cry of protest and appeal— it ended in a gasp, and she fell back in her chair, in a dead faint.

The Gascon, bellowing curses, was dragged out. Raymond glanced at the innkeeper.

"Where is that man of mine, Mario, the scrivener? Drunk, as usual?"

"Well on the road, lord."

"Hold his head in the horse-trough, sober him, send him here."

Cutting with his stiletto the silk cord bound about the documents, Raymond laid them out. Here was the passport of Sieur de Castelmore, a lengthy vellum signed in the sprawling boyish hand of the French king. Here were other documents in Italian, which had been sent to Mazarin from Florence; these were sealed again with the Cardinal's seal. And lastly was a letter addressed to the Grand Duke in the Cardinal's hand, also sealed with Mazarin's seal. Raymond eyed them, and reflected, half aloud.

"H'm! Suppose I turn all these over to the Venetians or the English— at least, threaten to do so? The Grand Duke might or might not be forced to give up the scheme. He's a stubborn old devil, though, and these Medici are all tricky— h'm! No, the safest way is to make him so utterly and absolutely furious at the worthy Cardinal Mazarin that he'll drop the whole affair."

A spluttering, dripping, white faced figure shambled forward; this was the scribe, Mario, once a clever man, now an arrant rogue. Two others came in, lifted the body of Ser Nicolo, and bore it away.

Raymond rose, quaffed his wine, and stooped above the figure of the unconscious girl. Admiration glowed in his eyes. He leaned down and gently brushed her cheek with his lips, and  straightened up.

"Is she not a precious, lovely thing, Mario? Like a tender flower. She's lost a poor lover this night, and gained a better one; truly, the dispensations of Providence are wonderful! Well, well, to business. You have vellum, I think, and ink, and brains? We need them, Mario. We've used your clever brains often, and now must use them again."

"At— at your service, lord," fumbled out the scrivener. Duke Raymond picked up the sealed letter.

''Remove the outer sea! very carefully, without breaking it, so we can use it again. This letter is doubtless in the hand of a secretary; Cardinal Mazarin is an Italian, and it will be written in Italian, being for the eye of the Grand Duke himself. Now, get to work. There'll be an inner seal, so be mindful of that also; it will bear the Lilies of France, and we must be very careful of such precious flowers. Copy ail the preamble of the letter; when you reach the body of it, bring them both to me and I'll dictate what's to be said."

M ARIO took the vellum and departed. Duke Raymond pocketed the other documents, and with a sigh of satisfaction, laid aside the matter temporarily. He went again to the girl, lifted her head, and poured a swallow of wine between her lips. She choked, and sat up, staring around. Then, meeting his eyes, she shrank in sudden memory.

"No, no— it must have been a dream! Where is he?"

"Hanged," said Raymond amiably. "And good riddance to you, also to the world."

"But you— you!" She stared wild eyed, her bosom rising and falling to sharp breaths. "You can't be that frightful man, that beast, of whom all Italy has heard! You can't be Duke Raymond; the murderer, the ravisher, the soulless betrayer of everything and everyone! The brother of Satan himself, they call him!"

"No, my dear, no. If I were Satan's brother, then I'd assuredly be an angel! However, I'm Raymond of Corthia, and I love you,"

She started. "Love? Oh, you foul beast I"

"Ah, but listen!" said he, and began to speak very earnestly, of himself and his life and the charges against him; of good and evil, of lust and of love, and of many things beside.

Now, there was this about Raymond of Corthia: By the magic of his tongue he had the power of charming man, woman or beast, and could make white seem any color he desired, and could bring tears to the sternest eyes. When he was excommunicate and with a price of ten thousand scudi on his head for the murder of his brother, did he not steal unknown into Rome, gain audience with the Holy Father, and in half an hour convince him that Raymond of Corthia was an innocent man? And it is well known how he cozened the Duke of Milan, who had wounded and captured him, into becoming for a little while his greatest friend and ally.

Thus, it might be expected that this guileless girl would straightway yield to his magic and, like all other women, become his loving victim; but to his great astonishment she did not.

True, she became quiet, calm, thoughtful; she lost her resentment and horror; she even smiled a little and suffered the touch of his hand on hers, and sipped her wine. Yet, when he looked into her eyes. Raymond found there something cool and beautiful and assured, which entirely baffled him. It was like a piece of shining mail which the keenest sword could not pierce.

"I've heard many terrible things about you, Duke Raymond," she said quietly, when he paused. "It's said that you have an unbridled passion for fine weapons, for glowing jewels, for lovely women. I should be afraid of you; but I am not."

And she was not, as he perceived.

"Then." he said quickly, "you like me a little?"

"I do not like you at all." she replied calmly. "I met the Sieur de Castelmore when I was in Paris; and it seemed I was in love with him. He came to Genoa, stayed three days, and persuaded me to fly with him. Then, too late, I discovered that he was an arrant rascal, seeking only to beguile me and steal my jewels. Yet I think I was far safer with that man, than I am with you."

"Sweet dove, I'd not harm you for the world!" protested Raymond. She looked at him, unsmiling. "See, now! I've rid you of that scoundrel. When you came here, when I met you, I read the appeal in your eyes."

"I thought you were a gentleman," she said quietly. "Those jewels are all I have in the world; take them, keep them, if you'll let me go back to Genoa."

"Tomorrow?" he said quickly.

"Now."

A laugh touched his lips. "No, little dove! I've not seen the jewels; but I've seen you, and you're the most precious jewel of all. You've brought me the greatest luck in the world. If that Gascon had kept his hands off you, I'd never have caught him. I have spies watching for any courier from Paris, and they failed completely; they did not even dream he was the courier, nor at first did I. But see! He's hanged. War and armies are averted, the wily Mazarin's plans arc spoiled. You're here, and you shall go to Corthia with me, and love me as I love you!"

The scrivener Mario came shuffling forward, and laid before Raymond two sheets of fine vellum. One was the letter from Mazarin, denuded of its seals; the other, identical in size, was that on which he had copied the preamble of the letter.

Raymond scrutinized them both, and his eye lit up. The forgery was perfect.

"Mario, you're a jewel! Finish this task, and you shall be drunk for a month, and wench yourself to death if you've a mind! You've a quill and ink? Take down what I want written in the tetter; and mind you copy Mazarin's signature with care!"

He dictated what he desired the French Cardinal to say to the Grand Duke of Tuscany, and laughed softly as he dictated. It was a letter which abandoned all thought of the Leghorn scheme, a letter so filled with contemptuous insult and sly thrusts as to drive the prince of the Medici into a foaming fury.

And all the while, Donna Luisa sat, sipping her wine, and listened.

"That's all," concluded Raymond. "Faith, the Grand Duke will be purple in the face when he reads it! Seek that rascal, Jean Gontter, of my guards, and send him here. He's a Frenchman — or was— and has a nimble wit."

The scrivener withdrew, and a moment later one of the guards strode across the huge chamber and saluted the duke. Raymond extended the king's passport.

"Take this, Frenchman; from this moment you're the Sieur de Castelmore, a Gascon gentleman, bearing despatches from Paris to the Grand Duke of Tuscany. Take my own black horse and the letter I'll give you presently. Ride like the devil to Florence, deliver the letter to the Grand Duke in person, and then get out of Florence before he reads the letter and has a mind to hang the messenger." He tossed the man a purse. "Here's gold; twice as much if you return safe, your errand done."

The man saluted and departed.

Raymond relaxed, leaning back in his chair; he filled a glass with wine and drank it off, and met the calm, thoughtful gaze of Donna Luisa. He smiled suddenly.

"What, little dove? The prospect's not so bad after all, eh? Tomorrow we'll be in Corthia. You'll have a palace, with riches, velvets, servants, horses, friends— whatever your heart desires!"

"My heart desires virtue," she said calmly.

Raymond chuckled.

"At the moment, no doubt; you'll get over that, my dear. You're no hysterical lass to clap a dagger through her heart because a man has kissed her! A tear or two, a scream or two, perhaps a blow or two; then you'll settle down to enjoy the advantages that life offers the most beautiful woman in Italy."

She regarded him steadily, meditatively.

"A liar," she said reflectively. "A man with a heart so cold and selfish-
callous that he's lost all perception of goodness. Poor Raymond!" Her blue eyes softened. "I do pity you, so small and petty a thing you are, when with your talents you might have grown so great!"

A slight flush crept into his cheeks, for it was evident that she meant her words.

"The devil!" He stared at her, and laughed shortly. Then he glanced around, at shuffling steps. It was the scrivener, Mario, and with him the French guard.

Raymond looked at the two vellum letters; the writing was identical, the signatures were identical. The true letter he crumpled up. The false letter, with its inner seal and tie of twisted vellum, he folded over and gave back to Mario.

"Perfect," he said crisply. "Apply the outer seal and give it to the Sieur de Castelmore. And you, Frenchman, remember my words! Once you've delivered it, get out of Florence quickly!"

"No danger, lord; I'll remember." With a grin, the man departed.

Raymond leaned back again, sipped his wine, met the steady eye of Donna Luisa. A silence fell; presently came voices from the courtyard, a ring and click of hooves, and the shouted farewell of the messenger as he departed.

And Raymond, eyeing the girl, found a slow, mocking smite on her lips.

"What amuses you, little dove?" be demanded. "The thought of tomorrow and Corthia?"

"No; the thought of tonight, and the Black Bull. I suppose," she said softly, with a lift of her brows, "you could overtake and bring back that messenger, if you wished?"

"Mounted on my own black Arab, and with orders to speed, not the devil himself could overtake that man!" said Raymond confidently. "Why do yon ask such a question?"

"You'll learn soon enough. Are you going to order out my coach, with fresh horses, and let me go back to Genoa— here and now?"

"I am not," he said with cool amusement. "Instead, we're going upstairs, together. And there, you shall show me those jewels of yours; not that I want them, little dove, for you shall deck yourself in them to delight my eye, and at Corthia you shall have such jewels as you've never seen before I"

"Indeed!" Again she smiled, slightly, mysteriously. "Tell me something; is it true there's a price of five thousand crowns on your head?"

"In Venice, aye," he said, and laughed lightly. "They've offered that for my death. It'll never be collected; I've had more than that offered for me, in vain! Where did you hear of it?"

"In Genoa," she said.

Something in her manner wakened a vague uneasiness in him; he eyed her warily, and could not guess at what lay in her mind. Then, catching sight of the innkeeper, he beckoned; the other came forward.

"Light our chamber, above."

"It is already lighted," said the landlord. "I placed lights in it when they first went up. But, my lord! That rascally coachman of theirs, he of the shaggy red hair, has vanished. There were no orders to put him in a cell; he must have stolen forth and taken to his heels."

Raymond burst out laughing, and rose.

"So much the better! We're rid of him easily. Come, my dear!" He bowed to Donna Luisa, and extended his arm. She rose, and her enigmatic smile touched him again for an instant before she accepted his arm.

Raymond flung a glance and a word at the innkeeper. "On no account, disturb us! Tell my men to make themselves comfortable."

They went to the stairs; a flickering cresset there lighted the way.

THE door to the chamber above stood open. Donna Luisa passed in; Raymond followed, then closed the massive door and bolted it.

It was a large room, with casement windows; on the table by the windows stood an iron candelabrum in which two candles were burning. By this reposed Donna Luisa's casket of leather. The luggage was on the floor nearby. The remainder of the room was shadowy, obscure. A huge testered bed in one corner; huge armoires along the walls, to serve as closets; huge beams overhead, all huge, dark, ominous with flickering shadows.

Donna Luisa went to the table, took out a little key, set it to the casket and threw back the lid. She glanced sideways at Duke Raymond,

"Do you care to see the jewels?"

"Bah! Such jewels as a shopkeeper's daughter might own; not the sort of gems you shall have tomorrow, the sort of gems to become you, madonna!"

With a scornful laugh, he took a handful of broad gold pieces from his pocket and tossed them on the table. "There's the worth of double your jewels, little dove!"

She drew a deep breath, closed the lid of the casket, and turned to him. He caught her suddenly, kissing her lips, her eyes, her lips again. She did not struggle or resist, but stood passive until he held her away, looking at her. Then her eyes smote him.

"There are two things, Raymond, you do not know," she said calmly. "First, since leaving Genoa and discovering the true nature of that brute who had beguiled me, I took measures to protect myself from him; these same measures will protect me against you."

Her quiet, unexcited assurance would have been staggering at any other moment, but now passion was flaming in Raymond's brain. He uttered a wild laugh.

"Yes? I'll repay your confidence with another, madonna! A little while ago you said I might have become great; well, I shall become great! I have my plans laid. Soon I go to Rome— Rome, you understand? And Rome shall become mine. You shall go with me; you shall become mistress of Rome, little dove I"

She regarded him steadily, her blue eyes unafraid, untouched, unmoved.

"No," she said. "I have warned you, Raymond. Now, before telling you the second thing you don't know, I appeal to you." Her voice became soft, tender, musical. "Look at me, Raymond; I'm not the sort of woman to serve your lust. I beg of you, spare me; act like the prince you should be, and spare me, send me on my way! Do this, and blessings will fall upon you. Refuse, and all your ambitions shall end in disaster and death and misery. It is yours to choose, between blessing and curse!"

Again was that queer shining thing in her eyes, which stirred such old forgotten memories in him; for one instant, a sense of shame came upon him, so that his grip on her shoulders loosened. Then the loveliness of her, and passionate desire, swept away all else; he crushed her against him, crushed her lips to his own.

"That for warnings and blessings alike!" he exclaimed, vigorously. "How do you like that answer, little dove?"

"It brooks only one reply," she said quietly, "What about the other messenger to Florence, with the duplicate letter from Mazarin?"

His eyes dilated. Passion died out of his features; they tightened, hardened, stiffened; his hands relaxed their grip. She went on speaking, calmly.

"Another messenger, Raymond, disguised, going by a different route. You could still catch him, stop him! But you don't know who he is, or where to find him. Castelmore knew, but you hanged him and she can't tell. I can tell, I alone!"

In a flash, Raymond saw all his plans and triumph going to smash. The wily Mazarin, taking no chances on a single messenger; his own forgery now on the way to Florence, only to be discredited; and Duke Ferdinand would make him rue that forgery bitterly.

"Then tell— tell me quickly. Do you hear, woman? Quickly!"

"No, Raymond; why should I tell? I'm in your power, and you refuse to spare me; well, do your worst! Torture me, if you like; whip me, rack me, burn me— can you make me tell? You cannot."

And, looking into her eyes, he knew he could not. Fury rose in him; knotted veins stood out upon his forehead, his hands clenched. And, in the back of Ins brain, was a rising tide of fear— dismay and fear, for his ghastly error.

"I must know, I must know!" he said in a stifled voice. "What do you want?"

"Freedom," she returned curtly.

"Very well," he said, and checked himself.

Almost she had won her play.

He was shaken, helpless, beaten. Then, as he looked into her eyes, he suddenly sensed something there— something that again stopped his pulses, telegraphed his brain, wakened his faculties. And he remembered, for the first time, that the proposals from Grand Duke Ferdinand had been enclosed in that letter from Mazarin. His head lifted, his shoulders squared, and with a slow smile he put out his hands again and gripped her arms.

"Clever! Little dove, you're clever!" he murmured. "But you forgot one thing. You lie! You lie!"

The blue depths fronting him were abruptly stricken with terror, and at this, he became quite certain.

"No, no! I tell you—"

"Tell me no more," he said, and drew her slowly to him. "The letters from Tuscany to Paris were in this packet— this alone. There was no duplicate letter from Mazarin, There was no other messenger. Ah, you played it well! I love you all the more for the game, madonna! Kiss me, kiss me, yield to destiny and happiness—"

Fear, horror, consternation were in her face; she tried to struggle, and could not. He pressed her to him, sought her lips eagerly, joyously— and, in this instant, felt something touch the back of his neck. Something sharp, that pricked his flesh; something cold, that chilled his brain.

He turned his head a little and then stiffened, motionless, as he glimpsed the figure that stood behind him with leveled sword blade. A gangling figure, a face scarred and evil, framed in shaggy, dangling red hair. It was the driver of the coach, the servant of the Frenchman,

From Raymond's nerveless hands, Donna Luisa drew away unhindered.

"Excellency, keep your arms as they are; up! Don't move, or the point drives home."

"You fool! I'm Raymond of Corthia!"

"I know it," and the harsh voice cackled a laugh. "And I'll get five thousand crowns at Venice for skewering you! So stand steady."

Raymond obeyed. He turned his head again and looked at Donna Luisa. With a bit of lace, she was wiping her lips, wiping away the touch of his caresses. She was white and still and proud as she met his gaze.

"I warned you," she said calmly, "I told you I'd made my plans. I bribed this man to serve me; he was willing to kill his master, he's willing to kill you."

"Fool!" said Raymond. "I'll give you fifty thousand crowns to leave this room!"

"Aye! And then you'd string me up. I've heard of you, excellency; I play safe, and you die here. Or else you stay bound and gagged while we go. As the lady orders."

Raymond met the girl's cold blue eyes, and laughed a little.

"Faith, you seem in the saddle! You seem also to have meant your virtuous words. Your rascal holds his point steady; he knows his business. You've won the game. Will you accept my word of honor—"

"I will not. Your honor is worthless," she broke in with cold contempt. "You don't know the meaning of the word! You'll be tied up, bound, gagged, left here; lucky not to be murdered. But I want no murder on my soul."

Raymond's eyes darkened. An unpleasant prospect; he would be found in the morning, the story would spread, he would become the laughing stock of all Italy. Raymond of Corthia tricked by a wench! A flame leaped in him!

"Stop!" he exclaimed. "Careful, Donna Luisa! No one has bested Raymond of Corthia vet ; don't press me too far! I'll swear to set the two of you at liberty, in your own coach, at once. Accept my word!"

"Your oaths are as worthless as your honor," she said calmly. Her hand went under her gown, and drew out a poniard. "You're the one to have a care! Keep your arms up, while I take your dagger—"

RAYMOND faced destiny; and faced it with a gamble, as always. A gamble on a fairly sure thing.

He kept his arms up, but shot his head and body forward, striking against the girl. She was, as he had figured, slow to use her dagger. The man behind was not slow by any means. The point of his sword, removed from Raymond's bare neck, drove in hard and fast between Raymond's shoulders— a thrust that should have spitted any man through.

The blade, however, merely bent double. More than once, that shirt of steel mesh, invisible beneath his doublet, had saved Raymond of Corthia from destiny; and it saved him now. He was heaved forward by the thrust, he lost balance, he went sprawling across the floor— but, catlike, he rolled over and came to his feet.

The bravo, with an oath of fury was hot upon him. Raymond laughed, as his long poniard slipped out, met the thrusting blade, and warded it. He might well laugh. A poniard, in the hand of Raymond of Corthia, was better than a sword in another's hand, as he proceeded to prove.

Laughing gaily, joyously, viciously, he warded thrust and lunge, took a deadly riposte slap over the heart, and chuckled as the sword blade bent again on the hidden steel mesh. An oath of fury escaped the bravo. Raymond danced away, keeping one eye on the disconcerted, bewildered Donna Luisa and her stiletto.

"Ha, red haired rogue!" he said mockingly, meeting a new lunge with swift parry. "Ha! You scar faced scurvy scoundrel. I'd fight you with a bodkin and slit your throat before you could—"

Death slid at him suddenly. He leaped away, but it was a near thing; the sword's point touched his throat and drew a pinch of blood. Donna Luisa moved unexpectedly; came running at him from behind, her eyes wild, desperation in her face. Raymond avoided her with nimble step, backed around to meet the thirsty sword, and engaged it as though he held a dueling rapier. His eyes alight, he faced the panting, sweating bravo with a laugh.

"I've got the feel of you now, red-hair!" he jeered. "Death's close behind you, touching your shoulder, reaching out for you! I'll sign your passport to hell with a scarlet pen, my fine ruffler! Draw sword on me, will you? By the nails of God, it's the last time you'll draw sword on any man!"

Despite boasts, he could not reach past the long sword guard with his shorter weapon; and knew it well.

All this had happened in a moment's time— a swift, slow, frightful moment. The hovering Donna Luisa was unaware that no steel could pierce Raymond from throat to hip; it seemed black magic that he was unhurt.

Suddenly he slipped. He fell to one knee. With a gasp, the bravo drove in a thrust to finish him— but Raymond came up under that lunging blade, which struck his shoulders and scraped away. He came up, and the poniard with him; up and up, swiftly, death in his eyes and his hand. The poniard struck into the red haired man, thudded into him to the very hilt, and was torn from Raymond's grasp. The bravo pitched over in death.

And as Raymond swayed, empty handed, Donna Luisa fell upon him and drove in the stiletto for his heart.

The thin steel shivered in her hand. A wild, gasping cry escaped her, for Raymond was clutching at her. Her hand slapped him across the face, hard; with an access of fury, he flung her from him. She went staggering into the shadows, struck her head against the high bed post, and collapsed across the bed, unconscious.

Upon the room settled silence, broken only by the harsh, panting breaths of Duke Raymond. Silence, and the raw odor of fresh blood, rising from the floor. Abruptly, Raymond moved.

He stooped over the dead man, freed his poniard, wiped it on the shaggy red hair, and clapped it into the sheath. Then, breathing hard, he took the iron candlestick and went to the bed; he held up the light, looking down at Donna Luisa as she lay.

She seemed as though sleeping, rather than senseless. Her hands were folded across Her breast; her sweet features were very peaceful, almost smiling. Raymond stared at her, frankly incredulous, his brows drawing down.

She had failed. She was his. And yet the hand he lifted and drew across his eyes was trembling. She seemed so like a fragile flower as she lay here! The white lines of her face were virginal, delicate; her long, slim hands were like wax. She could be crushed and broken, but not bent—

Abruptly, the man stirred. A deep breath escaped him; he stooped, touched his lips to her white hands, then strode across the room.

"Landlord!" His voice rang like a clarion. "Come here. Bring a couple of men."

AFTER a moment sounded the tramp of feet on the stairs. In hurried two of the guards and the burly innkeeper, to stare all amazed at the dead man. Raymond flung them a thin smile, a sardonic word.

"You keep good watch, down below. This fellow had hidden here to kill me. Carry him out! Landlord, bring out the lady's coach, harness the horses; lift her down yourself, as she is, and put her in the coach. One of my men, and two guards, will ride with it to Genoa, leaving her wherever she may desire. Understood?"

"Yes, yes, excellency!" exclaimed the staring landlord.

The dead man was carried out. The innkeeper gently lifted the form of Donna Luisa and bore her away. Raymond went to a window and flung it open, and stood glowering out at the darkness, his dark features mutinous and writhing. He caught a rumble of wheels, a clatter of horses, and mouthed a sullen oath.

"I'm a fool! Why did I do it?" he muttered, fingers gripping at his dagger hilt. "Something in her face, stronger than anything in me—"

MY FRIEND Haberlein settled back in his chair, his eyes aglow, as he finished his tale. I was jerked abruptly back from medieval Italy to the present, and sat staring at him, uncomfortably aware of the hypnotic spell he had cast upon me.

"There you have the whole thing!" he exclaimed with enthusiasm. "If it hadn't been for that girl and what happened at the Black Bull that evening, the whole course of trade and empire might have been changed—"

"Devil take trade and empire!" I said with irritation. "What became of the girl? What became of Raymond of Corthia?"

Haberlein shrugged, and rose.

"I don't know," he said. "I was just telling you the story of that one evening— the only time Raymond of Corthia was ever known to show mercy. If it hadn't been for that girl, he wouldn't have blocked the plans of Mazarin—"

I waved him away. I would have given anything on earth to have known what became of that magnificent girl— and Haberlein neither knew nor cared.

_______________

2: Warlock Finn

Blue Book April 1940

The Finns, as witness this fine story, are fey, warlock — possessed of almost supernatural gifts. Certainly they have what it takes— and then some. They themselves have a word for it: sisu.

KURT AKONEN flushed angrily as roars of laughter swept up | among the white birch trees. Captain Vikoski, who was waxing his skis, looked up with a grin on his wizened, wrinkled features.

"Brother Kurt, we know America is a wonderful place, but you can't expect us to believe downright lies, if you'll pardon the word. We don't wish to be offensive. You've come from America to aid us, your own people by blood; we respect you. And we Finns like a joke— but it must be told as a joke, brother, not as sober truth!"

"Damn it, it is the truth! " blurted out Kurt Akonen. "I tell you, I worked on that assembly-line myself! "

"And you saw a piece of steel start at one end, and finish at the other end a perfect motor-car?" And Captain Vikoski grinned anew. "Now I'll tell one, brother. Last year, before the war started, a whale was washed up on the beach; an old whale, dead. When we cut him up, what do you think we found, grown into his jawbone ? A long extra piece of bone, put there long ago, carved with Hebrew characters! The bishop said they made the word Jonah. Therefore, this was the whale that had swallowed Jonah the prophet, ages back."

"Yes! That's true I " went up a sober murmur, brown faces nodding gravely, pipes all puffing. Kurt looked around. He knew these men from the backwoods, from the desolate empty tundras along the Arctic coast, not educated city men; to them, his tales of marvels in the United States were hard of credence. But this whale story—

Suddenly the grave, wrinkled faces broke in a glint, Kurt saw the thin lips twitch, and he himself was the first to laugh aloud, as the roar went up. Captain Vikoski clapped an arm about his shoulders.

"Brother, each man has his own value! You can handle explosives; that is good. That's why we're here, with the battery and wire; no one else here knows it. But we know skis, we know the forest and the border trails into Russia, we know rifles and we have a machine-gun. Good! What's more," and the Captain winked elaborately, "all the ghosts and the ancient spells of Finland are working for us and helping us! Everybody knows a Finn is a wizard. Did not the English Kipling— if I am not mistaken— refer to a Warlock Finn?"

"That's what they say, anyhow," said Kurt Akonen. "And now more than ever, since we're beating off the Russ!"

"Ah! But look!" Captain Vikoski, the shrewd old fox, laid a finger along his nose. "How do we beat them? Like this. Forty men here, good men, hard men. We go into Russia, and we die there, after we do our job. So what? We kill many Russians, but forty Finns are dead. Plenty more Russians, but no more Finns. Help is coming, sure, but not enough. These Russians coming up to Murmansk are crack troops, the very best."

"So much the better if we smash them!" cried Kurt, and there was a hum of approval. They all liked this American who had returned to the land of his fathers. Kurt felt this and warmed to it. These simple men were his own kind.

He himself, brought up in America, graduating from the assembly-line to the sales force, hard, severe, brilliant of promise, then going on as a ski champion and trainer— finally to end all the old life and come back here to Finland, with a thousand more of his countrymen. And here, with his intelligence and hard rugged frame and expert skis, he was valuable: Second in command to Vikoski, now— Vikoski of the suicide troops.

A distant horn was heard, afar in the night-dark forest. Vikoski looked up.

"Ready, everyone? The orders are coming. When we break camp, you know what to expect. The extra men will take back the horses and sleds."

A stir spread through the birches. Skis, packs and guns were made ready; everything was perfectly ordered. Here Kurt had been of value, too. His eyes glittered proudly at the men around him: ready for any emergency, supplied against everything— except failure. Furs were ready. White parkas were ready, to make the men invisible against the snow.

For it was bitter sub-zero weather, the trees crackling in the intense frost. Now the horn sounded again, closer. Presently a voice rose. Snow crackled under skis, and a man came, staggering, exhausted, collapsing. Captain Vikoski took the dispatch from him, and everyone gathered around.

There were no secrets here, and scant discipline; all were brothers.

"An entire Russian division, the 93rd, one of their crack divisions is en route to Murmansk," said Captain Vikoski. "Our job is to destroy them."

Someone laughed. "Forty men destroy eighteen thousand?"

"Certainly." Vikoski's wedge-shaped features beamed. "Cut the railroad, that's all; make a thorough job of it. That division is then cut off in the north and our troops can chop them up at will. Specifically, we must cut the railroad before an armored train goes north tomorrow evening. That train must be stopped. It contains artillery and all ammunition for the 93rd, and their chief officers and staff. We must give ourselves, brethren, in order that a division of the enemy may perish."

"No use talking like an orator," growled someone. "Let's go and do it."

A burst of laughter rang up. Vikoski grinned and blew his whistle, and orders flew; Vikoski leading, the forty moved out to destroy the eighteen thousand.

It was like nothing Kurt Akonen had ever felt or known. Ahead was a fifty- odd-mile march through darkness, desolation, enemy territory; at the end of this march, deep in old Russia, death was waiting. Yet these men sang, talked of the past and the future, glinted with the joyous Finnish spirit, hard and bright as Finnish nickel from the northern mines.

They joked and laughed as their skis streaked the snow; not one doubted their ability to fulfil the orders. Some, perhaps, would survive to get back home again— not many. Yet the burning curiosity was how the American would manage his own work. Here in the Arctic woods, experts with explosives were few; those of the company who knew, had been killed off. There were loads of gelignite and dynamite and electrical equipment— sheer luxury, since caps and fuses would do, yet carried for a definite reason. And Kurt Akonen to handle all.

The grim, hard pace was very different from the fancy skiing and Immelmans of Sun Valley or the Adirondacks. Kurt buckled down to the slogging march; fifty miles of this, with scarcely any down grades, was a killing business.

"Snow is ahead," said a voice; and Vikoski swung in beside him. "There were sundogs yesterday. Snow will be fine for us; no Soviet planes! A dozen of our men will fall out before we're halfway there; however, they'll catch up later."

"Fallout? Why?"

"They have some of those fancy Swedish skis, donated with other supplies by the Swedes. Good, but not made for this heavy cross-country work. You'll see! By morning, our men will curse the Swedes, and rest."

"I may hold you up myself," Kurt said honestly. "Those practice marches showed that I'm far from being your equal."

The Captain laughed softly, as though amused by this.

"Oh, no! The ghosts of the dead are helping you, brother. We fight against destruction; we are helped."

Kurt grunted. "I don't take any stock in all that nonsense, Captain. I've heard the talk about warlock Finns all my life and it doesn't register with me. Doesn't take any wizardry to foretell snow and wind tomorrow; anyone with half an eye for sky and air and the feel of things— could tell that much. I'm a good Christian, Vikoski, so keep all your occult stuff to yourself and pray that the caps and fuses remain dry."

"Oh, we're all good Christians, brother! Wait and see. Maybe we perish, maybe Finland will perish; only for a while. This is one of three magic countries in Europe where the spells of ancient ages lie sleeping. Hungary is one, and Provence is the third. Maybe the Russians will break us and go on, maybe not. You will be helped, because you are a Finn and have come home from America to fight for Finland."

"Another version of the gods help those who help themselves, eh ?" grunted Kurt.

Captain Vikoski laughed. "Perhaps, perhaps! Now we must quicken pace and send the scouts far ahead. No more loafing."

"Loafing! " thought Kurt. "He's crazy, like all Finns. I was crazy myself, to give up a good job at home and come back to Finland! "

Yet it was remarkable how good he felt, despite the increasing fatigue; a feeling from inside, a sensation of spiritual exhilaration. The entire column felt the same way— and Akonen wondered at these men, knowing how some of them had lost sons or brethren or whole families in the first Russian advance. They had accomplished, and were accomplishing, feats of incredible endurance, shattering the long Russian line from south to north, fighting day and night with superhuman energy; and if they died, at least they had something worth dying for. This was more than the serried armies of Russia could say.

Kurt Akonen had come to fight for the land of his fathers. Others poured in by the thousands to fight for liberty. The world was sending aid— and Kurt knew now how desperately useless it all was. He knew this, since coming to Finnish soil; he had learned it here. Help could not come in time. Most of it could not get here at all, due to closed frontiers.

Some of them spoke of this when the brief halt came. Kurt joined a knot of them; they ate, and drank hot coffee, and smoked, while scouts were being sent well ahead and wearied muscles were given a breathing-spell.

"We'll do what we can," said one, a grim man who had lost two sons and a brother in the first fighting before Ivalo. "Those who are dead, still fight on; we'll do the same. One free fighter is worth a thousand slaves, my brothers."

Eloquence, thought Kurt Akonen. All very well, and quite sincere; none the less, fine words left him cold. He was ready to do his bit, and was doing it, but would far sooner have been back home with his wife and child. He admitted it freely when someone asked him.

"Sure. Why not? But there's my old man. There's my wife, and the kid. All fed up on Finland stuff— stories, music, so on. My old man was in the revolution against Russia. So what? I've got to come over and do my bit, or they'll think I'm a hell of a Finn! And when you come right down to brass tacks, there's my self-respect, too."

The others grinned at this, and Captain Vikoski slapped him on the back.

"Truth sounds good, brother. You'll see! You'll be helped; the gods will make use of you—"

"Never mind that nonsense," broke in Akonen, irritated. "It's all right up to a certain point; then it gets absurd. Forget it! Just what's your program?"

"Keep marching. Halt tomorrow noon; we'll be within striking distance of the railroad, at the trestle near the Bogun lake. That's so far from the border that they'll expect no enemy; none the less, it will be guarded. We must wait, hidden. Evening will not be long distant. Then we strike. That trestle is no more than a bridge across the swamp; if we blow out the supports upholding it, the damage will be severe. Merely burning it would effect little. But it will be hard to replace these supports."

"Fine," agreed Akonen. "Dynamite strikes downward! And after it's done?"

Vikoski grinned. "Separate, and make for the border— those who can! "

The whistle blew; they were up and off again, striking now through trackless timberlands. Past the frontier, in Russia, said someone, but with a long way to go. During the previous day a Finn pursuit plane had reconnoitred the terrain, sketchily; Vikoski was forced to depend upon this very scanty information, but he and his men knew the country itself like a book, and the railroad line could be scouted when the time came.

A fitful flare of lights played in the north; not many nor strongly, for clouds were massed along the sky, and these lights were little more than reflections. Enough to let Kurt Akonen watch for the trees and brush, however. The party had shrunk; he counted no more than a score of men now. Half had gone on, far on and to the flanks, as vanguard— the hardiest men, these, who could stand the extra stress and speed of scouting.

Vikoski came up beside the American recruit.

"Now tell me," he said, "about that gelignite, in case anything happens to you. We did have some fellows from the mines, who were used to explosives, but they didn't return last trip. Of course, we can set a cap and a fuse, if it comes to that; but it'll be much better if we use this electrical equipment of yours. That battery's heavy; it must be good! "

They were like children, thought Akonen, and wondered at the man. Such marvels in the forest, in the wilderness, such incredible rifle-shots, yet in some ways so simple! In laying ground mines, in using artillery, in handling that Swedish mechanical masterpiece, the Bofors anti-aircraft gun, these Finns had an uncanny skill. Yet among them were to be found men like Vikoski, from the far back woods or the tundras or the Arctic shores, who were like men from some earlier generation.

Akonen told of the simple electrical equipment and detonators, for use with either the gelignite or the dynamite— really varying names for the same explosive. The wires and battery formed a weighty and actually needless part of the loads, but had been brought along for just one reason. Vikoski and his men, hearing Kurt Akonen's stories, wanted with all their hearts to see a switch thrown and a Russian troop-train blown up; they would even risk almost certain death for such a sight.

"We've always touched off a fuse and run," said the Captain. "No fun in that— a quick raid, a few shots, the track blown up here and there, and a fast getaway. No! This time we'll pick our place and time, eh? There'll be shooting enough, after the train is blown up! "

Children— wanted to see a train blown up! Kurt Akonen made no protest, however. He wanted to see it, too. He had something of the same strain in himself. And he knew that if these men were as children, they could also be terrible in the hour of battle.

HOUR AFTER HOUR, unrelenting, merciless, the pace was kept up. The bitter wind had died; the cold was somewhere around thirty below. Akonen moved on mechanically, sustained by sheer will. He saw that Vikoski's prediction had come true; many of the men, equipped with those Swedish sporting skis, had fallen out. Then sounded the whistle, and the Captain's welcome words:

"Fall out. One-hour halt."

Kurt dropped where he stood, once his skis were off. Before he closed his eyes, it seemed, Vikoski was shaking him awake, stifling his protests with eager voice.

"The hour's up, brother; something's happened. We need you. A prisoner is here. His Russian is very bad; he's an American like you. We may have to shoot him and go on, unless you can talk with him. Here, drink this coffee."

Kurt Akonen sat up, swigged the hot drink, ate the cheese and bread, and stared at the group ten feet away. A little fire had been built, lighting them clearly. The prisoner had been found on skis, claiming to be a Russian deserter; the scouts had brought him in.

More likely a spy, affirmed Vikoski, heading for the frontier and Finland. He wore no uniform, but heavy furs. He had money, a lot of money, Finnish and English; an American passport, and a flashlight. It was one of those heavy French flashlights that needs no batteries but generates its own power. He was quite unarmed.

"If a deserter, how did he get these clothes and money ?" Vikoski demanded, simplicity itself. "You talk to him."

Akonen joined the group, took a twig from the fire, and held it over his pipe- bowl. The glow struck the harsh, lean curves of his face alight. The prisoner's voice exclaimed:

"Kurt! Kurt Akonen, or I'm a Dutchman ! Remember me, Kurt ?"

Akonen stared and shook his head.

The voice was vaguely familiar; the bearded face was not, nor the bold, bulging black eyes. The man laughed and spoke again.

"You can't help but remember me! I was next you on the assembly-line for three months. Pete Babenks, remember? I lent you a five-spot, that time your kid was sick, just before I went over to the pressed-steel plant."

"Oh! I got you now, sure," said Kurt. He regarded Babenks stolidly, unsmiling and thoughtful. The man had been a union organizer, or something. Intelligent, able, bold, unscrupulous, a troublemaker. A good workman to be rid of, always talking revolution.

"Think of it— you and me, both from Detroit, meeting up like this! " exclaimed Babenks eagerly.

"I am," said Kurt Akonen, and puffed his pipe alight.

"Well, aren't you going to tell 'em I'm okay? Come on, speak up for me!"

"You speak," replied Akonen, without emotion. The circle of eyes was watching him. Upon him was the responsibility of life or death for this prisoner. "That was two years ago when I knew you. Now talk fast or you'll get shot. And tell the truth."

"I got nothing to hide, sure! And gosh, it's good to hear real talk again! I don't sling the Russian so good," Babenks said fervently. "I come over here last May, to manage a tractor and tank factory. Things sort of went sour. Then I couldn't send any money home— I'd left the family in Detroit, see? Then I couldn't get out o' Russia myself, even with my American passport. At last this war showed up and they popped me into the army as an officer of the tank-repair corps.

"I've been all ready to skip out," Babenks went on earnestly. "Got clothes and cash together. Then came the chance, when our train broke down. I grabbed my money and clothes and beat it for the frontier. I stole these skis from the bridge guards, where we broke down."

"Yeah ? I tried to pay back that five-spot but couldn't get your address," said Kurt Akonen.

"Oh, hell! Forget it, Kurt. I got plenty in my roll here; take a hundred more and enjoy life. All I want is to reach the frontier and get out o' Russian reach, see?"

KURT AKONEN, puffing at his pipe, translated the story briefly.

"And what do you think of it?" asked Vikoski.

"I think he's lying," said Akonen.

"Why?"

"Just a hunch, Captain. And he tried to bribe me with some of his money. Back in America, he was a Soviet agent. Maybe he still is. I think he's a liar."

"Maybe. He's not the first to get fed up and quit," said Vikoski. "No use shooting him if he's really a deserter; use him, instead. What kind of boots is he wearing ?"

The boots of Babenks were brushed clear of snow. Russian army boots. Vikoski thought it substantiated the man's story. Kurt shrugged and was not sure.

"Ask where his train broke down," demanded Vikoski, frowning indecisively.

"Near some frozen swamps or lakes," Babenks replied. He was stowing away his money and his heavy flashlight again; they had been returned to him. "I don't remember the name. There was a long bridge, and an emergency landing-field for planes."

"Ha! A trestle!" cried out Vikoski. "Our same one, brother! Ask him!"

Babenks shook his head, when Kurt Akonen translated the word.

"Not what we'd call a trestle at home, Kurt. Not much! Just a series of bridges, like, over swamps. There are guards there, too. And the planes can land. You know, every train has an escort that flies ahead, and also armored cars, because the Finns have raided the line so often. And they've got relays of machine-guns, now—"

Kurt Akonen swung toward Captain Vikoski with a swift burst of words, translating what Babenks had just said and then going on rapidly:

"Captain, I still think the man's lying; I think he was heading into Finland on a spy's errand, perhaps on sabotage. The fact that he's not a Russian would help him tremendously, of course. But right now, he can help us! Evidently they've got this trestle or series of bridges heavily guarded. This Babenks knows every detail. He knows the spot. The troops or officers there would know him. If we take him along—"

"Ha! You are an angel!" Vikoski caught Akonen in both arms, embraced him wildly, swung on the prisoner and aimed hand and finger at him. "You! Be shot here, or go with us and help us and prove your story! Choose!"

"What's he yammering out?" demanded Babenks, staring at the wedge- shaped face of the Finn, and the pointing finger. Kurt explained. Babenks hesitated; then his teeth gleamed in a wide grin, and he caught Vikoski's extended hand, then seized Akonen's fist.

"Shake, shake all around!" said he heartily. "You bet! I'll be tickled pink to get in a crack at those Russkies my own self! It's a go, you bet! "

Five minutes later the whistle blew and they were on their way. Vikoski, with avid curiosity, wanted all details of that spot on the railroad; Babenks talked readily, gladly. Akonen translated. The three of them kept together. The information was invaluable; details of the Soviet flights along the line and over the adjacent forests, searching for raiders, and details of the trains themselves, and the forces moving up to Murmansk for the new offensive against the Finns in the north.

Still, Kurt Akonen doubted. True he gradually warmed to the man. It was good, after all, to see someone from home; and, laughing, he made Babenks confirm his tale of a piece of steel at one end of the belt which became an automobile at the finish. Babenks was cordial, intimate, confidential with all sorts of information. Without his account of Soviet precautions, the raid must have failed dismally. Now it would succeed beyond all expectations.

Toward dawn, one of the scouts who had originally picked up Babenks joined the party. All was well, snow was imminent, the day would be gray and gloomy. Akonen talked with the scout and probed deeply. Apparently Pete Babenks had told the truth. His ski-tracks had come from the railroad line, approximately from the point he had said, alone. There was no earthly reason to doubt him, and certainly he could not have expected to run into any Finn raiders. His information was a godsend to them.

And yet— Kurt Akonen doubted. There was a daybreak halt, for food and tobacco and hot drinks. Akonen joined Babenks and Captain Vikoski; and Babenks, who was weary enough by this time, jerked his head toward the officer.

"Tell him to watch out for planes. Before any snowstorm, now, they're searching the forests widely— not just along the railroad, but over toward the border, this way. Using a big flight of planes on it, to clear out any raiders."

This was valuable news, and Vikoski sent word on to the scouts. As they talked, there was no point in keeping the plans from Babenks; when he learned that they meant to attack the line this coming night, he dissented vigorously.

"Listen, Kurt, beat that notion out of his head! That's what the Russkies want. Your boys did that last time, and now they'll catch hell. Any night-attack brings out some specially equipped planes with flares and gas-bombs; if the gas doesn't get you, the machine-guns will."

Captain Vikoski thought this over, then nodded vigorously and grinned.

"Tell him we believe him, Akonen, and say no more. No use letting him know too much. He said the armored train we're after will be along late this afternoon. Good! Shall we let this fellow
go or take him along? Can't spare any men to go back with him."

"Take him along," said Kurt Akonen harshly. "I'm the one responsible; if he's lied to us, shoot him! Otherwise he can get away, if and as we get away."

Pete Babenks accepted his situation without protest. On skis, he was superb; he had been a skier from boyhood, he said. His stalwart, athletic figure held up well, too. Kurt Akonen to whom each hour was now an agony, envied him that powerful body of steel.

The man's warnings bore fruit. Twice, before the snow began to sift down steadily, planes appeared circling close over the valleys and forests. The orders were imperative, and were obeyed instantly; stop, scatter, remain immobile! The white parkas showed nothing to the eyes above. Snow over the skis hid them. Provided there was no movement, any scattered group would remain unseen by the searching planes; and so, indeed, it proved.

Snow began to sift down. There was little wind; presently the air was filled with snow. They would be working to clear the railroad track, said Pete Babenks; crews and snow-plows from Murmansk, the base at Khem, and other points would be out. The line must be kept open at all costs.

No delay now. The stragglers had caught up; each man was accounted for. The scouts began to be overtaken. All clear ahead. The dozen men in the lead would pick a spot for the camp and send back word. It became a dogged, furious slogging, with all hands close to exhaustion, yet carried on by a wild exaltation to superhuman effort. The brief hours of daylight were gloomed by clouds and snow; only the watches told when noon approached. A scout awaited them. All clear. A hollow, barely half a mile from the trestle, as Vikoski persisted in calling it, had been located. Good cover, too, in case the snow ceased.

To Kurt Akonen, that last hour was sheer torture. He was unaware of anything around him; he set his will-power and held to the task. Iron-hard as he was, these Finns were even harder. At the end he was staggering blindly, and when the word came, he just dropped. But he had won through, pack and all!

He wakened to tingling effort. No fires, of course; somewhere, over a securely hidden fire, tea had been brewed. He was being rubbed, aching muscles flexed; man by man, the same treatment was handed out. Then an hour of delicious sleep.

Then Vikoski wakened him to action. "Come on," said the Finn, his wedge- shaped face aglow. "You and I, brother! Let the others sleep."

Kurt and the captain donned skis and set forth, snow still falling. Through trees, on to a vantage-point; they settled down, side by side, binoculars out. And there was the goal ahead. Kurt thrilled to the sight of it, and his weariness departed.

The railroad line had been cleared; as they watched, a snow-plow came along, keeping it clear, and passed. To the left, the snow covered all sign of marsh or lake or ice; half a dozen piers supported the long bridges. Akonen scanned them closely. He could see two widely separated huts or sheds, snow-covered, spouting smoke from fires within.

"No guards," he commented. "Shiftless soldiering, Vikoski! I'm game to try it."

"No hurry," said the Finn, and chuckled. "There's a plane, to the right."

So Babenks had said. The plane was there, covered by tarpaulins, on an expanse of smooth, wind-swept snow; farther to the right, a hundred yards from the plane, was another shed or barracks whence smoke streamed up; not a guard, not a gun, in sight.

"They may be on guard inside, watching," said Vikoski. "Any guns are certainly inside. Wait an hour; then it will be growing dark. That armored train will certainly be late, too; all Russian trains are late. Ha! Look! Down flat— careful!"

A plane was roaring through the snow- filled air. Behind sounded the far whistle of a locomotive. The plane circled over the bridge, headed back; the train was coming on. The huts disgorged Russian soldiers who stood about, waiting. The train came along from the south, and a breath of relief escaped Vikoski. "Not the train we expect; another."

A troop-train, this one, swaying and rumbling, coaches crammed with men, white with snow, everything closed. It rattled over the bridges and was gone, on the long eastward curve, and was lost in the falling snow. The plane roared back, close to earth, then turned and went on anew after the train.

"Keeping good watch, eh?" Vikoski sat up. The soldiers were back in their huts again. "Now to plan. First, can you use the electric battery?"

"Yes. Not for all those spans— we've not enough wire. For two of them, perhaps. Say, those two central ones; we can hide between them and set off the dynamite for both. On the other piers, we'll have to use fuses. But I think we can set the charges for those two piers, unperceived, unless they send out sentries."

"All right," said Vikoski. "Then do it. If you're discovered, we'll give up the effort to catch a train, and go in at 'em. If not, we'll wait. H'm! The machine-gun for that barracks at the landing-field... two men to burn the plane... parties for each of those huts along the line of trestle."

A guard joined them, was left on watch, and they returned to the camp. All the men, except Pete Babenks, were astir; they left him snoring on, utterly exhausted.

Captain Vikoski gave Akonen six men, and set about instructing the others in their various positions and duties. The light machine-gun was put together, the ammunition belts prepared, grenades and bombs unpacked, rifles readied. Akonen, with his six men, got his own outfit in shape for use. Vikoski came over to him; darkness was upon them.

"Ready? The snow's thinning out; too bad. We'll be covering you, in case you're discovered. Sorry I can't be with you. Good luck, brother!"

He shook hands gravely. Akonen pointed to Pete Babenks.

"What about him?"

"Oh, he'll sleep! " The Finn shrugged. "One of the men is sick and vomiting; I'll leave him to keep an eye on that fellow. He can do us no harm now, anyway. Worried?"

Kurt Akonen shook his head slowly. "No; just a hunch. We have something to fight for, Vikoski. Maybe he has a cause, too! He'd be dangerous."

"Maybe; if he has, then a rifle will finish him."

THE squads were moving out. Because of the deep snow, skis must be used all the time, to the railroad line itself. Kurt and his six men filed off. A last hurried admonition from the Captain: If by any chance the armored train came from the south, then drop all else, set a quick fuse to a few sticks , and blow out the track anywhere. That train had to be stopped, if nothing else were stopped!

Akonen assented and went on. Voices pursued him and his men in hearty farewell ; theirs was the ticklish errand. On and on, keeping to cover wherever possible, until the final dash out to the selected spot. No guards, no sentries were in sight; darkness drifted down but the snow was ceasing, and this was too bad.

Now came the last pause and a keen scrutiny of the huts. Lighted windows showed, but there was no sign of men outside. Akonen gave the word, and struck out across the open. The six men spread afar, white parkas covering them, ready for an alarm and a burst of shots at any instant.

Nothing happened. They came to the long bridge-span, left the skis, scrambled to the roadbed.

Incredulous of this good luck and fired with swift excitement, Kurt stood with two men at one end of the span, the other four men going to the far end. No alarm. They worked fast, but with care. The explosive was set and tamped, the connections were made, the coils of wire were strung out. And, beneath the night-deepening skies, all remained quiet.

Now it proved there was more wire than had been supposed, and Kurt Akonen was delighted by the discovery. Instead of taking his post between those two blasts, he was able to run the wire back, away from the line, to a little copse of brush that had probably marked a swamp-island before the ice and snow came down. It was a hundred feet from the railroad; not much, but enough. Whoever closed the switch, must take his chance.

As the work finished, Akonen sent back + he men, all save one. He made a good job of the matter, emboldened by the absence of any alarm, and covered the wires with snow the full length. He had just finished this and was returning to the copse, when his remaining man clucked with alarm. Akonen joined him.

"Sentries— careful!"

They lay in the snow, motionless.

From the huts were coming men, who bore flashlights. It was a routine business, apparently; they did not leave the track, but walked along, smoking, laughing, talking, until they met. Then they exchanged a few sentences, separated, came back to their huts.

"I'm going back to see the Captain," said Akonen to his men. "You wait here; if a train comes from the south before I return, press the plunger. If not, do nothing."

The man assented.

Akonen stroked out for the trees. Luckily, those sentries had been careless, had seen no ski-tracks— had not even looked off the roadbed, apparently.

"We're in luck." Akonen finding the Captain, pointed to the north, where lights were dancing in the sky. "No more chance of hiding, once the fun begins. If you want to blow up the train yourself, why not come over to that copse of trees and do it?"

Captain Vikoski wiped his long nose, and sighed.

"Brother, it is my heart's desire! But there must be an officer in charge here. You stay here, give the word and the signal— a shot in the air— and I'll go."

"Done. I thought the explosion was to be the signal?"

"Certainly. Only, in case something goes wrong first, in case we're discovered— then give the signal for the squads. Men with dynamite and fuses and caps have gone to blow up the other bridges, after the work starts. No hurry. It may be a long wait. Have patience."

Vikoski slid away. The dancing aurora borealis was slowly growing stronger. His figure could be seen approaching the copse. Presently the lone man came in, with word that the Captain had chosen to stay there alone.

Kurt Akonen hoped that Vikoski would not close the switch by mistake.

AKONEN composed himself to patience. With him, at this point, was the squad which would attack the hut opposite; others, on the right, were posted opposite the airplane and barracks there. Every man had his picked duty. Some had capped and fused dynamite sticks to throw as bombs at close quarters. Others were assigned to use rifles only.

A mutter, a running word of alarm, of caution. The air was athrob. By some quirk of the dancing northern lights, two planes coming up from the south caught a full reflection of the greenish glare. They were low-flying.

"Train coming," said someone.

The largest hut, that near the grounded airplane off to the right, disgorged a group of men. They were singing, their voices lifting in riotous, raucous sound. And through this, through the growing roar of the two planes, Kurt Akonen caught a sudden agonized yelp from one of the Finns close at hand. Others, turning, took it up. He, too, turned.

From the trees behind them and at one side, a ray of light was reaching up at the sky― stab, stab, stab, stab― flashing off and on. In the frightful, sickening instant of comprehension, Akonen's mind drove to Pete Babenks. Either he, or someone else, was signaling those flyers.

The two planes thundered on overhead. A light broke out from one of them, reaching at the snow. They changed course, separated, zoomed, and turned.

"They saw it," said a mournful voice, as hope died.

Other tongues leaped— the train! Its headlight appeared. But the two planes were sweeping back, now, skimming the trees. One opened fire with a machine-gun, then the other. No need of any signal now! Kurt heard the bullets whistle and whine all around. Two of the men beside him were kicking in the snow. The others were gone to their objective.

And the train was coming on, an immensely long train, partly armored.

Flares broke out. The two planes circled and came back. The soldiers near the grounded plane were in wild activity, hauling out machine-guns, and getting a searchlight to work. The flares revealed everything, even the onrushing Finns in their white parkas.

A groan burst from Kurt Akonen as he looked. The two planes had separated widely. One was skirting the railroad, machine-guns going. The scattered Finns were mowed down as they ran. Not all, however. Those with the machine-gun had it almost to the railroad bed, and it opened suddenly on the crowded soldiers fifty yards away. The searchlight died out. The soldiers scattered frantically as the lead tore through them. An instant later, a trickle of flame rose from the grounded plane; the two men assigned to that job, had managed it. And the train Was sweeping on, brakes shrieking, too heavy to be stopped at once. A searchlight was breaking out from it, then another, fingering across the snow.

Akonen's pistol was in his hand; one of the planes was rushing straight at him, apparently. He looked up, startled, lifted the pistol, fired rapidly: the plane was not twenty feet above. Something hit him violently, and he pitched sideways into the snow.

He could not have lain there long. He floundered, got loose from his skis, came to one knee with a splitting pain across the back of his head. Fingering it, he found blood, already frozen; a bullet wound, whether serious or not, he could not tell. He found his pistol, found his fur cap, got his skis buckled on again and stood up. Binoculars were slung about his neck. He got them out and focused them clumsily.

Through them, he could see Captain Vikoski, who lay outstretched at the edge of the little copse; bullets must have found him also. There was no difficulty in seeing. From the grounded plane a column of fire was sweeping up. Rifles were going, a machine-gun was stuttering. Northward, a red spurt roared; the men with dynamite and fuses had reached their objective yonder. There, too, in the snow, another flaming pillar burned among the trees, and there was only one plane in the air. Kurt wondered dully whether his pistol-shots had brought down that plane, now burning its heart out!

Then his wonder passed, in the realization that someone must reach the copse where Vikoski lay dead, and blow up that bridge span.

He tried to move, and found himself able. The train was coming, was already passing the hut and the burning grounded plane; the Finnish machine-gun was blasting at it. From the train, searchlights fastened on the gun; several machine-guns at once began to work, and the Finns died. The train swept on, slowly coming to a halt, but not before it was out across the two mined piers. There it rested.

The one plane in the air was sweeping back, close to the snow. Kurt squatted, white parka hood pulled over cap. Bullets buzzed around him, the plane went on. He stood up, and was aware of a man on skis close to him, coming at him.

"HI, Kurt! Thought it was you. Glad I ran into you."

Kurt's pistol came up. Pete Babenks! "Here, hold on!" cried the other hastily. "I can fix everything for you, Kurt; you and me are old friends, see?

They'll do what I say—"

"It was your flashlight," broke in Akonen. "It was you who warned them! "

"Yep; had to knock out the feller watching me," said the other. "No use lying about it, I guess. I'll take care of you, Kurt. You've got nothing to fear— hey! You ain't going to murder me?" The man's voice shrilled. "I ain't got a gun, Kurt! Don't murder me! "

Akonen laughed harshly. "Not murder: execution, you damned traitor!"

"Oh! Traitor yourself!" Babenks drew himself up, suddenly changing tone. "All right, then kill me, damn you! Sure I was a spy, aiming to get over into Finland. Sure I took the chance of giving you away. I'd do it again. That's my business, like yours is fighting on the other side. Don't call me a traitor, though. Go ahead, damn you!"

Kurt froze, his unmittened hand growing icy as he waited. It smote into him what this man was, after all. An enemy, yes. An enemy who had done his desperate best, probably knowing himself doomed in doing it; starting on one errand and switching perforce to another where he could do the most good.

"Do you want to be shot, Pete?" demanded Akonen.

"Of course not, you damned fool! "

"All right. I'm responsible for your being alive now, for what you've done. Go along with me as a prisoner to stand trial, and I'll not shoot you— unless you try to escape. Don't think for a moment that I'll trust you. Yes or no?"

"Yes! " cried the other, after one deep breath of incredulity.

"All right. Turn around. See that copse of trees?" Akonen pointed. "We go there first, then beat it for the frontier. I want to make sure if Captain Vikoski's dead. You go first."

"You're a worse fool than I thought you—" began Babenks.

Akonen cut him short.

"Never mind that. Travel! And if you make a break, I'll kill you."

Though Akonen had no particular idea of mercy, it had flashed upon him
that Babenks would be a prisoner of value, who knew a lot and could be made to talk. Also, there was his own responsibility, not to be shirked. First of all, detonate those charges, help Vikoski if that were possible, and get away. The madness of this intent was plain before him— searchlights from the train were sweeping the whole expanse; men were pouring from the coaches; the airplane was curving around and returning.

"March! " said Kurt. "I'm after you."

Babenks obeyed, with a rolling curse. That little copse was horribly close to the railroad. The airplane came and roared past, either not seeing them or ignoring them. Then a searchlight from the train picked up the two figures and held steady. Kurt realized it was the end. A machine-gun would be chattering at them in another moment. He must plunge forward and throw that switch before they got him— reach that copse if he had to do it on hands and knees!

"All right, Pete," his voice crackled. "Wait here. I'm going—"

He heard a machine-gun begin its infernal stuttering— another joined in; he was lost, and knew it. Then something happened. Beneath the train leaped forth a huge crimson glare. Another explosion flamed from the farther pier. One or both of those detonations must have reached munitions in the cars; with an air-shattering roar and a sheet of fire that soared into the sky, the entire train seemed to disintegrate; so did the earth and snow and heaven. In the very flash of realization that the switch had been closed, Akonen was knocked a dozen feet away and under the snow.

That shock was terrific. He struggled out, extricating his skis; train and soldiers and track seemed blown out of existence. Things began to rain all around — bits of flesh of men, wood, steel fragments. Akonen, trying to fasten his ski-clasps, stumbled over a body. He stooped. It was Pete Babenks, dead, pierced by half a dozen machine-gun bullets in the instant before the explosion.

Kurt realized now that blood was on his neck, coming from his ears; he was deaf. No matter. He slid forward. No one paid any heed to him now; the very air was still aquiver with frightful echoes and more frightful voices. He came to the copse. There was Captain Vikoski, just as Kurt had seen him through the binoculars, lying with hands outflung, a smile on his wedge-like features. He was dead, had been dead a long time, frozen hard.

So he had not closed the switch. Who had, then ? It lay a dozen feet away from Vikoski. There was no one else here. The snow showed no traces of anyone else. Kurt Akonen stood up, a cry on his lips, looking wildly around. He thought he could hear Vikoski's voice in his ear:

"All the ghosts and the ancient spells of Finland are helping us.... Everybody knows a Finn is a wizard."

Kurt Akonen turned and slid away, away toward the forest and the white birches and the frontier. There were a dozen reasons why that explosion might have been delayed, and none of them was probable. Nothing was probable. Vikoski was laughing again, laughing in his shrill, mocking way. Kurt Akonen, hearing that laughing voice, glanced around.

Then he realized there was no voice at all. He could hear nothing; he was stone deaf, and his ears burned, and his wounded head hurt horribly. "We shall perish," Captain Vikoski had said. "We must give ourselves for Finland.... But you, who come to our aid from a far country, you will be helped."

He came upon something dark against the snow; it was the body of Pete Babenks. He halted, looking down. The spy had got his deserts, after all. Akonen stooped, with some difficulty, and got his hand inside the frozen bloody fur coat. There was the roll of money; he took it, gladly. Russian money, blood-money; Finland could use it! And he took, also, the man's passport. He would need that, to send the five-spot he owed; he must send it to Pete's widow in Detroit, he reflected.

Then he rose and sluff-sluffed on, in among the trees, where one or two figures in white parkas moved to meet him. Only one or two. There was no pursuit. Behind, everything was death and ruin.

Kurt Akonen faced toward the frontier again, and his face was twisted in a wondering, hopeless frown of inquiry. That switch had been a good dozen feet away from the frozen corpse of Vikoski. Who, then, had closed it? Who— Or what?

He could guess, all right; but it was only a guess— a Finn's guess.

_____________________

3: Irregular Brethren

Blue Book magazine, August 1919

THEY CALLED me "consul," but I was really nothing but a consular agent here at Aru Taping, the new oil-station on the east coast of Borneo. The Dutch Oil Company, one of the largest in the world, was exploiting it at a cost of millions.

Half a mile back from the bay lay the refineries and half-erected buildings of the boom town. Here were gathered all sorts of men— some recruited in Holland at the end of the war, others, drifters from Australasia and the south seas. They were a hard lot, a tough lot, a hard-drinking, godless lot.

To get away from it all, I used to go down to the beautiful, unsullied shore of the bay— a wide strip of white sand below the cliffs. But I had been at Aru Taping five weeks before I went down there for a walk at night; and that night I made an amazing discovery.

I was strolling along the white sand, smoking and watching the stars and the phosphorescent curlings of the waves, when far ahead I made out a strange black blotch against the sand. A few red sparks showed that men were there, smoking. As I stood, a figure uprose ahead of me, and in some alarm I recognized a ruffianly Australian contractor who was doing some of the concrete work on the new tanks and piers.

"Good night to ye," said he, peering at me. "Oh! It's the American consul, hey?"

I felt thankful for the automatic in my pocket. "What's going on down here?" I demanded. "A Bolshevik meeting?"

To my surprise the Australian chuckled. "Ye might call it so," he responded, and then made a remark which took me all aback.

"Great Scott!" I exclaimed. "Do you mean—"

"Why not?" he said defiantly. "But since ye understood me, will ye join us?"

"Thank you," I returned, embarrassed, "but it's three years since I sat in lodge, and I'm afraid I owe some money—"

He let out a burst of laughter. "Oh, as for that, I owe something like ten pounds myself, brother. This is a meetin' of Irregular Lodge No. 1. Come along!"

SO I CAME among the irregular brethren, and was introduced. I saw in the starlight a queer lot of men— one or two Arabs, burly ruffians from the refineries, a pair of murderous-looking Hindus, seamen from the oil-tankers at the docks. A little East Side New Yorker who had established an "American clothing store," shook my hand delightedly.

"Well, consul," he beamed, "this is a pleasure now, ain't it? I'll tell you vat, now; brother Ben Ali, vill you step aside vith us for examination, hey?"

A tall Arab arose from the circle, and we withdrew for a space. With apologies for his lack of English, Ben Ali conducted the examination in Hollandish, which of course everyone understood.

We returned presently to the brethren, and I was introduced in due form, and assigned to a seat between Ben Ali and a burly oil-man from Kansas who worked at the refineries. We sat there under the stars; to the north of us rose the black cliff; the waves lapped along the shore. Then my little New Yorker rapped with his empty pipe on a stone.

"The brethren," he began, "will come to order."

Cigarettes were doused promptly. The big Kansan beside me chuckled, and spoke in a soft whisper like a boy afraid of the teacher.

"This here," he confided in my ear, "is a lodge of refreshment, mostly! Ain't a man of us who's regular, I reckon. But we get around here Sunday nights an' chin, see? You'd be surprised to hear some of the things that's said, too."

"I made those jewels myself," said Ben Ali in Dutch, speaking at my other ear with obvious pride. "They are of wood, brother, painted with phosphorescent paint. Ah! Brother Ram Dass is to take the Warden's chair; now we'll have some fun!"

And we did; but it was fun of a sort that drew queerly at my heartstrings. These irregular brethren went about their work with an evident gravity, an earnestness, a sincerity, which was appalling when you considered what lawless rogues they were. Two were new men like myself; the Scots engineer of a tanker in port, and a Canadian who stated dryly that the Craft might outlaw him for taking part here, but he was outlawed anyway.

The work, I must say, was curious. How otherwise, with an American for Master, a turbaned Hindu for Warden, and in the third chair— of sand— a cockney bookkeeper? And yet, despite the strangeness, the work was done very beautifully.

"They had a hard time at first," chuckled the Kansan in my ear. "There was a lot of correcting— and still is, for that matter."

"You don't initiate, I suppose?"

"We have some decency, brother," he said gravely. "No, if we didn't have respect and love for the order, we'd not be here. But we ain't carrying things too far."

RESPECT and love for the sacred things of life— yes, that was it. The best that was in these world-wandering men was here brought out again, forgotten embers of fires long dead. Here met, they acknowledged under a mutual bond a respect and love which among the marts of men they would have scorned to admit; here under the stars and among brethren, there was no shame in hushing their rude wills and giving reverence where reverence was due.

But presently the cockney called us to refreshment, and pipes were taken up, cigarette rolled, men relaxed in the sand. The Master shoved back his derby and rapped with his pipe as he felt for his tobacco pouch.

"Brethren," he said, "we go away and forget, ain't it, all—"

"Aye," broke in the Australian from the outer darkness. "Tell them new chums that what's said ain't to be spoke of except among the Craft! Remember that, Canuck!"

"Aw, dry up!" spoke up the Canadian, who had been in Flanders trenches. "Think we ain't got any sense? Slip me the makin's, Brother Ben Ali!"

The makings were slipped; and the little New Yorker who had lighted his pipe, called upon a certain brother, a Dutchman from Batavia named Hendrick van Loon, for refreshment.

The Dutchman stuffed some Sumatra into a finger-long pipe-bowl, lighted it, and then addressed us in slow, rich Hollandish.

"Worshipful Sir," he said, puffing, "and brethren—"

I WAS LOOKING for orchids up the Rokan River, over in Sumatra. That river, for a hundred miles, is nothing but a vast meer— a swampy mangrove lake; I was there in the wet season. Duivel! It was nothing but trees and rolling brown mud-water and corpses of natives and animals! But I found some orchids, and kept on. I had a good boat and a dozen Madoera natives, who would stick by me.

And there, one day, I saw the queerest thing that I have ever seen in the world. We found a drowned rhinoceros which had been swept in among some mangrove roots. He was not long dead, and I directed the boat to him with the idea of cutting out his horn. So I got into the bow with my little saw, and presently I was against him. And what do you think I found on that horn of his, eh? Carved into the agglutinated bristle, and well carved, was a beautiful emblem; it showed a square and compasses— well, you understand!

"Duivel!" I said to myself. "There is something queer about this!"

I sawed part way through the horn, then struck something soft and glittering. Think of it! That horn was a brown shell, a real horn; inside, it was solid virgin gold— and the horn was upon a rhinoceros!

Well, I investigated. I found that this horn-shell filled with gold had been set on a peg of the real horn, and cunningly pegged in place with ivory pegs. Thus it was evident that the animal had been a tame beast somewhere up-country. But since that same up-country has never been explored, there was no answer to my questioning!

For three days we went on searching for orchids. It was just after the wet season, as I have said, and the whole country was at flood; we could go far afield from the river itself. Each night I examined that gold-filled horn, but got no answer. The gold was not a fortune in itself, of course; there was nothing to explain the prodigious amount of work that must have been expended upon the affair. Naturally, I took for granted that the whole horn, right down to the point, had been filled with molten gold; it was virgin, soft enough to cut easily with a knife, but I left it just as it was.

I was glad of the find, naturally; I needed the money. We always do, we folk who go up and down the world, from west to east and back again! So, when we ran across Doktor von Traube, I kept the horn out of sight.

VON TRAUBE had been up in the mountains for a year, trying to get the little red talking apes for his Hamburg museum. He had got them, too— three pairs of them in cages; and he had four boats with a crew of wild men. He was efficient, that von Traube, like all Germans— when it came to getting things. But he did not know there was any war.

I told him, as we sat together that night and had a bottle of brandewijn with our dinner. Duivel! He was a wild man himself when he heard of it, that big squarehead! No ships to get home in, no way of getting his apes back to Hamburg, and no need of them there, either! He was all gone to smash, that Herr Doktor.

"Never mind!" he said, smashing his fist on the table. "We will show them, we old Germans! Wait until our Kaiser sits in Paris—"

I let him go on puffing out his cheeks about that Kaiser of his, and meantime he drank. Presently he was drunk enough to talk, and he talked of the up-country.

"Donnerwetter! I wish I had known about the war three days ago!" he said, between drinks. His pig eyes rolled to the gun-case in the corner of his little cabin. "There was an Englishman living up there! He has a fine house on the hill outside Titigading village; I stayed there two days."

A guest in the man's house, and now regretting that he had not known of the war so he could murder the man!

"Well," he said, leering at me, "there is nothing to prevent going back there, hein? You and I together, my friend! And we shall put that Englishman in hell!"

I took another drink. "My country is not at war, Doktor," I told him.

"No, but this Englishman has found— what do you think? Diamond clay! Yes, for I saw it outside his fine house, a heap of it. Boats must bring it down to him."

I whistled at this, with a vengeance!

There were no Holland traders in that country; the posts were all across the hills in Tapanuri province. So this Englishman was doing an illicit diamond business! That put another aspect on von Traube's proposal.

Not that I have too fine a conscience, but I dislike killing a man without reason. Well, here was a reason, and a good one! I could kill the Englishman legally, and I could take his unlawful diamonds legally. Also there would be a reward at Batavia for having done it. It was obvious that he had been settled in the country for a long while, and had encouraged the natives to bring him down the blue clay in their boats, from the hills. Therefore he must have a fine stock of diamonds on hand.

"You want to kill this Englishman," I said, "because your country is at war with his. And I want to kill him because he is in the illicit diamond business, which is against the law, and also because I want his diamonds. Well! That is plain."

"Hold on," grunted von Traube. "I want some of the diamonds, too!"

Was that not a true German for you? However, we agreed to split the loot between us, and von Traube would pilot my boat back to the Englishman's place. The Englishman was all alone, said Doktor von Traube, except for a few native servants; we agreed to kill these also, and leave no trace.

"But we will not be in a hurry, hein?" von Traube winked at me. "We shall tell him about the war, first. It will be humorous."

"Suit yourself," I agreed, "so long as we get the diamonds."

You will understand, brethren, that I am not glossing over my own part in this.

DOKTOR VON TRAUBE got into my boat next morning, left his own men encamped, and we started off for the Englishman's house near Titigading— a miserable little village up the river, which in dry seasons is quite a trading-point for the district. It was a three-day trip, and during those three days, von Traube rather got on my nerves with his talks about the old German god and the Kaiser and so forth. I would have been tempted to leave him clinging to a mangrove tree in the swamp, except that he had no money to make it worthwhile.

On the third afternoon we passed the mud walls of Titigading, perched on its hill above the floods, and toward evening we reached the Englishman's house. It was a very good frame house, perched on a hillside above the highest watermark; it had a nice garden around it, I remember. Off to one side was the Englishman himself, bossing three native boys who were shoveling blue clay into the river. When he saw us coming, he vanished, to reappear a moment afterward with a rifle slung in his elbow.

"Lieber Gott!" muttered von Traube, grasping my arm. "Look at the diamond-clay!"

I nodded. "The evidence is vanishing rapidly, eh? He probably has it brought down in large quantities, and lets the water carry it off after he's worked it over."

The Englishman walked down to the water's edge to meet us. He was a brown, lean man, with hard gray eyes like agate, and anything but a nice twist to his mouth— a hard drinker, evidently. He called himself Robinson, but he wore a bloodstone seal ring bearing a crest and other initials below the crest. It was not hard to imagine that he had been a gentleman, and had gone wrong.

He greeted von Traube with a cordial handshake, and gave me another upon being introduced. Naturally, he wanted to know my business here; I let him know that I was not an official, but was hunting orchids. He asked us into the house. Dinner would soon be ready.

I have compunctions about dining with a man and then killing him, but von Traube gave me a nudge, and we went along. Robinson spoke Hollandish like a native. He took us into the house, which was simply but neatly furnished, and assigned us his spare room with apologies that he had not one for each of us. Then he vanished to see about dinner.

"It must be done before we dine," I told von Traube firmly. "Otherwise not at all."

He assented with a nod and a sneer. "Very well, Mynheer Van Loon. When we are seated at the table, you understand? Then I shall tell him about the war, and do the rest. You will attend to the servants. I wonder where he keeps his diamonds?"

I had been wondering about that myself, not so much about where he kept them, as about his method of getting them out of the country. He would not take them openly, of course, for toward the river-mouth he would encounter too many difficulties; perhaps he had never taken any out, and had the collection of years right here! It was enough to make a man's mouth water.

"If we cannot find them, we shall be fools," said von Traube. "Perhaps it would be best not to kill him until he tells us where they are."

"Suit yourself," I responded, indifferently.

I left the Doktor grubbing at the washbasin, and went out to the living-room of the house. There I found Robinson setting out cigarettes and cheroots, and we chatted. Since I did not care whether I offended him or not, I asked him direct what his business was.

He looked at me with a twisted grin. Even then, I imagine, he suspected us.

"You passed the town of Titigading on the way, didn't you?" he inquired. "Well, I'm training animals for the local sultan. That's the truth, too— training them!"

I must have smiled at this, for he shrugged and gave me a sour look.

"It's true, all the same, Van Loon! If you'd come a few days sooner, I'd have shown you something— a pet rhino that I raised from birth, and trained to do no end of things! They say a rhino can't be trained, but—"

"A rhinoceros!" I exclaimed, giving him a sharp look as a sudden fear bit into me.

"Yes." He frowned, a bit puzzled by my attitude. I could see that he was watching me pretty closely, and was not going to be taken off guard. "Unfortunately, the poor brute was washed out the last flood— about a week ago. I must have searched half this damned country, without finding his body!"

A tingling sensation swept over me, as I began to realize the truth. I took a cigarette from his box and looked him square in the eye.

"See here, Mynheer Robinson," I said quietly, "do you mind explaining why you'd waste time searching for a dead rhino? Perhaps he was valuable— or was the body marked?"

Robinson went white along the jaw. His fingers twitched slightly, and I guessed that he had a revolver within quick draw. But his hard gray eyes did not flicker from mine.

"You have a reason for asking that?" he snapped.

"I have," I told him frankly, "and a good reason. Some days ago I ran across a dead rhino. The horn was marked in a very peculiar fashion— with marks which used to mean a good deal to me, Robinson. If you can describe those marks, and can tell me what they represent—"

"I think," he said coolly, the twitch of a smile on his lips, "we'd better shake hands all over again, Van Loon. Then I'll proceed in the usual way."

WELL, THERE was no doubt about it, as he made very plain. When he mentioned his lodge, which was one of the most famous of England, I knew at once that his name was not Robinson.

I made some excuse to get away, and rejoined von Traube just as he was coming to meet us. I led him back into the room, wondering.

"Now," I told him without preamble, "our arrangement is off, Herr Doktor. I have discovered that Robinson has peculiar claims upon me— in fact, claims so strong that I cannot disregard them. So long as I am here, you shall not touch him. Further, I'll tell him about the war myself, although I'll not mention our late intentions toward him; if you and he want to go out into the garden with pistols and have a war of your own, that's another matter. But there'll be no killing, and no looting. Think it over."

I left him there, staring like a dumb man with apoplexy, and rejoined my host.

He was unaccountably eager to get hold of me, too, and his eagerness was centered upon that rhinoceros horn.

"I can't see why on earth you put the horn on that rhino," I told him, "but of course, it's no business of mine. Anyway, I've the horn in my boat, with the gold intact. We'll get it tomorrow or have one of the boys bring it up tonight if you prefer. Meantime, allow me to tell you that Germany and England are at war, and you and von Traube will have to keep off the subject."

Five minutes later von Traube joined us, smiling.

"There is war in the world, Mynheer Robinson," he said, "but there need be none here, I think?"

"Not for tonight, at least," said Robinson with an answering smile. "Can you chaps take me out with you tomorrow? I'll want to get into the scrap, you know. I suppose you, von Traube, are just as anxious? Then we'll declare a private truce, eh?"

Von Traube assented gladly, but I did not like the look in his eye.

WE HAD an excellent dinner, and Robinson was traditionally Briton enough to don a regulation evening outfit. It was a bit tatted, but the real thing. Doktor von Traube rather surprised me by being extremely affable, cordial and avoiding all war-talk after I had stated the bare news of the declaration— which had come to me the day before I left Batavia.

By the time we came to the coffee, with long, thin, Sumatra cheroots, all three of us were quite chummy. I'll not say that a drink or two had not warmed us, either. Well, Robinson turned to me, with strange lights glinting in his eyes of gray jade, and said:

"You spoke about that rhino-horn, Van Loon— remember? If you'd not mind sending down to your craft for it, I'll be glad to explain its secret. There is a secret, you know, and a dashed interesting one, if I do say it."

I rose, nodding, while Doktor von Traube peered at us suspiciously. He knew nothing about the horn.

"I'll get it myself, Robinson. I put it away carefully, so those boys of mine would not know about it."

Robinson would have protested, but I laughed and swung out of the house.

It took time to pick my way down to the water, for everything was pitch-black outside, and I had left my electric torch in the boat. Naturally, I was congratulating myself that everything had gone smoothly; for after knowing that Robinson was of the Craft, my whole intent fell to pieces.

Indeed, although the words may sound strange in my mouth, my finding of the drowned rhinoceros and the subsequent fashion in which I had been led to this Englishman's house, to say nothing of the chance remark which had led to my learning that he was of the brethren, all seemed to me a providential train of circumstance— a skein, as it were, of which the Divine Architect had the unwinding.

When I had groped my way down to the boat, one of the men found my electric torch, and I dug into the little shelter-cabin. A moment later I had the rhinoceros horn under my arm— and it was damnably heavy— and started back. The lights of the house guided me this time, and I soon reached the veranda.

As I did so, I heard a heavy, thudding crash from the dining-room, followed by silence— as though a man had fallen with his full weight.

I ran, alarmed instantly, cursing myself for not having given Robinson full warning. But when I came to the door of the dining-room, and paused, there was no one to be seen.

For a moment I stared, rankly incredulous; then I saw the square head of Doktor von Traube rising at the opposite side of the dining table. It rose slowly, and halted; the Doktor, snarling a little like a struggling dog, was gazing down at something between his hands. I realized suddenly that he was strangling Robinson to death.

A mad rush of haste flurried me, made me lose all coherence of motion, impelled me into a perfect fury of action. I might have drawn my automatic, but the thought did not occur to me; the first instinct of a man is to throw whatever is closest to hand, and I was already carrying the rhinoceros horn. I threw it blindly, without aiming, threw it heavily as a man throws the shot, at the head of von Traube. And as my automatic leaped out into my palm, I saw the pointed end of that horn hit the German just above the ear.

Before I could get across the room, Robinson was rising; I exhaled a breath of relief at sight of him. About his neck was a thin cord of Chinese silk, almost buried in his flesh. He jerked it away.

"Thanks, Van Loon," he said quietly. "The beggar caught me by surprise— jerked me clear over backward and fell on me. I suspected something of the sort, you know, and had made ready for it, but his method was peculiar."

He lifted the edge of the tablecloth. Just beneath the table itself, and hung at Robinson's place, was a Browning automatic. It came away at the touch of his hand, and he shoved it into his pocket. Then he stooped and picked up the rhinoceros horn.

There was no need of asking any questions about Doktor von Traube. He would never strike another blow in behalf of Germany.

"You've wondered about this," said Robinson, wiping the horn on the tablecloth and setting it on the table beneath the lamp. "Well, I'll tell you about that rhino. I wanted to smuggle some stuff out through Batavia; so I worked a long time over that rhino, fitted the horn and all that. Then I let it go six months, until the skin had crept up about the jointure—"

"But how the devil did you work on a live rhino like that?" I demanded.

"Stupefied him with native drugs!" Robinson laughed. "I meant to take his head and preserve it, then pass it out of here and into England, you see."

"No," I said, frowning at him, "I don't see at all! Of course, a man is not allowed to deal in free gold here, but there's not enough gold in this horn to make it worth all that trouble."

A slow smile crept about his mouth. He took a knife from his pocket and opened it.

"True enough, Van Loon. But I've no more use for this contraption, now that the trophy is spoiled; besides, I'm going home to this war— and finish the whole botched job. See here; you'll understand in a moment."

With the knife, Robinson dug at the soft molten gold that filled the end of the horn. A moment, and it came away in his hand— a thin, oval plate of gold. As it came away, there poured out upon the table a heap of yellow dust; under the slab of gold, the horn had been filled with dust, and in the dust had been snugly nested something like two dozen of the finest Sumatran diamonds!

"The pick of three years' work," said Robinson quietly. "If I'd smuggled these stones out of here and into England or America, I'd have had something, eh? But they're of no particular use now, and I can't be bothered finding a new method of smuggling. Suppose you take them along, sell them whenever you get a chance, and remit me half the proceeds. The dust will take me home and get me into the army. There's enough in the stones to make us both well off."

"That's very handsome," I said thoughtfully. "But my friend, do you realize what would have happened if I had not found that horn carved with the square and compasses?"

Robinson laughed in his thin, ominous fashion.

"Yes, I do," he said. "You fellows would have done me in; then, my dear Van Loon, the estimable Herr Doktor von Traube would have done you in!"

"Not at all," I said, laughing. "You see, I was figuring to do him in! But let's clear out of this, and I'll take you over to Malacca Town in my boat, eh? The customs patrol down the river won't bother me much— when it's a question of a brother in distress."

"WORSHIPFUL meester," said Van Loon, "and brethren, I thank you for your attention." He sat down.

"A highly immoral tale, yon," said the Scots engineer, chuckling. "What wad they be makin' of it, eh, in the regular circles?"

My little New Yorker rapped with his pipe. "I might say, brethren, that Brother Van Loon is having a gavel made from the horn of a rhino, ain't it, w'ich is carved with appropriate emblems and w'ich vill be presented to this lodge next Sunday night. And now, brethren, if there ain't no more business—"

"'Ere, 'old on!" exclaimed the cockney, scrambling to his feet. "I know oo that there man Robinson was! I sye, Van Loon, didn't 'e 'ave a zigzag scar on 'is left 'and?"

Van Loon assented. The little cockney continued eagerly:

"Well, 'e went west at Mons— I was in the bleedin' 'orspital wif 'im! From what 'e said afore 'e passed out, I learned a 'ole lot abaht 'im; and it was talk abaht a rhino 'orn too! And I want to sye, brethren, that 'e 'ad the D.S.O. afore 'e up and bleedin' well died, too! A credit to the Craft; that's what 'e was!"

A vote of thanks to Brother Van Loon was moved and seconded; then Irregular Lodge No. 1 proceeded to fold its tents and silently steal away.

________________________

4: The Miraculous Buddha

Short Stories, April 10, 1944

DUANE HAD never heard of Korla; the name meant absolutely nothing to him. Yet he was one of Stratolines' most active and far-traveled trouble shooters. Ever since the war ended, he had been rushing from corner to corner of the globe— yes, the new air-age geography did square the world's circle— on business for Stratolines. But Korla struck no echo in his memory.

He scowled at the brief memorandum he had found on his desk:

Captain James Duane: Headquarters Office:

Report to me at 10:40 if willing to accept detail to handle situation at Korla.

Upshott, President Stratolines.

Looking up, Duane glanced about the headquarters office used by the Strata-shooters, as the corps termed itself when not on field duty. Blount sat working at the corner desk, and Duane called to him.

"Hey, Blount! Where's a place called Korla?"

Blount gave him a grin. "Same location it was two thousand years ago, maybe three. Turkestan, or Sinkiang as the Chinese call it. It's the capital of the province now, and going great guns since the peace was signed."

"Thanks." Duane scowled again at the memorandum. "Turkestan or the South Pole, I don't care which. Why in hell doesn't the Chief quit calling me Captain? That went out when the war ended."

Duane was just in bad humor, that was all, and looking for trouble. This corps of picked men were treated with deference by Stratolines. Even that enormous air-freight network covering most of the earth, handled its trouble shooters cautiously. They were all former war pilots. Further, they were sworn officers of the International Air Control, which gave them wide powers. They had to have exceptional ability in a dozen ways, for there was no telling what they might run up against. Stratolines had become practically a world power. It handled long-haul freight exclusively, but handled it everywhere, and ran into some queer things that needed fixing. Men like Duane did the fixing, and some of them were not particular how they did it, either.

Duane, for example. He had started out married; his wife died in childbirth while he was bombing Tokio. He went to work for Stratolines a hard-boiled, unhappy man. Now, three years after the war, he had been in love again, only to be turned down rather cruelly. It hurt. It left him, as on this particular morning, looking for trouble and not giving a damn where it might turn up.

He walked into Upshott's office promptly at 10:40. The Stratolines president, who looked not unlike a bulldog, gave him a cigar and a barked greeting.

"Hiya, Jim. Know anything about Turkestan or Sinkiang?"

"Not a solitary thing, Chief."

"Good. You got a lot to learn; but ignorance is one advantage. Only an outsider can help us here. Carter and Browne have been there and know it well, and they step around the subject like a cat around a pool of water.

"Why?" demanded Duane, to the point as usual.

"Why? Because it's devilish unhealthy, that's why." Upshott chewed a cigar, unlit. "We've got a special run going— Korla, Urga, Yakutsk— as a feeder to our main Siberian lines; it's doing a tremendous business, and we're dickering now with the Soviet people, who want to take it over."

"So what?" asked Duane, biting at his cigar.

"So trouble at Korla, or somewhere near there. The trouble is named Ming Shui, which means Clear Water. She is a woman. She is the abbot of a monastery at the back door of nowhere—"

"Wait a minute," said Duane. "You're getting off the track. An abbot is a man; a monastery holds monks."

"Shut up," snapped Upshott. "This is a Buddhist monastery. Of course it doesn't make sense! If it did, the trouble would have been adjusted before this. It's all cockeyed; that's why I'm sending you. Any arrangement is impossible; our Siberian headquarters say so flatly. Here's their report. Read it and you'll go crazy like I did. Go to Yakutsk and hop one of our ships down to Korla and do anything possible."

"When?"

"Now."

"Okay." Duane took the typed report and stood up.

"Wait, dammit." Upshott blinked up at him. "Don't get yourself killed. We need you other places."

"Thanks. I'll not. Any particular instructions?"

"Nope. The sky's the limit. Stratolines backs any play you make."

Duane said goodbye and walked out. He knew nothing about the trouble or what he was to find or do. He knew this would be in the report, and that it was probably something so utterly insane that everyone had flung up their hands and quit. So it was, too.

That evening found him snugly berthed seven miles high aboard the giant six-engined Planetoid that made only one stop, at Edmonton, before Irkutsk in the heart of the booming Siberia…a hurtling 26-hour flight.

The post-war world, arising on the wings of invention and science and progress from the destruction and ashes of global conflict, had reached almost fantastic heights. Siberia, once a barren frozen waste, was now pouring forth wealth in metals and oil; China and central Asia were close behind. Even during the war, Russia had withdrawn from Turkestan, restoring this desert province to China by one of those great-hearted gestures which the Soviets made in so many directions.

Turkestan, under the wise guidance of the new China, was waxing rich and great. Swept bare for centuries by jangling armies, now she enjoyed all the blessings that had come to a world where war was done forever. Great water and power systems, a flood of new population, an outpouring of economic wealth, marked her advent in this air-age. Korla, once a miserable huddle of mud houses, was now a city of half a million. Within her borders, however, the new still elbowed the old; Tibet, across her southern frontier, still blocked progress.

THE ANCIENT Buddhist monasteries that had studded the wastes of the Gobi and Taklamakan deserts were still existent, although the deserts were becoming fertile gardens. Duane, poring over the typed report in his snug berth, was quick to perceive the astonishing situation which he— and Stratolines— now faced.

Bounding the great Tarim Basin, formerly all desert, were the Tien Shan or Celestial Mountains. In their heart, still almost unknown territory, was the Eternal Peace Monastery, of which Ming Shui was the abbot or ruler. She was a woman. She was also an incarnation of the Living Buddha. She had enormous influence, and the monastery controlled mineral deposits being opened up by the new government— deposits of such incalculable wealth that she was a personage of real importance.

Duane still did not see how a woman could hold such a position, nor did he care a hang. The fact was sufficient. But now arose something composed not of facts but of foggy superstition. Ming Shui was willing to play ball provided her ends were served. She declared— and the Turkestan government took its orders from her— that air traffic over the Celestial Mountains must cease because it frightened the spirits away.

Stratolines was working under an expired franchise from the Turkestan government, and was seeking a new twenty-year franchise. Ming Shui was willing that it be granted, provided Stratolines placed in the Eternal Peace Monastery— within ninety days— the famous Buddha of Miracles. Otherwise, not. Stratolines, and its airfields under construction at a cost of a hundred millions, could clear out and stay out.

The catch lay in this Buddha of Miracles; there was no such thing. It was, supposedly, a miraculous image of Buddha that talked and performed miracles. It was a legend, and nothing else. And yet, on this perfectly fantastic basis, Stratolines stood to lose not only fat profits but huge construction works. For the government calmly backed up Ming Shui. Duane realized what it all meant, and cursed savagely. No wonder.

"Either this dame is sincere, and a superstitious fool, or else she wants a fat slice of graft," said he. Studying the report, he concluded that she was sincere, and a staggering conclusion it was. However, his first job was to get into contact with her and decide for himself; then he could go to work.

The Planetoid settled down at Irkutsk, and an hour later Duane was heading south in one of the ships on the Korla run. He landed in Korla at dawn; no one met him, he was entirely on his own, and he went straight to the Yakub Beg Hotel, an enormous modern structure run by the government.

He bathed, shaved, left his room— and came slap upon two figures struggling in the corridor by an open room door. The man was cursing and fighting wildly, the woman was trying to control him. White-faced, she looked at Duane and cried out.

"Help me— help me! He has fever—" Duane pitched in, got the delirious man back into the room, threw him on the bed and held him there— then recognized him. It was Lawton, vice-president of Stratolines in charge of construction, an engineering genius.

"What the devil's all this?" he cried out, amazed. "Bob Lawton, here?"

"Shut up. Hold him till I get this medicine into him," said the woman. Duane obeyed. Lawton swallowed the dose, coughed, and weakly subsided on the bed.

"Thanks," said the woman. "Who are you? Do you know my brother?"

Duane identified himself. Agnes Lawton slid into a chair and stared at him.

"I'm Bob's assistant," she said. "He's in charge of the Stratolines development here— millions poured into it for nothing. He has a touch of fever and tried to kill himself. Everything's gone to pot here. It means his reputation and everything else."

DUANE LIKED her cool, level eyes, her capable air. Blueprints on the wall showed the enormous construction under way for Stratolines; they ran for miles along the flat desert surface. Any freight terminus large enough to handle the giant Planetoid transports, with sheds, shops, hangars and connecting rail terminals, formed a city in itself. And this work, employing men by thousands, was checked by the superstitious whim of a barbaric old woman in a monastery.

A nurse showed up, taking charge of the patient, who was conscious now. Duane sat beside him, talking to Lawton like a Dutch uncle, and after talking sense into him, took Agnes Lawton into the next room.

"I'm here to clean up this mess," he said. "I want your help. Turn over the job to one of your assistants and get ready to buckle down to work. I need a helicopter and a guide to fly it. I'll be back for lunch and you be ready to talk with me then."

Miss Lawton put him in touch with a brisk young Chinese named Wang, who had a helicopter and who knew the Celestial Mountains. Wang showed up, and with him Duane went over to the government buildings. The city was a welter of Chinese, Turkoman, Russian and American business men, oil men, merchants, with a smattering of Anglo-Indians. But, by nine o'clock, formalities were completed and Duane was on his way to the new passenger field at the edge of Korla.

Here in Turkestan the air was policed as rigidly as in New York. Not a plane could take off without permission of the Air Control; but Duane's savage energy brushed aside all obstacles. By ten o'clock, Wang's little helicopter was in the air and on its way.

Until yesterday this journey to the Eternal Peace Monastery would have required weeks, with the help of camels and motor cars and guards. Now it was a matter of forty minutes. The jagged, snow-tipped crags of the Celestial Mountains opened out. Those recesses hidden for uncounted ages were laid bare, and the golden roof of the monastery appeared on its sheer hillside of naked granite.

Wang, who had no reverence for monasteries, set down his helicopter in the courtyard. The monks did not like this, but little cared Duane. He had Wang to interpret, and after some parley the two visitors were taken into a room where Ming Shui sat behind a lacquer screen and talked with them.

Inside of five minutes Duane knew the worst. This invisible speaker who was revered as a living god and had the cracked voice of an old woman, was on the level. She scorned bribes. She wanted the Buddha of Miracles. She demanded that the fabulous image be brought from the Mountains of the Moon and placed in this monastery. Mind you, there was no sense to it. There was no such Buddha; it was a figment of superstition. But she demanded it.

"All right," said Duane. "Tell her it'll take a bit of time. Tell her she must prepare a place here to receive the image. A room thirty feet square, with no roof, so when the Buddha comes from the moon he can be landed safely."

Wang chattered away and the cracked voice chattered back. Ming Shui agreed to make the place ready and asked if Duane could guarantee delivery.

"Tell her yes," said Duane. "Tell her any damned thing you like, Wang. But I want some guarantee from her that if she gets the Buddha, Stratolines gets the franchise."

This was ironed out. Tea swimming with rancid butter was served, and the visitors took their leave. Duane wanted to get back for lunch and damned ceremony.

"It's a complete mess," he told Agnes Lawton over the luncheon table. "This old hag wants a miracle-working image that doesn't exist. She's important enough so this blasted Turkestan government backs her up and stops all progress. If she gets what she wants— will she play ball? I've decided she will. I think she's on the level. No one could be that big a fool and not be on the level."

The cool eyes of Agnes Lawton twinkled at him.

"Are you going to supply what she wants, Mr. Duane?"

"I am," he snapped.

"Then perhaps she's not so big a fool as appears."

He grunted. "Huh! Hadn't thought of that." It was a startling thought. A waiter brought a radiophone and connected it; there was a call from New York.

"Well?" demanded Duane, when the answer came.

"Parks at headquarters laboratories, Mr. Duane. Did you put in a call for me?"

"Yes," snapped Duane. "I need you here quick. Drop everything else."

"Okay," said Parks. "I'll be there tomorrow night."

"Bring your best technician and all the electronics gadgets you can pack."

He hung up and looked at Miss Lawton. She was good to look at.

"You're actually attempting this impossible rubbish?" she said.

He nodded. "Nothing's impossible. Your brother is famous for his work with plastics; now, you go to bat for him. Make me a plastic bronze Buddha ten feet high."

"Make it?" she repeated, startled.

"Make it. Regardless of expense. Commandeer anything you need in the way of help, materials, money, brains. Get whatever you want, here at Korla, but do it."

"Very well," she said slowly. "But I'd like to point out one thing to you. This, Ming Shui is, as you say, on the level. That doesn't mean everyone else is— say, in the government. I'm thinking of General Li Hung, the governor himself."

"Thanks," said Duane, "I was thinking of that myself; glad you put the finger on him. Guess I'll have a talk with your brother, Miss Lawton, while you get to work."

Agnes Lawton disappeared that afternoon. Duane sat beside the bed of her brother and talked with him at length, regardless of weakness and fever. If delirium had brought this man to the verge of suicide, there must be a reason more vital than mere defeat and discouraged effort.

The sick man, bitterly ashamed of his own weakness, spoke freely. Things had gone from bad to worse, with the construction here at Korla. The first estimates of cost had been doubled and trebled. Stratolines had poured out money like water, to no avail. The new base promised to be the finest in Asia; but it would be worthless without the new franchise. Behind Ming Shui was the governor, General Li Hung.

"Can't make him out," said Lawton. "He's no grafter. He's shrewd, cultured, one of the best men in today's China; but he's against us. Why? No reason."

Duane went away thoughtfully. At five that afternoon, he secured a private interview with General Li Hung; he talked with the brilliant, able governor for an hour and came away baffled. General Li would say only that he backed Ming Shui's wisdom, blandly waving aside any hint of bribes or personal ambitions.

NEXT AFTERNOON Agnes Lawton came to him with a report.

"I can do what you want," she said calmly.

"Oh, the Buddha?"

"Yes. It will require every resource I can command. This plastic figure can be supplied in a little over two weeks. The total cost will run close to two hundred thousand dollars; but the value of the finished article will be scarcely fifty dollars. Is this madness worth while?"

"Certainly. Go to it," said Duane. "Parks is en route from New York and will get in tonight. I'll turn him over to you tomorrow; he'll work with you. Well, I saw General Li last night and had a talk with him."

"What did you discover?"

"That he's on the level. I can't savvy it at all."

"Perhaps the fault is yours," she said quietly. "Often we go looking for some deep, dark secret, when all the time it's in plain sight."

"Meaning what?"

"I'm not sure. But in spite of all his culture, education, ability, he's still a Chinese. And at heart every Chinese is superstitious. A quality so simple that it may be the reason why he stands with Ming Shui."

Duane's eyes widened a trifle.

"Upon my word, you're an angel of light!" he exclaimed. She laughed and went her way, leaving him thoughtful.

Parks got in late that night, and Duane spent four hours with him. Parks was a wizard with electronics. He had an absolute mastery of the radionic marvels that had resulted from the war. High frequencies, ultrasonic vibrations, the thousand and one applications of these wonders to everyday life, all were just so much hamburger to Parks. He listened to Duane and nodded.

"I can do what you want," he said. "Mind, it's not easy; it'll cost like hell. But it can be done. If the image of Buddha is ready in two weeks, I'll guarantee to have it in shape in another week. I'll have to work on it with Miss Lawton, of course."

"Go to it," said Duane.

During the next few days he was very busy arranging for that Buddha to get from the moon to the earth. The ordinary bronze Buddha could never make it because of his weight; but one of light plastic would be very different, though looking the same. With the help of Wang, Duane got his plans laid, ordered the necessary helicopter, and made an eventful second trip with Wang to the Heavenly Peace Monastery.

And just here, destiny lammed him under the jaw.

WINGING out above the mountains, they picked up the golden roof of the monastery and hovered. Work was going on at one side of the courtyard; the chamber for the reception of the Buddha was building— roofless walls of thirty feet on each side, as Duane had prescribed. To Wang, who was a highly intelligent young man, he pointed it out.

"It'll be your job to land the Buddha there," he said, "when it's ready. The larger helicopter can just make it, eh?"

"Easily," said Wang, his slant eyes sparkling. "Oh, we can keep the helicopter a foot from the ground and land the Buddha. I heard one was being made."

"What else did you hear?" demanded Duane sourly, as they settled.

Wang grinned: "Much. There are strong rumors of miracles. It will be great fun to see these dirty monks when it happens!"

"How do you know so much?" snapped Duane.

"I am a student of electronics," said Wang, chuckling. "In fact, Mr. Parks is employing me on his work."

Duane grunted in surprise, but made no comment. He opened the cab door as it came down to the ground, and stepped out. Half a dozen red-robed monks appeared and closed around him. One, to his astonishment, addressed him in English.

"Come. Ming Shui is awaiting you. I will interpret."

Duane stared at the man; his yellow features were impassive, but he had pale angry eyes that held a strange light. The monks hustled Duane across the courtyard and in at the monastery entrance. He spoke to the self-appointed interpreter but had no answer; and, perplexed, found himself taken to the same room where he had previously spoken with Ming Shui.

The same screen was in place; the same cracked woman's voice came from behind it. The group of monks seated themselves in a line, rosaries in hand. The interpreter spoke, and Ming Shui made reply; the monk turned to Duane, his pale eyes flashing.

"She says you will remain here as an earnest that the Buddha will arrive."

"Remain here?" Duane was startled. "I'll do nothing of the sort."

"You have no choice," said the other impassively. "A room is prepared for you; accept the situation, I advise you—"

With an angry oath, Duane leaped up and strode out of the room. No one else moved. He was not hindered, though he saw plenty of monks and workmen as he came into the courtyard. He halted, incredulous, and furious— Wang and the helicopter were gone. As he stood staring, the interpreter, with the pale eyes appeared and came to him, smiling thinly.

"Well, Mr. Duane, you see how it is," he said in suave tones. "Shall I show you to your room? We might reach an understanding."

Swiftly, instantly, Duane took acute warning and mastered himself. For some reason unknown, he was trapped— and here was the secret of this entire mystifying Turkestan imbroglio, here in this man. He felt it, and reacted promptly upon it.

"Very well," he rejoined, choking down his anger. "Since there's no help for it, go ahead. And just who are you?"

"My name is, or was, Tuyok Nokhoi. It may be familiar to you. This way, please.

Duane followed Tuyok without reply; but now alarm seized him. The mask was off, with a vengeance! Little as he knew this country, that name was indeed familiar; all Asia had rung with it in the last days of the war, and since.

Tuyok Nokhoi, Tuyok the Hound, had been the puppet Mongolian ruler under Japanese dominion, renowned for his cruelties and his abilities. When the little brown barbarians were smashed out of Asia, Tuyok had vanished from sight. No search, no vengeance, no justice had reached him; his disappearance was complete. He was supposed to have been killed in the savage fighting that swept Mongolia.

Well, here he was; and his open avowal of his name boded Duane no good.

THEY CAME into a room, after climbing many stairs, high on the south face of the building; half a dozen floors above the rocks, thought Duane. It was a sunny, large room, comfortably furnished. The window was heavily barred, the massive door fastened on the outside; it was a prison.

Tuyok sat cross-legged on the floor; he had not taken his hands from beneath his red lama's robe, significantly. Duane, who carried no arms, dropped on a big stuffed leather seat and looked at the lean, impassive yellow face.

"Well?" he asked.

"You are not to be harmed, if you accept the situation," said Tuyok. "I am taking certain measures. You have interfered with my plans."

"Too bad," said Duane.

"For you, yes. Ming Shui is a superstitious old fool, like the others here. I do not propose to see you step in, work the miracle that she wants, and spoil my work. I am aware of what you and Miss Lawton are about, you see."

"Let's get it straight," said Duane calmly. "Are you behind all the trouble we've had here in Turkestan?"

"I," said Tuyok, "am out to make some money, Mr. Duane. I do not want Stratolines in this country of Sinkiang. I control the government and the monasteries."

"You? How?"

"By superstition." A sardonic grin crossed the yellow face. "I am a holy man from Tibet, a reincarnation of Buddha; I have lived seven hundred years. I have great powers. I make these Chinese and Tungans and Mongolians obey me; if they disobey me, they go mad."

"Oh!" said Duane. He felt his senses swimming; he summoned up all his will-power to meet those strange eyes. "Hypnotic force, eh? Well, you can't hypnotize me."

"I'm aware of that. You want to live, Mr. Duane? Very well. Do my bidding, and I shall spare your life. Refuse, and you shall die in this room."

Duane fought for self-control; he needed all his wits now. Everything had opened up with a vengeance! He discounted entirely the promise to spare him. Tuyok the Hound would never let him reach the world again to tell what he knew.

"Naturally, I want to live," he said quietly.

"Then write out a letter in your own hand to the president of Stratolines, saying that you find it impossible to arrange matters here, and advising that, since a new franchise will not be granted by the government, Stratolines accept any settlement that may be proposed."

Duane had no objections. Such a letter would be regarded with derision, especially in view of his disappearance, but Tuyok was far from realizing this.

"Then a settlement is to be proposed?"

he questioned.

Tuyok smiled in his thin way. "It is. Another air line will buy Stratolines out— cheap. The profits will run into millions, largely to my benefit."

"Very well. Give me pen, ink, paper, and dictate the letter."

"A pencil will do. You'll find all you need in that leather chest by the window."

A Chinese trunk of red leather was there. Duane opened it, found writing materials, and took the letter dictated by Tuyok. It went on to mention that he had gone on a hunting trip and would return later.

The Mongol stood, took his hands from under his robe, and showed a pistol in one.

"I admire your discretion, Mr. Duane," he said, taking the letter. "You see, I was educated in America; you were wise not to try any tricks in this writing. It will be countersigned by Mr. Lawton and his sister, and sent in. Good day."

He stepped swiftly out of the room; the lock clicked.

FOR TWO DAYS, Duane remained a close prisoner. He saw only the Mongol who brought his food twice a day; but from his barred window he had a glorious view of the mountains, which was poor compensation. He tried the bars of his window. They were new and solid; but the rubble of the wall was poor stuff. Not that it would do him any good to break out, at this height from the ground.

Early on the third morning Tuyok the Hound reappeared, accompanied by two other red-robed lamas. He seemed highly affable.

"A. little surprise for you, Mr. Duane," he said. "Lift up the rug from the floor." Wondering, Duane complied, and laid bare an iron ring. At Tuyok's order he lifted on the ring; a foot-square section rose from the floor, to show him the room below. He looked down, and a sharp cry broke from him. Standing in that room, gazing up at him, was Agnes Lawton.

The two lamas came forward. The little trap-door fell into place. A padlock was attached to it, a heavy padlock.

"You see, I too am a wizard of the air," said Tuyok, chuckling. "You are safe; she is safe; the work is ended. Perhaps I shall have need of you both, later. Meantime, you remain as hostages. See that you are docile, Mr. Duane— or she will suffer with you. Good day."

He swept out with his two companions. Far from relapsing into docile despair or acceptance, Jim Duane suddenly wakened to savage energy. That Agnes Lawton had been brought here by plane, he could well understand; that she stood in acute peril, was only too certain.

Duane fairly wore himself out that day— tinkering uselessly with the padlock, trying to signal by tapping the floor, even calling from his window, which had bars but no glass. All was vain. He spent the next day working at the rubble of the wall, around the window bars; here he accomplished a little. He had nothing to work with, except his belt buckle; the metal tongue made a pitiful tool, but achieved a faint progress.

He kept at it, day after day. He was unshaven, unwashed; his bleeding fingers made the work bitter hard, but at least it was something to do. And he gained headway around the window bars. The Mongols who brought his food never looked at anything. It was taken for granted that he was helpless. He strained his eyes watching for planes, for a helicopter, but none came.

He knew that Wang would not have abandoned him willingly, but after all Wang was no person to depend on in this pinch. Probably the pilot, too, was in prison, he thought.

Now began a labor grim and great, labor by day and night, with every thought and energy concentrated upon the one end. The window was his sole hope; the massive door was solid, and whenever it was opened, Mongols waited outside while his food was brought in. Tuyok came no more. The padlocked trap-door was never opened again.

He burrowed at the rubble around the bars. Day succeeded day; he burrowed with belt-buckle, with fingertips, with coins, with anything that would scratch. Deeper grew the holes; a night came at last when he tried one bar and felt it give slightly— with full effort he could tear it free. He concentrated now upon the others, with feverish intensity.

Also, from one end of the tattered rug, he unrove a weft of cotton which gave him a long but flimsy cord. To this he tied a scrap of paper and the pencil, first writing the one question: Are you well? He lowered it, in the sunset light, from his window, greatly fearing lest it be noted from somewhere on the ground below; he jiggled it in the air, called down— and all in vain. Either Agnes Lawton did not see it, or she was no longer in the room below. He gave up at last, and utilized the pencil as a digging tool, ultimately shattering it to flinders against the rubble.

Hostages! He knew what that meant. For himself it did not matter; but the thought of Agnes Lawton at the mercy of Tuyok the Hound was maddening. And that man would have no mercy.

Duane lost track of the days. From his window he could see red-robed monks, or visitors to the monastery with ponies and carts; twice he saw cars or trucks down below. Of nights it was different; he could hear things. The long, raucous-voiced twenty-foot trumpets were blown, or huge gongs sent brazen vibrations through the air to carry the sound of chanting voices. At night the place was alive, but moribund by day.

He kept on doggedly with the labor. One end of a second bar was cleared, and he went at a crossbar. With those three gone, he could get out— out above the gaping void, if that would do him any good! No one, without plenty of rope, could escape this way. Still, Jim Duane knew what he was about. That glimpse into the room below had maddened him, but had also inspired him.

The moment came, toward noon, when it was finished; a stout heave, and those bars would come away. He sank down on his pallet and dropped his bearded, haggard features in his hands, relaxing. A little dirt smeared around his work, and it would keep till night.

He slept most of the afternoon. Toward sunset came his supper— one Mongol bringing in the food, while two others waited s outside in the passage. The empty bowls from his morning meal were taken, the full ones were left; the door clanged shut.

He sprang up, darted to the window, and caught hold of a bar, putting all his weight into the wrench. A heave— another— at the third, one end came loose, the other was bent and forced out of the rubble. A weapon at need! The second came away. So did the third, with red sunset light flooding over the mountain gorge below.

Duane gobbled his food, forcing himself to wait for full dark. He attacked the tattered blankets of his bed. The thin, stout iron bar, nearly two feet long, was tool enough; he ripped the blankets into strips. Time and again he had called to mind that glimpse of Agnes Lawton in the room below, estimating the distance from floor to floor. In the last, gray daylight, he knotted the strips of blanket; he had enough. About a remaining bar in the window he made one end fast, and let the makeshift rope drop out.

Clouds were piled into the sky. The stars peeped forth and then were veiled; the blackness was intense. Duane tucked the iron bar securely under his shirt, pulled the leather trunk under the window, and went at the job of getting through the opening. It was a stiff task, but he made it, inch by inch, gripping the remaining bar and wool rope. When he let himself go, his clutching hands were smashed cruelly against the stones— but he was free, dangling over the void— free!

Now he was gambling everything on what would meet him. Unless a window were there, he was lost. He got the rope between his legs and let himself down, carefully, hand over hand. His feet scraped the wall— came suddenly upon emptiness. A window! But not like his own. Not a barred window; the opening was glassed in. The room showed no light. Was it empty?

From somewhere far below drifted up chanting voices and the brazen reverberant clash of gongs. Hand over hand; it was beside him now, he could get his boots against the glass! Arms straining, he let himself dangle out, then came in, kicking with both feet. His boots shattered the glass. He heard a faint frightened cry, and never had a human voice seemed so sweet. Another swing, and his feet and legs were in through the opening.

Exhausted, cut in a dozen places, but still intact, he fell to the floor of the room. A match was scratched and sprang alight; in the yellow flame he saw the face of Agnes Lawton and she saw him. He was too spent to find words, but lay gasping. Another match, and flame rose from a candle.

Duane roused, to find her swiftly bandaging a ragged cut in his arm.

"It was a long job, but I got here," he said. "Words are silly things, aren't they?"

"Sometimes. I was never so glad to see anyone!"

"You didn't know I had tried to reach you with a message? No, of course. Never mind. Are you all right? Unhurt?"

"Quite," she said. "But a prisoner. They let me out each day for an airing."

"No such luck here." Duane rose stiffly. "We've got a lot of time to make up for; let's talk as we go. I suppose your door is locked."

IT WAS. He went to work on it with the iron bar, which made an excellent jimmy, but the door did not yield readily. As he worked, they both talked. Her brother was in a hospital at Irkutsk. She had been decoyed, under pretense that Duane wanted her, to a helicopter that had brought her here; Tuyok Nokhoi himself had piloted it.

"From what he said," she concluded, "he knew nothing about Mr. Parks being in Korla. He thought I was in full charge of making the Buddha, and evidently intended to halt that work."

"So? And he didn't know about Parks, eh?" said Duane thoughtfully. "What about the air-base construction?"

"I think that has stopped entirely," she replied. "You're supposed to be away on a hunting trip—"

The lock of the door smashed out under Duane's weight.

"All right; forget everything else. Our job is to get out of here," he said, and turned to her, looking into her cool, level eyes. "No use asking if you're game for it; I see you are. Take the candle and follow me. This old rabbit-warren is probably deserted and dark. Down at ground level we'll find risk enough. Ready?"

She brushed the hair out of her eyes and seized the candle. "Let's go!"

Iron bar in hand, Duane stepped out into the dark passage, and they were off.

Some twenty minutes later, an unfortunate Mogul in red robe and hat, who guarded a passage on the ground floor, heard footsteps. He paid little attention, beyond a growled command for silence. He was intent upon the scene at the far end of the passage, dimly visible from his post.

The entire community was gathered there, in the huge communal chamber dominated by a gigantic bronze statue of Buddha. Through thick incense, studded by the occasional clangor of gongs and drums, pierced chanting voices; at intervals they dropped, and the cracked tones of an old woman rose shrilly, or the deeply vibrant accents of the holy man from Tibet. He who had been Tuyok Nokhoi. Ceremonies were going on that would last far into the night.

The Mongol guard in the passage was aware of two dim figures where no figures should be. A shout broke from him— unluckily, just as the chanting voices were at their loudest, drowning his alarm— and plucking a long knife from under his robe, he hurled himself straight at the two figures. He had no chance to shout again; for the iron bar in Duane's hand smashed hat and head.

Now there was fast work in the dim passage. Through the open doorway of a reception room was rolled the Mongol's body; the hat and red robe were clapped on by Duane. He caught the hand of Agnes Lawton and led her down a transverse corridor, away from the chanting and the incense. A light appeared ahead; a thunder of gongs from the ceremonies filled the air. "I know where we are!" said Duane, at his companion's ear: "That's the side entrance from the courtyard— good! Now, wait here. Looks like a guard near the light. Stay put!"

Too bad that Mongol had carried no pistol! But the iron bar would serve. He strode forward. A lamp burned in a wall-nook. Duane came to abrupt halt, flattening himself against the wall, immobile in the shadows.

Not one guard, but two! They stood together, yelping at one another through the deafening din of gongs; one was pointing excitedly. Now Duane perceived that the door stood wide open, and a sudden blaze of light caught his eye from outside— it looked like a falling star-shell, illumining the courtyard. But he dared not pay any attention to it now— one of those two guards had turned, had picked up his skirted robe, and was coming slap for him at a run.

The other stood in the open doorway, back turned, watching something outside— the strange brilliant light, no doubt.

Duane had not an instant to think. The Mongol running at him was upon him; if the man got past, he must discover Agnes Lawton. On the thought, Duane stuck out his foot. The lama tripped over it, a yell burst from him, and he pitched forward, only to roll over like a cat and come erect. His arm moved. Duane, leaping for him, was aware of a stunning crash— the monk had flung a heavy bronze knife, whose hilt struck him between the eyes.

Blinded, stunned as he was, Duane kept going and hurled himself into the man. His iron bar lashed out and elicited a howl of pain. Duane struck again. The red robe relaxed and lay motionless. Duane fell against the wall, recovered, wiped the blood from his eyes and peered at the second guard. That man stood in the doorway, unmoving; he had heard nothing. His whole attention was fastened upon something outside.

Feeling himself on the point of collapse, dizzy from that cruel crack on the forehead, Duane staggered forward. The sound of the gongs died away; he heard the voice of Agnes Lawton, from behind. The guard heard it also, and whipped around. A cry broke from him. His hand whipped up a pistol.…

Before he could use it, the iron bar crushed his skull and knocked him out through the doorway into the night.

Duane stooped, groped for the fallen pistol, and his fingers found it. He came erect, swaying; the door-frame supported him. Agnes Lawton was at his side, catching his arm. With her, he staggered out upon the darkness, and the open air revived him, steadied him. He looked about for the strange brilliant light, but there was none. All was pitch black.

"What happened? Are you hurt?" sounded her anxious voice.

Bareheaded now, Duane impatiently threw off the hindering red robe. He toppled, and she barely saved him from going over. With a low groan, he sank down on the stones.

"Got a nasty crack over the eyes," he made reply. "Easy, now. Let me rest a minute. Something's going on out here. See anything?"

"Not a thing," she said. "There's a glow of light over at one side— where they've been erecting those walls—"

"Yes, for the Buddha. Wait, now." Duane felt his hurt forehead. No inner damage, apparently, but there was a long cut and the blood filled his eyes. He wiped it away, and looked. Light, sure enough; a faint light. He tried to move, and could not. "Give me a hand up— that's the girl. Thanks." Unsteadily, he gained his feet, with her help, and jammed the pistol into his pocket. Together they started across the courtyard. He was intent upon getting entirely out of the place.

But, it seemed from nowhere, a finger-ray of light struck them. A glad cry sounded. To his amazement, he heard the voice of Parks. Figures approached. Here was Wang, babbling at him in delighted greeting— and Parks, steady old Parks, wringing his hands and giving Agnes Lawton an excited hug.

"What is it— what is it? Am I out of my head?" demanded Duane.

"Not quite, old chap!" said Parks, laughing. "We've got your Buddha here— got him planted and working. We didn't know what was up, but Wang suspected. He helped me finish the job— I had your orders, and headquarters said to obey you at all costs. So we did."

"Good lord!" gasped Duane. "Yes, yes— Tuyok didn't know about you— here, look out, look out— there's hell to pay back there!"

A chorus of yells split the night behind them. He staggered forward, Parks helping him. Directly in front of them, just back of the opening into the roofless walls, towered something. A light flashed, a deep voice boomed out— Parks spoke hurriedly.

"The electronic system's at work, hooked up to the power of the helicopter. That's the electric eye greeting you— wait and we'll switch on the lights— hurry, Wang!"

A soft, subdued glow leaped up. There stood the Buddha of bronze plastic, and the light lit up the courtyard. Duane halted, just inside the entrance, beside the Buddha. He shoved the others on, and turned as a vibrant shout of anger lifted, He knew that voice, and fumbled for the pistol in his pocket.

It was like a dream— the thick stream of figures pouring from the monastery, the tall lean shape leading them. Tuyok the Hound brought out a pistol as he ran forward, and a new yell of fury escaped him as the towering shape of the Buddha appeared.

Duane, without an atom of emotion, took careful aim and pressed the trigger. Tuyok leaped in air, came another step, another— and then crumpled up and fell face down on the stones. He had come just within the range of the electric eye, with his final step.

The glowing Buddha lifted an arm, a majestic booming voice came from his lips in a Mongol greeting, then he sat silent, smiling, motionless.

A deathly hush fell upon those red-robed monks crowding behind Tuyok.

They thronged together, staring. One stepped forward gingerly and said something. As though in response, the radionics worked anew; the arm of the Buddha moved in blessing, and the glow of light died into a gentle softness that lit only the smiling, serene face.

The monks, as one man, fell in prostration. Through their ranks came an old, gaudily attired shape. The cracked voice of Ming Shui made itself heard thinly. She advanced to the figure of Tuyok— and crossed the electronic beam. Again, in booming salute, the Buddha spoke and the lights gained in strength. With a howl, old Ming Shui toppled forward on her knees.

Duane felt Parks pull him back, behind the Buddha.

"Take over— take over, Parks," he said. "Get Wang to interpret— catch 'em while it's hot! Where's Agnes Lawton?"

"Here," she answered, and her hand found his.

"Go on," said Duane. "Go on, and leave us alone, feller. It's all over—"

AND SO IT WAS, as Stratolines later learned. All over except one thing, that is; but you have undoubtedly guessed that already. And if you ever meet Mrs. Jim Duane, you will know why her husband looks, and is, the happiest man in the world.

And today, the miraculous Buddha of the Monastery of Eternal Peace is the most famous place of pilgrimage in all eastern Asia. As it should be.

________________

5: Mustered Out

Argosy and Railroad Man's Magazine, April 5, 1919

SERGEANT ALOYSIUS Larrigan inspected the houses ahead— and hesitated. Before he found name and wealth and fame in California film fields, Aloysius Larrigan had been born and raised in New York. Hence, he knew the metropolis. He knew that behind him on Fifth Avenue were the false jewels; and that here ahead of him was the real thing. Here, half a block off Fifth Avenue, was the house of Jim Bleeker, bunky of Sergeant Aloysius Larrigan.

But the sergeant hesitated, gripping the package a little harder in his hand. Then, mustering up courage, he approached the doorway and rang.

The outer door opened, and a stolid butler gazed at him.

"I've come to see Mrs. Bleeker," said the sergeant nervously.

"It's quite early, sir," answered the butler, somehow stifling his first instinct of blank rejection. "I hardly think, sir, that Mrs. Bleeker is"

"Look here!" snapped Larrigan, flushing. "I've just landed from France. My name is Larrigan. Jim Bleeker was my bunky—"

"If you'll step inside, sir," hastened the butler, changing countenance abruptly. "I'm sure that Mrs. Bleeker will wish to see you."

Aloysius Larrigan sat himself down between a mounted piece of fifteenth-century armor and a dull-gleaming Rubens. All this, he knew, was the real thing. He had guessed that Jim Bleeker was an aristocrat; but— well, all this was a bit crushing. Before he quite realized it, Mrs. Bleeker, in her widow's black, was upon him and holding his hand.

"Jim wrote me so much of you!" she was saying quietly. "I'm very, very glad to know you, Mr. Larrigan. I received your letter from Bordeaux, telling me of the final days— I cannot tell you how I appreciated the sweetness of that letter."

Aloysius Larrigan blushed fearfully. He stammered something and fell silent.

"You must stay for luncheon— but how long shall you have in the city?"

"No time at all, ma'am," returned Aloysius. He displayed his package. "We're going through town to be mustered out, and then I have to hit for California. I've got important business there, you see— a lady I've not seen for a year, and also business. I just got permission to run up here with this."

He thrust forward the package, all his carefully rehearsed speech and actions gone to the winds.

"You see, Mrs. Bleeker, Jim made me promise to bring these things here myself. They are just the little things; well, you'll see. He thought maybe you would like to have them. I have to be back in half an hour."

Mrs. Bleeker took the package, bit her lip very hard, and then threw back her shoulders and looked Aloysius Larrigan in the eye. He realized that hers was a peculiar bravery— the courage of deep things, of rare blood, of a sensitive, inner grief that was tearing her very soul before his eyes.

He felt tongue-tied and extremely uncomfortable, far different from the easy assurance habitual to him.

"Wait just a minute, please," she said, and left him.

He waited, gazing at the velvet hangings, the deep softness of everything around him, feeling himself frightfully out of place. The knowledge that he was an American soldier, and as good as any man alive, did not help him.

Then he smiled grimly at the thought of how little the studio directors knew about the furnishings of an aristocratic home! All the studio men knew about was the flashy emptiness of the newly rich and the professional decorator.

Mrs. Bleeker was before him again.

"I'm more sorry than I can tell you, Mr. Larrigan, that you have to run away so quickly. When you get settled in California, will you please send me your address? One does not know what unforeseen emergencies may arise."

Aloysius promised.

Mrs. Bleeker produced a little morocco case.

"I would like you to have this," she said quietly, very steadily. "I brought it to Jim once; he always wore it. There's no other man I could give it to, Mr. Larrigan— but if you would accept it, you would give me great pleasure."

Larrigan gazed at the scarf-pin, an abalone blister mounted in gold.

It came to him that this was a very precious tribute, a tribute from the woman's heart, meaning more than words could say.

Jim Bleeker had other friends, of course— wealthy friends, college friends, all that a man of his standing would have. But he, Larrigan, had been Bleeker's bunky in France, had watched Jim Bleeker die, had been more to Jim Bleeker than any man alive.

And this was a tribute, the most precious heart-gift he would ever know.

"I— I'd be very glad," he said, stumbling over the words, cursing himself because he could not express the thing that was in him, the feeling that gripped him in that moment of revelation. "I'll be wearing cits in a couple of days. I— I sure appreciate this very deeply, Mrs. Bleeker."

"There's no other man I could give it to," she said again very softly.

This was all. He was thankful that his face seemed quite unknown to her.

REEVER KEENE was home again— Reever Keene, the great; Reever Keene, the man who had snapped asunder his fabulous contract a year ago in order to enlist as a private; Reever Keene, whose pictures were the greatest drawing-card in every theater of the country!

He had sent no notice of his coming, but the studio knew of it and was ready. As the Overland drew in, sixteen automobiles were waiting, and these automobiles were the cream of motion-picture motordom. All Los Angeles knew that the aluminum car with purple trimmings was Reever Keene's; that his director owned the pea-green Twin Duplex striped with canary; that his leading lady had paid eleven thousand dollars for the screaming blue-and-gold roadster, and so forth.

But a terrible thing happened at the station— a thing which, fortunately, was kept out of the papers by influence. As one of the lesser lights of filmdom grasped the hand of the great Keene he gave a raucous laugh.

"For Heaven's sake, Reever! Where'd you get the abalone sparkler? Wow! Look at it, folks; pipe the—"

Reever Keene's fist smashed him square in the mouth.

The press-agent wanted to use the story, of course; but Reever Keene took the press-agent by the nape of the neck and kicked him hard. Influence did the rest— advertising influence. The story was killed.

"I can't understand what's got into Keene," said the director, riding back to the studios with the president of the company. "And look at the face of him! We'll have to paint him an inch deep to disguise that brick-red tan and make him come out like the old screen idol! Fortunately his profile is all right still."

The president grunted. He was a wise man, or he would not have been in his present position.

"Keene takes up his contract where he left off," he returned. "That's all I'm worrying about! Let Keene run the whole damned place if he wants. If you'd gone into the army, my son, instead of sitting on your draft-proof job, the Lord knows you'd be a damned sight better director!"

The director looked at his leather puttees and said no more.

"Where's Lola?" asked Reever Keene, driving to the studios in his own car once more, his leading lady and chief supports gathered around him. "Thought she might be around?"

"She'll turn up at the studios," was the response. "Working on a location near Santa Monica to-day. They'll be back for dinner. We're having a real celebration, old boy!"

"Lola's awful proud of that sparkler you gave her," simpered the leading lady. "Heaven knows it was a beaut!"

Reever Keene shivered a little. He was not sure why he shivered; nor was he sure why the warmth and cordiality of his reception at the studio left him cold and hard.

He had not thought it would be this way. He had looked forward to falling right back into the old rut, among the old friends, and he had anticipated swaggering like a good one— all kinds of publicity in it! But, somehow, he found himself landing with a horrible jar. He was damned glad, he reflected, to be done with the bare simplicity of the soldier's life, with the saluting and uniforms and general prophylaxis; and yet—

Homesickness had glamoured all the old life, but now that he was back in it, the glamour seemed unaccountably like tinsel. The directors, for instance, even his own director and old crony, with their puttees and riding-breeches, general superiority, and bustling business— well, maybe it was the puttees that grated. Keene had saluted leather puttees until he was heartily sick of it; but that was another story altogether.

He wondered inwardly if he had ever been like the men now around him— good fellows, of course, but abominably artificial. These fancy tailored garments, these amber cigarette-holders and sodden cigarettes without a bite, these flashing jewels, and, worst of all, this breezy talk that moved in perpetual high lights—

What the devil was the matter with him, anyhow? Maybe it was because Lola had not come yet.

Well, Lola came, with a stifled shriek and a tiny Peke, and flung herself at him. Good Heaven! Keene had been away from studio paint so long that her appearance frightened him. And had he really picked that engagement ring, that diamond like a walnut? Yes. He remembered hideously the glee with which he had nonchalantly signed that five-thousand-dollar check, and the delight with which he had seen the check pictured in the papers.

"You've been away a hell of a long time, old sport!" and his director clapped him on the back. "But now you're back to the life— the only life, boy!"

"Right you are!" cried Reever Keene, bracing his shoulders. "Let's have a drink!"

THE FACT that Reever Keene, home from the army, insisted on working with an abalone blister in his scarf, was an idiosyncrasy good for three-day comment in the press. And the press-agent sighed for the lost opportunities that were closed to him simply by the stubborn deviltry of Keene. Nobody knew what had got into the screen star. He had changed. The abalone pin, for instance, was a sore subject with him.

He never wore any of his former loud attire, and had discarded all his jewelry, which formerly flashed in the cabaret lights of Los. He even wore that abalone pin stuck in the front of his dress shirt, for a society picture; and when the director expostulated, Keene bluntly told him to go to hell— which was no way to treat a famous director.

Then somebody in the scenario department— that is, somebody in the orange-hued flivver class— had an inspiration. He wrote a story about that abalone pin. Keene, according to his contract, had the say about what film stories were to be accepted for his use; and he went into closed session with the scenario department, and there was evolved a scenario which made the director gasp. But the scenario went through; it had to go through, with Keene backing it.

"What's come over him?" said the president to the director. "He used to get stories written by his friends, turn down everything from the department, make us pay five hundred dollars for the stories— and then split with his friends. That's the old stall; what's this new wrinkle?"

"Damned if I know," groaned the director. "It's got society stuff in it, and only last week he said he'd never touch society stuff again. And there ain't any punch, not a bit; it's one o' them bleedin'-heart things, and it ain't got—"

"It's got Reever Keene in it," snapped the president, "and that's enough to put it across anywhere. Do you get me?"

The director departed, weeping.

Worse was to come, however. Reever Keene sold his gorgeous car, and showed up with a plain green-black affair— not even a victoria top to it! Lola refused to ride in the wretched thing, and Keene swore; and the end of this matter was a fine quarrel which the press-agent featured without the least opposition.

And then came the first of the month and the new story.

The story was a society story, right enough. For three days. the company was on location at the Billingkamp residence— you remember, of course, Billingkamp's Canned Soups— and the exteriors were gorgeous affairs.

The trouble was that Reever Keene had been reading some highbrow stuff, and insisted on wearing his silk hat without any of the rakish tilt which is so fetching to the screen folk; and he insisted on throwing out the beautiful white roadster with red upholstery which the director had provided, and used his own sobersides of a car— and other things like that.

In between times the quarrel with Lola was deftly adjusted, the date was set for the wedding, and duly featured by the press-agent.

After that the company came back to the studio, the remainder of the picture being interior sets— and then the trouble really began. Reever Keene had instructed the property-men about the drawing-room set; the director had done likewise. Props, seeing himself between the devil and the deep sea, provided both sets, and left the principals to scrap it out. Which was wise.

Reever Keene took one look at the director's set, and ordered it off the stage. The director was inspecting Reever Keene's set, and Keene met him in the act.

"My Lord!" said the director. "I don't know anything about motion-pictures; I'm just a poor simp who's spent all his life in the game. Look— for the love of Heaven, look!"

"Get down to cases, you," growled Keene. "Never mind the high-art stuff, now. Just be sensible and tell me what's wrong!

The director swallowed hard and waved his hand at the set. It had been assembled with a good deal of trouble. There was an imitation Rubens; there was a real set of imitation armor that looked from the camera considerably like fifteenth century. The rest was deeply rich velvet and hangings.

"As man to, man," said the director, "I'll put it to you, Keene. How do you think this dark stuff is going to take? All to the bad! It can't be done, man! You've got to have contrast. Now, can't you realize that this picture has got to show a society home? A real swell home. None of your junk, but stuff that spells money. They eat it, the people do!"

"If you knew the money we'd spent on this set," began the property-man plaintively. But Keene interrupted.

"What would you suggest, then?"

"Just what I ordered set up!" returned the director. "Statuary. A nude on the wall. Some o' this here lacquered Chinese furniture— we got Bent's whole store to draw on, and you know the best people ain't buying anything else but lacquered, which shows up like real money. Then that high-colored rug, and so forth. It'll be toned down fine in the film, Keene."

"Maybe so, maybe so," said Reever Keene.

"And then these here costumes. I been reading over your directions." The director tapped the papers in his hand, with growing boldness. "I notice you got white neckties with evening clothes; you know's well as I do they don't make contrast. Then you got the society dames ordered to cut out the low-neck stuff— What the hell gives you such a notion of society, anyhow? Don't you know they run around half naked? And no jewels. My Lord! If I was to run out such a picture the society papers would give me plain hell!"

"If you had ever read them at all," said Keene dryly, "you'd see they do that, anyhow."

A few minutes later the president sent for Reever Keene.

"Take a cigar, Reever," he said genially. "Now, we'll have to cut out this fussing between you and Bob, see? He's a damned good director; I'm not paying him twenty-five thousand dollars for nothing."

"Let him mind his own business, then," said Keene, a little white around the jaw. "I've got a good picture, and he's not to spoil it."

"Sure not," agreed the president affably. "But see here, now. He's contracted to put out your pictures, ain't he? All right. And he's got the say."

"In other words," said Keene slowly, "I'll have to stand for his directing in this picture, eh?"

"Sure. His contract is up in three months. If you want, I'll put you in charge of your own directing after that."

"Then stop work on this picture until he's out of it."

"Can't do it; Reeve— we're a week behind on the next release, and it's got to be rushed. That's why I'm putting it up to. you straight to work in with him now, and we'll work in with you later, see?"

Reever Keene nodded curtly.

"I'll try," he said. "But— I won't promise."

"The hell he won't!" laughed the president later, when he was recounting the conversation to the director. "Like the rest of them— throwing a big bluff so he can strut around the Screen Club and tell how he handed it to me! Well, that's one way of managing these here stars, believe me! This guy's getting more money than the President of these here United States. Is he going to chuck his job?"

"Not him," said the director confidently. "Besides, he's under contract to us, and if he broke the contract—"

"He'd be finished, absolutely!" declared the president. "He's no fool!"

The president was playing both ends against the middle, which is a wise game— sometimes.

REEVER KEENE had been too long in the movie game, and was taking too much money out of it, to have any artistic temperament— that is, when he was on the lot. Movie folk have to keep their temperament out of business.

Still, when Keene saw what his director was doing to the abalone-pin story, and realized that he could not prevent its being done, he boiled with inward and suffocating rage. After three days he was so stifled with fury that he was ready for an outbreak.

He had put Jim Bleeker into that story, and when he saw how the director was handling Jim Bleeker, despite all protests, his fury became white-hot.

On the fourth morning he drove to the studio without opening his private mail. Once in his dressing-room, he glanced over the letters while he was making up; but, for him, that mail resolved itself into just one letter. He propped it in front of him and read it over again:

Dear Mr. Larrigan:

Within a few days I am leaving for Europe to take part in reconstruction work. I could not leave without writing you to express anew my very deep appreciation of all your thoughtful kindness to Jim. I know from his letters what your friendship meant to him, and I have learned from other comrades of your great devotion toward the end. Thanks seem but a little thing to offer; yet, believe me, my thanks and appreciation come from the soul.

I know nothing of your financial position or status in civil life, and I do not wish you to think that I am insulting so deep and pure a thing as your friendship with Jim. However, I am enclosing a card from my attorneys, who are fully instructed to honor it in any way. If you should ever be in need of advice or aid, it will give me great happiness to know that you will make use of this card as though it had been handed you by your friend,

Jim Bleeker

"Bless her sweet heart," muttered Reever Keene, tearing the card across and tossing it into his waste-basket. He smiled a little, as he thought of his twenty thousand dollars in cash, buried where no one would ever detect it; and of the Kansas oil stock, held by a friend, which brought in itself a comfortable income. Everybody in the business thought that Reever Keene blew all he had, like every one else; but Aloysius Larrigan knew better.

He read the letter again, fingering the blister pearl in his scarf, and forgetting his make-up completely. Once more he was standing in that house, half a block off Fifth Avenue; once more he was living through that moment when Mrs. Bleeker had handed him that scarf-pin, with her quiet, steady voice, and her brave, stricken eyes.

The thought of it made him sit very quiet, staring at the letter. In all his life he had never experienced a moment such as that; no not even when Jim had died, beside him! It had been a moment of the spirit; a moment of absolute integrity, of purity, of unsullied sweetness.

That moment had assoiled many long-soiled years. It had grown upon Larrigan ever since, had grown larger, had grown to mean much more than he had dared admit. Now this letter had come to bring it before him again in all its larger aspects.

He made up mechanically and went out on the lot; for an hour he acted mechanically, obeying the director without protest, without thought. Then, during a change in the set, he went to his dressing-room.

Lola was there, standing at his table, reading the letter. Something went cold inside Reever Keene, and he stepped forward as if to take it from her. But she turned upon him, a flood of passion in her face.

"Well," she observed with a sneer, "I guess I got your number now, Mr. Larrigan! Lady signs herself Jim Bleeker, does she? Maybe we're goin' to hear a lot of things that happened—"

"You're making a mistake, Lola," said Reever Keene.

"Mistake, am I?" She shook the letter at him with sudden passion. "Maybe I don't know a chicken's writing when I see it, huh? Well, if you think I'm a fool, this ends it! You can go along with your Jim Bleeker all you damn please! When you get ready to talk turkey to me—"

Lola drew off the walnut diamond and laid it, very carefully, on the corner of the dressing-table under Reever Keene's nose. The whole action was very statuesque and very dramatic; at least, was so intended.

An instant later Lola uttered a despairing shriek. Reever Keene had seized the walnut diamond and had hurled it through the open window— hurled it with a swing that sent it glittering through the air to Heaven only knew where!

"Ends it, eh?" snapped Keene. "Then I'm blamed glad of it! So-long!"

Lola fainted as he vanished, and immediately the dressing-corridor was filled with figures answering her final dramatic shriek. Reever Keene went outside and climbed into his plain green-black car and drove down the street to his lodgings.

Once there, he wiped the paint from his face, with a curse, and began to pack up his things. He paid his landlady. He burned Mrs. Bleeker's letter over the oil-stove. Then he threw his stuff together in the rear of the car, and drove down to the bank, where he drew what money he kept deposited there.

This finished, he went to the central gasoline station and turned over his car to be filled with gas and oil, and to be loaded with sundry extra five-gallon cases of the same.

While he was watching these affairs being brought to conclusion he heard a wild hail and saw the president's car stopping at the curb, and the president himself descending, red and perspiring of face.

"Hey, Keene!" demanded the magnate heatedly. "What the devil's struck you? They said you blew out o' the studio like a wild man and quit work! Get on back there—"

"Go to hell!" snapped the star. "I've quit being Keene. I'm Aloysius Larrigan, see? And don't get fresh, you!"

"What! Where you going?"

"I'm going to Kansas, where I got business," retorted Larrigan. "Hurry up with them two cans of oil, over there! And blow up the extry tires while you're about it, partner."

The president seized him by the arm.

"Look here, you!" he exploded violently. "Are you quittin' on the job— quittin'?"

"I am," said Larrigan coldly.

"By Heaven, if you bust this contract I'll see to it that you never get another job in front of any damned camera in the world!" raved the other. "I'll—"

"You," said Larrigan, "and your contract, and your seventeen companies, and your directors, and your money, and your whole damn camera battery, and your entire double-dashed motion-picture industry— go to hell! I'm done! Mustered out!"

He shoved a greenback at the gasoline dealer, climbed into his car, and went. The president gazed after him with eyes of dulled, glazed despair.

"Bein' in the army— that's what done it for him— ruined the best star in the whole damned works!" he murmured dismally. "Damn the Kaiser!"

_____________________

6: The House Of Skulls

All-Story, January 25, 1919

1: I Buy a House

I MET BALLIOL as result of answering an advertisement in a Los Angeles paper. It looked like just what I wanted. Here is the ad to speak for itself:

FOR SALE— Twenty-acre ranch, fine house, complete equipment. Ten acres walnuts, eight pears. Electricity. Water abundant. Income, five thousand dollars, but will sell cheap for cash. Near lake north of San Francisco.

John Balliol met me by appointment for luncheon at a downtown hotel. Instantly I saw that something was very wrong with him.

He was a fine-looking young fellow, but was terribly nervous; he must have smoked ten cigarettes with the meal. That, if you happen to know, is purely a city habit. Then, he had a way of glancing swiftly over his shoulder as though afraid something were about to come at him; and his eyes wandered, flitted with lurking suspicion.

He was afraid of something.

But he was a gentleman, a man of education. One or two things he said gave me the idea that he was a Harvard man, but he kept very close-mouthed about himself. He had a queerly aggressive manner, the manner of one who fights yet knows that he is licked. Also, he wanted to sell and get his money at once— before the following night.

"But you're not a rancher, Mr. Desmond," he said, suspicion in his eyes. "Why are you interested in my property?"

I laughed. "Largely because it's a sacrifice for cash," I replied. "I'm no rancher, but a sedate artist of a sort. Being a bachelor, I practice interior decoration; but I paint pictures as a preferential occupation. In the past year I've made so much money through supplying really worthless but gorgeously blended interiors to war profiteers, that my general physical condition has gone flooey, if you get my meaning! The New York medicos sent me to California. The Los Angeles medicos have ordered me to get on a ranch up north, where the climate is more bracing and not so deadly monotonous."

"I get you," he nodded briefly. "Know anything about ranching?"

"I can stretch an easel between rows of pear-trees, can't I?"

At that he laughed, and for a moment lost his nerve-tensed expression.

"I need money," he said after a bit. "I need it badly— before tomorrow night. I got the ranch several years ago; I've been improving it steadily, and the house and property are now in first-class shape. And, I've spent a lot of money on it."

"Reason for selling?" I inquired.

"Strictly private." He looked slightly flurried, but his eyes remained steady. "Merely because I need the money, and need it more badly than I can tell you. It's a grand place up there, Mr. Desmond! Deer are a nuisance; you can shoot wild hogs anytime. If you like fishing, Clear Lake has the best in the State. In two or three years, after they get the boulevard through from Frisco, the whole valley will be opened up and land will be out of sight. At present it's twenty miles from the railroad, and I can't honestly brag of the roads—"

He got out a map of Lake County and showed me the lay of the land. When I saw that the lake was thirty miles long, that his place was only a few miles from Lakeport, the county-seat, that it was in the heart of the hills, and within easy distance of the big trees and of San Francisco itself, I warmed up to the subject.

"Well," I said, "what's the price? Lowest cash."

"Ten thousand cash— if I can get it before tomorrow night."

That looked queer to me. Ten thousand for a place bringing in five thousand a year!

"You want the money by tomorrow?" I said thoughtfully. "I have an old friend in one of the banks here; he'll handle everything for us. He can make thorough inquiries as to the title, and so forth, by wire. If it's as you say, and if the title's clear, we can know by tomorrow noon— and I'll take it. Otherwise, not."

He drew a long breath. "I'm satisfied, Mr. Desmond. By the way, if you put through the deal, would you consider buying a car? I drove down here in mine— a Paragon four-passenger roadster. I'll not need it, and I'm already offering it for sale. If you haven't a car, you'll find it the best bargain on the market. Cost me five thousand about four months ago, and I'll take a thousand cash— before tomorrow night."

"All right," I assented cautiously. "If you're willing to have the Paragon agency here give her the once-over."

He was willing to have any kind of investigation made, either of the ranch or of the car. Inside of an hour my bank had the ranch matter in hand, and promised me a complete report the following morning. John Balliol and I went to the Paragon agency on Olive Street, where his car was laid up, and I found no report was needed.

The car was strictly a beauty, in first-class shape. She was not exactly an economical car, but she would give good service for years— a nifty, high-class job all around, as the Paragon agent described her. I liked her so well that I bought her on the spot, ranch or no ranch; and I've never had cause to regret the bargain.

That night I spent a good deal of time wondering about my friend John Balliol. He had all the earmarks of a gentleman; but for all I knew he might be a rank fraud. Not a word had he said about himself, other than I have set down here.

If he had not been in a hurry, and if his ranch was as described, he could have obtained twenty thousand for it— easily. And his car was saleable for double the price I had paid. He was obviously in the position of one who is madly sacrificing all that he has in order to raise quick money—"before tomorrow night," he had said. Of course, it was none of my affair aside from the business end of it.

At ten the next morning I went to the bank, where Balliol was already waiting. The cashier beckoned me into his private office and spread several telegrams before me.

"Everything looks correct, Mr. Desmond," he stated. "In fact, everything is correct. The title is flawless, and the land is worth much more than is asked."

"And this Mr. Balliol himself?" I said. "Will you satisfy yourself that he's what and whom he says he is?"

The cashier grasped this somewhat involved query and nodded. Then he summoned Balliol to join us. At first Balliol was inclined to be insulted; then we made him realize that to hand out ten thousand in cash to a man without identification was somewhat risky. He immediately calmed down, and not only produced all kinds of papers, but had himself identified by one of the largest banks in the city, just around the corner from my own bank. In short, John Balliol was all to the good.

"You attend to the transfer," I said, when Balliol produced the deeds to the property and handed them to the cashier. The latter nodded and left us alone.

"Now, Mr. Balliol," I said, when I had written the check as was waiting for it to dry, "this deal is going through. I wish, as between gentlemen, that you'd tell me anything you know against the property— why you're giving it away."

He turned a little white under his healthy tan, and fished for a cigarette.

"Can't do it, Mr. Desmond," he responded. "It's— well, it's private, absolutely. Nothing whatever against the property, upon my word! I got into a bit of trouble, however, and had to have the money. That's all."

Of course I asked no further questions, and the deal was concluded on that basis. I had made out the check to him personally, and he did not cash it, but took it away with him. He did not even ask the bank about my standing, which made me feel rather ashamed of my insistence regarding him. But, as we separated with mutual expressions of good will, I saw him walk away— and glance again over his shoulder with fear in his eyes.

He had two checks, amounting to eleven thousand of my money; and I had his ranch and his car. And that little Paragon boat, believe me, was a wonder! It was a distinctive car, with a specially built body, and the color was bright canary-yellow— light enough not to show dust easily. The top had plate-glass and solid curtains, and was a deep maroon in hue. Taken all in all, the car could be recognized several miles away as the only one of its kind on earth, particularly as the wire wheels were a bright pea-green. The top was low and deep, of the back-curved variety which effectually hides the driver and passengers.

Speaking for the New York decorator, I could not say that Yorke Desmond was exactly wild about the color-scheme of that car. I forgot this in the beauty of her performance, however. Later on, perhaps, I would have the paint changed.

According to John Balliol, I would have nothing on earth to do except to sit around while my walnuts and pears grew, and rake in the shekels when they were ripe. Everything was bought on the hoof, as it were, so I did not even have to pick the fruit. This suited me, naturally. Of course, explained Balliol, the ground had to be cultivated once or twice a year, and the pear-trees had to be sprayed in the summer, but all equipment was on the place. Such mild diversions would but relieve me from the monotony of having nothing to do.

As they say just off Broadway, it listened good.

It was noon when the sale was consummated, as I have described. Within an hour I had two extra cord tires reposing on the hind end of my new car, and a complete outfit of maps from the automobile club, and an outfit of suitcases on the running board. By two o'clock I had packed up my belongings, shipped my artistic impedimenta by express to myself at Lakeport, and at two-five I was heading toward Hollywood and the coast highway north.

My mental attitude was precisely that of a child with a new toy. I wanted to drive that Paragon bus for all she was worth, and only the fear of speed cops held me down. I was wild to get up to my new ranch and see how the walnuts and pears grew. So, having nothing particular to keep me in Los Angeles, I got on my way without delay. Either I had bought a wondrously good thing, or I had somehow got wondrously stung— and the chances were that I had not been stung!

By six o'clock that evening I was safely in Santa Barbara for the night. Ahead of me were the alternated patches of boulevard and most abominable detouring which constitute the State highway to San Francisco, and I was supremely happy in the way the Paragon rustled along.

That canary car, with the green wheels and maroon top, certainly attracted attention; this was the only fly in my ointment. I am essentially a modest and retiring man, and I abominate being taken for some ornament of the film industry. Anyone who had ever seen that car would remember it to his dying day, and I never passed a car on the road that my rear-sight mirror did not show me the occupants craning forward for another eyeful of my beauty. All this bothered me, but caused me no particular worry.

I could not forget, however, the peculiarity of John Balliol's manner. I felt sorry for the chap; felt rather as though I had taken advantage of a man when he was down. Elated as I was over my bargain, I thought to myself that if the ranch panned out, I'd send him an additional five thousand later.

But I could not forget him as I had last seen him— glancing over his shoulder as though half expecting something to pounce on him.

2: I Meet a Lady

IT HAPPENS to be the case in California that the Los Angeles newspapers circulate north, and the San Francisco papers circulate south, until they overlap and die. They circulate swiftly, too. I was up and out of Santa Barbara before seven o'clock, and had the last Los Angeles edition in my pocket when I went to breakfast. They point of this digression will arrive in its proper place.

Beyond glancing over the headlines of my paper, I did not look through it, but jammed it into my overcoat pocket for later consumption. If only I had read that paper, things might have happened otherwise— or they might not. All's for the best!

I got off in a drenching fog and drizzle of rain, which, I was assured, was the usual Southern California "high fog." There were no speed cops out at this time of day, so in half an hour I was finishing the twenty-odd miles of boulevard north of the city, by which time the fog was breaking and the sun streaming forth gloriously.

The worst road I ever took, or ever hoped to take, befell me then and there. It was a detour, and there were miles of it, alongside the newly constructed but unfinished boulevard. Then I swung a bit of presumably finished road, with unfinished culverts at the bottom of each hill; the first one nearly took my head off when we struck. Then more miles, and long miles, of plain road— about as bad as the detour; then boulevard again, thank Heaven, that lasted! This took me until eleven in the morning.

Consulting my road maps, I found that I was close to a town— the name I have forgotten— and should reach San Luis Obispo for luncheon, with fair road most of the way. Being in a hurry, I stopped in the town long enough to buy gasoline, and I happened to stop at the first gasoline sign I saw, which was near the railroad station. Recalling the circumstance later, I remember that my car was headed north, quite obviously.

While the tank was being filled, a northbound train passed through without a stop, and the garage man said that it was the "flier" from Los Angeles. It had left there sometime the previous night, and passed here "regular as clockwork." Naturally, at the moment I thought nothing whatever of the incident.

"Good highway all the way to San Luis," observed the man, while he made change for me. "No speed-cop out today, neither. The boy got run into day 'fore yesterday, so burn her up if ye want! But keep your eye skinned north o' San Luis, partner. Gosh! Say, ain't this car a real oriole, though!"

Thanking him, I climbed in and proceeded to "burn her up." The bad roads of the morning delayed me, and I was anxious to make time. I made such good time that I passed the limited train just before reaching San Luis, and, finding that it was still on the good side of noon, I determined to push on to Paso Robles for luncheon.

About twelve thirty I was in Paso Robles, still untouched of any speed-cop. Leaving my car before the garage in the main street, I began to skirt the block from storefront to storefront in search of luncheon. Now, I do not wish to pain the good citizens of Paso Robles; but I was too ignorant to go back a block to the big hotel; I merely asked for a restaurant and was directed accordingly. So I had no kick coming.

At last, on the other side of the block, I found a place, settled down to a table, and to my surprise found the food really endurable. As I ate I continued my perusal of the morning paper. It was the only Los Angeles paper in those parts, I imagine— for I saw no other there or north of there.

The paper was in two sections. And on the front page of the second section was a photograph of John Balliol.

As I glimpsed that picture I felt a premonition, a forewarning. Beneath it was his name and nothing more. But to the left was a three-column story, entitled: Scion of Prominent Eastern Family a Suicide." Above this heading, after the custom of that particular paper, was another heading in very small type, being the quotation: "One More Unfortunate."

It was just as well that I had about finished my meal, for now I was past eating. The thing stupefied me, left me blankly dazed; and to think that I had carried this paper with me all the way from Santa Barbara!

I plunged into the story, eager and horrified. There seemed to be no mystery at all in the affair, so far as the newspaper was concerned, except that there was no mention of Balliol having any money. He had merely plugged up his room and turned on the gas; this he had done shortly before midnight. An hour later the thing had been discovered and the story had broken in time for the newspaper to cover it fully in the last edition.

Friends of Balliol had volunteered that he had left a sister, whose whereabouts were totally unknown, and an uncle in Boston. Balliol's father had been a prominent Boston lawyer, who had died some years previously, leaving his family absolutely nothing. Balliol himself had made a little money after leaving college, and some years before had gone on a ranch in the northern part of the State. There he had struggled along, fighting a losing game against the lean wolf, poverty, and so forth. In desperation to sell his ranch, he had committed suicide. They story was played up absolutely as that of a man weary of striving against the world, and had evidently been obtained from friends of Balliol.

For that very reason it left me dazed and bewildered! Four months previously, John Balliol had bought a five-thousand dollar car— a fact of which the newspaper was ignorant. That did not look like the grim wolf stuff. He had expressly told me that the car "cost him" that amount— not that it had been presented to him.

Of course he had wanted money very badly on those two days when I had seen him. But he had got the money; so why the deuce had he killed himself? The paper stated that his hotel bill in Los Angeles, where he had been stopping five days, had been unpaid, and that his personal effects amounted to nil. What the deuce had he done with my eleven thousand dollars, then? The thing began to look queer.

Investigating more thoroughly, I discovered that Balliol had been known at the bank which had identified him for me; but that he had no account there. One of the bank officers had known him in college. That was all. Nothing was known about his having sold anything to Yorke Desmond; my checks had not been found upon him, and neither had my money. By the time this information came out, the paper would hardly consider it worth reviving the affair. Balliol had killed himself, the present article made a plausible story, and nothing else mattered. He had certainly "gone west" of his own volition and act, and motives were unimportant.

Yet I knew that he had not killed himself because of poverty! The man had been afraid of something— that was it! As I sat there and stared at the paper, I felt absolutely convinced that, if the truth were known, John Balliol had killed himself to escape from something that had made him a nervous, fear-filled wreck! What had happened last night to make him plunge over the brink?

Realizing all of a sudden that I was outstaying the noon hour and my welcome, I paid the waitress and asked to use a telephone. By dint of paying the fee in advance, I got Los Angeles by long distance, and presently was speaking with the cashier of my bank.

"Yorke Desmond speaking," I informed him. "I'm in Paso Robles and going north to the ranch I bought. Just saw the paper about Balliol. Did he cash my checks?"

"No, Mr. Desmond," returned the cashier. "If they are presented, we'll take every step to verify the endorsement of course. It seems to be quite a mystery."

"All right, thanks. Address me at Lakeport in case of need."

I rang off and left the place, stuffing the newspaper into my pocket. One thing was certain: the reporter had got the wrong steer from Balliol's friends! Balliol had not killed himself because of poverty— not in the least. Why, he had told me that he had furnished his ranch house with all electric appliances and the best furniture he could get in San Francisco! No; his grim struggle had been one fine little myth. But it had satisfied the press, and had evidently been meant to satisfy the press— why? To keep the real truth concealed, of course. His friends were shielding him.

It was none of my business, but I could not help checking up on my private convictions. First, John Balliol had been afraid of something— either something in his past, such as disgrace which was hounding him, or something tangible and terrible in his present. Second, this fact was known to those in most intimate touch with him, and was being kept quiet.

Thinking thus, and being more or less absorbed in my trend of thought, I came back to the main street and my bright-hued car. A crowd of natives were standing about in admiring comment, which tended to make me want to get away from there. I jumped in and released the brake, pressed the starter, and was off. Regardless of warning signs, I went through town on second at a pretty good clip, then eased down into third and hit for San Francisco at an even thirty.

"Damn the whole affair!" I said aloud. "What if those checks were stolen from him last night—"

As the words left my lips, I heard a subdued gasp, then an exclamation. It came from the rear section of my car! I flung one startled glance over my shoulder, then I switched off the mag and put on the brakes. As we came to a halt, I half turned in my seat and stared blankly at the young lady and the suitcase.

She was staring at me just as blankly— more so, in fact; she seemed undeniably frightened. She had the suitcase on the short rear seat beside her, and it was a very good suitcase, of expensive make.

"Who— who— what are you doing in this car?" she stammered, anger creeping into her voice.

I was up against it, somehow; just how, I was not at all sure. She seemed perfectly sane, and I liked her voice immensely. I liked her face, too. It was a healthy, sensible sort of face, and it was exquisite into the bargain. She was dressed in a traveling suit which spelled something better than California tailoring.

"Who are you?" she demanded, half startled and half angry. "Answer me! What are you doing with this car?"

"Driving it, madam," I answered. "I— er— I trust you don't mind?"

She stared at me again. I removed the big, yellow goggles, pushed up my cap, and threw open my duster.

"Now," I said comfortably, "we're on an even basis. Since you wear gloves, I presume you are not a Californian— probably a mere Californiac. I hope you won't think me offensive when I say that this is literally a charming surprise! Probably there's been a mistake somewhere. I don't see possibly how I can have got into the wrong car—"

"Stop that nonsense!" she cried out; and I observed that he had very blue eyes, and remarkably pretty eyes. "Drive this car back instantly!"

"Back— where?" I inquired. "Back—"

"Have you stolen this car?" she flung at me as if she really thought I had.

"No," I said, and laughed. "No, madam. This car is protected from theft by reason of its color. No thief would attack it! The car belongs to me, it really does," I went on, for her appearance of fright sobered me. "If you doubt it, look at the prescribed card here by the dash, which was legally affixed before I left Los Angeles. It bears my name and the car's number—"

"Do you dare pretend that you are John Balliol?" she flashed out scornfully.

"Heaven forbid!" I said gravely. "Balliol's dead. I bought the car, madam, day before yesterday. Only an hour ago I saw in the paper an account of his death—"

I curse the impulsive words. For she stared at me, her eyes slowly widening in horror, the color ebbing out of her face; then she collapsed in a dead faint.

3: I Receive A Warning

I HAD NEVER had a fainting lady on my hands before, except once when Mrs. Wanderhoof, of Peoria, saw the Fifth Avenue apartment I had decorated for her, and looked at the bill. In that instance, Mr. Wanderhoof had assumed charge. But in this instance—

We were out of sight of Paso Robles, and there was not a soul nor a house in view. There was no water to throw on the girl's face— she was no more than a girl, I judged— and the radiator water was apt to be dirty. So, not knowing what else to do, I swung over into the rear seat beside her and set her slim, drooping body upright against the cushions. As I did so, I was relieved to see her blue eyes flutter open.

Then I remembered a flask of whisky in the door-pocket, and produced it. I got the screw-cup to her lips, but at the first taste she pushed it away.

"Thank you," she said in a low voice. "I— I am very well now."

She seemed unable to take her eyes from me; the color slowly crept back into her cheeks, but in her eyes I read a bewildered fear.

Then she said something strange:

"You said— they killed Jack after all!"

I was puzzled. Jack! Oh, she must mean John Balliol. The poor girl— I must have given her a stiff jolt!

"No," I said gently. "No one killed Balliol, madam. I have the paper here with an account of it; it was suicide. May I ask if you are a friend of his?"

She seemed to shudder slightly, and drew a long breath.

"Yes. I am a— a friend," she said in a low voice, and flushed. I had the uneasy conviction that she was lying to me. "Your words were— a shock. I saw him only last night, before my train left— or, rather, yesterday afternoon.

"When this car passed the train this morning I felt that it was he; I knew we were ahead at Paso Robles, so I left the train and waited— and I saw the car and got in. When you came along, I thought it was Jack— and meant to surprise him— and when you spoke I discovered—"

She broke off, the words failing her. That told me the whole story, of course. Even from the train she had not been able to mistake this accursed car!

"But it was only six last night when I saw him! And my train did not leave until nearly midnight— there's been a wreck somewhere, and the trains were all held up. It never occurred to me that he was not in the car—"

She broke off again, starting at me.

"My name is Yorke Desmond," I said, trying to make matters smooth. To my dismay, I saw her eyes widen again with that same startled expression. I could have sworn that she had heard my name before.

"I met Mr. Balliol two days since, on business. I bought a ranch from him, in fact, and bought this car to boot. I'm on my way up to the ranch now. If, as I presume, you were en route to San Francisco, I shall be very glad to place the car at your disposal."

She looked away from me, looked at the horizon with a fixed, despairing gaze. My dismay became acute when I perceived that she was going to cry. And she did.

"Oh!" She flung up her hands to her face suddenly. "Oh— and to think that it took place last night— right afterward! And now it's too late—"

A spasm of sobbing shook her body. Not knowing what else to do, and feeling that I had been a blundering ass, I went for a walk and let her cry it out. All my married friends tell me that crying it out is the only solution.

As I paced down the roadside, I found myself extremely puzzled, even suspicious. She had admitted to me that she had seen Balliol the previous evening. But first, when she had not been on guard at all, she had cried out: "They killed Jack after all!" Upon hearing that Balliol was dead, she had immediately taken for granted that "they" had killed him! Things looked rather badly.

The initials on her suitcase, which I had seen, were M. J. B. Was she a Balliol? No; she had said that she was a friend, and had distinctly said "friend," not "relative." And she had been lying about it, somehow; a minute later she had lied when she told of seeing Balliol the previous night. For her train had not been late! It had left Los Angeles a little before midnight, on regular schedule. "Regular as clockwork," had said the garage man as the train had passed us. I remembered that incident now.

This girl must have known Balliol pretty well. She had seen him last night, and he had gone from her to his suicide. And, by Heaven, she knew it! She was lying!

Well, this conclusion gave me quite a jolt, to be frank. That girl did not look like an ordinary liar, and she did not lie with practiced ease. Why should she deliberately set out to deceive me? I could not see any light whatever. And the mysterious "they" whom she took to be Balliol's murderers!

The whole affair was strictly none of my business. As I walked back to the car, I took out my pipe and filled it. This girl was in trouble, and my best course was to mind my own affair and ask no questions.

When I had regained the car, I found that the girl had composed herself and was now staring at the horizon again— a poor, crumpled bit of exquisite femininity. I removed my cap and addressed her.

"Madam, it seems that there has been a mistake somewhere. Please consider me at your service in any way possible! If you want to get to Frisco, we can reach there tonight, I believe."

Her gaze came to me for a moment, and she drew a deep breath.

"Thank you, Mr. Desmond," she said quietly. But she did not give me her name. "Jack told me of selling his ranch to you, but did not mention the car. That was how my mistake came to be made."

Her lips quivered, and she looked down. Then she forced herself into calm again.

"If— if it would not be asking too much, will you take me on to San Francisco with you?" she pursued. "I'm very sorry indeed to have made this terrible blunder."

"It will be entirely my pleasure, madam," I returned rather pointedly. But she did not take the hint, and obviously intended to keep her identity to herself. So I got into the car, and, as I did so, removed the paper from my pocket.

"Here is the newspaper in question," I added, handing it to her.

She took it in silence and leaned back again.

I started the car, and we went on.

For the remainder of the afternoon the two of us exchanged scarcely a word. Once or twice I attempted to divert her thoughts by comments upon the road or the country, but she discouraged my efforts quite visibly. I was too occupied with the road, which again alternated good with bad, to let my mind dwell upon the mystery of the girl.

We made time, however. I took the chance of speed-cops, and let out the Paragon on the good stretches. To my satisfaction, we got into Salinas a trifle before seven o'clock, with fine boulevard all the rest of the way to San Francisco.

"We have about a hundred and twenty miles ahead," I remarked to my companion as we rolled into Salinas. "We had better get a bit to eat here, for we can't make Frisco before ten or eleven o'clock. I imagine you had no luncheon," I added hastily, seeing a refusal in her eye, "so I must really insist that you eat something."

She had been crying again, but assented composedly to my request. We located a Greek restaurant, and went in together. After a cup of execrable coffee and some alleged food, we felt better.

"Now for the last lap!" I said cheerfully as we came out again to the car. "I haven't much faith in the speed-cop myth, so we'll let her out while the going's good. All set?"

"Yes, thank you," she responded, settling herself in the rear.

We started north, and the Paragon flitted along like a bat out of purgatory. She was a sweet boat for speed. When it got gloomy I threw on the headlights and the big spotlight which formed a part of her equipment, and we zoomed past the California landscape in the finest fashion imaginable. These vast stretches of country were entirely different from driving around New York, and I liked the change immensely; it was intoxicating!

Then we came to the extraterritorial suburbs of San Francisco, after getting through San Jose and Palo Alto and safely past the military camp. I am not at all certain where the spot was, but I know the Paragon was hitting a pretty good clip when into the cone of light beside and ahead of us flashed a man on a motorcycle. He passed us like a flicker, then he slowed down and extended his hand.

"Good night!" I remarked, with sinking heart. "There was a basis for the myth after all."

When we were halted, the motorcycle planted itself at my elbow, and the officer took out his pencil and pad.

"Know how fast you were going?" he inquired.

"I'm afraid to guess," I said meekly. "Your word's good, officer."

"I made it fifty-eight," he observed. "Also, there's a headlight-law in this State and you've got a blaze of lights there that would blind a shooting star. And your taillight is on the bum. That's three counts. You seem to be sober."

"Thank Heaven, I am!" I returned. "Anything else?"

He grinned, and took down more information about me than would have filled a passport. Then he gave me a slip and told me to report to a certain San Francisco judge at ten in the morning.

"Isn't there any way out of the delay?" I queried. "I'm trying to get north in a hurry."

"So I judged," he retorted. "Too much of a hurry. Well, I must say you've took it like a gent— Tell you what! Run along with me, and we'll drop in on a justice of the peace. This is a first offense, so you can give bail— and forget it. See? Of course, we're not supposed to give this info, but—"

"But you're a gentleman," I added, "and I'll make it right with you. If you can fix that taillight of mine, I'd appreciate it."

Half an hour later we were once more on our way, with full instructions as to the proper rate of speed; and I was minus fifty-five iron men, and lucky to get off that cheaply. But the whole thing had delayed us so that it was hard on midnight when we saw the gay white way of Van Ness Avenue off to our left. I halted the car and turned around.

"Asleep, comrade? No? Well, if you'll be good enough to give me orders, I'll take you wherever you're going."

M. J. B. gave me the name of a hotel on Sutter Street where she was known favorably, it seemed, and instructed me to drive up Van Ness. She appeared quite at home in the city. I followed her instructions, and ten minutes later drew up before the doorway of a quiet family hotel. I helped her out of the car with her suitcase, but she refused to let me take it inside for her. She held out her hand.

"Thank you, Mr. Desmond, for your kindness," she said earnestly. "And— I've been trying to think over what's right to do. Would you take some very serious advice from me?"

"I'd take anything from you," I said smiling. "Shoot!"

"I am not joking, Mr. Desmond," she made grave response. "Please, please do not go to the ranch! I can't give you any reasons; but I mean it deeply. For your own sake, do not go on to the ranch! Not until the end of the month at least. Good-by!"

She picked up her suitcase and was gone, leaving me staring after her.

4: I Hear a Bullet

OUT OF SHEER decency, I had to seek another hotel, naturally. I did not pay much attention to M. J. B.'s warning. At midnight, after a tremendously hard day's ride in a car, after a stiff shock and a fainting-spell, the girl would be in pretty bad nervous condition. I took for granted that she was overwrought, and let it go at that.

As I wanted to reach Lakeport the next night, and had a plenitude of bad roads ahead, I was up and off at seven the following morning. Ferrying over to Sausalito delayed me, and before getting to San Rafael I was off on a detour which took me around nearly to Petaluma. The road was fair, but outside Petaluma I picked up a tenpenny-nail held upright by a scrap of wood, and it took one of my cord tires in a jiffy. Fixing that held me up a little while.

I got to Santa Rosa in time for an early luncheon, and discovered that I was going to make Lakeport in the afternoon, barring accidents. This was good news. I also discovered that the last place I could get any liquid refreshment was at the famous tavern kept by one McGray, on ahead. So, about one o'clock, I drew up before the wide-spreading place, in the shade of the immense oaks that shade the tavern-grounds, and went in to get a long, slim drink.

In view of the after-developments of that same day, it might be well to set down that I had one drink, and one only. Upon returning to my car, I came to an abrupt halt in some astonishment. A young man was standing by the off rear wheel, and he was not observing me at all. He was well dressed, but rather swarthy in complexion; this country was full of Italian, French, and Swiss grape specialists, as I had learned coming north, so there was no stating the antecedents of the young man. What interested me, and seemed to be absorbing him, was the fact that he had a knife in his hand and was industriously pecking away at one of my rear tires!

At times I yield to impulse, and this was one of the times. I reached that young man in two jumps and banged him solidly into the car, then jerked him upright and planted my fist rudely against his nose, allowing him to sprawl in the dust.

He picked himself up and went away in a hurry, swearing as he went.

"Of all the infernal deviltry!" I exclaimed as he vanished among the trees. "That fellow certainly had his nerve—"

I was relieved to find that he had effected no damage, beyond a hole in the casing that had not yet reached the breaker strip. Taking for granted that he had had a drop too much, I climbed into the car and departed.

Within no long time I had reached the village of Hopland, my destination on the highway. From here a toll-road ran over the hills to Lakeport, and I turned off without pause in the village, thankful that the end of my trip was in sight— as I thought.

That road was a brute— thick with dust, barely wide enough for two cars to pass, and with crumbly edges and a sheer drop at that, and a steep up-grade for five solid miles! In places it was a very beautiful road, winding up between forested growths of redwoods and giant conifers. As I nursed the Paragon up that road at fifteen miles an hour I had plenty of time for reflection.

Back to questions again. Out of the general muddle these had resolved themselves into certain distinct and coherent queries; and they fell under two heads:

John Balliol:

1. Whom had he been afraid of, and why? Unknown.

2. What had brought him to suicide? Not poverty, certainly.

3. What had he done with my checks? When they were cashed I would know.

4. Why had he needed the money by a certain night— the night he was to meet M. J. B., the night he killed himself? Unknown.

M. J. B., the Fair Unknown:

1. What was her connection with Balliol? Mystery.

2. Did his suicide hinge on his meeting with her? Problematical.

3. She had said: "They killed him!" Were "they" microbes or gunmen? Unknowable.

4. Why her warning against my going to the ranch?

My answer to that final query was: "Because she liked me!" It was a satisfactory answer, too. It made me glow happily. I had always been a sedate bachelor, but I must say that M. J. B. was the most attractive girl I had ever met, and to find her interested in me was, to say the least, very pleasing.

My only regret was that I had left her in San Francisco. I thought of going back to the city as soon as I had inspected my ranch—

Just then I observed that my radiator was boiling, what with the grade and the hot sun; and ahead of me was a spring beside the road, with a turnout. I halted the car at the turnout, baled cold water into the radiator with a rusty tin can, and sat down to smoke and let my engine cool off. It was a cool and pleasant spot, under lofty pines.

I was just knocking out my pipe when I heard voices and the creaking of a vehicle. Around the sharp bend ahead came a horse and buggy, the latter occupied by three men. All three carried rifles and knives, and beneath the buggy trotted a big hound. They nodded to me and drove to the spring, letting the horse have a mouthful. Obviously, they were natives.

"Good afternoon," I returned their greetings. "Why the artillery? Sheriff's posse?"

They grinned and laughed.

"Deer season opened yesterday," one of them replied. "Thought you'd come up from the city for the same reason."

"Not I," was my answer. "Plenty of deer around here?"

"That's what they say— but there ain't none when we want to get 'em. Most of the folks in Lakeport are out, from the Chink laundryman to the sheriff."

They drove on down the trail, but as they went I could see that they were looking back and making observations— probably on my car. Until they passed out of sight at the next curve they were still staring backwards and discussing something: either me or the car. I took for granted that it was the car, and it was.

The deer season did not interest me particularly, because I have no taste for hunting. Cursing the foot-thick dust in the road, I got into the car and went on.

At last, to my deep relief, I attained the summit of the divide, where the tollgate was located. I paid my dollar fifty and had a magnificent view of Clear Lake in the distance amid the hills, then started downward. The descent was steep enough and winding, but three miles of it brought me to the floor of the valley, in a region of jackpine and brush and hogbacks.

And, as I turned a quick curve, there before me in the road stood two deer— does. For the fraction of an instant they gazed at me, then they flung away. Like brown streaks they went over the nearest hill and were gone. Instinctively I halted the car, gazing after the graceful creatures. A moment later, I shoved my foot toward the starter, but I was still staring at the hillside; instead of touching the starter, my foot touched the accelerator— and touched it with a particular pet corn. I smothered an oath and leaned far forward to clutch my aching tow, for the stab of pain was acute. And, as I leaned over thus, a bullet came exactly where I had been sitting, at about the height my head had been.

I know it was a bullet, because I heard it— and because the effect was terrific. It plumped through the rear of the top, on one side; it passed above me, and its shrill song was lost in a rattling smash of glass as it took the top half of my windshield into slivers. Then came the crack of a rifle to prove that it had been a bullet.

If I had not happened to lean over, and to lean over pretty far, that bullet would have finished me— sure!

My first instinct was to start the car and get away; then I checked the impulse and slid out to terra firma. Someone not very far off was shooting recklessly, and it made me angry.

Hopping out in the road, I stared around. Naturally, I saw nobody. If any hunter had mistaken the maroon top for a deer, he was not advertising his mistake to me.

"Shove fer home, Balliol!" cried out a rough voice. "Shove quick, or he'll give ye a closer one!"

The voice came from somewhere behind and to the left of the car. Balliol! I was being mistaken for Balliol— and there was no mistake being made!

As this astounding fact percolated to my brain, I wasted no time asking questions, but climbed into the car, started her up, and rolled away from here in a hurry. Balliol! Who in the name of goodness was trying to assassinate John Balliol?

In that rough voice from the hillside had been a deadly earnestness which had impelled me to flight; it brought home to me in a flash that I was up against something serious. Under the blue sky, under the hot August sunlight, the thing was extremely matter of fact. I thought again of the young man who had been jabbing my tire, and of the warning administered by M. J. B. The sequence was pretty plain!

Absurd as it seemed, this land-cruise of mine was actually taking me into perilous waters.

It was the fault of car, of course; people though that Balliol was driving it. As I rattled across a bridge and entered upon excellent dirt roads, the realization cheered me immensely. Balliol had admitted that he had gotten into trouble up here of a private nature. Well, the minute his enemies discovered that I was not John Balliol, but Yorke Desmond, I would be left alone! Yet why, in such case, had the girl warned me? I gave it up.

With a suddenness for which I was unprepared, Lakeport jumped into my immediate foreground. I had anticipated a county seat of some importance, but I found it a village straggling along the lakeshore, with a single main street and outlying residences. The valley had been settled by Missourians back in the fifties— and they were still here.

Presently I descried a charming square and courthouse, with a fine new Carnegie Library down by the lakefront. Except for a couple of docks and some moored launches and houseboats, the lakefront consisted of reed-beds and was not beautiful. But the lake itself, with the mountains opposite, was magnificent!

Volcanic action had done its work well in this place, and it was the sweetest spot I had seen in California. Once the town was wakened from its sleepy repose, it would be a second Geneva.

As the deed to my ranch had been sent on here for recording, I drove directly to the courthouse, left the car, and walked up to the county recorder's office on the right of the main building. There I found everything in order and awaiting me. I inquired for the sheriff, meaning to set him on the trail of my near-assassin, but found that he was hunting deer. So was everyone else in town who could get away, even as my hunter-informants had stated.

I walked half a block to the bank, with whom my Los Angeles bank had corresponded. The bank was closed, for it was after four o'clock, but I telephoned and obtained admission. I presented my credentials to the banker, an extremely cordial chap, and asked directions to my property. He showed me exactly where my ranch lay and outlined the road.

"Tell me one thing confidentially," I inquired; "do you know why Balliol left here? Do you know anything against that property— any reason why I shouldn't have bought it?"

"Certainly not!" he answered with evident surprise. "Balliol left because of his health, I believe, and for no other reason. The property is absolutely good, and a give-away at the price, Mr. Desmond! You got a good thing."

He was in earnest, beyond a question. But as I sought the street again I found myself wishing that he had phrased it in some other fashion than "because of his health."

After my late experiences, it had an ominous sound!

5: I Discover Skulls

I STOPPED at the hotel that night and the next morning departed to my ranch. It lay about twenty miles from town, by road, as I had to get around Mount Kenocti to reach it. By water it would be much closer. The ranch lay at the edge of the lake, and Balliol had done his clearing with the eye of an artist. The house itself was built of rough-hewn timber and cement, and was admirably situated at the edge of a small bluff over the water; about it stood gigantic white oaks, while the orchard ran back on the other side of the road.

Although I had half expected more excitement on my trip, I met with nothing untoward.

In Lakeport I had loaded up with camping supplies, a bit of forethought which came in handy. As I ran down the side road to the house and opened up the gates I was filled with delighted anticipation; with half an eye I could see that the place was a gem of beauty! The gates open, I ran the car inside, then shut the gates again. I was in my own domain at last.

Fortunately, I had telephoned the electric people on the previous afternoon, so that I found the electricity turned on— the place was on the power-line, which in California gives right to the juice, whether it be in a desert or a mountain canyon.

Of course, one expects to get something for ten thousand cash; but as I opened up the house and saw what things were like, I was astounded.

Balliol must have laughed in his sleeve at finding me to be an interior decorator. The place was furnished— literally crammed— with things which, in New York, would have been beyond price. They had come over with the Missourians in prairie schooners, and Balliol had bought them at various farms for a song.

There were two rosewood pianos, one an importation from Holland; several antique clocks, with original glass, in running order; the chairs were fiddlebacks of crotch-mahogany; there were two satinwood cabinets, genuine Sheratons. And the beds! Each of the two bedrooms was furnished completely in walnut; not the burl walnut of the late Victorian days, but the old carved French walnut of the earliest period. All in all, that furniture was a delight to the heart.

On the more practical side, the place was ready for use, from the bedding to the electric stove in the kitchen. By the time I had investigated everything and opened up the house, the morning was nearly gone, and it was about eleven o'clock when I descended the short path that ran down the bluff to the lakeside. Here was a boathouse, with a short dock beside it; when I had gained access to the boathouse by means of Balliol's keys, I found a launch of small size but sturdy construction, and a fine Morris canoe. Fishing tackle swung that walls, and in one corner was a drum half filled with gasoline.

I took out my pipe and sat down in the launch. Not only was everything here which Balliol had described, but more— much more. To think of what I had dropped into astounded me. It was much too good to be true!

The acres of fruit-trees, which must be worth a good sum as income property, could no doubt be rented to neighbor ranchers. I resolved to see about it at once. All I wanted was this house and what was in it— no gentleman's ranch for mine, but a gentleman's country home.

My ideas had changed since seeing the place. Brought face to face with pear and walnut trees, as it were, I lost enthusiasm; fishing, tinkering with old furniture, and painting suited my lazy inclination a good deal better.

"I'll get something to eat," I said, knocking out my pipe into the water, "then I'll try out the launch and visit the neighbors, and see about renting the orchard. It has a crop on right now, so it ought to be a good thing."

I trudged back up the path, and when I reached the house I noticed a curious thing. The foundations were of cement, and a low cement wall-foundation ran the full length of the front veranda. There were a number of curious projections from that cement, and when I came up to the wall and examined them I found that they were human skulls!

The gruesome find rather staggered me. They were real skulls, set in the cement wall so as to project three or four inches, and they were in good condition. I am not superstitious, and I had no objections to this scheme of decoration on personal grounds; but it struck me that Balliol had carried his search for novelty just a bit too far.

"It's only a step from beaux arts to bizarre," I reflected, "and my friend Balliol seems to have taken the step. Where did he get 'em I wonder? Two— four— six— an even half dozen! Wonder if he put any more inside? I didn't notice them—"

I hastened inside the house, my thoughts on the big hearth and chimney of cobbles; but I confess that to my relief I found it was quite lacking in further remains. All the skulls were outside.

With that, I paid little more attention to the matter, practically dismissing it from my mind— and for excellent reasons. I passed out on the veranda, meaning to go around to the car at the side of the house, and get my provisions; but at the first step I came to a dead halt, with a cold chill at my throat.

Upon the cement floor of the veranda were wet tracks; they began at the door and ended abruptly in the middle of the floor.

Yet the veranda was empty.

Those were not the tracks of a man. Something in their very appearance sent queer horror rippling through me, sent my gaze quickly over my shoulder at the empty house.

I had been gone not twenty minutes; these tracks were still wet, and whatever had made them must have come from the lake while I was down there.

Undeniably shaken by the mystery of it, I rushed back through the house to the back door. Absolutely nothing was in sight; I ran around the house, past the car, and saw nothing.

At the edge of the bluff I could see the shoreline below— and it was deserted.

I came back to the veranda and stared again at those tracks, now fast drying. They frightened me; there was something about them vaguely unnatural! And never in my life had I seen anything like them. Of course, I had opened the wide veranda window, and a bird might have walked in, then flown out and away—

But, a bird of this size? A bird from the lake? There was no other water, except in the well behind the house, from which the house itself was supplied by an electric motor.

And were those the tracks of any bird alive? I doubted it. The size was immense; the shape was that of a small central foot, with four immense toes— and beyond these the marks of long claws, unless I were mistaken!

What was the thing— monster or hallucination? I tried to argue that I was self-deceived, and I failed miserably. There were the wet prints on the cement before my eyes, slowly drying away! They could not have been made more than a few moments before I returned from the boathouse.

I felt suddenly prickly cold and very uncomfortable, and turned into the house. To go ahead with luncheon was, for the moment, impossible. I went into the living room, and, as I passed one of the two pianos, I suddenly descried a book lying open upon it.

I paused to glance at the book; to my astonishment I saw upon the printed page a cut of the exact print which I had seen on the veranda. Beneath the illustration was the legend:

Fossil imprint of Pterodactyl,

Marsh Collection, Yale College.

The realization smote me like a blow, as I leaned over the book and read. Balliol had left the book open here, of course! Balliol had seen the same prints— or had he seen the thing itself? Had he seen the living actual pterodactyl, the creature that had become extinct when the world began, the flying dragon of myth and legend? He had seen the tracks, at any rate, just as I had seen them.

This proved that I was under no delusion about those prints. But— was the thing credible? It was not. The bowl of this lake was an ancient volcano, the whole valley was of volcanic creation; mineral springs abounded; a few miles distant were quicksilver mines; the water in my own well was mineralized. Now, I had read stories about prehistoric monsters coming back to the world via extinct volcanoes and bottomless lakes, and so forth— stories, that is, which were purely fiction. Had such a thing really come about here in Lake County, California, upon my own ranch?

"Not by a damn sight!" I exclaimed, throwing the book across the room. "Balliol was frightfully nervous; I'm not. He may have been frightened out of here by his imagination— but I'm going to be shown!"

Then and there I dismissed the unnatural fears which had shaken me. If the creature existed, I would shoot it; if the whole affair were one of those queer mental quirks which come to all men, if the prints were caused by some natural agency not at the moment obvious to my deduction, well and good.

I went around to the car and hauled in my provisions. The electricity was on in the house, and I got the electric range working and managed to make myself a fairly decent meal. At times I found myself desirous of casting quick glances over my shoulder, at windows or doors, but I repressed it firmly. I was not going to get into Balliol's condition if I could help it.

Lunch over, I dragged a rocker to the veranda and enjoyed a smoke, with the beauties of the lake outspread before me. By reason of a deep indendation of the lakeshore, the bluff on which my house was built faced almost due east; opposite me, across the bight, I saw the roofs of a farmhouse, doubtless my nearest neighbor in that direction.

It occurred to me that if I wanted to talk business, the noon hour would be an excellent time to do it.

So I went down to the boathouse again, opened up the water doors, and filled the boat's tank with gas. She was in good shape, and almost with the first turn of the wheel the spark caught. A moment later I was chugging out into the lake, feeling intensely pleased with myself, and I headed directly down to my neighbor's dock among the tules or reeds.

The neighbor himself I found sitting on his front porch. He was a brawny, bearded man of stolidly slow speech, Henry Dawson by name. I introduced myself as the new owner of Balliol's ranch, and was in turn introduced to Mrs. Dawson and two strapping Dawson boys. They all eyed me with frank curiosity.

I lost no time in setting forth my business. Dawson, like all farmers, was content to let me talk as long as I would. When I cautiously broached the subject of renting my land, however, he nodded his head in slow assent.

"Ought to rent," he stated, as though he thought just the opposite. "Maybe. Don't know as folks would want the house, though."

"I want that myself," I said. "What I want to rent is the fruit land. Could you handle it?"

At this direct assault, he hemmed and hawed. He was a very decent chap, however, and when I make it clear that I was not after extortionate rentals he came around quickly. I could see the house had killed the place, for some reason.

"Just what's the matter with that house?" I demanded, while he was making up his mind about rental. "Is it those skulls in the front wall?"

"Blamed if I know," he rejoined slowly. "Reckon it's that, much as anything. Gives folks a creepy feelin'."

"Why didn't Balliol get along there?"

He gave me a slow stare. "Get along? Why, I guess he got along all right. He was kind o' queer in his ways, ye might say; but he got along right well, Mr. Desmond."

"Where on earth did he get those skulls, though?"

"Dug 'em up right on the ground, I heard. He done all the work himself on that house, except what he hired done. Guess it was an old Injun cemetery; there was a heap of Injuns here in the old days. Quite a bunch here yet. They sent 'em to a reservation, but the poor devils got homesick and were 'lowed back. Right prosperous farmers, some of 'em, today. Well, about that orchard, I reckon we can manage it if we settle on the right terms."

We settled, then and there, at terms which were satisfactory to both of us.

6: I Buy a Gun

I ASKED DAWSON about big birds, but he said there was nothing larger than a buzzard around the lake; and presently I went home again. The rest of the day passed quietly, and after writing a few letters, chiefly on business, I went to bed and slept the sleep of the just.

I was well satisfied with my new home, and for the coming six months my partner in New York could run the decorating business without my aid, so there was nothing to worry me.

The next morning I was up and off early, this time in the canoe, and got in an hour's fishing before sunrise. Although it was distinctly the wrong season for fish, I trolled down along the shore off the reed-beds, and picked up two fine bass, both over three pounds.

About sunrise I headed for home, well content with results. I wanted to visit Lakeport this morning, chiefly to see if there was any news from my Los Angeles bank about those checks. That Balliol had struggled along in poverty on his ranch, as the newspaper account had said, was quite absurd; that he had died in poverty, with eleven thousand dollars in his pocket, was entirely nonsensical.

Across the little bay from my place I paused suddenly. I had already learned from neighbor Dawson that Balliol had obtained his skull-decoration from relics of the red men, so their gruesomeness was removed in some measure. But— that did not explain what I now saw.

As it chanced, I had found a pair of field-glasses in a niche in the cobbled chimney, and had brought them along. Now I raised and focused on my house; rather, on the front wall under the veranda, where the skulls were located. To my uneasy surprise, I found my eyesight corroborated. The eyes of those six skulls were gleaming and flaming with a brilliant crimson!

Optical delusion? Not a bit of it. Reflections from the rising sun to the bone-level? Not a bit of it; such reflections would not come in a scarlet flame from the eyes of each and every skull. They were reflecting the lurid sunrise squarely at me, of course; but those hollow eye-sockets were filled with red fire.

I dropped the glasses, seized the paddle, and spurted for home, savagely determined to run down the uncanny hoodoo which had settled on this house of mine. As I drew nearer to my landing, I could see those red skull-eyes flaming more and more distinctly. There was no optical illusion whatever.

Then I was in the boathouse beneath the bluff, and of course the house was shut from view. Making fast the canoe, I paused to pick up a broken oar to serve as club, then ran up the path. Puffing, I gained the bluff in front of the house.

"Confound it!" I exclaimed blankly. "Am I going off my head?"

The crimson flame was gone from the skull-eyes. There was not a sign of it. In the sockets the white cement came close to the surface, and there could be no mistake.

I was completely taken aback by this startling development.

Of course, I told myself, there must be an explanation. Perhaps the sand in the cement was glassy, and at certain angles reflected the sun— that would be plausible in a single instance, but it would not do for twelve eye-sockets. Whatever the explanation might be, it was certainly beyond my comprehension. Then, again, the color of those eye-sockets had been a distinct blood hue.

As I stood there staring at the cement wall, I jumped suddenly. From the kitchen of the house came a banging crash, and I remembered a double boiler I had set out on the stove. Someone— or something— was in the kitchen, and had knocked it over!

Swearing under my breath, I leaped to the veranda and ran through the house. Now, I glanced at every room in my course; and I can swear that the house was absolutely empty. So was the kitchen when I reached it. Yet by the stove, whence it had obviously been knocked by some direct agency, the double boiler lay on the floor, a pool of water surging from it, and running directly to the stove from the doorway— but not back again— was a single line of muddy tracks. They were the tracks of the pterodactyl!

I was staggered, right enough. A prehistoric monster with a wing-spread of twenty-five feet does not hide easily in a bare kitchen; yet I looked around as if expecting to see the brute before me. Then I rushed to the windows. The yard was absolutely empty. The monster might be somewhere in the encircling trees; it might have flown out and down to the lake while I was coming through the house; but, by the gods; it had been here. Those muddy tracks on the floor reassured me, certified to my sanity and common sense.

Hastening outside, I looked around. The barn, which served as garage, was empty. I could discover no hole about the house where any such beast could hide. I flung my club whirring amid the nearest trees, and strode back into the house.

"Damn it!" I remarked as I set about cooking my two fish. "I'm going to get a shotgun and settle this mystery. I don't believe in fictionists' dreams coming true; and as for this flying dragon, I'll settle him with buckshot if I get one crack at him."

The red eyes of the skulls had paled into insignificance before this mysterious visitant, and I forgot the lesser matter for the time being. That double boiler knocked off the stove, and those muddy tracks, settled the pterodactyl once and for all as a living creature, and I meant to go after him. I only regretted that I must have missed him by less than a minute.

My second day in my new home was beginning in a way to make me realize why Balliol had come to Los Angeles with the jumps riding him.

An hour after these things happened I had closed up the house and was chugging merrily away from the boathouse in my launch. Navigation was no difficult problem here; I merely had to head straight up the lake, which I did. The voyage was monotonous, as are all launch trips in ordinary craft, and as I throbbed along the wind-ruffled water the memory of M. J. B. recurred to me with a twinge of self-irritation that I had not even her name.

Why had she warned me? And who was the dark-complected chap who had cut at my tires back at McGray's Tavern? And who had fired that shot at me? These were perplexing problems, but M. J. B. was more perplexing yet. I once again pictured her face before my mental vision, the trim sweetness of her, the capable manner which she wore, the energetic womanhood that lay in her blue eyes—

"Hang it!" I exclaimed. "I'm getting romantic— it won't do, Yorke Desmond! You'll never see that girl again, so forget her."

Easier said than done. I was still thinking of her as I tied up to the dock at Lakeport and walked uptown past the library to the main street. And within five minutes I was thinking of her again.

The telegraph-office was a dingy little place, messages being received here by phone. When I inquired for any wires, the young lady in charge handed me an envelope. I found it to be a night-letter from the cashier of my bank in Los Angeles. It read as follows:

Check for ten thousand, cashed yesterday First National, San Francisco, returned here this afternoon. Endorsements John Balliol, Martha J. Balliol. No further developments suicide. Good luck with ranch.

The ulterior meaning of this message gradually percolated through my brain, and I wandered forth to a bench on the courthouse square and sank to rest.

The check had been cashed the same morning I left San Francisco, and it had been cashed by Martha J. Balliol— no other than M. J. B.! No wonder she had seemed to know my name, when she must have borne in her pocketbook that check of mine! Balliol had given it to her the previous night, just before his suicide; so much was evident.

But— she had been Balliol's sister, then! Why had she not admitted her identity? Perhaps she would have done so, I argued, but for the news of her brother's death. After that, to find herself traveling in her brother's car, with the man who had bought that car and the ranch to boot, must have disconcerted her immensely at first. And after telling me that she was a friend of Balliol, she probably had lacked the nerve to confess her white lie and give her real name. Perhaps she had merely considered it unnecessary.

I felt relieved. Folly though it undoubtedly was, I had indulged a secret conviction that M. J. B. was Balliol's sweetheart; now she proved to be his sister, but although this fact afforded great relief, it none the less gave me new anxiety. I have always noticed that girls, especially very charming and attractive girls like Martha Balliol, are all too seldom free and heart-whole. Somebody else always seems to get acquainted with them first. That was one reason that I was still a bachelor!

But never had I met anyone like Martha Balliol. The more I thought about her, the more I felt like a fool for having left her in San Francisco as I had done. At last, realizing that I had bungled everything very sadly, and that it was now close to noon and I was hungry, I got up and sauntered toward the bank seeking information. On the way, however, I passed a hardware store, and bethought me of the pterodactyl. There was an attractive display of guns in the window, so I entered and besought the proprietor to sell me a shotgun.

"Want a license, I s'pose?" he inquired amiably. "I'm the game warden here, y'know. I dunno why you're goin' after deer with a shotgun—"

"I'm not," I rejoined. "I'm going after pterodactyls, and there's no closed season on them!"

He rubbed his chin, and with a mystified air agreed with me. "Well, I reckon not. Say, you the man just bought the Balliol ranch?"

"Yes. Desmond is my name."

"Stark's mine. Glad to meet ye. Seen any ghosts around there yet?"

"Ghosts?" I met his eye, and he chuckled. "What do you mean?"

"Well, that place is built right close to where the old Injun chiefs is buried, and I hear tell they's ghosts around there at times."

"Nothing doing," I rejoined cheerfully. "Not so far, anyhow. Where's the best place to get a meal in town?"

"Well, ye might go several places, but if I was you, I'd go up to Mrs. Sinjon's, back o' the courthouse."

He directed me, and leaving the shotgun until after luncheon, I went to the boarding-house back of the town square.

Ghosts, eh? That was a new angle. Had the natives played unpleasant jokes upon John Balliol, because of his skull decorations? No; the very notion was silly. Grave, stolid farmer folks like Dawson were not given to such trivial foolishness. Besides, Balliol's affrighted nerves must have come from months and years of fear, not days or weeks. And jokes do not extend over months and years.

I found the boarding-house simple and thoroughly delightful, the cooking wholesome, the company very mixed, ranging from a stage driver to an itinerant preacher. It was a warm noon, and conversation flagged. I was just finishing my meal, when, in the intermittent and broken-off speech of farming men, two workmen at the other end of the table spoke.

"Heard young Balliol's sister come in this mornin'," said one.

"Uhuh," said the other, and looked toward the stage driver. "Good looker, Mac?"

The stage driver glanced up. "Got him beat all hollow," he observed. "Come in on the morning train. Going up the lake, I reckon."

I paid for my meal and departed, feeling a bit dizzy. Balliol's sister! What the deuce was she doing here?

Calling for my gun at the hardware store, I arranged about mail at the post-office, then went down to the dock. And out on the dock, all alone, she was standing!

7: I Make Discoveries

TO SEE ME sauntering along with a gun under my arm, seemed to cause her some alarm. And, too, she seemed very self-repressive; her greeting was cold. Then, with a quick change of mood, she smiled.

"Are you going hunting like everyone else, Mr. Desmond?"

"I am, Miss Balliol," I responded.

An adorable flush stole into her cheeks, but her blue eyes did not falter.

"I must apologize for that," she said simply. "It was abominable! But at first, I— I said that I was a friend—"

"And you turned out to be a sister," I cut in. "Please, Miss Balliol, don't explain; I figured it out for myself later on, and I understand perfectly. But, if it is not an impertinence, may I ask what on earth you're doing here? This is an outlandish place in which to meet anyone— particularly a person of whom one has thought so much and often."

Her gaze dwelt upon me thoughtfully, searchingly, even suspiciously.

"To be candid, Mr. Desmond, I hadn't the least intention of confiding in you," she stated coolly. "But I can't help believing that you are honest—"

"Oh! Who said that I wasn't?"

"You implied as much— by buying my brother's property here."

"Thanks," I murmured, feeling pretty well dazed.

"I am going to Dawson's farm for a short visit," she went on. "If you care to see me there, I'll be very glad to explain matters fully. I think the up-lake launch is about due."

I did not know anything about the up-lake launch, but I took chances.

"No," I said positively. "She ran on a mud bar this morning and is stuck with a broken propeller. If you want to get to Dawson's, will you let me take you in my launch? There's not another to be hired, I assure you. Besides, it will let us talk on the way."

I have a suspicion that she knew that I was lying; but if so, she did not mind. At all events, she accepted my invitation. As she had only her suitcase, we were chugging away from Lakeport inside of ten minutes. She added to the mystery by stating that Dawson's took boarders, and that, while she was totally unknown here, she had determined to pay a visit to the lake on business. I began to feel somewhat uncomfortable.

"There are several things to straighten out, Miss Balliol," I observed. "First, your remarks about my honesty. Then, if you remember, when I told you about your brother, you exclaimed that 'they' had killed him—"

She whitened a little.

"Please!" She checked me swiftly. "Let me take things in order, Mr. Desmond. I should not have made that remark about your honesty; it required another apology from me. Now, let me get these things out."

She opened her handbag and began to look over papers. Meantime, she went on to give me some idea of her brother's past life, and of her own.

Balliol, senior, who had been a wealthy lawyer in Boston, had died suddenly, six years previously. He had left few resources except a family residence near Boston, and two small, undeveloped ranches here in Lake County. Martha Balliol had at once fitted herself for a position as stenographer, remaining at home with her mother. John Balliol, a boy nearly through Harvard, had come to California and had set to work developing the two ranches on Clear Lake.

He had worked like a Trojan, too. As the girl told me of what he had accomplished lone-handed, I felt a pang of pity for him. Two years before this present time, he had sold one of the ranches for a handsome sum. He had sent a large part of the money home to relieve conditions there and pay off the mortgage on the family home. Then, meaning to bring his mother and sister to Clear Lake, he had built his house on the twenty-acre ranch, and had built it well. The work had taken him nearly a year, for he had done most of it with his own hands.

During that time, however, some trouble had developed. To balance this, he had made money off his crops, and had ordered his Paragon car, specially built. What with one thing and another, he had spent every red cent that he could raise, being confident of the future.

"Then," went on the girl, "the trouble increased. What it was, I don't know; I can't find out! He only wrote about it once, and then he sent this photograph. It explains itself, so far as I can discover. Jack must have made an enemy of this man, and took his picture while they were having an argument. That was like Jack— he had no lack of nerve."

"Or of nerves either," I added to myself, as I took the letter and picture which she handed me.

The picture was a Kodak snapshot of a very angry young man shaking his fist at the camera. There was no doubt about his anger; a snarling, venomous rage was stamped all over him! As I recognized his face, however, an exclamation escaped me; for, beyond all question, it was the same swarthy young man who had tried to cut my tires at McGray's Tavern.

"What's the matter?" broke out Miss Balliol. "You know him?"

"I've seen him," I commented. "Tell you about it in a minute."

Beneath the picture was written: "John Talkso registering rage."

Taking the letter, I read a marked paragraph. It dealt with the same John Talkso, a name whose very queerness made me wonder what nationality the young man could be. Balliol had not explained this, but had written:

Am having more trouble with the individual whose picture I enclose. However, I hope to obviate further trouble with him. The whole thing is so silly that one hesitates to write any explanation. Don't worry about it.

That was finely indefinite, was it not? It was.

"About six months ago," resumed Miss Balliol, "we got into terrible trouble, and I was afraid to write Jack about it, because we were trying so hard not to increase his worries. Mother was very ill and we had to mortgage the house again; then a private bank failed— a bank in which father had left us a block of stock. The stock had never been any good, and then on the failure of the bank we had to pay a tremendous assessment to secure the depositors— and that finished everything for us. Mother died suddenly. When it was all over, I wrote Jack what had happened. Then I went back to work."

I did not hasten her recital, and she paused for a few moments. We were chugging merrily down the lake, and the heat of the sun was relieved by a cool breeze which brought stray locks of Martha Balliol's hair about her face in distracting fashion.

"It was a hard blow to Jack, of course," she went on. "Now, what has happened I don't know and can't discover, Mr. Desmond. He wired me a month ago to meet him in Los Angeles at once— he wrote little or nothing in the interim. I came to Los Angeles and he did not turn up; I could not get into touch with him at all. Then, one morning, he called me up on the telephone and told me to catch the night train to San Francisco, and to meet him at the station an hour before the train left.

"I felt that something terrible was happening, but he gave no explanation. When we met at the station, he was a nervous wreck, and he was frightfully mysterious about everything. He told me to go on to San Francisco and that I'd hear from him en route."

"How did you recognize his car from the train?" I broke in. "You'd never seen it."

"No, but he had sent us the colored picture when he had ordered it built, and he had sent photographs of it after he had received it— it's such a distinctive car that no one could possibly mistake it!"

That was true enough, as I had discovered.

"Well, that night at the station," she pursued, "Jack gave me an envelope and said to open it after the train had started; he made me promise him. Then he kissed me good-by and said not to worry, that he had fixed everything all right for me. That's the last I saw of him, Mr. Desmond. Later— on the train— I opened his letter and found your check to him, with this note."

She handed me a note in Balliol's writing, which read as follows:

Dearest Sis:

The game's up as far as I'm concerned; you'll hear about it soon enough. They were too much for me at the ranch. They drove me out, to put it bluntly. If I hadn't had too much cursed pride, I might have done otherwise; but I fought them, and now they'll get me sure if I go back.

Besides this, I've got in bad with another deal. If I go through with it, then you'll lose everything, and I can't face it. I guess I'm pretty well broken down, sis. I've been a fool, that's all. There's only one way to secure to you what can be secured, and I've taken it. I've sold the ranch for ten thousand, which is far below its value, and enclose the check. Cash it immediately in San Francisco. Good-by, dear little sis, and make the best of it.

Jack

That was on the face of it a cowardly letter, considering that an hour later Balliol had killed himself; but I could not help remembering all that he must have endured and fought for in the past years.

"Still we haven't solved the secret of the mysterious 'they,'" I observed, "except that John Talkso, whoever he is, is concerned in it. This letter, too, speaks of another deal— vague and mysterious as ever. Miss Balliol, do you have any idea why your brother did what he did in Los Angeles?"

She shook her head. His suicide was still a mystery to her.

I told her about my encounter with John Talkso, and with the shot from the hills. She had warned me in San Francisco merely on impulse, for she had felt that there was something vaguely but distinctly hostile about that ranch; also, she had been distrustful of me, for she had imagined that I might have been concerned in some conspiracy to beat down the value of the ranch and get it cheap. There is the contradiction of woman for you!

Well, inside of twenty minutes we were on solid footing of friendship. I managed to convince her as to my entire ignorance of the trouble; and I could see that the poor girl had been driven nearly wild by the mystery which had shrouded Balliol's latter days.

As we drew up the lake, I suggested to Martha Balliol that she might care to stop at the ranch and look over the house.

"There may be books or other personal belongings of your brother's that you'd like to keep," I explained. "Really, Miss Balliol, I'd feel much relieved if you'd go through his effects and take everything that you'd like to have. I've felt very badly over the deal, because I've seemed to take undue advantage of his circumstances; and I feel as though some reparation and expiation were due you."

Later, I thought, I'd add at least five thousand to the purchase price of the ranch, but of course this was not the moment to broach such a matter. Since it was early in the afternoon, Miss Balliol thanked me and consented to stop in at the ranch, for Dawson's lay just across the bay and we could run over there in ten minutes.

Accordingly, we ran in to the dock, and on this occasion there was no red flare in the skull-sockets. Nor did I say anything to her about the skulls, for the subject was not a very pleasant one to bring before the girl's mind. I was careful to steer her up the hill and then around to the side of the house, and as we reached it, I heard a bell buzzing away.

"Hello!" I ejaculated. "I ordered the telephone unplugged this morning— the instrument was in, of course. Someone's calling to see if the line's working, maybe. Go right in and make yourself at home, Miss Balliol— I'll answer the call."

The telephone was in the kitchen, and a moment later I was at the instrument.

"Yorke Desmond speaking!" I said. "Hello?"

It was my friend the banker at Lakeport speaking; and what he had to say was one little earful— it certainly was! What he wanted from me was the address of John Balliol, for no one in these parts seemed to know that Balliol was dead. I wanted to know why he wanted it.

Being a banker, he was mighty hard to pin down and hold on the mat; but at last I made him cough up the information. It appeared that some time previously Balliol had gone on the note of a friendly rancher to the tune of six thousand dollars. Fire had wiped out the rancher's property— this was over in High Valley— and the man himself had broken both legs in an accident; and it was up to John Balliol to make good the six thousand, now overdue.

"What date was it due?" I demanded. The banker told me. That note had become due the day after I had bought the Balliol ranch!

"You listen here," I said, thinking fast. "I'll come in to Lakeport tomorrow and see you; and I'll make good that sum. Savvy? Never mind my reasons. I owe Balliol that money, so I'll explain further tomorrow."

I rang off and dropped into the nearest chair.

Light on the subject? I should say so! This was the "other deal" to which Balliol had referred; and he sure had been a fool to endorse the other man's note. He knew it, also, and knew that to make it good would wipe him out. That was why he had given up the fight.

He had sold out his ranch to me at a give-away price, in order to secure the ten thousand to his sister. He had given her the money, then had killed himself. He had left no estate whatever. Whether or not the law could reach that ten thousand, I did not know; at all events, he had, of course, figured that it was safe to Martha. The banker had told me that Balliol had sent back one thousand from Los Angeles— the thousand which I had given him for his car, of course.

This explained Balliol's haste to get the money. It did not explain the enmity which had existed between Balliol and this John Talkso, but of that I took little heed at the moment. Instead of giving Martha Balliol the extra five thousand, I would pay it over to the bank, clear Balliol's name, and square myself with the dead man, as I looked at it. Martha Balliol need never know of it.

I had figured this out to my own satisfaction as the best possible course, when from the front of the house I heard a cry, followed by a scream. Then I remembered that cursed pterodactyl, for the first time!

8: I Go Hunting

MARTHA BALLIOL had fallen against the cobbled chimney of the fireplace, and lay in a crumpled heap, arms outflung. To my horror, I thought her dead— then I saw, upon the floor, the muddy tracks of the flying dragon. She stirred a little, and at the motion, I leaped for the door.

The room was empty save for the girl, but I knew that the creature was somewhere close at hand— and I had left the shotgun in the boat!

I went down the path like a madman, secured the gun, tore open the box of shells, and as I ran back up to the house I loaded both chambers. As I came to the doorway, I saw that Martha Balliol was sitting up, holding one hand to her head. She stared at me.

"What— what was it?" she exclaimed.

"That's what I want to know." I turned my back on her, perhaps ungallantly, to seek some sign of movement from the yard. Nothing stirred. If the thing had been here, it had gone quickly; it had vanished among the trees. "I heard you scream—"

"Something— someone— came up behind and pushed me." Martha Balliol was standing now, and anger was flashing in her blue eyes. "I heard nothing at all; the surprise made me scream, and I must have fallen against the stones, here—"

She suddenly saw the tracks upon the floor, and paused. Her eyes widened with a swift fear as she pointed to them. I nodded carelessly, then left the door and placed a chair for her.

Without exaggeration, but omitting nothing, I told her about the skull-eyes which I had seen only that morning, and also of the pterodactyl. She listened in silence, but her incredulous gaze made me squirm a bit.

"You speak as if you believe it," she commented at last.

"Look at the tracks for yourself!" I countered. Then, getting her Balliol's book, I showed her the illustration in question.

That shook her fine scorn of the story. She declared herself quite unhurt and refused to let the matter drop; but sat in thoughtful silence for a little.

"There's something queer about this house!" she said at last, and rose. "Let's look at those skulls, Mr. Desmond! I believe Jack said something about them in one of his letters, but I don't remember the exact words— they were Indian relics, I believe. He did not say that he was building them into the house!"

Together we went outside, and while she inspected the skulls, I scrutinized the trees and shores, but vainly. The devilish thing had hidden itself absolutely, and I could see no particular sense in going to find it.

"I can't honestly say that I care for this scheme of decoration," declared Martha Balliol. "Jack was always given to odd notions like this, however. As for your story of the red eyes— well, I'll pass on it when I see them for myself! Now let's go up and look at the house; that is, if you still care to have me do so."

"Do you still want to?" I queried, surprised by her coolness. "You've had a shock—"

"I've been very silly, you mean," she corrected me severely, as we walked toward the steps. "About this prehistoric thing, Mr. Desmond— didn't you say that the steps always came in to the center of the room, then ended? The footprints, I mean. Well, that does not look right to me. Of course, the creature might have come so far, then have flown away—"

"You admit there's a creature, then?" I struck in.

"I admit there's something to make those tracks," she said, and laughed merrily. "I wish I had looked over my shoulder when I felt the shove!"

"Perhaps the confounded place is haunted," I said gloomily.

We spent half an hour going over the house. Miss Balliol picked out a few pictures and other things which she would like to have, and I promised to pack them up for her. She was planning to stay for a week or two with the Dawsons.

Although she did not say it in so many words, I realized that her reason for coming here had been to settle the mystery which surrounded her brother's death. And she would settle it. There was no doubt that within a few days she would find out about that note at the bank. The other trouble, the trouble which had smashed Balliol's nerves and which was somehow concerned with John Talkso, whoever he was, lay in the background unsolved.

So, when she had finished with the house, I told her frankly what the banker had just telephoned to me. To be more exact, I told it with some additions and evasions, for I did not think it necessary to say that I was paying off the five thousand. I got around that by saying that the creditor had paid up, having unexpectedly gotten some money, and that the banker had phoned to let Balliol know it was all right.

Beyond question I got things a little involved, but Martha Balliol did not probe the story. To her mind, her brother might still have been living had he only learned in time that he would not have to meet the note. It was a sad business, of course. Out of justice to the dead chap, I felt in honor bound to relate his reasons for suicide, which did his heart better credit that his head.

Yes, taking it up and down, it was a sorry and sordid and a dashed brave little story. Balliol was a fool and a coward, perhaps, but the thing he did was done in a bravely silent fashion.

Martha Balliol cried a little, and tried to laugh a little; but she finished with a clear and sober understanding of why her brother had killed himself. Then she said that she thought I had better taken her on to Dawson's by road, the sun being pretty hot on the water; so I went out and got the car ready. And I kept the shotgun handy.

The road, which ran down along the lakeshore, was very dusty— the dust was six inches deep in places. This did not trouble the Paragon, of course, and we hummed into the Dawson yard in fine fettle. Mrs. Dawson was there to receive us, and under her wing Martha Balliol vanished almost at once.

I paused to help myself to a few nectarines from a tree near the house, then set forth for home. I drove rather fast, for the road was good; and I got almost to my own place when something happened. Both front tires blew at the same instant!

Fortunately the Paragon was a heavy boat, or we'd have gone topsy-turvy; as it was, I almost went into the trees. Of course cord tires do not act as those had acted without very definite reasons. The reasons were in the shape of stout nails, set in scraps of board which had been buried in the dust. I am afraid that I said some very unscriptural things as I drove home on the rims.

Who was the miscreant? The thing was intentional; those bits of board had been planted since I had left home. I cursed some more, while I sat working on the tubes and then pumping up the refitted tires sufficiently to reach Lakeport and an air hose.

One thing was sure: I had inherited John Balliol's enemies! Of this I had not further doubt. If someone were lurking about the place, it was a case of catch or get caught! And the afternoon was young, or young enough, to do a good deal of catching in!

With these brilliant deductions crowding me into action, I began to use my head a little. Obviously, I had two sets of enemies— human and inhuman. The human type was very possibly the man John Talkso. The inhuman was the pterodactyl. I was as much concerned over one as over the other; and as I abandoned my tire labors and glanced up at the house, a sudden scheme struck me.

I picked up my shotgun and sauntered around to the front of the house. For a moment I stood at the lip of the bluff, watching the water and shore, planning just what I would do. Then I hurried down the path to the boathouse, and beneath its shelter laid the gun in the canoe and covered it with fishing tackle and some burlap. After this, I shoved out and paddled down the shore, away from Dawson's.

Since I kept close in to the shore, I was in five minutes beyond sight of my place, and to anyone watching, was off for a fishing trip. But I jerked in to shore and landed before I had gone fifty feet farther. Pulling up the canoe, I stowed it among the bushes, took my shotgun, and struck directly up the steep slope.

It was a hard scramble, but I made it, and in fifteen minutes I gained the road, hot and puffing. I was not a mile from the house, and I went down the road at a good walking clip, certain of being unobserved. The trees to either hand effectually concealed me.

When at length the trees opened up to the left, I had an excellent view of my house and farmyard. I paused, made myself comfortable among the trees, got my pipe going, and began to watch, flattering myself that I had flanked the entire place very neatly. I was well placed to see whatever was going on. But nothing was going on, it seemed. Things happened around that place in bunches, and just now was a quiet moment.

I sat with the gun over my knees, and reflected that this had been a crowded day. It was very nice to think that Martha Balliol was just across the bay at Dawson's farm. The neighborhood seemed very agreeable to me. Of course, the poor girl was overcome because of her brother, but this was a grief which lay in the past; she had nothing unhappy ahead of her. I wished that I were as sure of the same for myself—

Then, abruptly, in the sunlight-flooded clearing around my house, I saw that for which I had been watching and waiting!

9: I Meet John Talkso

IN PLAIN SIGHT of me, walking out across the open space toward my house, was a man. He carried a bucket in one hand, and a basket in the other hand. These he set down at the veranda steps, and then turned, scrutinizing the lake and shore. His face showed clearly.

A low word escaped me as I watched. I recognized that face on the instant; he was no other than the enemy of John Balliol, the man whom I had met at McGray's Tavern— the man with the queer name of John Talkso! An instant later he had vanished inside the house.

"Now," I said to myself, "here's one mystery about to be solved in a hurry!"

A moment longer I waited. Talkso appeared again, stooped over the basket he had been carrying, and then went around to the front of my house; when he did there, I could not see. He reappeared, took up both bucket and basket, and went into the house.

I started for the house with the gun under my arm, both barrels loaded.

When I got safely over the gate and into the yard, I knew that I had my man this time; there was going to be an explanation! To judge from his attire when I had seen him at McGray's Tavern, this Talkso had money— and he was going to settle what he owed me, chiefly in the matter of tires. What he was doing in my house was another thing. And if he had fired that bullet at me from the hills—

At that juncture I heard the telephone ringing. The kitchen windows were open and I stole toward the back entrance. An instant later, I heard a man speaking at the telephone; Talkso was answering the call! His infernal imprudence made me chuckle, for at the instrument he must be standing with his back to the door. He was playing directly into my hand!

"He's not here— out fishing," I heard him say. Somebody, obviously, was asking for me. "Who's this? Oh, hello! This you, Sheriff West?"

There was a moment of silence, during which time I gained the back door and paused. Talkso was standing at the telephone, right enough, entirely unconscious of my presence.

"The hell you say!" he exclaimed suddenly, a snarling intonation in his voice. "None of your cursed business what I'm doing here, Mr. West! What? You come out here if you want to— I'll be gone by then."

Again he paused, and again made angry response to the sheriff.

"Nonsense! You've nothing on me— don't try bluffing me, Mr. West! You can't do it. That shot? Go ahead and tell Desmond all you want! You know damned well you can't prove anything on me, and I know it too! I'll have Desmond out of here inside of a week— oh, I won't, eh? Much you know about it!"

With a snarling oath, he slammed the receiver on the hook.

As he did so, I pushed open the screen door and stepped inside. Talkso caught the squeak of the door, and whirled about like a cat.

"I guess the sheriff was right, Talkso," I said cordially, over the sights of my shotgun. "Hoist your hands— thank you; that's the way it's done in the films. So the sheriff's coming out here, eh? Good thing. He can take you back with him, unless we come to terms."

Talkso stood perfectly motionless, his hands slightly raised. The surprise of my appearance had confounded him; but now passionate rage convulsed his swarthy features, and in the snaky blackness of his eyes flicked a scornful hatred. The contempt expressed in his eyes rendered me uneasy.

"You!" he uttered, flinging the word at me in almost inarticulate fury. "What d'you think you're doing, anyway?"

"I don't think," I assured him. "I'm perfectly confident about it, my friend. By the way, did you fire a shot at my car the other day, mistaking me for Balliol?"

"I wish to hell the bullet had got you!" he foamed.

"You're a charitable cuss. And since then, you've given me a lot of tire trouble, to say the least. What's the idea, anyhow? What's back of the feud between you and Balliol?"

He seemed to take no notice of the question.

"You poor fool!" he said scornfully. "I could have killed you any time in the past day or two—"

"Well, you didn't," I chipped in. "Come ahead and loosen up! Let's have an explanation!"

To my horror, I realized that he was coming at me; he had the silky, invisible movement of a snake. To blast the life out of his with that shotgun was impossible. He seemed to be leaning forward, leaning toward me, farther and farther— and then he was in the air and on me.

He gripped me and the gun together, and we struggled for it. I was ready enough to drop the gun and slam into him with my fists, but I saw no use in letting him perforate me with my own gun. So I hung on, and we fought it out by arm-power.

In the middle of it, we lost balance and went to the floor— and the shotgun went off with a deafening explosion, between us.

I realized quickly enough that I was not hurt, and rolled backward, leaping to my feet. Both barrels had exploded, sending both charges into the telephone, which hung wrecked and useless against the wall. Talkso was not hurt either. First thing I knew, he was up and coming at me with a yell, brandishing the shotgun like a club.

According to jiu-jitsu experts, the easiest thing in the world is to lay out a man bearing down on you with a club. As it happens, I am not a jiu-jitsu expert.

Talkso had been an easy mark in the road by McGray's, but he was something else now. He shoved the butt of the gun into my stomach, and when I doubled over, he slammed me over the skull with the barrel. Then he swung up the gun for a finishing stroke.

By this time I was just beginning to realize that it was me for swift action or the count, and I came out of my dream. To be candid, it was only in books that two men get into a hot mix-up and follow the Queensberry rules with meticulous chivalry; in a real scrap of real men, it's hit hardest with anything that will count!

I followed the most natural rules, and being backed against the stove, I went for Talkso with an iron skillet that was handy. I ducked the gun in a hurry, and to even matters I dropped the skillet and began to finish off his education.

He knew something about fighting, and he tried to fight, but that skillet had him groggy from the start. In about two minutes he was trying to get through the door, so I let him out— and hopped right after him. I caught him by the pump, and laid him out finely.

When he came to himself, I had him tied wrists and ankles with dust-cloths from the car, and was wasting good mineral water pumping over his torso. In spite of all my kindness, however, he would do nothing except splutter curses at me, so finally I tired of trying.

"Very well, then, lie there and talk to yourself!" I stated in disgust. "When the sheriff gets here, maybe we'll learn a few things."

I was dead right about that, too!

10: I Build a Wall

ON THE MORNING after my encounter with John Talkso, I was working like a beaver on the skull wall in front of my house. I had been working there since dawn.

In front of the wall, I had a solid framework of staked boards, edge to edge, six inches from the wall's face. The end spaces were closed with other boards. From the shore I had toted barrow-loads of sand until my palms were blistered, and from the barn behind the house I had brought a couple of sacks of cement which had lain there unmolested. For lack of a mixing bed I was utilizing a depression in the rock at the head of the path. Boulders of all sizes were handy, and with these I had partially filled the space in front of the wall, enclosed by the boards.

I mixed my concrete rapidly and after four or five batches had been shoveled into the gap, my work was done. The former face of the wall, together with the protruding skulls, was nicely buried behind six inches of concrete.

I was lighting my pipe and vastly admiring my handiwork, when I heard a voice.

"Mercy! What on earth is the matter with your telephone? Here I've walked all the was over here just to see if the pterodactyl had eaten you up—"

It was Martha J. Balliol, flushed and laughing.

"Hurray!" I exclaimed. "I've been building a wall— sure, the phone is wrecked! But I have a few things to show you; important things, too! Come up to the veranda and sit down while I explain."

"But are you a mason?"

"No," I said. "I'm a pterodactyl— and I can prove it."

When she was sitting in one of my porch chairs, which I placed in the middle of the veranda floor, I excused myself and got the bucket and basket which John Talkso had left behind after departing on the previous afternoon.

"Now shut your eyes, Miss Balliol! Promise not to peep."

"Cross my heart," she returned gaily.

I slowly crossed the floor to her, then stepped away a pace or two.

"Open!"

Her wondering gaze fell upon the concrete floor. From the door of the living room to the side of her chair extended a line of fresh, muddy pterodactyl tracks! She almost jumped, then her blue eyes went to me.

"Exhibit A!" I said, holding up the bucket of muddy water, and in the other hand the plaster-of-Paris cast which had made the tracks. "John Talkso was here yesterday. So was the sheriff. Talkso left these things behind— and he's not coming back."

Her face sobered.

"What do you mean, Mr. Desmond?"

"Well," I explained, "this Talkso was an educated chap. He knew what a pterodactyl was, you see— and he knew that other men knew! Then he left some other things. Typical of them was a set of twelve pieces of round, crimson glass; these, placed in the eyes of those skulls, made a fine crimson effect when seen from the lake. You get the idea?"

Her eyes widened.

"Talkso? That man? But what about my brother—"

"I'm coming to that. Between the sheriff and Talkso, we got the whole thing straightened out yesterday afternoon."

After telling her something of what had happened, I explained.

"Your brother, Miss Balliol, had peculiar notions of what to do with Indian relics. In building this house, he uncovered the so-called graves of the former chiefs of the Indian tribe which inhabited this valley— and which still inhabit it in places. Your brother used the skulls for decoration, and once set in that concrete, the skulls could not be removed without destroying the foundation wall of the house. You see?"

She nodded, watching me with eager absorption.

"Well," I pursued, "this John Talkso found out about it. He came after your brother in a rage and there was a fight on the spot, in which Talkso got worsted. Then he set to work to drive your brother off.

"He invented some very clever stage stuff, such as the pterodactyl tracks and the red glass in the skull-sockets; he also had some other tricks in his basket, and all of them clever. He had managed to make everyone believe that this house was haunted. He had once or twice attempted your brother's life—"

"But why?" broke in the girl, astounded. "Whatever made the man act so? Was he mad?"

"Not a bit of it! He was sane. He was also well educated. But— mark this— he was not a white man; he was a half-breed Indian, and he was the last of the Indian chiefs in this particular valley. He had all the Indian's sense of outrage at seeing the skulls of his forefathers ornamenting this house. So, naturally, he tried to drive out the desecraters— your brother and me.

"He did not go in for murder in cold blood. Yesterday he merely entered the room behind you and gave you a shove, for example. In general, he contented himself with such things. But when I met him at McGray's Tavern and beat him up, he lost his head. He hiked over another road from McGray's, a shorter road east of the river, and got here ahead of me. But the sheriff and another man were hunting, and they saw Talkso deliberately ambush my car. It was assault with intent to kill, right enough, and it meant the coop for Mr. Talkso."

"But that wall you were building!" exclaimed Martha Balliol.

"That's the sheriff's idea; our sheriff is a bright man," I returned laughing. "The skulls, you note, are now buried completely, yet the foundation of the house is not damaged. Thus the feelings of John Talkso have been smoothed over, particularly as he faced the penitentiary if they were not smoothed over! He and his family are rich ranchers across the lake, and beyond having him bonded to keep the peace, I'll not punish him further."

"Then you think—"

"Sure! Everything's all right!"

A LITTLE LATER that day, Martha Balliol was bidding me farewell. There was nothing to keep her here further, she said; at least, she knew of nothing. Nor did I, unhappily. She would go back East and take up the broken threads again.

"But," I proffered, "will you not let me take you as far as Lakeport?"

"It will be very kind, Mr. Desmond. Of course!"

"It's a promise?" I anxiously inquired. "Word of honor?"

"Eh?" The blue eyes inspected me with surprise. "Why, of course it is!"

"Good!" I lighted my pipe and puffed contentedly. "To tell the truth, the car is useless— I failed to fix my tires efficiently. There's no gas to run the launch on; I forgot to fill up when we left Lakeport, I was so excited over your arrival! Naturally, we do not want to walk; so, Miss Balliol, we must go by canoe."

"By canoe?" she echoed. "Why— Lakeport is miles and miles away! And I can't paddle a stroke. We'd never get there!"

"Well?" I said inquiringly.

She met my eyes. Slowly a rosy glow crept into her cheeks; then she turned— and passed toward the canoe.

_____________________

7: The Wolf Woman

Blue Book, Aug 1939

NORMAN FLETCHER phoned me one morning. Even though one may know Fletcher well, to get a call from so distinguished a scientist,— one of the great men of the earth,— is to get a thrill.

"Hello! " came his cheerful tones. "Have you a stenographer in your office?"

"Yes," I replied in some astonishment.

He chuckled. "Have you a particular young woman there named Stephens?"

"Oh! Sure. Why?"

"I have a letter here from her."

"You have what?"

"I got a letter from her the other day, asking if I could reveal the origin of the werewolf myth. If you're not busy, will you bring her out this evening?"

"Of course!" I promised. "I've been meaning to get in touch with you. The Inventors' Club want to know whether you'll be good enough to give any more demonstrations—"

"No!" he barked, with an unwonted brusqueness. "Sorry; I've undertaken a lot of Government work and may leave for Washington soon. Besides, something's gone wrong with my apparatus. Apparently it's getting out of control; I'll explain tonight."

I hung up, thinking uneasily of the recent occasion when something had gone wrong with his infernal invention. Then I called Miss Stephens and she flushed when I told her of Fletcher's words.

"Perhaps it was terribly impertinent," she confessed. "But you had said so much about those experiments— and I did a thesis at college on the werewolf— and—"

"And all that remains is for you to drive out there with me tonight," I said cheerfully. "You'll have the last word— or the first word— on the werewolf subject."

SHE WAS demure enough as I ushered her into Norman Fletcher's laboratory that evening and performed the introductions; but her demure quality had solid subsurface foundations. In no time at all, she had Fletcher interested, for she knew her subject; everything that had been written about werewolves, or humans who took wolf form at night, was in her head.

"But where's your apparatus?" she exclaimed, looking around. "Working with ultrasonic and high-frequency waves, with electricity of all sorts— and nothing in sight!"

It is true that about this grim stone-walled laboratory was little to suggest the home of the most advanced electrical scientist in the country. Easy-chairs were grouped about his instrument-board, or controls; this, looking like the triple manual of an organ, gave forth a faint hum of tubes at heat, but seemed unconnected with any other apparatus.

Fletcher settled himself before it and dimmed the room lights. To my displeasure, Miss Stephens accepted a cigarette and smoked with an air of enjoyment. She knows very well that I discourage cigarettes about the office, but she disregarded me entirely and seemed absorbed in Fletcher and his theories.

"Reduced to its essentials," Fletcher said, "the myth is that a person dons a girdle of wolfskin and turns into a wolf, to prowl at night; a woman is usually the subject, and as a rule it makes a grisly and horrible story. It goes back to the earliest of the Greek writers, even back to the Assyrians, and the belief still lingers in Europe today."

"Yes," said Miss Stephens. "I have Vetlugin's book on the Russian legends about it."

"Oddly enough," pursued old Fletcher, "the werewolves of the Christian dispensation were usually beneficent creatures, even touching and pitiful. While attempting yesterday to discover the origin of the legend, I chanced upon the story I'm going to show you. It concerns St. Odo, abbot of Cluny."

That his singular genius actually brought back scenes and sounds of the past, that the tremendous power of his ultrasonic mechanism could recapture, by a sort of backward television, real incidents from across the ages, we already knew. There was much about his process, however, that he had never revealed to anyone.

"Then," I said, "the characters tonight will talk old French, I presume?"

"No," said Fletcher hurriedly, for already the yellowish light was beginning to play upon the stone wall facing us. "My apparatus is somehow out of kilter; it does unexpected things, I regret to say, and I've no time to work on it now. Something about those new tubes and the iridium I've been using."

"What's that got to do with the language employed?" I asked.

"Everything. I can now get the sound alone, or the scenes alone. Yesterday I made a recording of the sound on this story and rushed it up to the university. Professor Hartmetz translated it into English and had the words recorded anew, rushed it back to me by dinner-time tonight, and I now switch the recording in on my sound-track. Ah! Pardon me."

A telephone was buzzing insistently. He reached out to the instrument and spoke. I watched the yellowish light dissolving the stones of the wall; the solid granite melted and began to disappear before our eyes. Suddenly Fletcher's voice sounded sharply.

"What?" he ejaculated. "What's that, Hartmetz? A horrible thing? Impossible! It was a lovely story, about St. Odo and the wolves— what? It was not?" Agitation suddenly thrilled in his tones. "Good Lord, man! Then there must be something wrong! Well, let it go. Thanks for calling me. I've got the thing on now. Good night."

I vaguely realized that something in his program had gone decidedly amiss; in the reflected radiance I saw him mop his brow and dart an anxious look at Miss Stephens, but she did not notice. She was staring at the wall. Those solid stones had now almost vanished, and as through a window, we were gazing out upon a scene that was no picture, but reality in every dimension. I caught a dazed mutter from Norman Fletcher.

"Sanscrit, he says— Sanscrit! The old Aryan race, thousands of years ago; no, no, it's impossible...

A woman's laughter drowned out the mutter.

The scene before us blurred and moved, blurred and took shape anew— a vista of hills and forests, of squat, massive towers. Again everything blurred; the apparatus was certainly not functioning aright. The woman's laughter rose louder; it was no ringing musical peal of mirth, but the bitter laughter of hysteria. Suddenly the scene came clearly.

She was standing in a courtyard, laughing; a glorious figure against the background of rough stone and ancient thick trees, a woman laughing wildly, torn between grief and furious anger. The group of men regarded her with fear and awe. Her laughter died out and she put both hands to her face, as though to shut out some frightful vision.

This whole scene conveyed an impression of indescribable savage majesty; one sensed it, felt it in every detail. In this place was no delicacy or grace. The courtyard, the walls and buildings, were of enormous ill-fitted stone blocks; the trees were nobly massive; an air of spacious power pervaded everything, as in some dwelling of the gods.

The very doors, the stone seat, the beam-ends under the eaves, were gigantic and heavy-hewed. The weapons of the men bulked crudely large; spears with great bronze blades, huge splay-bladed axes of bronze, swords like beams of metal. The men themselves were built to match— figures of muscled strength and power. Outstretched at the woman's feet, red tongue lolling, was a tamed wolf of tremendous size, eying her sharply.

The woman lifted her head and bared her face. She was in white, a golden torque about her neck. Her radiant loveliness struck forth like sun through dark clouds; it was a regal beauty, a richly glowing force instinct with energy. There was nothing passive about her. Into her stark blue eyes came a flame that shook her whole body, and her voice leaped forth like a clarion.

"Fight, Shatra! I'll lead, with you and the warriors following."

"Very well, but you know what it means, Indra," said the stalwart warrior. Shatra. "You know how they kill us; all day long we slay the little dark men, and at the end when we're exhausted, they overwhelm us. They're in countless numbers like ants. That's how your husband the king died; that's how most of our warriors have died. We are few, and they are like the forest leaves. Barbarians, rude and uncouth and swart— but they fight!

"That," he went on sadly, "is how our Aryan people have vanished. They slew in vain, and were overwhelmed. They drifted away and migrated, their civilization is lost; these little dark men have swarmed over the whole land. We alone remain, and now it is our time to die, if so you command."

The  flame died from Indra's face.

"You have sworn to obey me and my son to the death," she said quietly.

"Our oaths stand; order it, and we fight and die— you and your son with us."

She caught her breath. "I see, I see! What are their terms?"

"They will not attack; behind our walls we can stand and laugh at them, killing them as they come. Their king gives a choice. Go forth freely and migrate, unharmed, seek another land as most of our people have done. Or else remain here in our stronghold; they'll send us what we need of food, but every man of us who leaves the walls, will be slain; women and children taken for slaves. We are the last of our people, Indra; the choice is yours to make and we abide by it."

She listened, wide-eyed. "Clever, these people! Let us remain here— and any who go forth, die! They're not anxious for any fight to the death. Come."

She beckoned imperiously and started across the courtyard. They followed her, mounting by the stairs to the stone tower over the gateway.

This was the donjon or central keep, the palace quarters of the dead king of a vanished people. From the squat tower, Indra could look down into the courtyard of the crudely massive castle itself, whose walls stretched afar over the hill. Within these walls was a small town. Outside was a vast camp stretching afar by hill and forest. And, from this camp, a score of the besiegers had come into the great courtyard of the castle, and waited there.

Indra looked at them. Hardy, swarthy men, different from her own people; smaller in stature, armed only with sword and bow. No stalwart hunters, like her powerful race, but numberless as the sea sands in that vast camp, an ocean of men who had flooded down over the snowy peaks and had driven her people out of their land. Small men, these Dravidians, yet they had conquered the mighty Aryan people and driven them into migration and exile afar.

"Perhaps it were better to go, like the rest," she murmured.

"We could take nothing, Indra," said one of her chiefs. "We must leave all arms and all treasure."

Her lips firmed. Her eyes flashed.

"No, then!" she exclaimed.. "No! Keep our arms and our city; we, the last of our race! "

The chieftains assented and went to tell the Dravidian envoys. Indra, looking out upon the hills, perceived the deep cunning of these small people.

On the hills and slopes all about the town and castle, were palaces and chateaux. The Aryan princes and nobles had used these, for coolness in summer, for hunting in the winter; now the Dravidians occupied them, and the owners were dead. She perceived that the swarthy warriors thus held the place in a cordon. Their main host could go its ways and they would wait, grimly.

The summer had ended, autumn was whistling over the mountains, the first snow would fall any day now. Indra lifted unseeing eyes to the southward. There, over the vast lands that stretched to the sea and the ends of earth, the dark people had moved in. The Aryans had gone, scattered in migration after migration to the west and north, over the horizon to destiny unknown. Here among the mountains were the final remnant.

Her husband had fallen, the princes and great men had fallen. They had slain until they were borne down by sheer weight of numbers, like a man defying the tide to cover him. She, and the last of her people, and the boy who should some day be a king— her son; these were left. A king? Over what? There was no longer a kingdom. There would be no more a people over which he could rule, when he reached manhood.

An old councilor came to her, and pointed to the courtyard below.

"Come, Lady Indra! The king of these people comes; you must meet him before the gates and swear the oath."

"Eh? What oath?" she demanded.

"To observe the treaty; that none of our people shall war against his or leave these walls. Otherwise they die. He swears to let provisions enter freely, even to supply them, and to carry no fight to us. A great oath, with all the gods to witness!"

It was so accomplished before the gates, in sight of all men, and with sacrifices to the gods. This King Savastri drew the eye of Indra. He was a man of thirty, proud of eye and bearded, very active and light on his feet despite his armor; his features held a certain humor, and men said he was merry and as a warrior unequaled. He was grave today, however, and Indra thought his dark eyes were hungry as he looked upon her.

So she swore that she would permit none of her people to make war or leave the castle. And he to his own oaths, and the people and the host bearing witness. It was published that anyone leaving the castle might be slain by the dark folk, without redress.

"Leave now, if ye like— your whole people," said King Savastri, white teeth flashing in a laugh. "Leave, and die! The quicker it's done, the sooner we'll have your women."

His eye touched upon Indra as he spoke, but she turned away in contempt and made no reply to the taunt. Thus was the doom of the last Aryans sealed. They obeyed Indra to the letter, as they had sworn to do. Being a fierce people, they might have preferred to sally forth and die fighting, but she thought of the boy, and decided to temporize; so they obeyed, though it meant slow death for them all, cut away from the whole world.

But Indra sat in the great courtyard, as the days passed, with the huge tamed wolf, Vic, at her feet; and her blue eyes flamed as reports came to her. The Dravidian host had flowed away over the hills like an ocean wave. Plenty of them remained; their leaders dwelt in the little castles and chateaux, the dark folk made villages around each one, and their king, Savastri, occupied the massive hunting-lodge built by Indra's husband, three miles away. From here, he ruled his dark people, who had taken over the whole land. The autumn rains came down, and the first touches of snow, but little frost as yet.

It was said that everywhere in the country the civilization of the Aryan people was lost and ruined, for these Dravidians were an uncouth and ignorant race.

Indra listened to all and said little, toying now with the boy, now with the wolf. The prince was a child of four; he and the wolf were friends. A grim and fierce thing was Vic, trained to obey Indra and to defend her; the greatest of wolves, he had been captured as a pup and tamed, but his heart was savage. So large was he that the boy Shiva rode about on his back, though this did not please Vic overmuch.

On the afternoon of the first snow, with a gale sweeping over the hills and forests, Indra sent for her old councilor Ran, and for the chief warrior who remained, the stalwart Shatra. To the latter, she spoke briefly.

"Tell whatever officer commands the guard at the little postern gate in the east wall tonight, that he is to let me go out and watch for my return, without question."

"You, Indra?" exclaimed the warrior, astonished. "Who accompanies you?"

"Vic," she said. At his name, the wolf lifted head and eyed her, unwinking.

Upon Shatra fell fear and dismay.

"Lady, think twice! " he said. "In the whole country, none of our people remain except women who are enslaved. If you're found abroad and taken or killed—"

"Prince Shiva will then be in your care," she said, and dismissed him. When he had gone, she turned to the old councilor.

"Would you break the oaths you swore to the gods?" he demanded, eying her keenly.

"I swore much for my people; nothing for myself," she said, and this was true. "I alone can make war upon these dark folk; I alone can avenge my dead husband and our lost cities and country, our scattered people. I know secrets none other lives to know, and ways of doing this. Let's have no argument, Ran. Are they sending us cattle tomorrow?"

"It was so promised," said Ran. "A hundred head."

"Good. See to it, then, that those who bring the cattle, are told a certain story they may carry back with them. The story you used to tell me, about our ancestors who changed their shape at night and became ravening wolves."

"As ordered, I will obey," said the old man. "But what drives you to such extremes of vengeance and hatred? "Why cannot you live like the rest of us—"

"Live until you die behind walls, or go forth to be killed?" she said in disdain. If you must know, I shall bring about the death of that man who rules them."

"So?" Old Ran fingered his white beard. "Because of his look and his words, when the oath was sworn— eh? I hear he is better than his nobles and leaders; in fact, a wise ruler, a king with brains—"

Indra flushed. "A king who shall taste the vengeance of the conquered! See that the story is told them. I intend to make that man Savastri suffer before he dies. No other can kill him, but I can. The wind howling upon the thick trees howls death this night!"

"He lives in the castle your husband built, with guards and warriors—"

"And I, who helped build that castle, know its secrets," she said, smiling terribly.

THAT night, respecting her signet ring, though they could not see her face, the guards at the little east gate let her out. She was clad in a robe of wolfskins, and the head was drawn over her head after the manner of hunters, with a flap down to conceal her face. She carried a hunting-spear, and the huge wolf Vic was at her heels. They saw her vanish into the trees where the storm tossed and the first snowflakes were drifting and sifting; and so closed the gate again, looking one at another with affrighted eyes.

Toward dawn, her voice summoned them, and the throaty howl of Vic. A torch was brought, and recognizing her, they let her in, but not as she had gone. Red was her spear, and the cruel jaws of Vic slavered blood.

"Do no talking," she ordered the guards, and went her way.

With morning, Dravidian warriors drove cattle into the great castle, as promised, and told a strange tale. Wolves had broken into the king's lodge, none knew how; one of their princes, and two of the bodyguard of the king, had been slain. The wolves had vanished again.

These men were told the legends of the royal house, and how certain of its princes could take the shape of wolves, at will. Undoubtedly, the ghost of the dead king had acted thus, taking vengeance upon his conquerors. With this cold comfort, the Dravidians were sent whence they had come.

Three days later, King Savastri and six of his chieftains came demanding speech with Indra. She had them brought up to the courtyard of the keep, and sent Vic away to the kennel he occupied; he was licking his jaws and his fur, this frosty morning.

Word spread that there had been more killing in the king's lodge, last night. Indra appeared, with Ran and others of the council behind her, and greeted the king. He saluted her, his bold, eager eyes never leaving her face.

"Lady, there is peace between my people and yours, for so you have chosen," he said abruptly. "We have kept the peace; but your people have come upon us in the night, slaying."

"That is untrue," Indra replied, and beckoned Ran. "Go and discover if any man left the gates last night or yesterday. If so, he shall die here and now for disobedience."

The old man departed, and she looked again at Savastri, unsmiling and serene.

"You are no liar," he said impulsively.

"I am no liar," she rejoined. "Now tell me what has happened."

"This is the second time," he said, while his chieftains assented. "Last night two of my captains were slain— mangled as though by wolves. A guard thought he saw a wolf-shape slinking through the rooms. Evidently your people are doing this."

"If so, they shall die; I swear it," she rejoined. "Is it possible you don't know the legends of our royal house? The ghosts of the dead are visiting you, great king; the ghost of my husband, whom your warriors slew, takes a wolf-shape in the night and kills. This is the old story, for my people are hunters and forest people."

"I have heard some such story being noised abroad," said Savastri. "All nonsense ! One of those captains was killed with a spear, last night. Wolves don't use spears."

"So?" She regarded him steadily, a cool smile of contempt in her eyes. Great king, let me advise you to change your dwelling. Seek safety elsewhere. Let your warriors occupy the royal lodge and risk the vengeance of dead men; you can hide safely in another place."

The cool mockery of her words was bitter to bear, and Savastri flushed.

"I'm not that sort, lady. By the god Shiva! I'll lay that ghost, if ghost it be!"

"Shiva?" She started slightly. "Who is he ?"

"One of our gods."

"Aye? It's the name of my son— there he is, now."

The boy appeared crossing the courtyard. Savastri and his chiefs regarded him, and their stern dark faces changed and lightened with swift admiration. The boy was like a radiant sunbeam. Savastri turned quickly to Indra.

"Lady, marry me!" he said abruptly. "Marry me, and your people shall go free! "

Her eyes chilled. "When I marry you, barbarian, it will be upon the couch of death!"

So barbed with disdain were her words that the Dravidian chieftains growled angrily, but Savastri only looked into her face and a smile leaped in his quick eyes.

"You'll be worth the having," said he. Before her fury could find response, old Ran came back and made report.

No man had left the city or passed the walls since the peace had been sworn.

"My warriors are not liars," said Indra. "Further, King Savastri, I swear that if any man leaves the city, I'll inform you of it; if any of my people undertake any action against your people, they break my oath and their own, and shall die. Go back, and hide from the ghosts of the dead!"

There the matter ended, and she had the last word; but something in the way she said it drew a speculative, searching look from Savastri. Perhaps he suspected her from this moment.

WHEN she heard the talk of her council and leaders, however, she went white with fury. To all of them it seemed that Savastri was the kingliest of men, and wise withal. That same night she went from the little postern gate with Vic, and returned long ere dawn; word came next day that four Dravidian chiefs, drinking together at an outpost, had been slain by a wolf— who left human tracks in the snow.

"My husband," said Indra to old Ran, "is having company on the ghost-path! "

"What good will it do you, or your people?" he asked.

Her face clouded.

"I don't know— yet. Only one thing matters to me, Ran; one person. Somehow, I shall assure his future; I shall find some way! "

"Prince Shiva was born to be a king, true," said Ran, scratching his white beard. "But the Aryan people have gone forth across the world, vanishing as a cloud in the sky; they are gone. They may found other empires afar, other races and peoples may spring from them, but they are gone. And we who remain here are doomed. Better a swineherd in safety, than a king without a kingdom or a people!"

Her blue eyes flashed. "King's blood will have king's name," said she curtly. "Three nights from now, my husband will be avenged."

Old Ran looked after her as she departed, and wagged his head sagely.

"A husband under the ground is best left there," he grumbled, "as many a woman has found to her cost ere this."

THREE days passed swiftly; evening of the third day brought snow blowing through the forest trees and a keen wind whistling over the roof of the world. In this bitter night, only a beast could find his way abroad.

"Take the track, Vic," said Indra, when the gate clanged shut behind them. Obedient to her word, knowing her voice and speech, the wolf trotted ahead as she released him.

She followed close, muffled in her wolfskins, with furred leggings, the hunting- spear in her hand. The snow now falling thicker, swirled about them, but the big wolf kept straight on, well knowing what way they went. They came at last to a thicket of trees; half a bowshot distant was the king's lodge, where a flaring cresset flickered in the storm.

Among the trees, they approached the building still more closely. Vic halted, beside a jagged rock that was rapidly piling high with snow. Indra put out her hand to it, and the mass of rock slid smoothly. Into an opening thus revealed Vic darted, but Indra called him back to heel. He obeyed, with a whine of repressed eagerness; the killer was aroused.

She passed down steps, along a tunnel, and to steps again; mounting these rapidly in the pitch blackness, she paused at a tiny gleam of light. She was now in the king's lodge, by a secret passage installed for emergencies; the others who knew of it, were dead.

She touched a panel and it slid aside, letting her look into the main room, where a huge fire was dying down on the hearth. The firelight showed a number of dim figures at the door; and a voice reached her, the voice of Savastri the king.

"No, no! I remain here with two guards, and the dogs. The rest of you, out to the huts and keep watch on the grounds! I'll have no woman taunting me, even if she were the most glorious woman on earth, with skulking in safety while my captains run risks. I remain here, to meet the man-wolf if it comes. You others, stand watch outside. Go!"

They went, grumbling and protesting. One of them made some laughing remark.

"Aye," replied the king, a curiously vibrant ring in his voice. "From my first sight of that woman, my heart went out to her. I'll have no other, I tell you! There's no other in the world her equal, no other for me, and that ends it. Goodnight!"

Indra, listening, caught her breath in quick anger. Vic began a growl; she reached down and silenced him with a touch and a word, then looked into the room.

"The dogs are uneasy, they smell something," said a voice. She saw a guard, and two large wolfhounds, though they were somewhat smaller than Vic.

"That may be," said the king. "Both of you take the outer room, with the dogs. I'll sleep in the room beyond. Keep a light burning in your room."

An alabaster lamp was taken away, and the place was empty except for red fireglow.

PRESENTLY Indra put her weight upon the secret door, and it swung aside. About the neck of Vic was a heavy collar of wolfskin like his own; she gripped it, and he emerged with her into the dimly lit chamber.

She did not hesitate. She was alone in the lodge with three men; two of them, and the dogs, must be killed before she could kill Savastri as she intended. She knew where lay the rooms in question; and, since she disdained to attack sleeping men, she went straight to them now — two sleeping-rooms at the end of the hall.

As she neared them, she halted, crouching. The door of the first was somewhat ajar, a light shone across the hall, a man spoke.

"I tell you, the dogs smell something — look at them! Bring the light. Let's take a turn around the place. I'll take the dogs on leash."

The dogs growled and whined; Vic's fur lifted under her hand, a savage throaty sound came from him. One of the men came out, bearing the lamp. He checked himself and put it on a stand.

"Forgot my bow," he said. "Go ahead. I'll come with the lamp."

He withdrew. The other came out, the two dogs straining on leash. They gave sudden wild tongue, sensing the presence of Vic. Indra knew it was the moment.

"Take them, Vic! " she said, and loosed him.

The great shape went hurtling for the dogs. From the guard burst a terrible cry; he frantically loosed his dogs. He had held them an instant too long. Vic was into them with the kill-growl, murderous jaws slashing too fast for eye to follow. The three shapes mingled into one— a shapeless scramble of ferocity, from which flew fur and bright drops of blood.

Indra was darting forward. The guard, long sword sweeping out, struck at the battling animals. One dog was dead, the other down. The guard sighted Indra's figure, and slashed at her as he swung around. Her spear went through him, and she tugged it free as he fell. The second dog was quivering in death and Vic was up and whirling, with fiery eyes and blood-slavering muzzle.

Out into the open came stumbling the second guard, bow bent and shaft notched. Seeing Indra, he started back. Vic went for him, and his bowstring twanged; he snatched a second shaft and shot. Both arrows thudded through the throat of the gaunt wolf, through throat to brain. The wolf's rush, however, took him at the man, leaping even as he died — leaping and slashing with cruel teeth. The guard was borne backward, and the teeth of the dying beast ripped open his throat and chest.

"Vic! Vic!"

A sharp cry, as Indra darted forward. She knelt in the pool of blood. The head of the wolf lifted slightly. His eyes rolled upon her in the lamplight; then his head fell and his eyes rolled no more. He was dead. Silence, and the gusty odor of hot blood, settled upon the place.

"So men and beasts keep company down the path of ghosts! " said a voice, amused, calm, poised: the voice of King Savastri.

Indra was up, spear ready— up and flinging forward. Savastri stood in the doorway, a dagger in his left hand, a long coiled whip in his right. He wore a crimson robe and was bareheaded.

She was at him like a flash of fury. The spear drove straight for his heart, a death-blow; but it slid away from armor beneath the robe. Across her face, half masked by the flap of wolfskin, lashed the heavy whip. Blinded, she staggered but struck again with the spear. The whip coiled about the weapon and jerked it out of her hand. The spear fell with a clatter. The lash burned across her arms and body, burned again. Savastri was striking with cool, deliberate intent, but striking swiftly.

A scream burst from her. She threw herself upon him with savage ferocity.

He evaded her spring, caught the wolf-head above her head, and tore it away. The fair glory of her golden hair burst forth; and the loaded whip-butt thudded down.

She crumpled without a word and lay in a huddled, inert heap.

"So!" said King Savastri, gazing at her face. "I suspected as much. Ha! Now to see where she and the beast came from."

He caught up the lamp, picked his way across the blood-spattered floor, and in the main room found the secret door ajar.

Going back quickly, he dragged the great body of Vic down the hall and to that secret door; even for his sinewy strength, it was no light task. He cut the collar from the dead wolf's neck and kept it. The beast's carcass he shoved into the hidden passage, and closed the door again.

Returning to the frightful scene of death, he picked up Indra and carried her into the farther room; she was breathing heavily, and would be unconscious a long while.

Presently King Savastri opened the door of the lodge and blew a blast on his horn. Guards came running; picking out some of the captains, he took them with him to the grisly hall, and showed them what had happened.

"The wolf came, and the wolf went," said he, showing them the collar. "You see this? Now come, and see who wore it. The stories that we heard were true."

He took them into the farther room. There upon the bed lay Indra, senseless; now she was clad in a long white robe that Savastri had put upon her, after hiding the wolfskins. He beckoned his staring captains outside and closed the door.

"Here is the girdle." He gave it to one of them. "Throw it into the fire; she will never again be able to play wolf. Rather, she remains queen! "

INDRA opened her eyes to daylight and snow drifting in at the window. She lay in her own bed, in what had been her room in the royal lodge, and warm skins covered her. At her side sat King Savastri; he had been bathing her bruised head and face with a wet cloth. Now he leaned back, regarding her.

She stared at him. With a rush, memory returned; yet she was held spellbound by finding herself here and thus. She tried to speak, and could not. He smiled, leaned forward, and touched her forehead with the cloth again; his fingers were deft and very gentle.

"Apparently you had a bad dream," he said casually. "You've been talking about wolves ever since my guards found you wandering among the trees."

Her eyes dilated upon him. "Wolves?" she whispered. "Wandering? You devil! What jest is this ? You know well—"

"Be quiet," broke in the king. "Be quiet and let me speak, for a little space. Here; if this will make you feel better, play with it," and he thrust a long dagger into her hand, then came to his feet and went to the window-opening.

She gripped the dagger and watched him, a flame in her eyes.

"Whatever you may think," said the king calmly, "you were picked up among the trees and brought here, by my guards. How you came there, how you left your castle, does not matter. If you're tempted to remember anything else, dear lady, it was all an evil dream. Let it be forgotten. I'm glad you're here, for I've something to say to you."

She lay like a trapped beast, wary and tense.

"Say it," she said in a low, hard voice.

He came toward her, smiling. "Indra, these people of mine are a crude, savage lot of barbarians; I'm one myself. But I have sense enough to know that all the civilization, all the fine things, of your Aryan race are perishing in the hands of my people; this whole glorious land of yours is going back to the jungle. I want to save it. You can save it. You esteem it an insult if I speak of loving you, of wedding you because you're the only woman I know who is fit to be a queen, and my wife. But there's another reason. Our people, and your son— Prince Shiva."

The name drove into her, quieted her, held her intent upon him.

"Marry me," he went on in that calm voice. "Let your people mingle with my people, let them keep all they have and more, let them teach my people your Vedic Hymns, your gods, your ways of life and art and work. The remnant of your people can grow great again, among mine; they may be a sect, a caste, apart. A superior caste, not slaves I

"I have no sons to follow me, Indra," he went on. "But with you for wife, I'd have a son, and one whom my people would worship and revere. Your boy; let me adopt him, as the future king of this people. It was not I who slew his father, but one of my captains whom your wolf killed."

"My wolf!" Her eyes widened upon him, her voice came with a catch. "Ah! Then your sorry jest is ended! "

"By the gods, I'm not jesting!" Suddenly impetuous, he came swiftly to the bed and looked down at her, and he was all ablaze. "You're no liar, Indra; you swore oaths for your people, but there was no mention of yourself in them. That gave me the clue. And what was it you said— that you would marry me only upon the couch of death? Well, you're lying upon it now; death for you and your son and your whole people, if you make that choice."

He dropped on the edge of the bed beside her, and threw out his hands.

"You have the knife; use it! " he said, hoarsely earnest. "The choice is yours. Here is my throat; kill me, if you like, if that will satisfy you! For I worship you, Indra; I worship you with my whole heart. I offer you myself, to kill or to take....

"And with myself, your son's life," he went on swiftly, seeing her hand move and the knife flash. "Instead of death and ignominy, he shall have honor and a crown. Your people shall have life instead of death; this nation shall rise again— if you so choose! I offer a glorious future, worthy of you, and the name of Prince Shiva shall be enshrined among our gods. But kill me if you so desire. There is no one to interfere."

With one hand, he drew the edge of his robe over his face, and waited.

The silence of the room was stirred only by the rustle of the wintry branches outside. He could hear her quick, hard breathing, but no word came from her. Suddenly she moved and caught her breath, as though to plunge the knife into him; but he did not stir.

The knife clattered on the floor. Her hand touched his.

THE scene blurred and vanished. The stone wall came back into sight, the yellow light died away, the room-lights flickered on. Norman Fletcher turned to us, awe and amazement in his eyes.

"I'll be hanged!" he broke out. "This isn't what I expected to show you at all. It's not the same thing. This apparatus is playing tricks! But, my word! Did you get the meaning of what we just saw— the allusions to historic and ethnologic fact?"

"Rather!" Miss Stephens nodded, a tinge of excitement in her cheeks. "A scene from the dispersal of the great Aryan race, somewhere on the uplands of Asia, back before history began! And the legend of the werewolf, which curiously enough seems to be a purely Aryan legend, a sort of race-myth! "

Fletcher stared at her.

"Well, it might have been worse," he said slowly. "I see now why Hartmetz said the language was a form of Sanscrit. And damned bloody it was, too. I'm sorry you saw it."

Miss Stephens tossed her head slightly. "Why ?" she rejoined coolly. "If you ask me, I thought it was fascinating, positively fascinating! All of it."

WHEN we were driving home, I asked what she had honestly thought about it.

"Oh!" she said in her demure way, which I now realized was not really demure at all, but rather blasé, "he didn't fool me for a minute. I think he was just trying to shock me."

"Really! " I said, not without sarcasm. "And did he?"

"I'm afraid," she drawled, "that poor Mr. Fletcher is behind the times."

I let it go at that.

__________________________

8: The Sword of Michelangelo

(Arms and Men Series #15)

Blue Book April 1934

WHEN I walked into the study of my old friend Martin Burnside, and found him poring over a book, I jeered at him.

"Books! " I said scoffingly. "You, the collector of arms and armor, are now switching to books? Among all these relics of fighting-men, you now turn to the pen?"

Martin Burnside peered at me over his spectacles, reached for his pipe, and stuffed it with tobacco. He shoved the book at me. It was an old calf-bound volume, printed in Italian, and adorned with engravings of naked men who held sword and dagger.

"If you'd get some of your magazine artists to study that book," he growled, "they wouldn't make their heroes curl their fingers around a rapier-hilt, or hold a dagger upside down, as they always do.

And if you yourself would study the pictures, you might find one artist who knew how a man holds a rapier— the first rapier ever made, in fact."

I glanced at the book. It was the "Treatise on the Science of Arms" of Camillo Agrippa, printed in I553.

"The first rapier?" I echoed. "You're away off, Martin. The first rapiers were in use a score of years before this book was printed."

Martin Burnside chuckled. "Of course. And the pictures for that book were drawn nearly forty years before it was printed— in 1517, to be exact. By Michelangelo."

"What ?" I was startled. "Impossible! Why, he was a painter and sculptor—"

"And Agrippa," cut in Martin with mocking emphasis, "was an engineer and architect. The two men were friends. One of them invented a new weapon destined to change the whole course of history, or adapted the invention. The other did the same for fencing."

I laid down the book. "There you go too far, Martin," I said almost angrily. "You know better. It's true that the rapier changed the whole system of fighting; but no one knows the inventor. And fencing was in use a hundred years and more before the date you mention."

"Ain't it grand to be so cocksure! " observed Martin with a covert grin. "If I told you that the rapier was in a way invented, or suggested, by an Egyptian pharaoh, you'd probably rear up on your hind legs and squall. Yet you know that the very word comes from the French rapiere or 'poker,' a derisive name given to the blade."

"What's that got to do with the Egyptians?" I snapped. "Or with Agrippa, either?"

"Everything," said Burnside. "Suppose you mix two long drinks in those tall glasses, with plenty of ice, and I'll tell you a story."

"Any proofs?" I demanded.

He grimaced at me. "Proofs! If I had proofs, I'd write it up for the League for Industrial Democracy or the Medical Congress and get me a leather medal. Go on and mix that drink."

I mixed the drink. Martin Burnside tasted his glass with approval, then relaxed and eyed me appraisingly.

"Do you know," he said, "I've been delving into the history of Rome about that time— the year 1517. It has some wonderful points. A riotous, reckless age of self-indulgence, of murder and outrage, of marvelous artistry. Michelangelo had just finished his great work in the Sistine Chapel; he was not yet forty-five, a big brawling devil who fought with everyone, from the Pope to Leonardo da Vinci. You should see him— a huge broken-nosed fellow shouldering gallants aside, bursting into the private chambers of Pope or Cardinal— a Medici was then on the throne— and in general captivating everyone, frightening everyone—"

And he plunged into the story.

A STRANGE pair, this ugly, massive sculptor who could do anything better than anyone else, despite his black moods; and the young, agile architect who dipped into the most abstruse mathematical and engineering problems. Gay blades, both of them, haunting the schools of fence, swaggering all over Rome, falling into long spells of work with the fierce and savage energy that consumed them both.

Michelangelo Buonarotti had shut himself up just then for days, working like a madman on his design for the San Lorenzo frieze. A dreamer of vast concepts, always imagining creations on the most enormous scales, utterly absorbed in his work when he was at it, he completely forgot the younger man until his design was formed and ready to go down in all final details on paper for submission to the Pope.

Then, seeking refreshment and rest, he sallied forth, haunted studio and wineshop and palace, and came finally on Agrippa seated in the midst of the great piazza before St. Peter's. The Obelisk — that gigantic stone needle, covered with mysterious hieroglyphics, that had been brought to Rome from Egypt— lay there, stretched out on the ground, awaiting some genius, as it had waited these long years. For no man could figure out how to raise it.

"Ha, Camillo! " roared the huge lusty-lunged sculptor. "Dreaming, or in love?"

"The Donna Ysabel loves me!" Agrippa had laughed exultantly. "Tomorrow night we leave for Milan!"

Agrippa, started, leaped to his feet, embraced the older man, a flame suddenly lighting in his eyes.

"Both, both!" he exclaimed. "Look there at the needle of stone! It has given me ideas, thousands of them; I shall raise it into place when I get time; but first I have other things to do. I want you to see the most beautiful girl in the world—"

"Plague take your girls! Wait!" exclaimed Buonarotti, staring at the Obelisk. "Thousands of ideas, eh? Well, I have ideas myself. Look at the thing! A pointed sliver of stone, a giant's needle thrusting at St. Peter's! If I were a giant and held that thing in my hand— Stop, stop! Look at it—"

He was silent for a moment, his luminous eyes kindling. Suddenly he caught the younger man's arm.

"Come along! First, my idea! Let's put it in train; then this girl of yours. Ha! You'll see! Come along."

And he urged Agrippa away, out into the streets, back into the city, muttering in his beard and striding hastily along. He turned into a side-street and came to the shop and forge of Giulio the armorer, a Milanese like Agrippa. Into the place he burst like a cyclone, tore out his sword and slapped it down before the startled smith.

"Look you, Giulio! I want it by tomorrow night. A new blade, half the width of this. No cutting edge, all point."

"No cutting edge!" gasped the armorer. "But, Messer Buonarotti—"

"To the devil with your buts!" roared Michelangelo. "You hear me! A long, thin blade, a needle, you comprehend? No edge whatever, but a point— all point! "

The armorer smiled, and reached to a rack of hiltless blades.

"Like this?" he said, and fetched one down. "It has no edge, you see. It is good steel, but thin— so thin it's useless. I made it for an accursed Spaniard who never showed up to claim it."

"The very thing!" The sculptor bellowed his delight. "Shorter than mine— no matter. Set it into my hilt. I'll come for it an hour or two. Bravo! Here's luck, Camillo! Come along! "

He hustled Agrippa out into the street, then halted.

"You see?"

"Devil a bit," confessed the architect, laughing.

"The Obelisk— the needle in the giant's hand!" cried Michelangelo, aglow.

"Look you! All swords are made to cut. The quickest, easiest action. But one pokes a fire— eh! " As he spoke, he threw out his arm. "The body's like a chain. The links move— thus! A thrust is like a blow, the shortest distance between two points, the weight of the body behind it. Observe!"

And while a curious throng gathered, he began to caper about grotesquely, arm thrusting forward, until the laughing Agrippa bore him away.

"Explain it at your leisure, good Michel, but now come with me, for I'm overdue. And supper awaits us, a supper of the best. My turn to say come!"

"Aye. And mine to watch over you, as usual, lest some cutthroat ensnare you."

MORE TRUTH than poetry in this. The slender, handsome young architect was no match for the guiles of the Roman underworld, as Buonarotti well knew.

Underworld ? Of its own sort, yes. A charming little house set among gardens and fountains, all aglow with crystal sconces, rare tapestries, fine linen and silver; Donna Ysabel of the fair slim hands, a lovely precious thing with her slender grace and golden hair and Spanish lisp. Her brother, Don Rodrigo, a tawny, sleepy lion, also of Spain— the old Gothic blood in the blue eyes and yellow locks. In the suite of the Spanish ambassador, this Don Rodrigo; but Buonarotti was not fooled.

A pleasant evening, with wine and song and talk, just the four of them. The shaggy Michelangelo fell in with everything, accepted the honors paid him— all the world honored him, so it was but his due. He saw how Agrippa was insanely in love, and in his heart came fear. The brooding eyes of him deepened. Again he felt the old sixth sense that had so often warned him— the swift urge to mount his horse and go, that he had so often obeyed. But now he had no horse; he had a friend, who needed him. He stayed, for once disobeying the impulse.

Three days hence— nights, rather— at this same house, a masked ball; it was arranged. Agrippa accepted for them both. A party to celebrate the birthday of Donna Ysabel, on whose fair hands the eyes of Buonarotti dwelt with gloomy scrutiny.

Once away, he dragged Agrippa home with him, made no comment, gave no warning. What use warning a man in love? Instead, he took Agrippa to his rooms, threw off his cloak, seized chalk and paper and began hastily to sketch a figure.

"Look, look here!" he exclaimed. "See the line, the muscles—"

"The quarta guardia — but you have the right foot foremost! " cried Agrippa.  "It is wrong. Look, my friend. Here is the position. Left foot foremost, always—"

"Bah! Listen to me— look at the muscles, I tell you!" broke in Buonarotti. "The link movement— the line from left heel to right wrist! None of your cutting and slashing! Here, draw your sword. Give me that broom yonder—"

He caught it up, crossed with the agile sword of Agrippa. A furious enthusiasm was upon him. The blade in Agrippa's hand cut and slashed, but the broom-handle drove in past it, swept it aside, drove home.

"A discovery! You're right!" cried the younger man. "It upsets everything we've been taught, my friend, everything! But you're right. I'll put it into mathematical formulae—"

Buonarotti flung his chalk aside, after a few swift sketches.

"The point, only the point; remember the needle," he said. "The links in the body chain— work it out, my friend. We'll try it again tomorrow. Ha! I forgot to get my sword. No matter. Tomorrow's time enough."

"I'll bring it with me in the morning."

And Agrippa embraced him. "Addio!"

The older man, left alone, worked hour after hour on more sketches— always the muscles standing out, the man in varying positions, always the body forming a chain leading to the outstretched point of steel.

NEXT MORNING Agrippa came, saw the sketches, marveled at them. He had made some of his own, for he shared the furious intensity of work that made the Florentine stand out above other men. He pitted his sword, with the cutting edge, against the thin sliver of steel that Michelangelo thrust at him— never a cut, always a thin-pointing and almost invisible lunge, until steel and arm and body seemed one living entity.

And in the minds of both men, but with far different import, lingered Donna Ysabel of the fair, slim hands.

Agrippa was talking eagerly, of a glorious jewel he had ordered as a gift for her, when a messenger from the Vatican arrived. Buonarotti was wanted, post-haste, with as much as he had finished of his design. He caught up his sketches and departed.

All that day, far into the night, he remained with Pope Leo, talking, arguing, disputing with cardinal and prince. It was a day of bursting triumph for him. The designs, which united new concepts of sculpture and architecture in a vista of dazzling splendor, created a sensation; the church of San Lorenzo would be one of the world's wonders.

Yet through it all, like a poisoned needle, pierced the laugh of the Spanish ambassador— the laugh and the word.

"Don Rodrigo? Yes, by the nails of Christ! I know the fellow— a master of fence who fled from Toledo last year with his paramour after murdering two caballeros. Look out for him, worthy sculptor! If you see the woman again, ask her, dear senor, whether she remembers Don Felipe de Bazan. She poisoned him, the she-devil! "

DESPITE his triumph, Buonarotti came home with moody eyes. He saw no more of Agrippa until the following afternoon, when the eager young Milanese burst in upon him.

"Ecco! Look here, now— your theory all worked out, Michel! You're right; mathematics prove it. The whole system of guarding must be changed. Any guard where the left foot is extended, as always, offers exposure; but with the right foot foremost, the whole thing is altered. All these artificial postures must be swept away— if the point alone is used, every possible kind of hit can be delivered from one position."

"And Donna Ysabel?" queried Buonarotti.

The other laughed exultantly. "She loves me, my friend— she loves me! And tomorrow night we leave together, after the ball, for Milan. I had a note from her this morning. She loves me, do you comprehend ?"

"You take her to Milan?"

"As wife!" exclaimed Agrippa.

Buonarotti took a step backward. "As wife!" he uttered in a choked voice. "Bad enough as mistress. Let me tell you, as a friend, what—"

"As a friend, keep silence!" said Agrippa, a stern look flashing into his face. "I know what you would say; she herself told me of calumnies spread by enemies of her family. If you have heard them, keep silence, my friend."

The Florentine smothered an oath. He knew too well that friendship would die swiftly, did he speak; and would die to no avail. Agrippa was caught up on the wings of exultant love, would listen to nothing. A man of this wild, impulsive temperament was capable of anything.

"Very well," said Buonarotti gloomily. Agrippa clapped him on the shoulder.

"Agreed, then! Now, about this system of fence, this new idea—"

The sculptor listened impatiently. Already his creative enthusiasm had passed on and forgotten matters so paltry; he was enwrapped again in the fury of his designs; his soaring imagination was enthralled in the greater vista of his work. And the net spread around Agrippa tortured him. Why, it was easy to see! The Milanese was wealthy, highly born, and if trapped into marriage would be a ready victim. Rome was the goal of all kinds of sharpers; and he was made for their toils.

Yet Buonarotti could see no way out of it, except by imperiling his friendship with Agrippa; and from this he shrank. This was one of the few men he admired, with whom he shared his dreams and his work. His bitter, moody spirit recoiled from a vain sacrifice of this friendship.... The tumult in his heart told him there was a better way, perhaps.

NEXT EVENING Agrippa came for him, attired in bridegroom apparel. He bore, in a bundle, a light domino to fling over his head upon arrival, for this was not the carnival season, and no masking was allowed in the streets. A burly Franciscan admitted him to the chambers of the Florentine. He addressed the monk carelessly.

"Good father, pray tell Messer Buonarotti that— Good God, man! You! And I never knew you—"

He broke off in dismay, staring. For the shaggy beard of Michelangelo was gone. That massive, ugly face stood out naked, the broken nose all askew.

"Aye." The sculptor smiled grimly. "I shaved for the evening, my friend. Give my name to none. I've a mask that will conceal most of this nose that Torrigiano smashed so long ago. And beneath this robe, my needle of a sword."

Agrippa met the brooding flash of those eyes, and frowned.

"You don't expect trouble?"

"Yes." Michelangelo took his arm. "You know, my friend, how presentiment comes to me. You know how I fled Florence because of it, when Piero de Medici fell, and how it led me to flee from Rome half an hour ahead of the police whom Pope Julius sent to kill me. Well, tonight I have this same dark feeling. Why, I cannot say."

Agrippa hugged him. "Too much hard work! What you need is a cup of good wine to banish your gloom, and a laughing girl, and a ring of music in the alcove. Come on! Leave off the mask until we get there, eh? A friar can go safe about the streets, at least. I have ordered horses to be brought two hours past midnight, for me and the Donna Ysabel."

"Two hours past midnight, eh? And how to leave the city gates ?"

"Here's a pass— look at it! From the Pope himself. To pass two of us."

Michelangelo nodded, drew the brown cowl over his head, and they set forth.

Rome by night, in this year of grace, was not lightly braved. Feud and intrigue flourished; assassins, bravos, banditti lurked in darkness. The Medici were in power now, but other families craved the sweets— just as other painters and sculptors were not averse to having a dagger remove the obstreperous Buonarotti. Indeed, he had full as many personal enemies as any cardinal in the list.

The two men were glad of cloak and cowl, for the night was bitter chill.

"Not that cowl or mask will keep you unknown when we get there," said Agrippa gaily. "You're expected with me, and you're probably the most famous person in Rome, or at least the best-known."

To this Michelangelo merely shrugged. The gates of the little villa opened to the face of Agrippa, whom the servants of Don Rodrigo knew well. The house itself opened to them, disclosing a blaze of lights, a glitter of brave costumes, a thrumming lilt of music. Domino in place, masks donned, they entered, and were immediately separated.

The Franciscan made his way through the gay throng to a blazing log fire, and stood warming himself, grimly eying the gay, drinking, dancing couples. Italian, Spanish, French was being spoken all around. Buonarotti sneered to himself.

"Lackeys from the palaces of cardinals ! And there's the wench herself."

Grudgingly, he admitted her beauty, draped— more or less— as the chaste Diana, a crescent moon of brilliants glittering against the golden masses of her hair. As he eyed her, a Moorish cavalier came up and tapped him on the arm.

"Ha, good friar! A toast with you. This way, you! "

A servant with his tray and tall silver goblets came to them and poured wine. The Moor lifted his cup, and Michelangelo knew he was dealing with Don Rodrigo: the Castilian lisp betrayed the Spaniard.

"A health to the Florentine Buonarotti! I hear they've chosen him instead of Da Vinci to do the church of San Lorenzo. Vivat!"

"Bah!" Michelangelo put down his goblet. "So you pierced my disguise, did you ?"

Don Rodrigo laughed heartily. "Are there two men of such thews, such barrel-chests, in all Rome? The shaven chin, I confess, worried me. It has fooled my sister. Go and salute her, I pray you; she has pestered me to learn who this Franciscan might be."

Buonarotti emptied his flagon, then made his way to the fair Diana. He carried her off from the crowd of gallants about her by main strength, then spoke abruptly.

"Where can we be alone? I have a message for your ear."

"Come," she murmured, her slim hand on his arm. "But if I grant you the favor, then you must lift your mask! "

"Agreed," said the Florentine, and added a rude, bold jest that brought a chime of laughter from her lips. It was not an age of restrained speech.

A door closed behind them. They were alone in a long, empty room with some broken furniture piled at the far end. Donna Ysabel faced around.

"Well? Off with your mask!"

"First, my message," said Michelangelo. "Perhaps, dear lady, you remember an old friend of mine in Toledo? By name, Don Felipe de Bazan."

FOR an instant, the woman before him seemed absolutely frozen by that name. Her blue eyes glittered through her mask. With a little gasp, she put a hand to her bosom.

Then, swift as light, her hand came forth. Steel glittered. With the light, lithe grace of a springing tigress, she plunged the poniard home, her whole weight behind it— straight at the heart of the Florentine.

He staggered back against the wall, arms outflung for support. She dropped the haft of the dagger; the thin steel blade had broken off. She swooped a hand at his mask, tore it away; and a cry broke from her.

"You! You— without a beard—"

Then she was gone, and the heavy door slammed behind her, closing off her quick, cruel laughter. She thought him finished by that blow.

As did not Messer Buonarotti.

"By the good right hand of my father Ludovico, that was a close one! " he muttered, coming erect and grasping at his brown habit. Loosened, the broken blade of the poniard fell away and tinkled on the stones. "A shrewd blow. And if the good mail-shirt saved my life, at least I'll have sore ribs for many a day! "

He stooped for his mask, and found the strings broken. A candle was burning in a wall-sconce at one side. He started toward it, with intent to repair the strings, when the door burst open. Two men came in, halted, stared at him.

"The devil! He's not dead, not even hurt! Look here, Rodrigo—"

The Moor followed them hastily, then slammed the door with an oath.

"Take him, you fools! You have weapons—"

Buonarotti nimbly stepped backward. Not in fright, but to gain space to be rid of the monk's robe. He was out of it as they came forward— out of it, to reveal a dark shirt, and the sword leaping from its scabbard.

"One miss— three make good! Is that it?" he roared angrily.

The two first men were already coming at him. Strangers as they were, he could guess they were bravos, hired like Don Rodrigo himself for this job. Donna Ysabel was playing Agrippa for her own sweet sake; but through Agrippa, they had brought Buonarotti into the net of murder. And he had thought himself helping his friend!

A wild, harsh laugh burst from him. The two men paused, spread out, while Don Rodrigo crept along the wall to take him from behind.

"Look at the sword! " cried one of the two, with a strong French accent. "A poker, a rapiere! And see how he holds it— ha!"

The other bravo laughed. "Well named! At him, then! "

They drove forward. Buonarotti, the long dagger whipping out in his left hand, waited not for the attack, but flung himself at them, dagger to one blade, rapier to the other. Nick and slash, a cut that came in under his arm, the needle-blade coiling around the other and sliding past it— and the Frenchman was coughing with a hole in his throat as he collapsed.

Don Rodrigo cried out in sharp warning: "Mail! Chain-mail beneath his shirt! "

"For you, Spanish fencing-master!" roared Michelangelo, and whirled upon him with furious attack. A feint, however ; he had the two of them before him next moment, and neither of them could reach his rear. Steel clashed. Down dropped the sculptor, almost to the floor; but as he dropped, his body seemed to uncoil. The long needle of steel whipped home. The second bravo, whimpering, staggered, came to one knee, and sagged down with blood spurting from his side.

"Earn your money, Spaniard, earn your money! " taunted Michelangelo. "No chance in the back now. Face to face, sword and needle— The devil! "

He had slipped in the blood of the first man. He lost balance, staggered. Don Rodrigo's steel licked in, slashed his arm; he went sprawling headlong. But as he fell, he caught the Spaniard's ankle; and with a crash, Don Rodrigo followed him to the floor.

Steel tinkled on the stones. Buonarotti came to his feet; and in those mighty arms of the sculptor writhed the other man, desperate but helpless. With a roar, the sculptor flung him out bodily, headfirst, sending him crashing into the wall, to fall and lie quiet, a dreadful pool of red seeping out around his head.

A grunt escaped Michelangelo. Breathing hard, he bound a kerchief about the slash in his upper arm, helped tie the knot with his teeth. He picked up his rapier and thrust at the empty air with it, a grin on his lips.

"Ha! Not so bad, this needle!" he exclaimed with an air of satisfaction. "What use the edge, after all? Save to cut the flesh after the point enters!"

He swung around suddenly, hearing a noise at the door. And as he swung, his foot struck the same pool of blood as before, the same slippery stone. This time he went down full length. He was momentarily helpless.

A terrible palpitating cry burst upon the room.

DONNA YSABEL had come in. Now the door slammed as she darted forward and hurled herself at the body of Don Rodrigo. Perhaps she thought Buonarotti dead also, like the others.

She caught up the head of the Spaniard in her arms, so that his blood stained all her breast and shoulders. She broke into a frightened abandon of grief and alarm, and then for an instant seemed to freeze, as she realized that he was dead. A gasp escaped her. She looked up and saw Michelangelo getting to his feet. She did not see that the door had opened again, that Agrippa stood there upon the threshold, horrified at the scene.

"You!" she cried out. "You have done this — you l"

"So it seems." Michelangelo shook his head at her. "That fine paramour of yours, whom you passed off as your brother— all of you in the plot, eh?"

She said nothing, but let the body of Don Rodrigo fall. Then she was catching up his fallen sword, was flinging herself on Michelangelo like an avenging whirlwind. A flood of scurrilous epithets burst from her lips. Her face was contorted by rage and despair until all semblance of beauty was gone, and the bloodstains lent her a frightful aspect.

Michelangelo fell back before that mad, insensate rush. He tried to knock her blade aside; to his amazement, she proved as adept in fence as himself, cut in for his knees, forced him to leap wildly. The Spanish blade drove into him, bent almost double, and a wild cry of fury and dismay escaped her.

"Mail! So that was it!"

Suddenly the blade was torn from her hand. At the same instant Camillo Agrippa moved— leaped forward and caught hold of her.

"Stop! Stop!" he cried in a voice of anguish. "You know not what you do."

She writhed like a snake in his grasp, twisted about, struck him across the face, caught the dagger from his waist. He thrust aside her hand and tried to grapple her close. The point of the poniard raked his side. A furious burst of passionate, convulsive movement swept her whole body. Both of them went to the floor, all asprawl.

And there, somehow, it happened. Agrippa caught her as she rose unsteadily, the dagger gone. She put a hand to her breast, where fresh blood was welling forth, and cursed him.

"Fool that you are! Gull! Silly brain, addled by any woman's flattery. Hands off, I tell you."

She thrust him clear, tottered a pace or two, and came down beside the body of Don Rodrigo, whose head she gathered again into her arms as she lay. Sobs racked her body, but gradually died away.

All this while, Michelangelo stood panting, holding that thin blade of his, eyes grimly fastened upon the scene. Agrippa turned to him and tore off his mask, showing a face pale as death, and starred with burning eyes.

"I can't believe it— she's not herself! Was it a plot?"

"You would not listen before. Why listen now?" said Michelangelo. Agrippa looked down at the woman, and shivered.

A little cry escaped him. She had sunk forward to rest, and her head had fallen on the breast of Don Rodrigo.

"I see. I heard what she said— then you know of this, Michel?"

"I was warned," said the sculptor, and let the words carry their own weight. Agrippa met his brave, steady gaze, and made a little gesture of futility.

"Then she was not his sister."

"His paramour," came the two harsh words. For a moment the younger man's features were convulsed with emotion. Then his head came up.

"I understand, my friend. And now — what?"

"The devil! This is not a thing to be talked about." The sculptor sheathed his blade. "You've horses waiting, and a pass for the gates— eh ? Good. I must ride to Carrera and see about the marble blocks for San Lorenzo. Ready?"

His arm went about the shoulders of the younger man in a swift, warm embrace. Then Agrippa turned and went to the woman. He leaned over her, touched her lifeless cheek with his finger — then straightened up.

"Let us go now," he said quietly.

They departed together. The episode was closed. The needle of steel had been christened, and had proved itself, in the hand of Michelangelo.

"AND at Carrera," concluded Martin Burnside, sucking at his pipe, "he let his beard grow again. And in the end, Agrippa was the man to lift that Obelisk into place, and to write a book on fencing that was illustrated with the designs of his friend. His work antedated that of the Spaniard, Carranza, by fifty years. Carranza simply borrowed his methods and got the credit for them. And the rapier changed the course of history thereafter, by its influence."

"Where'd you get all this yarn?" I demanded. Martin Burnside chuckled, and waved his pipe at me, airily.

"Well, Michelangelo was certainly not sufficiently proud of it to include it in his memoirs; and if I've rescued it from oblivion— look here! Are you, by any chance, jealous of me? Do you think you're the only man alive can tell a story, eh?"

"Don't be a fool. I only want to know whether it has any basis of fact."

Martin Burnside nodded sagely and tapped the brown leather book.

"Look it up for yourself," he said.

_________________________

9: Blow, Bugles!

Adventure March 1942

BLOW, bugles, blow! Invisible clarions of destiny, unheard by men, announcing to future ages that the decrees of fate are immutable; that the will of the gods may tremble and rock and reel, yet can never be changed.

They blew in Egypt, those bugles of destiny, under the quivering white heat of the Sun-god, Ra; no man heard them, yet the world shook, and the stars shivered in their courses, and for a moment Kismet, the inexorable master of all men, seemed shattered and futile. This was the manner of it, as you may find written in the Coptic Chronicles by the holy man of Cairo, Sheikh El Mohdi, who saw these things with his own eyes—

SULTAN EL KHEBIR, the Great Sultan, ruled Cairo and all Egypt in those days. He lived in the fabulously luxurious palace of the Mameluke prince, Elfi Bey, and the eastern world trembled before him. Yet he was a small man, sallow, with lanky hair that hung about his face, and he suffered grievously with the itch.

With his army he had seized upon the riches of Egypt, had this sallow little Corsican, and now held it under the flag of France. His soldiers knew him as Buonaparte; as one of them wrote, He won respect for his tactical genius, hut he did not have the knack of making his men love him.

This palatial headquarters was of three stories surrounding a glorious courtyard sweet with fountains and flowering trees. The richest shawls and rugs of the Orient, the most glorious Persian tiles, were here; the woodwork was inlaid with ivory and pearl shell, carven marble columns supported the stairs, and the adjacent stable held the finest Arabian steeds. Amid this luxury was installed the poverty-stricken little man who now called himself Sultan el Khebir, and whose artillery dominated the city from the high citadel above.

He lived alone with his aides. Sometimes he sought women, or they were brought to him, in this gorgeous palace upon the great Ezbekhieh Square. Few of them pleased him; he was always lonely, always seeking afar what he could never find; the love of men. He had only one comrade whom he trusted, General Junot, a gruff, illiterate, cynical fellow who had risen from the ranks.

It was the Seventh Year of the French Republic; that is to say, 1798.

The little Corsican had a superabundant vitality; he was in everything, went everywhere, plunged at whatever offered. Plagued by the itch, infected when deluged with the blood of a soldier whose head was carried away by a cannon ball, he was never still. Day and night he was on the go, planning, writing, organizing, riding, giving audiences, investigating strange and curious things and places.

He was a great believer in magic and sorcery and dreams, as the Arabs were quick to learn. There were Arabs and Turks in Cairo, and Copts by the thousand; the Copts were the people of Egypt, oppressed by the Moslems yet retaining their own ancient religion. Sultan el Khebir set them free and they became his friends and adherents; although, because he and some of his soldiers and generals proclaimed themselves Mohammedans, the Copts did not wholly trust him.

Here comes into the story Yussef Ali the Hazrami, a young man handsome and subtle, greatly gifted in many ways, who spoke excellent French. He had learned it in Stamboul, while serving the Sultan there, and he came to the headquarters sentries asking audience with Sultan El Khebir.

Now, this Corsican sultan and his officers and aides had never heard the famed proverb of Arabia, which runs: "If you meet a Hazrami and a cobra in your path, spare the cobra." A saying well founded, since the men of Hadramaut anciently won a reputation for audacity and bloody work that spread afar, if not so far as France.

Beauharnais, stepson and chief aide of the Corsican, talked with Yussef Ali, demanding his business with the commander-in-chief. Yussef evaded, but finally came to the point.

"I am come to offer him the greatest treasure and the greatest beauty in Egypt, hidden away by the lord of the Mamelukes when they fled. I can grant any desire of his heart."

The aide went back to give this message to Bonaparte, as the Corsican was now spelling his name. He was rather stiffish about it, too. In the matter of carnal desire, the Army of Egypt affected no prudery whatever; but after all, Beauharnais was a stepson. The Corsican was married to his mother, Josephine.

Bonaparte interrupted his dictation to hear the message, and broke into a hearty laugh. In seizing Egypt from the Mamelukes, the army had taken over palaces and women and treasure galore, but was always on the trail of some new hidden spoil. That Yussef Ali was betraying some such loot to the conqueror, was obvious.

"Tell him," said the Corsican, "that if he can cure this damnable itch of mine, I'll give him a hearing. Have him searched for weapons."

"That has been done; he has none," said Beauharnais, and went out with his message.

Yussef Ali merely smiled at hearing it. "Cure the itch? By Allah, nothing is easier! It is written in the stars that my mistress would heal all the ills of Sultan el Khebir."

So the fellow was something of an astrologer? Beauharnais took back this word, and the Corsican ordered him to admit the Hazrami. A firm belief in destiny, a credence in the stars and what they said, was part of Bonaparte's makeup. The secretaries were dismissed, and with Beauharnais and a couple of guards on hand, Yussef was led into the courtyard with its fountains and soft cushions and splendid luxury. He fell on his face before Bonaparte, with a lengthy eulogy, which the general brusquely interrupted.

"If you have business, state it! Who sent you here?" Yussef rose, with a certain dignity, as he faced the thin, sallow little man.

"The stars sent me, to give into your hand the greatest beauty and treasure of Egypt!"

"Meaning that you wish to betray someone or something, at a price," said Bonaparte with cynical comprehension. "Well, at what price?"

"Lord, the chief of the Mamelukes left this woman hidden in a secret palace; she is the most glorious of all women, surrounded by surpassing treasures! She has the secret of healing every ill; she has heard your name and will be dazzled by your splendor. I ask no price of your favor, unless you have an old and outworn horse or mule which your grace would turn over to me."

"As the woman is, so shall be the horse," said Bonaparte, then beckoned his aide down the patio, beyond earshot of the Hazrami.

"An odd affair, Eugene!" said he thoughtfully. "Woman and treasure; tempting, eh? A secret palace of the Mameluke chief, eh? Either it is a trap of some kind, or well worth while. After I speak with this rascal further, take him over to the Institute and have some of our savants test his knowledge of astrology."

HE STRODE back toward the waiting Hazrami. Like his officers, he made an odd figure in his looted finery, a huge Mameluke sabre clapping at his heels, jeweled poniard at his belt, a handsome cashmere shawl about his waist. He halted in front of Yussef and eyed him for a moment.

"Well? What do you propose?" he demanded. "Speak the truth, and you shall have the best horse in my stables. Lie, and you shall be beaten to death with the bastinado. Are you willing to take me to this hidden palace now, at once?"

"Allah forbid, master!" exclaimed Yussef. "It is guarded by Sudanese slaves, who keep lamps burning and ready; they are ordered to fire the house instantly, if the French enter. They must be surprised and killed, either in the very early morning or during the siesta hour, when all the world sleeps."

This made sense. The woodwork of any Cairene house, after generations of this dry desert air, would go up like tender at a spark of fire.

"Very well," said Bonaparte. "How to find the place?"

"It is in the Street of Victories, lord; not far from here. Directly opposite the Mosque of Sultan Bebars are old and ruined houses. It is the quarter of camel- drivers. In one of the walls is a closed, solid door, on which is painted the Hand of Fatima, in blue paint. I shall be waiting to open this door to your knock, at whatever hour you say."

"Very well," said Bonaparte. "Now go and talk to some of my wise men about the stars, and when you return I'll set the time."

Beauharnais took the Hazrami away, and the Corsican sent for Junot, whose cynical devotion was more to his taste in this venture than the cold eye of his stepson.

Bluff Junot listened with a grin to the story. A man was sent to investigate; he came back reporting that the door with the so-called hand, in reality derived from the Arabic script of the word Allah, was precisely as said.

"An excellent place to hide luxury, amid these ruins," said Junot. "But this may be a trap; these Arabs hate us like poison."

"Nothing risked, nothing won," said the Corsican. "We'll test it out at dawn tomorrow. Have a dozen of your best men here before daylight. When this rascal opens the door, seize him instantly. We'll take no chances. Let each man have pistols and cold steel."

"Oh, I'm to be the one who risks his neck, eh?" Junot broke into a laugh. "Very well; I accept! And I'll have men posted in all the streets around, just in case this turns out to be some cut-throat project of assassination."

So it was arranged. When Yussef returned, after proving to several members of the French party of savants that he really knew astrology, if not astronomy, the rendezvous was made and he departed bearing a present or two. The handsome, intelligent Arab had made a deep impression on all who met him; but the Corsican cautioned Beauharnais to say nothing to anyone about the man or his errand.

"Our good Junot will investigate tomorrow," he said carelessly. "He rather suspects it may be a murder trap."

"More than likely," assented the aide. "You know how many of our men suffered, until we made the chief Arabs hostages, and shot a few of them. One cannot be too careful."

Bonaparte was very cheerful that evening.

THE ARMY of Egypt was not, as yet, at war with Turkey. The land had been seized from the grip of the Mameluke sultans, who were supported by wandering Arab tribes; but the Sultan at Stamboul was treated with great deference by Bonaparte, who made pretence, as many were in reality, of being a Mohammedan convert. Thus, except for the few Mamelukes who remained afar in Upper Egypt, with the cavalry in pursuit of them, Egypt was at peace. The French rule was completely accepted, and the horizon was untroubled by any foe, except the English fleet.

No wonder the sallow little Corsican was cheerful. In Europe, he had led France to a triumphant peace over all her foes, except England. He, the son of poverty and squalor, had become violently great, wealthy, assured; now he had seized Egypt, had made himself Sultan el Khebir. He did what he willed, good or bad. If he could not make friends, he could make himself feared— and he did.

Here in Cairo, he had shot Arabs and Mamelukes without cessation; every day the firing squads had rattled away. Now they feared him, and all was calm. To him, life meant nothing, except his own. His was the supreme destiny. If an order sacrificed a thousand men, he gave it without hesitation or second thought. But neither he nor the clever surgeons could cure the itch that plagued him day and night.

At the back of his mind was thought of this, rather than lovely woman or countless treasure. That most appealed to him in the story of Yussef Ali of Hadramaut.

IN THE grayness before the dawn, hooves stirred the dusty street in front of the palace; low orders sounded, parties of cavalry filed off into the city streets beyond the central square. One group passed directly to the Street of Victory and to the Mosque of Sultan Bebars where, well away from the mosque, the men dismounted.

Junot had neglected no precaution. Natives of the watch, under French officers, now appeared and reported everything clear in the vicinity. Bonaparte, muffled in a huge cloak against the morning chill, led the way down the street. Junot and the half dozen men fell in about him. There was the door painted with the blue Hand of Fatima, confronting them.

The Corsican rapped with his pistol-butt. The door swung a little open, the voice of Yussef spoke, and Bonaparte made reply. The door opened wide and Yussef appeared; instantly, he was seized by two men. He put up no struggle, but looked about indignantly.

"Fools! Instead of fighting me, get inside and take care of the two Sudanese who are on guard! You will find them at the entrance to the stairs."

Junot plunged into the doorway, with four men behind him, and vanished from sight.

Bonaparte waited, pawing at his scabby eczema and cursing under his breath. The two men holding Yussef stood immobile. Yussef himself listened in suspense. Nothing was heard, nothing happened. Then Yussef spoke quietly to the Corsican.

"When you are satisfied all is as I said, let me guide you and your men. Nothing here matters except the Lady Zaira and her quarters. Once you hold her safe, you hold all. The slaves will not leave. It is necessary only to guard the doors of her apartment."

Bonaparte nodded comprehension. Another moment, and a step sounded; it was Junot. He came back into the doorway. His sabre dripped blood.

"Well, come along!" he exclaimed cheerfully. "Nothing to worry about."

A few slaves; two more Sudanese who had to be killed with the sword-edge; a groom who tried to escape by way of the stables and did not— that was all. In the stables, which formed an integral part of every wealthy Arab's house, were two magnificent horses. The house was a veritable palace of oriental luxury, but Bonaparte strode through it unseeing, and halted with Yussef Ali at the door of the woman's apartment on the second floor. Two girl slaves stood barring the way, terrorized, yet determined.

"Lord," interrupted Yussef, translating their babble, "they say that Lady Zaira will descend to the courtyard in five minutes. It were wise to assent. The only exit from her rooms is by these doors, and these stairs to the patio."

Bonaparte, avidly curious, assented, and joined Junot in the courtyard. The men were stationed as guards outside. Junot smoked his pipe and chatted with Yussef, while the Corsican paced up and down.

Small as it was, the patio was luxurious. A plane tree rose beside the central fountain and orange trees perfumed the air. The stairs that ascended outside the house were of delicate marble arches and glowing tiles. Cushions and rugs of the finest and rarest weaves were heaped about the fountains. The lamps were of silver and rare glass, stamped with the arms of Mameluke sultans.

Yussef had said that Lady Zaira, like himself, spoke French and had dazzling golden hair. Now, this whole matter was in no way unusual. The Mamelukes, themselves slaves in the beginning, had women of all nations in the slave-marts of Cairo; and since taking the city, the French had unearthed some extremely curious cases, and had rescued a number of unhappy creatures. Nothing was impossible, as Bonaparte well knew.

Junot, with an exclamation, laid aside his pipe and stiffened. Yussef stood in an attitude of respect. Like them, Bonaparte lifted his eyes and then remained motionless, even incredulous. For Lady Zaira was descending the stairs, alone. And like other ladies of Egypt, she was veiled so closely that only one eye showed, though her garments were of filmy gauze such as the Pharaohs and their ladies had worn. Moslem modesty applied chiefly to the head.

Thus, her grace was apparent, and one could readily guess at the divine beauty of henna-touched feet and golden limbs. She came toward the fountain, saluted Bonaparte in the Arabic fashion, and made herself comfortable amid the cushions in the shade of the plane tree.

"Greeting, Sultan el Khebir. May Allah lengthen your days!" she said in French that was fluent, but badly accented. "I am your slave."

"No, no," said Bonaparte, seating himself beside her. "You are free, lady."

"Then I become a slave once more, in order to serve you," she rejoined. "This is your house; all that is in it belongs to you. And when you return, I shall reveal to you where the Mameluke treasures are hidden."

"Return?" echoed Bonaparte in surprise. He glanced at Junot; only the two of them had known of the trip in prospect.

"Yes." Her laugh was silvery-sweet. "You go to danger. Ask Yussef about the details; he discovered it in preparing your horoscope."

"Oh!" said Bonaparte. "Suppose you ask him, Junot. Keep him out of earshot."

"Not to mention myself, eh?" said Junot, in cynical good humor. He rose, beckoned to Yussef, and strolled away with him.

Bonaparte turned to the lady. "Zaira? Is that your name?"

"Yes. My mother was French, my father Circassian— a prince."

"Very well. Let me see your face. Unveil."

"Lord!" Hauteur crept into her voice; she recoiled a little. "Before other men, that is a crime and a shame! Upon your return, come to my rooms, and your will shall then be mine in all things. I have no desire except to serve you."

Bonaparte knew the Arab feelings about baring the face in view of men, and did not insist. Indeed, he had no chance, for now she extended her hand to him, giving him a large glass vial of dark liquid. He noted the slender beauty, the youthful grace of her fingers, and the immense emerald ring on her thumb, in native fashion.

"Yussef has told me of your trouble, my lord," she said, with a charming mixture of Arab submission and personal pride. "I am skilled in curing ills. My father taught me. Put ten drops of this in the water of your bath. Then bathe not again for three days. Then another ten drops; bathe not afresh for another three days. Repeat once more, and your sickness will be cured."

Bonaparte reflected that this would require ten days; it was the extent of his planned expedition away from Cairo.

"In ten days, Zaira," he said impetuously, "I shall return. If you speak the truth, if I am healed and well, ask what you will of me and it shall be granted!"

"Lord, I ask only to serve your happiness," said she, and extended her hand. Bonaparte seized it and kissed her fingers and she laughed a little. "But, my lord, do not forget the warning!" she added. "And leave guards at my house door, I pray you, for my protection."

With this, she rose and glided away, passed up the stairs, and was gone.

JUNOT brought Yussef Ali to the Corsican, and with a significant wink said Bonaparte had better question the man himself. Yussef, however, poured forth his story without questioning. Danger? Yes. He had seen in the stars that Sultan el Khebir stood in danger of death, within the next ten days. Death in what form, then? By drowning, said he, whereat Junot guffawed; but Bonaparte, who never ridiculed any prophecy, looked thoughtful.

"Where is this horoscope you have drawn?" he asked. "I'd like to see it myself."

Yussef spread his hands. "Lord, it is barely begun. A horoscope cannot be finished in a day's time; it requires much study. Any fool can set down the position and figures of the stars, but what makes an astrologer great is his ability to deduce the future from these positions."

"Very well; when can you bring me the finished horoscope?"

"In two weeks or less, master. I must go afar into the desert to work upon it."

"Then take the two horses here in this stable, as your reward," said Bonaparte.

"I must have a passport before I can leave or enter the gates," Yussef said. This was not entirely true, but since he wanted a passport, Bonaparte told Junot to give him one.

If Bonaparte was thoroughly alive to the proximity of a charming woman, he was also alive to the possibility of assassination. He not only set guards over the house of Lady Zaira, but he had it watched by Copts of his secret service. And before taking any of that medicine in his bath, he had a double dose of it given to a slave; finding the results not bad, he took it himself as ordered, and next morning left Cairo.

He had long planned this trip, to satisfy his own curiosity. With three hundred men, he rode to Suez. He desired to see if anything remained of the canal of Sesostris, who had in ancient days connected the Red Sea with the Nile and the Mediterranean. He found the canal and traced it to its end in the Bitter Lakes. What was more, he crossed the Red Sea, just as Moses had done, dry shod.

This curious feat was due to an Arab guide, who knew where, at low tide, one night find dry sand all the way across; this was because the wind had pushed back the waters for the past day or so. So Bonaparte crossed, and went on to explore in search of the alleged Wells of Moses. Then he started back, and instead of imitating Moses, came close to sharing the fate of Pharaoh and the Egyptian host.

The tide had come in, meantime; and the Arab guide had stolen enough brandy to make him gloriously drunk. With the setting sun, darkness came down fast. Before the guide knew himself hopelessly lost, the horses were swimming, the sandbanks were gone, and panic seized on everyone. Everyone, that is, except the sallow little Corsican, who calmly and quietly gave orders that resulted in safety to all.

"Well, I have come close to death by drowning," he wrote Junot, whom he had left in charge of Cairo. "Also, the itch has vanished, I trust for good. Thus it is evident that we have friends, not enemies, in the Street of Victories. Keep the house well guarded."

Almost upon the heels of this letter, he was back in Cairo himself, eager, brimming with energy. When the most pressing of public business was over, he plunged headlong into the question of Lady Zaira. Yussef Ali was still somewhere out in the desert, it seemed.

The spies had brief reports for him. No one entered or left the house except the two slaves who did the marketing. The guards had not been troubled. Lady Zaira had not been seen by anyone. Bonaparte's heart leaped; and next afternoon, although the promised ten days were not quite up, he rode unannounced to her house, left his guards outside, and entered.

Impetuous as he was, filled with impatient and awkward gaucherie that brooked no denials, he came to the door of her apartment. The slave-girls halted him. He brushed them aside, smashed open the locked door of ancient inlaid wood, and to his amazement found Lady Zaira awaiting him, veiled and hidden, seated on a divan.

"Greeting," she said, before he could speak. "Are you healed? Remember what you promised, if you came back cured."

"Oh!" He was taken aback, chagrined, dismayed. "True. I promised whatever you might ask. Well, I am healed! So what do you desire, fair lady?"

"Three days," said she, "before you ask me to unveil or show you the treasure of the Mamelukes. That is all. You may come when you like; indeed, I shall be most happy to see you at any time. But this is the anniversary of my father's death. Until another three days, my mourning will not be laid aside."

Bonaparte, sullen and a little angry, yielded. Almost at once, however, his anger was dissipated and a joyous amazement rose within him. For, as he sat talking, he discovered that this woman had a vivid intelligence. More, without effort she flung new light upon half a dozen of the social and economic matters that worried him.

He was, at this time, completing the organization of his Egyptian government. He had run into numberless difficulties of race, religion and custom that threatened his new administration from a dozen different angles. To his startled questions, Lady Zaira returned gay replies; but beneath her merry words lay sound sense and a remarkable appreciation of values. In effect, he found her an adviser worth all his council of wise men put together.

DURING the next three days, in the keeping of his promise, Bonaparte became a frequent visitor to the house of Lady Zaira. His best men were stationed there as guards. He came at any hour, always in a fury of haste, always departing calmed and advised. He brought her his troubles as they arose, and found them neatly solved for him. He talked with her lengthily, took her into his confidence here and there, forgot himself hen he was alone with her and showed her the burning fury of spirit that underlay the outward semblance of the Corsican.

So the three days passed. Bonaparte had, actually, forgotten about the Mameluke treasure she was to turn over to him; he was thinking only of her. He was in furious love with a woman whose face he had not seen.

He admitted it frankly, when he came to her and asked her to unveil. She put up her hands and laid the veil away; for this was in the privacy of her own rooms. He looked into her face and kissed her fingers in passionate abandon.

"And the treasure?" she said, laughing. Her laugh was adorable.

"Devil take the treasure! All that matters is you," he cried.

"Then tomorrow, the treasure..."

Later, she looked into his face, as she lay in his arms, and whispered: "Promise me one thing, one thing!"

"Yes," said Bonaparte quickly.

"Tell me when he comes back, the astrologer, Yussef Ali the Hazrami," she said. Emotion swept her, agitation leaped in her eyes. "Let me know when he comes, at once! Promise!"

"Very well," said Bonaparte carelessly. "When he returns from the desert, you shall know of it at once."

She smiled again. For a moment she had heard, distinctly, the far off bugles of destiny that no one else could hear or imagine... those silvery voices blowing down the world their clarions of fated doom.

On the morrow a letter came from Constantinople to General Dugua, governor of Cairo. He read it and laid it aside, thinking little of it at the moment.

Later in the day he was riding over to the suburb of Bulac, with Junot, to lay out the new barracks. He would speak to Junot of the matter then, he reflected. Time enough. There was nothing to warn honest, blunt Dugua that time lacked, that destiny was trembling, and that this day meant all things to him, to the army, to France itself. So he did not hurry about telling Junot of the odd letter from Stamboul.

It was late in the afternoon, and they had agreed on the barracks plans, when Dugua spoke, remembering the matter.

"Oh, do you recall that I mentioned an Englishman, whom I met in Paris when he was a prisoner there? A man named Smith— Sydney Smith— a naval officer."

"I remember, yes," said Junot, laughing. "His escape back to England was something of a classic, eh?"

"Well, he is in Stamboul, some sort of emissary from England to the Porte," Dugua went on. "I had an odd letter today from him, brought by a merchant. This Smith is very touchy upon his honor, you understand. He has heard of some scheme to assassinate Bonaparte, and wrote to warn me. Punctilious fellow, very."

"That's one name for it." Junot, who was not punctilious, grimaced. "What sort of scheme? Why should the Turks assassinate him, anyway?"

"They're afraid of him," said Dugua. "Oh, this was something about a clever fellow who spoke French; I forget the details. I sent the letter to the General's secretary. The fellow stood to win a huge sum from the Porte, if he accomplished Bonaparte's death inside another month. Our English friend said to have a care. The rascal is young, able and intelligent; he hates us bitterly."

"Did Smith give his name?" asked Junot carelessly.

"Yes. One of these blasted Arabic names. Hussein... no, Yussef, that's it. Yussef Ali, from a place called Hadramaut."

Junot drew rein sharply. His jaw fell; he stared at the astonished Dugua for a moment, then put spurs to his horse. But, even as he spurred, honest Junot knew that he must be too late, for Bonaparte had left headquarters a couple of hours before with Yussef the Hazrami.

YUSSEF had turned up unexpectedly. His pass got him through the outer guards at headquarters; then Junot himself had taken him on into the courtyard, where Bonaparte paced up and down dictating letters and orders. The Corsican swung about at sight of Yussef.

"So it's you, star-gazer!" he exclaimed. "Where's that horoscope you promised?"

"Finished, and waiting for you, lord," responded Yussef, saluting low. "A scribe is making a fair copy of it now. Have my predictions been fulfilled? Did you find beauty and treasure in that house?"

"Oh, treasure!" said Bonaparte. "This is the day, yes. Lady Zaira wanted to be told if you turned up. I must send her word. Better, I'll go myself. The treasure, eh? Junot, come with me... no, no, you're going to Bulac with Dugua to see about the barracks. Go along. I'll have news of that treasure for you, tonight. Upon my word, I had forgotten about it! A dozen men of the guard, Junot."

Yussef asked permission to wash at the fountain. It was granted. He laid aside his long burnous and showed himself naked except for a loincloth, as he made his ablutions. Junot gave him a glance and a nod; anyone could see the fellow had no weapon of any kind.

Thus, with the mounted escort, Bonaparte clattered away toward the Street of Victories, taking Yussef along.

SO THE Corsican came to the house of Lady Zaira, sent the guards carelessly away, and entered in company with Yussef. The guards inside the place saluted, and informed him that the siesta hour was not finished, and that Lady Zaira and her women were still asleep. Yussef laughed.

"No matter, my lord!" he said. "I can show you the spot in the house where the treasure lies hidden, if you care to look with me. We'll have a surprise for Lady Zaira."

No suspicion occurred to Bonaparte. Guards were close within call; besides, he regarded Yussef as a faithful servitor and ally. He assented at once.

Yussef led the way. Instead of mounting to the quarters of the women, he went into the large reception room on the ground floor, guided the Corsican to the far corner and pointed to the fretted and inlaid cedar planks of the wall. Smiling, he pointed to two bits of carven ivory set into the wood.

"Press these, lord, and call upon Allah to reveal the secret!"

Bonaparte laughed grimly. "Give, O Allah, or I take!" he said, and leaned forward to press the two spots. With a grating noise, a door-like section of the wall opened, to reveal a high but narrow corridor that went into darkness. Yussef reached forward and took a glass lamp from a niche within, and set about striking fire.

"Careful, lord!" he warned. "Wait for a light, lest we find a snake or a scorpion. This opening widens into a small room, where the treasure is awaiting us. And," he added, forcefully, "such a treasure as a man, be he sultan or slave, finds but once in a lifetime!"

The lamp blazed up. Yussef held it aloft, and a dozen feet away Bonaparte could see that the corridor widened.

Yussef went ahead, and the Corsican followed, cautiously. They came to the wide spot. Here, indeed, was a tiny room about eight feet square. It was quite empty, except for a box that stood in one corner. Upon the box lay a pair of immensely long Arab pistols, inlaid with silver, and a horn of powder.

Yussef went straight to this box, set the lamp on it, and busied himself.

"Well?" demanded Bonaparte, impatiently. "What are you doing?"

"Putting fresh priming in this pistol," said Yussef, and swung around. The light struck upon his face; a new face, radiant with hatred and suppressed fury. The pistol lifted in his hand. It covered the Corsican.

"Fool!" snarled Yussef. "No one can hear; no one will know! You came here to perish, do you understand? Everything was done in order that this moment should come to pass, this moment when you die!"

The truth flashed upon Bonaparte. He was lost, and knew it— utterly lost. True, he had his long poniard, but the pistol would flash death before he could use it. He stood irresolute, sweating, aghast.

Yussef laughed curtly. "Sultan el Khebir!" he said in cruel mockery. "In the moment of death, you see the truth, eh? You hear the wings of death's angels; listen, listen! You can hear the bugles of destiny blowing as you die, your accursed life cut short—"

A rush of soft naked feet in the darkness; a voice crying sharply.

"Yussef! Wait, wait!"

She was there, in the passage. Bonaparte could see only a flash of white, but he could sense her perfumes. He cursed under his breath. Her presence there cut off all escape. He had been on the point of a desperate dash for it. Useless now! She was in the plot, too...

"You must not!" Her voice lifted shrilly with its frantic, imperative urge. "He is not what you said! He is no cruel monster. He is a young man filled with greatness! I cannot let you do this thing. Stop it, stop, do you hear?"

From the Arab came an explosion of furious speech. A wild cry broke from Lady Zaira. Suddenly she came between Bonaparte and the light. The pistol roared; smoke and flame gushed out.

The Corsican, flung back against the wall, gripped at his long dagger. The lamp had been knocked over; everything was dark, and in this darkness, Bonaparte struck out blindly. He did not, at once, know what had happened. He found Yussef grappling him, striking at him with the pistol, and felt his own blade drive into the man, again and again. The pistol fell, then Yussef crumpled.

So passed the moment that should have changed the history of the world.

PRESENTLY Bonaparte stooped to the lifeless thing at his feet. His hand touched her hand; it was cold. The bullet, meant for him, had killed her.

He stepped out of the passage into the large room, and closed the door behind him. There was no alarm. Nothing had been heard. For a space he stood there motionless, staring at the sunlit courtyard and the fountains. He recalled the words of Yussef, now so ominous and significant—"such a treasure as a man, be he slave or sultan, finds but once in a lifetime!" And that mention of curing all ills.... Fool, fool that he had been! This Arab, so sardonic and assured, had told him the truth and he had been blind to it!

Then he saw Junot coming through the courtyard, running, calling. Bonaparte strode out to meet him. With a panting gasp of relief, Junot plunged to a halt at sight of him.

"Then I am in time!" he exclaimed.

"For what?" demanded Bonaparte.

"To warn you! That rascal Yussef was an assassin!"

The sallow Corsican regarded him impassively. "So I have already learned, my good Junot," he said. Clasping his hands behind his back, he looked up at the sky. A deep breath shook him. "He is gone. And she... she is gone also. They will not return. Have this place closed up and the doors sealed, and left so."

He was silent for a moment while Junot stared at him wide-eyed, uncomprehending; but then, Junot seldom understood this strange little man.

"The bugles of destiny!" Bonaparte continued slowly. "Singular words! I wonder what he meant by them?"

The world would know, one day.

__________________

10: Berber Loot

The Magic Carpet Magazine Oct 1933

The story of a madcap adventure in Morocco, told as only Bedford-Jones can  tell it— a story of thrills, romance, and sudden death, in a wild hunt for stolen treasure

HENNESSY was a tough egg, any way you looked at him, and at the present moment he was in a tough place.

His cap, his attire, his fingers, the silver Senegal coins he handed out, all showed that he was from the engine-room of the tramp. She had just arrived in Casablanca from Dakar. He was bronzed, efficient, scarred, with a warm but deceptive grin.

Croghan, lean and dark, sat beside him. They drank, and watched the Berber dancers whose thudding feet seemed about to tear the platform apart. Shipmates two years previously, they had met here in Morocco, by sheer accident, half an hour ago.

Croghan seemed at home here. This was the one place in Casablanca where they might have met. It was the new "ville Arabe," expressly designed for pleasure. And it was the one place where Croghan could tell his amazing story in safety. The squealing fifes and fiddles, the monotonously beating drums, the iron heels of the Berber men thudding dust from the planks, all served to cover up his words.

The room was long and low. At one end, a platform held a score of Berber men and boys, the platformers. The trestles were crowded with girls of all shades from pitch-black to white, and with all sorts of men— Arabs, Berbers, French civilians and tourists. Occasionally one of the fuzzy-haired girls would approach the two men who sat talking together, only to be sent away by a negative gesture from Hennessy. Men and girls were coming in or leaving every moment, causing a continual flow of movement in the place.

As the police agents in the streets outside, and at the entrance gates, bore witness, this was a place created not alone for the native quarter, in this comparatively new city of Casablanca, but for every one— and for the amusement of every one. From down the street came other music, indicating Arab dancing, and the bustle and stir on every hand showed that the night had just begun for this Moroccan underworld.

Hennessy gave the dark Croghan a hard, level look.

"Are you talking stage money. Frog dough, or cold cash?" he demanded.

"All kinds, cash included," said Croghan. "The Berber who told me about it was one of this crowd right here. Met him here last night and he recognized me right off. He was going to meet me tonight. And half an hour after telling me, from what I can learn, somebody cut out his gizzard. I mean just that, too;
you know, these natives think a knife is meant to rip any one from the ribs down―"

"Keep to the point," said Hennessy. "How come this Berber recognized you?"

"I was running guns up into the hills last year. Rather, acting as agent for he main guy, and collecting," said Croghan. "That's all ended now, of course. Durell, the head of the outfit, is here in Casablanca now. I quit the game and have been running an auto stage to Rabat and Fez the last few months. Are you interested or not?"

"In fifty thousand dollars? Boy, you said it," Hennessy assured him.

"All right, then listen," said Croghan, dropping his voice. "During the troubles, this Berber and some of his pals raided the hill castle of a pacha; you know, the Berbers hate all the pachas, who are held in power by the French. They got the old boy's loot, got away, and then set in to kill each other off for the loot.

"This Berber of mine, and another named M'tel, double-crossed the rest of the outfit and cleared out with the loot. They ran afoul of a French column and were captured, but hid the stuff first. They were sent up for two years each, to different prisons, M'tel was sent to Marrakesh, but my chap went to the prison at Rabat. That's where I got next to him— he fixed it for me to get in touch with his people and so forth, about the munitions."

So Croghan had been in prison, then! Hennessy sipped his mint tea and said nothing.

"Day before yesterday, time was up for them both," said Croghan. "This bunch of Berbers met my friend in Rabat and came down here to keep their dancing engagement; I dropped in last night, and all was jake. The other one, M'tel, is in bad with his tribe. Most likely, he came along and knifed my friend. I had a hint he had thrown in with Durell, the same chap―"

"Say, listen!" broke in Hennessy abruptly. "Is this some pipe-dream or what?"

Croghan leaned forward earnestly, sweat standing out on his forehead, a snarl on his thin lips, his dark eyes blazing at Hennessy.

"Cash: bank-notes and gold! Is that a pipe-dream, you fool? I know exactly where it's hidden. I can get it."

"What I want to know," said Hennessy, "is why somebody―"

"I don't give a hang what you want to know," snapped Croghan. "I can answer every argument you put up, explain everything you don't understand; but not here and now. I've no time. I've got to get somebody to lend a hand with this job, because M'tel and that chap Durell will be after the stuff in no time. If you want in on it, say so— yes or no. A fifty-fifty split."

Hennessy grinned.

"Agreed," he said. "When do we start?"

"In an hour, if you can be free of your ship in that time."

"I can so," said Hennessy promptly. "All I have to do is get my pay from the Old Man and leave her. He can ship a dozen engineers here, and he knows it. Will you come to the dock for me?"

"Not much," said Croghan. "I'm scared, I tell you; I'll not monkey around the port at night! Hennessy, I'm plenty tough, and so are you, but let me tell you that we're up against a bad gang if Durell is in on this. Let's separate here and now. Meet in an hour's time at my hotel, the Bonaparte. It's a little joint, clean and honest, in Rue Bonaparte. I'll have my car ready."

"Okeh, feller," said Hennessy. "Your car? Where do we go, then?"

"A hell of a long way," said Croghan, and drained his glass. Then he started and set down the glass abruptly, and slid from the bench. His hand gripped Hennessy's shoulder for an instant. "Look there— the chap with the chauffeur's coat! That's Durell himself. So long."

Croghan was gone, through one of the several exits— gone like an eel.

Hennessy drew down his brows and looked at the man swaggering in, seeking an empty place at the long table. He wore the white dust-coat of a chauffeur, and a cap pulled over one ear, but he was clearly no chauffeur. His figure was lean, spare, powerful, his high-boned face was framed by black hair, sideburns, and centered by a short black mustache. It showed hard and ruthless lines, an expression of cool effrontery and the nerve to back it up. It was plain that Durell was well known here. Some called to him, others glanced at him and muttered hastily to their neighbors. Durell waved his hand, sauntered along, and slipped into the place just vacated by Croghan.

Hennessy sipped his mint tea, and stared at a soldier and a half-caste girl opposite.

"If you know what's good for you," said a voice in faintly accented English, somewhere close at hand, "you'll get back to your ship and leave that rascal Croghan alone."

Hennessy glanced around, but no one was paying any attention to him. Durell had just given an order to the waiter and was breaking open a packet of "jaunes."

As he selected a cigarette, Hennessy shoved a package of matches along the board.

"Thanks," he said. "Have a light."

Durell glanced up swiftly and met his gaze. The dark, vivid eyes struck against the calm, laughing gray ones, and a smile curved Durell's hard lips.

''Obliged to you," he said. "Stranger here?"

Hennessy nodded. "You seem to know," he said amiably. Durell surveyed his clear, laughing eyes, his heavily built, strong features, his wide shoulders, and shrugged.

"Better take my advice, my friend. Croghan ignored it; he'll be sorry, within the next half-hour. Better take it."

"Thanks, I will," said Hennessy, and rose. "I'm back to the ship right now."

He started for the door that gave on the street. Half-way to it, two Frenchmen wearing the blouses, red sashes and voluminous corduroys of workmen, suddenly seized on a girl who was passing them— a girl whose tattooed white forehead showed she was a Berber. One grasped her hair, the other caught her arms, and the first tried to empty a cognac bottle down her throat.

Amid the rough horse-play all around, the scene was unnoted, except to provoke laughter, but Hennessy caught a glimpse of the girl's face, and the stark fright in it jerked him into action. With a shove, he sent the first man reeling headlong into the wall, and his fist smashed into the face of the second man, who was knocked sprawling. The first man came to his feet like a cat, a knife glittered, shrill screams went up; but Hennessy crashed in a blow that doubled the man up in agony.

Then, elbowing a way out, Hennessy left the tumult behind him and slipped into the night, well aware of the police consequences for using fists— something abhorrent to the French taste. He strode down the street to the entrance, whose significant posters on either hand indicated the character of the place, and so to the line of taxicabs waiting outside the all. Two minutes later, he was on his way back to town and the waterfront.

He settled back comfortably in the car and thought of Croghan. He knew perfectly well that Croghan was unscrupulous, hard as nails, and a distinct social liability; on the other hand, he was dependable and resourceful. Hennessy was no shining society light himself. Having knocked around the French and Mediterranean ports considerably, he had a working knowledge of impolite French; while his ability to handle recalcitrant men and at the same time take care of himself, resembled that of an old-time bucko mate. The engine room is not a school of polite manners.

That Croghan had been pursuing fickle fortune in Morocco for the past couple of years, doing everything from filibustering to killing jail lice, did not convince Hennessy that his yam of Berber loot held any truth. What did appeal to Hennessy was the intervention of this Durell, and the fact that Durell had been keeping a watch on Croghan, as his words proved.

"He'll be having me followed, too," reflected Hennessy cheerfully. "So I'll stop long enough aboard ship to convince him. Then I'll slip off up the docks. H'm! Not far uptown, and this Rue Bonaparte isn't a great way off. I'll walk. If Croghan is waiting, I'll take a chance with him. If not―"

Would Croghan be waiting? He strongly doubted it. Durell's words showed that something was in store for Mr. Croghan, and something distinctly unpleasant. On the contrary, Hennessy was well acquainted with Croghan's innate abilities. The odds were about even.

Having been in port for three days, Hennessy was by no means loth to throw up his job and go careering off on a wild gold-hunt in Morocco. With Croghan as cicerone, there would be nothing tame about the trip— even leaving himself out. It might end in jail, or worse, but it would certainly not lack in excitement. Croghan certainly believed in the existence of this loot.

"It's plausible, anyhow," decided Hennessy, and dismissed further arguments.

Forty minutes later, without the least misadventure and without being followed so far as he could tell, Hennessy approached the Hotel Bonaparte on foot. It was a small hotel in a small street well down from the old Arab town. As he drew near, the lights of a car standing before the hotel entrance were flashed on, and he heard Croghan's voice.

"If that's you. Red, hop in and do it quick."

Hennessy, whose hair was not red but close enough to it to get him the name, quickened his pace. The car was a small but powerful Fiat sedan.

"Step lively," said Croghan. "Can you drive this outfit?"

"Me? I can drive anything," returned Hennessy.

"Then get under the wheel and let's go," ordered Croghan, his voice urgent. "Straight down past the docks to hit the Rabat road. Don't switch on any dashlights, either."

Hennessy obeyed. As he settled under the wheel he was aware of Croghan's dim figure at his side, and sniffed.

"What you so blamed busy at? Smells like blood."

"It is," snapped Croghan. "Found two birds up in my room laying for me. They're still there and I've got repairs to make. Hurry and get out of here, blast you!"

The gears clashed. A moment later the Fiat went roaring down the street, and Red Hennessy was off on the trail of Berber loot.

2

A FEW MILES outside Casablanca, on the straight paved highway following the coast, Hennessy pulled out of the road and halted. Under the headlights of the car, he assisted Croghan in his repair job.

This was no elaborate matter. Croghan had suffered a number of slight cuts about the arms and hands, which momentarily interfered with his driving, and a life-preserver had given him a nasty rap over the ear, but he was quite content.

"You should see those two birds who laid for me!" he observed darkly. "Luckily, I knew Durell's little ways, and kept my eye peeled."

"No police around?" queried Hennessy. The other sniffed.

"Police? You don't know this country; anything goes! Between the native police and the French police, the double court and jail system and so forth, you can get away with murder. This isn't part of France, but a separate country so far."

Hennessy started the car again and related his encounter with Durell, touching briefly on the incident of the Berber girl. At this, Croghan cursed.

"Durell will have the cops after you for that, sure! Why didn't you kick, instead of hitting— don't you know the French yet? So he had you spotted, eh? Sure, I knew I'd been trailed for the past day anyhow."

'Well, produce some information," said Hennessy. "How do you know this money has been lying untouched all this time, huh? Why didn't those two Berbers send somebody for it?"

"Nobody to trust," replied Croghan. "You don't know this country. Anybody would cut his own brother's throat for a tenth part of that coin, Red! And the French would grab it in a minute if they caught on. No, that cash is lying under a boundary rock up in the hills, fifty feet off a road, an hour's drive outside Fez."

"Lying under a rock!" repeated Hennessy in scornful accents.

"Yeah. Boundary rocks don't get moved in those parts, without bullets flying. When these two chaps got caught by the French, they slipped the money under that rock, and it's still lying there, all right."

"Maybe. Once out of jail, why didn't either of 'em head straight for the spot? Especially if it was a question of which one got there first?"

"Why did my friend take me in on the deal? Why has the other chap, M'tel, taken Durell in with him?" responded Croghan. "Allee same need help to dispose of the loot; the country isn't what it was a couple of years ago. There's slathers of buried money, but not banknotes. An unknown Berber can't walk into a foreign bank with that amount of money and cash in on it, not without questions asked! But one of us can. Have you got a gun?"

"Two," said Hennessy. "Well, what's your program? How far is this place Fez from here?"

"Let's see. Ninety-two from here to Rabat; from there to Meknez, a hundred and forty; from there to Fez, sixty more. That's nearly three hundred."

"Miles?"

"No, you nut! Kilometers. About a hundred and seventy-five miles."

"That's easy," declared Hennessy, with a laugh. "No speed limit in this country, I hear. We'll tap your rock sometime tomorrow morning — it isn't eleven yet. Good roads, too."

"Sure. Only, Durell will know that we're on the way. He's got a Cadillac."

Hennessy stepped on the gas. The needle rose to a hundred, and passed it

"We're doing sixty now, in miles. Suit you?"

"This is no race, Red," said Croghan bitterly. "Get that out of your head. Durell ain't in any great rush. He's got a pull, get me? All he has to do is telephone on to Rabat or Meknez, and have us pinched or else met by some of his gang―"

"Well, what d'you expect to do? Fly?" asked Hennessy. "Can't we cut around those towns?"

"Not a chance. No network of roads in this country. Have you any papers?"

"Nary a one," said Hennessy cheerfully. "The skipper promised to leave the necessary documents at the consulate in the morning, with my pay."

"Then you're in dutch if the police hop on us. Maybe Durell will stick to his own gang, though." Croghan lit a cigarette, passed it to Hennessy, and lit another for himself,

"Well, what's your program?" asked Hennessy. "Crowd her through regardless?"

"You bet. Suit you?"

"Okeh by me, feller."

They swept on by hill and dale, once the coast was abandoned, then swooped down long valleys, leaving the occasional farms and old towers to right and left, the rolling boom of surf coming to them again to speak of the returning shores.

Twice they plunged across great chasms on suspension bridges, the road following the railroad rails with what seemed to be a dizzy lack of appreciation of any danger. They were ten miles out of Rabat when, topping a rise, the lights picked up a car stalled by the roadside below, two figures beside it. One of these stepped out and. signalled frantically with a pocket torch.

"Go through," said Croghan. Hennessy slowed.

"Nope. Women. Have your gun ready, though."

"What the hell!" exploded Croghan. "Durell has women agents―"

The brakes ground. Croghan, his gun ready, opened the window. Hennessy kept the headlights on the stalled car and its two passengers— a chauffeur in white dust-coat and cap, and a woman in a dark cloak. It was the latter who had signalled, and who now addressed them in French with a strong accent.

"Messieurs, can you have the goodness to help us in to die city? Our petrol has given out, and no other cars have passed to give us aid―"

Hennessy saw that her car bore a French license, indicating a tourist, as did the luggage piled on the top. It was a handsome car, a large Renault painted a bright blue, with brass trimmings; no hired hade.

"Certainly, madame." responded Hennessy. "One moment, if you please."

He turned to Croghan and spoke in rapid English. "Get out and look at their tank. See if it's a stall. I'll keep 'em cov―"

"Oh! Are you Americans?" came the quick exclamation from the woman. "So am I! And I took you for French! This is certainly a relief. You can give us a ride to the city?"

'Yeah," returned Hennessy. "Go on, Croghan! Take no chances. I've got an idea.— Miss, let me talk with you a minute. Come over here by the car. My name's Hennessy, usually called Red for short, and this here is Croghan, and we're in a tough jam."

He paused in astonishment. The ray of the electric torch fell foe an instant on his face, while Croghan was getting out. Then the woman who held it, flashed it on herself briefly. Hennessy bad a vision of a laughing face, framed in masses of dark hair, and gasped.

"Lord! I thought you were an old hen,'' he exclaimed, as she came close. "Who are you?"

"Good sir, I am a poor wandering damsel out of gas but with plenty of mad money," she responded merrily. "By name. Mary Gray. My chauffeur speaks no English, luckily. You look too bronzed and happy to be a tourist."

"Correct," and Hennessy chuckled. "Where you headed for? And why all alone?"

"Because I am alone," she returned. "I'm not as young as I look. Red, being thirty-one last week; so I don't need to be chaperoned, if that's your notion. I'm an artist, a painter of this and that, and Tm supposed to put in a couple of weeks at Rabat and have an exhibition and so forth. The luggage you see is mostly works of art. Now do you know enough about me?"

"No," said Hennessy promptly, "not near enough.— Croghan! Never mind; gather round and listen. This party's on the level, and I've got an idea.— Miss Gray, we need your car."

She broke into a laugh. "How'll you make it run?"

"Listen, this is serious!" exclaimed Hennessy. "Half of Morocco is or may be looking for us right now, having a description of our car. Chances are, we'll never get to Fez without trouble, unless we get another car-"

"Check," she broke in quickly. "Who's after you? The police?"

"No." Hennessy caught a growl from Croghan, and grinned. "She's straight, partner, so shut up. No, not the police, but they may be later. Right now, a bad gang is looking for us. Write looking for treasure, if you want it straight, and the gang wants it―"

The flashlight bit up at him again.

"No," she observed, 'you certainly don't look drunk. Red! Does this car belong to you?"

"Belongs to me, miss," said Croghan.

"What we want," went on Hennessy quickly, "is to swap cars. We'll put most of our gas in your tank. You put your luggage in this car and go on to Rabat. Then later on, we'll bring back your car. We're responsible folks—"

"Yes, you talk like it," she broke in, with a silvery laugh. "Is your treasure hunt on the level?"

"Croghan has a few knife-cuts to say it is," replied Hennessy. "And if ibis cussed Durell ever catches up with us, they'll get paid back-"

"Durrell!" came her voice sharply. "Not Carlos Durrell, of Casablanca?"

"My gosh! Do you know him?" snapped Croghan.

"I've met him, to my sorrow; only a couple of days ago. Here, wait! Climb out of your car, both of you, and shift over some gas. Can you do it?"

"Sure," said Croghan. "I've got a rubber tube. Siphon it easy."

"Pull up beside us, then, and get to work," the ordered with decision, "I'll have Jules change the luggage. Where's yours?"

"We travel light," said Hennessy. "If we have luggage later, we're satisfied."

He drew up alongside the other car. Croghan was mouthing admiring oaths as he glimpsed the strategy in view, and leaped to work on transferring some gasoline.

"How'd you come to run out?" demanded Hennessy, as Jules shifted over the luggage.

"Came up from Marrakesh today," replied Mary Gray. "Thought we had enough to go right on to Rabat, but there's something wrong with the gage. Where are you headed for?"

"Fez, or the other side of there," and Hennessy proffered a cigarette. She accepted. "Was Durell down at Marrakesh?"

"Yes."

To himself, Hennessy thought that this rather backed up Croghan's yarn, for the Berber M'tel had been in prison at Marrakesh. Durell had probably met him when he was turned loose and brought him an to Casablanca.

"There! Got enough to teach Rabid now." Croghan straightened up and turned to the woman. "Miss Gray, it's mighty white of you to let is use your car like this. Means a lot to us. If we win out, we'll sure let you know how much we appreciate it! Come on. Red."

"I'm going too," said Mary Gray abruptly. The two men stared at her in the starlight.

"You are not," spoke up Hennessy. She laughed lightly, and then he caught her arm and led her to one side. "Listen here," he said, "don't be silly, now. We don't want any woman along on this trip. It's not safe."

"So I judged," she returned coolly. "That's why I'm going. I'm interested."

"Well, get uninterested, then," snapped Hennessy. "Me, I'm a second engineer out of a tramp from Senegal. This guy Croghan is an ex-jailbird and gun-runner. Dwells gang―"

"Better and better!" she cut in. "But you listen to me a minute. I've met this Dwell, as I said. And I'd give a good deal to meet him again, and help any one else give him a black eye. I'm going with you, and that's flat. Maybe I can help."

"Yon can't. You'd be in the way."

"Nothing of the sort. You can swear all you like; I can swear too, for that matter. I'm no tenderfoot, Red. I can drive as well as you, too. I use a chauffeur for looks and as a guide. Jules can take my things on to the Transat hotel at Rabat and wait for me. I'm going, so you may as well stop your protests."

The fire in her voice, the vibrant personality of her, conquered.

"All right, but when the shooting―"

"I have a pistol in the car, and a government permit to carry it."

Hennessy threw up his hands and strode to the Renault, where Croghan was still standing.

"Does she mean it, Red?"

"She does. And short of using force―"

"Let her come, then," said Croghan bitterly. "Damn it, we've got to be half-way decent, but for two cents I'd ditch her somewhere."

"Better not try it," said Mary Gray, who had caught the words, and laughed again. "Cheer up, Croghan! I'm not such a bad sort, really. Jules! Take the other car to the hotel in Rabat and say I've been delayed and will be along later. And keep your mouth shut."

"Yes, mademoiselle," responded Jules.

Croghan climbed sullenly into the Renault, and two minutes later, with Hennessy under the wheel, they moved off. As they got into speed, Hennessy chuckled. Mary Gray, who had the front seat beside him, gave him a sharp look.

"Well? What's the joke?"

"I was thinking that Jules might run into trouble with that car."

"Oh! Well, I was thinking so myself. That's one reason I'm in this car now."

Hennessy broke into a low laugh. She was all right!

3

AS CROGHAN admiringly stated, one l had to admit that Mary Gray was a useful companion.

While the two of them huddled under a blanket on the floor of the tonneau, she got the Renault filled with oil and "essence", and drove off; then Hennessy resumed the wheel, and Croghan steered him out of town, knowing all the bade streets of the French city that here, as in the other old Arab towns of Morocco, had been built adjoining the more ancient huddle of masonry and apart from it.

Then they went soaring on through the night to Meknez, the great garrison city, whose enormous ruined walls in which thousands of Christian slaves had been buried alive ran off across the hills for miles. It was two-thirty when Meknez fell behind them, and a quarter past three when the lights of Fez flashed into sight ahead.

Hennessy pulled out of the road and wakened his two companions, who were dozing.

"Conference, partners," he exclaimed gaily. "If you ask me, we've made time."

"I'll say you have!" said Croghan. "There's Fez. What you stopping for?"

"Orders. We need gas and oil, not to mention sleep. Do we go straight through, or break the trip here?"

"I need daylight to locate the right spot," said Croghan, doubtfully. "And you must be about done up. It'd be safer to go right through, but-"

"There's a new hotel in the French town, this side of Fez," spoke up Mary Gray. "Why not take rooms there, get an hour's sleep and an early breakfast, and go on about six?"

"The only reason why not," said Croghan, "is that we must give our names when we light, and fill out the usual police card. If any one is looking for us, they'll know it in twenty minutes."

"Well, no car has passed us, so Durell's not ahead," said Hennessy. "We've broken the back of the trip, and I vote to start fresh at six."

"O. K., then," assented Croghan.

Another ten minutes, and they halted before the Hotel Splendide. Here Mary Gray took charge, issued the orders, obtained rooms, and Hennessy thankfully crawled between the sheets and was asleep on the instant The nerve strain of that night drive at top speed had been terrific.

He had no luggage except the clothes he stood in and a toilet kit. Wakened at five-thirty, he was shaved, dressed and downstairs ahead of the others, and went outside to find that the hotel had refueled the car. Over the ancient twin cities of Fez was hanging the usual morning mist of smoke, so that, with the hill forts on either hand, it looked like a scene from fairyland.

Hennessy turned back into the entrance, then halted. A big car was just coming up, a Cadillac with a Moroccan license. With sharp premonition, Hennessy drew back into the doorway and watched. The new arrival halted behind the Renault Sure enough, Durell got out, stretched himself; he was followed by two other Frenchmen, and then by a red-headed Berber in a new white jellab.

Waiting to see no more, Hennessy strode back into die lobby and encountered Croghan.

"Hey, Red! She's in the dining-room. Hustle in and eat— what's the matter?"

"Durell's here. Looks pretty done up. Come along, take a chance on the dining-room. Damned if I want to hide from that skunk! If he doesn't come in, so much the better."

They passed into the dining-room, a small alcoved room highly decorated
with tiles and carved plaster in Moorish fashion. And here Hennessy had his first real look at Mary Gray, as they came toward her table.

Again he got that impression of vibrant personality, of laughing energy. Dark hair and dark eyes, firm feminine features— nothing spectacular about her, until she laughed and spoke. Then her face lit up with animation, with eager interest in everything around her. Thirty-one? He would have set her down as little over twenty.

And she, looking up at Hennessy, warmed to his quick laughing blue eyes, his alert, crisply carven features, the touch of whimsical recklessness that set him apart. She gave the two of them a bright greeting, and waved her spoon at the chairs adjacent.

"Settle down, comrades. I've ordered for you. A real breakfast, not a French snack. Well? What's gone wrong?"

"Durell's here," said Hennessy, as he seated himself.

She was facing the door, and looked past him, then frowned slightly.

"Let him be here, then!" she exclaimed. "When did he come?"

"Just now."

Their words died, as the waiter approached with a laden tray. During their night ride, Mary Gray had heard the entire treasure story, by snatches, but had related nothing about her knowledge of Durell. Now Hennessy recollected it, and spoke.

"You seem downright set against poor Durell. What'd he do to you?"

Anger lightened her dark eyes.

"He kissed me."

"Shucks!" Hennessy grinned cheerfully. "That's no crime. That's merely following a perfectly natural inclination."

She gave him one furious glance, then broke into a laugh.

"You're— well, Red, you're a caution! Not only that, however; he was insulting about it, and I didn't like him anyhow. He came along when I was sketching the Koutoubia, down at Marrakesh; it was built by the architect of the Giralda at Seville, you know. He just naturally got his face slapped, and then he grew ugly, but Jules came along and he decamped."

Hennessy rose and laid down his napkin.

"I'll be back in a minute," he said. "Just thought of something―"

"Sit down!" she exclaimed sharply. "You hear me? Sit down! None of your nonsense, Red. I can read your mind. I won't have it, d'you hear? Leave Durell alone."

Before her determined words and look, Hennessy shrugged and seated himself. Croghan grinned.

"You'd better not be reading his mind, Miss Gray―"

"Hold everything," she said quietly. "Here he is. Please don't have any trouble in here."

The two men, seated with their backs to the entrance, exchanged a glance and fell silent.

Durell descended the two steps into the dining-room, glanced around casually, then came to a dead halt as his eyes fell on Mary Gray, facing him. Delight sprang in his eyes, and regardless of her cold stare, he approached and doffed his cap with a gay greeting.

"My lady of Marrakesh!" he exclaimed. "Come, this is nothing short of a miracle! What good fortune has brought you to me here?"

Mary Gray regarded him for a moment, then shrugged.

"A madman," she observed to Hennessy. "Pay no attention to him."

Durell broke into a laugh. "Ah, but―"

Hennessy came to his feet and swung around to face the other. Then Durell recognized him, glanced down at Croghan, and for an instant seemed frozen. His eyes hardened into cold pin-points. The recognition was an obvious shock.

"So, this is it!" he said slowly. "This is where you disappeared-"

"On your way," said Hennessy, curtly. "Did you ever hear of the bum's rush?"

Durell's gaze bored into him with a flame of hatred; then the man bowed, turned, and went striding out of the room.

With a grunt of disgust, Hennessy resumed his seat. "Eat fast," he said. "Pitch in, everybody!"

"And get away," said Mary Gray.

"Right. Everything's paid, including breakfast, and a lunch is being put into the car now. Quickly!" No time was lost. Swallowing a hasty meal, all three rose and departed. They saw nothing of Durell. His two companions stood in the lobby, and by the door was the red-headed Berber, who looked at Croghan with a curl of his bearded lips and a flash of hatred.

"That was our friend M'tel, right enough," said Croghan, opening the car door. "Hop in! Durell's probably telephoning and raising trouble. Straight back to the highway, Red, and then follow it out to the left, around the walls."

A tip to the attentive garçon, and they were off with a roar, Croghan now sitting beside Hennessy in front. A long block away from the hotel, Croghan uttered a startled oath.

"Stop," he exclaimed. "Into the curb. Red―"

A moment later he jumped out, glanced at the tires, and suppressed certain violent words.

"Nail in the right rear," he said, climbing in. "Ain't flat yet— there's a garage dead ahead, though I can't say much for it. May be open now. You can reach it."

"Right," said Hennessy. "Now we know what M'tel was doing outside, eh?"

"Yeah. He got the nail part-way in, which is some job, and before we rolled a block, the car did the rest. There's the place, over to the left. She's open, too! No use sweating around and wasting time with tools, when we can get it done quicker. I'll give the mechanic a hand. Looks like a native."

A native it was, who had just opened up the garage. The patron was here, he told them, but was at the telephone. Hennessy thought nothing of this, at the moment.

They rolled in. The proprietor, a greasy-faced Provençal, appeared with great expressions of his desire to serve them; and Croghan got the native mechanic to work. Hennessy, having taken for granted that this was entirely a scheme to delay them, was watching the work and talking with Mary Gray, who refused to get out of the car, when the proprietor appeared at his side.

"A thousand pardons, m'sieu," he said with a smirk, "but am I speaking with M'sieu Hennessy?"

"You are. How the devil did you know my name?"

"A lady asks for you, m'sieu, on the telephone."

Amazed, Hennessy followed him into the office at one side, catching a laughing jest that Mary Gray flung after him. The Provençal threw open a door at the end, opening into another room.

"The telephone, m'sieu, it is there―"

Hennessy strode through. The door was slammed after him. A blackjack slammed into the door, as he sidestepped like a shadow. A moving streak had given him warning.

Two of them, on him hammer and tongs as he slipped aside; knife and slungshot lunging and falling venomously. No time for questions. Two brown shapes, lithe and active as scorpions, displaying all the marvelous agility of Arabs, despite their apparently clumsy robes.

Somehow Hennessy evaded the rush, side-slipped like a phantom. The pair were silent, deadly, their eyes glimmering with intensity of emotion; they meant to kill, and they were not wasting time about it. Hennessy ducked, took the blackjack on his shoulder with numbing effect, swerved aside as the knife drove in for his belt; then his foot slipped and he shot sideways, falling headlong.

The place was littered with old tires, disused implements, empty tins. Hennessy rolled over and over, came to his feet like a cat, and brought with him a Ford tire-tool. The knife lunged in, but his weapon slanted down athwart the brown wrist. The Arab screamed shrilly as the knife fell.

The second man was rushing in. Hennessy unexpectedly met him half-way, caught his swinging weapon-arm, and slapped him over the skull with the iron. He crumpled, and Hennessy swung about. The first Arab was picking up the knife with his left hand. Hennessy booted him under the chin, then gave him a savage blow across the skull.

"You asked for it, and you got it―"

He started suddenly, now aware of a frantic honking of the car horn. It ceased as he stood panting, listening. Hennessy caught up the blackjack; then the room door was flung open, and into the place came the greasy Provençal, dragging Mary Gray by the wrist.

"Come, pretty one, and join your American friend," he panted. "Ah! Thunders of heaven―"

He staggered back under a stinging blow in the face from her fist. Then Hennessy came down upon him, just as the man was gathering himself to rush upon her. He swung the greasy fellow about, pinned him against the wall with one long arm, and slapped him hard, twice, with jarring force. Then, deliberately, he swung the persuader and put the man out for good.

"All right, Mary," he said, and grinned at her. "Hurt?"

"No. But they killed Croghan―"

"Come on."

Hennessy leaped into action. He was gone through the office like a streak, running swiftly, silently, his face a blazing mask of fury. There was Croghan lying beside the car on his face, the Arab mechanic rifling his pockets.

The native had no warning whatever until Hennessy was upon him. Then he straightened up with a frightful cry of terror. Hennessy caught him by the throat and shook him for a moment, lifted him and shook him again, then flung him down to the cement floor.

"Fix that tire and do it sharp! Or

For the first time, recollecting his pistols, Hennessy jerked one out The Arab let out a howl and bent over the half- completed tire job. Hennessy glanced around, and found no one else in the place.

"Here." He shoved the pistol into the woman's hand, and spoke in French. "Kill this man if he stops working."

Stooping above Croghan, he found that the latter was not dead, and had suffered nothing worse than a crack over the head. Mary Gray's voice struck at him, and he was astonished to find it perfectly cool.

"They struck him down before I knew it. I honked the horn; then they pulled me out of the car―"

"Thought you had a gun!" snapped Hennessy.

"It's in the car. By the driver's seat."

"Keep mine, then. Watch that bird, there!"

He lifted the inanimate Croghan and bundled him into the rear of the car. Two minutes later, as the last nut on the rim was tightened, the Arab mechanic came erect and bleated in stark fear as Hennessy strode at him. The slungshot darted out. The native slumped over and lay in a crumpled mass.

Abandoning the punctured extra tire, Hennessy stepped on the gas. Next moment they were out in the street, swinging on two wheels, heading out and away.

Behind them, the telephone in the office was ringing steadily, vainly.

4

"WASN'T that brutal?''

"Eh?" Hennessy glanced at the woman beside him. "Wasn't what brutal?"

"Hitting that mechanic. He was in deadly fear of you-"

"Sure." A joyous, savage laugh broke from Hennessy. "I aimed to be brutal. When you're caught in a jam and want to get out alive, young lady, don't sit around manicuring your nails. That's a free trip. Say, just how did all that mess happen? By accident?"

"I doubt it." She regarded him for an instant, fascinated by the fighting glow in his eyes, the splendid laughing eagerness of his expression. "That Berber put the nail in the tire. There was only the one garage, straight on our road―"

"I see," and Hennessy nodded, realizing the truth. "Say! That chap Durell is no slouch! He must have telephoned over; probably knew the garage man. Those two Arabs meant to kill me, and no mistake-"

"Two Arabs? Where?" she exclaimed. He flung her a laugh.

"Didn't you see 'em, in that inner room? Too busy to notice them, I suppose. That was a fine crack you hit the grease-spot! Yes, Durell phoned from the hotel, framed up everything in a flash. How much law is there in this country, anyhow?"

"Depends on what you can get away with, I fancy; about like Chicago. Oh!"

She stirred swiftly. "I'll climb over in back— I forgot poor Croghan―"

"Right. Wake him up. We need directions. Crossroad ahead-"

"Turn right," she exclaimed. "We go past Fez, anyhow. When you come to the walls, turn left. The highway circles outside the city."

They swung into the highway and picked up a small column of marching soldiery, for the camp and aviation field were close by. Hennessy waved his hand gaily as he swept past, and a chorus of eager replies broke from the Frenchmen — something in this laughing, eager man compelled a comradely greeting from them in the sunrise.

Without regard for dignity, Mary Gray climbed into the back of the car and opening a bottle of wine from the lunch- basket, poured some down Croghan's throat. The latter coughed, opened his eyes, and struggled to sit up.

"Hello!" he exclaimed. "What hit me?"

"The sky dropped on you, partner," said Hennessy, without looking around. "Wake up and watch the road! Looks like we go slap into that gateway ahead―"

"Turn left!" cried Croghan sharply. Directly before them loomed the high crenelated walls of Fez, a wide gateway thronged with men, horses, mules, camels, soldiers. Hennessy saw the left- hand road, swerved into it abruptly, and sent the car roaring along.

"Sure we're right?" exclaimed Mary Gray. "If you're heading for Taza, Croghan, we should have gone to the south of the city―"

"We're right," said Croghan. "Straight on up the hill, past Fort Chardonnet, and then swing left on Highway 26. You can't miss the marker. Well, what happened?"

When he learned, his lean dark features contracted with anger; but he said no word, and after fingering his head and finding no great damage done, lit a cigarette and sat staring silently at the olive groves as they wound up the long hill slopes.

So they came to the shell-ruined tombs of the Merinide sultans. Now, below them, lay outspread the massive walls, the far-reaching twin cities of thousand-year-old Fez in the curving valley. Then all was gone, and they were sweeping past olives and cemeteries, circling with the twisting road, until they gained the fork and the six-foot section of wall that served as a marker.

So Fez fell away behind them.

The empty road ahead drew in among the hills, apparently absolutely deserted and yet in reality filled with native life. Suddenly Croghan came to life.

"Hey, Red! Something wrong!" he exclaimed. "What's that knocking?"

"Search me." Hennessy slowed, then quickened the pace. They were passing a crossroad, where stood a neat little building corresponding to an American hot-dog stand. Presently, half a mile farther, the knocking became more distinct. Hennessy pulled out of the road, and Croghan uttered a groan of despair.

"Can't be the bearings, surely! Didn't they put in oil?"

Hennessy glanced at the gages. "Full when we left. Empty now―"

With a subdued oath, Croghan was out of the car. He dived underneath for a moment, then rose and kicked the front tire savagely.

"Broken oil line. Bearings burned out. This is a sweet mess!" he said. "Probably was broken last night and we got in without oil. Been losing ever since."

"Can't we go on regardless?" asked Mary Gray. Croghan gave her a bitter look.

"And have the rods bust through the pan? Not a chance. Ten miles to go yet — blast the luck! Just when we had him beaten―"

Hennessy lit a cigarette and regarded the others, whose dismay was complete.

"Facts are facts; no use blinking them," he observed coolly. "I suppose Durell must come this way? Or could he take another road?"

"No, he'll be along," said Croghan, frowning blackly.

"And he won't be wasting any time, either, once he finds what happened at that garage. H'm!" Hennessy puffed for a moment, his gaze darting around, scanning the road ahead. They had halted just around the bend of a curve. "Croghan, you hop out. Walk back to that crossroad; I saw a telephone line at the eating-stand. Get another car out from the city. Can do?"

"Huh? Sure," responded Croghan, staring at him. "But by the time another  car gets here, Durell will be digging up the stuff."

Hennessy grinned. "Not if he comes  this way. You keep your eye on the road  as you go, for if he comes along and  sights you, you'll die of lead poisoning  in a hurry."

"And what about you?"

"We'll be sitting here, partner. And if we have any luck, there'll be a Cadillac sitting here likewise, when you come along."

Croghan stared at him for a minute, the dark eyes a-glitter.

"You're a fool to chance it! What about her?" and he jerked his head toward the woman.

A laugh broke from her. "Never mind about us!" she said gaily. "You get going, will you? Trust Red."

"All right."

Croghan climbed out of the car, waved his hand, and started on the back trail without more questions. Hennessy met the merry, inquiring eyes of Mary Gray, and chuckled.

"You've got a lot of faith in me, young lady!"

"You deserve it. What's your program?"

"You'll see."

Hennessy started the clanking engine and ran the car a dozen feet ahead, then halted it half on the road, half off, as though it had run suddenly out of control. He pointed to the scattered boulders lining the sloping hillside to the right.

"You get up there and take cover— and keep it. Understand? No matter what happens, you remain out of sight. If anything goes wrong, stay hidden."

She nodded, her eyes searching his face. "And you?"

"I'm taking cover too, but closer to the road. This has come down to a real private war, and the less you have to do with it, the better. Promise to keep out of it?"

"Of course. But you've got to tell me what you mean to do-"

"You'll see that for yourself." Hennessy got out of the car and extended his hand. "Come along; I want to see you tucked away securely."

She shrugged, and obeyed.

Fifty feet up the hillside, Hennessy left her ensconced in a snug nest of boulders and cactus, completely hidden from the road below. The sun by this time was mounting well into the blue sky and was blazing down fiercely. As usual in upland Morocco, the landscape was precisely that of the California hills, with the exception of the huge cactus cultivated for centuries by the Arabs in place of fences or hedges. This was scattered wild over the hillside among the boulders, and came down dose to the road. On the other side of the road was a steep descent, running off out of sight into a ravine.

Some distance ahead of the car, Hennessy settled down behind two small boulders, completely screened by cactus that hid him without preventing his observation, and composed himself to wait, pistol in hand. He was convinced that Durell would halt at sight of the Renault; if not, he would be halted anyway. As he well knew, no half-way measures would now be used, for he was dealing with Durell in person, and that made all the difference.

The moments dragged. Every minute of delay now meant that Croghan was farther on his way to the crossroads; in fact, Hennessy calculated that Croghan must have reached there long since.

"No doubt whatever now, about that loot!" he reflected. "Improbable as it seems, this is a country of improbabilities, sure enough; Durell wouldn't be so cursed hot after it, if he wasn't certain. He's a slick one, too! The way he walked out of that hotel dining-room and then got his gang to work was a caution. Well, if I have any luck now, I'll pay him back for the tire he ruined, and with added interest―"

The hillside gathered and reflected the vibration of a car's engine. Hennessy gathered himself together, assured himself by a glance that Mary Gray was out of sight, and gave all his attention to the curve in the road.

An instant later, a car swept around this, going at high speed. It was Durell's Cadillac, and the Frenchman— though Mary Gray had intimated that he was half Spanish— himself was at the wheel.

As Durell sighted the stranded Renault, his brakes screamed. By his side was M'tel, the red-headed Berber; in the rear seat were the other two men Hennessy had seen at the hotel. All were craning out at the Renault The Cadillac slowed down; then Hennessy saw Durell make a sudden gesture and pick up speed.

"Too smart to stop, eh?" thought Hennessy. "Doesn't like the deserted look of things. All right, mister-"

His pistol came up. He fired twice, rapidly. A third report made answer, as the right rear tire of the Cadillac was blown into ribbons. The big car lurched, swerved wildly, and just to make sure, Hennessy fired again and the other rear tire went out.

There was his mistake. He knew it instantly, too late to check his action. Instead of firing again, he should have held them under his gun. Even as he realized this, pistols roared from the halted car, almost directly opposite him. The cactus around him popped and split under a hail of lead.

Hennessy fired twice more, frantically, then fell forward and lay quiet.

Durell's imperious voice halted the fire of his companions. One of the two Frenchmen lay slumped in the rear of the car; Hennessy's last bullet had gone through his brain. Durell's gaze searched the hillside rapidly.

"No sign of the other two," he observed. "See anything, M'tel?"

"Mats out!" responded the Berber at his side, after ah instant. "Something moved in that dump of rocks and cactus up above."

"So? Croghan's there, hurt, no doubt; their car ran off the road," said Durell, and then spoke rapidly. M'tel nodded and wriggled out of his jellab. Durell got out with his remaining companion, on the far side.

"With me, Pierre," he said, then lifted his voice. "He's shot dead? Good! Come along and take care of him. Why the fool shot at us, heavens knows! Luckily we have two spare tires―"

He beckoned Pierre. They darted forward to where Hennessy lay, a trickle of crimson running over his face. Durell spoke rapidly, softly.

"Lift him to the car. Hurry. She is up there, you comprehend?"

Meantime, the Berber had slipped from his car, free of the jellab, and darted forward down the road. After a moment he began to ascend the hillside among the rocks.

Lifting Hennessy's body, Durell and Pierre carried him to the far side of the car. Then Durell flung himself on the American, with a snarl, and searched im thoroughly. Finding nothing of importance, he straightened up.

"He's not hurt; a bullet merely clipped his thick skull. Tie him up and shove him in; we can make use of him later. Leave Moreau's body among the cactus yonder, across the road. He's dead enough. We'll carry him over in a minute. I'll fasten his murder on this blundering American, you comprehend?"

"And the tires, m'sieu?" questioned Fierce. Durell made a sharp gesture.

"Wait. Watch."

He peered up the hillside. There, nothing was to be seen. Hennessy, firmly tied hand and foot, was bundled into the rear of the Cadillac. Pierre lit a cigarette, waiting. The road remained empty in the morning sunlight.

Suddenly a sharp cry broke from the hillside. The figure of M'tel appeared, and waved a hand.

"I have her, m'sieu!" he called. "She's alone."

5

The men of northern Africa waste no time on recalcitrant women, whose value is that of a few sheep, no more.

Her whole attention fastened on the road below, caught entirely by surprise when M'tel leaped upon her from the rear, Mary Gray had no chance to use the pistol in her hand. M'tel knocked it away, and as she fought him savagely, clipped her over the head with a stone and picked her slim body up in one brawny arm.

He grinned as he came down to the car. He was a big fellow, blue-eyed like many Berbers, brutal and uncouth of expression. Durell came to him savagely.

"Have you hurt her? If you have―"

"A tap, no more. She fights like a man," said M'tel. "Tie her hands if you mean to take her along."

"No sign of Croghan?"

"None," answered M'tel positively. "Then he must have gone for help— ah!" Durell started slightly. "He could telephone from the crossroads, back there! That's it. Well, to work! We have two tires to change. Let her wait in the car. Don't tie her up. I'll take her."

He took the woman in his arms, looked into her unconscious face, and laughed softly.

"So, my precious one! Your lips are too good for Carlos Durell, eh? We'll see about that, and if you want to fight, just try!"

He placed her in the tonneau, and went to work with the other two. The body of Moreau was tumbled among some cactus on the downhill side of the road, the two spare tires were slipped in place, and in high good-humor, Durell gave his orders.

"Pierre, you drive. Sit with him, M'tel, and show the road. I'll ride with the lady and the American. Now to finish it up quickly!"

"And the man Croghan, m'sieu?" questioned M'tel. Durell laughed.

"We'll attend to him. Forward!"

When Mary Gray opened her eyes, the car was bouncing over a rough hill road, and Durell, his arm supporting her, was smiling down into her eyes. She recoiled from him, and his arm tightened about her.

"Fight, little bird, fight!" he exclaimed delightedly, in English. "You have spirit, and when you learn who's your master―"

Her clenched fist struck him in the mouth, twice, so that the blood spurted from his cut lips. Again Durell laughed, drew her more closely despite her struggles, and pressed his lips to hers until his blood was smeared on her face.

"There, little one, you'll soon learn to love me!" he exclaimed, the two in the front seat glancing back and laughing heartily. "Come, be a sweet child. You won't?"

He winced as her fingers sank into his neck, driving his head back. With this, he struck her twice, as he would strike a man, so that she sagged limply back in the seat, unconscious again. A torrent of oaths rushed from him, and M'tel uttered a roar of laughter.

"That's right, m'sieu!" he cried. "You know how to handle a filly, eh? Better leave her as she is. We're nearly there now."

Durell wiped the blood from his lips, produced and lit a cigarette with a grimace, and then watched eagerly as M'tel pointed to the road ahead. He did not observed that the eyes of Hennessy, doubled up at his feet, were open a trifle, watching what passed.

'We'll just take no chances on her making a dash for it," he said, as the car slowed. He leaned forward and knotted his handkerchief about Mary Gray's ankles, then prodded Hennessy with his toe. "Awake, swine?"

Hennessy gave no sign of life, and Durell, laughing, swung open the door; the car had come to a halt.

To their right was an open field, sown in wheat. To their left, the hillside rose quite sharply. Part-way down it came a ragged hedge of cactus, ending at an irregularly shaped boulder of some size. No house was in sight, nor any living thing.

"There it is," and M'tel jerked a thumb at the boulder. His bright blue eyes were glittering with an eager light. "There's a hollow under the stone, into which it fits like a socket. Two of us can lift the rock."

"How d'you know it hasn't been lifted?"

"It is death to touch a boundary stone, m'sieu — that is, to move it."

The voices receded. The three men strode away toward the stone, two hundred yards up the long slope.

Hennessy stirred, moved, wrenched himself around. Frantic desperation spurred him to herculean effort, but he was powerless to break the cords about his wrists. He strained upward, flung his voice at the woman on the seat.

"Mary! Mary Gray! For God's sake, wake up, Mary!"

That urgent, piercing voice broke through to her consciousness. Her eyes opened. She looked down at him blankly. Hennessy spoke again.

"Mary! Get the knife from my pocket— quick! Wake up! Get the knife, cut me free!"

The words registered. She leaned forward, fumbling at his pockets. He guided her with sharp words, twisted his head, looked out. Durell had left the car door ajar. Up the hillside, he could see the three men clustered about the stone there.

Then her hand had found the pocket-knife. She drew it out, opened the blade, and swayed over in the seat.

"I— I can't―" she murmured, and Hennessy feared that she was about to faint. Her face was bruised from Durell's blows, and blood-smeared.

"Cut my wrists free!" snapped Hennessy angrily.

The bitter authority of his tone drove into her. She blinked at him, and leaned forward anew. The knife-blade bit at the cords, bit at his skin, sawed almost blindly.

Then a low cry of helpless effort escaped her lips, and she collapsed again.

Hennessy swore in heartfelt desperation, as the knife fell to the floor beside him. He looked down at his bleeding wrists— and to his amazement, perceived that the cords were severed. One burst of straining muscles, and his hands were free. Yet he could feel nothing in them. So tight had been those cords that his fingers were purpled, the circulation was cut off. He glanced up the hillside. The three men were returning, Durell was holding in his arms a brief-case, of all things.

Desperately, Hennessy moved his right hand, caught the knife clumsily in his numbed fingers, slashed at the cords about his ankles. They were severed. He was free, but momentarily helpless. The knife fell by his feet and he could not recover it.

He hurriedly resumed his doubled-up posture, crossing his hands before him as before. He saw in a flash that he must gain time. If they knew now that he was free, they would shoot him without mercy. His hands and fingers were tingling with renewed circulation, strength was flowing into him. He felt no pain from his hurt head. His own fate and that of Mary Gray depended on him now, entirely.

The three were close upon the car. Their voices came loudly.

"She has not wakened, eh?" said Durell, with a laugh. "Excellent. Pierre, you shall have the honor of sitting with madame -"

"Stop! First, about the money," intervened M'tel, his voice ugly.

"You shall look into that while I drive," said Durell, "and count it. We know that money is here; nothing else matters. Take it."

"Good," replied the Berger. "There is that man Croghan―"

"I have thought about him," said Durell. "Get in, Pierre, get in! And don't forget poor Moreau. Here are three of us who can swear we saw this American try to hold up our car, shoot our tires, kill Moreau."

"If the woman tells a different story?" suggested Pierre, climbing in over Hennessy. Durell uttered a low laugh.

"She will not. She will tell no story whatever, because she is to be my guest for a long time; that is, until I grow tired of her. We'll not return as we came, but drive straight on to your village, M'tel. You keep her there. We'll arrange everything with the authorities and say that you were a witness. We'll come back tonight and pick her up and take her to Casablanca. You understand?"

The Berber grunted assent, as he settled himself in the front seat. Durell got under the wheel and started the engine, ordering M'tel to open the brief-Case and count the money.

A low exclamation of astonishment came from Pierre. Hennessy, peering up through half-dosed lids, saw the man staring down, saw him lean over amazedly. He had discovered that the cords were gone from Hennessy's wrists. He stooped down to make certain of this incredible thing.

The unbound fingers gripped about his throat like iron bands.

In the front seat, Durell was driving slowly along the hill road, with half an eye on the Berber beside him. M'tel had opened the moldy leather case, raking out to view thick packets of banknotes— American notes, Bank of England, Bank of France, Bank of Algiers and so on. Both men were utterly absorbed in their occupation, the Berber aflame with cupidity, Durell half watching him, half intent on the road.

Neither of them paid any heed to the rear seat. There was nothing to draw their attention, except a slight thudding as the wildly flailing hands of Pierre hit the body of Hennessy and the car floor. Pierre had been drawn forward, off the seat and on top of the American, as those damped fingers sank into the flesh of his throat.

Presently his struggles became fainter, then ceased entirely.

Hennessy drew dear of the man's body, came to one knee. His intention was to get Pierre's pistol, when he would have the pair in the front seat at his mercy. At this instant, however, M'tel glanced around, glimpsed the face of Hennessy behind him, and broke into a shrill cry of alarm.

The American's fist promptly smashed him under the ear.

Against two pistols, once they came into use, Hennessy well knew that he had not a chance. His whole idea now was to prevent a pistol being used. Durell instantly slammed on the brakes but could not abandon the controls. A flurry of banknotes spread over the whole front seat.

Driving another blow into the Berber's face, Hennessy flung himself on the man bodily, trying for a grip about his throat, twisting his own body over the back of the front seat. He kicked out viciously, and the car lurched wildly as his heel met Durell's cheek. A moment later, the car halted, still on the upper road above the stone marker.

In that moment, however, things happened rapidly.

Hennessy was sprawled above the two men, keeping Durell occupied with his feet, and giving his prime attention to M'tel. Hard as iron, apparently impervious to blows, the Berber put up a vicious fight, but Hennessy roughed him, and then, as the car halted, got a purchase and slammed his head and shoulders forward with terrific force.

M'tel's skull was smashed against the windshield frame, the impact cracking the thick glass. The Berber went limp. Hennessy had caught Durell's neck between his legs, and flung himself backward as the other frantically threw open the car door. Both men tumbled out in the dust together.

Durell came up with a pistol in his hand. It exploded, but the bullet went wild— Hennessy kicked at his wrist; knocked the weapon away, and flung himself on Durell. He was met with a smashing crack that drove him sprawling.

Durell wasted no time trying to retrieve his pistol. He stepped into Hennessy's rush with a beautiful left from the shoulder that should have finished the matter straightway. Before the American could regain his feet, Durell was in upon him like a flash with a vicious kick to the face.

The engine room of a tramp, however, affords a wide range of education. Hennessy dodged that kick somehow, took another in the chest, then came to his feet, only to meet a storm of terrific smashes to the face and body. Durell could use his fists; he could use everything; and now he used all he had, to the very limit.

Hennessy had been up against many a battering in his day, but after the first ten seconds of this, he knew he had to fight with his head. He gave ground rapidly. Before him burned the snarling, bleeding, blazing-eyed face of Durell, alight with malignant hatred; the man was in the grip of an incredible ferocity. Hennessy evaded, ducked, parried, then got his balance, found his second wind, planted a straight left to Durell's belt and crossed over his right to the jaw.

Durell was halted. Like a flash, Hennessy bored in, beat the man back with a storm of blows, and landed one perfect crack flush to the chin that snapped back Durell's head and shook him badly. Panting, the Frenchman covered up, retreated, took another right and left that dazed him, and slipped in the dust. He was definitely mastered now, and realized it. Hennessy instinctively stood bade to let him rise— then cursed himself for a fool.

Durell, lying on one elbow, kicked savagely. Hennessy's feet were knocked from under him The Frenchman flung himself sideways and his arm shot out. The forgotten pistol in his hand, he came to his feet, cat-like, just as Hennessy rose.

The pistol cracked. Hennessy staggered to the impact of the bullet. Then, surprisingly, he hurled himself forward. Durell fired again, and missed clean. Hennessy was upon him, knocking up the pistol, planting a final blow in that high boned face— and then slumping down in a heap. Durell looked down at him, laughed, lifted his weapon.

Another pistol-shot reverberated from the naked hillside.

6

THIS SHOT came from the pistol of Croghan.

Wholly absorbed in that frantically savage battle for life, neither of the two men had observed anything around them. They had not seen the approach of the Renault, had been blind to the figure of Croghan leaping from it and running toward them. Not until Durell lifted his weapon to blow out the brains of Hennessy, did his eye catch the moving object. Then it was too late.

Croghan's one shot whirled him around and dropped him, for good.

WHEN Hennessy came to himself, he was in the rear seat of the Renault, and Mary Gray was pouring wine between his lips. He spluttered, met the grin of Croghan, and sat up.

"What's this? Thought I was dead! Felt Durell's bullet hit me―"

He looked around in utter stupefaction. No sign of the Cadillac, of the hillside, of anything. The Renault was pulled up beside the gray-green mass of an olive grove, hot in the noonday sun.

"Good lord! Was that all a dream?"

"You'll know if you move around," said Croghan. "That bullet slapped your ribs, partner, and we've been patching you up for some time. Gosh, man! What you did to those three devils was a plenty! You hardly left enough of Durell for me to shoot."

"You!" Hennessy felt under his shirt, found himself bandaged heavily, and comprehended. "You— shot him?"

Croghan nodded.

"Yep. We've got the loot we came after, and now we're going to get something to eat and drink. We all need it."

Hennessy met the dancing eyes of Mary Gray; they were no longer laughing, and their gay merriment was sobered, but the smile that came to her lips, the pressure of her hand, brought swift answer from him.

"And now we've got to pay the piper," he said, and then bit into the sandwich Croghan passed him. The lean, dark man nodded gravely.

A bite to eat, a bottle of wine, and the three regarded one another. Croghan was the first to break the silence.

"No use blinking it," he said. "Durell was a bad egg and no one will mourn him, but all the same, if we go back to Fez there's going to be merry hell raised over all this."

"No place else to go," said Hennessy. "We've nothing to be afraid of. See the thing through, tell the truth and shame the devil―"

"Not for me," and Croghan shook his head. "I've been in jail, remember. I've got a record here. We may get off eventually, sure, but they'll jail us and grab the money, and we'll not see a red cent of it. We've worked for that loot, partner."

"I'll say we have," said Hennessy, frowning. "What else is there to do, though?"

"Well," said Croghan, "I made a mistake. Got a man out from town, soldered up the oil line of this car— and she'll go. The bearings aren't out after ail. I came on alone with her. We can make the north highway and hit for Spanish territory, or get the railroad up to Tangier. There's an afternoon train. In a couple of hours we can be clear outside any zone of danger— or I can."

"I've no papers," said Hennessy slowly.

"Won't need any, until you get into Tangier itself. The consul there can wire the consul at Casablanca and fix up your status all right. There won't be any hunt for us if we do the vanishing act— they won't pin this on us, or connect it with us. In fact, there may not be any trouble at all, but I simply couldn't take the chance."

"I don't like Morocco anyhow," said Hennessy whimsically, and met the eyes of Mary Gray. He started slightly. "Hey! But what about you, young lady? If―"

"Let's all go to Tangier and see what happens," she said quickly.

"Nonsense! You have pictures at Rabat―"

"Pictures be hanged!" she exclaimed, her dancing eyes suddenly aglow with eagerness. "What are pictures? All aboard for Tangier! We can make the train, at least, and settle everything else by wire. Ready? Then, let's go! You take the first spell at the wheel, Croghan!"

Croghan twisted about in his seat and shied the empty wine-bottle from the window.

"O. K., then," he rejoined. "Want to sit in front, Red? Won't joggle you so much there."

"No, thanks," and Hennessy met the eyes of Mary Gray, and caught her fingers in his own. "I stay here— all the way! There's better and bigger loot than money. Right?"

"Right," said Mary Gray, with her old silvery laugh.

End

Table of Contents

- 1: Evening at the Black Bull
- 2: Warlock Finn
- 3: Irregular Brethren
- 4: The Miraculous Buddha
- 5: Mustered Out
- 6: The House of Skulls
- 7: The Wolf Woman
- 8: The Sword of Michelangelo
- 9: Blow, Bugles!
- 10: Berber Loot