Past Masters Six
Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: These short stories were collected mostly but not entirely from the vast number published in the Sydney weekly newspaper World's News. All of the authors are in the Life Plus 70 and Life plus 50 public domains, and In the Australian public domain. Each author's dates of birth and death are included beneath their names at their first appearance. Wherever possible I have included original magazine appearance reference, taken from The Fiction Mags Index online. Contents 1: Mannering's Men / Marjorie Pickthall 2: The Cobbler / Percy James Brebner 3: Geoffrey's Panklaggephone / Ellis Parker Butler

PAST MASTERS

SIX

2020

These short stories were collected mostly but not entirely from the vast number published in the Sydney weekly newspaper World's News. All of the authors are in the Life Plus 70  and Life plus 50 public domains, and In the Australian public domain.

Each author's dates of birth and death are included beneath their names at their first appearance. Wherever possible I have included original magazine appearance reference, taken from The Fiction Mags Index online.

_______________________

Contents

1: Mannering's Men / Marjorie Pickthall

2: The Cobbler / Percy James Brebner

3: Geoffrey's Panklaggephone / Ellis Parker Butler

4: The Doctor Takes a Hand / Andrew Soutar

5: The Pedestal / Morley Roberts

6: The Tempter / Harold Bindloss

7: Other Gods / E. Charles Vivian

8: The Matchmaker / M. McDonnell Bodkin

9: The Last Laugh / Owen Oliver

10: Some Imitations / Barry Pain

11: Simple / P. C. Wren

12: The Secret of the Singular Cipher / F. A. M. Webster

13: The Schimmel Sets the Pace / F. A. M. Webster

14: The Missing Signorina / Percy J Brebner

15: The Man with the Carnation / Percy J Brebner

16: The Lady's Glove / Percy J Brebner

17: The Anarchist's Scheme / C J Cutcliffe Hyne

18: The Butler / Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews

19: Puzzle Phyllis / Guy Thorne (C. Ranger Gull)

20: The Specialist / Owen Oliver

21: Her Account / Owen Oliver

22: Twelve Minutes / Barry Pain

23: Black Paws / Lucy Gertrude Moberly

24: A Summer Night's Weird / Colonel Henry Curties

25: The Willingham Van Dyke / William Edward Norris

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1: Mannering's Men

Marjorie Pickthall

1883-1922

World's News (Sydney) 16 August 1913

The Century Magazine Jul 1913

"IN that town," said Blake to himself, peering cautiously through the scrub, "is Mannering's grave and the wreck of a brave man's life-work. Oh, sergeant, if those two beggarly Nyam-Nyams try to run away, deal with them straightly. At moonset we will go down."

"O sons of Eblis," murmured the Haussa sergeant, with a grin, "scum of the market-place, little frogs of the mud-puddles of Wakonda, in that town is good soured milk, much grain, and chickens and goats as many as the prayers of the prophet. At moonset we will go down."

The command gurgled pleasantly to itself and lay closer. Blake crawled nearer Macartney, who was raking the silver-patched blackness with a pair of night-glasses wrapped in dark cloth.

"I can make out a tin roof," whispered Macartney at last; "that will be the roof of the residency."

"Where Mannering was speared on his own door-step," said Jim Blake, taking the glasses.

"Dead, down and dead, wiped out, an absolute failure, Mannering. I can't get over that, you know. He was such a keen old beggar, so wrapped up in his work. He simply spent himself on this beastly country. And he cleared out Wakonda, as far as mortal eye can see, on purpose to make room for seven other devils worse than the late king."

"Couldn't be," put in Macartney.

"It's not being speared that's the worst part of it," persisted Blake; "we all come to that sooner or later. It's having absolutely nothing to show for his life or his death. Nothing even for the next man to build on. It's that," he continued, shivering as the dawn chill blew up the valley, "which I fancy must worry old Mannering— still."

"What you need is chlorodyne," whispered Macartney, indignantly.

They lay silent in the dank upland grass, and the dew beaded and dripped on the thorns overhead. The command hunted for prickles in its feet, tightened belts, and babbled softly of stewed fowl.

From immense spaces, as spun out and thin as a thread, came the hunting-cry of a lion. The Haussa sergeant crept up and touched Blake's foot.

"The moon sets, O Effendi, and it is not yet the dawn."

Blake rose to his feet and looked it the sky. "We be ready," he said.

The command moved as one man, eyes glinting whitely under the tarbooshes. The last few days had been hungry ones. Below in the valley was good food; it was only to fight a little, and all would be fall. "Ya Illah, brethren, let us go down."

They went down. Blake was no tactician, and his plan in such cases was simple. You took the main gate, held it, and swept the obstructionists out of the other gates or over the mud walls, broom fashion. He had worked with his present command for a year, and the followed him like a football team. The sergeant at his elbow presently touched his sleeve.

"There is made ground here."

"Made ground?"

"Yes. The road built by Mannering Bimbashi."

Already the road built by Mannering far the grain dealers and spice merchants was so more than a trade in the under-growth, and the grass swept to the thigh. Their way dipped sharply, and a river valley, swirling in  mist took them like shadows. Blake felt under his feet the rotten piles of a bridge, and a rifle clanged against rusted iron.

"I think these cattle of Wakonda have the alarm," said the sergeant as they grunted up the opposite slope.

"Why?"

"There was a watchman at the bridge and; we should have crossed by the ford farther down. But these Wakondai cannot fight, and all is as Allah wills. O Ibrahim, son of Suleiman, keep thy rifle dry and remember to get under the walls." The town was clattering like a frightened hen-roost when a company of shadows flitted through the fog and flung themselves under the walls and against the main gate. Five minutes of noisy, scrambling, hit-or-miss fighting fol-lowed, and they were inside, with their hardest work before them. Their fire, had driven back the defenders, but they themselves had for the moment no cover. Presently the slugs began to flop on the walls behind them, and two men fell. Blake felt a stinging blow on the knee, and went down on all fours. He rose, laughing rather shakily into Macartney's scared face. "A spent bullet," he cried in the din; "can't put my foot to the ground. Clear those houses, old man; I'll hold the gate."

Macartney nodded and was gone, his men after him. Blake and his handful took cover behind a mud buttress and a dead camel, and prepared to held the gate. It was only then that Blake saw the sergeant.

"Why art thou here?"

"I stay with thee, O Effendi. Besides,"— he sniffed wistfully,— "in that house they have been cooking good mutton. I would not go too far."

The din and turmoil of the narrow ways rose and fell like the froth of a sea. The roofs were beginning to burn in a dozen places as Macartney, in rough-and-ready fashion, cleared out the slug-shooters. The red light of burning thatch danced in the fog and the thinning dark, and by this light Blake saw a score of white-wrapped figures leap from the reek and rush for the gate, shouting as they came.

"Steady, men, steady!"

"By the prophet's beard!" cried the Haussa sergeant, flinging himself flat behind the camel, "these be no Wakondai, but ghasis of the far desert. Shoot well, O my children!"

it was all happening with the jerky rapidity of a cinematograph film, and the noise passed hearing. The command, inspired with visions of buttered mutton, loaded and fired as one man. Two, three close-range volleys swept between the walls, and the alley was blotched with whitish bundles that were the bodies of the desert men. But the others came on, and suddenly Blake was on his feet in the shadow of the gate, fighting hand to hand for his life. "Stand firm, O my children!"

The sergeant's voice echoed his. He was the centre of an indescribable confusion. Under the gate the smoke of the volleys hung heavily. Through this broke first one fierce face, then another, the gleam of arms, the surge and re-treat of the attack, the blows and outcries of men. Ibrahim, the son of Suleiman, fell across Blake's feet and coughed his life out in ten seconds. Another of his best men was down, speared through the heart. And then, as suddenly as they had come, the desert men retreated to the shelter of the huts, and Blake, looking up, saw that it was day.

"They are gone," said the sergeant, look-ing at the dead, "but they will come again. O Effendi, this is no good place."

"I should have kept more men," Blake was thinking clearly and rapidly. "If Mac doesn't come back inside ten minutes, it will be too late for us, and he'll have to cut his way out."

A moment's dreamlike quiet had succeeded the dreamlike noise. Over his head the sky was clear and growing gold, barred with the black flocks of wild-fowl that flew to their feeding-grounds in the valley. The sun rose with the hard flash of metal, and the blink of metal answered from the ruined roof of Mannering's house. Blake's breath drew cold. Was he also to die uselessly, wastefully, his work unfinished, under the spears of Wakonda? "Steady, men, steady, and fire slowly! It is ours to hold the gate."

The Haussa sergeant leaped to his feet.

"They come again! O jackals of the sands, We men are ready—"

"Silence— and lie down!"

Again with that dreaming sense of unreality Blake watched the rush of fluttering figures up the alley. The men were loading and firing as fast as they could, but the rush was scarcely checked. Someone behind him began to croon a wild death-song. A thrown spear flickered before his eyes and struck his head a glancing blow. He looked at it curiously as it clattered down on his boots, and wondered why his hands felt so weak, and why the earth reeled under his feet like an out-rolled ribbon. Then everything was lost in a warm, red mist through which savage faces seemed to peer and yell. Blinded and dizzy, he braced himself for the shock of the charge, the while some voice in his head was buzzing busily, "You will go down as Mannering did, a failure, a failure—"

An utter pity for Mannering filled him. He leaned back against the wall, levelled his revolver as well as he could on his knee, and waited—as Mannering had waited.

"Ya Illah!" shouted the sergeant hoarsely. "Who be these?"

Blake cleared the blood from his eyes and looked. The attack had wavered and had turned upon itself, for a compact little force of ten had filed out from behind a house and fallen upon the desert men in the rear. They were in all degrees of dress and undress. Their leader was very tall and very thin, with a great bush of hair, upon which he wore the remains of a tarboosh, and he had an empty bandoleer round his neck. He and his were armed variously, ranging from a damaged Martini to an inlaid jesail from the north. These weapons they were using variously, but effectively, in disciplined silence. So much

Blake saw in a photographic flash of amazement. Then strength came back to him, and he and the sergeant flung themselves across the dead camel.

"Come on, you black rascals!" shouted Blake, staggering as he stood.

"Follow me, sons of darkness!" yelled the sergeant.

The men obeyed with howls. Caught between two forces, the enemy, fighting like wolves, were driven, down alleys, cut down in corners, scattered and broken. In five minutes Blake's men and their unknown allies were staring and panting under the gate, their work done.

"Now," suggested the Haussa, patting Blake all over with his delicate black hands in a search for serious injuries— "now I go and picket that street whence came the good cooking smell."

"Wait!" commanded Blake. He looked at the gate, at the dead lying in the light and the black shadow. Even now the gold had scarcely gone from the faint, hot blue of the sky; scattered bands of birds still flew across it, and the high air seemed stirred with a multitude of wings. He looked at the leader of the allies, who was standing on one leg and grinning anxiously.

"Who art thou?"

The man drew his dusty heels together and carefully saluted.

"We be the men of Mannering Bimbashi."

"Of Mannering Bimbashi?"

"Yes, master. I was a policeman of the force wherewith he policed this town. He said to us, 'Go here,' or 'Go there,' and went and punished the evil-doers. Twice and thrice have I fought under Mannering Bimbashi." He cased contemptuously at his command. "These others are also of his force, or of his house— warriors, as I am, or gardeners and herders at goats; but all Mannering Bimbashi's men."

"Go on," said Blake, quietly.

"Mannering Bimbashi was slain, and many of his folk; but I was left. I remembered. I gathered these others together, and bade them remember also. Mannering Bimbashi was dead, but we were not freed from, our service. We had to live. I was a seller of rock-salt in the market-place, and these others did work after their kind. Sometimes we met and spoke together. None knew us for his men, and his name might not be upon our lips; but we laid our hands upon our mouths— so— and then we remembered."

"Go on."

"There is no more. It is very difficult to remember. But I knew the English would come in the footsteps of our bimbashi, and I held these of his together in readiness, at thou hast seen. But our bimbashi— on whom be peace!— has been dead a long time, and now we would take service with thee, O master."

"Thou hast done well." Blake's voice shook a little as he thought how well. "Thou hast done very well. But why?"

The man was very ugly and very black, but all the poetry and sadness of the Arab were in his face as he answered:—

"We were his men. We loved him."

Blake's eyes were dim as be looked across at the ruined house. There Mannering had gone down, and his hope, his work, his deeds all these had gone down with him into dust.

"But even here there was love left," said Blake aloud, with a kind of wonder; "even here there was love left!"

Then he took his men and Mannering's and went to join Macartney in the ordering of Wakonda.

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2: The Cobbler

Percy James Brebner

1864-1922

World's News (Sydney) 7 May 1927

"STRANGERS mostly do ask questions about old Eccles," said the landlord, and there was a suggestion in his tone that he had lots of information to give. "Certainly he does look queer sitting at that window of his, cobbling."

"It's the house that strikes you first," returned the stranger. "You come upon it so unexpectedly at the turn of the road; it is so forlorn and isolated in that ring of great elms; and then you are suddenly aware of being watched by an old fellow who looks like a startled rabbit."

"You're right, that does describe him. It never struck me before."

"Perhaps it is fear which makes him watch everyone who comes along the road to the Village," the stranger suggested.

"It's the other way about." was the answer; "folk are more afraid of him than he of them. I went about the world a bit before I settled down to inn-keeping, but they're superstitious hereabouts, believers in old tales. In the hills round there are places with such names as the Devil's Leap, the Witch's Cave, and such like, all with stories attached to them, which the folk here swallow whole. You won't find anyone anxious to go out to Eccles' after dark."

"Do they imagine he has sold himself to the devil?"

"They don't get definite like that. You see, that house was tumbling to pieces, and said to be haunted, when Eccles came over twenty years ago, and I'm told— I wasn't here at the time— but he was warned not to go there, and, of course, when he took no notice of the warning, was at onee put down as queer. That's how tales get about, and often there's nothing more in them than that, but in Eccles' case―"

The landlord stopped short and nodded towards the open door. A girl was passing, a girl who could hardly have passed unnoticed anywhere, and in this out-of-the-way village on the Welsh border, was remarkable indeed. She walked with a grace which had something in it akin to the wild, untrammelled life of hill and moorland. She was beautiful, radiant, hair and eyes, cheek and lips, lavishly touched with Nature's most perfect pigments.

"That's Eccles' daughter." said the landlord.

"That rabbit her father!" exclaimed the stranger. "Then surely her mother must have been a very beautiful woman."

"Can't say, don't suppose anyone can, because Eceles wasn't bred in these parts, and his wife was dead when he came; must have just died, because Judith was a baby. For a time there was a woman Eccles brought with him to look after her, but Eccles soon began to look after her himself, and the woman departed. They say old Eccles worships his daughter."

"I don't wonder," said the stranger. "What does astonish me is that all the young fellows don't crowd out to that bend in the road whenever they get the chance."

"They're as scared of her as of her father, that's why. She's more stand-offish with them than squire's daughter. Squire's daughter they can understand, but Judith, no, so they explain it by saying that Eccles worships her because she is a bit more than human. That's another tale that has got about."

"Evidently Eccles is not the only queer person about here," laughed the stranger.

The landlord was silent for a few moments, as if he were w ondering whether there was anything persona! in the remark. He #as not an adept at telling a story, he was a long time in coming to the point, and the passing of Judith had interrupted the natural course of his narrative.

"They, talk a lot of nonsense. I know," he went on, filling his pipe deliberately, giving himself time to collect his thoughts, "but— well, did you happen to notice her clothes?"

"No."

"Eccles cobbles, and cobbles very well, but you don't grow rich cobbling, and her clothes cost money. That is what I was coming to when she passed. They say Eccles is a miser."

"Would he spend money on clothes if he were?"

"To be sure I hadn't thought of it that way, but there's reason besides Judith's clothes for the story. Eccles must have spent a lot of money putting that tumble-down house to rights. I've heard the roof was that bad it wouldn't have done you much good taking shelter under it from a shower. Old Jenkins, the carpenter, told me that he said more; said it was surprising the bolts and bars Eccles had put on doors and shutters, that stout they'd keep any thieves outside. I never heard that a cobbler had much about him in an ordinary way to attract thieves."

"The bolts and bars are suspicions, certainly," said the stranger. The sight of the girl had interested him in the story.

"That's the way I look upon it." said the landlord, lighting his pipe, "and there's more than that. Did I tell you I came here ten years ago?"

"You didn't say how long; you only said Eccles was here before you."

"Ten years ago I came, or is it only nine, now? I'm a bad hand at remembering, and I can't be sure without looking up my papers, and, anyway, it don't signify. It don't alter what I'm going to tell you. I hadn't been here more than a matter of weeks when Eccles comes along, and, waiting until he gets me alone, begins talking about my being a bit of a traveller. I wasn't against yarning about my experiences— I spent some years at sea. you know—and he listened as if he was taking it all in, until he suddenly interrupts by asking if I'd ever come across a man called— the name has slipped clean out of my mind, but I'd never heard it. anyway. All Eccles wanted to know was whether I'd heard of that man; he wasn't interested in anything else I could tell him. Queer, wasn't it?"

"Did you ever find out anything more?" the stranger asked.

"I'm not sure. Some summers back there was a fellow came through the village with a gipsy van, although he wasn't a gipsy— at least he said he wasn't. I let him put his van on that bit of land of mine across the road there, and we had some talks here in the evening. Interesting chap he was, and knew the country for miles round like the back of his hand. He knew nothing about Eccles. but he had heard the name of the man Eccles asked me about. Queer name it was, one you wouldn't be likely to forget, although I have. This gipsy chap was somewhere near Worcester when he heard that a man of this name had nearly been killed, or had nearly killed somebody, he didn't know which way it was, but there was a lot of excitement about it in the place, and the gipsy's trade was spoilt that trip in consequence."

"Was there a woman in the story?" asked the stranger.

"Exactly what I asked him, but he didn't know. Eccles doesn't impress me as the kind of man any woman would trouble herself much about."

"It is always difficult to tell what a woman will do," said the stranger, sententiously. "You have interested me in Eccles, and during my few days' stay here I expect I shall find time to get as far as the bend of the road once or twice."

The stranger was past his first youth, well past it, had lived long enough to impress his name on that part of the world interested in geology, was in fact in the neighborhood to examine officially certain strata in the surrounding hills; but he was not too old to be attracted by a pretty woman. Geological strata were temporarily forgotten in his desire to see Judith Eccles again, and he came to the conclusion that a pair of shoes he had with him might be improved by cobbling. Next morning he took them down to the house at the bend of the road.

From the window Eccles watched him approach, and when he entered, looked mora like a startled rabbit than ever.

"Not much the matter with these," he said, after looking at the shoes. "They are good for a lot of work yet."

"Not for my work," the stranger answered. "I have got to climb about your hills for the next few days, amongst the pits, and stone heaps, and stream beds, after geological specimens."

"So you want these strengthening a bit?"

"Exactly."

"They'll be ready to-morrow morning," said Eccles.

"Geology doesn't interest you, I suppose?" said the stranger, in an endeavor to keep the conversation alive.

"Not a bit. It takes a man about, very likely, but, then, I'm best pleased to stay where I am."

"I don't wonder. It is a picturesque spot."

"Is it? I haven't much time to look at it," and Eccles turned to his bench by the window.

Had the stranger known the name of the man in whom the cobbler was interested, he would have mentioned it casually and watched the effect; as it was, he had no excuse for staying, and left without a glimpse of the daughter, marvelling more than ever that such a man could have such a daughter. Yet Eccles interested him, too. There was a certain refinement in his voice which suggested that he might not always have been a cobbler.

"Judy! Judy!" Eccles called, directly the stranger had gone. And when the girl came, he went on excitedly. "Did you see that man?"

"Just caught sight of him from behind the blind," the girl answered. "He is a stranger, staying at the inn. I saw him talking to the landlord yesterday."

"Asking questions about me, I'll warrant."

"Nonsense, father."

"Look at those shoes, Judy." he said, snatching them up from the bench and holding them out to her. "What is the matter with them ?"

"Nothing, as far as I can see."

"There you are. He brought them, to be mended. Just an excuse. He is a spy sent to ferret me out."

"I don't believe "

"What you believe doesn't matter, Judy; it is what I know. Somewhere my enemy is lurking, ready to pounce upon me unawares. I have felt him near, very near, lately, and the coming of the stranger... we'll lock and bar the house early to-night, Judy."

The girl nodded. This attitude of her father's was no new thing to her. Experience had taught her how to treat him, but she speculated whether he was not a little worse than usual, and vaguely thought of the stranger. She must look more closely it him when he came for his shoes.

Before dusk the house at the bend of the road was shuttered and barred. It looked dismal and forlorn in its ring of overshadowing elms when the stranger walked past it in the early evening, looked lifeless, not a ray of light visible from any chink or hole in a shutter. It was a strange setting for such virility and beauty as Judith Eccles possessed.

Within, the girl had to use all her persuasion to make her father eat his evening meal. He only wanted to talk, as was always the case when excitement was upon him. She knew all he would say, the exact words. He never varied, the tale was always the same in every detail. She had heard it scores and scores of times, yet she sat patiently, if a little contemptuously, and let him talk. It was the only way to treat him.

"I am afraid of him, always was," Eccles said, as if he were telling the story for the first time. "You see how thin and small I am, and he is big, with a big laugh, a big voice, big every way, except one. His brain is small. For a long time I did not see how small it was, not until I loved your mother and had him for a rival. Her beauty made me brave and cunning. I made money out of him, cheated him, he said, but that was only because I was sharper than he was. Your mother, Judy, was important, the daughter of good people, who looked upon this man as worthy of her, but would not look at me at all until I made them by persuading your mother to marry me secretly. Then this man nearly killed me, would feave done had not the police come just in time. He swore he would kill me some day, when he found me alone, when there was no one to protect me. While your mother lived I thought I was safe, but she died when you were born, and then— then I came here. He hasn't found me, but he will. I have always known that. He will kill me if he can, that is why I am always prepared, that is why the bolts and bars here are so strong. Oh, yes, I am prepared."

Here the story usually ended, but to-night her father did not suddenly lapse into silence.

"I am more afraid now," he went on in a whisper, leaning across the table towards his daughter. "The coming of this stranger means the end, but I am more prepared. If bolts and bars fail, then— See, Judith! I have fitted a sheath inside my sleeve to hold it."

From his sleeve he drew a long, thin bladed knife, sharp pointed, keen of edge, a knife fashioned for cutting leather, but now set apart for another purpose. The girl looked at it without flnching, horrified, yet keeping her self-control.

"Have you made that sheath only to-day, just because that stranger came?" she asked.

"No, no, days ago. I have felt the end approaching; his coming only convinced me there was reason in my fear. Geology! He said he was here for geology! He thinks me a fool."

He put away the knife, and became less excited, but Judith watched him furtively. Her father had certainly gone a step farther. She must look closely at this stranger tomorrow when he came for his shoes; it might be necessary to warn him.

"Go to bed early, Judy," Eccles said, getting up from the table. "I shall play for a while."

"I will light your lamp for you," she said, and went to a small, bare room which had so thin a slip of a window that the leanest of men could not have forced his way through it. Daylight was of no consequence in this room, it was never used in the day. The furniture consisted of a stout table and chair, and in the corner was an iron-bound oak chest. The stone floor was innocent of covering, and a lamp hung over the table from a hook in the ceiling. Judith's nerves were a little on edge to-night; she started as she opened the door sharply, for an old greatcoat, hanging behind it, slithered on the rough wood, with a suggestion that someone, who was hiding there, had moved. She lighted the lamp, and tried the lid of the oak chest, which was locked. She thought her father kept his playthings there.

Eccles went all round the house to satisfy himself that every window was secure, every bar in place and bolts shot home, before he entered this room and locked himself in. He did not go to the oak chest, but removed the back of'the fireplace, which looked solid, and took out a box which was concealed there. From the leather bags it contained he emptied gold upon the table. It was not a fabulous sum, but it was much for a cobbler to possess. Perhaps the greater part of it had been obtained from his rival, who, as he had told Judith, had accused him of cheating.

So he played, letting the gold run through his fingers, dividing it into little heaps, stacking the coins into piles, talking to them, and laughing at them as if they were sentient things. He heard no sound but the soft ring of the coins as he played with them, yet outside the door, in stockinged feet, Judith listened. Although she knew nothing about the box concealed in the fireplace, she knew what her father played with. She had seen him once, before he had had a better shutter put on the slip of window, and from time to time since then she had made him give her money. She had not threatened him, but she made it clear that he must sacrifice something if he would keep his secret. To-night she was a little afraid, perhaps it was the sight of the knife which had frightened her; and she did not beat a hasty retreat to her room until her father's playing was over.

ECCLES was the ordinary, startled-looking cobbler next day when the stranger called for his shoes.

"Just, what I wanted," the stranger said, after examining them. "I had a tramp round yesterday. Very interesting country."

"I have heard others say so," returned the cobbler.

"You ought to tramp about yourself sometimes. It would do you good after so many hours at your bench. I wonder your daughter doesn't persuade you. Had I such a daughter, I should want to walk about with her sometimes," and the stranger laughed, hoping to make the old man communicative.

"I can't waste time talking about her," said Eccles. "For the matter of that, I do as I like, so does she, and I can't call to mind that I've noticed her tramping about with anybody. I suppose she doesn't care about it any more than I do."

The stranger had to admit that he had spent money on cobbling for nothing, and laughed to hide his annoyance as he went out. Then Judith joined her father, and laughed too.

"You see how it is," she said, "he's just trying to get acquainted with me. That's why he brought those shoes, thought he'd be able to drop in any time and talk to you, and so get to know me. He is just like the rest of them."

"Oh, no, he's different. He is a gentleman," said Eccles.

"The man to attract me will have to be very different," said Judith self-complacently, and her proud young beauty seemed to make the speech natural. "At any rate, he is not a spy. Had I been ugly, he wouldn't have brought those shoes to be cobbled."

Eccles turned to his bench with a gesture of irritation, and if Judith imagined she had reassured him, she was mistaken. He would have the house shut and barred that night even before dusk had fallen, and was more excited and nervous than ever.

Judith went to her room, but not to sleep. Like every other window in the house, hers was shuttered, and the room was hot and depressing. Certainly her father was worse than she had ever known him. To-night at supper he had felt his sleeve every few seconds to make sure the knife was there. Was she quite safe in this house alone with her father? She had often asked herself why she stayed there, but fear had not touched her before. How much of the oft-repeated story was true? She had no certain knowledge that any of it was true, yet she was so different from other girls in the village; it was easy to believe her mother had been of importance. Why had she married such a man as her father? Judith had left her door open, and suddenly she started up, listening keenly. The moment before the house had been utterly silent, now there had come a sharp sound, the opening of a shutter, perhaps, or the falling of a bar from a door, then a voice, high pitched with excitement— her father's.

As she scurried down the stairs and along the passage there were blows, and distinct words.

"I was ready. You didn't expect that, I've been waiting. Bolts couldn't keep you out, but we settle things my way."

Between each sentence came a thud, a strange sound, something deadly in it, and chuckling laughter of intense satisfaction.

"Father! Father!" Judith called, hammering upon the door.

"There's no escape," Eccles cried, and there was another thud which ended with a splitting sound.

"Father! Father!"

There was no answer, no sudden silence at her call. The chuckling continued, sharp words, half-finished sentences, punctuated by blows. Who was with her father? How had he got in? The stranger! That knife! The awful possibilities steadied Judith's nerves which, for a moment, seemed to be slipping beyond her control. Hastily she unfastened the back door. Could anyone have got in through that slip of a window ? No, it was dark, shuttered, not a chink through which she could see into the room. The little world in that circle of elms was horribly still, and she was suddenly afraid of the house, afraid to enter it again.

The stranger at the inn had said goodnight to the landlord, and was half-way up the stairs when the sharp knocking came at the door. The landlord's exclamation, and his momentary inability to move, showed he was not so free from superstition as he had declared.

"What is wrong, I wonder," said the stranger, coming down, the stairs again, and the landlord, finding comfort in companionship, went to the door.

"Judith Eccles."

"I want you to come at office. I think father is killing somebody."

She did not speak to the stranger, but it was he who took the initiative, who asked questions as they hurried down the road, who peremptorily commanded Eccles to open the door, and when his demand was only answered by meaningless words and chuckling, rummaged the cobbler's shop for some means of forcing the door.

It was a stout door, securely fastened, but the landlord was a powerful man, and with strong blows and the leverage of an iron bar, forced it open at last.

"Carefully!" Judith whispered. "He has a knife."

"He's dead. You're too late," Eccles cried. "He hid behind the door waiting for me, but I ready. Look," and he pointed to the knife which was sticking through the greatcoat into the door, then laughed with mad satisfaction.

The coat was cut and slashed in a score of places. The hallucination that the coat was the man he feared must have come suddenly, for Eccles had begun his night's play. The contents of some of the leather bags had been poured on to the table—one, half-empty, had been thrown down, and some of the coins were scattered on the floor. The cobbler was quite mad now. He tried to get possession of the knife again, but the landlord prevented him, or he might have done murder in reality.  That night they watched him, and the next day he was taken away.

The stranger was very useful to Judith Eccles in the days that followed. The oak chest contained papers, not money, as Judith had supposed, and these papers and letters proved that, in the main, the story Eccles had told his daughter was true. Eccles was an assumed name, and although there was nothing to show what his original walk in life had been, it was evident he had only taken to cobbling to conceal his identity the more effectually. Very probably he had cheated Cattermole— that was the name the landlord could not remember— and perhaps the thrashing Cattermole had given him had started his mental weakness. Why Judith's mother had married him was a mystery. Letters showed that her people were anxious to keep in touch With the child, but the father would have nothing to do with them.

"I wish I had known of those papers," said Judith, "I should have gone years ago."

"You would have left your father?" asked the stranger.

"Why not? Do you think we had anything In common?"

"I have heard that he worshipped you."

"Feared me, was always afraid that I knew more than I did. I am not a bit like him. I wonder why mother married him."

"There may have been something attractive about him in those days."

"But mother was a lady, and father―"

"Was not always a cobbler," said the stranger.

"Well, it doesn't matter, it's over," she said, with a shrug of her shoulders.

"What shall you do now?"

"Go to my mother's people."

The stranger forgot his age, forgot many things, and did his utmost to dissuade her from this course, tried to convince her of a better way— the way of love.

She looked at him and laughed.

"Love. You. I am going to the life I ought always to have had, out of this horrible existence. The contents of those leather bags will insure me a welcome. You are a stranger, nothing to me. Besides, you are old. I have had no real youth yet, and I mean to have it. One way or another I mean to have it. I have sacrificed enough. I wonder whether you have any idea what the sacrifice has been, and how I hate this place and everyone connected with it. If I marry, I will marry youth. When I leave here, I intend to slam the door on the past, lock it, and throw away the key."

Her attitude was hard and uncompromising, the stranger's memory returned, and he became practical. She was beautiful, desirable, her mother's daughter no doubt, but she was also the daughter of a madman, nothing could alter that. Under all the circumstances geology was safer than love.

A week later the cobbler died raving, in an asylum. Cattermole, it was discovered, had died fifteen years ago.

____________________

3: Geoffrey's Panklaggephone

Ellis Parker Butler

1869-1937

World's News (Sydney) 18 Sep 1909

Cosmopolitan Sep 1909

IF you can't pronounce it, never mind; neither could Casey. It is a sort of amateur Greek word that Geoffrey made up himself, so it would fit in the same list as telephone, phonograph, cinematograph, megaphone, and so on; and Casey was no Greek. Far from it. If you had mentioned Demosthenes and Solon to Casey he would have said, "Sure now, an' I dunno anny av thim fruit-stand fellers." All he knew about Greece was that it was somewhere in Italy, where the dagos and Portuguese come from.

As Casey came along one morning on his  way to his boiler shop he noticed that a sign was being painted on the small factory next door; and when he went home that night he saw that the sign was complete, "The Geoffrey Panklaggephone Company." By the name he guessed carelessly that it was a company to make either some new-fangled moving-picture machine or a patent medicine, and forgot all about it. When a man is trying to run a boiler-shop these days he has his hands full with that. He hasn't time to stop to study out Pan— panklag— pan-whatever-it-is. No, sor.

The way that Geoffrey got the name was this. He looked up "noise" in the dictionary, and it didn't have a Greek root, so he found a synonym, "clangor," and he looked that up, and that did have a Greek root. He had to have Greek in the name. The word was "klagge," so he took "klagge" and tacked "pan" on one end, to mean that his machine was good for all kinds of noise, and then he stuck "phone" on the other end, because that never seems to do any harm, and makes a good ending for any sore of new-fangled machine; and there he had his word— "panklaggephone." It didn't mean anything, but it looked whooping on a sign. That was just the kind of word Geoffrey wanted; the kind a man like Casey couldn't pro-nounce. It looked as sweet as "vitagraph."

It is wonderful what simple little things hide under big names, sometimes. There Geoffrey had worked out that tremendous word for his machine, and the machine was just a simple little every-day invention, a noise-absorber. Nothing more. Just a noise-absorber. Anyone could have invented it. Geoffrey happened to think of it first.

The whole thing was so simple that it was almost childish. I can describe the panklagge-phone in a very few words so that anyone can understand it and, if he desires, make one himself. The idea is simply this:— If we have too much water anywhere, and we want to get rid of it, we get a sponge. A sponge is a water absorber. If we have too much electricity and want to get rid of it, we get a storage-battery. A storage-battery is an electricity-absorber. If we have too much money and want to get rid of it. we get an automobile. An automobile is a money-absorber. But what Geoffrey wanted to create was a noise-absorber. Water makes a noise, electricity makes a noise, money makes a noise; therefore Geoffrey built a machine that was something like an automobile, something like a storage-battery, and something like a sponge. Having done this, and found that his model worked all right, Geoffrey formed his stock company, rented the factory building, and began making panklaggephones.

Great is modern science! A friend of mine went out the other day to kill a man who had insulted him. He took his rifle, which was the new soundless kind, and loaded it with smokeless powder. He walked up to within twenty feet of his enemy, aimed full at his heart, pulled the trigger, and shot him dead. All his enemy did was to say, "Don't point that gun at me!" No smoke from the gun, no sound from it, how was the man to know he had been killed? My friend went up to him and told him he was dead, that he was shot through the heart, and still he wouldn't believe it. No smoke, no sound— he simply couldn't believe he was dead. My friend showed him the hole he had shot in him, and that it was a new hole, but the fellow was still scepti-cal. He didn't weaken until my friend got a paper and showed him an article about soundless guns and smokeless powder, and even then he said he half believed it was a newspaper fake. But he hated to disoblige, so he died. But he wasted half an hour of my friend's time uselessly. It was one of the fruits of ignorance. It was the same kind of ignorance as that which afflicted Casey.

Casey's boiler-shop was built on the principle that seems most approved for boiler-shops— the reverberant principle. In a boiler-shop of that kind, if you hit a saucepan with a tack-hammer the sound will boom up to the ceiling, and echo back along the walls, and roll up and down, multiplying as it goes, until it is making as much racket as a Wagner crescendo. But if you put two men at work on a big iron tubular boiler in that sort of shop, one man inside the boiler and one outside, both with heavy hammers, the utmost limit of slam-bang noise is reached. Casey had forty-one men at work in his boiler-shop. When he went up to a workman and shouted in his ear at the top of his lungs all the workman could hear was the warm breath of Casey on the back of his neck. When Casey wanted to talk to a workman in his shop he had to take him by the sleeve and lead him one block east and two south, and draw him into the recesses of a lumber-yard.

Over by the front door of Casey's boiler-shop was the machine that takes the flat plates of boiler-iron and rolls them into cylinders. It was a pretty good noise-maker, too. Off to one side of that machine was Casey's own boiler, the one that ran the machines in his shop, and it was a boiler Casey was proud of. It was the first boiler he had ever made, and it was breaking the age-record for boilers. Everyone said it was already ten years beyond the utmost age-limit for boilers, and it was patched up with squares and oblongs of riveted iron until it looked like a cylindrical crazy-quilt.

Everyone told Casey he ought to have a new boiler. Every time he took a workman one block east and two south the workman would give notice that he was going to quit unless Casey got a new boiler. They told Casey it wasn't safe to work in a shop where there was an old, rickety boiler that leaked so it put out the furnace fire. Then Casey would say he guessed he'd make himself a new boiler as soon as he got time; but he never got time, and the next time he had a chance to speak to the workmen they would tell him it was absolute suicide to carry 70 lb. of steam in that old tea-kettle; that 40 lb. would be dangerous. Casey stood it as long as he could, and then one morning he called all his workmen together and made a speech. He said he had been making boilers before most of them were born, and knew more about boilers than any man in the country, and that they need not be afraid of that boiler if he wasn't. He said he had had that boiler years and years, and it had never exploded yet, and that he was tired of having men in his shop working with one eye on their job and one on the old boiler.

"Go awn back t' worrk now," said Casey, "an' whin ye see me makin' fer th' door 'twill be plinty av toime fer ye t' think av th' boiler busting'. Pat Casey is th' biggest coward av th' lot av ye, make sure av that."

Then he went around behind the boiler and changed the gauge so that it registered 40 lb. when it was carrying 70 lb., threw a cup of kerosene into the furnace to encourage the fire, and forgot all about it.

The third day after the sign of the Panklaggephone Company was painted on the wall of the building next door to his boiler-shop Casey got down to work early. It was his custom. If he had any orders to give it was necessary to give them before work began, so that they might be heard.

One by one the men dropped in, and when Casey blew the whistle they set to work, all at once and heartily. It was a grand noise; forty men pounding on boiler-plate with heavy hammers, and one roiling steel plates through the machine. It was the climax of clangor. It was so noisy that not a sound could be heard; it was roar! bang! clank! continuously, without intermission. Each man was making so much noise himself that he could not hear any other man's noise. Casey was behind his boiler, stopping up a leak in a seam with wet ashes.

Suddenly a look of anger darkened his face. Silence, utter silence, bad settled over the boiler-shop. Casey knew what was the matter. The cowards had taken fear of the old boiler! Rage filled his heart. After him making them a speech about it, too! He took off his greasy felt hat and threw it down and stamped on it. He pulled off his greasy coat and threw that down and kicked it. He rolled up his sleeves and doubled up his fists, and stepped from behind the boiler. He yelled the war-cry of all the Caseys. Then he stopped short. Not a man was gone from his place. Not a man had stopped work. Everywhere hammers rose and fell against boiler-plates. And everywhere was absolute silence. Not a sound; not a murmur. Absolute silence.

For one minute Casey stood absolutely still, and then a pale, scared look came over his face. He glanced around cautiously— no one seemed to be observing him. He swelled out his chest and yelled twice, like a scared jackal, but he could not hear his own yell. He could not hear anything. He began to perspire.

There is so much noise in a boiler-shop that often the boiler-makers cannot hear the noise. Casey was pretty sure he had gone suddenly deaf, but he was not quite sure. With a cautious motion be bent slowly down and picked up a square of boiler-iron and a hammer. If he was once outside the shop and beat on that square of iron with a hammer he would soon know if he had gone deaf. Slowly he turned and stepped cautiously toward the door.

The boiler-makers saw him and got there first. Long before Casey had reached the sidewalk the last boiler-maker was on his way to the lumber-yard, with one eye on safety and the other on the air, where he expected to see Casey's boiler soaring. He was a cross-eyed boiler-maker or he could not have done this. There were plenty of lumber-piles, and the boiler-makers went so far under them that Casey had to pry them out with a piece of scantling.

"Ye fools!" said Casey, when he had them all out again.

"Aw!" said the foreman; "you said yerself we was t' git out when we seen you git out. Wasn't you gittin' out?"

"I'll not say but what I was steppin' out-side a bit," said Casey, "but I was not runnin'. I was walkin' easy. 'Twas not because av th' boiler I was goin'."

"How was we to know what you was goin' out for?" asked the foreman angrily. "What was you goin' out for, anyway?"

"Nawthin'," said Casey evasively. "I fergit what it was, now. 'Twas nawthin' important, annyhow. Mebby 'twas some wan goin' by  wanted a word with."

"All right," said the foreman sulkily. "All I got to say is it must have been someone you're mighty scared of, by the looks of you when you was goin', for—"

Suddenly the foreman stopped speaking. His lips kept on forming words, but they made no sounds. Casey was walking on with his head down, and, as his words faded away, the foreman turned pale. There was something the matter with his voice, but he did not know what. He glanced secretively at Casey, but Casey was not looking. He tried a few words experimentally, but the experiment worked badly. He whistled. Not a sound. Deaf and dumb both! The scared look gathered on the foreman's face. Casey and his foreman and his boiler-makers went back to the boiler-shop as silently as a funeral driving over moss.

"Well, byes," said Casey, when they were all inside, " 'Twas no wan's fault. Git t' worrk!" But his voice fell silent. Hodges picked up his hammer and hit the side of a boiler. He might as well have hit a roll of cotton batting. He looked at the boiler in surprise. Then he looked at the head of his hammer. Then he hit the boiler again, and the pale, scared look came up on his face. He glanced around cautiously.

Casey was paying no attention to him. No one was. All the boiler-makers were pale and scared,  and were tapping on their boilers experimentally. Pale and scared, they all went to work. They motioned and gestured to each other, just as they did when the shop was full of clangor. They were like pictures of a boiler-shop and its workers thrown on a sheet by a cinemato-graph—all motion and no noise.

When the day's work was ended the workers did not troop out together as usual. They stole away one by one, and they did not go home immediately. One by one they sought their favorite doctors.

"I'm thinkin'," said Casey to his. "there do be some thin' th' matter with me ears, doc. There be flashes av silence come over me t'-day, whilst I'm worrkin' in me shop. Would ye be testin' me ears for me?"

"Step into the operating-room there," said the doctor. "Now, let me see, what is your business?"

"I'm Casey, th' boiler-maker."

"Oh!" said the doctor, and then turned to the door, where his attendant had come. "A man? Well, have him wait. What is his trouble ?"

"He thinks he's going deaf," said the attendant.

The doctor took up Casey's case. He tested in every known way. He told Casey he had cars so perfect that they were almost marvelous.

"Excuse me, doctor," said the attendant, looking in, "but there is another man here now."

"What is his trouble?" asked the doctor.

"He thinks he is going deaf," said the attendant.

"Tell him to come in," said the doctor, "and tell the other man to come in, and if any more men come thinking they are going deaf have them come in."

A few more did drop in, soon. They were all pale and scared looking.

"Now, men," said the doctor, when he had examined them all, "you have not a thing to worry about. Your ears are all perfect. Your  cases are peculiar, but not inexplicable. I might say that they resemble the snow-blindness that is caused by too much light. You are evidently suffering from something that I may call boiler-shop deafness, caused by too much noise. The nerves of the ear are temporarily paralysed by too many and too violent sound-waves. In order to prevent a recurrence I advise you to wear ear-muffs stuffed with cotton.

At the end of his first manufacturing week Geoffrey had twenty panklaggephones completed, and he went home to his wife beaming with happiness, riding beside the driver on the high seat of a delivery truck. Behind him, in the truck, was a full-sized panklaggephone. He was taking it home. It was his wife's birthday present.

Geoffrey had had a panklaggephone in his house, but it had been the model merely, a small affair. It had been enough to prove to him that his idea was a good one, but the machine had been so small that it left much to be desired. It was strong enough to absorb the noise of a mosquito or two, and had been useful in that way, giving one perfect rest from mosquitoes in the bedroom, until the mosquito really bit; but Mrs. Geoffrey had been losing sleep night after night on account of the crying of her baby, and was growing pale and thin. She knew that the best thing to do was to let the baby cry itself to steep again, but she was so nervous she could not, and Geoffrey felt that a panklaggephone in the house would be a great boon. It would not only absorb the baby's cries, but the street-noises, Mrs. Geoffrey's snores (she would sleep with her mouth open), the crowing of the neigh-bors' roosters in the early morning, and a lot of other unpleasant sounds.

He and the driver of the truck unloaded the panklaggephone— it was quite a large affair— and carried it into the house. They set it, temporarily, in the hall, and Geoffrey touched the button that started the absorber. As he did so be said:—

"Now, dear, you will see how it works. You hear the baby crying at the top of his voice" ("I should think I did," said Mrs. Geoffrey) "and all I do is touch this button—"

Geoffrey touched the button. The baby cried louder than before, and his voice was quite as apparent. A frown gathered on Geoffrey's brow. "That's funny," he said. He pushed the button again and again. The panklaggephone would not absorb. "That's very funny," said Geoffrey.

"Well, never mind just now," said Mrs. Geoffrey. "Here is a telegram that came to the house just a few minutes ago. I opened it. And you must come to your dinner right away if you are to catch the train."

The telegram was from Geoffrey's agent in Chicago. He wired that he hoped to close a contract for one hundred panklaggephones, but thought Geoffrey himself should be on the spot.

Geoffrey hurried through his dinner and then ran to catch the train, and the last thing he said, before he went, was that he would fix the panklaggepbone when he got home on Monday. He supposed there was something wrong with the mechanism. He did not know that the panklaggephone had absorbed up to its full capacity.

The home of the Geoffreys was in a very refined and quiet section of the town; a section so quiet that, after ten o'clock at night, the steps of the police officer could be heard for several blocks, and when Mrs. Geoffrey went to the dining-room that night at one o'clock to see if she bad really forgotten to lock the windows, she was greatly pleased to hear the steps of the policeman on the street before the house. It made her feel much safer. She was always a little nervous when Geoffrey was away.

The moment she reached the top of the stairs she paused, listening. From below, somewhere, she heard the sound of a heavy truck jolting over a stone-paved street. The sound seemed, to come from the front ball, as if the truck were being driven about the hall itself. Mrs. Geoffrey turned pale, and a scared look settled upon her face. She could hear the heavy breathing of the horses, the crack of the whip, and the creaking of the harness. Then, suddenly, from the hall, came two wild Irish yells, and instantly a boiler-shop burst into full voice. Her ears were deafened by the clangor of metal against metal, of hammer against boiler-plate, a wild hurricane of noise, terrific, unbelievable, stunning. Mrs. Geoffrey put her two hands straight out in front of her and fainted back-ward with a thud that was lost in the racket.

The panklaggephone was unloading the boiler-shop.

The house shook with the noise, and the windows rattled. It was a rude shock to that refined and quiet neighborhood, and the policeman dashed up the steps and kicked in the front door. He stopped, stunned. To the best of his knowledge and belief there were fortyone boiler-makers busily making boilers in that house. There was noise everywhere— it did not seem to come from any one spot. The house was all noise. He dashed upstairs, and tripped over Mrs. Geoffrey— not another soul but the baby. He dashed to the garret— not a soul. He dashed down to the first floor— not a soul. Not a soul in the cellar! No one in the house but a fainted woman and a baby. And the racket of forty-one strenuous boilermakers pounding on iron with steel hammers! The policeman yelled once and ran.

All up and down the street windows opened and heads were put out. People came forth dressed in nothing much with a spare sheet over it. The fire department came on the run, and do did the police reserves. Police reserves are useful in keeping people away from places, but there is not much a fire de-partment can do in putting out noises, but it did what it could. It worked on the principle that the noise was coming out of Geoffrey's house, and that if there was no house the noise could not come out of it, so they did what they could to do away with the house. They were pretty successful. A fire department can do a great deal when it tries. Of course there were some pieces of plaster here and there that would not come off the Walls easily, but when they turned the hose on them they began to weaken, and they would have had them all off had a stream of water not brought Mrs. Geoffrey to herself. Pat Casey himself helped carry the panklaggephone out of the house when she had explained that the noise probably came from that.

When Geoffrey reached his office on Monday at noon, he found Casey awaiting him.

"Good day t' ye," said Casey. "Ye're Mister Geoffrey, I'm thinkin'?"

"I am," said Geoffrey.

"Casey's me name," said Casey. "I'm th' man what runs th' boiler-shop what meks th' noise thim machines av your'n has been absorbin'."

"Now, Mr. Casey," said Geoffrey firmly. "I am very busy to-day. I have been away, and I have come home to find my house a wreck. I am willing to do what is right in the matter, but I really cannot take the time to go over it to-day. If the absorption of your noise by my machines has caused you any loss, my company will pay for it, but—"

" 'Twas not that I was thinkin' av," said Casey. "I was wonderin' what wan av thim panic—thim pank—"

"Panklaggephones?" said Geoffrey.

"Yis; wan iv thim. I was wonderin' what th' cost might be?"

"Certainly," said Geoffrey. "Such a machine should be of the greatest use in a boiler-shop, particularly if this crusade against noise. Now, we will guarantee to supply one that has not absorbed any noise."

"Do ye know me ould woman?" asked Casey.

"No," said Geoffrey, with Some surprise.

"Well, 'twas not wan av th' absorbin' kind I was thinkin" av," said Casey. "I mek out very well at th' boilershop; very well. But there do be toimes whin me ould woman has th' gift o' speech, an' th' house do be annythin' but peaceful and quiet, an' I'm a man that loikes quiet, Mister Geoffrey. I was after hearin' th' pank— th' machine goin' off at yer house th' other night, Mr. Geoffrey, an' I would loike t' have wan av them loaded up with a boilershop t' take home. 'Twould be restful, loike, t' turn awn whin th' ould woman breaks loose."

_______________________

4: The Doctor Takes a Hand

Andrew Soutar

1879-1941

World's News (Sydney) 31 May 1913

NO-one in the scattered parish of Grymdeep ever dreamt of calling him by any other name than that of "Doctor Toby," or just "Toby," as time and temperament permitted; only the semi-obliterated scrawl on the lamp above his door served to remind him that he was really entitled to the more dignified patronymic of "Christopher Hamish Russet."

When he stretched himself to his full height the doctor suggested the rugged strength of a pine on the hills of his beloved Scotia; and there were discerning men who said that, despite the eternal twinkle in the grey eyes, Doctor Toby's life was as lonely as any solitary pine.

The name of the doctor's house was "The Bungalow," and the surgery, when the weather permitted, was the back garden. He made up his own prescriptions, for although time and rough wear had modified his accent, his native caution remained undisturbed.

In Grymdeep, where minds were naturally narrow because of the cramped environment, Doctor Toby had his enemies. An enemy, he held, made life worth while, for one never knew when an opportunity to humble that enemy would come along.

It was in the late afternoon of a day in November that one who had been the doctor's severest critic rode over from Friar's Park to consult him. There had been a heavy fall of anew, and the drifts made the narrow roads difficult to traverse. The doctor was engaged with a laborer who had tramped five miles through the snow to seek advice for his child.

"Sir John Shankwood!" the old woman who performed the duties of housekeeper croaked from the doorway, and hesitated when told to ask Sir John to wait outside for a few moments.

The few moments lengthened into a quarter of an hour, and then Doctor Toby came out, followed by the laborer.

"Don't shake the bottle," he said to the man as he took leave of him, "and hurry home. I'll  give Maggie a few oats and gallop over at once."

He nodded inquiringly at Sir John, a short, wizened little man.

"Anything wrong?" The doctor was deliberately moving away toward the stables.

"You must come to Friar's Park at once, doctor. My daughter is seriously ill—"

"Do you see that man?" Doctor Toby pointed to the retreating figure of the laborer. "That's Lem Wickens. His little girl is down with pneumonia. I'm going over to see her."

"But my daughter is all I have in the world. If anything happened to her, I should die of a  broken heart."

"If anything happened to Wickens's little girl he would go on working for the rest of the family— working with a broken heart. And he has the first call on whatever service I can render."

"I'll pay you ten times— fifty times what he'll pay."

"Thank your stars you're an old man," said Doctor Toby; "I've knocked many a man down for less.... What's the matter with your daughter?"

"We cannot determine. If it isn't a decline, it's some secret trouble which she will not explain. Ever come across such a case?"

"Why didn't you come earlier? People don't go into declines in five minutes.... Mind your toes— Maggie is no respecter of feet."

"I should hire come before, only Margaret was of the opinion... What's the matter?"

"Nothing. Go on— I'm listening." But the wrinkled face flushed to the temples. Doctor Toby had thrown him a quick, penetrating glance at the mention of that word, "Margaret." It was the name of the tall, angular, morose-looking woman who came from town to take over the duties of housekeeper after the death of Sir John's wife. She was spoken of as a woman of business acumen, even if her heart did not heal as tenderly as it might have done; certainly the estate had improved under her tutelage.

"I'll call on my way back from Wickens's house." said Doctor Toby, relieving the other's embarrassment by vaulting into the saddle.

Sir John came nearer and caught at the stirrup. "No one at Friar's Park knows that my intention was to call on you. It will not be necessary to say that I summoned you—that is, if I should not happen to be there when you arrive."

His impulse inclined to resentment, but Doctor Toby checked it, and moved away. Sir John clambered into his own saddle and prepared to follow.

"I'll ride with you as far as you go," he called  out.

"I'll leave it to Maggie," was the answer  thrown back.

The cottage of Lem Wickens was one of those thatch-roofed sties to be found on most farms in tbe Midlands. Doctor Toby's first thought was of the sick child in the corner, and when he had given her of his professional skill and eased her pain, he drew the whitefaced little mother aside.

"How much rent does Lem pay for this hole?"

"Four shillings a week, Doctor Toby."

"How much does he owe?"

"Three weeks."

"Who owns it?"

"Sir John Shankwood— and he's awfully good —if it wasn't for—"

Doctor Toby slipped a sovereign into the woman's hand. "Tell Lem that he's got to clear out of this place if he wants to save that little girl. And"— he was in the saddle again— "the next time the landlord comes for the rent tell him he's a scoundrel, and that Doctor Toby said so. Now, Maggie!"

Friar'a Park lay two miles out of the main road. Sir John Shankwood was awaiting the  doctor in the drawing-room, and immediately sought to press some refreshment upon him before he entered the sick-room.

"Send out a handful of oats to Maggie," he said; "that is, if you have anything to give away. If it hadn't been for her I shouldn't be here on a night like this. Now, where's the patient?"

"Who's talking about a patient?"

The voice came from the doorway, and as Doctor Toby's glance rested on the face of the tall, imperious woman standing there, he made a lightning calculation of her opinion of him.

"This is Doctor Russet— the local doctor, Margaret. I met him this afternoon and asked him to look in." Sir John was dry-washing his thin hands and pathetically nodding reassur- ance. "Lorna knows Doctor To—  Russet, and it's not unlikely that— that he'll inspire her with confidence."

"Indeed!" The snow outside was not colder. "It was my intention to summon a specialist.  Your— your degrees, Doctor Russet...?"

"Are probably like a great many persons' manners, madam— below zero. Now, Sir John, the patient."

As he stepped toward the door she intercepted him. "I beg your pardon if my remark was misunderstood," she said quietly; "but I myself have diagnosed the case, and it is one of simple nerve prostration, due, no doubt, to  sentimentality. Any nerve specialist will tell you that I am correct, and it is my intention  to call one in."

"Madam." Doctor Toby inclined his head so slightly that the movement was almost imperceptible, "I have taken the trouble to ride two miles out of my way in order to see the daughter of Sir John Shankwood. Some doctors would have walked out of the house at your remarks, but I— I can't afford to do that. I know Lorna and she knows me. I have known her ever since she was a child of three or four. And I'm going to see her. If I find that you are able to diagnose symptoms and have diagnosed these correctly, I will beg four pardon. Now,  Sir John."

Meekly the woman stepped aside, and proceeded to follow the two men up the broad stairs to the sick-room. Doctor Toby turned  and divined her intention.

"Two professionals in the room would not be beneficial to the patient," he murmured sweetly, "you have had your turn— allow me to have mine. Now, Sir John."

There was something ineffably tender in the expression that came over Doctor Toby's face as he leaned over the bed and whispered to the young girl who was lying there in a condition that appeared to border on coma. Her eyes, dark and luminous, were wide open, her breathing was faint and irregular. His long, black hair trailed over the pillow like seaweed over coral, and when the doctor's hand touched it he frowned perplexedly. The hair was wet with perspiration, yet the temperature of the room was well below sixty. She was a girl of twenty, with all the beauty of her Irish mother.

"Lorna, little girl," he whispered, "it's Toby."

A smile crept into the dark eyes. "I was lost in thought," she said feebly, as though  it were a grievous sin, "and I did not hear you come in."

"Now what's the trouble?" he inquired briskly. "And how long have you been lying here?"

"She is not confined to her bed," Sir John put in hurriedly, "but Margaret thinks it advisable that she should have a thorough rest."

"And she is quite right," said Doctor Toby. "Go down, Sir John, and convey my compliments, and prepare her for the pardon which I intend to crave. Please instruct your ser-vants to prepare a large dish of gruel with the slightest sprinkling of thyme, and ask Miss— Miss— your good housekeeper, to attend to the preparing of it, as only an experienced person knows the desired quantities. Now, Sir John."

And the little baronet moved out of the room
with alacrity. He had no sooner closed the door behind him than Doctor Toby stepped  quickly to the side of the wondering girl.

"Now, Lorna," he whispered, "tell me the truth, and tell it quickly. What's the matter with you? Don't hesitate. And what's the name of the young man you're worrying your pretty head about? Eh! How do I know? You ask me that, when the first thing that I see peeping from under the pillow is the edge of a month-old letter?... Lives where?... And she won't let you see him? And you the daughter of your father, too! You've told Sir John, and he doesn't appear to have a voice in the matter? Now, come! There's something else. What's the thing on the curtain that you can see, or fancy you can see? Quick; open those lips!"

A shiver seemed to run through the girl's slender body.

"Don't ask me, Doctor Toby," she pleaded "I thought I saw it again, but it must be my fancy, as Margaret says."

"Saw what again?"

"Nothing! Nothing!"

"Lorna, what is it that you're staring at— on the curtain over the door? You're afraid to take your eyes from it— you haven't looked at me yet."

And she told him in a faltering whisper.

Margaret, the housekeeper, had so cajoled Sir John that she was the virtual head of the house. Lorna would not have minded that if restrictions had not been placed on her own liberty. The discovery by Margaret that a clandestine courtship was being carried on led to a violent scene which culminated in the girl being kept in her room under the pretence that she was suffering temporary mental aberration.

"But surely your father was the right person to appeal to?" said Doctor Toby.

"Margaret is always believed," was the plaintive answer. "For a time, father raised no objection to Robert's visits, as the Hendons have been farmers in the district for generations. The change in him came dramatically. Robert was told that he must never enter the house again. I think that my mind gave way, and since then no one has been more solicitous than Margaret. She has done all that was possible to soothe my fears; it is her suggestion that I go for a sea-voyage."

"And these fears?" Doctor Toby's face was a study in suppressed anger.

"The hand! The white hand and the pointing finger! It is always there when I wake in the night; always pointing at me; always warning me of something. Margaret says that I should not let my thoughts run on my dead mother."

"And is that all?"

"Isn't it enough, Doctor Toby?"

"I suppose it is," he replied, "at least for a delicate little mouse like you. Now, listen... " He leaned over the bed and whispered rapidly in her ear.

A servant entered with the gruel and thyme. Doctor Toby held up a warning finger. The patient was asleep.

In the drawing-room Sir John and the house-keeper were moodily discussing the girl. As the doctor entered the housekeeper looked up sharply.

"Well?"

"Madam," said Doctor Toby gravely, "yes were quite right; we must have a specialist. The girl's nerves have fallen to pieces."

"I will summon one by telegraph to-morrow."

"We must have one to-night; to-morrow may be too late."

Sir John, pathetic in his frailty, sprang to his feet.

"Don't disturb yourself," the doctor cautioned. "You're going to say that we can't get a specialist from town to-night. True! But I'll fetch one within a few hours and I warrant you that his skill will save her, even if his degrees are as— as chilly as mine."

The woman frowned her displeasure. "I would rather that Sir John summon his own specialist," she said; "we should have more faith in him."

"Madam,"— she flinched before that steady gaze— "I have charge of this case now."

Three minutes later he was again in the saddle.

"Maggie," he whispered, "can you do a few more miles to-night for the sake of a little girl who's breaking her heart!"

Across the snow-covered countryside—three, four, five miles—these two old partners stumbled. It was late when they reached the farm of the "specialist," and the doctor was stiff with cold.

In answer to his loud knocking, a young man with a blanket thrown round his shoulders looked out of an upper window and shouted, "Who's there?"

"Doctor Toby, you fool!" was the blunt reply; "what other idiot would be mooning  about the country at this time of night?"

In less than a minute the door was thrown open, and the doctor was dragged rather than led into the spacious sitting-room, where the embers were still glowing.

"Living alone, Robert? And in a big place like this!"

"Quite alone, Toby— with a couple of servants."

"Plenty of room here for a— for a wife! What!"

"Perhaps." Hendon shook his head in perplexity. "What have you called to see me about at this time of night, Toby? I don't want doctor's medicine." Hendon was poking the embers and glancing over his shoulders at the tall, angular Scot in the chair.

"No, my lad," the doctor murmured, "it isn't doctor's medicine, it's man's medicine you're in need of. And you let them turn you down at the Park, did you? And that little girl lying there with a broken heart!"

The fire-iron dropped with a rattle on the hearth.

"What do you know about it?" exclaimed Hendon.

"Enough to make me thank God for the stock I spring from. Man! My father used to ride fifteen miles every night to court my mother in secret, and when he was warned that  she was not for him, do you think that he slunk back to his farm and hid himself from the world? Not he! He carried her off on the back of his horse. That's the kind of love a woman cherishes."

"Well!" Hendon was shifting uneasily on his feet. "What is it that you have come to tell me?"

"That the little girl at Friar's Park is waiting for a man with the spirit, of my father."

The audacity of the suggestion brought a smile to the young man's lips, but when Doctor Toby hinted at his own fears and premises, Hendon dressed himself in double-quick time, and then saddled a horse.

On the way to Friar's Park they called at the surgery, where the old housekeeper, who, like, Maggie, knew no rest, was told to build up a fire in the sitting-room.

"Desperate ills," said the doctor, slowly, as they drew near the park, "require desperate remedies. But carry out the instructions I've given you and everything will ripple along."

Bearing the instructions in mind, Hendon drew rein at the bottom of the drive, allowing the doctor to go on to the house alone.

The servants had all retired; so had the housekeeper.

"The specialist will be here in a moment." said Doctor Toby, crossing to the window of the drawing-room and moving aside the blinds. "He had another am in the district, but promised to come on."

"Margaret was very emphatic in her refusal to see him," Sir John muttered apologetically, "and I'm not sure that we've done right in opposing her wishes."

"If it will ease your conscience," said Doctor Toby, who had been prepared boldly to take the vacillating baronet into his confidence, "you need not incur her displeasure by seeing him yourself. Leave it to me."

"I should prefer to do that, Doctor Toby, but pray convey to your— your colleague an expression of my deep gratitude for his kindness in crossing the country on such a night." The doctor inclined his head as if listening. "I hear someone riding up the drive." he said.

He went into the hall, purposely leaving the drawing-room door ajar. From the chair near the fireplace the frail little baronet saw the doctor pass up the stairs, accompanied by a heavily-coated man, who glanced neither to the right nor the left. They were up stairs probably ten minutes, and as they came toward the hall door again Sir John heard Doctor Toby advising the specialist of the easiest road to  take and how to avoid the drifts. The door closed with a resounding clash, and immediately afterward came the dull sound of a horse's hoofs as it galloped down the drive.

"Now, Sir John!" Doctor Toby had returned to the drawing-room, and was preparing to  make himself comfortable in a deep chair on  the other side of the fireplace. "I'm tired after all this running about, and I'm going to rest  here for an hour in case the little girl should wake up after taking that sedative."

"She is not— not dangerously ill?" Sir John was leaning forward anxiously, peering into  the doctor's face.

"No, There is really nothing the matter with her at present, he says. It's a rest that she requires."

"Ah, confess that Margaret was right, Doctor Toby. I felt that I should not go wrong if I followered her advice."

"Time will show us, Sir John. Now, don't blink your eyes. You may be sleepy, but you haven't earned a rest so much as I have. Talk, will you? I like to hear someone talking when I'm tired."

They had been sitting there no more than half an hour when a scream of fear thrilled the nervous baronet into a condition of abject terror. Doctor Toby ran out of the room and up the stairs.

Although somewhat prepared for it, the spectacle that presented itself on the landing outside the sick-room forced an exclamation to his lips. Sir John, who had timidly followed him, uttered a cry of alarm.

Margaret, the housekeeper, was kneeling on the floor in an attitude of supplication. Hendon, white with passion, was standing over her, a thin Malacca cane in his hand.

"Good heavens!" Sir John gasped, darting forward; "what is the meaning of this?"

Doctor Toby held him back. "Don't touch her!" he commanded. "I'll explain the meaning of it, with the help of young Hendon, here. You know him, Sir John? He's the specialist! Look at her right hand! Hold it up to the light, woman! There!  Artificially whitened! And the red mark across it is the result of the cane, isn't it, Hendon? Thought she was playing the ghost to Lorna, didn't she? Oh! She's a wonderful woman, Sir John, a wonderful woman—much too wonderful for a simple household like this. See! That was  the ghostly hand that was in the habit of appearing to your poor little girl!"

"And my poor girl— where is she?" Dazed by what he had seen, the baronet rushed into the sick-room.

"She's not there," Doctor Toby called out. "I dare say you'll find her in my sitting-room, listening to the stories of my old housekeeper. Probably she's picking up a few wrinkles that may be useful to a bride, eh! Hendon?... And now, this woman! What are you going to do with her? Give her up to the police, or, better still, send her back to where she came  from?"

"Get her out of my sight," moaned Sir John.

"She nearly removed your little girl from  your sight," said Doctor Toby. "Then I suppose she would have turned her attention to you. Turn up the light, Hendon, and I'll look at her injuries.... Nothing serious. Nothing to prevent her travelling to-morrow. Let us get downstairs. Hendon, away with you, and bring that little girl back to her father. Now, Sir John, leave this woman to herself; she'll be ready to leave before dawn. Better let Hendon stay in the house to-night."

Down in the drawing-room the little old man buried his face in his hands.

"Just a word in your ear," Doctor Toby whispered. "To a man who's roughed it the world over as I have, and seen every phase of human life, there's nothing so tragic as the spectacle of an old man who appreciates the love of a beautiful daughter so little that he's ready to lend his ear to the first serpent that comes along. Don't let false sentiment lead you away from your own, Sir John; blood's thicker than water."

He went out of the house at the moment Hendon was helping Lorna from the saddle. They were too engrossed with each other to notice him, and he slid quietly to where his patient horse awaited him.

"Maggie," he whispered, "the day's work is done. We'll go home to rest."

_____________________

5: The Pedestal

Morley Roberts

1857-1942

World's News (Sydney) 1 Feb 1919

IT BY NO MEANS surprised John Haddon to be rung up by Milly Foster, since he had been sure for a long time that she had not been getting on with Jim.

"Come at once," said Haddon, and in less than half an hour Milly was received by the solicitor's clerks with the particular consider-ation for a lady which is characteristic of an office chiefly concerned with matters of divorce. Haddon shook his head as he shook hands with her.

"Why do you do that?" she asked, as she sat down.

"When a woman with a face like yours and a figure that Phidias would have found few faults with comes to see an old friend without caring how she looks I am inclined to shake her as well as my head," said Haddon, smiling.

"It's been wicked of me not to come and see you and Margaret," sighed Milly, "but I've not the heart to go anywhere."

"A woman, as aforesaid, and under thirty, without the heart to go anywhere needs a doctor or a drubbing," said Haddon. "Who is it? Tell me all about her."

"Her?" asked Milly blankly.

"Yes," said Haddon, "is it a Mabel? I've had a great run on Mabels as co-respondents lately. Last term it was the Fannies who did the mischief."

"I don't know about any such person," said Milly, haughtily, "but I almost wish there was one."

"Then is it all Jim, as I really thought?" asked Haddon. "But now I come to look at you, I see you haven't the divorce air. You're thinking of a separation, no more than that?"

"I don't know what I am thinking of. but he— he doesn't— that is, he isn't what he used to be!" said Milly, twisting her out-of-date gloves into a rope.

"The courts don't take cognisance of minor marital disasters," said Haddon, "de minimis non curat lex, which means that in the divorce court romantic love is an irrelevant detail. But, stay, does Jim beat you?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Jack," said Milly; "I'm very miserable."

"Yes! And your maid ought to be whipped for letting a pretty woman come out like that," said Haddon, as he leant forward and took her gloves away from her. "Are these gloves, or what?"

"I don't care how I look." said Milly, "nor does Jim. He's always asleep on the sofa!"

"Ah, that's the pedestal your hero occupies now! Then there's no Mabel or Fanny," said Haddon.

"I don't get two words a day with him," said Milly.

"Is that why you were crying at breakfast?" asked Haddon.

"I wasn't. It— it was after breakfast! Oh, just because it's not what it was," moaned Milly.

"It never is," said Haddon, cheerfully. "And what's more, it never was as it was before."

"I don't in the least understand," said Milly.

"No!" said Haddon. "Now take me and Margaret."

"Ah, you're both wonderful," said Milly, sadly.

"She's quite terrible at times," said Margaret's husband, pensively. "I, too, once had a sofa. She sold it!"

"Sold your sofa! What did you do?"

"Sat in a beastly chair," said Haddon. "Through suffering the poets sing and husbands do their duty to a talkative wife."

"I don't believe it," said Milly, "Why, you're an ideal couple."

"Far from it," said Haddon. "When I married I committed myself to the ridiculous statement that I should never love anyone else. Now she knows it's my habit and that it keeps me from buying another sofa. And she insists on dining out with me."

"Jim simply won't," said Milly. "He says our cook's a genius."

"To overfeed a husband is to destroy a man," sighed Haddon. "Get rid of her. Or give her a holiday to nurse her dying great-grandfather."

"Jim would be very angry," said Milly.

"Ah, to be weak is the true misery," said Haddon. "You let the poor fellow have his own way. I believe you don't owe your dressmaker a bill?"

"I don't, and won't!" said Milly.

"I live by men and women not knowing their business," said Haddon, "but, though I expected it, to find you among them breaks my heart."

"Their business?"

"Their business!" said Haddon. "But come, I never give advice till I have turned a client inside out. I often discover that those who complain most are the most to blame, and by bringing home a sense of domestic sin to the indignant husband or to the outraged wife I earn my costs and the united dislike of a reunited couple for knowing all they told me. When do you quarrel?"

"We don't," said Milly; "at least, not exactly."

"I see," said Haddon. "You don't break crockery, and he doesn't beat you. But I know you sit opposite each other at a time of day which invites disaster. I Can see your expression and his. My dear, you actually have breakfast together!"

"We do, of course," said Milly.

"Most divorces can be traced to that English habit," said Haddon, shaking his head. "It should be put down by law, and especially discouraged by the Church. The clergy waste their time when they might abolish the breakfast which leads to misery. By advising breakfast in bed, or at least in solitude, I have done more for morality than a dozen bishops. Jim's not to blame. It's you!"

"I—I!" said Milly. "What do you mean?"

"I tell you again that you don't know your business," said Haddon, severely. "You think that you've nothing to learn, that being a wife ought to be an easy job. It's not; it never will be. By your conduct you've made a husband out of an otherwise attractive man! You and your cook have raised his weight and lowered his moral till the boy I knew of eleven stone weighs fourteen, sleeps on the sofa to the soporific strains of uncom-prehended fugues, and rises in the morning with indigestion and a silent glare for the most dangerous meal of the day. It's dreadful to see what sheer ignorance can do. When I married I was thirteen stone. Now I'm twelve. That's my wife. I used to sleep after dinner. Now I don't. I wanted to dine at home, and did for six months. Now I don't. That's Margaret. I'm naturally lazy. But for Margaret I should have been sixteen stone and stone-broke in ten years. I urged her to save money. In reply she brought me a dressmaker's bill which made me work. I'm now rich and active. What have you to show against that?"

"I—I really don't know," said Milly.

"A fat, cross husband," said Haddon, remorselessly. "And you might be a poetess from the look of you! But you're still beautiful. I don't mind telling you so, though you've never made Jim say it for years."

"How— how do you know that?" asked Jim's wife.

"Margaret taught me," said Haddon. "And as for your hat, all I can say for it is that it hides your hair, which I believe you do yourself. And you can't!"

"Oh Jack, you are a brute," said Milly.

"When did Jim see you cry last? Or hear you raise your voice in sacred anger?"

"I don't do either," said Milly.

"So you actually let your poor overfed mishandled husband sleep after dinner and glare at breakfast, and never shed a tear or throw things at him?" asked Haddon,

"I won't play feminine tricks," said Milly, scornfully.

"We shall be hearing next of a moral Bengal tiger who won't use his claws and keeps his teeth clean with hay and oats," said Had-don. "What the deuce do you suppose providence or nature invented feminine tricks for but to keep us poor men going, to preserve us from Chesterfields and obesity?"

"Oh," said Milly, "I— I never thought of that. Do you mean that we were meant by heaven—"

"I know more of divorce than divinity," said Haddon.

"Meant by heaven to use—to use—"

"The infernal tricks you have by nature? Why, if heaven has half the sense of a com-mon member of Parliament it certainly did, but you've let poor Jim, for whom I've the greatest sympathy, run to seed. Come now, if you're wise all is not lost! Take my advice and be coldly callous to his rage when he finds you have sacked the cook, sold his sofa, taken to a solitary breakfast and to dining out without him every night of the week."

"He'll— he'll hate me!" said Milly.

"That's part of the cure," said Haddon. "How else do you suppose you can recover the lover you've made into a husband? You shall ask Margaret's opinion."

"I— I will," said Milly.

"Come home with me now," said Haddon, reaching for his hat. "And after lunch you shall go out with Margaret and start dress reform on the wildest basis of extravagance. Then back to us for dinner and a theatre. And you shall 'phone to Jim that you're stay-ing with us for the night."

"Jim comes home to lunch," urged Milly. "He won't lunch alone. Can't I 'phone to him now?"

"Most certainly not," said Haddon. "I'm your legal adviser. You shall do nothing of the sort! Come!"

"HELLO!... YES.... Who's that? I'm Mr. Haddon.... Who are you?... Cant't hear.... To be sure, Jim Foster! Yes, old chap, I can see you at three-thirty... No, impossible!... Will eleven do?... Right."

"So it's taken just three weeks to work him up," said Haddon as he hung up the receiver with a satisfied smile. "Bless me, Milly has gone the pace! I hardly thought it was in her."

A little before eleven Jim Foster made his appearance in the outer office, and after waiting ten minutes, which he occupied in show-ing Haddon's clerks all the usual signs of the endangered husband, he was admitted to see his wife's adviser.

"Well, what's wrong?" asked Haddon. "You're as haggard a fat man as ever I saw!"

"Fat?" said Jim Foster indignantly. "What the devil do you mean?"

"Well, aren't you fat?" demanded the solicitor, walking around him.

"Good Lord, she always said she'd leave me If I got fat!" gasped Foster, turning as his old friend tried to inspect him on all sides.

"She? Who? Be coherent, Jim," said Haddon.

"Is it Mabel?"

"Mabel be damned! Who's Mabel? I mean my wife," said Jim. "Years ago she said it!"

"Obesity is cruelty," said Haddon. "Do you go to sleep after dinner?"

"Sometimes," said Jim, sitting down heavily.

"That's desertion," said Haddon. "But what's the trouble?"

"It's— it's Milly," said Jim, mapping his brow. "She used to say—"

"What?"

"That she'd run away if I went to sleep after dinner."

"Well, has she?"

"No, no, but she's— she's changed so. She won't even come down to breakfast with me! I—"

"Suspect something?" suggested Haddon.

"Wouldn't you if— If your wife changed?" asked Jim.

"If Margaret didn't change her frocks three times a day I should suspect she was mad," said the solicitor.

"Frocks! My dear, chap, Milly has had fifteen new ones in—in three weeks!"

"That looks like a new passion, I own," said Haddon. "She used to be dowdy."

"Dowdy? No, quiet."

"Not quiet! Dowdy," returned Haddon, firmly.

"And hats! Good Lord!" said Jim. "I swear I never saw so many hats in my life as I found on her bed yesterday."

"Whom do you suspect?" said Haddon. "A hatter?"

"A hatter? What the devil do you mean? And she stays out late and say she goes to the theatre. But I remember two ladies who said they did and didn't."

"You were a sad dog years ago," said Haddon. "Be frank. You don't love her any more, do you?"

Jim bounced to his feet.

"I adore her. I couldn't live without her."

"I hear that twice a week," said Haddon, "and they all marry again. Make up your mind for the worst!"

"I— I believe you— you know something," said Jim, glaring. "Who is he? I'll cut his throat— from ear to ear."

"I can't tell you. I learnt the name professionally," said Haddon, "but he's a good chap at bottom, and I believe he's doing all he can to get rid of her."

"Then— then he doesn't love her!" gasped Jim."

"How do I know?" asked Haddon. "He neglects her grossly."

"Neglects her? Then— then it's only infatuation on her part? A passing infatuation?"

"It's been going on for years," said Haddon.

"Years! Why, she only changed a few weeks ago! Till then she never went out and was contented to play for me—"

"While you snored in counterpoint," said the musical lawyer.

"She never wanted anything else," urged Jim.

"Than your snores?" asked Haddon.

"And she was so economical! I am, too," groaned the husband.

"So your tailor must think," said Haddon, eyeing him severely.

"Don't these things fit?" asked Jim, looking at his trousers with the affectionate eye of a man who can't part with clothes till they fall off him. "But what am I to do? I'm losing weight! I'm neglecting my business! If I wasn't indispensable I'd enlist! Is— is the man in the army?"

"I can tell you nothing now," said Haddon, "but—"

"Is he good-looking?" asked Jim.

"He was once, but he's degenerated dreadfully," said Haddon critically. "He's as fat as you and horrible to look at."

"Don't be a fool," said Jim savagely. "Tell me his name!"

"Keep awake and find out," said Haddon. "And when you do—"

"I'll— I'll knock his ugly head off," said Jim, clenching his fists.

"Being fat," said Haddon, "you'd be a fair match for him."

"I'm not fat," said Jim angrily.

"You are fat," said Haddon, firmly; "very fat!"

"If— if the worst came to the worst would he treat her decently?" groaned Jim. "The whole thing is inexplicable! What am I to do?"

"How long have you been married?" asked Haddon.

"Seven happy years and three horrible weeks," said Jim, miserably. "It was just after the last anniversary she turned like this and sacked the cook and sold my sofa. Oh, it's madness! I— I don't know what I said. But— but she laughed!"

"Did you mention the anniversary to her by any chance?" asked Haddon.

"I— I don't think so," said Jim.

"Some women like these things mentioned," said Haddon.

"Do they?" asked Jim.

"Yes, aren't they fools?'' said Haddon. "When did you give her any flowers last?"

"I don't quite remember, said Jim. "Yes, I do. It was just before we were married."

"Some very silly women actually like them after marriage," said Haddon. "When did you last tell her that she was prettier than when you married her?"

"Never," said Jim. Why man alive, she isn't!"

"And when did she tell you last that you were a fool?" snorted Haddon. "What the devil did you ever get married for? What kind of a business man are you? Do you think being married isn't a business that you've got to know, and do you imagine that a woman isn't something to learn far more tricky than accounts or whatever silly trade has obfuscated the brains you had once? You've got no children, and your wife has a fat man, in absurd trousers, on a sofa, instead of the live one she contracted for who knew the use of a flower shop. When you leave home in the morning do you turn round and wave your hand to her?"

"She's not a child," urged Jim, unhappily.

"And you are!" said Haddon. "Go home and court her. Save her from the fat man. Buy trousers, and when I say trousers I mean real trousers, not distorted, abortive, asymmetrical, bulgy bags!"

"Oh, do let my trousers alone," roared Jim. "But, look here, I'll take your advice or— or some of it!"

"Then get out and begin," said Haddon. "Stop! One moment! Are you afraid your wife?"

"Afraid! Are you afraid of Margaret?" asked Jim.

"Of course I am, you idiot," replied Haddon. "Go home and chew over this saying 'Perfect love inspires abject fear!' "

And Jim Foster went away in amazement. And as he walked down the street he suddenly stopped.

"I— I believe he's right," he said. "Am I— am I fat?"

He got into a taxi and went straight to a medical friend of his in Harley Street.

"I say, old chap, do tell me," he said. "Am I— am I fat?"

"Horribly," said the physician.

"I want to be thin. I must be thin!" said Jim.

He went away a sadder and a wiser man, and taking another taxi, drove to his tailor, who had become as a stranger.

"I say, is there anything really wrong with these trousers?" he asked.

"These what, sir?" asked the professional.

"Trousers,'' said Jim, as chapfallen as a wet hen.

"They aren't sir," said the tailor, grimly.

"And my clothes generally?" demanded Jim, groaning.

"Coverings, sir, coverings," said the tailor. "Where did you get them? Not from me! Do you— do you by any chance sleep in them, sir?"

When he got home, with flowers, he found his wife was out, and had once more to dine alone. But for the first time in many months he deliberately dressed for dinner. The exhausted capacity of his clothes to hold him reminded him every moment of the scheme of dietary impressed on him by the man in Harley Street.

"I'll stick to it if I die of famine." said Jim. He refused alcohol, and the servants discussed their mistress on general principles and shook their heads. So did Jim when he found he couldn't sleep. His head was amazingly clear. He began to think of the rival Haddon had spoken of. It was strange that Milly should fall in love with a man of that description, very strange. What a queer chap Haddon was! Confound him! After walking up and down the solitary drawing-room he went with the flowers to his wife's room. He saw a photograph on the dressing-table.

"Me!'' said Jim. "As I was eight years ago!" He looked at himself in the glass.

"A fat man!" said Jim. He put the flowers down.

Again he thought of Haddon. Surely there had been a sort of satiric humor in him as he talked!

"He seemed to think I was a fool," said Jim, as his mind struggled with a half-suggested solution of the problem. He felt as if he were on the verge of discovering something very important.

"I'm not a fool,'' said Jim. "What does it mean?"

He went downstairs again and, going to his own den, sat in a chair and dozed. Perhaps he slept for ten minutes, but he woke up with a start.

"Eh?" said he, "did I dream? By Jove. I've got it! Oh, Haddon!"

He fairly ran to the 'phone and rang up the lawyer.

"Is that Haddon?"

"Yes. Who are you?"

"Mrs. Foster's lover, you old jackass," said Jim.

________________

6: The Tempter

Harold Bindloss

1866-1945

World's News (Sydney) 16 Dec 1916

IT was market day when Halliday, of Marshcote Farm, sat moodily in a corner of the smoking-room at the George. This was the best hotel in the small north-country town, but Spence, who had just gone to the telephone, had invited Halliday to meet him there. He had bought some oats from the farmer at a good price not long ago, and hinted that they might be able to do some further business, but although they had lunched together he had not come to the point yet.

Halliday was a big, toil-hardened man, on whose face the lines of care were getting deep. He had not always been a farmer; it was on his improvident father's death he abandoned another profession and took up the lease of

Marshcote for his delicate mother's sake. The land was poor and Halliday embarrassed by lack of capital, but by stern economy and de- termined effort he paid off the worst of his father's debts, and kept his mother in some comfort until she died, though the struggle left its mark on him.

In the meanwhile, he fell in love with his neighbor's daughter, Jessy Nichol, and Nichol frowned upon his suit. He said the lass had been well brought up, and should not marry a poor man, but if Halliday could get free, of debt, and stock Marshcote properly, he could talk of it again. Not long before this Halliday bad borrowed money to improve his land and stock from a family friend, who promised not to press him for repayment so long as he met the interest; but as he was leaving to meet Spence a letter from a solicitor arrived, stating that an instalment was overdue. This was a fresh embarrassment, because it meant that he must sacrifice some young cattle he had hoped to fatten and make a good profit on.

While Halliday pondered the matter Spence came back. He was a well-dressed fellow, with genial manners, and, although Halliday did not know much about him, had lately visited the farmer, buying produce and occasionally selling patent manures.

"Now we'll get to business," he said, giving Halliday a cigar.

"I'm willing. You have waited some time."

Spence smiled. "That's so. As the matter's important, it was necessary to find out something about you. Well, I understand you're not particularly prosperous."

"It's true enough, but I don't see—"

"I'm going to show you how to earn some money without much trouble. One wouldn't imagine you to be timid or hesitating."

Halliday looked at him with grim amusement. "I'm not; but if you expect me to buy shares in some chemical-manure business or order a job lot of the stuff, you've come to the wrong man."

"I don't expect it. I'm willing to pay you for a service."

"Then, if the money's right, I'm on."

"Ten pounds a night for three hours' work! But there's some risk."

"That doesn't count," said Halliday, whose heart began to beat with hope.

"Very well. Your farm's at the head of Tickel Sands, I think. I want two strong horses that can carry a pack-load across the flats at low-water, and an outbuilding to store some goods in."

"What is the stuff, and where's it going?"

"On the whole it might be better if you didn't know," Spence answered meaningly.

"Ah!" said Halliday, "you're afraid that I might talk?"

Spence gave him a keen glance. "No! You'll find it wiser to keep quiet if you take our money, but it would simplify matters if you ask no questions, and merely carry out your orders. We'll want the horses for three or four nights at ten pounds a trip, and for as long again, after the tides work round. In fact, the business might go an for some little time."

Halliday frowned as he struggled with a strong temptation. Eighty pounds would go some way towards clearing off his embarrassments. It would help him to keep the best of the young stock, which he must otherwise sell to pay his debt, and, after all. it was not his business to And out what Spence was doing. Besides, the payments might continue, and if he could save a little money, Nichol would relent; but he pulled himself up sharply as he looked out of the window.

A recruiting sergeant stood in the market square, talking to a group of farm hands by the potato carts. A squad of young lads in khaki was marching down a street, and a poster on a wall announced that Britain needed men. Halliday could not enlist because he was lame, but as he glanced at the poster he felt a curious thrill. Men were giving their lives for their country in her hour of need, and was he to take money from an agent of her foes? He suspected this was what Spence's offer meant, and his face set hard.

"I think I've said enough," Spence, who was deceived by his look, resumed. "It's uncomfortable to be in debt, but that's a difficulty you can avoid. We might do more than we promise if you serve us well."

"You've said too much," Halliday rejoined, and added sternly: "Hold on! Don't get up!"

Spence sneered. "Have I wounded your patriotic feelings? But don't be a fool! You can't hurt me without getting Miss Nichol and her father into much worse trouble than has come to them yet. This ought to keep you quiet!"

Halliday, who had been puzzled, saw a light. Nichol had a wastrel son, who had vanished from the countryside some months ago, and it was rumored that his father had paid a large sum to save him from arrest. It looked as
if the lad had somehow fallen into Spence's hands and told him about Halliday's affairs. The latter hesitated, because if he exposed the fellow, he might revenge himself by betraying his victim. "Be off!" he said hoarsely. "I'll risk putting the police on your track if I hear of you again."

Spence left and Halliday asked for his bill.

"The other gentleman has already paid it," the waiter answered.

Halliday asked how much it was and then took out some silver. "Here's my share. Put the fellow's dirty money into the soldiers' tobacco box."

A thought struck him when he reached the street, and, going to the post office, he telephoned to the lawyer who had written to him. "About that notice," he said. "Creighton was my father's friend and promised he wouldn't press for his money if I got a bit behind."

"I sent no notice," the lawyer replied. "Mr. Creighton told me I could give you time."

"Ah!" said Halliday, without surprise. "Well, there's a mistake somewhere, but I'll come and see you soon."

He left the office with a frown.

"Spence's trick; a clever rogue!" he said. "I'd have been his to do what he liked with if I'd taken the first ten pounds."

Well, that was done with, but his obligations must be met, and he went home regretting the money his visit to town had cost. Hard work and stern self-denial must be his lot, but if he did not shirk either, he might get straight some day, and Jessy had said that she would not give him up. Wild-fowling was the only amusement he allowed himself, and he made it pay when the geese were about, for his homestead stood near Tickel Marsh, which, seamed by miry creeks, projects like a long tongue into a wide stretch of sand covered by the tide at about three-hours' flood. Blacksyke, Nichol's farm, occupied rising ground on the edge of the bay, but the rest of the shore was swampy, and the country behind it lonely. The sands are dangerous, because two streams wind through them in scoured-out channels, up which the tide runs before it flows across the flats. Near the marsh tongue a shifting gutter generally connects the channels, and at the mouth of the bay a strip of deep water leads out to sea past Tickel Scar. Boats drawing six feet can lie there at low ebb, and Halliday understood how well the spot would suit Spence if, as he suspected, the fellow meant to smuggle off supplies and information for enemy submarines.

One night when there was a new moon he left Marshcote with a 10-bore gun on his shoulder and launched a shooting punt in the creek. It had been raining hard lately, and more water than usual was coming down. Thin mist hung about the marsh, but he thought the geese were on the lower flats, and, paddling between the sands, he shot a mallard drake. It fell into the cross-gutter, and when picking it up he noted that the hollow had been deeply washed out.

After this, he let the punt drift and watched the banks, lost in gloomy thought.

He had heard nothiqg more of Spence, and, as Marshcote commanded the safest way across the sands, imagined that the fellow had changed his plans. Still, the bay would suit his purpose well, and he might perhaps try to make some use of it with Jack Nichol's help. Halliday had given the coastguards a hint to watch the Scar channel when the tide served at nights.

After a time, the harsh cry of bernicle geese came out of the distance, and he ran the punt ashore. The birds were feeding by the other creek, and, since it would be a long way round by water, he decided to cross the flats and try to creep up near enough to use the 10-bore. Leaving the punt, which carried a big, fixed gun, he spent an hour or two crawling round muddy pools and lying on the sand, but feeding geese post sentinels and he could not elude their watchfulness. In the meantime, the tide turned, and when the water began to flow up the channel he knew he had waited long enough. It was some distance back across the bank and the sand was soft; besides which, his heavy sea-boats hampered him, and his weak leg gave trouble when he put much strain on it. In consequence, his progress was slow, and on reaching the creek he frowned as he saw a broad stream of water flowing, towards the land. It rippled noisely over the shallows, and, the flakes of scum that floated by showed how fast it ran. He must hurry, or he might find his punt out of reach, though the grapnel would prevent her floating away.

After floundering for a time along the oozy bank, be stopped in alarmed surprise. The punt was not where he had left her, and the tide seemed to be rising remarkably fast. The hoarse murmur of running water came out of the dark, and be thought it would now be filling the cross-gutter between him and the marsh. If so, he would soon be cut off, and he gazed up the channel eagerly until he made out a faint, grey patch. It was the punt, floating near the other bank, and he must reach her before the water got too deep. The cur-rent boiled about his knees soon after he plunged in; then it swept out the skirts of his oilskin jacket, and his sea-boats filled up. The sand slipped away beneath his feet, and he had to brace himself hard against the stream, but he struggled on until he felt the bottom rise, and presently grasped the punt.

Furious anger seized him when he got on board. No marshman would have moved the craft, because one could not reach, the shore from the middle sand after the tide had filled the cross-gutter. It looked as if Spence and his friends were on the flats, and had taken the punt across and waded back while the water was low, with the object of giving him a stern hint, or perhaps of drowning him. He knew too much, and, if they were engaged in treasonable work, they would not hesitate about taking his life. Well, he had cheated them and, although he was cold and wet, he lighted his pipe while he pondered the matter. Since he did not think they had seen him. Jack Nichol, Jessy's scape-grace brother, must have told them he went shooting at nights, and they would know he was not far away when they found the punt. Moreover, they were, no doubt, now on the flats, and might come back. Putting a fresh cap on the big punt-gun, he determined to wait.

Shortly afterwards, a single figure appeared in the mist, coming from the marsh, and he noted with surprise that it was a woman. As she came nearer he recognised her, and ran forward with a cry.

"Jessy! What are you doing here?"

"Looking for Jack," she answered breathlessly. 'Have you seen him?"

"No. But what—" She signed him to be silent. "He tapped at the dairy window, and asked old Martha for me when I was at Greenrigg. Perhaps he was afraid of father's seeing him, because he wouldn't wait and stole away down the lonning to the sands. I knew he must want something badly, or he wouldn't have ventured home, and went after him as soon as I got back."

"I expect he wanted money," Halliday remarked. "How did you cross the dub?"

"The water wasn't up to the plank."

"It will be over it now. But has Jack been about before?"

"No," she said, hesitatingly, "not I at the house, but Tom, the herd, thought he'd seen him once or twice at night. I don't understand it, though I'm afraid he's doing something wrong. But the tide's rising fast and I'm anxious about him."

"You needn't be disturbed," Halliday answered, with a touch of grimness. "He'll have to come back this way, and we'll wait until he does."

His anger had grown worse. The wastrel had caused Jessy to run a serious risk, but in a sense Spence was to blame for this. Halliday did not much mind whether Jack returned or not, but meant to have a reckoning with Spence, who had tempted both and trapped the dissipated lad. For all that, he tried to talk away the girl's uneasiness when he had helped her into the punt and made her put on his oilskin jacket. By-and-by a measured beat of wings came out of the dark; harsh, clanging cries fell from overhead, and a wedge of dusky objects moved across the sky.

"Bernicle geese," said Halliday. "Somebody has disturbed them."

The geese vanished, and everything was quiet except for the murmur of the tide, until Jessy looked round as she heard footsteps on the bank.

"Keep still; I think it's Jack," said Halliday, putting his arm round her as a figure appeared.

The man stopped abruptly when he saw the punt; but Halliday called: "Come on. It's Jessy and I; we want to talk to you."

Jessy rose as her brother approached, but Halliday held her back. "Wait a moment; I've a question or two to ask him. "Were you in the plot to drown me, Jack?"

"No," said Nichol, starting, while Jessy, who made a sudden movement, looked at him in astonishment. "On my honor, I know nothing about that!"

"It's lucky I can believe you," Halliday answered sternly. "Still, you let Spence think I could be bought."

Nichol hesitated. "I didn't exactly; I don't know what I said. He made me talk about you one night when I was drunk."

It sounded plausible, but Halliday stopped Jessy, who tried to speak. "I suppose you  meant to join your friends and the tide turned you back?"

"That's not your business, Dick."

"I can't agree. It's your sister's business anyhow, which makes it mine. Your father's an honest Englishman, and you're selling your country to German spies."

Jessy shook off his restraining grasp. "It isn't true; he's been foolish, but he can't be so bad as that! Why don't you deny it, Jack?"

"He can't," said Halliday. "You must face the truth, dear. Look at him, if you doubt me." Then he turned to Nichol. "Better drop the dangerous business, Jack. Your nerve's not good enough."

There was silence for a few moments, and Jessy shivered as she watched her brother, who stood awkwardly still. Then she said in a strained voice, "You can't go on with this, Jack. It's unthinkable!"

"I'm afraid it's too late to stop. I got in too deep before I really knew what I was about. Spence lent me money, and tricked me into doing something that put me in his power."

"He'll throw you over when it suits him," Halliday interposed. "You're too soft for the job, but you know enough to be dangerous when he's done with you. Have you thought of that?"

"Sometimes," Nichol admitted. But now can I get out of it? The risk will come if I try to leave them. You don't know how well they're organised."

"There is a way," Halliday answered. I believe we could put you out of their reach If you leave it to me." He stopped as a flock of redshanks flew screaming up the creek, and then resumed with a grim smile;

"They're coming now! Have they a boat?"

"Yes; old Jim's flounder punt that he keeps on the middle sand. He doesn't know what they use her for."

"They'll need her," Halllday remarked, and after bringing Nichol across, and landing him and Jessy, he pushed off the punt as three men appeared on the opposite bank. When about twenty yards off, the party stopped and gazed at the others.

"Is that you, Nichol?" one of them called.

"It is, but he's staying here," Halliday answered. "I seem to recognise Mr. Spence's voice."

"You do, but don't meddle with this matter, Halliday; it's too big for you. Come across at once, Nichol. We can't wait."

Nichol hesitated, and then moved forward, as if overawed, but Halliday, who had knelt down in the bottom of the punt, waved him back.

"You certainly can't wait, but I won't allow you to bully Nichol," he said to Spence. "He's beginning to see what a fool he's been."

"One's a woman, and Nichol daren't show fight," another man remarked meaningly.

"Bring the punt across," Spence ordered Halliday, "We're armed, and I've got you covered."

"I expected something of the kind," Halliday replied with a harsh laugh. "A pistol fires one bullet and is pretty uncertain in the dark,  but there's a canister of B-shot in the punt gun, and it will sweep the bank. My finger's on the trigger, and I rather wish you'd shoot."

The others drew back from the water's edge, and began to consult in low voices, but Halliday, putting a paddle over, turned the punt's bow so that the muzzle of the long, grey gun followed the group. While the men whispered and hesitated, his voice rang out harsh and stern:—

"Nichol has done with you, and you can't wade across or reach land from where you are; but you shall have a chance you didn't give me. Get back to your boat, for your lives, before the tide catches you!"

For a few moments they stood undecided, while the gurgle of the current, the splash of gathering ripples, and the beat of the surf on the lower flats came ominously out of the dark. Then the group broke up, there was a patter of footsteps across wet sand, and three shadowy figures faded into the mist.

"Now help me to heave this gun out," said Halliday, as he ran the punt aground. "It will mean a day's work to clean the lock afterwards, but she won't carry it and us to the marsh."

They laid the heavy gun upon the sand, the others got on board, and as he paddled up the creek Halliday remarked:— "This is going to be a busy night for me. Spence's gang won't pull the flounder boat far against the tide, and I must warn the coastguards and motor-scout before the ebb sets in. Then I mean to drive you across country to catch the early-morning train."

Nichol, who had been talking to Jessy, looked round. "I'd forgotten my risk for a moment. Spence will try to track me if he gets away, and expose me it he's caught. Where's it safe for me to go?"

"To the army," Halliday said drily. "When you've joined one of the new battalions in the south, they'll take care of you. You're going to serve your country now."

"Oh, Jack!" said Jessy. "That's the very best plan— and don't you think you ought?"

Nichol laughed, a strained, shamed laugh. "After all, I'll try. The other thing leads to trouble, and it mayn't be too late to change."

They landed soon afterwards, and Jessy took her brother aside, and spoke to him for a few minutes. Then she came back to Halliday, smiling through her tears.

"You have given him his chance, and he'll take it. I'll never forget this, dear."

"He's safe now," said Halliday quietly. "When you come to think of it, his future's plainer than ours. He has only to keep straight and do his duty; but if I did mine, I'd give up the struggle to farm Marshcote, and try to let you go."

Jessy kissed him. "You can't do that, Dick, and, if you could, I wouldn't consent. Things will get better, and if they don't we'll wait."

She left them, and at six o'clock next morning Halliday put Nichol into a south-bound train. A month later, he and Jessy Stood in the street of the county town while a new battalion marched past. Jessy's eyes sparkled as she watched the lads swing by with heads up and shoulders squared.

"I'd a letter from Jack this morning, and he's happy and doing well," she said. "Did you hear anything more about Spence's gang?"

"They were all caught by the coastguard, but the thing's to be kept quiet."

Jessie sighed as the tail of the battalion went by with measured tramp, but her glance was proud as she turned to her lover.

"Brave lads! But one can serve one's country in other ways," she said. "When treachery would have paid you well, you were true to England, dear."

________________

7: Other Gods

E. Charles Vivian

1882-1947

World's News (Sydney) 17 Feb 1923

CECIL STUART rose as the door of his consulting room opened, stood hesitant, incredulous, and then hurried forward.

"Field— It's you, Field!" he exclaimed. "I wouldn't believe it on the mere name. Well, of all the— you've not come professionally, I hope?"

Norman Field shook his head. "I looked you up in the telephone directory," he answered, "and dropped round to say 'How!' and see if you could fix an evening for dinner, or something."

Stuart dragged a chair forward. "Squat," he bade. "How many years have you been away?"

"Fifteen," Field said, "and now I've settled up things and cabled for my wife and kiddies to follow me. I've had enough of tropicnl diseases and the smell of nigger, and I'd never make more than a g.p., anyhow. Besides, what the old man has left me is enough to justify slacking— there's property that wants overseeing. He's left me the estate intact, and my brother takes the works."

"I saw the account of your father's death," Stuart remarked. "And so you give up?"

"And you go on." Field said thoughtfully. "I gather you've the world and a bit more at your feet."

Stuart made an impatient gesture. "Much it counts for!" he said.

"But," Field dissented, "the best authority on the brain, top of your profession, as you know you are―"

"What they say or think of me doesn't matter that!" and Stuart snapped his fingers in derision. It's bigger, more elemental "

"Ah, the work for its own sake," Field commented. "And Eva Thornton?"

Stuart smiled in a curious way— it was more of a grimace than a smile— and was silent for nearly a minute. "Left behind," he answered at last.

"Left behind?" Field echoed incredulously. "But— when I left you'd fixed on a year's engagement—"

Stuart bent forward as he sat and pressed a bell push at the side of his desk. "Have a whisky— I've no more patients to see this morning." he invited, and ordered whisky and a syphon when the servant appeared. "You were saying— Eva— yes, I remember now. I was just beginning, and the worK opened up, absorbed— she had to go with the rest, the other abstractions."

"You―" Field leaned back and put the tips of his fingers together in a judicial way— "you jilted her."

"If you'd call it so— yes." Stuart answered, with a faint show of irritation. "Field. I'm more glad than I can tell you to see you again after all these years, but why this in inquisition ?"

"Well," Field said thoughtfully, "you're the only man I'd trouble to look up— the only one I cared cared enough about to want to see when I came back, although you never wrote me a line."

"I never write anyone," Stuart said. "Say when, for soda."

Field indicated his taste, and took the offered glass. "Well," he said, "the Stuart I left would never have flung a girl like Eva Thornton aside. I pictured you happily married, with your household gods about―"

"Field," Stuart interrupted, "there are other gods. These are mine." He waved a hand to indicate the case of shining surgeon's tools, and the lines and lines of books.

"The single aim," Field observed. "Well, I don't know. A bit inhuman, aren't you?"

"Of course," and Stuart laughed— it was as much bark as laugh. "I serve a jealous god— the fascination of it drags me on. and makes me nearly a god myself. And Eva— she had to go. Field, I've sweated and starved myself of sleep lor fourteen years, myself human companionships, determined to probe and cut and dissect till the human brain became putty to me. I've discovered, stated— I'm such a specialist as the world only sees once in a century, up on the very pinnacle of my profession, because I made it my god, sacrificed everything to it. worshipped it, and lived for it singly―"

"What for?" Field asked in the pause.

The anti-climax of the question was almost comic. Stuart passed a hand across his brow wearily, his elation swept clean away. "You can't realise―" he said, and left the sentence incomplete.

"Was it for the good of humanity?" Field persisted.

Stuart made an impatient gesture. "Humanity?" he echoed. "It was for the work's sake— what is humanity compared with my achievements? Merely incidental, material for me to work on. Does a painter work for the sake of his colors?"

"Then what for?" Field asked agatn. "What's the end of it?"

Stuart held up his lean, muscular hand. "See," he said, "there's not a hand like it in surgery, not a man dare attempt what I do almost daily. I've won my place above the rest, by serving my god singly, and putting everything else— every human interest— clean aside. If you—and you used to know me ail through— can't comprehend what that means―"

Field shook his head. "You're a bundle of nerves, Stuart, and I'd like to prescribe for you," he said. "If there were a scrap of human, warm aspiration in this wonderful career of yours―"

"There'd be no career," Stuart interrupted. "Human aspiration? You can't combine that with such work as mine. Field―" he stood up and pointed at the case of instruments— "there are my cods, and I serve them faithfully— live for them. You've got to choose your gods in life, if you mean to whi through, and if you can separate yourself from all outer distractions "

He broke off suddenly and sat down again. Field looked at him gravely, critically.

"I should diagnose you as a very bad case of perverted ambition, he said slowly. "You've done as you say, served these gods of yours very faithfully, and though you're the most brilliant specialist of your age, I dare to tell you that you're very nearly a monomaniac as well."

Stuart laughed, a genuinely amused laugh. Field shook his head.

"You've rated your gods too highly," he said. "There are certain old laws that no man may break without penalty, and you've broken the first of them, badly— you've put an impersonal aim before life, on your own profession. Stuart, you'll pay, some way, heavily. As heavily as―" he stopped, reluctant to end that sentence.

"As heavily as I made Eva Thornton pay, you meant to say." Stuart finished for him.

Field nodded. "Life will exact a penalty," he said.

"Well, maybe, but I've no regrets. My gods are sufficient for me."

Field looked at his wrist watch. "Come and have dinner with me to-night,'" he suggested. "I'm staying at the Metropole till my wife gets home."

Sturt shook his head. "I hate to refuse; you'll look me up again soon? Drop in on Sunday afternoon."

"Can't," Field answered. "I'm booked for a Sussex week-end down at Brinling, when you and I used to play Red Indians. It's only a mile or so from the Thorntons'— I want to look them up, among others."

Stuart made a little grimace of impatience at the reintroduction of the name. "Well, next week, then," he said. "Don't drop out now you have come back— there's always a welcome here for you out of consulting hours. And you're the only human being I'd say that much about."

He sat musing when Field had gone. The recall of playing Red Indians was the striking of a chord that would not cease vibrating in his mind. It stirred a host of old associations that he had thrust aside or buried for years, brought to life a mind picture of Eva Thornton, looking at him as some wounded animal might look, while she tried to comprehend— He got up with an impatient exclamation and went to the window, from which he stared moodily into the

"Confound you, Field," he muttered. "Why did you want to disturb me like that?"

Then he went back to a monograph he was writing, a study of the effects of temperature on the anterior portions of the cerebral tissues, with a brief reference to the possible after-effects of heat apoplexy and sunstroke. But Field would persist in coming between him and his paper. Field with his bronzed face and kindly eyes, his wife and two children, and air of general content with a world not unkind. Stuart got up suddenly.

"To hell with life!" he ejaculated, in a gust of anger at the disturbance. "What's life, compared with work?"

The case, that of a young stockbroker who had been run over in a street accident, interested Stuart beyond the normal, for the injuries were unusual. He had been called in at the nursing home where the patient lay, and had pronounced the case quite hopeless after a very cursory examination—the man could not possibly recover. Still, there were unusual features for observation, and Stuart spent nearly an hour with the unconscious man on Sunday morning.

"Has he shown any sign of consciousness?" he asked the nurae.

"He muttered, early this morning, something about green fields." she answered, "but it was not— not rational or waking talk."

"Babbled of green fields, eh?" Stuart said thoughtfully, looking down at the unconscious figure, and the nurse, to whom Falstaff's end was unknown, looked at him inquiringly. "Well, he'll wake no more, I'm afraid— it was quite hopeless from the first. You'd better— his wife―"

"I understand." the nurse said sympathetically.

Stuart went out to his car, and took the steering wheel from the chauffeur. Life could be very terrible, sometimes, as in this case. He wished he could have had that stockbroker's head for dissection— the man ought to have been dead quite a day before. There was something wonderful in the way in which example defied theory, exceptions to a rule cropped up. And— that man lying unconscious there had worked, planned―

Stuart looked up at the sky as he drove, and decided that he must be getting morbid. A breath of fresh air for the afternoon, now...

Field was down at Brinling— why not go and see Field, argue out with him this matter of life versus work? A good wrangle over that— or anything— and the drivo through the warm spring air, would clear away the cobwebs. He dropped the chauffeur at his door

"I shall be hack for dinner. Adams— tell them inside," he bade, and drove off.

Through the dinginess of Mitcham, and beyond Sutton the air sweetened and refreshed him. He roared at limit across Walton Heath, despite golfers and picnic parties, slowed to catch the view of Dorking and its valley, from the summit of Box Hill, and slid gently down and round the hairpin bends to Dorking itself. It was years since he had seen the switchback curves of the Horsham road, and the sight of Horsham itself was like meeting an old friend. Beyond the town he turned off into the Sussex lanes that led to Brinling Grange.

It was the stamping-ground of boyhood now. He and Field had explored these lanes at all seasons, and away to the left was the church tower, on the flagstaff of which they had hung old Mother Bentley's flannel petticoat— it was but one of their pranks. An old, old man sat on a bench in Brinling Street, and Stuart stopped his engine, got out

"Remember me, Mr. Bentley?" he asked, with a smile.

The old man looked up.

"Remember ye. Master Cecil," he said, "I  remember ye— and Master Norman. Nice young varmint you two used to be, tromplin' my onion bed an' things. I'd think I deu remember ye."

Stuart laughed, and left the old man with a further remembrance. He started up again and went on, wondering at himself. Some stirring of purely human feeling, some sense of life as distinct from work, must have inspired that pause. Here, in the Sussex lanes, values seemed to change— or was it that he had stuck too closely to work of late, and thus felt a contrast that was in reality non-existent? There was even a temptation to see things as Field saw them, this spring afternoon.

By the gateway of the drive that led up to Brinling Orange, children, stiffly dressed in their Sunday best, were playing— they were old Bentley's grand-children. Stuart knew, for Bentley's son had the cottage by the gate. They stared at him, and one of them blew a tin whistle at him as he swung the car through the gate; he drove on up to the Grange―

Mr. Field was out; he had gone over to the Thorntons' to tea.

Stuart stood by the car, hesitating. Not lor one second did he contemplate going near the Thorntons' place, but he wondered if he should wait until Field returned, and offer to drive him back to London in the evening. Ultimately, he decided against it, swung into the drive, and went down toward the gate― He might run in and see that stockbroker again, it it were not too late; the vertebral injuries―

Right in front of the car, a dozen yards from the gateway, a small boy—one of Bentley's grandchildren— ran out into the middle of the road and blew a tin whistle at him. Stuart wrenched at the steering wheel, and the heavy car swerved— he missed the child by inches, mounted the bank at the side of the drive; the car seemed to hang balanced at a dangerous angle for an eternity, and he could not have told how he got it back into the roadway in time to miss the gate. He pulled up in the lane beyond, and sat still for a minute or two, shaken, even trembling with the strain of the narrow escape. Then, looking ahead, he saw that Field was approaching him, and Field was not alone. He felt a curious little thrill at sight of Field's companion; there was no question of recognition, for he would have known Eva anywhere, in spite of the time that had elapsed. She stood with Field, stiil slight and graceful— she had been barely twenty when Stuart left her to wonder and remember, and even after this lapse of time the emptiness of the years showed only in her eyes. Seeing her, he needed no telling that she had remembered him, and because of him the years had been empty. In spite of his gods— or was it the influence of this day and of the surroundings?— the fragrance of old time, the strong impulse and desire that belong to youth, came like a flood over him as he gazed. As girl, she nad been his one love, and as woman, she stood ripened, perfected in his sight. He feared, lest at sight of her he should forget the gods he served.

"Missed me," Field asserted, beside the car. "I don't think I need introduce you two?"

There was something impish in his obvious enjoyment of the situation. Stuart got down from the car, and bowed stiffly. There was unspoken questioning in Eva's eyes, and Stuart looked from her to Field.

"No," he said, "it would be quite unnecessary. I came down for a breath of air, and wondered if I could drive you back, Field."

"No," Field said. "I'm not going back till Tuesday."

"Well," Stuart said awkwardly,. "I'm— I must get back. We are— good-bye, Miss Thornton."

It was Field who made him feel so boorish, disconcerted. Alone with her. he could have carried the thing off, found himself and his reasons, stated— but Field stood with his half-smile, irritating, conscious of the figure he made Stuart cut.

"Good-bye," Eva said. Field came up to the site of the car as Stuart got back

"I'll look you up again next week." he promised.

"Yes," do Stuart leaned forward out of the car— "and if ever you are in town, Miss Thornton, and care to come with Field— tea, you know―"

He wanted to soften down his own boorishnesa, to make her understand that, if he seemed rude, it was quite unintentional. But she shook her head nd smiled slightly.

"I'm afraid that would be very unlikely," she said, "thank you very much."

Field looked after the car as Stuart drove off, and then turned to her.

"That is not quite the man as I've told you," he said. "He's nervous, naturally, at such an encounter. But you see—"

He had been second only to Stuart in knowledge of her, in the old days, and, meeting her again here, had not scrupled to reprove her over wasting her life— as he saw it— for a shadow. Yet he knew that reproof was useless; she was of the type that builds once, and once only. Though the building be vain, that type builds no more."

"I see," she said, evenly. "An odd coincidence, meeting him like that. He's very little altered."

Field gave it up; there was no penetrating that obvious reserve, he knew.

BACK IN the nursing home, that evening, Stuart concluded a half hour's careful examination of the unconscious stockbroker. He washed his hands, came back, and surveyed, not the man, but the case.

"I've never seen anything like it," he said, thinking aloud rather than speaking; to the nurse. He turned to her. "Ring for Doctor Allen, and get the theatre ready," he ordered. "I shall be back in an hour, ready to operate. Tell Allen I see a fifty-to-one chance of saving him."

He let the bare order suffice— they knew him here, and were used to his decisions and their consequences. He went home, dined, and returned, conscious that his hand was not quite as steady as it ought to have been— he ought never to have risked driving, he knew, with the possibility of such work as this before him. Was it the tin-whistling child, or Eva, that had shaken him? Over that he wondered as he donned his white overall, took the sterilised tools of his craft. It was a chance, and. as he said, a fifty to one chance. Without it, the man had still a thousand to one chance of recovery, but here was a definite possibility. Allen stood by with the two nurses while Stuart played his magic on the unconscious form. Now, now came the vital moment, the limit of risk....

He turned his head. Allen was watching closely, but he could not possibly have seen; the slip was microscopic, almost, and Stuart alone knew that he had failed. He forced himself to carry through the last tense minutes, left the nurses to their task when he had finished, and turned to Allen.

"It was. as I said, a fifty to one chance," he said. "I'm afraid the fifty has it, after all."

In two hours the man was dead.

The verdict of the outside world had never counted with him; it was his own consciousness of power, of supremacy, that had been the reward his gods granted him. Now, he knew, he had passed the zenith; that failure— none but himself need know it had been failure on his part— wrecked his philosophy of life. It was not that he had failed to save the stockbroker, but that he had fallen from certainty of supremacy.

His gods had failed him at last. He had been sure that by undivided service to his craft, by barring: out every human interest, every distraction from the work for which he lived, he would win adequate reward in the work itself. But the Sunday of his meeting with Eva left him robbed of his reward— he was no longer sure of himself. He had reached his limit, and knew that there were things which even he must not attempt. And what, now, remained to him? Not one human being cared whether he went on or stopped, on the personal side, and his gods were brasen. mute. There was nothing more that he could ask of life— that was the trouble, his gods had left him with nothing to ask. and, when interest fails in that way, there is an end to hope.

Field looked in, as he had promised, one evening.

"You're looking more fagged than ever," he criticised. "Feeling content with yourself?"

"No," Stuart snapped.

"What did you think of Eva Thornton?"

"Can't you keep that name out?" Stuart asked, harshly.

Field shook his head. "I find her developed into a rather wonderful woman," he persisted.

"That's not an uncommon occurrence," Stuart commented.

"Don't be cynical. Most wonderful of all, she did not forget, in spite of your— brutality."

Stuart gazed into vacancy. "I suppose it was that," he said, after a pause.

"Stuart," Field leaned forward, and spoke earnestly, "surely you're a big enough man to own a mistake, though it's a mistake of years. As I see you, you're owning to yourself that your gods have failed you."

"I'll own it to you," Stuart answered, deliberately. "They have. But if you think I'm going crying to a woman―"

Field laughed at him. "You've been a mighty fool," he said, "and now— a proud fool is the worst of all kinds. Do you ever think of anyone but yourself?"

"You should have been a preacher," Stuart said. "I've made my decision, and I'll take my medicine. It's no good, Field— I go my own way."

He stood up on his hearthrug. "It's a way worth going, after all," he stated. "You— drowsed away your years in the tropics, and the luck of birth and inheritance has made things easy for you. I've put myself at the very top, and it's because I stand at the top, with no more climbing ahead of me, that I feel a loss. But I've won— what have you to show in comparison?"

"My wife and children," Field answered, unhesitatingly.

Stuart shrank back as if from a blow.

"You asked for that," Field said. "You've tried to be inhuman, but no man can break the law you have broken, and evade the penalty."

He got up and went out, knowing that he had said enough.

FIELD took counsel with his wife, who was a wise woman.

"I shall try it," he concluded, "and at the worst it can only leave matters as they were before, or a little better, since she'll cease living for a shadow. Stuart's a proud fool, and unless an outsider moves "

His wife agreed with him, though with little hope that he would do more than clinch the existing situation. But then, she did not know Stuart, as yet.

She was introduced to him one evening at the flat Field had secured in town— it took Field a long time to persuade him to come to dinner. But, after that first visit, he came again, and Field asked him and secured his acceptance yet a third time. For that third time Field himself met his guest at the door, took his hat and coat, and hung them up. and then preceded him to the drawingroom door. He closed the door behind his guest, himself remaining outside.

"It was the only way," he told himself.

Within the room Eva Thornton stood up, as startled as was Stuart. Neither had been warned of this, for Field had known that any warning would have prevented the meeting. He flung them together, trusting to the shock to work half his design.

"It's not my doing," were Stuart's first words.

"Nor mine," Eva said. "I didn't know―"

"I suppose Field thinks he's clever," he said angrily.

She smiled slightly. "Well," she answered, "we can make the best of it. for this one evening— there's nothing else to be done. I'll go and find Mrs. Field "

She advanced toward the door, toward him. He saw her reach out for the handle— in another second

"Eva!" he said.

She paused, and turned inquiringly.

"Supposing we admit that Field is clever?" he suggested.

She did not answer. Stuart took one step toward her.

"He's right," he said. "I've got to admit it, after fourteen years. I knew, that day myself, then. I've found my gods clay― I saw you with him, but wouldn't admit to it flat-footed, felt myself not worth your thought―"

She stood, looking away from him. "Does any woman consider that?" she asked, "when―"

"When what?" Stuart insisted, with a new note in his voice.

Outside, Field thought of his own wife's home-coming, and gave a thought, too, to fourteen years that Stuart had wasted on his gods. Not only his own years— it was odd that, the less a man was worth it, the more a woman loved him.

Within the room, Eva turned to Stuart. "When―" she said again. Stuart drew her close to him.

"Still, dearest," he asked. "I know I'm not worth it—"

"Hush!" she bade.

_________________

8: The Matchmaker

M. McDonnell Bodkin

1850-1933

World's News (Sydney)  29 June 1918

"IT IS too bad!" cried pretty Mamie Spink, spitefully, "She has been with him now nearly six months, and not one of us stayed two."

"A dowdy, little, brown mouse of a girl, with not a word to throw to a dog!" said Dotty Dolworthy.

"That's just it," chimed in Pollie Putman, "he doesn't like words thrown about."

"Don't tell me," Phyllis Crossingbird interposed, "that she is innocent and shy." No one had hinted anything of the kind. "She's a sly, deep, little hussy, and she's setting her cap on Mr. Brannington."

"I have it!" cried Mamie Spink.

There was a dramatic pause. All waited for the unfolding of the great plot.

The four good-looking typing girls were assembled in the sanctum sanctorum of the Ladies' Club― the tea-room. Three golden heads and one black one, all close together, backbiting and mischief making.

"He must propose to her," said Mamie Spink, slowly.

"Oh!" There was no enthusiasm in that joint "Oh!"

"But he won't," added Pollie Putman on her own account.

"Listen, you fools!" cried Miss Spink. (Ladies are sometimes a little rude when they are by themselves.) "We must propose for him. By letter, of course. I can imitate his handwriting. I learned that much while I was there, though he never sent me a bit of a note, or looked to see if I had two eyes or one. I'll write the letter."

"She won't believe it's true," said Phyllis Crossingbird, regretfully.

"She must believe it," insisted Mamie Spink. "I'll address it to her and put it unstamped into his own letter-box. He'll hand it to her with a solemn request, 'not to read it until after business hours.' Oh, I know him. She cannot help believing. She'll write at once and accept, then there'll be fun."

"I think it's hardly fair," Pollie Putman feebly protested. But she was over-ruled by a chorus of eager voices, and the motion was carried without a division.

Marcus C. Brannington was a remarkable man. Still young for a self-made millionaire, alone in the world, courted, flattered, besieged by feminine blandishments, he lived only for his work. His name was one to conjure with in Wall Street. Friends and foes respected him as "the smartest man in the States." He was at the head of a great railway line which trebled its value in the five years of his management. Once and once only, a raid had been made on the shares by "the street." But the raiders had been so promptly out-flanked, defeated, and utterly, crushed in their corner, that his territory was held sacred afterwards. The millionaire worked hard and lived sparingly. His charities, indeed, were enormous, but of that the world knew nothing. He was reputed a woman hater. The most artful feminine blandishments could not lure him from his den in a small, plainly-furnished flat.

In self-defence the women circulated romantic tales of "a young love," "a heartless jilt," "a broken heart." But of all this no evidence was forthcoming. To his absolute avoidance of the sex there was, however, one exception. He preferred a typewriting girl for his own private, personal service.

"Women," he explained, curtly, "were foolish and frivolous. but in business matters they were honester than men."

He found them, as he said, frivolous, if not foolish. He offered a high salary and he expected a perfect competence, and the girls flocked to him like the suitors in the faitry tales when the prize was the hand of the princess with the golden locks.

There were the same disappointments. He treated them like machines. The prettiest faces and the neatest dresses were quite lost on him. The sweetest smile, the most pitiful tears could not plead pardon lor neglect or incompetence. Each applicant, entering with high hopes, threw up her appointment in despair, or was dismissed with grim courtesy before the month was over.

But, persevering, Mr. Brannington found what he sought at last. Lucy Thorne was the very pink and pearl of typewriting girls.

She was neat, punctual, methodical, trim, bright-eyed, and alert as a roam redbreast. Her shorthand was perfect. Mr. Brannington dictated rapidly. When he was excited, his words came with a rush, but Lucy Thome's pencil tripped easily abreast of his swiftest utterances. Her typewriting copy was as neat as print, and almost as rapid as her shorthand. She was never late, never flurried, never tired. She never spoke except in brief reply to his brief questions. There was no hint of flirtation or frivolity. She seemed as unconscious of her own personal appearance as he was.

Mr. Brannington was well pleased, but he gave no sign of his pleasure by so much as a smile or word of encouragement. The new machine worked particularly well, but who would think of praising or encouraging a machine?

When she had been three months in her situation Lucy Thorne, calling one afternoon at the cashier's desk for her week's salary, found it had been increased by one half, and was well pleased, for she had need of all the money she could lay her hands on.

She was seated one morning at her office table with note-book ready when Mr. Brannington came in with an unopened letter in his hand. He seemed to. regard it curiously, almost nervously she thought, the truth was he wondered to see the handwriting on the address so like his own.

"This is for you. Miss Thorne," he said gravely, "you will kindly read it after business hours."

She promptly put it by without go much as a glance at the address. It has been said already that Lucy Thorne was a very exceptional girl.

Then the work of the day began, and lasted, with an hour's interval, up to five o'clock. There were secrets committed to Lucy Thorne's pencil and typewriter that day that would have been worth hundreds of thousands of dollars to the Wall Street speculators.

At five o'clock she went down in the lift, a short drop, stepped out through a side door, and caught an overhead car home.

"Home" was a small flat on the fringes of the city, where she lived with a widowed mother and a younger sister. There was assuredly no sign of poverty about her home. A comfortable dining-room, a dainty sitting.room, three cosy bedrooms, constituted the flat. A faithful Irish servant who held on with lowered wages from better times was the staff.

Mrs. Thorne was the widow of a successful barrister, whose main income died with him, of course, but who left a comfortable competence for her and her two daughters, Lucy and Sylvia. They had been a happy little household when the first bitter grief for the father's death had subsided.

Sylvia was a beauty, violet eyes, golden hair, and cheeks like the wild rose leaf. Mother and sister made much of her, and dreamt of the time when the fairy prince of their fairy tale would come along and carry off their beautiful princess of the golden locks. Quiet little Lucy was to be the happy, contented old maid; that, too, was settled between them.

But a time came when their happiness slowly faded, and sardonic poverty looked mockingly in on their happy little household.  Sylvia grew more Ibvely and more sylph-like from day to day; and bewilderingly and bewitchingly beautiful and ethereal. Her completion was almost transparent in its absolute purity. Her forehead was white as Parian marble, her cheeks touched with a faint roseate glow that came and went with every change of feeling. Her eyes grew larger apd brighter.

Then at last there was a little cough, only a little, unobtrusive apology for a cough. But the mother's face took alarm.

The eminent Dr. Redmond, who was called in, said there was no immediate danger. She wanted a change, she must get out of New York as soon as possible, and winter in Southern California, that was all. Then he pocketed his fee, and cheerfully departed.

"That was all!" How could he guess, as he pocketed his fee in the comfortable dining room, the consternation his words created. Their poverty cruelly mocked their tears. It was as easy for them to send Sylvia to the moon as to California.

Then it was that Lucy again took up shorthand and typewriting, which she had learned to help her father, in the hope of earning a supplementary income. She had been fortunate beyond her hopes. But her earnings, jealously preserved, were still far short of the sum that would carry Sylvia and her mother to California and keep them there.

Now, as she passed into the dainty little sitting-room, Sylvia's treacherous little cough was the first sound she heard. Sylvia's face flushed and her eyes brightened, as she got up to welcome her. But the lace bow on her bosom rose and fell too quickly.

At dinner Lucy noticed that her sister gently evaded her food, making a pretence to eat, and her heart kept on repeating in a despairing whisper, "She must die; I cannot save her; she must die."

It was by mere accident, when she got to her room at last, that she found the letter that Mr. Brannington had given her in the morning.

Then she wondered for a second at the handwriting before she tore the envelope open. Then her wonder grew to absolute amazement. The letter was short, very short. Miss Spink did not wish to strain her skill too far.

Dear Miss Thorne,  it ran,

I trust you will pardon the abruptness of this declaration that I love you and want you to become my wife. Kindly reply by return of post, as my life's happiness is at stake. Say yes if you can.

Yours sincerely,

Marcus C. Brannington.

For a moment Lucy was too bewildered for sequent thought. The thing was so wildly, incredibly impossible. But there was the letter before her, in plain black and white, in him unmistakable handwriting. Then proofs began to come to her mind. He had given her the letter himself, the letter addressed in his own handwriting. She remembered now that his manner seemed nervous and constrained as he gave it, and he begged that she would not read it during office hours. Some instinct told her truly that if he wrote a love-letter this was the exact kind of letter he would write, short, business-like, and to the point. Miss Mairiie Spinx was indubitably a clever little hussy.

As the conviction was gradually forced on Lucy's mind that the letter was Mr. Branrington's, the nervous feeling followed that she must answer at once. She would refuse, of course. She did not love him, she did not even know him, they had never spoken except on business subjects. The whole thing was preposterous, grotesque-still, the sudden temptation gripped her heart that here was the chance to get Sylvia away to California. The battle was short but sharp while it lasted. The thought of Sylvia's danger wrung her very heart, but even for Sylvia's sake the honest little soul could not play the hypocrite.

When she came back to her room, having dropped the reply into an adjoining post-box, her conscienpe was easy, but her heart was very sore.

"WELL, I'm damned!" said Mr. Brannington, as, he glanced through his private correspondence next morning at breakfast. He was not a man easily given to swearing, but the occasion seemed to justify a little mild profanity. He held before him a small, plain sheet of Jtotepaper at which he gazed in humorous bewilderment. Then he read it slowly for the third time, as if to convince himself that the words were really there.

Dear Mr. Brannington,

I am not less honored than surprised by your abrupt proposal that I should become your wife. You will, I know, believe me when I say that till I read your letter no thought of such a thing ever entered my mind for a moment. I hope and trust that the love you profess for me is a mere passing whim. Deeply grateful as I am for the honor you have done me, I feel bound at once finally to refuse it. It is for you to say if our business relations are to continue. While i shall accept dismissal without repining, I will be glad if I may continue in your employment, but only on the condition that this subject must never, again be mentioned between us.

Yours very faithfully,

Lucy Thorne.

Marcus G. Brannington's clear, shrewd mind put away at once the first suspicion that this was a trick of the writer's to provoke his interest. There was direct honesty about the girl that made such suspicion absurd. He remembered the letter that he had given her the previous morning, remembered the resemblance to his own handwriting, and jumped to the right conclusion in a moment.

"Someone has played a trick on the honest little woman," he thought, "someone who owes her a spite, most likely; thought she would jump at the bogus offer, no doubt, and accept the millionaire off-hand."

Then the thought came to him, not without a little thrill of wounded vanity, though he was not a vain man, that there was a typist who had bona-fide refused himself and his millions.

"Not a particularly good-looking girl either, if I remember rightly; I have hardly glanced at her; I must have, a good look at her today. I'll keep her on, of course― just lie low and say nothing. I should never get such another typist, and I am not likely to worry her with any more love-making. I wonder who she is, though, and where she comes from. Plucky, honest, little soul she must be."

Lucy blushed rosy red when they met that morning, and Marcus was conscious of a certain embarrassment.

"Nice little woman," was his mental comment, "what wavy brown hair she's got and what bright brown eyes, and how prettily she blushes."

But there was no hint of this in his face or manner. He began his work as if nothing had occurred, and Lucy was grateful for his tact and thoughtfulness. His voice seemed to her softer, more human than heretofore, but that, she thought, must be her imagination.

Two or three times they stole looks at each other during the day; once their eyes met and were entangled for a moment. Lucy felt her cheeks redden, and cquld have cried with vexation, but Marcus C. Brannington's face was as calm as the Sphinx.

The days went by in the office to all outward seeing the same as before. Yet not quite the same. There was a subtle tremulous change felt by them both, but by the man most.

After a little while they had a word or two in the intervals of dictation. Marcus set himself to draw her out. He ventured a little joke, she capped it with a bright reply which won a smile from him. "So my demure little mouse has a bit of fun in her," he thought. His whole face brightened when he smiled. Keen, grey eyes and firm-lipped mouth took their part, and an incongruous dimple showed on his left cheek.

"He's awfully nice looking," thought Lucy, and perhaps there was the faintest flavor of regret mingled with her mental comment.

Meanwhile he kept his promise to himself to look up all about her. A curious millionaire can always manage to gratify his curiosity.

One morning, instead of beginning work in the customary formal fashion, he said, "Miss Thorne, I want you to do me a great favor."

The big, broad-shouldered man glanced with nervous appeal at the shy little woman. She guessed what was coming, blushed and trembled.

"Indeed, Mr. Brannington," she began falteringly.

"Oh, It's not that," he interposed, and the incongruous dimple showed again. "Don't be vexed. Miss Thorne, it's not that, I assure you."

She hadn't been vexed in the least, but now she was conscious of a faint twinge of disappointment.

"I want you to let me send your sister, Miss Sylvia, to California," he went directly to the point. "Easy for a moment. I learned about you by the merest accident." (That was a fib.) "Dr. Redmond is a special friend of mine." (That was the truth.) "He says your sister is certain to recover if she winters in California. Just one word more. I know you are a proud little person, I have reason to know it"― that dimple again― "well, the money doesn't matter to me, but you may pay me back out of your salary if you choose. Will that satisfy you?"

She looked up, her face shining with gratitude. The tears welled up into her Soft brown eyes, and he felt a most unbusinesslike longing to kiss them away.

"Oh, Mr. Brannington," she cried tremulously, "I thank you from the bottom of my heart, l have no pride when Sylvia's life is at stake; still, I'm glad you will let me pay you back, the money I mean; your kindness I can never repay. If there is any way I could show my gratitude"― she remembered suddenly the meaning he might put on her words, blushed, and broke down. .

He pretended not to notice her confusion.

"So that's settled," he said heartily, "and now, Miss Thorne, we will get to business, if you please."

Meanwhile, Miss Mamie Spink was much perplexed that her bombshell had apparently misfired. She had a special hankering for Mr. Brannington. At last she resolved to try another shot on her own account.

Mrs. Thorne and Sylvia had started on their journey south, and Lucy had laughed and cried on parting, and bid her sister get well and come back soon to marry the prince who was waiting for her. But she was very lonely when they were gone.

On the third day of her loneliness, when she was sitting disconsolate in the solitary little sitting-room, Mamie Spink's bomb came by the night's post.

Lucy knew the handwriting. She had never been very intimate with Miss Spink and wondered what the young lady had got to write about. Curiosity amused her for a moment or two until she tore the envelope open.

Dearest Lucy― Miss Spinx wrote―

I have something on my conscience, and I cannot rest until I tell you and get your forgiveness, for it's something about you, a little practical joke I played on you. You may remember getting a letter from old Brannington in his own handwriting three weeks ago―

Lucy's heart stopped beating with a quick presentiment of what was coming; her trembling hand so shook the paper she could hardly read, the words wavered up and down.

Well, it was I who wrote it, and I slipped it into his private letter-box for a little bit of fun. I know you will forgive me, you were always so good-natured.

Yours affectionately,

Mamie Spink.

The letter fluttered from her trembling hand on to the carpet. The bomb had burst this
time. At first Lucy was too stunned, too bewildered to realise clearly what it all meant. Then it came to her with a sharp wrench of pain. Vague hopes she had nourished of late, only half conscious of their existence, revealed themselves suddenly as they died in keen agony.

"Oh, what a cruel, cruel letter to write!" for her feminine instinct recognised the spite that lurked behind the artless penitence of the amiable Miss Spink. "What a cruel trick to play! What a vain, silly little fool I was to be caught by it!"

"How good he was," she thought, "not to laugh openly when he read my refusal." But he must have laughed to himself at her silly self-conceit. She recalled every word, in a ferment of shame, of her prim refusal of the offer he had never made, which he could never dream of making.

All night she lay awake, tossing from aide to side in her agony of shame, as some new arrow of sharp remembrance struck home.

It was a pale, red-eyed little woman, but withal determined, that entered Mr. Brannington's office next morning.

"Good morning, Miss Thome," he said. "You look very woe-begone this morning. You mustn't fret, your sister will be in radiant health in the spring."

For answer she burst out crying.

"Oh, Mr. Brannington," she said. "I'm so sorry, and so ashamed to have made such a fool of myself. You can never forgive me. Read this and you will understand," and she thrust Mamie's crumpled letter into his hand.

The smile deepened on his lips and brightened in his deep grey eyes as he read. He felt his chance had come. She watched his face eagerly, failing to understand.

"Can you ever forgive me?" she pleaded, "for being such a conceited little fool to fall into such a trap, to refuse an offer you never made me."

"On one condition," he answered gravely.

She gave him a quick, half-frightened glance and held her breath for the next words.

"That you take the offer I make you now, Lucy, I want you to be my wife."

"You are jesting with me; it is not fair to jest with me."

"I am in desperate earnest."

She could not look at his eyes and doubt it.

"Then you say this because you pity me."

"No, my darling, so help me God, I say it because I love you."

She answered no word, but their eyes met, and he caught her in his arms and kissed her tears away.

That day she typed no more.

It was a short hour later when Marcus C. Brannington said:

"Wouldn't you like a trip south to California? Just to see how they are getting on."

"Beyond anything in the world."

"Well, so should I, but it wouldn't be proper for its to go together, you know, unless―"

And then the stern millionaire took to coaxing.

ONLY A fortnight after that Miss Mamie Spink got a little wedge-shaped box tied with white ribbon. There was plum cake in the box and a wedding card with the names of Marcus C. Brannington and Lucy Thorne, and the name Thorne was shot through with a little silver arrow. Under the wedding card she found a little scrap of paper with just four words on it in the neat familiar writing of her "friend" Lucy:

"Thanks to you, dear!"

_______________________

9: The Last Laugh

Owen Oliver (Joshua Albert Flynn)

1863-1933

World's News (Sydney) 30 Nov 1918

THE heavy-faced man turned in his luxurious arm-chair, and took his ex-pensive cigar from his mouth when he heard the shrill cry of a newsboy in the street. It was the signal that he had arranged with himself.

"Cottage Bank Frauds"— that should be the headline. He could not catch the words, but he strolled to the window and verified the guess; smiled at his own acuteness; and drew at the cigar two or three times; walked to his desk and re-read the document laid upon it, nodding approval at some of the sentences.

MY LAST LAUGH AT THE WORLD.

My suicide is not the act of a man driven to desperation by the failure of his schemes. It is the final success of one who has con-stantly succeeded— the last and long pre-meditated part of my plans.

The evil which men do lives after them, but they do not feel it. They have had of life what they have had.

Life is not measured by time, but by the excess of pleasure over pain. It is possible to obtain a big balance because, although pleasures have to be paid for, many can be obtained upon long credit, and death es-capes the reckoning. The world is so full of fools that I have managed to avoid pay-ment for ten years!

Into these ten years I have crowded the pleasures of several lifetimes. I have had all that can be bought— and all that I wanted could be— and enjoyed it. During this time I have been remarkably free from pains of the body or of the mind. So-called conscience has not troubled me. Fear of detection has not worried me, because I was never without the means of escape from the consequences. The scarecrow of hell, which weaklings set up to frighten the strong from their Tom Tiddler's ground, has been no terror to me, only an amusement and an ally. To one who appreciates the course of nature, and realises that consciousness is only a by-product of the physicial organism, and departs when this dies, the hell-bogey is merely an old suit of superstition upon a stake of ignorance. There is no hell in after life. Hell is here; and now that it summons me I walk away into the undreaming sleep where revenge cannot reach and hate can not harm me. My last pleasure is to laugh at the poor fools who think that just re-tribution will distress my slumbers. There is no hell!

He laid down the neatly-written sheet with a final nod; threw his half-finished Cigar upon the Turkey carpet, and watched it burn a hole. What did it matter to him?

He selected a fresh cigar very carefully, and lit it to enjoy the first fragrant whiffs.... "Great Frauds!" he heard a paper seller yell. "Thousands ruined!" What did they matter to him? And what did it matter if all the world reviled him. He would soon be "done with joy or moan." And to the last he was draining the cup of pleasure... It really was a capital cigar.

One pleasure more! He sauntered to the massive sideboard—he had bought it at a Prince's sale—and helped himself to a rare liqueur. How well he had preserved his sense of taste! He had not been one of those fools who dull their palate by excess. Why not another? There would soon be no palate and no body to pay for the indulgence... He took another liqueur; another; and others.

He felt happily fuddled when he had finished floating over the art treasures about the room, and returned to the desk, and drew his revolver from its drawer; but somehow he did not like the revolver. He had studied the human body, and carefully ascertained the exact place to shoot. He had rehearsed the position of his band. A great doctor, famous for post-mortems, had gratified his curiosity upon these points. But suppose be made a trilling mis-calculation, and the shot only hurt atrociously and did not kill, or only after a Ions while? He did not want to detract from his fine balance of pleasure. He had chosen the revolver merely as the most dramatic mode of exit; but what did dramatic effect matter to him— afterwards?... It should be the poison.

That meant some spasms for a second or two, he believed; but it was almost instantaneous in its action; and he would take a double dose to make it speedier in its effect. He took out a little phial and a little glass; gazed at them for half a minute. Then he laughed.

"Come!" he admonished himself. "These are unpleasant moments, and only draw against my happy balance. I'll cut them short."

He measured out two portions of the poison; raised the little glass; hesitated; put it back again. There was an uncomfortable vision of himself leaning back in his chair, cold and stiif, and with his mouth gaping. He did not wish to look ridiculous... But what did it matter how he looked? It was foolish to linger and let these little fancies annoy him. He must finish matters. There would soon be a mob, and... He gave a sudden gasp and drained the poison.

"Good God!" he moaned. "It is painful!" His body shook violently and his eyes rolled. "I— didn't— think— it—; " He twisted in his chair, and his face contorted. "I— didn't—"

Then it was over.

HE FOUND himself standing alone, facing three steady-faced angels on thrones that rose on steps.

"Then," he said, "there is a hereafter." His knees trembled, but he pulled himself together. In life he had found it best to put a bold face on things, and probably it was the same in the afterworld. He had found earthly courts very ignorant about him; and that also might be the same in whatever place he had come to. Politeness to high people paid down below; and it couldn't do harm anywhere. He bowed very politely, and announced him self by name and age. He was about to add "Chairman of the Cottage Bank," but he refrained. They might not know about it; and the less they knew the better!

The angels did not speak, and he looked from one to the other. The face of the great angel in the centre was as impassive as stone. The face of the angel on his right was stern. The face of the angel on his left was sad and gentle and a trifle dreamy. He turned to that angel.

"Where am I?" he asked, very deferentially. "You have come to judgment," the angel answered. His voice, like his face, was kindly.

"I ask for time to prepare my defence," he urged. "I wasn't ready. I—"

"You chose your own time to come," the stern-faced angel told him. His voice also was like his face. He was evidently for the prosecution.

"You cannot judge me fairly," he protested. "You are angels, and I was a man. I should be judged by men."

"You fled the judgment of men," the great angel reminded him. His voice was still, like his face.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I am the angel of Justice," the great angel announced.

"I am the angel of Record," announced the stern-faced angel. "I enter the good deeds and the evil, the great and the small— yea, the very smallest!"

"I am the angel of Mercy," said the sweet faced angel. "It is for me to remember the frailty of men."

He heaved a sigh of relief.

"No doubt," he said ingratiatingly, "your record is complete and correct. I do not wish to waste the time of the court by unnecessary argument." He bowed to the angel of Record.  "I had many human failings, I am well aware; but I was under a complete misapprehension about the future life, or I should have acted very differently! I am sure, sir, that you will make special allowances for these facts." He bowed to the angel of Mercy. "And you, sir, will appreciate my point that I should be judged by a merely human standard." He bowed to the angel of Justice.

"You have judged yourself by that standard," said the great angel, in his calm, unmoved voice. The angel of Record turned a book to-ward him; and he saw in letters of burning light the document he had left upon his desk.

"...Long premeditated... Death escapes the reckoning... Conscience has not troubled me... Hell is here, and now it summons me... Just retribution... There is no hell."

What a fool he had been to place these facts on record. And he had always laughed at the idiots who kept diaries. He was angry with himself—and frightened.

"I did not understand," he gasped.

"We understand," said the angel of Record. "Pleasures have to be paid for. They may be obtained upon long credit. Your longest credit is a short time in our eyes—but death does not escape the reckoning. The balance against you is one of the heaviest I have known. Deadly sin; deliberate sin; cruel and hurtful sin... A damning balance! Nothing can clear it but repayment or the mercy of God!"

"I appeal to that," the dead man cried.

"I never understood. It isn't made plain to men. They don't know—"

"You did know," the angel of Justice said very quietly. "You have written it in your own hand. You wrote it again when you took the poison."

"Mercy!" he cried. "Mercy!" He turned to the compassionate angel, wringing his hands. "You promised me that," he cried.

"Alas!" The angel of Mercy wiped his eyes. "You have had mercy these many years. There is no more."

"I was deceived," he screamed. "I did not think there was any hereafter, or any hell in it!"

"There is none," the angel of Mercy told him.

He laughed aloud— laughed and laughed again.

"Then," he cried, "I don't care! If you want to know the truth, I'm not a bit ashamed of what I've done! I've escaped payment! I was right after all."

The angel of Mercy buried his face in his hands.

The angel of Record held out a balance sheet to the angel of Justice.

The angel of Justice pointed to him with a steady hand.

"Hell," he said, "is not here, but elsewhere. For such as you it is on earth. Go!"

It seemed to him that it was the angels who went. Then there was nothing. Then there was horrible sickness and grinding pain.

HE REALISED gradually that he was lying on the luxurious couch in his own library. The realisation took a long time, because all his senses did not return at once. First there was pain; and then there was touch; and then there was hearing... He had not thought that anyone could endure such nausea and aching and live...

"A lot of them make this mistake," a voice said. It must be a doctor speaking. "They think a double dose doubles the effect. As a matter of fact, it often prevents it with this class of poison. The system rejects it; es-pecially if they have been drinking heavily beforehand. He evidently had. So he was pre-disposed to nausea. He'll have a precious rough time, but he'll pull through. . . The stiffness has nearly gone... He's coming round."

"These clever fools!" said a second voice. That would be a police officer or a detective. "I've been twenty years at this work, and my experience is that there's no fool like a clever one! I must say that, in all my twenty years, I haven't taken a worse rogue."

"Cruel, mean frauds," said a third voice. That was— well, it was someone he knew; but he couldn't get his memory to work properly. "He couldn't have chosen a way to ruin more people for the same amount. The depositors were almost entirely poor, respectable, hard working people... What a crowd there is outside! Listen to them!"

He strained his ears and thought that he detected a distant sound like beasts growling and bowling.

"I've sent for a lot more men, before I take him out," the second voice remarked. "If they got hold of him they'd tear him in little pieces."

"One's sorry to stop them," the third voice observed.

"Not I," said the second voice emphatically. "It would be far too cheap for him. Let him go through the trial and the sneers, and seven years' imprisonment, at least, and come out penniless. They'll take all his property into the bank assets, of course. He'll pay off a bit from his boasted balance."

"He's coming to," the first voice announced.

Something pungent was held to his nose. The pains were worse with fuller consciousness.

"Here are the extra men," said the third voice. It came from some way off, presumably from the window, where the fierce clamor came from. "They're forming a pathway."

Someone shook his shoulder roughly, and he opened his eyes. A marble statue of a sea-nymph was in their line. He bought that at a duke's sale. He gave— was it four hundred?... Two constables seized his arms roughly and raised him.

"Come along," said the second voice.

___________________

10: Some Imitations

Barry Pain

1864-1928

World's News (Sydney) 21 May 1904

MY COUSIN Elsa is the despair of her mother, and the ecstasy of every artist who beholds her. Men adore her until they know her, and she has the longest list of broken engagements of any woman in London. She has great charm, and a system of ethics of which an ordinary house-breaker or card-sharper would be heartily ashamed.

When she called on me at 12 in the morning, thereby interrupting my work, and observed that friendship was a lost art, I naturally asked who he was.

"If you wouldn't keep on trying to be clever," said Elsa, "it would be much better. There is no man in the case at all this time. Besides, if it had been any trouble with a man in it I could probably have arranged it myself. I've often done so before."

"You have?" I said. "Well, what is the trouble this time?"

"Suppose I asked you to go to Mrs. Talford Green's on Wednesday night?"

"I should say I was awfully sorry, but that I was too busy and too old for that kind of thing. I should add, in a humble style, that you would find many other men there, and I should only be in your way."

Elsa stamped her foot impatiently. "Once more, don't be clever. Don't jump to conclusions. I never said I was going, did I? I'm not. I don't go to every blessed thing I'm asked to."

"Don't brag. I know you too well, and it's no good. You go to Mrs. Talford Green's whenever you get the chance, and are thankful. And why on earth am I to go if you don't intend to be there?"

"I particularly want you to meet Irma Morrice."

"Why? I've met her scores of times. I know she's your dearest friend, and absolutely delightful and perfectly ducksy, and all the rest of it. All the same, if we don't meet on Wednesday night neither of us will die of it."

"Did I say she was my dearest friend? She is a friend, of course, in a way, and I wouldn't say a word against her."

"Let's have the word, then."

"More cleverness! Why don't you keep it for those little penny stories that you write? Irma's pretty, of course, and I dare say she will learn how her hair ought to be done one of these days. It's not her fault that she's got no money, and I always wondered how she managed to dress so well on it until I heard about the Exchange. She doesn't dress really well, of course, and she has the finest luck at bridge I ever came across in my life, if it is simply luck. And I hope it is, of course."

"Yes, that all sounds very nice. And why do you want me to meet her?"

"You really ought to go out a great deal more than you do. If you don't study life, how can you write about it properly? I heard someone say the other day that you were the kindest and most chivalrous of men."

This was conclusive. My cousin Elsa does not say these things for nothing. If she stroked a cat she would expect the animal to go away, skin itself, get the skin dyed imitation mink, and send it to her with an affectionate message.

"Evidently," I said, "you're in some pretty serious trouble."

She picked up a little Italian looking-glass and peered into it carefully, and, as she was surveying her own face, found therein no fault at all. "I want to ask you something," she said. "Suppose I got somebody to lend me money on some diamonds. And— well— they weren't really diamonds?"

"A term of imprisonment with hard labor.

You ought to have been either in a prison or a madhouse long ago. I've often told you so. If you want me to help you you must put your cards on the table at any rate. . I must have the whole story."

"It isn't quite what I said— about borrowing the money, I mean— but it's, pretty bad. If I told mamma there'd be the most awful row. I suppose I'd better tell you, only you must promise not to preach, and you must promise to get me out of it. Take me out to lunch some-where, and then we can talk it over."

II.

During luncheon Elsa was appallingly scandalous and extremely amusing. When lunch was over she leaned forward confidentially, one arm resting on the table. "Now I'm going to tell you about it. It's the worst mess I ever got into in my life, and it's not my fault at all."

"I knew it wasn't your fault, of course."

"Do you remember that little diamond pendant that Uncle Harry gave me?"

"No."

"You wouldn't. You never see anything. I've got it on now. Look. Well, you know, the way that women will go mad on some particular piece of jewellery. Irma Morrise went mad on my pendant. I believe she half thought I might give it to her one day when I had got tired of it. I couldn't do that, because it was a present from dear Uncle Harry. Besides, I took it to a jeweller the day he have it me, and the man said it was worth at least £50."

"Pleasant little trick of yours."

"Don't interrupt. One day I was going down Bond-street, and I came across a pendant in a window which was the very exact image of mine. I went in and asked to look at it, and found that the stones were paste, and that it wasn't too dear. I had to buy it for safety. Otherwise Irma might have seen it and got it, and I hate to have her wearing anything like anything that I wear. That's natural, isn't it? Then I lost two watches in one week, and mamma said I ought to be more careful. So I thought that in future I would keep the pendant with the real stones safely locked up at home,
and wear the other. I only knew them apart by the fact that I kept the real one in a different shaped box to the other. Then one afternoon

Irma had a bridge party, just a few of us, all girls. I never held such absolutely awful cards in my life."

"And," I suggested, "to pay your losses you borrowed money on the imitation pendant, asserting that the stones were real."

Elsa was indignant. "Not a bit. Do you think I would tell a lie like that? And do you think I would go into a horrible, dirty, disgraceful pawnbroker's shop to get money? Never. I would sooner owe any amount than do such a thing. What happened was this. I paid the money at the time, and then, when the rest had gone, I had a few words with Irma. You see I had to pay Mathilde some money next day (she's a demon for money, and if she hadn't got quite perfect taste I'd leave her). So I suggested that I should pay the money in a month's time, and meanwhile I would let Irma wear my pendant, and I told her that if I didn't pay at the end of the month she could keep it. I didn't say 'diamond pendant'—I simply said 'pendant.' And I couldn't help what she thought, could I? She jumped at it, so I took it off and gave it to her."

"What were your losses?"

"Somewhere about £10."

"And you let her believe that she held as security a pendant worth. £50?"

"I couldn't help what she thought," said Elsa petulantly. "I told you that before."

"And what had you actually paid for the paste pendant?"

"Four pounds, ten shillings."

She looked pathetic and deeply wronged, as she gave me this account of her own dishonorable and disgusting conduct. If she had not been an irresponsible, ignorant, and charming child, I might have been even angrier with her.

"Well," I said, "there is only one thing to be done. I'll put you into a hansom, and you must drive to the Morrices' at once. You will then pay your card debt to Irma, and take back your Brummagem pendant. And I ought to tell your mother, and you ought to be well spanked. You can repay me when you have it."

"Thanks," said Elsa sadly, "it's awfully kind of you, but I'm afraid it's no good. Irma has found me out already, and that's why I wanted you to go to Mrs. Talford Green and talk to her, and hear what she meant to do, and see if you couldn't make her change her mind."

By this time Elsa had got actual tears in her eyes. Her appearance or being deeply injured by a hard and cruel world was so deceptive that it nearly took me in.

"How do you know that Irma has found you out?"

"I'll tell you. The other day I happened to tread on a brooch of mine, and the silly thing broke; so I took it to a very good man I know of. As I went into the shop I saw Irma standing at the counter, and behind the counter a shopman with that pendant of mine in his hand. I'm not quite certain whether Irma saw me, but I think she did. I rushed out of the shop at once. That happened yesterday. I can't go on Wednesday night because I simply can't meet her. l never meant to do any harm. I had heaps of money coming at the end of the month, and I was quite certain to pay her and take the pendant back then. No harm would have been done at all if she hadn't found me out. It was a suspicious, low, cat-like thing for her to do, taking that pendant to a jeweller."

"Well," I said, "I'll do what I can. Only, my dear Elsa,you've got to make me a few promises."

They were promises connected with her reformation. She made them all with the utmost willingness, and kept one or two of them for quite a long time.

III.

I met Miss Morrice on Wednesday night, and I was a little puzzled, for if ever a woman looked the picture of conscious guilt and horrible embarrassment, that woman was Irma Morrice. We talked about nothing in particular for a moment or two, and parted.

Later I took Miss Morrice down to supper. She clearly had something on her mind, and I thought I would give her the weaker position by letting her speak first.

She asked me if Elsa was there. "No," I said, "she told me she wasn't coming to-night."

"Do you know why?"

"No," I lied.

"I don't believe she'll ever speak to me again. And she was quite my dearest friend, and I'm afraid it's partly my own fault."

"Can't I do anything?" I suggested,

"You might, perhaps, be able to give her my explanation of a thing that must have looked perfectly horrible. She lost a little money to me at bridge, and as her dressmaker was bother-ing her I wouldn't take it until she got her next quarter's allowance. So she insisted on my wearing a little pendant of hers that she admired, until the money was paid."

"I know all about that," I said. "In fact, she gave me the money to hand on to you to-night. But what's the trouble?"

"Out of pure curiosity and nothing else I took that pendant to a jeweller. I wanted to know how much it was worth. I thought perhaps I would get one like it one day. As he held it in his hand Elsa came into the shop. I could see she was furious. She must have thought that I suspected her and was getting the thing valued. It's too horrible and sordid."

"Don't say that," I said. "This is a commercial age. By the way, that little pendant of hers is rather good, isn't it?"

"The man told me he would give me £52 for it any time. But, tell me, will you try and make it all right with Elsa? I couldn't bear to lose her."

I said I would do my best, and I did.

Elsa had, of course, mixed the two pendants, as she was bound to do. The reconciliation took place, and Elsa told me all about it afterwards. She said she was very saintly and martyrish at the interview between her and Irma, and that she had told Irma that she had never been angry with her— only pained and grieved. And then Elsa asked me not to laugh.

_______________

11: Simple

P. C. Wren

Book: Odd—But Even So, 1941

EQMM January 1943

CENTRAL AMERICA covers a big area and contains a large and very mixed population varying from hundred-per-cent Americans and pure-bred Europeans by way of fifty-per-cent half-bred mestizos to equally pure-bred Indians and Negroes.

Among the people of Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras, Salvador and Nicaragua are hard-working men and lazy men, and among the latter are to be found the very laziest in all the world.

It is a rash statement, but a reasonable and a tenable one withal, that Senor Jose Hernandez held the palm, as The Laziest of the Lazy, between the Rio Grande del Norte and the Panama Canal.

Naturally he was almost as poor as he was lazy, but not quite, because, being a hidalgo of bluest blood and unmixed descent, he had but to ask and it was given unto him— to the extent of at least ten centavos a time. But even asking involves effort, and, every evening, Señor José was constrained to rise from his comfortable seat in the shady Plaza, stroll along the Avenida Reale and accost such Europeans as he might meet. Only white men, of course; for Jose Hernandez had his pride, and no Caballero begs from an Indian or a half-caste, however much better off such people may be than himself. A caballero may have no shirt, no socks, only a shoe and a half, and a cotton coat and trousers long unassailed by a Chinese laundryman, and still remain a caballero , a hidalgo and a gentleman, a Don.

And to such, any right-thinking and well-behaved European will give a ten-, twenty-, or fifty-centavo piece, or even a peso. For his heart will be touched at the sight of quiet and dignified suffering, provided he has not been “touched” too often.

So, to the extent of walking a few yards and saying a few words, Señor José Hernandez had to work. It was annoying, but when he had collected a few tens, twenties and fifties, he could go to a stall and there take his choice of hot tamales , fried bananas, cuchilladas, frijoles, enticing sweetmeats, admirable rolls and excellent coffee. Thereafter a few cigarettes, pleasantly enriched with just a little marijuana, and a glass of tequila. And so to bed— on the same bench, his armchair by day, his couch by night.

Ours is a strange world, replete with remarkable phenomena. One of these is the fact that José’s brother, Don Pedro Hernandez, if not one of the busiest men in all Central America, was undoubtedly, and by far, the most industrious, hard-working, capable and successful man in San Antonio if not the whole State of Sonango.

And, as naturally as completest idleness and unadulterated laziness kept Jose poor as a man may be and live, so, inevitably, had constant hard work, hard scheming and ruthless seizing of every opportunity enriched the admirable Pedro.

While one brother sat in his two-piece suit and his piece-and-half shoes, the other dwelt in a fine house, rode in a fine car, and enjoyed that universal admiration and respect, regard and honour which are the right and proper due of every wealthy man.

One thing Senor Pedro Hernandez did not enjoy was the sight of his disgraceful and abominable brother seated ragged, unwashed and unshorn, from morning till night on his bench in the Plaza, or making his evening predatory stroll along the Avenida Reale in search of the easy centavo.

José was to Pedro a thorn in the side; a curse and a cross which he bore with ill grace. Jose was the elephant in Pedro’s ointment.

Not only was it galling to Pedro’s pride that his own brother lived upon the casual and careless charity of Pedro’s fellow-citizens, but it was particularly irksome to know that his enemies — and even the rich have enemies— took a mean and despicable pleasure in tossing coppers to his brother as they passed the spot where he sat at the receipt of custom, or when they met him on his evening excursion between the Plaza and the Hotel Grande Imperiale. For there were not a few malicious scoundrels in San Antonio who, laughing aloud, would enter their favourite bar and observe to their friends, its habitues:

“Just met Pedro Hernandez’s begging brother and tipped him a fifty. A bone-idle loafer! But damned if I don’t like him the better of the two.”

And another, with a nasty snigger, would observe:

“Inasmuch as Don Jose Hernandez does nothing whatsoever, he does nothing wrong. Which is more than one can say for the noble Don Pedro.”

Kind friends— as kind friends will— always told Pedro all about that sort of talk. But whether José was more likeable than Pedro or not, it is unfortunately undeniable that José was by far the happier of the two.

That such should be the case is of course very wrong, undesirable, and unmoral.

But such, nevertheless, was the position of affairs when there dawned that epochal day known thenceforth, in San Antonio and the parts adjacent, as Boulder Day.

During the darkness of the early hours of that memorable morning, the Earth, as it so frequently did in the state of Sonango, seemed to stretch in its sleep, to turn over, to yawn (in several places) and to give a comfortable little wriggle ere settling down to dream again.

On this occasion, the comfortable little wriggle dislodged a boulder perched somewhat precariously on the side of the mountain that somewhat dubiously protects San Antonio. It was quite a considerable boulder, being about the size of a well-nourished hippopotamus; rotound, indeed, almost spherical.

Released from its resting-place, and doubtless (unlike Jose) weary of the spot where it had slumbered for so long, it rolled away merrily, and positively bounding with glee, and gaining momentum at every leap, careened down the mountainside, skipped joyously over a shallow arroyo , playfully burst through the houses on both sides of a street, and, by them slightly diverted from its course, bowled innocuously as a child’s hoop, straight down the centre of the Avenida. At length, with a sigh of satisfaction, it came to rest, none too soon for the safety and welfare of life and property in the town of San Antonio.

But it was definitely unfortunate that the Boulder, which stood higher than a big boy and would have needed the outstretched arms of three men for its encirclement, should have come to rest in the exact spot where, somewhat casually perhaps, the tramlines cross the light railway that runs through San Antonio from Jimenez to Loyopa, and right in the way of the not inconsiderable motor, wagon, burro and other traffic that throngs the busy Avenida.

Imagine if you can the consternation of the City Fathers, the anxiety of the worried Mayor, as angrily the wires hummed from up and down the railway, on the subject of the complete blockage of line; as angrily the manager of the San Antonio Light, Power, and Tramway Company assailed him about the blockage of the track; and as leading citizens protested by telephone, telegram and letter, against the inconvenience and annoyance to which they, as merchants and tradesmen, were subjected by the traffic and hold-up.

But, as the Mayor pointed out to the Municipality in Council, it was very easy for railway traffic-superintendents to send telegrams, for tramway managers to make telephone calls, for lorry and taxicab proprietors to make personal calls and personal remarks; but among the few things they forgot to tell him, was how to remove the colossal Boulder!

“Couldn’t it be dragged away?” enquired a Municipal Councillor, desirous of offering helpful municipal counsel.

“Oh, undoubtedly, undoubtedly,” said the Mayor, “if only we had ten thousand traction engines and the means of harnessing them to it.”

“Couldn’t one of our leading contractors, such as Señor Pedro Hernandez, construct a sort of platform on wheels and attach...?”

“Oh, doubtless, doubtless,” smiled the Mayor. “Given a few months, I am perfectly certain he could build ‘a sort of platform on wheels’ of sufficient strength to bear the immeasurable weight of that gigantic rock.... And he having done so, perhaps you yourself would be good enough to push the stone on to it, my dear friend?”

Undeterred by the Mayor’s sarcasm, another Councillor made a suggestion.

“What about a crane?” he said. “Are not such contrivances made for the lifting of great weights?”

“True, true,” agreed the Mayor. “Brilliant. I shouldn’t be in the least surprised to learn that in Pittsburgh, U.S.A., or Birmingham, England, there exists a crane that could lift a stone as big as a house and weighing hundreds of tons. But this is San Antonio, Sonango; and I do not at the moment recollect seeing a crane a hundred feet high and a million horsepower strong in anybody’s back-yard.”

In silence the Council sat biting its nails, gnawing its knuckles, nibbling its beard, or merely scratching its head.

Then, as was his place and duty, the Vice-President of the Municipal

Council did his bit, and was delivered of a helpful suggestion.

“Dynamite!” he said explosively.

The Mayor suppressed a groan, refrained from rudeness, and observed:

“The Señor would suggest blowing the Boulder, San Antonio, and half the State of Sonango to... to...”

“To hell,” murmured a Councillor readily.

“To dust, I was about to say,” continued the Mayor. “But doubtless our friend knows his own destination best.”

But dynamite, like many other dangerous subjects, has a certain attraction.

“Couldn’t we have holes drilled in the Boulder and then let sticks of dynamite be inserted in the holes; and then, not exactly blow it to pieces, but— er— break it up, disintegrate it,” suggested a grave and reverend Señor.

“Oh, we could. Undoubtedly we could,” replied the Mayor. “Suppose you go and tell the proprietor of the Hotel Imperiale, outside which the Boulder rests, that you propose to do it.

“And ask him if he has any objection to having his windows blown in, his ceilings brought down, and such of his guests as are not killed, driven insane, or deafened for life,” he added.

Other solutions were propounded, each more fantastic than the last, until, through sheer weariness and a laudable desire to prevent a free fight, if not murder, the distracted Mayor dissolved the Council, with nothing accomplished, nothing done to earn a night’s repose— or achieve the removal of the Boulder.

One thing he could, and would, and did do; and that was to offer a reward of one thousand pesos to anyone who could make a practicable suggestion for the removal of the colossal stone; and ten thousand pesos to him who should achieve it without further damage to life and property in the city of San Antonio....

RETURNING that night from his office in the City Hall to his once happy home, weary and worn and sad, dejected and depressed to the lowest depths, he passed the seat in the Plaza on which rested Don José Hernandez.

“Señor!” languidly murmured that gentleman. “You want the Boulder removed. I will remove it for you this very night— at the stated price.”

The Mayor was not amused and briefly intimated the fact.

“Nevertheless, Señor,” smiled Jose gently, “if the sun should rise tomorrow upon the spot where the Boulder now rests and find it empty; find the Boulder vanished with the other miasmas and mists of the morning, I shall apply to you for the sum of eleven thousand pesos.”

“Yes. And you’ll get them!” grunted the Mayor. “And eleven thousand more,” he added contemptuously. “Doubtless you propose to eat it.”

“The money? Most of it. I shall drink some of it, of course.”

“I meant the Boulder,” replied the Mayor, added a little blasphemy, and went on his way, not rejoicing.

And in the morning the sun rose as usual upon the town of San Antonio and beheld it as usual, inasmuch as no gigantic boulder lay paralysing the transport activities of the city.

Informed of the fact ere yet he had left his bed the Mayor could not believe his ears; and five minutes later could not believe the evidence of his eyes.

Slowly, and in a sense reluctantly, he did believe that of the tired-born, languid-bred and lazy-living Señor José Hernandez who, looking if possible more weary than ever, approached him and murmured:

“Would you rather pay the twenty-two thousand pesos into the Bank of  Mexico in a lump sum, or hand me two pesos daily for the next thirty years?”

The Mayor appeared to swallow something large, and drew a deep breath.

“Name of the Eternal Father!” he stammered. “But... But... How did... you... do...it?”

"Oh, I induced a number of my friends, simple-minded and hard-working peons, to dig a hole beside it. It rolled in, and they covered it up."

Since Boulder Day, Don José Hernandez has been spared even the labour of begging.

___________________

12: The Secret Of The Singular Cipher

F. A. M. Webster

1886-1949

The Blue Magazine Sep 1924

Old Ebbie Returns, 1925

"MODERN MURDERS are merely disgusting." The exclamation burst involuntarily from my lips, as I threw down the morning paper.  I had been reading the account of a more than usually revolting case, in which the murderer, a married man, had killed a wretched girl, who had trusted to him and whose condition would have made it awkward for him to face the consequences of their infatuation without breaking up his normal home life.

Old Ebbie regarded me with a quizzical smile. It was evident that he had already studied the column which had attracted my interest.

"I fancy that case cuts deeper than you imagine," he said. "Later on it will undoubtedly transpire that the man was in financial difficulties and had exhausted the resources of the girl he killed. You may remember that he was already in touch with another young woman, who had money of her own, even before he had disposed of the body of his first victim."

"All that you say may be perfectly true," I argued, "but it does not alter the fact that those elements of mystery and unexpected motive, such as came to light in the case of The Man Who Sold Jewels, have been lacking from the affairs which have come our way of late."

Before my companion could answer, the telephone bell rang sharply from the hall. A moment later Jenkin entered the room. "Inspector Wilson would like to speak to you on the telephone, sir."

Old Ebbie's smile broadened as he left the room.

"Get your hat and coat, Hicks," he called presently; "there's a job for us in Mayfair."

At the entrance to Bulstrode Mansions a big constable received us.

"The inspector will be pleased if you will go up to No. 16, gentlemen," he said.

We found our old friend Wilson seated at a small table in the dining-room, tapping his teeth with the butt end of his pencil and staring at a queer assortment of odds and ends. A note-book was open before him. In the corner of the room was a sinister-looking shape covered with a sheet. A number of playing-cards was scat-tered across the dinner-table, and there was an empty glass beside a half -empty decanter of whisky.

"Good of you to come along so promptly," he greeted us. "I was just cataloguing the contents of the dead man's pockets."

"Anything interesting?" queried Old Ebbie.

"Oh, I don't know. At first sight the whole case looks clear enough. And yet there are one or two unusual features. The tenant of this flat is a fellow called Gilmour; he seems to have arrived from abroad a few months back, but nothing whatever is known of his antecedents or present business in England. Judging from his name, I should say the dead man, Christiernsson, was a Swede."

"If you know his name the Swedish Consulate ought to be able to help you."

"Yes, if Christiernsson really is his name."

"Why the doubt?"

Wilson stroked his chin reflectively. "Well, you see, the tenant of No. 17, across the landing, who called himself Humphries, committed suicide a week ago with a shot-gun; which, it is true, rendered his face pretty well unrecognisable, and now a dead man, who has not been dead more than twelve hours, turns up here in Gilmour's flat with a knife struck through his heart."

"But why the confusion about the names?" asked Ebbie.

"The caretaker is prepared to swear that the man over there under the sheet is Humphries, but just take a look at his visiting-cards."

He picked up a small silver card-case from among the odds and ends on the table and handed it to Ebbie. Each card bore the fantastic inscription, "Linka Dobrowolski Christiernsson."

Old Ebbie slipped one into his pocket before handing back the card-case.

"Well, let me hear your theory," he said.

The inspector indicated the whole room with a comprehensive gesture of his hand.

"You see the playing-cards," he said, "the empty glass and the half-empty decanter, the contents of which I will have analysed as soon as possible. Doesn't it occur to you that Gilmour lured Humphries, or Christiernsson, or whatever his name was, here, fleeced him— perhaps drugged him— and then made an end of him?"

"Humph, and where is the man with the many names supposed to have hidden himself during the week that has gone?"

"Ah, there you have me!" admitted Wilson.

"I rather thought as much," smiled Ebbie. "Well, let's have a look round the place, anyway."

"But won't you examine the dead man first?"

"No, I'd rather sense the atmosphere before I see the victim."

For the best part of half an hour Ebbie prowled about the flat. He looked into linen-baskets and drawers, examined bedding and furniture, and paid particular attention to the larder and kitchen. From time to time he shot out a trite sentence.

"Now why the deuce should a man use four sets of pyjamas and two pairs of sheets in a week?" he ejaculated, as he peered from the full linen-basket to the open laundry-book he had taken from a hook on the kitchen dresser. Or, again, "Doesn't it strike you, Wilson, that someone has been searching pretty hard for something in this flat? Surely Gilmour wouldn't be put to the necessity of ransacking his own place so thoroughly?"

"That's as may be," replied Wilson bluntly; "the fact remains that Gilmour has bolted."

"And since he is not here to excuse himself, he must, ipso facto, be held to accuse himself, eh?"

Ebbie crossed the room and pulled back the sheet which covered  the body. The countenance was serenely calm and there was not the slightest sign that a struggle had taken place. Ebbie opened the man's coat, vest, and shirt and scrutinised the wound.

"Whoever did this deed held the knife flat on the palm of his hand and thrust it forward," he said. "Englishmen never use a knife that way and seldom kill a man in cold blood with steel; any criminologist will tell you that."

He examined the dead man's features with close attention.

"This fellow," he said, "was neither Tcheco-Slovakian, Pole, nor Swede."

"Why the mix-up of nationalities?" asked Wilson.

Ebbie brought the visiting-card out of his pocket.

"All these three names are surnames," he said. "Linka is Tcheco-Slovakian, Dobrowolski is Polish, and, as you yourself pointed out, Christiernsson is Swedish. Now let us see if we can find what the murderer wanted so badly and which we can only hope he failed to secure."

Through and through that flat we hunted, long after the body had been removed. When every possible hiding place had been exhausted Old Ebbie turned his attention to the very food in the larder and there, in the centre of a loaf of bread which I would have sworn had never been tampered with, he discovered a tiny note-book. It was filled with a jumble of apparently incoherent phrases and meaningless words.

Wilson, after one glance through the pages, made no objection to Ebbie taking charge of the book for the time being.

Twice during that night I awakened and went through into the dining-room of our flat in Victoria. My comrade was still seated at the table, the little note-book, a pencil and writing-pad were before him and all the floor was littered with sheets of paper, upon which he had inscribed figures and characters which to me appeared to have no meaning.

Once he looked up and spoke to me.

"I reckon Humphries, or whatever his name was, knew that he was near his end when he hid his note-book in the loaf," he said, "and the careful way he did it proves that he wasn't hurried. I've been all night working on every sort of possible and impossible cipher. I fancy this case would come a whole lot clearer if we could imderstand what is written in the pages of this note-book."

"Perhaps Humphries had a drink and played patience with those cards we saw on the table, to help keep his nerves steady, while he waited," I suggested.

Ebbie turned that over in his mind for some moments before he spoke.

"No, I don't think Humphries drank the whisky," he said, at last; "but you've set me thinking about those cards. Did you notice there were no ash-trays on the table and no tobacco ash on the carpet or in the hearth? There was a cigarette-case in the dead man's pocket, and his nicotine-stained fingers testify that he was a heavy smoker. I fancy he'd have smoked had he played cards with Gilmour, or even by himself."

At breakfast-time Wilson arrived.

"By gad, Mr. Entwistle," he exclaimed; "this business is getting devilish deep and sinister. We have traced Gilmour to Paddington; he left there, dressed in rough clothing, by the five o'clock train yesterday morning. Last night he hid in a Portsmouth doss-house. When the police went there this morning, they learned that there had been a most unholy fight in the night, and that the man who had shared Gilmour's room was dead; they thought it was Gilmour at first; because, by some chance, he had changed beds with the other fellow, who was knifed."

"That strikes me as being very significant," said Old Ebbie.

"And what became of Gilmour?"

"He's vanished again. We don't think he could have got aboard a ship, but a motor-cycle has been stolen, and we are hoping to catch him somewhere out on the open moors."

"I'd dearly like a few words with him when he does turn up," said Old Ebbie. "In the meantime, I think you are barking up the wrong tree, Wilson, if you imagine that Gilmour did the murder. Everything I have seen so far points to the fact that he had probably given Humphries, alias Christiernsson, shelter since the night upon which the former is supposed to have committed suicide."

"But why on earth should the man wish to practise such a deception?" I interrupted.

"I fancy friend Humphries was pretty hard pressed; he probably had a secret that certain people were anxious to prevent him from passing on. Of course, the suicide w"ould provide a perfect blind. No doubt he hoped that his persecutors would believe they had scared him into doing it."

"But surely it would be very diflficult to arrange?"

"Difficult, yes, but not impossible. Have you forgotten the Bouverie Case, and our visit to the Surrey side of the Thames? I showed you then how easily a dead body can be procured, if you know how to go about it."

"Come out into the open, Mr. Entwhistle," invited the inspector. "What's at the back of your mind?"

"I hate to theorise," Old Ebbie answered, "but, for once in a way, I'm willing to humour you. My own feeling is that Humphries, or Christiernsson, was up against some secret force, and that, having arranged his own apparent death, he either went to Gilmour for shelter, or the latter stumbled into the business and offered him protection, or at any rate a hiding place. Gilmour, of course, continued to go out and about in the normal way, while his strange guest lay hid. One night, I fancy, Gilmour came home to his flat and found Humphries dead on the floor, and evident signs that the whole place had been pretty thoroughly searched. He must then have found himself in a remarkably awkward situation. He would see at once that, with all due deference to you, Wilson, no C.I.D. man would believe his fantastic story. He may, therefore, have cleared out to avoid arrest. On the other hand, I have a sort of feeling that he probably knew something of the causes that led up to Humphries' murder, and he would, equally of course, appreciate how dangerous was the knowledge he had acquired."

"And those playing-cards on the table, and the empty whisky glass?"

"I fancy Gilmour would have needed a peg to steady his nerves after the shock of finding the dead body; but I frankly admit that I do not at present see the significance of the cards scattered all over the table. I'm certain someone left them there for a specific purpose. What that purpose was we should probably know if we could find the key to the pages of that little note-book that was hidden in the loaf of bread."

Wilson hesitated a moment.

"I'm bound to admit," he said, "that the bottom has rather fallen out of the fleecing theory. I've got on to Gilmour 's bankers, through the owners of Bulstrode Mansions, and it seems that he is, comparatively speaking, a rich man."

"Good," answered Ebbie. "By the way, can you furnish me with a photograph of Humphries?"

"A post-mortem one," said Wilson; "we had it taken to compare with others in the Black Museum."

"And you could not find its counterpart, eh?"

"No; neither his features nor his finger-prints are recorded with us."

"Let me have a copy of the portrait," said Ebbie, "perhaps I may have better luck."

When the picture came he studied it for a long time.

"You'd hardly believe that chap was dead," he said at last. "Just look at those eyes. Hicks. Is it only my imagination, or is there in them the light of the certain knowledge of success? By heavens, there's something about this little fellow's face that appeals enormously to me."

Next morning, as we walked down to the Foreign Office, my companion dropped his hand on my arm.

"We're going to try a very long shot in the dark, my friend," he said; "but, as you ought to know by this time, no chance is so small that one can aflford to overlook it. I was up at Bulstrode Mansions again last night; the porter tells me some queer, foreign-looking customers have been trying to get permission to look over Gilmour's flat, and he is half inclined to think that an attempt was made to force the lock yesterday afternoon when he was off duty."

At the Foreign Office Lord Arlen of Ashurst granted us an immediate interview. He listened attentively to all that Old Ebbie had to say, then touched a bell.

"This is a bit out of my depth, Mr. Entwistle," he said, as we waited; "but I fancy the Permanent Secretary will be very glad to have a chat with you."

Sir Claude Ducane made no effort to conceal his interest. At the sight of the photograph which Ebbie laid down on the table a gasp escaped him.

"This man was one of the best of our Secret Service agents," he said. "You say he is dead? We had lost sight of him for months. His one bad fault was that he would always work alone. More often than not he found things out, but he never let us have a hint of what was going on until he had the whole thing cut and dried and ready to place before us complete in every detail. God alone knows what he was after this time; but, as you say, I very much doubt if Gilmour killed him."

"Do you happen to have the key to the cipher he used, Sir Claude?"

"No, that was another of his mysteries. He absolutely refused to employ any of the conventional ciphers, or to give us the key to the one he had himself invented."

"But surely he must have foreseen the possibility of just such a tragedy as has occurred?"

"He most certainly did. In fact, he told me more than once that if ever he was caught out before he could communicate with us he would leave a hint, that any clever man could read, as to the key to the cipher. But why do you ask?"

Old Ebbie produced the Kttle note-book and laid it on the table beside the photograph. For a while the Permanent Secretary turned over the pages before handing the book back with a hopeless gesture.

"I can make absolutely nothing of it," he said.

THAT NIGHT, as Old Ebbie sat pouring over the pages of the note-book, and covering sheet after sheet of notepaper with figures, I suddenly interrupted him.

"Do you know, Ebbie," I said, "I can't get out of my mind the picture of that poor devil sitting there in the silent flat, terrified to go outside to meet his fate, but yet man enough to play a game of patience while death stole nearer to him step by step."

"How the devil do you know he did play patience?" asked Old Ebbie, thoroughly irritated by my thoughtless interruption of his work.

"Well, what on earth else did he put the cards on the table for?" I answered with equal acerbity.

Old Ebbie got slowly to his feet, staring at me with fascinated eyes.

"What else did he put the cards on the table for?" he repeated very slowly, and his hand stole up to his waistcoat pocket, from which he withdrew Christiernsson's visiting-card. "Lord, what a bhnd fool I've been! And now, for goodness sake, Hicks, stop chattering. I've got some hard thinking and ciphering to do."

Upon this very pointed hint I left him and took myself off to bed. About four o'clock in the morning he awakened me. By the light of the candle he carried I saw that his eyes were blazing with excitement.

"Come into the dining-room," he said eagerly. "I've just about got this business straightened out at last."

"Do you mean that you've found the key to the cipher?" I asked eagerly.

"Well, I think you found it," he answered; "but I've worked it out. You kept on harping on about the playing-cards on the table, and that set me thinking of the visiting-cards in the silver case. I remembered what Sir Claude had told us about Humphries having promised to leave a clue that a clever man could follow; but, somehow, I couldn't envisage your picture of the poor chap playing patience. Then, again, the three names on the visiting-card neither hung together, because they are all surnames belonging to different nationalities, nor seemed to fit the dead man. We knew, indeed, from Sir Claude that they were not his. I began to wonder if they were the key to the cipher. It looked likely, but the letters in those three names number thirty, and there are only twenty-six letters in the English alphabet. On the other hand, it did not appear likely that so subtle a fellow as the dead Humphries would be satisfied with a simple, corresponding alphabetical-numerical cipher.

FOR HOURS on end I puzzled over the orthographical aspect of the business. I was pretty well sure that the grammar of letters wasn't going to help me very much; so 1 turned my attention to the grammar of sounds. It struck me quite suddenly that the vowels are five in number, and the consonants twenty-five, the latter divided roughly into eleven mutes and fourteen spirants. If you look at this paper, you will see how I have set out the three names which are engraved on the visiting card.

"It tok a bit of working out, but I finally got at it by grading the mutes into flat, sharp and nasal sounds. Even so, deciphering the writing in the notebooks was a terrible job, because the same letters occur several times in the code words; but the difficulty was not insuperable, only laborious; one had to leave blanks and try all corresponding letters to get the complete words.

So far his keen eyes had shone with the artist's joy of accomplishment, but now they took on a haunted, desperate look.

"These bolsheviks are at the back of this business, Hicks," he said. "There is a plot to wreck the big power station at Alton Heath, thereby creating more unemployment and stirring up further trouble among the labouring classes. There is also mention of a plan to dispose of the people's leader, in such a way that it must inevitable appear that the assassination was planned in a high quarter.

"You may quite well argue that the plant and the man can be protected, and that, in any case, no one would believe that MacReady had been deliberately put out of the way at the instigation of the leaders of the accredited government; but the notes make no mention of the dates upon which these tragedies are to occur. Nor is there any indication of the names or whereabouts of the real conspirators. We may save the power station and MacReady, but what guarantee is there that, even if we prevent these disasters, more serious measures will not be taken against us?"

"Yes, I see all that," I answered, "and you will, of course, hand over this information to Scotland Yard and the Foreign Office; but it still does not account for the disappearance of Gilmour."

"No," agreed Old Ebbie. "I'm very anxious to meet that young gentleman. I fancy he must be a pretty far-seeing sort of person. He may, as I suggested to Wilson, have bolted in a panic when he realised that, firstly, no police official would believe what, on the face of it, must have appeared a highly improbable story, and, secondly, he undoubtedly shared some of the dead Secret Service man's knowledge. He would, therefore, be well aware that his life is in danger at the hands of the men who did not hesitate to kill Humphries and who, I shrewdly suspect, tried to do away with Gilmour himself in the Portsmouth doss-house to which he fled.

"If we can find Gilmour I rather fancy we shall get those missing dates we want; and it's just possible he may be able also to tell us something about the people who are at the back of this hellish plot. Anyway, we'll lodge such information as we have in the right quarters and then get down to Portsmouth. We may be able to pick up his trail. If my deductions are correct he will not have left the country."

THE OWNER of the Portsmouth doss-house turned out to be an old chanty man, who had sailed the Seven Seas when wind-jammers were in fashion; and a very shrewd old fellow he proved himself to be.

"The man who was here the night of the big fight, when Jake was killed; what sort of a man was he, you ask? Well, I'd say just an or'nary sailorman, sir. A gentleman? No, not by any manner of means; just an or'nary fo'castle sort of fellow, such as I've sailed with hundreds an' hundreds o' voyages."

"Humph," growled Old Ebbie, "we're up against a pretty tough proposition. I'll bet you this chap Gilmour knows all about camouflage and has hunted big game more than half his life. According to what that old sailorman said he hasn't bothered to change his appearance, only his circumstances. He's literally faded into his new atmosphere, just as a wild creature fades into its natural background. If we do find him you'll see that he is not playing his assumed part, he'll be actually living it. Do you see what I mean? The real secret of disguise is not make-up or anything of that sort, but the abihty to convince yourself that you actually are, for the time being, what you wish other people to take you for. This chap won't slip up anywhere, and I can tell you that it is going to be devilish hard to find him. Personally I'm going to keep my eyes skinned for the opposition, they probably know more than we do and may lead us to our man."

FOR THE NEXT WEEK we hung around Portsmouth, hired a motor-car and journeyed farther afield; but had no luck at all. Then, by a strange chance, we heard of some curious happenings over Devon way. The whole story was so unusual that a local correspondent had sent it up to one of the London papers, and the editor had given it a paragraph and a catchy headline.

It appeared that a tramp had come to the back door of a moorland farm and had begged a night's shelter. He had, however, offered to pay for his supper. The farmer was away from home, but his wife had given the man a jug of cider, half a loaf and some cheese, and had told him that he might sleep in an empty hayloft. Half-way through the night the woman was awakened by a terrific explosion and had rushed to the window to discover the barn where the tramp had slept going up to the sky in lurid flames.

"It's another long shot," said Old Ebbie, as he handed me the paper, "but that reads to me remarkably as though our man had transferred himself to Devonshire."

The car we were using was a big, powerful Bentley, which would make short work of the distance. Before we started Ebbie sent a wire to Wilson.

At Moretonhampstead, close to the farm-house where the barn had been destroyed, it seemed to me that we were at last getting on to a fairly hot trail.

The landlord joined us in a glass of punch after supper and Old Ebbie handled him admirably.

"I see from the papers you've had quite a sensation in these parts," said my comrade.

"So a lot of volks seems to think," answered the old fellow, as he treated us to a shrewd stare.

"Um! Half the town's been out to see the farm, I suppose," said Ebbie.

"Oh that, that's nuthin'. It's the Kkes of you vurriners that comes pryin' an' questionin' that we'm don't like," said the landlord.

"We're not asking questions, my good man," said Ebbie indifferently. "I happened to read about the explosion in the morning paper and naturally thought the matter, being of a purely local nature, would interest you."

"Aye, an' a lot of other volks besides, seemin'ly," grumbled the innkeeper. "Girt big car cooms here to-day and a rare vine lot of questions I did have to answer before I could satisfy the gentlemen. Real vurriners they were, I raickon, an' no Englishmen at all, by that some token."

"I THINK," said Old Ebbie to me, as we sought our rooms that night, "that we will go to the high beacons to-morrow morning, taking with us our field-glasses. I wonder what sort of a car our host's 'vurriners' were driving."

"That should be easy enough to ascertain," I answered, and so it proved.

Soon after dawn Old Ebbie roused me out, and long before breakfast time we were hidden on a high hill, with our own car safe from observation in a sheltered glen. Our glasses paralleled the landscape; but for a long time no sign of human movement was to be seen. Then suddenly we sighted a solitary man moving, as much in cover as possible, across the moorland. Presently a row of widely-separated figures, spaced for all the world like game-beaters, appeared above the horizon of a far ridge, approaching also in our direction.

Old Ebbie shut his glasses with a snap.

"If that is our man and he follows his present route," he said, "he will reach us before the hunt overtakes him."

For myself, I lay flat on my stomach, with the binoculars screwed to my eyes and an ever-increasing thrill of excitement running through me. At last Old Ebbie dropped his hand on my shoulder.

"Slip down and get the engine running," he said. "Turn the car round ready to break for the open road as soon as I've got Gilmour."

Another quarter of an hour passed before I heard them stumbling down the hillside towards me. At the same moment a shout rang out from the crest of the tor, followed quickly by the sharp whip of a revolver shot, but the range was extreme, and no whine of a passing bullet followed.

For a second the rough-looking fellow clad in home-spun hesitated.

"You've got to take us on trust, Mr. Gilmour," said Old Ebbie. "If you won't do that, then your attentive friends on the sky-line are bound to get you, and I fancy the information you have is going to be pretty badly needed at Scotland Yard."

With a weary gesture the man climbed into the back seat, followed by Ebbie, and I opened up my throttle. The great car leaped forward, just as the pursuit came pouring down the hill.

NEXT DAY we found ourselves once more in Sir Claude Ducane's luxurious office, where Inspector Wilson and the Permanent Secretary were eagerly awaiting us, but long before that Gilmour had told us his story.

"I got your wires, Mr. Entwistle," the inspector greeted us; "the second one set things buzzing, and we caught the whole bunch as they were making for the coast. Bolsheviks they were, and I fancy that what Mr. Gilmour is going to tell us will serve to keep them out of mischief for some time to come. Can you tell us, sir, who actually committed the murder at your flat?"

"I'm afraid not," Gilmour answered. "Mr. Entwistle has told me his theories, and all I can do is to confirm them. It is true that I did shelter poor Humphries, but he told me very little of what was going on. I knew that he was in great danger; I had, moreover, caught a glimpse of the ruffians who were hanging around the mansions, and I knew that some terrible thing was planned for the end of the month.

"When I came home that night and found Humphries dead, and myself likely to be arrested for his murder, I made up my mind to get on the track of those fellows and to find out what was going forward. I found their headquarters in the very heart of the most desolate part of Devon. I got the fullest sort of proofs necessary. Here they are." He threw a wallet on the table. "But when I tried  to break back for London I found myself ringed in whichever way I tried to get out. and I'm convinced they'd have got me and settled me but for the luck of Mr. Entwistle being there to pull me out yesterday morning."

"Luck, eh?" muttered Wilson beneath his breath. "I only wish I'd got half his sort of luck!"

__________________

13: The Schimmel Sets the Pace

F. A. M. Webster

1886-1949

Australian Women's Weekly 2 June 1934

Hutchinson’s Magazine Jan 1922

BETTY HARTLAND heard a horse scream once in agony. Then she dropped the lilies that she and little Sylvia Dasent had been gathering, and went flying through the East African bush. The sight that met her eyes as she rounded a bend in the track brought her to a sudden halt.

In the centre of a forest clearing, Cyril Dasent, older than Sylvia by half a dozen years, was using a heavy hippo-hide kiboko to administer punishment to a great red stallion, which a crowd of natives held roped and helpless. The red schimmel's eyes were blazing, and the natives were hard put to it to hold him, but the scream he had uttered was more of fury than of fear. To one side lay a saddle with burst girths and the state of young Dasent's clothing showed clearly that the horse had thrown him.

Betty felt no pity for the discomfiture of the elder of her two pupils, only an intense indignation at what he was doing to the helpless animal. In a second she sprang forward, snatched the whip from his hand and laid it smartly across his shoulders, twice and again, before he could scramble out of her reach.

"Take the red schimmel back to the home paddock!" she told the chattering natives, who were looking curiously at the blubbering boy.

Ten-year-old Sylvia rejoined the governess a moment later.

"Oh, Betty," she panted, "I couldn't keep up with you, but I saw the end of what happened. Now Cyril has run home, and I'm afraid mother will be dreadfully angry with you."

"Never mind, darling," said Betty, "I've been used to horses, and I've loved them, all my life. Neither your mother nor your father would want Cyril to be cruel to animals, I'm sure."

But Mr. Dasent was away from the shamba at that time, and Sylvia's prophecy was amply fulfilled, for Mrs. Dasent was awaiting their arrival in
the verandah. Her face was flaming, and her voice shook with cold fury.

"You were engaged as governess to teach the children, Miss Hartland, not to beat them," she stormed. "You may have been a great hunting woman at home, before your people lost their money, but you're a paid servant here, and you'll kindly keep your place."

"But, Mrs. Dasent, Cyril was ill treating the schimmel shamefully."

"And quite right, too; it's a savage brute, and shall be destroyed the moment my husband gets back."

Betty went to her room, conscious of Cyril smiling triumphantly in the back-ground. She might have left the farm that day but for her love of Sylvia, who played a poor second string to her brother in the mother's affections. Presently the child came stealing in through the open window.

"I'm so sorry, Betty darling," she whispered, "but I expect it will be all right when Father comes back, it's only when he is away that Cyril behaves so badly, May I stay here? I've got such a funny sort of headache."

Betty drew the child into her arms and sat nursing her until she fell asleep. The little hand that rested trustingly in her own was very hot, and, as soon as she could, Betty went in search of Mrs. Dasent.

"I don't think Sylvia is very well," she volunteered.

"I expect she's been eating unripe fruit, when you were not watching her; better give her a dose of medicine when she goes to bed," the mother answered indifferently.

That night Betty lay long awake. Usually the incessant song of the mos-quitoes lulled her to sleep, but, that night, memory was stirring. Once in the far off, happy days, she had ridden a wild horse of her father's at Richmond Horse Show. He had taken all his jumps without a falter, until the big water jump in the centre of the arena had to be faced, and then he had refused twice and, at the third time of asking, had reared straight up. Betty, to teach him a lesson, had put her weight on the off-side rein and stirrup and had pulled him clean over backwards as she had flung herself clear.

For all the applause that had followed it had been a perilous feat, and now, again, she felt a premonition of danger.

At 4 o'clock she was awakened by Mrs. Dasent.

"Sylvia's raving, and I'm afraid its Blackwater Fever," said the frightened mother.

Betty pulled on a dressing gown over her pyjamas, and together the
two women stood looking down at the child's flushed face. Far out across the plains a lion roared, beating down the eerie call of predatory hyenas.

"She'll die if we don't get a doctor at once," whispered Mrs. Dasent, "but my husband has the only horse we've got, except the red schimmel, and I won't trust Cyril on that brute's back again. I don't want to lose both my children."

"What are we going to do then?"

"Send a native runner to Nairobi, I suppose, but there's hardly a hope that he'll make the journey fast enough for a doctor to get here in time."

For a moment Betty stood thinking, then bent quickly and pressed her lips to the child's burning brow. Next moment she was gone. In her own room she dressed quickly in riding kit, before going out to the stable to rouse a sleepy sais. The man watched curiously as she took down a worn bridle with a light snaffle bit and picked up a small polo saddle from its rest, but he took the harness and followed in silence at her word. But when they reached the home paddock the native stopped resolutely. He knew that red devil who stood tossing his mane at the other side of the rails would have none of him.

Betty felt the blood go coursing through her veins as she stared at the schimmel she had come out at the dawn to conquer. Red as a threatening day-break, seventeen hands in height, he stood there tossing his flowing mane. There was promise of tremendous power in barrel and haunches, which fined at neck and shoulder into lines of great breeding. But the thing the girl noted, as most important at the moment, was the fact that the bit and bridle Cyril had tried to use yesterday still adorned the schimmel's splendid head. That meant that fully half of Betty's first problem was solved, for if the horse was bitted and bridled she didn't mean to bother her head about saddling him.

Lithe and graceful the girl climbed to the topmost rail of the stockade and stood balanced like some diver about to enter the water. The red horse gave her one glance then swerved to follow the sais, who was running towards the bungalow on the far side of the fence. Then, as the horse tore past, Betty sprang straight and true to land, wide thighed, across that heaving back, and as her knees gripped faster hands closed upon the streaming reins.

The red horse propped and shivered at the sudden impact, then he reared up and up, as the snaffle bore down on the tender bars of his mouth. Mad-ness at the indignity possessed him, but, come what might, he meant to crush the life out of this presumptuous mortal who had dared to back him.

But even he, the untamed red schimmel, was not to be given his choice of when or how to fall. A slight, but irresistible pressure over-balanced him to the off at the psychological second, while the girl slipped away from under him to the near side, and then, as he surged angrily to his feet, she was across his back again, clamped more firmly to his ribs than before, and again the bit was bearing down upon his mouth.

Blind, frantic fury surged through the schimmel's brain, as he battled against those calm, restraining hands, and blind, frantic fury beat in his heart. Round and round the home-paddock he raced, propping, surging forward afresh, tossing his crest in wild anger against the indignity of the bit and fighting to get it between his teeth, but neither strength nor wile of his could shift the legs that gripped his sides like a vice, nor break him free from the give and take of those gentle hands that held a hint of steel in the velvet of their touch.

The red horse screamed with rage, ducked and swerved sideways; then, crowning indignity of all, the sharp prick-spurs fixed to the heels of Betty's boots scored his sides. That was too much. Mouth open, blood-gorged eyes blazing, he tore straight down the pad-dock and, like a buck in spring, soared high over the seven-foot stockade. Beyond lay the wide, sun-washed, wind-swept plains, and now the great red horse stretched himself, belly close to earth, as he spurned sod and floweret beneath his flying hoofs.

Time and again he swerved, ducked or ran bucking crab-fashion for half a hundred yards. Once he propped, reared, and swung clean round in a half-circle. But Betty clung on by a miracle, thighs clamped to the laboring sides, and hands steady upon the reins, for she was determined that he should neither swerve nor turn back from the road that would lead them to Nairobi. Swung round against his will, he raced onwards once more.

Mile after mile he strode on, following his own course, as he believed, and, all the while his great heart was well-nigh bursting with impotent rage. But let that puny rider wait. Soon there must come a chasm too wide to jump, a wall too high to clear— something, anything— against which he could smash himself and this fiendish rider into red oblivion.

But now the situation was changing. He would have eased his stride, but now the rider, who had sat so still, drove him on with goading spur, stinging palm and hateful, exultant voice. God, was he to have no rest?

Lightly he had galloped across the bitter-scented grass, but now his out-stretched neck was drooping, the proud head dropping towards the laboring breast. Then Betty gathered him under and drove him on in very truth. For perhaps the last mile she had allowed him to shape his own course over ground where the going was fast, for she wanted him to use up those last re-serves of speed, but now her weight shifted, and a back-drawn calf pressed against his side, and the steady pressure of that abomination be-tween his jaws, turned him towards the hills. When the lower slopes were reached he sought again to ease his pace, but the insistent goad of the spurs drove him on.

Caked with dust and sweat, nostrils distended, eyes wild, he breasted the slope, for, if this human persecutor desired it he would match her will with his own would prove that neither his speed, nor the courage of his great heart was done with yet.

At last, as they reached the sky-line he stumbled from sheer leg weariness, and he, the red schimmel, would have fallen had not that terrible rider held him together and saved him.

Wonder filled his untamed heart, and after resting a moment he sought to fight again, but Betty, bruised and well-nigh as weary as he was, would not be beaten. If it was all to do again, well, she would do it, and more, for the sake of the child who lay dying, back there at the Dasents' bungalow. She would do it for Sylvia, and for the glorious thrill that lay in the conquest of the great red stallion.

THE descent was short and steep. The wide plains lay below, but the way was treacherous. None the less, the red horse, as the spurs touched his sides, shot forward, like arrow from bow, and bounded down the slope, escaping disaster by a miracle. Then the goading spurs, the stinging palm, and the compelling voice, which would ring in his ears until his dying day drove him on until the scattered houses at the edge of the town were in sight, and, rocking with weariness, he answered at last to voice and rein, easing his pace, changing direction, or going on, just as the rider wished.

And thus it was that Dr. Paget saw come riding up the drive to his bun-galow a pale girl in sweat-drenched, dust-stained khaki, who bestrode a great red horse that had acquired a new docility.

"God in heaven, isn't that Tom Da-sent's red Schimmel you're riding, d'you mean to say that he's broken him in at last? We all said he'd be the death of anyone who tried to ride him," cried the doctor.

"Yes, it's the red schimmel." Betty answered with a weary smile. "Hurry, doctor. Sylvia Dasent is dying of black-water fever, and you've got to come with me. I'll rest a minute while you get your things ready, and, please, may one of your boys give the red schimmel a drink and a rub down?"

Dr. Paget fussed intentionally for the best part of half an hour to give Betty and the schimmel a chance of resting, but all the way back to the farm his eyes hardly left her, for the red schimmel had whickered a welcome as they had come down to the stables, and the old doctor well knew in his own mind who had been the conqueror of the great red horse that no man in the colony had been good enough horse-man to master, and whose splendid speed had served to bring Betty to Nairobi in time for him to get to the farm soon enough to save the life of little Sylvia.

_______________

14: The Missing Signorina

Percy J Brebner

All-Story Weekly, July 27, 1918

All-Story Weekly Jul 27 1918

THE minister motioned Valentine West to a seat, looked at his watch, and from a drawer took a small bundle of papers.

“I was particular about the time, Mr. West, because in half an hour I have to introduce you to a man who will assist you in this business, and I wanted to give you the facts first.”

Valentine West was not fond of having assistants thrust upon him, but he did not say so.

“Some months ago a young lady was brought to England and placed at a ladies’ college at Cheltenham,” the minister went on, consulting the papers in his hand. “Her name was Signorina Contini. She was about eighteen years old, was sent here nominally to learn English— really to get her out of theway. I have not seen her, but I am told she is beautiful, which is possibly true since she appears to be a most disturbing influence in the minds of several people. A week ago she disappeared, and she has got to be found.”

West looked surprised. “More a case for the police than for you, eh?”

“I was thinking so, sir.”

“Unfortunately this young woman, although of small importance in herself, the daughter of quite a bourgeois family, I amtold, has attracted the attention of a very highly placed person— Count Pietro, of Tuscany. If you are well posted in court knowledge, Mr. West, you will understand that such a marriage for such a person would endanger a dynasty. The young woman was quietly exiled and the affair considered at an end. Now it is ascertained that Count Pietro is not to be found. It is supposed he has come to England, found the lady, and has abducted her from her guardians at Cheltenham. The affair becomes a diplomatic one.”

“And she disappeared a week ago,” said West.

“Over a week ago.”

“Then they are probably out of the country.”

“The ports have been watched,” said the minister. “There is every reason to think they are in England, waiting probably until our vigilance has slackened. The necessity for keeping the matter as quiet as possible to prevent diplomatic complications, of course, increases our difficulty. Yesterday I had a visit from an Italian detective who has been instructed to act with us. He is one of two sent over, and knows both the count and the lady. He is coming here to be introduced to you this morning. You see the affair is considered serious. Anything in the nature of a morganatic marriage is abhorrent to the count, I understand, and rather than be separated from this girl he would renounce his rights.”

“Will catching them prevent his doing so?” asked West.

“That is hardly our affair. We have to catch them since they are in this country. Afterward their own people must deal with them. Are there any points you wish to raise before I have this man in? I expect he is waiting.”

“Is it known when the count disappeared?” West asked.

“I believe not. He was supposed to be at some shooting-box but was not there. He may have set out on this scheme a month ago.”

“Is there any proof that he is in England?”

“Nothing definite, as far as I know.” answered the minister.

“The conclusion is jumped to, I take it, merely because the girl is here?” said West.

“I imagine that is the case.”

“One more question, sir: Have you any reason to suppose that the Italian Government is using this affair to make a catspaw of us in some other direction?”

“Such a possibility has not occurred to me,” said the minister.

“You have no knowledge of any state affair which might lead you to think such an idea possible?”

“No,” the minister answered after a pause. “What exactly is in your mind, Mr. West?”

“Nothing definite, sir. I am merely trying to look at the problem from different angles.”

“I do not wish to influence you in any way,” the minister said, “but, remember, you have a woman to deal with. Clever enough to entangle the count, she may be clever enough to slip out of this difficulty. I should remember the woman rather than the count, West.”

West smiled as the minister rang his bell. It was well known that he distrusted women, and had once publicly declared that in every diplomatic difficulty the rustle of a petticoat was to be heard. The comic papers had not allowed him to forget the statement. The Italian detective was ushered into the room, a vigorous man, quick in movement, mobile in face.

“Signor Lucchesi, this is Mr. Valentine West,” said the minister. “Mr. West is in possession of the main facts of this delicate problem, and is aware that publicity in the matter is most undesirable. Between you, I trust, a speedy solution will be found.”

“I cannot doubt it,” said Lucchesi, bowing to West. “I rejoice at the association. I have heard of Signor West.”

They left the minister’s room together, and at West’s suggestion went to a nearby restaurant to lunch. The sooner they became acquainted and understood each other the better.

“It is an affair of state,” said the Italian; “most important and secret. You are aware I have a colleague helping me?”

“The minister told me so.”

“Ricci— that is his name— Ricci is a young man of promise. He has not my experience, but he knows your London better than I do. He is at this moment searching in your Italian quarter. I hold— and Ricci is of like opinion— that one man has not carried this scheme through by himself. He has had helpers who have been well paid, probably. It is as well to see if there are any in the Italian quarter who are making the money fly. You agree, Signor West?”

“A clue might be found that way— certainly.”

“We labor under great disadvantage,” the Italian went on. “We may not be public. If we might, the thing would be easy. Count Pietro is a striking man, not easily passed by unnoticed, and the girl— you shall see. I have not a portrait of the count, but of the signorina— yes. Look! It is a face to stand out from the crowd, is it not?"

He took a photograph from his pocket and passed it to West— the picture of a girl, very dark, with large eyes, appealing and seductive. From the photograph West would not have pronounced her a beautiful woman, but her coloring might be brilliant; and, besides, an Italian’s idea of beauty would probably not coincide with an Englishman’s.

“She looks more than eighteen,” he said.

“In the south we mature earlier than you do here,” was the answer. “She is tall, has a bearing above her station, and has a reputation for beauty. If we could publish that portrait in your papers it might be easy to find her. People would have seen her and would give information. Only we must not make a public case of it. That is forbidden.”

West studied the photograph for a few moments, then handed it back. “There are one or two possibilities which you do not seem to have considered,” said West; “at least they occur to me. Of course you may have information which makes them impossible. First, your government may be responsible for the disappearance of the signorina with the idea of making it impossible for the count to find her. The government may have become aware there was a chance of his doing so and taken prompt action.”

“That is not possible,” was the answer.

“It is marvelous what things are possible to a government— any government,” said West with a smile. “It is not so in this case. Should I be here with Ricci? We are here for the government secretly. Our instructions were most precise.  I do not know how it may be here, but with us it is impossible.”

“We’ll rule out that idea, then,” said West. “My other idea is that the disappearance has nothing to do with the count at all, and is the result of some other intrigue altogether. The count, I take it, is pretty much like other men, and is young enough to love easily and forget, and the lady may also have grown tired.”

“Ah, you do not know us, signore! Love is a grand passion with us. You do not know Count Pietro. He is not at all the man you imagine. He is determined, unreasoning, will allow nothing to stand in his way, sees obstacles only to overcome them. There is no doubt this affair is the count’s.” And then the Italian swore and roundly abused Pietro of Tuscany.

“You do not like him, evidently,” said West.

“No.”

“He has done you some injury, perhaps?”

“Perhaps.”

“Surely, surely, he did not rob you of the signorina?” said West, wondering if he had touched the key-note of the mystery.

“Ah, no!” said the Italian. “There is a lady at Pisa. He has not robbed me of love, this count. I say no more, only this: I am glad to be employed on this business— glad that I shall help to bring his plan to ruin.”

“We have not begun to succeed yet,” said West.

“But to-night we begin,” was the answer. “I expect Ricci to have information. Shall we meet to-night, signore? We are in rooms, Ricci and I, in Shaftesbury Avenue, a poor place, but we did not wish to attract attention. I am known to the count. I have no wish that he should know I am in London. Will you visit us to-night? It is better than meeting publicly, and you are not likely to be watched, as we might be. We can listen to what Ricci has to say and then we can act. I have my theory already. We shall see whether it fits with what Ricci will tell us.”

“Certainly I will be with you. At present I confess I am without any conviction.”

FOR A MAN so hopelessly at fault, as he confessed to be, Valentine West spent a thoughtful afternoon, smoked innumerable cigarettes, and was annoyed that Cheltenham was too far off to visit before keeping his appointment. There were one or two leading questions he would like to have asked at the school from which the signorina had fled. He would go down and ask them to-morrow, perhaps. Some one must have connived at her escape or she had been badly guarded. The minister’s warning to remember he had a woman to deal with recurred to him. The signorina might be exceptionally clever, but, if so, her photograph did not do her justice. Arguing along this line, he was inclined to credit the count with the cleverness. Lucchesi seemed to be of his opinion and had evidently formed a theory. He had scouted the idea of the count having nothing to do with the affair. Why? It was surely an idea worth consideration since there was not a shred of evidence that Pietro of Tuscany was in this country. For some reason the Italian detective had a down on the count, and, although he had denied that love had anything to do with it, West preserved an open mind on the point. He thought the lady of Pisa might be compared to a red herring drawn across the trail.

“How should you go to work if you wanted to steal a young lady from school?” he asked Amos when he brought him his tea.

“See a doctor, sir.”

“What for?”

“To find out what was the matter with me.”

“Haven’t you any imagination, Amos?”

“Can’t imagine myself wanting to do a thing like that, sir.”

“It has been done, Amos, and I have to find the lady. I may want your assistance. Dinner at seven sharp to-night.”

AT EIGHT O’CLOCK Valentine West presented himself at the lodgings in Shaftesbury Avenue, rooms over a small shop where foreign newspapers were sold. Lucchesi greeted him warmly.

“My theory fits,” he said. “Come in. You shall hear what Ricci has to tell.”

Ricci was a youth, evidently artistic in temperament. He looked more like a violinist in a cheap orchestra than a sleuth after crime until he began to talk, and then his shrewdness was manifest. He was a little theatrical in his manner, from an Englishman’s point of view, at any rate, but he was undoubtedly clever. He was enthusiastic about his work.

“I give you details, Signor West,” he said, breaking off in the middle of his narrative, “because, well, because I am Italian. You are English, and I like you to know what an Italian can do. It is pride. Is it wrong?”

“I am astonished at your insight,” West answered. “It makes me feel rather old-fashioned.”

“Ah, no, it is only that we have different methods, that is all; sometimes yours are best, sometimes ours. In this case we are dealing with Italians, so perhaps ours are the best. We understand more the working of the count’s mind.”

“You are convinced he is at the bottom of this affair?”

“Assuredly.”

“You feel certain you have not been deceived by your countrymen in the Italian quarter?”

“I can always tell a lie. I can see it coming.”

Ricci’s information gleaned from compatriots in the Italian quarter was complete and conclusive. Exactly how the escape from the school had been managed they did not know, but it was certain that Count Pietro had planned it. Ricci had discovered two Italians, Neapolitans,  entertaining friends very free with their money. Only a few months ago they had fled from Italy to escape the police. They would do anything for pay, and the count had employed them, chiefly to act as spies for him. Through them he had discovered that he was watched, that to come out of his hiding-place was dangerous, that to attempt to leave the country in the ordinary way was doomed to failure. He had the signorina, but they were virtual prisoners.

“But not now,” said West. “These men were spending their money. They had been paid, therefore the count has moved. Is that so?”

“It is,” said Lucchesi excitedly. “It was my theory. I told you to-day I had a theory. He would hide in London with the signorina until the watchfulness had slackened, or until he could arrange some other way of escape. He has arranged another way. A friend— I am not sure but I think he is a naturalized German, though his name is English— has put a yacht at his disposal. It is an English yacht, you see. There will be no difficulty on that score. It is lying off Bognor. The count goes tonight. We must reach Bognor before he does.”

“He is quite likely to be stopped at the station,” said West. “I believe a sharp lookout is being kept for him by the local authorities.”

“Signore, no one knows that better than the count. His spies have done their work quite well. He is not to start from any of your London stations. He will go a roundabout way. We can easily be before him.”

“I should think so,” said West. “A late train should get us there in time.”

“He will not arrive until to-morrow, so Ricci learned. Is it not so?”

Ricci nodded.

“We shall be first,” Lucchesi said. “We go and wait for him on board. I shall be able to laugh at Pietro of Tuscany.”

“I think I hear hatred in your voice,” said West, and, turning to Ricci, he asked: “Am I not right? Does he not hate the count?”

“Just as I do,” was the answer, with a little hiss which surprised West considerably. It was indicative of hate far deeper than Lucchesi’s.

West was puzzled. Were these two engaged in a quest— a vendetta? He looked from one to the other. Lucchesi laughed.

“We are good haters and good lovers, too, in the south,” he said. “It is our temperament— a little difficult for you to comprehend. You are so cold in England.”

“I was wondering whether I should find myself obliged to protect the count against you two.”

“Ah, you have imagination, you English. Ours is not hatred of that sort—only the kind that will make us laugh at him.”

“I’m glad of that. Have you a timetable?”

“Your Bradshaw, which I cannot understand.”

“I am not quite sure we are wise.” said Ricci. “Because I threatened them, and paid them, these Neapolitans told me the truth, but for more pay they will serve others against us. It is possible they may warn the count if they watch us and see us leave for Bognor. I hate Pietro of Tuscany, but I do not deny his cleverness. He might have arranged something with them. No, I do not like leaving openly in this way.”

“There is something in what Ricci says,” Lucchesi remarked thoughtfully.

“Much,” said West. “We will motor to Bognor. Where is the nearest telephone, I wonder?”

“In the shop down-stairs.”

Lucchesi and West went down together, and West phoned to a garage after looking up the number in the directory.

“A good car and a reliable chauffeur for a long distance run. That ought to bring us what we want,” West said, replacing the receiver.

“I did not say where we were going. It is as well to be careful.”

“You think of everything, signore.”

“No, no, only of some things. Our success, if we are successful, will be due to your colleague, Ricci.”

“How can we fail?”

“When I am most confident I am most careful,” said West. “We have a proverb about not cooking your hare before you have caught him.”

“Ah, we cannot fail now!”

“I hope not.”

“While we wait for the car we will drink to our success. We have Chianti. Our wines do not travel well. They are not here as they are in Italy, but something of the native perfume remains in the bottle I shall open. Ah, I know a wine you may drink on the hills overlooking Vallombrosa. Sunshine, signore liquid sunshine.”

THE NIGHT was fine. The motor was longer in coming than they expected, the chauffeur explaining that a car fitted for the journey was not in the garage when the message arrived. This car would do the distance well in the time, he said, and he knew the road.

As it happened the car did not behave as well as he prophesied. Halfway through the journey the engine began to work badly, and there was considerable delay while the chauffeur, with West’s assistance, attended to it.

So long as they arrived early in the morning the Italian detectives were not anxious. They were confident the count would not reach the yacht until later in the day. West, on the other hand, showed considerable annoyance. He cursed the car and the chauffeur and the garage which had supplied them, and was not to be appeased by Lucchesi when the car had been persuaded to run decently again.

They reached the outskirts of Bognor after daybreak. It promised to be a fine, breezy day. They had decided not to drive on to the front; they did not want to attract attention.

“You better get some breakfast and come back for us here,” West said to the chauffeur.

“Yes, sir. At what time?”

“Midday,” Lucchesi suggested. “We ought to be through with the business by then.”

They walked through the still-sleeping town to the sea.

“We have not been deceived,” said Ricci, pointing to the yacht lying out some little distance from the shore, a pleasure schooner built for cruising her graceful lines suggesting a speedy craft.

They chartered an early boatman to row them out; and early as it was the yacht was evidently awake, for, as the boat approached, two or three men came to the bulwarks to watch their coming— rather astonished at the appearance of the very early visitor. “The count is not on board,” said Lucchesi. “They look surprised; they do not expect him so early.”

“I am not so sure of that,” said West. “They look as if they were all ready to sail.”

“But that is natural, isn’t it? They are ready to go directly he comes. You are pessimistic, my friend.”

The boatman remarked that it looked as if she were going out with this tide.

“When did she arrive?” West eagerly asked.

“The day before yesterday.”

As they came alongside the skipper appeared. “Hello! What is it? Who are you?”

“Detectives,” said Lucchesi. “We want Count Lucchesi, of Tuscany.”

“There’s no person of that name about here.”

“There will be,” said West. “We have authority to search.”

“I’m not going to stop you,” said the skipper. “We’re not nervous of the law on this craft. If you’re going to wait for this count you talk about, you can send your boat back. I’ll send you ashore when you get tired of waiting.”

“We may have to wait some time,”

Lucchesi whispered to West. Ricci was more prompt with a decision.

“Thanks!” he said, tossing the boatman a coin. “We shall not want your services any more.”

The skipper smiled as they came on deck, looked at them critically, and suggested going to the saloon cabin.

“I do not doubt your authority,” he said, “but it is as well I should see it.”

Valentine glanced quickly round him and nodded his approval.

He followed Lucchesi and Ricci into the cabin, and the instant he was inside was seized from behind so effectually that any successful struggle was impossible. A hand was slipped into his pocket and his revolver neatly taken from him. Then he was released.

He looked sharply at his companions who stood by the table. No one had touched them. At that moment there was the sound of movement on deck, the strain of cordage and the rattle of the anchor-chain. They were evidently getting underway.

“What does this mean?” he demanded.

Lucchesi laughed.

“A little trickery, Signor West, a little successful trickery. I am Pietro, of Tuscany, and my colleague, Ricci, is the Signorina Contini. It is a pity she should have been obliged to sacrifice her beautiful hair for this enterprise, but it was necessary, and the hair will grow again.”

Ricci smiled and put his hand into the count’s.

“It is an outrage,” said West quietly.

“Sit down, signore, and let us talk of this,” Lucchesi said. “Be frank and admit there was to begin with an outrage against us—the separation of lovers.

“Scheming must be met by scheming. I stole the signorina from her prison at Cheltenham, but we were still prisoners. Your government was warned. We could not get away. The ports were closed against us— keen eyes were probably on the lookout for us everywhere. Any Italian man and woman traveling together would be suspected. So we planned that the government itself should help our escape. I applied to your foreign minister, as an Italian detective, for help in our search. You joined us. With you we could go anywhere. You knew we were detectives. I showed you a photograph to mislead you. It was not of the signorina, as you can see. Naturally Ricci did not go to the Italian quarter. She remained in our rooms, hiding, but you must confess she played her part well. Yet, even with you, we were afraid of the trains. Again the signorina persuaded you cleverly and you decided a car was best. Perhaps, as we are, as two men, we might have come alone to join the yacht, but I was afraid. The risk was too great. Questions might be asked, and we could not afford to be questioned. Signore, I shall presently have the pleasure of presenting you to the signorina in her true character. We have started for Spain, and it is necessary you go with us.”

“It should not be a great hardship.” The girl laughed.

“Signorina, I congratulate you on your cleverness,” said West.

“We have beaten you, that makes us very proud. You see, I do not hate the count as much as I pretended. That deceived you, is it not so?”

“It did.”

“And confess, signore, you rather sympathize with us.”

“Upon my word, I believe I do,” said West, “but you must remember that a man in my position must not let his sympathy prevent him doing his duty.”

“Ah, but you cannot always win. You have done your best.”

LATER IN the morning, under a fresh breeze, the schooner was dancing forth upon her journey when a smudge on the horizon quickly resolved itself into a gunboat coming at a tremendous pace.

The skipper looked at her through his glasses, then handed them to the count, and glanced at Valentine West.

“A gunboat,” said the count; and then in a different tone, he exclaimed: “A gunboat! It means that you— you—”

“Don’t be reckless, count,” West said quietly. “You may have the will and the power to settle with me, but that boat knows I am on board this yacht, and if I were not found here you would find explanations exceedingly awkward.”

“You have betrayed us!” said the girl.

“Unfortunately it was my duty. I am rather sorry.”

“Sorry!”

Had it not been for the intervention of the skipper the count might have had awkward explanations to give. There was a knife in his hand, and he had meant to use it. There were a few moments of tense silence, during which the skipper had taken the knife and the gunboat had come nearer.

“But when did you know?” the girl asked.

“I was suspicious from the moment I saw the photograph. She was not beautiful, and she was much more than eighteen. I was not sure, of course, but I made arrangements with my chauffeur. He drove us to Bognor in my car. By my instructions he was waiting at that garage, but I was careful not to know the telephone number, count. I looked it up in case you might suspect me. I was a little surprised when Ricci showed such hatred for the count and wondered whether I was making a mistake. It was excellent acting, signorina. I had an understanding with my man. He was late in coming on purpose, the car broke down on purpose, so that we should not be here too soon, and when I told him to have breakfast and wait for us, it meant that he was to get into communication with the authorities. You see he has done so.”

“But why— why not stop us before this?” the count burst out. “Why let us think we had succeeded and then— then this?”

“For two reasons, count. I wanted to do my job thoroughly and see who was helping you, and had I shown my hand sooner there might have been no one at hand to stop you using your knife. I could not tell what kind of man I had to deal with, nor how many from the Italian quarter he might not have in his pay.”

The skipper was shouting orders, the sails flapped. The gunboat had ordered them to stop.

IT WAS LATE when Valentine West got back to Bruton Street that night.

“Did you find the lady, sir?” Amos asked.

“Yes.”

“That’s good.”

“I almost wish I had failed,” said West. “Love is a wonderful thing, Amos!”

“So I’ve heard, sir.”

And Amos Free went out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

___________________

15: The Man with the Carnation

Percy J Brebner

All-Story Weekly, August 3, 1918

“YOU’RE a bit of a Bohemian, West.”

“Most men are,” was the answer spoken somewhat boisterously.

"I mean a bit added to the average,” said Lauderdale. “I’ve found a place in Soho where they give you an excellent dinner at a ridiculous price, where you can rub shoulders with genius as yet unrecognized, and look at beauty, the real thing, not the kind that must wear an expensive frock to get it into thebeauty class at all. Will you dine there with me to-night?”

“It sounds attractive,” West said. “Paris without the trouble of crossing the channel. Meet me at the Criterion, that will be handy for you. Seven o’clock.” “Right.”

They had met in Whitehall. Lauderdale was in the War-Office, and was returning from lunch; West had just left that building and was not in the best of tempers. Officialdom had become annoyed that he had not performed a miracle. A night off would do him good.

The place in Soho called itself Le Chien Rouge, and was not quite up to Lauderdale’s eulogy. The genius was of the longhaired and rather dilapidated sort, and might never receive recognition nor deserve it, while thebeauty was a little vulgar and unreserved.Other men had discovered the place as well as Lauderdale, and had found it a very good start to an evening’s frolic. Certainly the dinner was excellent, the entertainers above the average, and the sense of relaxation was rather pleasant.

“It will soon be spoiled,” said Lauderdale; “but at present I like it. And it is rather amusing to speculate what the history of some of these people is.”

“Most of them would be delighted to tell you if you asked, I fancy,” said West. “Not the truth, perhaps, but something, probably, with a romantic note in it.”

“I dare say; but I should back my imagination. Genius often travels a sordid road, and beauty, well, the way is fairly thorny for beauty as a rule.”

“Didn’t know you were a philosopher, Lauderdale.”

“Live and learn, my dear chap. Now, that girl at the table in the corner yonder, what’s her history?”

“By the way she has been watching us I should say she would willingly change her place at the present moment.”

“Fed up with her present company, eh. I don’t wonder; still, I don’t feel like that sort of entertainment this evening, do you?”

“Not a bit. I seldom do.”

“We are birds of a feather, West. I like to watch the passing show and keep aloof from the crowd. This is the kind of place to meet some of the beggars you are always after.”

“You’ve been reading sensational fiction, Lauderdale.”

“Not I. Life is quite sensational enough without that. We are full of it at the War-Office occasionally. We are at the present moment. There is a rumor going about that some plans of a quick-firing gun have disappeared. Heard anything about it?”

He had lowered his voice, but West glanced quickly round him.

“Not quite the place to talk about it, is it?”

“No, I suppose not; but my word, West, you give yourself away. It is evidently not only in fiction that such places as this are of interest to hunters of your game.”

They lingered over their coffee and liqueurs, talking art, which was Lauderdale’s hobby. The girl from the table in the corner smiled at them as she passed out with her companions. The room was emptying.

“I was speaking of prints just now,” said Lauderdale. “If you are not keen on going to a show, what do you say to coming to my rooms and looking at some prints of mine. I have got a quiet little hole over a shop off Oxford Street. It is really rather jolly, and suits my pocket.”

“Certainly I’ll come. Theaters and music-halls are off just now. I have been having a round of them.”

They helped each other on with their overcoats in the vestibule—Le Chien Rouge was deficient in service of this kind—and, going out, hailed a passing taxi.

Lauderdale’s hole off Oxford Street was cozy enough, but somewhat bizarre. The shop below sold second-hand furniture, and his sitting-room suggested that some of the pieces for sale had been stored here. There was no scheme or arrangement worth mentioning. The walls were covered with prints, mostly bad ones, West thought, but he was not quite certain enough of his knowledge to stop his companion’s enthusiasm.

“A drink won’t hurt us,” said Lauderdale, “and you’ll find those cigars quite good. There is a fellow in the city gets them for me, and the price I pay suggests humbug somewhere. I don’t believe they’ve paid duty.”

“Very wrong, but it shall not prevent my sampling them,” said West.

“See if that is to your liking,” and Lauderdale passed him a whisky and soda. “And going back to the rumor of that quick-firing gun— by the way, you didn’t say whether you had heard anything about it.”

“No. Forgive me, but shop is the one thing I never allow myself to talk about.”

“Quite right; but it is not my shop exactly, and I have a theory about the business. I said it was a rumor, but you can take it from me, the plans have been stolen.”

“And what is your theory?”

As it was with regard to the finding of these plans that the War-Office seemed to expect Valentine West to work a miracle, he was inclined to listen to any theory.

“I get you interested, do I?” laughed Lauderdale. “That tells tales. My theory is this. Some fellow in the War-Office, having made up papers to look like the plans, watched for and got his opportunity of putting the sham in the place of the real.”

“That is not a theory, that is the obvious.”

“You have been thinking about it, then. What should you say if I could put my hand on the man?”

“Offer you a partnership in my job.”

“The reward is not big enough,” said Lauderdale. “You think I am guessing; well, look here.”

From an inner pocket he took an envelope, sealed and official looking. “Those are the plans, West. I am the man who took them.”

“Is this a jest.”

“No, just fact. More, I know you are after those plans, and should not be very surprised to hear that you have been talked to severely for not having put your hand on them before this. Look at the packet. It is sealed in a special way you will notice. You will know that it is genuine.” He threw it on the table and West took it up. The most casual glance convinced him that they were the lost plans. They were in a special envelope, specially sealed.

He continued to examine the packet carefully, not because he had any doubt, but to have time to think.

“I am rather pleased with my cleverness,” Lauderdale went on. “They consider themselves so abnormally smart in my place that it has been excellent sport opening their eyes to their fallibility. It took some doing. It was a brainy idea. The sham duplicate has deceived them for a day or two, now they are pulling every string they know to get that packet back, and Valentine West is on the job. It makes me laugh.”

“A joke of this kind is no laughing matter, Lauderdale.”

“That is because you lack imagination. I am out to explain the whole business to you. You will understand that packet would be a dangerous thing to leave about, I thought that point out carefully, and also the possibility of a search being made in my rooms, so for safety I have had a special pocket made in my coats. That was a good idea, not new, perhaps, but not one generally adopted by fellows in the War-Office. Confess, now, you never suspected me, West.”

“I never talk shop to any one.”

“That is a way out quite unworthy of you,” Lauderdale laughed. “Be a sportsman and admit you have been done for once; that you have come up against a man as smart as you are yourself. You can afford the confession because you have had a long run of success.”

“I always admit my failures,” said West. “We have not got to the end of this business yet.”

“Very nearly we have. Bluff won’t do; I happen to know the facts.”

“Tell me what you are expecting me to do,” said West. “You say this affair is not a jest, so I imagine you have repented and want me to shield you as much as I can.”

“No, that is not the idea at all. I am going to sell those plans. You may wonder why I didn’t get rid of them at once; well, the purchasers have only arrived in London to-day. The sale takes place tonight.”

West was debating whether the man was a fool or a maniac, but did not jump to any hasty conclusion. The theft had shown great cunning and resource; perhaps a madman’s cunning. Lauderdale’s present action seemed to be mere egotistical folly, but it was not safe to take this for granted.

“You see, West, my tastes are expensive, and in paying me for my services the government has not taken this fact into consideration,” Lauderdale went on. “That is one point. Then this is another little fact which it would not have paid me to insist upon. I am Irish on my mother’s side, closely connected with the Filligan family. You will remember the name. Some of them have suffered badly for expressing their opinions, so I am not very friendly with England on their account. I am out to get a little bit of the family’s own back. That is why those plans are going to be sold to-night.”

“I do not think they are,” said West, putting the envelope in his pocket.

Lauderdale laughed.

“And I am going now.”

Still laughing, Lauderdale put himself between the door and his companion, and a moment later was looking down a revolver barrel. Still he laughed.

“My dear West, I should have thought you would have been convinced by now that I am not a fool. That is an excellent revolver, but it is not the one you put into your pocket when you left home to-night. I made the exchange when I helped you on with your coat at Le Chien Rouge. Sleight-of-hand tricks have been a hobby with me for years— I often do a turn in the cause of charity at suburban concerts. That revolver is loaded in every chamber, but with dud cartridges.”

“Shooting is not the only way,” said West, springing upon his companion. Lauderdale was a powerful man, and he was not taken by surprise.

“I think I should get the best of it in a rough and tumble,” he said; “but I have sufficient respect for you not to take any chances.”

He whistled. From an inner room came three men, the three who had been the companions of the girl at Le Chien Rouge.

“You are an observant fellow, West, so I need not introduce you,” said Lauderdale. “I see you recognize my friends. The lady is not here. I am meeting her a little later for supper when our business is finished.”

Valentine West snapped open the revolver to make sure that Lauderdale had spoken the truth. He had. They were dud cartridges right enough, and he tossed the weapon on to the table. He was up against a tough proposition; tougher than he knew.

He had never suspected Lauderdale. He had not told Amos Free where he was dining, nor with whom. These men would certainly do their best to keep him silent and inactive until they had made good their escape. Like an utter fool he had walked into a trap, and there was irony in the thought that the stolen plans were at this moment in his possession. Could he defend them? Could he keep them? In spite of the odds against him, could he win out of this dilemma?

“I’ll trouble you for the packet, West,” said Lauderdale. “It is something that you have been allowed to handle it.”

Lauderdale appeared to have read his thoughts.

For a moment West hesitated, then very slowly he took out the packet and put it on the table.

“I yield to superior force,” he said.

Lauderdale took it up and handed it to one of the men. “Examine it, monsieur.”

He might have been a Frenchman, but he had Spanish blood in his veins, West thought. He appeared to be the leader of the trio, and was a sinister, cold-blooded-looking individual. His companions were more blatant villains, more like paid desperadoes than master criminals. To what government were these plans being sold. To know this would be worth something, and in watching the man as he examined the envelopes and seals, he forgot his own position for the moment. The man was businesslike. It was not the first time he had handled stolen documents.

“Good,” he said. “We have done business together before, Mr. Lauderdale, and it was very satisfactory.”

“You will be making West curious,” was the answer. “He never talks shop. I will follow his example and not mention my past enterprises.”

“There is the money, Mr. Lauderdale, in notes. It is not necessary to count it. If there should be a mistake it can be rectified.”

Lauderdale took the bundle of notes and thrust it into his pocket.

“Into the inner secret pocket, West,” he said. “It is quite safe. I suppose you are feeling pretty bad over this affair.”

“I am sorry for you.”

“Oh, drop that,” was the answer with sudden savagery. “Bluff is no good with me. Under any circumstances you’re the kind of man it does one good to get the better of. You’re an American and too cocksure of yourself, and you annoy me. You are so fond of springing surprises on the people who employ you, and think yourself so darned clever, that you take mighty good care not to give yourself away before-hand. If you have ever suspected me, which I do not believe, I know perfectly well you wouldn’t mention it. I know your methods. I have made it my business to study them rather closely. I shall turn up at Whitehall to-morrow without any fear. That surprises you, eh?”

“It does rather,” and West spoke no more than the truth. He was beginning to have some respect for the completeness of this madman’s scheme.

“I have sold the plans to the representatives of a continental syndicate,” Lauderdale went on. “Later no doubt the syndicate will sell them to the highest bidder which, seeing this country’s interest in the gun, may be Britain. The syndicate is cosmopolitan, neutral, whatever you like to call it. It has no favorite among the nations. It is out to buy secrets and to crush any one who is dangerous to its enterprises. Once or twice you have come near to spoiling its business. You are clever enough to be wanted out of the way. That is why I shall turn up in Whitehall to-morrow without fear.”

“It is an interesting plot,” said West, speaking calmly but realizing his danger.

“Worked out in detail,” was the answer.

“I don’t know whether you have tumbled to the fact that these are not my rooms. They are just hired for this purpose by the syndicate. There is no one in the shop below, to-morrow there will be no one in these rooms either.”

“No one alive you mean,” said West.

He knew he was in a desperate strait, but he could lose nothing by facing the peril courageously.

“There is one thing I should like to know, Lauderdale. You are evidently convinced that I had no suspicion of you—”

“I am dead sure of that or you wouldn’t have entered the trap so easily.”

“Then why should you be so anxious to make an end of me? It cannot be because I happen to be an American.”

“Were you not instrumental in bringing a Filligan to the gallows? This is the payment. I haven’t a shadow of regret. I go to supper, you—”

“Ah, speculation on that point puzzles you,” said West. “I am glad I have the full explanation. In exchange I will give you one piece of advice. Don’t go to Whitehall to-morrow, you will regret it if you do.”

“Bluff to the last.”

“No,” said West. “If you are foolish enough to go, beware of the man with the carnation.”

“Oh, go to the devil.”

“I hope to take another road,” was the quiet retort.

Lauderdale went out, and as he did so one of the men went quickly toward the door to prevent West making an attempt at escape. The Frenchman with the packet still in his hand stood by the table.

“You are no coward, I’m sure, M. West. I regret that your death is necessary. Unfortunately I have no alternative. I am acting under instructions. The interests of the syndicate must be considered, and the promise given to Mr. Lauderdale is binding. Your death is part of the payment for these plans.” He produced a revolver and examined it.

“You evidently trust Mr. Lauderdale,” said West.

“Implicitly. He has already been very useful.”

“I fancy the thought of meeting a man with a carnation to-morrow will give him an uneasy night.”

West fervently hoped so. Furious with himself for being so easily trapped; he had tried to frighten his trapper. There was no such person as the man with a carnation. He wished there was. The bluff was poor satisfaction even if it did make Lauderdale uneasy.

“I think not,” said the Frenchman. “He seems to have beaten you altogether. I am rather surprised. I thought you were a much more difficult man to deal with. Your bluff— is that what you call it?— will not make him afraid of you.”

“But it may help to make him afraid of you,” said West.

“Of me?”

“I suppose the syndicate would be fairly mad if it paid money for worthless paper?”

“It hasn’t.”

“Lauderdale has beaten me or I should not be here, but he has beaten you too, I fancy. He has your money, you have that envelope. You have not opened it to see you have got what you paid for.”

“A little more bluff, eh, M. West? It does not move me. I know by the official mark and seals what I have bought and so do you. You recognized it the moment Mr. Lauderdale showed it to you. I was listening and heard from the room yonder.”

“Monsieur, I would remind you of something else Lauderdale said. The sham packet had deceived the War-Office. I should advise you to break the seals and examine those papers. If you know where Lauderdale is supping to-night you may have time to catch him before he has finished, and get your money back.”

The Frenchman hesitated. He looked keenly at West, glanced sharply at his companions to assure himself they were on the alert to prevent trickery and escape, then he broke the seals. He was deliberate as he drew the papers from the envelope. He opened the first slowly, the others quickly, and let the lot fall on to the table.

They were all blank paper.

“Tricked!” he cried with a savage oath.

“Both of us,” said West quickly.

The man standing by the door had started forward a pace. His attitude had a crouch in it, like an animal ready to spring. Lauderdale could be dealt with later; it did not alter the purpose concerning the man who was in their power now, it merely emphasized the need for quick action. The man was ready expecting the Frenchman’s signal.

Valentine West knew his peril. The man’s attitude convinced him that murder was intended to be silent, strangulation or the knife. It had not been intended to run the risk of interruption from the street by using firearms. These two were no more than hired assassins, experts at their work. He knew a false move must prove fatal.

There was just one chance of salvation and only one.

He stood perfectly still, calculating distance and time in small fractions. At the moment he moved he knew the attack would come. He must make no mistake. Suddenly he sprang forward, his arm shot out across the table and he had the revolver the Frenchman had put down when he opened the envelope.

“If your men move I shoot you,” said West.

The Frenchman, stunned by Lauderdale’s trickery, was wholly taken by surprise. The man by the door moved, and in a moment had reeled back against the wall with a cry of pain, a bullet through his right arm. It was no time to take chances, no moment for words.

“Hands up! Every one of you!”

West cried. Then with his left hand he seized from the table the revolver containing the dud cartridges and, without turning around, hurled it at the window behind him. The blind stopped it from going through into the street below, but the glass was smashed, falling on the pavement. Some one passing in the street shouted excitedly.

“Police! Police!” West called at the top of his voice, paused a moment, then called again.

For the three men the position had suddenly become desperate. The Frenchman made a pretense of raising his hands, but instead of doing so caught the edge of the table to turn it over upon his assailant to confuse him and to shield himself at the same time. At that same instant the other man sprang to the attack. He was the more dangerous of the two, and West fired again. His enemy stopped as if he had struck some invisible wall in his forward rush, stood erect for a moment, and then pitched backward over a chair.

“Get to the wall,” West warned the Frenchman, crouching behind the upturned table. “I’ll give you five seconds.”

He obeyed. He had ample evidence that he was not dealing with a man of words.

“M. West, you are entirely too precipitate,” he said as he took his place beside the wounded man against the wall. “We are both deceived as you said, and a word of explanation—”

“You can give that later,” was the sharp answer. “Stand still and keep quiet, that is all I want of you now.”

A crowd was evidently gathering in the street below.

“Break open the door now,” West shouted.

A few minutes later two constables with half a dozen other men entered the room. Neither of the constables knew West, but a whispered word made them take prompt action, and twenty minutes later West got into a taxi in Oxford Street. There were officials to interview without delay.

NEXT MORNING Valentine West walked to the War-Office, and on his way he did an unusual thing, he bought a flower for his buttonhole— a carnation, and he smiled to himself as the girl fastened it in place. The same high official who had been rather short with him yesterday was exceedingly gracious this morning. “You must accept congratulations and thanks, Mr. West.”

He accepted both modestly, but did not suggest that he had small claim to them nor speak of any chance in the success he had achieved. He did not confess that he had been completely deceived by Lauderdale, that he had walked blindly into a trap, and that he had only retrieved his mistake at the eleventh hour. It was not good for the official mind to be told too much.

“Has Lauderdale come as usual?” he asked.

“Yes. There was nothing to alarm him in the papers. As we arranged last night they merely stated that a man unknown had been found dead in a house off Oxford Street.”

“Who he believes is me,” said West with a smile. “Perhaps you would send for Mr. Lauderdale. I think he will have the surprise of his life.”

In answer to the summons, Lauderdale came into the room a few minutes later, expecting to receive some business instructions from his chief. He did not see West, who had slipped into a recess and was out of his line of vision as he entered. Lauderdale said good morning, and his chief, not without a sense of the dramatic, pointed to the recess. Lauderdale turned and then fell back with a cry of consternation.

“You! West!”

“The man with the carnation,” was the quiet answer. “I told you to beware of him. The dead man found is one of your confederates. That is a surprise to you, but it may even surprise you more to know that the two who are alive are thirsting for your destruction. They were tricked last night. They handed you money for nothing. When they opened the envelope it contained only blank paper.”

“I—”

“You can hardly believe it, that is natural since you had arranged every detail so carefully. You forgot one thing. You are not the only person who has thought of a secret pocket. I have one. It was into that pocket I slipped your packet, and when it was demanded from me I took out of an ordinary inside pocket the sham packet which I have carried ever since the theft was discovered. You had made up the sham one so well that you yourself were deceived by it. Incidentally you have done your country a great service by explaining to me some of the activities of the continental syndicate. I dare say you will be induced to speak of your other enterprises later.”

That evening the papers were full of the affair in the house off Oxford Street, and Valentine West sat in his room in Bruton Street and congratulated himself on his escape. He had never expected to play the man with the carnation, and was thankful he had been able to do so. But what annoyed him more than anything which happened to him for a long time past was the fact that a man like Lauderdale should have tricked him so easily.

“Amos.”

The man paused in the act of removing the crumbs from the table-cloth. “Amos, next time I tell you I am going out to dinner demand to know where and with whom. Don’t forget.”

“Very well, sir,” and Amos Free went on with his work.

____________________

16: The Lady's Glove

Percy J Brebner

All-Story Weekly, August 10, 1918

"YOU here, West?"

“Why not?" and a fair-red, young-looking man turned sharp face his questioner, letting a monocle fall from his eye as he did so, suggesting that he saw a great deal better without it. “Why not, Sir Charles?”

“No particular reason, only one hears of fellows meeting you in such rum places, right the other side of the city, or out in the suburbs somewhere, queer places where no one else goes.”

“That hardly applies here, does it?” West returned, glancing across the great room rapidly filling with guests. “I wonder what Lady Hanson would say if she heard you call her house a rum place.”

“Agree with me, I expect, if she were entertaining a political crowd like to-night. Politics and diplomacy bring some rare specimens into the open. Which are you?”

“Neither.”

“You are not going to tell me you come here for pleasure.”

“Is that the only alternative? Why not get local color for sensational articles on social London?”

“Is that the game?”

“You mustn’t forget that I am half American, and that half of me is inclined to hustle.”

“Your erratic course becomes clear,” said Sir Charles. “High and low society, eh? That is why you were at the Sussex Music Hall the other night while we looked for you at the club to make up a bridge table.”

“Then it wasn’t you who saw me there?”

“Good Lord, no. I don’t even know where it is; I only know it’s a place where nobody goes. It was Harley who saw you—fellow in the Home Office.”

“Was he after local color, too?”

“He didn’t say, but I think not,” Sir Charles answered. “As he has confessed to half a dozen other queer places during the past month, and as I notice that Jennie Bradshaw has been doing a dancing turn at every one of them, I draw conclusions. It’s not much use being in the diplomatic service if you can’t draw conclusions, and I am getting quite a lot of practise out of Harley.”

Lady Hanson, wife of a cabinet minister, and an American, was a noted hostess. Besides being a very beautiful woman, she had brought her husband a fortune, and had introduced into his surroundings a certain unconventionally which most people found attractive.

There was some truth in what Sir Charles Morrison said. People were to be met at her receptions who were unlikely to be seen at other similar functions, artists and literary men who had not yet made good, and leaders of movements which had not yet moved sufficiently to attract attention.

“Hello! The guest of the evening,” said Sir Charles suddenly.

West looked across the room. In the curtained archway, opening on to the hall, Lady Hanson was receiving her guests. At this moment she was greeting a handsome, middle-aged man, and her manner certainly suggested that he was a guest of special importance.

“Up to his neck in the European tangle,” said Sir Charles, “yet swears there is no political significance in his visit to this country. I fancy the Foreign Office believes him.”

“General Rasiloff, isn’t it?” said West. “Lady Hanson appears to know him very well.”

“Met him in Moscow when her husband was out there. I wonder what you newspaper fellows think of him.”

“More than we point. I’m wondering what you diplomatists know.”

“Lots more than we tell, even to you, West,” and Sir Charles moved away to speak to a lady who had evidently stopped to attract his attention.

Valentine West watched him for a few moments. Sir Charles Morrison was by no means a fool, and West was not anxious that he should practise diplomacy on him as he did on Harley of the Home Office. He moved through the growing crowd of guests in the opposite direction to that which Sir Charles and his companion had taken, and presently managed to get near the archway where Lady Hanson talked to General Rasiloff.

“I must wait a few moments,” he heard her say. “There are always the late arrivals, and some of them are important. I am wondering what has brought you to England.”

The general smiled, but Lady Hanson spoke as if she had no doubt he would tell her. She was the kind of woman to whom a man might tell secrets he would whisper to no one else.

It was an interesting point that they had met in Moscow. Lady Hanson might be deeper in political matters than any one supposed.

Some days ago West had discussed General Rasiloff with the foreign minister in his private room at the Foreign Office, and the minister had suggested that many women gave away secrets in chatter. Since then every social function attended by the general had also been attended by this fair-haired, insignificant young man who affected a monocle and was supposed to spend his life in killing time.

Sir Charles Morrison’s knowledge of some of his recent movements warned him that his real business in life must often be in danger of discovery, and West kept in the background now, lest the general should realize he had seen him several times lately, and grow suspicious. Not much was likely to escape those keen, dark eyes.

Lady Hanson glanced at the watch on her wrist and concluded she had given late arrivals grace enough.

“Now, general,” she said, taking his arm, “we have a Russian orchestra in the music-room in your honor. You must tell me whether they are as good and as national as people say, and also you can tell me—”

They moved away, and West lost the conclusion of the sentence; and in the music-room he could not get close enough to overhear their conversation. He had to be content with watching them from a distance.

The orchestra was small but excellent, playing Russian music almost exclusively, perhaps on Lady Hanson’s instructions, or perhaps because the leader, the first violin, had noted that the honored guest of the evening was a compatriot. It was in the general’s direction that he bowed when acknowledging applause.

The music-room was the center of a suite of rooms containing many treasures of art, pictures, china, statuary, and rare furniture, treasures which would have come to the hammer, it was whispered, had not Lord Hanson married a fortune. When the music ceased, the guests broke up into groups, some moving in one direction, some in another.

The hostess had been called away for a moment, and the general was alone. Whether it was accidental, or whether he intentionally kept on the edge of the moving crowd, West could not determine, but as if he had been watching for this opportunity the first violin was suddenly at the general’s side.

“Monsieur, the lady who has just left dropped this,” and he held out a long, white glove, which the general took almost mechanically. The musician gave him no opportunity to ask questions; as quickly as he had come he was gone, and was lost among the guests.

Conscious apparently that he looked rather foolish holding the long glove as if it were something he did not understand, the general doubled it up, and had thrust it into his pocket when Lady Hanson returned. She was wearing gloves, she had not dropped one, yet she must be the lady referred to as having just left him. The general had been with no other.

Valentine West, looking exceedingly bored, became keenly alert. Not for a moment must he lose sight of Rasiloff. The general may have been surprised to get the glove from the violinist, but sooner or later he expected to receive it, and knew its significance. Just at first West had not been certain of this, but he was the moment he saw the general thrust it into his pocket. The glove was a sign; action of some kind, probably, would follow quickly, and wide issues might hang on the general’s behavior during the next two or three hours.

The first move came sooner than West expected. Making some excuse to his hostess, the general went hurriedly into the hall as if in pursuit of some one he had caught sight of; and as he went he took the glove from his pocket, feeling it carefully. He turned it so as to get at the fingers, and from one of them he took something. This was accomplished as he went among the guests, unnoticed by any one except West, who followed close behind him. Under a light in the corner of the hall he casually unfolded a tiny piece of paper, as a man does who finds a scrap in his pocket and wonders what it is; as casually he screwed it up in his fingers and tossed it aside, much to West’s astonishment. It could not be of much importance. Then he turned back toward the room he had left and seeing a servant gave him the glove.

“I picked this up. Some one may inquire about it.” The moment he had gone West let his handkerchief fall, and in picking it up picked up the paper pellet as well. On it was written in ink: To-night. After one. No. 42 Grove Road, Kensington.

He did not throw it away again, but slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. Then he followed the servant.

“By the way, do you chance to have found a glove, a lady’s long glove?”

“A gentleman has just given me this, sir.”

“That’s the one. Thanks very much.”

West looked at his watch, made a rapid calculation, and strolled back into the rooms. He caught sight of the general in the distance talking to Lord Hanson, and then he ran into Morrison.

“I’m off soon. Are you going to the club? We might go together.”

“Sorry, but I am off now—Fleet Street way. Social article, you know. Fleet Street gets busy when the rest of the world is thinking of going to bed.”

An hour later when Sir Charles remarked in the club that Valentine West was a journalist, he caused a roar of laughter. West had never done a day’s work in his life either with a pen or with any other implement, he was informed, and the general impression was that Sir Charles had had his leg badly pulled.

West got his hat and coat from the cloak-room. He was walking, he told the servant at the door. He crossed the road to the railings of the garden in the center of the square, paused there, and was immediately joined by a man in a bowler hat and ulster. The man listened while West talked.

“You quite understand. Be sure you operate on the right car.”

“There shall be no mistake, Mr. West.” West walked leisurely out of the square and found his own car at the corner of an adjacent street.

“We get a move on. Amos,” he said to the chauffeur, “and it’s not in the direction of bed yet. Grove Road. Kensington. The appointment is for one o’clock. Find the road; I’ll find the house.”

Amos Free never spoke unless he was absolutely obliged, and then he was usually monosyllabic. Now he nodded, looked at the clock fixed in front of him, and regulated his pace accordingly. He had no idea where Grove Road was, and at the Horns, Kensington, he was obliged to pull up and ask a policeman. They were probably the first words he had spoken that day.

Grove Road proved long and dark, with semi-detached houses fronted by strips of garden on either side. Possibly it had seen better days, the houses were large enough to suggest it, but palings were rather dilapidated now, gates hung awry, and there was a plentiful crop of “To Be Let” boards.

“I am going to No. 42, Amos,” said West, getting out at the end of the road. “Get up a bit closer to the house when I am in, and if I whistle get desperate. It will be time.”

A dim light shone through the semicircle of frosted glass over the door of No. 42; no other light was visible, and the houses on either side appeared to be empty. A moss-grown path led to the door, and the strip of garden had been allowed to look after itself. There was no knocker, only a bell push. West pushed twice before there was a sound of shuffling feet and the door opened. An elderly, slatternly woman looked out, and without waiting to be questioned, stood aside to let him enter. Evidently she expected a visitor. She led the way down the passage to the back, opened a door and shoved him into a room, tawdrily furnished, with a most appalling wallpaper, and one gas-jet burning in a three-branch chandelier. The woman closed the door and left him without a word.

Valentine West was prepared for anything, or imagined he was, but he had not expected to be admitted so easily. It made him cautious. He looked quickly about him and listened for sounds in the house. The room was one of two between which heavy green curtains hung closely. At one time there had evidently been folding doors. The door by which he had entered was in the wall at right angles to the curtained opening, and in the wall opposite the curtains, and to one side of it, was another door. It might be the slatternly woman’s idea of a desirable sitting-room, but there was nothing in it to indicate what manner of person was accustomed to occupy it.

Valentine West was certainly not prepared for the person who came to him. She entered by the door in the wall opposite the curtains, a girl in shimmering white, a dress which seemed to sheathe and caress the most perfect figure he had ever seen. Her hair was raven black, her eyes deep violet, full of dreams and passion, her face that perfect oval beloved by artists. West had wondered what General Rasiloff could possibly have to do with such an entourage as this. The girl before him put a different complexion on the matter. Who was she? Somewhere he had seen her.

He bowed, waiting for her to speak, hoping to find some clue to the mystery. She could not belong to this house. It was a secret meeting-place. West had been working on the assumption that the general had come to England to obtain certain information. The nature of it he did not know, nor did the Foreign Office, though it was very anxious to learn.

“I do not know you,” she said, perplexed. Her voice was full and musical, suggested that she might not be quite as young as she looked. She was Russian, or a Pole, perhaps. Her hesitancy gave West in inspiration.

“No, I am not General Rasiloff,” he said quietly. “I gather you do not know him personally.”

“I am only concerned to know who you are and why you are here,” she answered.

West felt convinced she did not know the general. He drew the long, white glove from his pocket and placed it on the table which was between them.

“That may introduce me,” he said.

“Really, sir, I have encountered much insolence from men, but yours— what is this?”

“Just an ordinary glove, a woman’s glove, possibly not yours, but in the finger of it a scrap of paper was concealed which the general—”

“Then—”

“Oh, yes, he received it quite safely. That is why I am here.”

“You come instead of him? You waste your time and mine. I have a message for him; I give it to no one else.”

“You do not understand,” said West.

“I want to,” she laughed. “Is he afraid? It is not like him.”

Her attitude was dramatic, and her laugh had a ring in it which once heard was not likely to be forgotten. West knew he had heard it before. Where? If he could remember it might give him a clue how to act.

“Oh, he is not afraid,” and he laughed too, “but he is not quite as free as you imagine, nor as he himself would desire. When visitors like the general are in this country we do our best to take care of them. Police watch over their safety wherever they go, and at this moment I imagine the general is doing his best to give his guardians the slip in order to visit you without any one being any the wiser.”

“Then why are you here?”

“The general is aware that traps are sometimes set for persons in his position.”

“You think—”

“I think he will be quite safe.”

Intuition and memory came to Valentine West at the same moment. This woman, with the fire of passion in her eyes, was too closely in touch with the primitive to hide her feelings successfully. She hated General Rasiloff. Why? She was a Pole; it would be more natural for her to love him.

West knew she was a Pole, for remembrance had come to him. She was Elska Maloski, the prima donna who had created something of a sensation during the past opera season. He had heard her sing in “La Boheme” and “Faust.” He had never been in her company before, never spoken to her, but he knew she had been widely feted, and she would certainly not remember all who had been present to do her honor on these occasions.

“I am afraid you are looking upon me as an enemy,” he said. “I am most anxious to be considered a friend. You have forgotten me; it is not remarkable, but one does not so easily forget Elska Maloski.”

“You know me! How?”

“You have been entertained more than once; is it remarkable that I should have been among the guests? I am a music lover. Only to-night I have enjoyed the music of your friend, the violinist, who was your messenger.”

“Still I do not understand what you have to do with General Rasiloff, nor why you are here. Men have forced themselves upon me before.”

“I know the kind you mean; I am not one of them. Let me explain. General Rasiloff is not only a Russian, he is of interest and service to every state in Europe. His own country comes first, I doubt not; but he has done much to advance higher ideals of government in Europe, higher aims of life, to establish a greater sense of brotherhood among the nations. Such wide activities as his naturally embrace many small men— men like myself for instance. No one can be better aware of his wide sympathies than you are. There is no man in Russia who has worked so steadily for the good of Poland. His partisanship has earned him many enemies in his own country.”

“Rasiloff! Poland! You can say all this of General Rasiloff?”

“I know it is true.”

“True of Michael Rasiloff!” she exclaimed. “You are either a fool or his dupe.”

The passionate tone of her answer set West’s brain working rapidly. Surely this house was a trap to-night, baited with this beautiful singer. Yet she did not know the general, that was clear; it was only his reputation she knew, or thought she did. Whatever information the general expected to receive to-night, this was a dangerous place to come for it. What was Elska Maloski’s purpose in being here.

West made up his mind quickly. He might run some personal risk in telling the truth; he might ruin all chance of discovering the reason of Rasiloff's visit to this country, but the general might be here at any moment, and there was no knowing what peril lay in wait for him in this house in Grove Road.

“Perhaps it is you who have been deceived,” he said. “Do you know who General Rasiloff really is?”

“Know him!” she exclaimed.

“Do you know that the name is only assumed for traveling purposes, as an incognito; that he is the Grand Duke Paul?”

She stepped back in amazement.

“The Grand Duke Paul,” she said in a whisper; “the man for whom any Pole would gladly die.”

“That is why we look after him so carefully,” said West.

“You swear this is true?”

“I do.”

She looked straight into his eyes as if she would read his soul. For a moment she stood rigid, and then suddenly she was alive with a movement so swift that West’s eyes could not follow it.

“Liar!” she cried, and at the same instant a revolver cracked, fired at him point-blank, West thought.

He had no time to utter a sound, and if he moved at all it was involuntarily until something struck him and sent him staggering across the room. It was a man’s body which struck him as it fell to the floor. He had heard no sound, but the woman had seen the man come from between the curtains, bent on murder, and had fired at him across West’s shoulder. He lay quite still, a short dagger still gripped in his hand. West realized that the woman had saved his life if at the same time she had taken her own revenge.

“That was Demetrius Braska who for his own ends lied to me,” she said.

“And objected to my telling you the truth,” said West, bending down to look into the man’s face. It was the violinist who had led the orchestra at Lady Hanson’s to-night.

At that moment the front door-bell rang.

“Are there any more like him in the house?” West asked, pointing at the dead man.

“No.”

“Will you allow me to take care of that revolver?”

After a moment’s hesitation she gave it to him.

“I will open the door,” he said. The girl had saved his life, and instinctively he was protecting her against the result of her action. He was not afraid of the duke, but he was very anxious the slatternly woman should not know what had happened, not yet at any rate. There was no knowing what interest she might have in the dead man.

The duke was armed and prepared for surprise, West saw that the moment he entered. Without a word he closed the door and led him to the room at the back. Elska Maloski swept him a deep curtsy, and as he acknowledged it he saw the dead man on the floor.

“I shot him,” she said calmly. “I will tell your highness why.”

“I am General Rasiloff. Your message—”

“No, no, you are Duke Paul,” said the girl. “I know. Your friend here has told me.”

The duke looked at Valentine West and then caught sight of the glove lying on the table.

“Is this a trap?” he asked, and it was quite evident he was ready for emergency.

“It was,” said West. “There lies the man who brought you the glove to-night at Lady Hanson’s.”

“Demetrius Braska who lied to me,” said the girl excitedly. “I will tell you about him and about General Rasiloff— Michael Rasiloff. When I was a child there was discontent, revolution in Poland; it is often the same. My father was in it, my mother, too, I think. This Michael Rasiloff was also one with them at first, then turned traitor, and was afterward one of those sent to suppress the rising. There are horrible stories told of his doings. Of one I know. My father was killed in street fighting; my mother, with many others, was arrested. This Michael Rasiloff was in love with my mother, what he called love, and because she would have nothing to do with him she was, at his instigation, most foully treated, dying at last under the whip.”

“I know the man,” said the duke. “It is a common name. I did not think of this man when I adopted it.”

“He was in high favor,” the girl went on, “not to be punished; but I vowed to remember, and some day pay my mother’s debt. The resolve has been with me always. Even at my moments of greatest triumph when an audience has gone mad at my song it has been with me. The man lying there became my friend. Persecution had made him flee from Russia to England— he said so, but he may have lied in that too— and he was full of sympathy for me. He had a plan to get General Rasiloff to this country. There was certain information the general wanted concerning plotters in Russia; he would go anywhere to get that information. I wrote a letter, putting a sign to it which Demetrius said the general would understand. I said I could give him the information he wanted; that he must come to London; that at some function or other, or in some other way, he would receive a lady’s long glove in the finger of which he would find the appointment. It was the scheme of Demetrius, and it pleased me. I waited for him tonight. Had General Rasiloff come he would be lying there instead of Demetrius. Had your highness come instead of this gentleman you would have been lying there. I have never seen you, I should have taken you for the general whom I have never seen either. God! To think of it.”

“It seems, sir, you have saved my life,” said the duke, turning to West.

“And the lady has saved mine.”

“Who is this man who is so anxious to make an end of me,” and the duke stooped to study the face of the violinist. “No, I do not know him.”

“The police may find out something about him,” said West. “I imagine you have so nearly got the information you require, perhaps without being aware of it, that this man, understanding how dangerous you were, employed this method of removing you.”

“I should be glad to know who you are, sir. There is still much I do not understand in this business.”

“Shall we not think of the lady first, your highness. I am very personally concerned since I owe my life to her. We do not want it known that either she or we have been in this house to-night. I propose to send her away in my car at once, and then, if your highness will allow me to return with you, I can explain.”

“I am not sure I can do that.”

Valentine West took a small silver token from an inner pocket and showed it to the duke.

“I shall be pleased to drive you back,” said the duke, and then turning to Elska Maloski, he asked: “Can you not tell me something of that dead man’s secret?”

“Nothing. It is true, I know nothing. I was only concerned with Michael Rasiloff.”

“I can tell you something of him,” said the duke. “Months ago he was disgraced. He is in prison at this moment. I think you may safely leave him to the Russian government.”

A few moments later there was a low whistle in Grove Road and a car came out of the darkness and stopped at the gate of No. 42.

“Amos, you will drive this lady to Charing Cross. If she wishes to go further you are at her disposal. You will not return here for me.”

West helped her in. “You are sure the woman in the house knows nothing about you?” he asked.

“Quite sure. Braska has only had the house a month. The woman is not in the house now. She came daily and only stayed late to-night to let you in. She left directly afterward.”

“Then I think I can promise that you will hear nothing further about to-night. Good-by, and thank you.”

“Perhaps we may meet again,” she said, but it was difficult to decide whether she wished it or not.

“Perhaps,” he answered. “I have usually found the world a very small place.”

A little later Valentine West drove out of Grove Road with the duke.

“The police will find him to-morrow,” he said in answer to a question from the duke. “I shall arrange that. His death will be a mystery. Too many inquiries will not be made.”

“Your secret service is more thorough than I supposed, Mr. West. It would interest me greatly to know how you discovered what was my purpose in coming to England.”

“I only discovered it this evening, your highness.”

“And my journey has been fruitless. I had hoped for evidence against men I suspect in Russia; men who, I believe, are responsible for much evil, who are a curse to their country. I wonder how much that man Braska knew.”

“I cannot say. In this affair my business has been to protect your highness,” and Valentine West smiled to himself in the darkness of the motor.

It would have surprised the duke had he known how curious England was about his visit; had he overheard the interview between West and the foreign minister. He might have had even a greater respect for the secret service of this country.

“I have to thank you for guarding me most efficiently, you with the help of Providence. Had my car not got a punctured tire outside Lady Hanson’s, I might have arrived first, and then probably I should be lying in that empty house at this moment.”

“In this case, your highness. Providence has not played much part,” said West when the duke put him down in Piccadilly. “I had your tire very thoroughly punctured when I left Lady Hanson’s to-night.”

THE DAWN was breaking as Valentine West entered his chambers in Bruton Street.

___________________

17: The Anarchist's Scheme

C J Cutcliffe Hyne

Clarence and Richmond Examiner 6 June 1899

TO GIVE THOSE Anarchists in the Artà caves full credit, they offered me a fair chance.

There was I, dropped into the middle of their secret meeting, under the most fishy of circumstances. I was worse than a stranger, because Taltavull, their chief, was a man with whom I had had dealings and a quarrel only a week before.

And the bald truth that I was no spy, but merely an idler, exploring the great caves for the relics of those men who had dwelt there before history began, looked too brazenly improbable to be insisted upon very firmly.

Indeed, asking a conspirator to believe such a story was an insult to Majorcan intelligence.

"Mr. Calvert," said Taltavull, standing up before me in his tight frock coat― and very lean, and shadowy he looked in that dim light― "we do not question your right to lie, because by our principles every man is entitled to do precisely as he pleases in all matters. Indeed, it does not concern us how you came here; but being present, it is necessary for our self-preservation that we extract from you a suitable pledge for your future silence."

"Quite so," I agreed. "I will give you my word of honour, if that is enough, senor; or, if it pleases you better, I will pledge myself by any fantastic oath you care to name."

"Thank you, no," said Taltavull, coldly. "We prefer to have a stronger hold than the mere grip of a superstition which we ourselves do not believe in. We propose, Mr. Calvert, to enlist you as a member of our society."

"As how ?" I asked.

"In the active branch. You will be apportioned out a piece of work to perform in our great war against society; and, after that is done, you will not denounce us for fear of being denounced in your turn."

"And the work is?"

"We have news that the greatest of our enemies is to be present at a per-formance of Bizet's ' Carmen ' at the Teatro Principale in Barcelona on next Wednesday night. It will be your part to be present also in the gallery above, and to blast him out of our path with a melinite bomb. If successful in that,, you will escape in the confusion."

"And if I fail?"

"Then you will not escape," said Taltavull, quietly. "You will be found lying dead in the gallery, with four daggers in your body. We always give our active members a substantial backing in cases of this kind.They never know which of the men behind them may be watches, ond this spurs them on."

"Where will this man be?" I asked.

"In the centre of the stalls. He is a popular hero. He will go there so that he can turn and bow when the whole house rises to applaud him."

"Then the bomb would not kill him alone. It would spread death all round. It would kill women also."

Taltavull shrugged his bony shoulders.

"Possibly. But that will make the lesson bite deeper. The men and  women who sit in the stalls are all enemies of ours."

I had listened with a quiet face up to this. I knew my own danger in the hands of these devils of outcasts, and understood that my best, chance of getting clear was by keeping cool, and not showing outwardly what I felt. But endurance has its limits. My gorge rose at them. A hot rage glowed in me like a lamp.

"You monstrous brute," I cried, "you foul scheming butcher, do you think any man who calls himself a man could crawl down to do a thing like that? Ask the most poisonous of your own brood, and he would shrink away from it. And yet you propose this thing to me! Because you have me here pinned you presume to make a mock of me."

Taltavull stroked his beard.

"Of course, Mr. Calvert, if you refuse, there is an end of the matter. You will gain nothing by abusing me, and you will lose nothing. You will leave us now, but we shall preserve your portrait. We are forming a portrait gallery of men who have failed us," he added, as I was being led out of the dim rocky chamber, pour encourager les autres. I think when we have sufficient examples to show, it may have a fine educational effect."

There was no sneer in his voice, no anger, no emotion of any kind; but the words crept through me like spangles of ice; and I went down the winding galleries of the cave as a man to whom death had come very near. My hands were gripped behind my back by bright steel handcuffs; either of the two men who guarded me was my equal in point of physical strength; and it was plain that escape with my present resources was a thing not to be thought of.

But was there my chance of a rescue?

Rapidly my mind ran through the events of the last few days.

I HAD COME to Majorca because it contains (at Mivarma) the most beautiful sea-cliff scenery in Sinope. I have stayed on because the vast weird caves at Artà, on the eastern shore, fascinated me. One enters them from a steep red-streaked cliff, with watch-towers on the hill above, one built to spy for Carthaginian pirate-galley, and a white surf howling amongst the weary rocks below.

There is a portal, buttressed by stalactites, and strangely coloured with greens and blacks and greys; into stone than all the world's sculptors have ever turned out of their work-rooms.

The cuevas are sufficiently celebrated to support a professional guide, and the names in his visitors' book vary from Sarasate's to the Duke of Edinburgh's and within are more

It was behind that guide's triple-snouted flare-lamp that I first came to know the beaten track amongst these hollows. He took me through vast halls named in conventional style.

There was one close within the entrance, a huge chamber built up of columns, and filled with gigantic statuary. It was like the elephant rock-temples at Ceylon. There were great idols, crypts of fretted stone cloisters, side chapels; and a blazing port fire lit it all up in a dazzle of milky glory.

THE fascination of the caves grew upon me.

Day after day I spent wandering in and out of the rocky lanes and alleys, climbing new cliffs, scrambling down in the quiet ravines where never man had been for a score of centuries. I went along; the caves were full of eeriness, the Spaniards said, and men had gone into them, and wandered from the beaten track and vanished from mortal view ; and the loneliness suited me.

There is a selfish pleasure in knowing that some thing of beauty has exposed itself to your eye alone of all humanity. And this is how it was that when a false step, a glissade down a polished slope, and a fall from a wall of cliff dropped me senseless into the middle of that Anarchists council, I lay there hopelessly, and woke to know that there was no one who would carry tidings of my plight to the outer world.

I lay numbly while those outlaws discussed my coming, but stood up when Taltavull addressed me by name. A glow of rage sustained me then; but afterwards, when the two men took me away, my spirits leaked out like water from a basket.

On I walked as a man in a dream, and when they showed me a model of what my fate was td be I stared at the thing only half comprehending. On the ground before me was what seemed to be the crouched statue of a man, carved from ivory-coloured marble; but when one of the guards lifted up a lamp to show it better, I saw that it was a man in the cold, dead flesh, covered in by a thin glazing of transparent stone.

Ropes bound his limbs, and the ropes were also encrusted with the same litheous garnish that covered the clothes and the body. His pose was writhing, as though he had died, in torment and anguish; and an unspeakable horror lived in his face, and showed plainly through the thin shimmering scale and stone.

I saw these things; realised that I also was condemned to be preserved as a stone-clad horror like this one in front of me; I shivered anew with the chill of the thought; and then knowledge left me.

A blow crashed on my head from behind, and the cave and the world went out into black unmeaning space in a spurt of flame and the dazzle of a myriad stars.

SENSE came back to me with a spasm of torture; a band of fire seemed to be eating, into my chest; and a score of burning hammers, were beating me upon the brain; and the rest of me was cold as the clay of death. To move was  an invitation for further pangs. To draw a breath was anguish unspeakable.

It I had been asked before to judge the effect of pains such as these, I should have said they must have numbed; but when it came to the fact the reverse showed itself.

My wits rushed back to me, spread themselves, evoked with impish clearness.

In a trice I had grasped how matters lay.

I hung by a rope over the brink of a chasm, made fast in a running bow-line under the arms. My wrists, still handcuffed, lay behind my back, so that it was a thing impossible to climb upwards. A small fine spray fell on me from above, and it did not need the memory of that awful bound figuré in the cave-galley; above to tell what the spray was doing. I could feel the stone from it crisping on my clothes. They crackled to my every movement; gouts of stone hung from my moustache.

And Taltavull had wittingly condemned me to this! The hatred for him surged within me till I had to scream aloud to give it vent, and the caverns bellowed with mocking echoes.

The rope began to sway.

It is a hard matter to confess, but I lost my head like the veriest coward.

I writhed there at the end of that horrible tether, and filled the hollows with my shouts. I tore at the steel fetter till, my wrists streamed blood, babbling useless noise into the darkness. Every term of hate that a hot imagination could bring out my lips rolled out with a poisonous gust.

Never has man been so cursed in words as I cursed Taltavull then.

And the rope swayed on, with me at its end. The faint chafing of it against some ledge above thrilled through the strands, and ran in tiny stabs along the band which crossed my chest. It flashed across me that I was needlessly adding to my pain, and for a moment I ceased my struggle.

But then another thought came, so appetising that I could have sung from the joy of it.

With a cunning silence I gathered myself up as a swinger does, and threw my weight with the direction of the sway; and then back again; and then forwards and backwards.

The water from the blackness above pattered down in a meagre shower; it fell noiselessly away into the blackness below; and I guessed I was hung over one of those fathomless abysses which the Spaniards in their superstition say carry cool drink down to the nether world. Glee filled me like a meal.

"Huh! Senor Taltavull," I cried to myself, "I have snatched some hand in the game after all. You thought to place me in your portrait gallery, did you? You will have far to come if you want your statue this time. Perhaps another time you will see that your rope does not chafe through and let its burden be smashed into a thousand atoms."

And again I launched myself with swirl through the mist.

Heigh! what a swing that was! The mad excitement of it burned me. The swoops through the wet air thrilled every nerve in my body. The song of the rope as it chafed against the I unseen ledge above was the most ravishing melody my ears had ever listened to.

I should die like a dog when it was all finished; but that did not trouble me. I had beaten Taltavull. He would never be able to point and say, "I killed that man."

The rope ate at my chest like a rod of heated iron, and at another time the pain of it would have made me faint; but now it only maddened me, as a goring spur does a horse. The rope began to twist, and I glowed anew with joy. I was nearing my deliverance.

The hemp was fraying; every turn that the rope unstrauded made it weaker; and when the last threads parted, I should swoop down to a quick calm death where no living man could follow. Perhaps I should find companions there. Perhaps before that devilish creature ordered his victims to be enbalmed in stone he had condemned, them to a simpler Tarpeian death by hurling―

Crack!

The rope had parted. It slacked round my tortured chest. I span busily through the air, and―

Splash !

The liquid arms of a great sea closed round me, and I sank with a thousand thunders dinning in my ears. But the instinct of the swimmer is automatic. My hands were useless. But my feet struck out of their own accord, and, after an interminable time, brought me to the surface, where for a while I floated, choking and gasping.

FOR A MINUTE or so I lay there dull as a senseless log. One strain was over; and every muscle in my body was loosened with the exertion of it, and I was not at once ready to strive again. But if I had looked for death, it did not displease me vastly that I had failed.to find it. The hunger for life grew in me; and with it came a strange terror of the unseen. The darkness  around me was such as might be felt.

And through the darkness came the faint noise as of beasts swimming slowly round me in the water.

They came. nearer to me and nearer, till I felt one brush against my shoulder, while another pressed, between the pass of my legs. ' I could keep silent and still no longer.

The terror came out of me with a shout, and I turned on my back, strik-ing out with my feet, and sculling desperately with my hands.

My head struck , against a deep, smooth wall of stone.

"Oh, heavens!" I thought, "was this some dreadful pit with no flank that was scalable? Should I have to swim round there like a beetle in a jug till I sank through sheer exhaustion, or was dragged down by some horrible blind beast which prowled in the depths? Had I tried for a quick death only to find a death of awful lingering?".

I swam and swam on, dragging my shoulder against the slimy wall of the pit; and those unseen others always swam beside me. The swirl of them splashed, against my face with a horrible chill. Now and again they brushed my sides and limbs, and the horror of them went through me like the bite of a dog.

And then my heel struck on a rock beneath the surface, and a second later I was panting and trembling on a dry shelf of stone.

From there, how I got to the open light of God's day is a thing I could not tell you if I would.

In the pitchy, unknown darkness of the caves I struggled for miles and miles; falling, straining, sweating with exertion; freezing with fear one moment lest I should fall into some horrible gulf, and half fainting with joy the next, when I slid safely down a three-foot slope.

It was the most ghastly kind of blind man's buff, and if any man calls me a coward for fearing desperately that I should stay in the caves till I starved to death, let him go there and wander lightless by himself. But it came to, an end at last.

The yellow glow of a light showed like a star in the far distance. I hailed till the caverns were alive with echoes. The light came nearer, dodging down the aisles of the stalactites. I sank to the ground exhausted, but continued my shouts till other lights cropped up three, five, nine and the men who bore them came near.

I had been missed these three days, they said; and they had come to try and find my body.

And then, they wanted to carry me to the open air.

"That in good time," I said to one who spoke. "But for the present hand me your knife. Taltavull is here, and I owe him more than can ever be repaid. But at least I can murder him, and you must come with me while justice is done. "

The men looked at one another queerly.

"You need not be frightened," I said. "It is I who will take the blame."

"The señor's wish is no doubt reasonable," one of the men answered ; "but he cannot have Señor Taltavull a life. That was taken yesterday in the theatre at Barcelona. We have no further news at present, but if the señor will come up to his jouda in the puebla the news may have arrived."

"Gracious!" I said, and went with them cheerfully. So long as Taltavull had ceased to live, that episode in my life was ended.

_____________________

18: The Butler

Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews

1860-1936

World's News (Sydney) 3 July 1909

The American Magazine May 1909

I FORGET who the clever, ugly Frenchman was who asked only ten minutes' start of the handsomest man in Europe. I believe that Archibald Cameron would have been quicker; I believe that he would have done with six minutes. I saw him hypnotise a dinner party in about so much. He slid into the room where we stood assembled, waiting for him, half apologetically, half respectfully, as if he knew himself inadequate to look at, but as if he did not want to come to begin with, and it was  hone of our business if he was long and drooping and weather-beaten and his clothes needed pressing. With blue eyes dropped, with a sun-faded moustache, and a British air of saying "Tell me what you think and I'll disagree with you," he made a rapid bow to each one of us and was silent and defied us.

Mrs. M'Donald, our hostess, had talked much of this war-correspondent Scotch friend who had been into hot water all over the world, wherever hot water and hot blood were spilling. I felt a chill of disappointment at sight of the hero. But Mrs. M'Donald knew her affair. We went directly out to dinner; the resentful one did not lift a finger to conciliate or amuse us, and in five minutes no one at the table willingly talked to anyone but him. So does personality triumph over manner, the big thing that a man is over the small things that he does. In less than half an hour we all knew that this stranger, who was cheerfully at ease in an uncanny Tartar camp or a fierce African village, was afraid of us. Incredibly, absurdly, he was shy; almost as incredibly his shyness was a force that made for instant popularity. In much less than half an hour we all meant, earnestly, to give him a good time, and mean-while he gave us one, for forgetting himself, be talked like a fairy story. He told us in a commonplace, choppy way, in the loveliest pure voice, in burring Scottish speech, of things which one reads, without a twinge of realising—and we lived them as he told. He talked casually about elephant shooting on the Zambesi; he spun a merry tale of pig-sticking with a lady whose hair came down and who rolled off her pony and would not let him stop to pick her up— and we felt a glow of comradeship with that plucky woman. Then he made us laugh, as if at an episode of the Bowery, over a life-and-death stampede he had done on a lame horse out of a Thibet stronghold. It was the gossip of his life he was talking to us, only Mr. Cameron's gossip was of the calibre of history. And in and out of his vibrant voice shot magnetism— the unexplainable quality which may let all other gifts have cards and spades, and win the game. And the argument to this long preamble is only that we listened with all our ears to whatever he said.

He said much, for he liked to be killed, as other people, yet at times the absurd shyness seized him, and he flashed down the line of faces a startled glance, and then his eyes dulled and dropped and he fell silent. And with that we must provoke the lion's roar again. It was part of his charm, it added an attraction to the appealing blue glance to know that at any second it might be frosted. I half coaxed him, half prodded him through such a spasm of uncertainty, sitting sidewise in my chair to look at him— I was placed next— when the Japanese butler bent with a tray at his left hand, and Mr. Cameron did not see it. I stopped to call his attention, and he turned, and then, instead of taking a squab, he threw back his head and flashed up a smile at the little dark man and slid off a sentence of queer sounds. The butler stood as if petrified; his masklike face twisted, and he answered with a low syllable and was gone.

"What did you say?" I asked. "I merely told him, don't you know, that they were making heroes of stuff like him out in Japan," he answered, and fell to at his salad.

"Merely!" I said. "Merely a bomb. Those little fellows are inflammable as tow, they say. You'll be owing Mrs. M'Donald a butler."

"Dear me— I hope not."

And then someone spoke to him from the other end of the table, and much too soon the dinner was over, and next day the quiet hero of many adventures was gone, no one knew to what hidden corner of the world.

Two years later, in December, 1900, Mrs. M'Donald called me up on the telephone.

"Something good is going to happen," she said. "Archie Cameron is coming Thursday, but only for one night. He's just from China. He was in the Boxer trouble and got into Pekin with the allied armies last summer. He was awfully ill— but I'll let him tell you the rest. "Will you come to dinner? He's sure to ask for you— he always does in his letters."

"You don't need to flatter me," I hurriedly threw down the wire. "I'll come without urging—  you couldn't keep me away."

Again I sat next Mr. Cameron, and as the middle of the dinner came around, as I sat turned, looking at him, behold again a little noiseless figure held a silver dish of birds close to his left hand, and an expressionless dark face bent over him. And again he did not see.

"Look," I told him. ''You keep me busy, Mr. Cameron— every two years I have to tell you to take a squab."

He laughed, remembering, and as before he flashed up a quick look at the impenetrable Oriental mask, but this time he said nothing— only helped himself to a bird. Ishi, the butler, passed down the table. I watched him while, with the careful tenderness he has with his eatables, as if handling something precious, he bent by a woman in a gold-colored dress. Across the pink candle shades, in the bronze shadows, the black head and olive face were a note of the East. I saw Mr. Cameron's quick eyes on him, too, and he turned to Mrs. M'Donald.

"That's not the same Japanese you had two years ago?"

"How you remember!" she answered in surprise. "No— oh no! This is another. A good little heathen, too, but nothing to the first." She sighed. "Nothing like that will ever happen to my dining-room again— angels don't come and buttle for us twice in a lifetime."

"What became of him?" Mr. Cameron asked, yet not as if he cared, but to show decent interest.

"He went back to Japan— he said that a word had come to him that his country needed him. I don't know what he meant, I'm sure, but I know that no one ever made the silver look as he did. Little gentle creature, I hated to have him travel alone— I wanted to send a nurse with him. And such a wonder at arranging flowers. But Ishi is good— I'm fond of Ishi.'' she said, and glanced down the room where the butler's face was a shadow painted on shadows. "How in the world did you ever happen to remember one Japanese from another after two  years?" she demanded. "They look to me as if they came in sets."

"Ah, that's just the type," answered Mr. Cameron. "They're quite as distinct as we are when once you get to know them— even as Americans possibly, though that's hardly credible," and he lifted his eyes and sent down the table a luminous smile which made each woman suspect herself of being the unforgettable one of a unique nation.

Everybody had forgotten Ishi now, but the entire company was interested in Japanese personality. "Isn't it true that they're more alike than Anglo-Saxons?" a man asked. "That the same characteristics run through the nation more universally? Take their courage— it's all of the same sort— a sort by itself."

Mr. Cameron considered. "They're quite as different as we are individually, don't you know," he insisted. "Yet Japanese heroism is— typically— Japanese heroism." The clearly enunciated words fell slowly. "When one of those little chaps comes to offer up his life he inevitably does it in the national way. It's a good way. I don't know but it's the finest way I've run across."

"It isn't fair to make a distinction between one man who gives his life and another. Dying is the last test— there's nothing farther; one way of dying can't be finer than another." I brought this out in a hurry, impelled by an unexpected violence of loyalty to white heroes. And Mr. Cameron turned to me with a wistful smile.

"Very good," he said. 'I'm a white man myself. All I mean is that we are subject, as a race, to theatrical manias in heroism, and the Japanese aren't. It doesn't occur among them. For instance, do you remember that chap—what was his name? Ah— certainly— Douglas. The Black Douglas?" He inquired it of us as of historical authorities. "He had the heart of Bruce done up in a silver casket, as recollect, to take to the Holy Land— didn't he? And as he went through a battle it was his practice to throw the casket forward, and then fight his way up to it. That was a theatrical performance. It would have served him right if an acquisitive person had made off with the box. Now that sort of business would have been impossible to a Japanese— they have better taste, don't you know. I can think of a hundred instances"— he stopped and looked up at us all, uncertainly, modestly, wondering quite plainly if he were not talking too much.

"Oh, please tell one, please tell one," I begged. And with that he smiled a liquid blue glance and dropped his lashes like a girl of sixteen.

"It's a bit hard to choose," he stammered, and detached a loose pink carnation and beat the cloth with it. And then suddenly his look flashed up again, animated and at ease. "By Jove, I got caught in the Japanese column as it advanced on the Chi-ho gate— the east gate of the Tartar city."

He had forgotten himself. There was no shyness now. The words rushed.

"It was much against my will, don't you know— I couldn't help it," he went on. "But it was inspiring. Probably you know the Japanese cry of 'Banzai'— it means literally 'ten thousand years.' They began that slowly— 'Banzai— Banzai'— keeping time to their march. And as the pace quickened, the 'Banzai' got faster. And louder— louder and faster and more furious. It was an outlandish effect, all those foreign voices together, and yet for all its gaining impetus, it kept an undertone of deliberation— of purpose— that made it rather terrible. Finally the column was running, and the welded shout of many voices was like the roll of water— 'B'zai, B'zai,' like a torrent— inevitable and resistless. Every little brown man was screwed up to the last notch, teeth gleaming, muscles tight. Incarnate vengeances, human tigers—"

He stopped; there was silence; then he dropped his eyes and began beating with his carnation. Some one gasped at him:—

"You— in the middle of it?"

"Oh, yes," Mr. Cameron said in a commonplace tone, and looked annoyed.

"Did the Chinese fire at you?" I asked.

"A bit," he acknowledged, and smiled. "They popped us from the gate and the wall— The beggars shelled us too. I didn't like it. You must understand I'd got lost the day before between Tung-Chow and Pekin, and ran into the Japanese, and I stuck to them like a brother, don't you see— afraid of Boxers. But I didn't want to go into the attack at all. It was very much against my will. It frightened me badly."

Everyone at the table drew a breath and laughed. But we were keen now to heir more. A man spoke from the other end.

"That's intensely interesting, Mr. Cameron," he said. "It makes one want to impose on you and ask questions."

Mr. Cameron had got back into his shell— conscious because he felt the atmosphere he had created. He answered civilly but coldly.

"Oh, thank you very much."

The man went on, impervious to the chill, and we all were glad. "You talk about Japanese acts of heroism you've seen. Couldn't you tell us one? Most of us here to-night didn't get into Pekin with the allied armies, and this is a great event, to hear about it at first hand."

Mrs. M'Donald, the hostess, put in a word. "There's no question, Mr. Cameron, you're a lion and you must roar a little for us. Tell us a story, please. Anything as good as Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome will do. Just some simple tale."

"By Jove," said Mr. Cameron with easy, unexpected boldness, "there's plenty of material good enough for Macaulay or any other chap. Every man there saw a few things that were remarkable."

"That's what we want. Begin," Mrs. M'Donald urged him. "I'll start you— 'Heavy clouds hung over the great city of Pekin. It was the day before the battle.' "

"You're wrong there," he caught up the thread. "It was the very day that the allies got in, the 14th of August, 1900. I was with my friends the Japanese. I wasn't quite fit, and they were taking care of me— their hospital business was capital. However, they'd no idea, don't you see, of being left out of the scrimmage — in fact they had a distinct idea that they'd be in the front, so I had to trot along with them. And time was important. The Legations might he in their last gasp— we couldn't tell. Any half hour those white women and children might fall into the hands of the cruellest devils known to history. Plenty to hurry for.

"There were several ways of getting into Pekin, and the Japanese had been told off to do the march from Tung-Chow by the ancient paved road, and to attack the east gate—the one I spoke of. The Chi-ho gate the Chinese call it. We had camped about three miles from it the night of the 13th, and had got soaked in a rain like a mountain torrent. I was feeling rather nasty, but the little soldiers in their wet white uniforms were as fit as ever—tough little chaps. But I'm telling about taking the gate. At eight o'clock they made a rush on it— the one I was just mentioning— and we got awfully peppered from the walls and a lot of shells burst among us. Yet we advanced, sheltering along the roadside, and it was interesting to see volunteer sharpshooters rush out from the ranks up to a hundred yards of the gate, and empty their magazines at the Chinese on the walls and rush back before the fire could be returned. The quiet way they did that was rather Japanese. Of course many of them got potted," Mr. Cameron added reflectively, as if talking about a disease among chickens.

"But about shelling the gate. I forgot to say that some Japanese artillery had come up— four pieces— and they began shelling at eight hundred yards. They kept that up all day, and it was surprising how the old affair stood it. It's astonishing how many shells it took to do any damage to those antediluvian gates. Case after case was brought up, the nose of each shell screwed and inserted in the gun according to Hoyle, and discharged. There was a thundering lot of noise, splinters flew, the gates shook, but there they stood solid as ever. They're rotten looking arrangements, those old triple entrances, bored like tunnels into the endless, colossal wall, fifty feet high and forty thick, the black forbidding wall of masonry which extends for miles clean around the Tartar city. It's an uncanny, heathenish creation, that wall lifting out of the black dust of the desert; it gives a man a shiver. It's as if it were taken from some ancient tale, as if built by ogres or demons, to guard evil riches. Not so far wrong either, by Jove. Pekin is a fantastic setting for half-human fiends, to my mind. But that's digressing. The gates are deep arches twelve or fifteen feet high, burrowing into the wall, and over each is a preposterous pile of dungeons of five storeys or extravagant, nightmare dungeons, topped with the typical Chinese cocked roof. Most extraordinary affairs, really. Upon my word I thought I was dreaming when I first saw the Tartar wall and the Chi-ho gate.

"As I mentioned just now, we pounded away with shells a good bit of the day, and at each discharge we thought we'd fetched it, but the old barrier stood it all, and finally there was a pause. The Japanese officers were puzzled. The next move was more radical—a detachment was ordered to blow up the gate with dynamite. The little chaps ran forward— under fire, of course, from the walls— a picture of soldierly trimness in their white uniforms and black and yellow caps, quick, but, yet quite deliberate. All of them got there safe, and they had the explosive fixed and the fuse set in a short time,  and got back without a casualty. But before they'd reached us the Boxers from the inside opened a wicket in the main gate, and two men, in the dirty-blue cotton of the Chinese rank and file, had slipped through and taken away the fuse, and slipped back like evil spirits, in their element with fireworks— and the wicket was barred again. We went through that performance several times. Each time, as quickly as our men turned to leave, out through the wicket slipped the blue ghosts, and the work and the danger went for nothing. Several were killed in the attempts, and presently it was patent that there was nothing to be expected from that plan.

"A knot of Japanese officers drew together, close by me, and consulted. And whilst they talked in low tones, in a flash a soldier, a corporal, sprang from the ranks and saluted, and said something rapidly to his captain— Captain Yusai it was— I know him well. I saw the corporal quite plainly—he was ten feet from me— but I didn't catch what he said. I speak the language a little, but I can't follow when it's done fast. The captain's face was as inscrutable as common, but yet I thought I saw a gleam in his eyes, as if he was gratified. Then he turned, and in a loud voice asked for volunteers to go to the gate and protect the fuse till the dynamite exploded— be blown up with the gate, you understand.

"Now mark this"— Mr. Cameron bent across the table then, utterly forgetful of all but his story, and lifted a forefinger at us all. "This is one of the reasons why I think that all Japanese are heroes— every man in sound of the captain's voice wanted to go. Every man. Yu-sai had to pick them, and the ones who were left looked as if they'd been condemned to death, instead of their friends. A squad of six was quickly chosen, and as they stood ready to start Yusai whipped out his little water bottle and handed it to the corporal who'd invented the scheme, and the man took it and drank from it as if it had been a sacrament. Which as a matter of fact it was— among the Japanese the cup of pure water is administered to the dying by his nearest relative, as a manner of purification, I mean to say, for the next life. Then Yusai spoke a few words, and the little doomed chaps listened eagerly— you could see that, for all their impassive faces.

" 'You have done well, men,' he said. You are serving fatherland. You go to death, and your country will keep your memory. Out of your dust will blossom the flower of honour. Forward, march!"

"They sprang as if going to a fête, led by the corporal and the column as they started began singing— first two or three men, and then the whole column took it up. It was the Japanese national anthem— 'Kimi ga yo' they call it.

" 'May our Lord's dominion last

Till ten thousand years are past.'

It's translated. When the detachment heard that it seemed to set them on fire. It got into my blood even, the heavy chords of men's voices in the ancient song of triumph as a requiem to their comrades. The squad leaped through the dust, and shot on a run across the open where the firing was hot, and the song followed after. Not a man was touched. We saw them a moment under the arch of the gateway, busy over the fuse; then we saw them a moment, a mass of white with yellow touches of the caps, grouped quietly around the dynamite. The Chinese would not meddle this time."

Mr. Cameron stopped. No one at the table moved or spoke. It was perhaps a minute we waited and then Mrs. M'Donald said:—

"Tell it!" And her voice broke on the two words.

He answered in a matter-of-fact tone. "Then the gate blew up and the detachment was killed to a man. Nothing else possible, don't you know."

No one spoke. I think we all felt we had been watching a handful of little soldiers, a white spot on a grey desert, running to death. We sat at the pink-shaded dinner table and stared across flowers and silver and saw that. Mr. Cameron looked down the line off  people and suddenly he deemed to know how we felt, and how he had taken us with him and we could not get back to commonplace. When  he spoke again we could tell that he was trusting us with his real feeling, which he had not done before, and by the light of his words we could read a little into the shy, reserved depths of his character, and know that some of the charm by which he held us was the charm of "him who humbleth himself."

"I know of nothing finer," he said. "Done quite simply, without self-consciousness— absolutely for their country, the antique brand of patriotism. It is that sort of heroism which seems greater to me than the pictorial edition. The self-effacement, the disregard of personal glory— it's typically Japanese. That incident stirred Japan. They were all heroes, every one of the six, but to the little corporal belonged the inspiration and the decision, the hardest part. When what was left of him was sent home to Tokio every battleship in the harbor saluted the ship bearing his body as it passed; up and down the country the story was told and retold, and they say there's not a child in Japan to-day that doesn't know the name of Kato Gondo."

We jumped when Mrs. M'Donald leaned forward sharply, knocking over her claret glass and not seeing it. She spoke harshly, and we all looked at her.

"What did you say his name was?" she asked.

Mr. Cameron repeated, a little surprised, "Kato Gondo," he said. "It's a famous name now in Japan—Kato Gondo."

Mrs. M'Donald's hand lay in the claret; her eyes were fastened on his face, and she was quite still for a long minute. At last:—

"Kato Gondo," she spoke after him. "You asked— what became of— my butler!"

________________

19: Puzzle Phyllis

Guy Thorne (C. Ranger Gull)

World's News (Sydney) 24 August 1918

"PUZZLE PHYLLIS!" said Mrs. Martin, angrily. "There you are poring over your silly puzzles, trying to solve newspaper problems, when you ought to be out with your sisters playing tennis. Phyllis, I'm ashamed of you!"

"But I hate tennis, mother— at least, I hate the sort of people Joan and Mary meet at the Tennis Club. Why can't I do what amuses me?"

Mrs. Martin, a stout, grey-haired lady, looked at her youngest daughter angrily. "I'll tell you what will happen to you, Phyllis," she said. "You'll get round-shouldered, you'll lose your complexion, and you'll die an old maid, if you spend all your spare time on this silly nonsense."

Phyllis stood up from the book she was reading.

"I am not round-shouldered yet, mother," she said, putting her shapely hands upon the old lady's shoulders. "And I don't particularly want to get married."

"Of all the aggravating girls! When I die your poor dear father's pension dies with me. Joan and Mary will have establishments of their own. You'll have nothing but your wretched two pounds a week that you set from the G.P.O."

"Well, as long as I'm happy, mother..."

Mrs. Martin sniffed and left the room. Phyllis sighed, sat down, lit a cigarette, and once more bent over the large volume on the table.

The book was entitled: "The History of Secret Writing and Cryptography from the Earliest Ages to the Present Day." A strange study for a girl, perhaps, but Phyllis was not like others girls. The youngest of the three daughters of the late Commander Martin, she was the tallest, straightest, and prettiest of the bunch. Perhaps for this reason she was a thorn in the side of the little family of ladies in the Kensington flat. With her face, charm, and advantage— so her mother and sisters thought— Phyllis should have been content to stay at home and wait until a husband came along.

But Phyllis had not been content to do any-thing of the sort. She had struck out a line for herself. She had gone to a commercial college and had learnt shorthand and type-writing. She had spent a year as typist in a City office, had then passed a Civil Service examination, and was now a clerk in the London General Post Office at a salary of two guineas a week.

Her particular job, in common with thirty or forty other damsels, was to register and enter telegrams as they passed through the General Office on their way to all parts of London. Joan and Mary thought that this must be the dullest of dull work. They were surprised and annoyed that their pretty sister didn't look upon it in that way at all. Phyllis professed herself as perfectly satisfied with what she had to do, but what irritated the girls and their mother more than anything was that when Phyllis returned from her labours she refused almost every social engagement and preferred to pursue her study of intricate puzzles of every kind, of secret writing, cryptograms, chess problems, and the like.

"It's unhealthy for a young girl, and absolutely unprofitable, too," said Mrs. Martin.

"Phyllis is a freak," answered the dark haired Joan.

"It's hardly human," Mary chimed in.

But Phyllis went her own way with inevitable motion. She regarded none of them. She spent her time as she pleased, and if she was frequently lost in a dream, it was at least a dream which made her as happy as, or happier than, her sister's activities made them.

"I hunt for a hidden word," she said one evening, "you hunt for husbands. I don't interfere with your pursuits, so for heaven's sake leave mine alone."

And in the main she was left alone and allowed to lead her life in her own way. Although nobody knew it, and she herself less than anyone, Phyllis was rapidly becoming one of the most expert cryptographists in England. Any ordinary cipher was child's play to her, and she could read it with ease after a few minutes' examination. As a coder or decoder of official telegrams she would have been invaluable at the Admiralty or the Foreign Office, but as yet she only dimly realised her great proficiency.

She had undertaken this curious study in the first instance as a hobby, then little by little the idea came to her to perfect herself in it until she could obtain an official position. She said nothing of her ambition to anyone, but worked steadily during all her spare time. High Government officials would have been surprised and disconcerted to know that an obscure girl working at the registering of telegrams which pass through the Post Office could read their communications with very little trouble.

On more than one occasion Phyllis became possessed of information that the editor of a London newspaper would have paid any thing to secure. She was honest, however, and kept everything to herself, unwilling to abuse her position in the slightest degree. And what to others seemed the driest and most crabbed of pursuits was to her a sort of enchanted kingdom.

One winter's morning Phyllis started from home in particularly good spirits. By dint of long and careful economy she had saved enough money to purchase a rather rare and little-known instrument, called the Charles Wheatstone cipher machine, which is used by various Governments upon matters which require great secrecy. She had always longed to possess this apparatus, and this evening after her work was done she was to call for it at the instrument maker's on Ludgate Hill.

Her work that morning was no more interesting than usual. Rapidly she noted down the details of the innumerable telegrams which passed through her hands, sitting in a room full of quiet, methodical girls.

It was within half an hour of the luncheon hour when the first coded telegram she had seen that morning came into her hands.

Mechanically her eye fell upon it, then she started, and a little flush came into her cheeks. This was something quite out of the way, a rare bird! She saw that in an instant. It responded to none of the usual tests with which her long training had made her so familiar. It lay upon the desk in front of her— a mystery!

Hurriedly she copied out the contents upon a pad of paper, detaching the sheet when she had done, and putting it in her pocket. The last twenty minutes before she was at liberty to go to lunch passed with leaden slowness. But when the clock struck she hurried out to an adjacent tea-shop, and bolted a scone and gulped down a glass of milk with a rapidity which almost startled a young bank clerk sitting at the next table into a fit. Then she left the shop and walked quickly to a neigh-boring church.

Phyllis had made a valuable discovery. She had found that the City of London was dotted over with beautiful old churches among the great warehouses and office blocks, and also that hardly anyone ever entered them on a week-day. They were open for antiquarians and lovers of architecture, but as a rule they were as deserted as a tomb. St. Cyprian's, quite close to the General Post Office, was a ease in point. Often and often Phyllis would spend a quiet hour in the tranquil building, while the noise of the outside world faded away into a low hum and her mind could work quickly and well.

She went into St. Cyprian's now, and met the old caretaker in the porch, who nodded to her as one friend to another, and remarked that he was just off to have his bit of dinner. The church was absolutely empty. The girl's footsteps made the only sound in the dim and faded spaciousness, thronging with memories of the past, when the great city merchants were not ashamed to live above their places of business and worshipped there.

Phyllis had found that the very best place in the church was just behind the enormous Old oak pulpit. There the light from a tall window was pleasantly diffused. She was absolutely hidden from the view of anyone entering the church, but by bending forward a little she could see without being seen. More over, the little niche contained a very comfortable rush-bottomed chair, and when she reached it Phyllis took a sheet of paper, upon which she had written down the cipher telegram, from her vanity-bag, and prepared herself for forty minutes' real pleasure!

She had not scrutinised the document for more than five minutes when she was confirmed in her opinion that the cipher was no ordinary one. The regular combinations failed. She could not deduce anything about the key word. The whole system was new to her, and her interest was excited to the very highest degree.

"This is going to be a long business!" she thought to herself. "I shouldn't be surprised if it took days."

Then she remembered on that very evening she would have one of the Charles Wheatstone machines, and her eyes brightened. What good luck it was. Here was a unique opportunity to test the invention of which she had read so much.

As she sat and planned a congenial evening's toil, she heard light footsteps in the church. They came on, ceased for a moment and then came on again.

She peeped out cautiously; she had done it a dozen times before, and had never been discovered.

Looking round him with quick, uneasy glances, was a tall, fat man, with a black beard and moustache, curling black hair, and of a ruddy countenance.

Apparently satisfied that he was alone, the man plunged his hand into a pocket, with drawing a large pair of scissors and a mirror. With quiet, purposeful movements, al-most as if he had trained himself to them, he sat down in a pew, and the scissors were flickering over the hair upon his face in an instant. In less time than it takes to tell only a dark stubble remained.

It was like a conjuring trick. In a second more the man was rubbing the stubble with a stick of cream— the cocoa-butter which actors use on the stage— and then even the stubble was wiped from his face by a towel which he produced from the pocket of his overcoat. He then put his fingers in his mouth and withdrew some small objects which had the effect of instantly collapsing his cheeks, so that a thin, pale-faced, clean-shaven man had taken the place of the florid individual in a very few seconds.

Then the extraordinary stranger whipped off what Phyllis now saw was a black wig, and disclosed himself as bald-headed. With a sigh of relief, he stood up, and began to fumble in his waistcoat. After a moment or two there was a hiss like that of escaping gas, and, petrified with astonishment, Phyllis saw the man collapse upon himself until his clothes hung limp and baggy upon his thin, sparse figure. The next and last proceeding was to put on an overcoat which had been hanging on his arm when he entered the church, and which fitted tight to his body.

A man as unlike the one who had entered the building as the mind of anyone could conceive now left it in the same stealthy manner.

The thing was magical.

TWO MORNINGS afterwards Phyllis came down to breakfast pale and with dark rings under her eyes.

"You don't look at all well, my dear," said her mother.

"I was working very late," the girl answered, but with a smile of triumph. "A wretched thing has been bothering me for two days, but I have solved it at last with the aid of my little Wheatstone machine."

"Puzzle Phyllis!" said Joan, making a grimace. "What good does it do you?"

"Oh, one never knows!" Phyllis replied, calmly chipping her egg.

A few minutes afterwards she was seated in the Tube on her way to business, and, opening the halfpenny daily paper which she affected, began to read.

Anyone who had been watching her closely would have seen her start violently, frown, and then flush crimson with excitement. But as everyone else was reading exactly the same news as she was, no one saw anything of the sort.

The news was particularly thrilling this morning. Mr. Paul Polonius, the famous Cheapside jeweller, had been robbed of the second greatest emerald in the world— the famous Hiroshogi, which, as everyone knows, forms part of the Crown jewels of Japan. The emerald had been entrusted to Mr. Polonius for re-setting, through the Japanese Ambassador, and was worth some two hundred thousand pounds. It had vanished from the strong-room, and with it had vanished a certain Mr. John Smith, who for eighteen months had been a trusted employee of Mr. Polonius. The reward offered to anyone who led to the recovery of the great green stone was the sum of five thousand pounds. The news article was embellished with the photograph of the supposed thief, who had disappeared into thin air. He was a black-bearded, black-haired, and black-moustached man, with plump and bulging cheeks, and described as of a ruddy countenance and considerable corpulence.

With hands that trembled, Phyllis put away the paper. Then she opened her little book and read something written in shorthand up-on the back of an envelope.

It ran as follows:—

Mrs. Armadale.

100 Steven's Mansions,

West Kensington.

Just about to effect transformation at rendezvous. Green pea in my possession. Unless you hear contrary, meet me church lunchtime, Wednesday, when will hand it you. Detection impossible.

At half-past ten that morning, Miss Phyllis Martin became very faint, and was advised by the superintendent of her department to go home. She did not go home, however, but turned into Cheapside, and walked down that famous thoroughfare until she arrived at the emporium of Paul Polonius and Company.

Pushing open the door, she entered, and asked one of the polite young gentlemen behind a glass-covered counter for the great man himself.

"Will you please tell Mr. Polonius that I have come to see him on a matter of the very highest importance."

It has been said that Phyllis was a very pretty girl. The young gentleman realised this. "I am very sorry," he said kindly, "but the chief is occupied with Detective-Inspector Boscombe, of Scotland Yard, and can see no one. The affair of the emerald," concluded the young gentleman, twirling his moustache.

"I have come on the same business," said Phyllis. And such is the force of personality that within two minutes Mr. Polonius, a little, yellow-faced man, with grey whiskers and an anxious eye, was begging her to be seated, while Mr. Boscombe, the eminent detective, resembling a prosperous country clergyman, was giving her a chair.

For nearly an hour the oddly-assorted trio remained together, until the young gentleman with the neat moustache was in a fever of curiosity, and when, about midday, he saw the fascinating young lady, Mr. Polonius, and Inspector Boscombe leave the shop together, his excitement was painful.

"YOU HAD better sit there, Mr. Boscombe," whispered Phyllis, pointing to a certain rush bottomed chair. "Mr. Polonius and I will go into the pulpit. There's lots of room. According to the telegram they won't be here for another hour yet."

"Proud to act under your orders, Miss," said the inspector, with a glance of keen professional and human admiration also. "Now I'll tell you something. It's Herbert Turner, I recognised him at once from your description of him when he had taken off his disguise. That man is one of the master criminals of Europe, and neither the French nor the Italian nor our own police have ever got him yet. We have often wondered why, and now we know. It was a master stroke to reverse the usual method, to get a post of trust, disguised so well that no one would suspect him, to enjoy the confidence of his employers, and then by taking off the disguise and resuming his real appearance to vanish like a dead man. Oh, only Herbert Turner could have thought it out!"

Phyllis and Mr. Polonius crept up into the pulpit, and sat down on two hassocks they found there.

"If you will excuse me saying so," the famous jeweller whispered in a voice like the crackling of dead leaves, "you are the most able and extraordinary young lady it has been my privilege to meet."

"It is very kind of you to say so, Mr. Polonius. Certainly, I seem to have been very lucky on this occasion."

"My dear young lady, I hope you will be luckier still! I hope— yes, I really do hope that within an hour or so I may have the pleasure of handing you a cheque for five thousand pounds, and to no one would I more gladly—"

For the first time in his life Mr. Polonius was checked in speech by the forcible application of a cool, firm hand pressed over his mouth.

Footsteps were heard coming up the aisle.

On and on they came until the newcomers, whoever they were, were within three yards of the pulpit, out of which neither Phyllis nor Mr. Polonius dared to look!

Then they heard distinctly:—

"Here you are, my dear. Put it inside your blouse, and whatever you do, don't miss the boat train for Amsterdam. Levi will be waiting, and we'll have it cut up in a fortnight or three weeks. It's the best thing we've ever pulled off, and we can now retire into private life, thank heaven." Then there was the sound of a kiss, followed by the sudden upsetting of a chair, the clicking of the hammer of an automatic pistol, and Mr. Boscombe's quiet, incisive voice promising retirement to Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Turner, just as Mr. Polonius, with a yell of excitement, vaulted over the pulpit with the agility of a boy.

PHYLLIS was rather late for supper that night, but she came down from her room at last, after the other three ladies had been seated for five minutes.

"More puzzles!" said Joan. "Good heavens, Phyllis, where on earth did you get that?"

"That" was a little wrist watch of platinum, studded with pearls, and worth eighty pounds at the lowest computation.

"Oh, puzzles!" Phyllis answered in such a strange voice that they all stared at her in amazement. Her eyes were brilliant, her lips red, and her hand trembled a little as she put an envelope down on the table.

"What's happened?" they all cried in chorus.

"Oh, just puzzles!" Phyllis repeated, and solemnly, withdrew five crackling notes of the Bank of England, each for a thousand pounds.

__________________

20: The Specialist

Owen Oliver (Joshua Albert Flynn)

1863-1933

World's News (Sydney)  13 February 1909

I HAD only returned to the Home the previous day, after a long and exhausting engagement; but the telegram asked for a nurse who was fond of children and specially competent for operation cases. So the superintendent came to me.

"I know you need a rest, Nan," she apologised; "but really there's no one else to send. Will you go?"

"Yes," I answered, and packed up and travelled all night to Seaness. An open trap met me at the station and took me to Dead Man's Island, which was my destination. The way was over the bed of a salt-river, which was only fordable an hour and a half before and after low tide, the driver said; and the Hall, where I was going, was the only house of any size upon the island. My little patient owned the whole of it; and Mr. Godley, his guardian under the squire's will, "thought of nothing but a lot of nasty-smelling experiments;" and the boy's stepmother was "gallivanting about in foreign parts;" and the old housekeeper, who was "a mother to him," was ill in bed; and Dr. Palmer said they'd better send for a nurse.

"A clever man, Dr. Palmer, miss; but— Well, I don't want you to think I'm set against him, being a teetotaller myself; but you'll see soon enough. And they'll all look to you to pull the young master through, if I may speak plain, miss."

I was depressed by overwork, and these confidences, which I tried vainly to check, did not raise my spirits. The sight of the Hall lowered them further. It looked like a gloomy prison; and Mr. Godley the guardian, whom I saw in the library, did not impress me at? all favourably. He had a weak mouth and shifty eyes, and was evidently more troubled by the interruption of his experiments than by the illness of his little ward.

"Mrs. Fennell will tell you about the case," he said impatiently. "I don't see anything wrong with the boy myself, but she keeps worrying about him. It is most inconvenient to be disturbed in my researches at the present moment— most inconvenient. I trust that you will be able to manage without asking me about things."

"If you will let a servant conduct me to Mrs. Fennell," I said curtly, "I will not trouble you further." I never like people who have no affection for children or dogs, and I was glad to get away from him. I fear that I am a somewhat intolerant and headstrong woman.

An amiable but stupid country maid con-ducted me to the bedroom of the housekeeper, who was utterly prostrated by influenza. I shook up her pillows, and, finding that she had eaten no breakfast, told the maid to bring her some before I talked to her. Then I gave her the medicine, which they had forgotten, and tidied the room; and then I went and sat beside her.

"Now, tell me about it," I said, putting her grey hair off her forehead.

"You are very good; my dear," she said feebly. "I was rather afraid of a hospital nurse; but I see that you will be kind to my little lad. He has no mother."

"Of course I will," I promised. "You will find us great friends when you get up. That will be in a day or two, because I'm going to look after you too. How old is he, and what is the matter with him?"

"He's two next month," she said, "and the dearest little fellow that ever was born, and the brightest till this came upon him. Now he lies and stares and says nothing— not even Fen or Ganny Fen, as he used to call me. There's a hard lump at the side of his head; and"— she gulped down something in her throat— "I was always terrified of operations, but I suppose you don't mind them?"

"They're not nearly so dreadful as people think," I assured her. "Surgeons are very clever nowadays. They are better at cutting out a 'growth' than at curing influenza, for example. I'm going to treat you for that. The little fellow's parents are dead, I understand?"

"Yes. His mother died when he was born. I nursed her when she was a baby, and it seemed wrong that she should be taken first and a useless old woman left. Well, well! The squire married again a year after; and six months later he died. His second wife was a music-hall actress, and— I won't say anything against her. She was always kind to the child, and he was wonderfully fond of her. But— well, it's no business of ours, and I think she wasn't bad at heart. The squire left her an income; and if he dies she is to have everything that isn't entailed. That goes to a cousin, a doctor in London. The squire wouldn't trust either of them with, the baby, for fear they'd make away with him. I don't think he was just to her; but as for the cousin, I wouldn't trust him. Anyhow, he left Archie— the blessed lamb!— in charge of Mr. Godley, a man with no more human feeling than those bedposts, my dear! I've tried to be a mother to my mistress's child; but now I'm struck down just when— Oh, my dear! can't you step them operating on him? But I suppose you think nothing of it."

"Oh." I cried, "don't say that! If I am not present at the operation I generally shut myself up and cry."

"God bless you, my dear." She grasped my hand. "You're a woman, if you are a nurse."

"I hope so," I agreed. "But if I am at the operation, I won't let my feelings affect my usefulness; and I shall do my very, very best for your little boy. Now, here's your breakfast. Let me prop you up. There! Mary will help you.— I can see that you'll make a good nurse, Mary.— Now, you must eat every scrap of it; and I'll go and see the little chap that I am to mother for you till you are well."

I have loved many baby-patients, but from the first I loved Archie more than any. He was such a sweet, blue-eyed little fellow, and so wonderfully patient. He did not speak, but he smiled at me faintly, and he held my finger when I took him in my arms. I kissed him and crooned to him while I examined the lump. I was pretty sure that it was cancerous. If so the horrible roots would probably reach, to the brain, and the operation would be very dangerous. Poor little smiling baby! I kissed him again.

"Nursie has come to play with Archie," I said; and he smiled again. I made a little game of washing his face and hands, while Mary, who soon came in, put things in order, under my direction.

Dr. Palmer arrived soon after we had finished. He was evidently a heavy drinker, and seemed fuddled even at that early hour, but I judged him to be naturally clever. He pronounced the case very serious, and had telegraphed for a specialist to come down at once; and he had thought it best to have a skilled nurse in case an operation was necessary. Mrs. Fennell had insisted that he should also stipulate for one who was fond of children.

"You are used to operations, I suppose?" he asked.

"Yes," I said. "Who is the specialist?"

"Dr. Royd," he replied. "He is an old friend of mine, and quite at the top of his line. Perhaps you know him?"

"Yes," I said. "I know him."

"When Dr. Palmer had gone I went and broke the news to Mrs. Fennell as gently as I could. "Dr. Palmer has sent for a famous specialist," I told her. "He is a great surgeon, as well as a great specialist; and he will he able to perform the operation himself at once if it is necessary."

"You know him?" she inquired.

"Yes," I answered.

"And you like him?"

"He is very competent," I said evasively.

"But you do not like him?"

"My dislike is purely a personal matter," I explained. "He is the doctor whom I should select for the case. I should not have used so strong a term as 'dislike' perhaps. We had a disagreement once."

Sometimes I had thought that the disagreement was my own fault. He had been brusque to me at my first operation, when I almost fainted. Possibly his sharpness saved me, but I resented it the more because I had been anxious to earn his praise. Afterwards, when I had come to be considered a specially good nurse for the operating-room, he told me that he wanted me for his cases; and I told him that I did not wish to take them. He was distinctly rude then, and said that I had no more right to let my objection to him stand in the way of my duty than he had to let his objection to me stand in the way of his. I answered that I could do my duty better with those with whom I liked to work. We had never spoken again, except when he was one of the trio who examined me for the Redman prize, which I won. He was quite fair to me as an examiner, so I tried to do him justice now.

"The disagreement was partly my fault,'' I added. "He is rather overbearing, and I think unsympathetic; but he is certainly very skilful."

"What is his name?" Mrs. Fennell asked.

"Royd." I told her. "Paul Royd."

She gave a sharp cry and clutched my arm. "Oh," she cried, "my little boy! my little boy! He is Archie's cousin. He will kill him. He is next in the entail!"

My breath went quickly and came back slowly.

"And he is a friend of Dr. Palmer's," I said; "but of course he will not operate under the circumstances. I can't think it of him. I won't think it of him. I don't like him, but he is not that sort of man. I am sure of it— almost sure of it."

"Ah!" she cried, "almost! You mistrust him in your heart. You think him hard and cruel."

"Not cruel," I said. "Hard—yes. He was hard on me. Still—  Oh, no! He wouldn't do that."

But she persisted that he was not to be trusted. It was written in his face, she declared. He looked like the Evil One (whose appearance she judged from his presentment in "Faust," I gathered). Dr. Royd certainly was of Mephistophelean appearance—tall, thin, dark, and fierce-eyed.

There was another thing against him, it appeared. He had tried to induce Mr. Godley to hand over Archie to his stepmother— "a play- actress, my dear, though I don't say she wasn't good to the child, and wouldn't have hurt him herself; but he would have been able to get to him then, being a friend of hers. The squire didn't do as he did for nothing, mark my words."

I assured her that her suspicions were absurd; and I really believed so, until the afternoon. Then, to our astonishment, Mrs. Royd, Archie's stepmother, arrived, having crossed the river by boat. Dr. Palmer had written to her, and she had taken the first train from Paris "to see the little man." She was not vulgar, but she was gaily dressed, and not innocent of rouge and powder; and I suspected the colour of her hair— a pale gold. She had a stage walk and an exaggerated stage manner. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much!" I thought when she flung herself on her knees beside Archie's bed.

"What shall mummy play with you, darling dear?" she asked. "Little precious boy!"

Archie's eyes brightened, and he spoke for once.

"Dump!" he said feebly. "Dump!"

"Dump!" She laughed a stage laugh. "Yes, mummy will dance to the lovely one! He always liked her to 'dump,' didn't he?"

She propped him up on the pillows, and threw off her hat and cloak and danced on the hearthrug, kicking up her legs and throwing herself into stage attitudes. Whenever she stopped he cried, "Dump! dump!" And she went on again till she was quite exhausted and sank in a chair.

"Dump, mummy!" he persisted.

"Oh, boy!" she said breathlessly, "mummy's nearly 'dumped' to death! I'll sing to sonny-man instead."

She sang him snatches of music-hall songs, with actions and gestures, till he dozed. Then she gathered up her hat and cloak and looked at me.

"Well," she said with a shrug, "you look very properly disgusted, nurse. It's pretty horrible, isn't it, when perhaps to-morrow—. He'll have had an hour's more fun in his little life, anyhow." She bent suddenly and kissed the small hand that lay upon the counterpane.

"It was very, very kind of you," I said, "especially as—"

She turned as if she would strike me. "As his death would profit me!" she hissed. "You—you—" She controlled herself with an evident effort.

"I was going to say as you were evidently very tired," I protested indignantly; "but the idea seems to be present in your mind."

She laughed scornfully. "Qui s'excuse," she said. "I hope my French is correct. I don't know much. There's a frightful lot that I don't know; but I know people. I know you. You're a good woman— a most horribly good woman! But you're prejudiced and jealous and suspicious. S'accuse! That's what you'll al-ways think of me now. Well, you don't know people. It was just that—that I hated the thought of profiting by—by— Oh, little sonny-man!" She kissed the small hand again and swept out with a stage bow.

I sat down and tried to think, and could not make out what I thought; but I took care to leave Mary in the room when I left it to see Mrs. Fennell. When I came back Mrs. Royd was sitting beside the bed. She was touching the sleeping child's head, and she had been crying. She got up with a forced laugh; but the break in the laugh seemed natural. I believed that my suspicions had been unjust— till Dr. Royd came. She met him on the stairs and they talked. The door of the sick-room was ajar, and I was close to it. My ears are very sharp, and I heard what they said, though they spoke softly.

"Paul!" she said, "my learned doctor!"

I noted the familiarity. I did not hear his reply distinctly, but I thought he called her by her Christian name. They said a few more things in a whisper.

Then she raised her voice a trifle, and I heard again. "That's how it stands," she said. "It's like a stage play! The sick heir, the cruel cousin, and the wicked stepmother, the faithful foster-mother, and the good nurse, who had her suspicions. You've no end of a good nurse!" She laughed sharply.

"Hush!" he told her in his brusque way. "You've no end of a foolish tongue. Nobody would have had suspicions if you hadn't roused them. Is she a hospital nurse?"

"She's from a nursing institution. She was at a hospital—yours! I gathered that there's no love lost between you."

"Who is she?" he asked.

"Her name is Read— Miss E. N. Read."

"Umph!" he growled. "Yes, she dislikes me. She's a particularly clever nurse, but cursed with nerves, and as obstinate and prejudiced as— as a woman! If you've put a suspicion into her head you'll never put it out, and—"

I could not catch the rest of the conversation, and when he resumed his way upstairs I went over to the bed and took my poor little patient in my arms. I was sitting nursing him and pretending to read when Dr. Royd came in.

He was very courteous to me, and went out of his way to express approval of what I had done; and he was more pleasant to Archie than I had ever known him be to a patient. He even gave him his watch to hold to his ear while he examined the swelling. The examination was very brief, and when it was over he patted the child on his head and looked down at him thoughtfully.

"You and I will have to be associated in an operation after all," he told me quietly.

"When?" I asked, making myself speak quietly, too. I had decided to make no contest, but to telegraph to Dr. Ferguson, the chairman of the board of my old hospital, to come at once, and to tell him all that I knew.

"To-night," Dr. Royd answered, "as soon as I can get Palmer over to give the anaesthetic. It is a desperate case, and I fear that I am called in too late. Every hour is important."

"But he should be dieted first," I objected. "And— and you are taking a great responsibility, Dr. Royd."

I looked at him and he looked at me. He turned a little pale, and I saw his hands clench; but he controlled his anger.

"I will not pretend to misunderstand you," he said very gravely. "I take that responsibility to give the child his chance— poor as it is. I am aware what you will say afterwards; but I shall have the consent of the boy's guardian, and I shall have the testimony of Dr. Palmer."

"The consent of a man who cares nothing for his poor little ward!" I thought. "And the testimony of a drunken man, who would do anything for the favour of this great specialist, whom he plumes himself upon knowing! But who would weigh the word of a mere nurse against theirs?"

"You will not take the responsibility of refusing your assistance, I suppose?" Dr. Royd asked in a hard voice.

"No," I said. "If he dies, God forgive you." Dr. Royd turned on his heel and left the room. I heard him ask for Mr. Godley, and I knew that he had gone to seek permission to perform the operation. I sat hugging the child to me for a time. Then I made up my mind.

Archie had fallen asleep again. I arranged a cloak round him, and then a couple of rugs, which I pinned together carefully. Then I put on my own jacket and hat, and crept down the back stairs, carrying the child in my arms. I met no one, and got out of the house unseen. It was a cold night, and a strong wind was driving a drizzling rain. There was no light beyond the two lamps at the end of the drive, and the road was barely distinguishable. I trudged on through mud and pools in the road. I walked into several trees and bruised myself, slipped into a shallow trench and injured my ankle, and fell over a heap of stones and cut my face; but I kept the child from harm. At last I reached the little stage at the edge of the river. Two boats were moored there. I got into one, laid the baby on the stern seat, and rowed.

I had very little experience of rowing, and my arms ached after half a dozen strokes. To this day I do not know how I over, but I did. The little pier on the other side was farther up the river, and the tide was flowing in and helped me. If it had been flowing the other way I suppose we should have been driven out to sea and drowned. As it was, the boat almost capsized when I ran it clumsily upon the pier. I snatched up the baby; but an-other wave caught the boat, and I should have fallen into the water if the old nightwatchman had not seized us both and dragged us upon the stage as the boat filled and disappeared. He stood gaping at us in amazement; but I told him that it was a case of life and death, and I was taking my child to the doctor, and then I ran up the pier without waiting for any questions. I went to the railway station, and found that the night train started in half an hour. It was an express to London, and once there I thought  that we should be safe. My only fear was that they might track us down before we started. I sat in the waiting-room shivering with apprehension. The stationmaster noticed my drenched condition, and asked me into his house, where his wife gave me some tea and dried my jacket and the baby's rugs. I told her that I was taking my baby to a hospital, as the doctor said that he must go at once.

At last the train was ready to leave, and I got in. I saw a trap driving up to the station as we were almost out of it. I thought that I recognised Dr. Royd's voice calling, and I feared that the train might he stopped at the next station; but it was not, and I went to sleep with the child in my arms. He seemed very ill, and slept all the way. He was still asleep when we arrived in London at seven o'clock. I stumbled out upon the platform, cold and nervous and weary. Three people came up to me; Dr. Royd, Mrs. Royd, and— oh! thank heaven!—  dear old Dr. Ferguson. I caught at his arm.

"Oh, doctor!" I cried, "don't listen to them. Listen to me. I— the baby— he— they—"

"Hush!" he said. "Hush, my dear! I will listen, but not here. You must come to the hospital. You can hardly stand, poor girl. Give me the baby. You'll trust him with me, won't you?"

"Yes," I cried. "Yes, yes. I am very tired." The tears rolled down my cheeks. "We were nearly drowned," I told him.

"Yes," he agreed soothingly. "Yes, dear. They might have been killed, too."

He nodded toward Dr. Royd and Mrs. Royd, and I saw that both were bandaged. I learnt afterwards that they had motored in the dark to Overbury Junction to catch a faster express, by a shorter route, and had had an accident; but they had caught the train in the end, and cut me off. They were determined that the operation should be performed at once, and they had telegraphed to Dr. Ferguson to meet us, fearing a scene with me. They thought no doubt that he would take Dr. Royd's word against my story; but I thought otherwise.

Dr. Ferguson took us all to his rooms at the hospital, and had coffee and toast brought in, and made us eat and drink before we talked. Then he asked for my story first, and I told it. Then Dr. Royd told his.

Dr. Palmer, he said, had been fuddled, as usual, and had written for him, overlooking his relationship to the sick child and his succession to the entail. He had also written to Mrs. Royd— "quite properly," Dr. Royd said, "and knowing that the child had no truer friend. Those who really know Mrs. Royd," he added, "respect and trust her, as I do. It has preyed upon her mind that those who do not understand her should fear to trust her with the little boy whom she loves; and so she said what she said to Miss Read. She is generous enough to own that this gave Miss Read great excuse for suspicion."

When he arrived she had thought it best to tell him what had passed. This was the conversation that I had heard in part. If I had heard all, he thought that I might have formed a different impression.

When he examined Archie he saw at once that immediate operation was the only hope for the child. Therefore, in spite of the terrible risk to himself, and fully realising the suspicion which would fall upon him if it failed, he decided to perform it; but first he would ask Dr. Ferguson to examine the growth. "I presume," he said, "that Miss Read will accept your word; and"— he glanced at me for a moment— "I should like to say that although I am deeply hurt at her opinion of me, far more hurt than she suspects, I respect her for the action which she took in consequence of her opinion. She risked her life for the child. I"— his voice was husky— "I do not blame her, but I am very, very hurt and sorry."

I tried to speak, but could not. Dr. Ferguson put on his spectacles, and bent over Archie's swollen face, and I could not speak even then. I should not have spoken, and all my life would have been different, if Mrs. Royd— the woman whom I had looked upon as an empty-headed play-actress— had not understood and helped me before he delivered his verdict.

"Wait!" she cried. "Wait! She wants to— to―" She looked at me, and something in her compassionate eyes seemed to give me strength. I rose and took Archie from Dr. Ferguson and put him in Dr. Royd's arms.

He did not seem able to speak either for a time, but at last he found words. "Can you pull yourself together, and help me in the operation?" he asked in his ordinary tone.

I could not speak even then, but I held out my hand with a sob. He pressed it tightly. Then we went into the operating-room. Mrs. Royd touched my shoulder as I passed. I turned and kissed her.

You will not wish to hear about the operation, and I do not wish to think about it. It succeeded, and it is still quoted in medical books as a remarkable instance of complete recovery from lesions which might have been expected to impair the mental functions. In Dr. Royd's account of the case he gives an undue share of the credit to "the devoted and wonderfully intelligent nursing of a lady who is a distinguished member of her profession, but prefers that her name should be withheld. The child's affection for and confidence in her gave him sufficient strength and courage to hold to existence during the trying period which followed the operation, and I shall always feel that he owed his life to her."

Archie had left the hospital and gone to the seaside with Mrs. Royd, and I was staying with Mrs. Ferguson when I read this. I was very weak and run down, and when she showed me the account I cried as if my heart would break.

"I have never even begged his pardon for what I thought of him," I told her; "and I shall never get well till I have. And it's no use just begging his pardon; I want to do some-thing to show him that I mean it. Do you think I might write and tell him that I hope he will let me nurse some of his cases in future?"

"Tell him this afternoon," she said. "He is coming to see you. He is very anxious about your health. He says that you are a bundle of nerves."

"Yes," I said, "a bundle of crotchety, disagreeable, suspicious nerves. I hate myself!"

"Oh, well," she said, "he doesn't hate you."

He came that afternoon, and I began my apology as soon as he entered, but he cut me short.

"I know," he said; "I know! You feel that you want to do something to show your confidence in me. That's it, isn't it?"

"Yes," I said.

He sat down beside the sofa where I was lying— they insisted that I was am invalid— and put his hand on my shoulder.

"And you'd like me to prove my complete confidence in you?" he suggested.

"Yes," I said. "I don't deserve It; but I should."

"Then," he said, "will you be my wife, Nan? If you love me, not unless. I trust to your honour not to accept me for any other reason. I love you very much, Nan."

"I love you too," I told him; and that was very true. "You said that I was a good nurse. I hope I shall be a good wife."

"You will be better as a wife, Nan," he assured me. "As a nurse you had one drawback— too much heart. That won't be a drawback now."

Well, he is a very great specialist. He ought to know.

_________________

21: Her Account

Owen Oliver

World's News (Sydney) 6 December 1919

A WOMAN'S tongue has always enough to answer for. The things shouldn't have said would fill a good many pages of the Black Book, but they don't much worry me. I can plead my sex. My puzzle is what to say when the Recording Angel comes to a little entry about my silence. I can fancy him looking over whatever angels wear for spectacles, and reproving me. "It led to a good many entries in other people's accounts."

If my dead tongue is as quick as the live one I shall suggest that my brother Tom got most of the credits; and it he agrees to that I think I shall accept the debit without pro-test. I claim no merit in putting Tom's ac-count before my own. Mother died and left him to me when he was two and I was two-and-thirty. and, whatever else I've done or left undone. I've grown him into a good man. I thought I had put him in the way of being a happy one until I heard of his marriage. I was like a maniac then; tore my grey-speckled hair as I walked my room all night; wept over my drawerful of relics; little baby dresses, little broken toys, little locks of gradually darkening hair.

"Oh, little boy!" I groaned. "Little boy that I've grown for this! Such a dear little chap you were! You'll be so unhappy, Tom!"

That was what troubled me most, that Tom would be unhappy. I bad no doubt of it. I knew all about the woman from Hadley Carter.

"Tom's buying Leeson's yacht and taking her for a cruise;" he said, when he brought me the news; "and I won't wear mourning if he goes down. A man who marries a woman like that is done!"

Well, it was no use making matters worse by a quarrel. I decided to receive her and try to keep things as straight as I could. I met her with a smile and kissed her powdered cheek. I'd have liked to set my teeth in it! I told Mary Turner so when I got home. Mary had lived with me for six years; since she was fifteen. It is an old woman's amusement to mother someone, and Mary was very sweet. I had meant her for Tom.

"She has the impudence to ask us to go on the next cruise," I said. Mary swayed a little in her chair. "You needn't be afraid that we'll go, child!"

Mary straightened her soft little body.

"There is no reason why we shouldn't," she said; "and"— she moistened her lips— "and no reason why people should be able to say there was."

I moistened my lips also. I am a proud woman myself. I knew that Mary would never own, even to me, that she loved my brother, and I could not hurt her by suggesting it.

"We will do exactly as you please, my dear," I told her. "You are all that I have now."

She put her arms round me and kissed me. "We will go," she said; and we went.

WE CRUISED about for a month in southern waters, and nothing much happened. The people on board danced, and played bridge, and flirted, and made excursions ashore, and did all the usual fool things. Tom and his wife quarrelled decently. He watched Mary; and Mary sat and painted incessantly. His wife flirted with the wireless man— we had an installation— but very discreetly. His wife's brother had an extraordinary run of luck at poker. Some of the men talked about it.

"A doubtful character," Stewart Read told me; "but nothing you could lay hold of, you know."

"I know," I answered. "Like her!" Stewart whistled softly.

"If ever you can," he remarked, "I don't envy her! You're a bit down on Mrs. Tom, you know, Miss Caroline."

I do know. So does the Recording Angel. It's all in the silence entry. I watched her and the wireless man, and deliberately gave them rope. I wanted her to hang, and free Tom. Nature made him my brother; but my heart made him my son.

They didn't seem inclined to take the rope; or rather, she didn't. The man was just wild about her, but she had herself well in hand. She was a hussy without a heart. She cared for Tom's money, though she didn't care for Tom. He knew that now, and I think he knew who did. He was always staring at

Mary, as she sat on the deck and sketched. Once he caught my eyes on him.

"It cools one to look at Mary." he apologised. "She always seems like iced-water to a man who's feverish, you know."

Iced-water after a muddy pool, I thought; but I did not say it.

We were rocking in Santa Bella harbor one sweltering morning, when he said that, just before he went ashore with Read. The rest of the party were too hot for sight seeing, but Tom and Read did not mind the sun. In the afternoon the heat grew unbearable. I went to He down immediately after lunch. My stateroom was on the sunny side, so I appropriated a spare cabin. It had a skylight as well as a porthole, and was close to the companion. I left the door open to get the air blowing through, and climbed into the upper berth. I could see the people on deck, but they could not see me unless they looked right in the skylight; and none did.

I was too hot to sleep, and lay there staring. I could see a sleeve of the hussy, and the languid movement of her fan, and a little way off I saw Mary's pale face. From the look on it I knew when Tom was returning to the yacht, before I heard his cheery voice.

It was always the same big, cheery voice-. baby, boy, and man. It just deepened and deepened without other alteration.

"I met a chap I liked ashore," he announced. "I've asked him to come on for tea, and to do a short cruise with us. Graham Dean, the newspaper fellow."

The hussy, his wife, went a little forward then. I saw her face through the skylight. Her thin lips parted for a moment, and showed her teeth. Her mouth suggested biting. I raised myself on my elbow to observe her. Her fan was moving rapidly.

"Oh!" said Newton. "Directory Dean! They say he knows everybody, and everything they've ever done. Never forgets a face. A detective once told me that he'd rather have Dean to help him than any two of his own profession. I hope we've no guilty secrets aboard."

"Only the usual sort," Read observed lazily; "and Dean's a gentleman about those!"

Tom's wife rose, and her dress passed slowly along the side of the skylight. A man's flannels followed. I rose and peeped through.

"Her brother!" I muttered. "I thought so! I must see what I can get out of Directory Dean, and then—"

My eyes pursued Tom as he joined Mary and looked over her shoulder at her painting. "Iced-water!" I muttered. "If I could rid him of that hussy——"

And then I heard her whispering with her brother in the alley-way just outside my door. There were curtains round the berth, and I crouched behind them in case they should look in.

"This is the very devil!" her brother snapped. "I shall go ashore before he comes, of course. You must be ill, and keep out of his way."

"How can I keep out of his way if he's coming for a cruise?" she demanded. "That precious idiot has practically asked him."

"Then you must stop it."

"What reason am I to give? He's suspicious enough. already. I can see he doesn't believe half what I've told him about his dear wife's upbringing and social position."

"Because his dear wife can't hold her silly tongue!"

"You're a liar!" she stated. She used coarse epithets. "I haven't let out a thing. It's well for you I haven't, you gaolbird!"

I noted the epithet.

"It's no use slinging mud, Sally. I got hold of him, and made you a lady, any way. The deuce is that you can't remember you are one. You go and talk like a little slut, and then he pricks up his ears... It's no use quarrelling, Sal. Look here! If Dean spots us, we're done. You've got all the tricks of the trade. Can't you get round him?"

"Didn't I try three years ago? No. I can't. There's someone I can get round."

She laughed a short laugh, half-angry, half-amused.

"The wireless chap? What's the good of that?"

She whispered for perhaps a minute. I could not catch her words. Her brother grunted at intervals.

"It's an infernal risk," he remarked at last, "but I don't see any other way. It may pull us through for the moment, but there will be trouble afterwards, for someone."

"For someone. Yes." She laughed softly.

"Umph!" her brother grunted. "I don't believe you'll humbug Wireless into being the only scapegoat. The chap's frantic over you; but he's not a fool in other respects. He's dangerous, Sally."

"I know, I know! I can manage him all right for the present, any way; and we can't be worse off, can we? Go and find him and send him down to the saloon. I'll speak to him there. And for goodness sake talk to old Sour Apple, and keep her out of the way. She's always watching me. I wouldn't trust myself alone with her in the dark. I believe she'd push me overboard If she could do it and not be found out!"

I nodded quietly and snarled at her through the matchboard partition. I have sometimes thought— never mind what I thought. The Recording Angel has it all down in my account.

"Bah!" the brother said. "It's your fancy. She doesn't watch you in particular. She suspects everybody of everything, and that comes to much the same as suspecting nobody of anything. I'll keep her off all right. I've only got to laud little Miss Innocence— the soppy—"

"Shut up!" Tom's wife said fiercely. "If you say anything against Mary Turner, I'll slap your dirty face. That's the sort of girl I meant to be, when I was a kid. If I'd had a decent brother to look after me I might have been."

"If I'd had a decent sister to look after," he retorted, "I might have looked after her. You know as well as I how— what's the use of throwing bricks, Sally. Here we are; and if Dean sees us I shan't be the only gaol-bird, my pretty dear! I'll go and send Wireless. Be careful, mind. The chap's dangerous. Dangerous. I tell you!"

She laughed savagely. "So," she said, "am I!"

Then they went away; and I rose very quietly and walked up on deck. I sometimes wonder how I thought out and decided upon the whole situation while I mounted a few stairs.

My first intention was to tell Tom what I had heard, and leave him to call in Directory Dean and rid himself of the hussy. That was fair enough, and my speech would not have burdened the Black Book. But I saw that this meant only a separation. What the woman had done before marriage would not free Tom. If I let her go on and bargain with the wireless man, perhaps that might! That is the silence that I can't argue out of my account. I won't try. I kept it deliberately, foreseeing the consequences; intending them.

I walked up and down the deck for a few minutes. Her brother joined me then.

"Have you had a good look at Miss Turner's sketch of the harbor?" he began. I smiled at him. The old Sour Apple could be sweet some times!

We were still talking when the wireless man brought a message to Tom. Tom raised his eyebrows and showed it to me. He always trusted me in important business. There was a dead set against some of the firm's interests by a big syndicate, the message said, and he was needed at the helm. Could he catch the mail leaving Santa Bella that afternoon?

"I don't understand it," he remarked.

I understood it well enough. It was a bogus message to get him out of the way and avoid an invitation to Dean; one half of his wife's bargain with the wireless man. It was enough to free him from her presence. The other half might free him from her altogether. I would wait for that.

"You must go, Tom," I told him quietly.

"Will you come?" he asked. I knew more of the firm's business than anyone.

"Not yet, boy," I said. "The yacht can fellow on, and you can wire to me at Santos, if necessary. You know that your business is mine."

And that business I knew was aboard!

His man packed his bag, and he went. Newton undertook to see him off. His wife walked to her cabin while he was on the gang way. She had a headache, she said. Mary stood watching him to the shore. Read called out as the boat started:—

"Don't mistake the steamer. Tommy, old man!" he chaffed. He pointed, to the mail lying at one horn of the crescent bay, and then at the Portuguese vessel lying at the other horn. She sailed for Lisbon a trifle later. That put a silent idea into my head. In the silent entry that is the blackest item.

I watched Tom's boat till it was at the landing stage. Then I walked up to the bridge deck— on his business.

The wireless man had a cabin there. His apparatus was at one end of it, and his berth at the other. None of the ship's officers were about. There was no watch in port. The deck was deserted and quiet. I tapped at his door; went in.

He was sitting on the bunk, with his elbow on his knee, and his chin on his hand. He started up when he saw me.

"You wish to send a message, Miss Travers?" he suggested.

"No," I said. "I wish to talk about one. You can sit down." I took a camp stool and sat down also. "The message that you gave my brother. It was a bogus one. I could prove that by going to the station ashore. You can take your eyes away from that crow-bar. I have a revolver. It looks a toy, but it is sufficient. I know who induced you to fabricate it. I don't know what reason she gave you. I suspect it was that she wanted my brother out of the way for your sake."

He looked up at me for a moment. His eyes were wild. Some men take "love" badly. He was one of them. In low latitudes they take it worse, and we were in the tropics. I think the man was scarcely responsible for himself.

"Her real reason," I went on smoothly, "was to stop my brother asking a Mr. Dean to come with us. Mr. Dean is acquainted with something very serious in her past. I don't know what it is. I don't much care. I don't suppose you do, either. You are just mad about her. Bad or good, past or no past, you want to take her from my brother. Well, I want you to!"

He breathed quickly and loudly.

"She doesn't," I continued. "She cares nothing for him; but she cares a deal for his money. She is merely fooling you. I shouldn't wonder if, after his vessel has sailed, she goes to the station ashore, 'finds out' that your message wasn't genuine, and sends you ashore to-night."

"I don't believe it!" He gritted his teeth. "I don't believe it!"

"You don't want to believe it," I said, "but you do! You are not a fool in other things, and though you can't help seeing what she is... Well, be a man and take her. I—" I leaned toward him and whispered "I can show you how!"

"If you can," he said between his teeth. "If you can— show me a way through hell, and I'll go!"

"He'll comes later," I said. "It will keep. Suppose you happened to intercept wireless messages that he was sending ashore? Messages the answers to which would bring him back to demand your explanation? Suppose you were sure that my suspicions would connect her with it? Suppose she saw no escape from confronting Dean? I think she would run away by the Portuguese boat, don't you? I think she would go with her friend and accomplice? If she doesn't, I'll have you in prison before to-night. There's no supposition about that."

"I think," he said, "you are a she-devil! You hate her; and you are prepared to ruin her to—"

"Ruin her?" I cried. "Ruin her! I want my brother to benefit at once from what would happen anyhow in the end. There are other men than you, remember. If in five minutes I do not hear your machines working I go and fetch my brother back aboard."

I walked out of his cabin. The clack-clack of the wireless began as I reached the promenade deck.

"Miss Travers is sending a love-letter," Tom's wife's brother suggested; and I smiled. "Then, of course," I said, "it will be brought down to you!"

The wireless man came to him soon afterwards in a great hurry. They hastened away together. Half an hour later some stewards brought several trunks and put them in a boat; and then Tom's wife and her brother appeared, dressed for going ashore.

"We've packed some of Tom's things for the poor old chap," she said sweetly, "and I think we can just catch him. Come on Will."

"Wait a second." her brother said. "Old Wireless has a message to take him. I said he could come with us. Hurry up, Smith."

The wireless man came quickly. I was standing alone, and he whispered as he passed.

"Au revoir," he said. "Hell, you know!" He laughed.

We watched him to the landing stage. Then I proposed bridge, and we sat on the deck and played. Presently Read, who was dummy hand, strolled off to see Tom's steamer start. He came back and announced that it was under way, and we left our game to look at it. He walked me off alone.

"I wonder if they got to Tom with the luggage," I remarked.

"I think they've mistaken the ship," he said very quietly. He handed me a pair of field glasses and pointed to the Portuguese vessel at the opposite side of the bay. A shore boat was approaching it. I waved the glasses aside.

"I don't want to know," I said. "Some thoughtless fool might suggest that we could signal and stop Tom's ship. I have my little revolver in my pocket, Stewart. If I thought you were that sort of fool, I'd shoot you where you stand!"

He looked at me and nodded.

"I believe you would!" he said, admiringly. If they make a man like Stewart Recording Angel I'm all right.

I was going back to our game, when Mary came to me gasping. She had my big opera glasses in her hand. She caught me by the arm and dragged me to our cabin.

"Auntie!" she said. "Auntie!" she called me that. "They— they have gone to the other boat.... They— I think— they—"

"Hush, child!" I said. "Hush!... I know.... We can do nothing."

"We can signal to Tom's ship and stop it," she cried. "Be quick! Be quick! It is nearly to the corner."

I locked the cabin door, and sat down be-side her on her berth.

"Child!" I said. "I love you very dearly: but if you try to call and tell anyone I will strangle you with these old hands.... You will ruin Tom's life and make me a murderess if you are not quiet.... Hush!.. Hush!"

We sat there till Tom's ship had rounded her corner; and the Portuguese ship was sailing for hers. People came to ask for us. I called that we were tired and resting. Mary opened her mouth a little. I put my hand over it. She did not try to speak, only shivered. When they were gone she cried.

"I shall never marry him!" she said.

But she did, after he obtained his divorce. They are very happy, and they are very good. They must keep the Recording Angel busy with entries on the credit side of their joint account. They are bringing up little babies and starting their life-accounts properly. So what do I care about mine!

_____________________

22: Twelve Minutes

Barry Pain

World's News (Sydney) 16 January 1915

"WELL, now," said Mr. Marlock, "that is all perfectly clear, isn't it?"

Mr. Sandys, senior partner of Sandys, Monckton, and Sandys, Lincoln's Inn Fields, looked over the notes which he had taken of his client's testamentary instructions.

"Yes," he said, "perfectly clear. There is just one point. The legacies are all right, of course. The residue goes to your daughter, Mrs. Hermin, for life, afterwards, if her husband survives her, to him for life, and after that it is to be equally divided among the children, or if there is only one child it is to go to him or her absolutely. That is what you have told me, and it can quite easily be carried out. But suppose Mr. and Mrs. Hermin have no children."

"They will," said Mr. Marlock, firmly.

As at that moment Mr. and Mrs. Hermin had been married four hours and a half, it was perhaps a little early to speak; so definitely. Mr. Marlock was a man who held strong opinions, never adduced or could adduce any reason in support of them, and was almost always right.

Mr. Sandys hastened to assent. "Of course they will," he said. "All I wanted to point out was that if they don't, and no further provision is made in the will, your money will go to your nephew Charles, which I believe would not be in accordance with your wishes."

"Charles is a dirty dog," said Mr. Marlock. "He is a liar and a scoundrel, and he shall never have a halfpenny of my money."

"Quite so," said Mr. Sandys. "Then what provision shall we make in case your daughter and son-in-law die without children?"

"None whatever. They are bound to have children."

"If they don't?"

"If they don't," repeated Mr. Martock, "then the devil means Charles to have the money, and Charles shall have it. But you will find I am quite right, Mr. Sandys."

Mr. Marlock walked from Lincoln's Inn Fields to his house in Portland Place. He preferred to walk, and despised other means of locomotion, even his own excellent motor-car.

He was a widower, fifty years of age, and his only daughter had married that morning the man whom he had commanded her to marry.

By a fortunate chance it was also the only man whom she would have married. But Mr. Marlock did not intend to spend a lonely evening. Three other men were dining with him, amongst them General Hermin, C.B., the. bride-groom's father. And after dinner there would be bridge. Mr. Marlock had provided himself with congenial society, but it had pleased destiny to send him also some society that was not congenial.

"Mr. Charles Marlock has called, sir," said the butler, gloomily.

"That's all right," said Mr. Marlock. "You kicked the blackguard out, of course."

"I'm afraid not, sir. Mr. Charles was very insistent. He said his business was of the greatest importance. He is waiting in the library, sir."

"You're a fool, Soames," said Mr. Marlock. "Don't you know that Charles always says his business is of importance? Well, I will have three words with him, just to stop him from coming here again."

Charles loss as his uncle entered. He was a fair-haired youth, badly built and badly dressed, with a watery eye, loose mouth, and
the marks of dissipation clearly visible upon him. He held out his hand, but his uncle did not appear to see it.

"Good evening, uncle. I've not come to borrow money," he began nervously.

"It wouldn't make the slightest difference to me if you had. I thought I told you that you were not wanted here. What have you come for?"

"I've come to complain about my treatment to-day," said Charles. "Julia is my first cousin. I sent her a wedding present."

"Yes," said Mr. Marlock. "Silver inkstand. Very handsome. I sent it back again. Hope you got it all right."

"I did, and my feelings are very much hurt by it. At the church to-day I was shown into a seat right at the back, and nobody spoke to me."

"That's not my fault," said Mr. Warlock. "If I could have kept you out of the church I should have done so."

"When I went to the Langham for the reception, I was not allowed to enter."

"That's all right," said Mr. Marlock, cheerfully. "What did you go for? You were not invited."

"In the case of so near a relative I did not think a formal invitation necessary."

"I thought you might take that view," said Mr. Marlock, "and made my arrangements accordingly. I don't want to see you anywhere at all, ever. Is that quite plain?"

"Quite," said Charles. "It is very hard on me. I am an orphan."

"So am I," said Mr. Marlock.

"I've been very unfortunate. You are a wealthy man. I know, of course, that you don't intend to leave a penny of your money to me."

"I don't," said Mr. Marlock. "But it might come to you all the same."

"How do you mean?"

"If George and Julia have no children. But of course they will have children."

"I see," said Charles. "I am afraid there is nothing there that I could take to a money lender. George and Julia are both good lives unfortunately— I mean unfortunately for me in this respect. And even if they have no children. I shall probably be dead long before they are."

"I am sure I hope so," said Mr. Marlock. "It also seems to be extremely likely. I don't think I need detain you any longer."

"I'm just going," said Charles. "There was only one sort of proposal I had to make to you. You see, when I bought that silver ink-stand for Julia I didn't buy it on credit. I paid for it."

"Naturally. No shop in London would be mad enough to give you credit for anything."

"That is so, but you don't see where the trouble is. I paid for it by cheque. Well, the cheque came back N.S. I can't think how it happened, uncle."

"I can," said the uncle. "So what you want to do is to get me to lend you the money to pay for a present to my daughter, which she did not want and has never had. Is that so?"

"Nothing of the kind," said Charles, with some attempt at dignity. "I happen to have backed a horse for the Cambridgeshire which is an absolute certainty. I got a very good price, and on Monday after the race no less than one hundred and fifty pounds will be paid into my bank. All I am asking you to do is as a matter of form to cash my post-dated cheque for a tenner."

"And as a matter of form I won't. Out you get."

THREE MONTHS later Mr. Sandys and Mr. Monckton sat with the newspaper in front of them and talked over the situation. The news- paper gave an account of the accident to the express on the previous evening, and a list of the names of the passengers who had been killed. Amongst them were the names of Mr. Marlock and his son-in-law.

"Yes," said Sandys. "He went to meet them on their return from Italy, as he said he would. Mrs. Hermin was certainly in the train, and her name is not in the list of those who were killed, or even of those who were injured. We may take it that she is quite safe."

"Still," said Mr. Monckton, "it would not be very surprising if the shock of the accident and of this terrible double bereavement killed her."

"Undoubtedly," said Sandys, "it would be enough to kill many women, but not Julia Hermin. I knew her personally. She inherited her father's tremendous grit. She was devoted to her husband and to her father, and she will feel their loss immensely— probably for a very long time, but it will not kill her."

"And how does this affect Charles Marlock's chances?"

"I cannot say. If she becomes a mother, and the child lives, that young blackguard inherits nothing. But if she has no child, everything comes to him at her death."

"Marlock ought to have been warned about that."

"He was warned, of course. I took his instructions myself. What was the use? He was a fine old chap in many ways, but you know how independent and obstinate he was. You might as well have warned a brick wall."

"Charles will soon get through that quarter of a million, if it ever comes to him."

"No doubt. We can't help it. We did everything we could to prevent it."

Charles Marlock also read it in the paper that morning. His first impulse was to take a drink. But this— probably for the first time in his life— he resisted. The death of his uncle and of Julia's husband did, not affect him in the least. All he saw in it was a distinct improvement in the chances of Charles Mar-lock. The idea occurred to him that he might go and see Julia, But Julia's dislike of him was quite as keen as her father's had been. Even under ordinary circumstances she would probably refuse to see him, and in this time of bereavement there was not the slightest chance that he would be admitted. Charles purchased for himself mourning paper and envelopes, and wrote a letter of condolence to Julia. It was beautifully worded, as his letters always were. Those who only knew Charles by his letters did not know him at all.

Charles had decided what to do. He was desperately in debt. He did not know where to go to find any ready money at all. At the same time he decided not to go to the money lender at present. He might, when he got more information, be able to make better terms. It might even be unnecessary for him to borrow money at all. It might turn out that the list in the newspaper was incomplete, and that Julia also was dead.

Julia did not answer his letter, but after a few days Charles managed to extract some information from servants. There was the definite information that Mrs. Hermin was alive and well. There was also a vague rumour, and Charles recognised that if this rumour were true there was an end to his chances of inheritance. He attended the funerals of Mr. Marlock and Mr. Hermin, to which he had not been invited, and on his return from them received an unexpected piece of good news. A horse that he had backed for a considerable sum at a long price had won. The bookmaker paid him. He in his turn paid the tradesmen just so much on account as would keep them quiet for a while. Experience and a certain amount of natural cleverness, enabled him to gauge these sums to a nicety.

THE RUMOR that Charles had heard was perfectly correct. He watched and waited, going down for the purpose to a little village on the Yorkshire coast where Mrs. Hermin had taken up her residence. Charles called at the house, but was refused admittance. Mrs. Hermin never went beyond her own gardens, and Charles never saw her. Her servants were reticent, but Charles did at last succeed in establishing relations with one of the gardeners. Charles gave him drink and money. In re-turn the gardener gave such information as he possessed.

One morning about seven months later the gardener met Charles in the street.

"You have heard, sir?" said the gardener, with an awed expression.

"Heard? No. Heard what?"

"Mrs. Hermin is dead."

"And the child?" said Charles, quickly.

"Fine boy, healthy, likely to do well. I got that from Doctor Safford himself."

"I see," said Charles gloomily. "Come and have a drink."

They went into the bar of the village public-house, and the gardener spoke of his own future prospects. He might be kept on or he might not. Of course, the probability was that the place would be sold and the entire staff dismissed, and that had decided him.

"Decided you? How do you mean?"

"I'm going to turn it up," said the gardener. "There's nothing in it. I am still young and pretty strong. I'm off to Coolgardie."

Charles reflected for a moment. "Right," he said. "I'll go with you."

"You don't mean that, sir?"

"I do," said Charles.

And for the next twenty-one years Charles was away from England. During those twenty-one years he had made and lost two fortunes. At the end of them he was a very poor man indeed. He managed to scrape together enough money to pay for a steerage passage back, to England again. Old Marlock had done nothing for him. Marlock's daughter, Julia, had treated him Just as badly. But there was just a chance that Richard Hermin, Julia's son, might have a softer heart, and be inclined to acknowledge the claims of relationship. Cousins should help one another.

IN TWENTY-ONE YEARS Dr. Stafford had prospered exceedingly. He was no longer a country practitioner, he was a specialist in Harley Street, and a very successful specialist. His beautiful daughter was engaged to he married to Richard Hermin, who had just completed his career at Cambridge and attained his majority.

Richard had done moderately well at Cambridge, as far as academic distinctions were concerned. But he had played Rugby for the University, and he had been a very popular man there. He had a good deal of the grit which had distinguished his grandfather, but his temper was pleasanter and sunnier. During his last year at Cambridge he had developed a great interest in politics and had spoken often and well at the Union. At present he was unpaid secretary to a Cabinet Minister, and was destined in a few years' time for Parliament. He was to be married in three months' time, and until then he was keeping on his bachelor rooms at St. James's Place.

There one afternoon he received a telephone message from Dr. Safford. The beautiful daughter and her mother were away, and Dr. Safford was alone. Would Richard come round to dinner that night? Richard would and did.

"Dick," said Dr. Safford, as they lit their cigars after dinner. "I'm going to tell you something about yourself that I never told you before— or anybody else, for that matter.

You know, Dick, it was I who brought you into the world. Well, a curious thing happened— a thing that has happened before, but not very frequently. Your mother, Dick, died twelve minutes before you, in the legal sense of the term, were born."

"Is that really so?" asked Richard.

"It is."

"And you never mentioned this to anybody?"

"No, as it happens. I had no particular reason for not doing so, but I didn't. I suppose a doctor gets into the habit of not talking about his cases."

"You see," said Richard, "that this raises rather an interesting point in law. My grandfather's money was left to my mother for her life, and afterwards to her child or children. If she had no child or children, it then went to a cousin of mine, a Charles Marlock, who was, by all accounts, a thorough waster."

"I knew him, and that describes him."

"Well, at the moment of my mother's death she had no child— that is to say, none that could by law inherit. Did not then the property at that moment pass automatically to this Charles Marlock?"

"I should not worry about it, if I were you, my boy. It is merely a legal quibble. Twelve minutes later you were born, and his claim was ipso facto destroyed."

"That may be. I am not a lawyer myself, and I don't know how the lawyers would look at it. But it seems to me that for those twelve minutes Charles Marlock was the possessor, though he did not know it, of a quarter of a million of money. Suppose he had known it and spent a good deal of it. It was legally his to spend. I don't suppose I could have recovered any of it."

"I never heard of anybody recovering anything from Charles Marlock. You can't get much out of an empty saucepan."

"I suppose the law, which is not quite such an ass as some people think, would respect the clearly expressed intentions of the testator. I was meant to have the money, and my, cousin, Charles Marlock, was not. All the same, now that I have heard this, I think I should rather like to do something for him."

"Him? Why he must be dead by now. He was a dissipated, worthless chap."

At that moment a servant announced that Mr. Hermin had been rung up on the telephone from his own rooms. Richard went to the telephone, and was told that Mr. Charles Marlock had called, and that his business was very urgent, and that he asked for an appointment.

Charles Marlock was greatly surprised when be was asked by Richard's servant if he would kindly wait. Mr. Hermin would be back in a few minutes, and would be glad to see Mr. Marlock.

Charles could never understand it. It all went so easily. There was really hardly any need for him to say anything. Even now he sometimes is inclined to rub his eyes and wonder if it can be true. He has a definite three hundred pounds a year, and he lives quite comfortably by himself at Brighton. But he has become very serious, and would like, if he could, to have the piers closed on Sunday. It is doubtful if he will succeed.

His views on all subjects are admirable, even when their are not the spice of novelty. "Money," he is rather fond of saying, "does not necessarily mean happiness. Twenty one years ago I had a quarter of a million, and I was not so happy then as I am flow with my very modest competence."

He can also strike the pathetic note. "I am a lonely man," he says. "I have but one relation in the world— a cousin. He never comes to see me, never asks me to see him. I don't suppose he would care if I died tomorrow."

But he omits to mention that it is the cousin who provides him with that modest competence.

______________________

23: Black Paws

Lucy Gertrude Moberly

1860-1931

World's News (Sydney) 12 March 1930

HE laid a large black paw upon her knee, and looked up at her with faithful eyes which seemed to her to hold—

"I wish to heaven you'd leave that infernal dog alone, and listen to me. You look at the dog as though he were a rational being!"

"Isn't he?" Denise smiled faintly— her hand caressed the head of the great Labrador who sat beside her, "I always look upon him as 'a very parfit, gentil knight.'"

"Pshaw," Lionel Masters laughed angrily, "you are absurd about the beast. One would suppose he was a personal friend."

"So he is." She looked into the man's annoyed face, with a little wavering smile on her own, "Michael is one of my best friends."

Lionel jerked himself round with a gesture of vexation.

"Well— we are not here to discuss that dog," he said. "I came to-day because things can't go on as they are: we must come to a decision."

At his words she rose, and pushed back her chair, as though she would find it easier to give him his answer standing, and the great dog by her side rose, too, and stood very close to her, his body pressed against her, so that her hand could still rest upon his head.

That June evening on the terrace of Kingsvale Manor was very peaceful, and all about the man and woman hung the fragrance and loveliness of a summer day. From the lawn below the terrace, the sweetness of pinks was wafted up to them, and the warm scent of Scotch roses; the birds in the shrubberies were beginning to sing their evening songs; excepting for the sound of their singing, the stillness was unbroken, save for the tinkle of an occasional sheep bell, the bark of a dog far away in the village; the murmur of wind in the tree tops.

Denise Standale walked slowly to the balustrade at the edge of the terrace, and stood looking out across the flowery garden, to the park beyond, trouble in her eyes, a wistful droop about her lips.

"Lionel," she said slowly, to the man who joined her, "it is such a gigantic step to take, and yet―" she hesitated and looked up into his handsome, eager face, as though to seek there the help and inspiration she needed.

"Gigantic? in a sense, yes," his own voice had softened, "on the other hand, once taken, you have your freedom."

"Freedom!" she drew a long breath. "Nobody knows what that would mean to me; but— it is a great price to pay."

"Does that imply that I am not worth the price?" he asked, dropping his voice to a dangerous tenderness, and putting his hand upon her shoulder. And when Michael, the great dog. saw that hand touch her shoulder, he growled, a soft, but unmistakeable growl.

"That confounded animal of yours is jealous," Lionel said, with an uneasy laugh; "he has never liked me. Is he jealous of everybody?"

"No, oh. no," Denise answered quickly and unthinkingly; "he is devoted,"— she pulled herself up short, and finished her sentence— "He is devoted to me— and perhaps that makes him feel he has special rights." She tried to laugh the incident aside, but there was a frown on her companion's face.

"Well, we can't let the dog come between us, or interfere with our discussion," he said at last, "the whole thing lies in a nutshell. Are you going to stay at home, and endure the degradation of life with Standale, or are you coming away with me? I am putting it with brutal frankness— but, my dear, sometimes nothing but the brutal truth will serve. Life in your own home is intolerable."

"Very nearly," she answered, with another song indrawing of the breath.

"Then why not end it? Why not make a clean cut?" Lionel's voice was very urgent. "At home you are at the mercy of— forgive me for saying it crudely— of a drunken brute. You are scarcely even safe from bodily injury."

"I don't think Maurice would ever hurt me," she said under her breath.

"You are certainly never free of the mental and spiritual degradation of living with a man who has put himself upon the level of the beasts."

"I know," she faltered, "I know. Maurice makes my life— hell," she uttered the words in a whisper, but they reached Lionel's ears.

"Then come out of hell," he exclaimed, passionately. "No woman is bound to stay with a man who has sunk to those depths; no woman need remain in hell if a way out is made easy for her."

For a long time Denise was silent, and in that moment a flood of thoughts poured through her mind. Maurice, her husband, in his gay, debonair youth; Maurice, her husband, after fifteen years of married life— a drunkard. Lionel Masters, the friend who had helped her so staunchly; the friend who had never failed her; the cultured, charming man who would give her a peaceful existence; who would shield her from the buffets of the world; giving her happiness. The past with Maurice; the future with Lionel; and between the two, a time when tongues would wag and friends might look askance, and that sense of aloofness, of probity which wrapped her round, would be torn away.

All these thoughts came to her in chat flashing moment. And then her glance left the smiling garden, and the stretch of park, golden green in the westering sunlight, and she looked into Lionel's face again. A handsome face; a strong face; a face for mastery; the face of a man one could lean upon, as much as it was possible to lean upon any man. A faint smile flickered over her face at that reflection. But did the spiritual lie behind that strong and masterful handsomeness?

The question shot into her mind without her own volition. She vaguely wondered why it had come. She could not answer it: and the question vanished as Lionel Masters smiled at her his disarming smile.

"Well, my dear, is it so hard to make up your mind to let me bear your burdens and give you happiness?" he said, and again the very tones of his voice were a caress.

"Give me till to-morrow." she said wistfully. "Lionel," she put out her hand to him impulsively, "I want it so much. I want the rest, the peace, the sense of safety; but— I can't decide to-day."

Michael, the great Labrador, rubbed his head against her with a mute caress. All at once he lifted his paw and laid it on her hand, and she turned to him with a funny little tremulous smile, then turned back to the man.

"Michael seems to approve of my decision," she said, laughing rather shakily. "Give me till to-morrow, Lionel."

"Oh! Michael," the words broke impatiently from Masters's lips, "you are absurd about that dog, ridiculous. All right, my dear," his impatient tones moderated, "we will wait till to-morrow. I shall come over then for my answer. If it is 'No' to me, do you mean to go home?"

He looked at her curiously, and she flushed. "Yes, I think so. If it is 'No' to you I shall go home."

SHE WAS a guest at Kingsvale Manor, staying there during the absence of the owners, her sister and her sister's husband; and after Lionel had gone, she was alone for the evening, free to follow her own devices.

She and Michael wandered across the garden, to a wild patch of ground from which she could see a glimpse of distant hills, with a faintly colored sky behind them, into which a golden sun dropped to his setting. And there she sat. Michael stretched beside her. her face turned to the golden west, her mind revolving round the torturing question, the momentous decision.

Two pictures unrolled themselves before her with devastating clearness; a picture of the years ahead of her, if she stayed with Maurice in their home on the far side of the county; a picture of those same years
lived with Lionel Masters, In his charming Hampshire house, or amongst the mountains and sunny seas of other lands, where so much of his time was passed. To travel with a man of his culture and enthusiasm, to share the interests of a man whose mind was so many-sided; to feel safe and free from the dragging misery of her present, these drew her powerfully towards Lionel.

"If only," her thoughts went off inconsequently, "if only the child had lived, it would have made all the difference to Maurice and me!"

But their baby son had stayed with them such a little, little while, and no other children had come to fill Denise's empty arms; and Maurice? She shivered, and instinctively her hand went out to Michael's black head. Maurice had sunk to the position of the habitual drunkard; and although he seemed to cling to her almost like a frightened child, she felt that the end of her tether was nearly reached. She was giving, giving, giving out all the time; giving strength and support and comfort to the man who leant so heavily upon her, draining her vitality What an unspeakable rest and sense of freedom would be hers, if she cut the bonds which bound her to Maurice, if she allowed Lionel to shape her life!

"Michael," she said softly, "it would be like heaven to shake off the yoke, and to let Lionel take me. I wonder " She locked thoughtfully down at the dog who lifted his noble head towards her, "I wonder why you have never liked Lionel, and why you adore Maurice, in spite of everything?'

Yet that was strange, she reflected. Michael loved Maurice, loved him in spite of everything, loved him with a faithful, dogged devotion which nothing seemed to daunt or change. Whereas, on the other hand, the great dog had consistently disliked Lionel, and consistently showed his dislike!

"I wonder why," she said aloud, "my Michael beloved, if only you could speak, what would you tell me to do? What would that big, wise heart of yours advise? Would you say 'Go' or 'Stay'?— I want to go. Michael, I desperately want to go!— I'm tired, tired— tired of always giving out, always being strong. I want to lean on someone else's strength. And yet—Michael— I am Maurice's wife!"

The dog's noble head was a little more lifted, his eyes— loving, loyal, wise— looked full into the woman's eyes, as though trying to grasp her meaning, and all at once he lifted one of his paws— just as he had done before— and put it into her hand.

"You dear, beautiful beast," she said gently: "I wish I knew just what you are crying to tell me. Your eyes are so faithful, so brimming over with loyalty and love; and"— she spoke more slowly, her eyes still meeting the gaze of those steadfast eyes— "and your love and your loyalty never change or falter, whatever your master and I do or are. We might be the blackest criminals on earth; you would still love us and be faithful to us, whilst I―"

Her voice died into silence. She sat very still, her glance turning to the radiance of the western sky, her hand still pressed down by Michael's black paw. "Whilst I―" The thoughts that had paused there, raced on She was back in the little country church where fifteen years ago she had stood by Maurice's side, vowing to love him "for better for worse— till death." Till death? In that solemn vow no allowance had been made for any other severance!

Till death...

"And you would be loyal to us till death, wouldn't you?" Again her eyes looked into Michael's faithful eyes, in which the answer to her question was written large. "Till death," she repeated; and once more she saw that June morning fifteen years ago; the little church packed with friends, the splashes of sunshine across the nave; and Maurice's face turned towards tier, as she took her place beside him. The very sound of his voice came back to her, the little quiver in it when he had vowed to love

Mid cherish her, the little smile which had flashed into his eyes when he slipped the ring upon her finger, and the solemn words, "I pronounce that they be man and wife together," had fallen upon her ears.

Maurice's eyes seemed to look into hers blue, clear and frank as they had been on her wedding day; Maurice's eyes now. She shivered. And yet, and yet, even now the love had not died out of them. They looked at her to-day with the passion of wistful longing, which seemed to make continual demands upon her, pulling upon her strength her courage, her endurance, And she needed rest; she wanted to lean upon Lionel's strength, to escape from a burden which had suddenly grown too heavy for her to bear.

"Michael," she said, and there was a queer little break in her voice, "You would never stop being loyal to us, under any circumstances whatever; you would never stop loving us; you would never desert us— would you?"

Once again the stately head was lifted— the steadfast eyes met hers; and as though to answer her question, Michael lifted his paw and laid it upon her breast.

MAURICE STANDALE sat alone in the room which was regarded by the whole household as his particular sanctum; and the gloom which sat heavily upon his face seemed to have drifted into the atmosphere of the apartment itself. Outside the window the June morning was sunshiny and gay; and the song of a thrush came to the ears of a man sunk deep in his chair, his hands hanging listlessly from its arms. There was fear in his blue eyes; fear upon the face which was so lined and haggard; and when presently he lifted his hand to his lips it shook pitifully.

"Fool!" he muttered under his breath, fool and coward! But if only Denise had been here— if only "

The words ended in a shuddering sigh. He put out his hand towards a cut glass bottle of brandy which stood on the table near him, drawing it towards him, as though to pour it into the tumbler on the tray. But almost instantly he Withdrew his hand, and covered his eyes, to shut out the sight of the golden liquid; and a long shiver ran through him He was lonely, horribly, hideously lonely, and— he was afraid. Those doctor men had frightened him. They had warned him of untold horrors, and he was afraid. He wanted Denise, and Denise was not here. The craving for her was like an appalling hunger which would not be appeased; with a sick yearning he longed for the sight of hear face, the sound of her voice; and she had gone away when he was in town, leaving only that little note saying she needed a change, and was uncertain of her movements. She did not even nowhere she had gone; only she had gone!

He shrank deeper into the depths of his chair, sick at heart, shaken by those fears which would not be calmed; feeling like a miserable little toy, lost and desolate; a miserable little boy, longing unspeakably for his mother!

There was a little rustle and sound on the gravel path outside the open window, and into the room, with stately head, and ecstatically waving tail, walked Michael, the Labrador dog, making straight for his master's side, laying a paw of greeting upon his knee.

The man in the chair drew himself upright, his miserable eyes meeting the steadfast, doggy eyes, and with a sudden leap of hope he stroked the black head tenderly, and some of the icy chill that had seemed like a band round his heart, melted away.

"Michael, old boy," he said huskily, "why, Michael!"

Michael had gone away with Denise, His wife and the dog had both been missing from his home when he came back from London, and it had seemed as though the very abomination of desolation lay over the whole place. He knew, with the common-sense side of him he knew, that Denise had probably gone to her sister's house, taking Michael with her. And yet, behind that common-sense hope, there had also lain an awful fear! Supposing that Denise's patience was at last worn out? Supposing that she had found life with him intolerable, no longer to be borne? Supposing she had left him for ever?

He could not face life without Denise! That was the long and short of it. Life without his wife would be a sheer impossibility, unthinkable, unendurable. If Denise went away, he would throw up the sponge at once. She was his sheet anchor; the one being who stood between him and the nethermost depths of despair— Denise and Michael were all he had! '

One of his hands rested more heavily upon die dog's black head—with the other He reached out once more towards the bottle, whose liquid gleamed golden before his eyes. Very gently one of Michael's great paws was lifted to his knee. Michael's eyes looked up at him with yearning love in their brown depths. Once more Maurice's hand drew away from the bottle beside him, and he leant over the dog, and rested his face against the soft, black head.

"They call you a beast,' he said under his breath; "they ought to call me a beast, not you."

The black paw upon his knee stirred a little. Into Michael's eyes there shot an expression of urgent appeal. He stool up, and began to tug at his master's coat, with a vigour there was no gainsaying. If he had spoken, he could scarcely have said more plainly, "Come with me, I want you," and when still Maurice did not stir, the dog put a paw on each of the man's shoulders, to emphasise the urgency of his desire.

"What in heaven's name do you want?" Maurice said aloud, rising to his feet, with a feeling that, come what might, he must do whatever Michael wished. There was wisdom hi those faithful eyes, wisdom a* well as love, and the man, once on his feet, looked down whimsically at the magnificent creature by his side, saying gently:—

"Lead on, old man, I'm coming."

Michael's tail flopped a joyful acquiescence; his whole demeanour expressed satisfaction, he walked with a stately style across the room to the open window; Maurice followed at his heels.

The terrace outside the window was bright with sunshine, and the man, coming out of the dimness of his study, blinked in the sunlight. The world out here seemed to be a singularly dazzling world, and he looked about him with a dazed sense of expectancy— through which his fears and misery ran like an unending thread of blackness.

But the dog stalked on, glancing backwards now and again to see if his master followed. And Maurice went where Michael led him, round the terrace to the alcove in the wall, where in their early married days he and Denise had placed a seat. From chat seat they could look across the intervening woods, and over a sea of plain, to hills on the misty horizon, and they had loved it, Denise and he, in the day? when―

His thoughts broke off short, Denise stood there now, one hand grasping the back of the seat, her face turned towards him. She was very white, but a little tremulous smile was on her lips, and as he and Michael came | round the bend into the alcove, she held out a hand.

"He fetched you to me," she said, with a little choke in her voice; "Michael went and fetched you He is such a faithful soul— and I―"

"And you have come back," Maurice interrupted huskily, his hand tightening on her arm in a feverish, eager grasp. "I thought you had left me. I thought," his voice broke, "I thought you would never come back home any more.''

"I very nearly didn't come home," she answered, very low, "I very nearly went right away, but— Michael— brought me back. I couldn't stay away when Michael made me remember what real faithfulness means."

She spoke under her breath, with many pauses and breaks, but she slipped her hand into her husband's hand, and in the eyes she lifted to his there was a look which made him suddenly draw her into his arms.

"Denise," the word was almost a cry, "will you try again? Will you forgive again, and let me make another try? I was afraid, when you went away. It was like looking into the bottomless pit," he shuddered, and held her more closely, if you are here, I can try again— only stay with me— Denise— stay."

She drew just a little away from him, and put her hands on his shoulders, looking straight into his eyes.

"Maurice, I want you to know all the truth. Life had become almost unbearable— and I — I very nearly went away with Lionel—but I couldn't do it. Something held me back— and it was Michael who made me see that— something would always hold me back. I have come home to fight your devils with you— we shall conquer them together."

And Michael, standing beside them and looking from one to the other with loving eyes, and slowly waving his feathery tail, raised a great paw, and rested it solemnly upon their clasped hands.

______________________

24: A Summer Night's Weird

Colonel Henry Curties

1860-1928

World's News (Sydney), 4 September 1915

THE rattling of the blind awoke me, and cool air blew in upon me. I sat up in bed. Slowly, as a dream action, a hand came round the Venetian blind, found the cord, and cautiously pulled it; the blind rose end disclosed to me the face of my brother Herbert, white and haggard against the sheen of the summer night.

"What on earth are you doing here?"

The words came involuntarily. The strained look on his face relaxed as I spoke.

"Let me come in," he answered, "and I will tell you."

He swung his leg over the window-sill, and came into the room; at the same time I jumped out of bed, slipped into my dressing-gown and flicked on the electric light. He looked worse under it than he had done in the dim light, his eyes sunken and furtive, and an ominous twitching of his weak mouth.

"Now," I said, sitting on the bed, "tell me all about it."

He gripped at my hand.

"Look here, Jim," he said with a shake in his voice, "I'm in the most awful trouble."

I think I smiled not pleasantly.

"I'm sorry to say, Herbert," I rejoined, "there is nothing very novel about that remark, I and the rest of your family have heard it a good many times before. In the first place how did you get up here to my window?"

He waved the question aside as of no importance.

"On the wall first from the road, and then up the rain-water pipe to the balcony. There was nothing difficult about it." He pointed to his dress trousers, the knees of which showed signs of his climb. Though he had a weak will he was muscular enough.

"Well!"

"You said just now, Jim," he proceeded, "that I had often come to you with troubles, but there's never been anything like this before. I'm afraid I've murdered someone."

I gripped the bed I sat on, and all the blood in my body seemed to go to my heart. This, then, was the appalling tragedy I had dreaded and dreamed nightmares about, this was the summit of the poor, weak-willed creature's wickedness.

I controlled myself with an effort. "Go on."

"I've been staying with Bolder, down at Surbiton, the last week," he proceeded— we had seen nothing of him for over a month— "and last night we came up to town to dine and do a theatre."

I had a vivid idea of what that week with Bolder had been— race meetings, bridge, and moneylenders.

He had let go of my hands and now sat twining his own, one over the other, in a way he had when deeply moved.

"We changed our minds about the theatre," he went on, "after we'd dined at the Troc, and went to the Empire instead. Then we went on to the Coreopsis."

"What is the Coreopsis?"

"Well, it's a night club," he explained apologetically, "a place where they dance the Tango and the Maxixe, and so on, and where you can get supper. There I met Dora."

"Who?"

"Dora Blake." He passed his hand over his white face, and there was a catch in his voice. "That's her real name, you know I've been a bit soft on her for some time now," he continued vaguely, "over head and ears, you know, and all that."

I said nothing and waited. The episode was again not new.

"Last night she looked better than ever, and she's got a way of looking at you when she dances that makes your head swim."

"Who is she?" I asked.

"She's got a small part in a revue at the Palace, but she's quite straight, and lives with her mother."

He saw a look of impatience on, my face, and changed the subject.

"She let me see her home, and when we came away in a taxi together I was a bit sprung, and she'd not treated me particularly well at the club, so I had it out with her."

"Come to the point!" I cried sharply; my patience was giving out.

"That's just what I am doing," he continued. "She laughed at me, and told me to get out of the taxi, if I was not satisfied, and then I did a foolish thing. I pulled out this."

He put his hand in the pocket of the loose, light overcoat he wore, and produced a small, nickel-plated revolver.

"Good heavens!" I cried, "what do you carry that thing about with you for?"

"Don't think I carried it to do her any harm with," he exclaimed frantically, "be-cause I didn't. It was for protection, and—"

"And what?"

"Well, if you will have it, perhaps for myself." I pictured what a state of mind drink, weakness, and depravity had brought him to. "I pulled out the revolver, and I swore that there and then, if she wouldn't promise to marry me, I'd shoot myself."

"And did you mean it?"

The trembling hand went over his thin, dissipated face again.

"Well, you see," he explained, "I'd been drinking a lot."

"What took place then?"

"At first she laughed, and then she began to think I was in earnest, and tried to get hold of the revolver. Then it happened." He stopped, I think speech had left him for the moment. He gave a great gulp, and went on again:—

"Jim," he said, "I'd as much intention of doing her any harm as you or one of the girls, but as we struggled together, and she's strong for a woman, the cursed thing went off! She gave a shriek, and I wonder the chauffeur didn't hear her, but he didn't, and then I saw some blood on the white silk scarf round her throat." He buried his face in his trembling hands, and a great sob shook him. I went over and took him by the shoulder.

"If I am to be of any use to you to-night," I said, "you must pull yourself together, and tell me the whole of the details."

He started up at me, the agony of his mind looking out of his haggard eyes.

"Details, of course," he said in an aggrieved tone; "you barristers must have details, every word of it; the thought of it all is enough for me."

"Unless you tell me everything, now, quickly, the fact of my being a barrister will avail you little."

"And if I do you'll help me, Jim, won't you?"

"You may take it that I don't want to see my only brother, Herbert Danvers, in the dock for murder. Where's the woman?"

"I'm coming to that," he said jerkily. "I told you that I saw a spot of blood on the scarf round her throat, then the spot got bigger, and she collapsed in a heap in the corner, groaned once or twice, and lay quite still."

It was pretty plain that he had killed the woman.

"What did you do then?" I asked.

"I didn't know what to do. I sat and wrung my hands, and was sober in a moment. It all seemed so sudden and awful. Then in a moment I thought of something. It was pretty certain that if I went on to Beaton Mansions, near Hammersmith Bridge, where Dora lived with her mother, I should be arrested for murder. That would do her so good, and the best thing I could do was to hide her."

He grasped my knee, shaking with excitement.

"We were just coming down Cromwell Road, and something seemed to put into my mind that block of half-finished flats, near Nevern Square. You know one half is finished and let, and the man who was building the other half went broke."

I nodded impatiently.

"I called the driver, and told him to pull up at the entrance of the finished flats, and when we stopped sent him up to the third floor with a fictitious message. The man went without the least suspicion. It was past two, and there was not a soul about. I lifted Dora out of the taxi and ran with her across a board into the shell of the unfinished flats; there I laid her down behind a wall while I went to send the taxi away.

"I pulled the front blinds down before the man came back, and stood with my head in at the window pretending to be talking till the driver was in his seat again. Then I gave him half a sovereign, and told him to drive the lady to Beaton Mansions."

"You must be mad," I muttered.

He took no notice of me, but went on.

"I could see at once that she was dead when I got back to her, from the way she was lying huddled in a heap as I had left her, and then I thought as hard as I could how I could hide her. There was a little wooden office in the half-finished buildings, and I went over and tried the door, but it was fastened with a padlock; I managed to wrench out one of the staples with a bit of iron which was lying about, and then I saw the place was empty. I determined to hide Dora's body in there, and lock the door again."

"Mad!" I repeated.

"I lifted her in, and laid her in the corner behind the door out of sight of the window, and there I left her with the door locked again."

He sat there hopelessly, twisting his fingers one over the other, and his eyes fixed on me as if for a suggestion.

"Why did you come to me?" I asked angrily. "Why must I be dragged into this?"

He shrugged his shoulders in his old helpless way.

"I thought you could help me. There was no one else to go to."

The half-formed appeal in his voice touched me. God help him. I knew him to be friendless and helpless; and I was his only brother and ten years older.

"Does it strike you that this girl may not be dead after all, and that locking her up in that wooden shed shuts out the last chance of saving her? There is only one thing to be done now," I cried, starting up; "we must go there at once, take her out, and get her, dead or alive, to the nearest hospital. It is your only hope, and the racket you must stand."

Like all weak-willed men, he gasped at this new suggestion with enthusiasm.

"Yes, you've got it," he cried. "I was a beastly fool to leave her there. It was rotten of me altogether."

I dressed hastily, and he helped me as well as his nerves would permit, going down on his knees and shakily lacing my boots. In a few minutes I was ready. Then came the question of getting out without waking my mother, a light sleeper, but the carpets were thick, and presently we stood in the little garden, which adorns the backs of most of the houses in Holland Park. It was then about three o'clock. The soft glow, which hardly seems to leave the sky on a summer's night, gave us light.

We struck across the narrow path by Holland Park. I did not even look for a taxi— there are none if I had— I wanted to get to the scene of my brother's foolish act without a witness. My mind was full of bitterness, but I am thankful to say I held my tongue.

We had scarcely crossed the High Street, and struck down Earl's Court Road, when I saw that something was wrong in the direction we were taking; there was an ominous red glow in the sky, several people passed us at a run, and a fire-engine turned into the road before us.

I stopped a man who was passing, and asked him where the fire was.

"Somewhere at the back of Philbeach Gardens," he answered,

At the end of Cromwell Road I began to have misgivings, and I shuddered as if a cold blast had passed over me that hot summer's night. I do not think the same thought had come to my brother, who plodded along at my side with his head down, and the collar of his coat turned up about his ears.

When we came to the turning which leads down to Nevern Square, any doubt I might have had was ended and I broke into a run.

"It's that block of unfinished flats behind the Square," a groom shouted as he dashed past, and then I knew the worst.

My brother, ghastly pale, was hardly able to keep up with me as I ran.

"Jim, it's awful," he kept gasping, "it's awful."

Then I said something I was sorry for, but the words leapt to my lips.

"Awful!" I repeated. "Supposing she is not dead. What then?"

Herbert stopped and cried aloud, so that I thought the people would have noticed him.

"Don't!" he cried; "for God's sake, don't say that." Then he seized my coat and dragged me on. "Come on," he almost screamed, "we may be in time yet to get to her."

But any hope in that direction was speedily extinguished when we passed out of Nevern Square and came in full sight of the burning buildings. Although we were among the first hundred to arrive, already a cordon of police, who seemed to have sprung from everywhere, was drawn across the road.

Without a moment's hesitation Herbert dashed at this line of police, and was at once caught and swung back.

He fought and kicked, and at one moment I thought he would have got through, but two or three policemen got hold of him. Still he struggled and cried:—

"Let me go, let me go. I tell you my girl is in there."

"There ain't no girls in there," a policeman responded; "it's just a block of unfinished houses with nobody living in 'em."

I think they would have taken him off had I not interfered and explained that he was my brother. Then I got him away into the fast thickening crowd and calmed him a little.

The unfinished shells of the block of flats, with their bare wooden floors, burned like a bonfire, and it was pretty clear to me, although I knew little of such things, that the firemen could do nothing but let it burn out.

From the big doorway of the inhabited flats trickled a stream of men, in little more than their night attire. I got a grip of my brother, for by the look of him I saw that he was near fainting, and whispered a few words in his ear.

"Where was it?"

He nodded his head towards a corner of the burning building, and there I saw that the plank he had told me of leading from the path into the buildings was now, with that incongruity which is sometimes present in such scenes, untorched by the fire.

"And the shed?"

"Straight behind it."

I took my brother's arm and moved away; beyond the plank and all around it was one seething sheet of flame. I turned sick, and was commiserated by a friendly milkman, who
led us into a side street, where already a small public-house had opened its doors.

"Seems to have turned you up a bit, hain't it, mister?" he kindly asked. "You and the other gentleman looks as white as a sheet."

He was even more surprised when I ordered two shillings worth of brandy, and my brother and I drank it off without water.

Then, there being a convenient taxi standing outside the public-house, I thrust my brother into it, and drove off.

I gripped him by the throat. "Did you set that shed alight?"

"Before God, no!"

At least the evidence of his crime was destroyed.

IT WAS NEARLY half-past one when I woke the next day, after a sleep of nightmare, and it was the banging of the luncheon gong which roused me. On the couch, with half my bed-clothes over him, lay my brother as he had fallen asleep moaning. That moaning seemed to punctuate what little sleep I had.

After a bath I sent for Mallard, our old butler, and explained to him that Mr. Herbert was ill, and a little off his head, and that he would have to look after him, and if necessary send for a doctor.

The Incident did not alarm old Mallard in the slightest; he was used to Herbert. I had a more difficult task with my mother and the girls, who were anxious to know the details of my brother's latest escapade. Even my poor mother's sad face did not stifle an overwhelming desire which consumed me.

I felt I must go back to the scene of the fire. I wanted to see the end of it.

Luncheon finished, I stated my intention of going Templewards, and I ran upstairs before I started, and, finding my brother awake, warned him to keep silent on the events of the early morning; then, without losing another moment, I turned my face towards the unfinished block of flats behind Nevern Square. Walking was far too slow for me, so I took the first taxi, and borrowed the driver's daily paper, for I could not trust myself to read the newspaper at home.

No, there was a fragmentary account of the fire, but not a word about a body being found.

The scene of the fire did not tell me much more; a sleepy fireman was sitting in the sun reading a newspaper, there were the usual knots of loafers staring at the smoking ruins, and that was all. I tried to sound the fireman in charge.

"Anything been found?" I asked as casually as I could.

The man did not take my inquiry kindly.

"What should be found; except brick-bats?" he rejoined.

"No bones?"

"What bones?"

That was all I got.

I still felt strangely restless, and as I strolled away into Nevern Square I remembered that the dead girl had lived at Hammersmith, and something moved me to stop the first taxicab met and drive there.

Beaton Mansions I found was a solid-looking row of houses turned into flats overlooking the river, and "Mrs. Gordon Blake" was painted up in one of the entrances.

There was a lift, and I ascended in it to the third floor. There I rang the bell of Mrs. Blake's flat. It was presently opened by a neat-looking and entirely correctly dressed parlour-maid.

"Is Miss Dora Blake at home?" I asked, and I felt myself a hypocrite for doing it. "Yes, sir; will you step inside?"

The girl's words astounded me.

"Are you sure Miss Dora Blake is in?" I asked.

She was a girl with blue eyes, and she opened them wide.

"Yes, sir, certainly." Then she added, after reflection, "Why shouldn't she be at home, sir?"

I troubled her with no further queries, but walked in, and was shown into a cheery little drawing-room with a river view. I gave my name as Brownlow.

Then there entered to me a tall, elegant girl, with her throat strapped up with a little piece of lint, but otherwise looking in perfect health. She broke into a very natural laugh, and held out her hand.

"How do you do, Mr. Danvers?" she asked. "I expected you, and if I had not, I should have known you by your likeness to Bertie."

"You expected me?" I asked in a dazed way, as she motioned me to a seat.

"Yes," she proceeded in a very business-like way. "You see I think Bertie has been going it a little too much lately; don't you?"

I agreed with her.

"That incident in the cab last night was the limit, and I thought it about time he had a lesson. He might have killed me or himself. When the wretched thing went off the shot just grazed my neck. I knew I wasn't much hurt, but I thought I would give Bertie a lesson."

"Then you were not " I asked in a dazed fashion, but oh! the relief of it!

She did not deign to answer me, but handed me her cigarette case.

"I pretended to be dead, and I let him carry me into those deserted buildings, but I almost gave the show away once when he nearly dropped me."

"How did you get out of the shed?" I asked.

"Through the window; it was only latched."

"And then you came home?"

"Yes, then I came home, but I fancy the match I lit my cigarette with must have set fire to the building."

"I should say it was very probable," I acquiesced.

"No one was hurt," she proceeded coolly, "and I have no doubt it was insured, and the man was glad to get rid of it."

I offered no comment on this assertion.

"But what are you going to do with Bert?" she asked sharply.

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Well, I propose this," she continued. "He has asked me to marry him, and I have a sister married to a rancher in the Argentine, who will give us a share in the ranch if we can raise five hundred pounds. What do you say? I'll take care of Bert."

I thought it the very best proposition I had ever heard in the whole course of my life.

__________________

25: The Willingham Van Dyke

William Edward Norris

1847-1925

World's News (Sydney) 2 February 1924

WHEN young Lord Willingham told me that be had decided to sell the famous portrait of his ancestor, by Van Dyck, which is considered to be one of the best examples of that painter's best period, which has for generations, been the chief glory of Willingham Hall, I could hardly see my way to remonstrate with him. An American millionaire had offered him a fabulous price for the picture, and he urged, truly enough. that the money would suffice to set him comfortably on his legs. What with the very heavy duties that he had had to pay on succeeding his uncle, and what with his own rather extravagant tastes, he was in some danger of being swept off them; so as his legal adviser (a capacity in which my forefathers had served his for a couple of centuries) I was fain to sigh and say that I supposed there was no help for it.

"You needn't pull such a long face, Pennycross," he returned, laughing. "Of course. I'm sorry to have to part with my respected ancestor; but I'm going to have him copied: and, to tell the truth, there's precious little difference between any picture and its reproduction, bar the signature. It's a part of the bargain that I don't hand over the original before the copy is finished. I'm giving the job to Archie Royle, a rising artist, and an awfully good chap. You may have I heard his name."

I had not had that privilege: a country solicitor is not much in the way of hearing about such matters. However, I was willing to give Mr. Royle credit for being proficient at his trade, and, on making his acquaintance, as I did shortly afterwards, I could easily believe that he deserved his employer's personal encomium. He was a pleasant, fair-haired young fellow, with a bright smile and a rather engaging manner. He took up his quarters at Willingham Hall, which was just then in the hands of painters and decorators during the owner's absence in London. Newmarket, or elsewhere, and whenever anything took me up to the Hall. I found the young man hard at work upon his canvas, which was quite as it should be.

What did not please me so much was that I invariably found my daughter Alma sitting beside him, swinging her legs and carrying on an animated dialogue. Alma had Lord Willingham's leave to cut all the flowers that she liked in his garden; but apparently she spent a good deal less time in filling her basket than in chatting to the young artist, who should have been too busy to attend to her. She is my only child, and I am a widower: which is perhaps as much as to say that I had mighty little control over her proceedings. She had already met young Royle, it seemed, in London. while staying with my sister Elizabeth, to whom she pays frequent visits, and she made no secret of the circumstance that she thought him charming. Tentative warnings on my part only evoked disrespectful laughter. I did not place a veto upon her intercourse with the artist, because— well, to be honest, because I knew that it would be disregarded. Alma, besides being an extremely pretty girl, is, I am sorry to say, an extremely modern one, and in these distressing modern days, we elders have to put up with a good deal that we don't like. I have been, I admit, somewhat overindulgent as a father: still, some remnant of parental authority I do retain, and this it was my clear duty to assert when, on the expiration of a few weeks, the girl announced in her casual way:—

"Oh, I've a bit of news for you, daddy. Archie Royle and I are engaged to be married."

"Are you, indeed?" said I. "And upon what, if I may be permitted to ask, do you propose to marry? In other words, what is Mr. Royle's income?"

Well, he hadn't what you could call a fixed income: but he had his superb talents, which were certain to prove lucrative in the near future.

There followed a rather acrimonious argument, upon which I prefer not to dwell. The upshot of it was that I absolutely forbade this preposterous engagement, and, with out more ado, packed off Alma to her Aunt Elizabeth, a woman of some strength of mind, who could be trusted to keep due watch and ward over her.

"All right, daddy," were my daughter's last words before starting for London, "but let me tell you this: I marry Archie Royle or nobody. So now you know!"

Then I had to speak to the young man, and I will say for him that he was not unreasonable. He acknowledged that his present means were not such as to justify matrimony, and, in view of my decisive rejection of him, he could not think of holding Alma to her promise. His own, however, remained binding, and he should continue to look forward to a day when increased earnings might permit him to renew his suit. He took it that I had nothing against him on personal grounds, and he hoped that this episode would make no difference between us.

"Very well, young man," I answered, "we will leave it at that."

In our little town of Willingham I pass for being rich, and, as a fact, I am pretty well off for one of my modest station. I could easily have afforded to make such settlements upon my daughter as would warrant her alliance with a struggling painter, provided that I approved of that struggling painter, and I had little doubt that this was what my domestic tyrant had counted upon my doing, though I believe that Royle, to give him his due, had not. At the back of my mind I knew that, should the young people remain constant to one another, I should end by giving in; but I had no intention of being rushed. The girl must be made to understand that if the range of my tyranny had limits, so had hers.

Shortly after I had pronounced sentence of temporary exile upon Alma, young Royle completed his work. He told me that it was a great success, and I daresay it was: I am no judge. He was to take it up to London for the inspection of his patron, who wanted to see it but could not be bothered to travel down to our parts. On the eve of his departure, he hurried into my office to ask if I would very kindly do him a favour.

"That," I cautiously replied, "must depend entirely upon the nature of the favour."

"Oh, it's only to take charge of the Van Dyck for a day or two," he said. "In a day of two the picture will be sent for: but I don't half like leaving it at the Hall with all these workpeople about. Picture thieves are rife, and jolly sharp. I should feel ever so much happier if I knew that the treasure was safe under your roof."

I was quite ready to do him and Lord Willingham a service by adopting what seemed to be a wise measure of precaution. In the cellars under my old house there was ample space for the stowing away of many works of art, and when the picture, swathed in matting and bast, was carted to my door. I saw it securely deposited in an inner cellar, of which I pocketed the key. I also locked the heavy door of the outer cellar, and was thus in a position to smile at burglars, in case of any honouring me with a nocturnal visit— which, to be sure, was a rather unlikely event.

I was invaded by no burglars, but, just as I was finishing dinner next night, my parlour-maid brought me a card, bearing the name of Mr. Summers, underneath which was written in pencil "From Lord Willingham."

Mr. Summers, a broad-shouldered, rosy-faced gentleman, apologised for intruding upon me at that late hour, and offered his explanation in the same breath.

"Let me tell you at once. Mr. Pennycross," said he. "that I am a detective officer. Information has reached us that an attempt will be made— probably to-night— to get possession of the very valuable picture which is now on your premises, and his lordship is naturally alarmed. The attempt, I may venture to say, will fail―"

"It certainly will," I interrupted; "the picture is in a place of absolute safety. Still, I am not sorry to have your assistance to fall back upon in case of need."

"And that of the powerful plain-clothes constable whom I brought with me to make assurance doubly sure," observed Mr. Summers, laughing. He opened the door and called out: "Come in, Jackson, and show yourself to Mr. Pennycross."

A muscular giant, having a good deal the appearance of a prize-fighter, lumbered in and grinned at me sheepishly. Evidently an intending marauder who tried to tackle him would stand a poor chance of getting off in a recognisable condition, I sent him to supper with the servants, while I begged Mr. Summers to join me in emptying my decanter of port.

Seldom have I entertained a more agreeable guest than Mr. Summers. He may not have been exactly a gentleman, but he behaved very like one. and his conversation, relating mostly to thrilling incidents in an adventurous career, was both interesting and informing. Of course, I understood that he and his henchman were going to spend the night in my house, but I was not prepared for his statement that they proposed to spend it in my cellar. Uncomfortable and unnecessary? Oh, well, he was inured to small discomforts, and as for it being superfluous for him to mount unremitting guard over the Van Dyck. he was not so sure of that. In any case, his orders were precise.

At ten o'clock I had to conduct the pair to their subterranean post, and to satisfy them, by unlocking the inner cellar, that the picture was in its place. Mr. Summers nodded approvingly.

"Quite all right Mr. Pennycross," said he; "couldn't be better. Now, if we may have a lamp and a couple of Windsor chairs, we shan't need to trouble you any further."

He laughed at my remark that a Windsor chair was a cruelly hard medium of repose; his companion and he were not there to repose themselves. "Besides, a well-made wooden chair isn't half as hard as you think, Just try it."

I hate to record what instantly followed. It exhibits me, I know, in the light of a silly old fool, and I acknowledge that a man of any sense would have had suspicions of a trap. Alas! I had none. Well, well!

Like lightning a silk handkerchief was thrust into my mouth; and knotted behind my head; like lightning strong cords bound my arms and legs to the chair. The key of the inner cellar was taken out of my pocket, and presently I had the mortification of hearing the two miscreants rip the matting off the picture. I also heard them cut it out of its frame— of course they were sure to do that. The. whole atrocity was the work of a few minutes.

"Sorry, old boy," said the so-called Mr. Summers, as he moved towards the stairs, with a rolled-up canvas under his arm. "but it can't be helped. Your servants will set you free in the morning, I've no doubt."

Probably they would; but by that time the thieves would have got a ten or twelve hours' start, which was all they were likely I to want.

It is possible that the imaginative reader may conceive of a situation more distressing and desperate than mine: I cannot. I had proved unworthy of the confidence placed in me; I, who had enjoyed the reputation of being a sharp-witted lawyer, had allowed myself to be tricked by the simplest of stratagems; my prestige was gone for ever; I should be the laughing-stock of the town. Worst of all, I had deprived my noble client of a fortune; for that he would ever get eyes on his Van Dyck again I could not for one moment believe. Doubtless it would be out of the country before a hue and cry could be raised. Pleasant reflections these for the gagged and pinioned victim of his unpardonable stupidity!

Upon the horrors of that endless night I forbear to enlarge. As may be supposed. I suffered no small physical pain and discomfort; but that seemed to sink into insignificance as compared with my mental anguish. Moreover, I could feel no sort of certainty as to the time of my release. The servants would indeed discover at eight o'clock that my bed had not been slept in, but they would not necessarily conclude that any ill had befallen me. They were just as likely as not to think that I had gone off somewhere with my visitors of the previous evening on professional business. In fact, as I afterwards learned, that was exactly what they did think. Only when I failed to appear at the breakfast hour did they begin to feel uneasy, and even then the cellar was about the last place in which it occurred to them to seek for me.

Not until after ten o'clock did some providential inspiration cause Anne, the parlourmaid, to take a peep underground, and at the sight of me in my woeful predicament, she let out a piercing and prolonged screech. I was, of course, speechless, but I daresay my eyes were eloquent. Almost speechless I remained after Anne, with the housemaid's help, had removed the gag from my mouth; for my tongue was horribly swollen, and I could scarcely articulate. I did, however, contrive to make it clear to my dismayed and bewildered hearers that what they had to do was not to ask questions but to run at top speed to the police station and say that I must see the superintendent immediately. They were to say that it was a matter of the utmost urgency, and that not a moment was to be lost.

Well, the superintendent arrived with commendable despatch, and was full of compassion for me in my dishevelled and exhausted state. He promised to get into touch with Scotland Yard at once, and was confident that my assailants would shortly be laid by the heels.

"We shall collar them, Mr. Pennycross; that you may depend upon."

But they never did collar them, and I knew they never would. The two men. it subsequently appeared, were traced to the London terminus, which they were seen to leave on foot; after which all track of them was lost. For the time being I had done everything that I could, except send information to Lord Willingham, a duty— if it was one— from which I confess that I shrank. As soon as the superintendent had left me I washed and dressed myself, but had neither the heart nor the strength to go to the office. After a time I made some pretence of eating luncheon, then dropped into an armchair in my study and sat with my head on my hands, a prey to the deepest dejection. How was I to write to Lord Willingham? What could I possibly find to say for myself ? If I had known where Royle was I would have telegraphed to him, but I was ignorant of his London address.

How long. I had been sitting thus, irresolute and wretched, I can't say, when the door was abruptly flung open, and in marched Royle and Alma, hand in hand.

"Let me introduce you to your son-in-law. daddy," said Alma, with a beaming smile. "Archie and I were married this morning, with Aunt Elizabeth's consent and approval. We knew it would be a waste of time to ask for yours. Now, don't work yourself up into a fury, but be a dear, sensible old daddy and accept an accomplished fact."

At any other time I might have been, if not furious, at least justifiably incensed by conduct as undutiful as it was uncalled for, but there was no capacity for wrath left in me. Accomplished facts must needs be accepted; this one together with its more disastrous forerunners. A dear daddy I might possibly be; old I certainly was; sensible I had no longer the right to call myself.

"You have acted very foolishly and inconsiderately." said to the pair, "but it  doesn't matter. Nothing matters now. You see before you a disgraced and ruined man."

As succinctly as I could, I gave an account of the calamity which had befallen me, and I believe the young people were sincere in their expressions of pity and indignation at the treatment to which I had been subjected. It was true that I had had a pretty rough time, and was a good deal shaken; but that was a matter of secondary importance, and I was astonished at the coolness with which Royle seemed to take the loss of the Van Dyck, not to mention that of my reputation and his own. For, after all, he did to some extent share my responsibility.

"How you and I are ever to face Lord Willingham after this," I ejaculated, despairingly, "I can't think! Do you realise his position? Do you realise that he will be reduced to something like poverty? And may I ask," I broke off in a sudden access of exasperation, "what the devil you are sniggering at?"

"Oh, not at you. Mr. Pennycross, he hastened to reply. "Heaven fordid that I should do that after all the trouble that I have brought upon you. I was only thinking of what the thieves will look like when they have come to examine their haul. You see," he continued, "I wasn't easy in my mind about the picture even after I had decided to commit it to your care. Too many people would know what had become of it. Then at the last moment I took the original, and it was of the copy that you were robbed. The original, I am glad to tell you, is now in possession of the purchaser and has been paid for. So that's that, and I don't suppose Lord Willingham will break his heart over the loss of my work, though I must say—"

What more he might feel constrained to say I neither knew nor cared. Despite my stiff and aching limbs, I sprang up and grasped the young fellow warmly by the hand.

"My dear boy," I cried, "you deserve— oh what don't you deserve! Alma, for one thing, my undying gratitude for another. You have restored me to life!"

He had indeed. Likewise he had rendered Lord Willingham a service which I am sure that open-handed young nobleman is unlikely to forget. We three had a happy and merry time together until the bride and bridegroom left for the Hall, which had been offered to them. I suspected that Willingham had aided and abetted in the matrimonial plot, as the scene of their honeymoon.

"Good to know that those scamps have been jolly well sold," was my son-in-law's final remark. "All the same, I do grudge them their loot. Because it was a devilish fine copy, mind you."

Some people are never satisfied.

_________________

Table of Contents

- 1: Mannering's Men / Marjorie Pickthall

- 2:

- 3: Geoffrey's Panklaggephone / Ellis Parker Butler

- 4: The Doctor Takes a Hand / Andrew Soutar

- 5:

- 6:

- 7: Other Gods / E. Charles Vivian

- 8:

- 9:

- 10:

- 11: Simple / P. C. Wren

- 12: The Secret of the Singular Cipher / F. A. M. Webster

- 13: The Schimmel Sets the Pace / F. A. M. Webster

- 14: The Missing Signorina / Percy J Brebner

- 15: The Man with the Carnation / Percy J Brebner

- 16: The Lady's Glove / Percy J Brebner

- 17: The Anarchist's Scheme /

- 18: The Butler / Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews

- 19: Puzzle Phyllis /
- 20: The Specialist /
- 21: Her Account /
- 22: Twelve Minutes /
- 23: Black Paws / Lucy Gertrude Moberly
- 24: A Summer Night's Weird /
- 25: The Willingham Van Dyke /