Past Masters Eight
Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: 22 short stories by past masters of the genre, all in the Life + 70 Public Domain. 1: Murder of a Matchmaker / C E Bechhofer Roberts 2: Where Was Wych Street? / Stacy Aumonier 3: A Wrong Turning / M Mcdonnell Bodkin 4: Only a Voice / M Mcdonnell Bodkin 5: There and Back / F St Mars 6: The Dazzle Plot / C N and A M Williamson 7: The Torpedo / M Mcdonnell Bodkin 8: Over-Ruled / M Mcdonnell Bodkin 9: Find the Forger / M Mcdonnell Bodkin 10: The Tower Ghost / E. Phillips Oppenheim 11: The Canterville Ghost / Oscar Wilde 12: Mr. Homes Shatters an Alibi / John Kendrick Bangs 13: Guaranteed Countess

PAST MASTERS

EIGHT

2020

Contents

1: Murder of a Matchmaker / C E Bechhofer Roberts

2: Where Was Wych Street? / Stacy Aumonier

3: A Wrong Turning / M Mcdonnell Bodkin

4: Only a Voice / M Mcdonnell Bodkin

5: There and Back / F St Mars

6: The Dazzle Plot / C N and A M Williamson

7: The Torpedo / M Mcdonnell Bodkin

8: Over-Ruled / M Mcdonnell Bodkin

9: Find the Forger / M Mcdonnell Bodkin

10: The Tower Ghost / E. Phillips Oppenheim

11: The Canterville Ghost / Oscar Wilde

12: Mr. Homes Shatters an Alibi / John Kendrick Bangs

13: Guaranteed Countess / C J Cutcliffe Hyne

14: Flight From Teheran / William J Makin

15: Five Men's Lives for One Horse / Rolf Boldrewood

16: The Mailman's Yarn / Rolf Boldrewood

17: Comedy of the Grand Canal / J. S. Fletcher

18: The Gift to See Ourselves as Others See Us / Aidan de Brune

19: Mrs Carnaby's Dairies / C E Bechhofer Roberts

20: The Empty Chair / Claude and Alice Askew

21: The Last Lap / C E Bechhofer Roberts

22: The Radium Robbery / C E Bechhofer Roberts

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1: Murder of a Matchmaker

C E Bechhofer Roberts

1894-1949

Daily News (Perth) 23 November 1940

An A.B.C. Hawkes case

THE murder of Mr. Harold Fortescue, is remarkable, among other things, for the fact that A.B.C. Hawkes was actually in the house when the murder was done.

(So was I; but that, of course, is not so remarkable, because in the first place I am not an interesting person like A.B.C., and in the second place I was usually to be found where my friend was.)

He had driven over to Mr. Fortescue's grand house on the Surrey Sussex border for dinner that evening some fifteen years ago, because the old gentleman knew A.B.C.'s interest in fine brandy and was keen to have his opinion on a bin of it which had just been discovered in a forgotten corner of his wine cellar. It was very good brandy, and we sat over it for some time after the ladies had retired to the drawing-room.

There were four of us: Fortescue, a bushy eyebrowed, blustering old fellow with a domineering manner, who had given up smoking years before for his palate's sake; Jack Fortescue, his nephew, who had taken his 25 years of inexperience into a Stock Exchange firm which was always on the verge of paying him a good salary and never did; A.B.C. and myself. We talked of cabbages and kings and other matters less familiar to the public. In particular, old Fortescue told us a great deal about his family business which his father had brought to the forefront, and which he himself had lately sold to an enormous combine for an appropriately enormous sum.

It was a matchmaking business; that is to say, grandfather Fortescue had been one of the pioneers in inventing and marketing the first lucifers which replaced the flints and tinder-boxes of our ancestors. Father Fortescue had built up a huge concern, employing thousands of men and women in every branch of the industry, from felling pine trees in Scandinavia to pasting labels on matchboxes in London; and Harold Fortescue himself had advertised his wares to such good effect that— well, here he was laying down the law on all sorts of subjects and especially matches.

He was proud of a little trick which he played with a wax-vesta. 'Suppose you had to swim a river naked,' he said, 'and light a fire on the other side with the only wax vesta you possessed, how would you go about it?'

And he solemnly took a vesta, uncurled the wax stem of it, twisted this round the head, and dropped the ball into a fingerbowl. After a minute or two he took it out, unravelled it, twisted it again into its original shape, and proudly lit it on a rough surface. We applauded politely, all except Jack Fortescue, who whispered to me that he had seen his uncle perform the trick too often already.

Jack was in a bad temper, anyhow, for, as his uncle did not hesitate to tell us, the young man had vainly tried that same day to persuade his uncle to buy him a partnership in a substantial Stock Exchange firm.

'I've told him again and again,' said the old man to us, ignoring his nephew's embarrassment, 'that he'll get a big slice of my money when I'm dead, but, not a penny before. He's got to make good for himself, if he can; and, if he can't, he must wait till my shoes are empty.'

It occurred to me at the time that we were lucky to be living in circumstances where sudden death is rare; otherwise, it seemed to me, Jack Fortescue might reasonably be expected to drop a brick on his uncle's head one dark night, and so solve his own financial difficulties.

I did not realise at the time that this unspoken thought was suddenly to become a feasible explanation of the old man's death.

After a time A.B.C, Jack Fortescue and I rose to join the ladies, leaving the old man, at his own request, to enjoy his brandy in solitary grandeur.

Actually, A.B.C. and I went alone into the drawing-room, for Jack, murmuring that he was so fed up with his stingy uncle that he couldn't bear sitting around in the house any longer, took his overcoat from the hall and stamped out for a walk.

Ten minutes later there was a crash, a yell and the sound of running footsteps. A.B.C. and I, begging the ladies to stay where they were, rushed off to investigate. We found the butler running to the door of the dining-room, and followed him. Old Fortescue lay slumped across the table with a great wound in his head. A.B.C. hurried over to him, felt his pulse, bent down to listen to his chest, placed a polished spoon to his lips, and then announced that he was dead.

'He's been shot,' said Hawkes. 'Look! You can see where the bullet entered and passed out of his head, and there, by Einstein, is where it struck the wall.'

I saw a splotch on the plaster of the wall behind the old man, and, looking about, soon found what was left of the bullet. A.B.C. hurried across to the window, pulled aside the lace curtain, and pointed to a hole in the glass.

'Somebody shot him from outside,' he said. 'Hallo, who's this?'

The butler had switched on a light outside, and we saw a man run towards us. It was Jack Fortescue. He came to the window and called to us.

'What's happened?' he cried. 'Was that a shot?'

A.B.C. placed himself between the young man and the corpse.

'You'd better go round to the door and come inside,' he said, and, when Jack vanished, he told the butler to ring up the police. Then A.B.C. pushed me out of the room, locked the door behind him, and waited for Jack's arrival.

'Something very serious has happened, young man,' A. B. C. told Fortescue when he reached us. 'Your uncle's been shot dead!'

'Great scot!' Jack cried. Then he must have read my face. 'You don't think I did it, do you?' he said.

'It seems to me,' said A.B.C, 'that the first thing to do is to search the garden.'

We went out and, taking care not to approach too near the broken window, scattered in the faint hope of tracing the murderer. The ground was still parched with the drought, and we could find no trail of footprints leading to or from the house. We met again by the gate and I realised that Jack saw the suspicion which must inevitably rest on him.

'I'd like a word with you, young man,' said A.B.C, before the police arrive. Where did you go when you left the house?'

'I walked round the garden once or twice and then I went out into the lane by the river. I was coming back when I heard the shot.'

'Quite so. And I suppose you don't possess a revolver?'

Jack's jaw dropped. 'I do, indeed, Mr. Hawkes. I've two upstairs in my room.'

'But what did you want them for?'

'Nothing. You see, like a good many other people, I had a couple at the end of the war, and I thought I'd stick to them.'

'Did you take out a licence?' Hawkes asked.

'No, and I didn't turn them in to the police when they put out that broadcast appeal for them. I— I thought I'd say nothing about them.'

'But even so,' I suggested, 'there's no harm done if they're still where you put them, and they haven't been used recently.'

Hawkes shrugged his shoulders.

'Suppose the police suggest that our young friend had yet another revolver and used it to murder his uncle?'

'Well, where is it?' Jack asked. 'The murderer will have taken it with him.'

'For your sake I hope so, Fortescue. But suppose the police drag the river for it and find it there? Are you sure you didn't meet anybody when you went for your ill-timed stroll? The murderer perhaps; or, better still, somebody who can provide you with an alibi at the moment when the shot was fired?'

'I didn't meet a soul, Mr. Hawkes. My hat, I'm fairly in the soup!'

The butler came to call us, with the news that the police had arrived. A doctor was with the dead man in the dining-room, and an inspector was waiting to question us.

'One of the parlourmaids says she saw the murderer, sir,' the butler whispered to me as we went towards the house. 'She says she saw somebody slink past the kitchen window; she couldn't see him distinctly, but she's sure that he had a muffler pulled up over his face.'

I glanced across at Jack Fortescue. His muffler hung in a long fold round his neck. 'She says he was about Mr. Jack's size,' added the butler meaningly.

I hastily handed on this information to Hawkes in a whisper, and he nodded thoughtfully.

'You'd better go in and see the police, Fortescue,' he said. 'Tell them everything frankly. Don't attempt to hide those revolvers upstairs; it's much better to take the police into your confidence than to leave them to find out for themselves.' We were questioned after young Fortescue came out, very pale, from his interview with the inspector. There was not much that we could tell him, and from the form and sequence of his questions it was clear that he suspected the dead man's nephew. Then we joined the group of policemen who were carefully examining the garden near the dining-room window. 'Found anything?' Hawkes asked the inspector.

'Nothing much, sir. The grounds are too dry for any prints, for one thing. There's a cigarette-stub here, but, as you see, it's a common brand. And an empty matchbox, which anybody can have thrown away.'

He put these things in envelopes as he spoke, and tucked them into his pocket.

'No trace of the revolver then, inspector?'

'Not yet, sir,' the man replied with a significance which I understood. A.B.C. called him aside and I watched them talking. They were old acquaintances, and I guessed that the inspector would not keep too much back from Hawkes.

'It's a bad business,' Hawkes remarked to me a little later, when we were sitting together over a whisky-and-soda in the smoking-room. 'They certainly think that young Fortescue did it, and they're trying to build up a sufficient case against him. If they find that revolver, I think they're certain to arrest him.'

'Had the old man no other enemies— I mean, no enemies,' I corrected myself.

'Enemies, probably,' said A.B.C. 'But heirs— no. And even his enemies don't seem to be very traceable. So far as I can gather, one or two of his old business acquaintances consider that he treated them badly when he sold out to the combine, but, frankly, I can't imagine any of them being silly enough to commit murder now that it's much too late to alter the terms of the sale. 'I gather that he was a pretty brutal employer in his time. He treated his employees like dogs, and there was a nasty scandal some years ago over conditions in his factory; the health authorities raised Cain over the conditions in which his people worked.'

I remembered something.

'You mean that phosphorus trouble,' I said. 'I remember it now. He didn't observe the new regulations about not using yellow phosphorus in his matches; he went on using it until the authorities stepped in and prosecuted him.'

A. B.C. was looking at me intently. 'I must have been abroad at the time,' he said. 'I don't remember the case. Is that all that happened?'

I racked my memory and gradually other details came into my mind.

'There was a big strike, too,' I said at last, 'and a terrible outcry in the newspapers. Old Fortescue sacked the men's leaders and broke the strike. That's all I can remember, I'm afraid.'

A.B.C. walked up and down the room a dozen times, frowning. 'There's something somewhere,' he said, 'and I can't put my finger on it. I know there's something which joins up what we know about this case and what you've just told me, but I can't pull it out of the darkness yet. What is it? Shades of Lucifer, what is it?'

Then he stopped, snapped his finger and thumb in the air and whirled round to me. 'A million to one chance!' he cried. 'Go and ask that inspector if I may speak to him, Johnstone.'

I found the inspector in the dining-room with the photographers. He was sitting at a little table beside the door, and the cigarette-end and the matchbox were in front of him.

'D'you notice anything odd about this matchbox, sir?' he asked me. 'You can handle it if you like.'

I picked it up and examined it. It seemed to me just like any other matchbox; it had been made by a widely known firm, had been used a good deal, and was now empty. I gave it back to him, and he rose and went with me to see Hawkes.

'Well, sir?'

'There's just one thing I'd like to look into, inspector,' Hawkes began.

'You mean the matchbox, sir?' A.B.C. stared at him.

'Exactly,' he said. He took it from the inspector, looked eagerly at it, turning it on its side, and handed it back with a sigh of satisfaction.

'How did you know, sir?' the inspector asked.

'I didn't,' A.B.C. said. 'I just thought of it as a million to one chance. Don't you think we'd better question young Mr. Fortescue again?'

I was sent to fetch him, and as I went out I heard the inspector say, 'But, Mr. Hawkes, I don't know what it means.'

'You soon will,' was my friend's reply.

I found Jack Fortescue and brought him back to the dining room.

'The inspector wants to ask you another question,' A.B.C. announced.

'Which has been suggested to me by Mr. Hawkes,' added the inspector.

'Tell me, Mr. Fortescue, have you ever worked in your uncle's match factory?'

'Never,' said Jack. 'He wouldn't let me when he owned it; he said he didn't believe in having relations in his business. And then, as you know, he sold it.'

'And you've never worked in any match factory at all, Mr. Fortescue?' A.B.C. asked.

'No. Never. And that's something I can prove, anyhow.'

The inspector half-smiled at this outburst, and Hawkes stretched out his hand to the young man. 'Congratulations, young man,' he said. 'I think the inspector will tell you that, unless something new crops up, you won't have any more trouble in this affair.'

'That's right,' said the inspector. 'But somebody else will by the time I've turned up the files of old Mr. Fortescue's firm. I'll trouble you for that matchbox, please, sir,' he said to me, for I was fingering it. 'This is going to hang a man.'

I turned to Hawkes as the inspector went out.

'What on earth does it all mean, A.B.C.?' I asked him.

'It's quite simple, as it happens, Johnstone,' he replied, 'though it really was a million to one chance. You see, anybody who examined that matchbox with intelligence— as I gather you didn't— would have noticed that the owner had struck his matches on it crosswise, whereas you and I and the inspector and practically everybody else in the world strikes them longwise. Now who are the exceptions? I'll tell you; the people who make matches. They know that the longwise strike is as unnecessary as it's uneconomical; they know that it's amply sufficient to strike your match across the box to ignite it and that, by so doing, you don't risk wearing out your box before you've used all your matches.'

'Yes, but―' I began..

'Please don't interrupt,' said A.B.C. 'Then there was the maid's statement that the murderer was wearing his scarf across the lower part of his face. By itself that meant nothing at all. But then you remember old Fortescue's trouble with the authorities about the use of yellow phosphorus in his factory, and the strike, and the dismissal of the ringleaders.

'I began to put the square root of two and two together, and I said to myself, Suppose this murder was committed by a man whom old Fortescue victimised after that strike, a man who perhaps was one of the victims of that misuse of phosphorus, and so contracted what is known as "phossy jaw." If so, we should have a motive— revenge. And would explain that drawn-up scarf; it was to hide the malformation of the jaw caused by that terrible disease. And then I recalled the matchbox. Suppose it proved to have been dropped by somebody in the trade, that is, bore marks of being struck crosswise and not lengthwise? That would be the million to one chance to save our friend here, for, since his uncle was a non-smoker and since he (as I understood, correctly) had never worked in the family business, then the matchbox pointed to the murderer being a matchmaker.

'And that is why our friend the inspector is going tomorrow to see who precisely was dismissed after that thoroughly justified strike in the factory.'

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2: Where Was Wych Street?

Stacy Aumonier

1877-1928

The Strand Magazine Nov 1921

IN THE PUBLIC BAR of the Wagtail, in Wapping, four men and a woman were drinking beer and discussing diseases. It was not a pretty subject, and the company was certainly not a handsome one. It was a dark November evening, and the dingy lighting of the bar seemed but to emphasize the bleak exterior. Drifts of fog and damp from without mingled with the smoke of shag. The sanded floor was kicked into a muddy morass not unlike the surface of the pavement. An old lady down the street had died from pneumonia the previous evening, and the event supplied a fruitful topic of conversation. The things that one could get! Everywhere were germs eager to destroy one. At any minute the symptoms might break out. And so— one foregathered in a cheerful spot amidst friends, and drank forgetfulness.

Prominent in this little group was Baldwin Meadows, a sallow-faced villain with battered features and prominent cheek-bones, his face cut and scarred by a hundred fights. Ex-seaman, ex-boxer, ex-fish-porter— indeed, to every one's knowledge, ex-everything. No one knew how he lived. By his side lurched an enormous coloured man who went by the name of Harry Jones. Grinning above a tankard sat a pimply-faced young man who was known as The Agent. Silver rings adorned his fingers. He had no other name, and most emphatically no address, but he "arranged things" for people, and appeared to thrive upon it in a scrambling, fugitive manner. The other two people were Mr. and Mrs. Dawes. Mr. Dawes was an entirely negative person, but Mrs. Dawes shone by virtue of a high, whining, insistent voice, keyed to within half a note of hysteria.

Then, at one point, the conversation suddenly took a peculiar turn. It came about through Mrs. Dawes mentioning that her aunt, who died from eating tinned lobster, used to work in a corset shop in Wych Street. When she said that, The Agent, whose right eye appeared to survey the ceiling, whilst his left eye looked over the other side of his tankard, remarked:

"Where was Wych Street, ma?"

"Lord!" exclaimed Mrs. Dawes. "Don't you know, dearie? You must be a young 'un, you must. Why, when I was a gal every one knew Wych Street. It was just down there where they built the Kingsway, like."

Baldwin Meadows cleared his throat, and said:

"Wych Street used to be a turnin' runnin' from Long Acre into Wellington Street."

"Oh, no, old boy," chipped in Mr. Dawes, who always treated the ex-man with great deference. "If you'll excuse me, Wych Street was a narrow lane at the back of the old Globe Theatre, that used to pass by the church."

"I know what I'm talkin' about," growled Meadows. Mrs. Dawes's high nasal whine broke in:

"Hi, Mr. Booth, you used ter know yer wye abaht. Where was Wych Street?"

Mr. Booth, the proprietor, was polishing a tap. He looked up.

"Wych Street? Yus, of course I knoo Wych Street. Used to go there with some of the boys— when I was Covent Garden way. It was at right angles to the Strand, just east of Wellington Street."

"No, it warn't. It were alongside the Strand, before yer come to Wellington Street."

The coloured man took no part in the discussion, one street and one city being alike to him, provided he could obtain the material comforts dear to his heart; but the others carried it on with a certain amount of acerbity.

Before any agreement had been arrived at three other men entered the bar. The quick eye of Meadows recognized them at once as three of what was known at that time as "The Gallows Ring." Every member of "The Gallows Ring" had done time, but they still carried on a lucrative industry devoted to blackmail, intimidation, shoplifting, and some of the clumsier recreations. Their leader, Ben Orming, had served seven years for bashing a Chinaman down at Rotherhithe.

"The Gallows Ring" was not popular in Wapping, for the reason that many of their depredations had been inflicted upon their own class. When Meadows and Harry Jones took it into their heads to do a little wild prancing they took the trouble to go up into the West-end. They considered "The Gallows Ring" an ungentlemanly set; nevertheless, they always treated them with a certain external deference— an unpleasant crowd to quarrel with.

Ben Orming ordered beer for the three of them, and they leant against the bar and whispered in sullen accents. Something had evidently miscarried with the Ring. Mrs. Dawes continued to whine above the general drone of the bar. Suddenly she said:

"Ben, you're a hot old devil, you are. We was just 'aving a discussion like. Where was Wych Street?"

Ben scowled at her, and she continued:

"Some sez it was one place, some sez it was another. I know where it was, 'cors my aunt what died from blood p'ison, after eatin' tinned lobster, used to work at a corset shop—"

"Yus," barked Ben, emphatically. "I know where Wych Street was— it was just sarth of the river, afore yer come to Waterloo Station."

It was then that the coloured man, who up to that point had taken no part in the discussion, thought fit to intervene.

"Nope. You's all wrong, cap'n. Wych Street were alongside the church, way over where the Strand takes a side-line up west."

Ben turned on him fiercely.

"What the blazes does a blanketty nigger know abaht it? I've told yer where Wych Street was."

"Yus, and I know where it was," interposed Meadows.

"Yer both wrong. Wych Street was a turning running from Long Acre into Wellington Street."

"I didn't ask yer what you thought," growled Ben.

"Well, I suppose I've a right to an opinion?"

"You always think you know everything, you do."

"You can just keep yer mouth shut."

"It 'ud take more'n you to shut it."

Mr. Booth thought it advisable at this juncture to bawl across the bar:

"Now, gentlemen, no quarrelling— please."

The affair might have been subsided at that point, but for Mrs. Dawes. Her emotions over the death of the old lady in the street had been so stirred that she had been, almost unconsciously, drinking too much gin. She suddenly screamed out:

"Don't you take no lip from 'im, Mr. Medders. The dirty, thieving devil, 'e always thinks 'e's goin' to come it over every one."

She stood up threateningly, and one of Ben's supporters gave her a gentle push backwards. In three minutes the bar was in a complete state of pandemonium. The three members of "The Gallows Ring" fought two men and a woman, for Mr. Dawes merely stood in a corner and screamed out:

"Don't! Don't!"

Mrs. Dawes stabbed the man who had pushed her through the wrist with a hatpin. Meadows and Ben Orming closed on each other and fought savagely with the naked fists. A lucky blow early in the encounter sent Meadows reeling against the wall, with blood streaming down his temple. Then the coloured man hurled a pewter tankard straight at Ben and it hit him on the knuckles. The pain maddened him to a frenzy. His other supporter had immediately got to grips with Harry Jones, and picked up one of the high stools and, seizing an opportunity, brought it down crash on to the coloured man's skull.

The whole affair was a matter of minutes. Mr. Booth was bawling out in the street. A whistle sounded. People were running in all directions.

"Beat it! Beat it for God's sake!" called the man who had been stabbed through the wrist. His face was very white, and he was obviously about to faint.

Ben and the other man, whose name was Toller, dashed to the door. On the pavement there was a confused scramble. Blows were struck indiscriminately. Two policemen appeared. One was laid hors de combat by a kick on the knee-cap from Toller. The two men fled into the darkness, followed by a hue-and-cry. Born and bred in the locality, they took every advantage of their knowledge. They tacked through alleys and raced down dark mews, and clambered over walls. Fortunately for them, the people they passed, who might have tripped them up or aided in the pursuit, merely fled indoors. The people in Wapping are not always on the side of the pursuer. But the police held on. At last Ben and Toller slipped through the door of an empty house in Aztec Street barely ten yards ahead of their nearest pursuer. Blows rained on the door, but they slipped the bolts, and then fell panting to the floor. When Ben could speak, he said:

"If they cop us, it means swinging."

"Was the nigger done in?"

"I think so. But even if 'e wasn't, there was that other affair the night before last. The game's up."

The ground-floor rooms were shuttered and bolted, but they knew that the police would probably force the front door. At the back there was no escape, only a narrow stable yard, where lanterns were already flashing. The roof only extended thirty yards either way and the police would probably take possession of it. They made a round of the house, which was sketchily furnished. There was a loaf, a small piece of mutton, and a bottle of pickles, and— the most precious possession— three bottles of whisky. Each man drank half a glass of neat whisky; then Ben said: "We'll be able to keep 'em quiet for a bit, anyway," and he went and fetched an old twelve-bore gun and a case of cartridges. Toller was opposed to this last desperate resort, but Ben continued to murmur, "It means swinging, anyway."

And thus began the notorious siege of Aztec Street. It lasted three days and four nights. You may remember that, on forcing a panel of the front door, Sub-Inspector Wraithe, of the V Division, was shot through the chest. The police then tried other methods. A hose was brought into play without effect. Two policemen were killed and four wounded. The military was requisitioned. The street was picketed. Snipers occupied windows of the houses opposite. A distinguished member of the Cabinet drove down in a motor-car, and directed operations in a top-hat. It was the introduction of poison-gas which was the ultimate cause of the downfall of the citadel. The body of Ben Orming was never found, but that of Toller was discovered near the front door with a bullet through his heart. The medical officer to the Court pronounced that the man had been dead three days, but whether killed by a chance bullet from a sniper or whether killed deliberately by his fellow-criminal was never revealed. For when the end came Orming had apparently planned a final act of venom. It was known that in the basement a considerable quantity of petrol had been stored. The contents had probably been carefully distributed over the most inflammable materials in the top rooms. The fire broke out, as one witness described it, "almost like an explosion." Orming must have perished in this. The roof blazed up, and the sparks carried across the yard and started a stack of light timber in the annexe of Messrs. Morrel's piano-factory. The factory and two blocks of tenement buildings were burnt to the ground. The estimated cost of the destruction was one hundred and eighty thousand pounds. The casualties amounted to seven killed and fifteen wounded.

At the inquiry held under Chief Justice Pengammon various odd interesting facts were revealed. Mr. Lowes-Parlby, the brilliant young K.C., distinguished himself by his searching cross-examination of many witnesses. At one point a certain Mrs. Dawes was put in the box.

"Now," said Mr. Lowes-Parlby, "I understand that on the evening in question, Mrs. Dawes, you, and the victims, and these other people who have been mentioned, were all seated in the public bar of the Wagtail, enjoying its no doubt excellent hospitality and indulging in a friendly discussion. Is that so?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now, will you tell his lordship what you were discussing?"

"Diseases, sir."

"Diseases! And did the argument become acrimonious?"

"Pardon?"

"Was there a serious dispute about diseases?"

"No, sir."

"Well, what was the subject of the dispute?"

"We was arguin' as to where Wych Street was, sir."

"What's that?" said his lordship.

"The witness states, my lord, that they were arguing as to where Wych Street was."

"Wych Street? Do you mean W-Y-C-H?"

"Yes, sir."

"You mean the narrow old street that used to run across the site of what is now the Gaiety Theatre?"

Mr. Lowes-Parlby smiled in his most charming manner.

"Yes, my lord, I believe the witness refers to the same street you mention, though, if I may be allowed to qualify your lordship's description of the locality, may I suggest that it was a little further east— at the side of the old Globe Theatre, which was adjacent to St. Martin's in the Strand? That is the street you were all arguing about, isn't it, Mrs. Dawes?"

"Well, sir, my aunt who died from eating tinned lobster used to work at a corset-shop. I ought to know."

His lordship ignored the witness. He turned to the counsel rather peevishly.

"Mr. Lowes-Parlby, when I was your age I used to pass through Wych Street every day of my life. I did so for nearly twelve years. I think it hardly necessary for you to contradict me."

The counsel bowed. It was not his place to dispute with a chief justice, although that chief justice be a hopeless old fool; but another eminent K.C., an elderly man with a tawny beard, rose in the body of the court, and said:

"If I may be allowed to interpose, your lordship, I also spent a great deal of my youth passing through Wych Street. I have gone into the matter, comparing past and present ordnance survey maps. If I am not mistaken, the street the witness was referring to began near the hoarding at the entrance to Kingsway and ended at the back of what is now the Aldwych Theatre."

"Oh, no, Mr. Backer!" exclaimed Lowes-Parlby.

His lordship removed his glasses and snapped out:

"The matter is entirely irrelevant to the case."

It certainly was, but the brief passage-of-arms left an unpleasant tang of bitterness behind. It was observed that Mr. Lowes-Parlby never again quite got the prehensile grip upon his cross-examination that he had shown in his treatment of the earlier witnesses. The coloured man, Harry Jones, had died in hospital, but Mr. Booth, the proprietor of the Wagtail, Baldwin Meadows, Mr. Dawes, and the man who was stabbed in the wrist, all gave evidence of a rather nugatory character. Lowes-Parlby could do nothing with it. The findings of this Special Inquiry do not concern us. It is sufficient to say that the witnesses already mentioned all returned to Wapping. The man who had received the thrust of a hatpin through his wrist did not think it advisable to take any action against Mrs. Dawes. He was pleasantly relieved to find that he was only required as a witness of an abortive discussion.

IN A FEW WEEKS' time the great Aztec Street siege remained only a romantic memory to the majority of Londoners. To Lowes-Parlby the little dispute with Chief Justice Pengammon rankled unreasonably. It is annoying to be publicly snubbed for making a statement which you know to be absolutely true, and which you have even taken pains to verify. And Lowes-Parlby was a young man accustomed to score. He made a point of looking everything up, of being prepared for an adversary thoroughly. He liked to give the appearance of knowing everything. The brilliant career just ahead of him at times dazzled him. He was one of the darlings of the gods. Everything came to Lowes-Parlby. His father had distinguished himself at the bar before him, and had amassed a modest fortune. He was an only son. At Oxford he had carried off every possible degree. He was already being spoken of for very high political honours. But the most sparkling jewel in the crown of his successes was Lady Adela Charters, the daughter of Lord Vermeer, the Minister for Foreign Affairs. She was his fiancée, and it was considered the most brilliant match of the season. She was young and almost pretty, and Lord Vermeer was immensely wealthy and one of the most influential men in Great Britain. Such a combination was irresistible. There seemed to be nothing missing in the life of Francis Lowes-Parlby, K.C.

One of the most regular and absorbed spectators at the Aztec Street inquiry was old Stephen Garrit. Stephen Garrit held a unique but quite inconspicuous position in the legal world at that time. He was a friend of judges, a specialist at various abstruse legal rulings, a man of remarkable memory, and yet— an amateur. He had never taken sick, never eaten the requisite dinners, never passed an examination in his life; but the law of evidence was meat and drink to him. He passed his life in the Temple, where he had chambers. Some of the most eminent counsel in the world would take his opinion, or come to him for advice. He was very old, very silent, and very absorbed. He attended every meeting of the Aztec Street inquiry, but from beginning to end he never volunteered an opinion.

After the inquiry was over he went and visited an old friend at the London Survey Office. He spent two mornings examining maps. After that he spent two mornings pottering about the Strand, Kingsway, and Aldwych; then he worked out some careful calculations on a ruled chart. He entered the particulars in a little book which he kept for purposes of that kind, and then retired to his chambers to study other matters. But before doing so, he entered a little apophthegm in another book. It was apparently a book in which he intended to compile a summary of his legal experiences. The sentence ran:

"The basic trouble is that people make statements without sufficient data."

Old Stephen need not have appeared in this story at all, except for the fact that he was present at the dinner at Lord Vermeer's, where a rather deplorable incident occurred. And you must acknowledge that in the circumstances it is useful to have such a valuable and efficient witness.

Lord Vermeer was a competent, forceful man, a little quick-tempered and autocratic. He came from Lancashire, and before entering politics had made an enormous fortune out of borax, artificial manure, and starch.

It was a small dinner-party, with a motive behind it. His principal guest was Mr. Sandeman, the London agent of the Ameer of Bakkan. Lord Vermeer was very anxious to impress Mr. Sandeman and to be very friendly with him: the reasons will appear later. Mr. Sandeman was a self-confessed cosmopolitan. He spoke seven languages and professed to be equally at home in any capital in Europe. London had been his headquarters for over twenty years. Lord Vermeer also invited Mr. Arthur Toombs, a colleague in the Cabinet, his prospective son-in-law, Lowes-Parlby, K.C., James Trolley, a very tame Socialist M.P., and Sir Henry and Lady Breyd, the two latter being invited, not because Sir Henry was of any use, but because Lady Breyd was a pretty and brilliant woman who might amuse his principal guest. The sixth guest was Stephen Garrit.

The dinner was a great success. When the succession of courses eventually came to a stop, and the ladies had retired, Lord Vermeer conducted his male guests into another room for a ten minutes' smoke before rejoining them. It was then that the unfortunate incident occurred. There was no love lost between Lowes-Parlby and Mr. Sandeman. It is difficult to ascribe the real reason of their mutual animosity, but on the several occasions when they had met there had invariably passed a certain sardonic by-play. They were both clever, both comparatively young, each a little suspect and jealous of the other; moreover, it was said in some quarters that Mr. Sandeman had had intentions himself with regard to Lord Vermeer's daughter, that he had been on the point of a proposal when Lowes-Parlby had butted in and forestalled him. Mr. Sandeman had dined well, and he was in the mood to dazzle with a display of his varied knowledge and experiences. The conversation drifted from a discussion of the rival claims of great cities to the slow, inevitable removal of old landmarks. There had been a slightly acrimonious disagreement between Lowes-Parlby and Mr. Sandeman as to the claims of Budapest and Lisbon, and Mr. Sandeman had scored because he extracted from his rival a confession that, though he had spent two months in Budapest, he had only spent two days in Lisbon. Mr. Sandeman had lived for four years in either city. Lowes-Parlby changed the subject abruptly.

"Talking of landmarks," he said, "we had a queer point arise in that Aztec Street inquiry. The original dispute arose owing to a discussion between a crowd of people in a pub as to where Wych Street was."

"I remember," said Lord Vermeer. "A perfectly absurd discussion. Why, I should have thought that any man over forty would remember exactly where it was."

"Where would you say it was, sir?" asked Lowes-Parlby.

"Why to be sure, it ran from the corner of Chancery Lane and ended at the second turning after the Law Courts, going west."

Lowes-Parlby was about to reply, when Mr. Sandeman cleared his throat and said, in his supercilious, oily voice:

"Excuse me, my lord. I know my Paris, and Vienna, and Lisbon, every brick and stone, but I look upon London as my home. I know my London even better. I have a perfectly clear recollection of Wych Street. When I was a student I used to visit there to buy books. It ran parallel to New Oxford Street on the south side, just between it and Lincoln's Inn Fields."

There was something about this assertion that infuriated Lowes-Parlby. In the first place, it was so hopelessly wrong and so insufferably asserted. In the second place, he was already smarting under the indignity of being shown up about Lisbon. And then there suddenly flashed through his mind the wretched incident when he had been publicly snubbed by Justice Pengammon about the very same point; and he knew that he was right each time. Damn Wych Street! He turned on Mr. Sandeman.

"Oh, nonsense! You may know something about these— eastern cities; you certainly know nothing about London if you make a statement like that. Wych Street was a little further east of what is now the Gaiety Theatre. It used to run by the side of the old Globe Theatre, parallel to the Strand."

The dark moustache of Mr. Sandeman shot upwards, revealing a narrow line of yellow teeth. He uttered a sound that was a mingling of contempt and derision; then he drawled out:

"Really? How wonderful— to have such comprehensive knowledge!"

He laughed, and his small eyes fixed his rival. Lowes-Parlby flushed a deep red. He gulped down half a glass of port and muttered just above a whisper: "Damned impudence!" Then, in the rudest manner he could display, he turned his back deliberately on Sandeman and walked out of the room.

IN THE COMPANY of Adela he tried to forget the little contretemps. The whole thing was so absurd— so utterly undignified. As though he didn't know! It was the little accumulation of pin-pricks all arising out of that one argument. The result had suddenly goaded him to— well, being rude, to say the least of it. It wasn't that Sandeman mattered. To the devil with Sandeman! But what would his future father-in-law think? He had never before given way to any show of ill-temper before him. He forced himself into a mood of rather fatuous jocularity. Adela was at her best in those moods. They would have lots of fun together in the days to come. Her almost pretty, not too clever face was dimpled with kittenish glee. Life was a tremendous rag to her. They were expecting Toccata, the famous opera-singer. She had been engaged at a very high fee to come on from Covent Garden. Mr. Sandeman was very fond of music. Adela was laughing, and discussing which was the most honourable position for the great Sandeman to occupy. There came to Lowes-Parlby a sudden abrupt misgiving. What sort of wife would this be to him when they were not just fooling? He immediately dismissed the curious, furtive little stab of doubt. The splendid proportions of the room calmed his senses. A huge bowl of dark red roses quickened his perceptions. His career.... The door opened. But it was not La Toccata. It was one of the household flunkies. Lowes-Parlby turned again to his inamorata.

"Excuse me, sir. His lordship says will you kindly go and see him in the library?"

Lowes-Parlby regarded the messenger, and his heart beat quickly. An uncontrollable presage of evil racked his nerve-centres. Something had gone wrong; and yet the whole thing was so absurd, trivial. In a crisis— well, he could always apologize. He smiled confidently at Adela, and said:

"Why, of course; with pleasure. Please excuse me, dear." He followed the impressive servant out of the room. His foot had barely touched the carpet of the library when he realized that his worst apprehensions were to be plumbed to the depths. For a moment he thought Lord Vermeer was alone, then he observed old Stephen Garrit, lying in an easy-chair in the corner like a piece of crumpled parchment. Lord Vermeer did not beat about the bush. When the door was closed, he bawled out, savagely:

"What the devil have you done?"

"Excuse me, sir. I'm afraid I don't understand. Is it Sandeman—?"

"Sandeman has gone."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"Sorry! By God, I should think you might be sorry! You insulted him. My prospective son-in-law insulted him in my own house!"

"I'm awfully sorry. I didn't realize—"

"Realize! Sit down, and don't assume for one moment that you continue to be my prospective son-in-law. Your insult was a most intolerable piece of effrontery, not only to him, but to me."

"But I—"

"Listen to me. Do you know that the government were on the verge of concluding a most far-reaching treaty with that man? Do you know that the position was just touch-and-go? The concessions we were prepared to make would have cost the State thirty million pounds, and it would have been cheap. Do you hear that? It would have been cheap! Bakkan is one of the most vulnerable outposts of the Empire. It is a terrible danger-zone. If certain powers can usurp our authority— and, mark you, the whole blamed place is already riddled with this new pernicious doctrine— you know what I mean— before we know where we are the whole East will be in a blaze. India! My God! This contract we were negotiating would have countered this outward thrust. And you, you blockhead, you come here and insult the man upon whose word the whole thing depends."

"I really can't see, sir, how I should know all this."

"You can't see it! But, you fool, you seemed to go out of your way. You insulted him about the merest quibble— in my house!"

"He said he knew where Wych Street was. He was quite wrong. I corrected him."

"Wych Street! Wych Street be damned! If he said Wych Street was in the moon, you should have agreed with him. There was no call to act in the way you did. And you— you think of going into politics!"

The somewhat cynical inference of this remark went unnoticed. Lowes-Parlby was too unnerved. He mumbled:

"I'm very sorry."

"I don't want your sorrow. I want something more practical."

"What's that, sir?"

"You will drive straight to Mr. Sandeman's, find him, and apologize. Tell him you find that he was right about Wych Street after all. If you can't find him to-night, you must find him to-morrow morning. I give you till midday to-morrow. If by that time you have not offered a handsome apology to Mr. Sandeman, you do not enter this house again, you do not see my daughter again. Moreover, all the power I possess will be devoted to hounding you out of that profession you have dishonoured. Now you can go."

Dazed and shaken, Lowes-Parlby drove back to his flat at Knightsbridge. Before acting he must have time to think. Lord Vermeer had given him till to-morrow midday. Any apologizing that was done should be done after a night's reflection. The fundamental purposes of his being were to be tested. He knew that. He was at a great crossing. Some deep instinct within him was grossly outraged. Is it that a point comes when success demands that a man shall sell his soul? It was all so absurdly trivial— a mere argument about the position of a street that had ceased to exist. As Lord Vermeer said, what did it matter about Wych Street?

Of course he should apologize. It would hurt horribly to do so, but would a man sacrifice everything on account of some footling argument about a street?

In his own rooms, Lowes-Parlby put on a dressing-gown, and, lighting a pipe, he sat before the fire. He would have given anything for companionship at such a moment— the right companionship. How lovely it would be to have— a woman, just the right woman, to talk this all over with; some one who understood and sympathized. A sudden vision came to him of Adela's face grinning about the prospective visit of La Toccata, and again the low voice of misgiving whispered in his ears. Would Adela be— just the right woman? In very truth, did he really love Adela? Or was it all— a rag? Was life a rag— a game played by lawyers, politicians, and people?

The fire burned low, but still he continued to sit thinking, his mind principally occupied with the dazzling visions of the future. It was past midnight when he suddenly muttered a low "Damn!" and walked to the bureau. He took up a pen and wrote:

Dear Mr. Sandeman,

I must apologize for acting so rudely to you last night. It was quite unpardonable of me, especially as I since find, on going into the matter, that you were quite right about the position of Wych Street. I can't think how I made the mistake. Please forgive me.

Yours cordially,

Francis Lowes-Parlby.

Having written this, he sighed and went to bed. One might have imagined at that point that the matter was finished. But there are certain little greedy demons of conscience that require a lot of stilling, and they kept Lowes-Parlby awake more than half the night. He kept on repeating to himself, "It's all positively absurd!" But the little greedy demons pranced around the bed, and they began to group things into two definite issues. On the one side, the great appearances; on the other, something at the back of it all, something deep, fundamental, something that could only be expressed by one word— truth. If he had really loved Adela— if he weren't so absolutely certain that Sandeman was wrong and he was right— why should he have to say that Wych Street was where it wasn't? "Isn't there, after all," said one of the little demons, "something which makes for greater happiness than success? Confess this, and we'll let you sleep."

Perhaps that is one of the most potent weapons the little demons possess. However full our lives may be, we ever long for moments of tranquillity. And conscience holds before our eyes some mirror of an ultimate tranquillity. Lowes-Parlby was certainly not himself. The gay, debonair, and brilliant egoist was tortured, and tortured almost beyond control; and it had all apparently risen through the ridiculous discussion about a street. At a quarter past three in the morning he arose from his bed with a groan, and, going into the other room, he tore the letter to Mr. Sandeman to pieces.

THREE weeks later old Stephen Garrit was lunching with the Lord Chief Justice. They were old friends, and they never found it incumbent to be very conversational. The lunch was an excellent, but frugal, meal. They both ate slowly and thoughtfully, and their drink was water. It was not till they reached the dessert stage that his lordship indulged in any very informative comment, and then he recounted to Stephen the details of a recent case in which he considered that the presiding judge had, by an unprecedented paralogy, misinterpreted the law of evidence. Stephen listened with absorbed attention. He took two cob-nuts from the silver dish, and turned them over meditatively, without cracking them. When his lordship had completely stated his opinion and peeled a pear, Stephen mumbled:

"I have been impressed, very impressed indeed. Even in my own field of— limited observation— the opinion of an outsider, you may say— so often it happens— the trouble caused by an affirmation without sufficiently established data. I have seen lives lost, ruin brought about, endless suffering. Only last week, a young man— a brilliant career— almost shattered. People make statements without—"

He put the nuts back on the dish, and then, in an apparently irrelevant manner, he said abruptly:

"Do you remember Wych Street, my lord?"

The Lord Chief justice grunted.

"Wych Street! Of course I do."

"Where would you say it was, my lord?"

"Why, here, of course."

His lordship took a pencil from his pocket and sketched a plan on the tablecloth.

"It used to run from there to here."

Stephen adjusted his glasses and carefully examined the plan. He took a long time to do this, and when he had finished his hand instinctively went towards a breast pocket where he kept a note-book with little squared pages. Then he stopped and sighed. After all, why argue with the law? The law was like that— an excellent thing, not infallible, of course (even the plan of the Lord Chief justice was a quarter of a mile out), but still an excellent, a wonderful thing. He examined the bony knuckles of his hands and yawned slightly.

"Do you remember it?" said the Lord Chief justice.

Stephen nodded sagely, and his voice seemed to come from a long way off:

"Yes, I remember it, my lord. It was a melancholy little street."

_____________

Editor's Footnote: The development of Aldwych after 1884 saw the demolition to two streets: Holeywell St, said to have been the centre of the 19th century pornography trade, and  Wych Street, which contained some of the last Tudor houses in the area.

Just for fun, here is a map and an illustration of Wych Street.

The old Tudor houses with the spire of St Clement Danes in the background.

______________________

3: A Wrong Turning

M Mcdonnell Bodkin

1850-1933

World's News (Sydney) 27 July 1907

THE Lord Chancellor walked across the study, his feet sinking noiselessly in the deep velvet of the carpet, and touched the button of the electric bell. Almost immediately the door opened, and his man came into the room carrying over his arm padded silk dressing-gown, and in his hands a pair of for slippers.

His lordship was chilly, though a small, bright fire burnt a clear, cheerful red in the grate, and the room was pleasantly warm.

He shivered as his man wrapped him cosily in the soft, thick folds of the dressing-gown. His handsome face wrinkled with a sharp twinge of the gout as his spruce dress boots were drawn off, and his tired feet expanded luxuriously in the capacious and comfortable slippers.

"Anyone called in my absence?" he asked.

"No one, my lord," answered the servant.

"Whom did you say?" he snapped out, with the quick petulance of one who has a haunting fear that his hearing is beginning to fall.

"I said no one, my lord," the imperturbable valet responded more clearly, though not more loudly than before.

"Thank you," replied his lordship, appeased. "Bring my coffee, Morgan," he added gently; "then you can go to bed. I will be engaged for some hours."

"Yes, my lord."

In ten minutes the well-trained, softly-moving servant was back with the silver tray on which a small silver coffee-pot, a cup of egg-shell Dresden, and a dainty cut-glass decanter of green Chartreuse were placed.

There was not the faintest tinkle of silver, glass, or porcelain as he set the tray down on a small table close to a huge roll-top desk of black mahogany.

"Now you can go."

"Yes, my lord." And like a shadow the man vanished from the room.

But the Lord Chancellor was in no hurry to get to his work. He lay back lazily in the deep, low, leather-cushioned chair.

He was a handsome man for his age, which was just 75; a clever, keen-cut face, dark eyes, heavy eyebrows, and a high, bald forehead. He had a thick fringe round the back of his head of lovely white hair— almost transparent white— with a soft curl in it. Enthusiastic young ladies had been known at first acquaintance to describe him as an "old duck," but the description can hardly be regarded as wholly adequate.

He prided himself on carrying his years as well as any man in England, and as a rule his tall, sparse figure was held straight as an arrow, with the broad shoulders thrown well back. But now the shoulders drooped a little as he lay in the easy-chair, limp and languid, the old man off his guard.

The room was richly furnished, as became the sanctum of the rich bachelor Lord Chancellor. Great Mahogany bookshelves crammed full of big volumes in clean law calf reached from floor to painted ceiling, and in the space between were pictures, spring and summer landscapes, few but priceless. There was priceless china on the mantelpiece, and in the centre an ormolu clock ticked regularly and softly as it had ticked in the salon of Louis XIV.

Suddenly it struck twelve silvery chimes, whose music lingered in the air, and the Lord Chancellor, rousing himself with an effort, threw back the revolving lid of his desk, dropped into the cushioned office-chair that gripped his back comfortably, and set himself to the work that lay there ready to his hand.

Two shaded electric reading lamps on either side shed a soft, pure glow of light upon books and writing-paper.

Yet his lordship's eyes blinked a little as he read the print, and the letters seemed vague and misty. He took off his gold-rimmed glasses and rubbed them bright, but the lines still wavered— the defect was not in his glasses but his eyes.

"I must have stronger still," he murmured, "and yet it is not six months since I changed them. My sight is failing fast."

But he put the thought from him with an effort, and began writing rapidly, though in a hand a little stiff and shaky. The written page was still plain enough, though the printed one baffled his failing sight.

It was the great judgment he was to deliver next day in the House of Lords in Braglan v. the Down Eastern Railway Company, a judgment which was, he fondly hoped, to settle for ever the vexed question of contributory negligence. Railway law had been his speciality at the Bar and on the Bench, and he had looked forward eagerly to the forensic triumph of this weighty and elaborate judgment.

But now for the first time in his life he could not keep his thoughts on his work. They would wander to the details of the evening which he had just spent with Lady Sybil Ardom, and then back over the details of his past life that lay strangely clear to his vision, like a wide country traveller who, in the cool, clear glow of the sunset, looks back over the paths he has passed during the long day.

In vain he struggled with his thoughts and wrote on resolutely. The cogent authorities he had mastered, the lucid arguments he had prepared, slipped from the grasp of his mind.

When he found himself at last writing the same of Lady Sybil as defendant in the appeal, he abandoned the task and petulantly pushed the papers from him.

"I will give Lord Culchester his chance," he said, with a half smile at the thought of the avidity with which the chance would be seized on by his rival. "I know he has prepared a separate judgment, and he will be delighted to make it the judgment of the Court. For once I will content myself with concurring."

He closed the great desk with a bang over the never-to-be completed judgment, dropped once more into the great chair by the fire, and gave himself unresistingly to the memories of his youth which the events of the evening had awakened.

The days of his boyhood glided past in a golden haze, with their wild sports and their vague dreams at love and glory. His thoughts found their first halting-place on the day on which he made his great speech at the Oxford Union, and heard the prophecies that spoke of future successes; prophecies which his career had so brilliantly fulfilled.

Now he is a young barrister with a small income and a few briefs, but a rising reputation; and he is aware of the whisper abroad which his own conscious intellect confirms, that young Henry James Granville is a coming man.

Now, standing out in his memory from all other events of his life, in sharp outline and vivid colouring, like a mountain peak in the sunlight, he remembers his first sight of Lady Sybil.

It was on a summer's evening. He had escaped from his chamber drudgery for a laze in his canoe on the beautiful upper reaches of the Thames, where the leafy trees with sunlight through the leaves grow deep down to the pure blue of the summer sky in the calm depths of the pellucid water.

On a sudden he heard the faint thrill of a steam launch in the distance, growing rapidly to a noisy clatter as it raced through the river. Nearer and nearer it came and bustled by at last, so close that the waves of its making rocked his canoe like a cradle. But his quick anger vanished at sight of the face and figure that leant out over the stern rail of the swiftly-receding launch. This was his first sight of Lady Sybil— never to be forgotten.

To the old man, now sitting by his lonely fireside, the vision was clear and wonderful as when it flashed upon his admiring gaze a full half century before. The blue eyes bright, and the fair cheeks flushed with excitement, the smile that showed a gleam of white teeth, the rebellious hair whose golden curls had broken loose under the shelter of the wide, white picture hat with the red roses nodding in it— all these he saw again.

Even as he looked there was a shrill cry on board the launch, a white flash through the air, and a loud splash in the river. Face and figure vanished. He heard and saw and knew. His muscles seemed to act before his will. His paddles caught the water sudden and hard, and his canoe shot out like a leaping fish.

An arm showed for a moment above the water and sank as suddenly, and the sight turned his muscles to steel. A score of strong strokes, and he saw a white blotch in the clear water glide part him with the current. He dived for it instantly, spurning the dancing canoe with his feet, and sending the paddles flying, while two straw hats— his and the girl's— sailed away together.

At a touch the girl's unconscious form rose with him to the surface. He drew the limp arm over his shoulder, holding the small, cold hand tight in his left, while his right grasped the keel of the upturned canoe. So he waited without effort while the steam launch raced back to them.

The Countess of Aberly was effusive in her gratitude, which she poured forth in a warm torrent of words. The Earl wrung his wet hand, and said: "Thank you so much; she is our only child, don't you know."

Both refused to part with him. Their place on the river was hardly a mile away. He must stay and have his clothes changed; he must stay to dinner; they would send him home in the launch in the evening.

The young lawyer hesitated. He had work to do that night— important work. But presently Sybil came on board, leaning on her mother's arm, pale and shy, but lovelier he thought than before. She softly murmured a few words of warm thanks; she gave him just one glance from those glorious blue eyes—dark blue as the violet that hides its loveliness from the sunshine. All things else were instantly forgotten, and he stayed.

It was an exquisite pain or pleasure— his heart could not quite tell which—to the old man nearing the grave's brink to review in memory the bright days that followed— the boating on the river; the tennis on the lawn; the all- pervading loveliness and love that made young life a paradise.

Over those bright sunlit days memory carried him irrevocably forward to the great turning- point of his life. His dream was perfect while it lasted, but one day—how well he remembered that day, they had spent it together—as he floated lazily home down the river in the silent, moonlit night, young love woke suddenly to consciousness and knew itself for what it was.

Then doubts and fears assailed him. Who was he that dared to love the daughter of a score of earls, the paragon of women? Love made him abject in his humility. He wronged her, he thought to himself, by his presumption. He struggled with his love as a dwarf with a giant, striving in vain to master it. In absence only could he find safety. So he saw her seldom now, and there was a chill restraint in his manner when they met, which she, mistaking the cause, encountered with an answering coldness, and so they slowly drifted apart.

He had not seen her for some weeks, when he heard suddenly one day from a friend that the Earl and Countess of Aberly were going abroad to winter in the South of France. Lady Sybil, it was said, had been ailing a little of late, and the doctors had ordered the change.

The sharp pang that shot through his heart at the news told him how utterly futile had been the struggle with his love, but it did not change his resolutions.

That very night he had his formal invitation to the Aberly farewell ball, with a little slip of writing enclosed:—

Do come. We must part friends—Sybil.

That was all. That little note, the paper yellow with age and the ink faded with years, lay now all by itself in a secret drawer of his desk.

But he had not looked at it for years— somehow it frightened him to look at it.

He went to the ball, and Lady Sybil received him, and welcomed him with something of the graciousness of the old days. It was the last time, he told himself he might give his troubled heart a holiday. She gave him three dances that evening, and when they slipped gently away to the great conservatory whose high glass walls looked out on the river, she left a disconsolate young nobleman behind in the drawing-room— the best catch of the season— to lament a lost chance and curse the perfidy of the sex.

They found a seat, shady and retired, under the shade of the tall palms, and the white gleam of the moonlit river showing through the dark green of the leaves— a favourite seat of Lady Sybil, and the moat retired in the conservatory.

They talked from a full heart of her life and his, of their near parting, of their pleasant friendship which would last, they protested, their whole lives through. But never one word they spoke of love. The temptation was hot and strong on him as he marked with sidelong glance the soft heaving of the white bosom, the pure flush of the rounded cheeks, and the droop of the long lashes, to fall there and then at her feet and pour out the unrestrained torrent of his love, and crave return.

But the strong will of the man and a stubborn pride which he called honour held him back.

The conversation between them slowly flickered and died out. She had let her side slip away into silence.

In the long pause that ensued, the very air seemed to pulsate with passion. His whole frame quivered with the strain. His face was drawn like one in pain, and he was white to the lips. The tension grew unendurable. In another moment his love would have broken from him in irresistible avowal. But in that moment the soft strains of a waltz reached them faintly from the ballroom.

"Our dance, I think," he said stiffly, and rose and offered her his arm. She took it with a soft, long-drawn sigh, but without speaking, and in silence they went back into the crowd of dancers.

That was the end. He had passed the turning-point of his life, and for good or evil must keep the path he had chosen.

Lady Sybil went abroad within a week, and it was three years before they met again. It was at a garden-party. She was more sedate, more stately, more matronly, but he thought her as lovely as ever. Beside her was a young man—  tall, square-shouldered, honest-looking rather than handsome, with the fresh air and sunshine of the country recorded in the red-brown colour of his cheeks that made his blue eyes more blue.

The lawyer was nervous and excited at the meeting; the lady calm and very gracious.

"Mr. Grenville," she said, as she clasped his hand warmly, "will you allow me to introduce you to my husband. Lord Ardom. Charles, this is Mr. Grenville, of whom you have often heard me speak. He saved my life, and we were great friends once upon a time, but we have not met for years. I do hope you will like each other."

His friendship with Lady Sybil Ardom and with her husband, as her husband, had lasted unbroken up to this hour.

But for the rest he had been a laborious, self-concentrated, successful, solitary man who had few pleasures and made few friends. His career had gone on slowly but surely, with no pause or turn back from triumph to triumph till he had reached the crowning triumph of all, and merit or fortune had no more to promise him.

He had had no life outside his career; a great advocate, a great cross-examiner, a great lawyer; that was all. His soul seemed to be bound in law calf, red ink ran for blood in his veins.

His youth had been full of light and vivacity. He had loved music, poetry, and, above all, he had loved the loveliness of Nature. But all these things seemed to have faded suddenly out of his life. His soul withered when his love failed. Never after had he looked with the eyes of fancy on a woman's face. Woman's love, even in the coarser forms that touch the senses, not the heart, was for him a thing wholly unknown.

From a strong religious believer he cooled into a sceptic. When love failed, faith and hope sickened and died. His keen, searching, unshrinking reason examined the grounds of faith and found them wanting. He could discover no warrant for the hope of a life hereafter, and refused to accept the hope without warrant.

Life, he told himself, is no more than a mere appurtenance of the body. We cannot think without a brain, or see without eyes, or hear without ears, or live without heart and blood and nerves and tissues. When the body dies the life ceases. In man as in the lesser animals— lesser in degree, not kind— death is the end. His reason forced the belief on him as a nauseous medicine which he cannot choose but drink is forced upon a child.

But he put the thoughts of death from him, refused to think of it, refused to realise it, and absorbed himself in his work. Until to-night he had found his work, and the success his work had achieved absorbing and sufficing. To-night it was no longer so. Some hidden nerve in his soul that seemed dead was touched and ached horribly. That betrothal dinner at Lady Sybil's, given in honour of her granddaughter Agatha, was to blame for it.

He had a curious fear of that fete from the first, and tried hard to excuse himself from attending. But Lady Sybil had pleaded so hard with him as "the nearest and dearest friend of the family," "as one of themselves," that he had found it impossible to refuse. Yet right well he knew he was not one of themselves. He looked on their happiness frost the outside with eyes, not of envy, but of vague and vain regret.

The bride-elect, the slim, sylph-like, lovely Agatha, clad all in white, with a cluster of red-rosebuds in her bosom, startled him by her loveliness. She recalled with sudden pain the memory of the undying beauty that had once warmed his life.

He had brought her a diamond bracelet. As he clasped the glittering gems on the slim wrist, and in old, courtly fashion touched the warm white finders with his lips, for one mad moment he fancied it was Sybil's hand he held and kissed.

For one mad moment he raged with envy at honest young Tom Warburton, standing by and gazing lovingly at Agatha, with the light of happy ownership in his eyes. The old man crushed the madness down into the forlorn depths of his empty heart, and smiled and talked the smooth commonplaces that peremptory convention prescribes for such occasions.

Lady Sybil was more than over gracious to him that evening.

"The catch is largely of my making," she whispered; "at least, I made the path to speedy happiness smooth for the young people. I am glad you like him, old friend. He is an honest, manly young fellow, with a career before him, or I am mistaken. Old people say that my little Agatha is very like what I was at her age. My husband thinks so— do you?"

The careless question set the nerve of memory aching again, as he murmured his assent.

There were many children in the drawing room— children of all ages; frank schoolboys to whom the holiday was Heaven, shy school-girls, just verging on maidenhood, lovely in their promised loveliness as half-open buds anticipate the full glories of the roses; and tiny dots of babies in soft white, long curls hanging round their cherub faces, that flitted here and there, restless as butterflies.

Lord Grenville was shy of children, and his shyness bore the resemblance of dislike, doing him therein a deep injustice, for he loved the little ones. But he could not talk to them or laugh with them or play with them, much as he longed to do so. His life was wholly apart from theirs. He had no knowledge of child thought of child language. He would as soon almost be left alone in the room with a wild boast as with a child, and they were frightened as himself, and avoided him or forgot their youth and grow stiff and formal in his company.

That evening the little ones crowded round their genial old grandfather, Lord Ardom, who had a joke and a laugh and a scrap of pleasant nonsense for all, even to the youngest, until their jollity threatened at times to develop into a romp. But Lord Granville, staid and formal, they left severely alone.

Only one tiny mite with large, blue eyes and rose-leaf cheeks, and golden curls that fell below her shoulders, crept softly to his side and climbed his knee and nestled to him.

He patted her golden head gently, but could find no words to say to her, and the little maid sat silent, too, and her blue eyes looked with vague wonder and pity into his.

The thought of her came back to him now in the lonely night. He, too, might have had a daughter— a granddaughter like her, something to love and cherish, and be loved by in return.

"An old saying he had once heard recurred with cruel persistence: "We have no immortality except in our children"— and he had no children.

His whole soul rebelled against the dull and narrow life he had led. To be a great lawyer— what did it matter? To have his name mentioned in dull law reports and quoted by prosy pleaders. He has wasted his days, and now they were drawing to a close. Five years more he could hope for at most— five dismal years tottering on ever never and nearer to the inevitable grave.

The little ormolu clock on the mantelpiece— the priceless ormolu chick of dead Louis XIV.— ticked noisily in the still room. Tick, tick, tick; and at every tick a second of his five years was  gone for ever.

It worried him with its ceaseless ticking. He caught himself rising petulantly to atop it, and sank back into his chair with a grim smile at his own folly.

He had fancied his old love for Lady Sybil to be long dead. But now— like the dry lily bulb that has lain for ages in the brown hand of the mummy in the blackness of a pyramid, to all seeming dead as that which held it, yet breaks into life and flower and fragrance by the magic of earth, and air, and sunshine— so now the fragrant memory of his love revived in his withered heart, and tortured him with vague visions of what might have been. How clearly he remembered, even to the smallest detail, that night in the conservatory on which he had parted with love and hope together. He had done widely and well, he insisted angrily to himself over and over again.

It would have been madness to have told his love— the love of a poor, briefless barrister as he was then— for an earl's only daughter, rich, courted, and beautiful.

He had saved nor pain and himself shame by his silence. The story of his life must have had the same ending had be spoken. He would have lost her friendship by his boldness, that was all.

And yet— and yet— the torturing doubt recurred to him with vague suggestions of the glory and the happiness that might have been if he had then boldly claimed her love.

A bootless speculation, one would say, a thing of the dead, buried past. Yet to him it had all the intensity of the present. That vague suggestion tilled him with a wild passion of self-pity and regret. He longed to know for certainty that one would have refused.

His restlessness forced him from his seat. As he paced the room impatiently he realised vividly and more vividly, as lost souls realise the glories of paradise, what her love might have been to him.

The first wild rapture of possession, the long life of calm enjoyment with children round them to deepen and purify their love. But it could not be, he still insisted; she would never have consented.

He drew her one little scrap of writing from its secret drawer, and laid it flat upon the table, and pored over every word, and strove hard to read refusal in it, and could not.

Suddenly his resolve was taken. He would ask herself the question that she alone could answer. She would tell him, of course, she would tell him, there never had been a hope for him. It would ease his restless soul to hear the truth from her lips.

He slept little that night, in short, feverish snatches, as a convict might sleep, uncertain of execution or reprieve on the morrow.

This question of what might or might not have happened 50 years ago he felt was now to him the one thing of supreme moment in the world.

Very worn and haggard he looked when be called on Lady Sybil at an unvisiting hour next morning. He found her in her drawing-room, a pleasant face and figure, and good to look at in quaint brocaded silk and dainty lace. The hair that parted smoothly over her low, broad fore-head was snow-white, but her complexion was as pure as a girl's. The smile on her lips and in her eyes was bright and warn with kindly happiness—the bright, cloudless sunset of a long summer day.

Lady Sybil was alone. Only the little maiden of the evening before was busy on the floor tenderly nursing a disabled dolly, and gave him a glance and smile as he passed.

The old woman rose hastily to greet him with kindly warmth of long friendship, for she read trouble in his face.

"What is it, Henry?" she said anxiously.

"Nothing, nothing," he answered hurriedly, but there was a tremor in his voice. "It is a mere whim of mine, Sybil, a matter of no consequence at all. I want you to answer me a question about the past."

"Certainly, if I am able."

"I know you will be able. I believe I can guess your answer. You remember the evening we met just before you went away to France fifty years ago? You and I were in the conservatory together."

"I remember it well." She smiled pleasantly at the remembrance, and he was glad to see her smile. "You wore a large white carnation in your buttonhole," she said; "the spicy bouquet of the carnation has always recalled that night to me."

"Forgive my foolish question, Sybil, and answer it. That night I came near to asking you to be my wife. If I had asked, what would your answer have been?"

He waited for her reply, as the wretch in the dock waits for the verdict when the jurors troop slowly into the jury-box.

She answers after a long pause, still smiling pleasantly:

"I thought you would have asked me, Henry. I hoped you would have asked. I meant to say 'Yes.' "

____________________

4: Only a Voice

M. Mcdonnell Bodkin

World's News (Sydney) 13 March 1920

"GENIAL ruffian" was what his friends called Jack Armstrong, and the name seemed to fit him like a glove. Rich, strong, well-bred, good-looking, essentially masculine, and gifted with indomitable health, he found the world a good place to live in, and took what it had to give with both hands. There was sound sense, he said, in the coon song that "When you died, you died all over," so he lived "all over" while he had the chance. Wine was made to be drunk, and women to be kissed, and men were all right if you made the best of them, so he made the best of them, and got the best of them, and prospered accordingly.

He worked hard enough at his trade at stockbroker and speculator, because, as he explained, there was fun in it as well as money, but it was his boast that he never yet sacrificed enjoyment to business. At thirty years of age, he was still a bachelor, because he loved liberty, if one woman was good, he said, many women were better, and variety the salt of life.

He was at peace with himself and the world as he sat, this particular night in May, in his comfortable den, with the decanter at his elbow, and a choice Havana between his teeth, reading Kipling. Suddenly the telephone bell rang, and he cursed good-humouredly.

"Wonder who it can be," he muttered, as he leisurely crossed the room to answer the call; "it's close on eleven o'clock."

"Is that 359?" came a woman's sweet, clear voice to his ear.

He knew the question was not for him, and he knew how the mistake came about. His number, 355, was often confused with 359, and heretofore he had always rung off at once; now he hesitated for a second.

"Is that you, Jack?" came the clear, musical voice again; "why don't you answer?"

Of course, he should have rang off at once, or told the girl to ring off; he did nothing of the kind. The voice interested him strangely; it was low and sweet, with a thrill of eagerness and fear in every tone of it. He trusted to his luck and risked it.

"All right, old girl," he answered; "don't be afraid; speak up."

Luck favoured him; plainly the girl suspected nothing; voices are not easy to detect on the telephone, and perhaps she was too anxious to be cautious.

"Jack, listen," the sweet voice went on, more eagerly than before; "you must send me that twenty pounds I took for you, at once. You promised it in a week, and it's nearly a month now. If it is found out, I'm ruined.  I'd lose my place and they'd send me to prison, I suppose, and then what would become of mother? You haven't been able to help a bit for ever so long. Oh, you must send the money. Promise you'll send it."

"I premise," answered Armstrong, hi a hoarse whisper, which he trusted might he attributed to remorse.

"Oh, thanks, thanks; you've taken a load off my heart," and the telephone rang off, leaving him with the receiver still pressed to his ear in a condition of mute bewilderment.

But Jack Armstrong was used to putting things together and adding them  up to the correct total. The girl had stolen twenty pounds for a blackguard brother; he knew that from the way she spoke of "Mother"; but the tone of her voice would have told him that, anyway. Jack Armstrong knew the tone in which girls spoke to their sweethearts

But who was this girl with the delicious voice? That was the real question. What was she like? How would he get the money to her in time? He dropped back In his chair, picked up his cigar, which had not gone out, and set his wits to work.

At the very first try he found his way. They could tell him at the head office the number of the telephone that had rung him up at that hour; the rest would be easy. Curiously excited and elated, he jumped from his chair and paced the room restlessly, wondering what the girl would be like.

He had meant to so to a card party, but his zest for it was lost. He went to bed early instead, early for him, and dreamed all night. In the morning he could not recall the details of his dreams, but he knew the girl with the voice was mixed up with them.

A surprise awaited him at the telephone office. He had been rung up by 7084, and 7084 was the number of Kelson Brothers― a firm of solicitors he knew very well, and with whom he had frequent business relations. They were old bachelors who were said to have gone the pace in their youth, but were now eminently staid and respectable, and just a little dull. Ernest, the elder, was clean shaven; Frank wore a big white moustache, and looked the elder of the two. But who was the girl, and how did she come to that respectable office at eleven o'clock at night?

There was no use puzzling over it when there was a chance of finding out. As soon as he decently could, he made a business call on the Nelson Brothers, and found them both in the office and delighted to see him. It was a spacious office with papers in regular piles, two American desks, some fine prints on the walls, and a dado of black tin boxes with white lettering.

But Jack Armstrong cared for none of these things. Even while he was shaking hinds with Frank Nelson his quick eye caught sight of a typewriting girl seated at a little table, in front of her machine, and, in the same instant he knew it was the girl he sought.

His eyes must have seen her a dozen times before, but had given no account of her to his brain. She was the kind of girl that few people took at twice, but the appreciative few like to keep on looking.

A slim, tall slip of a girl, anywhere between twenty and twenty-three years, with warm brown hair, that nothing would keep smooth, large brown eyes, with a kind of red light in them, and swarthy cheeks― a regular nut-brown maid.

Her face was as expressionless as a hairdresser's model, as she bent to her machine, and her long Angers danced over the keys. Bat Armstrong never doubted that this was the girl, and no other.

Be suddenly discovered that he wanted a typist, and contrived by judicious questioning to draw from the unsuspecting brothers the very little they knew about their own "operator," as they called her, which was little more than her name and address.

"Miss Wynne." Ernest said, "has been with us nearly two years, and we find her most satisfactory, efficient, and discreet."

The colligation plainly pleased him as he repeated it. He advised Armstrong to try the same registry office; a girl like Miss Wynne would just suit him. Armstrong agreed that she would, and took his leave.

That evening he sent a letter with two ten-pound notes in it, sealed and registered and addressed in type to Miss Wynne, 17 Mornington Crescent.

He waited very impatiently, for one day, before he called again on the Nelson Brothers on business. He was rewarded by just one glance from the brown eyes of the typewriting girl, which made his heart beat strangely. Never had one glance told him so much about one girl before. There was courage in it, and a touch of mockery as well, here was a girl brave enough to defy convention, and to do what she liked, and say what she liked in spite of the world. Their eyes met again, and her lips quivered, and a dimple showed for a moment in her left cheek. He took it for a challenge.

"Nelson," he said to the senior partner. "Might I write a letter? I had quite forgotten. It is very important."

"Certainly, my tear boy," replied the other, and cleared a space on one of the desks, then as an afterthought, for Armstrong's eyes had wandered in the direction of the typist, "you might like to have it typed. Miss Wynne will be delighted. Miss Wynne, would you mind taking a letter from my friend, Mr. Armstrong? Now, Armstrong, if you are ready " And he discreetly retired.

Miss Wynne glanced back over her shoulder with the ghost of a smile in her eyes, and Armstrong began:

"My dear― I don't know the lady's Christian name."

"Is it necessary?"

"I think so."

"Jenny."

"Thanks, my dear Jenny, I suppose you know that I came here for the last couple of days merely as an excuse to see you. But I find that it is not sufficient to see you, I want to talk to you as well. Will you dine with me this evening at the Carlton, I will meet you at the door at eight o'clock? Yours very sincerely, John Armstrong."

The machine stopped clattering. Armstrong had a moment of anxiety before she demurely handed him the typewritten sheet. He just glanced at the foot of the page and saw the word, "Yes."

"Miss Wynne satisfactory?" asked Ernest Nelson, as he joined him.

"Most satisfactory. Good day, Nelson. I must be off now. I have an appointment."

Armstrong at first sight did not recognise the girl that stepped lightly out of the taxi and came quickly to meet him as he loitered outside the door of the Carlton ten minutes after the appointed time. Surely that could not be his little typist, that superb woman, that moved with such airy grace and carried her head so proudly.

"Good evening, Miss Wynne," he murmured, bashfully; "it was very good of you to come." He had intended quite another form of greeting.

"Good of you to ask me," she answered. "I hope I'm not very late."

He was more embarrassed than ever when he saw her without her wraps in the rosy light of the private dining-room.  She was dressed very plainly in a high evening dress of black, with a collar of old yellow lace fastened by a plain gold brooch, no other ornament of any kind, save the heavy plaited coronet of hair. Even the slim brown hands were innocent of rings. But the dress did justice to the lissom figure, and the red-brown eyes were brighter than jewels.

Not the faintest trace of embarrassment did she show dining with a man to whom she had spoken only once, to whom she had never been introduced. She was absolutely mistress of herself and the situation. Her audacity was so great that it ceased to be audacious; she was wholly at her ease; her scanner made no claim to deference that Armstrong paid it to her as her tea. She had told him her name was Jenny, but he could no more call that stately young beauty Jenny than be could cut his hand off.

Yet there was nothing statuesque about her stateliness; she was all afire, and life, and a woman to her finger-tips. She frankly admired the room, and the roses― Armstrong was lavish in flowers― and ate the delicate meats, and sipped the delicate wines, with unaffected relish. She was as gay as a lark in the sunrise, and as natural. They got taking easily from the first; the girl was a reader, he found, a close observer, and a mimic of that subtle kind that brings a character before you with a look, a gesture, or a word.

She wagged a dainty forefinger slowly, and he saw Ernest Nelson prosing in his office chair. She rubbed her hands nervously together, and Frank Nation was telling one of his "good stories." Her talk was clear and sparkling as a running stream, with little trills of laughter where some point of humour broke its even current.

Armstrong was delighted, entranced. He forgot that he had ever looked at another woman in his life. In every pulse of his blood he felt the seductive feminine charm. Ever and again some turn of her head, some pose of her figure, some tone of her voice, thrilled him with a fierce delight that was almost pain. But in the midst of her talk and laughter, somehow she held aloof from him. Round her there was a magic circle he could not pass. He dare not so much as hint a compliment to her beauty.

When she rose to go, quite early it seemed to him, he made no effort to detain her. He looked at his watch and was surprised to find it so late, close on eleven.

"May I see you home?" he asked, diffident as a schoolboy.

"Certainly," she replied graciously; "if you will be so kind. Seventeen Mornington Crescent. Tottenham Court Road."

He called a taxi and they got in together. A silence had fallen on them both, and Armstrong's heart was beating hard. He started violently as she touched his arm; they were near the end of Tottenham Court Road.

"Will you please tell him to stop here?" she said. "I don't want him to drive up to my own door."

Still silent, they walked together through the noisy thoroughfare, and turned off on a quiet road where there were few lamps and no traffic. Mornington Crescent was shaped like a strung bow with iron railings, and tall trees that looked blank in the starlight. The main road went straight past on the bow line, the houses were round the curve. There was silence, and a dim twilight that was almost darkness, as they turned into the Crescent.

"Good night, and thanks," she said softly; "I'm almost at home."

As she said it she stepped on a piece of orange peel, and would have fallen if he had not caught her. A sudden frenzy possessed him when he found her slim body in his arms, and he kissed her once, twice, thrice, full on the lips.

She made no resistance, but yielded her lips obediently to his. her whole body relaxing in his strenuous embrace. When he released her she was very pale and panted softly.

"You will come again to-morrow?" he insisted.

"Yes. If you wish it," she whispered, with something like a sob in her voice.

He saw her steal like a shadow to a door a few paces off. open it, and slip through; and he turned homewards with triumph throbbing in his veins.

He had conquered. He had kissed her and she had yielded to his kisses. A delirious exultation possessed him wholly. She would come again to-morrow, and he would see her, and hold her in his arms, and kiss her. Beyond this, all was tumult in his thoughts; no woman ever moved him so before.

After a feverish night and day, Armstrong was waiting at the Carlton a half-hour before his time. She might come a little early; he would not for anything lose first sight of her. He waited, in an agony of impatience, the minutes dragged their slow length along, and she never came. Half-past eight, nine, before he abandoned hope and turned homewards in blank despair.

In vain he reasoned with himself that something unforeseen had prevented her coming, that she would surely meet him to-morrow, and explain. In vain he flattered himself with the remembrance of their parting. A truer instinct whispered that here was an end of delirious dream, that she would meet him no more.

Next day he had business at Nelsons'.

As he passed her table she glanced up casually, and looked him through without a hint of recognition or interest, without a sign on her face that they had met before. He almost doubted that this was the girl he had held in his arms and kissed.

It happened that at this time his business required that he should pay frequent visit to the Nelsons' office. It chanced that on the third occasion he again required the services of a typist for an important letter.

The letter he dictated to Miss Wynne was very different from the first; it was humble and entreating, but she handed it to him neatly typed, without a word added, as casually as she would hand a law document to her employer.

Two more days passed― two days of agony to Armstrong. The fever of his passion had subsided― had turned to shame. He knew now that he loved the girl with all the powers of his soul, and he knew now, for the first time, what real love meant. He had profaned the shrine of his goddess; his hot kisses were sacrilege; he reddened with shame when he remembered them. The pain of loss, the dull ache of what might have been and never would be, tortured him body and soul. At last his despair gave him courage to write to her at her own home.

Dear Miss Wynne, he wrote,

I dare not ask pardon, I don't deserve it, but I would give the world to meet you again, if only for a minute, to tell you how sorry I am. Can you have pity?

Yours,

J. Armstrong.

By return of post came a reply. He knew that clear bold hand for hers, and was half afraid to open the envelope. His heart gave one great throb and was still when he read the words It contained:

I will meet you to-morrow at the Duke of York's column at half-past six o'clock.

Five minutes before that time she came, to find him waiting. She was very pale, and he felt her hand tremble as he took it in his. But her lips were closed firmly, and three tiny lines showed themselves on her smooth forehead. She looked like one who has a distasteful task in hand and means to get It through at any cost.

By common consent, without a word spoken, they passed down to St. James's Park, and found a quiet seat under the trees. At the time Armstrong saw nothing but his companion, but all his life afterwards he vividly remembered the scene― the pink glow of the sunset, the green light and the glint of the water through the trees, the movement and the prattle of the children at play on the banks of the Serpentine. She broke the silence abruptly.

"You sent me twenty pounds?"

Armstrong was a poker player; not a muscle of his face betrayed him; the surprise in his voice was perfect.

"Good Lord, no, what makes you think such a thing?"

"That's a lie," she said, and for a second the dimple struggled to show itself in her left cheek: "but a lie that does you credit. Of course you sent it. I have no mother and no brother Jack. No one but you ever heard of them."

"I don't understand."

"You cannot yet. I saw you more than once in the office. I heard how generous and clever, how good-humoured and unscrupulous you were. How you captured men and women at your will. 'A genial ruffian,' Frank Nelson called you."

"Yes," Armstrong assented gravely; "I'm often called that."

"Ernest Nelson defended you; said he had heard of a hundred kindnesses you had done, but Frank laughed at him and said you had never done a kindness to man or woman except to serve your own purposes. Did you?" She hit him with the question.

"Does anyone? I never did― yet."

"So Frank Nelson said; it was that tempted me to play the trick on you."

"But who are you? How did you come to typewriting?"

"It does not matter who I am. Yes, It does. You have a right to know the whole story. My father was Dr. Dennison― you have heard of Dr. Dennison, the eye specialist?"

Armstrong nodded.

"He was thought to be very rich; I thought it, too. He never told me anything, but kept me always at school. When he died he left debts and an only daughter. There were relatives that would have supported me from charity until I could have been trained as a governess, but I ran away and hid myself. I had learned typewriting for fun, and it stood to me. I have been working for more than a year and a half at the Nelsons'. I wanted a holiday, and I had no money. That's why I took your twenty pounds. I meant to keep it, but― but here it is."

He took the notes and thrust them carelessly into his coat pocket.

"That's all," she concluded, and rose as If to leave him.

"No," he said, "that not all. Sit down for one minute, please."

She sat down.

"There's my side of the story. I am― at least I was― what Frank Nelson called me, 'a genial ruffian,' with no thought except my own enjoyment. When I got you to come to the Carlton I meant to merely amuse myself with you as I had with hundreds of other women. I would have been generous to you as the world calls it, and have given you as much money and as many jewels as you wanted, all to please myself. I was a selfish cad― that's a true description― but you surprised and frightened me. You were so different from what I had expected, and if it hadn't been for an accident, I would never―"

"Wait, wait," she said, flushing a dark crimson at the memory of that accident. "I have a word more to say. I meant to amuse myself with you; to make a fool of you; to make you care for me, and then throw you over. But you, too, were different from what I expected. You were kind, respectful. You made no allusion to the money you sent me."

"Why should I?"

"Never mind that. You didn't, anyway, and I was sorry I took it. I felt I would like to have you for a friend, but― but―"

"You found you could not trust me," he said bitterly.

"I found I could not trust myself. When you kissed me I was not angry, I was overwhelmed, I was your slave. I would have done anything you wished then―anything.

"Afterwards, when I got home and the fever passed, I nearly died of shame. I resolved never to speak to you again; never to see you If I could help it. But when you wrote to me I felt you had a right to know all. Now goodbye."

"No," he said again, "please; not for a moment more. I want to tell you how I have changed since I knew you. I think the change began at the first sound of your voice. Something whispered, 'Here is the one woman in the world for me.' I was mad when I insulted you. A sudden gust of passion caught me, but I love you; do you understand? I love you. For the first time in my life I love something better than myself. I suffered torture when I thought I lost you. Can you have a little pity? I don't deserve it, but can you? If you can't, nothing matters, I'll go straight to the devil. It is you or the devil, Jenny. Which is to have me?"

Again that shy dimple showed in her left cheek. For a second her eyes met his, then her eyelids drooped, but he had read his answer, and again he kissed her, this time very gently.

____________

5: There and Back

F. St. Mars

(Frank Howard Atkins, 1882–1921)

World's News (Sydney) 10 January 1920

AT twenty minutes past six precisely Mr John West-Bourne sat at his dining-table making pessimistic onslaught upon a plate of tepid meat, so foreign that its gravy looked like a map of Mars. And he was reading an account of the latest big glove fight.

Mr. John West-Bourne was not a prize fighter, neither did he box. He was a medium-sized man, of smallish appearance, who always wore a walrus moustache and a plain— not a tweed— grey suit. He was a plain grey man who always wore a grey suit. That is, he was not grey as to his hair, but had a grey look. There was nothing red about Mr. John West-Bourne, not even nasally. Romance, it seemed, had never caught John's eye among the crowd. He was not a young man, nor was he old. He was young or old enough to be either.

Never mind in what line of business John cheated the workhouse by chasing a "salary" around his pocket. It was not in an office.

At thirty minutes past six precisely Mrs. John West-Bourne entered the 12 by 10 dining-room, and, having leaped upon and hugged the cat, walked over the Axminster-like carpet and sat down upon a chair of the six-guinea saddle-back suite to a plate of hot English lamb, new potatoes, and peas.

Every evening to the minute— except one week when John had "flue," and nearly died, not from "flue," but from malnutrition— for eight solid, stolid years things had transpired thus-wise to the tick. So far as John W-B. could see. for eighteen, or twenty-eight years More, things were likely to transpire in line manner to the tick also.

Neither husband nor wife spoke beyond the stereotyped: "Hullo." There was no need; both knew precisely what the other was going to say before they said it.

Mrs. John West-Bourne was in an office. You felt it, if possible, before she told you so. She earned her own living, which fact she would duly impart at intervals in case John got all the cheers. Mrs. John West-Bourne prided herself upon her business-like methods. She was so business-like that, so far as mortal knowledge went, Mrs. John had never been known to waste a single penny of her living, which she earned, for any other purpose, on any count whatever, than the living of Mrs. John. So business-like was she, indeed, that she could neither attend to her home, sew brace-buttons on John's trousers, cook, wash, nor dust, entertain, be at home, or "at home," or see to the servants; but she did see that she received prompt service, and she did order John's food. So far, then, as John was concerned, his spouse might have earned a dozen livings, or none at all; he paid just the same.

But you must not blame John at the start. He was a good husband— so far as the walrus moustache and the grey appearance permitted— and it was not entirely his fault that he had honourably taken seriously a death-bed promise made to his mother that he would marry this lady because— she earned her own living and was so business-like. Why do mothers, who know themselves to be utterly ruled by love, place love out at court when making selections for their children? As if anything else than love does or ever can count!

"Well, old girl? Haven't you anything to say to a fellow. Any news, or— anything?" asked John at last, in a deep voice.

"Yes, I have, John." Mrs. West-Bourne surveyed him with the shiny soulless stare that pince-nez impart. "I wish you would not call me 'old girl' in front of the servants."

"H—!" whispered the culprit piously to the bronze St. George who had taken so many years to kill the dragon on the mantel-piece.

At length, having asked permission, John West-Bourne arose, and sat down in his arm-chair. He stretched out his legs, and discovered by an explosion that the cat was not the hassock. After having watched his wife collapse in heaps from her strawberries and cream upon the offended animal, and listened to her "Did'ums, then. Mm-mm, diddle-waa. Poor, poor Pookey-wookey. Did the horrid brats tread on you?" John, after profound apologies, felt the need of genial conversation.

He made an effort of newsiness. He told his wife how Jones had called to give him a fifty-pound order, and had become so lost in a description of his children's measles, that he had gone away without giving it; how Smith and Son and Smithson and Co. were going to amalgamate; how he had got a seat for the first time this year in the train coming home, and how he had called in to see how Thomson's sprained ankle― won in an heroic fight to get into a tram was getting on.

"He asked me to post an urgent letter for him, as he cannot go out," John finished. "And― and―" slapping his jacket furiously and variously― "Good Heavens, Julia! I've forgotten to post it."

"Hm," commented Mrs. West-Bourne uncompromisingly. "You would. better run across to the village, and post it at once. Mr Thomson is a special client of ours at the office"― the last sentence delivered in a tone that settled everything.

"I will," John gasped, jumping up. "It's only a stone's throw there and back. Guess I'll catch the post all right." And he fled.

Now mark how fate doth play the fool with us.

As John West-Bourne crossed the small open space of ground, owned by a builder, some weeds, and one tethered donkey, that lay be between his villa and the railway, a locomotive whistled far up the line, a long, echoing, and important whistle.

"She's late," murmured John, glancing at his American watch, and hurrying to get across the metals before the train came. "Three minutes. But she's travelling."

He referred to the "5.45 down." The 5.43, the Great Southern's dining-car express. The "Sunshine Flyer" of the wealthy saloon-car season-ticket holder, timed for forty-six miles an hour in her evening dash from London to the sea.

There was a little kissing-gate letting on to the railway cutting, a right-of-way across the line, and another little gate on the top of the bank on the other side, and thence, across a meadow, it was but five minutes' walk to the corner of the wall of the asylum and the village. The village started there. John always said it had started there.

John West-Bourne went through the gate, hurried half way down the railway embankment. without looking or thinking, and stopped dead.

He was not alone. Someone was in that sun-hatted, quiet place beside himself. Someone In trouble, so that they did not move. A girl, beautiful in form, perfect in outline, which blue serge could not hide, any more than it could help foiling the wondrous mass of red gold hair that coiled above, lay motionless between the metals of the main down line.

John West-Bourne glanced up the narrowing green perspective of the cutting, saw the shining circle of the "Sunshine Flyer" Atlantic's smoke box come out of the curve and let herself out on the straight run to the sea, and jumped for it. He moved from the spot where he was to the tawny warm gravel between the shining metals in three bounds. As he stooped down and slipped his hands under the curve of such arms as might embrace emperors. He was conscious of three distinct impressions in the same moment. One was the growing roar of the "Sunshine Flyer" filling the stagnant air of the cutting; second the sudden, wild, screaming blast of her whistle, almost on top of him, and third the surpassing loveliness of the face within a foot of his. There was also an aroma of violets that could make a man drunk.

Then he heaved. And the rest was muttering gravel, vibrating metals, gasping sobs, a blast of hot wind, deafening thunder, flash of steel, a flickering line of polished brass, mirrors, cream paint, varnish, and a shrieking "thud-thud-thudity-thud" of flying wheels.

John West-Bourne found himself in the empty railway-cutting, half-bending, half sinking over the weight of the prostrate, warm, clinging female form upon the grass beneath him. The tail-light of the "Sunshine Flyer" was dwindling down the track like the eye of a drowsing giant, and a lark was pouring down a cascade of silver evensong from above, as it rose obliquely across the cutting. There was nothing else in all the world-to John, in that supreme moment of manhood's triumph.

Then he was conscious of looking into eyes, melting lakes of violet, down, down, in to which his soul seemed to sink past all saving. Such eyes have lured men to heaven's gate before now, and sent some, not a few to the other place.

John stood half bent, as one hypnotised, still holding the girl, quivering, staring down; and. In a flash, her arms were coiled around his neck, pressing him close. Her hot lips were smothering him with kisses. Her wonderful hair blinded him. Her violet scented breath drugged him.

"Oh!" she cried― and her low voice had a soft throaty catch in it that would have drawn the damned from hell. "It is you. The very you at last. And my dreams have come true. Darling. Oh! my darling. I knew you would come― just like that. I knew you would save my life. I knew you were my love― my love out of my dreams. I knew Ah! I knew It all, long years before you came. Now nothing can part us― nothing ever."

John said nothing― nothing articulate, that is― What he did― but if we are men we shall admit John's peculiar right to our silence here. If we are women we shall guess that he returned the compliment; and we may he right, and we may be wrong. In any ease, however, men or women. If we had seen that girl in that setting, as John W-B saw her then, we should admit that no son of Adam could be expected to do anything than that which she made him do. Nevertheless, John was embarrassed. As his soul sank further and further beneath the hypnotism of beauty, he still clutched feebly here and there at a thread or two that bound him to our common unromantic life outside the world of dreams.

"But how on earth came you on the line there?" John West-Bourne― no longer grey now, mark you, but flushed and alive, which is quite distinct from blushing― questioned her at last. "Jove! I thought nothing could save you."

The girl― I call her so because girl she looked, though grown to woman's proud estate, she was― disengaged John's collar, and sat bolt upright. She looked at him, and her red, red lips rippled into frank laughter.

"Why, through my own fault," she replied. "I was crossing the line and my foot caught under one of the rails"£ the gravel had sunk beneath a raised metal in places, and West-Bourne looked and saw that such an accident was quite possible― "I fell between the rails," she went on. "And― and I think I must have half fainted, or something, but I don't fancy I've sprained my ankle at all― only strained it slightly," and she displayed an ankle such as was surely only lit to be encased in silk of gold spun by the fairies. She paused a moment. brooding under long drooping lashes, then looked up, as a saint might look, with those big, wonderful eyes of hers.

"But what do I care." she cried, clapping her hands. "It brought me you― honey. It brought me you, and now I have got you I am going to keep you. We will elope together."

At this point John West-Bourne sat down suddenly, as if not till that moment had the tremendous muscular effort he had made as a life saver told upon him.

"Whew!" he whispered, and regarded the green plush slope of the embankment, where stainless marguerites were waking glad eyes at the sinking sun, and the last orange-tipped butterflies, whose wings sensed to have caught light, flickered hither and thither, seeking a sleeping place. A yellowhammer had stuck himself up on the telegraph-wires, all canary-yellow and warm brown, and was trilling gaily.

"Ah!" laughed the girl, watching the bird. "I always have had my own way, you know." She turned, and leaning upon one perfect arm, looked gently at John. "You won't be angry with me for that, will you? You see, was born rich― a― Oh, about thirty-thousand a year, I suppose, all told, you know." She stopped talking abruptly, and the Tril- lil- lil- lil- lil- lil-woo-gee" of the bird filled the silence, and seemed to turn into human speech, dinning into John West-Bourne's ringing brain: "Thirty thousand pounds -a- y-e-a-r-Aye?"

"But I― I'm married," he said slowly, almost tearfully.

The girl took his hand gently, and placed it between her own little warm, soft ivory ones on her knee. She looked at him under her diadem of red-gold hair, and―:

"Tell me," she said suddenly, and irresistibly frankly, "what sort of a wife you have?"

And John told her, truthfully as a child, simply as a savage.

She did not laugh at the picture. She nestled her head down upon John West-Bourne's shoulder. There was a serious look in the pools of her eyes.

"Darling," she murmured softly. "Such is not the wife for you. A woman like that would be for happier if she were not married at all. Without you she could do so much. With the allowance we shall be able to send her she will do so much more. An office of her very own― Business―" She flung out one perfect hand, and laughed, as a brook laughs in the sun, sitting up. "To-morrow evening― at the end of Pooks Lane. (Fairies' lane, you know, darling.) At dusk, I will meet you in my car, and―" The girl got up slowly with infinite grace― "She's a flyer." She finished, blushing, and extended her hand for her companion's arm.

John West-Bourne sprang to his feet with the tense, dazed air of a man who has been "put down" while boxing.

"Do you mean that?" he asked, with the peculiar intonation of a man drunk, though no liquor had passed his lips for many a day.

"Do I mean?" There was trouble in those violet orbs under the arched brows. "Dear― did I dream?― Did you save me? I am yours to take away, and all I have is at your feet. You will come? Promise."

Oh those eyes! If she would only not look at him like that― with that look that would draw promises from archangels. If she only would not plead like that, with the throaty catch in her voice Just before the last word. If― but the bon Dieu has put a limit even to the strength of the "lord of creation." Besides, John reflected, there were many little things he could do with thirty thousand a year.

"I promise," muttered John West-Bourne, deeply moved, and they walked together over the meadow to the village through the gathering dusk.

There was a sound of cattle cropping grass over the hedge, and a smell of honeysuckle and haystacks in the air. Far away a reaping machine droned like a tired bee. The spell of the sacred English scene lay heavy upon them both; and it seemed to John West-Bourne as if there never had been any other life than this paradise of the moment, and as if his home, his wife, and his daily work were dim, far-off recollections of a dream

The two turned the corner of the asylum wall at the end of the meadow, into the roadway, they both saw a low-hung, 40-horse-power champagne and silver-plated motor-car standing outside an ample country house, embedded in trees, there opposite the asylum rates. At the sight of it the girl gasped and stopped short. John west-Bourne felt her arms tighten convulsively in his. She locked quickly around. For a moment he thought she was going to faint.

"What's the matter?" queried he. "Not feeling bad, are you? Your ankle―"

"No, it's all right, darling," came her answer, delivered quietly enough. "A twinge only. Sort of reaction upon finding myself back at my car, safe and sound, dear― thanks to you― after what I've been through. I just left it here, you know, while I ran across the meadow to leave a note at a servant's house. I thought it would save time, and has done more― oh, so much more. It has saved my happiness. It has brought me you." With the word she glanced swiftly around, and kissed him passionately once― twice― and again. Next moment she was in the car, gliding rapidly away.

"Till to-morrow, honey," he called back softly, lingeringly, lovingly, and was gone, humming:

I heard the sound of you coming

All the years before you came,
its a sick man hears in his darkened room

The petulant gust of the flame.

John West-Bourne, pulling himself in hand, as a driver pulls in a horse he is beginning to get under control after bolting, with his head in the cicada, and his feet walking on air, with eyes alight and flushed cheeks, continued his way down to this village post-office. He posted his letter and returned slowly. On the way, to soothe his nerves, he dropped into a tobacconist's and asked for his "little allowance of No. 555's." Lighting up as he came outside, he sauntered homewards, and, just as he turned the corner of the asylum wall― both eyes glued up the road where he had last seen her, of course―he ran full tilt into the village policeman in the gathering gloom.

The latter was just mounting his bicycle in some haste, and the two very nearly succeeded in subsiding gently and gracefully to the ground together.

"Hullo, Smith," cried John. "What's the hurry?"

The policeman extricated himself, and Stopped.

"Why! Bless me! That you, sir? You're just the man. Been for a stroll, sir?"

"To post a letter," admitted John. "Then you came across the line?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Seen anything of a very beautiful girl―or woman, s'pose you'd call her. with red-gold hair, and a blue dress and violet eyes―a regular peach?"

"Lord!" ejaculated John. "Where?"

"We-ll, she may've been down by the line. Some children, blackberrying, say they seen something answering her description down there― or she may've been drivin' a champagne coloured car with silver-plated lamps."

"Heavens!" John had quite forgotten his cigarette. "Drives her own car?"

"Well, no," continued the policeman. "She stole it. Leastways, the young squire, he always leaves his new car outside that house there opposite when he comes home from business, while he drops in to see his fiancée for a few minutes, what lives there. And it's gone. Somebody's took it."

"Now you speak of it, I did me a car like that, standing there when I came out from the meadow, but there was no one in it," admitted John West-Bourne truthfully, and with slow deliberation. "But what d'you want this princess beautiful for, Smith?"

The policeman paused (while John handed him some cigarettes that clinked).

"Well, sir." he said, "she's been a sort o' private patient at the asylum here― Suicide case. I believe. They say she ruined her first husband before he committed suicide, and did the same for the second before driving him mad. Some think she killed the first one. But you couldn't blame any feller for taking after her, she's that lovely. Face like an angel, too. Figure like― well, there. She's It, sir, in th' Venus line, so to speak, and she's escaped. They're out after 'er now― all over the place. It's known, too, she's a demon with any car."

"Holy smoke!" John West-Bourne gasped, while out of the tail of his eye he noted a motor-bicycle's headlight, evidently possessed by another searcher, coming down the asylum drive. Then, raising his voice, and looking the policeman straight between the eyes, he said slowly and clearly: "No, Smith, I have not seen anyone answering to that description at all, at all. But I can tell you one thing, if it's any use to you. a car did pass me just by the post-office"― indicating a direction opposite to that taken by the runaway― "And it was going at an awful speed too, far exceeding the speed limit."

The policeman grunted aloud, ran across the road, stopped the motor-cyclist, told him what John West-Bourne had just said, and sent him off in the direction of the post-office, all plugs sparking briskly. The policeman quickly followed, while John walked home smiling. He had forgotten to tell the policeman that he knew the car he had just spoken of― a grey one― as that owned by his own landlord. Perhaps be thought they would be so angry when they overtook the same after a long chase, and found he was the wrong bird, that they would summons him for driving at excessive speed― which, as a matter of fact, he was not, quite.

John West-Bourne walked home briskly now. He found his wife struggling with a hat in front of the overmantel. She was, he remembered, going to one of her everlasting meetings― British Business Woman's Band, this one, I think.

"Catch the post?" she asked abstractedly.

"H'm, yes," replied John, and sat down father heavily. "You off? Good-bye"

The door slammed in a business-like manner after his wife, and John made a face at it.

Then he picked up the cat by the scruff of the neck, and gently but firmly dropped the feline out of the window.

"Perishing heavens above," he gasped, and sank into his arm-chair, mopping his brow. "Only to think― just there and back."

____________________

6: The Dazzle Plot

C. N. and A. M. Williamson

1859–1920 and 1858–1933

World's News (Sydney) 28 February 1920

"THE Dazzle Club! That name's going to stick," said I, with the evening paper in my hand. "I wonder if it'll do us harm, or good?"

"Remains to be seen," said Tremayne. "Anyhow, it's our own fault. We might have known what effect our decorations would have on the journalist chaps."

We were partners. The rather jolly little house in St. Peter's Place was mine, also the idea of turning it into a smart night club with Futurist decorations. The capital was Jim Tremayne's. We'd served together in the Army, at first as lieutenants, then as captains. We didn't care to take anyone else in with us in the scheme; and as Jim thought his brains and heart too soft to fit a club secretary, I had accepted the post. This was the opening night of what we'd intended to call the Lytton-Tremayne Club, and the unanimous christening given by the journalists had somewhat upset our minds. "The Dazzle Club!" Would it attract or repel the set to whom we wanted to appeal?

Little did we dream in our wondering, pro and con. what that name was to mean for as! Yet even at that moment the Future was knocking at the door; or rather, she was pressing the electric bell.

"A lady wishes to see the secretary, Sir Patrick," announced a butler who had been my father's before me. (He didn't go well with the "Dazzle," but not the wildest night bird of a club could get a bad reputation with a Panton at the door!) "She wouldn't give her name."

We were to open at ten, and it was now nine-twenty. A lady who wouldn't give her name had so business to come along and ask for the secretary at such an hour. Still―

"Is she young, Panton?" I inquired.

"Yes. sir."

"Pretty?"

"She's beautiful, sir. The most beautiful young woman I ever laid eyes on."

"Show her in," I said.

Jim and I were in the room off the entrance hall, which was to be used for secretarial business. Naturally, having heard such a startling account of my visitor from the conventional Panton, Jim stayed.

She was shown in, and― well, the old boy hadn't exaggerated. Speaking of dazzle! Not that she was Futurist in effect. Her style was no later than the Helen of Troy period; and she wore no diamonds or other jewels. It was her beauty that dazzled. She was in evening dress, and her head was uncovered. She had red gold hair, flowing back in gleaming ripples from a broad, low forehead. Her immense eyes were either dark hazel or brown. Her complexion was white as lilies, and she was no young that it must have been natural. Her lips were rose-red, and she had the kind of dimples that don't wait for a smile, but come and go with a breath. She wore a frock of flame-coloured tulle or something, and a cloak of gold tissue.

"Which of you is Sir Patrick Lytton?" the vision inquired in a delicious voice― Irish, perhaps; which my own is― though not so delicious.

I answered to the name― on my feet, of course, with Jim by my side.

"I am Miss Tynan," the girl introduced herself. "Miss Eve Tynan." (I knew she was Eve, before she mentioned it!) "And I want to become a member of this club."

I don't think I gasped. But I did stammer. The dream was a lady, and looked like a fairy princess. Still, roles are roles, and conventions conventions. I was sputtering out a question or two. Might I ask who proposed her, etc., etc., when she quietly broke in.

"I know a man's supposed to propose women members," she said, "but I've no friends in London. I'm a new-comer. I can't give you credentials. I don't want to tell you things best myself. All I can say is this: I've no dreadful past. I'm quite, quite a respectable person! Won't one of you propose me?"

Heavens, what a girl! She took our breath away, though not so much that each of us didn't try to rush out a "Yes!" before the other could speak. I defy any man with blood in his veins to have done differently.

Jim got in his "Yes" first.

"I propose Miss Tynan as a member of the Lytton-Tremayne Club." he exclaimed.

"No, the Dazzle," she amended, almost putting our hearts out of action with her sudden dimples. "It's the 'Dazzle' that draws me. I think it will bring me luck. And, speaking of dazzles, is Miss Gina Dalziel a member of your club?"

For a second I was nonplussed. Then I realised why the South African heiress should connect herself in Miss Tynan's mind with the word "dazzle." Of course, the girl's father had left to her the celebrated "Dazzle" Diamond, as it was called, one of the finest stones ever found in a South African mine.

I replied that so far, though we had already a considerable membership, no one had proposed Miss Dalziel. and we'd heard nothing of a desire on her part to Join.

"I should love to see her, and the Dazzle Diamond," said Miss Tynan. "Someone told me she always wears it. A girl like that would! Does either of you know anyone who knows Miss Dalziel?"

The adorable look of appeal she turned first upon one, then the other, of us was enough to drive a man to lies. But, fortunately, I was slightly, vaguely acquainted with a man who'd once mentioned Miss Dalziel as if she were his friend.

"I'll make Willie Townshend bring her round here one night," I promised.

"Oh, do! And let me know when, so I can surely be here. Miss Dalziel is certain to wear her 'Dazzle' to dance at the Dazzle Club. It would be tempting the god of luck not to!"

Jim and I began to think that the name the journalists had fastened on us was likely to prove a stroke of fortune. Hadn't it already drawn to us a dazzling dream, beautiful enough to make any night club by her presence alone?

So that is the way the Great Affair began.

Our first night was an immense success, largely due, we felt, to Eve Tynan.

"Who is she?" everyone asked. And it went round that Miss Tynan was a distant relative of Captain Tremayne's, a girl who'd lived mostly "in France or somewhere!"

Her dancing was as wonderful as her looks, her voice, her clothes, and everything else about her. Even women admired the girl― those who hadn't flirting husbands or susceptible sons. A delightful aunt of mine, with plenty of money and "go," who didn't mind calling herself an old maid, took an immense fancy to Miss Tynan― found out that she was staying at the Savoy, refrained from asking further questions, and proceeded to "make friends." If there'd been any particular reason why a dazzling girl should wish to attract a middle-aged spinster, I might almost have thought Eve Tynan angled for my Aunt Constance Brett. But― why should she angle?

The great Interest of that first evening centred upon Eve. Without her, I suppose that our opening would have been much like the opening of any other new dancing and supper club; but the wonderful Miss Tynan made all the difference to as that Cinderella must have made to the Prince's ball. We knew that men would come back in the hope of seeing her again, if for nothing else. And so it proved. If Miss Tynan didn't turn up at the club, there was disappointment; something missing, as if ozone were left out of the atmosphere, the bubble out of the champagne. Jim and I thoroughly realised that she was our mascot. But there was nothing mercenary in our feelings for her. We were both head over ears in love. I knew it of Jim. He knew it of me.

Of course she was a mystery. That, however. only heightened the charm. For all we could toil, she might he a witch, who'd laid aside her broomstick because she liked staying at the Savoy, and dancing at a smart London club, better than careering through the night sky on a broomstick.

For a month the course of our infatuation "ran smooth." Miss Tynan came nearly every night to the club, and sometimes we saw her by day, generally with my aunt, Miss Brett, or some other woman of position whom she'd fascinated. She was charming to the men she met, but showed no sign of liking one better than another― unless it were Jim or me. But suddenly she vanished.

She did not come to the club. It appeared that she had left the Savoy with her maid-chaperon. She had not mentioned whether she would return, nor did she give any address.

That was the longest week of my life― of Jim's too, I think― that week of her absence. Then, on the eighth evening, just at the hour when she had first walked in upon us, the telephone bell rang in my office. I picked up the receiver and heard Eve Tynan's voice.

"Where are you?" I asked. Jim was near, and by my tone, my expression, he guessed who spoke.

"I'm not ready yet to tell you where I am," she answered. "Besides, judging by the way you and Captain Jim Tremayne have treated me, I can't think you care. What have you done? You often told me I was your 'mascot,' and you both owed a lot to me, yet the one little favour I asked and you promised to grant, you forgot all about... Why, to get Miss Dalziel to the club, wearing the Dazzle. What― you tried, but didn't bring it off? Well, you ought to have tried till you did bring it off. And I'm not coming back to the club till you do. Oh, not that I care, except as a test. That's it. It is a test of your friendship― gratitude― what you like. How are you to let me know, did you say? Oh, I'll ring you up again to-morrow at this time. If you haven't succeeded then, I'll ring once more. After that, it will be too late. I shall simply be gone out of your lives."

If our brains hadn't been yelled down by our hearts, we might have said to ourselves that Eve Tynan was acting in this dramatic way to prove her power over us, to make us feel we would do anything to have her back. But it really wasn't such a difficult feat after all to get hold of Miss Dalziel for one of our evenings. I'm not fond of touting, but I did tout for that South African heiress; and when― true to her promise― Eve rang up at 9.30 next evening, I was able to say "Townshend has been out of town, but he's bringing Miss Dalziel to-morrow night after the theatre. He says she does always wear the 'Dazzle diamond.' "

"Very well," Eve replied. "I'll be with you at eleven, and bring a guest."

So that was that. And Jim and I were able to tell everyone who asked about her, that Miss Tynan had 'phoned she was coming back to-morrow night. That would ensure us a big crowd. We didn't mention that she was bringing a guest. It seemed a fact of small importance. We could trust her, we thought, to introduce only suitable people. She had already brought in several guests― charming women, whom she had got to know at Aunt Constance's house.

What was our surprise, therefore, when Eve sailed in with a man― a man whose looks gave our hearts a jolt― Jim's and mine.

Not that the said looks were repulsive! On the contrary! Which was the cause of the jolt. The fellow was almost as handsome a human being in his way as Eve was in hers. In fact, they were a gorgeous pair, and Jim and I felt as if we had large, cold, boiled beets under our left breast pockets.

Miss Tynan introduced this big, black-haired, blue-eyed creature as Mr. John Wensleydale. What did the name remind me of, I wondered. What, I mean, besides Yorkshire scenery and cream cheeses? Vaguely in the back of my brain hovered some sensational memory.

Men who generally turned up late at the club were early that night, in order to secure dances with Eve; but Jim and I, being, in a way, her hosts, were on the inside track. We thought we might have our choice of dances. We were disappointed there, however. She had promised several to Wensleydale. He wouldn't let himself be introduced to other girls, until Miss Dalziel appeared. Then, by the flash in his eyes, one would have said that instantly he forgot Eve for her.

This pleased us (for we had begun to worry), but at the same time roused our indignation. That a man should look in that way at a Gina Dalziel when an Eve Tynan was in the room showed that he was "on the make." Neither Tremayne nor I bad met Miss Dalziel, nor did we particularly pine for the honour of knowing her, but we got ourselves introduced, to please Eve. She, it seemed, didn't want to meet the owner of the Dazzle Diamond. She merely wished to gaze from afar and satisfy her curiosity. But she did want an introduction for Wensleydale!

"After all, Eve can't be in love with the chap," I told myself, "or she wouldn't actually throw him at that Money Bag's head!"

The Money Bag in question was a plump, dark girl, with fine eyes, who might have been handsome if her pose hadn't been too long and her neck too short. She was like a full-blown poppy in her dress of scarlet tulle, and she would positively have blazed even without the diamond. With it, she scintillated!

Most women would have worn a thing like that as a pendant, displayed against a white breast. But Miss Dalziel was bent on being original. She had the "Dazzle" slung on her forehead, which it practically covered, for the forehead was low, and the diamond in its setting was the size of a silver five-shilling piece. It was like plastering a star between the eyes, a star that sent forth rainbow rays in all directions and blinded jealous glances.

My first dance with Eve came just at the time that Wensleydale was having his first with Miss Dalziel, and I hurried to do what I was afraid someone else― Jim among others― would do before me if I let my chance slide. I told Eve that I'd been in love with her since the first night she came to the club, and that my misery during her absence had been beyond words. "Do say you'll marry me!" I begged.

"Oh, I'm sorry! I can't," she breathed.

"But if you're sorry you can't, you can," I urged.

"No― no. You mustn't ask me."

"Is it someone else?" I couldn't help persisting. "Jim Tremayne, perhaps."

She shook her head, as we danced.

"I know he's proposed, because he's had a dance with you."

"If he did, I― I've forgotten."

"As you'll forget me."

"I won't forget either of you," said Eve, In her softest voice. "You've both been splendid to me. I― I'd be proud to marry either one of you. I'll remember you all my life."

"Did you say this to Jim?"

"Much the same."

"Why don't you toss up for us, then?"

Eve laughed, but quite faintly. She seemed to be in a grave and rather wistful mood. "I couldn't possibly marry one of you. Soon― very soon― you'll understand why you two, though almost the nicest men in the world, are the last two in it I could dare to think of."

"You're very mysterious," I reproached her.

"I always was. You accepted me on face value."

"Oh, Eve," I groaned. "I know I've no right to ask, but are you engaged to this Wensleydale?"

"No-o," she said, with an odd note of hesitation.

"But will you be?"

"Oh, anything can happen in this world," she exclaimed, beginning to show impatience― which I deserved. "If I do get engaged to Jack Wensleydale, I'll write and tell you."

"Why not by word of mouth? Wouldn't you have courage?"

"I'll write," she repeated.

And at that instant our dance― everyone's dance― was violently interrupted by something― somewhere― that sounded like an explosion.

"Fire!" yelled a man's voice. And then like a shot the lights in the dancing room went out. There was a smell of smoke. The music had stopped. One or two women screamed. There was a crash of breaking glass.

My first thought was for Eve― to see that she didn't fall or get caught in a stampede, But she wrenched herself from my arms almost with violence. "I'm not afraid― don't worry about me. Go and get a door open, so we shall have light!" she gave me orders in a firm voice.

"All right. Stay where you are― close against the wall," I said, and went groping for the nearest door. Other forms were groping too, and we collided, with disastrous consequences. In a moment, however (it couldn't have been more) my fingers found a door knob. I turned it. and opened the door, only to come upon blackness beyond. Evidently the electricity had failed all over the house; but it was good to see no flames, and the smoke was no thicker than before.

I called the names of two or three men servants― shouted again and again― "Bring candles!" And there had been no more than time for a few stumblers to follow me into the dark supper room, where they brought tables smashing down, when a couple of footmen appeared like ghosts, with candles in tall silver sticks. They had 'phoned the nearest fire station, and before we'd found the cause of the smoke and failure of light, an engine had come tearing up. Then it was promptly discovered that there was no fire! And the electricity hadn't failed. It had simply been switched off in the dancing room and adjoining supper room. It needed only to be turned on again.

"You've been spoofed, sir," said the fireman who seemed to boss the show. "Someone's played a practical joke on you. Detonating powder in a paper bag! Or have any ladies lost their jewels? And is anybody missing who ought to be here?"

"My diamond!" shrieked Miss Dalziel. "It's gone― it's gone! It's stolen!"

Also there was somebody missing; three somebodies; Eve Tynan, John Wensleydale, and a singularly intelligent footman, who had been engaged about a week before.

Still, there wasn't much in that, it would s seem. A good many people were eager to go ) as soon as they could. But on consultation it was decided that the police must be sent for, and everyone volunteered to be searched for the Dazzle Diamond. Needless to say, it wasn't found. It never has been found. Nor were Eve Tynan, John Wensleydale, and the intelligent footman ever seen again by us, or by anyone else in London; though I must admit they were looked for by the police and an expensive private detective engaged by Miss Dalziel.

EIGHT WEEKS after that night― the climax of the "Dazzle plot"― a letter came from Eve. She had addressed it to both of us― Jim and me― and began:

My two dear Friends.

Now you know,  (she went on)  why you were the two last men I could think of marrying. I deceived you. But you will forgive me when I explain― if you haven't already. Jack and I didn't 'steal' that diamond. It was rightfully ours. My father and Jack's put all their money and much killing hard work into a diamond mine in South Africa. They had no great success, but they'd reason to suspect that the Kaffirs were selling stones to a man named Jake Dalziel. They could prove nothing, even when he went back to England and swaggered about with the so-called 'Dazzle Diamond,' which father and John Wensleydale Senior were sure came from their mine.

Then one of the Kaffirs was nearly killed in a native row, and before he died confessed selling an immense stone to Dalziel. He could not sign his statement, however, and Dalziel simply defied Wensleydale, who followed him to England and claimed the diamond as his property and his partner's.

Jack was a boy of seventeen at school in Johannesburg, and I was only ten. You two were boys of Jack's age; but perhaps you remember the Wensleydale-Dalziel shooting affair. Jack's father tried to shoot Dalziel, and Dalziel shot him dead instead; self-defence!

My father was a delicate man. He'd gone to South Africa for his health, after my mother died, and had taken me with him. The tragedy of his friend and the loss of the great diamond that would have meant fortune broke his heart. Child as I was, I understood everything, and I vowed that some day I'd get the diamond back. I was quite alone in the world when father went, and there was very little money. But an actress who was in Johannesburg Just then put me on the stage as a child actress. Jack left school, and went to work in various ways. We met some times― drawn together by our common fate― and we wove a hundred plans how to get the diamond. We saved up our money and made a joint fund. Jack took lessons from an expert retired thief. But years passed before we were old enough, or rich enough, to go to England and set about our mission in a practical way. Meanwhile, Dalziel had died and left the diamond to his daughter.

No sooner were we in England than the war broke out. Of course, Jack enlisted! I went over to France and nursed in a French hospital, where they take you without training. You know what happened next!

We had only one accomplice, brought in at the last: a pal who'd been in Jack's regiment. He made a nice footman! I promised I'd be engaged to Jack from the moment he got the diamond; but he hadn't got it when you asked me; so I didn't tell a fib.

Thank you both for all you did for me, consciously and unconsciously. Do you regret it? I don't believe you do! I shall think of you often in our South American home, where there's no extradition for (alleged) theft, and we shall be rich on the proceeds from three diamonds which once were one.

Yours gratefully,

Eve Wensleydale.

Do we regret what we did for her? No! We still remain dazzled. We always shall.

___________________

7: The Torpedo

M Mcdonnell Bodkin

World's News (Sydney) 13 October 1923

A Paul Beck case

ON SUNDAY night, a fatal collision took place between a two-seater motor and a motor bicycle close to the small town of Strangely, on the southern coast, about seventy miles outside London. Mr. Andrew Cardwell, the well-known millionaire, who was the sole occupant of the motor, was killed on the spot, and his nephew Mr. Henry Standford, rider of the motor bicycle, was found insensible by the road side, and now lies in a precarious condition.

Ten minutes after the evening paper containing this curt paragraph was on the street, the well-known detective. Mr. Beck, was called up on the telephone.

"Hello! That Beck? Stanley and Weldon's office. Lincoln's Inn Fields; Weldon speaking. Can you come round? Yes, at once. Thanks."

When the detective got round as quickly as a taxi could take him, he found his old friend, George Weldon, alone in his private office, looking very perplexed and, if it is fair to say so of an astute elderly solicitor, a little ashamed of himself. But his welcome was cordial.

"Good of you to come on such snort notice," he said, as they shook hands and dropped into two easy chairs. "Have you seen this?"

"This" was the newspaper.

"Read it five minutes before you rang up."

"Did you know' him at all."

"Just met him once or twice."

"He was a client and old friend of mine, not always the same thing, and I sot a bit of a shock when I read of his death. Seems a common-place accident enough."

The detective nodded, a non-committal nod. "Any reason to think the contrary?"

"Well, no," Mr. Weldon said, hesitatingly, and looked more embarrassed than ever. "I'm afraid you'll think I'm starting you on a fool's errand. I have literally nothing to go on, but the impulse to send for you was too strong to be resisted. You've known me for a long time; do you consider me a superstitious jackass?"

"You are about the most level-headed man of my acquaintance."

"It's a comfort to hear you say that, anyway. but I'd better out with the whole story. On Sunday I had a wire from Cardwell, making an appointment to meet me sharp at half-past two at my office on the following day. Well, I was ready for him. of course. Punctuality was a perfect craze with Cardwell, and I was a bit surprised when half past two came and he didn't turn up. then suddenly— don't laugh at me, I'm in dead earnest— I had a feeling that he had kept his appointment, that he was there in the room with me. though I could not see him, and that he was trying to say something. At last he seemed to get it through from his brain to mine. 'Send for Beck,' and then he was gone, and I was alone in the room.

"It was the queerest thing ever happened to me. I'm not imaginative or superstitious, as you know but I felt as sure that Cardwell had been there and put that Into my brain as if I had seen and heard him. Five minutes later I got the evening paper, and saw that the poor chap was dead. Then the feeling was stronger than ever that he had ordered me to send for you. It was an asinine thing, of course, but I couldn't help myself, so I rang you up."

The detective listened imperturbably. making no comment on this weird story of ghost and solicitor. After a moment he asked: "Have you any notion what the business was he wanted to see you about?"

"Well, that's a pretty long story. About a month ago, Cardwell got me, In fact, forced me, to make a will disinheriting his only son, and leaving all he died possessed of to that same nephew who was the involuntary cause of his death. It happened this way. His only son, Randal Cardwell, married in open defiance of his father's wishes— married the old man's discharged typist. It seems that the father had found out they were pulling a cord, and dismissed the girl. There was a violent scene, and next day the son married her. Then I was instructed to leave everything to the nephew. You must have heard of him. Henry Standford."

"Of course. Stroke for Cambridge, international footballer, and V.C. Got it. if I remember right, for rooting out a nest of German wasps. A nephew to be proud of. I'm glad you sent for me," said Beck; "the thing may be worth looking into. Can you tell me where the son lives; I should like to have a word with him."

The only son of the deceased millionaire lived with his bride in two rooms in a humble lodging-house in Gower Street— a good-looking, well-built, young fellow, whose chin and resolute lips seemed to give the lie to gentle brown eyes. His answers to the detective's questions were curt, almost defiant.

"There is toothing to inquire about," he insisted. "an unhappy accident, doubly unhappy for me. under the circumstances, but I can't see that it is any concern of outsiders."

He was taking a formal and somewhat strained leave of his unwelcome visitor when the bride came unexpectedly, bright as a beam of sunshine, into the dingy lodging house parlour, and the detective was no longer in the least surprised that young Cardwell had defied his father to marry her.

"We were talking of poor father, Laura," the husband said. "This gentleman has called to male some official inquiries as to the manner of his death."

"I suppose he heard of the quarrel," the wife answered, "but I am sure your father would have forgiven us if he had lived. I wish I had seen him at Breesely, Randal."

"I had lost my temper with my father," the son explained, after a pause. "It was our first quarrel. We had always been great pals. But I was riled the way he spoke of Laura, and used violent language, threats I never meant, and I wanted to say how sorry I was. so I went down to Breesely last Saturday, and I hung about the place all Sunday, but I couldn't bring myself to speak to him, it looked too mean, as if I wanted him to change his will. But what's the good of going back on all that now?" he added impatiently. "He's dead, and there's no more to be said or done. His death was clearly an accident."

The detective took the hint and his leave. "Sorry to worry you," he said good-humouredly. "Try and forgive me."

It was the wife that answered with a pleasant smile. "There's nothing to forgive."

An hour later. Beck was in the train for Breesely. He had got some hints from that brief interview. A probability suggested itself; but he never rested on probabilities. To him they were only the bypaths that led to the clear road of certainty.

It was late when he arrived at Breesely; a holiday seaside resort, with a famous golf links hard by, and he put up at the Golden Crown, the. chief hotel in the town, where Andrew Cardwell had stayed for nearly a month up to that fatal Sunday.

Early nest morning. Beck interviewed the bead waiter and chief ostler, both eager to tell what they Knew, and made loquacious by extra tips.

"Early on Sunday," the waiter told him, "Mr. Cardwell had been visited by his nephew, who came across on his motor bicycle from the small town of Strangely, about twenty miles away. As fine a young man as I ever laid eyes on," the waiter said, "and it was a blessing he wasn't killed in the crash. Him and his uncle were on the best of terms, lunching together in Mr. Cardwell's private room. I couldn't help hearing some of the things they said to one another. There was some words from Mr. Cardwell I didn't altogether catch; he spoke it in a kind of whisper, but the nephew answered loud enough for the town to hear. 'You know that's what I always advised you,' he said 'from first to last.' The old man said something then. 'You're a good sort, Henry,' or words like that; then they drank each other's health in champagne, in the best of good humour. It was after that Mr. Cardwell said he was off to London at once, as he had an important appointment. It was arranged that the nephew should take over his room, and he started soon after lunch to fetch his traps from Strangely, which is a dull little place at the best of times. But Mr. Cardwell did not get away for London till after dark, and the reason for that I could not tell you if you paid me."

But the chief ostler, Jim Maloney. who had charge of the motors in the yard, could tell, and did. When Mr. Cardwell was ready to start in his two-seater, which he drove himself, it was found that all four tyres had been punctured, stabbed, as it seemed on closer examination, with the blade of a large pocket knife. The time spent in repairs had delayed the journey until after nightfall, but Mr. Cardwell insisted on starting; he must be in London next day at any cost.

From the Golden Crown, Beck drove about seventeen miles to the scene of the collision. About a mile or so from the spot, he dropped in at the house of the yeoman farmer, John Somers, by whom the body had been found.

He took to the man at first sight. His upright figure, pleasant, sunburned face, and frank grey eyes proclaimed him intelligent and honest, especially honest, a man to be relied on.

"You might tell me all about it your own way," Beck suggested, as they sat at luncheon. "Questions can come afterwards."

"I was after the partridges that morning," Somers began. "You don't know the place? Well, the road runs on a long decline, very steep in parts. There is a drop of twenty or twenty-five feet on either side, and a thin scrabble of hawthorn is the only fence. I was walking along the headland at the foot of the embankment, when all of a sudden I came on a motor-car in a hopeless smash. A good ten yards off the man was lying dead. He must have been thrown clear out when the car went over, anyhow there wasn't a kick in him."

"Anything else?"

"Nothing; well, you couldn't call it anything. I caught a glint of the sun in the stubble, and I found a small medicine bottle empty. Couldn't say if it had been there before: don't know what became of it."

"You didn't read the label?"

"Well, I did. but I can't remember it." He sat silent for a moment, struggling with his memory, eager to furnish clues. "No go! I was a pretty long word. I think it began with a "C" and there was "Poison" under it. That's all."

"That will do. What next?"

"At first I had no notion of a collision f just thought the motor had tipped over the embankment, when I noticed, a few yards off, a smashed motor-bike, though not so smashed as the car. Then, of course I knew there must have been a collision; the same man could not drive a car and ride a bicycle; so I climbed up on the road. It was all torn up where they crashed, and the good-for-nothing hedge broken in two places where the bike and the motor had gone through. On the further side of the road a big man was lying; just at the end of the embankment, half through the hedge; a good push would have sent him through to his death."

"Mr. Standford ?"

"The very man. At first shot I thought he was stone dead. On closer examination, I found his heart beating, but I tried in vain to rouse him; shook him, and all that kind of thing; forced a few drops of brandy between his teeth— there was a drain left in my flask— but it was no use. he lay like a corpse, limp and pale. So, after waiting a bit in the hope that someone would pass by— it's a dreadfully lonely bit of a road— I went off as fast as I could to Strangely for a doctor."

"Had Mr. Standford a handkerchief in his hand when you first found him?"

Amazement showed in the farmer's face. "Well then, he had, but how did you come to think of that?"

"Did you happen to smell it?"

"I smelt nothing but the stink of petrol; his clothes were drenched with it."

"Of course they would be," commented the detective. "Foolish question that of mine. Now, would you mind driving across with me to the scene of the accident?"

They had finished their lunch, and were smoking two excellent cigars produced by Beck; the farmer jumped to his feet with alacrity. "I will be delighted." he said. "By the way. there was one other thing I forgot to mention; there was a side-car lying close to the cycle, and a big portmanteau full of books and things, as heavy as a heavy man, and heavier."

"And there was one question I forgot to ask. Were the lamps of the car broken?"

"One was, and, for a wonder, one wasn't. It was wrenched off. in the hedge, and later on, when the constable came to examine it, he found there was no electric bulb."

The farmer drove Beck to the scene of the collision. As they walked up the hill together, more than once the detective stopped to take the level of the incline. Just below, where the collision took place, and the insensible cycle rider was found, the rise was sharpest, for about eighty yards it ran at an angle of twenty-five degrees; an unbraked motor would have come down it like an avalanche.

There was but one inn at Strangely, and Henry Standford was lying in its best bedroom, not yet recovered from his terrible experience. Young Dr. Nesbitt was excited and puzzled about the case, and not unwilling to gossip with the detective over a brandy and soda.

"The young fellow must have had a terrible shock," he said. "He was wholly unconscious when we first found him, and for some time after we got him here. No, there were no serious external injuries, some slight bruises and abrasions, that's all, but I fear internal complications; the patient complains of some deep-seated pain in the region of the spine."

The inquest was formal, and Standford was the chief witness. He told of the arrangement made to change his quarters. Some engine trouble had delayed him for a time after he had left Strangely, and it was dark when he came to the long incline. He put his machine on top speed to rush the slope, and heard nothing and saw nothing till the crash. When he came to himself, he was lying on the bed at Strangely, with the doctor at the bedside, holding his hand. His uncle's was a silent car; he was quite sure there were no lights. No, he was not a reckless rider; he had been riding the same machine for some years, and never had an accident before.

John Somers told the story he had told the detective. He dwelt on the finding of the lamp without a bulb, proving that it could not have been lighted at the time of the accident.

A verdict was found of misadventure, exonerating Standford from all blame

Next day Beck loitered about the village, and saw the portmanteau of books described by Mr. Somers, which he weighed, and found a few pounds over his own weight. He also saw the shattered remains of the motor-bicycle  and wired to London to have one of the same make and date sent down to him as soon as possible.

Meanwhile, the patient continued to Improve and on the fourth day, the doctor thought the detective might see him.

"He is a bit curious about you," the doctor confided; "doesn't understand exactly what you are investigating."

Henry Standford was in his sitting-room, looking the picture of health when Beck came in. A big, handsome man, six feet two in his stockings, and built in proportion, fifteen stone weight at least, with honest blue eyes, that looked you full in the face. His reception of Beck was cordial.

"Sit down, old man," he said, "and join me in a drink; those cigars there are not half bad. Honestly, I am puzzled about this investigation of yours; don't see where the detective can come in."

The other laughed. "Mr. Weldon employed me and told me to name my own fee; I mean to earn it if I can."

"Of course, of course," Standford commented hastily, stifling a smile; "between ourselves. Mr. Weldon is a bit of a fuz-buz, but that's no affair of yours or mine. If I can help in any way in making up your report, command me. Rather interesting to see a first-class detective at work, even though nothing can come of it."

"Did you see the son hanging round the Golden Crown when you visited your uncle at Breesely?"

Standford stared and gasped, as if some new idea had struck him.

"Why do you ask that?" he blurted out.

"Never mind; you have answered my question."

"But see here, old man," Standford cried, "you are barking up the wrong tree, 'pon my soul you are. Take my word for it, Randal was not the man to murder his own father. Counting me out altogether, the thing is incredible. Look here," he added, lowering his voice, "drop this —— investigation here and now. Wire to Weldon it's all off. I'm good for the fee."

"Can't be done. I never leave a job half finished. If your cousin is innocent, my investigation cannot hurt him— if not―"

"All right, have it you own way; is it indiscreet to ask you what you purpose doing?"

"Not in the least. You have heard how detectives try to reconstruct a crime?"

"Rather; but this is not a crime."

"An accident, if you like. Well, that's what I am going to do. I have got a motor bicycle the facsimile of yours. To-morrow I am going to ride it over―"

"But what good―" Standford began and checked himself. "Would you mind if I went with you? I'd like to see how the thing is done."

"I'd be delighted. I fancy you can help me very much. Will you be ready to start to-morrow after lunch. It's a daylight trip this time."

Beck road the cycle, and Standford sat in the side-car. It was a dim, misty morning, the road was faintly outlined, the hedgerows on either side murky shadows; they could not see fifty yards in front of them. He stopped short at the foot of the long incline.

"What next?" Standford asked. He seemed a bit bewildered at the apparent futility of the whole proceeding.

"I'll just ran her up to the top of the hill." Beck said. "You sit still."

Without a word more, he rushed the hill at full speed. At first the heavily loaded bicycle went rapidly up the gentle incline, then, as the ascent grew steeper and steeper, it gradually slackened its pace to a crawl, and finally stopped short fifty yards from the scene of the collision and began to slip slowly down the slope. Beck jumped to the road and clapped on the brakes. .

"Can't get any further," he said. "Let us rest here a bit," and turned across the road to the hawthorn hedge. Then, with a quick movement, Beck drew Standford's hands together and snapped the handcuffs on his wrists.

There was no struggle. The winner of the Victoria Cross collapsed. His was the courage that blazes fiercely in the lust of slaughter, that needs excitement to sustain it. For a moment or two he lay huddled up in the car; then, with an effort to speak steadily, he said:—

"Perhaps you would be good enough to tell me the meaning of this outrage."

"It means," retorted Beck, "that, in an hour's time, two constables will be here with a car to take you back to London, on a charge of murdering your uncle, and I rather think there is evidence enough to hang you. Would you like me to tell you what I know? You can correct me if I go wrong."

"Go on," muttered Standford sullenly, "I'll tell you If you are right."

So Beck went on.

"The day before the murder you went over to Breesely by the request of your uncle. He told you he had resolved to forgive his son, and destroy the will he bad made in your favour. You hid your rage at the news and pretended to be glad of it. while all the time you were planning to murder the old man before he could get back to London. For that purpose you dwelt on the discomfort of Strangely, and extracted an invitation that you should take over his quarters at Breesely for the rest of his term. Before starting, you slashed the tyres of his motor car, that he might not be able to start until nightfall. Then followed the collision. Your uncle died, and the will survived. It was devilishly ingenious.

"When you came out from Strangely that evening you waited at the foot of the hill till the lights of your uncle's motor showed over the ridge. As his car came down you launched the riderless motor bicycle, and the two crashed down the embankment. Then you chose a likely spot, soused your handkerchief in chloroform, and waited for your rescuers; it was ingenious to soak yourself in petrol to get rid of the smell, pity you could not get rid of the handkerchief. I found the hint useful. I gambled on the belief that the motor and loaded side-car could not climb the slope. When I proved that I proved your story of the collision was a lie."

Standford listened in blank amazement, his eyes riveted on the detective, who quietly disclosed the details of his crime.

"Do you want a confession?" he asked, shortly.

"Just as you like," said Beck, "but it is fair to warn you it won't save your neck."

"If you have pen and paper, and draw It up. then I'll see about signing."

Beck took a slim notebook from his pocket, and wrote for a few minutes.

"Mind," he added, "as I said before, you needn't sign unless you choose. If you do sign, it will hang you to a certainty."

"Perhaps not. If I sign it, I put myself entirely in your power. That so?"

"In the power of the law."

"No, in yours. We two alone know or guess anything about this. The old man left over a million: half is yours if you hold your tongue. The signed confession is your security for payment. Is that good enough?"

Beck did not answer for a moment, just looked at him with utter contempt, and the eager hope died out of his eyes.

"Sign or not, as you choose. I'll bring you to the halter if I can, for your cousin's sake."

A moment's sullen silence, and Standford said: "All right, take off the handcuffs, and I'll sign."

Beck steadied the notebook on the saddle of the motor, unlocked the handcuffs, and gave him the fountain pen. He signed at the foot of the page. but as Beck took back the book, Standford suddenly pushed the car out on the road, released the brakes, and went down the steep incline with a rush, gathering speed as he went. For a second. Beck took steady aim at the broad back, then he dropped the muzzle.

"No," he muttered, "not by my hand, poor devil; he is sure to be caught and hanged."

But Beck was wrong. Two days later, the following paragraph appeared in the London newspapers:—

GHASTLY COINCIDENCE

Yesterday, Mr. Henry Standford who, as our readers will remember, escaped by a miracle in a recent motor smash, in which his uncle, Mr. Andrew Cardwell, met his death, was himself killed by a somewhat similar accident in the same locality. Some men were engaged in removing a tree that had fallen across the road, when they saw a man come round a corner on a motor-cycle, driven at a furious rate. They shouted, but the reckless driver appeared neither to see nor hear. The men had barely time to scramble from the road, when the cycle crashed into the tree. The unfortunate rider was thrown half a dozen yards by the shock, and lay on the road with a broken neck, stone dead. His identity was subsequently ascertained. An inquest will be held in due course.

IT WAS HARDLY a week later that the detective called by invitation at the town house of the late Mr. Andrew Cardwell. This time he was shown into a spacious drawing-room, and had a hearty welcome from husband and wife.

"We wanted to thank you." the wife said, as they shook hands; "but for you, we would never have known he had forgiven us."

"I had my first hint of it from you," he replied. "I hope that everything has been satisfactorily arranged."

"Perfectly," young Cardwell replied. "Mr. Weldon showed us the confession, and told us the wonderful way you had come by it. He then burned it. No use disgracing the wretch after he was dead. He also burned the will. We know that my father would have destroyed it if he had not been murdered. As sole heir and next of kin, all his property comes to me. It is a comfort to know that he wished me to have it. My wife and I want to thank you from the bottom of our hearts. We both recognise that we owe this happiness to you."

Then the detective remembered how he had come into the case. "Not to me," he said. "To the spirit of your dead father."

____________________

8: Over-Ruled

M  Mcdonnell  Bodkin

Freeman's Journal (Sydney) 17 August 1922

A Paul Beck case; but this Paul Beck has beautiful brown eyes...

'WHAT BEAUTIFUL brown eyes,' exclaimed May Mornington. She and her mother were having afternoon tea with her remote cousin, Jack Everdale, young, rich and good-looking, who had just taken over Newberry, a handsome Gregorian house in the neighbourhood of the picturesque little town of Baltray, overlooking the famous golf links. The beautiful brown eyes belonged to a silky retriever who gently and graciously accepted scraps of plum cake from I the white hands of May.

'Give him a penny,' suggested Jack.

'What for?'

'He'll show you.'

She fished a penny put with difficulty from the meshes of a gold purse. The dog took it from her, gently and gracefully as he had accepted the plum cake, proceeded (that's the only word to describe, the dignity of his progress), across the carpet to a corner of the room where stood an occasional table, then, gently rearing himself on his hind legs he dropped the penny through the slit of a small flat money box.

May laughed aloud, a delightful, delighted laugh of surprise and admiration.

'Oh, the cute creature,' she cried;  'but why does he do that?'

'For his own wise reasons,' her cousin replied soberly. 'Paul has his own wise reasons for everything he does. When the humour takes him he brings the box; in his mouth to me, the key in the lock, and I give him a penny and he goes into town and buys himself a cake: as you see he is partial to sweet things.'

'His name is Paul?'

'Paul Beck. I call him Paul Beck after a human detective because he is so good at finding things out. You can hide nothing from Paul.'

'He is as beautiful as he is clever. I wish I had his wonderful brown eyes and silky hair.'

'Blue eyes and golden hair are not to be despised,' observed her cousin irrelevantly.

Placid, white-haired Mrs. Mornington suppressed a smile. She liked Jack Everdale.

May changed the subject.

'Do you play golf?'

'I am ashamed to say I don't. I put it off too long with a silly contempt for the game.'

'More fool you,' retorted May, 'it is the best game going. I am not too bad at tennis and hockey, but they are simply not in it with golf.'

'I confess, I repent. I have done penance for despising golf, I am devoured by the zeal of the. convert. Within the last few days I have broken scores of clubs and ploughed up acres of land. My dear girl I'm a perfect fanatic. How do  the lines go?

'Golf is a mighty lord,

And hath so humbled me as I confess

There, is no woe to his correction.'

'Where did you find those lines?'

'In The Two Gentlemen of Verona. I played Valentine once in private theatricals.'

'Was golf the word used?' asked May with a sudden flash of those bright blue eyes to which her cousin had alluded. Mrs. Mornington was at the other end of the room admiring the flowers and cupids on a beautiful carved mantelpiece.

'No,' Jack softly replied, 'golf was not the word he used. I shall tell you the word?'

'Oh, I'm not in the least curious, let it be golf so far as I'm concerned. Shall we stroll down to the links?'

'I'll be delighted.'

Baltray boasted, like half a dozen other places, that it possessed the handsomest clubhouse and most sporting golf links in the kingdom. Jack and May on their arrival found pleasurable excitement prevailing in the spacious smoking and reading room of the club house. The president, Ralph Thornton, had just presented a splendid prize for a club competition to be held a fortnight from  date. The prize, a huge loving cup of old Irish silver with elbow handles, stood on the centre table, with a circle of admirers.

'Oh, isn't it lovely,' May exclaimed. 'Wouldn't it hold roses beautifully?'

'Or champagne cup,' suggested her cousin.

'Don't be profane, sir, it was made for roses. I wish whoever wins would give it to me; oh, good evening, Mr. Langan, who is going to win the cup?'

Nat Langan, slight and short, more like a girl than a man, with a turned-up nose and very bright eyes, nodded towards the far end of the room where a group were talking loudly.

'Guy Bonner,' he said. 'Worse luck, it's a dead cert for him.'

'But why worse luck?' asked Jack.

'My cousin, Mr. Everdale, he doesn't know Mr. Bonner,' May explained.

'If he did he wouldn't ask,' said Langan. 'Worse luck because the fellow is no sport, because he won't and can't play a fair game, cheats under cover of the rules, if you know What I mean. Yesterday he was playing with Willie Montgomery for a big bet, the bounder always likes something big on the game. Willie played the game of his life. At the eleventh hole he was dead in three and Bonner was on the edge in four; he knocked away his ball with his mashie. The ass Montgomery thought he was giving him the hole and picked up, then my bold Bonner played back, holed out in seven and claimed the hole. Coming to the eighteenth they were all flat. Willie was in the bunker guarding the green, and Bonner, having played the odd was hopelessly in the rough, to the right, you know the place, Miss Mornington. Bonner stood on the edge of the bunker fingering that big diamond ring he wears. The ring slipped from his fingers into the bunker and Montgomery picked it up and handed it to him; on that Bonner claimed the hole, touched something in the bunker, don't you know. There was no way out of it! By the rule Montgomery lost the hole and the match and had to pay up. Beastly unfair. The chaps are ragging Bonner about it, but he doesn't care a hang.'

The sound. of a strident voice came to their ears from the far end of the room. 'Say what you like, you chaps, there is nothing like the rigour of the game. All's fair in love and golf. Rules are rules and a man's free to do what he likes so long as he keeps between the rules. If a chap breaks the rules, he must pay the penalty. I never do.'

Someone said something they could not hear and Bonner retorted: 'Why not, if he's fool enough to let me. I play the game to win, I take every advantage I can and give nothing away. There are some fools think it mean, to pot your opponent's ball at billiards. I hate that silly talk about playing the game, play to win and work the rules for all you are worth, that's what I call playing the game. I'll take five to one in fivers I win that cup.'

There were no layers and Jack had a good look at Bonner as he walked past the door, a big, fleshy man; muscular withal, smooth shaven and high-coloured with pale blue eyes and sleek hay-coloured hair. May shivered with ostentatious disgust as he passed and puckered her lips into a rose-bud.

'The wretch,' she whispered. 'He is the one man in the world I detest. I would give anything to have him beaten.'

'What would you give,' Jack asked in the same tone— Nat Langan had departed.

'I said, anything.'

'Anything may mean everything or nothing— which?'

'Everything.'

'Alright, I'll have a try; mind, if I win I'll hold you to your word.'

'But you have only just begun, and he's scratch and as cute as a fox.'

'I shall have a stroke a hole, there is one chance in a million.'

'Oh, you are a sportsman,' she cried and rewarded him with one bright, warm glance of approval. 'I just love a—' the word sportsman was on the tip of her tongue, she blushed and stumbled. 'I just love a good game,' she added lamely.

'Well, you can't expect a good game from an out and out duffer. You'll have to give me some tips, Miss Mornington. Your handicap is in small figures?'

'Three.'

'Splendid, it's like asking the University professor to teach the A.C.C., but if you will condescend—'

'Oh, I'll condescend all right, but why not take lessons from the professional?'

'Well, you see, I'm the dark horse, or ass as the case may prove, and I must train privately. When can you give me my first lesson? After breakfast tomorrow I will take the car in for you at nine.'

'It's barely, three miles, I can walk quite easily.'

'And I can drive still more easily. I will be at your door nine sharp, so that's arranged.'

May, in a neat golfing costume, with a pale blue silk jumper that clung to her figure, was waiting in the hall of the pretty cottage by the river side when he drove up next morning, and was rewarded with a huge bunch or roses, white and red.

'Lovely,' she cried and buried her face in the fragrant cushion. 'If only I had the silver bowl to put them in. Perhaps if I were very nice to Mr. Bonner—'

'I should murder him,' interrupted Jack; 'you should have the guilt of blood, more or less innocent, on your soul. Put your trust in Providence and in your most humble servant. I shall win that bowl or perish in the attempt.'

Somebody has declared that under certain conditions a mixed lonesome, is the pleasantest form of golf— somebody was right. Jack Everdale, anyhow, was of that opinion. May coached him assiduously, morning and evening, for a fortnight with only Paul Beck as chaperon. Jack insisted that he was a dark horse and that Paul was a dog of discretion who could be trusted not to give away the secrets of the stable.

At the end of the fortnight, which came all too soon for his taste, Jack had decidedly improved. His cricket— he had been three years in the Oxford eleven— helped him to get a long, straight, wholly unorthodox shot, with his cleek, but his short approach and putting was erratic to the verge of lunacy.

The great day arrived, blue and bright as ever came out of heaven, and not merely the club, but the town was agog with excitement, and gaily dressed crowds trailed after the players. The competition match play ran continuously from Monday to Saturday, when the final was to be played. Guy Bonner had won all his matches with consummate ease, and Jack Everdale, more by good luck than by good management, had stumbled into the final.

Excitement reached its climax when the scratch player and the twenty-five handicap duffer, 'im par congressus Achilli,' came to the first tee for the final round match between Goliath and David.

The weather which had behaved well all the week surpassed itself on that eventful Saturday. The sky was cloudless, but a light breeze from the west mollified the heat. The scratch man, playing on the top of his form, took the first three holes right off the reel with strokes to spare at every hole. It looked like a walk over, eight up and ten to play. Then good luck came to help bad play and Jack fluked two holes in succession. After that it was a ding-dong game, each hole won by a putt. Coming to the seventeenth hole Bonner was one up, two to play. He tried an extra long shot with his brassy, got the bunker guarding the green two inches from the top, and Jack, who was doing great things with his cleek, won the hole. All flat!

Everyone who has ever played on the Baltray links remembers the eighteenth hole, a three stroke bogey, close on two hundred yards from tee to pin. No bunker guards the green, but two round hillocks stand sentinels at the opening, which is not half a dozen yards across. The excitement was intense. May Mornington's heart fluttered like a frightened bird. She could almost hear it beat.

The players themselves were the coolest of  the company. Jack Everdale took no sand, with unflurried fingers he set the ball lightly on the close green velvet of the teeing ground, measured the distance with his eyes and swung his cleek. Smack! The ball, softly topped, went long and hard, straight as the crow flies; straighter than ever crow flew, it sped through the centre of the narrow portal, rolled slowly along the green; and stopped at the very brink of the hole. A wild exultant shout went up from the crowd, for Jack was the popular favourite. The match seemed over and won; he had a stroke at the hole, Bonner must stroke out in one even, to half the match, and stroke holes don't come when they, are wanted.

But Bonner appeared wholly unperturbed. It was plain he didn't know he was beaten as he waited with expressionless face for the shout to die away, a confident smile, a rather malicious smile on his thick lips, he picked a driving iron from his bag and made his own tee very carefully, without troubling his caddie. He was long about the stroke, waggling deliberately while the crowd watched with amusement what seemed a wholly futile performance. Twice he paused, almost, in the act of swinging, to wave the spectators further from the tee. It happened Jack's caddie, his face beaming with triumph, was standing a  little behind him, and Bonner beckoned the boy into line. Then he swung, broke off in he middle of his swing, turned half round and, with a touch of his iron, lobbed the ball lightly against the legs of Jack's caddie.

'My hole and match,' he said to his dumbfounded opponent, dropped the club into the bag and walked off towards the clubhouse. For a moment the amazed crowd did not realise what had happened. Then it broke upon them— the Rule which provides that if your opponent's caddie or bag, is struck by your ball, you win the hole— and the inglorious victor was pursued with shouts of obliquity for the sanctuary of the clubhouse.

'Oh, Jack, I'm so disappointed! just as I had made sure you had won.'

They were by their two selves in a punt on one of the quiet, shady reaches of the river. Jack Everdale didn't look disappointed, perhaps he enjoyed being consoled.

'It was too mean for words,' she went on. 'I didn't think l could hate him worse than I did, but I do. Will Mr. Thornton give him the cup?'

'He can't help himself, little girl, rules are rules.'

'It was such a treasure of a bowl. I hate to think of his having it.'

'I remember you said you' would give 'anything, which meant everything,' for that bowl.''

'Do you think I'd take it from that cad if he offered it on his knees?'

'Not him, me!'

'But you've lost it.'

'I may get it again.'

'Do you mean steal it?'

'No, win it at golf according to the rules. I have talked the matter over with Paul Beck, and he is most encouraging. I told you he was the deuce at finding things out. I believe he has found a way to win that cup.'

'Don't talk nonsense, Jack.'

'Does the bargain still hold?'

'Just as you please. You have no chance.'

'Oh, I please very much indeed, mind, I shall keep you to your word.'

Then they talked nonsense, very pleasant nonsense, for a full hour before he rowed her home in the  dusk.

They no longer played golf together. Indeed May, in her indignation, threatened to break her clubs, but every morning for a week at an unearthly hour Jack, unknown to his cousin, was on the links in company with the faithful Paul Beck.

One afternoon at the end of the week, while he was having afternoon tea with his cousin in the clubhouse he saw Guy Bonner in the distance, and to May's surprise and indignation crossed the room to speak to him.'

'Good evening, Mr. Bonner,' he said, politely, but without offering his hand; 'I was anxious to have a word with you.'

Bonner grinned maliciously.

'As you like, old chap. About, that match of ours? I'm afraid it was a bit of a disappointment to you, a very close thing, you were quite near pulling it off.'

'I would like to have another match with you.'

'You have too long a handicap.'

'I mean level.'

For once Guy Bonner was surprised; he stared, his pale blue eyes opened wide. Twenty-five handicap play scratch level, the thing was absurd. The chap was making game of him.

'I don't play for the fun of the thing,' he said. 'I always want something on the game.'

'So do I.'

'Something worth while.'

'Agreed, I'll play you level, fifty guineas against, the bowl you won so handsomely.'

Bonner continued to stare, the man was plainly in earnest, fool or mad. The thing was a dead cert, of course, but he did not jump at it, he meant to make the most he could out of his chance. 'The bowl is worth more than fifty guineas.'

'I will stake a hundred against it,' retorted Jack without a moment's hesitation.

A group had gathered round the two men, listening in amazement. Nat Langan interposed:

'Don't he a fool, Everdale. You wouldn't have one chance, in a million.'

'Don't you butt in,' growled Bonner. 'It's no affair of yours. Everdale is old enough to know his own mind. 'Besides the bet is already made. You chaps are witnesses, he can't back out of it.'

'Quite so,' replied Jack. 'I'm much obliged to you, Langan, but as Mr. Bonner a justly says the bet is made and neither side can back out.'

'Strict rules,' stipulated Bonner, who was still puzzled to find an explanation of his opponent's lunacy.

'As strict as they make them,' retorted Jack. 'That is the one thing I must insist on.'

Bonner thought for a moment. The thing seemed too good to be true, he must leave no loophole.

'I should like a stake holder,' he said at last, 'if you don't mind; There's old Thornton, he don't like me, but he knows, the rules and he's as straight as a die. I vote we make him stake holder and umpire.'

'Agreed,' replied Jack, as sweetly as ever; 'I would have suggested it myself, but I was afraid I might hurt your feelings; it might look as if I didn't quite trust your honour. You hand the bowl over to Mr. Thornton, and I put a hundred and five pounds into it, the winner to take both. We start after lunch the day after to-morrow. A bargain?'

'A bargain,' Bonner answered, and Jack walked to where May waited impatiently.

'Are you mad?' she asked, when he told her the terms of the wager.

'I am but mad north, north-west when the wind is southerly. I know a hawk from a handsaw. Come and see me win the cup, May. Paul Beck assures me I can't lose, and I put my trust in Paul.'

Guy Bonner was first on the tee, he felt the hundred guineas was waiting for. him and was impatient to handle it. Five minutes later Jack strolled leisurely down from the club-house to the tee, swinging his long cleek, the faithful Paul Beck at his heels.

'Where's you caddie?' asked Bonner brusquely. His temper had been roughened by the long wait.

'I have no caddie,' Jack answered with a sweet smile. 'You see, caddies are sometimes awkward, get in the way of your opponent's drive.'

'Your bag then, you are not going to play the round with one club, I assume-'

'With one single, solitary, cleek, to play and to win.'

'I'll bet you another hundred you don't win,' exclaimed Bonner. Dealing with a madman, he was determined to profit to the utmost by his madness.

'I don't want to bet on a certainty,' replied Jack. 'I mean to beat the record of the links.'

'What do you hope to do the round in?'

'Eighteen,' was the astounding reply, delivered in a matter-of-fact tone of  voice. Clearly the man was mad, yet he appeared otherwise perfectly sane.

'Afraid to bet,' sneered Bonner provokingly.

'If you put it that way I can't refuse you,' replied Jack, sweetly as ever; 'but remember I. warned you. One hundred pounds I beat you, a hundred pounds I beat the record, and a hundred I do the round in eighteen?'

'Done!' cried Bonner impetuously. Then, after a pause, 'Ready money down.'

'My car is at the clubhouse, we can send in our cheques to the bank and lodge the notes with Mr. Thornton before we start.'

'Righto! I'm agreeable.'

The party adjourned to the clubhouse, the cheques were written and dispatched. Jack showed no outward and visible symptoms of madness, his air of quiet confidence utterly bewildered the company. Paul Beck at his side, his benevolent brown eyes fixed on his master, seemed to share his secret and his confidence, but there was no use questioning the discreet Paul.

'Won't you tell me, Jack,' whispered May, public attention being diverted for a moment by the arrival of the messenger with the notes, 'if you are not mad, what, does it all mean? I'm simply dying with curiosity.'

'In five minutes more, my dear girl,' he whispered back, 'you will know without telling. I don't want to spoil what I trust will be a pleasant surprise.'

Again they took their places on the tee. Before Bonner had his driver in his hand, Paul Beck, at an imperceptible sign from his master, scampered down the course, pulled up suddenly, and waited with ears cocked in the centre of a putting green, a hundred yards away.

'Call off your dog,' commanded Bonner. 'He puts me out.'

'Anything in the rules against dogs on the course, Mr. Thornton?' Jack asked sweetly.

'Not a word.'

'I might hit him,' growled Bonner.

'He'll see to that,' replied Jack; 'play away, Paul can take care of himself.'

Bonner drove a long, straight ball, clearing the bunker a hundred and fifty yards off, leaving himself an easy approach to the green.

'Good shot!' cried Jack politely.

With an easy half swing of his cleek he drove the ball a hundred or so yards down the course. Then a strange thing happened. Paul Beck, who had waited placidly while Bonner played, seemed galvanised into sudden motion; he darted at his master's ball, caught it on the hop, raced with it in his mouth down the course towards the green, took the bunker in a flying leap and dropped the ball into the hole. The mystery of the mad match and bets was out at last.

May, quivering with delight, threw Jack a look that was worth more to him than cup or coin. A great bellow of cheers and laughter went up from the spectators.

'My hole, I think,' said Jack very quietly when the tumult had subsided.

'Your hole,' replied Mr. Thornton with a grim smile, 'one up, seventeen to play.'

'It's a confounded trick,' Bonner broke out savagely.

'Rules are rules,' said Mr. Thornton, 'as, I think I have heard you remark more than once. There is nothing in the rules against the intervention of your opponent's dog, any more than hitting your opponent's caddie. It is called a rub of the green by which a player profits or suffers. Mr. Everdale has won the hole.'

Again the applause broke out.

'It's a trick,' spluttered Bonner. 'The match is off, I won't play any more.'

'Then Mr. Everdale wins the match, the cup and a hundred guineas. The other bets remain to be decided. Mr. Langan, you are a member of the committee, you will kindly mark Mr. Everdale's card. An eighteen hole record will be a unique distinction for the Baltray links.'

THAT EVENING, when Jack Everdale dined with Mrs. Mornington, a huge silver loving cup with elbow handles, full of roses red and white, stood in the centre of the table. After dinner Mrs. Mornington had letters to write— and was compelled to leave the young people alone. When they adjourned to the balcony overlooking the river which the moonlight splashed with silver, there was a long silence.

'I am glad you won,' said May at last, almost in a whisper.

'Have I won?' he asked, his arm stealing round her waist.

'Of course you have,' she answered innocently. 'It's a lovely bowl.'

'And the three hundred pounds will buy a very nice ring for somebody, with a trifle over for a silver collar for Paul.'

That's the end of the story.

____________________

9: Find the Forger

M Mcdonnell Bodkin

Saturday Journal (Adelaide) 17 November 1928

A Paul Beck case

"NO; it is impossible; it would be most unfair to you."

"Never mind about me. If you will marry me I will be the happiest man alive."

Stanley Merton, M.P, was the last man on earth one would have expected to find sitting on a secluded bench in St. James's Park with a goddess from the Frivolity Theatre, urging her to marry him. He was 35 years of age and had behind him a distinguished career in the House of Commons. Tall, good-looking, sober-minded, devoted to work, an only son who had inherited a big fortune from his father, he was a lonely man. There had been few woman in his life till he saw Lily Longsdale on the stage of the Frivolity Theatre. Love at first  eight is the queerest thing in a queer world, but there is, no good denying that it constantly happens. It may be some excuse for Merton that Lily Longsdale was bewitchingly pretty, slim, graceful, and above all, lady to her dainty linger tips.

He quickly secured a formal introduction to Lily, and they soon grew to be friends. They had walks together in the park and rows on the river, but this afternoon was the first time he had hinted a word of love.

"You don't know what you ask," she insisted, "or you would not ask. You don't even know who I am. I must tell you everything. I am not Lily Longsdale, but Lily Woodbrook. My father was heir in tail—I think, that's that they call it—to the late Lord Markham―"

"But―"

"Don't interrupt. Just listen. Some years ago, when I was quite young, my father was accused of forging Lord Markham's signature on a cheque for a thousand pounds and fled to America. What do you think of that?"

"You must tell me more. I assume your father was innocent."

"Of course he was, but every one believed him guilty. You must know that the late lord hated my father, who was his nephew, and hated the thought that he should succeed him. When he came into the property, Lard Markham at once stopped my father's allowance of a thousand pounds a year. We were awfully hard up.

"In less than a year afterwards my mother died, and there were only us two. Then the thing happened.

"My father was amazed and delighted to receive the nicest letter from his lordship, expressing, the deepest sympathy, asking him to let bygones be bygones and enclosing a cheque for a thousand pounds as the first instalment of an allowance. Father could scarcely believe his eyes, but letter and cheque were plainly in the handwriting of Lord Markham, so he took them off to the bank. They stopped the cheque at the bank. He showed the letter and they declared the letter was also a forgery.

"The next morning father had a letter from our cousin, Edgar Woodbrook, who was Lord Markham's secretary, telling him that Lord Markham was furious, that he had sent a full account to the newspapers and swore he would have my father prosecuted for forgery."

"Mr. Edgar Woodbrook is at present in possession of Woodbrook Hall and the estate," interposed Merton.

"That is so; but he had nothing to do with the horrible trick that was played on father. He was always most kind.

"In his letter he told my father that he fully believed in his innocence, and that it must all come right in the long run. But he advised him to leave the country until the storm should blow over and he sent him money for expenses. We started at once for Argentina, and we have been living there together until a few months ago under an assumed same. About a year ago Lord Markham died, and Mr. Woodbrook came in for everything under his will. My father was presumed to be dead as he had not been heard of for so long.

"We were very hard up. I got a small part in the revue I am now playing in, and when the company came across to London I came with it. I'm sure it was the wicked lord who forged his own cheque from hatred of father. That's the whole story." She looked at him defiantly. "Now you know why I can never marry you."

"Don't see it," he responded, "I want you more than ever."

"It would ruin your political career. Just think how well it would sound. Mr. Stanley Merton, M.P., has married the daughter of Roderick Woodbrook, the absconded forger; that's what they call father. I cannot tell you how sorry I am if it disappoints you. I know it was all my fault. I should never have gone out walking and rowing. But I was awfully lonely. I had not a friend in London, and you were so different from the other men I met. You were always so pleasant and kind without any fuss or nonsense, and I thought we could, go on being friends always. Now we must say good-bye."

"No; we mustn't, and we won't, unless you insist on it. If I cannot have you as my wife. I want to keep you still as a very dear friend."

"But—"

"I promise never to mention love or marriage to you, unless you give me leave. I have been intensely interested in the story of your father and yourself. Perhaps I may have the luck to be able to help you and him. Let us go on meeting just as before I made such an ass of myself."

"I should love to, if you are sure you don't mind."

"I am quite sure. Here's my hand on it."

The bargain was struck between them, and a meeting, arranged for the very next day.

The girl was first at the meeting place, a good half-hour before her time, and brimful of excitement.  She pounced impetuously on Merton the moment he arrived ten minutes before his time, and prepared for a patient wait.

"Something has happened," she exclaimed, as she drew him towards the secluded seat. "I don't know what to think or do, and I want your advice.

"I had a letter that morning from my father, written from a London address. He has crossed over without telling me, and he forbids me to go to him. He writes that he has discovered the forger, that he has dear proof, and that when we meet again he will be able to face the world in his rightful name, Lord Markham."

"Well, that's good news, I take it."

"Oh, you don't know father. He is as impetuous as a child and is ignorant of the world. He writes from obscure lodgings off Tottenham Court road, and I am frightfully afraid he will run into some scrape or danger, and yet I dare not disobey him about calling."

"Miss Woodbrook, I'm a duffer, but I have a friend who isn't. Paul Beck is the chap's name. He is as cute as a pet fox, though he looks more like a pet lamb. I want you to let me tell him the whole story. He's as close as a safe door, and he'll know the right thing to do. I'm dining with your cousin, Edgar, the day after to-morrow, at Woodbrook Hall. You wouldn't like him to be told?"

"I think not. Father is very shy of Mr. Woodbrook.  I think it is because he owes him so much money, but you may tell Mr. Beck if you like."

It was not till an hour or so before he set off for dinner at Woodbrook Hall that Merton got the chance to tell his story to Paul Beck, who listened, as was his wont, without a question to the end.

"Of course, I remember that forgery business and the row over it at the time, though I was a good deal younger than I am now, or I might have had a finger in the pie. It interested me very much, and I am glad to have my chance at last. I suppose Miss Woodbrook wants me to look after her father and find out what I can."

"Quite. She has the most implicit confidence in her father's innocence."

EDGAR WOODBROOK was an athlete, and a patron of the ring. About forty years of age, tall, dark, with a silky black beard, cut spade fashion, and a singularly genial manner, he was one of the most popular men in London and belonged to its most exclusive clubs. His hobby was the collection of jewels, and there had been three daring, but unsuccessful, attempts at burglaring at Woodbrook Hall, the last attempt only three days before Stanley Merton came to dine tête-à-tête with the owner.

"By the way, Merton," said his host as they parted for the night, "You are not afraid of burglars, I hope. I always sleep with a revolver under my pillow: You had better have one, too. You can short a bit, I hope."

"Just a little," replied Merton.

About one o'clock that night, Merton was wakened by a noise in the dressing. room, which opened from the corridor, and was glad of the revolver under his pillow.

Very quietly he stole from his bed and crept noiselessly to the tea of his sitting room, turned the handle, and looked in. The electric light was on, and crouched behind a tall chair was a small man, his elbows resting on the back of the chair, his eyes staring at the bedroom door, a revolver in his right hand levelled straight at Merton as be entered.

But Merton got his shot in first.

When the smoke cleared a hit he saw the small man in the same position, motionless, as before, revolver still pointing. But when, jumping across the room, he plucked the revolver from his hand, the figure collapsed in a heap on the floor. Turning it over gingerly, Merton found a bullet wound in the skull and the grey hair matted with blood. The man appeared to be stone dead. Merton tugged vigorously at the hell, and his  host, half dressed; was the first into the room.

"Got him?" he cried, as he saw the man stretched limp on the floor. "Lucky he didn't get you!"

"Egad!" he added, as he came closer, "He does not look like a burglar, but he must have been bent on some mischief."

"We will lock up the room and telephone Scotland Yard and a doctor."

Within an hour, a detective and doctor were at the door. Merton telephoned on his own account for Paul Beck, who arrived with the detective and surgeon; the coolest and most self-contained of the three.

Surgeon Sir John McArvell, famous in his profession, briefly examined the body and startled the company by the announcement that the man was not dead; the bullet had glanced from the skull, inflicting a nasty scalp wound and knocking him motionIess and senseless, but he was certainly not dead, nor, in Sir John's opinion, likely to die, if properly attended to,  though not likely to recover consciousness for some time.

The detective wanted the man carried off to the prison infirmary, but Merton prevailed on them to let him be sent to a nursing home attended by Sir John, and undertook to pay all expenses. He was strangely anxious for the recovery of his victim. Afterwards, he thought it must have been some sort of a presentiment.

The little man did not, as Lord Markham had said, look the least like a burglar. His white, thin face was almost aristocratic, and he was neatly, though cheaply, dressed, with no burglar's kit of any kind, except the revolver. But, searching, his pockets, they found Edgar Woodbrook's watch and chain and a set of valuable blue diamond shirt studs. The man, it appeared, had called to see Woodbrook that evening on some pretence, and forgot his umbrella, and when Woodbrook had sent the butler after him he had disappeared.

Beck's searching glances were all round the room. He picked up from the carpet something which had apparently rolled in behind the window curtain.

"What is that?" asked Woodbrook. Beck showed it in the palm of his hand.

"Looks, like a revolver bullet that has been torn out of its cartridge."

"Nothing to write home about, I should say," replied  Woodbrook. "You  chaps are always in quest of clues."  But look was less careless than his words.

Beck smiled as he slipped the bullet into his waistcoat pocket.

Next day he got a description of her father from Lily Woodbrook; and called at the shabby lodgings he had written his note from. As he expected, the man he wanted was not on the premises. But in his room, to which Beck was shown as an old friend, he found a leather pocket case which contained, the old letter that accompanied the forged cheque and the letter from Edgar Woodbrook, advising him to escape to America. These letters Beck slipped into his pocket, and promptly carried off for the advice of an expert. As he left the house, he had a curious feeling that he was watched and followed.

THAT afternoon at the club, he met Edgar Woodbrook, who made light of the attempted burglary.

"I'm rather glad," he said, "that Merton did not kill the little beggar, though I am afraid he was one of a gang."

"By-the-way, Beck," he added, "if you have nothing better to do you might dine with me to-night. I don't think you have ever seen my collection of gems. I hear you are a connoisseur in such things."

After the dinner the two men examined and admired the jewels as they finished a bottle of excellent port. His host himself conducted Beck to his bedroom.

"I have put you here in the back of the house, facing east," he said, "because there is a glorious sunrise view from the window. I always sleep on the same side, myself."

Beck did not go to bed at once. He sat quietly in an easy chair. Then he made his way to his host's room just over his own, and entered promptly at the words, "Come in."

"At what hour do we breakfast?" he asked. "I want to get back to town pretty early."

"At half-past eight. Is that early enough for you?"

"Oh, quite." His quick eyes had caught sight of a coil of knotted rope lying on the floor, as if Woodbrook had dropped it when he came in.

When he got back to his bedroom Beck examined his window, and was not surprised to find it unfastened. He fastened it, securing the catch so that it could not be opened on the outside. Then he turned off the light, threw himself into the armchair, and waited.

Two hours passed without sight or sound. By the time he should have been fast asleep in his bed, his watchful ears caught a faint scratching at the window. The sound grew less faint; he could distinguish the noise of feet on the window sill, of fingers on the window frame. Now and then, a sudden short gleam of light as from an electric torch shot through the window. Then suddenly came a wild shriek and a crash.

Beck jumped from his chair with the electric torch he always carried ready in his hand, and rushed from the room. The shriek and crash had roused the servants, who came crowding into the hail. Beck found them undoing the heavy bolts and chains, and the door swung open with a gush of cold air.

"This way," cried Beck, when they had gone out into the night, and led them round to the back to the house, his torch making a narrow lane of light through the darkness. Under the window, which was thirty feet from the ground, a man lay motionless, moaning feebly.

"Burglar," muttered one of the men.

"Your master," replied Beck, turning, the fight on the ghastly face of the fallen man. Edgar Woodbrook lay in a heap, his left hand was doubled under him, his right, outstretched, still gripped a revolver.

"Seems badly hurt," said Beck, "better carry him carefully to the house and send for a doctor."

BECK HAD a busy time that night and all the following day. It was not till late next evening that he could spare a moment to call on his friend, Stanley Merton, whom he found in the dumps.

"You have heard the news?" asked Beck cheerily.

"You mean that our supposed burglar is Lily Woodbrook's father?" growled Merton. "Oh, yes, I heard the news. This morning I called at the home to enquire about my unfortunate handiwork, and I was told that Miss Woodbrook had taken over the charge of her father, Lord Markham. Some busybody had been told the whole story, and the name of her father's would-be murderer. So I fled. Lily must hate the very thought of me. She will never forgive me, and I can't blame her for it."

"It was I sent Miss Woodbrook to look after her father," confessed Beck. "You have not tried to see her since?"

"I have gone nowhere, seen no one. I have sat all day plodding over some blue books. The wretched business has completely bowled me over. It is not so strange that Lily's father should call on Edgar Woodbrook, but what the deuce did he mean by hiding in the house and posing as a burglar?"

"He didn't," interposed Beck.

"Nonsense, man. I saw him as plainly as I see you, with the revolver pointed straight at me, just before I shot him."

"You didn't shoot him," replied Beck.

"I don't see any joke in the business," Merton snapped out, "it's deuced serious for me."

"I am not joking," Beck patiently explained, "when I repeat Lord Markham did not pose as a burglar and you did not shoot him. He was propped up there in an unconscious condition, with the revolver in his fist, and you fired a blank cartridge at him."

"But―" began Merton.

"You must hear the whole story. It struck me as a little curious that the body did not move when you fired. But when I picked up from under the curtain a revolver bullet that had been plucked out of a cartridge, I began to understand― Edgar Woodbrook had shot the man himself. All that about the umbrella was a fake. There was a body to dispose of. I have no doubt Woodbrook thought he was dealing with a corpse when he propped him up on the chair and I gave you the revolver with the blank cartridge to shoot him. A burglar surprised in the act— that would explain the dead body. Then I asked myself who was the man that our friend Edgar was so keen to be rid of, and who did not look in the least like a burglar. It was Lord Markham, Lily's father. I knew that he was in London, and I set off straight away to his lodgings. He wasn't there, of course; had not been home that night, but I found a pocketbook with letters― which proved I was right. There was the old letter, enclosing the forged cheque, and the, letter in which Edgar Woodbrook advised him to skip to America.

"I took the letters to the best handwriting expert in London, and he was quite clear that they were all written by the same hand, so the forger was found'.

"Lord Markham, I concluded, must have shown the letters to an American expert, that accounts for his letter to his daughter. He had been reckless enough to call upon the scoundrelly forger, and the rest followed in due course."

"Has Edgar Woodbrook been arrested?" demanded Merton eagerly.

"Yes. 'The grim sergeant, Death, was stern in his arrest,' " quoted Beck.  "Woodbrook broke his back last night in an abortive attempt to do me in. He saw me pick up the revolver bullet. He probably had me watched going to Lord Markham's lodgings. He guessed I was on to his games, so he kindly invited me to dinner, and came down by a knotted rope, revolver in hand, to the sill of my window, which had been left open. It would have been a case of a burglar shooting his honoured guest and making off with his belongings.

"But I unkindly secured the window catch, and in his impatience to get it open Woodbrook slipped and fell thirty feet and broke his back.

"Before he died he confessed everything— forgery and two attempted murders. I wrote out the confession, and he had just time to read it aloud and sign it in presence of witnesses. The doctor who witnessed the document deposed that he was quite clear in his mind and knew he was dying.

"Furthermore, Lord Markham has recovered consciousness, and has been taken to Woodbrook Hall.

"If you had not shut yourself out from the world you would have known the whole story hours ago. The evening papers are full of it, four columns at least, with scare headings. There has been a tremendous revulsion of feeling in favour of Lord Markham, and pity for himself and daughter. They are probably at this moment the most popular pair in London.

"Miss Markham knows that you saved her father's life. He would have certainly died without a doctor, if you had not broken into the dressing-room when you did. Might I suggest that you should call early next morning to enquire for the patient?"

ABOUT a year later the Right Hon. Stanley Merton was given a place in the Cabinet.

"So you see, my dear, that my marriage has not quite ruined my political career," he said to his young wife as he told her the good news that evening in the drawing room of Woodbrook Hall.

___________________

10: The Tower Ghost

E. Phillips Oppenheim

1866-1946

Blue Book Magazine, Apr 1907

I HAVE written the title of this, my true story, and my eyes have wandered for a moment to the mirror which hangs almost directly in front of me. Strange that I should find myself smiling when but a short while ago I had sat down to my task so full of seriousness and deliberation. Yet so it is. I am smiling, and I cannot help myself. Look with me into the mirror, and see whether you cannot also find cause for mirth in the incongruity between my appearance and the mighty subject of ghosts. What can a somewhat portly, good-humoured, and, my friends say, pleasant- looking woman, of little over forty years old, know about ghosts? There are no troubled lines in my face, no nerveless glitter in my eyes, or look of apprehension lurking about my countenance; I am altogether an unromantic looking personage, devoid of superstition, lacking in imaginative power, and possessed of a very fair supply of common-sense. And yet I alone amongst the living can tell the true story of the Ghost of Culbone Tower.

To do so I must go back to the days of my earliest childhood. I was born not many miles from Lynton, on the north coast of Devonshire, and I was an only child. Our home was a beautiful one— beautiful, indeed, seems a weak word. The house, perched on a narrow plateau of green turf, literally overhung the sea four hundred feet below, and above us a forest of pine trees stretched away precipitously to the head of the cliff. The only approach to it was by a steep winding path, dangerous after dark, and never safe for strangers, of whom, however, we saw none. The place is now a common resort of tourists; but in the days of my girlhood tourists were scarce; and if one did, by chance, present himself at the lodge gate, old Andrews knew better than to admit him. To have done so would have resulted in his instant dismissal.

From the sea our dwelling-place must have seemed perfectly inaccessible, owing to the steepness of the cliff above, and the sheer descent. Many a time have I seen yachts brought in as near to the rock-strewn coast as the pilot would allow, that their owners or passengers might level their glasses with wonderment at our strangely situated abode. But I fancy that what most excited their wonderment was the curious little tower built on the summit of a huge boulder of bracken-covered rock, which seemed ever threatening to fall upon us and crush our frail tenement like a house of cards. Who built it, and wherefore, no one can tell. There were legends about it, of course, which, at a later period, were raked up and eagerly discussed by a terror-stricken community. But any authentic record as to its builder or its intended purpose was wanting. There it stood, like a Rhenish tower— massive, picturesque, of quaint foreign architecture, and, at the time when I best remember it, an object of ceaseless dread and terror to every member of our little household. Between it and the house yawned a cleft-like chasm, into the bottom of which, at high tide, the sea came curling in. At one time, before my recollection, there had been a hand-bridge across; and my father would often go and smoke there, and even persuade such of his friends that were sure-footed and free from dizziness to accompany him. But that was many years before I reached girlhood, and I never thought of it, or heard it mentioned, save with bated breath and shuddering awe.

Well had it earned its evil reputation, for it had been the scene of the terrible tragedy which cast a deep gloom over my early life. My father had been one of three sons, who had lived with their widowed mother at a place called Munster Castle, on the borders of Exmoor, some ten miles inland. Of these three sons my father, Frank Catherall, had been the eldest. Next to him came Francis, and the name of the younger was Cecil. Like many other mothers, Mrs. Catherall leaned most to her youngest son, and failed altogether in concealing her preference. All three were strangely alike, in disposition—stern, and reserved, with hot, fierce tempers, but generous withal, and passionately devoted to their mother. My father married first, and came to live at Glencoombe, where I was born. My mother never got on very well with old Mrs. Catherall, but there was no actual unpleasantness, and I have faint recollections of some very early visits to Munster Castle. She, on her part, never returned these visits, but invariably excused herself on account of the peculiar situation of our house an excuse against which we could urge nothing, for certainly the descent to it was by no means a pleasant one for any one unaccustomed to the cliffs. Both my uncles were frequent visitors, however, and were welcomed warmly whenever they came. All three brothers seemed to be the closest of friends, and spent most of their time fishing, or shooting, or hunting together. They were popular in the neighbourhood, and were generally supposed to be as they appeared— on the best of terms.

ONE November afternoon— how well I remember it!— they had all three gone out shooting over Dunkery Beacon. I was sitting at the window, wondering how long it would be before they returned, when suddenly the door opened, and my father entered the room. Directly I saw him I knew that something terrible had happened. His face, usually ruddy and sunburnt, was ghastly pale; and he tottered rather than walked into the room.

I was curled up on the floor reading, but I sprang up at once and ran over to him. I cried out to know what had happened.

"Don't ask me," he answered in a fearfully hollow voice; "don't ask me." He took me in his arms and kissed me a great number of times; and when he put me down, he said "Good-bye."

I asked him where he was going, but, before he could answer, my mother, who had heard him in the hall, came down to know why he had returned so soon, and alone. He answered her never a word, but simply kissed her as he had been doing me, until she got frightened and began to cling to him and cry. Then he turned his head away with a great sob, and rushed out of the room without another word.

I tried to follow, but he had locked the door. I heard him talking for a few moments with Perkins outside, and then he hurried out of the house. My mother was ringing the bell violently; but though the servants came to the door at once, they could not get us out, for my father had taken the key with him in his pocket.

While they were trying some other keys, I remembered the side window, and running to it, jumped out upon the lawn. What I saw made me sink dumb and helpless to the ground. The cry which I tried to force out froze upon my lips, and my limbs refused their office. On the other side of the chasm, standing on a part of the smooth boulder where I had often heard him say that he would not trust himself for a thousand pounds, was my father, holding in his hand the little hand-bridge by which he had crossed, and which he seemed to have caught up, to prevent Perkins from following him. While I watched him he flung the frail piece of carpentry down into the chasm, and from side to side I heard it rumble and bump until, with a sickening crash, it reached the bottom, and struck against the jagged edge of a rock, when in half a dozen rapid strides my father reached the other side of the boulder; and it flashed upon me that he meant to cast himself into the sea. For a moment he straightened himself, and I saw his powerful, massive form standing out as it were against the sky, when throwing his arms over his head with a wild, despairing gesture, he crouched down for the spring. I fell on my face, faint and trembling; when I looked up again, roused by a horrified shout from Perkins, he was gone.

After that I lost all consciousness, and for weeks I lay between life and death. When I slowly regained my senses, I found the one subject which I was burning yet dreading to hear about was denied me. No one would talk to me all about my father. No one would tell me why he had done that fearful deed. To mention the tower before any of the servants was sufficient to send them trembling from the room. My mother would faint if I even tried to talk about my unhappy father, and Perkins strenuously refused to come near me for fear of being questioned.

As I grew stronger, I began to think it strange that neither of my uncles ever came to see us in our great sorrow. When I mentioned this to my mother, she was seized with great trembling, and bade me never mention them again. I had made up my mind, however, to be kept in ignorance no longer, and I was persistent. I would know everything. If they refused to tell me, I would run away to Castle Munster and find out from my grandmother, or from the servants there. I was so positive that my mother at last gave way, and leaning back in her chair amidst frequent storms of sobs and tears, she told me all that had happened.

I listened hungrily, standing back in a far corner of the solemnly darkened room, and with my eyes riveted upon the thick folds of crape which hung about my mother's frail form, I heard now that scarcely an hour after my father had cast himself from the summit of Culbone Tower news came that my uncle Francis had been picked up from amongst the rocks below Bossington headland, dead, and with unmistakable marks of violence about his throat. An inquest was held upon the body, and an old shepherd, who had been ascending the hill from Allercombe, deposed, with great reluctance, that he had seen, far away from him, the figures of two men struggling together on the verge of the cliff, and that one had cast the other over. Then my uncle Cecil had been called upon, and in a low tone, and amongst the deep sympathy of every one present, he had told his tale. They had all three been shooting together, he said, and were returning by the cliffs. There had been a slight unpleasantness between his two brothers during the earlier part of the day, and it suddenly blazed out again into a fierce quarrel as they stood on Bossington headland, prepared to descend into Porlock. He himself had been a little way behind at the time of the crisis, adjusting the strap of his gaiter, and just as he was straightening himself and preparing to move forward the calamity had occurred. He could tell them no more, he said; nor could he, for, strong man though he was, he suddenly reeled against the table and was carried from the room in a dead faint. There was a profound sensation amongst the little body of sympathizing men; but, though the coroner pronounced the verdict in a broken voice, and with tears in his eyes, it was the only one which they dared give, and it was:

"Wilful murder against Frank Catherall."

My first impulse, on hearing this awful story, was to disbelieve it. But then I remembered the fiery temper of all the Catheralls, which had led many of them in days gone by to commit deeds as rash, if not so sinful. And I thought of my father's wild appearance when he had burst in upon us, and of his mad climb up to Culbone Tower and its fearful sequel. Then, too, I remembered my Uncle Cecil's reluctant evidence, and my heart sank. The web of testimony was too closely woven. My father had died a murderer— had cast himself into eternity with the curse of Cain upon his head.

SLOWLY the months dragged by at our lonely home, and, as winter drew on, a fresh terror crept in upon us. In the middle of the night strange sounds often came from the dreary tower which loomed almost over our heads, and with the whistling of the November wind came cries and moans which seemed to us, listening in awe and trembling, like the outpourings of an anguished spirit. Others heard them beside ourselves, and strange tales reached us of a tall, majestic figure, in flowing garb and long white beard, which, whenever a storm was raging, could be seen standing by the side of the tower, gazing out over the furious sea. Such tales as these spread, and one by one our servants left us.

At first I was incredulous; but one afternoon at dusk, when the wild west wind was roaring down the coombs, and sheets of rain were rolling over the cliffs in curling clouds, I crept on my hands and knees along our tiny strip of lawn, and, soaked through and through, and dreading every moment lest I should be blown over the cliffs, I crouched down with my eyes fixed upon the tower. Then I too saw it.

A chill, more icy than the driving rain or the cold earth could give, passed through my shuddering frame as I saw suddenly emerge from the tower the tall figure which I had know and loved so well. With swift, even footsteps he seemed to pass without effort up the slippery, almost perpendicular rock, where I knew that no mortal footsteps could tread without slipping and falling backward amongst the wet-bespangled heather— there, in the same place that I had seen him pause before, between earth and sky, he stood still for a moment.

"Father!" I cried, "father!" But the rushing wind driving in my face refused to carry the sound, and bore it back over my head. For a moment I closed my eyes, and when I re-opened them again the figure was gone. Then I knew that I had seen my dead father's spirit.

For a while I dared not look upon the scene of this terrible apparition; and when I told my mother what I had seen, she too was overwhelmed with fear, for she was by nature nervous, although I was not. One afternoon, however, not many weeks afterwards, I summoned up my courage and walked almost to the edge of the chasm, gazing steadily up at the frowning tower above me. There was no sign of life there, mortal or ghostly, and gradually I felt my fears subside.

I was just turning away with a sigh of relief, when I heard the shuffle of footsteps, and found Perkins by my side. He looked at me narrowly, almost suspiciously, for a moment.

"What be'st doing here, Miss Lizzie?" he asked, peering up at me from underneath his shaggy eyebrows. "Dost want to see t' poor master's ghost? You'll no see it in fine weather. He'll only come to us in a storm."

I shuddered.

"You have seen it, then?" I exclaimed eagerly. "Perkins, why does he come? It is awful!"

The old man turned round upon me, his voice in trembling anger.

"Why do 'e come, Miss Lizzie? Ay, you may well ask that. How do 'e think a poor spirit can rest in its dark watery grave when it's been so sorely wronged? I tell 'e this," he continued hoarsely, holding his withered arms out towards the sea, with a dramatic, almost majestic, gesture, "never'll his spirit rest quiet, never'll the waves give up his body for decent burial, till Master Cecil Catherall takes back his lying words, and the whole world knows as my poor dear master was no murderer. I tell 'e that, Miss Lizzie; I tell 'e that!"

He shuffled away, leaving me almost paralysed by his strange words. Latterly we had come to look upon Perkins as weak in the head, and he spent all his time rambling about the place, no one knew where; but his words were spoken with such intense earnestness, that they made a strange impression on me. All day long I was restless and uneasy, but in the morning I had come to a decision. I would go and see my Uncle Cecil.

The next morning, before any one was astir, I started on my solitary expedition, leaving word only that I had gone for a long walk. Since the day of that terrible tragedy we had had no visit or message from either my grandmother or my uncle, and I felt not a little nervous at the idea of presenting myself before stern old Mrs. Catherall, who disliked my mother, and had never taken much notice of me. But for my age I had a wonderful amount of resolution, and I never shrank from my self-imposed task.

THE road to Munster Castle lay across a great stretch of moorland, radiant with a purple glory and with gleaming yellow gorse in the summer, but barren and desolate-looking on that chill November morning. White clouds of mist came rolling down from the hills, at times soaking me through, and often I had to wade through the swollen streams which flowed across the rough track. Still I held on, though at times there came gusts of wind which carried me nearly off my feet, and though the path grew no better than the bed of a mountain torrent. At times a solitary signpost standing out against the grey sky or the black hills cheered me on my way; but not a human being did I meet till, after five hours of walking, the dreary towers of Munster Castle rose up before me. How my heart throbbed then!

I forgot how faint and weary I was as I entered the great courtyard and timidly rang the bell. No one answered the summons; so, as the door was open, I walked inside and sat down upon one of the carved oak chairs. Presently a tall, grave-looking servant came across the hall, and started back in amazement at the sight of me. I rose and explained my presence.

"You'll not be able to see Mr. Cecil, Miss," he said, staring at me as though I were a wild creature. "He only came home from abroad yesterday; that is to say, he was brought home ill. I'll tell Mrs. Catherall, though, if you'll be pleased to take a seat. She's with him now."

He moved away and opened a door on the opposite side of the hall. I watched my opportunity, and followed him noiselessly through two great rooms into a smaller one, on the threshold of which he paused and said something to its inmates in a subdued tone. Before he had finished I had slipped past him and had entered the apartment.

In an invalid's chair, nearly smothered with magnificent furs, and drawn up before a blazing fire, lay my Uncle Cecil. His face was thin and haggard, and his great brown eyes seemed burning with a fierce but weary light. By his side stood my grandmother, majestic and handsome as ever, with her grey hair coiled in many plaits about her head, and an angry light gleaming in her still bright eyes.

"Child, how dared you come here?" she said in a low tone full of intense vibrating anger. "Who are you?"

Before I could answer, my Uncle Cecil had sprung up from his couch with a quick, startled exclamation.

"My God!" he cried, "it is his child! It is Frank's child! What does she want?"

I moved towards him, quivering with excitement, and striving to steady my voice.

"Uncle Cecil," I cried, "I have come to you because my father's ghost is crying out night and day from Culbone Tower, and Perkins says that it will never be quiet until you speak. I am come to know all about the day when Uncle Francis was killed."

Such a cry as mortal lips have seldom uttered burst from my grandmother's trembling lips. Uncle Cecil was shaking all over like a man stricken with a deadly ague. I gazed from one to the other, frightened, bewildered, yet not one whit disposed to withdraw my question.

"Child," she exclaimed in a tone tremulous with passion, "why have you come here with this mad story about your father's ghost? What can your uncle know about that miserable day that he has not already declared? Go home at once; or, stay, I will send some one home with you," and she stretched out her hand towards the bell.

He stopped her quietly, but firmly. There was a new look in his face which I liked little to look upon, although it gave me hope.

"Mother," he said calmly, "the time has come to speak. I will not die with this sin upon my conscience. Child! Lizzie your father was no murderer. It was I who threw Francis over the cliff."

I looked at him, and thought that I must be dreaming. With a great sob of agony my grandmother had thrown her arms around his neck, and was imploring him to be silent.

"He is raving," she said to me excitedly. "Take no notice of him; he is raving. Cecil, my darling, what good can this do? Be silent; oh, be silent, for my sake!"

"Mother, I cannot," he faltered. "God have mercy upon me, I cannot! Lizzie, ring the bell!"

Mechanically I obeyed him. He asked a question of the servant who appeared, which was answered in the affirmative. A minute or two later a clergyman was shown into the room.

"Mr. Greyson," said my Uncle Cecil, stretching out his hand imploringly to where my grandmother kneeled on the floor beside him, "I want you to listen to a few words from me. I am going to tell you the truth about my brother Francis's death."

A deep groan from the prostrate figure by his side, and my uncle passed his hand across his forehead as though the task was almost beyond his strength.

"On that afternoon," he continued hoarsely, "Francis had spoken bitter but just words to me about a matter in which I was much to blame. While we waited at Bossington Hill for Frank, who was some distance behind, he recurred to the subject, and told me what steps he had decided to take in it. I called him an impertinent meddler, and struck him. We closed together, and in the struggle I threw my brother over the cliff. Frank came up just in time to witness the awful deed. For some minutes we could neither of us speak. Then, trembling with horror and fear, I stammered out a few wild words.

"'Cecil,' he cried, with his hands upon my shoulders, 'God help you! I am the only one who saw this. I will die sooner than give evidence against you, remember that. Get home now, and say it was an accident.'

"He rushed away from me, and before I reached home I heard of his death. Then the shepherd came to me who had seen the struggle, and I was at my wits' end. Frank had died to save me. Should I let his sacrifice be in vain, or should I tell a lie which could hurt his memory only? I told the lie, and it has killed me; it has eaten the life away within me. I am a dying man, Mr. Greyson; and with the knowledge that in a day or two I shall stand before my God, I swear that this is the truth. I implore you to fetch a magistrate."

THEY took but little notice of me; and when Mr. Greyson left them, I slipped out, and, heedless of the wind and rain, started homeward. Across the bleak, desolate moor I sped, revelling in the wild blasts which swept down the mountain's side upon me, for I knew that the storm was increasing, and he would be there to- night.

I reached home; but, avoiding the house, I stepped out on to the tiny strip of lawn, and, holding tightly on to the iron railing, crept along towards the chasm. When I reached it, I could see nothing but the sea below, curling and hissing, sweeping in with a long hungry roar, and dashing its foaming spray far up the side of the cliff. Above me the fast-moving leaden clouds seemed descending almost within reach, and a hurricane was raging amongst the thickly-grown pine trees, whistling with a fierce mirth amongst their slender tops, shaking together with a harsh grating the cones, and bending them down like blades of grass. I crouched in a corner, waiting in awe till this fierce revelry of the elements should subside a little, and straining my eyes through the darkness to catch sight of the tower which loomed directly in front of me. Suddenly I heard a voice close to my side.

"Miss Lizzie, what in God's name are you doing here?"

I peered out into the darkness, and recognized the dim outline of Perkins' bent form.

"Perkins," I cried, "I have been to Castle Munster and seen Uncle Cecil. It was he who killed his brother. He is dying; and he has confessed."

He seized me by the shoulders, with a strange light in his bleared eyes. "Be you lying? Tell me quick—"

"It is true," I cried, frightened by his vehemence. "The ghost will trouble us no longer."

"The Lord be praised!" he muttered. "God! what's that?"

Two young pine trees, torn up by their roots, were whirled across the lawn close to us, and, smashing through the iron palisading as though it had been rotten timber, disappeared over the edge of the cliff.

The old man fell on his knees, and prayed for a moment or two. Then he stood up, holding on to the remnant of the railing.

"I seen many a storm in my life," he muttered, "but ne'er such a one as this. God grant the tower may stand! Miss Lizzie, ye're a brave child. Dare 'e follow me?"

I nodded. The wind would have Mocked at my efforts at speech had I attempted it.

"Come, then!" He moved slowly forward to the very verge of the chasm, dragging something behind him. I followed on hands and knees.

He paused and threw a rough plank across to the boulder on which the tower stood. He stepped carefully across, and presently I heard his voice from the other side.

"I ha' made it fast, Miss Lizzie. Dare 'e come?"

I crept to the edge and looked down with a shudder at the black yawning chasm.

"Shall I see the ghost, Perkins?" I cried.

"Ay, ay," he answered. "See!" and he half roused himself from the bracken amongst which he had been crouching, and pointed with a long trembling finger towards the tower. To my amazement there was a feeble light burning in the topmost chamber.

"I will come, Perkins," I cried. "Walt for me."

I knelt down, clinging to a shrub until there was a momentary lull in the gusts which came tearing and roaring down the coomb. Then I sprang up, and, holding my breath, hurried across the frail little bridge. The moment I was in safety we commenced the ascent to the tower; but we had got little more than halfway up when another burst of wind and rain came round the corner of the coomb, and we had to sink down amongst the wet bracken and dig our fingers into the very earth to save ourselves from being carried away and swept over the edge of the cliff. There we lay, cowed and shuddering, for what seemed to me an interminable while, listening to the wild, melancholy shrieking of the wind amongst the pine trees, and the loud angry roaring of the furious sea below. At last it seemed to abate a little, and almost on our hands and knees we crept up to the door of the tower. My heart was beating with a fierce excitement, increased by all that I had gone through during that wonderful day, and I seemed to have a distinct consciousness that something extraordinary was going to happen.

Perkins pushed open the door with his foot, and we tumbled together into the narrow chamber. A tall figure sprang from the other end of the place towards us, and at first I shrank away in an agony of fear; but then I heard my name in well-remembered accents, and saw a familiar pair of arms stretched out towards me, and my fear died away. "Father," I cried, "father!", and with one bound I threw myself into the passionate embrace of the Ghost of Culbone Tower.

THAT same night, after my tale had been told, my father abandoned his self-imposed exile, and returned with me to Glencoombe. On the morrow news reached us of my Uncle Cecil's death; but his confession had been signed and witnessed, and my father found himself a hero.

For a while we continued to live at Glencoombe. But so constant was the stream of visitors who came to gaze upon the haunted tower, and over the edge of the rock on to the shelf-like plateau which had served as a hiding-place, that to escape them we moved to Munster Castle, which, since the death of Mrs. Catherall—she had not long survived her favourite son—had become my father's property. And there I lived until my name was no longer Catherall, and some one took me away to another part of the country.

__________________________

11: The Canterville Ghost

Oscar Wilde

1854-1900

The Court and Society Review, 23 February and 2 March 1887.

WHEN Mr. Hiram B. Otis, the American Minister, bought Canterville Chase, every one told him he was doing a very foolish thing, as there was no doubt at all that the place was haunted. Indeed, Lord Canterville himself, who was a man of the most punctilious honour, had felt it his duty to mention the fact to Mr. Otis when they came to discuss terms.

“We have not cared to live in the place ourselves,” said Lord Canterville, “since my grand-aunt, the Dowager Duchess of Bolton, was frightened into a fit, from which she never really recovered, by two skeleton hands being placed on her shoulders as she was dressing for dinner, and I feel bound to tell you, Mr. Otis, that the ghost has been seen by several living members of my family, as well as by the rector of the parish, the Rev. Augustus Dampier, who is a Fellow of King’s College, Cambridge. After the unfortunate accident to the Duchess, none of our younger servants would stay with us, and Lady Canterville often got very little sleep at night, in consequence of the mysterious noises that came from the corridor and the library.”

“My Lord,” answered the Minister, “I will take the furniture and the ghost at a valuation. I come from a modern country, where we have everything that money can buy; and with all our spry young fellows painting the Old World red, and carrying off your best actors and prim donnas, I reckon that if there were such a thing as a ghost in Europe, we’d have it at home in a very short time in one of our public museums, or on the road as a show.”

“I fear that the ghost exists,” said Lord Canterville, smiling, “though it may have resisted the overtures of your enterprising impresarios. It has been well known for three centuries, since 1584 in fact, and always makes its appearance before the death of any member of our family.”

“Well, so does the family doctor for that matter, Lord Canterville. But there is no such thing, sir, as a ghost, and I guess the laws of Nature are not going to be suspended for the British aristocracy.”

“You are certainly very natural in America,” answered Lord Canterville, who did not quite understand Mr. Otis’s last observation, “and if you don’t mind a ghost in the house, it is all right. Only you must remember I warned you.”

A few weeks after this, the purchase was concluded, and at the close of the season the Minister and his family went down to Canterville Chase. Mrs. Otis, who, as Miss Lucretia R. Tappan, of West 53rd Street, had been a celebrated New York belle, was now a very handsome, middle-aged woman, with fine eyes, and a superb profile. Many American ladies on leaving their native land adopt an appearance of chronic ill-health, under the impression that it is a form of European refinement, but Mrs. Otis had never fallen into this error. She had a magnificent constitution, and a really wonderful amount of animal spirits. Indeed, in many respects, she was quite English, and was an excellent example of the fact that we have really everything in common with America nowadays, except, of course, language. Her eldest son, christened Washington by his parents in a moment of patriotism, which he never ceased to regret, was a fair-haired, rather good-looking young man, who had qualified himself for American diplomacy by leading the German at the Newport Casino for three successive seasons, and even in London was well known as an excellent dancer. Gardenias and the peerage were his only weaknesses. Otherwise he was extremely sensible. Miss Virginia E. Otis was a little girl of fifteen, lithe and lovely as a fawn, and with a fine freedom in her large blue eyes. She was a wonderful amazon, and had once raced old Lord Bilton on her pony twice round the park, winning by a length and a half, just in front of the Achilles statue, to the huge delight of the young Duke of Cheshire, who proposed for her on the spot, and was sent back to Eton that very night by his guardians, in floods of tears. After Virginia came the twins, who were usually called “The Stars and Stripes,” as they were always getting swished. They were delightful boys, and with the exception of the worthy Minister the only true republicans of the family.

As Canterville Chase is seven miles from Ascot, the nearest railway station, Mr. Otis had telegraphed for a waggonette to meet them, and they started on their drive in high spirits. It was a lovely June evening, and the air was delicate with the scent of the pinewoods. Now and then they heard a wood pigeon brooding over its own sweet voice, or saw, deep in the rustling fern, the burnished breast of the pheasant. Little squirrels peered at them from the beech-trees as they went by, and the rabbits scudded away through the brushwood and over the mossy knolls, with their white tails in the air. As they entered the avenue of Canterville Chase, however, the sky became suddenly overcast with clouds, a curious stillness seemed to hold the atmosphere, a great flight of rooks passed silently over their heads, and, before they reached the house, some big drops of rain had fallen.

Standing on the steps to receive them was an old woman, neatly dressed in black silk, with a white cap and apron. This was Mrs. Umney, the housekeeper, whom Mrs. Otis, at Lady Canterville’s earnest request, had consented to keep on in her former position. She made them each a low curtsey, as they alighted, and said in a quaint, old-fashioned manner, “I bid you welcome to Canterville Chase.” Following her, they passed through the fine Tudor hall into the library, a long, low room, panelled in black oak, at the end of which was a large stained-glass window. Here they found tea laid out for them, and, after taking off their wraps, they sat down and began to look round, while Mrs. Umney waited on them.

Suddenly Mrs. Otis caught sight of a dull red stain on the floor just by the fireplace and, quite unconscious of what it really signified, said to Mrs. Umney, “I am afraid something has been spilt there.”

“Yes, madam,” replied the old housekeeper in a low voice, “blood has been spilt on that spot.”

“How horrid,” cried Mrs. Otis; “I don’t at all care for blood-stains in a sitting-room. It must be removed at once.”

The old woman smiled, and answered in the same low, mysterious voice, “It is the blood of Lady Eleanore de Canterville, who was murdered on that very spot by her own husband, Sir Simon de Canterville, in 1575. Sir Simon survived her nine years, and disappeared suddenly under very mysterious circumstances. His body has never been discovered, but his guilty spirit still haunts the Chase. The blood-stain has been much admired by tourists and others, and cannot be removed.”

“That is all nonsense,” cried Washington Otis; “Pinkerton’s Champion Stain Remover and Paragon Detergent will clean it up in no time,” and before the terrified housekeeper could interfere he had fallen upon his knees, and was rapidly scouring the floor with a small stick of what looked like a black cosmetic. In a few moments no trace of the blood-stain could be seen.

“I knew Pinkerton would do it,” he exclaimed triumphantly, as he looked round at his admiring family; but no sooner had he said these words than a terrible flash of lightning lit up the sombre room, a fearful peal of thunder made them all start to their feet, and Mrs. Umney fainted.

“What a monstrous climate!” said the American Minister calmly, as he lit a long cheroot. “I guess the old country is so over-populated that they have not enough decent weather for everybody. I have always been of opinion that emigration is the only thing for England.”

“My dear Hiram,” cried Mrs. Otis, “what can we do with a woman who faints?”

“Charge it to her like breakages,” answered the Minister; “she won’t faint after that”; and in a few moments Mrs. Umney certainly came to. There was no doubt, however, that she was extremely upset, and she sternly warned Mr. Otis to beware of some trouble coming to the house.

“I have seen things with my own eyes, sir,” she said, “that would make any Christian’s hair stand on end, and many and many a night I have not closed my eyes in sleep for the awful things that are done here.” Mr. Otis, however, and his wife warmly assured the honest soul that they were not afraid of ghosts, and, after invoking the blessings of Providence on her new master and mistress, and making arrangements for an increase of salary, the old housekeeper tottered off to her own room.

ii

THE STORM raged fiercely all that night, but nothing of particular note occurred. The next morning, however, when they came down to breakfast, they found the terrible stain of blood once again on the floor. “I don’t think it can be the fault of the Paragon Detergent,” said Washington, “for I have tried it with everything. It must be the ghost.” He accordingly rubbed out the stain a second time, but the second morning it appeared again. The third morning also it was there, though the library had been locked up at night by Mr. Otis himself, and the key carried upstairs. The whole family were now quite interested; Mr. Otis began to suspect that he had been too dogmatic in his denial of the existence of ghosts, Mrs. Otis expressed her intention of joining the Psychical Society, and Washington prepared a long letter to Messrs. Myers and Podmore on the subject of the Permanence of Sanguineous Stains when connected with Crime. That night all doubts about the objective existence of phantasmata were removed for ever.

The day had been warm and sunny; and, in the cool of the evening, the whole family went out to drive. They did not return home till nine o’clock, when they had a light supper. The conversation in no way turned upon ghosts, so there were not even those primary conditions of receptive expectation which so often precede the presentation of psychical phenomena. The subjects discussed, as I have since learned from Mr. Otis, were merely such as form the ordinary conversation of cultured Americans of the better class, such as the immense superiority of Miss Fanny Davenport over Sara Bernhardt as an actress; the difficulty of obtaining green corn, buckwheat cakes, and hominy, even in the best English houses; the importance of Boston in the development of the world-soul; the advantages of the baggage check system in railway travelling; and the sweetness of the New York accent as compared to the London drawl. No mention at all was made of the supernatural, nor was Sir Simon de Canterville alluded to in any way. At eleven o’clock the family retired, and by half-past all the lights were out. Some time after, Mr. Otis was awakened by a curious noise in the corridor, outside his room. It sounded like the clank of metal, and seemed to be coming nearer every moment. He got up at once, struck a match, and looked at the time. It was exactly one o’clock. He was quite calm, and felt his pulse, which was not at all feverish. The strange noise still continued, and with it he heard distinctly the sound of footsteps. He put on his slippers, took a small oblong phial out of his dressing-case, and opened the door. Right in front of him he saw, in the wan moonlight, an old man of terrible aspect. His eyes were as red burning coals; long grey hair fell over his shoulders in matted coils; his garments, which were of antique cut, were soiled and ragged, and from his wrists and ankles hung heavy manacles and rusty gyves.

“My dear sir,” said Mr. Otis, “I really must insist on your oiling those chains, and have brought you for that purpose a small bottle of the Tammany Rising Sun Lubricator. It is said to be completely efficacious upon one application, and there are several testimonials to that effect on the wrapper from some of our most eminent native divines. I shall leave it here for you by the bedroom candles, and will be happy to supply you with more should you require it.” With these words the United States Minister laid the bottle down on a marble table, and, closing his door, retired to rest.

For a moment the Canterville ghost stood quite motionless in natural indignation; then, dashing the bottle violently upon the polished floor, he fled down the corridor, uttering hollow groans, and emitting a ghastly green light. Just, however, as he reached the top of the great oak staircase, a door was flung open, two little white-robed figures appeared, and a large pillow whizzed past his head! There was evidently no time to be lost, so, hastily adopting the Fourth Dimension of Space as a means of escape, he vanished through the wainscoting, and the house became quite quiet.

On reaching a small secret chamber in the left wing, he leaned up against a moonbeam to recover his breath, and began to try and realise his position. Never, in a brilliant and uninterrupted career of three hundred years, had he been so grossly insulted. He thought of the Dowager Duchess, whom he had frighted into a fit as she stood before the glass in her lace and diamonds; of the four housemaids, who had gone off into hysterics when he merely grinned at them through the curtains of one of the spare bedrooms; of the rector of the parish, whose candle he had blown out as he was coming late one night from the library, and who had been under the care of Sir William Gull ever since, a perfect martyr to nervous disorders; and of old Madame de Tremouillac, who, having wakened up one morning early and seen a skeleton seated in an armchair by the fire reading her diary, had been confined to her bed for six weeks with an attack of brain fever, and, on her recovery, had become reconciled to the Church, and broken off her connection with that notorious sceptic Monsieur de Voltaire. He remembered the terrible night when the wicked Lord Canterville was found choking in his dressing-room, with the knave of diamonds half-way down his throat, and confessed, just before he died, that he had cheated Charles James Fox out of £50,000 at Crockford’s by means of that very card, and swore that the ghost had made him swallow it. All his great achievements came back to him again, from the butler who had shot himself in the pantry because he had seen a green hand tapping at the window pane, to the beautiful Lady Stutfield, who was always obliged to wear a black velvet band round her throat to hide the mark of five fingers burnt upon her white skin, and who drowned herself at last in the carp-pond at the end of the King’s Walk. With the enthusiastic egotism of the true artist he went over his most celebrated performances, and smiled bitterly to himself as he recalled to mind his last appearance as “Red Reuben, or the Strangled Babe,” his début as “Gaunt Gibeon, the Blood-sucker of Bexley Moor,” and the furore he had excited one lovely June evening by merely playing ninepins with his own bones upon the lawn-tennis ground. And after all this, some wretched modern Americans were to come and offer him the Rising sun Lubricator, and throw pillows at his head! It was quite unbearable. Besides, no ghost in history had ever been treated in this manner. Accordingly, he determined to have vengeance, and remained till daylight in an attitude of deep thought.

iii

THE NEXT morning, when the Otis family met at breakfast, they discussed the ghost at some length. The United States Minister was naturally a little annoyed to find that his present had not been accepted. “I have no wish,” he said, “to do the ghost any personal injury, and I must say that, considering the length of time he has been in the house, I don’t think it is at all polite to throw pillows at him”—a very just remark, at which, I am sorry to say, the twins burst into shouts of laughter. “Upon the other hand,” he continued, “if he really declines to use the Rising Sun Lubricator, we shall have to take his chains from him. It would be quite impossible to sleep with such a noise going on outside the bedrooms.”

For the rest of the week, however, they were undisturbed, the only thing that excited any attention being the continual renewal of the blood-stain on the library floor. This certainly was very strange, as the door was always locked at night by Mr. Otis, and the windows kept closely barred. The chameleon-like colour, also, of the stain excited a good deal of comment. Some mornings it was a dull (almost Indian) red, then it would be vermilion, then a rich purple, and once when they came down for family prayers, according to the simple rites of the Free American Reformed Episcopalian Church, they found it a bright emerald-green. These kaleidoscopic changes naturally amused the party very much, and bets on the subject were freely made every evening. The only person who did not enter into the joke was little Virginia, who, for some unexplained reason, was always a good deal distressed at the sight of the blood-stain, and very nearly cried the morning it was emerald-green.

The second appearance of the ghost was on Sunday night. Shortly after they had gone to bed they were suddenly alarmed by a fearful crash in the hall. Rushing downstairs, they found that a large suit of old armour had become detached from its stand, and had fallen on the stone floor, while, seated in a high-backed chair, was the Canterville ghost, rubbing his knees with an expression of acute agony on his face. The twins, having brought their pea-shooters with them, at once discharged two pellets at him, with that accuracy of aim which can only be attained by long and careful practice on a writing-master, while the United States Minister covered him with his revolver, and called upon him, in accordance with Californian etiquette, to hold up his hands! The ghost started up with a wild shriek of rage, and swept through them like a mist, extinguishing Washington Otis’s candle as he passed, and so leaving them all in total darkness. On reaching the top of the staircase he recovered himself, and determined to give his celebrated peal of demoniac laughter. This he had on more than one occasion found extremely useful. It was said to have turned Lord Raker’s wig grey in a single night, and had certainly made three of Lady Canterville’s French governesses give warning before their month was up. He accordingly laughed his most horrible laugh, till the old vaulted roof rang and rang again, but hardly had the fearful echo died away when a door opened, and Mrs. Otis came out in a light blue dressing-gown. “I am afraid you are far from well,” she said, “and have brought you a bottle of Dr. Dobell’s tincture. If it is indigestion, you will find it a most excellent remedy.” The ghost glared at her in fury, and began at once to make preparations for turning himself into a large black dog, an accomplishment for which he was justly renowned, and to which the family doctor always attributed the permanent idiocy of Lord Canterville’s uncle, the Hon. Thomas Horton. The sound of approaching footsteps, however, made him hesitate in his fell purpose, so he contented himself with becoming faintly phosphorescent, and vanished with a deep churchyard groan, just as the twins had come up to him.

On reaching his room he entirely broke down, and became a prey to the most violent agitation. The vulgarity of the twins, and the gross materialism of Mrs. Otis, were naturally extremely annoying, but what really distressed him most was, that he had been unable to wear the suit of mail. He had hoped that even modern Americans would be thrilled by the sight of a Spectre In Armour, if for no more sensible reason, at least out of respect for their national poet Longfellow, over whose graceful and attractive poetry he himself had whiled away many a weary hour when the Cantervilles were up in town. Besides, it was his own suit. He had worn it with great success at the Kenilworth tournament, and had been highly complimented on it by no less a person than the Virgin Queen herself. Yet when he had put it on, he had been completely overpowered by the weight of the huge breast-plate and steel casque, and had fallen heavily on the stone pavement, barking both his knees severely, and brushing the knuckles of his right hand.

For some days after this he was extremely ill, and hardly stirred out of his room at all, except to keep the blood-stain in proper repair. However, by taking great care of himself, he recovered, and resolved to make a third attempt to frighten the United States Minister and his family. He selected Friday, the 17th of August, for his appearance, and spent most of that day in looking over his wardrobe, ultimately deciding in favour of a large slouched hat with a red feather, a winding-sheet frilled at the wrists and neck, and a rusty dagger. Towards evening a violent storm of rain came on, and the wind was so high that all the windows and doors in the old house shook and rattled. In fact, it was just such weather as he loved. His plan of action was this. He was to make his way quietly to Washington Otis’s room, gibber at him from the foot of the bed, and stab himself three times in the throat to the sound of slow music. He bore Washington a special grudge, being quite aware that it was he who was in the habit of removing the famous Canterville blood-stain, by means of Pinkerton’s Paragon Detergent. Having reduced the reckless and foolhardy youth to a condition of abject terror, he was then to proceed to the room occupied by the United States Minister and his wife, and there to place a clammy hand on Mrs. Otis’s forehead, while he hissed into her trembling husband’s ear the awful secrets of the charnel-house. With regard to little Virginia, he had not quite made up his mind. She had never insulted him in any way, and was pretty and gentle. A few hollow groans from the wardrobe, he thought, would be more than sufficient, or, if that failed to wake her, he might grabble at the counterpane with palsy-twitching fingers. As for the twins, he was quite determined to teach them a lesson. The first thing to be done was, of course, to sit upon their chests, so as to produce the stifling sensation of nightmare. Then, as their beds were quite close to each other, to stand between them in the form of a green, icy-cold corpse, till they became paralysed with fear, and finally, to throw off the winding-sheet, and crawl round the room, with white, bleached bones and one rolling eyeball, in the character of “Dumb Daniel, or the Suicide’s Skeleton,” a rôle in which he had on more than one occasion produced a great effect, and which he considered quite equal to his famous part of “Martin the Maniac, or the Masked Mystery.”

At half-past ten he heard the family going to bed. For some time he was disturbed by wild shrieks of laughter from the twins, who, with the light-hearted gaiety of schoolboys, were evidently amusing themselves before they retired to rest, but at a quarter past eleven all was still, and, as midnight sounded, he sallied forth. The owl beat against the window panes, the raven croaked from the old yew-tree, and the wind wandered moaning round the house like a lost soul; but the Otis family slept unconscious of their doom, and high above the rain and storm he could hear the steady snoring of the Minister for the United States. He stepped stealthily out of the wainscoting, with an evil smile on his cruel, wrinkled mouth, and the moon hid her face in a cloud as he stole past the great oriel window, where his own arms and those of his murdered wife were blazoned in azure and gold. On and on he glided, like an evil shadow, the very darkness seeming to loathe him as he passed. Once he thought he heard something call, and stopped; but it was only the baying of a dog from the Red Farm, and he went on, muttering strange sixteenth-century curses, and ever and anon brandishing the rusty dagger in the midnight air. Finally he reached the corner of the passage that led to luckless Washington’s room. For a moment he paused there, the wind blowing his long grey locks about his head, and twisting into grotesque and fantastic folds the nameless horror of the dead man’s shroud. Then the clock struck the quarter, and he felt the time was come. He chuckled to himself, and turned the corner; but no sooner had he done so, than, with a piteous wail of terror, he fell back, and hid his blanched face in his long, bony hands. Right in front of him was standing a horrible spectre, motionless as a carven image, and monstrous as a madman’s dream! Its head was bald and burnished; its face round, and fat, and white; and hideous laughter seemed to have writhed its features into an eternal grin. From the eyes streamed rays of scarlet light, the mouth was a wide well of fire, and a hideous garment, like to his own, swathed with its silent snows the Titan form. On its breast was a placard with strange writing in antique characters, some scroll of shame it seemed, some record of wild sins, some awful calendar of crime, and, with its right hand, it bore aloft a falchion of gleaming steel.

Never having seen a ghost before, he naturally was terribly frightened, and, after a second hasty glance at the awful phantom, he fled back to his room, tripping up in his long winding sheet as he sped down the corridor, and finally dropping the rusty dagger into the Minister’s jack-boots, where it was found in the morning by the butler. Once in the privacy of his own apartment, he flung himself down on a small pallet-bed, and hid his face under the clothes. After a time, however, the brave old Canterville spirit asserted itself, and he determined to go and speak to the other ghost as soon as it was daylight. Accordingly, just as the dawn was touching the hills with silver, he returned towards the spot where he had first laid eyes on the grisly phantom, feeling that, after all, two ghosts were better than one, and that, by the aid of his new friend, he might safely grapple with the twins. On reaching the spot, however, a terrible sight met his gaze. Something had evidently happened to the spectre, for the light had entirely faded from its hollow eyes, the gleaming falchion had fallen from its hand, and it was leaning up against the wall in a strained and uncomfortable attitude. He rushed forward and seized it in his arms, when, to his horror, the head slipped off and rolled on the floor, the body assumed a recumbent posture, and he found himself clasping a white dimity bed-curtain, with a sweeping-brush, a kitchen cleaver, and a hollow turnip lying at his feet! Unable to understand this curious transformation, he clutched the placard with feverish haste, and there, in the grey morning light, he read these fearful words:—

YE OTIS GHOSTE.

Ye Onlie True and Originale Spook.

Beware of Ye Imitationes.

All others are Counterfeite.

The whole thing flashed across him. He had been tricked, foiled, and outwitted! The old Canterville look came into his eyes; he ground his toothless gums together; and, raising his withered hands high above his head, swore, according to the picturesque phraseology of the antique school, that when Chanticleer had sounded twice his merry horn, deeds of blood would be wrought, and Murder walk abroad with silent feet.

Hardly had he finished this awful oath when, from the red-tiled roof of a distant homestead, a cock crew. He laughed a long, low, bitter laugh, and waited. Hour after hour he waited, but the cock for some strange reason, did not crow again. Finally, at half-past seven, the arrival of the housemaids made him give up his fearful vigil, and he stalked back to his room, thinking of his vain oath and baffled purpose. There he consulted several books of ancient chivalry, of which he was exceedingly fond, and found that, on every occasion on which his oath had been used, Chanticleer had always crowed a second time. “Perdition seize the naughty fowl,” he muttered, “I have seen the day when, with my stout spear, I would have run him through the gorge, and made him crow for me an ’twere in death!” He then retired to a comfortable lead coffin, and stayed there till evening.

iv

THE NEXT day the ghost was very weak and tired. The terrible excitement of the last four weeks was beginning to have its effect. His nerves were completely shattered, and he started at the slightest noise. For five days he kept his room, and at last made up his mind to give up the point of the blood-stain on the library floor. If the Otis family did not want it, they clearly did not deserve it. They were evidently people on a low, material plane of existence, and quite incapable of appreciating the symbolic value of sensuous phenomena. The question of phantasmic apparitions, and the development of astral bodies, was of course quite a different matter, and really not under his control. It was his solemn duty to appear in the corridor once a week, and to gibber from the large oriel window on the first and third Wednesdays in every month, and he did not see how he could honourably escape from his obligations. It is quite true that his life had been very evil, but, upon the other hand, he was most conscientious in all things connected with the supernatural. For the next three Saturdays, accordingly, he traversed the corridor as usual between midnight and three o’clock, taking every possible precaution against being either heard or seen. He removed his boots, trod as lightly as possible on the old worm-eaten boards, wore a large black velvet cloak, and was careful to use the Rising Sun Lubricator for oiling his chains. I am bound to acknowledge that it was with a good deal of difficulty that he brought himself to adopt this last mode of protection. However, one night, while the family were at dinner, he slipped into Mr. Otis’s bedroom and carried off the bottle. He felt a little humiliated at first, but afterwards was sensible enough to see that there was a great deal to be said for the invention, and, to a certain degree, it served his purpose. Still, in spite of everything, he was not left unmolested. Strings were continually being stretched across the corridor, over which he tripped in the dark, and on one occasion, while dressed for the part of “Black Isaac, or the Huntsman of Hogley Woods,” he met with a severe fall, through treading on a butter-slide, which the twins had constructed from the entrance of the Tapestry Chamber to the top of the oak staircase. This last insult so enraged him, that he resolved to make one final effort to assert his dignity and social position, and determined to visit the insolent young Etonians the next night in his celebrated character of “Reckless Rupert, or the Headless Earl.”

He had not appeared in this disguise for more than seventy years; in fact, not since he had so frightened pretty Lady Barbara Modish by means of it, that she suddenly broke off her engagement with the present Lord Canterville’s grandfather, and ran away to Gretna Green with handsome Jack Castleton, declaring that nothing in the world would induce her to marry into a family that allowed such a horrible phantom to walk up and down the terrace at twilight. Poor Jack was afterwards shot in a duel by Lord Canterville on Wandsworth Common, and Lady Barbara died of a broken heart at Tunbridge Wells before the year was out, so, in every way, it had been a great success. It was, however, an extremely difficult “make-up,” if I may use such a theatrical expression in connection with one of the greatest mysteries of the supernatural, or, to employ a more scientific term, the higher-natural world, and it took him fully three hours to make his preparations. At last everything was ready, and he was very pleased with his appearance. The big leather riding-boots that went with the dress were just a little too large for him, and he could only find one of the two horse-pistols, but, on the whole, he was quite satisfied, and at a quarter past one he glided out of the wainscoting and crept down the corridor. On reaching the room occupied by the twins, which I should mention was called the Blue Bed Chamber, on account of the colour of its hangings, he found the door just ajar. Wishing to make an effective entrance, he flung it wide open, when a heavy jug of water fell right down on him, wetting him to the skin, and just missing his left shoulder by a couple of inches. At the same moment he heard stifled shrieks of laughter proceeding from the four-post bed. The shock to his nervous system was so great that he fled back to his room as hard as he could go, and the next day he was laid up with a severe cold. The only thing that at all consoled him in the whole affair was that he had not brought his head with him, for, had he done so, the consequences might have been very serious.

He now gave up all hope of ever frightening this rude American family, and contented himself, as a rule, with creeping about the passages in list slippers, with a thick red muffler round his throat for fear of draughts, and a small arquebuse, in case he should be attacked by the twins. The final blow he received occurred on the 19th of September. He had gone downstairs to the great entrance-hall, feeling sure that there, at any rate, he would be quite unmolested, and was amusing himself by making satirical remarks on the large Saroni photographs of the United States Minister and his wife, which had now taken the place of the Canterville family pictures. He was simply but neatly clad in a long shroud, spotted with churchyard mould, had tied up his jaw with a strip of yellow linen, and carried a small lantern and a sexton’s spade. In fact, he was dressed for the character of “Jonas the Graveless, or the Corpse-Snatcher of Chertsey Barn,” one of his most remarkable impersonations, and one which the Cantervilles had every reason to remember, as it was the real origin of their quarrel with their neighbour, Lord Rufford. It was about a quarter past two o’clock in the morning, and, as far as he could ascertain, no one was stirring. As he was strolling towards the library, however, to see if there were any traces left of the blood-stain, suddenly there leaped out on him from a dark corner two figures, who waved their arms wildly above their heads, and shrieked out “BOO!” in his ear.

Seized with a panic, which, under the circumstances, was only natural, he rushed for the staircase, but found Washington Otis waiting for him there with the big garden-syringe; and being thus hemmed in by his enemies on every side, and driven almost to bay, he vanished into the great iron stove, which, fortunately for him, was not lit, and had to make his way home through the flues and chimneys, arriving at his own room in a terrible state of dirt, disorder, and despair.

After this he was not seen again on any nocturnal expedition. The twins lay in wait for him on several occasions, and strewed the passages with nutshells every night to the great annoyance of their parents and the servants, but it was of no avail. It was quite evident that his feelings were so wounded that he would not appear. Mr. Otis consequently resumed his great work on the history of the Democratic Party, on which he had been engaged for some years; Mrs. Otis organised a wonderful clambake, which amazed the whole country; the boys took to lacrosse, euchre, poker, and other American national games; and Virginia rode about the lanes on her pony, accompanied by the young Duke of Cheshire, who had come to spend the last week of his holidays at Canterville Chase. It was generally assumed that the ghost had gone away, and, in fact, Mr. Otis wrote a letter to that effect to Lord Canterville, who, in reply, expressed his great pleasure at the news, and sent his best congratulations to the Minister’s worthy wife.

The Otises, however, were deceived, for the ghost was still in the house, and though now almost an invalid, was by no means ready to let matters rest, particularly as he heard that among the guests was the young Duke of Cheshire, whose grand-uncle, Lord Francis Stilton, had once bet a hundred guineas with Colonel Carbury that he would play dice with the Canterville ghost, and was found the next morning lying on the floor of the card-room in such a helpless paralytic state, that though he lived on to a great age, he was never able to say anything again but “Double Sixes.” The story was well known at the time, though, of course, out of respect to the feelings of the two noble families, every attempt was made to hush it up; and a full account of all the circumstances connected with it will be found in the third volume of Lord Tattle’s Recollections of the Prince Regent and his Friends. The ghost, then, was naturally very anxious to show that he had not lost his influence over the Stiltons, with whom, indeed, he was distantly connected, his own first cousin having been married en secondes noces to the Sieur de Bulkeley, from whom, as every one knows, the Dukes of Cheshire are lineally descended. Accordingly, he made arrangements for appearing to Virginia’s little lover in his celebrated impersonation of “The Vampire Monk, or, the Bloodless Benedictine,” a performance so horrible that when old Lady Startup saw it, which she did on one fatal New Year’s Eve, in the year 1764, she went off into the most piercing shrieks, which culminated in violent apoplexy, and died in three days, after disinheriting the Cantervilles, who were her nearest relations, and leaving all her money to her London apothecary. At the last moment, however, his terror of the twins prevented his leaving his room, and the little Duke slept in peace under the great feathered canopy in the Royal Bedchamber, and dreamed of Virginia.

v

A FEW days after this, Virginia and her curly-haired cavalier went out riding on Brockley meadows, where she tore her habit so badly in getting through a hedge, that, on their return home, she made up her mind to go up by the back staircase so as not to be seen. As she was running past the Tapestry Chamber, the door of which happened to be open, she fancied she saw some one inside, and thinking it was her mother’s maid, who sometimes used to bring her work there, looked in to ask her to mend her habit. To her immense surprise, however, it was the Canterville Ghost himself! He was sitting by the window, watching the ruined gold of the yellowing trees fly through the air, and the red leaves dancing madly down the long avenue. His head was leaning on his hand, and his whole attitude was one of extreme depression. Indeed, so forlorn, and so much out of repair did he look, that little Virginia, whose first idea had been to run away and lock herself in her room, was filled with pity, and determined to try and comfort him. So light was her footfall, and so deep his melancholy, that he was not aware of her presence till she spoke to him.

“I am so sorry for you,” she said, “but my brothers are going back to Eton to-morrow, and then, if you behave yourself, no one will annoy you.”

“It is absurd asking me to behave myself,” he answered, looking round in astonishment at the pretty little girl who had ventured to address him, “quite absurd. I must rattle my chains, and groan through keyholes, and walk about at night, if that is what you mean. It is my only reason for existing.”

“It is no reason at all for existing, and you know you have been very wicked. Mrs. Umney told us, the first day we arrived here, that you had killed your wife.”

“Well, I quite admit it,” said the Ghost petulantly, “but it was a purely family matter, and concerned no one else.”

“It is very wrong to kill any one,” said Virginia, who at times had a sweet Puritan gravity, caught from some old New England ancestor.

“Oh, I hate the cheap severity of abstract ethics! My wife was very plain, never had my ruffs properly starched, and knew nothing about cookery. Why, there was a buck I had shot in Hogley Woods, a magnificent pricket, and do you know how she had it sent up to table? However, it is no matter now, for it is all over, and I don’t think it was very nice of her brothers to starve me to death, though I did kill her.”

“Starve you to death? Oh, Mr. Ghost, I mean Sir Simon, are you hungry? I have a sandwich in my case. Would you like it?”

“No, thank you, I never eat anything now; but it is very kind of you, all the same, and you are much nicer than the rest of your horrid, rude, vulgar, dishonest family.”

“Stop!” cried Virginia, stamping her foot, “it is you who are rude, and horrid, and vulgar, and as for dishonesty, you know you stole the paints out of my box to try and furbish up that ridiculous blood-stain in the library. First you took all my reds, including the vermilion, and I couldn’t do any more sunsets, then you took the emerald-green and the chrome-yellow, and finally I had nothing left but indigo and Chinese white, and could only do moonlight scenes, which are always depressing to look at, and not at all easy to paint. I never told on you, though I was very much annoyed, and it was most ridiculous, the whole thing; for who ever heard of emerald-green blood?”

“Well, really,” said the Ghost, rather meekly, “what was I to do? It is a very difficult thing to get real blood nowadays, and, as your brother began it all with his Paragon Detergent, I certainly saw no reason why I should not have your paints. As for colour, that is always a matter of taste: the Cantervilles have blue blood, for instance, the very bluest in England; but I know you Americans don’t care for things of this kind.”

“You know nothing about it, and the best thing you can do is to emigrate and improve your mind. My father will be only too happy to give you a free passage, and though there is a heavy duty on spirits of every kind, there will be no difficulty about the Custom House, as the officers are all Democrats. Once in New York, you are sure to be a great success. I know lots of people there who would give me a hundred thousand dollars to have a grandfather, and much more than that to have a family ghost.”

“I don’t think I should like America.”

“I suppose because we have no ruins and no curiosities,” said Virginia satirically.

“No ruins! no curiosities!” answered the Ghost; “you have your navy and your manners.”

“Good evening; I will go and ask papa to get the twins an extra week’s holiday.”

“Please don’t go, Miss Virginia,” he cried; “I am so lonely and so unhappy, and I really don’t know what to do. I want to go to sleep and I cannot.”

“That’s quite absurd! You have merely to go to bed and blow out the candle. It is very difficult sometimes to keep awake, especially at church, but there is no difficulty at all about sleeping. Why, even babies know how to do that, and they are not very clever.”

“I have not slept for three hundred years,” he said sadly, and Virginia’s beautiful blue eyes opened in wonder; “for three hundred years I have not slept, and I am so tired.”

Virginia grew quite grave, and her little lips trembled like rose-leaves. She came towards him, and kneeling down at his side, looked up into his old withered face.

“Poor, poor Ghost,” she murmured; “have you no place where you can sleep?”

“Far away beyond the pine woods,” he answered, in a low dreamy voice, “there is a little garden. There the grass grows long and deep, there are the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingale sings all night long. All night long he sings, and the cold, crystal moon looks down, and the yew-tree spreads out its giant arms over the sleepers.”

Virginia’s eyes grew dim with tears, and she hid her face in her hands.

“You mean the Garden of Death,” she whispered.

“Yes, Death. Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one’s head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace. You can help me. You can open for me the portals of Death’s house, for Love is always with you, and Love is stronger than Death is.”

Virginia trembled, a cold shudder ran through her, and for a few moments there was silence. She felt as if she was in a terrible dream.

Then the Ghost spoke again, and his voice sounded like the sighing of the wind.

“Have you ever read the old prophecy on the library window?”

“Oh, often,” cried the little girl, looking up; “I know it quite well. It is painted in curious black letters, and it is difficult to read. There are only six lines:

When a golden girl can win

Prayer from out the lips of sin,

When the barren almond bears,

And a little child gives away its tears,

Then shall all the house be still

And peace come to Canterville.

But I don’t know what they mean.”

“They mean,” he said sadly, “that you must weep with me for my sins, because I have no tears, and pray with me for my soul, because I have no faith, and then, if you have always been sweet, and good, and gentle, the Angel of Death will have mercy on me. You will see fearful shapes in darkness, and wicked voices will whisper in your ear, but they will not harm you, for against the purity of a little child the powers of Hell cannot prevail.”

Virginia made no answer, and the Ghost wrung his hands in wild despair as he looked down at her bowed golden head. Suddenly she stood up, very pale, and with a strange light in her eyes. “I am not afraid,” she said firmly, “and I will ask the Angel to have mercy on you.”

He rose from his seat with a faint cry of joy, and taking her hand bent over it with old-fashioned grace and kissed it. His fingers were as cold as ice, and his lips burned like fire, but Virginia did not falter, as he led her across the dusky room. On the faded green tapestry were broidered little huntsmen. They blew their tasselled horns and with their tiny hands waved to her to go back. “Go back! little Virginia,” they cried, “go back! but the Ghost clutched her hand more tightly, and she shut her eyes against them. Horrible animals with lizard tails, and goggle eyes, blinked at her from the carven chimney-piece, and murmured “Beware! little Virginia, beware! we may never see you again,” but the Ghost glided on more swiftly, and Virginia did not listen. When they reached the end of the room he stopped, and muttered some words she could not understand. She opened her eyes, and saw the wall slowly fading away like a mist, and a great black cavern in front of her. A bitter cold wind swept round them, and she felt something pulling at her dress. “Quick, quick,” cried the Ghost, “or it will be too late,” and, in a moment, the wainscoting had closed behind them, and the Tapestry Chamber was empty.

vi

ABOUT ten minutes later, the bell rang for tea, and, as Virginia did not come down, Mrs. Otis sent up one of the footmen to tell her. After a little time he returned and said that he could not find Miss Virginia anywhere. As she was in the habit of going out to the garden every evening to get flowers for the dinner-table, Mrs. Otis was not at all alarmed at first, but when six o’clock struck, and Virginia did not appear, she became really agitated, and sent the boys out to look for her, while she herself and Mr. Otis searched every room in the house. At half past six the boys came back and said that they could find no trace of their sister anywhere. They were all now in the greatest state of excitement, and did not know what to do, when Mr. Otis suddenly remembered that, some few days before, he had given a band of gipsies permission to camp in the park. He accordingly at once set off for Blackfell Hollow, where he knew they were, accompanied by his eldest son and two of the farm-servants. The little Duke of Cheshire, who was perfectly frantic with anxiety, begged hard to be allowed to go too, but Mr. Otis would not allow him, as he was afraid there might be a scuffle. On arriving at the spot, however, he found that the gipsies had gone, and it was evident that their departure had been rather sudden, as the fire was still burning, and some plates were lying on the grass. Having sent off Washington and the two men to scour the district, he ran home, and despatched telegrams to all the police inspectors in the county, telling them to look out for a little girl who had been kidnapped by tramps or gipsies. He then ordered his horse to be brought round, and, after insisting on his wife and the three boys sitting down to dinner, rode off down the Ascot road with a groom. He had hardly, however, gone a couple of miles, when he heard somebody galloping after him, and, looking round, saw the little Duke coming up on his pony, with his face very flushed and no hat. “I’m awfully sorry, Mr. Otis,” gasped out the boy, “but I can’t eat my dinner as long as Virginia is lost. Please, don’t be angry with me; if you had let us be engaged last year, there would never have been all this trouble. You won’t send me back, will you? I can’t go! I won’t go!”

The Minister could not help smiling at the handsome young scapegrace, and was a good deal touched at his devotion to Virginia, so leaning down from his horse, he patted him kindly on the shoulders, and said, ‘Well, Cecil, if you won’t go back I suppose you must come with me, but I must get you a hat at Ascot.”

“Oh, bother my hat! I want Virginia!” cried the little Duke, laughing, and they galloped on to the railway station. There Mr. Otis inquired of the station-master if any one answering to the description of Virginia had been seen on the platform, but could get no news of her. The station-master, however, wired up and down the line, and assured him that a strict watch would be kept for her, and, after having bought a hat for the little Duke from a linen-draper, who was just putting up his shutters, Mr. Otis rode off to Bexley, a village about four miles away, which he was told was a well-known haunt of the gipsies, as there was a large common next to it. Here they roused up the rural policeman, but could get no information from him, and, after riding all over the common, they turned their horses’ heads homewards, and reached the Chase about eleven o’clock, dead-tired and almost heart-broken. They found Washington and the twins waiting for them at the gate-house with lanterns, as the avenue was very dark. Not the slightest trace of Virginia had been discovered. The gipsies had been caught on Brockley meadows, but she was not with them, and they had explained their sudden departure by saying that they had mistaken the date of Chorton Fair, and had gone off in a hurry for fear they might be late. Indeed, they had been quite distressed at hearing of Virginia’s disappearance, as they were very grateful to Mr. Otis for having allowed them to camp in his park, and four of their number had stayed behind to help in the search. The carp-pond had been dragged, and the whole Chase thoroughly gone over, but without any result. It was evident that, for that night at any rate, Virginia was lost to them; and it was in a state of the deepest depression that Mr. Otis and the boys walked up to the house, the groom following behind with the two horses and the pony. In the hall they found a group of frightened servants, and lying on a sofa in the library was poor Mrs. Otis, almost out of her mind with terror and anxiety, and having her forehead bathed with eau-de-cologne by the old housekeeper. Mr. Otis at once insisted on her having something to eat, and ordered up supper for the whole party. It was a melancholy meal, as hardly any one spoke, and even the twins were awestruck and subdued, as they were very fond of their sister. When they had finished, Mr. Otis, in spite of the entreaties of the little Duke, ordered them all to bed, saying that nothing more could be done that night, and that he would telegraph in the morning to Scotland Yard for some detectives to be sent down immediately. Just as they were passing out of the dining-room, midnight began to boom from the clock tower, and when the last stroke sounded they heard a crash and a sudden shrill cry; a dreadful peal of thunder shook the house, a strain of unearthly music floated through the air, a panel at the top of the staircase flew back with a loud noise, and out on the landing, looking very pale and white, with a little casket in her hand, stepped Virginia. In a moment they had all rushed up to her. Mrs. Otis clasped her passionately in her arms, the Duke smothered her with violent kisses, and the twins executed a wild war-dance round the group.

“Good heavens! child, where have you been?” said Mr. Otis, rather angrily, thinking that she had been playing some foolish trick on them. “Cecil and I have been riding all over the country looking for you, and your mother has been frightened to death. You must never play these practical jokes any more.”

“Except on the Ghost! except on the Ghost!” shrieked the twins, as they capered about.

“My own darling, thank God you are found; you must never leave my side again,” murmured Mrs. Otis, as she kissed the trembling child, and smoothed the tangled gold of her hair.

“Papa,” said Virginia quietly, “I have been with the Ghost. He is dead, and you must come and see him. He had been very wicked, but he was really sorry for all that he had done, and he gave me this box of beautiful jewels before he died.”

The whole family gazed at her in mute amazement, but she was quite grave and serious; and, turning round, she led them through the opening in the wainscoting down a narrow secret corridor, Washington following with a lighted candle, which he had caught up from the table. Finally, they came to a great oak door, studded with rusty nails. When Virginia touched it, it swung back on its heavy hinges, and they found themselves in a little low room, with a vaulted ceiling, and one tiny grated window. Imbedded in the wall was a huge iron ring, and chained to it was a gaunt skeleton, that was stretched out at full length on the stone floor, and seemed to be trying to grasp with its long fleshless fingers an old-fashioned trencher and ewer, that were placed just out of its reach. The jug had evidently been once filled with water, as it was covered inside with green mould. There was nothing on the trencher but a pile of dust. Virginia knelt down beside the skeleton, and, folding her little hands together, began to pray silently, while the rest of the party looked on in wonder at the terrible tragedy whose secret was now disclosed to them.

“Hallo!” suddenly exclaimed one of the twins, who had been looking out of the window to try and discover in what wing of the house the room was situated. “Hallo! the old withered almond-tree has blossomed. I can see the flowers quite plainly in the moonlight.”

“God has forgiven him,” said Virginia gravely, as she rose to her feet, and a beautiful light seemed to illuminate her face.

“What an angel you are!” cried the young Duke, and he put his arm round her neck, and kissed her.

vii

FOUR days after these curious incidents a funeral started from Canterville Chase at about eleven o’clock at night. The hearse was drawn by eight black horses, each of which carried on its head a great tuft of nodding ostrich-plumes, and the leaden coffin was covered by a rich purple pall, on which was embroidered in gold the Canterville coat-of-arms. By the side of the hearse and the coaches walked the servants with lighted torches, and the whole procession was wonderfully impressive. Lord Canterville was the chief mourner, having come up specially from Wales to attend the funeral, and sat in the first carriage along with little Virginia. Then came the United States Minister and his wife, then Washington and the three boys, and in the last carriage was Mrs. Umney. It was generally felt that, as she had been frightened by the ghost for more than fifty years of her life, she had a right to see the last of him. A deep grave had been dug in the corner of the churchyard, just under the old yew-tree, and the service was read in the most impressive manner by the Rev. Augustus Dampier. When the ceremony was over, the servants, according to an old custom observed in the Canterville family, extinguished their torches, and, as the coffin was being lowered into the grave, Virginia stepped forward, and laid on it a large cross made of white and pink almond-blossoms. As she did so, the moon came out from behind a cloud, and flooded with its silent silver the little churchyard, and from a distant copse a nightingale began to sing. She thought of the ghost’s description of the Garden of Death, her eyes became dim with tears, and she hardly spoke a word during the drive home.

The next morning, before Lord Canterville went up to town, Mr. Otis had an interview with him on the subject of the jewels the ghost had given to Virginia. They were perfectly magnificent, especially a certain ruby necklace with old Venetian setting, which was really a superb specimen of sixteenth-century work, and their value was so great that Mr. Otis felt considerable scruples about allowing his daughter to accept them.

“My lord,” he said, “I know that in this country mortmain is held to apply to trinkets as well as to land, and it is quite clear to me that these jewels are, or should be, heirlooms in your family. I must beg you, accordingly, to take them to London with you, and to regard them simply as a portion of your property which has been restored to you under certain strange conditions. As for my daughter, she is merely a child, and has as yet, I am glad to say, but little interest in such appurtenances of idle luxury. I am also informed by Mrs. Otis, who, I may say, is no mean authority upon Art—having had the privilege of spending several winters in Boston when she was a girl—that these gems are of great monetary worth, and if offered for sale would fetch a tall price. Under these circumstances, Lord Canterville, I feel sure that you will recognise how impossible it would be for me to allow them to remain in the possession of any member of my family; and, indeed, all such vain gauds and toys, however suitable or necessary to the dignity of the British aristocracy, would be completely out of place among those who have been brought up on the severe, and I believe immortal, principles of Republican simplicity. Perhaps I should mention that Virginia is very anxious that you should allow her to retain the box, as a memento of your unfortunate but misguided ancestor. As it is extremely old, and consequently a good deal out of repair, you may perhaps think fit to comply with her request. For my own part, I confess I am a good deal surprised to find a child of mine expressing sympathy with mediaevalism in any form, and can only account for it by the fact that Virginia was born in one of your London suburbs shortly after Mrs. Otis had returned from a trip to Athens.”

Lord Canterville listened very gravely to the worthy Minister’s speech, pulling his grey moustache now and then to hide an involuntarily smile, and when Mr. Otis had ended, he shook him cordially by the hand, and said, “My dear sir, your charming little daughter rendered my unlucky ancestor, Sir Simon, a very important service, and I and my family are much indebted to her for her marvellous courage and pluck. The jewels are clearly hers, and, egad, I believe that if I were heartless enough to take them from her, the wicked old fellow would be out of his grave in a fortnight, leading me the devil of a life. As for their being heirlooms, nothing is an heirloom that is not so mentioned in a will or legal document, and the existence of these jewels has been quite unknown. I assure you I have no more claim on them than your butler, and when Miss Virginia grows up I daresay she will be pleased to have pretty things to wear. Besides, you forget, Mr. Otis, that you took the furniture and the ghost at a valuation, and anything that belonged to the ghost passed at once into your possession, as, whatever activity Sir Simon may have shown in the corridor at night, in point of law he was really dead, and you acquired his property by purchase.”

Mr. Otis was a good deal distressed at Lord Canterville’s refusal, and begged him to reconsider his decision, but the good-natured peer was quite firm, and finally induced the Minister to allow his daughter to retain the present the ghost had given her, and when, in the spring of 1890, the young Duchess of Cheshire was presented at the Queen’s first drawing-room on the occasion of her marriage, her jewels were the universal theme of admiration. For Virginia received the coronet, which is the reward of all good little American girls, and was married to her boy-lover as soon as he came of age. They were both so charming, and they loved each other so much, that every one was delighted at the match, except the old Marchioness of Dumbleton, who had tried to catch the Duke for one of her seven unmarried daughters, and had given no less than three expensive dinner-parties for that purpose, and, strange to say, Mr. Otis himself. Mr. Otis was extremely fond of the young Duke personally, but, theoretically, he objected to titles, and, to use his own words, “was not without apprehension lest, amid the enervating influences of a pleasure-loving aristocracy, the true principles of Republican simplicity should be forgotten.” His objections, however, were completely overruled, and I believe that when he walked up the aisle of St. George’s, Hanover Square, with his daughter leaning on his arm, there was not a prouder man in the whole length and breadth of England.

The Duke and Duchess, after the honeymoon was over, went down to Canterville Chase, and on the day after their arrival they walked over in the afternoon to the lonely churchyard by the pine-woods. There had been a great deal of difficulty at first about the inscription on Sir Simon’s tombstone, but finally it had been decided to engrave on it simply the initials of the old gentleman’s name, and the verse from the library window. The Duchess had brought with her some lovely roses, which she strewed upon the grave, and after they had stood by it for some time they strolled into the ruined chancel of the old abbey. There the Duchess sat down on a fallen pillar, while her husband lay at her feet smoking a cigarette and looking up at her beautiful eyes. Suddenly he threw his cigarette away, took hold of her hand, and said to her, “Virginia, a wife should have no secrets from her husband.”

“Dear Cecil! I have no secrets from you.”

“Yes, you have,” he answered, smiling, “you have never told me what happened to you when you were locked up with the ghost.”

“I have never told any one, Cecil,” said Virginia gravely.

“I know that, but you might tell me.”

“Please don’t ask me, Cecil, I cannot tell you. Poor Sir Simon! I owe him a great deal. Yes, don’t laugh, Cecil, I really do. He made me see what Life is, and what Death signifies, and why Love is stronger than both.”

The Duke rose and kissed his wife lovingly.

“You can have your secret as long as I have your heart,” he murmured.

“You have always had that, Cecil.”

“And you will tell our children some day, won’t you?”

Virginia blushed.

_______________________

12: Mr. Homes Shatters an Alibi.

John Kendrick Bangs

1862-1922

Adelaide Observer, 9 May 1903

From the series "The Posthumous Adventures of Shylock Homes", and set in the authors' universe of the Styx

YIELDING to the solicitation of my, friends, I opened up a bureau of information in one of the conspicuous office buildings of Cimmeria. This I advertised in the newspapers, stating that I was ready, at any time to undertake the solution of any or all mysteries that were brought to my attention by those who chose to avail themselves of my services. For a little while, barring a few trivial matters which were brought to me, there was no business of any importance on my books, but at last a case did come up which filled me at least with a great deal of interest. It was a gusty night in the latter part of March. I was just about to lock up my office and start for the club when a sharp rap on the outer door struck viciously upon my ear.

"Come in," I cried, turning the electric light so that its illumination concentrated itself upon the doorway, leaving me in the comparative darkness of the evening shadows.

The door opened with a jerk, and there, peering into the room with a piercing eye that seemed to gather everything before it in at a glance, stood a gaunt, wiry woman, whose face had more of the qualities of the hatchet than of the olive branch.

"Shylock Homes in?" she demanded, in a rasping voice that would have driven a better man than myself to drink if he had had to listen to it for a lifetime.

"I am Shylock Homes, Madam," said I, rising and offering the lady a chair.

"Thanks; I've no time to set," she answered. "It's business I'm after, not civility. Are you all you're said to be, or just a plain fraud like all other men?"

"That is a leading question, madam," I replied warily, "I can't say that I'm all I'm said to be, because there are people who assert that I am a freak, the possibility of which you intimate. I judge, however, from the vivid whiteness of my conscience, which never troubles me in the slightest degree, that I am not a fakir. If you have come, however; to ask me to solve the mystery of self, I must decline the commission, since I have no wish to elucidate myself for the benefit of anybody."'

"Humph!" she retorted. "You have a certain amount of sagacity after all. I had an idea you might be one of those trance idiots who go off into a spasm and take money for telling people what they, see in their dreams."

"You do me wrong," said I, with a short laugh merely to show that, however unusual her method of approaching me, I did not intend to take offence. "Look!" I added, turning the electric light full upon, my own face. "Do I look like a fraud?"

"No you don't," she answered shortly. "You've got a tolerably decent face. Rather sneaky eyes, perhaps; but on the whole you look smug enough to be a Sunday-school superintendent. I think I can trust you."

"Thank you," said I. "And now do sit down and tell me what I can do for you."

With an ill grace the lady took the proffered chair this time, opened her reticule and took out a card:

"Mr. Shylock Homes," said she, "I'm a bitterly deceived woman— or at least I'm beginning to think so, and I want you to find out the truth. Here is my card."

I took the pasteboard, and, glancing at it casually, was astounded to see who my visitor was. The card read as follows:—

MRS RIP VAN WINKLE

Thursdays in January

I ejaculated. "This is an unexpected honour madam, I had hardly dared that I should ever―"

"Stick to business, Mr. Homes," she snapped. "I didn't come here under the impression that you were conducting a series of five o'clock teas. What I want to know is, will you look into the question of my husband s whereabouts during that twenty years' absence of his from home."

"Why—ah—" I ventured, "his story has been told, Mrs. Van Winkle. He was asleep up in the Catskills. He wandered off to the top of— ah— one of the peaks of that noble range and fell in with Hendrik Hudson and his men, and―"

"Oh, nonsense!" cried Mrs. Van Winkle, impatiently. "They gave him knockout drops, I suppose? You don't mean to say you believe that yarn, do you,. Mr. Homes? It you do you are not the brilliant thing you think you are."

"Well," I demurred, "it does sound improbable, but I've always taken it on faith―"

"I haven't," snapped the lady. "What s more. I don't intend to. I do intend to discover the truth, and if you want the business you can have it. If you don't, say so, and I'll worm the real story out of the old man in some other way."

"The proposition attracts me," said I, after a moment's reflection. "I may be able to do you both a service. If I should restore your confidence in him―"

"Confidence?" she cried shrilly. "Restore my confidence in Rip Van Winkle— Lord! I never had any!"

"Then why did you many him?" I ventured.

"To get even with him," she replied. "Rip Van Winkle was a born flirt, and he tried it once too often when he tackled me."

"Have you any evidence that he was elsewhere?"

"Yes," she answered; "convincing evidence to me."

"What is it?" I asked.

"The fact that he told the yarn about the Catskill nap himself is enough for me. When Rip Van Winkle said he'd been to the taproom I knew he'd been to church and vice versa. Reasoning on that line, his mere statement that he'd been asleep out in the woods proved to me that he'd been pretty wide awake somewhere else."

The lady raved on for two or three minutes in this strain, and finally stopped from sheer lack of breath.

"Very well, madam," said I, "I'll take the case. Perhaps in a week I shall have something to report."

Whereupon, after a few moments of commonplace conversation, she departed.

Later in the evening, at the club, while eating my dinner I observed Hendrik Hudson taking his evening meal with Christopher Columbus and Noah, on the other side of the dining room, and plunged into the business in hand at once.

"Hello, Hudson," said I. as, after ordering my coffee served in the library, I rose to leave the room. "Haw is everything with you?"

"Serenely lovely," he replied— he was in a genial mood, for the house committee had laid in a fine supply of ales, of which the great sailor had been absorbing pretty freely. "What can I do for you?"

"Oh! nothing much," I answered. "Some day, when you've leisure, I wish you'd introduce me to Rip Van Winkle."

"Rip Van Winkle?" he repeated, "Rip Van Winkle? Who the devil is Rip Van Winkle?"

"Why, don't you know the chap you and your men got hold of that night up in the Catskills and―"

"Oh, that old tale," laughed Hudson, "Seems to me I did hear of that, but there wasn't any truth in it. What would I be doing giving away grog in the Catskill Mountains, with good old New York not a hundred miles away? Never on your life Shylock. That was a tale got up to injure me with the prohibitionists."

It was quite evident that Mrs. Rip Van Winkles suspicions were quite correct. I was very sorry, too, for I had always rather liked Rip himself, from what I had read of him, and it was unpleasant to discover that he was a base deceiver after all.

I was off on a cruise with old Columbus and Captain Kidd at that time," Hudson continued, "down in the West Indies— so you see I can prove an alibi."

"I can testify to that," said Columbus. "Noah, you were along, too— don't you remember? Kidd was showing us where he'd cached his hidden treasure."

"I'll never forget it," put in Noah. "I never was so seasick in my life, before or since.

"Oh, I don't doubt your word, Hudson," I said at this point. "I never more than half-believed the story anyhow. I rather thought I'd like to meet Van Winkle— that's all. He always seemed to me to have certain companionable qualities. Good night."

And with this I walked on. The whole structure of Rip Van Winkle's story had fallen to the ground at the very first touch— very much as his rifle was said to have done .when, after his sleep of twenty years he awoke and found the stock crumbling beneath his hand.

There were now two things to do― look up Rip Van Winkle and win his confidence― a course that I deplored— or seek out Diedrich Knickerbocker and ask him frankly the sources of the information upon which he based his report of what really happened to Rip. I decided upon the latter plan, and after my coffee and cognac I left the club and sauntered up the street to call upon the distinguished historian.

Arriving at his house I found the lights streaming from every window, and from within came shouts of laughter and other sounds of revelry. It was clear that some celebration was going on within. At the door was a caterer's wagon, and sundry supplies for immediate use were being delivered under the supervision of a flunky clad in an old Dutch costume.

"What is going on here?" I asked the latter, as a case of schnapps was passed in through the basement door.

"There's a meeting of the Sons of St.Nicholas," he answered, with a laugh. "They're having a gay time of it."

"I'm glad I met you," said I, slipping a gold piece into his hand. "I'm a reporter of the Gehenna Gazette. I've been sent here to an account of this affair. Can you tell me who is present?"

"Oh— er— Peter Stuyvesant, Mr. Anneke Jans, Wouter Van Twiller, Tryn Van Camp, Hendrik Kip, Jan Gerritsen, Nicholas Jansen, Rip Van Winkle, Antony Van Oorlear Olaff de Peyster, and a dozen others— they're in such a jumble I can't make 'em out, but they're in great form, especially that old rounder Van Winkle."

"Aha!" thought I; "Rip Van Winkle, eh?" It was strange that Rip should be celebrating the virtues of Manhattan, a man who had presumably never been there.

"Not they," replied the flunky. "It's the informalist gathering. I ever saw. They're just swapping anecdotes, and I tell you, Mr.—er―"

"Well, I tell you, Mr. Jones," he continued, "that fellow Van Winkle is a ripper. He's drained seventeen bumpers of schnapps, and life's out for reminiscences this night. He spent twenty years in New York once, and I've never in all my life heard anything quite so racy as the tales he has to tell. Why, the mere manner of his getting to town was interesting enough for a historical novel. He came down from somewhere up the river as a stowaway on a lumber raft some time before the American Revolution broke out, with nothing but a dog and a musket to his name. Landed in the city, he sold the dog a dozen times, and―"

"How many times did he sell the dog?" I demanded.

"A dozen," said the flunky. "He'd sell him, you see: and then walk off with the money, trusting to old Schneider to come back to him. On the money thus gained he managed to live comfortably until he got a job on Bowling Green, setting up ninepins for the select people of the city, after which, in a year or two, having saved a little money, he started a taproom and chop house, which he kept for eighteen years, disappearing as suddenly as he came at the end of that time."

I emphasized my remark with another gold piece, and in a few minutes, arrayed as an assistant waiter, I found myself in the brilliant dining room of Dr. Diedrich Knickerbocker, filling the glass of the now loquacious Rip Van Winkle over and over again with rum and other drinkables of most excellent quality. I was not long in discovering that the flunky had not deceived me as to the nature of Rip Van Winkle's reminiscences. They were what a literary friend of mine used to call "thrillers" and "shilling shockers," and as he recounted over and over again the lively doings of himself and his companions in New York of ancient days I must confess I found them pretty strong even for my taste, which has not been developed on a vichy and milk diet by any manner of means. A more abandoned old wretch than he could not be found in a month of Sundays in that modern Babylon they call New York, and as for the wit of his narrations, that was attested to by the shrieks of laughter that followed close upon his periods, which twice attracted the attention. of the police patrolling without.

"It was a warm old town in those days," Van Winkle cried, as he finished up a tale which I have not the courage to put upon paper. "The bottomless pit up the river is an ice box alongside of dear old New York when Diedrich and I were cronies."

"You kept a famous tavern, Rip," the Doctor answered. "Such things to eat, such things to drink, and what a company! Do you remember the night when William Van Gheel and Teunis Fyn and you and I were landed in the old Sugarhouse Gaol for painting the nose of George III's statue red, white, and blue. Oh, those days, those days! And―"

"Sunday afternoons on the Battery, eh, Diedrich, when little Peggy Tienhoven and her cousin, Margaret Carstessen, were in their prime?" Rip returned. "And the picnic out on Bedloe's Island, when we stole and wore the uniforms of the two British officers who were sleeping off their night before at the taproom? Oh, what fun we had that day! I dream of it yet. I never flirted so in my life before."

"It's a good thing your wife never learned of those days, Rip," said the Doctor, solemnly. "There'd have been the deuce to pay."

"I have to thank you for that, sir," Rip answered. "If it hadn't been for that wild tale of the Kaaterskills you got up for me to tell when I got home I'm afraid there'd have been a peck of trouble for your Uncle Rip."

And so it went on for hours. Long before the clock struck two I had enough evidence in hand, and from his own lips, to convict Rip Van Winkle, not only of desertion, but of a number of others of the most select crimes in the calendar. But it served my cause not at all, for it so happened that when the evening broke up the joviality of the party had reached such bounds that nothing would do but that the flunky and I should join in the revelry of parting, and, after absorbing a delicious julep, handed me by Rip himself, I found myself one of a circle of dancing roysterers tripping hand in hand around the table and singing "Here we go round the mulberry bush" in tones fit to rare the dead. Moreover, it fell also to my lot to carry Rip Van Winkle home, thrown limp and sleeping across my shoulder, for it was clear the moment we reached the street that he was in no condition to go home alone. His legs doubled up under him like to many blades of a jack-knife, and in this condition I left him at his front door, running like a coward from the field of battle after ringing the doorbell to summon whoever might have the privilege of letting him in.

Detective as I am, I have not the heart to betray a man I have drunk with and carried home after. Moreover, the evidence I had was not proper to submit to a lady, even of Mrs. Rip Van Winkle's advanced years.

Hence it was that next day I addressed a short note to my client, resigning my commission on the ground that upon investigation I did not think I could be of any possible service to her.

__________________

13: Guaranteed Countess

C J Cutcliffe Hyne

1866-1944

Sydney Mail, 2 June 1937

THE papers, when they mentioned her, which I regret to say was often, always put her name in inverted commas. " 'The Countess of Brittondale' in trouble again," the headings would read, and with rather a chuckle the reporter would add that she had gone to gaol for three days, three weeks, three months, or whatever it was, sooner than pay a fine. Some brand of contempt of Court was her usual trouble.

"The accused, who was not represented by counsel, defended herself very ably, and the magistrate gave her every latitude, but―"

Generally, it was the custody of her stepson. Peter George, that was the trouble. Lord Brittondale. in his occasional sober intervals, had a habit of applying to the Courts for possession of Peter George, not because he wanted him, but merely to annoy Frances, who did. Nine months of the year she was a hard person to serve a writ on, for the simple reason that during that interval she vanished. But she was a great sports woman, and three months per annum she always set apart for having it out with the Earl of Brittondale and annoying him to the best' of her ability.

As men who were at Rugby and Corpus with him could guarantee, Peter Henry, the then peer, was always a dirty dog, though somehow attractive to women. He was tall, burly, a great traveller, and a fine big-game shot; he was wealthy, thrifty, and drank like a fish; and he had represented England at poker with complete success in Monte Carlo, Chicago, and Arizona. In Chihuahua, over some slight trouble about an extra joker, he acquired a shot in the hip which caused him to limp for the rest of his life, but it is on record that the other three gentlemen concerned retired to their coffins. People who knew said Brittondale was a wrong 'un. but a warrior all the same.

FRANCES was the daughter of a parson, an extremely able Oxford graduate, whose main handicap in life was an inability to suffer fools gladly. He was never presented to a living. He chivvied about from curacy to curacy, seldom staying in any one billet more than six months. On arrival he would win golden opinions from vicar and parishioners from the very first week. He was a good organiser, a hard worker, a fine preacher. But sooner or later he would come out unfailingly with a fatal sermon. 'We parsons have our penances'— the words would come down from the pulpit. 'Being forced to look down Sunday after Sunday on the same bald heads and the same inane bonnets is one of the smallest of mine. It is your smugness and your dullness that rile me most."

And so on.

Kind vicars said it was want of tact; brusque ones handed him Bradshaw; and Frances was brought up in an atmosphere of brisk change of scene. Her mother had died when the daughter was a babe of twelve, and she had assumed command of the family finances from that date. Papa had read classics at Oxford and stated quite frankly that he had no head for darned domestic figures. As Frances, on possibly inadequate means, always provided meals and shelter for the pair of them, he was not rude enough to pry into details.

The Right Honourable Peter Henry, Earl of Brittondale, blew in on them whilst they were holding down a locum tenancy in the Vale of York, viewed, courted, conquered, and married Frances by special licence inside a fortnight. He was a widower with one boy, Peter George. In a month he had tired of her, and she of him. He pushed off to the Western Atlas to shoot ovis aoudad, and she (with £100 in her pocket) returned to trek from parish to parish with papa. She took with her Peter George, heir to the title, because nobody else appeared to want him. The young gentleman was then aged nine.

At the end of the year, a firm of solicitors, who stated that they were acting for his lordship, informed her that owing to an unpardonable oversight the Earl of Brittondale had neglected to mention his previous marriage to a Mexican lady in Chihuahua before going through the ceremony in the Vale of York. They must request her to discontinue styling herself Countess of Brittondale. Without prejudice they were instructed to offer her £1,000 in lieu of damages. There was no mention whatever in the letter of Master Peter George.

Frances collected the £1,000, and with it started a bank account; she had a card-plate engraved with the name of the Countess of Brittondale; and she proceeded to run up bills right and left, which she said the earl of that ilk would square up for her on his return from moufflon shooting in the mountains of Southern Morocco.

THE unedifying tales of the duels between Peter Henry, the peer, and Frances, whose right to a title seemed vague, will not be printed here. You can get them from the newspaper files if you are curious. If the Earl of Brittondale only had been concerned, the Press would have given him no space. He was not only a dirty dog, but he was a dull dog also. Frances, however, glittered; she always kept her temper, and had a tongue like a stiletto; she "drew" Judges, and beat them at repartee. Put in trade terms she was clinking good copy, and although the gentlemen of the Press were not always exactly fair to her— as witness those inverted commas round "Countess of Brittondale"— they always dished her up in sporting style. They weren't quite fair to Brittondale either for that matter, because they always made him out to be a dirtier dog than he really was. Frances certainly did give the poor devil a hectic time of it. Clever woman. Frances, and an astonishingly capable hater. I always took uncommonly good care never to give her any excuse for getting her knife into me.

She had infinite variety in her methods of attack. She took regal suites at the big London hotels, and supped the band and their lady friends lavishly after band hours; she bought furs, frocks, yachts, and collected Georgian silver cream-jugs; she subscribed to hospitals, dogs' homes, and lifeboats; she gave a splendid ball to the divorcees of London "and escorts"; she gave prizes for Shorthorn bulls, sewing competitions, and single-handed flights to Iceland and back; she ran a big hospital bazaar. Brittondale was a rich man. He was also a miser. He would sooner have teeth drawn than pay. But his cheque-book suffered, and his dentist saw no reason to send in a bill. I do not especially admire the methods of the lady, but there is no doubting the efficiency and the extent of her torments.

LORD BRITTONDALE hit back, of course, via his solicitors.

"Show the woman up." were his orders. "Make life miserable for her."

The law did not care for the job, and was rather icy. It would prefer his lordship's definite itemised instructions in writing. It got them.

"Decline to pay any bills she runs up in my name," wrote that angry man from a camp in Nyassaland. "Subsidise any tradesman who can prosecute her. Get at her through the boy. She's crazy on keeping Peter George, the Lord knows why. But don't let her. Twist her tail any way you can think of. Use your brains."

"He's a nasty effort, our distinguished client," said one solicitor partner to the other. "But trade's trade and I suppose we must carry out his filthy instructions. Worst of it is her dear ladyship goes to gaol with such a halo of sympathy every time that we begin to share Peter Henry's stink. I wish to God the papers would drop publishing the names of the solicitors in the case."

LADY BRITTONDALE, between spasms of gaiety and periods of enforced seclusion, as I say, vanished from the eyes of her enemies and her smart acquaintances. Possibly they did not look for her very hard. Possibly the enemies at any rate were glad enough when she ceased from troubling and allowed legal machinery to be at rest. Anyway, whether they searched or not. they never discovered her whereabouts. The hiding-place was a simple one. She kept a lodging-house in Leeford. It was a Victorian dwelling that had once known pomp, and hour-glass waists, and elaborate whiskers, and now had crept down to humbler circumstance. As Mrs. George she was the exact and careful landlady: 27 Bolsover Square was the address. She had tried and discarded assorted lodgers (including one disastrous season of "theatricals"), and now specialised in bachelor masters from the Leeford Grammar School. These did not pay much, it is true; they were dull fellows; but they usually came home ' sober, which is a great comfort to all except the exhibitor. Mrs. George was the quietest woman imaginable, and in mortal dread of police interference or anything that would bring her into public notice. She had five of these poor schoolmaster lodgers, and the big Victorian chambers were so divided up that they had five small bedrooms and five small sitting rooms between them, and a joint dining-room where they had their meals. Mrs. George catered efficiently. She cooked herself, and Bishop, the manservant, did the rest.

BISHOP'S name was something else to start with, but the schoolmaster lodgers decided that he looked far more like a bishop than a butler, and dubbed him accordingly. Even Mrs. George, after six months of hearing the schoolmasters using the name, dropped into the habit herself. So did Peter George. Mrs. George and Bishop did all the housework of 27 Bolsover Square between them, though Master Peter George ran errands and found odd jobs when he was not at his seat of learning.

Leeford Grammar School (as one could deduce from the class of men employed as masters) was not one of those academies for the so-called upper classes whose time is wasted on more or less compulsory games. It was vaguely supposed there were grammar-school playing fields somewhere, but boys who used them were rather looked down upon. They were not of the scholarship brand, and winning scholarships was the one thing the school lived for. That vague thing, tone, which the vaunted public schools make such a fetish of, was a paltry affair, which the headmaster of Leeford Grammar School publicly owned made him feel sick.

This last deficiency troubled Mrs. George much. Certainly his Lordship of Brittondale had been a Rugby boy in his time, and was as bad an egg as ever got into circulation. But even she could not help admitting that he did his blackguardisms gracefully. She (and Bishop) could teach young Peter George to get up and open a door for his mother, to drive knife, fork, and spoon in their proper directions, and to say "Sir" when he spoke to his seniors. They could bring him to understand the occasional need for a pocket handkerchief, and the sinfulness of sporting a made-up tie. But— there were little touches which only fags learn when they are making toast for their betters, or cleaning sixth-form boots, or being caned by gentlemen six months their senior for the enormity of wearing their trousers turned up when they ought to be turned down. Bishop, who had lived in the best families, pointed out these deficiencies, and Mrs. George agreed with him.

"But how the devil am I going to do it, my good man?" she would say in exasperation. "If I sent the dear boy to Rugby, Peter Henry or his filthy solicitors would be on to him in two ticks. I've not been exactly on velvet since the row, but losing Peter George would tear things finally."

"Quite so," Bishop would agree. "We must carry on with licking him into shape down here in the kitchen. Those schoolmasters upstairs are entirely the wrong sort. They're all shaggy about the heels, poor brutes. Peter George, don't bite your nails, ever. I much prefer to see them dirty."

"Right-o, sir," said Peter George.

The solicitors for the prosecution, acting on angry instructions from various shooting camps in tropical East Africa, had made various valiant attempts to compel "the alleged Countess of Brittondale" to produce the body of Peter George. Sometimes they had got a ruling in their favour over this; sometimes Frances had blandly asked an easy-going Judge to request the other side to show proofs that (1) she at that moment had the child in her control, or (2) that Peter George really existed. She had brought down a right and left of verdicts in her favour on these lines, and then the nauseated solicitors, after time had elapsed for sending a report to the equator and getting an infuriated cable in reply, much against their will put on the detectives. These, in four days, discovered the lodging-house at 27 Bolsover Square, Leeford, and submitted a list of residents.

Then, of course, the fat was in the fire with a vengeance. The solicitors, stung by the cable, were taking no chances with such a slippery customer as Madame Frances. Police arrived at Number 27, warrant in hand. The bland Bishop answered their ring, heard their errand, and slammed the door on their noses. After locking it noisily, he put the chain on the back entrance and helped Prances to climb through a skylight on to the roof. Thereafter he rang up one of the lodgers at the grammar school, broke the news that Mrs. George had smashed her ankle at the tramway terminus near Tilsden, and requested that Master Peter George should be sent off there by the next car to help her.

"Yes, sir. Tilsden, where the trams stop. Madame will be very grateful of your kindness, sir."

The getaway was so simple that the police (who were probably not very keen on their job) did not drop on the trail for a week, and by that time Frances had bought the business of Madame Osiris, the veiled palmist, at Morecambe, and was living out of the public eye, and making a handsome profit at it, and Peter George was continuing his studies at the higher-grade board school as a day boarder at Lancaster. Bishop, with the help of a hired cook, was carrying on the affairs at 27 Bolsover Square, and was making a hopeless hash of the weekly accounts. He always said he never had a head for figures. But he certainly had a knack of getting a post-graduate gloss on schoolmasters who had been taught by their official chief that Tone did not matter, and scholarships for the shop window were the only things that counted.

THEN CAME explosion. It was a slack season, and the papers were able to do full justice to:

Heroic Death of Sporting Peer.

Peter Henry had always been described by those who knew him as a dirty dog. But they would invariably tell you he was a plucky dog. There was that little affair at Chihuahua, for instance, when he dropped the three pistol experts whilst he was down on the floor himself with a bullet in the hip. There were also other desperate fights to his discredit, and during the Great War, of course, he was recommended for a V.C., but biffed his C.O. on the nose when he was tight and the thing was cancelled. But under the de mortuis rule these trifles were not mentioned in the obituaries. The tale was of a hunting day in Tanganyika. They were out after roan and a lion had bowled over Brittondale's Somali gun-bearer and was proceeding to eat him. The limping nobleman was unarmed except for a skinning knife, but he had charged home on the lion and stabbed it to death. The lion naturally objected to the dirking and clawed the Right Honourable the Earl of Brittondale savagely. His condition was said to be critical.... Stop Press news announced his death three days later from the inevitable blood poisoning.

Peter Henry's last kick was typical of the man. He had only time for one final smack at his Frances, but he knew the position of her tenderest spot. She loved Peter George beyond all other creatures in earth or heaven above. So, to hit at her through Peter George, he mentioned that though his marriage to the Mexican lady in Chihuahua was orthodox enough, he had not let loose the further fact, which came out after the wedding ceremony, that she had been another's before, and had not been efficiently divorced. So detestable Frances was the pukka Countess of Brittondale, but the title died with him, Peter Henry. That was the way to cut Frances.

So Peter George went to Rugby as an ordinary commoner, and Frances, with three-quarters of a million sterling to play with, has settled down in a northern Tudor hall. The county people, having memory of a name which had been blazed so frequently in inverted commas, were at first inclined to be sniffy. They soon dropped that attitude. Her ladyship, on occasion, can be the urbanest creature that ever sipped China tea at a meeting for the propagation of mothers unions. Also, on the smallest provocation she can unsheathe a tongue that cuts like a whiplash. Several of His Majesty's Judges and magistrates can bear me out on this latter point.

As regards papa— that Oxford graduate whose handicap in the Church was an inability to suffer fools gladly— he, at his own personal request, remains at the head of 27 Bolsover Square, Leeford. He feels that he is doing good by driving decent manners into five uncouth grammar-school masters and trying to teach them the value of Tone. He has got hold of a cook who can keep accounts. Otherwise he does all the rest of the work of the house during term time. Everyone, so the Bishop says, has his own idea of amusement. Keeping a lodging-house for bachelor grammar-school masters tickles the father of the Countess of Brittondale.

_______________________

14: Flight From Teheran

William J Makin

1893-1944

Australian Women's Weekly 9 March 1946

"WE'RE going to a party given by the most notorious character in Teheran," said Bentley, wrapping a rug about his long legs as we settled in the car.

"After reading a history of the Shahs, I'm prepared to be tolerant," I said. "Who is our host?"

"Prince Mohammed Kerbela," said Bentley.

"Decidedly we are honoured."

"You don't know his reputation."

"Is it bad?"

"Excessively so."

"And yet you accept the invitation?"

"Everybody does― at least, those fortunate enough to secure one," Bentley chuckled. "Apart from his notoriety, he is immensely rich, possesses the finest collection of Persian carpets I've ever seen, and is a most knowledgeable man."

"Anything else?"

"Ah, yes: he has a most beautiful daughter."

"Altogether a man of many assets," I said, gazing out of the window at the flickering screen of the Teheran streets. "May one ask how he became notorious?"

"At the age of twelve, Prince Kerbela murdered his mother," said Bentley, quietly. "He explains that she dared to object to the woman he had decided to marry."

"At the age of twelve!" I repeated.

"He poisoned her," said Bentley. "Perhaps he will relate the story again this evening if he considers you sufficiently interesting. Prince Kerbela has told the story many times. He tells it charmingly."

I gazed quickly at Bentley; but the ambitious Second Secretary of the British Legation was serious.

"And after the murder of his mother, did he marry the woman of his choice?" I asked.

"No; he ignored her. After all, she was only a peasant woman who had been brought in to nurse him as a child. He went to Europe― Monte Carlo, Paris, Deauville― and amused himself in spending much of the fortune he had inherited. After some years he came back to Persia and married the daughter of a rich landowner. His wealth was further increased. Then the daughter, Mahi Manzar, was born."

"And shall we see the Princess Kerbela, his wife?"

Bentley shook his head.

"No. She disappeared several years ago, soon after the birth of her child. I should not ask the Prince about his wife."

"I think I'm going to enjoy my first Persian party." I murmured.

We arrived at the palace area of Teheran. Here the high walls, tiled domes and mosaics gave me an impression of the Forbidden City in Peking.

"Alms, for the love of Allah!"

The ancient sob in Persian came to us from an old crone who drew a tattered chadar of printed cloth across part of her face. Her hand was held out greedily. We ignored her.

"You cannot leave me here to die," sobbed the woman, seizing my coat with one hand and keeping her chadar half across her face with the other. Then, surprisingly, she broke into French:

"Have pity on me! I am hungry and desperate. I too have a right to enter this house. I am no ordinary beggar-woman."

I stopped, at that. I thrust ten reals into her palm. Her mouth worked, convulsively.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"I am the Princess Kerbela," she laughed, harshly.

The next moment she had completely vanished.

Bentley was impatiently calling to me. I followed him up the marble steps of the little palace.

At the top of the staircase Prince Mohammed Kerbela received his guests. His daughter stood by his side. My bow was a perfunctory one, for the Prince attracted immediate attention. An eagle-like gaze flashed from the sombre eyes. A hooked nose jutted forth from a long but handsome face.

His garb was the apotheosis of that hackneyed word, immaculate.

His dark, sombre appearance was emphasised by his white tie and shirt-front, and when he spoke it was with the rich, vibrant voice of an actor.

"I am delighted you were able to come. Mr. Bentley tells me you're a writer. We must have a talk later in the evening. Meantime, permit me to present my daughter."

I turned with some reluctance to Mahi Manzar, a handsome, stately girl, with dark hair and inscrutable dark eyes. She held out a slim hand.

The Prince proceeded to welcome a group of Americans who had just arrived. Among them was the military attaché, Captain Robert Browne. We nodded to each other but Browne's nod was perfunctory. He had turned eagerly to Mahi Manzar; she responded with a shy smile and a slight flush on her olive cheeks.

"You've kept those dances for me?" I heard him ask.

"You demand so many," she smiled.

"I need them all," he replied boldly.

Her fan went to her rouged lips in a warning gesture. Prince Kerbela was frowning down upon them. He was about to say something, but turned impatiently as a footman whispered in his ear. A murderous gleam came to those sombre eyes.

"Send her away!" he said angrily. "See that she does not dare to interfere with my guests as they arrive. If she does, seize her and put her in one of the cellars."

Then he turned with a smile to welcome a group of elderly Persians panting from their ascent of the staircase. Bentley and I continued on our way, finding ourselves at length in a magnificent ballroom, with a bar and gaming-room visible at the far end.

The Persian women who sauntered in and out of the room self-consciously smoothing their frocks seemed in perpetual surprise at meeting themselves in a mirror, un-veiled. They were, however, eager to dance. Bentley pushed me in the direction of a Frenchwoman married to a Persian general. While we danced on the rich carpet which rose in wool and Silken waves beneath our feet, she told me the sad story of her ten years in Persia in ten minutes.

After the dance I left her and sauntered into the gaming-room. Dandified Persian officers, choking in the high-buttoned collars of their khaki uniforms, bent eagerly over a table where baccarat for big stakes was being played. An American and a British officer were among the players. I was amused at a very podgy man with an apoplectic face holding the bank. Winning, too! Thousand-real notes were stacked at his elbow. He was greedily intent on the money.

'Who is he?" I asked Bentley, whom I found at my side.

"Another obvious character, a modern Persian profiteer. His name is Assad. He's just made a fortune from selling hoarded wheat."

"He seems in a fair way to making another at baccarat."

"Yes," nodded Bentley. "Luck always comes to those who are rich. He is going to marry our host's daughter."

"To marry Mahi Manzar!"

"Why not? He's had the experience of two wives already, and divorced them. Now he can afford to aim higher with his wealth."

"Does her father, the Prince, approve?" I asked

"He always approves of rich people."

Even as we spoke, Prince Kerbela entered the room. Such was the arresting personality of the man that everybody looked up. He smiled, disarmingly.

"Continue your play, gentlemen. Please do not let me disturb you." At the same time he bent over the fortunate, podgy man. "Assad, I've not noticed you dancing this evening."

"No," nodded Assad, his greedy eyes intent on the cards. "I prefer to gamble when my luck is in, as it is to-night. Please do leave me alone, Prince."

The Prince's handsome face darkened.

"You may be losing something that is not so easily won back," he said, quietly.

Assad laughed, carelessly.

"For the moment I prefer my winnings here."

I saw murder in the eyes of Prince Kerbela. But the sudden glint was gone as he turned away from the table. He saw me standing there.

"Ah, this seems a propitious time for our promised talk. Come along and see my library."

He linked his arm with mine. The library was in a glossy Continental style. It looked rich, even ostentatious.

"Take the easy chair," said Prince Kerbela, with a gesture. He had seated himself at a desk.

I looked round the room. The portrait of a heavy-jowled woman frowned down upon me from the opposite wall.

"That was my mother," said Prince Kerbela. "I poisoned her, as you've probably heard."

The theatrical tone of his voice irked me.

"I had heard some such rumour," I said, "but naturally I didn't believe it."

"And why not?"

"Surely such things don't happen, except in the pages of The Thousand and One Nights," I said coldly.

"But I assure you it did happen. The thing had to be done. My mother refused me the woman I wished to marry at the moment. Until then I had always had what I wanted. I secured poison from one of her own maids who hated her. My mother died three days later."

Prince Kerbela reached out tor a box of cigarettes, offered me one, and took one himself. He came from behind the lamp with a match held in those sinewy fingers. As he put the light to my cigarette and looked into my face, he smiled.

"I think you are perspiring a little, my friend."

"Yes, I find it uncomfortably warm in this room," I said

"But it has to be," he nodded "A certain temperature is necessary here so that my pets can live and enjoy themselves."

"Your pets?'

Again that laugh.

"I had forgotten. This is your first visit, and you don't understand." He held up a finger, enjoining silence. "Do you hear anything?"

I listened, a little startled.

It was then that I heard a peculiar slurring sound. It was as though some strange beast was crawling on its belly along the corridor outside It seemed to approach nearer. He must have seen my face go pale, for he chuckled and strolled toward the wall He pressed upon one of the shining wood panels, so that it slid along grooves. A glass tank, lit with greenish light like an aquarium, was revealed. Something heavy was pressing against the glass and making that slurring sound.

"Behold my pets!"

It was an aquarium of snakes. I stared, fascinated, at the horrors.

"What do you think of them?" he asked

I looked into his face.

"A strange hobby for a man," I said.

"But why not?" he smiled. "These cobras also serve a useful purpose." He looked down affectionately at one which was inflating its hood. "The poison is taken from their fangs, diluted, and injected into me at intervals. I suffer from a nervous affliction, and modern medicine has discovered in snake poison a successful antidote against the disease. Oh, you need not feel sorry for me," he went on. "It was a holy disease that seized upon Mohammed.

Some of our greatest thinkers have suffered from it. I can tell you that in the moments before an attack begins, we experience an exaltation such as mundane man can never know."

"I think you are the most extraordinary man I've ever met," I said slowly.

He laughed delightedly, seeming highly pleased. Vanity flushed his face as though I had congratulated an actor in his dressing-room on a superb performance.

One of the servants entered A whispered conversation began. I scanned the bookshelves. But even as I noted the titles, a sudden outburst from the Prince caused me to swing round. He had changed into an excited, trembling figure.

"I shall kill the man," he shouted in French. "He must die for this insult. A guest in my house, too!"

"What has happened?" I asked.

"The worst!" he almost screamed "My daughter has gone, fled!"

"But I saw her dancing half an hour ago."

"Yes, cunning little devil!" He staggered towards the blood-red carpet, beating a hand against his head. "I must think, quickly. Something must be done at once. They've taken the road in a car toward Isfahan."

"They?"

"Yes, that smug-faced American youth is with her. He's persuaded her to run away with him and get married. I shall kill Captain Robert Browne."

"He happens to be a friend of mine," I interposed. "I can assure you, Prince Kerbela, that he is a very serious young man, of good family, and will probably make an excellent son-in-law."

The Prince stared at me.

"You talk rubbish!" he said bluntly. He turned to the servant and spoke in Persian. "My compliments to Mr. Bentley, and ask him to come here immediately. Yes, and tell Assad he is wanted."

The Prince ignored me in the following silence. He paced up and down the room, his hands clenching and unclenching Then Bentley appeared, mildly surprised, followed by the podgy Assad, who was stuffing notes into pockets of his tight-fitting suit.

"Mr. Bentley," began the Prince abruptly, "I understand your car is provided with a special diplomatic pass which enables it to go outside Teheran during the present conference."

"That is so," nodded Bentley.

"As a Persian, alas, I am not permitted that privilege for the moment," said the Prince "Yet it is imperative that I go on the road at once. My daughter has been kidnapped by a scoundrelly guest at this party. I intend to follow the couple and rescue my daughter Will you lend me your car?"

Bentley raised his eyebrows. I hurriedly explained to him the gist of what I had heard. The Prince waited, restless and impatient.

"Well?" he demanded.

"It's an unusual situation, Prince Kerbela." Bentley said diplomatically.

"It's the unusual that usually happens, Mr. Bentley."

"But there can be no objection to your taking the car," went on the imperturbable Second Secretary, "providing that I am with you to vouch for the journey."

"Good! It's settled," said the Prince. 'And we will take Assad with us. After all, he is affianced to my daughter."

Bentley nodded. The Prince and Assad had called for coats.

I joined Bentley in retrieving our coats in the hall of mirrors.

"You've no desire to stay on at the party?" grinned Bentley

"Hang the party! I wouldn't miss this encounter on the road for any thing. D'you think we can catch up with Browne?"

"If he's using his old car, which I expect he is," said Bentley, "we're almost certain to overtake him. Come along!"

The Prince, dragging a sullen Assad, had already gone out the door and was making for the car.

Bentley seated himself with the driver, while I sat at the back of the car with Prince Kerbela and the podgy Assad, who smelled of caviar and rustled with bank notes. Very little was said during the first half hour. We passed through the gates of Teheran with its Russian and British sentries, and Bentley displayed his pass.

He questioned one of the soldiers about Browne's car. The soldier remembered an American, with a girl at his side, driving along the Isfahan road three-quarters of an hour previously. They were in an old car. The American had shown a diplomatic pass. I looked at my watch. It was a quarter past ten.

"We should overtake them about midnight," said Bentley, over his shoulder. Then he hunched up his collar and settled down to sleep

I must have fallen asleep, for I awoke with a start at Bentley's voice

"There they are, ahead of us!" Our headlights had caught the car in full glare.

"Can we stop them?" asked the Prince, leaning forward.

"We shall all have to stop within half a mile. There's a village barrier ahead."

We flashed past the old car. There was a glimpse of two figures seated in the front. Then our car began to slow down as we approached the chain barrier across the road, one of the dangerous features of night travel in Persia. As we stopped, a man with a lantern came forth from a hut.

"Order him to keep the chain fastened until the other car arrives," said Bentley. "Now I think we can stretch our legs."

We had no sooner stepped out of the car than the other drove up Bentley, the Prince, and I strolled toward it. Somewhere behind I heard soft cursing as Assad slithered on the ground.

"Hello, Browne!' said Bentley casually.

"Hello, Bentley. What brings you away from that Jolly party?" said the American imperturbably.

But the girl, wrapped in rugs at his side, shrank back as the fierce, determined face of Prince Kerbela, her father, materialised in the light of the lantern held by the Persian.

"Young man, you and I have an affair of honour to settle," said the Prince in his most theatrical fashion. "You will please to step out of your car."

"Certainly," said Browne. 'Tm rather glad of this opportunity to say a few words to you, Prince, before resuming my journey."

"Don't dare to presume―" thundered the Prince.

Bentley interrupted hastily, to say: "Might I suggest, in the chilly circumstances, that we all go into the local chaik hana? Your daughter, Mahi Manjar, will welcome a glass of tea after the long drive."

"As you wish," said the Prince imperiously. He drew himself to his full height and marched in the direction of a lamplit doorway. It was the local caravanserai, or chai-khana, which is always to be found close to the village barrier. The rest of us followed, Captain Browne with his arm protectingly about the girl.

"Robert, I'm frightened!" whispered the girl in English.

"It's the last time you ever will be," he said calmly.

Prince Kerbela strode into the chai-khana like a military conqueror taking up his headquarters

A samovar bubbled and hissed in the distance. From behind it the proprietor shuffled.

"Chai?" he asked.

"Chai," nodded Bentley, and sat down.

The tea, in steaming glasses, was handed round with a ceremonious bow by the proprietor. Prince Kerbela held his glass between two strong fingers, took a sip, and turning to the American, said: "I demand satisfaction for this out-rage."

Browne looked at him sternly.

"I am taking your daughter to Isfahan, Prince Kerbela. We are to be married by the English bishop there. I may as well tell you that whatever you say cannot alter our decision."

"Really," sneered the Prince "And supposing I kill you before you leave this village?"

"That's a possibility, but most Improbable," calmly replied Browne

"You seem very sure of yourself, young man," said Kerbela ominously. "I wonder why?"

Browne's answer came straight back, startling us all.

"Because I know you for what you are― an actor, a charlatan, a grandiose liar who desires to believe his own lies."

The Prince took a step forward. I thought he was about to fling the glass of tea in Browne's face. But the American's gaze did not waver. A little foam flecked the lips of the Prince. His eyes glared. Suddenly, he turned abruptly.

"Assad!"

His shout startled the figure bent over a glass of tea.

"Yes. Prince?"

"This man has dared to rob you of your fiancée. What do you intend to do?"

"Intend to do!" said Assad. "Why― nothing. What can I do?"

"At least you might be man enough to challenge him to a duel.'

Assad licked his lips.

"To a duel! Surely you are joking?"

"I'm deadly serious. I ask you now, are you prepared to fight for this woman who has been promised you in marriage?"

Assad gave a nervous smile, and thrust a hand into his dinner-jacket where the banknotes rustled.

"No, Prince Kerbela," he said ingratiatingly. "I am prepared to marry your daughter, but not prepared to fight for her. I am not a fool."

"You are a despicable cad," thundered the Prince. Assad shrugged his shoulders and turned again to his noisy consumption of tea.

"Under the circumstances," added the Prince, turning grimly to Browne, "I must fight you myself, I suggest pistols at ten paces Please arrange for your seconds."

Bentley was about to speak, but Browne interrupted.

"Bravo, Prince!" he cried. "I agree. A duel is necessary. But no in the manner you propose― at ten paces. May I suggest a form of duel which will leave the victor free of any liability, and thereby ease the consciences of our diplomatic friends?"

"What is that?" asked the Prince suspiciously

Browne brought a revolver from his hip-pocket. It was a nickel plated weapon of five chambers. He jerked it open, and carefully took out three of the cartridges. Only two cartridges were left in the weapon, and these were spaced by empty chambers. Browne snicked it back, and twirled the magazine

Then he laid the revolver on the table. We gazed in stupid solemnity at him as though he were performing a trick.

"Now if either the Prince or myself should be found here with a bullet through the head and a gun held in hand," he said, smilingly, "anyone would assume that the affair was a suicide. Isn't that so, Bentley?"

"It depends," said the Second Secretary cautiously.

"But if you also witnessed the suicide?"

"You're not suggesting―" began Bentley.

"Indeed I am," said Browne calmly. He turned to the Prince. "I understand you mean that by this duel one of us must die?"

Prince Kerbela seemed to have gone a shade paler.

"Yes," he said.

"Well," nodded Browne, "I suggest that one of us puts the revolver to his forehead, and pulls the trigger. Chance may decree that the chamber be empty. Then the other takes the revolver and does likewise. Again the chamber may be empty― or it may not. As you've seen, three chambers are empty; two are loaded. The odds are fairly even. And as I've pointed out, when the fatal shot is fired, the witnesses themselves can faithfully say that it was suicide."

"Browne, this has gone far enough," said Bentley. "Don't be a fool!"

"On the contrary," said the American, "the Prince demands satisfaction. I am prepared to give it to him. Prince, the duel is on Would you like the privilege of trying th; first shot at yourself?"

And with a gesture he indicated the revolver on the table.

Prince Kerbela drew himself up. In that handsome face with its glowing eyes there was now a furtive look. He gazed round at the little group, a mute questioning in his eyes.

"As you've decided the― er― extraordinary terms of this duel," he faltered, "I consider that the first shot should be at yourself."

Browne smiled.

"As you will. Prince. I expected that honour."

Calmly he stretched out a hand for the revolver. He lifted it to his forehead. But at that moment Mahi Manzar flung herself forward

"No, Robert, no!" she cried. "I will not have this sacrifice. I will go back to my father rather than allow this mad duel to take place."

She struggled to take the revolver from him. Prince Kerbela recovered, momentarily, his self-possession

But without hesitation Browne twisted her hand away and pushed her aside. She staggered back a few paces, her mouth round with terror. Again the American raised the revolver to his head. Fascinated, I watched his finger curl about the trigger. Then Bentley leaped forward. But he was too late. The finger jerked; the hammer clicked― that was all. The chamber had been empty.

Browne carefully replaced the revolver on the table.

"And now, Prince Kerbela," ne said quietly, "it is your turn."

Instinctively we all gazed at the Prince. The hand that should have been stretched out for the revolver was trembling visibly

"Come, Prince! It is your turn!' repeated Browne sharply

In the ravaged face that was now revealed were many emotions. The Prince was struggling to play his part to the end, to recall the right lines, to overcome the paralysis of fear His eyes closed, as in a spasm of pain. We saw him then as an old charlatan who had acted all his life, who had entered so completely into his part that he could tremble or shed tears of emotion as if in earnest. Yet at this great moment all his devilish artistry failed him He bowed his head.

"I can't― I dare not," he declared, and with a sob turned away

There followed a silence. Then came a faint sigh, as Mahi Manzar slumped into a faint. Browne immediately went to her

"I think, Prince Kerbela, you had bitter go back to your guests and your home," he said over his shoulder

The Prince, with bowed back, shuffled out of the chai-khana. Assad waddled after him. Bentley and I remained a moment with Browne.

"She will be all right in a few moments," the American said "We will have supper here, and then resume our journey to Isfahan."

Bentley held out his hand

"I would have considered it a privilege to be the best man at the wedding," he said. "But I will have to drive the Prince back to Teheran."

"Thanks," nodded Browne. "I feel rather sorry for my future father-in-law Please look after him "

"I will," said Bentley. "But tell me, what led you to the discovery that he was a fake?'

"Oh," smiled Browne, "many little incidents and things told me by Mahi Manzar. He was simply a man who always longed tor a sensational reputation Like the storytellers in the Persian bazaars, he began to believe his own fantasies.

"Once he began, he had to go on inventing. He had money enough to surround himself with stage props and devices which made the sensationalism seem true. He even cajoled his wife into playing the dramatic role of a mad beggar woman, abandoned by him. You may have glimpsed her outside the palace this evening. But when he had to face real drama, as a few moments ago, he failed. He had to reveal himself a charlatan

The girl sighed. Her eyelids fluttered. It was time for us to go I held out my hand, saying:

'Nevertheless that was a desperate chance you took― pointing a revolver at your head and pulling the trigger."

He chuckled

'An old college trick. I Knew by the feel of the gun that it was an unloaded chamber.'

I stared at him doubtfully, but he shook my hand and sent me away. Once again I sat in the back of the car with Prince Kerbela and Assad. A profound silence prevailed. After some fast driving we entered Teheran

As we reached the little palace lights were still blazing, and some guests were moving about the rooms. Assad rustled his banknotes

"Maybe the gambling continues," he said, hopping out of the car and waddling toward the steps

The Prince stood at the entrance for a moment. He seemed an old man His mouth twitched and there were tears in his eyes He raised a hand, feebly, as a gesture of thanks, and without a word began to walk toward the palace

Then, out of the shadows, darted that beggar-woman who had whined at our approach some hours earlier. She caught hold of him gently

"Come along, my dear," she said to him in French. "You look very tired. We must put you to bed '

"Yes, I'm very tired," he said simply. "I would like to go to bed."

We drove away

________________________

15: Five Men's Lives for One Horse

Rolfe Boldrewood

Thomas Alexander Browne, 1826-1915

Catholic Press (Sydney) 29 April 1915

'YES! IT DOES seem a goodish price to pay for a half-bred mare— worth ten or fifteen pounds at the outside,' said old. Bill, the cook for the rouseabouts at Jergoolah station, one wet night, as the men gathered round the fire after supper, with their pipes in their mouths.

It had been wet for two or three days, so there was no shearing. Very little work for the other men, half a hundred strong, as the wet-fleeced sheep were best left alone. The shearers were sulky, of course. They were eating (and paying for) their own rations. But the ordinary 'pound-a-week men,' whose board, with lodging, was provided for them, were philosophically indifferent to the state of the weather.

'I don't care if it rains till Christmas,' remarked a dissipated youth, who had just successfully finished a game of euchre with a dirty pack of cards and an equally unclean companion. 'It's no odds to us as long as the creeks don't rise and block us goin' to the big smoke to blue our cheques. I don't hold with too much fine weather at shearin' time.'

'Why not?' asked his late antagonist, who was staring gloomily at the cards, as if he held them responsible for his losses.

'Why not?' repeated the first speaker; 'because there's no fun in watchin' these bloomin' shearers makin' their pound and thirty bob a day, while we can't rise a mag over three and six— at it all hours like so many workin' bullocks, and turned out the minute shearin's over, like a lot of unclaimed strangers after a cattle muster.'

'Why did ye come here at all?' asked a tall, broad-shouldered 'constable' from the neighbourhood of Penrith; 'nobody asked yer. There was plenty for the work' before you come. It's you Melbourne larrikins that spoil all the shed— blackguardin' and gamblin', and growlin' from daylight to dark. If I was the boss I'd set bait for ye, like the dingoes.'

'You shut up and go' home to yer pumpkin patch,' retorted the card player, with sudden animation. 'You Sydney-side natives think no one can work stock but yourselves. You've no right this side of the Murrumbidgee, if it comes to that; and I'd make one of a crowd to start you back where you come from, and all your blackleg lot.'

'Put up your hands, you spieler!' said the New South Welshman, making one long stride towards the light-weight, who, standing easily on guard, appeared in no way anxious to decline the combat.

'Come, none of that, you Nepean chap,' said a good-humoured, authoritative voice: 'no scrappin' till shearin's over, or I'll stop your pay. Besides, it's a daylight start to-morrow morning. I've a paddock to clear, and the glass is rising'. The weather's going to take up.'

This was the second overseer, whose word was law until the 'cobbler' was shown, and the last man with the last sheep left the shed amid derisive cheers. After a little subdued 'growling', the combatants, there being no grog to inflame their angry passions, subsided.

'What's that old Bill was saying about horses and men's lives?' I heard it from outside,' demanded the centurion. 'Any duffing going on?'

'Why, Joe Downey passed the remark,' made answer a wiry-looking old hand, who was then engaged in mending one of his boots so neatly that he might have passed for a journeyman shoemaker had it not been an open secret that he had learned the trade within the walls of a gaol, 'that if a man were to shake a horse here and ride him into Queensland he'd never be copped.'

'Oh! he wouldn't, eh? And why did Bill get his hair off?'

'Well, Bill, he says, 'You're a dashed young fool,' says he. 'I've seen smarter men than you lose their lives over a ten pound 'oss— yes, and bring better men than themselves to the same end.'

'But he said something about five men,' persisted the overseer. 'What did he mean by that?'

'What did I mean by that?' said the old man, who had now drawn nearer, in stern and strident tones. 'Why, what I say. It's God's truth, as I stand here, and the whole five of 'em's now in their graves— and as fine a lot of men, too, as ever you see—  and all along of one blasted mare, worth about two fivers, and be hanged to her!'

The old man's speech had a sort of rude eloquence, born of earnestness, about it, which chained the attention of the variously composed crowd; and when Mr. McDonald, the overseer, said,

'Come, Bill! let's have it. It's a lost day, and we may as well hear your yarn as do anything else before, turn-in time.'

The old man, thus adjured, took his pipe out of his mouth, and, seating himself upon a three-legged stool, prepared to deliver himself of a singular and tragic experience.

William James, chiefly referred to as 'Old Bill,' was a true type of the veritable 'old hand' of pre-auriferous Australia. Concerning an early voyage to Tasmania he was reticent. He referred to the 'period ambiguously as 'them old times' when he related tales of mystery and fear such as could have found place only under the regime of forced colonisation. No hirsute ornament adorned his countenance. Slightly wrinkled, but ever clean-shaved, it was a face furrowed and graven as with a life record of the darker passions and such various suffering as the human animal alone can endure and live.

Out of this furnace of tribulation Old Bill had emerged, in a measure purified and reformed. He gave one the impression of a retired pirate— convinced of the defects of the profession, but regretful of its more pleasing episodes. Considered as a bush labourer, a more useful individual in a colony did not live. But could do everything well, and do twice as much of it as the less indurated industrialist of a later day. Hardy, resourceful, tireless, true to his salt, Old Bill had often been considered by the partially experienced employer an invaluable servant.

And so in truth he was until the fatal day arrived when the 'cheque fever' assailed him. Then, alas! 'he was neither to hand nor to bind.' No reason, interest, promises or principle had power to restrain him from the mad debauch, when for days'— perhaps for weeks— all semblance of manhood was lost. However, he was now in the healthful stage of constant work— well fed, paid and sheltered. Cooking was one of his many accomplishments. In it he excelled. While, despite his age, his courage and determination always sufficed to keep the turbulent rouseabouts in order. In his leisure hours he was prone to improve the occasion by demonstrating the folly of colliding with the law— its certain victory, its terrible penalties. And of the gloomy sequel to a solitary act of criminality was the present story.

'I mind,' he began, pushing back the grey hair which he wore long and carefully brushed, 'when I was workin' on a run near the Queensland border. It's many a long year ago— but that says nothin'; some of you chaps is as young and as foolish and headstrong as this Jack Danvers as I'm agoing to tell you about. Well, some of us was having a bit of a spree like, after shearin'; we'd all  got a tidy cheque, and some was going one way and some another. Jack and his mate they was going to Queensland, where they expected a long job of work. Just as we was a-saddling up— some of us had one horse, some two— a mob of horses comes by. I knew who they belonged to— a squatter not far off. Among them was a fine lump of a brown filly, three year old, half bred, but with good action.

'That's a good filly,' says Jack— he'd had a few glasses— 'she'd be easy roped in the old cattle-yard near the crick. She'd lead easy, too.'

'Don't be a darned fool, Jack,' says I; 'there'll be a bloomin' row about her, you take my word. She is safe to be missed, and you'll be tracked up. Damn it all man,' says I, 'what's a ten-pound filly for a man to lose his liberty over? If it was a big touch, it might be different.'

'You're a fine cove to preach,' says he, quite savage. The grog had got into his head, I could see. 'Mind your own business.'

I heard his mate (he was a rank bad 'un) say something to him, and they rode away steady; but the same road the mob had gone. I went off afterwards with some other chaps, as were still inside having a last drink, and thought no more about Jack Danvers and the brown filly till near a year after. The filly had been spotted, working in a team, by the man that owned her. The carrier had bought her all square and honest; he had a receipt from a storekeeper. They found the storekeeper in Queensland; he'd bought her from another man.

'What sort of a man?'

'Why, a tall, good-looking chap, like a flash shearer.'

Word went to the police at Warwillah.  It was Jack Danvers, of course; they'd suspected him and his mate all the time.

'Well, Jack was nabbed, tho' he was out on a Queensland diggin' far enough away. But they sent up his description from the shed we'd left together, and he was brought down in irons, as he had made a fight of it. The storekeeper swore to him most positive as the man that had sold him the brown J. D. filly— old Jerry Dawson's she was. The jury found him guilty, and he got three years.

'Now I'm coming to the part of the play when the ante up comes in. You mind me, you young fellows, it always does sooner or later. He'd no call to shake that filly. I said so then, and I say so now. And what come'd of it? Listen, and I'll tell you— and so simple, all about an unbroke filly!

'Now, Jack wa'n't the man to stop inside of prison walls. He and another chap mike a rush one day, knock over the warder, and collar his revolver. Another warder comes up, Jack shoots him dead, and they clear out. Man's life, number one. Next thing big reward offered immediate. They stick up a roadside inn next. Somebody gave 'em away. Police waiting on 'em as they walk in— dead of night. Soon's they see the police, Jack shoots the innkeeper, poor devil, thought he'd sold 'em. Man's life, number two. Jack and his mate and the police all bang away at each other at close quarters— trooper wounded— Jack shot dead — mate wounded, dies next day. Men's lives, number four.

'Who gave the office to the police and collared the blood-money? Friend of Jack's, a pal. Five hundred quid was too much for him. What became of him? Job leaked out somehow— friends and family dropped him. The money did him no good. Took to drinking straight ahead, and dies within the year. Men's lives, number, five.

'Yes; he was the fifth man to go down. Two pound apiece their lives fetched! They're in their graves because Jack Danvers was a dashed fool, and when he was young, strong, good-looking, and well liked, must go and duff a man's mare out of sheer foolishness. He didn't see what was to conic of it, or he'd 'a cut his right hand off first. But that's the way of it. We don't see them things till it's too late. But you mark my words, you young chaps, as has got all the world before you— take a fool's advice. It don't pay to 'go on the cross,' and never did; and there's no one knows it better than old Bill James.'

'By George! old man,' said the overseer, 'that's the best yarn I have heard for a year. And if the parson preaches a better sermon when he holds service in the woolshed next Sunday, I'll be surprised.'

_______________

16: The Mailman's Yarn

Rolf Boldrewood

Sydney Mail and New South Wales Advertiser 18 December 1886

'RUM THINGS happen in the bush, you take my word for it,' suddenly broke out Dan M'Elroy as we were sitting smoking round a camp fire far back in the Never-Never country one night. The whole tract of country west of the Barcoo was under water that spring. We were all stuck hard and fast, about 50 miles from Sandringham, waiting for the creeks and cowails to go down. They were'n't small ones either— twenty foot deep in places, and half-a-mile wide.

There were half-a-dozen teamsters with wool waggons, Jim and me, and two black boys, with four hundred head of fat cattle from Marndoo. A police trooper bringing down a horse-stealer for trial, that had just been committed by the Bench, made up the party. The prisoner was comfortable, but was chained to a log. Here we were, waiting, waiting, and had to make the best of it. We walked about in the daylight, and did a bit of shooting. We'd put up a bough yard to put the cattle in, more for the exercise than anything else. And to make the time pass we'd taken to telling yarns at night. Some of them were that curious, I wish I hadn't forgotten 'em. But this one that Dan told that night I shall remember to my dying day.

He was mail contractor between St. George and Bolivar run, a weather-beaten Bathurst native, as hard as iron bark, who'd have contracted to run the mail from the Red Sea to Jordan in spite of all the Arabs in the desert, if they'd made it worth his while. He was afraid of nothing and nobody. In his time he had been speared by blacks, shot at by bushrangers, fished for dead out of flooded creeks, besides being 'given up ' in fever, ague, and sunstroke in his exploration of proven mail routes in the Never Never country. Hairbreadth escapes and deadly risks were like daily bread to him. He seemed to thrive on 'em, but this adventure of his must have been a deal out of the common way, I must say.

He looked round over the great plain, where we could see the glimmer of water on every side, by the light of the low moon that was just showing red and goblin-like. A murmuring wind began to whisper and sob among the stunted myall, swaying the long streamers as if they were mourning for the dead. It felt colder, though we'd piled up the logs on the fire lately, when he filed his pipe and said,

'We'll turn in after this, but you may as well take it to sleep on. It was near 20 years ago it happened, and it comes back to me now nearly as fresh as I saw it that cursed night. You chaps remember,' he said, taking a good steady draw at his pipe, by way of starting it and the yarn at the same time, 'you remember as I told you I was running a horse mail between Marlborough Point and Waranah somewhere about '68. It was a different season from this, I tell you. No rain for about 18 months, and when the autumn came in dry, with the nights long and cold, the sheep began to die faster than you could count 'em. I had a fairish contract, and though the mail was a heavy one, I was able to manage it by riding one horse and leading a packer. A terrible long day's ride it was— three times a week —85 mile. Of course, I had a change of horses; but I didn't get in till 11 or 12 at night to Waranah. The frosty night set in, and sometimes, between being half frozen and dead tired I could hardly sit on my horse. It was getting on towards June, and still no rain; only the frosts getting sharper and sharper, when I came along to a sand-hill by the billabong of the Murrumbidgee, about ten miles from Waranah. There was a big waterhole there, and it was a favourite camping place between the township and Baranco station. I was later than usual. I daresay it was somewhere about midnight when I got to this point. I'd had a weak horse, as had knocked up, and I'd had to walk five miles. I was nigh perished with the cold; hungry, too, for I'd had no time to stop and get a feed; and, as I'd been in the saddle since long before daylight, you may guess I was pretty well tuckered out. A particular spot, too, when you come to think of it. The sand ridge ran back from the waterhole a good way (there was a big kurrajong tree beside it, I remember) and spread out near upon a mile, till you got into a fair-sized plain. The ridge— that's the way of 'em in dry country— was covered as thick as they could stand with pine scrub. An old cattle-track ran right through to the plain, where they used to come to water in the old days when Baranco was a cattle run. I was dozing on my horse, dog-tired and stiff with the cold, when I came to the waterhole at the foot of this sand-hill. I always used to pull up there and have a smoke; so I stopped and looked round about, in a half-sleepy, dazed kind of way. I felt for my box of matches, and I'm dashed if they weren't gone— shot out, I expect, for I'd been working my passage, and been jumbled about more than enough. That put the cap on. I felt as if I'd drop off the horse then and there. I was never one for drinking, and I didn't carry a flask. How I'd get on the next couple of hours I couldn't think.

'All of a sudden a streak of light came through the darkness of the pine scrub to the left of me. It got broader and broader. It wasn't the moon, I knew, for that wouldn't show till nigh hand to daylight. It must be a fire. Somebody camping, of course; but why they didn't stop by the water, the regular place, with good feed and open ground all round them, I couldn't make out.

'I was off like a shot and hung up my horse to a kurrajong tree which stood handy. It was too thick to ride through the scrub, and I thought the walk would freshen me up. I started off quite jolly with the notion of the grand warm I should have at the fire, and the pipeful of baccy I should be able to borrow.

'It was a big fire I saw, as I stumbled along, getting nearer and nearer the head of an old man pine, the branches of which were as dry as tinder and burnt like matchwood. I could see three men standing round it. As I got nearer I was just going to hollow out, partly for fun and partly for devilment, when the wind blew the flame round and made one of the men, who was poking a pole into the fire, shift and turn his face towards me. Mind, I was in the dark shadow of the pines. The glare of the fire lit up his face and those of the two other men as clear as the day.

'The man's face, as it turned towards where I was standing, had such a hellish expression that I stopped dead, and drew behind an overhanging balab that grew among the pines. He seemed to be listening. Another man, who had an axe in his hand, said something to him, when he walked a few steps down the track towards me, and then stopped. My God! what a face it was! No devil out of hell could have looked more fiendish than he did. It was like no human face I'd ever seen. I began to think I was asleep and dreaming of a tale in a book.

'They were not more than twenty yards from where I stood. My heart beat that hard and loud I was afraid they must hear it. My hair stood on end, if anyone's ever did, while as the tall dark man began to poke the fire again, and pushed something further into it that was not a log of wood, I nearly fainted, while the thick beads of perspiration rolled down my forehead and face.

'What did I see that caused every drop of blood in my veins to turn to ice— that threatened to stop my life-pulse, and cause my heart to burst its veins? What the strange man stirred in the fire, making the sparks to fly upward and around amid the red glowing embers, was a human corpse! Yes; there was no mistaking the dreadful shape and sight. One arm stuck out. The legs were there— the skull, blackened and featureless— and, Heavenly Father! beyond and in the midst of the heap of glowing embers lay another shape huddled together and showing no angle of limb or bone. The other man had made a broom of boughs tied together, and was busy sweeping in all the out-thrown pieces of charcoal, so as to prevent the flame from spreading through the tall dry grass. At a short distance I could make out a large tilted cart, such as hawkers chiefly use in the bush.

' "By heavens!" said the man with the pole, "I'll swear I heard a stick crack. If  any traveller come to the water-hole and followed the track up, he'll have to be rubbed out, and no two ways about it. It will be our lives against his."

' "Haven't we had blood enough for one day?" said the man with the axe. "By George! when I think of those two poor chaps' faces just before you dropped them with the axe, I'd give all we've made ten times over to have 'em alive again."

' "You was always a snivelling beggar," said the tall man. "If you'd had your back scratched at Port Arthur half as often as I've had, you'd think no more of a man's life than a wild dog's. I believe it must ha' been me or a wallaby as made the noise."

'I've faced a trifle of danger, and looked close at death, seen some near chances for life and limb in my time, but nothing that came near this first half-an-hour I spent there before I could make myself steady enough to stir. I couldn't sit; I was too much exhausted to stand; yet there I had to crouch down and wait for nearly an hour before I got the chance to go back upon my track.

'All the time the horrible task of pushing the bodies into the centre of the fire was kept up without intermission, as they got smaller and smaller. Two of the men were at this dreadful work, while the third was sweeping industriously round every edge of the fixe. At last the two men I first saw seated themselves near the edge of the fire, and began to smoke. Now was my turn. I crawled noiselessly from my post, or rather tree, and crept along the path until I came to where my horses were standing. I mounted one, somehow, and took the other. I rode steadily for a while and then, hustling the poor brutes to a hand gallop, I kept along the road to Waranah till I reached the gate at the boundary of the run. Then I felt as if I was hardly safe. I looked round and could almost see witches and demons following me through the air and waving spectral arms in every bough of the stunted trees through which the road wound.

'When I saw the lights of the little township, I was that glad that I shouted and sang all the way up to the hotel where the mail was delivered. I had a strange sort of feeling in my head as I galloped up to the door. Then a mist came before my eyes. I reeled in my saddle. Everything was dark, I remembered no more till at the end of a week I found myself in bed recovering from fever.

'I suppose I'd been sickening for the fever before. What with hot days, cold nights, and drinking water out of swamps and dry holes that were half mud and half— pah! something one don't like to think of— the wonder is we don't get it oftener. Anyhow I was down that time, and next morning it seems they had the doctor to me. He was a clever man and a gentleman too; my word! He fetched me round after a month, but I was off my head the first week, and kept raving (so they told me afterwards) about men being knocked on the head and burned, about hawkers' carts, and Derwenters, and the big waterhole by Budgell Creek.

'They thought it was all madness and nonsense at first, and took no notice, till one afternoon Mr. Belton, the overseer of Baranco, came riding into Waranah all in a flurry, wanting to see the police and the magistrate, Mr. Water ton.

'This was what he had to say: —

'There were some heavy lots of travelling sheep passing through the station, and. he was keeping along with them for fear they might miss the road and not find it again till they'd eat off a mile or two of his best grass. All of a sudden a mob of the Baranco weaners went across a plain and nearly boxed with 'em. Mr. Belton gallops for his life. I expect he swore a bit, too, and was just in time to head 'em off into the pine scrub by the sand-hill. They took the old cattle track over towards the waterhole, he following them up till all of a sudden he came plump on a hawker's cart. This pulled him up short.

'He let the sheep run on to the frontage and got off his horse. He knew the Colemans' cart. They always stayed at night at Baranco. When they passed a week since they were to be in Waranah that night. What' the deuce were they doing here ? Dash the fellows, were they spelling their horses! Feed was scarce. No! they were not the men to do that. Honest, straight going chaps they'd always been.

'He walked over to the cart. Ha! something wrong, surely. The big slop chest was open. The cash-box had had the lock smashed and was empty. Boots, clothes, tobacco, which they always have of the best, lying scattered about.

'Where were the poor fellows themselves? If they had been robbed, why hadn't they gone to the police at Waranah and complained? Whoever had done this must have camped here in the middle of the scrub. There had been a fire over by the big pine stump— an 'old man' fire; too. Wonder they hadn't set a light to the dry grass? No rain for the half-year to. speak of. No; they had been too jolly careful. Swept in the twigs and ashes all round. Curious fire, too, for bushmen to make. Big enough to roast an ox. Curiously he stares at the ashes; then gropes among them with his hand. My God! what are all these small pieces of bone? Why, the place is full of them. And this? find this? A metal button, a metal buckle— one, two, three, twelve in all.

'It comes back to him now that three travellers left the Baranco men's hut the same morning as the Colemans— one a tall, dark-gray-haired old hand, with a scar across his face. He gets his horse with a long sort of half-whistle and half, groan, and rides slowly, in a study like, towards the township.

'The next day the magistrate, Mr. Waterton (he's a squatter, but sits most times when the police magistrate isn't on hand), goes out with, the Sergeant of Police, and the best part of the townspeople of Waranah. He holds an inquiry. The doctor also attended and gave evidence to the effect that he had no doubt whatever that the bones recently formed part of a human skeleton.

'The surface of the fire was raked over, and a lot of metal buttons and buckles, as many as would be used for two pairs of trousers, with other remains of clothing, found. A verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown was returned.

'It was subsequently ascertained that on the second day after the murder three men crossed the Murray River high up, near a public-house. Their manner and ways were very suspicious. One of them fired off a revolver. They had on new suits of clothes, new boots, with elastic sides, and no end of tobacco of a queer brand— not known in those parts. They had all large swags. The boss of the crowd was a tall, dark man, with a scar and gray hair. He was the man who fired the revolver, and used wild and threatening language.

'The police from Crowlands picked up the trail so far. If they had followed hard on like the avengers of blood, as the feller says in the play, they might have run down the murdering dogs. But the publican had a bad memory. He couldn't remember seeing any out-of-the-way travellers cross the river that week. So the police turned back and lost the scent for good And all. What was a queer enough thing about the matter was that directly after the inquiry was  published a telegram was sent from the poor fellows friends to the police sergeant at Waranah. He was to look under the lid of the big slop-chest, and he'd find a false top that slid back— very neat, made so that people mostly wouldn't notice it. Behind this was a drawer; in it there were notes and cheques. They never kept more than a fiver or so in the cash-box, and left the secret with their relatives before leaving town. Sure enough, the sergeant finds the secret drawer, and in it, after being in the open bush nearly a fortnight, ninety pound odd in notes and good cheques, which, of course, we sent to their friends. The villains only got four pounds and a fit-out of clothes and tobacco for the lives of two men.

'The police never could get wind of these double dyed villains for years afterwards. However, they dropped upon the man with the scar, whose name was Campbell. He was sworn to as the man that left Baranco station with the other two oh the day of the murder, as the man that had fresh clothes and tobacco (such as nobody but the Colemans sold in the district) two days after. It was proved that they were all hard up and ragged when they left Baranco. The evidence was in dribs and drabs, but they pieced it together bit by bit. It was enough to hang him, and hang him they did. I swore to him as the man I saw at the fire that terrible night. And now, mates, I'll turn in.

'There's no fear of being burned to bits here, is there? Good-night all.'

_______________

17: Comedy of the Grand Canal

J. S. Fletcher

1863-1935

Telegraph (Brisbane) 10 November 1906

RALSTON had been kicking his heels, wearing out his patience, and using strong language, not always under his breath, in the Piazza di San Marco, from seven o'clock until nearly eight, and he was still unrewarded for his pains. Overhead was a sky of dazzling blue; at the head of the square, behind the three tall masts whereon they used to hang the banners of Cyprus and Candia and the Morca, in the days when Venice was a Republic and a proud thing, and where the Italian flag now flaunts on Sundays and festa days, rose the façade of St. Mark's, with its gorgeous colouring, its oriental looking domes, and its bronze horses; between tho masts and the corner of the Palazzo Reale towered the great Campanile, its gilded pinnacle flashing back the rays of the spring sun. All over the Piazza fluttered the pigeons, descendants of tho birds who carried the good news from Candia to Venice seven hundred years ago; under the colonnades the folk of the shops, the cafés, and the restaurants were preparing for another day of work and money making; the air was filled with chatter and sunshine and laughter and the scent of the sea, and everything was full of life and colour and gaiety.

At any other time Ralston would have drunk it all in with the greedy eye of the artist. On this particular occasion he stuck his hands still deeper in his pockets, swore softly from time to time, and at intervals stared at the clock above the gateway at the end of the old procuratie, noting with savage dislike of the fact that the two bronze Vulcans were about to mark the hour of eight upon its face.

He, of course, was waiting for a girl, and the girl, of course was late in keeping the appointment— equally, of course, the fact that she was an hour late would shorten the time they could spend together by an hour. It was annoying, vexatious, disappointing, and Ralston felt that the morning was unsympathetic. It should have surrounded his gloom with its gloom; there should have been rain in the wind instead of gentle and balmy zephyrs in the air; the people moving about should have worn long faces instead of cheerful smiles.

All these thoughts vanished like mist before the sunlight when he suddenly caught a glimpse of a familiar gown hurrying towards him. It was with a mighty sense of relief, a smile of childlike thankfulness and outstretched hands that he literally bounded forward to meet the girl he had been waiting for.

"My darling!" he exclaimed, with a fervour that made a waiter who lounged at the door of a cafe open his eyes and feel a sudden warmth about the region of his heart, "How late you are! You said seven, and it is now eight, and we shall have all that time the less. Why are you late?"

"Shall I tell you the real reason?" she said, with an arch laugh. "Well, I did not wake up till half-past seven, and I have had to hurry, so you can guess."

"You didn't wake?" he cried almost incredulously. "And I was awake at four o'clock, and out at six, and I've counted every stone in this blessed square since seven."

"How hungry you must be!" she exclaimed, with a side glance at the

"I'm afraid I am, too."

"That is easily remedied," he answered, leading the way into the cafe, where the sympathetic waiter stood bowing and smiling.

"Here, let's have that corner. It's about the quietest spot I can see."

The girl sat down and drew off her gloves. Ralston, after giving his order to the waiter, sat down opposite her. At that hour the cafe was almost deserted. He laid his hand on hers; she looked up at him with a quick smile.

"Well, Nellie," he said, with an anxious note in his voice, "was it any good?"

The girl shook her head.

"Not a scrap," she replied. "I seized what seemed to be the psychological moment, and summoned all my wits and best reasons and soundest arguments. I cajoled, I was bewitching, I was adamantine and yet tender, but it was no good. You are too young, and too poor— especially poor— my unfortunate Dick, and I think my respected parent would like me to espouse one of those Italian noblemen with a mouldy palazzo and a mighty degree."

"They have no money, anyway," growled Ralston.

"No, but you see they can supply a title. It sounds somewhat enticing— il contessa This, or il principessa That, I think either would fit me very well. What do you think, Dick?" she said, glancing at him with laughing eyes.

Ralston regarded her fondly. She was young and fresh and dainty, full of the most alluring charms of young womanhood, and if all the rest of the world had been transmuted into fine gold, and set in the scale of his estimation against her, he would have preferred her to all that it would buy for him.

"I think," he replied, as they set to work on their coffee and its light adjuncts with the zest of youthful appetites, "I think that there is only one possible name, or style, or title which would fit you, and it is Mrs. Richard Ralston. And that's the style and title you're to bear, my dear."

Miss Helen Partington laughed.

"How's the change to come about, Dick?" she asked. "After last night, I feel sure that the poppa's mind is made up— in fact, I am charged with an ultimatum. Either this has got to stop, or he's going to conduct me homewards to New York, straight off. He puts it like this— you've danced attendance all round, from Nice to Rome, from Rome to Florence, from Florence to Venice, and you've been said "no" to in every place, and yet you turn up wherever he flies for refuge. I'm a disobedient and wicked daughter— I meet you and talk to you and encourage you— and I am spoiling everything for him. He wants to be at peace here for a while, and then to got some more peace at Milan and Turin, and then in Switzerland, and he knows you'll turn up at every place, and sigh and swear, and be objectionable generally, just because you can't have your own way. And so you must either clear out, or we shall sail for the land of the free."

Ralston frowned, and tried to balance a spoon on the edge of his cup, the process suggesting serious and profound thought.

"If he will give his consent to our engagement," he said, "I'll do anything he likes. And why should he not? I'm not a millionaire, but I'm an English gentleman, and I've a clean record, and about a thousand a year of my own. That would satisfy you, Nellie, wouldn't it!" he added, with a certain wistfulness.

The girl smiled and touched his hand. "I guess I'm so much in love with you," she said, "that a thousand pounds, a thousand dollars, or a thousand of these ridiculous centisimi are all alike in value to me. But are either of us sane enough just now to reckon such matters up? I'm sure I'm not, and I don't think you are."

"Hang sanity!" he said. "Look here, Nellie, do you want to marry me— do you, do you?"

The girl's face flushed, and she became deeply interested in her coffee.

"Yes— awfully!" she whispered at last.

"Of course!" Ralston buttoned his jacket and squared his shoulders. "Then it's got to be done!" he said. "Bless you, darling, do you think it would matter very much if I kissed you over the table? There's only the waiter looking, and I can bribe him to look another way."

"Don't he silly!" she said. "Be serious, Dick, how can it be done? I don't want to disobey my father, and I won't break with you. Is there no way of settling it all in a pleasant, amicable spirit? He says, for instance, that you're a British aristocrat, with no grit, no enterprise, that you're incapable of carrying anything out, and that if your father hadn't left you that thousand a year, you'd have qualified as a mute at a funeral."

"He has a sweet and graceful way of describing anybody's peculiarities, qualities, and characteristics," said Ralston, quite unmoved. "Give him my love, dear, and tell him that I feel there are great potentialities dormant in me, and that I believe they are on the point of waking up. 'Incapable of carrying anything out,' am I? Umph!— Nellie, dearest, I've always had a sort of notion that I was born to he a great administrator or a mighty general, or something, and I rather feel as if the moment had come. In fact, I think something's going to happen. I'm rather glad you repeated your father's elegant remarks concerning his future son-in-law. Oh, I shall be that, dear, and before long! They've given me a sort of appetite for what I can only call vast endeavour. I'm going to do something just to show Hiram J. Partington that I can do it."

"Dick!" she exclaimed. "If you only would, or could! There's nothing he worships so much as the men who do something. It's a perfect mania with him. Oh, do anything, so long, of course, as it's something uncommon— it must be uncommon."

"What I think of doing," replied Dick, slowly and meditatively, "will be something exceptionally uncommon. In fact, it isn't in me, Nellie, to do anything in a common way. Have I ever made love to you in an ordinary fashion? Didn't I blurt out all my passion within ten minutes of having you all to myself the first time?"

"I know you were very impetuous and very unconventional," she murmured, "and very delightful. But what is it you are going to do?"

Ralston shook his head.

"I'm not quite certain as to the exact course of my proceedings, dear," he answered, "but I am perfectly assured as to how they will result. As I have already remarked, your honoured father's remarks have awakened some Impulse in me. Listen! You may tell him. from mo that I will behave myself until I have done something; tell him, too, that I am about to do something big; and after that I shall venture to approach him again. In the meantime, he can rest in as much peace as he can find amongst the canals and canaletti of Venice— it's a restful place for the nerves."

After his sweetheart had parted from him (at a much later hour of the morning), Ralston, filled and lighted a pipe, and took his way round the corner to the Riva degli Schiavon, where, amidst a multi-coloured and diverse throng, he strolled and smoked and meditated for some time. It was an ordinance of Providence that he and Nellie Parrington should marry, and it would be better for all parties concerned if her father could be brought to give his consent to the union. Ralston knew the old millionaire sufficiently to feel sure that his acquiescence in the young people's ideas might be secured if he were dealt with in the right way— the difficulty had been to find out what the right way was. Parrington had got the notion into his head that the very young and handsome Englishman, who was so madly in love with his daughter was at tho best an idler— why else was he, at his age, spending his time in pleasure-seeking ? He further clung to the idea that all pleasure-seekers are wasters, incapable of effort or initiative— he himself was a self-made man, and had never taken holidays until he had made his pile, since which time he had taken many more than was really good for him. It was clearly necessary, if the millionaire's favour was to be won, that Ralston should prove himself a young man of grit and of resolution, and Ralston meant to raise proof to that effect as speedily as possible.

It was his determination on this point that made him presently step into a gondola and instruct the gondoliers to take him to a quarter of the city wherein dwelt one Ulick Bourke, an Irishman of infinite resource, who at that time was living at Venice in order to put its glories on canvas. Him Ralston found in dressing-gown and slippers, alternately sipping his morning coffee, and adding a dab of colour to a half-finished picture. A few words from his visitor made Bourke lay aside his brushes, add a flask of old cognac to the coffee-pot, light a black cigar, and put on his thinking cap. There was much mental effort expended in that room during the next two hours, But at the end of that time Bourke brought his hand down on his friend's, shoulder with a mighty smack.

"We'll do it, and by this and that 'tis a fine scheme, an'll cause great diversion. And so that we can think over the details a bit more, I'll slip into a Christian like jacket and go round to lunch with ye at 'Florian's— sure we'll put the thing to rights there, and I'll be dancin' at yer weddin' before the month's out."

THE HOTEL BRITANNIA, wherein Mr. Hiram J. Parrington had established himself and his daughter, was once upon a time the Palazzo Zuchelli, and has many of the charms which distinguish the palatial buildings that are as thick as daisies along the winding shores of the Grand Canal. It possesses one feature which was particularly welcome to Mr. Parrington— a small balcony garden, facing the church of Santa Maria della Salute, a gorgeous and imposing pile that rises on the opposite shore, and overlooking all the varied life and colour that sweeps through the great water highway of Venice from early morning until long after the glittering stars have flashed out of the deep blue sky of twilight. In this garden Mr. Parrington liked to sit— especially after dejeuner― smoking large cigars, tasting whatever drinks suited his fancy, and gazing at the panorama unfolded before him. He  became greatly interested in the gondoliers and their curious method of propelling their sable craft, in their quaint cries, in the marvellous agility which enabled them to avoid frequent immersion, and in their picturesque attitudes.

Not so fond, however, was he of making excursions by the gondolier's aid. On his first arrival at Venice he had inspected the principal sights at once, and then having discovered the comfortable balcony garden, he had announced his intention of taking his ease.

Several months of travel now predisposed him to luxury of this sort, and for some days he enjoyed the sensation of having nothing to do but rise when he liked, eat when he pleased, and being able to sit out in the sun filling himself full of laziness and warmth and semi-oriental do-nothingness. His daughter in the meantime explored Venice to her heart's desire, usually in the company of Mr. Richard Ralston. Mr. Parrington, if he understood this, never mentioned it; his one desire, as he had told her on the last occasion on which they had discussed the love affair, was for peace, and peace he meant to have.

The millionaire was naturally much alone in the little balcony garden, for though it had charm enough for sentimental young people, what time Chinese lanterns were lighted at the prows of gondolas, and mandolines and guitars tinkled under the starlight, there were other things to see in Venice, and most of the folk staying at the Britannia spent the day in seeing them.

But loneliness, amidst such surroundings are welcome to a man who has lately had too much globe trotting, and Mr. Parrington never felt it. He could doze when he pleased, and smoke when he desired; there was the open door to the reading-room just behind the little arbour in which he usually seated himself, and an attentive waiter at hand to fetch whatever literature Mr. Parrington desired to inspect. The little balcony garden of the Britannia was his hermitage, and satisfied him— he played his peaceful game there, while Miss Parrington dived into ancient churches, dedicated to saints of unfamiliar, names— Moise, Pantaleone, and the like — and into old palazzi and dusty shops where they sold antiques, or made romantic journeys, half hidden beneath the felz of a gondola, with Mr. Ralston.

But in spite of his love of peace Mr. Parrington was not offended when on waking up from an after dejeuner siesta one afternoon he found another gentleman sharing the little arbour with him. He unclasped his hands from before his stomach, pushed back his Panama hat, adjusted his spectacles, and feeling at peace with all the world, remarked that it was a fine day.

"A fine day it is, indeed, sir!" responded the other with fervour. "And a fine scene that were beholding, thank God! There is no scene in all the wurruld, sir, that can equal this."

"I guess you are right there, mister, replied the millionaire. "It's an uncommonly peaceful scene. I read in my guide book as I came along the railway from Florence to this place, that Venice is soothing to the nerves, and I reckon I'm on to that soothing business. The absence of street cars and of horses, sir, is a distinct advantage in this city. Those gondolas are very peaceful indeed; I find them conducive to sleep, sir, which is a hard thing to induce in our American cities."

The other man drew his chair a little nearer.

"You're from that great country, sir?" he said with an air of great interest, and a tone of tender respect. "It's a country, sir, for which all of my own persecuted nation have a high regard. I'm an Irishman myself, sir. Allow me to present you with me kyard; it's an honour to meet an American citizen."

Mr. Parrington, as lie took the stranger's card, looked at him more closely, and recognised him as the handsome man who had attracted his daughter's attention at the table d'hôte on the previous evening.

Tho name on the card was Terence O'Grady, M.P., and the address was Donnybrook, Dublin.

"I am proud to make your acquaintance, Mr. O'Grady," said the millionaire. "Allow me, sir," and he presented his own card to the Irishman.

Mr. O'Grady received it with a bow, and uttered an exclamation which betokened exceeding joy.

"Not the great Mr. Parrington, of Milwaukee?" he said. "Ah! I see it is! Me dear sir, allow me to shake your hand once more. Faith 'tis a strange wurruld it is ; who'd have thought, now, of seeing you in Venice an this particular minute?"

"Why not?" asked Mr. Parrington.

"Faith, ye may ask why not," answered Mr. O'Grady. with a wink. "Ye didn't hear of a little deal there was going on here, I'm wondering?"

The millionaire pricked his ears.

"I cannot say that the news of it has reached me," he said.

"Well, well, 'tis likely not," said Mr; O'Grady. "Indeed, thin, I was just wondering if the scheme had leaked out in any way— sure, 'tis in the hands of but a few, yet ye never know what may not happen, and hearing ye speak of gondolas, ye know, made me think ye might be interested, Mr. Parrington, as a man of high standing in the financial wurruld."

Mr. Parrington stared at his new friend. Something prompted him to beckon the waiter, who, from happy experience; always lingered near him, and to invite Mr. O'Grady to take a drink.

They lighted cigars, and they drank beautiful wine of Cyprus, and they talked, and Mr. O'Grady, who as a citizen of the world, knew that you can always give your whole confidence to an American millionaire, told Mr. Parrington a secret.

There was a great scheme toward respecting Venice, and the gondolas— nothing less than running the latter by electric motor power. The gondolier would be retained for his picturesqueness; the gondola would not be changed in shape; but it would be propelled by electricity, travel ten times as quickly, and he brought up to date. Its ancient charm would not be destroyed in any way; nay, it would be enhanced, for at night a myriad of electric sparks would flash about the canals and canaletti— "as if 'twas heaven's own jools had come out of the skoy, sir"—  Venice, the beautiful, would be more beautiful than over.

Mr. Parrington was impressed. He had the true American love of bringing things up to date, and he thought this was a promising scheme, and said so.

"And who is in with you, Mr. O'Grady?" he inquired.

Mr O'Grady looked around him with cautious glances.

"There's six of us at present," he said. "The Duke of Normansland is one—  sure, he's the head of one of the greatest and proudest families in England.; and Lord Rothschild is another; and Sir Thomas Lipton, him as tried to hit the cup; and Herr von Guggenheimer, the big Berlin banker ; and Monsieur Bernard, the great financial agent at Paris; and within a few days we shall have Andrew Carnegie and Pierpont Morgan— and that's a good board. Mr. Parrington."

Mr. Parrington fully agreed on that point.

"More be token," said Mr. O'Grady, "the Duke of Normansland and Herr von Guggenheimer are in Venice now, prospecting with me, and the rest will he here in a few days, and then we'll clinch matters."

"Mr. O'Grady," said the millionaire, "I would like to be in with you in this. Is it to he done, sir?"

Mr. O'Grady was not quite sure about that. He would like Mr. Parrington's name— indeed, he had wondered when he first heard it, if Pierpont Morgan or Andrew Carnegie had mentioned the matter to him, and if he had come to Venice to spy out the land.

"But I'll tell you what, sir," said he. "With your Very kind permission I'll bring the duke and Herr von Guggenheimer in to see you; they'll be delighted to discuss the matter with one of your standing in the financial world."

"Mr. O'Grady," said Mr. Parrington, solemnly, "I shall take it as a favour if the Duke of Normansland and Herr von Guggenheimer and yourself will dine with me and my daughter at this hotel. It couldn't he this evening, I suppose?"

Mr. O'Grady considered matters, and finally decided that it could. He departed to arrange matters with his friends, while Mr. Parrington sought out the manager and told him that a real British duke was coming to dine, and gave instructions that a magnificent banquet was to be served in a private room, and that expense was as naught. Then he want back to the balcony garden and wondered if a young Englishman whom he saw there would be offended if he offered him a roll of Italian bank notes to tell him the exact method of addressing a duke.

On second considerations he decided to have a word apart with Mr. O'Grady on that matter, and he resumed his favourite occupation of watching the gondolas. In imagination he saw them propelled by electricity, and himself one of a board of directors, who, with the characteristic perspicacity of the young and vigorous twentieth century, had wrought a mighty change in this ancient city without destroying its picturesqueness and distinctive charm. After this he put his handkerchief over his head and went to sleep until his daughter arrived and dragged him away to afternoon tea on the shady side of the Piazza di San Marco.

WHEN Ralston mot his sweetheart next day she was in a state of perplexed amusement.

"The poppa had a most curious dinner party last night," she said. " Nothing was said before me, and I left them as soon as I could, but I guess there's a money deal in it. There was a duke, who was about as lively a man as over I met, and a fat German whose evening clothes were somewhat small for him, and an Irishman who mado love to―"

"Not to you!" shouted Ralston.

"Why, of course! I was the only woman present. He was a very handsome man, too, and had a way with him, and—"

"I'll break every bone in his body, and punch his head!" said Dick.

"You'll have to find him first, dear," said Miss Parrington. "However, it never come to any more than making eyes and looking unutterable sweetness at me. I think they had a good time, because I looked out of my window upon the canal when they were departing and the good-byes would have moved an elephant to tears, or laughter. The noble Duke wanted to embrace the gondolier, and would sing a strange song about 'Hi-tiddeley-hi-ti-hi-ti-hi!' and Herr von Guggenheimer apostrophised the moon, and the Irishman, Mr. O'Grady— he had the loveliest eyes, Dick— chanted 'Love's Young Dream' as the gondola glided away."

"And your respected poppa ?" asked Ralston.

"Oh, he stood on the top of the steps, and blessed them with a ten-inch cigar," said Miss Parrington. Guess he's a headache this morning," she added, reflectively.

Headache or no headache, the millionaire was quite himself by 5' o'clock in the afternoon, when Mr. O'Grady called on him again.

The Irishman beamed upon Mr. Parrington with delight.

"Me dear friend!" he exclaimed, " I congratulate ye. 'Tis all settled: ye're one of us. Lord Rothschild and Monsieur Bernard have arrived, and they're agreeable to welcome ye with open arms! 'The name of Parrington,' says his lordship, 'is a guarantee in itself,' he says. 'A most worthy gentleman,' he says. 'I'll be pleased to stick mo legs under the same table with him. And I've arranged that the whole of us directhors shall meet to-night, so I'll call for ye at 8 o'clock and conduct ye to the place appointed."

Mr. Parrington was charmed, and pressed Mr. O'Grady to dine with him once again. But Mr. O'Grady had another engagement and excused, himself. He went away, and at 8 o'clock returned in a gondola, into which Mr. Parrington was assisted by the hall-porter. He and Mr. O'Grady lighted cigars, the latter gave ills orders, and the gondolier shot his boat across the Grand Canal in tho direction of Punta della Salute.

Mr. Parrington wondered where they were going; he had. rather a dread of travelling over those dark, silent, starlit waters, and a gondola always seemed a fragile sort of a craft to him when he was actually in it, though graceful enough when viewed from terra-firma. He hoped they were only just going round the opposite point, but discovered that their voyage was to be a longer one, and it was not until they had crossed the Canal della Giudecca that they came to land on a quay near the Church of Il Redomtore. This was a part of Venice which Mr. Parrington did not know, and he looked about him with speculative eyes. Mr. O'Grady took his arm.

"Follow me, me dear sir," he said, "I know every inch of the way hereabouts— we'll be there in no time."

He drew the millionaire along a narrow calle until they came to a door, at which he knocked in a peculiar fashion; Mr. Parrington heard the noise of many bolts and chains within, then the door opened and Mr. O'Grady drew him inside a dark passage. A sense of something unpleasant filled his soul— the embryo board of directors appeared to be holding its first meeting in a hole-and-corner sort of fashion.

"Tis a little gloomy," said Mr. O'Grady, referring pleasantly to the pitch-darkness, "but, please God, we'll have more light presently. There, me dear sir!" and he suddenly opened a door and thrust Mr. Parrington, somewhat unceremoniously, inside a room.

"There's light —and illumination— for ye!" said Mr. O'Grady.

Mr. Parrington looked round and about him and ho knew that all was not well. It was a room of considerable size in which he stood, but not the sort of room in which board meetings are held. It might have been transplanted from the Quartier Latin, but it was very well where it was. There were canvases finished and canvases unfinished on the walls; there was general litter all over the floor; there were wine bottles on the table, and tobacco wreaths between the table and the roof. And on one side of the table sat the Duke of Normansland in a painter's blouse, and with a damp towel round his forehead; on the other sat Herr von Guggenheimer, spectacled and stolid, and at the head in a chair of magisterial appearance sat Mr. Richard Ralston. The millionaire saw all these things quickly, and he turned to Mr. O'Grady. His look was inquiring.

"Mr. Parrington," said Ralston, "I will answer that unspoken question of yours. This is a hold-up."

" 'Hold-up,' " said Mr. O'Grady, who had fastened the doors, and seemed to be in a cheery state of mind, "is a good word. Is there any objection to tho prisoner being seated in presence of the court? Then sit down, Mr. Parrington, me darlint, and thank heaven ye're fallen amongst gentleman that'll treat you good."

Mr. Parrington sat down and stared at. Ralston and at the others. "I do not quite gather the exact meaning of this, sir," he said, looking questioningly at the young man who aspired to his daughter's hand. "Am I kidnapped?"

"You are brought here, Mr. Parrington, in order that a few things may be pointed out to you," said Ralston. "There is no directorate of any company for electrisation of the Venetian gondola; that was a little ruse to get you into my power. Now listen; I wish to marry your daughter— your daughter wishes to marry me. It is your great objection to me that I have no enterprise, and that I cannot carry anything out. Now this little adventure is a proof to you of what I can do; here you are in my power, and here you will remain until you become amenable to my wishes. What do you say, Mr. Parrington? You will find that I am adamant in will and purpose."

"It would appear," said Mr. Parrington, "that you have the whip hand of  me, young man. Do I understand that unless I consent to your proposals you will detain me here as a prisoner for some indefinite period ?"

"Mr. Parrington, I will be frank with you. You have poured scorn upon my capabilities for doing things. I am merely endeavouring to arouse in you a great and abiding sense of admiration for my capacity to do great things. I am a stern, reasonable man of affairs— not a man to shrink from anything. This is a desperate case, and it requires a desperate remedy. I have to inform you, Mr. Parrington, that you are absolutely defenceless and helpless. Your cell, seven feet below the level of the adjacent canal, is at this moment awaiting you, and thither you will be conducted, unless you agree to my terms."

"I should like to know those terms," said Mr. Parrington.

"They are simple— that you write out your unqualified assent to the marriage of Miss Parrington and myself at once. These three gentlemen are all well known and highly respected temporary inhabitants of Venice, they will witness your signature. What do you say?"

"I guess," replied Mr. Parrington, "that I do not calculate to spend tho rest of my life in a dungeon seven feet below tho level of any canal ; and I have formed the opinion, Mr. Ralston, that you are the sort of young man who will keep his word. You have fair bested me on this deal. I know when I'm beaten, and I'll sign that agreement, and abide by it."

Mr. O'Grady burst into cheers expressive of wild joy. He was restrained until the formal agreement was drawn up, signed, and witnessed; but as soon as that was done and the document safely bestowed in Ralston's pocket, he insisted on embracing Mr. Parrington, in introducing himself by his real name, and the Duke of Nomansland and Herr von Guggenheimer by theirs, and he brought about joy and jollity in two minutes.

"Ah, sure now, we'll have a night of it!" he said. "Mr. Parrington, sir, did ye  ever taste a drop of the real potheen; sure I've a little keg of it that I keep for great days; we'll have it out and drink success to the Electric Gondola Company, Limited; and by this and that," added the ci-devant O'Grady, "I wouldn't wonder if there isn't big money to be made out of that scheme, and I'm willing to go into it with ye, Mr. Parrington, sir, whenever ye like. But the duke's produced the potheen and the necessaries, and we'll drink to the bride and the bridegroom that's soon to be— ah! 'tis Dick here that has the real luck, so he has!"

Mr. Parrington began to enjoy himself; within half an hour he had declared his conviction that his future son-in-law had real grit and he had always known it. He had got him, Hiram J. Parrington, in a tight place, and he was the first man who ever had, and he respected him for it.

Ralston slipped away after arranging a subsequent event for his future father-in-law. He went across to the hotel Britannia, and asking for Miss Parrington, led her into the little balcony garden. There was an obliging moon in the wonderful sky and the domes and spires of Venice made fairyland.

"Your father," said Ralston, very softly, "has given his unqualified consent to our union. He has changed his mind concerning me. I have no more fervent admirer, unless it is his daughter."

"But where," she asked, pressing his hand, "where is poppa ?"

"He is at a board meeting," answered Ralston. "He is quite happy. Are you?"

There was no one else in the balcony garden, so she replied in the usual satisfactory way.

________________

18: The Gift to See Ourselves as Others See Us.

Aidan de Brune

1879-1946

Albany Advertiser 14 July 1923

I wonder if author Albert Richard Wetjen was embarrassed when he visited Australia for the first time, ten years after the story "The Salving of the Berwick" was published, with its entirely imaginary notion of the port of Albany...

THE DAY was cold and cheerless. Out on the streets the rain pattered incessantly, running brooklets down the gutters to the Bay. Swift flying clouds arose over the Western hills, darkening the sky and adding their quota to a miserable, wet afternoon. Indoors the fire was attractive and the latest magazines had just arrived. Picking up the English July "Story teller," I found a comfortable chair, and idly turned the leaves. The Salving of the Berwick, by Albert Richard Wetjen. The title looked good.

Romances of the sea attract me. Disregarding the preceding tales, I wandered away into the realms of adventure.

The road outside was dun-coloured and dusty, baking hot under the fierce noonday sun. But the interior of the little marine store was hotter and dustier yet, though the sun's rays were strangers to the gloom.

A good beginning. I knew I would enjoy this story. The author knew his subject and was a master of local colour.

Now, on his last trip Mulvaney did some pearl-poaching in a place that need not be named, and he made a big haul... I don't know where he coaled for the run, but he managed to reach Port Darwin in safety. He got a legitimate cargo aboard for Adelaide and sailed South.

Funny that. I had just come from Darwin and I didn't know they exported anything from there nowadays, except cattle to Asia and Island ports. Still, a little licence must be allowed authors.

Captain Cush Larson walked down the road, and surveyed the little water front, with a frown still on his brow. Behind him lay the little town of Albany, on the shores of Oyster Harbor, on the South-West coast of Australia. Beyond the harbor the waters of King George's Sound shimmered in the sunlight and crisped under the trade wind. There were two ships in sight, swinging at anchor in the harbor itself. One was a two-masted, somewhat grimy looking schooner... Her name the Kaufua, painted in big white letters... could be plainly seen from the shore. The other was a steamer, a rusty looking craft, with a raking funnel and two rakish masts...

She was now ingloriously engaged on the South Australian coasting run, carrying anything that offered a fragment in the way of profit. She plied between Adelaide and Fremantle.

A-hum!

After a few minutes' reflection of the harbor Captain Larson dropped down the few steps into his whale boat, tied to the wharf, and muttered a few words to the two Kanakas who formed the crew.

I rubbed my eyes, for the light appeared somewhat dim. Then I picked up the magazine again. The story was decidedly interesting.

The captain shook him again savagely. He knew the man as one of the many beach-combers who looked for a living around the Albany saloons and waterfront, glad to pick up a few shillings...

A rattling good romance! I was enjoying every word of it. What was to come?

The swish of rolling seas over the stinking decks of the wrecked Berwick,  the short snap of automatics; the lust of treasure. I wandered on through scene after scene until again the gallant captain returned safely to Albany.

The book slipped from my grasp and I leaned back, staring into the fire.

A SHOT CRACKED outside. Quickly I went to the door, but there was nothing to see. Seizing my hat, I walked quickly down the street towards the water front. There lay the vast basin of Princess Royal Harbor, hill-ringed, and calm, the wonder haven of Western Australia. Over on the island guarding the mouth of the Sound were perched the red-roofed houses of the Quarantine Station. Far down towards the sea I could catch occasional glimpses of the long jetty, stretching out into the deep blue of the harbor waters.

I walked along Stirling-terrace, seeking the marine store of Red Isaac, the Jew. Into shop after shop I peered for―

...the Jew, in his dilapidated costume, consisting of faded, red dressing gown, and a pair of fight straw slippers.

There were only smart white-shirted young assistants to be seen. And the stores! Who could say they were dusty and untidy!

I turned my back on the shops and looked down over Queen's Gardens to well-built warehouses, set alongside the busy railway station that connects this busy port with the capital, 300 miles away.

A White Star liner was making her stately way towards the jetty, ending her long, though swift, passage from Capetown. Where was the rusty, misshapen Kaufua, with her crew of semi-pirates?

I looked around for the Albany saloons, and my eyes fell on the magnificent Freemasons' Hotel, a hostel worthy of a place in any of the capital cities of Australia.

Where were the beachcombers and the sweating Kanakas! They would certainly shiver in the very mild atmosphere.

A voice at my elbow. I turned, and shook hands with his Worship the Mayor. Instinctively I glanced down to his hip for the swinging weapons. My eyes rested on immaculate morning dress― the trousers beautifully creased. I began to think there was a mistake somewhere.

"By the way, Mr. Mayor, when did you remove Albany from beside the waters of Oyster Harbor?"

The Mayor looked distressed, and backed away a few steps.

"Is the wharf still there, or did you bring it away with the town?" I continued. "And are there any Kanakas and beachcombers still there?"

A police sergeant approached slowly. The Mayor laid his hand gently on my arm.

"It is hot to-day, Mr. de Brune," he said soothingly. "You forget Albany was established on the shores of Princess Royal Harbor by Major Lockyer in the year 1827."

He paused and turned to beckon the officer.

"Oyster Harbor is the other side of Middleton Beach," he continued, "some five miles down the coast and Kanakas and beachcombers only frequent the Northern shores. Will you let the sergeant see you back to your quarters? You will be better after a short rest."

I thought so, too. A too-imaginative author is as bad as a night out with the boys.

________________________

19: Mrs Carnaby's Dairies

Bechhofer Roberts

Herald (Melbourne) 8 June 1939

An A B C Hawkes case

THE village post office was cool and shady, and A.B.C. Hawkes blinked as he passed through its door into the blinding sunshine.

He blinked again when a piece of paper blew towards him, apparently from across the street, and settled over his eyes. Picking it off with natural exasperation, he saw that it was a telegraph form on which a few words had been pencilled in large block capital letters. There was no address or signature, only the message;

"Are your dairies worth £1000?"

It crossed his mind that this was an eccentric way for dairy farmers to do business, they being generally of a cautious nature and sending few telegrams, when his thoughts were interrupted by an agitated feminine voice behind him.

"Excuse me," It said, "but may I have that letter?"

A.B.C. turned and swept off his grey top hat. He had met Grace Carnaby only once, but he did not forget her. Most men who met her found that they could not forget her: even those who had merely admired her from the back of the stalls at the old Folly Theatre remembered her long after the rest of the players, the music, and even the title of the comedy had vanished from their minds. And now, though she had been in retirement for four or five years, and was trying to disregard her fortieth birthday, she was still sufficiently lovely to startle the impressionable A.B.C.

"If you mean this telegram form," he began, handing it to her.

She snatched it from him and thrust it nervously into her bag. Then, with barely a stammer of thanks, she turned abruptly away.

A.B.C. felt that, if he had ever seen beauty in distress, he was seeing it now. He went after her.

"Forgive me for intruding on vou. Mrs Carnaby," he said, "but we aren't altogether strangers."

He felt her appraising him, and then she relaxed. "Yes, I remember. You're Mr Hawkes. aren't you, the scientist? We met at that ghastly garden party last month."

"I want to talk to you," he said.

"To me? Why?"

"Because you're in the most evident trouble— and all over a telegram, or part of a telegram, about some dairies. I know I'm inquisitive; I always have been. But when I see one of the loveliest women in the world almost in tears over a dairy, I want to butt In. I mean, it's like crying over spilt milk, isn't it?"

She laughed despite herself. "If I hadn't heard so much about you, Mr Hawkes," she said. "I'd give you the county snub. I'm learning to be a county lady, and believe me, the snub's a wonder. Old Lady Herghley gave me one last week."

"Did she, by Einstein!" A.B.C. cried. "Then I'll tell her just what I think of her. I'm one of the few people in the world she's afraid of, and I'm not going to have her snub the handsomest woman in Sussex."

Mrs Carnaby dimpled. "Good-bye, Mr Hawkes," she said, "and thank you for the compliments."

But A.B.C. was not to be dismissed.

"I ask you again why this ridiculous message should cause you so much anxiety. Why not confide in me? What's the matter with the dairies?"

"Cows misbehaving? Aren't the dairies worth a thousand pounds? Or are  they?"

"It's not dairies at all," she said. "It's diaries. My diaries have been stolen, and―"

"This message means blackmail, does it?"

She nodded.

"That's exactly what it is. I found the drawer of my dressing-table broken open last night. I'd been up to London to see my mother. All my diaries had been stolen, and this piece of paper was there instead. Do you know, I hadn't even noticed that the word was spelled wrong till you mentioned it―"

"It's a word that lots of people instinctively mis-spell," Hawkes commented. "Like 'seize' and 'gauge,' and half a dozen others. However, that's by the way. Have you any idea who was responsible?"

"It might be anybody."

"Hardly that," A.B.C. protested. "It must have been somebody who knew the blackmail value of your diaries, and knew where to find them, and had an opportunity to steal them, and wrote the message in block capitals for fear you should recognise the handwriting. That narrows things down, doesn't it?"

"Yes, but still— oh, Mr Hawkes, if my husband were to be shown those diaries, I don't know what would happen. It Isn't that I've done anything very wrong, but—but―"

Hawkes raised his hand. "Husbands and wives so often disagree about what's innocent and what isn't. I take it that the diaries are a little indiscreet."

"So much so that I'd willingly pay a thousand pounds if―"

"If you were sure you'd get them back? Unfortunately, as I see you realise, a clever blackmailer doesn't usually let people out of his clutches. Now, suppose you tell me who it could be?"

"It must be somebody staying in the house. I'm sure nobody could have got in from outside."

"What about the servants?"

"We've taken them over with the Manor House— you know we've rented it for the summer?— and none of them's likely to know that I keep a diary."

"True. Well, who's staying In the house?"

"You'd better come and meet them," she suggested, for they had reached the entrance to the drive. "You'll stay to lunch, won't you? That'll be an excuse for your being here."

"Thanks very much. And I'd like to see the dressing-room first, if it can be managed."

She led him into the house by a side door and showed him the dressing-table.

"You see, the lock's been forced," she said. "The diaries were in that pigeonhole; there were about a dozen of them. Good gracious! Here's another message!"

"Don't touch it," Hawkes murmured, and edged the, telegraph form out with an orange-stick. Again, in pencilled capitals, it read: "Wear a red rose if you're agreeable to pay."

Hawkes picked up a powder-puff from the table and shook it over, the piece of paper and the lock.

"No finger-prints," he commented. "Your blackmailer has brains. Hallo, what's this?"

He pointed to an ash tray on the table. "Have you sharpened a pencil here recently?" he asked Mrs Carnaby, who shook her head. Dipping the tip of his finger into a little mess of wood and lead in the ash tray, he made a smudge across the telegraph form and compared it with the writing.

"It looks as if whoever wrote the message sharpened his pencil first; or, rather, sharpened it when the point broke in the middle of the word 'agreeable— do you see the little dash after the second E? If we can find the pencil, it may help us."

She bent down and picked up a stub of pencil from the floor. "I suppose this is it," she said. "It isn't one of mine."

A.B.C. examined it with disappointment.

"An ordinary HB," he said, "the sort of thing that's sold in millions all over the country. You're sure you didn't sharpen it?"

"Quite sure. I always use a pencil sharpener, and, as you see, it was sharpened with a knife."

"That's true," he said, and put the stub in his pocket. Then he took an envelope from a pigeon-hole and emptied the scraps of wood and lead into it from the ash tray.

"Now then, who's staying in the house?"

Grace Carnaby told him that there were three men, all of whom had known her for years, long before she met her husband.

"I ran into them at the races the other day, and I was foolish enough to introduce them to Frank— he's my husband. He asked them here. I suppose he thought they'd amuse me; he's always afraid the country will bore me, if I haven't got company. As a matter of fact, I adore the country."

"You are happiest among your flowers," sneered A.B.C. "That's what every actress tells interviewers, isn't it? Who is your husband, by the way? I know nothing of him but his name."

"Frank's a darling."

"Anything else?"

"He used to be in the Army till they axed him two years ago. We've only been married a year, you know."

"Lucky man he is! And who are the three visitors?"

"There's Charley Andrewson: he used to be my agent when I was on the stage. And Jack Cooper-Hall— he's in films — and Jimmy Gosling, the comedian. I've known them all for donkey's years."

"Unfortunately, my dear Mrs Carnaby." A.B.C. replied sympathetically, "we've already decided that the thief has probably known you for a good many years. I'm afraid it must be one of them."

A CORNER of the dining-room was devoted to sherry and hors d oeuvres. Grace Carnaby provided A.B.C. with a glass and a knife and fork, and invited him to help himself. Then four men entered, and she introduced him to them.

Her husband, Major Carnaby, was a bronzed, pleasant cavalryman, but deficient in conversation. The others made up for this. Charley Andrewson, the agent, was a dark little man with a keen eye and a sly smile. He shook hands with Hawkes and devoted himself to the hors d'oeuvres. Jimmy Goslin, a comedian, whom AB.C. found insufferable on the stage, but who was popular with the general public, turned out, characteristically, to be a gloomy, self-centred man. He seemed vaguely disappointed that A.B.C. did not refer to his stage triumphs, and his puckered forehead suggested that he was wondering if the other had never heard of him.

Jack Cooper-Hall, the well-dressed, black-eyed, curly-haired hero of so many adventure films, seemed to have no such worries: his cheerful smile expressed satisfaction with everybody, especially himself.

If A.B.C. had not long since lost his faith in outward appearances as a guide to character, he would have doubted if any of these three could be a thief and a blackmailer. When they lunched, Carnaby sat at one end of the table and his wife at the other, with AB.C. and Cooper-Hall on her right, and the other two on her left.

"I say," said Cooper-Hall suddenly, "you're not the A.B.C. Hawkes I'm always reading about in the papers, are you? The scientific Johnny who invented tanks?"

"I had something to do with them," A.B.C. admitted, "but I've given all that up now. I've got a new interest."

"What's that?" asked Andrewson from across the table.

"I've grown keen on racing," said Hawkes, with an embarrassed smile. "It may sound odd, but it's really quite natural. Racehorse breeding's one of the most scientific things in the world, and I was called in a little time ago to advise a trainer at Newmarket. He was breeding and training horses which, by all the rules, should have been wonderful stayers— but they never won races."

"They never do," said the gloomy comedian, Jimmy Gosling.

"I solved his trouble for him, , Hawkes went on. "I pointed out to him that he'd overlooked one factor— himself!"

"Himself," cried Cooper-Hall. "What do you mean?"

"Like most of the big Newmarket men," A.B.C. explained, "he's descended from generations of trainers, but all his ancestors, as I reminded him, have been mostly successful in training horses for sprint races. So he simply wasn't the right man for the job he'd set himself: he didn't know instinctively how to train horses for long-distance races."

"Of course, that would explain it," said Cooper-Hall.

"Just fancy! What did he do then?" Andrewson asked. "Sell his horses?"

"Far from it," said Hawkes "He's engaged a head lad who understands things he doesn't: and between you and me, they're confident they've got the Cesarewitch winner in their stable. It's a rank outsider, too."

Even Major Carnaby looked up at this. There was a tense pause, which Cooper-Hall broke with a loud laugh.

"Come on, old fellow!" he cried, patting Hawkes on the back. "Out with it! What's the name?"

A.B.C. looked confused, "I promised them I wouldn't tell anybody," he said. "So sorry!"

Andrewson nodded and changed the subject.

After lunch A.B.C.. first pocketing some envelopes from a writing table, wandered into the garden. He was not surprised to find Cooper-Hall following him.

"I say, old chap," said the actor, "give me the name of that gee. I promise I won't tell a soul. I've had a losing run lately; it's time I backed a good winner."

A.B.C. hesitated. Then he took a pencil and an envelope from his pocket.

"I'll write it down: that's not the same as 'telling' you, is it?" he said. "Hello, my point's broken; have you got a pen-knife?"

Cooper-Hall pulled out a gold penknife on the end of a chain and sharpened A.B.C's pencil. A.B.C. began to write down a name. "P-E-P-Y-S," he murmured, letter by letter, as he wrote the first word. "How does one spell 'Diary'?" he asked. "D-A-I—D-I-A— blessed if I know," said the actor. "Anyhow, don't bother; I shan't forget. Thanks ever so."

WAITING till the young star strutted away. A.B.C. bent down, carefully collected the parings of the pencil and placed them in the envelope. Then he peered discreetly round the briar-hedge and smiled to himself as he saw Andrewson, the agent, pottering down a path as if in search of someone.

"Hallo, hallo!" be called, as he saw A.B.C. "Just the man I want. Be a sport and give me the name of that horse; I shan't tell a soul."

"I'll write it down for you; that won't be the same thing as saying it, will it. Oh, dear, I've broken my pencil. Lend me a knife, will you." Hawkes carefully sharpened the pencil He went through the same performance as with Cooper-Hall, and found that Andrewson too was vague about spelling "diary."

Shaking the agent off at last, A.B.C. went back to where he had sharpened the pencil and collected the shavings. He was ready then to meet Gosling, who was sullenly looking far him. Again he had to borrow a knife to sharpen his pencil, but, unlike the others, the comedian had no hesitation in spelling "diary" correctly. With the three envelopes, and the fourth from upstairs in his pocket, Hawkes returned to the house and said good-bye to Grace Carnaby.

"Now I want you to do something for me," said A.B.C.

"What?"

"Get all the men out this afternoon; then go round their rooms and see if any of them has locked up his luggage. If he has, wait till he goes to have a bath before his dinner, and slip in and borrow his keys. Then ring me up."

She rang him up in the evening.

"I've had no luck at all,"' she said. I'm afraid we're not going to find out who it is."

"Oh, but I have found out," said A.B.C.

"No; I'm not going to tell you — not till I recover the diaries for you, anyhow. Would you like to give me lunch again tomorrow? Right; one o'clock will suit me."

THE atmosphere at lunch next day a far less cordial than on A.B.C. s previous visit. His jokes were received almost in silence. Afterwards A.B.C. went into the garden, but, to his amusement, nobody sought to intercept him there. It was only when he walked round to the front of the house and raised the bonnet of his car, in which he had driven over, that one of the men appeared. It was Andrewson, the agent, and he was very angry.

"That's a silly joke you pulled on me yesterday," he said. "I rang up my bookie In the afternoon to ask the price of Pepys Diary for the Cesarewitch. and he told me it isn't entered for the race. In fact, he's never heard of the beastly horse."

"I'm not surprised," said A.B.C., screwing down the bonnet. "I've never heard of it, either."

Andrewson spluttered with rage.

"Then why put me on to it? And not only me: you told the other chaps, too. Cooper-Hall and Gosling "

A.B.C. smiled blandly. "Come for a drive and I'll tell you the whole story," he suggested.

"Why should I?"

"Why shouldn't you? Come on! You've never driven in a car like this one.  I'm not Joking! I designed it and it isn't on the market yet. I brought it along today to show you."

The agent allowed himself to be persuaded. "

"Seen much of the country?" Hawkes asked Andrewson.

"Only from the road, it's been too wet for cross-country walks, hasn't it?"

"It has, indeed," A.B.C. said. "Which road have you tried?"

"I walked half-way to Coppsmead yesterday, that's all."

"Grand! Then well drive that way now."

"Why not go another way?"

A.B.C. turned to him with a cheerful grin.

"Because, my dear Mr Andrewson, I want to know where you've hidden Grace Carnaby's diaries."

"What on earth are you talking about?" the agent said.

"You know. You stole 'em from the dressing-room and you're getting ready to blackmail her."

"You're mad, man."

A.B.C. shook his head. "I'm not mad. And its no use fingering that door handle, because it's locked. I've got a special switch on the car which locks all the doors and windows."

The agent stared at him.

"You're batty," he said.

"You won't think so," Hawkes chatted on, "when I tell you how I found out that you're a thief and blackmailer. I've got quite a fair microscope at the cottage, and I'm prepared to prove in a court of law that your pocket-knife and no other knife, sharpened the pencil that wrote the blackmailing note on the telegraph forms."

Andrewson sat silent for a while. Then he said, "Yes, you're not such an ass as I thought. But what's does it matter, after all? I'm going to stick to the diaries till Grace coughs up the money. So what are you going to do about it?"

"I'm going to find where you've hidden them, of course," said A.B.C. "You haven't left 'em in the house, and I post office seems pretty certain that you haven't sent away a parcel. You aren't such a fool as to hide 'em near the house, are you? So I suppose you put them away somewhere your walk yesterday."

Andrewson  waved his hand round at the fields which stretch for miles on either side of the road.

"Might be anywhere here, eh!"

"Oh, they're really just here," said A.B.C. emphatically. "We'll just drive on slowly, and you shall tell me when we get to the place."

"Shall I?" Andrewson retorted. "Do you think I am a fool?"

"No, a rogue," Hawkes corrected him.

They drifted on, A.B.C. driving slowly as he could, and Andrews gazing fixedly through the windscreen. Every now and then AB.C. asked eagerly if his companion had recognised the hiding-place, but the other remained silent. They come to a narrow piece of road beside an avenue of elms, and A.B.C. pulled up.

"Thanks for telling me," he said. "So this is the place!"

The agent stared at him, goggle-eyed. "I haven't said anything. I haven't even looked at you. How on earth do you know?" he cried.

A.B.C. jumped out of the car, locking the door behind him before Andrewson had time to move from his seat

"Of course you told me, my dear man," Hawkes said through the open slit at the top of the window.

"You see, my dear blackmailer, I knew you wouldn't consciously give away the hiding-place, so I had to use a little low cunning. If you look under the mat you've got your feet on you'll find that I've rigged up a rather neat little device; the more you press it with your feet the more that gauge on the dashboard— oh, how do spell 'gauge,' by the way?— registers. See it?

"I had an idea that, when we came to the place that you were so anxious not to reveal, you'd press a bit harder than normal with your great big feet. It's the sort of thing anybody would do in the circumstances. I'd have done it myself. And you did. The gauge simply jumped when we got here. Thanks so much for the valuable information— straight from the horse's hoof, as you might say. I'm going for a little walk among the trees. Ta-ta; shan't be long."

He came back after two or three minutes, carrying a small leather case. He shut it in the dickey of the car and again addressed his fuming prisoner.

"Would you prefer to walk to the station, or shall I drive you?" he asked. "Please yourself!"

An hour later he watched Grace Carnaby throwing the dangerous little books on a fire in her dressing-room.

"You're a dear, darling little man, Mr Hawkes," she told him.

"And they might have been dear, darling little books," he replied, "If Andrewson had had things his own way. If I were you, I'd go in for dairies future— D-A-I, you know. Diaries are too dangerous for you."

He kissed her hand as he went.

___________________

20: The Empty Chair

Claude and Alice Askew

1865-1917 and 1874-1917

The Pall Mall Magazine Sep 1910

I’VE NEVER yet told this story to anyone without observations being made upon “the long arm of coincidence.”

“That sort of thing only happens in novels.” I’m always prepared for this remark, and sometimes, as a joke, I tell the yarn without mentioning names, just for the sake of eliciting the invariable comment. I’ve even had bets on it—and won them.

“A coincidence like that couldn’t occur in real life— it’s impossible.” So my prosaic friends have assured me over and over again.

Then, of course, I laugh and tell them that the happenings are true and that I myself can vouch for them.

I’m not sure that they are quite convinced even then. “You’re a novelist,” I’ve been told grudgingly, “and so it’s only to be expected that coincidence should come natural to you.”

As a matter of fact, I’m certain that coincidences— or what we are pleased to look upon as such— do occur in real life far more frequently than is imagined. Bring the conversation round to the subject and ask anyone— I don’t mind who it is— if he or she cannot cite some remarkable instances in his or her own experience, and the chances are ten to one that the answer is in the affirmative and that you will be asked to listen to a story quite as fantastic as any that brain of novelist has devised.

Besides, I have my doubts as to what we call coincidences always being so in very fact. Human understanding is so limited and there may be factors at work of which we have no knowledge whatever. I’m inclined to believe, for instance, that, in my own case, it was not chance alone that sent my wife and myself to the Lake district for our honeymoon, or that decreed I should lose my way on the hills in a fog— with all that happened subsequently.

You see May— that is my wife— is, in some ways, a queer little person. She dreams and sees visions, though she will hardly ever speak of them because she was brought up in a strictly orthodox manner, and Mr. and Mrs. Greening— the good people who adopted her— would have held up their hands in horror if they had suspected that there was anything unconventional about their little girl. But the disposition— the power— call it what you will— was there all the same. Had May been of Scotch extraction— she might have been for all I knew when I married her— folk would have said of her that she was occasionally “fey,” which means, I take it, that she has what we would call mediumistic faculties.

Anyway, it was she who proposed that we should spend our honeymoon at the Lakes. For my own part I had contemplated a trip abroad, but of course I was ready to yield to her whim.

“Why the Lakes particularly, dear?” I enquired.

“I don’t know exactly,” she replied, a delightful flush coming to her soft cheeks at this, her first opposition to my will. “But I have always felt that I should love the English Lakes better than any other part of the world. And I’ve been dreaming of them lately— night after night— it’s just as if they were calling me.”

So that is why we decided to spend our honeymoon in Cumberland, and people may say what they like about the long arm of coincidence in connection with what followed; I may be forgiven for having my own ideas on the subject.

JUST A WORD or two about May and myself before I go any further. She had been adopted, when quite a baby, by the Greenings, most excellent, kind people, who owned a nice property at Glenholt, that delightful village where I had elected to rent a cottage in order that I might enjoy peace and quietude while completing some literary work which I had allowed to hang fire overlong. My cottage happened to be on the Greening estate and the two old people soon shewed themselves to be of a very friendly disposition.

Mr. Greening had been a barrister of repute. Unfortunately a slight deafness, following a gun accident, had interfered with his career, and so, having a good fortune of his own, he had settled down with his wife in the country— just before doing so, however, the couple, being childless and loving children, had adopted May under circumstances which were rather peculiar and to which I shall revert later on in my story. These circumstances were only told me in confidence when I proposed for May’s hand— she herself was the first to speak of them and Mr. Greening went into details later on.

May was just twenty when I first met her— in the springtime of life— and if ever a name suited its owner May’s suited her. She made one think of nothing so much as a tender apple blossom, and she had none of the hoydenish ways of the modern girl. She was of the spring, of the country, fresh and fragrant as a budding flower tipped with dew— and yet there was that intensity in her clear violet eyes which denoted that to her the world was wider and more wonderful than it is to the everyday man or woman. But I won’t attempt to describe her further— she is my wife.

I fell in love with her at once, and she— well, she soon learned to reciprocate my affection. I have knocked about a good deal all over the world, and so I could tell her of queer out-of-the-way places that I have visited, and she loved nothing better than to sit listening to the stories I had to spin of my adventures. Curiously enough it was of the rougher parts of Europe that she preferred me to speak— Russia, the Balkan States and Hungary particularly, I remember. She was less interested in places further afield. For herself she was quite a country mouse; she had hardly been away from home more than three or four times in her life— the Greenings were not people who cared about travelling, you see.

Well, I didn’t get through much work that autumn, but I fell more and more in love every day instead. At last I proposed and was accepted— subject to my not being dissuaded from my intention when those circumstances to which I have referred— and which I may say, at once, reflected upon May’s parentage— were revealed to me.

I was not dissuaded. My nature is not like that. On the contrary I regarded May as a little heroine of romance and loved her all the more. I have some independent means, besides what I earn with my pen, so it did not matter to me that my people raised objections and tried to put obstacles in my way. My father and mother— bless them!— were not happy, but when they saw I was determined they gave in and consented to receive May as a daughter, but my two aunts, the Misses Anne and Lavinia Burdon— from whom I was supposed to have expectations— took a hand and said they would shut their door upon me if I married May. This made my mother weep but did not affect me— love is the essential, after all.

I quite thought that May would be overjoyed at the idea of visiting on her honeymoon some of those places which I had told her about, therefore her suggestion of going to the English Lakes took me by surprise. But her word was law, so I hired a comfortable motor car— I fancy that I can drive a car as well as most men— and engaged rooms at Keswick, which we decided to make our headquarters.

We were married in April— quite at the end of the month—it would have seemed an anomaly somehow to have married May at any time of year but in the spring. My parents came to the wedding but the Misses Burdon kept studiously away— nor did they even send me a present.

“I suppose they’ll leave all their money to Robert’s boy now,” my mother opined with a sigh. My uncle Robert’s son is a sanctimonious young prig whom I cordially detest, but I replied that he might have the money and welcome— I had won something that was worth more than gold.

Well, I can pass right on to the day when I met with my adventure, only mentioning— as a curious fact— that May, on several occasions, manifested what I can only describe as a clairvoyant knowledge of scenes and places which we visited.

“I have seen them in my dreams,” she said with a smile, and this must have been true, for it was an undoubted fact that she, in the flesh, had never been in that part of the country, nor was her information of such a nature to have been acquired from any handbook.

It was in the third week of our honeymoon— we had arranged to stay a month in the district— that one day I went out for a walk by myself, intending, of course, to go back well in time for dinner. May had a slight headache and preferred to remain quietly at the hotel, but knowing how keen I am upon rock-climbing she suggested that this was an excellent opportunity for me to have a scramble among the fells— “a day off duty,” she called it.

I have done some mountaineering in the higher Alps and so never thought for a moment of taking a guide, although I had no acquaintance with the hills that I proposed to negotiate. A good map and a compass were as much as I should need— besides, I had no intention of doing any actual climbing—May had begged me not to, as she would be nervous, and I had given her my word.

It was she herself who suggested the route that I should take— I mustn’t forget to mention that. Some lady at the hotel had been dilating to her on the lonely beauty of the Watendlath valley and the hills and woods that hem it in. “Why don’t you go in that direction?” she suggested. “I think I should like you to. And you’ll tell me all about it afterwards?”

So, as I had no preference of route, I arranged to explore the Watendlath valley and the fells in its vicinity. There could not have been a more perfect day for such an expedition, and as I trudged along, following some mountain path, now striking out a track for myself over the soft, springy turf of the hillside, I felt that it was good to be alive.

I could dilate at length upon the beauty of that walk, even at the risk of being tedious, but it has nothing to do with my tale. The only material point is that I lost my way.

I was rather amused at first for I hadn’t the smallest doubt that I should come out all right in the end. I consulted my compass, laying it down on a big boulder while I smoked a cigarette and admired the view. Then I took a path which promised to lead in the right direction.

That path meandered in an astonishing fashion, moreover it was intersected by a number of other tracks. It led me through the most delightful scenery, however, and so I went on and on, always anxious to see what was round the next bend, till I realized that I had lost my bearings again and that it was high time for me to be on the direct route home.

And then I found that I had left my compass upon that rock where I had placed it. I examined my map but could not locate myself by it. And for the last two hours at least I had been walking without meeting a soul.

I might have been in a deserted land. I mounted a hillock and looked about me for signs of houses or habitation of any sort, but there were none— hill rising upon hill, rocky crag and wood-crested eminence— the same thing whichever way I gazed. A silver shimmer in the distance raised my hopes and I thought I might be descending upon Derwentwater, but after walking for half an hour I discovered that what I had seen was nothing more than a mountain tarn.

Then, to make matters worse, a mist drifted over the hills. The sun, nearly setting by now, was blotted out and a heavy white mantle was thrown over the world. Very soon I could hardly see half a dozen yards before me, and if I had been following any path at all it was quickly lost. Of course I made for the valley below, but the danger of my position was made manifest when I luckily pulled myself up almost on the edge of a precipice the depth of which I could not estimate because of the fog.

I was in a parlous state, as I realized when after one or two more attempts to direct my steps downwards the experience of the precipice was repeated every time. Of course what I took to be sheer falls may have been simple declivities. I couldn’t tell in such a mist and I dared not take any risks— who could say that an incautious step might not prove fatal? And in the meanwhile time was passing. I managed to look at my watch and realized that it was near the hotel dinner hour. I was miles away from home and did not know in which direction to turn. How anxious May would be! Poor little girl— suppose I did not get back at all that night but had to remain out on the hills till the wretched mist had passed away? Had not somebody told me that those mists might hang about for days?

After awhile I became desperate and heaven alone knows what risks I ran. I quite forgot the caution that I had at first determined to exercise. I simply must find my way down to the valley. But it seemed a hopeless task. If I reached the bottom of a hill I found myself confronted on every side by rising ground. I floundered into mires, stumbled over boulders and once actually walked into a stream. Anyone who has been lost under similar conditions will understand what I went through.

And at last— quite unexpectedly— I found myself brought up against the railing of enclosed ground. My heart leapt for I had almost resigned myself to the idea of a night in the open. It must have been quite half-past seven o’clock by now, and at the hotel— miles away— they dined at eight. The fog was as thick as ever.

I followed the railing for a considerable distance and at last, to my delight, found that I was walking on a beaten track— I can hardly describe it as a road. A little further on there was a gate and I could dimly see the outline of a building— evidently a lodge. But there was no light in any of the windows and it did not take me long to discover that the place was uninhabited.

However, of course, this did not necessarily mean that the house, the existence of which was indicated by the lodge, was uninhabited too. There might have been a hundred and one reasons why the lodge was untenanted, and in any case, even if the family were away, it was more than likely that I should find caretakers in possession. I even had hopes— if the wretched mist would only clear away— of getting a trap of some sort and finding my way back to Keswick that night.

There was a carriage drive that seemed interminably long and which, as far as I could judge, was in shockingly bad condition, and then the house itself appeared— a spectral house as seen through the fog. There wasn’t a single window illuminated and it was only as a forlorn hope that I made my way round to the back; then I could almost have shouted for joy, for there were lights— the house was not empty after all.

I found what I suppose must have been the back door and rang the bell— it jangled out a husky grating sound which somehow gave one the impression that it was little used. I had to ring three times before there came any answer at all.

The door was opened cautiously at last by an elderly woman who appeared more than a little frightened and who asked me in shaking tone what my business might be.

I explained as best I could. Might I ask for hospitality until the mist cleared off and then for direction upon my way? I was hopelessly lost.

The woman seemed at a loss how to reply. She opened the door a little wider and evidently satisfied herself, despite my untidy appearance, of my respectability. “I don’t know what to say,” she faltered, “Mr. Mostyn, he doesn’t like strangers and he’d not be pleased. But I can’t well send you away on a night like this, when there’s not another house within a couple of miles of the Chase— and the road not easy to find even when it’s light.”

“Will you kindly take my card to Mr. Mostyn,” I suggested, “and explain my predicament? I’m really very tired and done up.”

She hesitated, then took my card and shuffled away. I was left standing by the half-open door. It seemed ages before anyone came to me— then it was a man, wearing rather shabby evening dress— evidently a butler— who appeared in place of the woman.

“Will you come in, Sir?” he said civilly. “Mr. Mostyn was about to sit down to dinner. He asks me to say that he will be glad if you will join him. Should it be necessary a room will be placed at your disposition for the night. Allow me to show you the way.”

Naturally I expressed my gratitude, and followed the man along a passage which traversed the servants’ quarters and then opened upon a hall of considerable dimensions which was, however, only dimly lit by an oil lamp placed upon a table. By the side of this table stood a tall soldierly man, who had white hair and a heavy white moustache and who wore evening dress— very evidently my host.

He extended his hand and gave me friendly, if not effusive greeting. His voice was mellow and low-pitched. “It is easy to lose one’s way among these hills,” he said, “and the mists are very treacherous. I am happy to be of assistance to you. You will, I trust, accept my hospitality for the night.”

“If there were any way of getting back to Keswick—” I ventured— “should the mist clear, of course— I should prefer that. I could walk if I were directed. You see my wife will be anxious—”

“Ah, I understand that,” interrupted my host, “and I will willingly do my best for you. We are eight or nine miles from Keswick and the road is rough, but, if it should become possible, I will arrange for Keeley— my man— to drive you in the trap. He has a brother at Keswick and could put up there for the night. In the meanwhile Keeley will show you to a room and find you some dry clothes— you seem to have got very wet.”

I had— that plunge into the stream was anything but a pleasant experience. I was very glad to accept Mr. Mostyn’s offer. I was conducted up the broad staircase, Keeley, the butler, preceding me with a candle. There was no light either on the stairs or in the corridor above, though in every other respect the house seemed to be that of a wealthy man. This lack of light and the silence that prevailed instilled me somehow with a sense of mystery and I wondered what manner of man my host might be.

The room into which I was conducted was large and sombre. The shutters were closed and I got the impression that they had been in that condition for a very long time. The furniture and the bed were old-fashioned— I was quite sure that no one had slept in that room for ages.

Mr. Mostyn had followed us upstairs— otherwise I believe the servant would have made some communication to me. I could see from his eyes that he wanted to speak— only he was not given the opportunity. He was sent off for dry clothes, and when I had been provided with all that I could need, he had to accompany his master downstairs— always with a candle, another having been lit for me— to tell the cook that dinner could be served in a few minutes.

“We are very quiet people, my wife and I,” said Mr. Mostyn half apologetically, “and it is long— very long— since we have received company. We only keep two servants, Keeley and his wife, for our wants are small. You must take us as you find us, Mr. Burdon. When you are ready will you join me in the hall?”

Keeley made a queer face at me over his master’s shoulder, but of course I hadn’t a notion what he meant to convey, and the next moment I was left alone.

My reflections, as I made a hurried toilette, were not altogether pleasant, but they may be easily imagined. I was troubled about May, knowing how anxious she must be, and I was mystified by my surroundings. This was no ordinary household into which I had fallen. I hoped devoutly that the mist would clear and that I could get back to Keswick that night.

Mr. Mostyn was awaiting me in the hall and he ushered me at once into the dining-room. I wondered when I was going to meet my host’s wife, and I was more than a little surprised when he seated himself at the head of the table— a small square one— and motioned me to a place at the side. There was a third place laid, opposite Mr. Mostyn, which was evidently intended for the lady when she should put in an appearance. The door was left wide open.

The dining-room was large and handsomely furnished, though without a single touch of modernity. I felt, in a queer sort of way, as if I had come to a house all the inmates of which had been asleep for years. The silence was so oppressive and even here, in this great apartment, there was no more light than that afforded by two tall candles in antique silver holders upon the table. The room was oak-panelled and there were a number of heavily-framed family portraits upon the walls, but I could only distinguish the faces of those that were quite close at hand because of the dimness of the light. The small table, opposite the broad fireplace, seemed utterly lost in the immensity of the apartment. We sat in silence, as if waiting, for a few moments, Mr. Mostyn staring down at his plate with a peculiar abstracted look. The man-servant stood directly behind him, and his eyes were fixed anxiously upon me. What was the message that he was trying to convey with those queer little rolling eyes of his?

Presently Mr. Mostyn looked up with a smile. “My wife has come,” he said. “Shut the door, Keeley. Mr. Burdon, let me introduce you.”

I was introduced formally— to an empty chair!

I’LL UNDERTAKE to say there are few men who have gone through such an experience as that. Imagine it! I had to rise in my place and bow formally to the imaginary occupant of an empty chair. And it isn’t as if I had been prepared for anything of the sort— I was taken utterly by surprise.

How I got through the ordeal I don’t know—but I did, and that without betraying anything beyond a ridiculous awkwardness. You see, I had suddenly understood the meaning of the butler’s expressive looks. He wanted me to play up to his master’s hallucination. Well, I did my best.

I had to go on acting a part for the whole of that extraordinary meal. How I managed to keep it up I really don’t know. There were moments when I could have burst out laughing— but more often a lump came into my throat and I felt my eyes brimming with tears.

For it was all so true to Mr. Mostyn. His wife was there—there in the flesh. Yet I knew that she had been lost to him for many years. Keeley seized an opportunity when he was changing my plate to whisper in my ear: “She left him— more than twenty years ago. It’s a delusion— but he is happy.”

Well, I can say this for myself— I did nothing to dispel that delusion. And yet it was all so weird, so fantastic, that it almost seems a dream when I think back on it now. There were moments when I could even imagine a vague shadowy figure seated in that chair.

I don’t know what I ate— I suppose I partook of the food that was set before me, but I have no recollection of it. I was fascinated in watching how Keeley— gravely and naturally— changed the plates before that empty chair, removing them at the right time, as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world. Mr. Mostyn never seemed to notice that the food was untouched.

And the conversation! Mr. Mostyn talked to his wife across the table. He would allow due time for her replies—which always seemed satisfactory to him. And I had to play my part in that conversation too! Heaven knows how I contrived to keep it up!

When dessert was set upon the table Keeley announced that the mist was clearing off and that he thought it would be quite possible to drive to Keswick— a most comforting piece of intelligence. Should he get ready and bring round the trap?

Naturally, I was eager to go. Mr. Mostyn accordingly gave the necessary instructions and Keeley departed. Soon afterwards my host rose formally, opened the door, standing there, stiffly erect, for a few moments before he re-closed it. He had opened it to allow his dream wife to pass out!

After that we smoked and discussed a bottle of most excellent port. My host appeared perfectly rational— altogether a charming personality. At last he spoke of his wife.

“Is it not strange,” he said, “that to me she never looks a day older than when I married her twenty-three years ago? She seems as much a girl— a child— to-day as when I led her to the altar. We have only been separated for six months in all that time. It was because of a misunderstanding, and I was to blame— only I— I tell you this, Mr. Burdon, because you have a young wife yourself. Value her and cherish her, my dear sir— and you will never suffer as I suffered during those terrible months. I was ill— I think I should have died had she not forgiven and forgotten. I had sought for her in vain, you see, until I broke down. And then she returned of her own accord and nursed me back to life. We have never parted since.”

In those few simple words he told me the whole of his tragic history— and I can answer for it that my eyes were wet.

Presently he reverted to the subject of his wife’s apparent youth. “You have seen her to-night,” he said; “well, I should like you to tell me if to you she appears much older than she does in the portrait which I had painted of her soon after our marriage. It hangs at the far end of the room. Come and look at it.”

He took a candle from the table and led me up to the picture. And when he lifted the light so that I could see the features of the dainty damsel smiling down at me from the canvas— represented, as she was, standing in a field of spring flowers by a blossom-laden tree— white-clad and with her fair hair making a halo about her face— I could not hold back the cry of amazement that rose to my lips.

For I was looking at what might have been a portrait of my own wife!

I CAN TELL briefly what happened after that. I managed to repress my excitement— though how I did so Heaven alone knows. But I was afraid of the consequences if the truth were revealed suddenly to Mr. Mostyn.

For the truth was apparent to me almost as soon as I looked upon that picture. By the sheerest accident— coincidence, if you prefer the word— I had found my wife’s father, solved the secret of her birth.

And here it will be well for me to explain why my family raised objections to my marriage when they were told all that was known of May’s story—why my two aunts threatened to close their door upon me. May was a workhouse child— adopted as an infant by kind Mr. and Mrs. Greening. The mother had refused all information about herself— she had been brought in one night footsore— starving— ill. The matron affirmed, however, that she had the manners and the voice of a lady. She died two or three days later in giving birth to her daughter. The child was christened May because she was such a sweet, fragrant little thing and because it was in that month that she came into the world. Afterwards, of course, she took the name of Greening.

The mother was spared a pauper’s grave by the charity of the Greenings, but the mystery of her identity had not been solved.

It was left for me to do so— by the marvellous coincidence that took me to Mr. Mostyn’s house that night. Yet was it altogether coincidence? Was there not, perhaps, some little understood instinct at work in May’s brain, an instinct which made her select the English Lakes for our honeymoon— “they seemed to call her,” she said— and which instigated her to advise me as to the direction I should walk that day? Was it not strange, too, that she should have taken such interest in certain places abroad which— as it transpired later— were precisely those which her own mother had visited during a year of travel directly after her marriage?

I don’t attempt to explain these things— they may carry no weight— I merely state facts.

Upon the drive back to Keswick I learned from Keeley some further particulars of Mr. Mostyn’s strange story. For three years there had been no happier couple in all England than Gerald Mostyn and his bride. Langton Chase had belonged to the Mostyns for generations, and it had been a proud house till the events occurred which separated the young husband and wife. That was twenty-one years ago.

The quarrel had been a foolish one and for the usual cause— jealousy. After his wife had left him Mr. Mostyn discovered how utterly mistaken he had been. But he had spoken harsh words which rankled in a tender soul and Nita Mostyn never came back.

The grief-stricken man sought for her high and low but for a long while fruitlessly. Then he obtained some intelligence. She had been for three months, after leaving him, companion to an elderly lady, an invalid, whom she had hardly left night or day. But she had thrown up this situation— it was easy to guess why, poor soul— and no further trace of her could be discovered. What she must have suffered from that time till death claimed her in the workhouse can only be conjectured. Yet, though she was about to bear him a child— a child of which he knew nothing— she had not sought to return to her husband. He had said in his anger that he never wished to look upon her face again.

Mr. Mostyn became ill in consequence of his failure to trace his wife. He lay at death’s door for many weeks. But he recovered suddenly—his physical health, at least— declaring that his wife had come back to him, and this delusion persisted ever after.

It is a curious fact, as I afterwards ascertained, that his recovery synchronized exactly with his wife’s death.

By degree Langton Chase sank into the condition in which I had found it. Mr. Mostyn hugged his delusion to himself— he cut himself off from the world. It was better so. The faithful Keeley and his wife tended to their master, acting the parts that were demanded of them. Silence and subdued light were in the order of things— the silence which a man demands who holds daily converse with the ghost of his lost love, the subdued light which enables him the better to realize her presence.

I TOOK KEELEY into my confidence and it was thus that we strung the story together. The old fellow was astounded— as may well be imagined— at the new development, as well as deeply moved.

He was convinced, however, of the genuineness of my representation as soon as he set eyes upon May— which he did that same night. I need not dilate upon her joy at seeing me safe home again, nor upon the manner in which the news was imparted to her— all that may well be left to the imagination. It almost seems to detract from the romance of the story— to bring it down to the recognized fiction level— when I admit— as I must— that, later on, definite proof was forthcoming to show that May’s mother, the poor girl who had died in the workhouse, and Mr. Mostyn’s wife were one and the same person. But so it was. The fact was decisively proved by handwriting which had been preserved, as well as by a tiny locket, with hair in it, which had been taken from the dead girl and handed to Mr. Greening. The hair was that of Nita Mostyn’s husband.

“To think of it,” Keeley kept repeating, “that the master had a child after all! Why, he longed for a child, prayed for one! But how shall we break it to him— how?”

This was a difficulty certainly, but it was eventually solved, and Keeley himself engineered the solution. He it was who broke the news to Mr. Mostyn of the existence of his daughter. He invented a story which would seem plausible to the ears of the man who laboured under the delusion that his wife was still alive and with him.

Mrs. Mostyn, so he declared, had become a mother during those months of her absence from home after the quarrel— true enough this— the child had been put out to nurse and lost— and Mrs. Mostyn, after her return to her husband— her supposed return— had never dared to avow the facts for fear of the terrible trouble which such an avowal would cause. Now, however, by accident, Mr. Mostyn’s daughter had been found and was only waiting to be taken to her father’s arms. Keeley affirmed that he had been deputed to break the news.

And so, a few days later, I took May to Langton Chase. I shall never forget her meeting with her father. He accepted her at once— the likeness was so astonishing that there could be no question. She must have been the exact image of that cherished ghost who sat opposite to him at table night after night.

At dinner that evening we were our three selves— and the empty chair. It was strange to watch Mr. Mostyn’s eyes as they turned now upon his living daughter, now upon the place where he imagined his wife to be seated. And how cleverly May played her part— hard as it must have been for her!

At Mostyn’s invitation we moved into Langton Chase the next day. The fondest intimacy had sprung up between him and his new-found daughter. And by degrees we noticed a subtle change come over the man. It was only to May that his eyes wandered and he ceased to hold converse with the shadow.

And some ten days later, when we seated ourselves at dinner, he turned to the old butler and said tremulously: “Keeley, you may remove that empty chair!”

______________________

21: The Last Lap

C E Bechhofer Roberts

Herald (Melbourne) 2 April 1940

An A.B.C. Hawkes case

WHEN the promoters of the new speed-track outside Dorking instituted the Rasling-Benson trophy race, they hoped that motor-cyclists from all the world would come to compete for it. They were justified in their hopes: entries were received from the best long-distance racers in the world.

The course, as set out for this race, was a brute. There were ten miles of track; parts of it straight, and the rest a bewildering and harassing sequence of hairpin bends, sudden rises and equally sudden descents. The distance of the race was 200 miles, so that the competitors had to circle the course twenty times.

Eventually four men were left in for the final contest: Archie Linson, the South of England champion; Harry Linson, his brother; Abel Johnson the American, and Jose Partagas, the Spaniard.

A. B. C. Hawkes was among the huge crowd that came down to Dorking to see the race. His interest in it was purely technical, for he had been working for years on various inventions for silencing internal combustion engines without hindering their speed, and two of his patents were incorporated in Harry Linson's machine.

Unfortunately Harry did pretty badly in the final: after he had led the way for four or five rounds something went wrong with his engine and he coasted back to the pits beside the grandstand to announce his retirement from the race.

"It's not your fault, Mr Hawkes," he told the tubby little inventor. "I'm quite sure you've reason to be satisfied with your gadgets. It's the―" And the mud-covered rider went into very technical details.

Every few minutes there was a yell when one or other of the three remaining competitors was sighted. So far as A.B.C. could gather from the cries, Partagas, the Spaniard, was well in front, nearly half a lap ahead of Johnson, the American, and nearly a whole lap ahead of Archie Linson, the English hope.

Then there was a wild outcry when a filthy, padded figure limped up to the stand on foot, and it was discovered that Partagas, too, had given up the struggle.

So, at the tenth lap— halfway through the struggle— only two competitors were left: Archie Linson and Abel Johnson, and the latter was still three-quarters of a lap ahead.

A mist made conditions worse than ever, but these two men kept on. Archie Linson began to pick up on the American; it was clear enough that in the straight, he was the faster, but evidently he lost ground every time at the hairpin bends. Abel Johnson was almost in sight of him as he passed the stands for the last round, and it even seemed possible that Johnson might catch him up and so win the contest. Everybody gathered now at the finishing-post in front of the stands.

There came a roar and a shape hurtled towards them down the straight. It was, of course, Archie Linson trying desperately to catch his rival. As soon as he passed the crowd waned for Johnson to come in the victor.

Seconds passed, and the stop-watch experts began to show their surprise. Already Johnson had taken seconds longer than on any previous lap.

"Has he conked out on the last lap?" one of A.B.C. 's mechanics asked the other in amazement.

"Not likely," was the reply. "His engine sounded lovely when he went by just now."

Then at last came the noise of an approaching machine, and a low shape loomed up through the mist, passed the post, and shut off his engine.

There could be no doubt about it; it was Archie Linson. Waiting for nothing else, the crowd, with A.B.C. among them, rushed off to where Linson and his brother could be vaguely seen, standing together by the now stationary winning machine.

"What happened to Johnson?" somebody asked him. Archie wearily took off his crash-helmet and his huge goggles.

"I don't know," he said. "I thought he was winning. He had nearly lapped me, hadn't he?"

"Yes, but he hasn't finished. Did he crash?"

"I haven't the least idea," said the victim. "I hope he's not hurt. It's a foul day for racing, anyhow."

Then his brother helped him towards the grandstand, so that he could change his clothes for the award of the cup.

A.B.C. had been asked to present it. Half a dozen men wheeled out machines and set off down the track in search of the missing American. It I was not long before the news was brought that he was lying dead at the hairpin bend which passed within three or four hundred yards of the back of the grandstand.

Archie Linson begged that the presentation of the cup should be postponed: this suggestion was instantly agreed to by the authorities, and the crowd moved off across the field behind the stand to the place where the unlucky American lay. A.B.C. was already there, kneeling beside the dead man. A doctor announced himself, and the two began to unbutton Johnson's padded coat.

"Stand back, everybody," A.B.C. snapped when the crowd pushed too near the corpse and the doctors. "Is there a policeman here?"

The local inspector pushed his way through, and Hawkes took him aside for a minute. The crowd noticed an expression of amazement cross the policeman's face.

"Stabbed?" he was heard to say. "But, Mr Hawkes, It isn't possible!"

Then more police arrived and the crowd saw and heard nothing more.

"I agree with Mr Hawkes," said the doctor an hour later. "This man was killed by a deep knife-thrust high up in the right lung. The blow must have been given with great force, or it wouldn't have penetrated his padded coat!"

The chairman of the track suggested that perhaps Johnson had been thrown from his machine by some mischance and spiked himself on one of the railings at the side of the track,

"That's not possible," said the doctor. "This wound was made by a firm blow, driven in from the left side, and the weapon must have been withdrawn almost instantly."

One of A.B.C.'s mechanics, whom he had sent off to search the track and the fields on both sides of the spot where Johnson's body was found, came in with a long dagger, on which were written certain words. A.B.C. took it from him, noticing that it had been so trampled in the mud that no finger-prints would be left on it, and examined it closely.

"It was in the field, sir, about thirty yards behind the grand-stand," said the mechanic.

"Which field?" Hawkes asked. "The one between here and that part of the track, sir, where the poor chap crashed. I hit against it with my foot when I went across Just now."

"So it might have been dropped by somebody coming back here from the place where Johnson was killed?"

"Exactly, sir." A.B.C. held it up to the light. Then he took a small lens from his pocket and examined the writing on it.

"It's Spanish," he announced. " 'Santiago and the Faith,' that's a translation of the inscription." The Inspector went out for a moment and returned with Jose Partagas, the Spanish rider.

"Have you ever seen this knife before, Partagas?" he asked him.

The man's swarthy face turned green.

"No, no, never," he said.

"That's a lie," said A.B.C.'s mechanic quietly. "I saw him with it this morning."

"What do you say to that, Senor Partagas?" A.B.C. asked.

"No. I never seen it before," the Spaniard replied.

"Where did you go, Senor Partagas after you gave up the race?" A.B.C asked him.

"Me? I come in here and rest. Then I go out to see the end."

Partagas burst out, "Why should I want to kill this Johnson, this Americano? All my money, it is on him to win. I lose everything because he not win."

"Really? Who was favourite?"

"I can tell you that, sir," said his mechanic. "This poor chap Johnson was favourite, and Archie Linson and Partagas were joint second favourites,'

They were all forced to agree that Partagas's argument was a sound one. Having backed Johnson to win, he would not be likely to stop him winning. But there was no doubt that it was his knife.

"Why doesn't he own up to it. sir?" the inspector whispered to A.B.C.

"Because he's a fool," was the reply. "He doesn't want it to come out, I suppose, that he deliberately rode to lose— which would come out if he were arrested for the murder. But he didn't do it. I'm sure of that. I've seen too much of Spanish stabbing not to know that this blow was never struck by a Spaniard."

A.B.C. turned back to the inspector, "Don't you think we might get the Linson brothers in here a moment?"

"Certainly, Mr Hawkes."

Archie Linson, the winner, and his brother Harry came in at once.

"Have a cigarette?" said A.B.C.

"Thanks, Mr Hawkes," they said in unison, and helped themselves. A.B.C. was watching them intently.

"Any idea how poor old Johnson died?" Harry asked.

"I think so. Yes, I think so," A.B.C. replied, and his voice was so cold that Harry Linson winced.

"Excuse me just a moment," said A.B.C. to the little group. "I've just got something I want to look at in another dressing-room."

"If it's in our room, said Harry Linson. "I'll come with you."

"That's exactly what you won't do, my friend." said Hawkes, and hurried off.

He came back after a minute, and his face was set and calm. "One of you two brothers has been using petrol to wipe some stains off his driving-clothes, he said. "Which was it?"

"Both of us," said Archie Linson. "You don't think we leave our kit covered with mud after a race, do you?"

"Or after stabbing a man?" said A.B.C.

"Don't talk rot!" cried Archie. "What are you getting at?"

"What I'm getting at is this," he said. "Somebody sneaked across from here to the hairpin bend— is only two or three hundred yards away if you take the short cut across the field— and this somebody held up Johnson there and stabbed him. It wouldn't be difficult."

"Oh yeah?" said Archie Linson. "Not difficult to stop a man who's going hell-for-leather?"

"No," Hawkes went on, "not difficult if somebody who was riding in front: of him gradually edged him into the railings. You were just in front of him. weren't you. Archie? He'd nearly lapped you the last time you went by together. We all wondered why you'd been so long the lap before. Was it to let Johnson nearly catch you up so that you could ride him into the side— and stab him?"

"Don't talk silly!" retorted Archie Linson. "Suppose I did do that— and I didn't— d'you think I'd got time to win the race and yet come nearly back to the stands and drop the knife where you found it? That's enough to show I couldn't, isn't it?"

A.B.C. shook his head. "Its not really as difficult as that, you know, Archie. Perhaps your brother did the stabbing and dropped the knife on his way when he was running back to the winning post to welcome you home the winner."

"You don't know Harry very well, Mr Hawkes, if you think that," Archie Linson said with a laugh. "He hasn't the guts to stab anybody or touch a knife that has stabbed anybody. Anybody will tell you that."

"I'm glad you exonerate him, Archie," said A.B.C. "I agree with you. I don't think Harry did it, and I'll tell you why. The blow that killed Johnson was struck by a left-handed man. Harry isn't left-handed; I saw that when he took my cigarette from the case. But you are, Archie, aren't you?"

"Suppose I am. You haven't a case against me. Anybody can see that it's plumb impossible for me to have dropped that knife where you found it, and I have gone on and won the race. There wasn't time, was there, Mr Clever . Hawkes?"

A.B.C. lit a cigarette and motioned quietly to his mechanic to go nearer the brothers.

"No. there wasn't time," he agreed. "But I'll tell you what there was time for. There was time for you to stop Johnson and stab him, and then to run over here to the winning-post. And there was time for your brother, dressed just like you in racing kit, to jump on your machine and finish the race for you. Then, when you helped him off the machine in the mist forty yards past the post, everybody thought it was you that was being helped off. Quite a simple little substitution in this weather, eh? Hold him, inspector! Archie Linson's your man."

__________________

22: The Radium Robbery

C E Bechhofer Roberts

The Passing Show Apr 7 1934

World's News (Sydney), 29 March 1941

I AM never likely to forget the occasion when my friend, A.B.C. Hawkes, went over to Paris to help Professor Palairet in his researches into the movements of molecular particles, a task to which the Frenchman had devoted half his working life and which seemed, to his horror, to have come to a dead end just at the moment when he had hoped to complete it and reap the glory of his labours.

He sent a desperate appeal to A. B. C. — I will use the familiar initials— and my friend, touched by this confidence in his ability, agreed to spend a couple of days in Palairet's laboratory attempting to find some way out of his difficulties.

"All modern scientists are poets, sweet, my Johnstone," A.B.C. said to me, when he told me of Palairet's letter, "and the Frenchmen are our lyricists. Just as there are no poets so worthless as a bad lyricist, so there are no scientists so haphazard and messy as a bad French physical chemist. On the other hand, Palairet is a genius, he works almost by instinct, but his instinct is sound and his experiments careful and accurate to the nth degree. In any case, Palairet is a dear friend; I cannot refuse his call. I leave for Paris by the noon train."

Then he glanced at his wrist-watch. "I shall be leaving in eleven minutes," he said, "but before I go, I have a small task to entrust to you. You have no important engagement for to-day?"

"Nothing that I can't put off."

"Then perhaps you will oblige me by running down to Oxford this afternoon with a parcel for our friend Jacques. I have promised to lend him some radium needles for a lecture which he is delivering to-night to a group of visiting American scientists.

"I had intended to take them myself, but even you, Johnstone, can, I think, be trusted to show the capacities of an average messenger-boy. After the lecture, you will oblige me by bringing them back here and locking them in my safe."

I agreed to do this and suggested that, in view of the notoriously inconvenient train-service to Oxford, I might go by car.

"By all means, trusty my messenger," A B.C. replied. "But contrive not to be run into at cross roads or otherwise to demonstrate your notorious incapacity as a driver."

He looked at his watch again.

"I depart, Johnstone. The needles are in the small leaden box in the lower shelf of the safe. As they occupy that shelf alone, even you can hardly take the wrong packet. Here is the key to the safe. I shall return on Thursday evening fourteen minutes after the last boat-train reaches Victoria. Till then, adieu."

The lead box on the shelf was small enough to slip easily into any one of -my pockets.

I covered the fifty-odd miles to Oxford comfortably in a couple of hours and handed the precious parcel to Professor Jacques, who thanked me while expressing regret at A.B.C.'s absence.

"Our American friends will be sadly disappointed," he said. "They are much more anxious to see Mr. Hawkes— I will not call him 'Professor,' for I know how he dislikes the term— than to hear my lecture. I promised them that he would be here this evening, and now I must disappoint them. A great pity!"

But he brightened at the thought that the fact that the radium needles were A.B.C.'s property would give his visitors a certain feeling of association with my famous friend.

At last I received back the precious little leaden case and, climbing into my car— which, as a product of A.B.C.'s skill, was mobbed by the admiring Americans— and set off back to London.

The night was dry and clear, and my drive was uneventful until I entered that stretch of road which is known as the Compton By-pass, because it was built to divert traffic from the narrow streets of that overgrown village. Then I ran straight into an adventure.

I had to swerve to avoid a two-seater sports car parked at the side of the road and was very nearly blinded by a flash of a torch which its occupant turned on me. Scarcely had I recovered my bearings when I saw a woman sitting or kneeling on the road a hundred yards ahead, and waving a handkerchief wildly in the light of my headlamps.

I pulled up and, as she seemed unable to rise, I went to her. So far as I could see, she was young, dark, handsome and in pain.

"Can you give me a lift, please?" she said. "I think I've twisted my ankle. It's hurting dreadfully. I'm only going as far as Belsham," she added. This was the next town on my way to London.

Of course, I consented and, helping her to her feet, half-carried, half-led her to my car. The movement seemed, to hurt her a great deal, but as soon as her pain subsided, I touched the accelerator and we went on.

She was the sort of woman to whom almost any man would feel attracted. A smooth skin and a high forehead, large brown eyes, a small mouth, and a slightly aquiline nose.

I was perhaps carried away by the romance of the encounter, the scented charm of the summer night and the strange beauty of the girl, but, before long, I was driving very slowly— so that the journey to Belsham should last longer— and my left hand slid from the steering-wheel and rested gently on the back of her cool, slender hand.

She gave a little sigh and I felt her other hand stealing across to mine; soon our fingers touched in what was, I am sure, almost a childish expression of affection.

Far too soon the lights of Belsham came in sight. I sighed. She sighed.

We pressed each other's hand.

"You're awfully kind," she murmured, and I saw dimly that she was smiling at me.

"And you are very pretty," I said.

Again we sighed.

I stopped the car and found some difficulty in finding words which would not misinterpret my feelings.

"It's a dreadful pity," I said at last, "that we're only to meet for a few moments, like this. Couldn't— couldn't we arrange another meeting, some time?"

She did not answer and I was afraid I had offended her, not so much by my words as by the rather stiff tone with which I sought to hide my nervousness. "Let's leave things like this," she said, and turned away her head. "Don't let us spoil this chance meeting."

Almost without my knowing it, my arm slipped round her and I pressed her to me. Her head snuggled on to my shoulder.

Then a light appeared in my driving mirror, and gradually increasing in  strength, lit up the interior of my car with its reflection.

A motor car drew up alongside us, and I thought I recognised the two seater sports model which I had passed at the entrance to the by-pass. It stopped a little way in front, and a man alighted and came towards us.

"In trouble?" asked the intruder, a hearty, black-moustached fellow— a typical stage villain I thought him at that moment. "Want any help?"

"No, thank you," I replied coldly.

He leaned through the open window beside my companion and stared with interest at the many gadgets with which A.B.C. had equipped the dashboard of my car.

"It looks pretty good," he commented, and, when I deliberately did not answer, he slowly withdrew his head.

The spell was broken. I could not hope, without rudeness, to draw my charming friend towards me again.

"We must be getting on," she said, looking straight ahead.

"I suppose so," I sighed, and drove very slowly into the town. It seemed deserted and for a moment my courage returned.

"Are you sure we can't meet again some time?" I asked, but she shook her head.

"It would be very pleasant," I pleaded. "Is it really impossible?"

Her face was pale as she turned it towards me. "Quite impossible," she murmured. "I'm sorry. Please stop here."

I stopped and, as my hand left the brake-lever, hers slipped into it again. Tense lips were pressed against mine, and I kissed her in what I knew was meant to be our farewell.

And in this moment, with hideous suspicion flashed into my mind. I imagined that I felt her other hand creeping into my pocket, the pocket where I carried A.B.C.'s precious package.

I reached down. My pocket was empty. I hastily felt my other pockets. My pocket-book, my watch, my cigarette case and lighter, my handkerchief and keys— they were all in their accustomed places, but the package had gone. And

I knew who had taken it!

She must have guessed what was in my mind, for she tried to open the door. She almost succeeded, too, for A.B.C. had insisted on fitting sensible handles to the doors of the car, instead of the usual clumsy catches. But I bent over and caught her arm.

"No you don't," I cried, and dragged her back into the seat beside me.

I quickly used my free hand to put the car into gear, and we started off jerkily towards a blue lamp, a hundred yards away which, I was sure, would disclose a police-station. I was right, and, stopping beside it, I hooted loudly and continuously.

After a very unpleasant minute a policeman, helmetless and buttoning his jacket, came out to us. ''What's the, matter?" he asked.

"This woman's stolen something from my pocket, officer," I told him. "Don't let her get away."

"I haven't! I haven't!" she cried. "He's mad. He— he tried to assault me. Let me go!"

The man rubbed his forehead uneasily. ''You'd better come inside," he said, and then, as the girl, taking advantage of my loosened grip, flung open the door and tried to dash away. "No, you don't, miss. You come along with me. And, you, too, sir, please."

His large hand closed on the girl's wrist, and he led her, weeping and pro! testing, into the police-station.

The girl began to speak, but he stopped her and turned to me.

"This young person stopped me on the road," I explained, "and, pretending that she had twisted her ankle, persuaded me to. give her a lift here. On the way she took advantage of me to steal a package from my pocket."

"It's a lie," she said. "I took nothing from his pocket. He made me kiss him."

But again he stopped her. "Do you wish to charge this person with theft?" he asked me.

"I don't want to charge her with anything," I replied. "All you've got to do is to have her searched, and give me back the package. I don't want a fuss."

"I can't do that, sir," he said, "unless you charge her. Do you want to charge her?"

What could I do? I nodded.

IN court next day the clerk handed some papers to the white-moustached chairman, who shook his head over them and looked at the girl appraisingly.

Just then a young man, with a keen clean-shaven face, bushy eyebrows and a wide-winged collar, jumped up and cried, "I appear for the defence."

I made the instant resolution to add my own weight to the plea for mercy which the barrister would presumably put forward for his client.

Catching his eye, I nodded to him sympathetically and, when he seemed not to understand, I tip-toed, over to the table where he sat and whispered my intention to him. He stared at me expressionlessly, and then I was called away by the sound of my name.

Entering the witness-box, I explained what had happened overnight, doing my best to let the girl down as easily as possible.

No sooner had l entered the witness box than the young barrister began to ask me questions. I was red and indignant by the time the young man had finished with me.

The next witness was the sergeant who had taken the charge on the previous evening. He told his story in the staccato, stereotyped phrasing of all police witnesses, repeating what I have already related.

Then the barrister bobbed up again and asked him if he had the girl searched before allowing her bail on her own recognisances.

"Yes, sir," the policeman answered.

"And did you find this package of needles, or whatever it is that the last witness claims to have lost?"

"No, sir."

"From the moment you first came into contact with the prisoner and the last witness, had she any opportunity to dispose of the needles if they were in her possession?"

"No, sir."

"No opportunity whatever?"

"No, sir."

This was Incredible, but not so incredible as what followed. For the barrister turned to the magistrates and asked them to dismiss the charge on. the ground that there was no case for his client to answer.

The three fools on the bench put their heads together and the clerk stood up and joined their conference. After a few moments, the chairman cleared his throat and nodded to the barrister.

The charge, he said, would be dismissed and Miss Peaslake would leave the court without a stain on her character.

Then, addressing the girl directly, the white-moustached ass went on, "You must not blame the police, my dear, for accepting the charge against you and putting you to the inconvenience and expense of coming here this morning. They really had no option in the matter, on the statements made to them by this— er— motorist.

"Had they acted unreasonably, your counsel would certainly have claimed costs against them, and "the bench would certainly have awarded you costs. As it is, he will be able to advise you what course to take against the man who gave you in charge, should you wish to take action."

And all three magistrates nodded and smiled at her, while she wiped her eyes with a tiny handkerchief.

I left the court in a daze. Ours had been the last case and the magistrates were leaving their door as I approached my car. I noticed that they turned their eyes away from me after a moment's hostile inspection and began to mumble among themselves, no doubt repeating their fatuous comments.

Then the girl came out, no longer pretending to weep but engaged in cheerful conversation with her young barrister. I heard him say, "Oh, yes, you ought to get heavy damages."

Though I knew that it was useless, I went up to them.

"Look here, Miss Peaslake." I said. "I'm not going to tell you what I think of your conduct towards me, but I ask you to let me have those needles back, and I will consider the matter closed."

She gasped with assumed astonishment, and the barrister ostentatiously led her past me in silence. I had made a fool of myself, and I knew it. Not only had I lost A.B.C.'s radium needles, but I had let myself in for heaven knew what action for false imprisonment. I drove back to London in a foul temper.

Next morning a long typewritten envelope fulfilled my tears.

A firm of solicitors in Chancery Lane begged to draw my attention to the fact that I had, on such-and-such a day in such and such a place, given their client, Miss Rose Mary Peaslake, into custody on a charge of theft which had proved to be utterly without foundation.

They would be glad to know what compensation I was prepared to pay her for the damage to her reputation and feelings, failing which they would have no option but to take action against me through the usual channels. The letter was marked "Without prejudice."

Of course, I took it immediately to my solicitor, who hemmed and ha'd and nodded his head at everything I said, and then poured a cold douche over by warning me that I had not a leg to stand on if the case came into court, unless I cared to engage inquiry agents to discover incriminating facts against the girl.

He agreed with me that the whole thing was a put-up job, but told me that it would be very difficult, if not impossible, to prove it.

"The best thing we can do," he said, "is to try to come to terms with the lady. I don't suppose she wants to go into court again any more than you do, but she's got the cards stacked against you. You'd better leave it to me, Mr. Johnstone; I'll see what I can do. But, frankly, I'm not very hopeful."

Nor was I. With A.B.C. due home next day and the precious needles still missing, I had a second source of worry on my hands.

A.B.C.'s return was even worse than my expectations. He arrived, as he promised, exactly fourteen minutes after his train reached Victoria, and, though I would gladly have waited till the next morning, I felt it my duty to tell him the whole story at once.

"Shades of Averroes!" he cried. "Is it impossible for me to go away, even for three days, without your running yourself into disaster? A nurse, my Johnstone, a nurse do you need to save you from your infantile stupidity.

"By Einstein, what a simpleton, what a ninny what a baby you have shown yourself! Not only do you lose your needles; not only do you expose yourself to the insults of our anachronistic magistrature, but you actually let yourself in for heavy damages to this Miss Peaslake. If she turns out not to be pretty, Johnstone, I shall disown you."

"She's pretty enough," I said miserably.

"H'm. We'll see. You have her address, I suppose?"

I handed it to him.

"Kensington, eh? That tells us nothing. We'll go and see for ourselves to-morrow. Can you face your devil divinity, do you think?"

A.B.C.'s eccentricity has often grated on me, but I do not think I have ever been so displeased as by his appearance next morning when we were to visit Miss Peaslake at her Kensington address it was not the clothes he wore, to which I was accustomed, but the fact that in his hand he carried a large market basket of carrots and turnips.

"Fresh from the market, dear my Johnstone. Behold these touching symbols of innocence if not of imbecility. The carrots, shall we say, represent Miss Peaslake's lips, the turnips her ivory teeth. Thus my basket symbolises your regrettable fall of the other night. Come, Let us betake us now to her bower."

"You're not really going to carry those vegetables there?" I asked.

"That is exactly what I am going to do. Come!"

My car was at the door and in a few minutes we reached Miss Peaslake's flat in a rather shabby Kensington by-road A.B.C. rang the bell and, when she opened the door he placed his foot inside and prevented her from closing it again.

Pushing his basket before him, he forced her to admit us, and she led in to her sitting-room. I ought to say that she looked very beautiful in her negligee.

"Let me introduce us," said A.B.C. "Johnstone, you know, alas, too well. My name is Smith and my profession, as you will recognise, is green-grocering, May I offer you any carrots or turnips?"

"Smith?" Miss Peaslake laughed. "Really, Mr. A. B. C. Hawkes, you underestimate my intelligence."

But A .B.C. instead of being crestfallen at the failure of his little deception, began to wander round the room, gazing lovingly at his .vegetables and softly repeating verses from various poets.

"Was it not Wordsworth, adorable Peaslake," he crooned, slowly circling the room, "who sang, half-genius and half-idiot,

'Where proud Covent Garden, in desolate hours

Of snow and hoar-frost, spreads her fruit and her flowers,

Old Adam will smile at the pains that have made

Poor winter look fine-in such strange masquerade?'

"Why are you silent, mysterious Peaslake, seductive Peaslake, forcibly kissed Peaslake? To quote the Rydalian bard again, 'Why are thou silent? Is thy love a plant?'"

She looked at me quizzically, and I thought it as well to explain our purpose in coming.

"Miss Peaslake," I said, "you must know as well as I why we have visited you this morning."

"I have not the least idea," she said, and stared uneasily at A.B.C., who was still wandering round the room with his absurd basket.

He caught her glance and intoned solemnly:

" 'If the man who turnips cries,

Cry not when his father dies,

Tis a proof that he would rather

Have a turnip than his father.'

"Thus Samuel Johnson, my Peaslake, a man who never kissed a maiden all forlorn, even when she was picking his pocket."

"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Hawkes," she said.

"No? No? Dear, dear! Let me daw further, innocent Peaslake, on my vegetable lore, so good for the soul and the bowels. So you don't know what I mean, simple Peaslake? And you haven't a husband, or anybody like that, with a two-seater sports car and a black moustache? Tut tut, a young lady of such charms should not pine in melancholy solitude, her love-life dependent on wayfaring Johnstones."

"You are being offensive, Mr. Hawkes," she said. "I shall be grateful if you and Mr. Johnstone will leave my flat."

I rose, hut A.B.C. took no notice. He had stopped before a bureau at the far end of the room and was raising and lowering his vegetable-basket in a fantastic manner, murmuring meanwhile:

"In my garden ground

Let still the esculents abound;

Let first the onion flourish there,

Rose among roots, the maiden fair;

Wine-scented and poetic soul

Of the capacious salad-bowl.

"A flattering description, think you not, Rose Peaslake? 'Rose among roots, the maiden fair'— why should I not write verses to my Peaslake, 'Rose among thieves, the maiden fair?' Nay, nay, such a parody were unkind. Let us search further into these roseate fields. Let us, for example, open this bureau!"

Saying which, A.B.C. dropped his basket and wrenched open the top of the bureau.

The girl jumped up and ran at him, white with fury.

"Hold her back, Johnstone," A.B.C. .cried. "The rose hath thorns. Yes, hold her tight, Johnstone— not for the first time, alas!"

I struggled with her while A.B.C. hurled the contents of the bureau on the floor. Then the girl gave a shriek for help and the door opened. In it stood the black-moustached fellow who had driven the sports car on the night of the theft. He stared at us with amazement.

"What the devil's this?" he asked.

He had not noticed A.B.C., who now turned to us waving a small lead-cased package in his hand.

"And what the devil's this?" cried A.B.C. "What, indeed, but the missing needle case? Oh, clumsy Peaslake, could you not devise a subtler hiding-place? Well, well, well, so this is the end of Johnstone's roadside romance! Loose the lady, sweet, my friend; I fear her companion, grows jealous. You will hardly expect us to communicate with your solicitors, now, my litigious Peaslake but, I fear, if you are not very quick, you may hear from ours, and, moreover, from the police.

"Oh, and by the way," he went on, taking a bunch of carrots from his basket, "you may find these freshlings welcome on your journey. The seats in the dining-cars on the Continental trains We often booked up in advance."

We left the two conspirators in their drawing-room and walked out into  the street.

"I CAN'T THINK how you guessed how the needles were in the bureau, A.B.C.," I said, after I had thanked him for saving me from my entanglement.

"Analyse the circumstances, Johnstone," he replied. "Clearly the lady stole the needles. Clearly, too, as she was without them when she was searched, she had passed them on to an accomplice. It was more reasonable to assume that the man in the two-seater was her accomplice than that she was working in complicity with the police-sergeant or that she had thrown the needles into the roadside, hoping to recover them later. In any case, we might assume that she knew where they were and was keeping an eye on them, in company with the black-moustached Samaritan."

"Why shouldn't she have disposed of them?" I asked.

"Because, my poor fool, you can't sell a set of radium needles as easily as, say, a bunch of turnips. The buyer will want to know their origin. The news may spread that some have been stolen. No; your pretty despoiler knew that she must wait a while. But how were we to prove our assumptions? How And the needles?"

"Exactly," I said. "That's what I don't understand."

A.B.C. took his absurd basket of vegetables and hurled the carrots and turnips, bunch after bunch, out of the window of the car. Then, when the basket was empty of vegetables, he showed me an object in the bottom of it.

"A detector, sweet my friend," he said, patting it. "This little instrument, reposing so coyly beneath its vegetable cover, has the property of detecting the presence of radioactive objects, even though they are divided from it by casual barriers.

"My poetic journey round Miss Peaslake's room was not undertaken solely for exercise and inspiration; I was looking pretty intently at my detector all the time. It picked up the rays early in my stroll; they increased in intensity as I approached the bureau, and fell off when I had passed it. Ergo, the needles were in, on, under or behind the bureau.

"A little more basket-work and I knew that the interior of the bureau was their hiding-place. The Peaslake's goose was cooked on my bed of vegetables—poele is, I understand, the technical kitchen expression. And now suppose we visit your solicitor. He will be professionally glad, if privately regretful, that your troubles are at an end."

One thing still rankled. "Oughtn't I to tell those magistrates the truth? They were most offensive to me."

"The privilege of being rude to their fellow-citizens, Johnstone, is the chief reward of our unpaid magistracy,'' A.B.C. said. "It would be heartless to shake their high opinion of themselves, for then they would have no admirers left. Forget their stupidities, gentle my friend; your too impetuous nature has caused you sufficient embarrassment already. Have you contemplated raw carrots as a means of cooling the blood?"

End

THE PAST MASTERS 8

SERIES CUMULATIVE INDEX

Past Masters; More Past Masters; Past Masters Three to Eight Inclusive

The PAST MASTERS series began as a one-off; to my surprise, I found some more stories, which became MORE PAST MASTERS; since then the number of PAST MASTERS anthologies has kept rising.

This index of authors is to help me avoid duplication (although it has already happened) and to help any future searchers after PD L+70 short stories not otherwise easily found.  I have chosen to use common pseudonyms (e.g. Sapper, Saki) rather than formal names, and if it starts with "de"  or "le" it is a "D" or "L"  in the index, e.g. de Brune, le Queux.  Conan Doyle is under C (the surname was legally double-barrelled, but without a hyphen.) If there is more than one story, the stories are in alphabetical order ignoring "a" or "the".

The code is:  P= Past Masters; M= More Past Masters; then, logically, 3, 4 etc.

Cleve F. Adams:

Flowers For Violet 4

Forty Pains 4

A.J. Alan:

The Diver 5

My Adventure at Chislehurst 5

The Hair 5

H2, etc. 5

My Adventure In Norfolk  5

Grant Allen:

The Conscientious Burglar P

Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews:

The Butler 6

Alice and Claude Askew:

Aylmer Vance and the Vampire M

The Empty Chair  8

Stacy Aumonier:

George M

A Source of Irritation 7

Where Was Wych Street?  8

F Britten Austin:

An Affair Of Honour 5

Buried Treasure 5

The Fourth Degree 5

The Inca's Treasure 5

The Other Side 5

W. E. Aytoun:

The Glenmutchkin Railway M

John Kendrick Bangs

Mr. Homes Shatters an Alibi  8

Robert Barr:

The Great Pegram Mystery M

H Bedford-Jones:

The Four Red Circles 4

Gallegher of Beaver 4

The Luck of a Cowboy 4

Earl Derr Biggers:

Volcano-Mad 3

Harold Bindloss:

The Tempter 6

M. McDonnell Bodkin

A Bolt from the Blue 7

Find the Forger  8

The Matchmaker 6

Murder by Proxy 7

Only a Voice 8

Over-Ruled  8

The Torpedo 8

A Wrong Turning  8

Rolfe Boldrewood

Five Men's Lives for One Horse 8

The Mailman's Yarn  8

Max Brand:

The Silent Witness P and 7

Percy James Brebner:

The Cobbler 6

The Lady's Glove 6

The Man with the Carnation 6

The Missing Signorina 6

Ellis Parker Butler:

The Detective Club 7

Geoffrey's Panklaggephone 6

Christopher Caudwell:

Four Friends and Death 5

Arthur Conan Doyle:

The New Catacomb P

Richard Connell:

Flash!  7

One-Trip Darling 5

Mrs. George Corbett:

Spoofing a Detective 7

Colonel Henry Curties:

A Summer Night's Weird 6

Aidan de Brune:

The Empty Match Box P

The Gift to See Ourselves as Others See Us  8

Glyn Evans:

"The Man Who Was—" 5

J S Fletcher:

Comedy of the Grand Canal 8

The Cracksman's Catspaw 7

The Yellow Dog P

R Austin Freeman:

The Great Portrait Mystery P

John Galsworthy:

Acme 3

Cosmo Hamilton:

The Silent Witness 5

Robert J Horton:

The Ninety-Ninth Proposal 4

C J Cutcliffe Hyne:

The Anarchist's Scheme 6

Beauty and the Beast 4

Confounded 3

Gregory Of Byzantium 3

Guaranteed Countess  8

A Lottery Duel 3

A Marriage of Convenience 3

The Men in Stone 3

Mrs. Seal McIntosh 3

Paradise Coal Boat 3

The Perfumer 3

A QC's Confession 3

The Ransom 4

The Settler-ess 3

The Ship-Breaker's Yard 3

The Tragedy of a Third Smoker P

The Traitor: 3

The Trinidad Treasure 3

A. A. Irvine:

The Fountain of Light 5

Edgar Jepson and Robert Eustace:

Mr. Belton's Immunity 7

The Tea-Leaf P

Otis Adelbert Kline:

The Phantom Wolf-Hound 4

Stephen Leacock:

The Prince of Wurttenburg P

William Le Queux:

Sheer Profit P

William J. Makin

Flight From Teheran 8

Four Guests 7

The Horror of the Loch 7

Murder off the Map 7

Supper at Midnight 5

A E W Mason:

The Affair at the Semiramis Hotel P

The Ginger King P

L T Meade and Robert Eustace

The Dead Hand 3

The Face in the Dark 7

Finger Tips 3

Sir Penn Carlyll's Engagement 3

Lucy Gertrude Moberly:

Black Paws 6

Talbot Mundy:

Making £10,000 3

Edith Nesbit:

The Mystery of the Semi-Detached M

William Edward Norris:

The Willingham Van Dyke 6

David Wright O'Brien:

The Money Machine M

Owen Oliver:

Her Account  6

The Last Laugh 6

A Rapid Conveyance  7

The Specialist 6

E. Phillips Oppenheim:

Mr. Senn's Past P

A Royal Dilemma 3

The Tower Ghost 8

Barry Pain:

Clubs and Hearts  7

Some Imitations 6

Twelve Minutes 6

Marjorie Pickthall:

Mannering's Men 6

C E Bechhofer Roberts:

The English Filter 7

The Last Lap 8

The Man Who Lost His Memory 7

Mrs Carnaby's Dairies 8

Murder of a Matchmaker 8

The Mystery of the Chaffeur's Suicide 7

The Radium Robbery 8

Virgin Snow 7

Morley Roberts:

Her Memory 7

The Pedestal 6

Theodore Roosevelt:

The Wendigo M

Anthony M. Rud:

Ooze 7

Damon Runyon:

Tobias the Terrible P

Charles  ('Chic') Sale:

The Specialist M

"Sapper" (H C McNeile):

Will You Walk Into My Parlour? P

Perley Poore Sheehan:

Spider Tong M

Tiger Trail 4

Adam Hull Shirk:

Osiris 4

Thorne Smith:

Yonder's Henry! M

John Philip Sousa:

The Conspirators M

Andrew Soutar:

The Doctor Takes a Hand 6

F St Mars

There and Back  8

Sir Basil Thomson:

The Vanishing of Mrs. Fraser P

Guy Thorne:

Puzzle Phyllis 6

Unforeseen 5

E. Charles Vivian:

Locked In P

Other Gods 6

Edgar Wallace:

Bill of Scotland Yard  4

Christmas Eve at the China Dog M

A Present for Evans M

The Slane Mystery P

Henry Brereton Marriott Watson:

The Devil of the Marsh M

F A M Webster:

No Leopards in Surbiton 5

The Schimmel Sets the Pace 6

The Secret of the Singular Cipher 6

Ethel Lina White:

Cheese P

Wax Works 7

Fred M. White:

According to the Statute M

The Azoff Diamonds P

Oscar Wilde

The Canterville Ghost  8

Valentine Williams:

Blind Guess M

C N and A M Williamson

The Dazzle Plot  8

P. C. Wren:

Simple 6

Arthur Leo Zagat:

Beyond the Spectrum M

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Table of Contents

- 1: Murder of a Matchmaker / C E Bechhofer Roberts

- 2: Where Was Wych Street? / Stacy Aumonier
- 3: A Wrong Turning / M Mcdonnell Bodkin
- 4: Only a Voice / M Mcdonnell Bodkin
- 5: There and Back / F St Mars
- 6: The Dazzle Plot / C N and A M Williamson
- 7: The Torpedo / M Mcdonnell Bodkin
- 8: Over-Ruled / M Mcdonnell Bodkin
- 9: Find the Forger / M Mcdonnell Bodkin
- 10: The Tower Ghost / E. Phillips Oppenheim
- 11: The Canterville Ghost / Oscar Wilde

- 12: Mr. Homes Shatters an Alibi / John Kendrick Bangs

- 13: Guaranteed Countess / C J Cutcliffe Hyne

- 14: Flight From Teheran / William J Makin

- 15: Five Men's Lives for One Horse / Rolf Boldrewood

- 16: The Mailman's Yarn / Rolf Boldrewood

- 17: Comedy of the Grand Canal / J. S. Fletcher

- 18: The Gift to See Ourselves as Others See Us / Aidan de Brune

- 19: Mrs Carnaby's Dairies / C E Bechhofer Roberts

- 20: The Empty Chair / Claude and Alice Askew

- 21: The Last Lap / C E Bechhofer Roberts

- 22: The Radium Robbery / C E Bechhofer Roberts