Past Masters Ten
Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: The Past Masters series of anthologies gathers up stray Public Domain short stories from newspapers and magazines. Most of them have never been included in the authors' own Collections, nor in any previous anthologies. The rest are in collections or anthologies which are not available digitally as yet. Each Past Masters anthology runs to about 100,000 words. This tenth Anthology contains 19 stories, and a cumulative index to all stories contained in the ten volumes to date. 1: The Spirits of the Tower / "Waif Wander" 2: Warned by a Mouse / L. T. Meade 3: The Yellow Flag / L. T. Meade and Rober

PAST MASTERS

TEN

2020

Edited by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: The Spirits of the Tower / "Waif Wander"

2: Warned by a Mouse / L. T. Meade

3: The Yellow Flag / L. T. Meade and Robert Eustace

4: The Disintegration Machine / Arthur Conan Doyle

5: A Race with the Sun / L. T. Meade and Clifford Halifax, M.D.

6: Anchored / C J Cutcliffe Hyne

7: The Phantom Hearse / "Waif Wander"

8: The Third Figure / Francis Henry Atkins

9: The Great Dives Elopement / Guy Boothby

10: The Family Honour / Guy Boothby

11: The Flirt / Guy Thorne

12: The Secret of Emu Plain / L. T. Meade and Robert Eustace

13: Arson in the Jungle / George Allan England

14: One Law for the Rich /  Stacy Aumonier

15: Wingfield's White Elephant / Thomas Charles Bridges

16: The Arrest of Captain Vandaleur / L T Meade and Robert Eustace

17: A Strange Goldfield / Guy Boothby

18: Amphistamium Formosum / Barry Pain

19: Proofs of  Guilt / Cosmo Hamilton

Cumulative Index to Volume 10

________________________

1: The Spirits of the Tower

"Waif Wander"

(Mary Helena Fortune, 1833-1911)

The Australian Journal, March 1883

One of many crime short stories written by this Australian author featuring police detective Mark Sinclair

I MET my old chum Tom Mason in the street the other day, and he gave me a blowing up for not telling the public a ghost story at Christmas time.

"I don't know what has come over people of late years," he said, irritably, "for they don't seem to think it judicious to own to a liking for a good genuine ghost story."

"Don't you think it's mostly because they don't, as a rule, believe in the genuineness of either the ghosts or the stories about them?" I asked.

"Oh, of course! People are what is called too well informed to believe in anything that they can't see and feel and heft, ay and make money of— hang such practical people! I like a ghost story as well now as I did forty years ago!"

"Do you believe in them, Tom?"

"Don't you, Mark?"

"That's no answer to my question. Mason."

"That's no answer to mine, Sinclair."

"No sane man can deny that there are things in heaven and earth"

"Oh, for any sake, spare us Horatia! Have you forgotten Calandra?"

"No, indeed."

"And does your philosophy go the length of accounting for that affair?"

"I don't say it does."

"And you don't say it doesn't eh? Well, just you write an account of Calandra in your next album, and see if folks won't like it without trying their philosophy on solving the mystery. You can embellish it up a bit, you know— stick a lie in where the truth won't fit, as the saying is."

So now, in pursuance of Mason's hint, I present this story to the readers of the Australian Journal.

IT IS FULLY twenty years ago, that I was stationed at a miserable up-country camp on the borders of a river to which I need not give a name, but the name of the few houses about two miles off was Calandra, and it had once been a digging that had stretched promisingly toward the spot where the police station had been built, and then died out as suddenly as it had arisen, and leaving us poor troopers in a wild spot all by ourselves and with scarcely a habitation within sight.

I never was in a duller station than that of Calandra. Of all the wretched sights a man can picture I think a deserted diggings is one of the most depressing, and I had nothing to do but go to the door to see one in all its misery of decay. Deep, treacherous shafts, with their mouths wreathed and half-hidden by wild green growth, through which the glimmer of unwholesome water could be seen when the sun shone into the depths, and great holes where paddocking had been done and left the heaped-up stuff to be filtered slowly back at each fall of rain during many months, were there in that gully by hundreds, with the rotting windlass props and slant, and decaying posts of some long-ago tent creaking when the wind blew like the wailing cries of some dead digger who had lost his soul for gold.

"If I am not removed I'll resign," I had said to myself over and over as days and weeks went by, and there was nothing but feigned duty to be done; and I said it again on the very evening that the first page of the story I am going to tell was opened in my hand.

It was an unusually wretched evening, even for Calandra. There was thunder in the air, and heavy, gloomy clouds in the sky. A damp wind was floating up from the dark river, and the long branches of the yellow box-trees were swaying to and fro in it with a sad monotony. Along the river, low down where the sedges were thick and rustling lonely, a curlew was crying out his awful "Murder!" while along the bush track, so faintly lined to and from the miserable township, not a living speck could be discerned.

"There are places in which any sane man would become mad, and Calandra is one of them," I muttered to myself. "No wonder that black pile remains empty and almost ownerless, for who would live, if he could choose his residence, with such a dreary desolate hillock as that tower must command?"

I was looking at the only wall within view from the door of the station, a three-storied tower that formed part of a building of some pretensions called by the unusual title of "The Moat." The property belonging it had been originally a pre-emptive right affair, but the diggers had rushed it in search of the precious metal, and there only remained belonging to and surrounding it about a hundred acres of purchased land. The house was on a rise near the river and hemmed almost in by timber; a gloomy stone building it was, with its nailed up windows and dark walls streaked with the green slimy damp of broken spouting, and there was nothing to be wondered at in the few neighbours avoiding it, as there was nothing pleasant to see or steal, entirely outside the report of its being (as all empty houses most certainly are) haunted.

"Ugh!" I said with a shudder, "I hate to look at that place!" and I looked no more just then, for a black moving spot became visible on the distant track, and very soon also the sound of horse's feet preceded my recognition of the rider, who was no other than my friend Tom Mason.

"This is a doleful sort of a country," he said as he dismounted; "and I don't wonder that your face is as long as a fiddle."

"Don't you?" I growled. "I hope they've sent you to relieve me, for I'm sick of the blessed place."

"No relief for you, me boy; I'm only going on to Carryl's with dispatches."

"A—hem the dispatches! Talk of wasting the country's money! I'd like to know what else it is to keep a police station in a place like this."

"Resign," Mason said philosophically, as he unstrapped his rug and prepared to make his horse comfortable for the night. "Resign, by all manner of means, me bhoy."

"I'm going to when I'm ready. What news have you?"

"None. Oh, bedad, I forgot I have. You're going to have a new neighbour to-morrow."

"A new neighbour? In the name of goodness how can that be? There isn't a place to live in within ten miles."

"There is a gentleman coming to live in some place called the Moat. He's driving a trap and baited at York's, but one of the horses wanted shoeing, or something, so he decided on stopping all night."

"Well, I wish him joy of the place— you can see it over there— and if of his own free choice he comes to live there he quite deserves being eat up by rats, or frightened out of what small remains of sense he may be possessed of by the spirits that haunt the Moat."

"Is it haunted? By George, but that's jolly, Mark! I'll call and ask him for a night's lodging as I come back, for I have an awful craving to see a ghost."

"Stuff! What kind of chap is this Moat man?"

He gave me a card.

"There it is. Mr. T. Cyrus, not a bad name, eh? And when he sticks 'The Moat' after it, it will be quite too awfully aristocratic."

"What sort of a man is he?"

"Why, he's a dark-haired, white-faced fellow, with a haunted look about him, and I'm sure the ghosts of the Moat will cotton to him as a spiritual mate at once when they see him."

That was all the description I could get from my then volatile friend, but when Mr. Cyrus alighted at the station on the following day I found that it to a certain extent applied to his appearance. He was dark-haired and dark-whiskered, and his pallid face made his great eyes look darker than even they were. He was gentlemanly though and quietly spoken, while his well-chosen words and low musical voice were indicative of a man of culture and intelligence.

"A trooper I had the pleasure of travelling some miles with yesterday advised me to call at the station," he said. "Is he here?"

"Mason has gone about an hour, but he mentioned you, Mr. Cyrus, and I have been looking out for you."

"That is kind. Your name is Sinclair, I think?"

"Yes."

"Is that the Moat?" and he pointed toward the dark tower that floated, as it were, on the gloomy tops of the dense wood.

"Yes, that is the Moat. I am afraid you will find it a dull residence."

"Yes, I expect that. Have you any idea what sort of condition it is in?"

"The very worst, I should say. I was over there but once, and it gave me the idea of a decayed and desolate dwelling indeed."

"But it is furnished!" he said, in apparent astonishment.

"Furnished? I should never have guessed that, but if it is the furniture must of necessity have suffered from neglect. At all events, you must not dream of putting up there without some previous fire-making."

"There is no place else," he said.

"There is the police station. I shall be happy to give you room for a little."

"But I should be taking advantage of your kindness by accepting your offer," he said, hesitatingly.

"If you knew the life of loneliness I lead in this miserable hole, you would know how thankfully I see a break in upon it in a visitor's face. Pray say no more, but let us put your horses in the stable, and after you have had something to eat and drink, I will ride over to examine the Moat with you."

It was so arranged, and as we lunched together I had an opportunity of more closely examining the appearance of my new acquaintance, as, when his hat was removed, I found him a much handsomer and a much younger man than he had appeared before. I don't think he was over thirty, yet there were white hairs among his dark locks. He was a naturally silent man, I should say; or some great sorrow which had to be confined to his own breast had made reticence habitual to him.

"I am more than surprised at what you tell me about this property of mine," he observed after a longer period of silence than usual, "for I had reason to suppose that there was a caretaker living on it, in the house in fact."

"I have been here some months and never heard of any one being in charge of the Moat," I said. I could almost count the residents within a mile of it on my fingers. "What was the man's name you were led to expect to find taking care of it?"

"Richard Neilson."

"There is a man of that name living in the township— a strange, sullen customer he is; but I never heard that he had anything to do with the Moat."

"He has been drawing the pay for taking care of it, at all events," Mr. Cyrus said; "and I think we had better see him before going over. The township is not far away?"

"Just beyond the bend of the road."

"Then we will go and try to see this Neilson, if you will be so good as to accompany me. Are you alone here?"

"Oh, no; I have a mate to help me do nothing. He is gone on some little business of his own, but will be back this evening."

"I am glad of that, for I can hope to see a good deal of you without leaving the police station destitute of a policeman."

We started for Calandra quite early, for it was not an hour past noon, both mounted and riding easily as the day was young. The very first hut on entering the little collection of dwellings was that of the man we were in search of, and, as it happened, he was at his door when we came within sight of it, doing something to a strong fishing-rod, to which a suitable line was attached.

As I had told Mr. Cyrus, the man was of strange, sullen manner, and I never took to him. He spent a good deal of his time on the river, I had always heard and he was a grey haired man of fully sixty years. When we drew rein before him he looked at us inquiringly but he did not speak or cease his work.

"This gentleman has some business with you I think, Neilson," I said, introducing my companion as it were.

"Ay? I can't guess what that may be."

"I will tell you," the gentleman began. "I have come to reside at the Moat House, and I have come to you for the key."

"Ye are come to live in the Moat House, and ye want the key? Ye'll have an order to that effect?"

"I have," and a paper was quietly passed to the man, who laid down his rod and took it with an expression of some far deeper feeling than surprise in his dark face.

"You know the signature and the writing?"

"Ay, I ken baith. And so ye've bought the Moat place!"

"I have bought it, yes."

"Weel, much good may it do ye, for I never thought that any man could be found to live of his own free will in siccan an awfu' house, and I think ye'll maybe be glad to get oot o't again afore very long."

"What do you mean, man?" I asked, for Neilson's manner was, to say the least of it, disagreeable, and his visage had an unpleasant scowl on it as he handed the order for the key back to Mr. Cyrus.

"Ye know well enough what I mean, constable, a' the country knows that the place is haunted visibly."

"Visibly?' asked Mr. Cyrus inquiringly. "Have you yourself seen any spiritual manifestation?"

"Ay, have I seen that which has made me cold to the very heart"— and he shuddered as he spoke— "seen the faces of dead men and heard their groans and their cries."

"You knew, and were in the service of the late Mr. Malbraith, the owner of the property, I understand?" said Mr. Cyrus as he keenly watched Neilson's bowed face.

"Ay, I knew him and worked for him for many a year."

"Is it his spirit that haunts the Moat?"

Neilson lifted his eyes and looked full into his questioner's face as he drew a rusty key from his pocket and held it toward Cyrus.

"There is the key, take it, and find out for yourself who and what it is that haunts the Moat. I wouldn't own it or live in it to be made Emperor of Australia."

"Yet I was just going to ask you if you would enter my service, as you are used to the property."

"Your service— in what capacity?"

"That to be decided on. Of course I shall want a man to look after things generally, but I can talk to you again about that if you should think any arrangement possible between you and me." Neilson was silent for a little as he steadily scanned the speaker's countenance, and then he spoke in a strangely suspicious tone—

"Have I ever seen you before?"

"No; it is impossible. I have but now arrived from a far land in which most of my life was spent, and I am at least sure that I have never looked in your face until to-day. Why do you ask?"

"Because I seem to ken your features, and there's something in your eyes that reminds me o' I kenna what."

He passed his hand over his face as he spoke, and then, as if on a sudden thought, he offered to go with us to the Moat.

"I might be able to give ye some useful information, as I ken the place so long, and if ye like I'll go with you to see it."

Cyrus willingly agreeing to this, we rode on our way to the old place, Neilson taking a short cut through the bush that would lead him there in time to open the gate for us.

"You know that man, Mr. Cyrus!" I observed to that gentleman as we left.

"I assure you I have never seen his face before," he said with an approach to a smile, as his eyes met mine. "I have heard of him though, and some day I may be able to tell you how and when."

"Ay, and what," I returned, "for there is something not over good to know."

"You guess that?" he asked, quietly, and then no more was said until we neared the rusty iron gate that was just creakingly opening to the hand of Neilson, who awaited our entrance.

We rode in, and I noticed that my companion's eyes were never removed from the building from the moment it came within view at a bend of the gloomy avenue, grass-grown and shadowed by great tangled branches of the old trees that grew beside it. The tower I have previously alluded to stood nearest the river, and a stout stone wing of one story joined it to landward, as it were. The dark stone of the building, on which summers and winters of years had traced many stains and discolourations, with its boarded-up windows and weed-grown threshold, formed as gloomy a picture as any man need to avoid, and I could scarcely wonder at Neilson's disinclination to live in the weird-looking house.

"If ye will open the door," Neilson said as we dismounted, "I will get some tool at the back, and ding aft some o' these boards frae the windows; it winna be hard to do for they're gey rotten."

And so in a quarter of an hour many scattered boards were lying on the grass, and once more light and air penetrated to the interior of the decayed mansion.

I was surprised to find that the house was, after a way, furnished, but on every article of old-fashioned use and garniture the dust of time and decay lay thickly. There was a large dining room to the south, and several smaller apartments, as well as sitting-rooms, in the principal part of the house; but it was to the tower that the attention of Cyrus was most closely directed. This tower was two stories higher than the other portion of the dwelling, and its whole contents above the roof of the wing consisted of two rooms, one on each story. The upper or top room was arranged as a bedroom, and from its windows a wide and not unpleasant view of river and hill and forest was commanded, whilst the apartment under it was fitted up as a study, in which cobwebs wreathed the books on the shelves, and the dust lay thickly on the writing-table and large couch that stood in one corner of the room. On this couch I noticed Cyrus turn his eyes strangely ere he turned to Neilson, who stood at the door, and spoke—

"It was in this room that the last owner of this house died," he said, and Neilson's face was expressive of more than astonishment as he heard the observation.

"How do ye know that?"

"The agent told me."

"Aye, it was in this room and on that vera couch he died."

"You were here at the time?"

"Aye, I was here at the time."

"How long is that ago?" I asked myself.

"Nearly five years."

"And his brother— Mr. George Malbraith— where did he die?" the strange gentleman asked.

"The brother? Why, he dinna die at all that I ken o' Mr. George, the late maister's elder brother, just walked oot ae day, and never was seen or heard o' aifter. Mr. Matthew inherited the property under will from Mr. George."

"He may not be dead at all then," I said, "and if he should turn up, your purchase would be valueless."

"Oh, he's dead, sure enough; he'll never come back again to trouble the living or the dead," and as he spoke the man drew back and looked behind him, as if he heard something on the stairway, while Cyrus regarded every look and movement of the gloomy caretaker with the deepest interest.

"Neilson," he said suddenly, "surely you need not be afraid of ghosts in the daylight? Couldn't you and I come to terms about work here in the daytime, and you might go home to sleep? You will lose something by this place being sold, and it might not be inconvenient to you to earn something in another way."

"It's not the money," the man replied, with a quick look out to the stairway again. "Mr. Malbraith put my name down in his will, and I've enough to live on, but I have a hankering after the auld place, so I've no objection to give ye a helping hand till ye get a better on the terms ye propose."

"All right then. Go to work and make up good fires in every part of the house, and open every window and every door. I shall go back and bring up my trap, and sleep here this very night."

"Here? No in this room?"

"Yes, in this very room. I have a fancy for it."

"I warn ye again doing it. I warn ye no to live in this room."

"Why?"

"Why? Listen even now! I can hear the feet o' dead men and the cauld air wafting roun' their white faces! But ye must hear and see for yourself ere ye'll believe, but dinna ask me to come up here by day or by night," and with white cheeks and trembling limbs the speaker hurried downstairs, and out into the air, where we could see him from the window, with his hat raised and his mouth agape, as of a man suffering from a deadly oppression.

"The man is crazy!" I said, with disgust, as we followed him downstairs.

"No, I think he's sincerely afraid."

"Of ghosts? Faugh!"

We were riding back toward the police station as I emitted these sneering words, and Cyrus turned on me such a queer look that I met it with one of wonder.

"Don't you believe in ghosts, then?" he asked, seriously.

"Surely it is unnecessary to ask any person of common sense such a question; of course I do not believe in any such chimeras."

"Do you accredit me with any portion of common sense?"

"Well, as far as I can see, I presume—"

"That I am at least not quite mad? Well I can assure you that I firmly believe in spiritual appearances, for I have myself been three times visited by one. But as I am about to make a request of you, we will leave the further discussion on this point. Will you spend tonight with me at the haunted house?"

"Certainly, if my mate returns, nothing would give me more pleasure; for, not believing in spirits revisiting the earth, I am of course not afraid of them."

That settled, the conversation turned on matters connected with Mr. Cyrus's domestic arrangements, and I was surprised to find that after all he proposed to make no long stay at the Moat House, and his remark to me on driving in his trap from the station was— "I suspect you will know all about it tonight; mind and be over before dark this evening!"

One would require to have lived the lonely uneventful life I had been doomed to at Calandra to understand what an impression the unusual break in upon it had upon me during the latter hours of the day. Until my mate returned I was in a fever lest I should be disappointed, and when all was right in that quarter every hour I had to wait seemed interminable. I don't know what I hoped or expected to see or hear, or could I account for the attraction that drew me to the Moat, but I walked toward the house when evening fell in an abnormally pleasant state of imagination, and found Mr. Cyrus awaiting me on the threshold.

In the dull light of evening the place looked even more dismal and gloomy than it had done in the day, but all the windows were still open, while smoke was issuing from every chimney in the house. Only in the tower the flue against which the weather-stained flag-staff leaned, exhibited no signs of life, for Neilson would not go up the awful stairs, nor indeed had Mr. Cyrus urged it on him so to do.

"I am so glad to see you," was the greeting from my host; "and I have waited for so many long and anxious months for this night, that I am sure it will bring me some dread revelation. I pray you do not look at me so suspiciously, for I am as sane as you are yourself, and you will acknowledge it when you hear what I have to tell you!"

I must now follow Richard Nielson's movements so as to relate some matter connected with this story which were afterward detailed in evidence by a man named Connel Craig, who has not yet made his appearance in these pages.

Connel Craig was the owner of a few acres on the banks of the river on the opposite side to the Moat House, and about a mile above it. He was an apparently industrious widower, with one grown up girl, who kept his household matters right, and he eked out his living by fishing, the produce of his line being of ready disposal within about ten miles of his hut.

On the evening of the day when the new proprietor had taken possession of the Moat, Connel was sitting in his old boat, making ready for a fishing excursion, when the familiar sound of oars caused him to raise his head. Another boat was coming in view from another shaded band of the river and Connel at once recognized the rower as Richard Neilson.

"It is him, by Jupiter!" he muttered aloud, "and the Devil's to pay when he ventures to pass that spot after sundown."

"Yes, something is wrong, I see it in his hangdog face," and the speaker bent his deep-set sharp eyes on the approaching boat.

Neilson truly rowed as a man ill at ease; every now and then he cast backward glances over his shoulder, and pulled so hard as if from pursuit that when he laid his skiff by the side of Connel's the sweat was pouring from his face and dropping from his brawny arms.

"What the hell is the matter?" asked Connel, as Neilson drew a great breath, and began to wipe the damp from his face. "Are the bobbies after you?"

"Curse you, shut up, you and your bobbies!"

"Oh, not my bobbies if you please, Mister. I thank the Lord I have nothing to do with the police or laws, unless, indeed, it might be for keeping my mouth too close about other people's business."

"Keep it closer yet, damn you! You're paid for holding your tongue, ain't you?"

"No, I'm not. I haven't seen the colour of your money this month yet, Richard Neilson, and all the money you have wouldn't pay me for your jaw, so I'll take none of it. Who the mischief are you that you're to come here and denounce a decent man that wouldn't put his finger to murder if—"

"By god I'll brain you if you don't shut up!"

The man Neilson had stood up and seized one of the sculls. As he stood with it raised in a fierce, threatening posture and the whiteness of an awful rage in his distorted face, he was a fearful sight; but Connel Craig was not afraid of him. Before the oar was poised a revolver was presented at Neilson, and the fierce order rang out on the river—

"Down with that oar, or I'll put a bullet through your treacherous brain!"

The oar was dropped as suddenly as it had been lifted, and Neilson fell to his seat with a groan.

"I am mad," he said— "clean mad."

"You never spoke a truer word, mate; but, mad or not mad, you shan't murder me unawares. Ever since I knew of that job I've carried this day and night. But what is up! What put up your dander? And, above all things, what gave you courage to tempt the water when the shadows of night cross it?"

"Danger!" was the stern reply; "danger to me, and loss to you."

"Loss to me? That's comin' home, Neilson, so you'd better tell me the why and the wherefore."

"The Moat House is sold."

"Sold, is it? Well, I don't see how that can affect either you or me."

"You will know soon. The owner is in the house, and is going to live there. If I had had any warning, if that cursed town agent had sent me proper notice, all would have been would have been well, but the first I heard of it was the order for the key this day."

"I suppose you've lost your billet, eh? Is that the trouble?"

"Fifty times worse, for I have lost all I sinned for— every piece of gold is in the house."

"What of that! Nothing can be easier than to get it out."

"That's where you are mistaken; I can't without your help in some way or other. I planted the gold in Malbraith's room, and you know well that I daren't go into that room except in daylight even to save my life."

"You can go in by day then, surely?"

"I thought so. I meant to have done it today, as I will tell you presently, but when I went up to the room it was locked. That confounded policeman is in it too, for he has knocked up an acquaintance with the new owner, and it is time for me to clear out, Connel"— the man spoke this ultimatum with a great sigh and a deep gloom on his dark bowed face "— not that I think he or any man has the least suspicion, but how do I know the hour that all may be revealed by themselves?"

"By the spirits you mean?"

"Yes, by the spirits of the dead."

"Nonsense, I don't believe in such trash! I wonder at you."

"I do, for I have seen them— ugh!" and he trembled as with cold, though a warm air was rippling the water at his boat's keel.

"But what has this all to do with me or my gains?" Connel Craig asked, with a keen look into his companion's face. "It is nothing to me what you have done with your ill-gotten money; my part of the business is to take my share of it for keeping your secret; if I don't get my share I don't keep the secret, that is all."

"And you would betray me after all the payments I have made you?"

"Betray you? I would have betrayed you when your accomplice was alive to share your punishment, if you had not forked out double, so as to have him under your own thumb; and you may believe I won't think twice about it when you begin to talk about my losing over the bargain."

"I thought that you would help me," Neilson said, "as it is to your own benefit. I thought you would try to get the money out for me."

"Me! Me make a robber of myself to save you! No, thank you, I have kept myself free of the law as yet, and I mean to do the same while I hold out. And now I want to talk no more about this matter, but I won't be hard on you, for I'll give you a week to pay up in full. If you don't, you know what will be the consequence."

"Yes, I know," replied the man Neilson; and his deep-set eyes blazed with rage as he answered, "I know you for the first time, Connel Craig, and I see that it is with you my money or my life, eh?"

"Any way you like to put it, mate; you know well what I mean."

"All right, it is as well that you have spoken out at last;" and Neilson resumed the sculls and pushed his boat into the river.

"There goes my murderer, if he can manage it," muttered Craig, as he looked after the boat; "but he's too big a coward to try it on single-handed; he'll bolt for it I guess, and so let him for all I care."

And meanwhile Neilson rowed on his way down the river, along whose banks the shadows of tree and verdure were darkening more and more with each passing moment; but for once the man felt not his accustomed terror as he passed a spot from whence he could lift his eyes and see the old Moat tower looming dim in its surrounding of heavy forest land. He was in too fierce a rage to shudder as he passed one awful spot on the bank, or to fancy, as he had many a time done before, that a terrible white face gleamed at him among the surging sweep of his own oar. Fearful oaths were on his lips, and threats that would have made a hearer's blood run cold were flung on the breeze that swept his hot face without cooling it any more than if it had been the plates of a furnace within which the fires of a great force were trying to expend themselves.

If one believes at any time in the ubiquitous power of the Evil One, surely it must be when occasions such as those to which my story has reached lay to the hands of evil-doers the most suitable tools to assist them in working an evil deed. The heart of Richard Neilson was boiling with impotent revenge; and his grip on the oars was as on his enemy's throat, when a soft but peculiar whistle from the left bank of the river held his hands as he let the boat drift and looked eagerly shoreward. He saw no one, but some one saw his pause, and the whistle was repeated when the suspended oars dipped again into the water and the boat was propelled toward the sound.

As he laid his boat alongside the reedy shore, and drew in his oars, an exclamation that was almost a shout escaped from his lips, and Neilson bounded ashore. A man was standing on the grass in the shelter of some undergrowth— a man stout of form and coarse of face, with worn and dusty attire and tangled hair and beard.

"By god it is you!" Neilson had said. "The devil helps his own. If of all the world I could have had my wish this moment, I should have wished to see your face."

"Hold your mad yells!" the surly man replied, as he stepped into the boat and sat down. "If you had a rope round your neck you would not make such a row. Get in and get home."

"In trouble again?" asked Neilson, as he obeyed and seized the oars.

"Ay, and will be as long as there is money to be made by a blow. I was at your hut, but guessed you were up the river when I missed the boat. How are things working with you, Dick?"

"Badly, damned badly just now, and if ever a man wanted a helping hand I do, and I know you're game to give it to me, Dan Whelan."

"Ay am I, 'in for a penny in for a pound' is my motto, mate; so spit out your trouble, Dick, for there can't be listeners on the river. Pull out more into the stream and then go ahead."

The speaker struck a match as he spoke and lit his pipe, in readiness to listen to Neilson's story, which was told as the water rippled by them in silvery sparkles, where the nearly full moon crept through the trees to its bosom, and while the sweet breeze from the Bugong Hills softly touched the cheeks of the plotters in a vain attempt to whisper of a sweetness and a purity they could not comprehend. As further events will reveal the result of their plans, I need not enter into them more fully, but leave them in the hut of Neilson at Calandra until a later hour.

"We may as well go upstairs," Cyrus said to me after we had lingered long in front of the haunted house, and when the moon was beginning to throw her pale light freely over the forest tops. "It is getting late, and I have a story to tell you."

So I followed him in and up the stairs, after he had carefully seen to the fastenings of the door. There was no light save what struggled through the uncurtained windows on the staircase, and I confess that I did not feel at ease, even though I was no believer in ghosts, and was glad when Cyrus had struck a match and lighted the candles ready placed on the writing-table in the room he had selected to occupy.

"You would never think of living altogether alone in this place?" I said, as he placed a decanter and some refreshments on the table. "Putting spirits entirely out of the question, the loneliness and gloom of this house would set a man crazy."

"I never meant to be here long," he answered; "indeed I hope my business will not take many days. You see my preparations are but slight," and he pointed to his bedding as it lay on the old-fashioned couch I have mentioned before; "but although my belief in spirits is entire, I am not afraid, for I know that those who revisit this house will not harm me."

"No, I am sure they won't!" I replied, as though I should say "for there are no such things;" but my new friend looked so solemn as he drew the dusty curtain far back from the window and let the moonlight through the dim panes, that I helped myself to a glass from the decanter, and sat down to hear the story he had promised me.

Cyrus took out his watch and laid it on the table. The hands marked half-past ten as he detached the albert from his vest.

"I am impressed with the belief," he said seriously, "that whatever of a supernatural seeming occurs here this night will take place between half-past eleven and twelve o'clock, so that I have more time to relate my tale to you than its length will require. Shall I begin?"

"If you will be so obliging. I confess that my curiosity is great."

"I want to tell you a little of the history of the brothers who both lived and both died in this house. You are already aware that the family name of these gentlemen was Malbraith; the youngest of them, George Malbraith, was a single man; the eldest was a widower, with one son, but a disowned one in consequence of an unhappy marriage to which I need not revert. Mr. Matthew Malbraith was a man of property, and on the disunion and separation between him and his son taking place he took up a closer intimacy with his brother, who was very many years younger than himself, and a poor man. The result of this intimacy was their emigration together to this country and the purchase of this property. There was, however, no house on it then, and Matthew Malbraith designed and had the Moat built, calling it after his English home, and designing to pass the remainder of his days in it, as indeed he eventually did.

"For ten years before his death Matthew Malbraith heard no word of his banished son, yet his brother had betrayed the absent youth so far as to hide all knowledge of the letters he received from him from the unhappy father, who, in his loneliness, repented him sadly of his son's loss, and would have made him amends in all ways could he only have found out the whereabouts of his ill-used lad. When I tell you that the name of the dead man's son was Cyrus Malbraith, you will anticipate my story in a measure."

"Yes," I replied. "You are the son of Mr. Matthew Malbraith yourself?"

"I am; I am Cyrus Malbraith."

"Pray go on, for I am more and more interested now that I know that."

"You are, of course, but now comes the part of my narrative that will most astonish you. I had been for years in San Francisco, the father of a happy family, and in prosperous circumstances, when I, one night, awakened from a strange dream. I had dreamed that I had heard my father's voice crying aloud to me, "Come! O, Cyrus!' and in, as it sounded, the most awful bodily agony. I awoke with my heart beating with abnormal rapidity, and moisture breaking through every pore of my body, and it was some moments before I could compose myself in the belief that I had not really heard my own name uttered loudly.

"Well, I slept again, and was awakened by the same call, but the cry, 'Cyrus, O, Cyrus!' was fainter. I sprang from my bed and drew on some clothes, determined to keep awake and reason myself out of the nightmare that seemed to have taken possession of me, so I sat down in an armchair by the bed.

"As I sat there with my hand on my forehead, that felt hot and throbbing, I raised my eyes and saw between me and the door a man's form lying, as it seemed, upon the floor, with a bruised and bloody face turned toward me with its appealing eyes fixed on mine. The face was my father's, and I got up to stagger toward the form, but it was gone, and I fell forward on my face to the spot where it had appeared. I was found there insensible, and lay for many weeks after in the grasp of a violent illness, to the approach of which I was constrained to ascribe the fancied appearance and voice of my parent."

"Doubtless you were already delirious when you dreamt of the call," I said.

"I do not think so; nor, I think, will you when you are aware that it was on that very night and at that very hour my poor father was murdered in this house, but it was not for long after that I knew that, or that it was my Uncle George's hand that struck the death-blow. That news reached me in this letter that was delivered to me in due course by the foreign mail, and the contents of which brought me to Australia— read it."

He placed the letter before me, and I read—

From The Moat House,

29th October, 18—

Nephew Cyrus—

I cannot die without confession of my great sin to you before I go hence and am no more. I write this from my deathbed in this house, that my hands desecrated with the blood of my brother, Cain that I am, and was accursed and deprived of hope. Here I lie in grievous and sore pain, and with none to close mine eyes save him who aided me in my crime, and from whom I have to hide the knowledge of this my confession, lest he should with his own hands avenge your father's death by adding to the stains already upon them that of the poor blood that courses so feebly in the veins of these fingers with which I now for the last time hold this pen. In the tower room above this where my bed is we despoiled foully my brother and your unhappy father of his life, and here I expiate in pain of body and despair of soul a deed done on the 29th day of October, 18—, at between half-past eleven and twelve o'clock at night. My life has been one long misery since that hour, which has never been repeated upon the dial that our victim's form has not haunted my bed. I do not ask your forgiveness, for I have forfeited that of the God who made me.—

Your unhappy uncle,

George Malbraith.

I raised my eyes as I finished the perusal of this letter, and saw that the gaze of Cyrus Malbraith was fixed on the dial plate of his watch, and that the hands were approaching the hour I was now awaiting with the strangest feelings.

"What do you think now?" he asked. "The very hour of the month there confessed to was that in which I heard my father's call and saw his face."

"I do not know what to think. My God! What is that?"

We both arose to our feet as a heavy fall seemed to take place on the floor above us, and a dreadful sound of scuffling and stamping of feet, as though a deadly struggle for life were going on in that long closed room. We neither spoke or moved until cries and stifled shrieks for mercy gave place to one loud call, and "Cyrus, O— Cyrus!" was heard as plainly as though uttered by human lips.

"I am here, father; I am coming!" shouted the poor son, as he darted toward the door and opened it just as the very silence of death itself succeeded the previous noise above.

"You forget, you forget!" I cried, as I also ran to the door with the intention of closing it; "you cannot help the dead." But he waved me off and whispered, "Hush! It is not over," as the door above opened and heavy steps seemed to bear some heavy burden, tramp, tramp down the stairs and past the open door where we stood.

I don't know what came over me, but I suppose it was the courage of desperation. The brilliant light from the pair of candles on the table poured out into the landing as I dashed outside and planted myself in the middle of it. My revolver was in my hand, and its muzzle was pointed up the stairs, down which I yet heard the approaching tramp.

"In the name of Heaven, stand back; it is close upon you!" said the horrified watcher; but I saw nothing and only heard the heavy footsteps as they sounded nearer and nearer.

"Where is it? I see nothing!" I said, as a strange rustle seemed to pervade the air around me and my outstretched hand encountered the cold features of a dead body. Yet there was nothing. My hand was stretched into a space fully illuminated by the candles, yet I felt the dead features and the damp hair and heard a faint groan that might have been the last from a dying man's lips, and then there was a silence unbroken save by my own hard and terrified breathing"

I drew back into the apartment and closed and locked the door behind me. Cyrus had already gone, and was leaning weakly against the window through which the moonlight streamed. He indeed seemed incapable of speech, but all at once he beckoned me to his side.

"Look, is this the end?" he whispered.

I went to his side and looked out. Beneath the tower lay the grass-grown garden with its overgrown shrubberies casting dark, heavy shadows across the white patches of moonlight, and straight down toward the river was an opening in the trees, through which the broad gleam of water was visible as it sparkled in the moonbeams or hid in the shelter of sedge and willow. As I followed the eyes of Cyrus, mine rested on the apparent figure of a man staggering, as it seemed, under a heavy burden that hung limply over his shoulders.

This dead apparition crossed the grass and moved down the vista toward the river, disappearing suddenly by the bank just as the edge of a great cloud touched the moon and covered her up with a pall of sable. It was as though between us and the awful scene a curtain of darkness had been suddenly dropped to shut a deed of blood from the sight of man for ever. Cyrus turned and, dropping into his chair, hid his face with his hands.

I did not know what to think or how to persuade myself that I had been the victim of some cheat, for how could my sense of sight as well as my sense of touch be at fault! Had I not felt the touch of cold features, with which my hands yet trembled, in a spot occupied by nothing as my eyes assured me? Had I not heard noises and voices where there was no one? What was I to think or believe?

"I should like to visit that room above us," I said abruptly, and Cyrus got up and took a light in his hand.

"There is nothing to prevent you, there is the key," and he handed me a key as he spoke. Seizing the other candle I preceded him, going up the stairs, however, with a tremor I should not like to have avowed.

The door was on the side of the small landing, in exactly the same position as that of the room beneath it, and I satisfied myself that it was fastened before I unlooked it.

"Stop a moment before you open," said my new friend, as he laid a hand on my arm, "I want to tell you the condition in which I left it a few hours ago when I thoroughly examined it. The room was in perfect order save for the dust of years that lay even upon the dark bed-cover, so that a touch left the impress of fingers upon it and the fingers brought away impurity.

"You think it will be changed now, then?" I asked.

"How can I help thinking so? No struggle such as we heard could take place without leaving traces."

"The struggle was but of sound; I saw nothing on the stairs, though I felt it."

"But I saw it; I saw the dead face of my father that you felt, and I saw but too well the features of the man who bore the corpse on his shoulder—it was my uncle's and it was awful in its terror of the burden so close to it."

I opened the door and we entered, to find that my companion's suspicion was correct, the room bearing every trace of a mortal struggle in which blood had been spilled. In fact, the tale could almost be gathered from the indications left in the haunted chamber. The bed-clothes were disordered and partly dragged to the floor, as if with the grasp of the victim who had been torn from his slumber to die. A small night-stand was overturned, a chair fallen on its back, and the bits of carpet that had lain decently on the floor were shuffled about and, in one spot, exposed the bare boards, on which red spots and stains were visible as though but a week old. The very atmosphere felt heavy as if with death, and a shudder went through me as though from a chill wind.

"In the name of Him who can alone understand these mysteries, let us get out of this!" I exclaimed; and, far more rapidly than I had ascended, I went down again to the comparatively safe shelter of the lower apartment, the door of which I carefully locked, as if that could be any security against the spirits of the tower.

"Are you not a bit nervous?" I asked of my host, as I hastily replenished my glass and emptied it.

"Not in the least. I believe that I have been especially summoned from a far land to avenge my father's death, and that the things we have seen and heard and felt have been as especially sent to guide me in securing that vengeance."

"How so? There was nothing to show more than you already know."

"Oh yes, there was a great deal. I know the particulars now. I know that my father was dragged from his bed and foully murdered, and that his own brother carried the corpse down those stairs and down that avenue toward the river. I shall search in that spot for the remains of a murdered man."

"You may have a satisfaction in interring the bones," I said; "but no more, since your uncle is dead."

"You forget there was an accomplice," he said impressively.

"Ah, yes! I had forgotten that; but I see now, you think the name of that accomplice is—"

"Richard Neilson. Yes, I do."

"But you can prove nothing against him?"

"Not yet; but I feel that I shall be able to do so. I was not brought all these long watery miles on a futile errand."

Now I am going to rejoin the suspected Neilson and the unscrupulous man he had called Dan Whelan. It was between eleven and twelve of the same night that Neilson's boat containing them both was pushed from the shore at the back of Calandra and rowed into the stream. It was Neilson who handled the sculls, and in the stern sat Whelan, grim and uncompromising looking, while his companion was white as chalk and weak as a young child.

"You will have to row, Dan, I can't do it!" he said, as the shadows along the shore deepened into the overhanging bush; "my grip will not hold on the sculls."

"You are the damned coward!" the other muttered, as he rose and changed seats with Neilson, "and you have nearly half a gallon of spirits in you too. If I had as weak a liver as you I'm damned if I would ever dip my fingers in anything thicker than muddy water."

"I can't help it, but God forbid that I should ever again feel the blood of a murdered man on my hands. More to the right, Dan— keep close to the bend to keep out of Connel Craig's sight, his hut is just opposite."

"Once more I say what is the use of bothering with this dead man? I could cut that Craig's weazand before half a grave could be dug. Say the word, Dick, and I'll go ashore and do it."

"No! No! I say, never again, never again, no more blood, never again!" and the miserable, trembling wretch half rose in his terror to stay the hand that would have directed the boat toward the opposite bank of the stream.

"Faugh!" he cried with disgust, as he shook off the limp hand of Neilson. "If ever a man deserved to die for his cowardice you do, and if I didn't owe you more than one good turn I'd jolly quick leave you to do your own resurrection work. Waken up, man, and point out the place to me. How the deuce do you expect me to row there when I don't know a foot of the way?"

"Steer for that fallen tree and run your boat up against it. The place is not fifty yards from that."

Following these instructions the boat was soon fastened in the shadow of the log, and picks and shovels, with a dark lantern, a coil of rope, and a huge bottle, were taken from it to the land. It was in a wild spot of tangled scrub and fallen timber, and with great sprawling branches straggling out over it for many acres of uncultivated forest, through which Richard Neilson led the way with a desperate courage supplied him anew by a fresh attack at the spirits ere he left the boat.

In this tangle the shadows were deeper, and the spots which the moonlight reached through the straggling branches were few and far between, but they lay bright and full upon a green hillock as soft and rounded as though it had been raised on some sunny green lawn.

"This is the place," whispered Neilson, "for I know it by that cut I put in the log; but who has dragged the branches from it, or planted the grass to grow so green!"

"The ghosts you talk about of course," said Dan, with a sneer. "Put down the rope and fall to work with your mouth shut, for the sooner this job is over the better it will be for us both."

"How deep is it?" he asked again, when the mould had been flying from their shovels for some time. "Ah! You needn't answer, I can see we are near by your white face. Get up, man, and take your shaking carcass out of that. I can't bear the sight of you."

Only too glad to obey the mandate, Neilson crawled out of the grave, while Whelan carefully scraped the soil from a rough coffin that now became partly visible, and on which the strokes of the shovel sounded awfully in the murderer's ears. Once Dan came to the surface, and took a long pull at the big bottle before he went down again, carrying the coil of rope with him.

"Now the course is clear," he cried, as he returned to his companion's side. "Pull away at your rope, and we'll have him up. Steady— steady. Hold fast! My end's caught. All right. There we are!" And the clay-soiled box that hid its awful secret lay on the grass, while drops of agony fell heavily from the murderer's face over his victim's breast.

It was then, as it lay by the rifled grave which Whelan was rapidly filling up, that the curtain-like cloud that obscured our view from the tower window fell over the moon and blotted out its light. It was by the pale glimmer of stars that the two men bore their dread burden through the wood, and laid it in the bottom of the boat, and when they had shoved out once more into the stream it was Whelan who held the sculls, while Neilson had fallen weakly and speechlessly into the stem.

He did not seem to see anything but the awful object that lay at his feet, or to hear anything but the death groans of the man whose blood he had spilled treacherously. In vain his companion addressed him words of inquiry. He did not speak, for the cold grip on his heart seemed to him the grasp of a dead man's hand.

All at once he shuddered and looked up. Right before him on the slope above the river gleamed the star-like light in the tower window of the Moat House, and the rays from it appeared to point directly to him as he sat in the boat, with his rigid knees drawn up to avoid contact with the terrible coffin. Suddenly, and with a gasping breath, he started to his feet, and, dragging the nearest oar from Whelan's grasp, waved it above his head frantically, as if about to strike his companion.

"You did it on purpose," he shouted wildly, "you did it that I might see him again on the very spot where the water was red with his blood as he sank! My God, he is there, with his awful face and his glassy eyes staring at me!" and with an awful cry of agonized despair, Neilson dropped the oar and fell backwards into the water.

A horrible imprecation grated from between Whelan's teeth as he tried to steady the boat that was nearly overturned by the sudden disappearance of Neilson. On the spot where the miserable man had disappeared unsteady ripples spread, circles and big bubbles arose and burst upon the surface, but the form whose struggles as he died must have moved the waters into unholy shapes never re-appeared on its surface again, though Dan's eyes were strained in every direction to see and succour him. But all at once a sense of his own insecurity overwhelmed him, as he heard distinctly the sound of horse's feet on the road that skirted the river.

"A trooper's horse, by Jove!" he muttered, "and here I am to account for two dead men. Curses on my luck! I'll have to swim for it, or I'll get into this job of Neilson's myself!"

As he spoke he had slipped over the side of the boat, leaving it and its dread burden to drift helplessly where it listed, while he himself made his escape to Neilson's now-deserted hut to secure a change of clothing and such money as he could find to help him in his further flight— for he was far on his way from Calandra when daylight broke over the Moat House.

Fair and sweet broke the morning around the Moat House, with the dewdrops glittering on the verdurous river banks, and the sparkling water rippling along the sedges by the cool refreshing breeze of early day. Connel Craig rowing leisurely down the river and thinking of his interview of yesterday with Richard Neilson, felt uneasy as he looked toward the tower and saw its window open, and a faded curtain flapping outside it in the soft wind.

"That Dick will come to no good end, and I am a fool to trust him," he was thinking; "yet I can't bear to get him into such heavy trouble after hiding it so long."

Thus as he was looking up toward the tower and the curtain flapping in the open window, and then, as he was getting too far in shore, he plied one oar and turned his head over his shoulder to see his course, what he did see was the awful boat of the previous night, as it drifted strangely to and fro, yet scarcely ever left for many yards the spot from which Richard Neilson had fallen.

The astonished man made a few strokes and then drew in his oars.

"It's Neilson's boat," he said aloud, though there was no living man to hear him. "What can have happened?" And then his eyes caught sight of the oar the man had dropped in his last horrible vision of his victim; it was lying against a bed of hedges, whose sad rustling might have been the whisper of ghostly voices mourning for the sins of men.

"What can have happened?" Craig repeated, as his boat sidled up to the other, and he rose to his feet and looked into the unmanned boat, where he saw the rough coffin with the damp clay yet clinging to its sides, and the horrified man fell back with dread cry as he recognized it; for it was his own hands that had rudely put its boards together.

"The hand of Heaven is in it," he gasped, "for it has come back to the very spot from whence I dragged it myself!"

We were at breakfast at the Camp when Craig, whose face was white as ashes, came into the room. I had persuaded Mr. Cyrus Malbraith to return with me and share the meal, and I was relating to Mason the terrible events of the night, as he had returned sometime during the small hours, when Connel entered. No one could doubt that something out of the common had happened when they looked at his face, and I asked him what it was as I rose, from the table.

"Yes, it is something terrible," he replied; "and although I have had something to do with it, I can't keep it on my mind any longer. You have heard of Mr. Matthew Malbraith, of the Moat? Well, his dead body is lying in Richard Neilson's boat in the river, within sight of the tower; you had better see to securing it, for I would not touch it again, and the boat seems adrift."

Cyrus started to his feet.

"Do you mean my father's body?" he cried as he laid his trembling hand on Craig's arm.

"If you are the son of Mr. Matthew Malbraith, former owner of the Moat, yes, I do mean it; and I will tell you all I know about it as soon as the police have got hold of that awful boat."

Having made all arrangements, we went down to the river where Craig's boat awaited us, and after a short spell at the oars we came in sight of the strangely moored craft as it swayed to and fro, lapping the water with its sucking bows as they rose and dipped among the sun-gleamed ripples.

"She is moored in some peculiar way sure enough," said Mason, who was bending over the bows as we neared the silent boat of the dead man, "for there is a rope overboard from the stern, and the end of the rope is fastened under the coffin."

"Steady, Connel, and we will haul it in."

As I said the words I lifted the wet rope and tried to draw it to me, but vainly, though it seemed attached to something that swayed strangely back and forth beneath the water; another pair of hands were added to the rope, and with a strong pull the hold gave way and up to the surface we dragged the dead body of Richard Neilson.

The staring eyes glared with an awful vacancy, and in the clutched hands were grasped the roots of reeds and water-weeds that had held him to the bottom until our united strength had broken them. The rope by means of which his body had moored the boat containing Malbraith's remains over the very spot to which they had been first consigned by the murderers had become entangled with Neilson's legs as he fell out of the boat, and remained so wound and warped around him that it was with difficulty we freed him from its folds.

All due investigation ordered by law having taken place, the bodies were buried, the one lying far distant from the other, as was but right; and now, when I have given you Craig's evidence almost in his own words, I shall have finished this story of the Moat House.

"I was out fishing late one night four years ago," he related, "and, as my ill luck would have it, happened to be in the shade of the trees opposite the Moat, with my lines set, when I saw two men coming down to the bank. I guessed they were up to no good, especially when I saw that one of them bore something like a human figure on his back, and that the other one was Richard Neilson. I was too far away to hear what was whispered, but the moon was bright and I saw them sink the body in the river and then go back to the house.

"I wondered what I would do. There was no police at Calandra then, and besides I guessed that the secret would be worth money to me. Once I thought of raising the body without a word and so disposing of it that I should at all times and seasons have the murderers under my thumb; but then, again, I reflected on the danger I might run of having myself done the deed I had only been in part a witness of, so I watched my chance to see Neilson alone, and I told him he was in my power.

" 'I did not do it,' he declared; 'it was my master. Surely you wouldn't hang an innocent man so?'

" 'I know nothing of your master,' was what I answered him. 'Yours is the only face I could swear to, and it is to you I shall look for what may shut my mouth; get it how you like, but money I will have, and you know that money you can get.'

" 'I will do my best,' he said; 'but the secret must be between us two.'

" 'All right, so long as I agree with you no one else shall ever know from me. But there is one thing I say, and that is that the poor man must be decently buried, and not lie down there to be food for fishes. His body must be raised and buried like a Christian.

"He pleaded hard to let the awful thing lie, but I would not listen, and I would not help him to touch it; but I made the coffin as I best could, and brought it down the river in my boat, and when he put the corpse in I helped him to take it up the river again and bury it in Marshland Scrub. I wish I had never had a hand in it, for I shall never pass that spot again without fancying I see Neilson's boat floating there silently, with one dead man anchoring it to the ground, and the other floating in his coffin over the place where his corpse was first plunged."

"WELL," I asked Mason, as he laid this story aside after perusing it, "have I told it to please you?"

"Pooh! I could have done it far better myself;" and I need not inform my respected readers that Mason's opinion is apt to be a very general one among perusers of "light literature."

_____________________

2: Warned by a Mouse

L. T. Meade

1844—1914

Gosford Times (NSW) 6 January 1905

THE OLD manor-house at Barton Bridge, although one of the quaintest and most picturesque houses in this side of the county, was not half so well known as it deserved to be. Out off from the high road by a clump of ancient and well-wooded wyoh-elms, the few travellers who passed by the plantation gates plodded or drove wearily on up the steep hill beyond it, reached the top, admired the view away across the valley of the Bar, and dreamed little of what a curious old mansion lay hidden among the trees.

Its master and owner, John Trowbridge, was an old-fashioned bachelor, who prided himself on three good things— old books, old wine and old friends; and though he had few of the last, and their visits were few and far between, he always boasted that they were "enough for him, and enough was as good as a feast."

It was a lonely place, too, ten miles from the county town and six from the station; while the whole hamlet of Barton consisted of about a score of cottages, all clustered around the tiny church, half a mile down the valley below. The Squire, therefore, as he was everywhere called, when not busy in his library, troubled his head about few things beyond his own domain, lived in a royal sort of cosy comfort on half his income, and gave up most of his time and thoughts to the care of his niece and ward, Miss Grace Rivington. declaring at times she was the plague of his life; and at others, that without her he did not know what would ! become of Barton Manor.

Left an orphan when a more child, with a fortune of £20,000 on coming of age, she had grown up at last to be as wilful, high-spirited and charming a young lady as could be found in all the country-side. In short, she was the old man's pet, and by dint of coaxing, flattery and scolding managed to have her own way in "things little or big," as John Trowbridge often confessed. His favourite name for her was, "the little witch"; "a wee body, but with a mind and spirit in it big enough and determined enough to manage the most fussy and troublesome horse at the stable or out of it."

These were the two who sat chatting together one wintry evening in November, on the day of her coming of age, when contrary, to all custom in such cases, and in deference to his urgent entreaty, she had insisted on having no dinner-party and no birthday celebration; but a quiet time "just for us two," she said; "and I can have you all to myself."

Dinner was over, the wine and walnuts wore on the table, and that was wheeled up to the blazing wood- fire; Graves, the butler, had departed, and at last she could speak freely.

"My dear, dear uncle," said she, "there never, never was, and never will be, anything half so beautiful as the necklace you gave me this morning. I had it in my pocket all dinner-lime, and was longing to look at it the whole time— but why did you spend so much money?"

"Why, my dear? Well, because you are such a naughty, ill-tempered, ugly little shrimp, and I determined that people should look at your diamonds to-morrow, if they wouldn't look at you. As to money, child, I only had them reset; they were my mother's fifty years ago, and her mother's before that— a wedding present from that old Jack Trowbridge whose eyes are now looking down at you from the other side of the room. 'Gentleman Jack' they used to call him when be came back from India and brought the diamonds with him."

"Look!" she said, taking them out of the dainty morocco case, "see how they shine in the light of the fire! I shall be as grand as a queen to-morrow night at the ball ; and in that lovely dress from Paris, oh, uncle, the very happiest girl in Cornwall! What can I say, what can I do to thank you!— the dearest, goodest, wisest of old uncles?"

"Well, if you won't have any more wine, Miss Grace Rivington, say good-night, be off to bed, and lock up your necklace in a safe place, and keep the key in your own pocket. You'll have a thousand things to do tomorrow; so go now and get your beauty sleep so that you may look your best at night. Half the women will go crazy at the sight of your necklace and gay feathers; and all the men about your lovely face. But mind, the first quadrille is for me."

They chatted for a while, and she playfully reminded him that only a month before he had utterly refused to have a dance at the manor house, or to let the place be turned upside down for any such nonsense.

"And now," she added, "here you are decking me out like a queen, and begging for a quadrille!"

"You're a witch, my dear, neither more nor less, and you know it! and I am an old goose, and don't know it; so good-night.'

In less than an hour from that time the diamonds were safely looked up in an old oak cabinet, and the happy owner, like most of the household, sound asleep and dreaming of the joys of the coming morrow.

The morrow came, as most to-morrows do, in good season, heavy with clouds at first, but slowly breaking out into sunshine at last. Miss Grace Rivington, after her beauty-sleep, came down radiant to breakfast, and that being over, sent off a special messenger to her special friend Florence, at the Grange, with the following brief note :

My Dearlie Flossie:

Come over at once, if only for half an hour, and you shall see the loveliest necklace to be found in Cornwall. I am to wear it to night.

G. R.

It was but a short walk from the Grange to the manor-house,  and in less than an hour after the dispatch of the note, the two friends were in full talk  by the side of a roaring wood-fire in Grace's own sanctum, a cosy, snug room, with oak panelling and old oak furniture, which opened out upon the lawn. The two girls were in high spirits; the necklace was duly admired, looked at again and again carefully put away, and locked up; and then came the discussion of laces, dresses, and partners, about which last point there was a considerable difference of opinion, as great almost as the difference in the personal appearance of the ladies themselves. In that difference, in fact, lay the strength of the friendship. Florrie was a tall, dark brunette, with an abundance of black hair; a loud, rather masculine voice, and a still more masculine manner, dress and tastes.

"And now, Grace," she said at last, "put away all the fal-lals, and I'll tell you all about yesterday's doings, when you shut yourself up like a hermit, instead of being out in the finest run for the season. There were four of us from the Grange, and about twenty other redcoats, beside Charlie Burton and a couple of  militiamen; and we went straight for Barton Edge, a downright spin of fifty  minutes without a check. Then we ran him in, and killed in the open. Coming back, we found again— another forty minutes; lost him, and then home by the harvest-field, where Jack and I and two militaries went in for a rat hunt with a couple of  terriers."

"Glad you enjoyed it, my dear; but no rats for me; I hate the very sight of one. The mice behind this old wainscot are bad enough, and terrify me out of my wits sometimes. I'm actually afraid of them, and uncle won't have a single cat in the place, so we are fairly overrun with them. Ten to one, if I only open the door of the old press, out flies a mouse, and away I go as fast as my legs will carry me."

"Oh, Grace, what a coward; afraid of a mouse! Never mind, my dear, with that necklace on to-night, you will carry all before you—red coats and black, old stagers and young dandies: they'll all fall in love with that darling little witch face of yours. You won't be afraid of them, mice or no mice. I shall stand no chance; but it's time for me to be off;  so good-by, my dear, until eight p.m.― I shall come be early. I'll go out by the window and cut across the lawn."

IT WAS 6 p.m. and Grace Rivington, after an early dinner, had gone to her own room for the important and laborious work of dressing for her first ball. It had been a fine, calm day for November, the fire of wood had all but died out, and the window was still ajar as her friend had left it in the morning. But as it grew darker and colder, and the serious business of the night had to be begun, Grace closed and fastened it, and going to the opposite side of the room, sat down in front of a large cheval glass and, as many a pretty girl has done before, took a calm survey of herself and determined to wear the white dress.

As she looked at the glass, into which the flickering fire now and then threw a fitful touch of light, she was suddenly startled by a slight rustling sound behind bar, as a mouse dashed out and scampered across the floor; and then, turning her head, she saw, to her utter horror, a pair of eyes watching her from one corner of the room among the curtains, where the mouse had sprung out!

For a moment she was utterly paralysed with dread; and, not daring or able to move, was about to cry out for help. Luckily for her, the cry was stifled ; and then, with a sort of desperate courage, she turned back to her old position, and again looked into the glass, as if nothing had happened. At the very first glance the two terrible eyes seemed to be fixed on her from among the dark folds of the curtain; and she shuddered as she looked.

It was clearly some scoundrel who had hidden himself there for some plan of robbery, and her life for the moment was in his hands; and all depended on her success or failure in lulling him into a belief that his presence had not been detected. After a minute of sharp thought, her usual resolute will prevailed; her courage rose, and her plan was formed. Without rising from her chair, she drew up to her side a email writing table, calmly lighted a wax candle, and began writing a series of pretended notes, sealing and addressing each, as if for post. Over the fourth of these notes she seemed to take much trouble, and, as if not satisfied with it, began to read aloud short bits of it as she went on, with an occasional word of comment:

"We depend on four being here, my dear Jennie, in good time to-night, whatever the weather be; and I send this by a special messenger to say that we shall keep you until to-morrow. I have heaps of birthday presents to show you, and the loveliest diamond necklace."

As she uttered these words, she suddenly stepped, and said, as if in a whisper to herself.  "Why, what a goose I am! Old Foster, the jeweller, has never sent back the rings and necklace, though he faithfully promised I should have them in good time this morning. Jane must go for them at once, or I shall not get them in time."

Then, having sealed up and directed the last of her pretended notes, she walked with trembling steps to the bell-rope, pulled it, waited for a moment, and next unlocked a drawer and took out her jewel-case.

As she did so, the door opened and the servant appeared.

"Jane," said her mistress, "tell Richard to take this note to the Grange, and this to Dr. Forbes at once. There are no answers; but as he comes back, call at Foster, the watchmaker's, with the other note, and ask for my rings and necklace he can put into this box; Foster has the key."

And with these words she handed to the servant her precious jewel case. In another moment the door was shut, and Grace once more alone with the pair of eyes watching her intently from behind the curtain. The owner of the eyes had seen and heard all that had happened, and though slightly puzzled, thought it best not to move as yet; especially as he saw that the young lady was calmly going on with her toilet and had lighted two wax candles. Meanwhile, Jane herself, was slightly puzzled, but being a well-trained servant, obeyed her mistress's order.

"Here, Richard," said she; "Miss Grace says you're to take the pony as sharp as you can and leave these notes at the Grange and at old Forbes', and as you come back, call at Foster's for some rings and a necklace that's to go into this case."

In five minutes he was on his way. The three notes he carried with him. were duly delivered and read with amazement by the recipients. The one to Dr. Forbes ran thus :

My Dear Doctor

Don't be alarmed, though I beg you to come straight to the manor-house when you have read this. Say nothing to the servants, but make your way quietly up to the Oak Room, where I wait your coming. Uncle is away at the magistrates' meeting. Lose not a moment.

Grace Rivington.

The second note was this:

My Dearest Florrie—

A mouse has got into the Oak Room, and here I am a prisoner; send your two brothers at once to deliver me— at once.

Ever your affectionate Grace.

Foster, the watchmaker, utterly and hopelessly puzzled, read as follows;

Mr. Foster,

Take the box which the bearer will give you to Barnet, the parish constable; tell him to bring it here to the manor-house at once,

G Rivington

Old Forbes was the first to recover from his amazement, and, after a moment's thought, to hurry down from his surgery and rush out of the house— armed with a case of instruments and his biggest stick— without a word to wife or servants, or to himself, but, "What on earth is that witch of a girl up to now?"

He ran as hard as he could, and in ten minutes, red hot and breathless, reached the hall door of the manor-house where he was well known.

"Parker," said he to the astonished footman,  "Miss Grace says I am to go straight to her room without being announced. I know my way."

Then he walked quietly upstairs and knocked at the door of the Oak Room, and at once entered. His patient, with a pale face and her long hair streaming down over her shoulders, was sitting in a low chair in front of the mirror; the fire had died out into white ashes, and the dim light of the two wax candles left half the room in darkness.

"Grace, what has happened? Are you ill— here, all alone?"

And then came a dead silence, more terrible than any speech. She tried to speak, but for many minutes the effort was in vain, and ended in a few broken sobs and still more broken words. While the agony of suspense and fear lasted, she had bravely kept up her courage, but now with safety had come the reaction. Her nerves, after being strung up to the highest pitch, suddenly collapsed; and the doctor was fairly puzzled. But at last, after a sharp effort, came an intelligible sound, and she stammered out: "Not ill, doctor, not ill, and not alone; he is there behind the curtains."

Before he could ask, "Who or what is behind the curtains", out stepped Mr. Sikes, to answer for himself, a common roadside tramp of the lowest order, who that very morning had begged for broken victuals at the kitchen -door and been rewarded with beer in honour of the day.

"All right, Governor," said Sikes, "you needn't make no fuss. I ain't done no harm to the young lady; and the winder bein' open, you see, I only came in to get a rest."

But at this moment there was a sudden and tremendous clatter on the stairs, and in rushed not only the two brothers from the Grange and the parish constable, but the whole troop of terrified servants. In the midst, however, of all the noisy confusion, congratulations and outcries that followed, Sikes continued his speech, with the same unblushing impudence as he had begun it: "And to think, now, of being took in by that there young gal, a-knowin' all the time that I was behind the curtains, and she ready to drop at a mouse."

When Grace had reluctantly swallowed glass of wine, recovered herself enough to tell her brief story and regain her birthday necklace, then arose a fierce discussion as to what was to be done with Mr. Sykes.

"Constable," said the old doctor, "tie that fellow's hands behind him and look him up in the clink until the Squire comes home; and first give him a good ducking in the horse pond."

But then the vagabond altered his tune, and put on such a piteous look and told such a miserable whining tale of starvation and misery, that Grace's voice prevailed, though he did not escape his taste of the pond.

"Let him go; let him go," she said, "and take him away at once, before the Squire comes back, which he may do at any minute. And now all my dear, good friends, a thousand thanks to you, every one. But begone, all of you, for the clock has struck seven, and I have to be dressed before eight."

In spite of all difficulties, however, Miss Grace Rivington, in her white dress and wearing her diamond necklace, was the admiration of all beholders that night at the ball. She danced many dances, and not a few with Charlie Burton, who, after his marriage, told me this true story.

_____________________

3: The Yellow Flag.

L. T. Meade and Robert Eustace

1844-1914 and 1854-1943

Daily News (Perth) 26-27 June 1901

ONE HOT night in September, 1898, Dr. Martin, our ship's doctor, and I were having a quiet dinner at the Caulfield Hotel, in Melbourne. The North Star was to sail for England on the following day, and amongst other matters we were discussing the possibilities of the voyage, what passengers we might expect on board, and what adventures we were likely to have.

The meal proceeded cheerily, for we were both in the best of spirits. We had nearly finished, and were having a smoke with our coffee, when I suddenly noticed that Martin was gazing intently across the room. I heard him say, half aloud—

'Well, if that is not the man himself, it is his ghost.'

'What do you mean?' I cried, turning in the direction in which he was looking.

Martin bent towards me.

'Do you see that fellow sitting at the table to your right— a sunburnt chap with black hair? He is either my old friend, Dudley Wilmot, or his ghost. I have not seen Wilmot for years, and what brings him here now is more than I can imagine. When last we met he was in London, and he was as jolly a young fellow as you could find in a day's march, but as wild as a hawk. I believe he was guilty of some boyish escapade, nothing very great in itself, but sufficiently bad in the eyes of all his people to make them send him out of England. By Jove! it is himself; he has spotted us and is coming over.'

As Martin spoke, a tall, broad shouldered man of about thirty got up from his seat at the table where he had been dining and came towards us with a smile on his face. He was in a tweed suit, and in defiance of appearances was smoking a short black pipe. His deeply tanned face showed him to be no townsman.

'Hullo, Dudley! Where in the world did you spring from?' said Martin, rising and shaking hands with him. 'I thought it must be you; let me introduce Mr. Conway, our purser.'

Wilmot bowed to me and took a seat at our table. 'I only came down last Tuesday from Queensland,' he said. 'I have had a pretty rough time since I met you at my old uncle's house five years ago.'

'What have you been doing?'

'Wandering up and down and to and fro on the earth, as usual; but I have been buried in the bush for four years, and am about sick of it. I am going home to morrow. By the by, you are still doctor on the North Star?'

'Yes.'

'That is good; I am going in her, and I am right glad to see you. I believe I am in for a bit of luck.' He spoke in an excited manner and a flush had risen to his bronzed face.

'Well, you look pretty jolly' said Martin 'what is the luck?'

'You would like to have a chat alone?' I said, rising.

Wilmot jumped up also. 'Not at all,' he exclaimed; 'in fact, I would rather you know, Mr. Conway, than otherwise. I will tell you both, if you listen.'

'I shall be much interested,' I answered. I sat down again.

'It is the queerest story,' he began; 'I have had a rough time since I came out, and have been through the mire— Jackeroo, storekeeper, houseboy, drover— the usual round; then one season I struck a piece of luck and bought a small sheep station. For a year everything went well— plenty of water and grass, and wool at a high figure. Then last year came the drought, and on the top of it the floods. It is always the way in this country. One is always gambling with the weather; and of course I lost. Well, last month things were so bad that I mortgaged my station up to the hilt, and the outlook got worse and worse, and I thought it was a clear case for the bankruptcy court. But last week, just a fortnight ago, the wife and I were having supper in our little house, when she started and read something aloud from a paper which had been sent up from Brisbane. I tell you it astonished us both.'

As he spoke he pulled a newspaper from his, pocket, and, handing it across to Martin, invited us to look at it. 'This is the paragraph,' he said.

Martin read aloud as follows:—

'If Henry Dudley Wilmot, son of David Wilmot, of Grey Towers, Winchester, England, or Dr. Albert Dollory, his cousin, both of whom left England in 1891, will communicate with Fisher, Sands, and Co., solicitors, Long-street, Melbourne, they may hear of something to their advantage. Anyone giving information as to their whereabouts will be rewarded.'

'And what does this all mean?' said Martin; 'it sounds good.'

'I will tell you,' he answered. 'I came straight away down, you can bet, and went at once to Fisher and Co. They showed me a letter from their firm at home, asking them to find one of us, and for this reason. You know I have been cut off from all communication with the Old Country. I got into my father's black books, and he forbade any of the old folks to have the slightest communication with me. They never wrote to me, and I never wrote to them. My father, it seems, died last year, and, as I expected, he cut me off without even the proverbial shilling. But my old uncle, my mother's brother, William Seaforth, who was as mad as a hatter, but a right good sort at heart, died three months ago and left a will leaving this pile to either myself or his other nephew, Dr. Albert Dollory, provided that one of us came to claim it before. the 4th of November this year. If neither of us turned up at the office in Lincoln's Inn by that date, the money was to go to St. Thomas's Hospital. You see, no one knew whether either of us was alive, because Dollory left home about the same time as myself. Now the will goes on to say that whichever of us two gets home first and satisfies the lawyers as to his claim, he is to have the money— a biggish sum, something like seventy thousand pound's they say.'

'By Jove! it is a big thing,' I said. 'How about the other man?'

'Dollory turned up yesterday,' said Wilmot, shrugging his shoulders. 'Just my luck! I saw Fisher this morning, and he told me that Dollory had seen the advertisement and had come to know all about it.'

'Have you seen him yet, yourself?' asked Martin.

'No, but he is in town somewhere, and I suppose! will come home by the North Star,' too.'

'Then, it is to be a race?' I said.

'I hope not. I think we shall have to come to some terms and divide the spoil. I have wired to the wife to say that I am going home, and to keep up her heart till I return: but, by Jove! if Dollory won't come to terms it will be a queer sort of business, eh?'

'It will, indeed,' I said.

'If I fail, I am absolutely rained,' he went on. 'I have drawn my last cheque and have borrowed money to, get iny passage home— first-class, top, for I thought I was certain to get the fortune, and felt sure I should have the start or Dollory, until Fisher's news this morning. Now the aspect of affairs is altogether changed, and my last chance is the hope that he will not come home by the North Star. If he does not he must be out of it, as the next boat home, the Tunis, an Orient liner, does not leave Melbourne for five days; thus I shall have five clear days' start of him. But he is certain to go by the North Star.  I wish my uncle had had the sense to make a decent will, but he always was a crank.'

As Wilmot spoke, he knocked the ashes out of his pipe savagely, and began cutting black Nail Hod for a refill.

Martin and I glanced at each other, and for a moment we did not speak; then Martin, who was chewing the end of a cigar nonchalantly, bent across and said, 'Look here, Hal, you had better come on board to-night, and we, will have a look at the passenger list and see if Dollory's name is in it. Do you happen to know anything about him? Have you ever seen him?'

'I have never seen him, but I have heard of him. I heard something two years ago quite sufficient to make me think that he would not show his face in Australia again. They hang murderers in the Colonies, as well as at home, you know.'

Martin whistled and looked hard at Wilmot.

'What do you mean, Hal?' he said.

'It is an ugly business. Even a blackfellow is a human being. They say he flogged one of his blacks to death, and the poor fellow's wife, who was looking on, went mad and died. She was just about to have her first baby, and the baby died, too. Wholesale murder, I call it.'

I could not help shuddering.

'Such a fellow belongs to the scum of the earth,' continued Wilmot; 'and I say, frankly, the more I think of his running a race with me for this property, the less I like it.'

'He will do you if he can,' I could not help saying.

'Aye, that's just it; he will if he can. I must be even with him, and armed at every point.'

'What is his business?' said Martin suddenly.

'Well, you see, he studied for the medical, and considers himself qualified, but I do not think he does much in that way. He has been about everywhere, travelling around the East. He was in the bush for a time, but after the affair of the blackfellow he had to hook it. I am told that he has lately been at Singapore, Hong Kong, Colombo, Port Said, always moving about. Last year I heard that he was in Port Said, and had some medical appointment at the hospital there ; but I think they found out what sort of man he was, and then I believe he took to dealing in precious stones. Anyway, he is not the kind who is likely to make a concession easy or to accept any terms.'

Martin rose.

'Bring your luggage and come straight on board now,' he  said.

'Yes, you had better do that,' I added; 'I shall be as anxious as you to see if Dollory's name is on the passenger list.'

Wilmot went to his room, and Martin and I waited in the hall for him. In a few moments we all started for the quay, and went on board. I rang the bell for the chief steward and told him to bring me the passenger list. We glanced anxiously down it. Yes, there was the name, almost last on the list, and out of alphabetical order, showing that the man had only just booked his passage. There was the name— Dr. Albert Dollory, and underneath it Mrs. Dollory.

'Married!' cried Wilmot, with a start. 'I never knew it.  I am sorry for the wife.'

'Perhaps it will be-all the better for you,' was my answer.

He turned away, looking sadly crest-fallen; and I went off to attend to other duties.

I was too busy for the next 24 hours to give any thought to Wilmot and his affairs; and it was not until the next evening that I first saw Dr. Albert Dollory.  He and Wilmot were standing together, smoking and talking earnestly.

When the latter saw me he called out:

'Hullo, is that you, Conway? May I introduce you to my cousin, Dr. Albert Dollory?'

Dollory immediately, shook hands, favouring me with a very sharp glance as he did so.  At a first glance I thought him a rather handsome fellow. He was of powerful build and great stature, his features were dark and his black beard abundant. But a second glance showed me a deep scar across the forehead, which not only marred his beauty, but gave him a sinister aspect.

Notwithstanding this defect, however, the man, had a natural grade and decorum of manner which stamped him as one of gentle birth. .

'Mr. Conway knows all about our queer position, Dollory,' continued Wilmot. 'The ship's doctor, Martin, is an old friend of mine ... I met him and Mr. Conway last night at the Caulfield Hotel and we talked the thing through.'

Dollory slightly raised his brows, but made no reply. I gave him another glance.

'You will forgive my interfering in this matter,' I said, 'but I earnestly hope you will both arrange to divide your luck.'

'Thank you,' answered Dollory, 'but we have decided .nothing, as yet.'

There was a supercilious tone in his voice, and he half turned on his heel. He evidently did resent my interference, but anxiety for Wilmot prompted me, to say something more.

'As you will both arrive in England on the same day, surely, that is the easiest and best solution, to the difficulty, and half a loaf is better than no bread.'

'I cannot agree with you,' replied Dollory then. 'For my part, I am quite content- to abide by the terms of my uncle's will. As, to Wilmot, he will be forced to do likewise, for I shall not consent to a division. We shall have a race home; there is nothing like a little excitement.'

Half an hour afterwards Wilmot approached my side.

'I have failed to make any terms with my cousin,' he said.

'Keep up your, heart,' I answered; 'the lawyers will in all probability insist upon a division.'

'Yes, if we arrive at the same time,' was the reply.  As he spoke he gave a harsh laugh. 'Dollory said just after you left, "There's never any knowing what accident may happen." Then he stared me full in the face, and continued, "For my part, I think it would be very lame fun to fly a flag of truce when the chances of victory are so equal." '

'I wonder what he means?' I said.

Before Wilmot could reply a little round faced, bright-eyed woman was seen approaching. She came straight up to Wilmot.

'Do you know where my husband is?' she asked. 'I want to speak to him about something of importance.'

'I left Dollory on the hurricane deck,' replied Wilmot. 'Pray, before you go, Mrs. Dollory, let me introduce you to my friend, Mr. Conway.'

Mrs. Dollory gave a quick glance into my face, as if she meant to read me through. She was a fresh-coloured, healthy-looking young woman of about two-and-thirty; her lips were firmly set, and her dark-brown eyes clear and honest in expression; but just for a moment I thought I saw a curious sort of veiled anxiety lurk in their depths. This may have been my fancy, for the queer position made me inclined to be suspicious about everything. The next moment her merry and ringing laugh dissipated my fears.

'Ah,' she said, 'what an adventure we are likely to have! But it is very nice to meet you, Dudley. I am, of course, deeply, interested in this strange will; but rest. assured of one thing— I am determined there shall be fair play.'

She nodded, to Wilmot in a cheery manner and went off in search of Dollory.

'How nice she is!' he said, glancing at me. 'I have taken an immense fancy to her.'

'I like her appearance infinitely better than that of her husband,' I said. 'I do not take to your cousin, Wilmot. I hope you don't think me rude for saying so?'

'Rude?' answered. Wilmot. 'I hate, the fellow ; he is a blackleg, if ever there was one! I pity that poor little woman. I wonder what induced her to marry him?'

For the next few days I did not see very much of the Dollorys; then, one afternoon, I as I was talking to Wilmot, Mrs. Dollory suddenly came up and spoke to us. She said nothing in particular, and I cannot recall very much about the conversation; but when she had gone I turned and looked at Wilmot.

'What a change!' I said. 'I should scarcely know her face.'

In truth it was considerably, altered; the round cheeks seemed to have fallen in, and most of the bright, healthy colour had vanished. The dark eyes seemed to. have sunk into the head, and now the veiled anxiety could be no longer hidden; it had given place to a look almost of terror.

'What has come to the woman?' said Wilmot.

'She is completely altered,' I said; 'but is may be owing to sea-sickness; most of the passengers are bad for a day or two after we first sail.'

'No, it is not that,' said Wilmot. 'l mean, it is more. There is something queer about her. She was happy when we came on board, and now she looks truly wretched. I wish to goodness I was safe in England. The more I see of Dollory the more I dislike him. To be his wife must be no joke; I can scarcely wonder that the poor little thing looks bad.'

'Have you come to any sort of terms ?' I asked. 'About the money?'

'No ; he is as obstinate as a mule. I am no coward, Conway, but frankly I. don't believe he should be above playing me a nasty trick if he could.'

'Too risky,' I said, 'seeing that Martin and I know your position. If anything happened to you, there would be too much motive to make things go easy for him.'

'Well, at least, one thing is certain— he would stick at nothing, and I shall watch him closely. If we both get safe to London at the same time, there is no doubt, I suppose, that the lawyers will insist on a division of the property.'

'I should say none whatever,' was my reply.

'That is some sort of comfort.' Wilmot sighed as he spoke; then he added, 'I wish I could get that little woman's face out of my head : I cannot bear to meet that -queer expression in her eyes.'

'She is afraid about something,' I replied; 'and doubtless Dollory has terrified her.'

'By a scheme for my undoing,' said Wilmot.

'We must hope for the best, Wilmot, and both watch Dollory as closely as possible.'

The voyage flew by. We had a pleasant set of passengers on the whole, and many amusements were organised. After the first day or two, during which her cheerful presence had been much appreciated by the other ladies, Mrs. Dollory kept very much to herself. She spoke little to anyone except her husband, and was evidently uneasy in the presence of Wilmot, Martin, and myself.

Just about this time I began to notice that Dollory became great friends with a young sailor on board, one of the white crew. He was a nice, easy-going, happy-go-lucky sort of a lad of the name of Philbeach. Dollory was often seen talking to him, and once as the young quartermaster turned away I distinctly saw Dollory put his hand into his pocket and thrust something into the young fellow's palm. The lad grasped it, flushed up brightly, and a moment afterwards turned aside. I went up to Dollory.

'I saw you giving a tip to Philbeach just now,' I said; 'perhaps you are not aware that it is against the rules to tip the sailors— at any rate, until the voyage is over.

He stared at me and drew himself up.

'On my part, I was unaware,' he said, 'that I was answerable to you for my conduct, Mr. Conway. If I choose to be generous, it is, I presume, my own business.' He paused for a moment, then he continued in a gentler tone, 'I am interested in Philbeach. He has a sick mother and a couple of sisters. I have started a collection on the quiet for his benefit, and was just giving him a sovereign to. add to the fund. But there,' he continued, the purple flush rising again to his swarthy face, 'I refuse to discuss this matter any further.'

He walked away in the direction of the companion, where he called down, to his wife —

'Alice, I want you. Why don't you come on deck?'

'Coming, Albert,' was her quick reply. She came racing up the companion and joined him. He laid his hand heavily on her shoulder and they walked away by themselves in the direction of the engine house.

Meanwhile Martin and I kept a sharp look-out. I had now not the slightest doubt that the man meant mischief,  but I did not think that, with all his cleverness he, would find it possible to carry any sinister design into effect. He was very careful, too, and was on the whole rather a favourite with the rest of the passengers. He was a good raconteur, and had a fund of excellent stories to tell, which kept the smoking-room in roars of laughter. He was also particularly attentive to the ladies on board.

Day by day, however, the change for the worse in his wife became more apparent she was getting thinner and thinner. I noticed that she scarcely touched her meals, that she avoided meeting other people's eyes, and, whenever her husband spoke to her she started and trembled. There was not the slightest doubt that a terrible fear was weighing on her spirits. What could it be?  Were we really on the eve of a tragedy ? I hoped not, but it behoved those of us who were in the secret  to guard Wilmot with all the skill at our command.

It was, I remember, one night in the Red Sea, and we were all somewhat run down by the extreme heat, when I noticed Wilmot and Mrs. Dollory standing alone by the wheel; They were talking earnestly together. In a few moments Mrs. Dollory went down the companion, but Wilmot remained where he was, leaning over the taffrail and looking out at our long white wake. He was evidently in deep thought, for he did not turn round at my approaching footsteps, and I had to touch him more than once on the shoulder before he looked up.

'You seem quite bowed down about something; any dear fellow,' I said., 'Any news? Any fresh developments?'

The puzzled and worn expression of his face did not vanish at my words. He was silent for a moment, then he said in a low voice—

'Aye; and queer ones, too. There is some deep game, going on. I want your advice very badly.'

'What has Mrs. Dollory been saying to you?' I asked.

'I have not the slightest idea what she means, but she came to me just now; there were tears in her eyes; she implored me most passionately to leave the ship at Port Said.'

'To leave the ship, at Port Said?' I answered. 'Why, my dear Wilmot, this looks as if she were in league with her husband.'

"You would think so at the first glance, but I don't believe so for a moment. That little woman is true, or there is. no truth on, the earth. She is desperately unhappy, and said that she was risking a great deal in speaking to, me at all, but she felt she must. You may be sure I stared at her in amazement, and asked her to explain herself. She did not answer directly, but then she said that if I did not take her advice I should lose the legacy. She also implored me in pity to her to say nothing of. this to her husband.

' "I risk much," she said, "much more than you imagine, in trying to save you, but I cannot see all your hopes dashed to the ground. You are a good man and he―" She did not add any more, but the look on her face was enough! We heard you approaching and she went away. It looks pretty black, don't you think?'

'I hardly know what to, think,' I replied; 'but, as to taking her advice, that is out of the question.  Your leaving the vessel at Fort Said would; be sheer madness. Beyond doubt, Dollory wants you to do so in order to get to England first himself, and has probably, although you do not agree with me, made use of his wife as a cat's-paw. Just be watchful and careful, Wilmot, and stick to your post. I shall keep my eyes open, too; but as to the Port Said idea, put it out of your head once for all. It is a vile place, and full of scoundrels. You are perfectly safe on board the North Star, whatever villainy Dollory may be up to.'

'All right; I am glad I have spoken to you, and I quite agree with you,' he answered. 'I'll do what you wish, but I long for the whole thing to be over, one way or another. I am getting sick of all this mystery and worry. By the way, have you noticed how thick Dollory is with that young sailor Philbeach? What do you make of that?'

'Nothing, my dear fellow, you are over-suspicious. Go and turn in and sleep if you can. It is more than I shall do tonight. They tell me tho thermometer is 120 degrees in; the stoke-hole.'

WE ARRIVED at Port Said on the 7th of October, and, according to my usual habit in connection with this port, I stayed on board. Dollory, however, and several other members of the party went ashore, but Wilmot, taking my advice, did not leave the ship.

We were due to leave again at midday, and as the hour approached all the passengers came flocking back. Wilmot and I were on deck, and watched them streaming up the gangway, laden with their different purchases. We were just about to start— in fact, the gangway was already up— when Mrs. Dollory came hurrying towards us. She had not landed at Port Said, and looked now full of intense excitement. Her face was ashy white, and there was a wild, startled look in her eyes; her breath was coming quickly in uncontrollable agitation.

'My husband!' she cried. 'Oh, Mr, Conway, have you seen him? Has he come on board? I cannot find him anywhere. Surely he cannot be left behind; Oh, why are we starting without him? What shall I do if he is left behind?' An agonised look crossed her face.

'I really don't knew anything about your husband, Mrs. Dollory,' I replied. 'I certainly did not see him come aboard with the others, but I will make inquiries at once.'

We were already rapidly leaving the shore. Wilmot and I hurried down the companion to the saloon. There I saw the chief steward.

'Do you happen to know if Mr. Dollory has come on board ?' I said.

'I cannot tell you, sir,' was his reply, 'but I will make inquiries at once, and let you know.'

He left us and gave his orders to another steward to search the place. Just at that moment I happened to glance into Wilmot's face. I saw there a curious expression of surprise and ill-concealed delight. He would not meet my eyes, and turned away to hide his emotion. I laid my hand on his arm.

'What is up?' I said.

'By Jove!' he cried, 'if Dollory has missed the boat he is done for— I am bound to be home first.' His lips trembled and he dashed his hand across his forehead, for in his intense excitement the drops of perspiration stood out on it like beads.

'Yes, I am bound to be home first,' he repeated.

'You certainly are,' I answered; 'but come to my cabin— I do not understand this business.'

I took him away with me, being anxious to avoid meeting Mrs. Dollory just then.

The moment we entered, he sank down on my bunk, then started up as if unable to contain himself.

'You can never guess what it means,' he said, 'the intense relief from the most overpowering anxiety and fear. If Dollory has missed the boat I am a made man.'

'I would not buoy myself up with too much hope,' I answered, 'your cousin is the last man on earth to do an idiotic thing of that kind; but we will be sure one way or the other when the steward brings the report.'

In about half an hour Mallinson, the steward, entered the cabin.

'Dr. Dollory is not on board, sir,' he said; 'the whole ship has been searched. He must have been left behind, at Port Said. He was on shore there, it is certain, for Philbeach, one of the quartermasters, was with him and had a drink with him.'

'I must go and tell Mrs. Dollory at once,' I said.

I left my cabin without glancing at Wilmot and met the doctor's wife coming down the companion. She was evidently looking for me.

'Yes, Mr. Conway, I have heard,' she said; 'my husband is not on board: Things are as I feared; but do not question me, I won't be questioned!' She spoke in a broken voice, her head slightly bowed. Before I could answer her she had passed me on her way to her cabin.

In some surprise, and a vague feeling of unaccountable alarm, I went in search of Philbeach. He was busy attending to some of his duties and looked up when approached.

'How is it, Philbeach,' I said, 'that Dr. Dollory has not returned to the ship?'

'I don't know, sir,' was his reply. 'He gave me a drink on shore, and said he would be back in good time.'

'Are you hiding anything?' I said, sternly. 'Is anything the matter?'

Philbeach drew himself up and looked me full in the face. 'Certainly there is nothing the matter, sir,' was his reply. 'The doctor is a good friend to me. He takes an interest in my home affairs; he is one of the best men I ever met.'

'Aye, so you think,' was my inmost thought.

I went back to my own cabin, where I was joined by Wilmot and Martin. I told Martin the state of affairs.

'Well, this is about the queerest thing I ever heard in my life,' was his response.

'I can make nothing of it,' I said.

Wilmot now interrupted us with a harsh, excited, jubilant laugh. 'I don't see anything so marvellous in it, after all,' he said. 'The very cleverest man may sometimes make a slip. Dollory miscalculated the time, or, perhaps— who can tell?— he got into some den of thieves in that horrid place. Anyhow, one thing is plain, he has lost and I have won.'

'Time will prove,' I answered.

'But it is all as clear as daylight,' he continued, speaking impulsively. 'I cannot make out why you and Martin look so sober. By no possibility can the man be home in time.'

'I don't like Mrs. Dollory's face,' was my reply. 'I never saw any woman look more scared.'

'Aye,' responded the doctor; 'but perhaps she, too, was playing a part. You said she tried to persuade you to go ashore at Port Said, Wilmot?'

'She certainly did,' he answered; 'but there, whatever she said to me, I trust that woman.'

'You can never trust appearances in a case of this sort,' said the doctor. 'She is, in all probability, her husband's tool. and, whether she likes it or not, was urged to make a victim of you. Had you taken her advice you would now have been a lost man, and she is doubtless in her present distress because she sees that her husband's game is up.'

Wilmot rubbed his hands joyfully. 'I wish I could communicate this good news to my own little wife, he said. 'Yes, I am made, and just when I almost feared that all was lost. I feel as light-hearted as a sandboy; a load has been lifted from my mind.'

Wilmot presently left us, and the doctor and I found ourselves alone. We looked one at the other. 'It seems incredible that Dollory should have missed the boat,' I repeated. 'What can possibly have detained him at Port Said, when such important issues are at stake?'

'That is more than I can tell,' was Martin's reply. 'The whole thing is a puzzle ; but I own I am right glad. Of course, Dollory has outwitted himself in some manner unknown to us, and my friend Wilmot is safe to win.'

We talked a little further over the matter, and then we turned to our respective duties.

The days flew by without incident, but one circumstance was remarked on by several of the passengers. Mrs. Dollory refused, to leave her cabin or to see anyone. Her meals were brought to her there, and no information whatever could be gained about her. Martin inquired once or twice if she were ill, but the stewardess invariably replied in the negative. It was quite useless, therefore, to expect any explanation from her. There was nothing whatever to be done but to give up for the present further speculation on this queer matter.

Wilmot told me that he intended to disembark at Brindisi, which place we should reach in two days, and then go straight overland to London. 'I feel as right as nails,' he said. 'I shall get the money and post back to join the wife by the earliest boat I can get.'

He looked so radiant that the old proverb about the cup and the lip returned to my mind. A queer depression was over me which I could not account for, but I forbore to say anything to damp Wilmot's spirits.

At last the day dawned when we entered the harbor of Brindisi. Wilmot was early on deck; his face was lit up with a smile.

'I have just finished packing and every thing is ready,' he said. 'How glad l shall be to be off! This suspense is almost past bearing.'

The words had scarcely passed his lips before, to my amazement, I saw the chief officer tearing up the companion stairs, followed immediately by Dr. Martin. Martin was in such a frantic hurry that he cannoned against me and then flew past us both without speaking.

'Hullo! What's up, Martin?' I cried. But the man had disappeared into the captain's cabin in a flash. The next moment the engine-bells rang and the throb of the screw ceased. We were still a good two miles from the shore. To stop abruptly like this was certainly most unusual.

'What can it mean?' said Wilmot.

'We will go forward and find out,' was my answer. We sauntered across the deck. The next instant I saw something that sent a sudden thrill of fear through me. At the mainmast, hauling a line, hand over hand, was the quartermaster, and above us, fluttering up higher and higher, I saw a yellow flag— the flag of quarantine! I gazed! at it without speaking till it reached the top of the mast. Wilmot looked at it, too; then he said—

'What does it mean, Conway? What are they hoisting a yellow flag for?'

'It means that we are quarantined,' I replied, and I ran to the captain's cabin. The chief officer and Dr. Martin were there.

'Come in Conway,' cried the skipper the moment he saw me. 'I have just sent for you. Here's a pretty mess! There is a case of bubonic plague on board; no passengers can land here,'

'Is it one of the passengers?' I asked.

'No; one of the men,' said Martin— 'young Philbeach. I cannot make it out at all, unless he got it at Aden; but if he had, he would have shown symptoms before now.'

My heart sank at his words, and the outline of a consummately planned plot began to take shape. Dollory had been curiously friendly with Philbeach ; they had been together at Port Said.

'If he contracted it at Port Said—?' I queried.

'Ah!' replied Martin. 'In that case he would be ill about now.'

Without uttering another word I hurried back to Wilmot, who had remained where I had left him. I don't think he had yet taken in the situation, but the news had spread like wildfire through the ship, and there was something very like a panic beginning already among the passengers.

'There is a case of plague on board,' I said, to him. 'I am sorry to tell you, you cannot go ashore here; you will have to come round to Plymouth with us.'

He started back. 'Plague?' he echoed. 'What an awful thing! But why may I not land? Surely the sooner I get away the better?'

'It is against the laws of quarantine,' I answered. 'You must stay where you are. I am very sorry, Wilmot, but there is no possible help for it.'

I saw that he was trying to keep up his courage, and that even yet the worst had not dawned upon him. '

'We are due at Plymouth on the 28th,' he said, looking full at me with starting eyes. 'I shall still be in time.'

'The law is that we must be five days in quarantine,' I replied. He remained silent for a moment.

'Even so,' he said then. 'That will bring us to the second of November— a narrow shave. But even then I shall not be too late, unless, indeed, Dollory comes on and gets home first. Could he do that by coming on in another boat, I wonder? This is most infernal luck!'

I did not dare to communicate my suspicions to him yet, and went quickly back to the captain.

'Do you know, sir,' I said, 'if any boat left Port Said soon after us?'

'Yes,' he replied— 'the Evening Star, one of our boats on the Indian line ; she is just behind us.'

He shaded his eyes and looked out to sea. 'That is she coming up now,' he continued. 'But why do you ask?'

'I will tell you, sir, in a moment,' I answered.

I ran down the companion and went at once to Mrs. Dollory. I knocked at the door of her cabin. A voice inside, called out—

'Who is there?'

'It is I— Conway,' I replied. 'I must speak to you at once.'

'Come, in,' she answered; 'I will see you.'

I entered. Mrs. Dollory was standing in the middle of the cabin. She was staring straight at the door, and her eyes had a glassy appearance. Her face was so ashy white that it almost resembled that of a dead woman― the most horrible fear had spread over each feature.

'What is the matter?' I could not help exclaiming. 'You look most fearfully ill. What is wrong, Mrs. Dollory? For Heaven's sake unburden yourself!'

The expression on the poor woman's face had made me for the moment almost for get the yellow flag and the downfall of all Wilmot's hopes.

'What is the matter ?' I said again. She shook her head, and her lips formed a voiceless word which I could not catch.

'Have you heard the bad news?' I said then.

She gave a violent start, clenched her hands, and at last found words.

'News!' she cried with a stifled scream; 'this is no news to me. Yes, Mr. Conway, I will speak. I have borne much from my husband, but this is beyond endurance. Will that poor fellow die? Does Mr. Martin think he will die?'

'I do not know; I have not asked him,' I replied. 'I am thinking of Wilmot. This quarantine business will make him late; he will lose the property. What does it all mean?'

'It was planned,' she replied ; 'the quarantine was planned in order to detain him.'

'What do you mean ?' I said. My heart gave a sudden clutch at the thought of the villainy which was about to be exposed. She clasped her hands excitedly together.

'Oh; if only Mr. Wilmot had taken my advice, and gone ashore at Port Said, all would have been well,' she continued; 'and I risked so much to tell him. He did not believe me, and he would not go and I could not explain matters. Oh! I am a most wretched woman!'

'Do you say this thing has been planned?' I asked.

'Deliberately, devilishly planned by my husband,' was' her solemn answer. 'Though I am his wife, I will bear testimony against him. I have suffered and borne much, but this I cannot and will not endure. She shivered all over.

'Mrs. Dollory,' I said, 'if you are to do any good at all in this business, please understand there is not a moment to lose.'

'What do you mean? Is the poor fellow really dying?'

'I know nothing about that, but I do know this— we shall be in quarantine for five days and your husband, beyond doubt, is coming on in the Evening Star, which will pass us in a few moments.'

She shivered again. 'He would kill me if he knew what I am going to do ; but life has become intolerable. And as to money— oh! how men sin for money, and how little it is worth after all!'

'Go on,' I said.

She pressed both her hands to her eyes, and then continued, with less excitement in her manner—

'You know what a curious friendship sprang up between my husband and that poor young quartermaster Philbeach. I heard Dr. Dollory propose to him to come on shore at Port Said, but for what purpose I know not. I only know that, he told me that if he could succeed in a certain line of action which he had marked out for himself, he would not return to the ship. I replied, when he said those extraordinary words, "Then you will be late?"

' "No, I shall be in time," he answered; "I have planned it all. Wilmot is no match for me when it comes to a question of brains. I shall be home first," and he rubbed his hands excitedly. "If I succeed, I shall not return to the ship," he said. "If I do not return, you will know that my plan has been crowned with success."

'Oh, Mr. Conway, you can little guess my anguish when he did not come back; but what has happened I cannot tell you, although I can partly guess. When a man is a medical man, and also a devil, what awful ends can he not achieve? But will you not ask the poor fellow himself? Perhaps he will tell you the truth.'

'I will see him at once,' I said. 'If he knows that you have told us so much, he may be induced to tell the rest. Perhaps you will come, too, Mrs. Dollory?'

'I do not fear infection,' she said; 'all I desire and want as to have that wicked man, my husband, punished for his awful crimes.'

She followed me out of her cabin. We found Martin with Captain Meadows; they both decided to come with us to visit the sick man. I need not describe here the terrible symptoms of his disease. He was in great suffering and in mortal danger, but he was not unconscious. He looked at us all with lack-lustre eyes when we entered his cabin, but when he saw Mrs. Dollory they began to dilate with that curious expression of fear which all those who came in contact with Dollory himself seemed to acquire.

'What is wrong ?' he said in a low whisper.

The little woman bent over him.

'I mean to nurse you, Philbeach, and bring you back to health,' she said, 'but I want you now to tell us the truth. I am Dr. Dollory's wife, and I command you in his name, if necessary, to tell the truth.'

'Of course I will tell you,' said the poor fellow. I went ashore with Dr. Dollory. It was for a purpose. He said he was a great man at tattooing, and had discovered a new and wonderful ink. I had always wanted to have an anchor tattooed on my arm, the same as Joe the boatswain, and he offered to do it for me if I went ashore with him. He went to a little hotel, and he did it in a private room. See, that is where he did it. He gave me five pounds, afterwards. I don't know why, but he told me that he was about to come in for a large property, and thought it might be of use to me. See my arm, where he did it ; it hurts so dreadfully. Why should it hurt like that, doctor?'

'Great Heaven!' cried Martin, 'is it here?'

'Yes, where it has swollen.'

The doctor's face turned ashy white. 'Dollory gave him the plague,' he whispered to me: 'That very place is the pustule, the typical pustule, there can be no doubt about it.'

'You are prepared to swear this, Philbeach?' I said. 'Martin, for Heaven's take, take, take down his affidavit.'

Martin did so. '

The captain and I hastened on deck. The Evening Star was now rapidly nearing us. Even at the distance which separated the two big liners I could see the figure of Albert Dollory standing alone on the deck right up in the bows; he. was eagerly gazing in our direction. Just then I heard Wilmot's step behind me.

'Oh, Mr. Conway, l am done for,' he said; 'I am ruined, utterly ruined. Did you see Dollory on board the Evening Star? He will land at Brindisi and be in London in 48 hours.'

'No, he won't; leave things to me,' I answered. 'I will explain later on.'

The captain and I now hurried towards the gangway; the company's launch was alongside, and the agent was standing at the bottom of the steps. Captain Meadows wrote a few hasty words on a piece of paper and thrust it into the agent's hands. 'Go full steam to the Evening Star,' he said, 'and give that to Captain Baker. It is a matter of life and death. I will signal to stop her before she gets to the quay.'

In an instant the launch swung off, and getting up full steam, tore after the Evening Star. At our signal she suddenly stopped, and the launch went alongside.

'What did you write?' I asked of the captain.'

'This,' he replied. 'I have asked the captain to send Dollory back here at once. He is our passenger, and must answer this charge to me.'

In less than a quarter of an hour the launch was back again, bringing Dr. Albert Dollory. He was in irons. From this we knew that, mad with fear and a guilty conscience, he had offered resistance on board the Evening Star.

I shall never to my dying day forget the scene that followed. When he discovered that his own wife had laid information against him, his rage and passion knew no bounds. Perceiving that all was up, how ever, he confessed what he had done, but without a spark of regret.

'Had I succeeded,' he said, 'I should have considered myself the luckiest dog on the wide earth; as it is―' he turned his head aside.

THE REST of this story can be told very briefly. Owing to the care and watchfulness which Mrs. Dollory herself expended on him, and to Martin's unceasing ministrations, Philbeach recovered; but, as if there were indeed in this life some even-handed justice that makes the criminal fall into the pit he has dug for another, the only person on board the North Star who caught the plague was Albert Dollory himself.

Of course, everything that could be done was tried to save him, but he died before we reached Gibraltar. I don't believe anyone on board mourned his loss. We were quarantined at Plymouth, but Wilmot was, after all, just in time to receive his fortune. Although he denied it, I am almost certain that a share of that fortune went to Mrs. Dollory, whom her brutal husband had left penniless.

_________________

4: The Disintegration Machine

Arthur Conan Doyle

1859-1930

The Strand Magazine January 1929

PROFESSOR CHALLENGER was in the worst possible humour. As I stood at the door of his study, my hand upon the handle and my foot upon the mat, I heard a monologue which ran like this, the words booming and reverberating through the house:

‘Yes, I say it is the second wrong call. The second in one morning. Do you imagine that a man of science is to be distracted from essential work by the constant interference of some idiot at the end of a wire? I will not have it. Send this instant for the manager. Oh! you are the manager. Well, why don’t you manage? Yes, you certainly manage to distract me from work the importance of which your mind is incapable of understanding. I want the superintendent. He is away? So I should imagine. I will carry you to the law courts if this occurs again. Crowing cocks have been adjudicated upon. I myself have obtained a judgement. If crowing cocks, why not jangling bells? The case is clear. A written apology. Very good. I will consider it. Good morning.’

It was at this point that I ventured to make my entrance. It was certainly an unfortunate moment. I confronted him as he turned from the telephone — a lion in its wrath. His huge black beard was bristling, his great chest was heaving with indignation, and his arrogant grey eyes swept me up and down as the backwash of his anger fell upon me.

‘Infernal, idle, overpaid rascals!’ he boomed. ‘I could hear them laughing while I was making my just complaint. There is a conspiracy to annoy me. And now, young Malone, you arrive to complete a disastrous morning. Are you here, may I ask, on your own account, or has your rag commissioned you to obtain an interview? As a friend you are privileged— as a journalist you are outside the pale.’

I was hunting in my pocket for McArdle’s letter when suddenly some new grievance came to his memory. His great hairy hands fumbled about among the papers upon his desk and finally extracted a press cutting.

‘You have been good enough to allude to me in one of your recent lucubrations,’ he said, shaking the paper at me. ‘It was in the course of your somewhat fatuous remarks concerning the recent Saurian remains discovered in the Solenhofen Slates. You began a paragraph with the words: “Professor G. E. Challenger, who is among our greatest living scientists—”’

‘Well, sir?’ I asked.

‘Why these invidious qualifications and limitations? Perhaps you can mention who these other predominant scientific men may be to whom you impute equality, or possibly superiority to myself?’

‘It was badly worded. I should certainly have said: “Our greatest living scientist,”’ I admitted. It was after all my own honest belief. My words turned winter into summer.

‘My dear young friend, do not imagine that I am exacting, but surrounded as I am by pugnacious and unreasonable colleagues, one is forced to take one’s own part. Self-assertion is foreign to my nature, but I have to hold my ground against opposition. Come now! Sit here! What is the reason of your visit?’

I had to tread warily, for I knew how easy it was to set the lion roaring once again. I opened McArdle’s letter. ‘May I read you this, sir? It is from McArdle, my editor.’

‘I remember the man— not an unfavourable specimen of his class.’

‘He has, at least, a very high admiration for you. He has turned to you again and again when he needed the highest qualities in some investigation. That is the case now.’

‘What does he desire?’ Challenger plumed himself like some unwieldy bird under the influence of flattery. He sat down with his elbows upon the desk, his gorilla hands clasped together, his beard bristling forward, and his big grey eyes, half-covered by his drooping lids, fixed benignly upon me. He was huge in all that he did, and his benevolence was even more overpowering than his truculence.

‘I’ll read you his note to me. He says:

“Please call upon our esteemed friend, Professor Challenger, and ask for his co-operation in the following circumstances. There is a Latvian gentleman named Theodore Nemor living at White Friars Mansions, Hampstead, who claims to have invented a machine of a most extraordinary character which is capable of disintegrating any object placed within its sphere of influence. Matter dissolves and returns to its molecular or atomic condition. By reversing the process it can be reassembled. The claim seems to be an extravagant one, and yet there is solid evidence that there is some basis for it and that the man has stumbled upon some remarkable discovery.

“I need not enlarge upon the revolutionary character of such an invention, nor of its extreme importance as a potential weapon of war. A force which could disintegrate a battleship, or turn a battalion, if it were only for a time, into a collection of atoms, would dominate the world. For social and for political reasons not an instant is to be lost in getting to the bottom of the affair. The man courts publicity as he is anxious to sell his invention, so that there is no difficulty in approaching him. The enclosed card will open his doors. What I desire is that you and Professor Challenger shall call upon him, inspect his invention, and write for the Gazette a considered report upon the value of the discovery. I expect to hear from you to-night.

R. McARDLE.”

‘There are my instructions, Professor,’ I added, as I refolded the letter. ‘I sincerely hope that you will come with me, for how can I, with my limited capacities, act alone in such a matter?’

‘True, Malone! True!’ purred the great man. ‘Though you are by no means destitute of natural intelligence, I agree with you that you would be somewhat overweighted in such a matter as you lay before me. These unutterable people upon the telephone have already ruined my morning’s work, so that a little more can hardly matter. I am engaged in answering that Italian buffoon, Mazotti, whose views upon the larval development of the tropical termites have excited my derision and contempt, but I can leave the complete exposure of the impostor until evening. Meanwhile, I am at your service.’

And thus it came about that on that October morning I found myself in the deep level tube with the Professor speeding to the North of London in what proved to be one of the most singular experiences of my remarkable life.

I had, before leaving Enmore Gardens, ascertained by the much-abused telephone that our man was at home, and had warned him of our coming. He lived in a comfortable flat in Hampstead, and he kept us waiting for quite half an hour in his ante-room whilst he carried on an animated conversation with a group of visitors, whose voices, as they finally bade farewell in the hall, showed that they were Russians. I caught a glimpse of them through the half-opened door, and had a passing impression of prosperous and intelligent men, with astrakhan collars to their coats, glistening top-hats, and every appearance of that bourgeois well-being which the successful Communist so readily assumes. The hall door closed behind them, and the next instant Theodore Nemor entered our apartment. I can see him now as he stood with the sunlight full upon him, rubbing his long, thin hands together and surveying us with his broad smile and his cunning yellow eyes.

He was a short, thick man, with some suggestion of deformity in his body, though it was difficult to say where that suggestion lay. One might say that he was a hunchback without the hump. His large, soft face was like an underdone dumpling, of the same colour and moist consistency, while the pimples and blotches which adorned it stood out the more aggressively against the pallid background. His eyes were those of a cat, and catlike was the thin, long, bristling moustache above his loose, wet, slobbering mouth. It was all low and repulsive until one came to the sandy eyebrows. From these upwards there was a splendid cranial arch such as I have seldom seen. Even Challenger’s hat might have fitted that magnificent head. One might read Theodore Nemor as a vile, crawling conspirator below, but above he might take rank with the great thinkers and philosophers of the world.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ said he, in a velvety voice with only the least trace of a foreign accent, ‘you have come, as I understand from our short chat over the wires, in order to learn more of the Nemor Disintegrator. Is it so?’

‘Exactly.’

‘May I ask whether you represent the British Government?’

‘Not at all. I am a correspondent of the Gazette, and this is Professor Challenger.’

‘An honoured name — a European name.’ His yellow fangs gleamed in obsequious amiability. ‘I was about to say that the British Government has lost its chance. What else it has lost it may find out later. Possibly its Empire as well. I was prepared to sell to the first Government which gave me its price, and if it has now fallen into hands of which you may disapprove, you have only yourselves to blame.’

‘Then you have sold your secret?’

‘At my own price.’

‘You think the purchaser will have a monopoly?’

‘Undoubtedly he will.’

‘But others know the secret as well as you.’

‘No, sir.’ He touched his great forehead.

‘This is the safe in which the secret is securely locked— a better safe than any of steel, and secured by something better than a Yale key. Some may know one side of the matter: others may know another. No one in the world knows the whole matter save only I.’

‘And these gentlemen to whom you have sold it.’

‘No, sir; I am not so foolish as to hand over the knowledge until the price is paid. After that it is I whom they buy, and they move this safe’ he again tapped his brow ‘with all its contents to whatever point they desire. My part of the bargain will then be done— faithfully, ruthlessly done. After that, history will be made.’ He rubbed his hands together and the fixed smile upon his face twisted itself into something like a snarl.

‘You will excuse me, sir,’ boomed Challenger, who had sat in silence up to now, but whose expressive face registered most complete disapproval of Theodore Nemor, ‘we should wish before we discuss the matter to convince ourselves that there is something to discuss. We have not forgotten a recent case where an Italian, who proposed to explode mines from a distance, proved upon investigation to be an arrant impostor. History may well repeat itself. You will understand, sir, that I have a reputation to sustain as a man of science— a reputation which you have been good enough to describe as European, though I have every reason to believe that it is not less conspicuous in America. Caution is a scientific attribute, and you must show us your proofs before we can seriously consider your claims.’

Nemor cast a particularly malignant glance from the yellow eyes at my companion, but the smile of affected geniality broadened his face.

‘You live up to your reputation, Professor. I had always heard that you were the last man in the world who could be deceived. I am prepared to give you an actual demonstration which cannot fail to convince you, but before we proceed to that I must say a few words upon the general principle.

‘You will realize that the experimental plant which I have erected here in my laboratory is a mere model, though within its limits it acts most admirably. There would be no possible difficulty, for example, in disintegrating you and reassembling you, but it is not for such a purpose as that that a great Government is prepared to pay a price which runs into millions. My model is a mere scientific toy. It is only when the same force is invoked upon a large scale that enormous practical effects could be achieved.’

‘May we see this model?’

‘You will not only see it, Professor Challenger, but you will have the most conclusive demonstration possible upon your own person, if you have the courage to submit to it.’

‘If!’ the lion began to roar. ‘Your “if,” sir, is in the highest degree offensive.’

‘Well, well. I had no intention to dispute your courage. I will only say that I will give you an opportunity to demonstrate It. But I would first say a few words upon the underlying laws which govern the matter.

‘When certain crystals, salt, for example, or sugar, are placed in water they dissolve and disappear. You would not know that they have ever been there. Then by evaporation or otherwise you lessen the amount of water, and lo! there are your crystals again, visible once more and the same as before. Can you conceive a process by which you, an organic being, are in the same way dissolved into the cosmos, and then by a subtle reversal of the conditions reassembled once more?’

‘The analogy is a false one,’ cried Challenger. ‘Even if I make so monstrous an admission as that our molecules could be dispersed by some disrupting power, why should they reassemble in exactly the same order as before?’

‘The objection is an obvious one, and I can only answer that they do so reassemble down to the last atom of the structure. There is an invisible framework and every brick flies into its true place. You may smile, Professor, but your incredulity and your smile may soon be replaced by quite another emotion.’

Challenger shrugged his shoulders. ‘I am quite ready to submit it to the test.’

‘There is another case which I would impress upon you, gentlemen, and which may help you to grasp the idea. You have heard both in Oriental magic and in Western occultism of the phenomenon of the apport when some object is suddenly brought from a distance and appears in a new place. How can such a thing be done save by the loosening of the molecules, their conveyance upon an etheric wave, and their reassembling, each exactly in its own place, drawn together by some irresistible law? That seems a fair analogy to that which is done by my machine.’

‘You cannot explain one incredible thing by quoting another incredible thing,’ said Challenger. ‘I do not believe in your apports, Mr. Nemor, and I do not believe in your machine. My time is valuable, and if we are to have any sort of demonstration I would beg you to proceed with it without further ceremony.’

‘Then you will be pleased to follow me,’ said the inventor. He led us down the stair of the flat and across a small garden which lay behind. There was a considerable outhouse, which he unlocked and we entered.

Inside was a large whitewashed room with innumerable copper wires hanging in festoons from the ceiling, and a huge magnet balanced upon a pedestal. In front of this was what looked like a prism of glass, three feet in length and about a foot in diameter. To the right of it was a chair which rested upon a platform of zinc, and which had a burnished copper cap suspended above it. Both the cap and the chair had heavy wires attached to them, and at the side was a sort of ratchet with numbered slots and a handle covered with indiarubber which lay at present in the slot marked zero.

‘Nemor’s Disintegrator,’ said this strange man, waving his hand towards the machine.

‘This is the model which is destined to be famous, as altering the balance of power among the nations. Who holds this rules the world. Now, Professor Challenger, you have, if I may say so, treated me with some lack of courtesy and consideration in this matter. Will you dare to sit upon that chair and to allow me to demonstrate upon your own body the capabilities of the new force?’

Challenger had the courage of a lion, and anything in the nature of a defiance roused him in an instant to a frenzy He rushed at the machine, but I seized his arm and held him back.

‘You shall not go,’ I said. ‘Your life is too valuable. It is monstrous. What possible guarantee of safety have you? The nearest approach to that apparatus which I have ever seen was the electrocution chair at Sing Sing.’

‘My guarantee of safety,’ said Challenger, ‘is that you are a witness and that this person would certainly be held for manslaughter at the least should anything befall me.’

‘That would be a poor consolation to the world of science, when you would leave work unfinished which none but you can do. Let me, at least, go first, and then, when the experience proves to be harmless, you can follow.’

Personal danger would never have moved Challenger, but the idea that his scientific work might remain unfinished hit him hard. He hesitated, and before he could make up his mind I had dashed forward and jumped into the chair. I saw the inventor put his hand to the handle. I was aware of a click. Then for a moment there was a sensation of confusion and a mist before my eyes. When they cleared, the inventor with his odious smile was standing before me, and Challenger, with his apple-red cheeks drained of blood and colour, was staring over his shoulder.

‘Well, get on with it!’ said I.

‘It is all over. You responded admirably,’ Nemor replied. ‘Step out, and Professor Challenger will now, no doubt, be ready to take his turn.’

I have never seen my old friend so utterly upset. His iron nerve had for a moment completely failed him. He grasped my arm with a shaking hand.

‘My God, Malone, it is true,’ said he. ‘You vanished. There is not a doubt of it. There was a mist for an instant and then vacancy.’

‘How long was I away?’

‘Two or three minutes. I was, I confess, horrified. I could not imagine that you would return. Then he clicked this lever, if it is a lever, into a new slot and there you were upon the chair, looking a little bewildered but otherwise the same as ever. I thanked God at the sight of you!’ He mopped his moist brow with his big red handkerchief.

‘Now, sir,’ said the inventor. ‘Or perhaps your nerve has failed you?’

Challenger visibly braced himself. Then, pushing my protesting hand to one side, he seated himself upon the chair. The handle clicked into number three. He was gone.

I should have been horrified but for the perfect coolness of the operator. ‘It is an interesting process, is it not?’ he remarked. ‘When one considers the tremendous individuality of the Professor it is strange to think that he is at present a molecular cloud suspended in some portion of this building. He is now, of course, entirely at my mercy. If I choose to leave him in suspension there is nothing on earth to prevent me.’

‘I would very soon find means to prevent you.’

The smile once again became a snarl. ‘You cannot imagine that such a thought ever entered my mind. Good heavens! Think of the permanent dissolution of the great Professor Challenger vanished into cosmic space and left no trace! Terrible! Terrible! At the same time he has not been as courteous as he might. Don’t you think some small lesson—?’

‘No, I do not.’

‘Well, we will call it a curious demonstration. Something that would make an interesting paragraph in your paper. For example, I have discovered that the hair of the body being on an entirely different vibration to the living organic tissues can be included or excluded at will. It would interest me to see the bear without his bristles. Behold him!’

There was the click of the lever. An instant later Challenger was seated upon the chair once more. But what a Challenger! What a shorn lion! Furious as I was at the trick that had been played upon him I could hardly keep from roaring with laughter.

His huge head was as bald as a baby’s and his chin was as smooth as a girl’s. Bereft of his glorious mane the lower part of his face was heavily jowled and ham-shaped, while his whole appearance was that of an old fighting gladiator, battered and bulging, with the jaws of a bulldog over a massive chin.

It may have been some look upon our faces— I have no doubt that the evil grin of my companion had widened at the sight— but, however that may be, Challenger’s hand flew up to his head and he became conscious of his condition. The next instant he had sprung out of his chair, seized the inventor by the throat, and had hurled him to the ground. Knowing Challenger’s immense strength I was convinced that the man would be killed.

‘For God’s sake be careful. If you kill him we can never get matters right again!’ I cried.

That argument prevailed. Even in his maddest moments Challenger was always open to reason. He sprang up from the floor, dragging the trembling inventor with him. ‘I give you five minutes,’ he panted in his fury. ‘If in five minutes I am not as I was, I will choke the life out of your wretched little body.’

Challenger in a fury was not a safe person to argue with. The bravest man might shrink from him, and there were no signs that Mr. Nemor was a particularly brave man. On the contrary, those blotches and warts upon his face had suddenly become much more conspicuous as the face behind them changed from the colour of putty, which was normal, to that of a fish’s belly. His limbs were shaking and he could hardly articulate.

‘Really, Professor!’ he babbled, with his hand to his throat, ‘this violence is quite unnecessary. Surely a harmless joke may pass among friends. It was my wish to demonstrate the powers of the machine. I had imagined that you wanted a full demonstration. No offence, I assure you. Professor, none in the world!’

For answer Challenger climbed back into the chair.

‘You will keep your eye upon him, Malone. Do not permit any liberties.’

‘I’ll see to it, sir.’

‘Now then, set that matter right or take the consequences.’

The terrified inventor approached his machine. The reuniting power was turned on to the full, and in an instant, there was the old lion with his tangled mane once more. He stroked his beard affectionately with his hands and passed them over his cranium to be sure that the restoration was complete. Then he descended solemnly from his perch.

‘You have taken a liberty, sir, which might have had very serious consequences to yourself. However, I am content to accept your explanation that you only did it for purposes of demonstration. Now, may I ask you a few direct questions upon this remarkable power which you claim to have discovered?’

‘I am ready to answer anything save what the source of the power is. That is my secret.’

‘And do you seriously inform us that no one in the world knows this except yourself?’

‘No one has the least inkling.’

‘No assistants?’

‘No, sir. I work alone.’

‘Dear me! That is most interesting. You have satisfied me as to the reality of the power, but I do not yet perceive its practical bearings.’

‘I have explained, sir, that this is a model. But it would be quite easy to erect a plant upon a large scale. You understand that this acts vertically. Certain currents above you, and certain others below you, set up vibrations which either disintegrate or reunite. But the process could be lateral. If it were so conducted it would have the same effect, and cover a space in proportion to the strength of the current.’

‘Give an example.’

‘We will suppose that one pole was in one small vessel and one in another; a battleship between them would simply vanish into molecules. So also with a column of troops.’

‘And you have sold this secret as a monopoly to a single European Power?’

‘Yes, sir, I have. When the money is paid over they shall have such power as no nation ever had yet. You don’t even now see the full possibilities if placed in capable hands, hands which did not fear to wield the weapon which they held. They are immeasurable.’ A gloating smile passed over the man’s evil face. ‘Conceive a quarter of London in which such machines have been erected. Imagine the effect of such a current upon the scale which could easily be adopted. Why,’ he burst into laughter, ‘I could imagine the whole Thames valley being swept clean, and not one man, woman, or child left of all these teeming millions!’

The words filled me with horror— and even more the air of exultation with which they were pronounced. They seemed, however, to produce quite a different effect upon my companion. To my surprise he broke into a genial smile and held out his hand to the inventor.

‘Well, Mr. Nemor, we have to congratulate you,’ said he. ‘There is no doubt that you have come upon a remarkable property of nature which you have succeeded in harnessing for the use of man. That this use should be destructive is no doubt very deplorable, but Science knows no distinctions of the sort, but follows knowledge wherever it may lead. Apart from the principle involved you have, I suppose, no objection to my examining the construction of the machine?’

‘None in the least. The machine is merely the body. It is the soul of it, the animating principle, which you can never hope to capture.’

‘Exactly. But the mere mechanism seems to be a model of ingenuity.’ For some time he walked round it and fingered its several parts. Then he hoisted his unwieldy bulk into the insulated chair.

‘Would you like another excursion into the cosmos?’ asked the inventor.

‘Later, perhaps— later! But meanwhile there is, as no doubt you know, some leakage of electricity. I can distinctly feel a weak current passing through me.’

‘Impossible. It is quite insulated.’

‘But I assure you that I feel it.’ He levered himself down from his perch.

The inventor hastened to take his place.

‘I can feel nothing.’

‘Is there not a tingling down your spine?’

‘No, sir, I do not observe it.’

There was a sharp click and the man had disappeared. I looked with amazement at Challenger. ‘Good heavens! Did you touch the machine, Professor?’

He smiled at me benignly with an air of mild surprise.

‘Dear me! I may have inadvertently touched the handle,’ said he. ‘One is very liable to have awkward incidents with a rough model of this kind. This lever should certainly be guarded.’

‘It is in number three. That is the slot which causes disintegration.’

‘So I observed when you were operated upon.’

‘But I was so excited when he brought you back that I did not see which was the proper slot for the return. Did you notice it?’

‘I may have noticed it, young Malone, but I do not burden my mind with small details. There are many slots and we do not know their purpose. We may make the matter worse if we experiment with the unknown. Perhaps it is better to leave matters as they are.’

‘And you would—’

‘Exactly. It is better so. The interesting personality of Mr. Theodore Nemor has distributed itself throughout the cosmos, his machine is worthless, and a certain foreign Government has been deprived of knowledge by which much harm might have been wrought. Not a bad morning’s work, young Malone. Your rag will no doubt have an interesting column upon the inexplicable disappearance of a Latvian inventor shortly after the visit of its own special correspondent. I have enjoyed the experience. These are the lighter moments which come to brighten the dull routine of study. But life has its duties as well as its pleasures, and I now return to the Italian Mazotti and his preposterous views upon the larval development of the tropical termites.’

Looking back, it seemed to me that a slight oleaginous mist was still hovering round the chair.

‘But surely—’ I urged.

‘The first duty of the law-abiding citizen is to prevent murder,’ said Professor Challenger. ‘I have done so. Enough, Malone, enough! The theme will not bear discussion. It has already disengaged my thoughts too long from matters of more importance.’

__________________

5: A Race with the Sun

L. T. Meade and Clifford Halifax, M.D.

1844—1914  and 1860-1921

The 7th "Adventure of a Man of Science"

IT WAS in the spring of 1895 that the following apparently unimportant occurrences took place. I returned home somewhat late one evening, and was met by my servant, Silva, with the words:—

'A lady, sir— a nun, I think, from her dress— is waiting for you in your study.'

'What can she want with me?' I asked. I felt annoyed, as I was anxious to got to work on some important experiments.

'She is very anxious to have an interview with you, sir— she called almost immediately after you had gone out, and said if I would allow her she would wait to speak to you, as her mission was of some importance. I showed her into the study, and after a quarter of an hour she rang the bell, and desired me to tell you that she would not wait now, but would call again later. She left the house, but came back about ten minutes ago. I did not like to refuse her, and―'

'Quite right, Silva; I will see to the matter,' I answered.

I went straight to the study, where a bright looking woman, in the full costume of a nun of the Church of Rome, started up and came forward to meet me. She made a brief apology for intruding upon me, and almost before I could reply to her, plunged into the object of her visit. It so happened that she knew a young man in whom I was interested, having come across him when in hospital— she confirmed my views with regard to him— told me a subscription was being got up for his benefit, and asked if I would contribute towards it. I gave her two sovereigns— she expressed much gratitude, and speedily left the house. At this time I was lecturing in several quarters, and did not give another thought to such an apparently uninteresting event. In the autumn of the same year, however, I was destined to recall it with vivid and startling distinctness.

During the special autumn I was, as I fondly hoped, approaching the magnum opus of my life— I was in a fair way to the discovery of a new explosive which would put gunpowder, dynamite, and all other explosives completely in the shade. It was to be smokeless, devoid of smell, and also of such a nature that it would be impossible for it to ignite except when placed in certain combination. Its propelling power would be greater than anything in existence; in short, if it turned out what I dreamed, it would be a most important factor in case of war, and of immense use to England as a nation. Giddy hopes often throbbed in my head as I worked over it. My experiments were progressing favourably, but I still wanted one link. Try as I would I could not obtain it. No combinations that I attempted would produce the desired result, and in much vexation of spirit I was wondering if, after all, the secret of my life would never reveal itself, when on a certain afternoon Silva opened the door of my laboratory and announced  two visitors. This was an unusual thing for him to do, and I started up in surprise and some involuntary annoyance.

A tall man had entered the room— he was dark, with the swarthy complexion of a gipsy; his eyes were small, closely set, and piercing ; he had a long beard and a quantity of thick hair falling in profusion round his neck. Immediately following him was a little man, in every sense of the word his anti-type. He was thin and small, clean-shaven, and with a bald head. The two men were total strangers to me, and I stood still for a moment unable to account for this intrusion. The elder of the two came for ward with outstretched hands.

'Pardon me,' he said, 'I know I am intruding. My name is Paul Lewin— this is my friend, Carl Kruse. We have had the pleasure of listening to your lecture at the Royal Society, and have taken these un ceremonious means of forcing ourselves upon you, for you are the only man in England who can do what we want.'

'Pray, sit down,' I said to them both. I hastily cleared two chairs, and my uninvited guests seated themselves. Lewin's face seemed fairly to twitch with eagerness, but Kruse, on the contrary, was very quiet and calm. He was as immovable in expression as his companion was the reverse.

The older man's deep set eyes flashed; he looked me all over from head to foot. 'You are the only person who can help us,' he repeated, breathing quickly as he spoke.

'Pray explain yourself,' I said to him.

'I will do so, and in a few words. Mr. Kruse and I heard you lecture in the early part of last summer. From hints you let drop it became abundantly clear to us both that you were in the pursuit of a discovery which has occupied the best part of both our lives. We are in a difficulty which we believe that you can explain away. We had hoped not to ask you for assistance, but time is precious— any moment you may perfect your most interesting experiments. In that case the patent and the honour would be yours, and we should be out of it. Now, we don't want to be out of it, and we have come here to ask you frankly it you will co operate with us. '

I felt warm blood rushing into my face.

'I don't understand you,' I said. 'To what discovery do you allude?'

'To that of the great new explosive,' said Kruse.

I sprang to my feet in ill-suppressed excitement. '

'You must be making a mistake,' I said.

'I have not breathed a word of the matter on which I am engaged to a living soul '

'You dropped hints at your lecture, which made it plain to us that you and we were on the some track,' said Kruse. 'But, here, I can prove the matter.'

He took a note-book hurriedly out of his pocket and began to read from it. I listened to him in dismay and astonishment. There was not the least doubt that those men were working on my lines— nay, mere, that their intelligence was equal to my own, and it was highly probable that they would be first in the field.

'The fact is this,' said Lewin, 'my friend and I have been really working with you step by step. While you have been perfecting your great explosive in your London laboratory, we have been conducting matters on a larger and freer scale in our more extensive laboratories off the Cornish coast. The solitude of our place, too, enables us to test our explosive in the open air. Now, we know exactly the point to which you have come, and your present difficulty is ' he dropped his voice in a semi-whisper―' you are trying to combine certain gases to produce a certain result. Now, we have discovered what you want, but our ex plosive is still far from perfect, owing to the instability of nitrogen chloride'— he dropped his voice again. 'You can help us,' he said, abruptly; 'I see by your face that you have certain information which will be valuable to us. Now we, on our side, have information which will be of immense benefit to you. Will you join us in the matter? You have but to name your own price. '

I could not help staring at Lewin in astonishment― he stared impatiently from his seat.

'This is the state of the case, sir,' he continued: 'our lives have been spent over this matter— it is a great work— a magnificent discovery; it is nearly complete. When absolutely completed we intend to offer it to the German Government for something like a million sterling— but there is a probability that you may be first in the field. If you patent your discovery before ours, we are done men. Will you be content to work with us, or—' He stopped, his face was crimson, his eyes seemed to start from his head.

"My friend is right," said Kruse, "but he is far too excitable: I have told him so over and over. We know of your discovery, Mr. Gilchrist; we believe that you can help us, and we know that we can help you. We are working on the same lines. The discovery of this new explosive means money a very large fortune, and fame. Now, we don't mean to resign our own share in this without a struggle, but we are satisfied to go hand in glove with you. Will you visit us in Cornwall and help us with our experiment? We will impart to you gladly what we know, on condition that you in your turn give us information. You thus see that between us the discovery is complete; with without our united efforts it may be a very long time before it is ready for use. Let us go shares in the matter."

"I am not working at this thing for money,” I said. I am an unmarried man, and have as much money as I need. When my discovery is complete I shall offer it to the English Government— they can do what they please with it — my reward will be the gain which it will give to my country. This is a time of peace, but on all hands men are armed to the teeth. The discovery of this explosive, if it means all that I hope it may mean, will be a most important factor in case of war.'

Kruse laughed somewhat nervously. "We are not so quixotic as you are," he said; "I have a wife, and my friend, Lewin, has large claims upon him which make it essential that he should make money where he can. Now, will you come to terms or not? The fact is this, our knowledge is in dispensable to you, your knowledge is indispensable to us— shall we go shares or not?"

I thought for a little. I had begun by being much annoyed with my strange visitors, but now, in spite of myself, I was interested. They not only know what they were talking about, but they had something to sell, which I was only too willing to buy.

"Can I look at your notes for a moment?" I said to Kruse. He immediately handed me his note-book. I glanced over what he had written down -- his statements were clear and to the point. There was no doubt that he and his companions were working on identical lines with myself.

"I cannot give you an answer immediately," I said; "your visit has astonished me; the knowledge that you and I are working at a similar discovery has amazed me still more. Will you call upon me again to-morrow? I may then be in a position to speak to you."

They rose at once, Lewin with ill-suppressed irritation, but Kruse quietly.

The moment I was alone I gave myself up to anxious thought. It was impossible to pursue any further investigations that day, and, leaving the laboratory, I spent the rest of the evening in my study.

At night I slept little, and on the following morning had resolved to make terms with the Cornish men. They both arrived at ten o'clock, accompanied now by a pretty young woman, whom Kruse introduced as his wife. The moment I saw her face I was puzzled by an intangible likeness to someone else— she was fair-haired, and, I had little doubt, had German blood in her veins— her eyes were large and blue, and particularly innocent in expression— her mouth was softly curved; she had pretty teeth and a bright smile— she was like thousands of other women, and yet there was a difference. I felt certain that she was not a stranger to me, but where and under what possible circumstances I had met her before was a mystery which I could not fathom.

She apologized in a pretty way for forcing herself into my presence, but told me she was really as much interested in the discovery as her husband and friend, and as the as the matter was of the utmost importance, had had insisted on coming with them to visit me to-day. Having asked my guests to be seated, I immediately proceeded to the subject of their visit.

"I have thought very carefully over this matter," I said, "and perceive that it may be best in the end for us to come to a mutual arrangement, but I can only do so on the distinct understanding that if this explosive is completed it is not to be offered to a foreign nation, except in the event of the English Government refusing it. That is extremely unlikely, as, if it is perfected on the lines which I have sketched out in my mind, it will be too valuable for us as a nation to lose. I am willing, gentlemen," I continued, "to help you with my knowledge, provided you allow a proper legal document to be drawn up, in which each of us pledges the other that we will take no steps with regard to the use of the explosive or the surrendering our rights in it, but with the concurrence of all three. My lawyer can easily prepare such a document, and we will all sign it. On those terms and those alone I am willing to go with you."

Lewin looked by no means satisfied, but Kruse and his wife eagerly agreed to every thing that I suggested.

"It is perfectly fair," said Mrs. Kruse, speaking in a bright, crisp voice; "we give you something— you give us something. When the explosive is complete we go shares in the matter. We are willing to sign the document you speak of. Is it not so, Carl?"

"Certainly," said her husband. "Mr. Gilchrist's terms are quite reasonable."

Lewin still remained silent.

"I have nothing else to suggest," I said, looking at him.

"Oh, I am in your hands," he said then; "the fact is, the thing that worries me is having to offer this to England. I am not a patriot in any sense of the word, and I believe Germany would give us more for it."

"My terms are absolute," I repeated. "I am rather nearer to perfect discovery than you are, and the matter must drop, and we must both take our chances of being first in the field, if you do not agree to what I suggest."

"I am in your hands," repeated the man. "When the legal document is drawn up I am willing to sign it."

"And now," said Mrs. Kruse, coming forward and pushing back the fluffy hair from her forehead, "you will immediately arrange to come to us in Cornwall, will you not, Mr. Gilchrist?"

"Certainly," I replied, "and the sooner the better, for if this thing is to be completed, we have really no time to lose. I can go to Cornwall the day after to-morrow, and bring my lawyer's document with me."

"That will do, capitally," said Mrs. Kruse— "we ourselves go home to-night— we are greatly obliged to you. This is our address―'

She took out her card-case as she spoke, extracted a card, and hastily scribbled some directions on the back. "Our place is called Castle Lewin," she said— "it is situated on the coast not far from Chrome Ash — the country around is very wild, but there is a magnificent view and some splendid cliffs. Your nearest station is Chrome Ash. Our carriage shall meet you there and bring you straight to Castle Lewin."

"You had best take an early train," said Lewin, "that is, if you want to arrive in time for dinner. A good train leaves Paddington at 5.50 in the morning. I am sorry we are asking you to undertake so long a journey.'

"Pray do not mention it," I answered; "I am quite accustomed to going about the country, and think nothing of a few hours on the railway."

"We will expect you the day after to-morrow," said Mrs. Kruse; "we are greatly obliged to you. I am quite sure you will never repent of the kindness you are about to show us."

She held out her hand frankly, her blue eyes looked full into mine. Again I was puzzled by an intangible likeness. Where, when, how had I met the gaze of those eyes before? My memory would not supply the necessary link. I took the hand she offered, and a few moments later my guests had left me alone.

I went out at once to consult my lawyer and to tell him of the curious occurrence which had taken place. He promised to draw up the necessary document, and begged of me to be careful how far I gave myself away.

"There is no doubt that the men are enthusiastic scientists,” I said. "It is plainly a case of give and take, and I believe I cannot do better than go shares with them in the matter."

Mr. Scrivener promised that I should have the terms of agreement in my possession that evening, and I returned home. The next day I made further preparations for my Cornish visit, and on the following morning, at an early hour, took train from Paddington to Chrome Ash.

The season of year was late October, and as I approached the coast I noticed that a great gale was blowing seawards. I am fond of Nature in her stormy moods, and as I had the compartment to myself, I opened the window and put out my head to inhale the breeze.

I arrived at Chrome Ash between five and six in the evening. Twilight was already falling and rain was pouring in torrents. It was a desolate little wayside station, and I happened to be the only passenger who left the train. A nicely appointed brougham and a pair of horses were waiting outside, and with her head poked out of the window, looking eagerly around, I saw the pretty face of Mrs. Kruse.

"Ah, you have come; that is good," she said. "I determined to meet you myself. Now, step in, won't you? I have brought the brougham, for the night is so wild. We have a long drive before us, over ten miles— I hope you won't object to my company."

I assured her to the contrary, and seated myself by her side. As I intended to return to town on the following day, I had only brought my suitcase with me. This was placed beside the driver, and we started off at a round pace in the direction of Castle Lewin. To get to this out-of-the-way part of the country we had to skirt the coast, and the wind was now so high that the horses had to battle against it. The roads were in many places unprotected, and less sure-footed beasts might have been in danger of coming to grief as they rounded promontories and skirted suspicious-looking landslips.

The drive took over an hour and long before we reached Castle Lewin darkness enveloped us. But at last we entered a long avenue, the horses dashed forward, the carriage made an abrupt turn, and I saw before me an old-fashioned, low house with a castellated roof and a tower at one end. We drew up before a deep porch, a man-servant ran down some steps, flung open the door of the brougham, and helped Mrs. Kruse to alight.

"See that Mr. Gilchrist's luggage is taken to his room," she said, "and please tell your master and Mr. Lewin that we have returned. Come this way, please, Mr. Gilchrist.'

She led me into a square and lofty hall, the walls of which were decorated with different trophies of the chase. The floor was of oak, slippery and dark with age, and although the evening was by no means cold, a fire burned on the hearth at one side of the room. The fire looked cheerful, and I stepped up to it not unwillingly.

"From the first of October to the first of May I never allow that fire to go out,' said the young hostess, coming forward and rubbing her hands before the cheerful blaze.

"This, as I have told you, Mr. Gilchrist, is a solitary place, and we need all the home comforts we can get. I am vexed that my husband is not in to receive you— but, ah! I hear him."

She started and listened attentively. A side door which I had not before noticed opened, and Kruse and his extraordinary dark companion both entered the room. They were accompanied by a couple of pointers, and were both dressed in thick jerseys and knickerbockers. Kruse offered me his hand in a calm, nonchalant manner, but Lewin, who could evidently never check his impetuosity, came eagerly forward, grasped my hand as if in a vice, and said, with emphasis:—

'We are much obliged to you, Mr. Gilchrist— welcome to Castle Lewin. I am sorry the night is such a bad one, or, late as it is, we might have had a walk round the place before dinner."

"No, no, Paul," said Mrs. Kruse, "you must not think of taking Mr. Gilchrist out again— he has had a long railway journey and a tiring drive, and would, I am sure, like to go to his room now to rest and dress for dinner.'

"I will show you the way," said Kruse.

He took me up a low flight of stairs— we turned down a corridor, and he threw open the door of a pleasant, modern-looking bedroom. A fire blazed here also, the curtains were drawn at the windows, and the whole place looked cheery and hospitable. My host stepped forward, stirred up the fire to a more cheerful blaze, put on a log or two, and telling me that dinner would be announced by the sounding of a gong, left me to my own meditations. I stood for a short time by the fire, and then proceeded to dress.

By-and-by the gong sounded through the house, and I went downstairs into the hall. The pointers were lying in front of the fire, and a great mastiff had now joined their company. The mastiff glanced at me out of two bloodshot eyes, and growled angrily as I approached. I am always fond of dogs, and, pretending not to notice the creature's animosity, patted him on his head. He looked up at me in some astonishment; his growls ceased; he rose slowly on his haunches, and not only received my caresses favourably, but even went the length of rubbing himself against my legs. At this moment Mrs. Kruse, in a pretty evening dress, tripped into the hall.

"Ah, there you are," she said, "and I see Demoniac has made friends with you. He scarcely ever does that with anyone."

At this instant Lewin and Kruse entered the hall. I gave my arm to Mrs. Kruse, and we went into the dining-room. During dinner the gale became more tempestuous, and Kruse and his wife entertained me with tales of shipwreck and disaster. The cloth was removed, and an old mahogany table, nearly black with age and shining like a looking glass, reflected decanters of wine and a plentiful dessert.

"Pass the wine round," said Lewin. "Pray, Mr. Gilchrist, help yourself. I can recommend that port. It has been in bins at Castle Lewin since '47, and is mellow enough to please any taste."

So it was, being pale in colour and apparently mild and harmless as water. I drank a couple of glasses, but when the bottle was passed to me a third time, refused any more.

"I never exceed two glasses," I said, "and perhaps as we have a good deal to do and to see—"

'I understand,' said Mrs. Kruse, who was still seated at the table. 'We will have coffee brought to us in my husband's study; shall we go there now?'

She rose as she spoke, and we followed her out of the room. We crossed the hall, where the fire still smouldered on the hearth, and entered a large, low-ceiled room at the opposite side. Here lamps were lit, and curtains drawn; the place looked snug and cheerful.

"We may as well look over your document before we repair to the laboratories Mr. Gilchrist,' said Kruse. 'I gather from what you said in town that you do not care to impart any of your knowledge to us until we have signed the agreement.'

'I have brought it with me," I answered "with your permission I will go and fetch it.' I left the room, went up to my bedroom, took my lawyer's hastily-prepared agreement from its place in my suit-case, and returned to the study. As I did so, the following words fell upon my ears:—

"It will be the third cup, Carl— you will not forget? I could not hear Kruse's reply, but the words uttered by his wife struck on my ears for a fleeting moment with a sense of curiosity— then I forgot all about them. The full meaning of that apparently innocent sentence was to return to me later.

Lewin, who was standing on the hearth with his hands behind him, motioned me to a chair. Mrs. Kruse sat down by the table— she leant her elbows on it, revealing the pretty contour of her rounded arms, her eyes were bright, her cheeks slightly flushed— she certainly was a very pretty young woman; but now, as I gave her a quick, keen glance, I observed for the first time a certain hardness round the lines of her mouth, and also a steely gleam in the blue of her eyes which made me believe it possible that she might have another side to her character. As I looked at her she returned my gaze full and steadily— then raising her voice she spoke with some excitement.

"Carl," she said, "Mr. Gilchrist is ready, and we have no time to lose. Remember that to-night, if all goes well, we perfect the great explosive. Now, then, to work."

"Here is the agreement," I said, taking the lawyer's document out of its blue envelope — "will you kindly read it? We the can affix our signatures, and the matter is arranged.'

Kruse was the first to read the document. I watched his eyes as they travelled with great speed over the writing. Then he drew up his chair to the table, and dipped his pen preparatory to signing his signature.

"Hold a moment," I said; "we ought to call in a servant to witness this."

A slightly startled look flitted across Mrs. Kruse's face, hut after an instant's hesitation she rose and rang the bell. The footman appeared— he watched us as we put our names at the end of the paper, and then added his own signature underneath. When he had left the room Kruse spoke.

"Now that matter is settled," he said, "and we can set to work. You know, I think, Mr. Gilchrist, exactly how far we have gone."

Here he produced his pocket-book and began to read aloud. I listened attentively— Mrs. Kruse and Lewin stood near— I noticed that Mrs. Kruse breathed a little quicker than usual; her breath seemed now and then to come from her body with a sort of pant.

"At this point we are stuck," said Kruse, pulling up short; "we have tried every known method, but we cannot overcome this difficulty."

"And for the success of the experiment," I interrupted, "it is almost an initial knowledge."

"Quite so, quite so," said Lewin.

"I can put you right" I said; "you are working with a wrong formula— you do not know, perhaps"— I then began to explain to them the action of a substance as yet never used in the combination in which I had worked it.

I was interrupted in my speech by Kruse.

"Anna, "he said, "get paper. Write down slowly and carefully every word that Mr. Gilchrist says. Now, then, sir, we are ready to listen. Are you all right, Anna?"

"Quite," she answered. I began to explain away the main difficulty. Mrs. Kruse wrote down my words one by one as they fell from my lips. Now and then she raised her eyes to question me, and her use of technical terms showed me that that she was at home with the subject.

"By Jove! Why did we not think of that for ourselves?" said Lewin, interlarding his remark with a great oath.

"We are extremely obliged to you, Mr. Gilchrist," said Kruse, "This sweeps away every difficulty; the discovery is complete."

"Complete― I can scarcely believe it," said Mrs. Kruse.

At this moment the servant entered with it was laid on the table, and we each took a cup.

"You told me," I said, when I had drained off the contents of the tiny cup which had been presented to me, "that you had failed in this initial difficulty, and yet you have conquered in a matter which baffles me."

I then named the point beyond which I could not get.

"Yes, we certainly know all about that," said Kruse. "You will give me your information?"

"Of course, but the best way of doing so is by showing you the experiment itself."

"That will do admirably" I replied.

"If you are ready we will go now," said Mrs. Kruse. She started up as she spoke, and led the way.

We left the study, and, going down some passages, found ourselves in the open air. We were now in a square yard, surrounded on all sides by buildings. Lewin walked first, carrying the lantern. Its light fell upon an object which caused me to start with surprise. This was nothing less than a balloon about twenty feet in diameter, which was tied down with ropes and securely fastened to an iron ring in the pavement. It swayed to and fro in the gusts of wind.

'Halloa!' I cried, in astonishment, "what is this?"

"Our favourite chariot" answered Mrs. Kruse, with a laugh. "Wait a moment, Paul, won't you? I want to show our balloon to Mr. Gilchrist. Is it not a beauty?" she added, looking in my face.

'I do not see any car,' I replied.

"The car happens to be out of order. You do not know, perhaps, Mr. Gilchrist, that I am an accomplished aeronaut. I do not think I enjoy anything more than a sail in the air. It was only last Monday—"

"My dear Anna, if you get on that theme we shall not reach the laboratories to-night," interrupted her husband. "This way, please, Mr. Gilchrist."

He opened a door as he spoke, and I found myself in a large laboratory fitted up with the usual appliances. Kruse and his companion, Lewin, began to show me round, and Mrs. Kruse stood somewhere near the entrance.

The laboratory was full of a very disagreeable smell— Kruse remarked on this, and began to explain it away. "We were making experiments until a late hour this afternoon," he said, "with some iso-cyanides, and as you are aware, the smell from such is almost overpowering, but we thought it would have cleared away by now.'

"I hope you don't mind it?" said Lewin.

"I know it well, of course," I answered, "but it has never affected me as it does now. The fact is, I feel quite dizzy."

As I spoke I reeled slightly and put my hand to my head.

"The smell is abominable," said Kruse. "Come to this side of the laboratory; you may be better if you get nearer the door."

I followed my host.

"What is the matter with you, Mr. Gilchrist?" said Mrs. Kruse, the moment she looked at my face.

"It is those fumes, my dear," said her husband; "they are affecting Mr. Gilchrist in a curious way— he says he feels quite dazed.'

"I do," I answered, "My head is giddy; it may be partly the long journey."

"Then I tell you what," said the wife, in eager voice, "you shall not be worried with any more experiments to-night. The best thing you can do is to go straight to bed, and then in the morning the laboratory will be fresh and wholesome. Carl and Paul Lewin will experiment for you in the morning to your heart's content."

"Yes, really it is the best thing to do," said Kruse. I sank down on a bench.

"I believe you are right," I said.

My sensations puzzled me not a little. When I entered the laboratory I was full of the keenest enthusiasm for the moment when Kruse and his companion should sweep away the last obstacle towards the perfecting of the grand explosive— now it seemed to me that I did not care whether I ever learned their secret or not. The explosive itself and all that it meant might go to the bottom of the sea as far as I was concerned. I only longed to lay my throbbing and giddy head on my pillow. ' I will take your advice,' I said. ' It is quite evident that in my tired state these fumes must be having a direct and poisoning effect upon me "Come with me," said Kruse; "you must not stay a moment longer in this place."

I bade Mrs. Kruse and Lewin good-night and Kruse, conducting me through the yard where the balloon was fastened, took me to my bedroom. The fire burned here cheer fully— the bed was turned down, the snowy sheets and befrilled pillows seemed to invite me to repose. I longed for nothing more in all the world than to lay my head on my pillow.

"Good -night," said Kruse— he held out his hand, looking fixedly at me as he spoke. The next moment he had left the room.

I sank into a chair when he was gone, and thought as well as I could of the events evening, but my head was in such a whirl that I found I could not think consecutively. I threw off my coat and, without troubling to undress, lay down and fell into a deep and dreamless slumber.

"Have you got the hydrogen and chlorine ready?" Those words, whispered rapidly, fell upon my ears with distinctness. They did not disturb me, for I thought they were part of a dream; I had a curious unwillingness to open my eyes or to arouse myself— an unaccountable lethargy was over me, but I felt neither frightened nor unhappy. I knew that I was on a visit to Lewin and Kruse in Cornwall, and I believed myself to be lying on the bed where I had fallen into such heavy slumber some hours ago. I felt that I had slept very deeply, but I was unwilling to awake yet, or stir in any way. It is true I heard people bustling about, and presently a vessel of some kind fell to the floor with a loud clatter. A woman's voice said, 'Hush, it will arouse him," and then a man made a reply which I could not catch.

My memory went on working calmly and steadily.

I recalled how the evening had been passed— the signing of the document— the balloon in the yard, the horrible smell in the laboratory. Then I remembered as if I heard them over again Mrs. Kruse's words when I returned to the study, "It will be the third cup."

What did she mean? Why should be bothered with this small memory now? I never wanted to sleep as I did at this moment— I had never felt so unaccountably, so terribly drowsy.

"I hope that noise did not wake him," said a voice which I knew was no echo of memory, but a real voice— I recognised it to be that of Mrs. Kruse.

"He is right enough," replied her husband. "I gave you enough narceine to put into his coffee to finish off a stronger and a bigger man— don't worry. Yes, Lewin, I will help you in a moment to carry him into the yard.'

'The storm is getting less,' said Mrs. Kruse. 'Be quick. Oh, surely he is dead!' she added. 'If not dead, all but,' replied her husband. 'I tell you I gave him a stiff dose — he never moved or uttered a sign when we took him from his bedroom.'

Lethargic as I undoubtedly was, these last words had the effect of making me open my eyes. I did so, blinking with the stupor which was oppressing me. I stared vacantly round me. Where was I?— what had happened? My limbs felt as if weighted with lead, and I now experienced for the first time since I had heard the voices an unaccountable difficulty in stirring them. I tried to raise my hand, and then I was conscious of a hideous pang— the knowledge flashed across me that I was bound hand and foot. I was, then, the victim of foul play— but good God! what? What awful discovery had I just made?

My memory was becoming quite active, but my whole body felt numbed and dulled into a lethargy which almost amounted to paralysis. Making a great effort I forced myself to turn my head. As I did so a women's face peered down into mine. It was the face of my hostess, Mrs. Kruse. She turned quickly away.

'He is not dead,' I heard her whisper; 'he is coming to.'

At that moment I knew where I was— I was lying on the floor of the laboratory. How had I got there— what was about to happen? I found my voice.

"For God's sake, what is the matter?" I cried; "where am I? Is that you, Mrs. Kruse? What has happened?"

The moment I spoke, Mrs. Kruse stepped behind me, so that, bound as I was, I could no longer see her face or figure. The light in the laboratory was very dim, and just then the huge form of Lewin came between me and it. He bent over me, and, putting his hand under my shoulders, lifted me to sitting posture— at the same moment Kruse took hold of my feet. In that fashion, with out paying the slightest attention to words, they carried me into the yard where the balloon was fastened. The contact with the open air immediately made me quite wide awake, and a fear took possession of me which threatened to rob me of my reason.

"What are you doing? Why am I bound in this fashion? Why don't you speak?" I cried. They were dumb, as though I had not uttered a word. I struggled madly, writhing in my bonds.

"Mrs. Kruse," I cried out, "I know you are there. As you are a woman, have mercy; tell me what this unaccountable thing means. Why am I tied hand and foot? If you really mean to kill me, for God's sake put me out of my misery at once."

"Hold your tongue, or I'll dash your brains out," said the ruffian Lewin. "Anna, step back. Now, Carl, bring the ropes along."

As the brute spoke he flung me with violence upon a plank, which ran across the iron hoop to which the meshes of the great balloon were attached. I struggled to free myself, but in my bound condition was practically powerless

"What are you doing? Speak; tell me the worst," I said, I was gasping with terror, and a cold sweat had burst out in every pore.

"If you want to know the worst, it is this: you are going to carry your secret the stars," said Lewin. "Not another word, or I’ll put an end to you on the spot."

As he spoke he and his companion began to lash me firmly to the plank. My hands, which were already tied together firmly round the wrists, were drawn up over my head and fastened securely by means of a rope to one end of the plank; my feet were secured in a similar manner to the other.

Just at this instant a sudden bright flash of lighting lit up the yard, and I caught sight of a large dumbbell-shaped glass flask, and also what appeared to be a tin canister. These Kruse held in his hand and proceeded, with Lewin’s assistance, to fasten round the outer side of the plank, just under where I was lying. They were kept in their places by an iron chain. As soon as this operation was over they began to slash away at the ropes which kept the balloon in the yard, I now found myself lying stretched out flat, unable to move a single inch, staring up at the great balloon which towered above me. It was just at that supreme moment of agony, amid the roaring of the gale, that Mrs. Kruse, coming softly behind me, whispered something in my ear.

"I give you one chance," she said; "the loop which binds your hands to the plank is single."

She said nothing more, but stepped back. The next instant, amid a frightful roar of thunder, the balloon was lifted from its moorings and shot up into the night.

As it cleared the buildings the full force of the gale caught it, and I felt myself being swept up with terrible velocity into the very heart of the storm. Blinding flashes of lightning played around me on every side, while the peals of thunder merged into one continuous, deafening roar. Up and up I flew, with the wind screaming through the meshes of the net-work and threatening each moment to tear the balloon to fluttering ribbons. Then, almost before I was aware of it, I found myself gazing up at a wonderful, star-flecked firmament, and was drifting in what seemed to be a breathless calm. I heard the thunder pealing away below me, and was conscious of bitter cold. The terrible sense of paralysis and inertia had now, to a great extent, left me, and my reason began to re-assert itself. I was able to review the whole situation. I not only knew where I was, but I also knew what the end must be.

"Hydrogen and chlorine," I muttered to myself. "The dumb-bell-shaped glass vessel which is fastened under the plank contains, without doubt, these two gases and the tin canister which rests beneath them is full of nitro-glycerine."

Yes, I knew what this combination meant. When the first glint of the sun's rays struck upon the glass vessel it would be instantly shattered. The nitro-glycerine would explode by the concussion, and the balloon and I myself would be blown into impalpable dust beyond sight or sound of the earth.

This satanic scheme for my destruction had been planned by the fiends in human shape who had lured me to Cornwall. Having got my secret from me, they meant to destroy all trace of my existence. The deadly poison of narceine had been introduced into my coffee. I knew well the action of that pernicious alkaloid, and now perceived that the smell in the laboratory had nothing whatever to do with my unaccountable giddiness and terrible inertia. Narceine would, in short, produce all the symptoms from which I had suffered, and would induce so sound and deadly a sleep that I could be moved from my bed without awakening.

Yes, the ruffians had made their plans carefully, and all had transpired according to their wishes. There was absolutely no escape for me. With insane fury I tore at my bonds. The ropes only cut into the flesh of my hands; that was all.

The storm had now passed quite out of hearing, and I found myself in absolute stillness and silence. I was sailing away to my death at the dawn of day. So awful were the emotions in my breast that I almost wished that death would hasten in order to end my sufferings.

Why had not the hydrogen and chlorine exploded when I was passing through the storm? Why had the lightning not been merciful enough to hurry my death? Under ordinary circumstances they would certainly have combined if they had been subjected to so much actinic light I could not account for my escape, until I suddenly remembered that in all probability the stop-cock between the two gases in the dumb-bell-shaped glass had only been turned just when the balloon was sent off, in which case the gases would not have had time to diffuse properly for explosion.

At the dawn of day the deadly work would be complete. The question now was this— how long had I to live, and was there any possible means of escape? The action of the drug had now nearly worn off, and I was able to think with acuteness and intelligence. I recalled Mrs Kruse's strange parting words, "The loop which binds your hands to the plank is single."

What did she mean? After all, it was little matter to me how I was bound, for I could stir an inch. Nevertheless, her words kept returning to me, and suddenly as I pondered over them I began to se a meaning. The loop was single. This, of course, meant that the cord was only passed once round the rope straps which secured my wrists together.

I nearly leapt as I lay upon my hard and cruel bed, for at this instant a vivid memory returned to me. Years ago I had exposed a spiritualist who had utilized a similar contrivance to deceive his audience. His wrists had been firmly tied together, and then a single loop was passed between them, and fastened to a beam above his head. He had been able to extricate himself by means a clever trick. I knew how he had done it. Was it possible that my murderous hosts had tied my hands to the plank in a similar manner? If so, notwithstanding their sharpness, what an oversight was theirs!

In desperate excitement I began to work the cord between my wrists up and up between my palms until I could just reach it with my little finger, and by a supreme effort slipped it over my left hand.

Great God, I was free! I could now move my hands although they were still tightly tied together round the wrists. In frantic despair I began to tug and tear at the cords which bound them. Cutting hard with my teeth, I at last managed to liberate my hands, and then my next intention was to unfasten the horrible explosive from the plank.

Here, however, I was met by what seemed to be an insuperable difficulty, The glass vessel and the tin canister had been secured round the plank by means of a chain, which was lashed in such a manner that by no possible means could I undo it. I was now free to move, but the means of destruction were still close to me. How long had I before the sun would rise? Even now the light in the heavens was getting stronger and stronger. What should I do?

My hands were free and I could sit up. In another moment I had managed to untie the cords from my legs. And then, with many a slip and struggle, I contrived to clamber up the network till I came to the balloon itself, when I set to work to tear at the silk with my nails and teeth like a man possessed. After almost super human efforts, I managed to make a very small hole in the silk. This I enlarged first with my finger and then with my whole hand, tearing away the silk in doing so till I had made a huge rent in the side of the balloon.

As soon as this happened, I knew that the balloon would slowly, but surely, begin to descend. The question now was this: how soon would the sun rise? Perhaps in an hour, but I thought sooner.

The murderous explosive was so secured to the plank that there was not the smallest chance of getting rid of it. My one and only chance of life was to reach the ground before the sun got up. If this did not happen, I should be blown to atoms.

The stars were already growing faint in the heavens, and, sitting on the plank, holding the meshes of the balloon on either side, I ventured to look below me. I saw, with a slight feeling of relief, that the wind must have changed, for, instead of being blown seawards, as was doubtless the intention of my murderers, I had gone a considerable way inland. I could see objects, trees, villages, solitary houses dotted in kaleidoscope pattern beneath me— it seemed to me as I gazed that the world was coming up to meet me. Each moment the trees, the houses, assumed more definite shape.

Within a quarter of an hour I saw that I was only about six hundred feet from a large park into which I was descending. A grey, pearly tint was now over every thing— this, moment by moment, assumed a rose hue, I knew by past experience that in five minutes at the farthest the sun would rise, and striking its light across the glass vessel would hurl me into eternity. In an agony of mind, I once more directed all my attention to the terrible explosive. I knew that in this fearful race between me and the sun, the sun must win unless I could do some thing— but, what? That was the question which haunted me to the verge of madness.

I was without my coat, having been lashed on to the plank in my shirt, or I might have tried to cover the dumbbell glass from the fatal light. The feasibility of breaking the glass vessel, and so allowing the gases to escape also occurred to me for an instant but I was afraid to try it— first, because I had only my fists to break it with, and second, if I did, the blow might explode the nitro-glycerine.

Suddenly I uttered a shout which was almost that of a crazy person. What a fool I was not to have noticed it before— there was a means of deliverance. By no possible method could I unfasten the iron chain which secured the infernal machine to the plank, but the plank itself might be un shipped. I observed that it was secured to the iron hoop by thick and clumsy knots of rope.

With all the speed I could muster, for seconds were now precious, I gently worked the chain along the plank till it and the infernal machine had reached one end I noticed with joy that here the chain was loose, as the plank was thinner. Seating myself on the hoop and clinging to meshes with one hand, I tore and tugged away at the knots which secured the plank with the other. Merciful God! they were giving way! In another instant the plank fell, hanging to the hoop at the opposite side, and as it did so, the infernal machine slipped from the free end and fell.

I was now within 300 feet of the earth, and, clinging for bare life to the meshes of the balloon, I looked below. There was a sudden flash and a deafening roar. In midair, as it fell, the machine exploded, for the sun had just risen. In another moment my feet had brushed the top of a huge elm tree, and I found myself close to the ground.

Seizing the opportunity of open space I sprang from the balloon, falling heavily on the wet grass. The instant I left it, the balloon, relieved from my weight, shot up again into space, and was lost to view behind the trees. I watched it disappear, and then consciousness forsook me.

I was picked up by a game-keeper, who conveyed me to his own cottage, where I was well and carefully nursed, for the exposure and shock which I had undergone induced a somewhat severe illness.

When the fever which had rendered me delirious abated, my memory came fully back, and I was able to give a faithful and circumstantial account of what had occurred to a neighbouring magistrate.

Immediately on hearing my story, the superintendent of police in London was telegraphed to, and a detachment of his men went to Castle Lewin, but they found the place absolutely deserted. My would-be murderers had beyond doubt received news of my miraculous escape and decamped. I have only one thing more to say. On my return to London, amongst a pile of letters which awaited me, was one which I could not peruse without agitation; it ran as follows:—

"You acted on my hint, and have escaped truly as if by a miracle. We are about to leave the country, and you will in all probability never hear anything of us again. But it gives me pleasure even in this crucial moment to let you know how easily you can be duped. Have you ever guessed how we got possession of that secret which was all yours and never ours? Do you recall the lady who, dressed as a nun, came to see you about six or seven months ago? You believed her story, did you not? May I give you one word of warning? In future, do not leave your alphabetically arranged note-books in a room to which strangers may possibly have access. Farewell."

___________________

6: Anchored

C J Cutcliffe Hyne

1866-1944

Sunday Magazine, 5 Nov 1911

THE anchor was one of the old bay-palm type and much corroded. It was so big as to suggest that the battered little tramp steamer had not come by it as part of her original outfit, but had acquired it subsequently by purchase or— shall we say?— salvage.

“Lie down along that anchor’s stock!” said Captain Ortiz.

The knives of the dozen other men were held ready for upward jabs, and their faces were vicious and savage. But Lord George Drew did not look at them. He said “Certainly, if you order it.” flicked the loose rust from the anchor stock with his handkerchief, and stretched his long back on the uneasy bed. He smiled pleasantly at the spectators. People who did not know him had called Lord George brainless; but no one had ever denied the pleasantness of his smile.

The steamer was even worse equipped than most of her class, and. in spite of many bawled out orders for “small line” and “ratlin’ stuff,” none was forthcoming. As a consequence an old cargo sling was found, and with the yarns of this, when it was unlaid. Lord George’s arms were seized to the flukes of the anchor, and his feet made fast to each side of the rusty stock. In fact, he was most efficiently crucified, and the pains of the lashings made him wince.

Then with handspikes they levered the anchor and its burden across the grimy forecastle head till the stock overhung the steamer’s side, and they ranged rusty links of cable on the deck so that these would pay freely through the hawsehole when the anchor was let go.

“Now then. Mr. de Riou,” said Captain Ortiz, “you quite understand the situation. You’re six inches short of overboard. If your men from the shore try to retake this steamboat, overboard you and that anchor go.”

“That’s quite clear.”

“So you will now proceed to give me an order for those cases of rifles and the ammunition you’ve landed.”

“Couldn’t be done,” said Lord George cheerfully.

“And in return for this trifling favour.” Ortiz continued, “which as a sane man I’m sure you’ll see you can’t refuse, I guarantee to give you safe passage across the Nicaragua frontier and― let me see— well, I’ll make it a thousand dollars for travelling expenses to your next Stop.”

“A whole thousand dollars!” exclaimed the prisoner. “You dazzle me. I didn’t know there was so much money in all Nicaragua. But, unfortunately, my dear fellow, I must again remind you that there’s such a thing as honour even among gunrunners.”

The rank and file of the captors had followed the argument with open impatience. They were, from the faces of them, men with a tine appetite for cruelty; and not to send the heavy anchor plunging, now that the Gringo who had given so much trouble was crucified on it. was a piece of self denial that was quite beyond them. They lifted the handspikes, and began to prize it still farther toward the brink.

But Ortiz was a fellow of more foresight. Once he had been an officer and a gentleman in the Mexican army under Diaz, till an unsympathetic court martial had rendered a civilized climate unhealthy for him. The way he argued out the position was simple. The tall, careless Englishman had evidently screwed up his courage to die there and then if need be. But would his courage remain keyed up to the same pitch indefinitely? He thought it likely that the patient would be far more likely to listen to reason in half a dozen hours’ time. And. anyway, however fantastic his exit might be, once the man was killed there would be nothing further to be got out of him.

So Captain Ortiz said “Stay!” and when his truculent following openly murmured he put a hand to his pistol slip and criticism filtered away. They saved face with more hard language and a few kicks of Lord George’s unfortunate ribs, and then went Inflow for cigarettes, mescal, and siesta.

ON the forecastle head the victim grilled alone under the tropical sun. There was not a breath of wind, not a film of shade, and, leaving out of the question all foreboding of what was to come. Lord George Drew lay at that time in very active torment. He had the strongest possible objection to being murdered; but the alternative of giving Captain Ortiz the information he asked for had been dismissed in a moment as beyond consideration.

Lord George was acting for Herman Schlesinger of New York. He had given a plain verbal promise to Schlesinger that the cases of rifles and the boxes of ammunition should be delivered to ex-President Laredo of Nicaragua, or his accredited representative, so far as his personal ingenuity could accomplish that end, and therefore as a gentleman he had no possible option of doing anything else. If the steamer had been wrecked, or the freight lost in landing, Lord George would have hail no qualms whatever in reporting a total or a partial loss; but to hand over the goods to someone for whom they were not intended, either for a bribe, or through fear of his own skin, was—well, it was one of the things one couldn’t do. and there was an end of it.

And so the grilling afternoon went through, and the tropical night came suddenly, and with it the gleam of the moon and the occasional snapping of fireflies.

THE coming of Doña Carmencita was a triumph of the unexpected. As Lord George said afterward, he would have been less surprised if he had seen somebody tying knots in the equator.

The mental picture he had preserved of her was that of a rather languid Southern beauty, with olive complexion, and great black eves, and blue-black hair, and crisp, billowy white muslin. But here, coming up over the bows of the steamer, was a boy, a boy with rather chubby figure, and a good deal shorter than the high heeled, high coiffured Carmencita of a certain hot tropical night when the moon played hide and seek among the shadows of a certain someone’s piazza pillars. But of course, for all that, he knew her on the instant.

She had climbed up, it seemed, by the port anchor chain, and her hand was yellow with rust as it reached up and grasped at a stanchion. She did not clamber over to the forecastle deck; but stayed perched on a link of the chain below, so that her head was on a level with the prisoner.

“Carmençita!”

“So you recognize me? I did not expect it. They say these boy’s clothes alter one. And, anyway, I thought you would have forgotten me, Don Juan.”

It is to be noted that sometimes Lord George was “John,” when he was away from England, practising as an adventurer, and occasionally he was “William.” Similarly, that surname took that earlier form of Drew which was spelt de Riou. And if in consequence people took him for a Canadian, that was their lookout.

“My dear girl,” said the captive, “you should remember that your glances burn in more than skin deep. Any man who had seen you once would remember you to the end of his life, in whatever style you were rigged out. But. all the same, although I’ll admit you make a very fetching boy, for myself I prefer the frills and the rebocino. ”

She indicated herself with a rusty finger. “Do you think I do not detest this? Yet I did it for you!”

He shrugged slightly in his bonds. “Then I’ve told you my preference in clothes. And also I should prefer to think of you as being safely back among decent people in the city. They’re a very rough, unpleasant crew out here.”

“By the way they have treated you, Amigo,” she retorted dryly, “I can believe that last. And so, as you do not seem able to take care of yourself alone, I think you should thank me for coming to help.”

“What’s that? Do you mean to say, my dear, that you came here to the end of the world to give me a hand?”

“Did you think I came to admire the scenery?”

“I didn’t think at all: I was too surprised at seeing you.” He looked her in the eyes. “I flatter myself on being cool enough at most times; but never when I’m near you. You’re a most demoralizing young person.”

She brushed aside the suggestion as if it displeased her. “We’ll drop that, please. I have been asked— by a friend— to come here and meet you.” She got out the sentences jerkily, and with some difficulty. “If I’d known you were in such a mess, I should have come earlier; but, as it is, my men are perfectly competent to get you clear of the scrape. I’ve a score of men and a big launch— quite enough. They’re just up that creek behind the bluff where those nut palms grow. I dropped down here with the tide in a canoe.”

“Then, my dear Carmencita, hurry up with your force, and get me clear. This antique anchor is so abominably rust pitted that I’m afraid my shoulder blades are dented for life.”

“And you’ll tell me where you’ve put. those rifles, of course?”

Lord George’s lips pursed up into a soundless whistle. “My dear girl, don’t spoil the illusion!”

“The conditions are not my own; but— there are conditions.” Her olive face had flushed to a delicate pink, and her slim, rust stained fingers played an impatient tattoo on the stanchion. He saw all this clearly in the moonlight. “Besides, you cannot help yourself, Don Juan. You must do as I ask, and then I shall save you.”

“Perhaps,” said the prisoner gravely, “you’d better let me have the whole proposal.”

“You are to tell me where the rifles and the cartridge boxes are cached, and then I promise to rescue you at once.”

“Of course, if you carry Laredo’s authorization, I’ll deliver them up at once.”

“Do you think I carry a bundle of silly papers with me here?”

“I don’t, for a minute.”

“Then tell me where the rifles are.”

“Tell me you’ve got the authorization first.”

“I— I can’t, Juan.”

“I didn’t suppose you could, my dear.

There, now, get away back to your men. Mr. Ortiz and his friends on board here are rather a rough lot, and they may wake up any minute.”

Her fingers grasped at his a little wildly.

“But what about you? You must come too.

They’ll kill you if you stay.”

“Oh, I’ll admit there may be unpleasantness. And of course I should be delighted to spend the remainder of the evening with you, now, as always.”

“Then tell.”

“Charming young women shouldn’t cry for the moon.”

She clenched her fist. She could have beaten him for his stubbornness. “But I can’t leave you like this. I came here on purpose to save you.”

He laughed a little cruelly. “How badly you explain yourself, Carmencita. I thought from what you said that you were here after those blessed rifles.”

“I should not have known you were here if it wasn’t for the rifles. How was I to guess that you— you of all people— were a gunrunner?”

“Give it up.”

“Oh, you laugh at me. You never can be serious. You said you could not many me, because you had no money; so, when I saw a way of making a fortune, would you have me throw it away?” .

“You had better not beat about the bush any more. Just tell me, please, whom you are working for.”

“I cannot. They swore me not to tell.”

“Very well, then, I guess— the anti-Laredo party.”

“You may guess what you please. I must keep faith with my employers.”

“And I’m sure you can’t expect me to do less for mine. So there we are at a comfortable deadlock. In the meanwhile. Quesada, I do wish you would— Tst! Bolt!”

Lord George’s strained ear had heard Captain Ortiz and his friends waking up.

By gesture the girl made a last appeal to him hanging there in desperate danger; but he shook his head, and his debonair smile never faltered. She withdrew by the way she had come, her canoe dropping down stream into the cool dark, just as the first of the raiders stamped up the ladder to the forecastle head.

It was evident in a moment that a change had taken place in their counsels, and Ortiz gave voice to it without unnecessary’ talk. “You have had long enough to think the thing out,” he announced. “Do you give up the rifles, or do you drown?”

“I don’t give up the rifles. And, if you murder me. you don’t get either them or the cartridges, anyway.”

“We know all that. But night’s come, and we’ve no further time to waste on you.” Captain Ortiz gave an order, and his men picked up the handspikes. The anchor stock already projected outboard, and the men levered it gratingly over the dirty deck.

The flukes lifted and balanced till Lord George was almost upright. “You won’t get the rifles, you know,” he commented placidly in farewell: “but I hope you’ll think of me, Captain Ortiz, when your new employers shoot you for incompetence.”

“Over with him!” Ortiz yelled, with a sudden spit of passion, and the men. keen enough for any piece of cruelty, tipped the handspikes. With a jarring slide the rusty anchor scraped over the edge of the plating, and sunk in a comet of flame, dragging the rusty cable links lifter it.

The last they saw of the crucified Lord George as they peered over the side was his hair standing on end, lit up by the phosphorescence of the water; and, forgetful of the rush of air in the descent, they congratulated themselves on having put fear into this cool Englishman at last.

Thereafter came the bustle of evacuation. The men had been lured on to this piratical foray with the promise of large reward if they were successful, and now all chance of gain was snatched from them, and they were smitten with a sudden clap of fear. So away they went into the night, under the thin moonshine, a muttering, sullen, unruly mob, rowing their boat with uneven, extravagant strokes, and finally vanishing up a creek that ran between the mangroves of the eastern bank.

Also in the black shadows of the shore woods Doha Carmencita sat crouched in her canoe, and was shaken by dry sobs. She had failed, failed, failed, and a gallant gentleman had gone to his death for the sake of a point of honour.

IN the meanwhile let us consider the situation of Lord George Drew. The lashings were made from yarns unlaid from an old cargo sling, and these had drawn. When lying on the boat, tied to the anchor, waiting for his damp end, in a sudden paroxysm of something that might be called delirium he had plunged and lunged, and— lo! one arm was free. Then it was an easy thing to slack up other knots, and the natural impulse of the moment was to jump overboard and swim for it. But he had a shrewd idea at this time that Ortiz’s men were keeping some sort of lookout, and, anyway, the tide was setting toward the mangroves, and they could easily find him in these when they missed him from the forecastle head. Moreover, the estuary was full of sharks.

But, once under water and out of sight, the cool, languid Englishman became a demon of energy. Even as the anchor flashed into the water he had one arm adrift, and wrenched the other free as it sank. There was mud on the estuary floor, and the heavy mass of iron embedded itself deeply into this, and the captive had to work with desperation in thick, glutinous clay before he could get his feet and ankles clear. But he managed it with (so it seemed to him) only a decimal of a second to spare, and, swimming upward with frantic strokes, got to air with eyes starting from his head and blood running from his nose.

“Phew!” He hung to a link of the rusty cable and breathed in the sweet, salt tinged air and breathed it out again. “Just God’s plain air! I never knew what a luxury it was to be alive and to breathe.”

Then, bowing ironically through the gloom at the departing pirates, Lord George swam to the ladder and climbed back on board.

His first move was prosaic enough. He cleared a corner from the squalor the pirates had left in the cabin, spread himself a meal, ate heartily, and drank two long whiskies and sodas. Then he found the one deck chair that had not been gratuitously smashed, and in it smoked a luxurious pipe while he once more gave attention to the affairs of Herman Schlesinger of New York.

The situation was gloomy enough. He had come down to the Nicaragua coast with a remarkably scratch crew on the little tramp steamer. They had been for the most part shanghaied on board, and had been scared of the trade of gunrunning from the very start. Two hail been killed by Ortiz’s rifle fire from the shore after his first demand for the surrender of the cargo, and when subsequently he sent off his ultimatum that he would cut the throats of every mother’s son on board if they waited another hour, they took his word for it and bolted, rowing out of the estuary mouth in the little tramp steamer’s leaky lifeboat, as if silver cups depended on their speed.

The steamer then was rather a white elephant; for, even though she had reverted to his possession, he was unable to move her single-handed. There was also the question of the rifle cases and ammunition boxes; though he had retained the secret of the hilling place of these, he could not regain possession of them without help.

Lord George lit another pipe as he summed these points, and blew contemplative tobacco smoke far out into the warm, tropical night. Presently he began to smile. A fanciful cloud that drifted up against the moon suggested the outlines of a woman, and that woman Carmencita. Now, why did Carmencita want those rifles? She came from a family that studiously stood aloof from volcanic Nicaragua politics, and indeed owed their poverty to the fact that they were impartially robbed by the existing President, and also by General Laredo, the chronic opposition. Somebody had obviously offered her a large sum of money if she could obtain possession: she had indeed admitted as much. Who could it be?

Lord George smoked three more pipes; but tobacco refused to give him inspiration. So, like a wise man, he gave up thinking, and went to bed, and slept till the sun sailed once more high above the dingy steamer.

He woke to the din of distant rifle fire. Volleys and scattered shots over a large section of the forest told of a brisk engagement. But it took more than a trifle like this to push Lord George from his accustomed routine. He had his usual morning tub in the steamer’s seedy bathroom, shaved, dressed, and gave careful thought as to which of his small stock of neckties he should pick for the day’s wear. Then he breakfasted, and finally emerged on deck cool, complacent, and well dressed, ready either to await events or to take a hand in them.

AS it turned out, the scheme of action was arranged for him. A boat, furiously rowed, emerged from one of the creeks, bearing in her stem a flag one-third yellow, two-thirds white, with a crimson bar crossing the whole diagonally. The flag was the sign agreed that General Laredo’s messenger was to bring when he came to take delivery of the cargo.

So that there should be no mistake about it, a man in the stemsheets of the boat stood up as they drew near the steamer and waved the flag violently. But Lord George was not so cheered by the signal as he thought he would be. He was looking intently at a woman who sat also in the boat’s stemsheets, who was no other than Doña Carmencita.

The boat raced up alongside, and the man in command clambered unhandily up the ruins of the ladder. He was splashed with the mud of much riding, and his spurs were red. He introduced himself as Colonel Quesada, and indicated with furious gesture the woman in the boat.

“We have caught her at last, the vixen!” he proclaimed. “She has confessed the harm she has done to you. Presently she shall be punished. In the meanwhile, Señor, I offer you my country’s apologies. “

“Thanks,” said the Englishman dryly. “But Nature has made the señorita a breaker of hearts, and I am sure she does— not merit punishment for what she cannot help.”

The soldier stared. “But I have her word for it.”

“The only injury the lady has done me is not to return my very obvious affection for her, and if you please we shall make this a groundwork for negotiations. I must have your word that she goes out of this affair without injury.”

“Señor,” said Colonel Quesada stiffly, “my country’s lawlessness may be a scoff for nations; but it has never yet been said that we do not know how to defend the stranger within our gates from the attacks of our own people. ”

Lord George politely offered his cigarette case, and then, as the soldier hesitated, struck a light. It was impossible to refuse. And while Colonel Quesada inhaled the first lungful of smoke the other broke into fluent explanation. Doña Carmencita might err, probably had erred, being so intensely human and womanly, especially if the Señor Colonel said so; but it was impossible she should have erred maliciously against any of the powers that were, or that might be, or that ever could be, in Nicaragua. Her family ostentatiously kept their skirts clear of politics, and surely the Señor Colonel knew that that and nothing else was the cause of their obvious poverty. Still, Colonel Quesada waved away any idea of interference.

De Riou went on. He would not dream of making a threat; but he couldn’t avoid pointing out that he had refused to deliver up his cargo more than once already, and he felt it incumbent on his honour as a man to stipulate for an amnesty for Doha Carmencita before they proceeded further. And of course, over such an obvious point, the Señor Colonel must agree with him.

The Señor Colonel did nothing of the sort. He got angry, and then angrier, and then violently threw his cigarette into the estuary, where a shark surged up. turned over, and swallowed it with gusto. He had come for the rifles and ammunition; he was the duly accredited envoy of General Laredo; and what he had come for he would have— by force if necessary. The lady was entirely outside the present business, and in due time would be dealt with as she deserved.

“If.” said Lord George pleasantly, “you don’t know how to behave to ladies here in Nicaragua, I shall be delighted to teach you.”

AT this point the record is a trifle blurred.

I think Colonel Quesada must have reached a hand to his pistol slip. Lord George Drew is no shot himself, and says he is always nervous at the sight of a revolver in the hands of another man. He says they are nasty, dangerous things. Anyway, the scene changed with suddenness. Colonel Quesada, with a set of iron fingers in the back of his military collar, was leaning over the steamer’s grimy rail. The big muzzle of his own .44 revolver was jammed into the back of his head, and the languid English gentleman of his recent acquaintance was rapping out orders with a curtness and precision that spoke of previous military training.

Colonel Quesada was brave enough; but murder was such an ordinary occurrence in his own particular set that he quite credited Lord George’s threat to blow his head off if he refused to carry out orders. So he shrugged his shoulders and did as he was told. There is always an afterward for vengeance.

So once more Doña Carmencita climbed up the steamer’s side; but this time her progress was more slow.

“Buenos dins. Señorita ,” said Lord George. “I think, if you will, you had better go below till I finish my talk with Colonel Quesada, whose boat, as you see. is rowing away. And now. Colonel Quesada,” he smilingly nodded to that official, “if you’ll recall your boat, you may take delivery of t he cargo here and now.”

Colonel Quesada did so. “But. Señor, I do not understand how the guns are still on this steamer. Surely that guerrilla scoundrel. Ortiz, searched her?”

“Down to the last rivet. But I didn’t say they were on the steamer. When my crew had levanted, and I saw the other fellows were making up their mind:; to board, I thought it wise to cache the cargo. At that time they were dancing about on that strip of beach to port there. Well, this little packet has an entry’ port just above the waterline on her starboard side, out of sight of where Captain Ortiz and his friends then were. I opened that, ranged the cases along the lower deck, and made fast the whole lot of them to a long warp. When they were all lashed on I launched the first overboard, and that pulled the rest like a string of brobdingnagian beads. Finally I buoyed the end of the warp so that it would hang a fathom beneath the surface, and threw that over too.”’

“But didn’t Ortiz look over the side?”

“He did. He asked me where I had stowed the stuff, and I told him, truthfully enough, overboard. He was foolish enough to disbelieve me.”

“Señor, I still do not see—”

“Well, Colonel, perhaps I might have added that when the cargo was under water I put over the steamer’s helm to starboard till the stream of the estuary canted her about two degrees out of her natural position; so that you see she was then— and for that matter is now— lying right over the top of the cases. I didn’t mention this trifle to Captain Ortiz, and unless he had bored a hole through the steamer’s bottom I don’t see very well how he could have found out what lay immediately underneath it.

Colonel Quesada looked on the tall Englishman with dawning admiration. “Señor, you know well how to look after your own. I’ve heard it is a trait of your countrymen.

I am not a sailor; but I suppose it is easy to move the steamer back till the boxes are once more in view?”

“Perfectly,” said Lord George, and went on the bridge and ground over the wheel till the helm was amidships.

The vessel swung promptly in the current, and as they looked over her side there appeared out of the shadow the much struggled for cases lying in a heap on the mud of the estuary floor. To one end of the heavy warp on which they were lashed was a short piece of light line made fast to an oar, and the oar floated within six feet of the surface.

“Easiest thing in the world to weigh them,” said Lord George, “now that you know where they are.”

“Señor, I thank you.” Colonel Quesada wrote in his pocketbook and tore out a leaf. “I have the honour to present you with a formal receipt in the name of my master. General Laredo. And now, if you please, I shall call my men and take possession of our property. My party has a desperate need for both the ammunition and the rifles. With them, even if we do not win, we can at least carry on the war.”

Lord George thought that was one of the most unpleasant aspects of the business; but he had not time to follow up that point just then. Doña Carmencita— a most fascinating, bright eyed, and insistent Carmencita— drew him away.

“You have broken my heart; but you have done your duty. One last thing I ask from you. Take me away from here.”

“Presently, Quesada, presently. There is no such terrific hurry.”

“Take me away, Juan. You have done all you have promised, and more. Take me away. I am afraid.”

“But where to? We can’t go vaguely out to the Pacific.”

“Take me away!” she flung her arms round his neck and strained herself to him. “If ever you cared for me one little bit, take me away now!”

“If you make such a point of it,” said Lord George awkwardly, “of course there’s the gig riding to its painter astern, and we could drop down on the current in that and sail round to Puerto Angeles. But it will mean a two days’ trip, and you will find it a roughish dose in an open boat.”

“Juan, dear Juan, take me away!”

“Very well,” said Lord George, “as you seem so keen on it,” and went below for food and a couple of tins of water.

COLONEL QUESADA’S men were soldiers, and unhandy with ships’ gear. They were making a long job of weighing the ammunition cases and the boxes of rifles. Also the day was hot, and already they were tired. The farewells between Colonel Quesada and the two in the gig were brief and dry.

Lord George shoved off, and when the boat had dropped clear of the steamer he stepped his mast, hoisted the lug, and took a half turn with the sheet round a thwart. Then he moved aft to steer.

But Doña Carmencita had the tiller under her arm. and asked if she might retain it. “Rest now. Señor, while you have the chance.” said she. “You will want your strength for afterward.”

She was stiff and formal in the way she addressed him. and for the moment Lord George frowned. But then he saw it was for the best. They are very’ punctilious about etiquette between the sexes in Central America. and open boat cruising with a girl to whom one is not married or at least engaged does not come within the scheme at all. So, as the wind was light and steady, and the lug sail small, he lay on his back on the bottom of the boat, smoking quietly, and admiring the hot cobalt of the sky overhead, and occasionally admiring Carmencita.

The whop-swish of a bullet ricocheting alongside woke him sharply. He sprang up, and the girl, with a small hand on his shoulder, desperately’ tried to thrust him down again. Another bullet pinged past overhead. She took two hands to him, using all her woman’s strength to thrust him down under cover.

But a wrestle of that kind can have but one ending, and a breathless Carmencita very promptly found herself neatly laid out on the boat’s floor boards, while an unruffled Lord George sat in her place at the tiller.

“The treacherous sweeps,” said he “they’re shooting at us! Luckily it’s only revolvers they’ve got. I hope they don’t get the rifles out of those cases, and try with them. With this light breeze we shan’t drop down out of rifleshot for half an hour yet. By Gad, though! they have got one of the cases open!”

“And can’t you see yet what I tried to save you from?”

Lord George looked puzzled.

“The excellent Don Herman Schlesinger of New York employed you to bring those guns and cartridges here?”

“Yes.”

“And he employed me to get hold of them before you could deliver them to General Laredo. He had been paid, you know, before they left New York.”

“I understood that. But why fail to make delivery?”

“Because there was neither a gun nor a cartridge in any of the boxes. What you brought flown here to Nicaragua, and what Colonel Quesada is now tearing his hair over, is a cargo of useless iron ballast.”

Lord George flushed a deep red. “And you? Where do you come into the deal?”

“I?” She laughed bitterly. “I was poor. I met a man once— it seems years ago— who said he was poor too and could not afford to marry a girl who was not rich. So when I saw a chance of getting riches I took that chance. Can you think of anything more foolish?”

Lord George continued to think as the boat dropped away down stream and the revolver bullets spitefully spat into the water astern. But at last he announced, “We are out of shot now.”

Doña Carmencita sat up, stood up, tottered, and fell fainting into his arms.

Certainly at that moment Lord George Drew was the most embarrassed man in all Central America.

__________________________

7: The Phantom Hearse

"Waif Wander"

The Australian Journal, Sept. 1889

MANY OF my readers will have observed that many “Corner” shops, whatever their location, are known by the names of their owners.

The one I am going to introduce you to was literally a corner shop, and the individuality of the man who kept it had obscured the very name of the street. You never heard hip shop called the corner shop; it was “Jones’s” or “Old Jones’s,” and the corner at which it stood was, and is, “Jones’s Corner.”

I introduce Jones and his place of business to you on one sunny afternoon in March, when Lumsden, the new “bobby,” was airing his dignity in taking a survey of this particular part of a beat that was quite new to him. Indeed, all beats were new to the young man, who had only just been “called in,” though his name had been on the list of applicants for police employment for a good while. Lumsden was an especially raw recruit, and as full of an idea of his own importance as raw police recruits generally are.

He was standing on the pavement engaged in a condescending conversation with a sharp-looking resident named Jack Turner, a man of forty, perhaps, and of a small, wiry build. Turner had been relating to Lumsden a legend of the neighbourhood, about which the policeman was disposed to air his superior knowledge.

“And do you tell me, now, that there are live people hereabouts so ignorant as to believe that kind of a yarn?” he asked, with a smile that puffed his fat cheeks out till they met the collar of his jumper.

“Plenty of ’em; why a man can’t help believin’ what he sees with his own eyes.”

“And have you seen it?”

“Yes, I have, and many more ’n me; but if you want to hear all about it just ask old Jones—he knows the story from the beginning.”

Perhaps Lumsden would not have condescended to exhibit his curiosity to old Jones or anyone else if he had not been provided with a convenient excuse. He was standing in front of Turner’s door, and the corner shop was obliquely opposite when a man came to the door of old Jones’s shop and, with his face turned back, indulged in some pretty strong language that was apparently addressed to old Jones himself.

“Who is that?” asked Lumsden of his new acquaintance.

“It’s a chap that lives down the lane behind here. Jerry Swipes they calls him; him and old Jones are always having rows.”

“What about?”

“Goodness knows. Jerry is in the old man’s debt I fancy, and it’s hard to get any money out of Swipes.”

“Jerry Swipes? Is that the man’s real names?”

“Blest if I can tell you, but it may be a nickname, for he is a regular swipe and no mistake.”

While Lumsden had been gaining this information, Jerry—a tall, slouching figure, with a sandy face and a long, sharp nose—had been roaring his uncomplimentary remarks to old Jones, who now came to the door of his shop with a red and angry face, as Swipes edged up the street toward the lane.

“Don’t let me catch you inside my shop again!” shouted the old man, as he shook his fist after Jerry; “as sure as I do, I’ll give you in charge! You’re nothing but a sneaking thief—that’s what you are!”

“I’ll ram them words down your old throat one o’ these days!” shrieked Jerry, as he reached the end of his lane. “Police, is it? By gar, it’ll be police with yourself first! You’ll give me a glass of whiskey next time I call? Eh, old man!” and the dirty unkempt-looking mortal disappeared into the mouth of the unsavoury right-of-way.

Old Jones’s vituperation stopped as suddenly as Jerry disappeared, and such a look of fear came into the twinkling eyes under his penthouse, ragged eyebrows that even Lumsden observed it, and Turned had to turn away his face to hide the grin of enjoyment that over-spread his parchment-tried visage; but he controlled himself to remark ere he entered his door—

“Now is your time to go and ask old Jones about the phantom funeral, and you will be sure to hear all about this quarrel with Jerry.”

Lumsden took the hint, and marching across the narrow street, was a “Jones’s” almost as soon as the old man had got behind his counter again.

“Jones” has all the characteristics of a thriving corner shop, with a little extra dirt and untidiness into the bargain. It was so small that the counter on two sides left but little space for the use of customers, that small space behind further curtailed by “stock” in the form of boxes of soap, bags of potatoes, rice, oatmeal and sugar. The narrow shelves were laden with fly-marked packages, and boxes and bottles of great variety; and the space that ought to be empty under the ceiling was hung with brooms brushes clothes lines and tinware the original brightness of which was dimmed by age and smoke. Into this confined emporium Constable Lumsden stepped, meeting old Jones suspicious eyes as that worthy very unceremoniously resumed his usual seat behind the counter, placed his spectacles astride his nose, and with a sharp rustle shook out the morning paper on his knee.

“Good day to you,” said the young policeman as he looked curiously around him.

“Good day it is; what can I serve you with?”

“Serve? Oh, nothing. I heard some strong language at your door just now and came in to see what it was all about.”

Old Jones gave his paper an angry rustle as he answered—“If you come in here to know what’s the matter every time I get cheek from a customer you’ll not be able to do much in the other parts of your beat.”

“The cheek wasn’t all on the customer’s side this time. I heard you calling the man a thief, and in the open street. That’s something in my line, you’ll allow?”

“And so be is a thief,” cried old Jones angrily; “he’s the biggest loafer in Melbourne. He only comes near the shop when he wants to shake a plug of tobacco or a pipe.”

“What did he shake today?”

“When I want to lay a charge against him, I’ll take it up to the sergeant,” said old Jones, expecting that it would shut up the officious young trap But it had very little effect on Constable Lumsden, who was, fortunately for himself, not very thin-skinned.

“Ah! Two might play at visiting the sergeant. If Jerry Swipes went up himself, he has a very good charge against you, and me for a witness It’s again’ the laws to call a man a thief in the open street.”

“I can prove it.”

“If you could prove it twice over, all the same the law won’t allow you to do it; and I’d advise you to give him that glass of whiskey he seems to expect from you the next time you get the chance.”

At this second allusion to the whiskey, old Jones once more grew white under Lumsden’s observing eyes, and his knobby, hard hands shook so that they rustled the paper he held. Seeing this repeated agitation at the allusion to spirits, Lumsden took it into his head that drink was sold “on the sly” at Jones’s, and he determined to keep a close watch on the place in future.

The old man made no immediate reply to Lumsden’s advice about the treatment of his enemy, Jerry. He was considering within himself that it would, perhaps, be better for his own interests that he should take a different tone with the new police man. The independent sharpness of Lumsden was a new experience at the Corner, the last man on the beat having been an old, steady-going policeman who duly considered Mr. Jones’s status in the neighbourhood, and was friendly accordingly. Old Jones would have liked to twist the impertinent young constable’s neck, but he tried to do the amiable instead—a very difficult matter for the crusty old man.

“The fact is my temper’s wore out with them sort of customers,” he said with a sigh at his amiability. “It’s a very low neighbourhood, especially down Long’s Lane, and it’s getting lower every day. They get a few things from you, then they get into your books somehow, in spite of you, and they wind up with dropping in to steal when they think your back’s turned.”

“A bad business,” returned Lumsden, but without the least intonation of sympathy. “What does that fellow you were jawing to do for a living?”

“Jerry Swipes? Ah! He’d be a puzzled to tell you. He hires a truck, and pretends to attend to the markets and that. I’ve heard of him rag and bottle gathering, but it’s all a blind.”

“You’ve been a long time in the neighbourhood, I suppose?” asked Lumsden, as failing anything else in view, he took a pinch out of the oatmeal bag and began to munch it.

“I’ve been nigh on thirty year in this house and this shop, and if anyone knows the neighbourhood I ought to.”

“Ye-es, I suppose so,” was the slow and evidently absent reply; “and that reminds me; I’ve been told some ridiculous yarn about the ghost of a hearse that appears about here. Can you tell me anything about it?”

“There’s nothing ridiculous about it, young man; it’s only too true that the Phantom Funeral, as people have got to call it, is often seen in S—— and O—— street. I’ve seen it often, and I know how it began. There isn’t a man in C—— can tell you as much as I can about it.”

Old Jones’s air had quite undergone a change when his favourite topic came to be dwelt on; the paper was cast aside, and he rose from the old arm-chair. He took off his old, greasy felt hat, and ran his fingers through his stubbly grey hair until it stood nearly straight up, and then he replaced the hat and “ahem”ed as he looked inquiringly towards Lumsden.

“I’d like to hear the story,” said the latter, as he looked out of the door to see there was no “duty” staring him in the face, and then leaned easily against the heap of bags, as he listened to old Jones.

“It’s getting on for twelve years ago now since that hearse was first seen, and people always said it was because Sam Brown was carried out of No 9 in the dead of the night and taken to the morgue, without common decency, in a dray. Sam was murdered or committed suicide—it was never actually decided which—and from that day to this the hearse haunts the place as a sort of revenge on the neighbours that they didn’t pay more respect to his remains.”

“But that’s trash,” said Lumsden. “How could a dead man set a hearse to haunt a neighbourhood? I don’t believe a word of it.”

“I’ve heard a many say that, as grew white to hear the hearse mentioned within less than a year after,” returned old Jones solemnly. “It’s the scoffers as see it, and it’s not lucky to see it.”

“Not lucky?”

“No. If a man sees it—as you may when you’re on night duty—the best thing he can do is to turn his back and walk away from it. There has never been a man foolhardy enough to watch it but he died within the year.”

“But you’ve seen it, you say?”

“Aye, by chance. One night a woman was very bad down Long’s Lane there, and she wasn’t expected to live over the night. I got quite nervous like, and couldn’t sleep. It was a bright moonlight, and about two o clock in the morning I saw a slow shadow cross the blind of my window there. Before I had time to think, I was out on the floor and had the curtain in my hand, for I thought it was the ‘Phantom Hearse.’ It was. I saw it for a moment moving slowly past, and I dropped the blind quick, and got into bed again.”

“What was it like?” asked Lumsden.

“Like a plain, low, box-hearse, all black and with one black horse in it. Sometimes there is a driver, and sometimes a man in black walks at the horse’s head. It makes no sound, and is like a dream.”

“By George, I’d make a nightmare of it!” cried the young trap. “Do you mean to tell me that no man has ever had the courage to walk up to the thing and grip it?”

“No man has ever been foolhardy enough to go straight to his deathbed that way,” was the serious answer.

But the unbelieving policeman laughed aloud as he raised himself and went toward the door, saying lightly—

“Well, here’s one man that’ll take the first chance of feeling what that ghostly machine is made of, at all events. Good gracious! To think people believe such yarns as that!”

As soon as Lumsden had left the shop, Jones’s face fell, and he muttered uneasily to himself as he stood by the counter, with his hands upon it, and an anxious look in his scowling face. He was not at any time a pleasant picture, that old Jones of the corner shop, but he looked absolutely repellent as he stood muttering to himself, with his ragged eyebrows almost met in an anxious scowl.

A few minutes later the old man, dashing the old greasy hat under the counter, began to divest himself of his rag of a coat, leaving the shop by the back as he did so. He went through a very slovenly kitchen, and to the veranda at the back of it, where an old, meanly-attired woman was washing in a wooden tub that seemed almost as old as herself. She looked up with a frightened air as Jones shouted at her—

“Margery!”

“Yes, master.”

“Leave that washing and get on a clean apron I’m going out; you’ll have to mind the shop.”

“Yes, master,” and the trembling arms were being hastily wiped in her wet apron as she was hurrying away.

“Stop. I want to speak to you.”

She stopped instantly, and humbly turned an apparently vacant face towards him.

“You’ve got to watch that boy—that’s your business, you know. Don’t you go trying to serve, or you’ll poison someone, but keep your eyes sharp on Con. You hear?”

It would be queer if she didn’t hear, for the man was roaring at the top of his voice, and at every emphasized word the poor old creature jumped.

“I hear. I’ll watch him well.”

“I’ll leave nothing in the till; and mind, see that there’s something in it when I come back Give no credit. Do you hear?”

“Yes, master. I’ll let nothing go without the money.”

“And count it before you let the things go out of your hands.”

“Yes, master.”

While Jones had been giving these instructions, he had been making a pretence of a wash in the old woman’s tub from pure suds, and when he dismissed her with a nod, he seized a grimy old towel and rubbed his face with it. It seemed as if Jones was in an awful hurry, for he had not finished with the towel when he had crossed the littered yard, and was giving some more orders to a sharp-looking boy of about thirteen who had been occupied in washing bottles in a dilapidated shed.

“Con!”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m going out for an hour or so, and the old woman is to mind the shop; you keep your eye on her.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let her sit in the chair and count the money. Do you serve, and mind don’t give one penny of credit!”

“Very well, sir.”

“And watch the old woman well; see that she doesn’t get slipping a penny now and then into some corner of her gown. I’ve known her do it afore.”

“I’ll watch her close, sir.”

“That’s right And see you keep account of every penny’s worth you let go.”

“I’ll be very careful, sir.”

TEN MINUTES afterwards, old Jones was scuttling away down the street pretty easy in his mind, because he had put in practice his favourite receipt for keeping people honest. “Set one to watch the other!” he would say, “that’s the way to do it! You don’t want no detectives if you set one to watch the other!”

Very few would have recognised the two happy faces that beamed behind old Jones’s counter that afternoon to be those of the stupid, hopeless-looking old woman who was previously slopping grimy rags at the back, and the half-discontented one of the boy who had listened with such outward respect to a master he both disliked and despised.

The old woman, who was no other than old Jones lawful wife, sat in Jones chair stiffly and upright, with her hands folded on a clean white apron and a broad-bordered, starched muslin cap on her unsteady head. Her withered old face was beaming with pride and delight, and with an air of dignity that was pitiful when one knew its short lived nature. The one happiness of poor old Mrs. Jones was in being permitted to play at keeping shop, for it was only play after all. Con doing in reality whatever was necessary in the small sales. Con was very busy just now wiping down the counter and “tidying up things a bit,” as he was wont to call it when speaking to Mrs. Jones.

“Isn’t this fine!” cried the gratified old creature with a child’s unreasoning delight. “If the master would go away oftener and let us keep shop, Con, wouldn’t it be nice?”

“It would,” answered the boy with some decision, “but no sich luck. Some old men die, but the likes of him never dies.”

“I wish he would die,” Mrs. Jones said in a deep whisper to the lad. “I’m allays a wishing it. If he did there would be no one to knock me about, and I would sit in the shop allays. I wish that dead hearse would stop right under his window some night, I do!”

“Did you ever see the dead hearse, Mrs. Jones?” questioned the boy as he ceased his rubbing at the counter and looked at the old woman curiously.

“I did,” she replied with an energetic nod that set her wide cap frills bobbing. “I seen it one night last March. The master he woke me up to see it. It was passing the window, and stopped opposite Grinder’s. Mrs. Grinder, she died next day but one. That’s the reason I wouldn’t never sleep in that front room again; and, besides, the master he was allays a-knockin’ me about for snorin’. I don’t snore He does.”

“Aye! Jones wanted to get you out of his room, missis and he wasn’t short of an excuse. I know!”

This unexpected remark was made by no other than Jerry Swipes, whose lanky figure had entered the shop unobserved in the deep interest attached to the “dead hearse,” as poor old Mrs. Jones called it. Con stared at the man, but Mrs. Jones was on her dignity and bridling asked what business it was of Jerry Swipes?

“None, missis, none whatsomever, only no man as is a man likes to see a lawful wife med a slave of and beat when another woman—but it’s none of my business. Con, hand me a threepenny plug and a pipe.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking of, Jerry Swipes!” cried Mrs. Jones with angry suspicion. “It was my own doin’s as made me go to sleep in the back room.”

“Was it? Oh, then, maybe you knows what Jones does of a night since you left. If ye doesn’t, jest watch him, and you’ll see, that’s all.”

Listening open mouthed to these strange words of the disreputable customer, Con had mechanically laid the required articles on the counter. In an instant the tobacco and pipe were transferred to Jerry’s pocket, and his ragged ulster wrapped over them.

“Put ’em down, me boy,” he said with a leer as he made for the door. “Me credit’s always good with Mr. Jones. Yes, missis, that’s what I say—watch him an you’ll know.”

“Oh, Mrs. Jones, he’s never paid for ’em!” cried Con. “The master’ll kill us!”

“Watch him an’ you’ll know,” murmured the old woman, on whom Jerry’s words appeared to have made a strange impression. She was staring at the door out of which Jerry had just passed, with her brows bent together, and a queer, thoughtful look in her faded eyes that puzzled the boy.

“Please. Mrs. Jones,” reiterated Con, “that Swipes took the pipe and baccy without paying for it. What’ll we do? The master’ll kill us.

“Watch him and you’ll know,” again murmured the completely absorbed old woman; “and it’s true. He used to go somewheres at night. I’ve missed him.”

Fortunately for Con’s peace of mind at this moment, there entered two legitimate customers who put a few shillings in the till, and distracted Mrs. Jones’s thoughts again. It was painful even to the boy to see her pluming herself in the chair, and feeling so proud and happy, when it was so certain that at the first sound of her master’s harsh voice she would drop into the cringing, half-stupid slave, who seemed to have no idea beyond the avoidance, by unselfish service, of the kicks and thumps the brute was in the habit of bestowing on her whenever he wanted some object to explode his temper on.

BY THIS time Constable Lumsden had worked ’round his beat and was in the vicinity of “Jones’s Corner” again. As he was about to pass the door, he looked in and, seeing only the boy and the half idiotic face of an old woman behind the counter, he changed his mind and entered. Mrs. Jones bridled immediately. The poor old creature had a very exaggerated idea of a policeman’s importance, and, being a woman, was not, perhaps, insensible to the young chap’s ruddy and healthy looking face. Con was not so 1 sure of Lumsden. He had a town boy’s detestation of all bobbies, big and little, young and old, and would just as soon have seen a big brown snake wandering into the shop as that young man in blue.

“Is Jones at home?” asked Lumsden.

“No, sir, he’s gone out on business. This is Mrs. Jones.”

“Yes,” she nodded proudly as she smoothed down the white apron with both trembling hands. “I’m keeping shop. I’d like to keep shop every day.”

“Would you?” Lumsden asked, with a suspicious look into the childish looking face, for the constable was not quite sure whether she was laughing at him or was in reality half-witted. But he was soon at his ease, for it was impossible to doubt the want of intellect so plainly pictured in the vacant, withered features. “I suppose, now, you sell everything here?”

“Yes,” she answered proudly, “everythink.”

“I was just wishing for a glass of something,” Lumsden said, in a low tone, as he glanced towards the quiet street. “There’s no one about; I’ll take a glass of spirits, please,” and he quietly laid a shilling on the counter.

“Oh, we don’t keep no drink here, sir,” quickly returned Con, as he pushed back the shilling, for which the unconscious old woman’s hand was already outstretched.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” snapped the constable. “Are you Jones’s son?”

“No, sir, I’m only hired; but I’ve been with them a good while.”

“You’re too precious sharp,” Lumsden said, with a frown that he believed sufficient to overcome the sharpest youngster in the city. “Missis, can’t you sell me a glass of something?”

“The master takes a glass often,” she mumbled, “but he never gives me none. I don’t know where he keeps his bottle; s’pect it’s in the front room. Master allays locks the front room when he goes out.”

“Hum, give me sixpen’ worth of lollies, boy;” and the discontented constable pushed back the shilling on which the old woman’s eyes were fixed greedily.

Con weighed the lollies and was graciously presented with some of them for his own use.

“Did you ever see this ghost of a hearse that haunts this neighbourhood?” asked Lumsden of the lad, as he decided that the old woman was not worth talking to.

“No, sir, I never did, but Mrs. Jones has seen it. Haven’t you, Mrs. Jones?”

“Seen the dead hearse? I should think so. Ha! There’s allays someone dies when that comes. I wish ’twould stop right there tonight,” and she pointed a shaky finger straight out of the shop door to the empty street, on which the afternoon sun was shining warmly. And then as if the subject brought back to her memory Jerry Swipes’ words, she repeated them to herself, with her brows again tangled into a thoughtful frown—“Jest you watch him, and you’ll see.”

“What is she muttering?”

“Oh, nothing of any consequence, sir; she’s talking to herself half the time.”

“Um! A little queer, eh?”

“A little, sir.”

“Did you never see the old chap sell a glass now?” asked the clever new policeman; and Con’s naturally rosy face grew crimson.

If there is one thing more despised than another by even the lowest Melbourne lad, it is an informer. In this case, Con had nothing to tell, but it insulted him that it should be supposed possible that he would tell, even if he knew anything.

Lumsden saw the boy’s increase of colour, and it increased his suspicions.

“No,” Con answered—without the ‘sir’ this time, you will observe—“nor I never see no spirits of any kind about, even for Mr. Jones’s own drinkin’. If he keeps any, it must be, as Mrs. Jones says, in his own room, that’s mostly always locked.”

The mention of her name aroused the old woman from an unusual absorption in thought, and she repeated over and over again—

“Yes, Con, in his own room; allays in his own room.”

In a very discontented mood, Lumsden strolled out to the pavement again, munching his lollies as he went; and it so happened that Jerry Swipes at that moment appeared at the corner of the lane, and after a sharp look up and down the empty street, beckoned to the policeman. Lumsden was inclined to stand on his dignity, and let the drunken-looking fellow come over to him if he wanted him; but all at once he remembered that this was the man old Jones had been abusing, and thinking of the probability of retaliation, he put his dignity in his pocket with the lollies and crossed the narrow street.

“Just come down here a few steps, constable; I want to speak to ye.”

Lumsden followed the speaker a few yards and then stopped. The lane was most uninviting to all senses, and two or three red-faced, loud-voiced women were in front of some old wooden cottages farther down, gossiping amid the noise of screaming babies and quarrelling children.

“If you have anything private to say, there’s no need of going any farther—there’s nothing but a dead wall here.”

“It’s the fence of Turner’s wood yard,” returned Jerry, “and I guess you’re right. We can speak low, and besides, there’s no one in the yard—I saw Turner go out five minutes ago.”

“Well, what is your business?”

“Are you game now to go halves in an informin’ business?” asked Jerry, cunningly, in reply so this question.

“Informin’? Is it about old Jones?” was the sharp return.

“The very man.”

“By Jove, I suspected it!” cried Lumsden, as he stooped and slapped his leg in thorough enjoyment. “Game? I should think so!” And then a sharp suspicion crossed his mind, and made Lumsden look steadily into the bloated face with the sharp nose. “If you are on the look-out for a reward, how is it you don’t try to keep it all to yourself?” he asked.

“D’ye think I’d ever get it if I hadn’t someone decent to me up?” Jerry asked cunningly. “I couldn’t take him in single-handed. I’d want help—and if I was the respectablest in Melbourne, there wouldn’t be a conviction without the worm.”

“Without the worm? What do you mean? What are talking about?”

“I’m talking about a still—didn’t you know it afore?”

The low whistle that gave expression to Lumsden’s surprise so prolonged that Jerry cut it short with a, “Hush.”

“I thought it was sly grog-selling,” he exclaimed. “I noticed the effect your mention of the glass of whiskey had on Jones a while ago, and I thought it was sly grog-selling. But a still! By Jove! Are you sure, man?”

“As sure as that there fence is made o wood,” was the answer, as Swipes put his hand on Turner’s fence; “an’ now just wait minnit till I see if Turner’s back.”

He stepped on a stone as he was speaking, and craned his neck in an examination of the wood-yard.

“No, he’s not at home yet, for the back door’s shut an’ the barrow’s not there. Come now, let us settle about it. It must done tonight, for I gave him a good many hints today, an he may be frightened.”

“He’s gone out,” said Lumsden.

“Yes, and I am afraid he’s gone to try and get rid of the plant somehow, for he must have customers for the spirits somewhere, and they’re bound to help him. The best thing that you and can do is to go up to the sergeant at once, and lay our claim to reward.”

There was a little more talk about it, and when it was over separated, so as to avoid suspicion; appointing, however, a when they were to meet at the police office in the presence of the sergeant.

OLD JONES came home very shortly after in one of his humours. At the first glimpse of his face in the doorway all brightness fell from that of the poor old wife, who hobbled to the back, leaving Con to face “the master;” and Con did with more confidence than usual for there was some money in till, and he had some news to tell Jones that might make think less of Jerry having outwitted him in the matter of the and tobacco.

“Well! Everything at sixes and sevens, I suppose?” Jones asked with a furious look around the shop. The man wanted something to swear at, for his blood was boiling within him.

“No, sir. Everything’s all right in the shop; only—” the boy hastened to add, ere Jones had time to explode—“that young bobby’s been here, sir.”

“Again! What the deuce did he want?”

“I’m afraid he was after no good, master,” replied Con, as he shook his head sagely. “He tried to get a glass of spirits out of the mistress and me; actually put the money on the counter for it.”

“What!”

“Yes, indeed, sir. He gammoned that he knew drink was sold here, but when he could get nothing out of us he bought six-pen’ worth of lollies and went away.”

Jones absolutely turned grey with apprehension as he stared at the boy.

“You are sure you didn’t tell the villain anything?”

“I had nothing to tell him, sir.”

“That’s true, Con—of course, you had nothing to tell him. You may go out and finish them bottles now.”

Jones fell into his old arm-chair behind the counter dumbfounded. He felt that he was caught in a trap and didn’t know where seek help. He had taken off his best hat, and held the old one in his hands, looking at it in a queer, bewildered way, when a man entered with an active step. It was Turner, the small, sharp, dark man that kept the wood-yard.

“How many hundred of wood will I bring you over, Jones?” he asked as he bent over toward the old man with a strange grin on his face.

“Not one!” shouted old Jones, as the blood rushed into face, and his eyes flashed under their overhanging brows. He had got someone to vent his rage on at last. “Not one; and I’ll never take another from you—you swindling rascal. The last was green messmate.”

“Hush, hush, Jones! You have no idea what a mess you’re in. I’ve come to give you a bit of neighbourly help, for both Jerry Swipes and the new bobby’ll be down on you in a brace of shakes.”

“Jerry Swipes! The new bobby! Oh, curse them.”

But even as the words fell from his lips, they trembled, and he put on his old hat in a hopeless way very unusual with him.

“Yes and there’s no time to waste. Jerry has been watching you by nights, it seems, and he’s found out all about the still. He’s told Lumsden, and they’ve gone up to the sergeant and agreeing to share the reward for informing between them.”

“Oh, Lord, what’ll I do?” groaned the old man.

“That’s what I’m come to tell you. I have the horse ready in the cart and the wood in it. I’m going to bring it into the yard, and you’ll pack all your whiskey into it, as well as the whole still, if we can manage it, and I’ll drive ’em off before the informers come.”

“Where will you take ’em?” Jones asked doubtfully.

“Where they’ll be safe. Never you mind so long as they don’t get ’em here.”

“But what are you doin’ it for? I never was friends with you, Bill Turner. What are you so willin’ to do this for?”

“No! You old screw, you never was friends with me, I don’t owe you so much as a thank-you for one neighbourly act. What am I a-doin of it for? What a darned fool you are to ask! I’m a-doing it for what I can make out of it, of course! Do you think I’m a fool to do it for nothing? I’ll save you a fifty-pound fine and the loss of your stock, never fear, but I’ll ask for my pay when the job’s done!”

Strange to say this assertion, though it touched the weakest part of old Jones (the region of his pocket), convinced him of Turner’s sincerity, and before many minutes had elapsed the woodman’s cart was in the old storekeeper’s yard. Jones sent Con and Mrs. Jones into the shop while a new load was packed into the bottom of the conveyance and covered with a layer of wood that made all, as Turner declared, look quite natural.

Few could have guessed in what a state of excitement old Jones had lately been, had they looked into the shop after Turner’s departure and seen him, spectacles on nose, apparently absorbed in the paper; at least, Jerry Swipes didn’t guess it when he entered with a wicked grin on his dirty visage, and with Constable Lumsden at his heels.

“I hope I don’t intrude, Mister Jones,” sneered Jerry, who had evidently managed an extra glass somewhere. “Allow me to introduce me friend, Constable Lumsden.”

“Stash that!” cried Lumsden angrily, as he pushed Jerry out of his way very unceremoniously and advanced to the counter. “I’m here on duty, Jones. We have received information that you are carrying on a sort of private distillery here in contravention to the laws, and we’re hero to search the premises.”

“Search and be hanged to you!” was the very unexpected reply; “but by the heavens above me, if that drunken thief comes inside my private premises—I’ll brain him, so help me !”

“Will you?” retorted the pot-valiant Swipes. “Maybe two could play at that game; though if it comes to brains it’s very little you’d have to let out. Stand back, Lumsden, and let me blacken that old villain’s eyes.”

“If you don’t keep quiet, Swipes, I’ll put you out myself,” was all the comfort the angry man got from his unwilling companion, who went on to Jones—

“You may as well let us in peacefully, Jones. There’s two constables in the back yard by this time, and there’s no earthly use offering any resistance.”

“I’m offering no resistance; didn’t I tell you to search? There’s the door open; but I say again, if that informer crosses that threshold, I’ll fell him.”

“Oh, I’m an informer, eh? D’ye hear that, Lumsden? By George, the old fool is giving himself away. It seems there’s something to inform on, eh?”

“Hold your jaw, Swipes. You had better go ’round to the back; there’s no use having any unnecessary row.” And the young policeman went behind the counter to the door that old Jones was still holding open with shaking hands.

Jerry, finding himself in a minority, did as Lumsden had suggested, and went ’round to the yard, cursing Jones all the way. Jones immediately shut the shop door and barred it behind him, going out then after the young policeman to see what disturbance they would make among his household gods.

That part of the household gods represented by poor Mrs. Jones was in such a state of bewildered surprise at the advent of two strange men in blue entering her slovenly kitchen that the entrance of another from the shop-way added nothing to her confusion. Lumsden, as befitting the fact that he was co-informer, took the lead in what followed, his first action being to proceed towards Jones own bedroom and order it to be opened.

“My information is that the door of a cellar opens in a closet of this room,” he said importantly, “and that in that cellar is the still.”

Without a word Jones unlocked the door and flung it open. At this moment Jerry Swipes, fortified by the presence of so many policemen, advanced to push his way into Jones’s room; and, without another word of warning, the old man who had been a pugilist in his young days lifted his fist and struck Swipes so heavily between the eyes that the half-drunk man fell to the floor almost as if he had been shot.

“I had a right to do it!” cried Jones. “I warned him! I put no hindrance in the way of the police, but that man I’ll not let cross my threshold! Clear out o’ this, or I’ll let you have it double!”

Jerry, who was picking himself up with difficulty, turned to go, but as he did, he uttered a threat that was remembered against him afterwards.

“Do you see them?” he asked, pointing to the drops of blood on the floor. “You drew ’em from my face, but by heaven, I’ll let every drop out of your heart for ’em,” and he staggered blindly out to the yard.

It is unnecessary to enter into particulars of the unsuccessful search made by the constables of Jones’s cellar and premises generally—there was nothing whatever incriminating discovered. The unsuspected load Turner had taken had removed everything immediately connected with the still, save some empty hop pockets and sugar bags and a suspiciously smelling keg. Jones enjoyed the discomfiture of Lumsden, as indeed did his fellow constables, who were like all the world jealous of a neighbour’s good fortune.

“I’m sorry for your disappointment, gentlemen,” said Jones with a derisive grin; “but you see, it is not always well to depend on information received from a low scoundrel. Howsomever, I’m sorry to see Mr. Lumsden look so down in the mouth. I don’t mind giving him a glass of very good whiskey I happen to have here by me.”

“Hang you and your whiskey, too!” was the young man’s not over civil reply to this kind offer, and in a few moments the police accompanied by the terribly disappointed Jerry had all cleared out by the back way. To say that Jerry was disappointed is putting it very weakly—he evinced his feelings in such threats at Jones and, indeed, at the police, who had, he fancied, cheated him in some way or another, that Lumsden was within an ace marching him off to the lockup.

Lumsden was quite as much disappointed as the informer, though he was able to control his feelings a little better. So convinced was he that Jones had been warned and cleared his cellar out, that he determined on doing duty on his own account that night. That is, instead of going to bed or to amuse himself after his patrol was over, after dinner he returned to his beat to watch Jones’s Corner.

He did not get to his beat till about eleven o’clock, believing that whatever illegal thing might be done on the old man’s premises would not be attempted before that hour. He had acquainted the constable on duty of his intention so that his movements should be taken no notice of and he chose as his place of watch the entrance to a narrow right-of-way opposite old Jones’s back yard.

When he took up his post, there was a light in the shop, though it was shut, but all was darkness at the back. Jones was not the man to let his wife and Con sit up burning candles for nothing. After about half an hour’s watch, Lumsden saw the light from the shop disappear, and in a few minutes a man crossed the yard stealthily, opened Jones’s gate noiselessly, and slipped ’round the corner of the street where the door of the shop was. Lumsden was curious and followed him to the corner. There he saw small, lithe figure dart across the moonlit street and enter Turner’s wood-yard. Lumsden went back to his station, wondering what Turner was doing there at that time of night; and just then the town clock was just striking twelve.

It was quite another hour before he saw anything else at Jones’s. Then a slinking figure crept along in the shadow of the houses, and deftly climbing Jones high fence, dropped inside. The young constable recognised Jerry Swipes instantly, and guessed at once that the low scoundrel was on the same self-imposed duty as himself, viz., watching old Jones, with the hope of making some discovery of a fresh plant. It was about half an hour before Jerry left the yard, and it was chiming the half-hour after one as he dropped out into the street again and ran down the lane.

Another half hour, and Lumsden saw a light appear for a moment in the kitchen window. The light was very indistinct, for the window was under the back veranda where Mrs. Jones did her poor washing; but it was distinct enough for Mr. Lumsden to see it twice—once when it seemed to come and go away again, and once more when it reappeared and seemed to be suddenly put out. Believing that Jones was rambling about the place making a bestowal of some illegal machinery, Lumsden was about to climb the fence for a nearer watch when he saw something that changed his mind with a strange suddenness. The young man had heard no noise, but he felt, as it were, that there was something moving in his vicinity. Turning involuntarily, he saw, coming down the street full in the moonlight, what seemed to be the shadow of a hearse. A sort of fear crept upon him for a moment, but he recovered himself speedily, remembering his jibes at the dead hearse that very day, and his determination to prove its mortal and tangible nature.

The thing passed him—the shadow of a hearse—and turned Jones’s Corner noiselessly. It appeared to Lumsden’s eyes just as Jones had described it: a plain box-like hearse with a cover shaped like a sarcophagus. The shape of a black horse drew it, and the shape of a man in black, with long black crêpe weepers hanging down from his hat, behind sat in front and held the shadowy reins. There is not one among the very wisest of us without some hidden superstition, however we may to try to deceive ourselves about the fact; and young Lumsden felt a queer, cold creeping up his back in spite of his declared unbelief in the “Phantom Hearse.”

No sooner had it turned the corner and was out of sight, however, but he pulled himself together and hurried after it, determined to see the affair through. He had not far to go. I have said the thing turned the corner. It had barely done so; when Lumsden reached the front of the shop, he saw the hearse standing an front of the window he knew belonged to Jones’s bedroom, the vehicle and horse still and soundless, the man sitting on his box as if carved out of black marble.

One moment the young man hesitated, for he was only mortal, but then he strode on toward the hearse, his steps making a loud noise on the moonlit pavement. His heart was beating quickly, but he did not stop until he was so near that by putting out his hand he should have been able to touch the hearse. He put it out, and touched nothing! He moved a little nearer, and tried again. Still there was nothing tangible, but he heard a terrible moan that seemed to come from the interior of the ghostly vehicle, and started back.

When he looked again, the whole thing had disappeared. There was nothing in the whole length of the street but the moonlight lying upon pavement and roadway!

Constable Lumsden stared for some minutes, and then being, as I have already said, only mortal he turned quickly, and sought the companionship of his fellow policeman whose step he fortunately heard at that moment echoing down a neighbouring cross street. The constable on the beat that night was an elderly man, and he did not laugh at Lumsden’s story.

“I’ve heard of it often,” he said thoughtfully, “but I never saw it, and I don’t want to. They say it is a sure sign of death in the house where it stops. It was at Jones’s, you say?”

“Yes, but was it there after all? I wonder if I could fancy it all?”

“You ought to be the best judge of that yourself; but that the hearse has been seen there’s no manner of doubt. I’ve been on this beat over eight years, and I’ve heard of the hearse a dozen times and more.”

“Well, whether or not I imagined the hearse, I’m certain the sound was real.”

“What sound?”

“Why, the awful groan I heard. It made my blood creep.”

“You’d better go and get a sleep,” said Cooney, “or you’ll not be fit for duty tomorrow.”

And the young man took his advice, the sight of the “Phantom Hearse” having cured him of all the interest he had lately felt in “still hunting.”

Lumsden lodged with Cooney, who was a married man with a family, and it seemed to the young man that he had not been asleep ten minutes when he was wakened by a rough shake. Cooney was standing by the side of his bed with something in his rugged face that roused Lumsden at once.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s murder, that’s what it is. Get up at once, and be puttin’ on your clothes while I tell you. You’ll get no chance of pocketing that fifty pounds now. Old Jones was found dead in his bed this morning.”

“Good heavens! Who found him?”

“That little chap, Con, who lives there. It seems he had to call Jones every morning before he opened the shop at seven o’clock, and this morning when he went he found the old man so sound asleep that nothing but the last trump will waken him. The boy ran to tell me, and before Smith relieved me, the neighbourhood was in a commotion.”

“What time is it now?”

“Near nine. Hurry out and get your breakfast. Didn’t you tell me you saw Jerry Swipes climbing over Jones fence night?”

“Yes.”

And then a sudden recollection of the terrible threat Jerry had made against the old man after he was struck down recurred to Lumsden.

“How was he murdered?”

“Stabbed in the breast, or rather stomach, by some sharp instrument. He appears to have been lying on his back asleep from what the doctor says, and was found in a pool of his own blood. By Jove, Jerry seems to have kept his word. He swore he would let every drop out of the old man’s heart, and it looks as if he’d done it.”

“You think it was Jerry?”

“Can there be a doubt of it after what you saw? At all events, I went straight to his tumble-down shanty and arrested him suspicion.”

“How did he take it?”

“Like a man stupid—as indeed he was with the effects of yesterday’s drink. There was blood on his clothes, too, but he denies the murder, of course.”

“Does he deny he was in Jones’s yard this morning?”

“No; he owns to it. He says he went in hopes of finding old man in the cellar. It seems there’s some crack in the wall he can see through. Come now; if you’ve done breakfast, we’ll be down and see what we can find out. You can question the boy this time.”

We can understand the deep interest of Lumsden in this case. It was his first in the force, and the matter of the suspected illicit work in Jones’s place, together with his own intimate connection with it as co-informer, made the whole affair of importance to him. And there was what he had seen last night, too—that solemn hearse that had stood for a few moments at the dead man’s house. He could never again disbelieve in apparitions as long as he lived.

Talking the case over, the two men walked quickly to Jones’s Corner. The shop was shut except that one shutter had been taken off to light it, and there, in pitiful state, sat Mrs. Jones, with her one decent dress—a black stuff—on, and a white apron she had actually that morning washed and ironed spread under her folded hands. Her withered old face was deathly as ashes, her cap borders scarcely seeming more blanched in colour. Looking at her for a moment, as she stared straight before her into the dim shop, among the confusion of boxes and bags, it seemed to Lumsden as if her little share of sense had been stricken out by the shock, to leave her but one remove from an idiot.

It was not so with poor Con. He had wept until his eyes were like boiled gooseberries, and there was a look of terror in them as they seemed to wander against his will to that awful closed door. He was sitting in the yard, on a box, when Lumsden appeared, and he welcomed the young man though he was a policeman.

“Tell me all about it,” Lumsden said, as he leaned against the fence by the boy. “It was you found him this morning wasn’t it?”

“Oh! Yes, sir.” I haven’t got over it yet. I’ll never get over it.”

“Oh, you will; never fear of that. When did you see Jones last—I mean alive?”

“I didn’t see him after I went to bed about nine, sir, but I heard him, off and on, for a long time. Someone had taken the key out of his bedroom door; he blamed the police for it, I think. At all events he couldn’t find it, and went on awful. I fell asleep after a while, and then when I wakened up, I heard him saying, ‘Good night, Turner,’ and someone came out the back door.”

“Where do you sleep, Con?”

“In that little skillion room at this end of the veranda; Mrs. Jones sleeps in the other one, only hers opens into the kitchen and my room doesn’t.”

Lumsden considered a moment. If Con had heard Turner so plainly, how was it he had not heard Jerry Swipes so shortly after? And there was that light he had twice seen in the kitchen—who had carried that?

“You heard nothing after that, Con?”

“Nothing, sir; I fell asleep again, and never wakened till mornin’ when Mrs. Jones called me.”

“Oh, she called you, did she?”

“She always calls me; Mrs. Jones is up by daylight, but the master wouldn’t let her call him—I had to do it about seven. I always knocked and he was easy wakened, but this morning I knocked and knocked and got no answer. Then I remembered about the key being lost, and I opened the door quietly and called again. I could see the bed then, and guessed something was wrong, and I went a little nearer oh and Con covered his face with a shudder.

“What did the old woman do when you told her?”

“She only looked stupid, and stared at me, and then when she appeared to understand, she said, ‘Yes; that she would put on her apron and mind the shop,’ and there she’s sat ever since.”

“Con, there was someone moving about the place with a light at two o clock this morning—I saw it in the kitchen window myself. Do you think it could have been Jones?”

“More likely Mrs. Jones, sir; she’s often awandering about the kitchen at night, and she seemed very unsettled when I went to bed last night.”

Having got all the information he could out of the lad, Lumsden went in to see the terrible object in the guarded and darkened room, and then to visit the poor old woman, who sat in state, “minding the shop,” while her murdered husband lay within a few yards of her. If the young policeman had any hopes of getting information out of her respecting the light he had seen in the kitchen, he lost them ere he had been speaking to her five minutes.

“This is a sad business for you, Mrs. Jones,” said the young man in a low sympathetic tone. “Have you no neighbour that would come and sit with you?”

“He would never let me have no neighbours,” she answered woodenly, as if a machine were speaking. “I’m minding the shop. Why doesn’t Con come in? I want Con.”

“I’ll make him come in presently. Mrs. Jones, was it you that had a light in the kitchen at two o clock this morning?”

The sudden way she turned her fishy eyes on him set the young man wondering, and her unexpected reply startled him.

“There was no lights, only dead-lights, and the Dead Hearse was there. I heard ’em say it. It was all quite true. Watch him, and you’ll find out.”

Lumsden remembered that she had used those very words when he was in the shop yesterday, but he did not know that it was Jerry who had originally said them, and that they had made a terrible impression on the poor ill-treated old creature.

“Do you think that you’ll keep on the shop now that the old man is gone?” the young constable asked, out of curiosity as to her reply, and finding nothing better to say.

“Yes. I’ll allays mind the shop now—allays—me and Con, with a clean cap and a white apron; and no-one’ll beat me and knock me about.”

The old woman’s eyes now glowed with an almost fierce pleasure; she drew up her head, and wagged it at Lumsden in an alarming manner as she spoke. He drew, back scarcely knowing whether to be shocked at her apparent insensibility or not, when Cooney appeared behind him in the doorway.

“I wish we could find that key, Lumsden,” he said, not observing the old woman; “it’s very awkward not to be able to lock the body in.”

“I’ve got no key,” almost shrieked Mrs. Jones, as she stood up and faced the speaker; “why don’t you take him away? Tell the Dead Hearse to come and take him away, quick!” and she almost fell into the old chair again, trembling and shaking all over.

“She’s not even half-witted,” Lumsden said. “What on earth will become of her? Do you think the old man was any way well in?”

“I don’t know,” replied Cooney, who was closely observing the old creature, who sat shaking in her chair. All at once she got up, and, muttering some indistinct words, tottered away into the kitchen, and from it to her own room, and they heard her locking the door behind her.

“Have you heard anything fresh?” inquired Lumsden of Cooney, who was staring after Mrs. Jones in an odd way.

“I’ve been talking to the doctor. He says that when he was called here this morning, Jones had been dead five or six hours. Do you remember what you said last night about that groan you heard, Lumsden? You said it was real, at any rate, and so it was. It was about that time, or a little before, that he got his death stab. And you know the weapon has not been found, Lumsden. Whoever had that light you saw last night knows something of the murder.”

“You have changed your mind about it’s being Jerry, then?”

“I don’t know; he might have come back again—went for knife, perhaps. But several of his neighbours are ready to that the blood on his clothes was on it yesterday—he sells rabbits sometimes, it appears. And another thing—the doctor says the weapon must have been an unusual one, long and narrow, and sharp at the sides—such a wound as is in his breast could not be made by even an ordinary carving knife. I am going to make a very thorough search of the premises. Con?”

“Yes, sir.”

The two constables had been passing through the kitchen while Cooney was speaking, and when Con was called they were standing under the veranda between the two skillion rooms.

“Con?” questioned Cooney, “the old man has been killed with a long, narrow kind of knife, the doctor says; do you know of anything about the house answering that description?”

“A long, narrow knife?” repeated the boy, thoughtfully; “master used to have an old thing like that—I think he used it in the cellar. I saw him sharpening it on the grindstone yesterday morning—it was rusty and had a black handle.”

“You haven’t seen it since?”

“No sir.”

“What are you driving at, Cooney? Is it very likely the murderer would find and leave his weapon here on the premises?”

“I’m going to have a hunt for it, at any rate.”

Lumsden went out of the yard and across to Turner’s, for he had a mind for a talk with the woodman about his visit to Jones’s last night. He found Turner very busy sawing in his yard, but with such a serious face that it was evident the murder of his neighbour had agitated him greatly.

“Yes,” he said, as he sat down on a wood heap and wiped his face with the loose sleeve of his shirt, “I’m awfully cut up about it, though Jones was not a man any of his neighbours cared for; but, you see, I must have been the last man that talked to him before he was killed.”

“It was you I saw last night, then?”

“Oh, yes, it was me; and it’s a good job the boy heard the old man bidding me good night, or I might have been suspected myself. I went over to get paid for a little job I’d been doing for him.

“Clearing out the still, maybe?” Lumsden asked suspiciously.

“Nonsense—not that I’ll deny the old man did once work a private still in his cellar, for he owned as much to me last night. And I want to tell you something else. They say you saw that “Phantom Hearse” last night?”

“Yes, I saw it,” was the short answer.

“Well, Jones told me a queer story about that last night. He said that he would never again have anything to do with illicit distilling—he was getting too old, and that the Dead Hearse he had encouraged such talk about all these years was nothing but the conveyance that used to come for the whiskey now and again. Some man was in the secret with him, it seemed, and they had a black cover, and so on, made for the cart so as to frighten people.”

“I’ll take my oath!” cried Lumsden, angrily, as Turner concluded, “that what I saw last night was no real conveyance. I went as close to it as I am to you, and I put out my hand twice to try and touch it, but I had only air in my grip. And how could a natural thing disappear from under my very eyes when there wasn’t a thing from end to end of the street but moonlight like day?”

Turner smiled as he remembered that this defender of the supernatural had only yesterday scouted the very idea of a ghostly appearance, but he only said—

“’Tis impossible to account for these things, but there’s an old saying that ‘mocking is catching.’ It may have been the real thing last night, as a sort of warning for people not to imitate the dead. Have ye found any kind of clue to the murderer?”

“Swipes is arrested, you know.”

“Oh, he never did it, no more than I did; he’s low and drunken, and foul-tongued, is Jerry, but he wouldn’t spill blood.”

“Who do you think did, then?”

“Ah, constable, if I had any suspicions I’d keep ’em to myself. It’s rather a dangerous thing to accuse an innocent person; but I’ll go so far as to say that I think both the lost key of the old man’s door and the knife that killed him never left his own home.”

And Turner turned to his work again.

Turner’s opinion that the lost key and murderous weapon were in the corner house renewed the young policeman’s interest in it, and he returned to see the result of Cooney’s careful search.

“I haven’t left a corner hardly,” said Cooney, in reply to his question, “and Con has been helping me. We’ve found nothing bearing on the murder. Con, go and try if you can get the old lady out of her room. Say she’s wanted in the shop; that’ll fetch her, I think.”

“Cooney, are you going to search her room?”

“Yes.”

“You have some suspicions?”

“I can’t answer you now— follow me and you will see. I must get into that room by hook or by crook. Won’t she come out, Con?”

“She won’t answer at all,” replied the boy, who was knocking at the door in the kitchen.

Cooney went ’round to the small window of the skillion room—there was a coarse curtain over it, but perceiving that it was simply hung on hinges and opened outwards, the experienced constable soon drew it open, and was master of the situation. Lifting the curtain aside, he saw Mrs. Jones sitting on a box opposite to him, quite immobile. It appeared as if extraordinary emotion of some sort had frozen into helplessness every bit of brain power of which the poor old creature was possessed.

“Mrs. Jones, there’s half a dozen customers in the shop; don’t you hear Con calling you? Open the door and let him in.”

She got up mechanically, still keeping her eyes fixed on Cooney, who was leaning in the open window, but she seemed glued to the spot where she stood, and kept her hands behind her in such a strange way that the policeman decided on active measures, and he had bounded through the open window and was standing before the now trembling old creature in a moment.

Cooney’s first act was to open the door, and then having Lumsden and Con as witnesses, he put a hand on Mrs. Jones arm and drew her forward. The instant she was touched her hands dropped to her sides, and there was a sound of something falling. Lying on the floor behind her were the key of her dead husband’s door and the long, rusty weapon the unfortunate man had sharpened for his own murder.

“I thought it was something this way,” said Cooney, as he stooped for the articles. “God help her; she’s not accountable. How did you come to kill the old man, missis?”

“It was quite true,” she said stonily. “Watch him and you’ll see. I must go and mind the shop.”

Past the horrified Con she staggered, and her shaking hands groped before her as one in the dark. Opposite the door leading into the shop she paused unsteadily, looking towards that of the death chamber which was on her right hand. Then she turned to the right, opened the door of the darkened room, and glided in. All this time the men and boy were watching and following her. When the poor old creature crossed the threshold, she put out her hands in an attitude of entreaty, as though to the dead, and falling on her knees by the bedside, her face sank to the reddened coverlid, over which her outstretched hands lay. She spoke no word—not even a moan passed her lips, and when Cooney had waited vainly for a moment or two, thinking to hear some word of prayer or entreaty, he stepped forward quickly and raised her face. She was dead.

“So best,” he murmured, “she’s gone to keep shop in comfort in the ‘big city.’ I’ll never believe she knew what she was doing.”

“It seems to me a matter of impossibility that an arm like that could strike such a blow,” muttered Lumsden.

“She struck through no bones, and the way the man was lying made it an easy job. I’ve been hearing something from Con that made all plain to me. It seems that Jerry Swipes told her to watch the old man yesterday. The fool was only amusing himself trying to excite the poor old creature’s jealousy, but a fool’s words often makes the devil’s opening. It was she that took the key of the door, so that Jones could not lock himself in, and the devil laid that long knife handy to her. May God have mercy on her soul!”

“And maybe that’s more than was said for the man she murdered,” Lumsden discontentedly remarked.

“Maybe he doesn’t want it so bad. At all events, he had no blood on his hands.”

No more need be said, save that never from that day to this has the Phantom Hearse been seen near “Jones’s Corner.”

_______________________

8: The Third Figure

Francis Henry Atkins
(as by "Frank Aubrey")

1840-1927

The Week, Brisbane, 16 Mar 1900

"FROM life? N-no, scarcely that," said Morland, musingly. "Yet it represents a scene that actually occurred. It is very strange how I came to paint it; a strange business altogether, in fact."

"It is exquisitely, wonderfully fully drawn," I exclaimed, enthusiastically. "Never do I remember to have seen anything that conveys to the mind so striking a combination of the gruesomely pathetic and the vividly tragical— if I may make use of a somewhat mixed expression. This figure of the woman bending over the dead man is perfect in its suggestion of hopeless anguish and stony horror! Is it really your work, Morland? If so—"

"It is my work— at least, I believe so; yet I could not well swear to it, for— I did it in my sleep. A sort of sleep-walking feat, you see." Morland made this answer slowly, and, as it were, reluctantly; looking very puzzled and a little sheepish, I thought, the while.

"In your sleep!" I repeated, very much surprised. "Really? You say it seriously? If so, then all I can say is the sooner you go to sleep again and do something else like it—"

"Oh, stop that!" he snapped, irritably, "I might have known you wouldn't believe me and would only turn it into chaff. If you talk in that way I won't tell you the story."

At once I was all grave attention and sober earnestness. I was not going to miss a likely story for the sake of indulging in a little mild pleasantly. I humbly apologised, and after some trouble, managed in so far mollify my friend that he presently proceeded to tell me the strange and curious narrative I have here set down.

ARTHUR MORLAND, in whose studio in Chelsea the foregoing conversation took place, was a very old friend of mine, but I had not seen him for some years. He had been in Paris and Rome studying; and by the time he returned to England, I myself had gone, abroad. This, therefore, was our first meeting after a very long separation.

As to the sketch of which we had been speaking, it was painted in oil and in bold colouring upon a small canvas about twelve inches by eight. It showed a stair-landing upon which lay the figure of a man in evening dress and apparently dead. Over him bent, in a kneeling position, the figure of a beautiful woman, gazing down at the prostrate man with such a terrible expression of horrified agony apparent, not in her face merely, but in the pose of the whole figure, as I scarcely believed could have been conveyed by the cleverest artist alive. Standing back from these two was a third figure— the murderer as I guessed— holding in his hand a poniard. This figure was shown as though standing with his back to a light; the outline was clear and sharp enough, but all the rest was vague and shadowy and unfinished, and contrasted strangely, in its uncertain touch, with the drawing of the remainder of the picture, the details of which were portrayed with masterly firmness and decision.

All I could make out of this dim form was that it seemed to be that of a man in the dress of a Venetian or Florentine noble of three or four hundred years back. He was masked, and the cloak was open; beyond that one could make out little except the dagger which, held in the extended right hand, cut sharp lines against the background.

"Why," I asked of Morland, as I continued to regard the sketch, quite fascinated by its weird, strange intensity, "why is this figure at the back so vague and unfinished where all else is so vividly detailed?"

"Ah! thereby hangs the tale," he replied. "To explain that I must tell you the whole story." And he thus began:

"The murdered man— he was not dead then, but died a few days afterwards— was named Ernest Milner. He was one of the few English friends I made while living in Paris. He was a cashier in the Paris branch of a well-known English banking house; and he was one of the nicest, and, at the last, one of the most unfortunate men I ever knew.

"Yet when I first became acquainted with him he was as happy and contented a being as you need wish to meet with. He married a charming and beautiful girl of English parentage— a Miss Edith Belton— who had been educated and had lived most of her life in France. I knew her before she married Milner; she was then living with her widowed mother a little way out of Paris.

"Another English clerk in the same bank was one Dorian Norman, a very old and intimate friend, as I understood, of Milner's, and he also fell desperately in love with Edith Belton; but she, in the end, chose Milner, and, as I have intimated, married him. Thus did the latter gain all that he then most desired in life; while Norman, though he continued to be on good terms with his old chum, had to bear, as he best could, what was to him, as I could see, a very bitter disappointment.

"Suddenly, one day, the news was brought to me by a fellow student, that Milner had lost his post— had been suddenly discharged, in fact; and not only that, but under such circumstances that he might think himself lucky in not being prosecuted for theft and forgery.

"The facts, as I afterwards ascertained them, were these. Milner one day had gone out to his lunch in the middle of the day as usual, and when he came back declared some one had stolen a bank draft for a large amount out of his desk while he had been absent. The manager at once went across to the bank on which the draft was drawn, to stop payment, when he was met with the statement that he was too late; the draft had already been presented and paid, within the last hour or two. The thief had forged the necessary endorsement, drawn the money, and disappeared.

"But later on, when the cashier who paid the amount saw Milner, he recognised him as the person who had presented the cheque and received the proceeds; and he swore to this so positively that there seemed to be no room for reasonable doubt. Moreover, Milner was unable to account for his time while out in the middle of the day. He had not lunched at his usual restaurant; had not, indeed, lunched anywhere; according to his own account he had felt unwell and had gone for a sharp walk instead; but he could not produce anyone who had seen him out. In the end he was discharged, but was told that he must not leave the country; he was given a sort of time of grace to see if he could clear himself, the decision as to whether he would be prosecuted or not being, it was understood, held over mean- while.

"Thereafter our little circle in Paris was broken up into two camps— those who believed in Milner's innocence and those who thought him guilty. Amongst those who stood by him and unceasingly declared his unshaken belief in his old friend was Dorian Norman; and the two were much together, devising plans, as we heard, to trace and bring to punishment the real culprit. For myself, I fully sympathised with them, and, so far as I could, tried to aid them; for I never for a moment believed the accusation.

"Thus matters stood when, one morning, we— all Paris indeed— were startled with the news that poor Milner had been struck down and mortally wounded by an unknown hand, just outside his own apartments in the Rue Meuberge, where he now lay dying. It seems that he had gone in plain evening dress to the bal masque (it was the Miscarême ball) at the Opéra, having been invited thereto by an English friend who was over from London for a day or two and had secured a private box. Returning, alone, he had reached his home and ascended the stairs to his flat, when he was set upon and stabbed by some one who had evidently been waiting for him.

"His wife, who was sitting up for him, hearing a cry and the sound of a fall, ran out and found her husband lying unconscious, and beside him a masked figure, of whom she caught but a hurried glimpse, and who at once hurried off down the stairs. The assassin got clear away before any outcry could be raised, and with little fear of subsequent recognition by the concierge or anyone else; for, as I suppose you know, on such a night people in fancy dress are so common in the streets that they attract scarcely any particular notice.

"The police failed to trace the murderer; and after poor Milner's death, which occurred within two days, the matter remained an unexplained mystery, and gradually faded from the public mind. Just about that time I went on to Rome, where I stayed a year, and then returned to London and settled down where you now see me.

"I had not been here long when Dorian Norman somehow found me out. He had been transferred, it appeared, from the Paris to the London branch of his bank, and was now permanently residing in town. He was terribly altered; so much so that I hardly knew him. He was thin, haggard, and careworn, and seemed like a man haunted by some secret, overmastering trouble. After a while he took me somewhat into his confidence and proceeded to tell me what had passed between poor Milner and himself before the former died.

" 'He left me,' he said, 'two legacies.'

"Norman spoke thus in a broken voice, and then paused. To encourage him to go on I asked what they were.

" 'Ah! You could never guess, I think,' was the reply. 'First, he left me his wife.'

" 'His wife!' I repeated the words in some astonishment.

" 'Yes, my friend, his wife. He said, "Dorian, I know you always loved Edith, and next to me I know there is no one she likes and respects more than yourself. I leave her to you— to your care. I leave you in her the most precious treasure this world contains, and in so doing I give you the most solemn proof of my affection for you and unabated trust and confidence. I need not say be ever kind to her, for that I know you will always be. And if she knows and understands that it is my wish that— after a while— she should become your wife, I do not think she will refuse. But it must be so only on the condition of the other legacy or trust I bequeath to you— it is that you first clear my good name. You cannot, Dorian, marry the widow of a disgraced man; remove that foul stain from my memory, and I and God shall bless you, and she will prove to you the greatest comfort, the greatest blessing, that ever one friend left to another."'

" 'And Mrs. Milner?' I asked, curiously.

" 'She keeps to that' he returned, sorrowfully. 'She is living with her mother in Paris; we correspond and are very good friends. But she insists upon my remaining no more than a friend until that other condition is fulfilled. But how can I fulfil it?' he went on, gloomily. 'Time is going on, and it becomes less and less likely every day that the mystery will ever be cleared up.'

"I felt genuinely sorry for him. I saw that his old love was asserting itself more than ever, and, in the circumstances in which he was now placed, had become a canker that was eating into his very heart.

"After that he often came to pass a quiet evening with me, and one afternoon brought with him two ladies— Mrs. Milner and her mother, Mrs. Belton. They had come over to London for a few days.

"I had not seen Mrs. Milner since just before the attack upon her husband, for while he lay dying none but very intimate friends had been admitted. I saw that suffering had left its marks upon her, too; but it could not destroy her natural grace of manner nor steal from her the sweet smile that had so charmed all those who had once been admitted to her friendship.

"Naturally, we spoke after a while of her husband's sad death, and I then heard, for the first time, from her own lips, exactly her own part in the tragedy; and she told it with such a depth of agonized feeling as made a deep and lasting impression on me. Long after the three had left me, I sat thinking over all she had told me, half-wondering, while I did so, at the strength of the emotion she had called up in my mind.

"When they had come in I had been about to start a sketch on that same canvas you hold in your hand. The blank canvas stood on the easel, and I had put out on my palette a selection of colours I intended to use, and had picked out a few clean brushes and so on, when I had to put them hastily down on a side-table, as my visitors were announced. Now, instead of going on with my work, I sat staring idly at the fire— it was in March, and the east winds were cold and biting —going over and over again in my thoughts all that Mrs. Milner had told me with so much vivid description and in such glowing words.

"I lighted the lamp, and still sat thinking, making up the fire now and again in a listless sort of way, till at last I dozed off to sleep upon the couch; and then I had a strange dream.

"The door opened and some one entered very quietly— so quietly that I heard no footfall. A figure advanced into the middle of the studio, and then, as the light of the lamp fell on the face, I saw it was Ernest Milner. Strange to say, at that I felt no sort of surprise; it seemed to me the most natural thing in the world— just as though I had been expecting him.

"He was in evening dress, and I seemed to feel, or expect, that it was Miscarême, and that he was going to the bal masque at the Grand Opera House. Instead, however, he beckoned to me to get up, and pointed to the easel, and in a mechanical fashion, I rose, went to the easel, sat down in front of it, and took up the palette and brushes I had laid down in the afternoon. Milner seated himself in a chair at a little distance, and, extending one hand, appeared to breathe the word 'Paint!'

"Then the room seemed to become lighter— with a strange brightness— so that I could see all the colours as by daylight; and I worked and painted rapidly like one under some strange spell. I put in, quickly, a bare staircase-landing; the panellings, the balusters, the boards, all were there, but the place was empty. And when I had done that, and not till then, I looked up at Milner, and—"

HERE Morland paused and visibly shivered.

"And what?" I asked, in a low tone. His manner had gradually worked up my interest until I had become almost as much excited as I could see he now was.

"I can scarcely tell yon," he answered, looking at me with what seemed a half-frightened expression. "You will never believe it! When I had turned my eyes away before, he had been the old Ernest Milner that I had known, always grave but kindly-looking; now, when I glanced at him again be was—"

Once more Morland hesitated and seemed to gasp. I remained silent.

"His face was like that of a corpse," he presently got out, "and from his breast was flowing a thin stream of blood. He had his hand pressed to the wound, but the blood ran out between the fingers, and down over his shirt front and white waistcoat. Then, with a smothered cry that sounded like 'My Edith, oh, my poor Edith!' he sank down and lay full length upon the floor!"

"What did you do?" I asked, breathlessly, so carried away by his realistic manner that I quite forgot he was not describing an actual scene.

"I— I— went on painting," he returned, solemnly; "I had to; I was impelled to do so by some power that seemed to dominate and control every nerve of my body. Snatching up a piece of rag, I wiped out, in the wet paint, his outline as I saw it before me or the floor, and then rapidly put in the details, looking ever and anon at the figure before me; the while, as it seemed to me, the stream of blood trickled down and ran out along the floor, just as you see it depicted there."

I looked at the canvas and shuddered. A strange feeling of repulsion seized we, and I threw it from me.

"You could go on painting!" I cried, "whilst—"

Morland turned to me with a half-smile.

"You forget," he said, quietly, "that it was only a dream; and in a dream one has to do what the dream makes one do. You have—"

"Yes, yes; of course," I interrupted, feeling somewhat foolish. "I forgot you were only relating a dream. Go on."

"When I had finished the figure of Milner," Morland continued, picking up the canvas, which had fallen near him, "I thought I heard another cry, and turning I saw Mrs. Milner kneeling beside him. She was quite still; neither moved nor spoke, only gazed down with a dreadful, fixed, stony stare. Then I seized the rag again, and wiped out another outline, and very soon had painted in the details of her figure, too."

"Ah!"

"When I had finished it and looked again she had gone; but now I saw a third figure standing over the one on the floor. It was clear enough for an instant— just for one moment, and no more. For that brief space I saw it clearly, distinctly— the colour of the dress, the mock jewels upon it, the shape of the mouth and the chin, and the gleaming savage eyes that looked out through the mask. Then it faded into deep shadow, as though a strong light had been first thrown on it in front, and then suddenly moved behind it. But against this light it was clearly silhouetted; and again I caught up the piece of rag and wiped out the outline.

"Then I peered into the shadow and tried to make out all that I had so clearly seen just before; but strange to say I could see nothing but shadow; and stranger still I could not recollect what I had seen. A voice seemed to say to me in a lone of indescribable agonised entreaty, 'Try— try— oh, try to remember! Paint it—paint it—paint it!' But try as I would I could not recall it."

"What did you do then?" I asked as he paused, as though lost in thought.

"I could do nothing; but sat and stared, first at the canvas with its empty space and then at the shadowed figure. But at last"— here Morland shivered again and spoke hesitatingly— "at last the figure on the floor— Milner— rose slowly and stood, swaying backward and forward as if in deadly pain, between us, pointing at me with one hand and at the shadow with the other. It seemed to me as though he exercised some great effort of will or other force to compel the shadow to disclose itself; for gradually I began to see the figure become less dim, and I could vaguely make out a few particulars, and these I had, perforce, to paint in as vaguely as I saw them. And just as I got one part thus done, the shadow would grow dense again; but once more Milner seemed, as by a great effort, to compel it, as at first.

"This happened several times, but each time the details were fainter; and then, glancing at Milner, I saw that he, too, seemed to be growing shadowy. But each time I looked at him he gazed back with an awful expression, such as I can scarcely convey the meaning of. It seemed to say with agony. 'Do not look at me, but paint— paint— paint! Do you not see the time is growing short?'

"Finally he— the whole scene— faded slowly from my sight; and never shall I forget the last expression I saw on his face. Utter despair at having failed to convey to me what he wished was the language of the last look I had from that ghastly phantom; and it will haunt me to the day of my death." And Morland wiped his face with his handkerchief as though in a violent sweat.

"Was that the end of it?" I asked him.

"Yes; except that, as these figures faded, I was seized with a great, a terrible, an overwhelming feeling of horror. I tumbled off the stool I was on with a loud cry— as they tell me, for Norman came back just then— and fell to the floor. I was ill, delirious more or less, for more than a week."

I took the canvas again, and began to examine it with a new interest.

"Its a strange story," I presently said. "I hope that's not the end of it. Is there no sequel?"

"Why, yes, there was; but not for some little time. Mrs. Milner stayed in town till I was better and able to talk to her. Very astonished she was at the painting, tearfully declaring that it truthfully depicted the actual scene. Therefore we hoped it might lead at once to some solution of the mystery; but time passed on, and nothing came of it.

"At Norman's request I made him an exact copy of the sketch on a bit of millboard; and he carried it about with him, and would sit gazing at it by the hour together, trying to read the message that, as we believed, must underlie the picture. But still nothing came of it.

"One evening he came to me even more upset than usual. He told me that Mrs. Milner was bent upon retiring into a convent—they were Roman Catholics—and would certainly do so if he failed within a short time to achieve the task that had been bequeathed to him. 'And if she does that,' said Norman, distractedly, 'I shall— well, you know— go under.'

"His morbid, despairing words and manner very much upset me; I thought of them all night, and when, next day, I started off to go down to Richmond, I found myself in very gloomy— not to say grumpy— mood. I do a little in scene painting at times, you must know, and I was going down to Richmond to see some scenery I had painted, and to touch it up in a few places on the spot. It was at the old theatre, not the present one; a great barn of a place that stood in one corner of the old Green.

"It was, I remember, a cold, dull, depressing November day; one that did not at all assist to raise my spirits; and when I got to the theatre there was no one there, and I had to go hunting for the doorkeeper— which did not improve my temper. I found him, got the key from him, and went to the theatre alone; the man saying he would be round shortly, and that I was to leave the door unlocked for him. I lighted the burners of the gaslight used for rehearsals—it had been left ready— and having found my pots and brushes and a stool sat down to work on one of the corners.

"I had not been long thus engaged when some one came upon the stage and stood watching me. Thinking it was Davis, the doorkeeper, I at first took no notice, but went on with my work. Presently, however, I looked round and then, seeing the new-comer was not Davis, I went on again with my painting; but it seemed that he had recognised me.

" 'Why,' said he, 'it's Arthur Morland!'

"Upon that I turned again and regarded him more carefully. Still I could not recall him, though something about him seemed familiar.

" 'Don't you remember me,' he went on, 'my name is Farley— Stephen Farley. Used to know you in Paris, you know. You remember now?'

"Yes, I did remember now; but it did not make me any the more pleased to see him, especially just then. He had been, I recollected, a fellow clerk or cashier of Milner's in Paris, but he had been one of a fast set. I had never liked him, and was not at all anxious to renew the acquaintance. So I merely said:

"'Ah, yes; I remember now. And what brings you here?' And I went stolidly on with my task, to avoid getting up and shaking hands with him.

" 'Why, I've left the banking business, and turned actor, some time since,' said he. 'Don't you remember I used to be mad on private theatricals?'

"I grunted that I did recollect something of the kind.

" 'I'm here now,' he went on, 'to attend rehearsal. I am playing in a company here next week. We play Romeo and Juliet, and I take Romeo. The company will be here in half- an-hour or so for a dress rehearsal.'

"At that I turned and faced him. I said I had come down specially to do a day's work, having been told I could have the theatre all to myself; and now, if there was going to be a rehearsal, I should have had my journey for nothing. I might just as well go back to town. But he went away, saying something about its being no business of his, and I once more settled down to work.

"Presently, he came back again— this time, as I could see out of the corner of my eye, dressed as Romeo, with a cloak, he held his part in his hand, and read aloud from it, strutting up and down the stage as he did so. Gradually, his voice rose and his steps became heavier; he shouted, raved, and ranted, stamped his feet, and altogether made such a noise that I turned round to see what on earth was going on, and how many there were in it; for I thought surely others must have come and joined in.

"He was, however, still alone, and at the moment I turned had temporarily ceased his antics and struck an attitude. He was standing with his back to the flaring gas jets, to get the light on the part he was reading from, and holding in his right hand a naked dagger, which I saw clearly against the light. As I looked I started, threw down what I had in my hands, and rose and stood staring at him; for in that moment a terrible thought darted into my mind. I strode up to him, and catching him by the shoulder I, with no very tender grasp, pulled him round to face the light.

" 'Let me have a good look at you, my friend,' I exclaimed, and as he complied wonderingly I looked him up and down from head to foot. And then it all came back to me in a flash! Yes! There it was, the same dress I had seen for one brief moment in that terrible dream, and which had ever since eluded my memory! But I remembered it now clearly enough! Everything was there— the same colours, the same tawdry mock-jewels— everything except the mask!

"'You villain!' I cried, shaking him, 'I know you now; for you are the Third Figure!'

" 'The what?' he demanded, but turning pale.

" 'Where is your mask?' I almost shouted.

" 'Mask? What mask?'

" 'The mask you wore when you murdered Ernest Milner!' I said, sternly.

"He started and stepped back.

" 'I— that is— how could you know?— you were not there,' he stammered.

" 'Ha, ha, you've admitted it— confessed!' I cried, seizing him again. 'Come with me. I mean to—'

"Then he tried to get away; and, finding he could not do that, raised his hand with a vicious oath, and would have stabbed me with the naked dagger he still held. For it was a real dagger; no toy stage weapon. But I caught his wrist, and then we closed, and it became a wrestling match.

"We grappled and swayed, backwards and forwards, then caught our feet in something and fell on the stage together. And there we fought and rolled over and over; one time crashing into the footlights and smashing a lot of the glasses, at another rolling against one of the 'wings,' and bringing it down amid clouds of dust. Then we knocked over some of my paint pots and tolled in the mess. Still I would not let go. But he had the devil's own strength, in his fear, and made the most frantic efforts either to get away or to stab me. And at last I really thought it was all up with me, for he had managed to get his wrist loose at the very moment when he was on top as we rolled about. He raised the dagger, I saw it flash in the air, I heard the hissing oath of fierce exultation that already rose to his lips, when there came a loud shout close at hand. My antagonist paused an instant to glance in the direction of the sound, and in that instant I seized his wrist again and forced it down to his side, at the same moment, by a great effort, turning him off me. In another second we rolled over, I being uppermost this time; but his grasp relaxed and he gave a half-sobbing, half-choking cry, and then lay still.

"I sprang to my feet to find several people looking on in amazement. They were members of the company who had come to rehearsal, and at first they had stood watching us under the impression, I believe, that it was only a very clever and lifelike bit of stage-play. However, they were soon undeceived as I got up and we all saw a dark stream of blood flowing from under the motionless form on the floor. In rolling over, the dagger had been pressed against his own side, and our united weights had forced it well home!

"A few minutes later he was carried in a dying state to the Richmond Infirmary."

"Farley lived long enough and revived sufficiently," Morland continued, after a pause, "to make a full confession. He admitted that it was he who stole the draft which poor Milner had lost. And the way he managed to cash it so as to throw suspicion on the latter was by going home and putting on a wig and 'making up' his face to resemble Milner's. He had practised all this at private theatricals, and had had his plans laid in readiness for the first opportunity chance might throw in his way. Then he went boldly and cashed the cheque at the bank, rushed back home, and shortly after coolly returned to his duties as though he had merely been out to lunch.

"As to the murder, it seems he became alarmed on hearing that Milner had boasted that he was on the track of the real thief, and would shortly catch him. As we know, this was but an idle, or too sanguine, declaration on Milner's part. But it frightened Farley, and when he saw him with a stranger at the bal masque, the alarmed villain thought the stranger was an English detective, and that the two had come there to look for or watch him. In his fear and anger he madly resolved to kill Milner before matters became more threatening; so he went away before Milner did, managed to pass the concierge at his place unseen, slipped up the stairs, and there lay in wait.

"Dorian Norman and Mrs. Milner are married, and living very happily together, and I shall be pleased to take you round one evening to see them.

"And that, old friend," Morland concluded, "is all I can tell you about the mystery of that sketch and its dimly-painted Third Figure."

____________________

9: The Great Dives Elopement.

Guy Boothby

Saturday Mail (South Aust.) 17 August 1912

ONCE UPON a time, in a certain Australian capital, there was a man who was a K.C.M.G., a member of the Legislative Council, a justice of the peace, a squatter, a merchant, and a millionaire, all at one and the same time. His name was— well, we'll say, for the purpose of this story, that his name was Dives, the Hon. Sir John Alexander Dives, K.C.M.G., J.P.

He was universally respected, for his name was good at the foot of a bill for almost any amount you might like to name. But in his life he had made one serious mistake from which he was never able to recover. He allowed himself to be ruled body and soul by his wife, and as to the folly of that proceeding there is no necessity for me to speak.

Lady Dives was a leader of society, which means that she opened subscription lists with crushing munificence, and entertained on a scale which eclipsed even vice-royalty itself. Years before she had had the good fortune to do a kindness for a globe-trotting duchess, who in return presented her at court, thus enabling her to achieve the first ambition of her life. Her second is what I propose to tell you about in this story.

Lady Dives had a daughter whom we in our shibboleth called the "Divinity." She was a sweet girl, and had been brought up strictly under her mother's eye, a fact which in itself was sufficient to guarantee her fit to become a King's consort. But though she spoke five European languages like a native, and could ride, dance, sing, and play half a dozen instruments better than most professionals, she was not proud, but was as charming to impecunious bank clerks as to grandee aides-de-camp.

I believe she had a hazy notion that in the future she was intended to make a brilliant marriage at home; but at the time with which this narrative is concerned she was content to flirt her days away, as if she were only the daughter of a simple Government official. Not being of age she could not-be expected to understand her good fortune in possessing such prospects as would enable her to become a peeress.

In order to facilitate his public duties Sir John employed as private secretary a most meritorious young man who signed his letters. Charles Grenville Bassidge. This gentleman lived at Dives Park, and was brought into daily contact, with his employer's family. He was a good-looking silent young Englishman of mysterious antecedents, who declined to talk of his past, and said he had come out to make his fortune; but as this is what every newcomer says, nobody gave him. credit for originality. However, he made a very good amanuensis.

In spite of his exemplary behaviour her ladyship regarded him with suspicious eyes. She saw that the "Divinity" favoured him greatly, and it was plain to all of us that he was more than a little in love with her. They played billiards together every evening, so what could one expect?

Now every mother knows that abrupt interference with lovers never did any good yet. Surely her ladyship must have been aware of this; but if so, why did she stop their intercourse so peremptorily? She might have foreseen the inevitable consequence. The young couple came to a mutual understanding, and henceforward held their meetings on the stairs or behind the big olive trees in the garden.

Having grasped the enormity of their proceedings, Lady Dives lectured her daughter severely, while Sir John conveyed a delicate hint to his private secretary that it would be better perhaps if he were to devote himself more assiduously to his duties. Then it came to passing notes at family prayers, arranging meetings in the orangery afterwards.

One day her ladyship's maid, acting under instruction, followed, them to their rendezvous, and on her return to the house revealed the purport of their conversation to her mistress. An awful scene followed, and next morning an advertisement appeared in the daily papers inviting applications for the position of private secretary and amanuensis to a member of Parliament, &c. The night that Bassidge bade farewell to Dives Park the "Divinity" received a terrible wigging, and cried herself to sleep with a photo and bundle of billets-doux under her pillow. She asserted that "her Charley" was not a "pauper" and a "nobody," and she said she "would rather die than give him up!"

The new Secretary proved to be a little sandy-haired man, who wore spectacles, and confined his attentions solely to his blue books, being wise enough to leave female society alone. Her ladyship satisfied herself that he was not dangerous, and for a month things went smoothly. After the storm the "Divinity" fretted a little, and mooned her days away by the fountain in the shrubbery; she also went to her own room directly after dinner. Her mother said it was temper, and prophesied that she would get over it in a week; but there she was mistaken. It lasted till the girl was laid up with an attack of bronchitis, and something went wrong with the large Cupid and Psyche fountain on the south lawn.

Workmen were called in to examine it, and poking about in the waste pipe they came across a mass of wet correspondence which was conveyed to headquarters and examined. The notes were all signed C. G. B., and were worded somewhat after this fashion:

My Heart's Darling—

Cruel, cruel girl! I rode out last night as usual and waited quite two hours for you at the gate. Were you ill that you did not come? I know you love me in spite of this cruel opposition. You do, darling, don't you? So come out to-night and convince your true and faithful lover.

G.C.B.

As soon as Lady Dives had mastered the contents of each document she remembered her daughter's curious habit of retiring every evening, and realised that "the gate"' referred to must be the wicket gate in the lane behind the house. The "Divinity's" bedroom was in a corridor, which possessed a door opening into the garden; so, putting two and two together she interviewed that young lady. Moreover, she locked the door at the end of the corridor at sundown every evening, and kept the key in her own pocket. But love laughs at locksmiths, and after that the letters were hidden in a fresh place.

About this time, to our amazement, Mr. C. G. Bassidge. who before had declined every invitation he received, suddenly became a great votary of fashion, religiously attending every society gathering in the hope. I suppose, of meeting with his lady love. The consequence was that Sir John, Lady, and Miss Dives were invariably conspicuous by their absence.

Every day the warfare grew more and more bitter, and we outsiders wondered how it all would end. As might be expected, public sympathy was entirely with the lovers, and to my knowledge Mr. Charles Grenville Bassidge had more than one offer of assistance.

At this juncture Sir John and his lady contemplated a master stroke, and announced immediate departure in the Ormuz for England, in order, they said, that their daughter might be presented at the next drawing room.

A stroke of luck favoured the lovers, for just a week previous to the boat's sailing Miss Dives came of age. Some one sent her an anonymous box of Neapolitan violets, and I believe she valued it more than all the costly presents of her family, inasmuch as within the bunch was a tiny note, on the contents of which she acted.

Bassidge had given no trouble for nearly a fortnight, and her ladyship began to, flatter herself that she had, at last defeated him. I must leave you to judge whether or not such was the case.

In view of their trip to England the "Divinity" had ordered a travelling dress of superlative texture and neatness, and in order that it might fit as never dress fitted; before it was necessary that she should have it most carefully tried on.  For this purpose, on the morning following her birthday she drove to her tailor's place of business and, after instructing the Coachman to keep the horses moving entered the shop.

The dress having been fitted to her satisfaction, she watched her opportunity, and as the carriage was going up the street she strolled quietly out of the shop and down the pavement in the opposite direction.

On reaching the general post office she chanced upon Mr Bassidge, and after a moment's conversation they entered a hansom together and drove rapidly away. Her own coachman moved up and down till sundown, and then went home to report the curious behaviour of his young mistress.

He received his discharge upon the spot, and has been wondering the reason why ever since. Lady Dives was beside herself with rage, and consequently Sir John was furious, and a penitent note which arrived next morning, signed "Gwendoline Bassidge," only made them the more vehemently declare that neither she nor her pauper husband should ever set foot within their doors again.

This was, of course, very unpleasant for the "Divinity," for, in spite of their cruel opposition, she was really very fond of her parents.  At the same time she was quite convinced that her Charley was the best, the cleverest, the handsomest as well as the wisest man in existence and had only to be known to be appreciated by every-one.  That young gentleman, though perfectly aware that he was many degrees removed from what she thought him, began to look upon himself as rather a fine fellow. He was also quite sure that he had a scheme which would bring the old people to their senses in no time when so desired. His past was going to prove useful after all. However, he was wise enough not to let his wife into the secret just then.

They spent their honeymoon at Largs Bay, and their affection was strong enough to colour even those awful sandhills the loveliest of rosy hues.

On Tuesday the Ormuz steamed up to the anchorage, and early on Wednesday the young couple boarded her for England. They lay concealed all the morning in their cabin, and during that time Bassidge told his wife his secret.

An hour before sailing Sir John and Lady Dives came on board, and at one o'clock the vessel weighed anchor and steamed down the gulf. Lady Dives, after inspecting, her cabin, examined the passenger list. Something she saw there must have pleased her, for she closed her pince-nez and took her husband's arm, murmuring, "Really, how very unpleasant!" Then they strolled down the promenade deck together, and turning the corner of the smoking room were confronted by the two delinquents.

The "Divinity" looked surpassingly sweet in a white costume fastened at the waist with a broad antique silver buckle, a large white hat, and the daintiest of tan shoes imaginable. Even the graceless Bassidge looked the picture of honest English manliness.

The elder couple stood paralysed with rage and astonishment. All things considered it was really a most awkward meeting. Fortunately, however, no other passengers were present. Lady Dives was the first to recover, and she addressed herself to her daughter:—

"Oh, you wicked, wicked girl," she said, "how dare you play us this trick?"

The graceless one interposed, and raising his hat politely to his mother-in-law answered for his wife.

"Pardon me, Lady Dives," he said; "but before you say anything further perhaps you will allow me to introduce you to my wife!"

Then, bowing with the air of a court chamberlain, he continued, "Lady Dives— the Marchioness of Laverstock!"

"What!" cried his mother-in-law, stepping back as if thunderstruck. "What do you mean? Can this be true?"

"Certainly, mamma," answered her daughter; "though I only knew it myself this morning. Charley came to Australia because he was too poor to live in England, and rather than win his way by means of his title he dropped it, and was only known to us by his family name. A month ago he came into a lot of money, and now we are going home to revive the glories of the house."

I must leave you to imagine her ladyship's surrender. Sir John's, of course, doesn't count.

Last week Lady Dives assured me in confidence that Sir John had altered his will in favour of "My son-in-law, the most noble the Marquis of Laverstock."

I'm told they're a most united family now; but we can never forget how perilously near they once came to a serious breach. Such is the true story of the "Great Dives Elopement."

_________________

10: The Family Honour

Guy Boothby

Australian Town and Country Journal 13 June 1906

WHOEVER affirmed that a man's happiness is more the result of environment than the outcome of any deliberate action on his own part was not so very far wrong, after all.  He would, however have been nearer the mark, and he might have built up a cheap reputation for himself as a sayer of sharp things had he affirmed that "Man's happiness is the pin in the Thermometer of Existence, which is raised or depressed by the mercury of Circumstance."

The following story will serve to illustrate my theory.

To begin with you must understand that the township of Barrabong lies near the South Australian border of Queensland. Her population averages a hundred souls, any one of whom will tell you with pride that he lives in the hottest and driest rathole on the face of the continent, and that the Tropic of Capricorn runs down his main street. There is a story of a man who, of his own free will, spent a week In Barrabong, and was found on the seventh day heading for the Great Desert, attired like Adam before the Fall, reciting psalms, and― but as he has nothing to do with this story, and his relations have done all that is needful to insure his safety, there is no necessity for me to tell you any more about him. Let me, therefore, proceed with my narrative.

One moderately warm forenoon, with the temperature as rigidly fixed at one hundred and twenty degrees in the shade, as if it were nailed there, I was sitting in the veranda of the one and only hotel― which was constructed of galvanised iron, by the way― when one of the most dilapidated-looking loafers I have ever seen emerged from the house. He was not more than forty years of age, but was so pulled to pieces by bad liquor and the ramifications of his disease― he was in the last flicker of consumption― that he might very well have been set down as ten years older. Staggering to the stretcher beside me, he started a conversation by inquiring what I thought of Barrabong as a place for the eldest son of the Duke of―― to die in?

I was about to remark that when it came to dying I did not see that it mattered  very much whether it was Barrabong or Piccadilly. He stopped me, however, with a scowl and continued

"I know what you're going to say, and I don't want to hear it. I've come to ask your advice. I should be obliged, therefore, if―"

Here he was interrupted by a violent fit of coughing, which lasted for more than a minute. Recovering his breath, he went on

"Of course, you have observed that I am dying. Believe me, I am quite aware of the fact, and I know also that in this dust-heap I am popularly supposed to be mad, and my title a creation of fancy. I have paid you the compliment, however, of taking you for a rational being, and I should, for my own sake, be sorry if I were deceived."

When I asked him in what way I could be of service to him, he drew from his ragged shirt a greasy, filthy Southern paper, nearly three months old, and having opened it and folded it at the English cablegrams, handed it to me.

The first item of news referred to the serious illness of the well-known Duke of ――, and if I remember aright there was an account of his distinguished career in another column; also a remark that his death would prove a serious loss to the Empire. When I had finished reading, he returned it to his bosom, saying:―

"From my appearance at the present moment you may find it difficult to believe that that old scoundrel is my father. It is true, nevertheless. I am his oldest son, and if he dies before me the title is mine. For aught we know to the contrary I may be His Grace of ―― at the present moment. I should be glad to feel certain of that point, for my credit in this kennel is exhausted, and without liquor of some description, I shall not, in all probability, last another week."

The man talked rationally enough, with the tone of an English public-school boy, a trick, which, once learnt, is never forgotten. To all intents and purposes he was perfectly sane. While I was wondering as to the truth of his story, a second fit of coughing seized him, and after it had passed I ventured to offer him a small sum as a loan. At first he was tempted to refuse it, but at the critical moment a glass clinked in the bar behind, and his fingers immediately closed upon the coins. At last, after we had waded through oceans of hopeless drivel, he arrived at his reason for honouring me with his company. It appeared that he was desirous of making a will.

This was the second time in my life I had been called upon to assist in such a capacity. I accordingly secured a sheet of note paper and writing materials, and sat down to my task.

So great was the heat in the veranda that the very ink was blood warm. When it was completed it was a glorious document, bristling with legal phrases and gorgeous with high-standing titles. The stranger thanked me for my courtesy, pocketed his papers, staggered across the veranda, and disappeared into the bar.

All things considered it was one of the strangest interviews I had ever known, and until the mosquitoes arrived and distracted my attention, it monopolised my thoughts. By that time the Looney Duke, as he was called, was as intoxicated as even he could desire to be.

Next morning I saw nothing of him, so I settled it in my own mind that I had done with him for good and for all; but I was destined to be deceived, however.

That afternoon the weekly coach brought to Barrabong a most unusual visitor in the person of a wall-dressed, portly gentleman, perhaps a little on the wrong side of fifty. From unmistakable signs I settled it in my own mind that he had but lately left the Mother Country, and I found that I was not mistaken.

He was vastly disappointed with the Bush, and complained bitterly of the heat and the hardships of coach travelling. The mere fact that we shared a bedroom was a bond in common, and before the evening meal― it could not with overstrained courtesy be called dinner― was over, we might have known each other all our lives.

During a stroll, later, he told me the reason of his being in the country at all, and of his venturing so far West. The coincidence was certainly a curious one.

He was an English solicitor, practising in a small country town in the Midlands. For many generations his firm had been the confidential advisers of the Dukes of ――, and it was business connected with their house that brought him to Australia. The old peer was dead, and the estates were lying fallow until the heir should appear from the unknown to take possession. He did not mention the circumstances under which the young man had left his home, but from his careful avoidance of the point I conjectured that it must have been something serious.

The upshot of our conversation was that my drunken friend proved, after all, to be what he professed, a duke. It was like the denouement of a French novel. As I was riveting the last links of my companion's chain of evidence, a half-caste boy came out of the darkness and stood before us. He brought a message from my loafer friend, imploring me to come to him at once. He was dying, and had something to say to me.

The solicitor accompanying me, we followed the boy down the main street, across the open bit of ground where the Afghan camel men were camped, and finally approached the creek, where we drew up before a small humpy, constructed of bark, kerosene tins, and old gunny bags. The ducal residence was illuminated by one solitary candle, stuck in an empty whisky bottle, and was filthy dirty. Half-caste children littered the floor, and a murderous-looking black gin was cooking at the fire. The sick man must have heard our approach, for he called to us in a faint voice to enter. We found him lying upon a heap of sheepskins and flour sacks in a corner, feebly coughing his life away.

After he had welcomed me, he glanced at my companion, and without betraying any surprise, said:

"So, my trusty Denton, you have found me out at last? Well, what do you think of me now that you are here?"

The solicitor's face was a piteous sight. He was trying to recognise, in the disgusting dilapidated scarecrow before him, the happy, bright-faced boy he remembered of old. When he did speak, his voice was choked with emotion.

"Your Grace, how can I say―?"

Assuming a new air, that for a moment made one forget the gunny bags and the candle guttering in the bottle, the peer broke in―

"So the unnatural old scoundrel is dead, is he? Bien! Le Roi est mort ; vive le Roi! But, Denton, it has come too late. It's just my cursed luck all over! All  through my life I never scored except when it was to late!"

There was a pause, and then he continued with a Satanic sneer: "But he couldn't touch the entail, Denton, and he couldn't take away the title. I had him there. Ha ha! How he must have hated me!"

He laughed as the idea struck him, and then he waved his hand round the room.

"What do you think of this as a place for a duke to die in? What a chance for the Radical Press, eh? By the way, Denton, move into the light that I may look at you. Ah! you haven't changed much since the old days; you're just the same sanctimonious hound as of yore, I'll be bound!"

The old man winced at the insult, but it was impossible to resent it. He moved to the bedside.

"Can I do anything to make your end happier, my lord?"

" 'Your Grace,' Denton. Don't rob me of that. Yes, you can help me. Where's my will?"

After fumbling among his rags, he eventually pulled out the document he had untidily put together.

"Overhaul that, and see whether it is legally correct."

As he read it, a look of consternation spread over the old man's face.

"Can it be that you are married?" he questioned huskily.

The dying man nodded his head, and called up the loathsome gin and the half-caste boy who had come to fetch us that evening.

"Let me present you to her Grace the Duchess of ――, and to my son and heir. As a dying man, Denton, I charge you to do your duty to them. I charge― you to see that― that their― interests are― conserved. I charge―"

He could get no further. It was plain that the end was near.

Fully five minutes elapsed before he spoke again, and during all that time― it seemed an eternity― the lawyer stood looking, down at him, but never seeing him. Suddenly, raising himself to a sitting posture, the dying man said very slowly.

"Denton― I give you my word I was innocent― innocent, I swear it! Do you believe me? No, curse you! I can see you don't. Curse you― and them― and―"

When he fell back on his rags I saw that it was all over. What was before us was all that remained of the late Duke of ――.

The solicitor took off his hat and bent his head in silent prayer.

THE funeral was a very commonplace affair, in spite of the many facetious jests elaborated by the townsfolk on tho subject of a monument ¡ to the memory of the "Looney Duke."

I wonder what they would have said had they I known the truth?

THE "British Peerage" Informs me that the present Duke of― was educated at Eton and Oxford, and is thirty-six years of age― a statement I can hardly reconcile with my knowledge of the facts.

__________________

11: The Flirt

Guy Thorne

(C. Ranger Gull 1875–1923)

Ballarat Star 5 July 1919

EATON was easily the most popular man on board the liner— with the women that is. Some of the men passengers— especially the younger ones held very decided views about him. He came on board at Colombo, alter eight years' absence from England as assistant overseer to a tea-plantation. Assistant he commenced and assistant he remained, for such energy and initiative as he possessed were not directed upon work, but upon pleasure.

You must understand that he had no vices— of the coarse sort, that is. He did not drink or gamble, for instance, and he was honourable in money matters. But he had a sweet tenor voice and could sing love songs very prettily in French, and was said to be the best waltzer in the Far East. In addition to these valuable accomplishments, Fortune had favoured him with extreme good looks. His hair was black and grew low down on his forehead, nut was fine and silky. He had expressive eyes of dark blue and lashes altogether too long for a man. His mouth was beautifully shaped, and he had the slim figure of an athlete.

Eaton’s plantation was not far from Colombo, so that his undoubted talent for society had full play, and his personal attractions gained him invitations on every side, even the august doors of Queen's House being occasionally open to him, while he was one of the best known-figures round the bandstand in the Jubilee Gardens.

He was ineligible of course. He could never hope to marry a young in a good position— parents and guardians saw to that. It was pretty well known, however, that Mrs McKee, the widow of James McKee, the almost millionaire manufacturer of desiccated cocoanut, might be his for the nailing, and there had been other mature ladies quite willing to purchase such an attractive second partner. But he did not— to the surprise of his enemies— most of whom had had no such opportunities.

The truth was that, not meaning much harm, the man was an incurable flirt. He was, without being a rake, that obnoxious and really despicable thing, a male flirt; and in his quiet way— always without meaning it— did more harm than many a man of vicious character.

Eaton had raised the thing to a fine art.  Not only could he make almost any woman believe that he was passionately, spiritually, chivalrously in love with her, but, what was worse, he could make nearly any woman in love with him. And he did it, every time, out of sheer vanity and liking for the game, nor did he care twopence for the feelings of his victims afterwards.

He certainly never knew that little Miss Miller— she was not strong-minded though wonderfully pretty— died in six months after he had thrown her over for Mrs Stanmore, who, when her turn came, made her kind husband’s life a misery till his death.

"Eaton is utterly without heart or conscience where women arc concerned," was what people said. They were wrong. Eaton had been engaged to a girl in England for eight years. He had a heart, because he loved her. Of his conscience the less said the better.

Of course he had never told anyone in Ceylon about his engagement, which, as the years went on, became a rather dim and unreal thing to him. He had almost forgotten the actual Hilda Worthington, the girl herself, for there had been so many others in between. But each month he wrote her a long and passionate love letter, hardly ever failing, and these letters, though Hilda in her innocence had no idea of that, were enriched by Robert's experience with other girls.

They could not marry. Hilda was the daughter of a poor north country clergyman; Robert had nothing but his salary. He was quite content to wait, for he enjoyed every moment of his life. He thought little or nothing of Hilda's lonely narrow life in the moorland village, and, her sick longing for him as her youth and freshness passed away.

Then quite suddenly a forgotten aunt of Robert Eaton’s died.  The young man was her only relative, and as she was a selfish, cynical old maid, who had never given a penny to charity all her life, she left him the whole of her property for want of something better to do with it. He became possessed of an income of thirty-five hundred a year at a time when he was getting heartily tired of the East and sick for soft air and cool grey English skies.

The thought of Hilda waiting faithfully for him was like the sweet scent of an English flower garden at evening. He had a vivid, memory of her us he had last seen her—so fresh, pure, and devoted— and within a month the was on board the P. and O. for home.

Immediately, as his custom was, Eaton looked round him, seeking whom he might devour. Even his newly awakened love for his fiancée, and the fact that he was going home to marry her, could not baulk him or his ruling passion. But he resolved that this should be his last little "affair" before he settled down, like the drunkard who promises himself one more debauch before he signs the pledge and becomes miraculously sober ever after.

Perhaps it was this that topped the scale and made the long-suffering gods decide upon his punishment. He looked round for a victim, and pursued her with the cool fire of selection. She was a young, innocent, and happy girl, who— like Eaton himself— was going home to be married. Had he left her alone, she would have had a happy life.

The "affair" can be summed up in a very few words. Eaton made violent love to her, and broke her heart. She didn't die; she married the other man. But her life was one long regret.

EATON meant to make a dramatic entry. He had not written or cabled to Hilda about his legacy or return to England. It should all be like a scene from a play. As the train began to climb up into the country of the Fells, his heart beat high with expectation. She would be waiting in the little grey stone vicarage on the moor. It was summer, and that high lonely space would be purple with heather. The roses in the vicarage garden would all be blooming. Hilda was like a rose.

When the train stopped at the little station and Eaton got into the dogcart that was waiting for him, nothing seemed changed. it was as though the past eight years had never been. He left his bag at the village inn, and started to walk the half-mile to the Vicarage. How would Hilda take it, how would they all take his unexpected arrival, the news of his wealth? Besides Hilda there was only the tall old Vicar— like a piece of the moorland granite— and her little sister, Janet, a miniature Hilda, with long black legs and her hair in a pig-tail tied up with ribbon. He would startle them all out of their lives for a moment....

Everything seemed asleep as Robert walked through the garden to the house. Bees droned in the flowerbeds, a ring-dove crooned in an adjacent tree, but if human occupation there was no sign. Were they all out then? he asked himself with a keen pang of disappointment as he rang the bell for the second time.

Then he heard light footsteps coming nearer and nearer. The door was thrown open, and Hilda, in all her young fresh beauty stood there! At the sight of her something seemed to crack in his soul. An immense joy and thankfulness welled up within him, his heart had come home at last! He saw her standing there, her great blue eves wide with wonder, and with a shout of "Hilda! my love, at last!" he caught her to him and covered her face with kisses.

She lay passive for a single instant, and then began to struggle violently. "Let me go! Let me go!" she cried in a strange voice, so strange that it frightened Robert, and lie relaxed his arms at once. The girl stepped back and stared at him.

"You’re Bob!” she whispered. “I―  I’m not Hilda! Can’t you see? I’m Janet!"

And then, in a moment, he know his mistake. This was not Hilda. This was little Janet whom he had not seen for eight years. She had grown into a beautiful girl, a true daughter of the heather and the winds, and was exactly like what her sister had been when Robert had seen Hilda last.

"My dear child!" he faltered— even his self possession lost at such a moment as this— "I ought to have wired to say I was coming. I thought you were Hilda; you're astonishingly like her. Where is she?"

"Hilda and father have gone to Liverpool for four days. I'm all alone, with Betty, the servant. Oh, Bob, is it really and truly you?" She was blushing now, blushing and smiling, holding out cool and pretty hands in welcome. "How funny, how strange, that you should mistake me for Hilda. We're not a bit alike, really. But, Bob, come, in, come in— what am I thinking of!"

She caught him by the arm, his whole being thrilled to the touch, and  dragged him into the old shabby drawing-room that he now remembered so well. This at least was unchanged, except that it was shabbier than ever, but now a new and most disturbing thought came to him with the swiftness of light. It seemed to stab his mind. If this lovely girl of rose leaves and fire, was Janet— then―?

Janet herself replied. "Here is Hilda," she said. “It’s only a proof, and it came this morning. But it's just like her. She was going to send you a copy when they are finished, but now, of course, it won't matter,".

Eaton took the photograph with a sinking at his heart. He saw the face, sweet still, but sad and resigned to long waiting. All the youth had faded out of it long ago. There were faint lines around the mouth of this woman of nearly  thirty— lines on the proof which would be doubtless painted out in the completed portrait. And so, in his madness, he had come home― to this! The thought was horrible. The man was filled with repulsion. Why had he not realised? Why had he been such an unutterable fool?  Self, self, not a thought of her— no more thought of her than, all the others.

"Don't you like it, Bob?"— a flute-like voice full of anxious inquiry. The man looked up. Instantly he know the strange pang of sweetness in his heart that he had experienced a few minutes ago.

Eaton always thought quickly.

"Yes, Janet dear," his voice was already a caress, "I think it’s splendid... Now, suppose you give me some tea. I'm famishing, and then we can have a long talk, and I'll tell you all my news. So this is the end of my attempted surprise!"

He tried to throw regret into his voice, but he could not do so, and in half an hour he was sitting alone with Janet at a table heaped with eggs, cream,  bilberry jam and Westmoreland scones, laughing and talking as if they had been friends for years.

And so it began. Hubert stayed at the Vicarage till it was ten o’clock and the moon was up. It was arranged between them that the "surprise" was to take place after all. Robert should stay at the inn, and Hilda, and her father should not be wired or written to.  They should find Robert waiting for them when they came home— both he and Janet agreed that this was by far the better way,

She was a young girl tingling to her finger-tips with life. She had seen no man at all in that remote Westmoreland village. Robert was marvellous, a god; every hour they spent together, the wonder grew. Hilda, a quiet and reserved nature, had hardly ever spoken of Robert. It was quite easy to suppose that, during all these, years she had  forgotten him, no longer greatly cared.

And to Robert Eaton had come the supreme passion of his life. He was in love now as he had never been before. All the subterfuges and illusions of his life were over and discounted. He knew with, entire certainty, that she had lit a flame that he would never be able to extinguish. By the end of the second day he knew that Janet shared his love. As yet no word was spoken. For Eaton the gates of honour were closing fast but there was yet time.

ON THE last night before Hilda would return, they stood together upon the top of the low mountain which rose above the village. The moon had not yet risen. Now and again a night beetle boomed athwart their faces with a sudden organ note. There was not a breath of air.

"To-morrow," the man said, and his lips were cracked and dry.

"Hilda comes to claim you," the girl answered in a whisper that was half a sob. He wrestled with himself terribly the gates were nearly closed... "And she doesn't care as I do, I know she doesn’t care."

The edge of the moon swung up and he saw Janet’s face.

"Little girl! Little dove, dear, most dear, dearer than all else...." He strained her to him. Her strong young arms went round his neck. Their lips met in one long supersensual kiss...

"And whatever happens, whatever we have to go through you, will be my wife?"

"Yours and yours only!"

So he had his hour under the moon. The invisible gates closed, but he did not hear them. Whatever the future might bring forth he had had his hour of ecstasy.

THE VICAR’S study was on the east side of the house, and it was chill and grey, catching none of the long, sunset lights as, thirty hours afterwards, Robert sat there, waiting. Janet was upstairs in her room. The single servant, Betty, had instructions to say that "a gentleman" was waiting to see the Vicar in the study.

Robert’s face was grey as the room. With a dry mouth he rehearsed the words he meant to say, and each time he did so they sounded worse. Once he took a silver flask of brandy and waiter from his pocket and drank deep... Wheels crunching upon the gravel, the quick footsteps of the maid as she hurried to the door, and then a deep bass voice, virile and, strong.

"Where is Miss Janet, Betty?"

"Please, sir, a gentleman’s waiting in the study to see you."

An exclamation of surprise, a heavy purposeful footstep, and Robert saw Mr Worthington, a huge, upright, elderly man, staring down at him. There was a gasp of surprise, a cry of "Robert!" which died away as the younger man held up a shaking hand and stepped to the door, closing it gently.

"I've something to say to you, sir, before Hilda knows I’m here."

"You here, Robert! But I don’t understand; there has been no letter, no cablegram."

"No; I wanted to surprise you all. My aunt has left me her fortune. I'm quite well off now. I hurried home at once."

"My, dear boy! A thousand congratulations. And you want me to break it to Hilda gently! I see, very considerate. Dear me, who’d have thought."

"I think Janet is breaking it— something— to Hilda, We arranged that she should, and I to you, sir. I've been here, staying at the inn for four days now..."

The Vicar looked puzzled.

"You seem off colour, Robert," he said with an uneasy note coming into his voice. Then something suddenly struck him.

"It’s eight years since you've seen Hilda," he cried. "And you wait in here to see me. You don’t rush to her— Robert, what have you got to tell me?"

The voice was not uneasy now. It was growing stern.

Eaton gulped in his throat. The palms of his hands were wet...

"During the last four days," he stammered.

"During the last four days?"

"I― I..."

"Go on, sir."

"Janet, I, she, we have fallen."

The door of the study opened. A terrible figure stood there, a woman with. a dead white face and an open month like a Greek mask. An arm rose, a finger pointed. The lips did not seem to move, but a terrible, hoarse voice came from between them.

"Father, father, that is the man who was Robert, the man I loved and have been constant to for eight years. He has stolen here when I was away, he has bewitched poor little Janet. He has been making love to my sister."

There was a dead silence, and then the figure toppled forward in a deathlike swoon.

The Vicar caught his daughter and carried her away. In two minutes he was back again, striding into the room, the blue veins on his temples standing out like the lines upon a map. The outraged father, primeval head of his family and protector of his woman-kind, was awake.  Three minutes afterwards he dragged his half-conscious victim through the hall, opened the front door, and flung him broken upon the gravel sweep.

JANET married very happily eighteen months afterwards. She was only a  child and soon came to believe herself as the narrowly-escaped victim of scoundrel. Hilda goes on as usual. She is somewhat older appearance but says  nothing, and  makes no outward complaint. Her nature was always self-contained and reserved.

Robert Eaton lives in London, and lives almost entirely at his club. He has the reputation of a confirmed woman-hater, and no one knows of the heartache that never leaves him, and never will until his dying hour. So the ladies in Ceylon, and especially, the girl on the P. and O., have got a little of their own back— if they only knew.

____________________

12: The Secret of Emu Plain

L. T. Meade and Robert Eustace

Cassells Magazine, December 1898

Published in the Christmas number of the magazine, without the solution; and with an award for the most ingenious solution by a reader. Described by the authors as a sequel to the book "A Master of Mysteries", containing six John Bell stories published in 1898.

IT so happened that business called me to Queensland in the late October of 1894, and hearing that my old friend, Rosamund Dale, was about to be married, I determined to present myself at Jim Macdonald's station on the Barcoo District in December, in order to be present at the ceremony. I had seen a good deal of Rosamund when she was a child, and it was an old promise of mine that, if possible, I was to be one of the guests at her wedding.

I arrived at Macdonald's a week before Christmas, and when a hot wind, or sirocco, was blowing in from the west. I little thought, as I did so, that the strangest, and most terrible adventure of my life was about to take place in the Queensland bush. But so it was, and this is the story just as it happened.

I had been delayed on my journey, and on the evening of my arrival the wedding was to take place. Macdonald's property was about seven hundred and fifty square miles in extent, and was in the heart of the hills, which are the fountain-head of the countless creeks that run south, and join to form the Warrego, and eventually the Great Darling River, some four hundred miles away. It was good grazing country on the whole, but contained one enormous tract of arid sand, some forty square miles in extent, which went by the name of Emu Plain. Skirting one corner of this plain ran the coach road from Blackall to Charleville, along which ran Cobb & Co.'s coach once a fortnight. Almost in the middle of the plain stood in solitary grandeur the great Emu Rock, a grotesque, bare, perpendicular crag of limestone, rising a sheer three hundred feet from the ground.

Leaving my heavy luggage at Blackall, I had come with a valise by Cobb & Co.'s coach to the cross roads, and had then ridden over to Macdonald's house, a low wooden homestead of one storey, with a veranda running all round it. The sitting-rooms opened into the veranda. There was a garden at the back, enclosed by a fence. Macdonald met me with words of hearty welcome.

"But you are late, Bell," he exclaimed, "Rosamund has been waiting impatiently for your arrival all day. She never forgets how good you were to her when she was a child, and all alone in the old country. But let me take you to your room for a tub and brush up, for she would like to see you for a moment or two before the wedding."

Jim took me to my apartment in the left wing of the house, and half an hour later I joined Rosamund Dale on the balcony. She was a handsome dark-eyed girl, with a bright vivacious face and sparkling eyes. She had changed much in appearance since I had last seen her, as a small and somewhat awkward schoolgirl, but her affectionate heart and frank manners were still abundantly manifest. She made me seat myself in a deck chair, and began at once to talk about her bridegroom. Goodwin was the best man in the world, she loved him with all her heart and soul; she liked the life in the bush, too. Notwithstanding its loneliness there was an element of excitement about it which quite suited her nature.

As she spoke to me I noticed that she looked anxiously out, and shading her eyes with her hand I saw them travel across the paddock, and up the road.

"What is the matter, Rosamund," I said at last; "and, by the way," I added, "won't you introduce me to Mr. Goodwin?"

"He has not come yet, and I cannot understand it," replied the girl; "he ought to have been here an hour ago. His station is about thirty miles from here, just across Emu Plain."

"What a hideous piece of desolation that Emu Plain is," I answered. "I skirted it on the coach, and never saw anything so repulsive in my life."

I noticed that Rosamund shuddered, and her face turned pale.

"It is an ugly place," she said at last, "and bears a bad name."

"What do you mean by that?" I interrupted.

''You will laugh at me, Mr. Bell," was her reply, "but people say the plain is haunted. Some most extraordinary disappearances have taken place there from time to time. If Frank came across the plain there is no saying, but"--she looked me full in the face.

"I am surely frightening myself about nothing," she said. "Will you excuse me a moment? I must just go into the drawing-room and ask if there is any news of Frank."

She rose, and I followed her into the room behind the veranda. I there, for the first time, made Mrs. Macdonald's acquaintance. She was a hearty, good-natured looking woman, with eyes like Rosamund's. She seemed devotedly attached to her niece, and now went up to the girl, and kissed her affectionately.

"Your uncle has just gone off to meet Frank," she said; "they are sure to be here in a few moments.''

She spoke cheerfully, but I felt certain that I noticed a veiled anxiety in her eyes.

At that moment a man crossed the room, came up to Rosamund, and held out his hand.

"How do you do, Mr. Corry?" said the girl gravely. She had beautiful dark eyes, with magnificent lashes, and I observed, as Corry spoke to her, that she lowered them, and avoided looking at him. He was a thin, tall man, with red hair, and a slight cast in one eye. His lips were thin, the thinnest I had ever seen, and their expression, joined to the cast in the eye, gave him a sinister look. He was on good terms, however, with all the guests, and had the manners of a gentleman. Rosamund returned to the veranda, and I followed her.

"Are you really nervous about anything?" I said. "Is it possible that you apprehend that an accident has happened to Goodwin?"

"How can I tell?" she answered, and now a look of agony crossed her strong face. "He ought to be here before now; he has never failed before, and on his wedding evening, too! The Plain is haunted, you know, Mr. Bell. Don't laugh at me when I say that I--I believe in the ghost of Emu Plain."

"You must tell me more," I answered. "You know," I continued with a smile, "that I am interested in ghosts."

She could not return my smile; her face grew whiter and whiter.

"Who is that man Corry?" I said, after a pause.

"Oh, never mind about him," she answered impatiently. "He has a selection about twenty miles from here, and is, I believe, an Englishman. I cannot think what is keeping Frank," she added. "Ah! thank God! I hear horses' hoofs at last."

She ran to the farther end of the veranda, and stood there, gazing up the road with the most longing, perplexed expression I had ever seen on human face. Alas! only one rider was returning, and that was Macdonald himself. He came in cheerfully, said that Frank might appear at any moment, and suggested we should all go to supper.

At that meal I noticed that Rosamund only played with her food. She was seated near Mr. Lee, the clergyman from the nearest township, who had come over to marry her. He talked to her in low tones, and she replied listlessly. It was evident that her thoughts were with her absent lover, and that she could think of nothing else. At last the miserable meal had dragged to an end, the evening passed away somehow, and the different guests retired to their rooms. By--and--by Macdonald and I found ourselves alone.

"Now, what is up?" I said, going up to him at once; "Jim, what is the meaning of this?"

"God only knows," was his reply; "I don't like it, Bell, and that's a fact. You noticed that big plain as you came along by the coach?"

"Emu Plain?" I replied.

Jim nodded.

"It bears an ugly reputation," he said. "There have been the most extraordinary disappearances there from time to time. The blacks say that the place is haunted by a ghost, which they call the Bunyip. Of course, I don't believe in anything of that sort; but it is a fact that you will scarcely get a black man to cross the plain after dark, and two or three of our settlers have entered that plain alone and never been heard of since. Whether the agency which causes them to disappear is ghostly or otherwise it is impossible for me to say."

"You surely do not believe in the Bunyip?" I said, with a slight laugh.

"Hush!" he answered. "The fact is this, Bell; old man; I cannot laugh over the matter. If anything has happened to Goodwin I believe he-- hello! who can this be? Lie down, boy," added Jim to Help, his big collie.

We went out into the paddock. As we did so a man rode quickly up, whom Jim recognised at once as one of the mounted police.

"What's up, Jack?" said Jim.

"A traveller riding alone from Blackall has got bushed on the ranges," was the man's reply. "I heard that Frank Goodwill had not turned up here, and it occurred to me that you ought to know at once. The man's horse, with an empty saddle, was found on your boundary fence. It is possible that he had an accident. Could you let me have Billy, your black tracker? The poor chap may be lying crippled and cannot move on some of the ranges. There is not a moment to lose."

"Good God! Then it must be Goodwin," exclaimed Jim. "We won't tell Rosamund yet. We will bring Billy and go with you at once, Jack," he continued. "You will come along, too, won't you, Bell?" he added briskly. "Anything is better than suspense. I'll get the horses up and we'll start in a moment, though we won't be able to do much before daylight."

In less than a quarter of an hour we set out. Billy, the black tracker, looked sulky, and also considerably alarmed, and Jim whispered to me that he had great difficulty in making him come at all.

"He believes in that Bunyip," he added, dropping his voice to a hoarse whisper.

Billy himself was an ill-favoured looking creature, but as a tracker he was possessed of almost superhuman powers, and was noted in all the district as one who could follow tracks of almost any kind. He had only one eye, the other having been knocked out in a scrimmage, but with that eye he could read the ground as a civilised man reads a book.

We started off slowly. Billy was presently induced to ride ahead. He sucked his pipe as if he took no interest in the affair.

"Goodwin must be somewhere on the ranges," said Macdonald emphatically. "But how he got off the track beats me, as he knows every yard of the place. There is foul play somewhere."

Just as he said the last words Billy turned in his saddle, and cocking his one eye round, said slowly:

"Baal boodgeree Emu Plain night time. Bunyip there."

"Nonsense, Billy," replied Macdonald almost angrily. "There is no such thing as the Bunyip, and you know that as well as I do."

"I see Bunyip once in Emu Plain, along rock," the black went on. "I make tracks, my word!"

Just as the day broke our way led us out of the scrub, and the trees began to get more sparsely scattered, till we suddenly burst upon the borders of the great plain itself. A few moments afterwards Billy uttered a cry and picked up the tracks. With his one eye fixed on the ground he dismounted, and began to examine some bent grass and disturbed stones. To my unaccustomed vision the signs that guided him were absolutely invisible. It was an exhibition of instinct that no one would believe without seeing it.

On and on we went through the heat, silent and expectant; now up, now down, over ridge and gully. Suddenly Billy uttered a sharp cry, and leaping from his horse gave me the reins, and walked round and round, peering about and grunting to himself. At last, looking up, he exclaimed "Man meet someone here."

"Meet someone," cried Macdonald. "Are you sure, Billy?"

"Quite sure," was the answer. He took his tomahawk and cut a notch in one of the trees in order to mark the spot. We then remounted and rode on. In a moment Billy spoke again. "More horses! my word!" he said. "Look! "

The marks were clear enough now, even to us. In a piece of soft ground were the hoof-marks of three horses. Billy said no more, but put his horse in a canter. We followed him. About a mile farther we pulled up at the edge of the scrub. We were now close to the great Emu Rock. I noticed at once that a number of crows were wheeling round its summit.

"It is strange," said Jim, speaking in a hoarse voice, "but I never come near this great rock that I don't see the crows whirling round the top. Ay, there they go, as usual," he added, clutching my arm. "My God! whenever a man disappears there are marks of a struggle at the foot of the rock. Watch Billy now, he will know in a moment. Oh! merciful heaven! it is true then, and something has happened to Goodwin. Poor Rosamund; this will break her heart. Yes, there are the marks, Billy notices them. Now, Bell, you never had a greater mystery than this to solve. Marks at the foot of the rock, a man disappears, never found again. What does it mean, Bell? Where does he go? There must be devilry in the matter."

Billy had dismounted and was bending over the ground. Suddenly he uttered a sharp shrill cry.

"The marks! the marks!" he gasped. "Bunyip here, man here. Debil, debil take him. See! see! see!"

His intense excitement communicated itself to us. He began to run about, peering down low over the ground.

"See! see!" he repeated. "They get off here. Go this way, that way. Ah! a
spur come off." His quick eye had caught the glitter. He picked up a long spur. "Yes, yes; it is as it always is: three men fight, two men go away; one man--where he go? Debil take him." He pointed to the sky, gazing up and showing his white teeth in horror.

"Nonsense, Billy!" said Macdonald, in a voice which he tried to render commonplace and assured.

I looked at him and saw that he was shaking from head to foot.

"Come away," he said to me. "Poor girl, poor Rosamund. Billy," he added abruptly, turning to the tracker, "we must pick up the tracks of these horses."

We mounted and followed the horse tracks again. We ran the tracks back to the coach road, and then lost them in the confusion of a mob of cattle that had passed during the morning.

"Well, this is a bad business," said Macdonald. "Goodwin is missing, and what took place on the plain by the rock, and how he has disappeared from the face of the earth, and who are the men who had a hand in it, are insoluble problems. It is not the first time, Bell, and that's the horror of the thing. I tell you, I don't like the business at all. It looks uncommonly like another of those queer disappearances."

"Tell me about them," I said suddenly.

He began to talk, lowering his voice to a whisper.

"A year ago a man was lost on Emu Plain; he was a young fellow, an Englishman, and the heir to a big property. He was seen to cross the plain on horseback one afternoon, and was never heard of or seen again, and there were the marks of a struggle by the great rock, just as we saw them to-day, Bell. His people have spent thousands trying to discover the mystery, but all in vain. Since then the neighbourhood of the rock has been avoided, and the horror of the plain has grown in the minds of everybody. For this disappearance was not the first, others had preceded it. From time to time, at longer or shorter intervals, a man entered that desolate plain, and never, as far as human being could tell, left it again. What does the thing portend?"

Billy kept on croaking "Bunyip! Bunyip!" At last Macdonald shouted to him that he would break his head if he said the word any more.

We returned to the station. Rosamund, with a face like death, came out to meet us.

"You must bear up, my dear," said her uncle.

"Any news?" she asked.

"Well, there are tracks of a struggle on the plain," he said, with evident reluctance, "but we cannot follow them. A mob of cattle passed up the road this morning and have confused the tracks."

"Where was the struggle?" she said in a low voice.

Macdonald avoided her eyes. She gave him a direct and piercing glance.

"Come on to the veranda, Uncle Jim, and you too, Mr. Bell, and tell me everything," said the girl. Her voice was quiet and had a strange stillness about it. We followed her without a word. She drew deck chairs forward as we entered the cool veranda, and then kneeling by my side, laid her hand on my shoulder.

"Now," she said, facing Macdonald, "tell me all. Where was the struggle?"

"Rosamund, you must bear up; it was in the old spot, at the foot of the great rock. There, my girl," he added hastily, rising as he spoke, "I don't give up hope yet. I will send off Jack immediately, and have the affair telegraphed all round the country."

He left the veranda, walking slowly. Rosamund turned to me.

"My fears are certainties," she said; "and Frank has disappeared just as the other men have disappeared; but oh, my God," she added, rising hastily to her feet, "I will find him, I will. If he is alive I will find him, and you, Mr. Bell, must help me. You have solved mysteries before, but never so great a one as this. You will help me, will you not?"

"With all my heart, my child," I answered.

"Then there is not a moment to lose, let us go at once."

"No, no, Rosamund, that would be madness," I said. "If Goodwin is alive the police will get tidings of him, and if not--" my voice fell; Rosamund looked at me intently.

"Do you think I can rest so?" she said. "If you do not want to drive me mad, something must be done immediately."

"Then what do you propose?" I asked, looking at her.

"To go back with you to the plain, to examine those marks myself, to bring my woman's wit and intuition to bear on the matter. Where man may fail to discover any cause a woman may succeed; you know I am right."

"And I would take you with me gladly if it were possible, but it is not."

"Do you think anything that is possible for a man is impossible for a woman?" she said. ''We can take some food with us, and start at once. We won't consult anyone. If we are quick, we can reach the rock an hour or two before sunset, and I know the whole of the ghastly place so well that we can return in the moonlight. Oh, don't oppose me,'' she added, "for if you do I will start alone. Anything is better than inaction."

I did not say a word. She gave me a quick, grateful glance, and left the veranda. Half-an-hour later she appeared in the paddock, equipped in a stout habit, and mounted on a splendid black horse; she led another by the bridle for me. We started off at once, and reached the great rock by daylight. The sweltering sun beat down upon our heads, and the arid sand rose in clouds around us, but Rosamund neither faltered nor complained--a spirit burned within her which no obstacle could daunt. There were the marks of the struggle plainly visible. Rosamund knelt on the ground and examined them with as close and keen an eye as even Billy the black tracker himself. We walked round and round the rock, the crows whirled in circles over our heads, making hideous noises as they did so. But, search as we would, we could find no clue beyond the very manifest one, that where three had fought and struggled only two had gone away. What--what in the name of heaven had become of the third?

Before sunset Rosamund put her hand in mine. "Take me home," she said faintly. I did so. We neither of us spoke on that desolate return journey.

Again the next day we visited the rock, and made a careful search, and the next day and the next, and meanwhile the country rang with the disappearance of Frank Goodwin, and with news of Rosamund's grief. But no clue could we obtain anywhere. We could not get the faintest tidings of the missing man. That it was Goodwin's horse which was found by the boundary fence was beyond doubt. He had started from his station in good time on that fatal morning, and in the best of health and spirits, but from that moment he had never been seen.

I stayed with the Macdonalds for over a fortnight, and then, loth as I was to leave Rosamund in her trouble, I had to take my departure, owing to some pressing business in Brisbane, but I promised to return again as soon as I could. My plan was to ride for my first stage to Corry's selection. Billy would come with me, and bring back the horse I was riding. I would then wait for the coach to pick me up.

I arrived at Corry's in good time, sent Billy back with my horse, and as there were still some hours before Cobb's coach would pass it suddenly occurred to me that I would go once again to the Emu Rock, and exert every faculty I possessed to discover the mystery. Corry and the two friends who lived with him, Englishmen of much his own build and make, were out. I told Corry's black servant that I was going to try and bag a plain turkey, and borrowed one of his guns for the purpose.

In about half an hour I reached the rock. The sun was already dipping low over the hills. Across the summit of the rock, crows and eagle-hawks wheeled to and fro. I walked round and round it in despair. I longed to tear its ghastly secret out of the silent rock. What strange scene had it not, in all probability, recently witnessed?

By-and-by I sat down at the base of the rock, and watched the shadow creeping across the plain as the sun sank lower and lower. I was just making up my mind to return to Corry's when suddenly, within a few yards of me, I saw something drop on the sand. It made no noise, but as it fell it caught my eye. Wondering vaguely what it might be I got up, and sauntered across to the place. I saw something on the ground, an odd- looking thing. I bent down to see what it was. As I did so my heart stood still. I was looking at a human finger. The flesh was nearly all picked from the bone. I took it in my hand and gazed at it--my pulses were throbbing, and a deadly fear seized me. Where had it come from? What did it mean? Then in an instant a wild thought struck me. I looked up. Still flying to and fro noisily were the crows and hawks. Could one of them have dropped the finger? Was the body of Frank Goodwin at the top of the Emu Rock? The idea was monstrous, and yet there was the finger, and the crows wheeling round and round above me. But how could I prove my ghastly suspicion? By no earthly means would it be possible to scale three hundred feet of perpendicular rock. If the body of poor Goodwin was there, how in the name of all that was mysterious had it been put there? One thing, at least, was certain, I must go back at once to Macdonald's station and report the horrible discovery I had made, and arrange for an investigation of the summit of the rock to take place immediately.

The sirocco was still blowing hard, and great eddies of sand were circling in the air. A sand-storm was evidently coming on, and there was nothing for me to do but to lie down and bury my face in the ground until it passed by. I did so, my pulses throbbing, the most nameless fear and depression stealing over me. The storm grew greater, it was upon me. I kept my eyes shut, and my face buried. All of a sudden, from what quarter I knew not, there came a dizzy pain; lights danced before my eyes. I seemed to sink into nothingness, my terrors were lifted from me, I was enshadowed in an impregnable darkness, and remembered no more.

WHEN I came to myself I was lying on my back, and gazing up at the stars. Everything around me was silent as the grave, except the noise of the wind through the scrub which, curiously enough, now sounded far below me. I was lying on hard rock, and every bone in my body ached. I managed to turn myself slowly round, and then gazed about me. Where in the name of heaven was I? I saw that I was lying in a sort of basin of rock, the edge of which was some ten feet above me, but what was this dark mass lying a little to my left? I managed to crawl towards it. Great Heavens! it was a human body. The moment I saw it memory returned. I knew what my last conscious thoughts had been. I was in the midst of a sand-storm at the foot of the great Emu Rock. Darkness, joined to heavy pain, had overtaken me. When I came to myself I was at the top of the Emu Rock, and the body beside me was, doubtless, that of Frank Goodwin. By what supernatural agency had I been transported here? For a moment my brain  reeled, and I thought  that I must be the victim of some hideous nightmare.

The moon was riding high in the heavens; the sand-storm had completely passed; the stars were bright. In this subdued light I could see every object around me almost as vividly as if it were day. I gazed once again at the body of the man by my side. Suddenly my heart leapt with fresh fear, and I raised myself on my elbow. I thought I saw the body stir. Could it be still alive? No. Yet, as if poised above the shoulder, something was moving--a black, smooth object, which swayed gently to and fro with a horrible and perfect regularity. The silence was suddenly broken by a long low hiss, and I now perceived that the coils of an enormous snake heaved and rolled, as the loathsome creature slowly unwound itself, and glided noiselessly up the side of the rock. Drops of sweat broke out upon my forehead, and for fully an hour I lay still, literally paralysed with fear. Then the mad courage of desperation seized me, and with a reckless disregard of danger from the reptile I sprang back to the edge of the rock; but as I did so I knew all the time that a pair of glittering eyes was fixed upon me. Never for a moment did they blink, or withdraw their gaze. Single-handed and unarmed, in a prison from which escape was impossible, I was face to face with this deadly reptile. For all I knew there might be many others close beside me among the rocks.

The dawn began slowly to break. The light grew stronger every moment, as I crouched on one side of my prison, tense and motionless. I knew that if I stirred, the reptile would spring upon me. It was coiled up now on the rock exactly opposite the spot where the body of Frank Goodwin lay. Once I ventured to turn my eyes and look round. Three hundred feet below stretched the plain. Yes; escape was impossible. Now I had to face either a quick death from the bite of this huge brown snake, or a lingering death from thirst and starvation. Just for a moment I nearly yielded to a sudden impulse that assailed me, to take one step back over the edge of the basin and end my sufferings instantaneously. But, sick and faint as I still was, I determined to have one last fight before I destroyed myself. Cautiously, and still keeping my eyes upon the brute, I loosened a large flat stone, weighing nearly a couple of pounds; and; gently and slowly-  for all the while those eyes, which never blinked, were fixed upon me--I unfastened my leather belt and made a loop with one end through the buckle. Then slipping in the stone, I drew the strap tightly round the stone. Here was an improvised weapon, a good one if I chanced to have the first blow. Wrapping the end of the belt twice round my hand, I crept slowly forward, across the body of the dead man. As I did so, the great snake moved to and fro, and, opening its jaws, hissed at me in fury. I knew now that in a moment he would spring. I held out my hand, keeping the strap with the stone at the end well behind me, and then with all my force swung it round over my shoulder at the brute. At the same instant, with incredible swiftness, it struck out sideways at me. The huge stone met it halfway, and it fell, with its back broken, at my feet, hissing and wriggling in hideous contortions. I sprang back and, once more swinging round the stone with all my force, crushed its head against the rock. In another moment I had flung it over, and was watching its great body whirling down through the air to the plain below.

This immediate danger passed, I now began as coolly as I could to calculate my own chances. It was impossible to say when the news of my disappearance might reach Jim Macdonald's station. Perhaps not for weeks. Meanwhile, what was to become of me? If there were no more brown snakes lurking between the crevices of the rock, I must, at best, slowly die from thirst and starvation. Surely by superhuman agency had I been transported to this giddy eminence. But escape was absolutely impossible. Poor Rosamund! I had at last succeeded in my quest, and Goodwin's mangled body lay close to me. Was I to share a similar fate?

As the hopelessness of the situation came upon me I trembled. The sun was now well up, and I knew that my sufferings from heat and thirst were all too soon to begin. I removed my shirt, and tearing it into strips fastened them together and then attached the free end to a projection of rock. I then flung the body of poor Goodwin on to the plain below. As I did so the grim idea of ending my sufferings by suicide recurred to me once more. If no help came I would, when my pains became intolerable, fling myself also from the dizzy height. I sat down on a huge stone and looked out towards the coach road. The hours dragged wearily on, but no sign of human life did I see.

The blazing sun beat mercilessly upon my head, and by midday the pangs of thirst had almost arisen to torture, and hunger also now assailed me. I was faint and giddy too, and discovered that I was suffering from a severe blow on the head. Doubtless I had received this blow at the foot of the rock; it had rendered me unconscious, and the mysterious agency which had lifted me to the height above was then brought into requisition. Were they indeed ghostly hands which had dealt me this blow? Was the Bunyip a real devil? Was Emu Plain haunted by a horror which admitted of no solution?

From time to time I shouted insanely, in order to keep off the eagle-hawks  and crows which swooped down and wheeled round me. More than once I rose and peered down over the edge of my awful prison. There was not the slightest ledge or projection from the smooth sides for more than a hundred feet. Escape was out of the question.

My weakness was increasing hour by hour, and I resolved that if relief did not come before the sun set to-morrow, I would take that desperate leap and end my sufferings. I dared not sleep lest I might miss the frail chance of anyone coming, and the whole long night I paced around, shouting at intervals, though my voice came hoarse and thick from my parched lips. As morning broke once more I was utterly exhausted, and lay down, now half delirious from raging fever. My head felt as if it would burst, and the great rock seemed to reel and totter beneath me. The hours went by I know not how; time seemed nowhere; reality had merged into a ghostly phantasmagoria, hunger and thirst grew greater and greater. Insensibly, and scarcely knowing why I did it, I crept to the edge of that terrible cup in the rock. I could stand my tortures no longer. Instantaneous death should end my sufferings. I gazed round with haggard eyes for my last look at earth. Suddenly a shrill shout rent the air. I reeled back and clung to the corner of the rock for support. Once again came the noise. I heard my name, followed immediately by the report of a gun. The next instant I saw lying across the cup of rock close beside me a thin piece of cord.

"Catch it and haul in," I heard in a drawling voice as through a telephone from below.

I leapt up, hope had returned. My delirium fell from me like a mantle. For the time I was myself once more. I obeyed the words from below, and began frantically to haul in the rope. Coil after coil came up thicker and thicker till presently I held in my hands a stout rope. I now mustered all my remaining strength and fastened the rope tightly round the neck of a piece of solid rock. After doing this I remembered nothing more.

They told me afterwards, long weeks afterwards, when my fever had left me, and weak as a child I submitted to Rosamund's ministrations--they told me then, in my room at Jim Macdonald's station, what had really occurred.

Rosamund had dreamt the strangest dream of her life. She had gone through overmastering terror; horror beyond description had visited her. She had dreamt that I was on the top of the Emu Rock, and insisted on going there, accompanied by Jim and Billy, the black tracker. At the base of this mighty rock evidence of the most terrible character met her eyes, but, brave girl that she was,  she turned her attention to the rescue of the living. A cord was sent up to my dizzy eminence by means of a rocket gun, and when I had fastened the rope to the rock Billy himself had come up and brought me down.

Thus I was saved from the very jaws of death. But what the mystery was, and how Frank Goodwin's body had been hauled up to the top of the Emu Rock, and how I myself had got there, are insoluble mysteries. I have unearthed more than one ghost in my day, but the great Bunyip of Emu Plain has baffled my ingenuity. He has won in the fight, and I bow my head in silence, owning that he, in his unfathomable mystery, is stronger than I.

The following is the authors' solution of the mystery which was left
unexplained in our December 1898 number of Cassell's Magazine.

Cassells Magazine, April 1899

BEFORE leaving the old country for Australia, Corry, who was a clever mechanician, had been engaged for a long time in investigating the possible uses of kites for military operations, and had made a large number of very interesting experiments as to their lifting power. He found (and his results corresponded with those of other investigators) that in a fairly strong wind one square foot of kite surface would raise half a pound. He found, also, that to obviate the inconvenience of using a large and unwieldy kite for raising heavy weights, a series of small kites attached vertically one above the other answered the purpose equally well. And by this means he succeeded in raising weights up to 200 lb. by attaching them to the ground-rope about six feet from the lowest of the kites and employing a horse to draw the rope.

By means of a slip-rope arrangement an enormous explosive charge could be raised and dropped over an enemy's fortification with considerable accuracy, three kites, each ten feet square, raising eleven stone.

Hereditarily tainted with criminal instincts, coupled with a fantastic imagination, the peculiar construction of the Emu Rock suggested to him that by means of kites the body of a man could be raised and deposited upon the top where it could never by any possibility be discovered. An opportunity for practically putting this diabolical scheme to the test soon occurred. So long as the sirocco was blowing, the feat was comparatively easy. The manner in which John Bell became one of his victims is already known.

___________________

13: Arson in the Jungle

George Allan England

1837-1936

Detective Fiction Weekly Oct 3 1931

WHEN $200,000 in big bills burned, but only charred "ones" and "twos" could be found— well, it looked funny.

The true story of this crime was given me by Secret Service Investigator "Hartwell." To give his real name would not only endanger his life, but would impair his usefulness to the Government and would probably lose him his job. Furthermore, as the brother of a former president of a certain Latin-American republic is involved, fictitious names must be used.

Hartwell is a truly extraordinary man of Franco-American parentage and born in Mexico. He has also lived much among Italians. Thus he speaks French, English, Spanish, and Italian perfectly, without a trace of accent. He passes freely as a citizen of the United States, a Frenchman or an Italian, as well as a Spaniard, or a Latin-American; and knows not only many local dialects, but also slang in four languages.

Hartwell is the last man in the world you'd suspect of being a Secret Service man. He's not piercing-eyed, lean or in any way like Sherlock Holmes. On the contrary, he's round-faced, stout, good-natured and cheerful, and an easy mixer. He looks like a salesman, business-man or contractor; and this helps him along. The underworld can't believe that such an easy-going, jolly and friendly chap can be dangerous. This is one prime reason for his long record of brilliant success. So much, then, for Harlwell.

Now his inside story of the famous $200,000 Pay Roll Arson Case.

IN THE AUTUMN of 1929, the big Insurance concern known us Lloyd's reported a heavy loss by fire. This loss was that of a $200,000 pay roll, all in American bills, at the little town of San Fulano de Tul, in the banana Republic of Equis Egregia, somewhere to the southward of the U.S.A.— never mind just whore.

"All we know," they told me, "is that the pay roll was consigned to the Mengano Sugar Company, about twenty miles from San Fulano to pay off both the office force and the field hands for a mouth. The money reached San Fulano all right. The night or its arrival, before it had been delivered to the Mengano Central, or sugar mill, the post office burned up, and the money was lost or so the Postal Department of the Republic has the honour to report. We aren't making any charge of crime, theft, arson, collusion, or anything, but before we pay the insurance we want to know what It's all about. Now go to it."

I went to it. First of all, I got a list of the bills sent. There were so many fives, so many tens and twenties. No ones or twos. All fives or better. My trip to San Fulano is of no importance, except to say that the place was far up-country, away beyond the terminus of even such narrow gauge and jerkwater railroads as that spig republic boasted.

I let it be casually known, all the way, that my name was Senor Alguien, and I looked and dressed and talked the part of a mining engineer from Mexico, interested in picking up any good properties that might be lying around loose.

The last 75 kilometres I made along jungle trails on horseback in two days, and as I weight close on 200 lbs., and was pretty soft from lack of roughing it for some time, it was a mighty lame mining expert who one fine afternoon drew rein in front of the Hotel Encanto, at San Fulano de Tal.

I'll waste no time describing the town, except to mention three or four alleged streets, some banana palms and coconut trees, plenty of pigs, poultry and buzzards, and a sufficiency of mañana natives in bare feet and dirty white cotton clothes. Also a store, a town hall and a telegraph office, a time-worn church, a few rurales in charge of a lieutenant, and a jail that looked like the last hoosegow in the world I'd ever want to see the inside of.

San Fulano seemed to be. suffering extensively from hookworm and a lack of insomnia. But the rifles of the rurales were well oiled, and the lieutenant was a black gentleman with a wicked eye. What you'd call a very bad hombre.

As for the Hotel Encanto (which means Enchantment), the least said the most eloquent. I've seen a good many better ones of that type, but none worse. However, it was that or else sleep with the scorpions out under the palm tree, so I hired three beds and got settled the best I could.

Why three beds? Well, I'll toll you. There was just one sleeping room, with eight beds in it, at forty cents American a throw. I didn't want any Spig snoring close to me, on either side, so I took three beds and slept in the middle one, which set me back a dollar twenty a day. The grub— black beans, tortillas and empanadas, or meat cooked in dough— was ladled out to us in an alleged dining room where dogs and pigs wandered about, and chickens pecked on the tiled floor or even hopped on to the chairs and flew up on the tables, if not shoo'd off. The guests were rancheros, cattlemen and sugar-hands, and all that sort.

But one of them was different, a priest named Padre Ninguno, and he was a good scout if there over was one. I introduced myself and chummed up to him right, away, and spilled my tale— how I'd been sent there by the Estrella Mining Company, from Mexico City, to look up abandoned mining properties, especially Indian mines. In a day or two we got as thick as two peas in a pod. Of course my being considered a mining man and O.K. by the padre put me in right with everybody, and for the present nobody had the slightest suspicion of my real character or object.

Well, I sized up things pretty carefully, including the ruins of the burned post office. When Sunday came, I was mighty careful to go to church and contribute liberally.

The padre certainly thought I was the goods, and invited me to his house that afternoon. As I say, the padre was a regular guy, and we had a few refreshments, native style. Without seeming to steer the conversation, which was, of course, all in Spanish, none the less I managed to get it around to the post office fire.

The good padre was glad to have something to gossip about.

"A great calamity, señor," he explained. "And what a fatality that so much money should have been in the building when it just happened to burn! All due to a storm, too."

"How so, padre?"

"Well, because of the storm, the steamer that was bringing the money wasn't expected to arrive at Rio Fangoso that day. Don Jose Chanchullero, the paymaster at the Mengano sugar-central, had been waiting for the pay roll, but went away without it. The steamer came in unexpectedly and the registered mail pouch was brought here and put in the post office."

"And then?"

"Then Lieutenant Guataquero, in command of the rurales, gave a baile— a dance— at the town hull. It was his birthday, which he had forgotten about, but remembered just in time to organise the entertainment. Everybody went. Oh, a fine fiesta! Rurales and all were there. Plenty of liquors, and roast pork and dulces, very fine! It started at ten that night, und was to last till morning."

"Did the paymaster go, too?"

"No, señor, that good man remained away at the office, to guard the money. Don Mario Tiburon, his name is. He would not attend. Said his first duty was to protect the $200,000 till he delivered it safely into the hands of tho central paymaster, in the morning. But alas señor—"

"Well?"

"Alas, what mischance. At two in the morning, when everybody was dancing and making merry with the wine, the cry of 'Fire! Fire!' was heard. Ay mi Madre! It was the post office that was burning! The poor postmaster had fallen asleep on his lonely vigil, while smoking a cigarette, and the building had caught fire. He woke up, stifled with smoke, just in time to save his life. Though he got out, he was somewhat burned."

"Too bad!" I commiserated.

"Yes, señor," agreed the padre. "We have no firemen, no engines. Nothing we could do availed to save the post office. It was burned flat, señor, with all the mail and everything. What a fatality, verdad!"

"It surely was. And nothing was saved? None of the money at all?"

"Very little, senor. The ashes were searched when they were cool enough, but only a few charred pieces of bills were recovered. A very great misfortune! Indeed."

"Ah, well," said I, "no misfortune lasts a hundred years. How much money. was recovered, and where is it now?"

"Only a few dollars, señor. The postmaster has it all, keeping it for the government inspectors, when they come."

"Haven't they been here, yet?"

"Not yet, señor. You know how it is; here. Always mañana. But some day they will arrive. And when they do, the postmaster has all the recovered money to show them. A very brave honest man is our postmaster. His burns are now, thank God, quite healed."

I figured I'd got an earful, all right, and didn't want to ride luck any further than it would tote me without arousing suspicion, so I let the talk swing around to other subjects.

But next day I drifted into the new post office— a plain, white-washed shack near the jail. Americano cigarettes are the best small change with which to get acquainted in all Latin-America, and I had plenty.

It wasn't long before the brave Señor Tiburon, postmaster of San Fulano, was smoking cigarettes that even he, lazy as he looked, might have walked at least a kilometre for. Also, he was talking, showing me where he'd been burned, and everything.

There was no business, nothing, to do but kill time— and mosquitoes and ticks— so we sat on a couple of goat-skin chairs, smoking and chewing the fat. My Mexican accent got across, all right, and the postmaster would have taken his Bible oath I was a genuine Mexicano. It wasn't long before he was proudly exhibiting the fragments of charred bills that had so fortunately been rescued from the ruins of the post office.

"Here they are, señor," said he. "And do you think there is enough left of this money, so the Yanqui Government will redeem it?"

"Undoubtedly," I assured him, though I saw at once it would be hardly worth the trouble. The charred pieces could not have represented more than $150  or $250 all told. And more interesting still, I saw that every piece was the fragment of either a one-spot or a two!

"Now then," I figured, when I'd got through with the good, honest postmaster of San Fulano, "Now then, "we're beginning to get somewhere. The mall-pouch with the $200,000 came in unexpectedly. Friend Lieutenant,  the black hombre, got up an impromptu fiesta, and served plenty of aquardiante to all hands. He had his rurales at the shindig. The post office remained unguarded, except by the postmaster. It had caught fire from a cigarette. And the only pieces of bills recovered were ones and twos. Bueno!

The whole cane was opening up like a clam in hot water. Why were there no fragments of fives, tens and twenties? That was the big question now! I followed it up by exploring, the country all around about, for mining properties. On horse-buck and mule-back I trekked hither and yon, sometimes putting up at fincas or farms, again at sugar-centrals, or cattle ranches, or what have you.

At last in a wretched little village named Bozo Negro I picked up a red-hot clue— an almost new American five-dollar bill. I saw this bill paid over the counter of a posada, or inn. It was passed by a mulatto foreman of a sugar-mill. I offered this man a drink, got acquainted with him, asked him about mines, and next day went to see him at his central.

There, at a little cantina, I treated him and some others, and paid with an American twenty. In change— among all sorts of queer chicken-feed, I got an American ten-spot! Now things were turning up!

I beat it right back to my good padre, at San Fulano, invited him to dinner and then got down. to business. Our table was out in a patio, where nobody could overhear us, and we talked in low tones.

"See here, padre," said I, "I might as well come clean with you. I'm no more a mining engineer than you are but a detective, a Secret Service man from the United States, down here to trace the big robbery."

"What robbery, señor?"

"That 200,000 dollars pay roll. Now then, don't look surprised! I happen to know that the fire was-only a blind to cover a robbery. I know all about it, except where the money is— what's left of it. Suppose I were to receive a little useful information, it would not be impossible that e certain church in a certain town not e thousand miles from here might receive a little donation for a new building. A donation of, say, five thousand pesos. Well, father?"

The excellent padre considered a moment then sighed deeply.

"My son," said he, "much sorrow has lain on my heart because of certain matters that have distressed me. I have been wondering what to do; been muy triste— very sad, eh? And why?"

"Yes, why?" I asked, feeling that the trail was getting warm, indeed.

"Ah! Rumours have been circulating, underground, about this affair, and a certain Mariposa. About a possible connection between them, sabe? I have felt that an investigation was needed, but by whom? In this unfortunate country whom could I trust? To whom could I communicate my fears?"

"It's a tough job, padre," I admitted, "communicating anything in this republic. But I'm an Americano, and you'll be safe with me. As we say in our lingo, could you not spill a few beans?"

"Beans, senor? What do you mean?"

"It is our way of saying, give information."

The padre considered a moment... then made an uncertain gesture with his ancient, corded hand. He shook his head. "Were I to tell you anything, señor,  and were it to become— what you call— spilled beans, that it was I who told, how long do you think It would be before I would be one angel?"

"Four minutes, perhaps. Maybe five, if you had tuck. However, whatever you tell me will be as if sealed in the tomb. I, too, want to live."

He looked at me a moment, then remarked: "More things than bread might be found in the brazero of La Mariposa, in Las Pocilgas. To good listener, few words."

I thanked him and said no more about it. The trail was getting hot. I sat down in the plaza and had a good smoke and think. A brazero, I knew, was a sort of brick bake-oven, usually built behind a native house. Las Pocilgas was the name of a small village about nine kilometers east of San Fulano. And how about La Mariposa? That meant a butterfly, of course, but it might mean also an Inn, or a woman. Anyhow, I was going to find out.

First thing I did was to write to the Chief of Police at San Pedro― capital of the country— for a couple or Secret Service men to be sent to me immediately. For once in my life, I confess I felt a bit nervous. But luck stayed with me, and nothing happened.

Four days and the Secret Service men showed up— "mining engineers," like myself. We got acquainted and I told them what was doing. Next day we all three set out for Las Pocilgas on horseback.

The rest of this case was short but lively. We put up at a wretched little posada  in Las Pocilgas, and wandered round looking the place over. If possible, it was ten times filthier than San Fulano. Inside of two hours we'd located a lady by the name of La Mariposa. Some, butterfly! Black as a spade flush, and sinister-looking, she lived in a thatched hut down by a swamp at the far end of the village. It took only a few drinks and a little gossip with the keeper of the posada to discover that La Mariposa was one of the sweethearts of the rurale lieutenant, Guataquero, back there in San Fulano. That hombre, we learned, had several women scattered around in different villages, and this bouncing black butterfly was his favourite. Better and better!

Next day we closed in on Lu Mariposa. We found she had a brick oven in her back yard, all right, and that was what we wanted to get into.

We waltzed right in on her, showed our badges, and started to excavate. About then the butterfly went into action. Tigress would have been a better name for her. She grabbed a machete and went to it. I never hit a woman before in my life, but I hit that butterfly plenty— with a wine jug that I threw just in time to save one of my companions from becoming devilled ham.

She went down, squawking, and we tied her up and gagged her. If we hadn't she'd have raised the town about our ears, and the rest would have been just war. We weren't there for war, but to get the money. And we got it, all right!

The way we ripped that brazero to pieces was a caution. What we found was plenty— a pottery olla, or jar, with $185,000 inside it, all in fives, tens, and twenties. Reads like fiction, but it's a fact. I never saw so much cash in such a humble pot in all my born days. Only $15,000 had been spent, fixing people and paying off, and so on. The charred ones and twos, you see, had all been out of the conspirators' own pockets, as they'd counted on recovering most of that, their expenses hadn't been heavy. The bills had been burned in such a manner that they could be redeemed all right, and the fact that the postmaster had "found" them all gave us a pretty good line on him.

Leaving the butterfly's wings still all wound round with hempen string, we flung the cash into our saddle-bags and heat it, pronto. We didn't stop for anything, you bet. To make it brief, we reached San Fulano in record time, paid our bill at the inn, announced that we had important mining business elsewhere, and kept right on going. Didn't stop― by horse and narrow-gauge railroad— until we reached San Pedro.

There we banked the 185,000 dollars safely, and I stepped out of the picture. It wasn't up to me to make any arrests. I simply had to unravel the case and got the cash. The National Secret Service people took up the case, from then on.

In two days the bad hombre was plucked. He squealed, implicating the postmaster and the telegraph clerk. Between them, they let a still bigger cat out of the bag— no less a cat than a brother of the president of the republic, who had been the brains and instigator of the affair, and was counting on fifty per cent of the loot. The three lesser artists got ten years apiece; and that, in a country like the Republic of Equis Igriegia, is equivalent to a death sentence.

"AND THE Big Shot?" I queried, as Hartwell's story crime to a close.

"Whitewashed," said Hartwell. "In view of his close relationship to the president, what could they do about It? Some country!"

"How about the good padre, Niuguno?" I asked.

"Oh, he got his $5,000 dollars all right. I've heard, since, that he's built a classy new church at San Fulano. But I've never been back there to see. I don't think it would be just what you might call healthy!"

______________

14: One Law for the Rich

Stacy Aumonier

1877–1928

Daily News (Perth, WA) 11 December 1937

REUBEN and his brother Isaac went trudging across the wet grass on their way back from Cousin Hermann's funeral. A cold, penetrating rain was falling, and suddenly Reuben emitted a loud sneeze, followed by a cough.

'There!' he exclaimed. 'Just what Rebecca warned me about! These confounded funerals!'

As though in fraternal sympathy, Isaac also suddenly sneezed and coughed, and answered: 'Beathly.'

Before reaching the cemetery gates it was obvious that both brothers had caught cold at the funeral. They, were sneezing and coughing for all they were worth. Outside the gates stood an enormous car, the outside shaped like a bladder, the inside upholstered like a mannequin parlour. It belonged to Reuben.

I must mention at this point that in appearance the brothers were very much alike and in their almost identical mourning clothes there was nothing to betoken the fact that whereas Isaac was a poor man, Reuben was enormously rich. Isaac owned a small stationer's shop in Notting Hill, and he lived above the premises with his wife and five young children. The business just paid its way, and the family, seemed quite comfortable and satisfied.

Reuben had started out in some business in connection with corsets, but he had branched out into other lines, and was now so rich as .to be notorious wherever men foregathered in search of wealth or success. In fact, one of the political parties, feeling presumably that some recognition should be paid to such a lot of money as all that, had presented him with a knighthood. He was now Sir Reuben.

'Come on,' said Sir Reuben at the cemetery gates. 'I'll drop you.'

I'm afraid I must break off here to do a little moralising. Oh, you who are rich and have large cars, don't go in for 'dropping' people. Either leave them alone or take them right home to their doors. The few extra minutes makes little difference to you, but you have no idea of what a difference it makes to your temporary guest. After travelling so luxuriously it spoils all the pleasure to have to get out and walk, or scramble on to a bus for the last part of your journey.

Sir Reuben was by nature a 'dropper.' Kind-hearted and well-meaning, he was all in favour of generosity up to the point where it didn't interfere with his own comfort and convenience. And so he 'dropped' his brother Isaac near the Marble Arch and left him to make his way home as best he might, while he himself rolled on to his pseudo-Italian palace in Kensington.

It must not be imagined from this that Reuben did not love his brother Isaac. He did, but his mind was very preoccupied with all this coughing and sneezing. He detested illness and discomfort. Moreover, he detested and dreaded the idea of death.

So one may say that when he dropped his brother at the Marble Arch, he dropped him also from his mind for some time to come.

Arrived in his own noble hall, he called out for his wife, but as she did not respond at once he clapped his hands. (This was a trick which found great disfavour in the eyes of the head butler, who, however, having a delicate wife and two children, was not in a position to protest.)

Then Rebecca came. She was a good wife, and she bustled him to bed, gave him two hot-water bottles, and telephoned to Sir Angus McHeath, their family physician. The latter arrived two hours later. He came armed with stethoscopes, tubes and mysterious gadgets. He took the patient's pulse, respiration, temperature, blood pressure, and other things. He said, 'Ah!' and 'H'm!' a number of times. Then he sent for Rebecca and said: 'I think we had better send for. a night nurse. This is a very sharp attack.' And he mumbled something that sounded like Latin.

Reuben had a bad night, worrying about his illness, and when he nearly fell asleep the night nurse would come and administer a powder. The next morning Sir Angus arrived early, and a day nurse was requisitioned. Sir Angus made a more prolonged examination. He appeared disturbed and more mysterious than ever. At last he said: 'I don't like the look of that uvula at all, Sir Reuben. I think, if you don't object, I should like my friend Sir Alan Blaikie, to have a look at it.'

Sir Reuben, who was very frightened, nodded his head, and said: 'Yes, yes.'

Sir Alan came that same afternoon. He also made an exhaustive examination, but after a consultation with Sir Angus it appeared that the root of the trouble was not in the uvula, but in the larynx. Now there was only one man in London who really understood the larynx, and that was. Sir James Baird McHoick. Fortunately Sir James was in town and he , managed to spare time for a visit the next morning. After his examination he and Sir Angus and Sir Alan (good old Scotland!) held a consultation. It lasted an hour. At the end of that time Sir Angus came back to Sir Reuben. He said they were of opinion that a 'teeny-weeny' operation on the throat would be advisable. Quite a slight one, but they were anxious to avoid all risks.

The small eyes of the patient glowed as he muttered: 'Yes, yes. Avoid all risks.'

In the meantime, continued Mr. Angus, there was just a shade of uncertainty as to what extent the lung might be affected, and he would like his friend Sir Bryan Buggesley to just go over it.

'Yes, yes,' said Reuben.

The lung proved to be quite sound, but the next day Sir James Baird McHoick arrived, accompanied by Sir Angus and also by Dr. Hector Browne-Browne McIntosh, who was said to be the best anaesthetist in London.

And the 'teeny-weeny' operation was performed quite successfully. (The 'teeny-weeny' account for same followed in the course of a few posts.) And Reuben recovered, and when he was well enough to sit up, Sir Angus came and discussed climates.

'Well, now,. I think, Sir Reuben, a month at Las Palmas or Teneriffe would set you up properly.'

In the end they compromised with Madeira, and Reuben went off with his beloved Rebecca and spent a month at Funchal. And Reuben sat blinking in the sun thinking of what a lot of money he might be making were he in England.

And then one day they returned, and the morning after their arrival Reuben went down to business as usual. He left early in the afternoon as the doctor advised him. Driving back home he suddenly remembered his brother Isaac. Lordy! Lordy! how he had forgotten Isaac! The day of Hermann's funeral came back to him, and he and Isaac tramping across the grass, both coughing and sneezing. They were both apparently in a similar condition.

What had happened to Isaac? Reuben at that moment realised that he loved his brother. He called through the speaking-tube and told the chauffeur to go to an address in Notting Hill. Suppose— suppose Isaac were dead! He had no money to hire expensive doctors or to visit sunny climes. Uh, what had happened to Isaac? A bell rang crazily as he entered the shop, and the assistant, Meyers, who recognised him, smiled and ushered him into the back parlour. And Isaac came, followed by his wife Emma, both looking quite well and smiling friendlily. 'Well, well Reuben?'

'Well, well,' Isaac?' They talked of indifferent things for some moments, and then Reuben said:

'You remember the day of Hermann's funeral, Isaac, and how we both coughed and sneezed?'

'Why, I should think I do,' answered Isaac. 'I came home feeling dreadful, dreadful. And Emma pushed a spoon into my mouth and said, 'Why, Isaac, you've got a relaxed throat?'

'Yes, and then what did you do?' asked Reuben.

'Oh, Emma sent me to bed, put on a cold-water compress, gave me a stiff whisky today, and I was all right the next day.'

Oh, Holy Fire and Water! Jiminy-Piminy! Reuben stared at his plump hands resting on his knees. Unreason and unfairness everywhere! A cold-water compress! Oh, Lordy, Lordy! All right the next morning! Figures flash through Reuben's mind. Specialists, nurses, the operation, the trip to Madeira, somewhere round about twelve hundred pounds— apart from losses in business through absence. Unreason and unfairness! A cold-water compress, indeed! Someone was speaking to him. He looked up to see Emma's shining face.

'You'll stay and have a cup of tea, Reuben?' He nodded his head vigorously several times. Not that he wanted tea; he never touched the stuff. The room smelt faintly of cooking and carpet soap. Somewhere upstairs children were making an infernal noise. But he didn't want to go. He felt at that moment that, as it were, he might learn something from these people that, indeed, he might gain something.

A cold-water compress, indeed! Oh, Lordy, Lordy.

___________

15: Wingfield 'S White Elephant

Thomas Charles Bridges

1868-1944

Huon Times (Franklin, Tas. : 1910 - 1933), Friday 3 September 1926, page 3

THE ROAR of the rain on the tin roof was terrifying. It was like the sound of a huge waterfall. Loud as it was, beneath and behind it was a deeper and even more alarming sound. It was the voice of the East Arrow, ordinarily a brook that man could jump across, but now a vast brown flood sweeping down the valley in terrible and resistless fury.

For the twentieth time Frank Wingfield got up and looked out of the window. No sign of change. It had been raining now for twenty-four hours without a break, and still the grey sky lowered overhead, and the sou'westerly gale drove the torrents against the steaming panes. Down every hillside white veils of foaming water poured to join the ever-growing flood below. Frank's young face was white and drawn. At last, unable to bear the suspense any longer, he put on oilskins and a sou'-wester and went out.

Strong as he was he could hardly face the wind, while the rain lashed his face so that he could barely breathe. Turning to the left, he passed close under the huge, overshot water-wheel which worked the machinery of the Chapplecombe mine, crossed behind the stamp mill, and struggled along a narrow path beside the Chapplecombe leat.

This leat, a narrow, artificial channel cut along the hillside, supplied the water which turned the wheel. It was tapped from a brook on the High Moor four miles away, and on it depended the whole life of the works, and consequently the mine itself. At present it was filled with a peat-brown, rushing torrent; but Frank took little comfort from this. The whole hillside was seamed and streaked with rivulets. Every bog was a sponge, every spring sprouted.

The stormy afternoon was deepening to dusk as he knocked on the door of an ancient, granite-built farmhouse two miles from his own lonely bungalow. Without a moment's delay the door was opened, and a sweet looking girl in a pretty print frock stood waiting with eager eyes to greet him.

'You, Frank!' she exclaimed, delightedly. 'But what a day to be put! You poor thing, you must be drowned. Come in to the fire and get dry.'

He came in, walking heavily, like an old man. In the light of the sitting room Dora Chowne saw his face, lined and weary.

'Frank! Oh, Frank, what is the matter?' she demanded.

'The leat's gone, my dear,' Wingfield answered, dully. 'The bank's broke down in a dozen places.'

She looked at him, wide-eyed. 'But, Frank, you can get it mended.'

He shook his head. 'It'll cost hundreds, Dora. And I've not got the money to do it. It took all I had and more to buy the mine. I'm in debt already, and who's going to lend me more?'

His voice was full of dismay, and Dora, gazing at him in dismay, could find no words to comfort him. There were many, her father among them, who had called young Wingfield a fool for buying out old Coker and becoming owner of the Chapplecombe mine. But he knew there was tin there, knew the price of the metal was rising, and had made up his mind that it was the quickest way to fortune and marriage with the girl he loved.

'I'm done, Dora,' he said heavily, and dropped into a chair.

ON A FINE June night six weeks later Frank Wingfield sat in the small sitting-room of the mine bungalow. The table before him was strewn with papers, and in front of him was a sheet covered with figures. His face was whiter and thinner than it had been on that spring day of storm, and his eyes were dull with despair.

'It's no use,' he muttered, as he flung down the pencil. 'No one will believe in me. No one will help me. There's nothing for it but to let everything slide and go abroad.'

A spasm of pain twisted his face. It meant parting with Dora — and probably parting for good. Dora, he knew, would stick to him, as he to her. But was it fair? Frank was no fool. He was well aware of the difficulties before a man who starts penniless in Canada. It might be years before he was able to make a home.

Sick with misery, he leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed vacantly on the ceiling. How long he sat like that he did not know. What roused him was the sound from outside. Through the breathless stillness of the warm June night he distinctly heard a stone roll clattering down the steep hillside behind the house.

He lived alone; he had no neighbours, and the time was nearly midnight. It  was the last thing likely that anyone was coming to call at such an hour. In an instant he was on his feet, had turned out his lamp, and on tiptoe was making for the door. There was no moon, but the stars were bright, and there was light d enough to make out the figure of a man stealing cautiously along the  heath-clad hillside.

Frank was utterly puzzled. For the life of him he could not imagine what the intruder was after. Picking up a small electric lamp, he crept out, and, following cautiously, got a second glimpse of the intruder a little way down the hill and close to the mouth of the mine.

There were two holes in the hillside. One was the old working, a narrow, muddy tunnel; the other the new adit, which he himself had had cut because the old one was no longer safe. Keeping a little above the trespasser, he soon got near enough to see his nocturnal visitor opposite the new adit. The man appeared to make a gesture of surprise. Then he moved on towards the old tunnel, bent down, and seemed to be peering into its mouth.

Frank dropped behind a clump of gorse, and waited silently. There was no breath of wind. The night was so still that he could plainly hear the tinkle of the brook in the valley below. No other sound was audible.

At last the man moved, and vanished into the tunnel mouth. Rising softly to his feet, Frank crept towards the mine. He reached it, paused a minute, then, bending his head, for the opening was barely five feet high, entered the old adit.

The floor was greasy mud, and the light of his torch gleamed on water dripping from the reddish rock which formed the roof, and on masses of white fluffy fungus growing on the rotten timber of the props. The roof was anything but safe, and it gave Frank an uncomfortable thrill to notice on the floor lumps of rock which were evidently quite fresh falls. And he himself was bare-headed, instead of wearing the hard-crowned felt hat without which Cornish Jack never ventures below ground.

Fifty yards in he came to a shaft which cut the floor of the gallery from wall to wall. It was nearly filled to the brim with dull-coloured water, and was spanned by a couple of planks laid side by side. He crossed this and stopped short. Just beyond the roof was down, a new fall within the last few days. As he stood there something dropped heavily on his head— so heavily that he, too, dropped, and lay on his face in the mud, stunned and insensible.

A rattle of stones was the first thing that he heard on coming to his senses. He stirred, tried to rise, but found that he was tied hand and foot. The rattle of stones still continued. He looked up and saw a man, just in front, plying a shovel furiously, digging away at the new fall.

The utter lunacy of this performance did more than anything else to restore Frank to the use of his faculties.

'You idiot!' he cried, sharply. 'Stop it!'

The man turned. He was a gaunt, weather-beaten person of about forty— distinctly an ugly-looking customer.

'Stop it,' said Frank again in a louder voice. 'Wot's the matter with you?' growled the other, turning threateningly. 'I thought I'd give you your dose.'

'Dose, indeed!' retorted Frank. 'It's you who will get the dose if you go on digging like that. You'll have the whole roof down on top of us. Can't you see it's absolutely rotten?'

His outburst was so vigorous it seemed to convince the other that something was really amiss.

'You're not kidding me?'' he demanded. 'You'll soon find whether I'm kidding if you take out about three more shovelfuls.'

The man stopped digging and stared heavily at Frank.

'What do you think you're after, anyhow?' went on the latter, sarcastically. 'There's nothing in there but tin ore, and you won't get enough of that to make your fortune.'

'Nothing in there but ore, eh? That's all you know about it,' retorted the other. 'There's―'

He stopped short, scowling, apparently afraid that he had already said too much. Then with sudden resolution: 'Anyways, I'm a-going to have it out, so you can just keep your mouth shut. See?'

He turned again to the fall, and once more raised his shovel. Frank grew desperate. He had now pretty well recovered from the effects of the blow on his head. At all costs he must escape, for he knew the roof was bound to fall in a few moments. He tried to roll away, but found it impossible.

There was a heavy thud, a rattle of stones. For a moment a cloud of dust hid everything. Then he saw the lag leaning against one wall of the tunnel with blood running down his forehead.

'Now will you believe me?' demanded Frank, fiercely.

'I got to, I s'pose,' answered the man, ruefully, as he wiped the blood away with an unclean handkerchief.

'Look here,' said Frank. 'If there really is anything in there I can get it our for you. But you'll have to untie be first―'

'I thinks I sees myself,' retorted the other.

'Well, do as you like, you obstinate fool,' answered Frank. 'You can't do anything yourself; you don't want help. What do you want?'

The fellow was silent. He. had moved back nearer to Frank.

'How would you go about it?' he asked, presently. 'I'll tell you nothing. I'll make no terms at all until you untie me.'

'Ho, and then you'll bunk and send word to the police, eh?'

'You're bigger than me, and, besides, you've cracked my head. You ought to be able to stop me if you think that's what I'm after.'

The man paused a few seconds. 'Orl right,' he said, sulkily, and began to loosen the knots.

A minute later Frank rose stiffly to his feet. 'Now come back out of the tunnel,' he said. 'It's all right,' he added, as the other hesitated. 'I won't give you up. You have my word on that.'

'Straight, guvnor?'

'Straight. Come to the house, and I dare say we can find some food. You look as if you needed it.'

'Food! I could eat an ox.'

He did eat nearly a pound of bacon, a loaf of bread, and half a bottle of pickles. He also drank a quart of cider. He looked almost grateful when he had finished his enormous meal.

'Now,' said Frank, briefly, 'you can either go about your business, or you can tell me what you were after in the mine there.'

The man scratched his cropped head ruefully. 'Strikes me I ain't got no choice. Well, it's 'alves, guvnor. Does that go?'

'Depends on what you mean by halves. Am I to understand there's something valuable hidden in the adit?'

'Valuable, you say? Matter o' twelve thousand o' the best.'

Frank started and stared hard at the other. 'It's the truth, guv'nor. I'm not balmy. See here, you've treated me straight. I'll pitch you the whole yarn.' He paused a moment. 'Ever heard o' Dick Brunt?' he began.

Frank frowned thoughtfully. 'Y-yes, seems to me I have. Wasn't he the man who was sentenced for a big jewel robbery three or four years ago?'

'That's right, guv'nor. And the bloke in question is your 'umble. It was AIleyne's, down to Plymouth below there, as I cracked, and a pretty tidy haul I made. The p'lice was arter me at once, and I couldn't get out o' the country. My father, he used to work up here to Chapplecombe, so I knowed the place was deserted, and I reckoned it were just the crib to hide the swag.

'I stowed it away all right, but, like a fool, I kep' a couple o' small stones, meaning to sell 'em for the price of a ticket up to town. I were nabbed with them on me, put up at Exeter 'Sizes, an' sent up for a five years' stretch. Yesterday my time was up, and that's all there is to it.'

Frank gazed thoughtfully at Mr. Dick Brunt. 'So you are suggesting that we should dig out your spoil and share it up?'

'That's right, mister.'

Frank laughed. 'I suppose it doesn't strike you that I, too, should be qualifying for five years' hard?'

'No one won't know,' said Brunt, reassuringly. 'Perhaps not. Still, I hardly think it would work, Mr. Brunt.'

'Then you turns me down?' exclaimed Brunt, threateningly.

'Sit down and keep quiet,' ordered Frank. 'Even if I did agree to your preposterous suggestion, what good do you think you'd do, touring the country in those rags, with six thousand pounds' worth of uncut stones in your pocket? You'd go far, wouldn't you?'

Brunt's face fell. 'You'd have to give me a change of togs,' he muttered.

'No, I wouldn't; but I will on conditions. Sit still,' he broke off sharply, 'and listen to me. There was a reward offered, wasn't there?'

'Aye. A thousand,' answered Brunt, sulkily.

'I thought so. Well, here are my terms. I'll get the end of the adit propped, I'll dig the stuff out, and I'll take it back to Alleyne's and claim the reward.'

'And wot about me?'

'Don't interrupt. I haven't finished yet. Meantime I'll give you a change of clothes and a couple of pounds. When you've reached your home, wherever that may be, you can send me your address, and I'll forward you five hundred— that is, half the reward. Do you agree?'

'How do I know you'll play straight?' growled Brunt.

'How do I know that the stones are really there?' retorted Frank.

'You got my word fer it.'

'And you've got mine that you'll get the cash.'

Brunt considered the matter frowningly. 'Orl right,' he said at last. 'I'll trust you. All the same, it's a wicked waste of good money.'

'Better than a wicked waste of several years and liberty,' returned Frank. 'Now you wait here and I'll find you a change. The further you are from this by daylight the better for you. The chances are that the police are watching you, and if they spot you here it's mighty little of the reward you'll see or— of anything else.'

'That's right,' said Brunt, quite humbly.

TWENTY minutes later a man in a neat if somewhat worn serge suit and a soft felt hat slipped quietly out of the front door of the bungalow. The smartest policeman would never have taken him for the grimy, muddy wreck whom Frank had encountered in the mine. He went straight away across the moor and disappeared in the darkness.

A few minutes later Frank came out. He was in rough mining kit, and had a strip of plaster on his head. Owing to the low pitch of the roof Brunt's blow had, fortunately, done him little harm. He went straight down to the old adit, and began by carrying in several stout pit props which were stacked outside.

It was broad daylight before he came out again. He sat down upon a boulder, took a small, damp-stained, wash-leather bag from his pocket, and poured out into the other hand a stream of small, dull-looking, but heavy pebbles.

'H'm, they don't look much, but they're evidently the goods,' he observed, thoughtfully. 'Five hundred!' he continued. 'Three hundred for the leat, a hundred for new machinery, and a hundred for―' His tired face lit up.

'Jove, I'll go and tell Dora,' he exclaimed, and sprang to his feet as blithely as a boy.

_______________

16: The Arrest of Captain Vandaleur

L T Meade and Robert Eustace

Harmsworth Magazine, July 1894

ONE SOFT spring day in April I received a hurried message from Miss Cusack asking me to see her immediately.

It was a Sunday, I remember, and the trees were just putting on their first green. I arrived at the house in Kensington Park Gardens between four and five o'clock, and was admitted at once into the presence of my hostess. I found her in her library, a large room on the ground floor fitted with books from wainscot to ceiling, and quite unlike the ordinary boudoir of a fashionable lady.

'It is very good of you to come, Dr Lonsdale, and if it were not that my necessities are pressing, you may be sure I would not ask you to visit me on Sunday.'

'I am delighted to render you any assistance in my power,' I answered; 'and Sunday is not quite such a busy day with me as others.'

'I want you to see a patient for me.'

'A patient?' I cried.

'Yes; his name is Walter Farrell, and he and his young wife are my special friends; his wife has been my friend since her school-days. I want you to see him and also Mrs Farrell. Mrs Farrell is very ill – another doctor might do for her what you can do, but my real reason for asking you to visit her is in the hope that you may save the husband. When you see him you may think it strange of me to call him a patient, for his disease is more moral than mental, and is certainly not physical. His wife is very ill, and he still loves her. Low as he has sunk, I believe that he would make an effort, a gigantic effort, for her sake.'

'But in what does the moral insanity consist?' I asked.

'Gambling,' she replied, leaning forward and speaking eagerly. 'It is fast ruining him body and soul. The case puzzles me,' she continued. 'Mr Farrell is a rich man, but if he goes on as he is now doing he will soon be bankrupt. The largest fortune could not stand the drain he puts upon it. He is deliberately ruining both himself and his wife.'

'What form does his gambling take?' I asked.

'Horse racing.'

'And is he losing money.'

'He is now, but last year he unfortunately won large sums. This fact seems to have confirmed the habit, and now nothing, as far as we can tell, will check his downward career. He has become the partner of a bookmaker, Mr Rashleigh― they call themselves "Turf Commission Agents". They have taken a suite of rooms in Pall Mall, and do a large business. Disaster is, of course, inevitable, and for the sake of his wife I want to save him, and I want you to help me.'

'I will do what I can, of course, but I am puzzled to know in what way I can be of service. Men affected with moral diseases are quite out of an ordinary doctor's sphere.'

'All the same it is in your power to do something. But listen, I have not yet come to the end of my story. I have other reasons, and oddly enough they coincide. I know the history of the man whom Walter Farrell is in partnership with. I know it, although at present I am powerless to expose him. Mr Rashleigh is a notorious swindler. He has been in some mysterious way making enormous sums of money by means of horse-racing, and I have been asked to help the Criminal Investigation Department in the matter. The fact of poor Walter Farrell being in his power has given me an additional incentive to effect his exposure. Had it not been for this I should have refused to have anything to do with the matter.'

'What are Rashleigh's methods of working!' I asked.

'I will tell you. I presume you understand the principles of horse-racing?'

'A few of them,' I answered.

'Mr Rashleigh's method is this: He poses as a bookmaker in want of capital. He has had several victims, and Mr Farrell is his last. In past cases, when he secured his victim, he entered into partnership with him, took a place in the West End, and furnished it luxuriously. One of the Exchange Telegraph Company's tape machines which record the runners, winners, and the starting prices of the horses was introduced. As a matter of course betting men arrived, and for a time everything went well, and the firm made a good business. By degrees, however, they began to lose― time after time the clients backed winners for large sums, and Rashleigh and his partner finally failed. They were both apparently ruined, but after a time Rashleigh re-appeared again, got a fresh victim, and the whole thing went on as before. His present victim is Walter Farrell, and the end is inevitable.'

'But what does it mean?' I said. 'Are the clients who back the horses really conspirators in league with Rashleigh? Do you mean to imply that they make large sums and then share the profits with Rashleigh afterwards?'

'I think it highly probable, although I know nothing. But here comes the gist of the problem. In all the cases against this man it has been clearly proved that one client in particular wins to an extraordinary extent. Now, how in the name of all that is marvellous does this client manage to get information as to what horse will win for certain? and if this were possible in one case, why should he not go and break the ring at once?'

'You are evidently well up in turf affairs,' I replied, laughing, 'but frauds on the turf are so abundant that there is probably some simple explanation to the mystery.'

'But there is not,' she replied, somewhat sharply. 'Let me explain more fully, and then you will see that the chances of fraud are well-nigh at the vanishing point. I was at the office myself one afternoon. Walter Farrell took me in, and I closely watched the whole thing.

'It was the day of the Grand National, and about a dozen men were present. The runners and jockeys were sent through, and were called out by Mr Farrell, who stood by the tape machine; then he drew the curtain across. I made some small bets to excuse my presence there. The others all handed in their slips to him with the names of the horses they wished to back. The machine began clicking again, the curtain was drawn round it, and I will swear no one could possibly have seen the name of the winner as it was being printed on the tape. Just at the last moment, one of the men, a Captain Vandaleur― I know of him well in connection with more than one shady affair― went to the table with a slip, and handed it in. His was the last bet.

'The curtain was drawn back, and on Captain Vandaleur's slip was the name of the winning horse backed for five hundred pounds. The price was six to one, which meant a clear loss to Walter Farrell and Mr Rashleigh of three thousand pounds. The whole transaction was apparently as fair and square as could be, but there is the fact; and as the flat-racing season is just beginning, if this goes on Walter Farrell will be ruined before Derby Day.'

'You say, Miss Cusack, that no communication from outside was possible?'

'Certainly, no one entered or left the room. Communication from without is absolutely out of the question.'

'Could the sound of the clicking convey any meaning?'

She laughed. 'Absolutely none. I had at first an idea that an old trick was being worked – that is, by collusion with the operator at the telegraph office, who waited for the winner before sending through the runners and then sent the winning horse and jockey last on the list. But it is not so – we have made enquiries and had the clerks watched. It is quite incomprehensible. I am, I confess, at my wits' end. Will you help me to save Walter Farrell?'

'I will try, but I am afraid my efforts will be useless; he would resent my interference, and very naturally.'

'His wife is ill; I have told her that you will call on her. She knows that I hope much by your influence over her husband.'

'I will certainly visit Mrs Farrell, but only as an ordinary doctor goes to see a patient.'

'I believe you will do the rest when the time comes,' she answered.

I made no reply.

She took out her watch. 'The Farrells live not ten doors from here,' she said. 'Will you visit Mrs Farrell now? Walter will in all probability be at home as it is Sunday afternoon. Ask to see Mrs Farrell; I will write my name on your card, and you will be admitted immediately.'

'And am I to come back and tell you the result?' I asked.

'As you please. I shall be very glad to see you. Much depends on what you do.'

I saw by the expression on Miss Cusack's face how intensely in earnest she was. Her enthusiasm fired mine. 'I will go at once,' I said, 'and hope that luck may be with me.'

I left the house, and a few moments later was ringing the bell of No. 15 in the same road. A butler in livery opened the door, and on enquiring for Mrs Farrell I was admitted immediately. I sent up my card, and a moment later a quiet-looking woman tripped downstairs, came to my side, and said in a gentle, suppressed sort of voice―

'My mistress is in bed, doctor, but she will be pleased to see you. Will you follow me? Come this way, please.' I followed the maid upstairs, we passed the drawing-room floor, and went up to the next storey. Here I was ushered into a large and luxuriously furnished bedroom.

In a bed drawn near one of the windows where she could see the setting sun and some of the trees in Kensington Gardens, lay the pretty girl whom I was asked to visit. She could not have been more than nineteen years of age. Her brown hair lay tossed about the pillow, and her small, smooth, unlined face made her look more child than woman. A hectic spot burned on each of her cheeks, and when I touched her hand I knew at once that she was in a feverish and almost dangerous condition.

'So Florence Cusack has sent you, Dr Lonsdale,' was her remark to me.

'I am Dr Lonsdale. What can I do for you, Mrs Farrell?'

'Give me back my strength.'

The maid withdrew to a distant part of the room. I made the ordinary examination of the patient. I asked her what her symptoms were. She described them in a few words.

'I have no pain,' she said, 'but this intolerable weakness increases day by day. It has come on most gradually, and no medicines give me the least relief. A month ago I was well enough to go out, and even walk; then I found myself too tired even to drive in a carriage, then I was too weary to come downstairs, then too prostrate to sit up. Now I stay in bed, and it tires me even to speak. Oh! I am tired of everything,' she added; 'tired of life, tired of―' her eyes filled with tears― 'tired of misery, of misery.'

To my dismay she burst into weak, hysterical crying.

'This will never do,' I said; 'you must tell me all, Mrs Farrell. As far as I can see, you have no active disease of any sort. What is the matter with you? What is consuming your life?'

'Trouble,' she said, 'and it is hopeless.'

'You must try to tell me more.'

She looked at me, dashed away her tears, and said, with a sudden spurt of spirit which I had scarcely given her credit for― 'But has not Florence Cusack told you?'

'She has certainly said something.'

'Ah, then you do know all; she said she would speak to you. My husband is downstairs in the smoking-room: go and see him― do what you can for him. Oh! he will be ruined, ruined body and soul. Save him! do save him if you can.'

'Do not excite yourself,' I said. I rose as I spoke, and laid my hand with a slight pressure on hers. 'You need not say any more. Between Miss Cusack and me your husband shall be saved. Now rest in that thought. I would not tell you a thing of this kind lightly.'

'Oh! God bless you,' murmured the poor girl.

I turned to the maid, who now came forward. 'I will write a prescription for your mistress,' I said, 'something to strengthen and calm her at the same time. You must sit up with her tonight, she is very weak.'

The maid promised. I left the room. The bright eyes of the almost dying girl followed me to the door. As I stood on the landing I no longer wondered at Miss Cusack's attitude in the matter. Surely such a case must stir the depths of the most callous heart.

I went downstairs, and unannounced entered the smoking-room. A man was lying back in a deep leather chair, near one of the windows. He was a dark, thin man, with features which in themselves were refined and handsome; but now, with the haggard lines round the mouth, in the deeply set, watchful, and somewhat narrow eyes, and in a sort of recklessness which was characterized by his untidy dress, by the very set of his tie, I guessed too surely that Miss Cusack had not exaggerated the mental condition of Mr Walter Farrell in the very least.

With a few words I introduced myself.

'You must pardon this intrusion, Mr Farrell. I am Dr Lonsdale. Miss Cusack has asked me to call and see your wife. I have just seen her; I want to say a few words to you about her.'

He looked anxious just for a moment when I mentioned his wife's name, but then a sleepy indifference crept into his eyes. He was sufficiently a gentleman, however, to show me the ordinary politeness, and motioned me to a chair. I sat down and looked full at him.

'How old is Mrs Farrell?' I said, abruptly. He stared as if he rather resented the question; then said, in a nonchalant tone―

'My wife is very young, she is not twenty yet.'

'Quite a child,' I said. 'Do you think so?'

'Yes, little more than a child – just on the verge of life. It seems very sad when the young must die.'

I would not have made use of this expression to an ordinary man, but I wanted to rouse and startle Farrell. I did so effectually. A veil seemed to drop from his eyes; they grew wide awake, restless, and agonized. He drew his chair close to mine, and bent forward.

'What do you mean? Surely there is not much the matter with Laura?'

'No active disease, and yet she is dying. I am sorry to tell you that, unless a complete change takes place immediately, she can scarcely live another week.'

Farrell sprang to his feet. 'You don't mean that!' he cried, 'my wife in danger! Dr Lonsdale, you are talking nonsense; she has no cough, she complains of nothing. She is just a bit lazy― that is what I tell her.'

'She has no strength, Mr Farrell, and without strength we cannot live. Something is eating into her life and draining it away. I will be perfectly frank with you, for in a case of life and death there is no time, nor is it right, to stand on ceremony. Your wife is dying because her heart is broken. It remains with you to save her; the case is in your hands.'

'Now what do you mean?'

'You know what I mean. She is unhappy about you. You must understand me.'

He turned very white. 'And yet I am doing all that man can for her,' he said. 'She expects me to smile always and live as a butterfly. Men have troubles and anxieties, and mine are―'

'Pretty considerable, I should say,' I continued.

'They are. Has Florence Cusack been talking to you about me?'

'I am not at liberty to answer your question.'

'You have answered it by not denying it. Florence and Laura are a pair of fools, the greatest fools that ever walked the earth.'

'You do not really think that.'

'I do think it. They want a man to do the impossible – they want a man to withdraw when – There, Dr Lonsdale, you are a man and I can talk to you. I cannot do what they want.'

'Then your wife will die.'

He began to pace up and down the room. 'I suppose you know all about my connection with Rashleigh?' he said, after a moment.

I nodded.

'Well, then you see how I am placed. Rashleigh is hard up just now; I cannot desert him in a moment like the present. We hope to recoup ourselves this very week, and as soon as such is the case I will withdraw from the business. Will that content you?'

'Why not withdraw at once?'

'I cannot; nothing will induce me to do so. It is useless our prolonging this discussion.'

I saw that I should do harm instead of good if I said anything further, and, asking for a sheet of paper, I wrote a prescription for his wife. I then left the house to return to Miss Cusack.

The moment I entered her library she came eagerly to meet me. 'Well?' she said. 'You are right,' I answered, speaking now with great impulse and earnestness. 'I am altogether with you in this matter. I have seen Mrs Farrell and I have had an interview with Farrell. The wife is dying. Nay, do not interrupt me. She is dying unless relief comes soon. I had a long talk with Farrell and put the case plainly to him. He promises to withdraw from Rashleigh's firm, but not until after this week. He sticks to this resolve, thinking that he is bound in honour to support Rashleigh, whose affairs he believes are in a critical condition. In all probability before the week is up Mrs Farrell will die. What is to be done?'

'There is only one thing to be done, Dr Lonsdale― we must open Walter Farrell's eyes. We must show him plainly that he is Mr Rashleigh's dupe.'

'How can we do that?'

'Ah! there comes the crux of the whole situation. The further I go, the more mysterious the whole thing appears. The ordinary methods which have served me before have failed. Look here.' She pointed to a page in the book of newspaper cuttings which lay by her side. 'Through channels I need not detail, I have learned that this is a communication of one of the gang to another.'

I took the book from her hands, and read the following words: 'No mistake. Sea Foam. Jockey Club.'

'Gibberish!' I said, laying the paper on the table.

'Apparently,' she answered; 'but Sea Foam is Captain Halliday's horse entered for the City and Suburban race to be run on the 21st – that is next Wednesday― at Epsom. For five continuous hours I have worked at those few words, applying to them what I already know of this matter. It has been of no good.'

'I am scarcely surprised to hear you say so. One would want second sight to put meaning into words like those.'

'Something must be done, and soon,' she said. 'We must expose this matter on Wednesday. I know that Walter Farrell has lost heavily this month. There is not an hour to be lost in trying to save Laura. We must keep up her courage until Wednesday. On Wednesday the whole fraud must be discovered, and her husband liberated. You will help me?'

'Certainly.'

'Then on Wednesday we will go together to Mr Rashleigh's office. You must bet a little to allay suspicion― a few sovereigns only. You will then see him for yourself, and― who knows?― you may be able to solve the mystery.'

I agreed to this, and soon afterwards took my leave.

I received a note from Miss Cusack on Tuesday evening, asking me to lunch with her on the following day. I went. The moment I entered her presence I was struck, and almost startled, by her manner. An extraordinary exaltation seemed to possess her. The pupils of her eyes were largely dilated, and glowed as if some light were behind them. Her face was slightly flushed, and her conversation was marked by an unusual vivacity and sparkle.

'I have been very busy since I saw you last,' she said, 'and I have now every hope that I shall succeed. I fully believe that I shall save Walter Farrell today from the hands of one of the cleverest scoundrels in London,' she said, as we crossed the hall, 'and consign the latter to penal servitude.'

I could not help being much impressed by the matter-of-fact sang-froid with which Miss Cusack spoke the last words. How was she going to obtain such big results?

'Have you no fear of personal rudeness or violence?' I asked.

'None whatever― I have made all arrangements beforehand. You will soon see for yourself.'

We partook of' lunch almost in silence. As I was returning to Miss Cusack's library afterwards I saw, seated in the hall, a short, squarely built, but well-dressed man.

'I shall be ready in a few moments, Mr Marling,' she said to him. 'Is everything prepared?'

'Everything, miss,' he replied.

Very soon afterwards we took our seats in Miss Cusack's brougham, and she explained to me that our companion was Inspector Marling, of Scotland Yard, that he was coming with us in the role of a new client for Messrs Rashleigh and Farrell, and that he had made all necessary preparations.

We drove rapidly along Knightsbridge, and, going into Piccadilly, turned down St James's Street. We stopped at last opposite a house in Pall Mall, which was to all appearance a private one. On either side of the door were brass plates bearing names, with the floor of the occupant engraved beneath. On one of the plates were the words, 'Rashleigh and Farrell, Third Floor.'

Miss Cusack pressed the bell corresponding to this plate, and in a few moments a quietly dressed man opened the door. He bowed to Miss Cusack as if he knew her, looked at Marling and me with a penetrating glance, and then admitted us. We went upstairs to the third landing, though before we reached it the deep voices of men in the commission agent's suite of rooms fell on our ears. Here we rang again, and after what seemed a long delay the door, which was hung with a heavy velvet curtain on the inner side, was slowly opened. Farrell stood before us.

'I thought it must be you,' he said, the colour mounting into his thin face. 'Come inside; we are rather a large party, as it is an important race day.'

As I entered I looked round curiously. The room was thronged with a smartly dressed crowd of men and women who were lounging about in easy-chairs and on couches. The carpet was a rich Turkey pile, and the decorations were extravagantly gorgeous. At one side of the room near the wall stood a table upon which was a small gas lamp, several slips of paper, and a Ruff's Racing Guide. At the further end of the room, set back in a recess, stood the tape machine, which intermittently clicked and whirred while a long strip of paper, recording news automatically, unrolled from the little wheel and fell in serpentine coils into a wastepaper basket beneath. At one glance I saw that, when the curtain that hung from a semicircular rod above it was drawn, no one in the room could possibly read what the wheel was printing on the tape. 'Let me introduce you to Captain Vandaleur, Dr Lonsdale,' said Miss Cusack's voice behind me. I turned and bowed to a tall, clean-shaven man, who returned my salutation with a pleasant smile.

'You are, I presume, interested in racing?' he said.

'I am in this particular race,' I answered, 'the City and Suburban. I am anxious to make a small investment, and Miss Cusack has kindly introduced me to Mr Rashleigh for the purpose.'

'What particular horse do you fancy?' he asked.

'Lime-Light,' I replied, at a venture.

'Ha! an outsider; well, you'll get twenties,' and he turned away, for at that moment the runners for the first race began to come through. Farrell stood by the tape and called them out. Several of the men present now went to the table and wrote their fancies on the slips of paper and handed them to Farrell. Vandaleur did not bet.

I watched the whole proceeding carefully, and certainly fraud of any kind seemed out of the question.

Miss Cusack was evidently to all appearance evincing the keenest interest in the proceedings, and betted pretty heavily herself, although the horse she selected did not turn out the winner. Another race followed, and then at 3.30 the runners and jockeys for the great race came through. Heavy bets were made on all sides, and at 3.40 came the magic word 'Off', to signify that the race had started.

Farrell now instantly drew the curtain round the glass case of the instrument, while the bets continued to be made. Some were very heavy, running to hundreds of pounds. In a few moments the machine began clicking and whirring again, probably announcing the name of the winning horse.

'Have you all made your bets, gentlemen?' said Farrell.

'One moment,' cried Vandaleur, going to the table and writing out a slip.

'It's a poor chance, I know; but nothing venture, nothing win. Here goes for a monkey each way Sea Foam― and chance it.'

He crossed the room and handed Farrell the slip.

'All right, Vandaleur,' he replied, 'plunging heavily as usual. Now then, anyone else want to bet?. I am going to draw back the curtain.'

No one answered. Farrell's face was pale, and an unmistakable air of nervousness pervaded him. Everyone pressed eagerly forward in order to be as close as possible to the instrument. Each man craned and peered over the other's shoulder. Farrell snatched back the curtain, and a shout of 'Sea Foam first!' rang through the room.

I looked at Miss Cusack. She was still standing by the table, and bending over the chimney of the gas-lamp. At this instant she turned and whispered a few words to Inspector Marling. He left the room quietly and unnoticed in the buzz of conversation that ensued. Sea Foam's price was twenty to one, and Vandaleur had therefore scored £12,500.

I went up to Farrell, who was standing near the tape machine. I saw drops of perspiration on his forehead, and his face was like death.

'I am afraid this is a heavy blow to you,' I said. He laughed with an assumption of nonchalance, then he looked me in the face and said slowly, 'It is. Vandaleur is invariably lucky.'

He had scarcely spoken the words before Inspector Marling reappeared. His face betrayed that something exciting was about to happen. What it was I could not guess. The next moment he had crossed the room, and going straight up to Vandaleur laid his hand on his shoulder, and said in a loud voice that rang through the room―

'Captain Vandaleur, I arrest you for conspiracy, and for fraudulently obtaining money by means of a trick.'

If a thunderbolt had fallen it could hardly have caused greater consternation. Vandaleur started back. 'Who are you? What do you mean?' he cried.

'I am Inspector Marling, of Scotland Yard. Your game is up; you had better come quietly.'

The room was now in the utmost confusion. Two other men had made a dash for the door, only to fall into the arms of two officers who were waiting for them outside.

Farrell, with an ashen face, stood like one struck dumb.

'For God's sake explain it all,' he said at last.

'Certainly,' answered Miss Cusack; 'it is simply this: You have been a dupe in one of the most daring and subtle frauds ever conceived. Come this way, I will show you everything.'

As she spoke she led the way from the room and up the stairs which led to the fourth floor. We all followed her and entered a room which was over the one we had just left. It was barely furnished as an office, and to our utter surprise it contained another tape machine, which was working like the one below.

'Dr Lonsdale,' said Miss Cusack, 'you remember the advertisement? "No mistake. Sea Foam. Jockey Club." '

'Perfectly,' I answered.

'When Jockey Club is mentioned in connection with horse-racing, one would naturally suppose that the Jockey Club was meant,' she continued. 'That was what puzzled me so long. But there is another kind of Jockey Club. Look here.'

She pointed to an open box containing several small bottles, and took one out. Removing the glass stopper, she handed it to me.

'Do you recognize that scent?' she asked, as I sniffed at it. 'Perfectly,' I replied. 'Jockey Club, isn't it? Still, I feel in utter bewilderment.'

'Now I will explain what it means, and you will all, gentlemen, see how abilities can be used for the purposes of crime.'

She went across to a little square deal table that stood in the corner, and moved it aside. Behind one of the legs which had effectually concealed it was what appeared to be an ordinary piece of gas-pipe that passed through the floor. The upper end of it was open and was fitted with a screw for a nut.

'Now see, all of you,' she cried, 'this pipe communicates with the lamp on the table in the room below. When the gas is turned off downstairs there is a free passage. The man who keeps this office, and who, I fear, has contrived to escape, is in league with Captain Vandaleur, and both are, or rather were, in league with Rashleigh. These three scoundrels had a code, and this was their code. As soon as the winner came through, and the machine up here communicated the fact to the man in this room, a certain scent corresponding to a certain horse was sent down through the gas-pipe.

'In this case Jockey Club corresponded to Sea Foam. By means of this spray pump the vapour of the scent was passed down through the pipe to the lamp in the room below. Captain Vandaleur had only to bend over the chimney to get the scent, and write out the name of the horse which it corresponded to.'

To express our unbounded astonishment and our admiration for Miss Cusack's clever solving of the mystery would require more space than I have at my disposal. As to poor Farrell, his eyes were completely opened; he looked at us all with a wild stare, and the next moment I heard him dashing downstairs.

'But how did you discover it? What made you think of it?' I said to Miss Cusack some hours later.

'Ah! that is my secret. That I cannot explain to you, at least not yet,' was her reply.

Rashleigh and Vandaleur have been arrested, and both are now undergoing the punishment they so richly deserve. Farrell has learned his lesson: he has given up horse racing, and Mrs Farrell has recovered her strength, and also her youth and beauty.

____________________

17: A Strange Goldfield

Guy Boothby

From  The Lady of the Island, 1904

OF course nine out of every ten intelligent persons will refuse to believe that there could be a grain of truth in the story I am now going to tell you. The tenth may have some small faith in my veracity, but what I think of his intelligence I am going to keep to myself.

In a certain portion of a certain Australian Colony two miners, when out prospecting in what was then, as now, one of the dreariest parts of the Island Continent, chanced upon a rich find.

They applied to Government for the usual reward, and in less than a month three thousand people were settled on the Field. What privations they had to go through to get there, and the miseries they had to endure when they did reach their journey's end, have only a remote bearing on this story, but they would make a big book.

I should explain that between Railhead and the Field was a stretch of country some three hundred miles in extent. It was badly watered, vilely grassed, and execrably timbered. What was even worse, a considerable portion of it was made up of red sand, and everybody who has been compelled to travel over that knows what it means. Yet these enthusiastic seekers after wealth pushed on, some on horseback, some in bullock-wagons, but the majority travelled on foot; the graves, and the skeletons of cattle belonging to those who had preceded them punctuating the route, and telling them what they might expect as they advanced.

That the Field did not prove a success is now a matter of history, but that same history, if you read between the lines, gives one some notion of what the life must have been like while it lasted. The water supply was entirely insufficient, provisions were bad and ruinously expensive; the men themselves were, as a rule, the roughest of the rough, while the less said about the majority of the women the better. Then typhoid stepped in and stalked like the Destroying Angel through the camp. Its inhabitants went down like sheep in a drought, and for the most part rose no more. Where there had been a lust of gold there was now panic, terror—every man feared that he might be the next to be attacked, and it was only the knowledge of those terrible three hundred miles that separated them from civilisation that kept many of them on the Field. The most thickly populated part was now the cemetery. Drink was the only solace, and under its influence such scenes were enacted as I dare not describe. As they heard of fresh deaths, men shook their fists at Heaven, and cursed the day when they first saw pick or shovel. Some, bolder than the rest, cleared out just as they stood; a few eventually reached civilisation, others perished in the desert. At last the Field was declared abandoned, and the dead were left to take their last long sleep, undisturbed by the clank of windlass or the blow of pick.

IT would take too long to tell all the different reasons that combined to draw me out into that 'most distressful country'. Let it suffice that our party consisted of a young Englishman named Spicer, a wily old Australian bushman named Matthews, and myself. We were better off than the unfortunate miners, inasmuch as we were travelling with camels, and our outfits were as perfect as money and experience could make them. The man who travels in any other fashion in that country is neither more nor less than a madman. For a month past we had been having a fairly rough time of it, and were then on our way south, where we had reason to believe rain had fallen, and, in consequence, grass was plentiful. It was towards evening when we came out of a gully in the ranges and had our first view of the deserted camp. We had no idea of its existence, and for this reason we pulled up our animals and stared at it in complete surprise. Then we pushed on again, wondering what on earth place we had chanced upon.

'This is all right,' said Spicer, with a chuckle. 'We're in luck. Grog shanties and stores, a bath, and perhaps girls.'

I shook my head.

'I can't make it out,' I said. 'What's it doing out here?'

Matthews was looking at it under his hand, and, as I knew that he had been out in this direction on a previous occasion, I asked his opinion.

'It beats me,' he replied; 'but if you ask me what I think I should say it's Gurunya, the Field that was deserted some four or five years back.'

'Look here,' cried Spicer, who was riding a bit on our left, 'what are all these things—graves, as I'm a living man. Here, let's get out of this. There are hundreds of them and before I know where I am old Polyphemus here will be on his nose.'

What he said was correct—the ground over which we were riding was literally bestrewn with graves, some of which had rough, tumbledown head boards, others being destitute of all adornment. We turned away and moved on over safer ground in the direction of the Field itself.

Such a pitiful sight I never want to see again. The tents and huts, in numerous cases, were still standing, while the claims gaped at us on every side like new-made graves. A bullock dray, weather-worn but still in excellent condition, stood in the main street outside a grog shanty whose sign-board, strange incongruity, bore the name of 'The Killarney Hotel'. Nothing would suit Spicer but that he must dismount and go in to explore. He was not long away, and when he returned it was with a face as white as a sheet of paper.

'You never saw such a place,' he almost whispered. 'All I want to do is to get out of it. There's a skeleton on the floor in the back room with an empty rum bottle alongside it.'

He mounted, and, when his beast was on its feet once more, we went on our way. Not one of us was sorry when we had left the last claim behind us.

HALF a mile or so from the Field the country begins to rise again. There is also a curious cliff away to the left, and, as it looked like being a likely place to find water, we resolved to camp there. We were within a hundred yards or so of this cliff when an exclamation from Spicer attracted my attention.

'Look!' he cried. 'What's that?'

I followed the direction in which he was pointing, and, to my surprise, saw the figure of a man running as if for his life among the rocks. I have said the figure of a man, but, as a matter of fact, had there been baboons in the Australian bush, I should have been inclined to have taken him for one.

'This is a day of surprises,' I said. 'Who can the fellow be? And what makes him act like that?'

We still continued to watch him as he proceeded on his erratic course along the base of the cliff—then he suddenly disappeared.

'Let's get on to camp,' I said, 'and then we'll go after him and endeavour to settle matters a bit.'

Having selected a place we off-saddled and prepared our camp. By this time it was nearly dark, and it was very evident that, if we wanted to discover the man we had seen, it would be wise not to postpone the search too long. We accordingly strolled off in the direction he had taken, keeping a sharp look-out for any sign of him. Our search, however, was not successful. The fellow had disappeared without leaving a trace of his whereabouts behind him, and yet we were all certain that we had seen him. At length we returned to our camp for supper, completely mystified. As we ate our meal we discussed the problem and vowed that, on the morrow, we would renew the search. Then the full moon rose over the cliff, and the plain immediately became well-nigh as bright as day. I had lit my pipe and was stretching myself out upon my blankets when something induced me to look across at a big rock, some half-dozen paces from the fire. Peering round it, and evidently taking an absorbing interest in our doings, was the most extraordinary figure I have ever beheld. Shouting something to my companions, I sprang to my feet and dashed across at him. He saw me and fled. Old as he apparently was, he could run like a jack-rabbit, and, though I have the reputation of being fairly quick on my feet, I found that I had all my work cut out to catch him. Indeed, I am rather doubtful as to whether I should have done so at all had he not tripped and measured his length on the ground. Before he could get up I was on him.

'I've got you at last, my friend,' I said. 'Now you just come along back to the camp, and let us have a look at you.'

In reply he snarled like a dog and I believe would have bitten me had I not held him off. My word, he was a creature, more animal than man, and the reek of him was worse than that of our camels. From what I could tell he must have been about sixty years of age—was below the middle height, had white eyebrows, white hair and a white beard. He was dressed partly in rags and partly in skins, and went barefooted like a black fellow. While I was overhauling him the others came up—whereupon we escorted him back to the camp.

'What wouldn't Barnum give for him?' said Spicer. 'You're a beauty, my friend, and no mistake. What's your name?'

The fellow only grunted in reply—then, seeing the pipes in our mouths, a curious change came over him, and he muttered something that resembled 'Give me.'

'Wants a smoke,' interrupted Matthew's. 'Poor beggar's been without for a long time, I reckon. Well, I've got an old pipe, so he can have a draw.'

He procured one from his pack saddle, filled it and handed it to the man, who snatched it greedily and began to puff away at it.

'How long have you been out here?' I asked, when he had squatted himself down alongside the fire.

'Don't know,' he answered, this time plainly enough.

'Can't you get back?' continued Matthews, who knew the nature of the country on the other side.

'Don't want to,' was the other's laconic reply. 'Stay here.'

I heard Spicer mutter, 'Mad—mad as a March hare.'

We then tried to get out of him where he hailed from, but he had either forgotten or did not understand. Next we inquired how he managed to live. To this he answered readily enough, 'Carnies.'

Now the carny is a lizard of the iguana type, and eaten raw would be by no means an appetizing dish. Then came the question that gives me my reason for telling this story. It was Spicer who put it.

'You must have a lonely time of it out here,' said the latter. 'How do you manage for company?'

'There is the Field,' he said, 'as sociable a Field as you'd find.'

'But the Field's deserted, man,' I put in. 'And has been for years.'

The old fellow shook his head.

'As sociable a Field as ever you saw,' he repeated. 'There's Sailor Dick and 'Frisco, Dick Johnson, Cockney Jim, and half a hundred of them. They're taking it out powerful rich on the Golden South, so I heard when I was down at "The Killarney", a while back.'

IT was plain to us all that the old man was, as Spicer had said, as mad as a hatter. For some minutes he rambled on about the Field, talking rationally enough, I must confess that is to say, it would have seemed rational enough if we hadn't known the true facts of the case. At last he got on to his feet, saving. 'Well, I must be going—they'll be expecting me. It's my shift on with Cockney Jim.'

'But you don't work at night,' growled Matthews, from the other side of the fire.

'We work always,' the other replied. 'If you don't believe me, come and see for yourselves.'

'I wouldn't go back to that place for anything,' said Spicer.

But I must confess that my curiosity had been aroused, and I determined to go, if only to see what this strange creature did when he got there. Matthews decided to accompany me, and, not wishing to be left alone, Spicer at length agreed to do the same. Without looking round, the old fellow led the way across the plain towards the Field. Of all the nocturnal excursions I have made in my life, that was certainly the most uncanny. Not once did our guide turn his head, but pushed on at a pace that gave us some trouble to keep up with him. It was only when we came to the first claim that he paused.

'Listen,' he said, 'and you can hear the camp at work. Then you'll believe me.'

We did listen, and as I live we could distinctly hear the rattling of sluice-boxes and cradles, the groaning of windlasses—in fact, the noise you hear on a goldfield at the busiest hour of the day.

We moved a little closer, and, believe me or not, I swear to you I could see, or thought I could see, the shadowy forms of men moving about in that ghostly moonlight. Meanwhile the wind sighed across the plain, flapping what remained of the old tents and giving an additional touch of horror to the general desolation. I could hear Spicer's teeth chattering behind me, and, for my own part, I felt as if my blood were turning to ice.

'That's the claim, the Golden South, away to the right there,' said the old man, 'and if you will come along with me, I'll introduce you to my mates.'

But this was an honour we declined, and without hesitation. I wouldn't have gone any further among those tents for the wealth of all the Indies.

'I've had enough of this,' said Spicer, and I can tell you I hardly recognised his voice. 'Let's get back to camp.'

BY this time our guide had left us, and was making his way in the direction he had indicated.

We could plainly hear him addressing imaginary people as he marched along. As for ourselves, we turned about and hurried back to our camp as fast as we could go.

Once there, the grog bottle was produced, and never did three men stand more in need of stimulants. Then we set to work to find some explanation of what we had seen, or had fancied we saw. But it was impossible. The wind might have rattled the old windlasses, but it could not be held accountable for those shadowy grey forms that had moved about among the claims.

'I give it up,' said Spicer, at last. 'I know that I never want to see it again. What's more, I vote that we clear out of here to-morrow morning.'

We all agreed, and then retired to our blankets, but for my part I do not mind confessing I scarcely slept a wink all night. The thought that that hideous old man might be hanging about the camp would alone be sufficient for that.

NEXT morning, as soon as it was light, we breakfasted, but, before we broke camp, Matthews and I set off along the cliff in an attempt to discover our acquaintance of the previous evening.

Though, however, we searched high and low for upwards of an hour, no success rewarded us. By mutual consent we resolved not to look for him on the Field. When we returned to Spicer we placed such tobacco and stores as we could spare under the shadow of the big rock, where the Mystery Man would be likely to see them, then mounted our camels and resumed our journey, heartily glad to be on our way once more.

Gurunya Goldfield is a place I never desire to visit again. I don't like its population.

____________________

18: Amphistamium Formosum

Barry Pain

Telegraph (Brisbane) 1 Dec 1917

IN THE AUTUMN Mr. Hopper showed bulbs in his shop window. It was an artistic display. The bulbs were in blue and white bowls. Each bowl had a label giving the correct Latin name of the bulbs within it, interspersed by coloured illustrations depleting the glories which purchasers of those bulbs might expect in the ensuing spring. Mr. Hopper knew everything about bulbs, and was always willing to give the amateur good advice. But when Mr. Hopper was out, his place was taken by Horace.

Horace knew as much as anybody has a right to expect for twenty-one shillings a week. His manner was dignified, but nobody would at sight have mistaken him for the inventor of gunpowder.

The pretty school girl, on her way down the street, paused and looked at those bulbs with dreamy and thoughtful eyes. She also obtained a glimpse of the interior of the shop, and of Horace. When she saw Horace, her mouth twitched a little and her eyes sparkled. Quietly and demurely she left the bulb shop and stepped into the post office. Inside the post office she took a telegraph form to which she was not entitled, tore off two blank margins very neatly, used the post office pen and ink to write what she required on those slips of paper, and then walked out again. She had placed the slips in her purse, and she returned to the bulb shop.

Horace straightened himself up as she entered. Alert activity beamed from his small eyes. He placed both hands on the counter and smiled. His eagerness to oblige in every possible way was almost pathetic.

"Good morning," said the girl shyly.

"Good morning, miss," said Horace encouragingly.

"I wanted," said the girl,' "to buy some amphistamium formosum."

Horace felt as if he had been punched violently in the waistcoat, but he gave no outward sign of disquiet, it not the first time he had had trouble with the Latin names of these things. There was a catalogue, and all would be well. It was Mr. Hopper's proud boast that he stocked every variety of bulb.

"Certainly, miss," said Horace — "amphiblamiums. And about what quantity would you require."

"Amphistamium, I said."

"Quite so. Stamium, of course. My error."

"Well," said the girl, "the amount would have to depend rather on the price. Of course, I should want large bulbs."

"Quite right, miss. You will find them much more satisfactory."

"Yes," said the girl. "We had small amphistamiums one year, and we found them so small."

Horace decided in his own mind that this was not an intelligent school girl, but he did not check his flow of politeness. He agreed with her fulsomely.

"Last year," she said, "we had to pay five shillings a bulb for amphistamium formosum. Of course, they were fine bulbs. I was wondering whether they were any cheaper this year."

"I could not say off-hand," Horace confessed. "They might be, but then, again, they might not. Of course, the price of those things does vary slightly from season to season. We deal in a very large way with Holland, and you may be confident that the prices are us low here as you will get anywhere."

The girl looked a little anxious.

"Holland?" she said. "But papa said I was to be certain to get the Berlin bulbs."

"Quite so," said Horace feverishly. "I only mentioned Holland in a general way. Our amphinamiums―"

"Amphistamiums," said the girl.

"Exactly. Our amphistamiums are all Berlin, of course. We keep no inferior sorts. If you would not mind writing the name down, I will, see exactly what the price is of that variety."

Tho girl opened her purse and took out one of the slips.

"I have got it written down already," she said. She showed it him, but she did not give him the slip.

"Oh, yes, that's it," said Horace— "amphistamium formosum. I will not detain you one minute, if you will kindly take a seat."

The girl kindly took a seat. "I suppose," she said, "that is the variety you would recommend?"

"Well," said Horace indulgently, "as a matter of fact, with those amphistamiums, It is very much a matter of individual taste. Some prefer one thing, and some another. Still, if I were buying for myself— well, I should get the formosum every time."

He repeated that he would not detain her for a minute, and retired to the desk where the catalogues were. He consulted a nice big catalogue and drew blank. He came back to the girl. "Let me see, miss," he said — "it was amphistamium formosum you said."

"Yes, that's right," said the girl sweetly.

"I wanted to be quite sure," said the man. "You see, when one has seven or eight thousand of those Latin names in one's head, there is just a possibility that one might make a mistake."

He said once more that he would not detain her one minute, and tried the second catalogue. The second catalogue likewise knew nothing whatever about amphistamium formosum, but he was far too cunning a man to give that way. He had an implicit trust in Mr. Hooper.

"There seems to be a little doubt about what the actual price is to be this year," he said to the girl. "Mr. Hooper himself will be back again in a minute, then I could get him to settle it. Perhaps you will just leave that slip with me, if it were convenient, you might call in again, or, of course, we could send."

"Thank you very much. I will call in again," said the girl. "It will be no trouble. Here is the name."

She put a folded slip on the counter, but it was not the slip on which she had written amphistamium formosum. It bore a totally different inscription.

Thirty seconds after tho girl had left the shop, Mr. Hooper entered.

"A young lady was in here just now, sir, asking for a bulb which, to tell the truth, I didn't rightly know about"

"Ah!" said Mr. Hopper gloomily.

"And I can't find It in the catalogues, either. I got her to leave the name of it on a bit of paper. I thought perhaps you would know. Here it is."

He handed Mr. Hopper the folded slip. Mr. Hopper opened it, adjusted his spectacles, and read as follows: —

"One pint pure pigeon's milk (giganicum)."

"Are you playing the fool with me?"' said Mr. Hopper sternly.

"No, sir," said Horace.

"Then that young lady has been playing the fool with you. Look at this."

Horace looked at it.

"Very good, sir. She said she was coming back. She won't play the fool with me twice."

"No, she won't," said Mr. Hopper sourly, "because she won't come back. Well I never thought you were smart"

Mr. Hopper passed into his inner office.

Meanwhile the girl had got into an omnibus, travelled for a quarter of a mile, and then asked if she was going in the opposite direction. Finding that she was not, she got out without paying. She then repeated the process with another omnibus, which took her back to the bulb shop again. She had always had a partiality for inexpensive amusements.

Horace was surprised to see the girl again. That air of eager service had departed from him now. He frowned and looked deadly. The girl approached him with a most penitential air.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said. "I've only just found it out. I left the wrong slip here. The one I left was just a silly joke some other girl was playing off on me. I do hope it has not caused you any inconvenience."

"Well, miss," said Horace, "I couldn't make it out. People don't, as a rule, try to play the fool with me."

"But that is not the worst," said tho girl. "I gave you the name of the bulb wrong. It is not amphistamium formosum, but it is almost exactly like that. That is how I came to make the mistake."

Horace was resigned but suspicious. "And what was the name almost exactly like that?" he asked.

"Well―" The girl hesitated.

"What was it you wanted to buy?" asked Horace. "This is a shop, you know. What was it you wanted to buy?"

"Eer— turnips."

"Mr. Hopper," shouted the young man, "I'll just trouble you to come here a moment to speak to this young lady."

Mr. Hopper came, but, when he arrived, the girl was no longer in the shop. So he spoke to Horace instead. He said quite a lot of things to Horace.

The day school which the girl attended was not her first school. She had been through two governesses and three schools, and they had all been compelled to give it up. The authorities at her present school said that she was not altogether without ability, but they had already begun to complain that her behaviour was erratic.

That afternoon her behaviour was peculiarly erratic. On three separate occasions she was sent out of the room for suddenly breaking into loud laughter and being unable to assign any adequate cause for it. All she could say was that she was thinking of something.

_______________________

19: Proofs of  Guilt

Cosmo Hamilton

1870-1942

Sun (Sydney) 14 April 1940

SHE said: "That picture seems to enchant you. You've been gazing for a quarter of an hour."

There was a mirror off the staircase. It confirmed the fact that there was a living picture at which he might better have looked. She had taken great pain with her hair.

It was his way to carry a magnifying glass wherever there were pictures— those which hung on a wall. He put it away and turned.

"It enchants and astounds me," he said, and then used all his strength to hide a great dismay.

He had headed across the gallery to be refreshed by a famous Hals. It was the gem of the superb collection of Cornells van den Bergh. It was in a shaft of sun, and he had seen, after many moments of rending disbelief, that it was not that master's work. It was a copy, wonderfully done. Without the slightest argument, as his little glass had proved, the cracks on the canvas were paint.

"Good lord!" he thought. "What now? It's certain that the owner doesn't know the thing's a fake. He bragged about it at lunch. It was hung, he said, by the van den Bergh of the Franz Hals period. Who made the copy and when? How in the name of mischief was it sneaked into that frame? Where's the original? It would happen to me to discover this ghastly thing—loathing mysteries."

"What's the matter?"

"Why?"

"You look a bit scared, that's all."

He thanked his stars for the entrance of Baroness van a den Bergh. It gave him a natural reason to avoid her sister's eyes. The object of her attention was promoted from the ranks, but her eyes blew the locks of the mind.

His hostess had changed her frock. He had come to Holland to paint her. At lunch there had been a discussion as to what she was to wear. It had lasted from soup to nuts. He had asked for something black— a contrast to her youth. An evening thing with a train was best, devoid of sleeves if possible, because her arms, like all the rest of her, were too lovely to hide. And so here she was in a creation of intricate simplicity from Luthorne's in New York.

"What about it?" she asked. It was perfectly charming, she knew.

"Perfectly charming," he said.

She had always liked this man. "But where are all your gadgets? Aren't you going to work?"

"I must ask for patience." he said, and walked round in widening circles. with stern examining eyes. And all the while he was thinking, "What the devil am I to do? It's undoubtedly a fake. There's a criminal's hand in this. Am I to let it out or leave the damn thing alone?"

It was a ticklish hole to be in. All the more difficult and delicate because no man is so objectionable as the one who knows more than oneself. He liked and was liked by the van den Berghs, and Cornells was a collector who was rightly proud of his things. Suddenly to announce to him that his Hals was not a Hals, and then proceed to prove it by lending him his glass, would destroy the friendly feeling in that rather regal house, and friendliness was vital if the portrait were to be good. But how could he affect the desired joy in the gallery's pet piece and look himself in the face— to say nothing of his host's? He had established the reputation as a judge of works of art. He would be led to that picture presently, and be expected to utter praise Where was honesty?

Twelve weeks ago in Washington, where he had gone to paint the portrait of a Supreme Court judge, and he had met these charming people at the various embassies, he had crashed at the sight of the sister and was trying to screw up his courage to ask her to marry him. The two girls were the daughters of the Welds, of Washington— wasn't that enough?— and it happened that the van den Berghs were staying with them then. All of them knew the judge and had dined with :him on the evening when the portrait was disclosed. It was voted a great success. Hence his having met Natalie. Hence his having hung about to cross with them from New York. Hence his being in Holland now to paint the married girl. He would paint Natalie for love.

It would be a frightful mess to show up the famous owner of these glorious Dutch ivories as a man who could be tricked. If not tricked, then robbed, and, in any case, as one who had been living with a copy in artless ignorance!

Completely to enjoy being looked at as though she wore no clothes, a woman must be over eighteen but under twenty-eight. The pleasure is all the greater when the man who has been trained to see through whatever it is that she wears has not passed middle age, and is, as Nigel Stafford was, good-looking and most attractive, and with an expert's appreciation of the female form.

Norina was twenty-three, tall, slight, but not thin, and wholly and unaffectedly conscious of possessing no mistakes. She was therefore willingly patient and proceeded to try out attitudes with the utmost graciousness. There was a subject to paint in all this; the very noble gallery lighted by the sun; the array of well-placed pictures deftly harmonised; the rare and priceless Aubusson which should have hung on a wall; the man with his hands behind him in a coma of thoughtfulness; the object of concentration seated for the moment in a state of arrested youth, her bloom enhanced and thrown up by the quiet black of her frock; the watchful girl, in the sunlight rapt in the moveless interest of the filial selection of pose; the energy and life of light in this momentary immobile group.

It was a picture which Cornells van den Bergh would have commissioned eagerly.  But it dissolved, not to be rearranged, as his presence made itself felt. It had that instant effect. Not that he was a man of unique or arresting good looks or of an ugliness which was attractive and so held the eye. It was that he had the distinction which went with the powdered wig. He might have come down from one of those frames and changed into modern tweeds. He was seventeen years older than his delightful wife, had travelled, observed, and reflected, and was moved like a seismograph to the troubles of the world.

Attached for several post-war years to his various embassies, he was in Washington during the dying months of President Hoover's regime. With sympathy and amazement he had suffered with the United States in her inevitable but incredible crash; had watched the desperate triumph of the Democratic cause, and come under the spell of Roosevelt with his gay and confident voice.

It was while this Captain Courageous had headed his ship to the storm— a good ship hastily manned— in an almost uncharted sea, that he had met Norina and loved her and asked her to be his wife. Not without qualms for her sake, because alone among the countries Holland remained difficult socially, preferring her aristocracy to marry native girls. He forgot for a moment that American girls have the gift of assimilation, as they have proved in several countries in many instances. He found no need to worry when he brought her to his house. The old and rigid traditions which Holland still maintains gave way when she received. Her beauty won the day.

As for Stafford, he had seen his work in London and Washington, and had chosen him as the one whose brush could perpetuate his wife. He liked him as a man. His game of racquets was excellent and he had made a first-rate fourth at bridge on the S.S. Vollendam. Then, too, he knew and greatly admired the masters of Dutch art. What more could be desired?

"Well, have you found the pose?"

Like all educated Dutchmen, he spoke English without a qualm. Knowing that if he said he had he was certain to be taken to give praise to that fatal Hals, Stafford said: "No, not yet.... Will you turn your head to the left? No, no. Not too much. Yes, yes. Hold that."

He backed away and gazed.

"If I don't look out," he said to himself, "this, thing will get on my nerves. If so, the portrait's doomed. I can't work with any sort of worry on my mind."

Van den Bergh knew the need for these preliminaries. Weak and careless construction were the ruin of modern art. But there were people coming to tea— old ladies of his family from Hilversum and Wyk, and a member of the Royal entourage from his dignified house in The Hague. If his wife were not there to meet them as they came into the hall she would commit the sort of social gaffe which could never be overlooked. He broke this fact to Stafford and went off to inspect his servants in their livery and gloves. His years in other countries in which formalities had been scrapped had made him all the more careful to conform to those of his own.

Stafford went to Natalie. Her silence during this trying hour was a second miracle. The first, of course, was herself. He said, "Which do you like of all these?"

"The last. Far and away the last."

"Why?"

"Because as you've got her now she's sitting to be done. It's perfectly obvious. There's nothing falsely natural, a pretence to be caught unawares. Always so silly, I think. You can't catch women unawares when they pose for hours a day— or at any other time. A portrait should offer a challenge. It should say, 'Look at me at my best. I know I'm at my best. It took hours to get it right. And all the fag was worth it."

"That settles it," he said. And so, in perfect agreement, Norina rose to go.

"What time, please, to-morrow?"

"Ten o'clock in that chair." She gave him a look of amazement in which there was nearly dislike.

"I can manage eleven," she said. "And now let's all go and change."

Natalie put on what she hoped and supposed was a Sunday observance look.

"But can't you see that I'm wearing the most rigid thing I've got?"

"A tail-coat, dark trousers, a hard-boiled shirt..."

"Then I must hide." he said. "Those extreme atrocities are for marriages and deaths. I've cut them both out. I think I'll pinch a bicycle and explore the country a bit. Eat some cake for me."

Norina shrugged and left. A pity, but there it was. It would have given her guests a gentle thrill to meet an English artist whose name was so well known. But not in an everyday suit.

Stafford turned to Natalie with extreme eagerness. "Must you attend this function? Can't you dodge the dismal thing and come with me?"

"Why?" asked Natalie.

"I haven't rehearsed the answer I'd like to give you to that."

She showed her amazing teeth. He had given his answer. It couldn't have been said better if he had rehearsed it for a month. But she had known it before he spoke. She knew it, in fact, in Washington, at the moment when he had said to himself, "I'm done." In his eyes there had been the anger which comes to a man in defeat, a man who has been determined to remain a bachelor, able always to shut his door and be alone with his work. He had proved his lack of conceit since then, and especially on the ship, by having failed to see in her eyes an equally unwilling collapse.

"It isn't funny," he said.

"Did I say it was?"

"If I had rehearsed it and spilt it glibly now your answer would mean my ruin, whichever it happened to be."

She laughed. "When are you going to rehearse it?"

"Not until I've finished the portrait. I must keep intact for that."

"The best of luck for you."

"How are you going to amuse yourself while your sister and I are immersed?"

"Don't worry. That's easy for me. I shall stick up a canvas and set to work as well."

"And do your sister, you mean?"

"I would do you both if I could. But I can't originate. All I can do Is to copy, and, believe me, I'm good at that. It fascinates me, too. When I was here last summer I made a peach of that Hals."

He nearly leapt out of his clothes.

"But I must go," she said, "and line up in the hall. Tradition is rather amusing as a change."

And as she went he watched her with eyes as large as moons.

THE HIGH gates were open. In the geometrical gardens the fountains were at play. Companies of tulips were gay in every bed. They appeared to have sprung, to attention in anticipation of guests. There was not a weed to be seen, and the drive was even smoother than a man's bald head.

Stafford watched the arrivals from the cover of a bush. Having been asked for half-past four, they came at half-past four. Three carriages and pairs, each with two men on the box.

Stafford saw all this without actually seeing it. Between his brain and both his eyes there hung the spurious Hals. There was nothing in his nature of the criminologist, no zest and keenness for murder, no happy curiosity about the sadism of men. Mystery stories repelled him. The glowing accounts in the papers of several classes of crime were instantly left alone. He avoided gathering crowds. He sickened at ugliness. He was wholly without the morbid kink that goes with detective-ship or the unravelling of a puzzle even if childish. It was Natalie's statement, however, which made him forget the bicycle and a ride to Hilversum and kept him at the edge of the wood.

That she should have made a copy of that confounded Hals was nothing in itself. Less than nothing, in fact. The point of view of the copyist was one that he held in scorn. It merely proved the possession of a photographic eye. Finally he asked himself: "Am I to tell or not? Shall I mind my own business or go to van den Bergh? It would have been easiest to forget it and leave it as it is, if Natalie hadn't come into it in this unhappy way. Why do I say unhappy? Am I going to find out something vile in myself? Is the crime that attaches to this planting the seeds of suspicion that always go with it? Have I the dormant but lurking kink that stirs the detective in people and makes them see guilt in actions before they can be explained? Am I, in fact, going to ask myself if, for some sinister reason, Natalie, even Natalie... Stop it! Cut it out! Don't give such a ghastly thought a corner in your mind."

It was a mind that worshipped beauty and was unsullied by sordid things. He had shut his door upon them and shuddered at the most distant echo of their feet.

It was his anger and self-contempt at the attack of this hideous thought— a thought that was so disloyal to the beauty of this girl— that took him back to the house, and took him back at a run. It must be wiped out at once. Except for Jan van Haren, who was looking rather roguish with a cocktail in hand, the visitors had left. Van den Bergh wore the expression of one who had performed an arduous job, and Norina, stretched on a sofa, was inhaling a cigarette. Natalie was just about to disappear upstairs. She ached to get into something that was 1940.

Stafford touched her elbow and led her into the sun. The terrace was aglow. It was characteristic of her to be the first to speak.

"It was rather lovely," she said. "I felt like one of the figures on the page of an early 'Punch.' I became a du Maurier woman with an enormous weight of hair, and after about five minutes I could hardly breathe for a waist, and I'm certain I sprouted a bustle, and sported a large gold locket on my pouting breast. You missed a gorgeous picture of old formalities. But all the while I heard your gasp, which I took with me into the hall. What was there to gasp at in my being a copyist? It was the master in my Paris school who put me on to it— cynically, perhaps. 'As you can't originate, why not that?' he said. 'A 'obby for a rich.' I was a rich at the time, or at least my father was; but money days have gone under, and I was pretty glad to make a bit out of your enchanting Hals. ..."

He turned on her at once.

"Tell me nothing about it, not a single thing. And it was owing to her astonishment that he got his chance to go on. What she had just told him made him all the more determined to compensate for that thought.

"I've rehearsed my answer," he said.

She had undergone several proposals in at least three languages. She should have been hardened by then. As it was she felt that her heart had skipped a beat. From an artist who was therefore a poet she looked for eloquence.

"It's very short and abrupt. It's simply that I love you and wanted to walk with you."

"Thanks, but I think that you've cut it too short."

As she wasn't laughing, he was encouraged to add to it. "As my wife, I mean."

To which, with a beaming smile, she said, "Thanks, and thanks again," and held out both her hands. He took them both and held them as though he would never let them go.

IT GOES without saying that Natalie had told Norina the wonderful news. She had gone to he dressing-room while the stains of her lipstick were still red on Stafford's moustache. Norina was very glad. Stafford, from what she had seen of him, was a man who could be trained. As a Weld she believed in marriage, and as a woman was perfectly certain that its blessedness and permanence were wholly "up to" the wife. She held that, with tact and intelligence and a firm hand on the reins, any man of decency can be taught and kept to the vital rules of that difficult partnership.

The fact that Stafford was English was in his favour as well. It gave him the instincts of sportsmanship and the knuckling down to laws. In an Anglo-American marriage there was always the chance of success. And so at dinner she chose the moment when the champagne arrived. It luckily came as van Haren had momentarily run out of breath. He had been cursing the pests of his country— the bespoiling Socialists.

"I give you a toast," she said. "My sister and future brother-in-law— Nigel and Natalie."

This was an anti-climax to Cornells van den Bergh. He had watched these two on the ship. He had seen that Stafford was done for, and was very glad that he was, and had recognised in Natalie the keen collector's look. It was the look of intending possession, of patient confidence. But he played up very well, and if his surprise were spurious his pleasure was genuine.

To Natalie, in whom there was nothing of the histrionic Weld, this dramatic announcement was crude. She would have preferred the more private method, the more conventional way. Stafford, too, of course; but, seeing that his hostess had planned to make a scene, he helped her with a gracefulness which came from Irish blood. He was a Boyle on his mother's side. He rose and gave a bow, and then went round to Natalie and raised her hand to his lips. Norina was delighted, but Natalie's spine went cold. Van Haren had already discovered that Englishmen can surprise. He had found that behind their outward layer of self-conscious diffidence there is always audacity.

He said in stilted English, "If you will allow me, Mr. Stafford, I congratulate and offer my felicitations to. Miss Weld. It may well be that the inspiration of your studio will give to your future wife the confidence which is all that her brush requires to do original work. An amazing brush it is."

"Hardly amazing," said U Natalie, although she beamed at the word. "To me it is amazing, otherwise I should not have  bought your copy of the Hals."

Stafford dropped his fork, and, murmuring an apology, inwardly cursed this reference to the thing he had tried to forget. He hoped that it would be dropped. But Norina kept it going.

"Why did you buy it?" she asked. "I liked it so very much."

"Yes, it was good, I know. I couldn't tell the difference between Hals and Natalie. And you couldn't, Cornells, for all your knowledge of Hals."

"Very true," he said. Stafford was certain of that. Very much too certain for his comfort in that house. "But what can one do with a copy?"

"Of one of such a picture it is quite obvious."

"For instance?"

"One can hang it. on a wall."

"And announce to all who see it that it's not "the original?"

"Oh, well, yes— unless one is a dealer and puts it in a shop."

He gave a laugh at that. His very tenderly trimmed moustache went up under his nose.

"To palm it off on someone as a genuine thing, you mean?"

"It has been done, you know. Ever since there were artists and the dealers who grow on their backs! In the days when there were millionaires the dealer did well in that way. He fattened on the ignorance or the bulging commercial man. He sold perhaps two, three— I knew a case of five— of the copies of one great, picture in those incredible times. And all the while the masterpiece was in the Luxembourg."

Natalie spoke then. She was greatly Interested.

"But what on earth would have happened if even one of the buyers had gone to the Luxembourg?"

Norina flung up her hand. She saw all the drama of that. Van Haren shrugged one shoulder and loaded his fork with peas.

"Ah, but then, you know," he said, "to those particular people— to that sort of millionaire who is called the dealers' pet— the Luxembourg is unknown. He— how do you say?— banks on that. He is, of course, a psychologist of perhaps the highest rank. He trades upon the credulity of the most ignorant in art, and, fortunately for his pocket, they are those to whom a masterpiece is not an aesthetic joy but only a question of swank."

"A psychologist," cried Norina. "I define such a dealer as a most unscrupulous cheat."

Again van Haren shrugged. "Yes? Oh, no. it is right that he should be called simply a clever business man."

Stafford asked a question abruptly which had leapt into his mind.

"What have you actually done with the copy Miss Weld made of the Hals?" Not, of course, to the others, but most certainly to Stafford, who had discovered where it was, there was a disconcerted pause. And then a little smile which turned up that careful moustache.

"It is framed and hung," said van Haren, "and looks extremely well."

And then, before he could stop himself, and because, after all there was in him the kink of detective-ship, as there is in all of us. Stafford followed it up. The pause had been obvious. This man who had bought the copy and who condoned the criminal methods of the dealers known to him, came often to that house. He always stayed for the night. Smart as he was and civilised, and high as was his position in Holland's official life, it would not be wholly without precedent to find in him the tendencies that make a criminal. They went with that sort of moustache.

He said, "Do you happen to know of a case in which your clever business man has gone a little further than to trade on the credulity of the childish millionaire?"

"In what way, if you please?"

"Being so brilliantly clever in his picture-dealing tricks, why should he draw the line at the moneyed swanker, I mean? If his copy of a masterpiece is really so awfully good that even to an expert's eye it looks original, has he never collaborated with a brilliant burglar? There are many of 'em about. It would be perfectly easy for one of these to break into the gallery in which the original hung, substitute the copy, and sneak off with his prize."

Van Haren cleared his throat. He said, a little too carelessly, "There are stranger things in life. I suppose It has been done."

"I'm quite sure it has."

"Yes? How interesting!"

He used the word in the manner of one who desires to be polite, who, as a social person, keeps the ball in play. But why did he crumble his bread?

"You have perhaps found a copy hung in such a way?"

"Yes," said Stafford, "I have."

"Oh, yes? Recently, may I ask?"

"Very recently."

"You must have had a shock." Van Haren turned away. In the nicest possible manner of the practised diplomat he conveyed the hint, the suggestion, that, after all, this topic had been beaten rather thin. It might now be that his hostess had something she wished to say.

Norina had plenty to say. Here was a chance for dramatics that simply couldn't be missed. Without pausing to wait for an answer, she asked question after question of her future brother-in-law— where, when, and how— and went into a vivid description of what a gang might do. There were Amsterdam, Paris, London, The Hague; the galleries of the world, from which, if really clever, they could steal the greatest gems.

Natalie was amused, Van den Bergh indulgent— it gave him the greatest pleasure to see Norina's face alight— and van Haren in admiration of this delightful rush of words.

As for Stafford, disgusted with the germs of criminology which were working in his mind, those detested and avoided germs of which he thought he was free, he watched van Haren closely, taking mental snaps. Admitting prejudice— he had disliked this man from the moment of seeing him in the hall— the supercilious eye, the sudden spreading of nostril, the schooled affectation of charm, the abnormal smallness of shoe— he photographed that tell-tale hand and a fishy disinclination to look at van den Bergh.

On a list of growing suspicions he put down his boastful knowledge of the ways of the picture thief and his unashamed admiration of his tricks. The shrugs and smiles went down, too, but the biggest proof of guilt, of course, was the fact that he had bought the copy and his refusal to state where it was. Stafford was thinking hard.

"I must clear out," he said to himself. "I can't stay on in this place. I must arrange to get a telegram. I must be called to London at once. That copy's on my chest. It'll obsess me during the daytime and haunt me every night. It'll make me paint Norina with van Haren's criminal grin. I can't stand, in any case, the ugliness of this. I've dodged it all my life. It's dragging me into the middle of all that I avoid. But there's nothing for me to do, much as I loathe the disloyalty of that skunk to van den Bergh, a jolly friend, by Jove!"

He joined the group round the table with its coffee and liqueurs. Here, in these two sisters, was the beauty he revered. And there it was on the walls too, in many noble works. Natalie took his arm and gave him a look which said plainly, "What's the matter with you?"

He warmed as he read the words. She held the key to his heart. It made him forget van Haren and his diabolical trick. It made him say something beneath his breath which tightened Natalie's fingers and put a flame in her eyes.

But Norina wanted the sofa in the comfortable morning-room. And so, having finished her coffee and admired the nearest pictures, a pride in which she shared, she suggested a change of scene. Cornells agreed at once.

"Nigel and I will follow," he said. "There's something I want him to see."

Van Haren escorted the ladies in his own graceful way, but looked back over his shoulder with unmasked fear in his eyes. When they had gone Cornells said.

"There's nothing I want to show you, but something I want to ask."

"About myself?"

"In a way."

"My income and standing and all that in regard to Natalie?"

"No, no. Not at all. I am happy as to that."

"Thanks."

"You said just now at dinner that you had found a copy―"

"I'd rather not go into that."

"Recently, you said, from which it is natural to take it that you meant since you've been here."

"It doesn't follow at all."

"I can't agree with you there, especially as your statement was linked up with the copy which Natalie made of my Hals. It was impossible not to gather that in the way of substitution..."

"For God's sake don't go on. I'm sorry I spoke at all. I was talking through my hat."

"But it didn't cover your face, and on that, as you stared at van Haren, who is one of my very dear friends, it was very plain to see that you thought that he had done the deed. I ask you to tell me if I am right in that."

"I'd rather you didn't ask."

"But I say that he is my friend, and as such I must protect him against your accusation— inward only yet— of being a picture thief."

"It will never be made aloud, so can't we drop this thing?"

"You answer my question, then."

"Oh, curses on that glass!"

"I echo that remark." Cornells gave a laugh. "And now to tell you something, as my future brother-in-law and as one who must see in van Haren a devoted friend of mine. Like so many others, I was what is called 'caught' in the slump. I have had to sell some pictures, and among them my beautiful Hals. Van Haren bought the copy which Natalie made so well, and gave it to me to put in its frame to take the sting away. She is in the know, and you will be a unique one in taking to wife a woman who can keep a secret, my friend. Curses on your glass. How many innocent people have been hanged on proofs of guilt!"

End

THE PAST MASTERS  ANTHOLOGY SERIES

CUMULATIVE INDEX

To Past Masters 10

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".

"Pulpmeister"

(Terry Walker)

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

Francis Henry Atkins

The Broken Sword  9

The Third Figure 10

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 Evicting of Grainger 9

The Tempter 6

M. McDonnell Bodkin

A Bolt from the Blue 7

Diamond Cut Diamond 9

A Drop of Blood 9

Find the Forger  8

Hide And Seek 9

The Matchmaker 6

Murder by Proxy 7

Only a Voice 8

Over-Ruled  8

Safe Bind, Safe Find

The Slump In Silver 9

The Torpedo 8

Under His Own Hand  9

A Wrong Turning  8

Rolfe Boldrewood

Five Men's Lives for One Horse 8

The Mailman's Yarn  8

Guy Boothby

The Family Honour 10

The Great Dives Elopement 10

A Strange Goldfield 10

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

Thomas Charles Bridges

Wingfield's White Elephant 10

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

The Disintegration Machine 10

Richard Connell

Flash!  7

Loser Wins All 9

Man of a Few Words 9

One-Trip Darling 5

The Solid Gold Article 9

Mrs. George Corbett

Spoofing a Detective 7

Colonel Henry Curties

A Summer Night's Weird 6

Richard Harding Davis

In the Fog  9

Aidan de Brune

The Empty Match Box P

The Gift to See Ourselves as Others See Us  8

George Allan England

Arson in the Jungle 10

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:

Proofs of  Guilt 10

The Silent Witness 5

Headon Hill

The Sapient Monkey  9

Robert J Horton:

The Ninety-Ninth Proposal 4

C J Cutcliffe Hyne

The Anarchist's Scheme 6

Anchored 10

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

Warned by a Mouse 10

L. T. Meade and Clifford Halifax

A Race with the Sun 10

L. T. Meade and Robert Eustace

The Arrest of Captain Vandaleur 10

The Dead Hand 3

The Face in the Dark 7

Finger Tips 3

The Secret of Emu Plain 10

Sir Penn Carlyll's Engagement 3

The Yellow Flag 10

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

Rats in the Belfry 9

Owen Oliver

Her Account  6

The Last Laugh 6

A Rapid Conveyance  7

The Specialist 6

E. Phillips Oppenheim

The Lady of the Morass 9

Mr. Senn's Past P

A Royal Dilemma 3

The Tower Ghost 8

Barry Pain

Amphistamium Formosum  10

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

The Flirt 10

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

"Waif Wander"

The Phantom Hearse 10

The Spirits of the Tower 10

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

Israel Zangwill

Cheating the Gallows  9

_____________________

Table of Contents

- 1: The Spirits of the Tower / "Waif Wander"

- 2: Warned by a Mouse / L. T. Meade

- 3: The Yellow Flag / L. T. Meade and Robert Eustace

- 4: The Disintegration Machine / Arthur Conan Doyle

- 5: A Race with the Sun / L. T. Meade and Clifford Halifax, M.D.

- 6: Anchored / C J Cutcliffe Hyne
- 7: The Phantom Hearse / "Waif Wander"
- 8: The Third Figure /
- 9: The Great Dives Elopement / Guy Boothby
- 10: The Family Honour / Guy Boothby
- 11: The Flirt / Guy Thorne

- 12: The Secret of Emu Plain / L. T. Meade and Robert Eustace

- 13: Arson in the Jungle / George Allan England

- 14: One Law for the Rich /  Stacy Aumonier

- 15: Wingfield's White Elephant / Thomas Charles Bridges

- 16: The Arrest of Captain Vandaleur / L T Meade and Robert Eustace

- 17: A Strange Goldfield / Guy Boothby
- 18: Amphistamium Formosum / Barry Pain
- 19: Proofs of  Guilt / Cosmo Hamilton
- Cumulative Index to Volume 10