Past Masters Eleven
Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: The 11th in an ever growing anthology series of stray short stories from newspapers and magazines. I do not pick and choose, my purpose is rather to collect anything, bundle them together in anthologies of roughly 100,000 words, and make them available to the public. The last story is by Charles G Booth, a Hollywood screenwriter who died relatively young, and who published a number of hard-boiled/noir novels and short stories. There is also an anonymous Sherlock Holmes spoof from 1895 for collectors of Sherlockiana. There is a cumulative index to all eleven antholgies so far. Contents Famous M

PAST MASTERS

ELEVEN

2020

Edited by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

Famous Mysteries series / Ladbroke Black

1: The Tragedy of Constance Kent

2: The Strange Death of Lieutenant Roper

3: The Eight-Minute Mystery

4: Who Murdered Sarah Roberts?

5: The Great Harley-street Enigma

6: The Burton Crescent Murder

7: The Battersea Mutilation Case

The Others

8: The Dog's Understudy / Barry Pain

9: Albert Theodore Parish / Barry Pain

10: Hasheesh / Barry Pain

11: The Open Eye / William Le Queux

12: The Murdered Wife / Perley Poore Sheehan

13: The Prodigal Son, V.C. / Ottwell Binns

14: The Vengeance of Adam Rook / Tom Gallon

15: Well Lost? / F. Britten Austin

16: Diamond Cut Diamond / F. Britten Austin

17: Adventure of the Rubber Pipe / Anonymous

18: A Condoned Crime / Mabel Quiller-Couch

19: Lance Warrener's Crime / George R. Sims

20: A Doctor's Dilemma / L. T. Meade and Clifford Halifax

21: Stag Party / Charles G. Booth

Cumulative Index Nos 1-11

____________________

Famous Mysteries Series

Ladbroke Black

1877-1940

1: The Tragedy of Constance Kent

Clarence and Richmond Examiner 21 January 1908

IF TWELVE PEOPLE are locked up in a house at night, and one of them is found brutally murdered in the morning, and it is proved, moreover, that nobody has either entered or left the house, what is the conclusion?

This sounds a simple, almost foolish question. Obviously, the answer is that the murder was committed by one of the eleven persons who were found alive in the morning.

If this problem was put to the average man, he would declare quite naturally that the detection of the murderer must he quite easy. With the scope of inquiry limited to eleven persons, the discovery of the criminal would appear inevitable.

In hundreds of little ways he or she must betray a consciousness of guilt. Careful  inquiry would then very easily fasten that guilt upon the suspected person.

That a murderer could escape justice under these circumstances seems ludicrous. Hardly any mystery appears to envelope such an affair. One of the eleven must be guilty, and by a process of elimination the guilty one, so it would seem, could easily be picked out.

And yet this is the apparently simple problem which underlay the murder of Francis Saville Kent, a little boy of three years and ten months, on the night of June 29, 1860

For five years the author of this crime remained undiscovered, and the case would undoubtedly have taken its place among the number of unsolved mysteries had not the perpetrator come forward and made a voluntary confession of her guilt.

The tragedy of Constance Kent ranks as one of the world's saddest stories. I know of no other narrative among the gloomy annals of crime which equals it in the tragic elements of mystery, of passion, and of pathos.

I will tell the story here as it slowly unravelled itself before the eyes of the public some forty odd years ago.

The small village of Road * is situated some three miles from Trowbridge. Here, in a three-storeyed house, surrounded by a pleasant garden there dwelt in the year 1860 a certain Mr. S. S. Kent, district sub-inspector of factories.

_______

* Now Rode, Wiltshire (Ed)

Mr. Kent had been married twice, and was there living with his second wife.

Both his unions had been blessed with children.

His first wife had borne him four Mary, Elizabeth, Constance, and William Saville. Mary was 29 years of age, Elizabeth 27, Constance 16, and William, Saville 15.

To his second wife there had been born three children--Mary Amelia, aged five ; Francis Saville, aged three years and ten months; and a baby, daughter.

Of these two families Constance was the most remarkable member. "She was at that time at the ''difficult age"--the moment of transition from childhood to womanhood.

All who knew her have agreed that she was a strange child, possessed of a marked individuality. Her temperament was curious. She was, by turns, affectionate and sullen, silent and passionate. At times she professed a great affection for her stepmother, but if that lady found it necessary to correct any member of her husband's first family, Constance was at once up in arms.

Sometimes she showed her feelings by uncontrolled outbursts of rage. At other times she listened in sullen silence, and went away to brood over the imagined slight on her dead mother, and to think how she might best obtain vengeance.

Her peculiarity of disposition and determination of character was indicated in many ways. She did odd, unexpected things. At the age of 13 she had cut her hair, dressed herself in her brother's clothes, and run away from home, with the avowed intention of going abroad.

All her characteristics foreboded, for good or evil, that her future life would be remarkable.

On the night, of June 29 the various rooms in Mr. Kent's house were occupied in the following manner:-Of the two bedrooms on the first floor one was occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Kent and the little girl Mary Amelia ; the other by Francis Saville, the baby, and the nurse-maid, Elizabeth Gough. Of the four bed-rooms on the second floor, Mary and Elizabeth slept in one, the cook and the housemaid in another, and Constance and William Saville in the remaining two.

All the household retired early to bed, with the exception of Mr. Kent. At 11.30 p.m. he, too, determined to seek his bed, and, following his invariable custom, went the round of the house to sec that all windows and shutters were fastened. Having satisfied himself that everything was secure, he locked all the doors from the outside, and went upstairs.

By that time Elizabeth Gough, after having seen that her charges, Francis Saville and the baby, were all safe for the night, and lighting the nightlight, was herself in bed. By midnight the whole house was plunged in slumber.

When the nursemaid woke up next morning at six o'clock she made a startling discovery. Francis Saville was not in his cot.

At first she was alarmed, but finally decided that her mistress must have come in while she was asleep and taken the little boy into her own room, she therefore, first dressed the baby, and then knocked at her mistress' door.

"Is Master Saville ready to get up, ma'am?" she said.

Mrs. Kent opened the door.

"What do you mean?" she asked. "Master Saville isn't with me."

"Well, he isn't in the nursery, ma'am," retorted tho girl.

Where was Francis Saville?

They searched everywhere for him throughout the house, but nowhere could he be found.

The others were awakened by the uproar, and hurried out of their, rooms, clamouring to know what was the matter. When they heard that tho .little boy was missing from his bed and could not be found anywhere, their distress and concern were very great. Constance seemed to feel the situation more keenly than anybody else. She evinced the greatest excitement and interest, busying herself in searching every room for the child.

As the boy could be found nowhere, Mr. Kent hurried off to give the alarm to the police at Trowbridge. The news got about the neighbourhood. Search parties were instituted, and the garden and the house itself were carefully examined.

It was found that one of the French windows, opening from the drawing room on to the lawn, was open, though Mr. Kent had closed it the night before; further, the drawing room door, which had been locked by the master of the house from the outside on the previous night, was ajar.

One of the searchers, a man called Benger, suddenly had a grim inspiration. Acting on an almost overpowering presentiment he went to a lavatory, at the back of the house. On entering he saw a pool of blood on the ground. Striking a light, he peered down the seat. He thrust his arm down, thinking in the dim light that he discerned something.

First he drew up a blanket soaked with blood, then, more gruesome still, the body of the missing child, with its throat cut from ear to ear, and a terrible wound in its side.

The one outstanding feature of the case, which was clear to the police and public alike, was that the crime must have been committed by somebody in the house.

The drawing room window and the drawing room door were both open. There were no signs that the window simply pushed back. Moreover, the lock of the drawing room door had been turned back by the key, which was on the outside of the door.

It was clear, therefore, that somebody in the house had taken Francis Saville from his house, had carried him downstairs, unlocked the drawing room door, opened the drawing room window, and then proceeded . to the scene of the crime.

Suspicion first fell upon Elizabeth Gough. It was suggested that she had admitted some lover of hers into the house. But her guiltless demeanour and perfect frankness disarmed suspicion. After being arrested and brought before the magistrate she was discharged.

Suspicion then fell upon William Saville, and after him upon Constance. The 16-year-old girl was arrested and charged with having murdered her little brother in a fit of envy.

The fact that one of her nightdresses was missing seemed to justify the suspicions of the police. But under examination she preserved such coolness, and spoke so feelingly of the little victim, that the charge seemed absurd.

"Saville was such a merry, good-tempered little boy. I had been romping with him all that day. He was fond of me, and I was fond of him," she told the magistrate.

The perplexed Bench did not know how to act, and they discharged the girl on her father's recognisances.

Then Elizabeth Gough was again arrested, and again discharged.

Meanwhile the fury and excitement of the public had been fanned to a fierce pitch. They poured contempt upon the police, and almost openly stated that the perpetrator of the deed was Mr. Kent himself.

Time went on. Mr. Kent's unpopularity, and the general suspicion that he was the perpetrator of the deed, showed no signs of abatement.

A YEAR after the crime had been committed it was reported that a confession had been made. The police would have taken it up, but the public were so loud in their protests that the case should not be reopened unless the real perpetrator was brought to justice, that the authorities decided to leave well alone.

Shortly after this incident Constance Kent was sent to a convent in France to be educated. She remained there for two years, and then-removed to St. Mary's Home for Religious Ladies,-conducted by the Rev. Arthur Wagner, of St. Paul's Church, Brighton.

Constance was then 19, but, to his surprise, Mr. Wagner found that she had never been confirmed.

After she had been in the home for 16 months he began to prepare her for confirmation.

The girl submitted herself to his teaching and influence with great earnestness. At the end of four months , she came to him voluntarily and begged him to help her to make a confession.

The thought of the Holy Sacrament compelled her, she said, to tell the truth of her sin. Then, humbly and with tears, she narrated to the horrified master how she had murdered her little stepbrother on that terrible summer night five years before.

Her stepmother had said something disparaging, so she thought, about the children of her father's first marriage. Constance had brooded over it, and determined on a terrible revenge. She made her preparations carefully. In the lavatory outside she secreted a candle and some matches. Then she obtained possession of one of her father's razors.

Soon after midnight, having satisfied herself that everyone was asleep, she crept silently downstairs into the nursery. The little boy was asleep. Without waking him, she took him from his bed, wrapped him up in one of the blankets, and carried him out through the drawing room window into the lavatory.

So as not to bungle her work she lit the candle. While the poor little fellow still slept on her arm she cut his throat with the razor. The blood, she thought, would never come, so she inflicted another wound in the side. Suddenly a breath of wind blew the candle out. Terrified, she thrust the body out of sight and crept back to her bedroom.

On examining her nightdress, she found only two spots of blood. These she washed out, and putting on a clean nightdress, got into bed.

Next day she cleaned the razor and replaced it in her father's wardrobe.

Finding the; stains of blood were still visible oh the nightdress, she secreted it, moving it from place to place. Six days after the murder she burnt it in her bedroom.

Had Elizabeth Gough been found guilty of the murder, she had intended to declare her guilt. As it was, she confessed to her parents a year after the event.

Accompanied by Mr. Wagner, she went up to London and gave herself up for the murder.

The last scene of the tragedy was acted before Mr. Justice Wills at the Salisbury Assizes.

In passing the dread sentence of death the Judge became deeply, affected, and burst into tears. The prisoner, who had maintained up to then a certain composure, suddenly gave way. The sobs, of the man who had to condemn her to death, and of the girl on whom the grim sentence had to be passed, were the only sounds heard in the breathlessness of the court.

The sentence was immediately commuted to one of penal servitude for life, and through all her prison life Constance Kent showed, by her exemplary conduct the deep contrition she felt for her terrible crime.

________________

2: The Strange Death of Lieutenant Roper.

Truth (Brisbane) 9 February 1908

OF ALL THE criminal mysteries which the intelligence of man has failed to solve, the murder of Lieut. Percy L. O. Roper, R.E., is one of the most remark-able. There are circumstances connected with this strange case which distinguish it in many ways from other famous mysteries.

The time occupied by the tragedy was so short, scarcely more than ten minutes, and the surroundings in which the deed was done were so confined and shut in, that the escape was little short of miraculous. Moreover, the most searching examination of witnesses, the most careful sifting of evidence, failed to bring to light any motive for the crime.

WHEN the touchstone of facts is applied to the many theories regarding the murder they dissolve at once into nothing. At 8.30 a young officer is dining at mess; and 8.45 he is found in a dying condition on the staircase leading to his quarters, with a bullet through his heart. The weapon with which the deed was committed lies near at hand. It is proved to be the property of a fellow, officer. This officer is playing cards at the time of the murder, and therefore the weapon must have been stolen from his rooms by the murderer.

Now the two main motives for shedding blood ore hate and greed. But neither of these motives explains the case of Lieut. Roper's death. He had not a single enemy. It was proved that he was liked by everybody that knew him; therefore hate cannot have inspired the act of the criminal. Again, had the motive of the murderer been robbery, he might just. as well have burgled the quarters of the officer from whom he stole the revolver. But in the latter's rooms not a thing was touched, and only one trifling piece of jewellery was found out of place in Lieut. Roper's rooms.

What was the motive for the crime? In that question is contained the greater part of the mystery with which Lieut. Roper's death is enshrouded.

I summarise these outstanding features of the case so that the reader may get a cleat view of this extraordinary mystery. Here is the grim story itself.

During Friday, February 11, 1881, life at the Brompton Barracks, Chatham, followed, to all appearances, its ordinary course.  Among the officers stationed there was a young man of 21, Lieut. Percy Lyon Ormsby Roper, of the Royal Engineers. He had just completed his course of instruction at the School of Military Engineering, and was due to report himself at the War Office on the following Monday, before proceeding on extended leave to visit his relations in Germany.

That evening, between the hours of five and six, he attended his last lecture. After that he returned to his quarters to dress for mess. He was in the highest spirits, glad possibly that he had bidden good-bye to the classroom for some time to come, and had few more irksome duties to perform before setting out for the Continent. The officers sat down to mess at half-past seven.

Shortly after he had taken his seat Lieut. Roper received a hastily-scribbled note from his great friend, Lieut. Stuart Davidson. There was an entertainment on that night in the town, and his friend wanted him to come to it as soon as the mess was over. Roper scribbled back in reply, "Dear sir,— I want to finish a letter; but would be glad to go a little later.— Yours, P.L.C.R."

Several of the officers rose and left before dinner was finished, but Lieut. Davidson and Lieut. Roper stayed until the wine had been passed round. The seats on both sides of the latter had been vacated when he called his servant, William Gallagher, a pensioned sergeant of the Royal Marines, to his side, and gave him instructions about calling him the following morning.

Lieut. Davidson spoke to his friend, trying to persuade him to change Ills mind about the entertainment The other replied that he could not accompany him, as he had a letter to finish, and that he would join him later.

"You had better hurry up," he added, "or you won't got a seat."

Two minutes later, at 8.30 precisely, Lieut. Roper left the mess room. His friend followed a couple of minutes afterwards, and, having procured his forage cap from his quarters in No. 10 house, went, straight off to the theatre.

From the mess room Lieut. Roper made his way to No. 9 house, a block of buildings set apart solely for the use of officers and their servants. His sitting-room has just been set to rights by Mrs. Gallagher, his servant's wife, who had left only a few seconds beforehand. A bright fire was burning on the hearth, and, lighting a few candles, he sat down at the table to polish off the remainder of his correspondence. Across the note-paper he traced the following words:—

Dear Mrs. Adams,— I finally go up to the A.A.C. on Monday, and as probably that will take all day  *

______________

*Condensed: the full text:

"Brompton Barracks, Friday evening, 11-2-81. My dear Mrs. Evans,— l find we go up to the D.A.G. [Deputy-Adjutant-General] on Monday next and as that will probably take the whole day"

Portsmouth Evening News - Tuesday 22 February 1881

[Editor]

So far he got, and then something strange and mysterious happened which induced him to lay his pen aside, so it proved, for eternity.  Outside in the barrack square it was a clear moonlight night. The whole place was strangely silent, for the entertainment in the town had attracted many of the officers, and a penny reading and other amusements had drawn off the private soldiers.

In the basement of No. 10 house, where the servants lived and the kitchens were situated, William Gallagher was changing his mess clothes prior to going to fetch his supper beer. His wife was out shopping, but returned before he completed his toilet. Shortly after she entered there was a noise from above . stairs, a noise like someone "kicking a tin bath."

"Some of the young gentlemen skylarking," said Gallagher. Mrs. Garside, wife of James Garside, the servant of Lieut. H. K. Stothert, who occupied quarters in an adjoining house, suddenly heard some dogs belonging to Lieut. Vidal begin to bark furiously, and she promptly set off to quieten them.

James Sharp, who was on sentry duty in front of No. 9 house, heard at the same time a "kind of crack," followed by the barking of dogs. Then there was "a low groaning noise" as if "somebody was calling to somebody else!"

Raising his eyes, he saw a window in that part of the building from which the noise came, slowly raised. He watched for some time, but nothing happened. He heard no voices, and saw nobody leave, and thinking, like William Gallagher, that it was only some of the young gentlemen skylarking, he continued patrolling his beat.

Adam Cragg, another sentry, whose beat took him with thirty paces of No 9 house, heard and saw nothing. A sound like the breaking of china caught the ear of a third sentry on duty at the gateway, but he gave the matter no thought.

Margaret Couth, one of the female servants employed in the barracks, heard a slight "cracking sound " as she walked across the square, and the barking of dogs. She stopped a moment at the foot of the staircase leading to Lieut. Roper's quarters, and listened, but she heard no further sound, nor, saw anybody come out of the quarters.

Meanwhile Mrs. Garside, having calmed the frightened dogs, was returning to her own quarters when she-saw the figure of a man clad in officers' mess dress lying on the staircase. Imagining that someone was playing a joke, she took no notice of the recumbent figure beyond telling William Gallagher, whom she met outside, that one of the gentlemen was lying on the staircase. Gallagher's curiosity was sufficiently excited to induce him to go with his wife to see what was the matter.

Light on the staircase was bad, but the moonlight poured in from the window, enabling the servant and his wife to see the figure on the stairs. The man had his face to the railings of the banisters. As he lay motionless Gallagher stooped over him, and turned him over to see who it was. In doing so the man groaned, and on looking down the old soldier saw that it was his master, Lieut. Roper.

Startled by the groans and the limpness of the figure, Gallagher examined the young officer more carefully, and discovered to his horror that blood was pouring from a wound in his side. Leaving him with his wife, he rushed outside, greatly alarmed, to summon assistance.

At the foot of the staircase he met Colonel Duff, assistant commander of the School of Military Engineering.

"Oh, sir, my master!" he exclaimed. "Someone has stabbed him."

Colonel Duff quickly accompanied him back to the spot where Lieut. Roper lay. After examining him for a few moments he turned to Gallagher and said: "He is not stabbed. He is shot. Someone has shot him, or he has shot himself."

Gently, they carried him up to his. sitting-room, and laid him on the sofa.-A doctor was soon at hand. A cursory examination showed that a bullet had passed between the fifth and sixth rib, piercing the right ventricle of the heart.

What could be done was done for the unfortunate man, but before the clock, struck ten he had passed away, never having recovered consciousness, or being able to throw any light on the mysterious fate that had overtaken him. While he still lay a-dying, search was made of the staircase, and a note was taken of the condition of the room.

On the top stair was discovered a six-chamber revolver with, five loaded chambers. The cartridge in the sixth chamber had been exploded. Nearby was a cartridge-case, and the poker from Lieut. Roper's fireplace. and scattered about on the stairs were  five or six cartridge loose, but there were no cartridges in the case.

On an adjoining window ledge was found the lieutenant's watch and a bundle of his clothing. In the sitting-room the drawers were found open, and the ewer had been pulled off a box. But everything else was left undisturbed. The candles were still burning, the unfinished letter to Mrs. Adams lay on the blotting-pad. Nothing had been stolen, nothing had been taken away, and the murderer had left behind him not a single clue which could lead to the discovery of his identity.

Murder it was undoubtedly. The medical evidence proved conclusively that the fatal shot could not have been fired by the victim himself. Whoever the murderer was, he had placed tho revolver so that it touched the victim's clothes, a fact deduced partly from the discovery that the lieutenant's under garments were more burnt than his waistcoat, and partly by the astonishing circumstance, that nobody had heard the sound of the revolver being lived. The pressing of the muzzle close against the waistcoat would, it was held, deaden the sound of the explosion.

The police were called in, but all that they were able to accomplish was the discovery of the owner of the revolver. It was found to belong to Lieut. Stothert, who had his quarters in No. 10 house adjoining. The discovery, however, was absolutely valueless, for no one knew how the murderer had become possessed of the weapon."

Lieut. Stothert himself had gone straight from the mess to the card-room, where he remained until after the discovery of the crime. The revolver, which was quite a now one, he had won as a prize, and it hung in its case by the side of his bed. To obtain possession of it the murderer must have gone into his room. He must have taken it, moreover, some time during that day, for it had been cleaned and oiled, and replaced by James Gerside that very morning.

The cartridges found on the staircase near the dead man must have been specially purchased by the mysterious criminal, for Lieut. Stothert had no ammunition in his possession which fitted the weapon.

Inquiries in the neighbourhood brought to light the place where these cartridges had been produced. They had been purchased by a tall, military-looking man of about 35 years of age, between 4.30 and 5.30 on the evening of the tragedy, from Edward Palmer, ammunition dealer, High-street, Rochester.

Mr. Palmer remembered the circumstance quite well. A man had asked, for some of "four decimal five cartridges."  This bore was a Government bore which Mr. Palmer did not often keep in stock, as it war not much in demand.

All the drawers in Lieut. Stothert's room were opened. There was money and jewellery lying about, which, had theft been the object of the criminal, he might have taken as well as the revolver.

Suspicion pointed to the conclusion that the murderer was one of the inmates of the barracks. No single person was produced who saw any stranger leave the house in which the murdered man lived, or the barracks just before or after the commission of the deed, it would seem, too, that the night of the crime had been carefully selected. An entertainment in the town had emptied the barracks, and comparatively few people were, therefore, about.

But this fact would not be known to an outsider or any chance burglar. Robbery clearly was not the motive, for nothing was touched in Lieut. Stothert's rooms, which the murderer had first visited. The discovery of the poker on the staircase seemed to show that, Lieut. Roper was disturbed in his letter writing by some marauder, that he seized this homely weapon with which to pursue his mysterious visitor, and that in following him down the stairs he met his death. But no evidence was adduced to show why anybody  should have wished to compass the young officer's destruction.

He was amiable, kind-hearted, generous, and one of the steadiest young fellows at Chatham. He had no feud with anybody; he had done nobody an injury. Why, then, was he killed?

The Government offered a reward of a hundred pounds which was increased by the officers of the Royal Engineers to two hundred, and six months later to seven hundred. But the murderer was never discovered.

On the following May, some boys playing on the chalk cliffs in the rear of the mess-room found a box containing 28 revolver cartridges, precisely similar in she the one with which Lieut. Roper was shot, but whether they were hidden there by the murderer or not has never been found out.

The circumstances attending the crime are so mysterious and uncanny― the immunity of the criminal so extraordinary— that one is almost forced to the unnatural conclusion that the fatal shot must have been fired by some ghostly hand.

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3: The Eight-Minute Mystery

Truth (Brisbane) 16 February 1908

I HAVE FREQUENTLY heard persons express their amazement at the number of murders perpetrated in the course of a twelvemonth. It appears to me that their surprise is misplaced. Considering the violent gusts of passion to which so many of our fellow-creatures are subject, and the ease with which human life can be taken, I am inclined to the opinion that we should rather marvel at the brevity of the annual list of murders than be appalled at its length.

The actual business of killing is a simple affair unless, like certain historical pioneers of the demoniac, type, the assassin wishes to torture as well as to destroy.  A brief sixty seconds is more than ample time In which to force a person to make that long, mysterious journey from tho land of the quick to the; Kingdom of the Dead.

In the course of these studies in crime I have already given several instances of the extraordinary celerity and despatch with which a crime can be committed. In my last, article I told the grim tragedy of a young officer at Chatham. He was alive and well at 8.30, and was found dying at 8.45; just 15 minutes had proved sufficient for the commission of the crime.

The famous mystery which I have to recount this week occupied an even briefer space of time. In eight minutes Mrs. Reville, the wife of a butcher at Slough, passed from life to death by the hand of an unknown assassin. At 3.32 p.m. she was sitting in her chair in front of a desk, alive and well; at 8.45 she was seen in exactly the same position In the chair, dead, with her throat cut and her head split open.

The crime was actually perpetrated and discovered in less than this time, but as this fact depends upon the statement of a terrified child, who was too frightened to look at any clock to fix the exact moment of her discovery, I will allow the  full interval of eight minutes. In that space of time the deed was secretly committed, the murderer, made good his escape, and his crime was brought to light. I will give the events of this mysterious tragedy in the exact sequence in which they occurred.

On Monday, April 11, 1881, there lived in what was then simply the populous village of Slough, in Buckinghamshire, a Mr. Hezekiah Reville, a butcher, his wife, and two children. They had a large shop in Windsor-road, and employed two lads to assist them In their business. The elder of these two assistants was Alfred Payne, aged 16; the younger boy was named Phillip Glass, and was only 15 years of age. Usually the premises were closed at 8 o'clock, and the shutters were put up, the shop door being left open for the convenience of any late customers.

Punctually at the closing hour Mr. Reville went out, and after, calling, on two friends, adjourned to the White Hart Inn. At the time of his departure the various persons in the house were employed as follows: Payne was in the butcher's shop "rubbing " some stale hams; in the adjoining room, which overlooked the shop, by means of a large glass window, were Mrs. Reville and Phillip Glass. Mrs. Reville sat at a desk with a ledger in front of her going over the day's accounts with the assistance of the boy. Her chair was so placed that she faced the window that looked into the shop, and the desk was so low that she could be seen, not only from the shop, but from outside in the street.

At 8.20, having settled her accounts, she handed Glass twopence for beer for himself and Payne, and, as a special favour to the younger boy, cut him some bread and cheese. While this was being done, Glass went into the shop to give Payne his penny and to ask him if he was coming home.

"Don't you wait for me," retorted Payne. "I have some hams to rub, and shall be a little longer."

Everything had been made ready in the shop for the morrow. The tools were all in their places. On the block was a cleaver weighing two pounds, two steels and a saw, while a knife used in cutting the meat up was laid by the weights and scales. There being nothing more to be done, Glass made haste to be off. He looked at the clock; it was 8.25 precisely. As he was going out he saw Payne enter the sitting-room and pass into the kitchen beyond. He then shut the door and scampered home.

At 8.32 Payne was also ready to depart. Mrs. Reville, who was shortly expecting to become a mother, and, therefore moved about as little as possible, was seated again at the desk perusing the ledger. Payne asked' her If ho should shut the shop door.

" No," she replied; " turn the gas down, and leave the door open. Goodnight."

Payne then left the premises, and made for the Royal Oak beer house, where his father lived, the exact time of his departure— 8.32— being fixed by his own evidence, and that of two people whom he met in the immediate vicinity of the shop.

Mrs. Reville was now alone on the ground floor. Upstairs were her two little children in bed. She still sat at the desk, poring over the pages of tho ledger, amusing herself, doubtless, by tracing tho variations j In tho business during the past few months. As she sat there death came to her, swiftly and mysteriously.

One of the children upstairs was very restless and thirsty. At last she got out of her bed, and started to come downstairs for some water.  As she descended site heard a door slam. It must then have been 8:35 or 8:36, within three or four minutes of Alfred Payne's departure. Opening the small door at the foot of tho stairs, the child peeped into the sitting-room. She saw her mother, still sitting at tho desk in her father's chair.' She spoke to her, but got no answer. Going a little closer to her, the child noticed, that something red was trickling from her head and throat. She looked so ill and white that the child ran terror-stricken upstairs to bed, and, hiding herself beneath the bedclothes, like children do, spent that awful night in a state of anguished wakefulness.

At 8.40 a Mrs. Beasley, the wife of a cooper residing near at hand, called to see Mrs. Reville. She had been in the habit of making this regular evening visit in consequence of her neighbour's condition. She entered from the shop where the gas was burning, and she saw her friend through the window, still sitting in front of the desk. From her ghastly white face and the general limp appearance of her body, Mrs. Beasley thought that she must have fainted. She immediately made her way into the sitting-room, and upon approaching the chair where Mrs. Reville sat, saw at once that, the unfortunate butcher's wife had been foully murdered. Mrs. Beasley immediately summoned the police, and two officers arriving, a thorough search of the premises was made.

As already descried, Mrs. Reville was sitting in a chair, in front of her was  a ledger opened at March 19, and her watch. The desk, the carpet, and all around were sprinkled with blood.

It was found on examination she had two severe wounds in the fore part of her head, one cut on the back of her head, and a large wound on the right side of her neck. On the floor by her side was found the pen she had been using, and it was noted also that the pocket of her dress was turned inside out. A little way behind the chair was found some money and a handkerchief. But the table, which stood a little to the right behind the dead woman, provided the most gruesome evidence of the crime. Here on the blood-splashed cloth was found a cleaver, soaked with blood and covered with matted hair.  Hard by this ghastly weapon lay a note, written in pencil on half a sheet of notepaper. It ran as follows:—

Mrs. Reville, You never will sell me no more bad meat like you did on, Saturday. I told Mrs. Austin, at Chalvey that I would do for her. I done it for the bad meat she sold me on Saturday last.— H. Collins, Colnbrook.

The only other discoveries made by the police, that it was thought could have any bearing at all upon the crime, were two handkerchiefs which were found in the adjoining kitchen. Suspicion turned immediately upon the boy Payne, who was known to have been the last person in the house. After the inquest and the funeral of Mrs. Reville,  Payne was arrested, formally charged before the magistrate, and a fortnight later stood his trial at the local assizes.

The facts at the disposal of the police are worth recounting.

First there was the letter signed "H. Collins, Colnbrook," and referring to a Mrs. Austin of Chalvey. Nobody of the name of Collins residing at Colnbrook had ever had any dealings at any time with the Revilles. There was an P. Collins, of Chalvey, who had bought his meat occasionally at the shop, but H. Collins was a completely fictitious name. The only two ladies of the name of Austin residing at Chalvey declared that they had never known anybody called H. Collins, and added, moreover, that they had never complained to Mr. Reville about any meat that he had supplied.

By the aid of the inevitable handwriting expert a similarity in the handwriting of "H. Collins, of Colnbrook," and Alfred Payne was traced. But as the expert admitted that he detected a like similarity in the handwriting of Mr Reville himself, who was quietly ensconced at the "White Hart" at the time of the tragedy, his evidence did not carry much weight. Moreover, it was shown that Payne, who had been in the service of the butcher for something like three years, was quite familiar with the name of R. Collins, of Chalvey, and it was very reasonably argued that he would never have written a letter which clearly had for its object the shifting of the blame on to someone else, with a signature which could easily be discovered to be fictitious.

The second main point which occupied the consideration of the police was the cleaver.

Apart from the evidence of Payne, which was regarded as suspect, the boy Glass was positive that the cleaver with which the deed was committed was resting on the block with the other tools when he left the shop. Mrs Reville was sitting in a chair that faced the window overlooking the shop. Nobody could -have come into the shop without her seeing him; the murderer must have passed through the shop in order to possess himself of the cleaver.

How had he managed it? If he had come Into it as an ordinary customer, and while Mrs. Reville was busy attending to him, had secreted tho weapon, and subsequently made his murderous attack when her back was turned, the whole business could be easily explained. But there was the stubborn obstructing fact that Mrs. Reville had never moved from her chair.

Unless Payne was the murderer, the jury would have been called upon to believe that the criminal entered the shop, every corner of which was under the immediate observation of Mrs. Reville, had miraculously escaped her notice, had seized the cleaver; and, still unnoticed, walked into the sitting-room. Unless the victim had fallen into a doze, which in her condition it is very possible she may have done, the thing seemed frankly impossible. The third point was the question of times.

I give here in tabular form the time table of that mysterious 40 minutes which culminated in so horrible a tragedy

8 p.m:— Mr. Reville leaves the shop. Mrs. Reville and Glass are in the sitting-room doing the accounts. Payne in the shop. Two children upstairs in bed.

8:25:— Payne leaves, and is seen a minute later by a young woman a hundred yards from the house, walking in tho direction of his home.

8:36(?):— One of Mrs. Reville's little children, coming downstairs for a glass of water, sees her mother sitting at the desk with her throat cut, and at the same time hears a door in the house bang.

8:40:— Mrs. Beasley discovers her murdered friend.

Looking at this time table it will be seen that if Payne had been the murderer he must have committed the deed within seven minutes. If somebody else was the criminal, this person must have killed Mrs. Reville, turned out her pockets, and written the note signed "H. Collins, Colnbrook," all within the space of, at the most, eight minutes.

It appeared on the face of it that the police had a very strong case against Payne. He was known to have been on the promises alone with Mrs. Reville; it seemed as if he was tho only possible person who could have taken the cleaver from the shop into the sitting-room without arousing the suspicions of the unfortunate victim, and, and, moreover, the note was written in a hand which bore come resemblance to his. But the young butcher lad had a clear and open conscience. He showed no uneasiness when questioned by the police. In the dock he deported himself with a coolness and perfect simplicity which were never mated to the character of a criminal. At the end of a two days trial the jury retired for a brief 15 minutes, and returned with a verdict of "Not guilty." This verdict was not only right legally— by which I mean that on the evidence it was not possible to convict Payne— but it was obviously right from the point of view of facts. Payne was perfectly innocent of the charge, and had no knowledge whatsoever of how Mrs. Reville met her death— that is certain.

To this day her assassin has not been found. The mystery which enshrouds her death cannot be pierced. How the murder got into the shop, obtained possession of the cleaver without being detected by Mrs. Reville; how he committed the murder, wrote the note, turned out the dead, woman's pocket, and did all this between the departure of Payne at 8.32 and the arrival of Mrs. Beasley at 8.40 is a problem which can only he cleared up on the Judgment Day.

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4: Who Murdered Sarah Roberts?

Truth (Brisbane) 1 March 1908

IS A LETTER in the handwriting of a murderer of any real assistance to the police in bringing a criminal to justice? I propound this question because there seems to be a general inclination on the part of the public to attach far greater importance to handwriting clues than experience allows they merit.

This weakness seems to be shared by the police. Again and again it has happened that a murderer has been allowed to escape through the authorities wasting all their energies in an attempt, to track the writer of a certain document, instead of endeavouring to unearth other clues. The murder of Mrs. Reville, the butcher's wife at Slough, which I narrated the other week, affords an illustration of my contention.

To begin with, it is very hard to distinguish any person's handwriting when an attempt has been made to disguise it. Experts there are who are prepared to swear that such and such a paper was written by such and such a person, but few juries hare been found to convict on this sort of evidence alone. In the case of the murder of Sarah Jane Roberts at Manchester, I think I am doing the police an injustice by saying that had they not restricted their investigations to the one clue which they possessed there might have been a chance of discovering the murderer.

As it is, the case remains an unfathomable mystery, and no one has been able to give a satisfactory suggestion as to how the ghastly, crime could possibly have been committed

A young, buxom servant girl of 18 is alone on the ground floor of a house in Manchester. Her mistress is upstairs, an invalid. At 6.25 the mistress hears a knock at the door. The servant goes to open it, and someone is admitted who accompanies the servant to the kitchen.

For five minutes the mistress detects no sound; then, suddenly, there is a scream. She rushes downstairs, summons her neighbours, and discovers the servant girl dying on the kitchen floor! That, briefly, is all that is known of the death of Sarah Jane Roberts.  For the benefit of my readers I will narrate the full circumstances of this extraordinary crime.

Mr. Richard Greenwood was a well-to-do business man, living in the year 1880 at Westbourne-grove, Harpurhey, Manchester. His house was a semi-detached one, standing in a lonely thoroughfare, his neighbours, being a Mr. Cadman, a Unitarian minister, his wife and family. Mr. Greenwood lived alone with his wife, who was a confirmed invalid, and with one servant— Sarah Jane Roberts,  a fine-looking girl of 18.

Jane, as her mistress called her, hailed from Wales, bore an excellent character, and was much beloved by her master and mistress, in whose employ she had been for about ten months, at the time that this tragic narrative commences. Like a good many homely north country people, Mr. and Mrs. Greenwood frequently sat in the kitchen, and on these occasions treated Jane almost as a member of the family.

So much did both of them become attached to her that Mrs. Greenwood Informed her one day that her husband had made provision for her in his will so that she would not have to seek a new situation if he were to die before she did. Under these circumstances, it is not to be wondered that Jane found the place very much to her liking, and avowed her intention of staying indefinitely.

There seemed to be only one blot upon the pleasant tenor of her life. Like the good-looking girl she was, it was inevitable that she should attract members of the opposite sex. She had two young men, so she wrote to her sister-in-law, a Mrs. Roberts, who resided in Manchester. One of them was in a good situation, and earning three pounds a week.

She does not seem to have returned their affection; and indeed, appears to have regarded their attentions with something akin to aversion. She deliberately destroyed all the letters she received from them, and went abroad as little as possible, probably to avoid meeting them.

On Monday, January 5, 1880, her sister-in-law came to see her, in order to complete arrangements for the marriage of another sister at Halifax. Mrs. Roberts was wearing clothes very similar to those in which Jane was similarly attired when walking abroad. As she neared the house two men suddenly sprang out of the darkness.  She turned quickly, so that they saw her face. Finding, evidently, that they had made a mistake, the two mysterious strangers rushed away into the night.

On the following evening Mrs. Roberts made another visit to Jane, and on this occasion noticed a young man hanging about the house. He made off, however, on her appearance.

Wednesday, January 7, the day doomed to end in ghastly tragedy, opened for the Greenwood family in the ordinary way. At mid-day, Mr. Cooper, Mr. Greenwood's partner, called. As Jane opened the door to him he noticed lying on the ground a letter, without, a stamp, evidently pushed under the door by someone, and not posted in the ordinary way.

" Hullo, June, here's a love-letter for you," he remarked, stooping to pick the letter up and handing it to the girl. She looked at the address, and then replied quietly: "Oh, no; it's for Mr. Greenwood."

Mr. Cooper was shown up into the room in which Mrs. Greenwood was confined,, while Jane went to fetch her master from the back garden, where  he was engaged in digging.

Dropping his spade, Mr, Greenwood followed the girl into the kitchen, where she handed him the letter without any remark, before going upstairs to read it through, and its contents puzzled him not a little.

He had some landed property in the district, and from time to time overtures had been made to him to sell or let portions of it, but he had refused to accept these proposals for business reasons.

The letter had reference to this portion of his property, and ran as follows:

January 7, 1880.

Mr. Greenwood,

I want to take that land near the coal yard, behind the druggist's shop, Queen's-road. I will pay either monthly, quarterly, or yearly, and will pay in advance, and I will meet you to-night from five to six o'clock at the "Three Tuns," corner of Churnet-street, and will tell you all particulars. I don't know your address, or I would have posted it.

Yours, etc.,

W. WILSON.

Oldham-road.

Mr, Greenwood carried the letter with him upstairs, and, handing it to his partner, asked him his opinion of its contents. Mr. Cooper read it out aloud for the benefit of Mrs. Greenwood, and that lady was very warm in urging, her. husband to keep the appointment, and if the terms offered were good enough, to accept them.

Mr. Greenwood did not at once make up his mind. He was not particularly anxious to part with the piece of land in question. He considered it would spoil his property, but ultimately decided that no harm would be done by hearing what the mysterious "W. Wilson" had to propose.

Accordingly, at 5.40 that evening, he left the house, and made his way to the Three Tuns. On inquiring of the waiter, he was surprised to learn that nobody of the name of Wilson had called there or made any inquiries for him, Like any other man would have been, under the circumstances, he was inclined to be angry at the failure of his correspondent to keep the appointment. He determined, none the less, to wait a little, in case he should turn up. Until 6.20 he hung about the vicinity of the Three Tuns; then, his patience giving way, he decided to return home, after leaving a message with the landlord.

"If anyone comes that wants to see Greenwood," he told him, ' they will have to come to Westbourne-grove. I live there."

In no pleasant frame of mind he made his way back to his home. When, at 6.40. he got there, he discovered that a ghastly tragedy had taken place. During her husband's absence Mrs. Greenwood had been left alone in her room upstairs. She sat with her door open, so that she could hear everything that went on in the house. At 6.25 there was a knock at the front door. She heard Jane come out of the kitchen and cross the lobby to the door. Then, a second later, her ear caught the sound of footsteps again crossing the lobby— the footsteps of Jane, and the footsteps of somebody else, who walked very lightly, like a woman. The door that separated the lobby from the kitchen closed. For five minutes no sound reached the ears of Mrs. Greenwood. Then, suddenly, a piercing scream rent the air. It was such a blood-curdling scream that, summoning up all her strength, Mrs. Greenwood staggered out to the banisters.

"What's the matter, Jane?" she called. The only answer was another terrifying scream, and then dead silence. Not another sound was to be heard in the house. Under the Impression that Jane was in a fit, or that, her clothes had caught fire, Mrs. Greenwood hurried down to the front door, and, opening it, cried out: " Murder! Murder!" in the hope that this sensational cry would bring someone to her assistance.

Next door Mrs. Cadman was busy in the kitchen with her servant, Annie Gillow. She had only returned at 6.25, and was making preparations for supper. At 6.30 she had been startled by a piercing scream, which she described as being like that of a woman in pain. Imagining that something had happened to her daughter Dora, who was playing in the back yard, she rushed out. Finding all was well, she returned again. Hardly had she done so when a second piercing scream struck upon her ears. This time there was no mistaking that the piteous cry came from the Greenwoods' house.

Accompanied by her servant, she ran put of her front door to find Mrs. Greenwood on the step in a great state of consternation. "There's something wrong in my kitchen," she cried. Getting a light, Mrs. Cadman boldly approached the lobby door and opened it. The kitchen was brilliantly lighted by the gas and the three women saw Jane lying on her breast across the floor, her feet under the dresser and her head towards the window.

Stooping down Mrs. Cadman was horrified to find that blood was trickling from her head. From the motion of her shoulders she saw she was still breathing.

A Mr. Allen, who lived hard by, was immediately sent for, and with his assistance, the poor girl was turned over on her back. Within five minutes she died, before medical assistance could be obtained, without even uttering a word.

She had been murdered; of that there was no doubt. four or five ghastly wounds were found on her head and brow, made by some blunt instrument. But who and where was the murderer? There were no signs of any struggle. Everything was in its place, the fire burnt cheerfully ; the gas was alight; everything was neat and tidy; not a bit of furniture had been disarranged.

In an escritoire in an adjoining room Mr. Greenwood had left a considerable sum of money. Not a penny of this had been taken, and on further investigation it was found that not a thing was missing from the house; robbery had clearly not been the motive of the criminal.

Could the person who entered tho house at 6.25, and who obviously had committed the deed, have been a jealous lover? But Jane, as I have already stated, was averse to young men. and was not likely to have brought any of her admirers into the house. Moreover Mrs. Greenwood was positive that the footsteps of the visitor which she had heard were those of a woman. It was pretty clear that the crime had been carefully arranged, and that the letter which Mrs. Greenwood received was a decoy, sent for the express purpose of insuring his absence from home while the deed was done. This letter was the only clue that the police possessed, and the mystery which surrounded the case was intensified by the following strange facts:—

No weapon was found in the house or in the precincts; though the whole tragedy occupied but five minutes, Mrs. Greenwood heard nobody leave the house by the front door; Mrs. Cadman, whose kitchen overlooked the back entrance of the Greenwoods' house, was equally positive that no one left by the back door. No one had seen any person loitering in the neighbourhood. Under those circumstances the police seemed to consider that the best thing they could do was to concentrate their attention  upon trying to find "W. "Wilson, Oldham-road," who wrote the decoy letter.

Lithograph copies of the letter were circulated, and a large number of communications poured in upon the police, some of them containing specimens of handwriting which were thought to bear a striking resemblance to the document in question.

Every day for a month the police investigated the doings of various persons. A man called Haild, who, it was alleged, had made a false declaration in order to obtain a free emigration passage to Australia, was arrested at Plymouth on a charge of perjury, and it was generally assumed would be ultimately charged with a graver offence. But Haild's examination before the magistrates satisfied them that he was not guilty of perjury, and there were no grounds whatsoever for preferring a charge against him of having taken the life of Sarah Jane Roberts.

One other step the authorities took, a rather curious one, which I simply record for the interest of my readers. Before the poor girl's burial, a photograph was taken of her eyes, in the hope that the outline of the murderer or the weapon with which the murder was committed might he found on the retina.

A large amount of correspondence in the papers from scientific people destroyed any lingering hope that the authorities might have had of discovering anything by this eccentric means. The tragedy was made the excuse for a number of extraordinary letters to the papers— one from a man who said he knew who the murderer was but declined to give evidence lest his own past should be raked up, and another from a man who said he was the murderer himself. The veracity of the writers was never put to the test, for the police failed to discover their identities.

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5: The Great Harley-street Enigma

Truth (Brisbane) 15 March 1908

THE MORE I study the history of crime the more convinced do I become that London is one of the most mysterious places in the world. Persons talk of the mysterious East, but not even Asia can supply more astounding mysteries than those which underlie the surface of the vast social area we call London.

I am dealing this week with a case which reads more like some horrible myth than an account of anything which actually occurred. The narrative illustrates my contention that the mysteries or London are so strange and remarkable as sometimes to border upon the uncanny. If a novelist were to tell the story of how a wealthy and respected member of society, living in one of the most fashionable quarters, found one morning in the cellar of his house, where he had dwelt for twenty years, the decomposed remains of a body, the reader would be inclined to smile.

But if any imaginary novelist was to add that the cellar in which the remains were found had been used every day for several years, it is more than probable that his book would be thrown away, as being altogether too far-fetched and ridiculous. And yet that is the story of what I have called "The Great Harley-street Enigma," and it is absolutely true in every detail.

It is the remarkable part of London that in the most unexpected quarters these grim tragedies crop up. Again and again it has been shown that the most peaceful-looking places, the most prosaic, respectable and substantial houses, have kept hidden for years the evidences of some terrible crime. In bedrooms, cellars, lofts, warehouses, railway stations, and hundreds of other unlikely places these gruesome clues have been found.

The Harley-street Enigma corresponds in many details with the remarkable mystery which I dealt with in the first of these reports— "the Euston-Square  mystery."

It will be remembered that in that case the mummified remains of a Miss Hacker, an eccentric spinster from Canterbury, were found in a coal-cellar, which had been used every day for the 20 months the body must have rested there.

The case I am now dealing with was made public hardly more than a year later, and the similarity of the two tragedies around many wild conjectures. Within three or four years nearly a dozen murders had been brought to light, but not one of the perpetrators had been discovered, and the finding of an unknown woman's body in an American sugar cask in a house in Harley-street, W., completed the uneasiness and agitation that had been aroused in the public mind.  I will let reader judge whether or no he considers at this distance of time the scare to have been justified. Here is the story.

The house in Harley-street was in 1880 in the possession of a Mr. Henriques, who had occupied it then for more than 20 years. Mr. Henriques was a very wealthy merchant. who kept a luxuriously-appointed establishment and a large staff of servants. The neighbourhood in which he resided was even more fashionable than it is now. Not very faraway Mr. Gladstone resided, and doubtless Mr. Henriques had witnessed from his windows two very remarkable scenes which occurred about this time.

Probably he saw the roughs rushing down Harley-street to break the great statesman's windows, and shortly afterwards watched an enthusiastic crowd hastening the same way with cheers, to welcome the hero of Liberalism back to power.

Mr. Henriques' establishment worked smoothly and easily, and to judge from the number of servants that left his employment in the course of three or four year, it is reasonable to assume that he was a person who was very particular about his domestics. He had had to change his butler very frequently, but at last found himself well suited with a man of the name of John Spendlove.

John Spendlove had been In his employ for 15 months, having taken over the duties of the previous butler, a man named Smith, on November 21, 1878. Though he seems to have liked the place, there was one little drawback of which he felt it his duly to complain to his master. He occupied a room in the basement, which faced three cellars, running out under the pavement of Harley-street, and separated from the house by the area. Two of these cellars were used for coal, and the third was set apart for domestic purposes and boot cleaning. From the first Spendlove complained of the very disagreeable smell that emanated from the third cellar. Quite naturally, the nuisance was attributed to the drains, and Mr. Henriques' gave instructions for them to be thoroughly overhauled and repaired.

But though this was done nuisance still continued. Spendlove again complained, and told his master that he thought the objectionable door must be due to the dust-bin. Steps were promptly taken to remedy tills fancied defect, but still the disagreeable smell continued, increasing rather than diminishing from day to day.

Spendlove was supported in his statement regarding, the nuisance, by Arthur Kirkland, the footman, whose business it was to clean the boots every day in the cellar. His predecessor, a man called Tinnup, who had taken the situation prior to Spendlove's arrival, on August 18, 1876, and had left in the middle of 1879, had also complained.

On the morning of June 3, 1880, the smell had become peculiarly offensive, and the butler was determined to have the whole place cleaned out. Having seen his master safely seated at break-fast, he went down into the area. In the cellar he found Arthur Kirkland busy cleaning the boots. He told him what he intended to do, and the footman left his work to give him a hand.

They first directed their efforts to investigating a barrel, such as is used in the export of sugar from America. This barrel, which both men had seen every day since they had been in the house, stood in an opening, underneath some brick staging, which supported a galvanised iron cistern. The barrel was one or two feet back in the recess; and both the butler and footman believed it to be full of empty seltzer-water bottles and gallipots, some of which protruded over the top. Together they pulled it out into the middle of the cellar floor.

Spendlove began to remove some of the bottles, when all of a sudden the footman, who was standing by, cried out, "There's somebody here."

Looking down, the butler was startled to see something which he could not make out,  as it seemed like some effigy or figure stowed away. Closer investigation showed beyond doubt that it was the remains of a human body.

In great consternation. Spendlove rushed off to his master, and asked to be allowed to speak to him for a few moments.

"We have found the remains of something In a barrel downstairs," he said, in great agitation.

"Send for a policeman," was the prompt reply. "You will find one at the end of the street."

As soon as the police were on the scene Dr. Spurgin, the divisional surgeon, was summoned in hot haste to make a preliminary investigation of the cask and its tragic contents.  It was impossible, however, there and then to come to any decision as to the sex or age of the corpse. All that could be noted was that the body had been thrust head downwards into the cask, and that a quantity of Hair adhered to the top of the cask.

As soon as night fell the gruesome relic was removed to the local mortuary. and there a thorough examination was held. The body was that of a woman, about 4ft. 7in., and somewhere about middle age. When taken from the cask the spine was bent into a curve and the head doubled back. The right hand was clenched and pressed across the breast; the left hand was twisted round to the back. The thighs were bent backwards, and the knees doubled down, so that the legs crossed at the back. The hair on the head was dark brown save for a few grey hairs.

The body was partly mummified, and the doctors agreed that it must have been In the cask for more than a year. Chloride of lime was found in the cask, evidently placed there by some ignorant person, who imagined, like the murderer Wainwright, that its chemical action would destroy all vestiges of the crime. The legs above the knees were gartered with common metal buckles, and the discovery of some fragments of very coarse linen underclothing  seemed to justify the assumption that the victim, whoever she was, had been In poor circumstances.

The only other feature which the doctors thought worth noting were the peculiar shape of the woman's front teeth, which looked as if they had been partially sawn off, and also of the discovery of a piece of coral embedded in one ear. That she had been the victim of a murder was proved beyond doubt, for there was a wound above the heart which must have been made with a knife.

To summarise the Information which the doctors were able to give the police:— the victim was a brown-haired, short woman of middle age who probably wore coral earrings, and had curiously-formed front teeth.

That is all that was then known, and is ever likely to be known, of the victim.

The enigma which the police were called upon to solve was briefly as follows:— How had tho barrel and its gruesome contents got into the area cellar of the house in Harley-street, and when were they placed there? Could these twp questions be more or less definitely answered, then there was some chance of bringing the murderer to the gallows. But, without an answer to either of them, it was hopeless to imagine that justice would ever be done.

There seemed good reason to suppose, when the police took up the case, that there would be no difficulty in finding these answers, for the cellar had been used every day, and the fact that bottles had been placed In the cask seemed to show that it had been noted by the servants. But from the very first the police found their hopes frustrated, and their investigations' doomed to disappointment. From Mr. Henriques a list of all the servants he had employed during the previous four or five yours was obtained. They were sought out and subjected one by one to a searching examination. I will give in precise form the result of their somewhat contradictory and confused evidence.

George Campbell, who was butler for five months in 1877, remembered the smell of the barrel. George Winter, who was employed from 1877 to the middle of 1878 gave evidence to the same effect. Smith, the butler, whom Spendlove succeeded, never recollected having seen the cask, though he used to go into the cellar three or four times a week. He left the situation after having been in Mr. Henriques service for eight or nine months, on November 21, 1878. Robert Woodroffe, who took care of the house while the Henriques family were absent from town, neither saw the cask nor detected any smell in  August 1878.

On the other hand, Spendlove had noticed the cask and detected the smell  from his first entry into the house, on November 27, 1878. Tinnup, the footman, who had taken up his situation on August 18, 1878, also recollected the barrel and the smell from the very first day of his arrival. Henry Coatley, a plumber, noticed the cask in or about July, 1878, while he was employed in mending the cistern. But though he saw the cask he did not detect any smell.

This was all the information that the police could obtain. It established  nothing, unless the evidence of Smith and Woodroffe, the caretaker, was discounted altogether. The ex-butler and caretaker both agreed that the cask was not in the cellar, and that the smell did not exist during the months from July to November.

The plumber's evidence, however, and the statement of Tinnup laid it down that the cask was in the cellar in July, 1878, and that the cask was there and the smell prevalent from August 1878, onwards. With such confused material, the police investigations were doomed to failure. They pretended to be hopeful, but not a single clue as to how the mysterious barrel got into the cellar was over discovered.

The coroner's jury brought in a verdict of "Wilful Murder" against some person or persons unknown.  The Government offered a reward of a hundred pounds, and there the whole matter stopped abruptly.

Who was the brown-haired, little woman of middle age, with those peculiar front teeth, "as if they had been sawn off?" How came it that no-one even missed her from the world she had inhabited?  She must have lodged somewhere. She must have housed herself under a roof, however humble; she must have exchanged an occasional word with some human companion. And yet no one appears to have given her a thought, or to have been disturbed by her disappearance, or to have felt any regret when she passed from her circle of acquaintances in that dreadful tomb in the cellar of the house in Harley-street.

Though her mutilated remains rested there 18 months at least— being brought thereby some mysterious person on some unknown day in some strange, weird manner— how came it about that no one of the inhabitants of the house ever suspected that lived and moved and went serenely about their work within a few yards of where these miserable evidences of a monstrous crime lay hid?  I think my readers will agree with me that I am right in calling the tragic narrative "The Enigma of Harley-street."

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6: The Burton Crescent Murder

Truth (Brisbane) 8 March 1908

IT is a curious circumstance that two of the most famous murder mysteries should have for their victims two women of the same name. My readers will recollect that some weeks ago I dealt with the extraordinary murder of Mrs. Samuel, of Bartholomew-road, Kentish-town, who was killed by three miscreants to bread daylight in the year 1887.

The victim of the Burton-Crescent murder, was also Mrs, Samuel, who met her death under circumstances quite as mysterious as these with which the Kentish-town tragedy was surrounded.

The story to remarkable, not only for the mystery to which the gruesome deed is steeped, but also for one of the most curious police proceedings on record. Nowadays, the splendid body of men who watch and  guard the safety of the public make the proud boast that not in 99 cases of a hundred do they prefer  a charge of murder against a person which they subsequently fail to substantiate. But in the year 1878 things were different. In their haste to  solve the murderer they arrested, within two days of the crime, a servant Mary Donovan, and the following day formally charged her with the crime, without, having collected any evidence against her that could prove her guilt.

They obtained a remand five times, and a month later had to admit that they were quite unable to discover any proofs to support the grave accusation they had made. Mr. Flowers, the then magistrate of Bow-street, deemed it his duty in discharging Mary Donovan to mildly censure the police.  They had no business, he told them, to have charged her on the merely suspicious evidence that they had collected.

I think the rebuke was merited. The police seemed to have considered their suspicion of Mary Donovan as good as proof, and not to have made any serious inquiries before effecting her arrest.

The story of the horrible crime runs as follows:—

Mrs. Samuel was a widow of a diamond merchant, and to the year 1873 had just attained the good age of 75. Burton-crescent, where she resided, is adjacent to Euston-road, and the house she occupied was a substantial, superior-looking , place in keeping with her position and means. Report had It that she was very rich, and that she bad managed to hoard a very considerable sum of money.

For some reason, which has never been explained, she took in one lodger. Feasibly the house was too large for her, and she found it lonely, for she then kept no regular servant on the premises. For ten years she had been faithfully  served by a woman to whom she was greatly attached. This servant had left to be married; her name was Mary Donovan.

Not caring to replace Mary, Mrs. Samuel, who was an energetic, bustling woman, capable even at her advanced age of doing some of the housework, employed the services of a little girl called Fanny White, who came in every day to wash up, to sweep, and to attend to other small domestic duties. Mary Donovan used to visit her old mistress very often, being always assured of a welcome. She washed occasionally for Mrs. SamueI, and, as that old lady was unable to bend her back very far, she used to come at regular intervals to cut her toe-nails.

Mary Donovan had certain little eccentric habits, which her old mistress- readily forgave. Not to mince words, she used to get drunk, and on several occasions appeared in that condition at Burton-crescent.

On Tuesday, December 10, she called some time to the afternoon, the door being opened by the lodger, a foreigner, named Borschutzky, who made his living by playing in the orchestra at some theatre. A  few minutes later she left the house, Mrs. Samuel explaining to the lodger that "Mary was 'tight."'

On Wednesday, December 11, Mary called again. It was late to the afternoon. The little girl, Fanny White, had already departed, and the lodger was thinking about setting off for his orchestral duties. By 1 o'clock Mary Donovan and Mrs. Samuels were alone in the house.

At 8 o'clock two women, a Mrs. Elizabeth Barrat and a Mrs. Shillito, called to see Mrs. Samuel with regard to the situation of housekeeper which they believed the old lady required filling. Finding that their services were not needed, they retired, being shown out by Mary Donovan.

At midnight Mr. Borschutzky returned, letting himself to with his latchkey. It was his invariable custom to take supper at this hour, the meal being laid in readiness for him to the parlour on the ground floor.

To his surprise, and probably also to his annoyance, he found that no food was awaiting. Wondering what the reason could be, he went down into the kitchen to discover from Mr. Samuel, if she were still out of bed, the reason of this oversight, and, if possible, to have it remedied.

When he got down to the kitchen the first thing be saw was the body of the unfortunate old lady lying in a pool of blood, quite dead. He immediately rushed off to the house of her son hard by, and returned a few minutes later with that gentleman, a policeman, and a doctor, who at once proceeded to make an examination of the corpse and the house.

How Mrs. Samuel had met her death was self-evident. She had been beaten literally to death, her head and face being torn and bruised with horrible, brutal wounds. Behind a screen was found a piece of wood:— an old hat-rail, fitted with pegs and pierced with long nails which originally fastened it to the wall. It bad been split in two, but both sections were covered - with blood and hair, the nails being encrusted with flesh.

The old lady had not died without a struggle. She must have tried to protect herself with her hands, which were bruised and cut in a most disgusting manner. Both her eyes were discoloured, and her face was blackened with dirt of some kind, as though it had been rubbed rover with dirty fingers.

On a table nearby was a knife smeared with blood, though no wound was found upon the body which suggested that any sharp instrument had been used. There were tracks of blood across the kitchen floor, and near the kitchen stair; the back door was also smeared, and the area window was found broken from the inside, and a quantity of the glass lying about bore the same grim evidence of the murder.

There was one strange and curious circumstance attaching to the tragic scene. The murderer had evidently made an attempt to clear up the bloodstains. The hat rail with which the deed was committed had been partially washed, and near the corpse was found an old washing cloth with which the assassin had mopped up a portion of the blood on the floor. It was pretty clear that the murderer had soon given up the task, for the floor was only half wiped, and the hat-rail only half cleaned. Moreover, some water was found in the sink dyed crimson with blood, which showed that this mysterious person washed his hands after committing the deed and attempting to clear away the evidence.

It was found also that the pocket which Mrs. Samuel wore, loose, round the front of her dress had been cut away, and the plain worn gold wedding-ring which she always wore had been wrenched from her finger.

The only other things found to he missing from the house were a pair of new boots. Nothing else had been taken, and apparently, no attempt had been made to rifle the premises in the hope of see securing the hoard which the old lady was supposed to have laid by.

One would imagine that the policy of the police would have been to trace, if possible, the boots and the wedding-ring, while keeping any person they suspected under observation. But this course they did not adopt.

They easily discovered that Mary Donovan was the last person to have been in the company of Mrs. Samuel on the fatal night, and by a few quick inquiries they leant something of her doings subsequent to the murder.

She resided in rooms at 42 Lancaster-street, Borough-road. Her landlady informed the authorities that she had returned on the night of Wednesday, December 11.  The landlady's daughter had sat up for her until after midnight. At 7.45 the next morning she put to an appearance; her clothes all tumbled and disordered, her hair loose, and her face dirty.

"I slept at a coffee house," she explained, as she entered the house with a bundle under her shawl and some wood on her arm. On this evidence the police considered they had clear and positive proof that Mary Donovan had murdered Mr. Samuel.

On Friday, December 15. two police officers called at Lancaster-street to effect her arrest. Mrs. Donovan did not seem at all upset when they made known the object their visit, and volunteered a statement, which, read now. without prejudice, seems to bear the impress of truth.

She had just finished Mrs Samuel's toenails, she explained, when a man knocked at the door and asked to look at some apartments. It was then between 8 and 8:30 PM. Mrs. Samuel appeared to know the man, who looked, according to Mary's account, like a plasterer or paper-hanger. He was asked into the house, and the old servant was despatched to get something to eat for supper.

On her return the stranger was still there. Mrs. Samuel had intended to give her some things for the wash, but told her she would give them to her the following  day, and that she needn't stay any longer. She accordingly came away, leaving the man in the house.

The police officers received this narrative in critical silence, and when she had finished asked her what dress she had worn on that night. She retorted that it was the one she had on then. They immediately examined it and found here and there certain dark discoloration.  Mary Donovan declared that there were iron-mould.

"I am confident it is blood," retorted one of the detectives. On the bed was a black skirt they also examined, Donovan remarking. "You will find no blood on that."

On her boot were also found the same suspicious-looking stains. She was promptly arrested and taken away in a cab, loudly exclaiming, "I am not afraid." On the way to the station the officers suspected that she was trying to tear something from the front of her dress, and, on looking beneath her shawl, they again saw some more dark stains.

The following day, Saturday, December 14, she was brought up before the magistrate and formally charged. Everyone was confident that she was the murderess. The public shared the opinion of the police. The press, regardless of the fact that the case was still sub judice, and that, therefore, criticism of the arrested was not permissible, quite openly announced that they were satisfied that Mary Donovan had murdered Mrs. Samuel.

At first everything went smoothly for the authorities. Prof. Redwood, to whom the woman's clothes were sent for examination, after a microscopical investigation extending over some weeks, averred that the dark marks on the skirt were blood stains, and that the blood was human blood. Curiously enough, the tree authority declared that there were no bloodstains on the skirt, about which Mazy Donovan had remarked to two police officers, "You will find no blood on that."

The net seemed to be closing quickly round Mrs. Samuel's old servant, and when it was discovered that a woman of the name of Donovan had pawned a gold wedding-ring on December 12, the case seemed established. The pawnbroker's assistant, who had managed the affair, was brought to the prison, to identify the woman who had pawned the ring. He picked out Mary Donovan from number of other women with that extraordinary certainty and accuracy which is an invariable feature of such cases.

All this time Mary Donovan stoutly protested her innocence, and preserved a quiet, stubborn demeanour in the box, which was translated, so high did feeling run against her, as proof of her guilt.

But the police could not discover the stolen boots. High and low they searched, but searched in  vain. A reward of once pound was offered by the Criminal Investigation Department for a pair of lady's lace-up felt boots, with black fur up the front and around thee tops, nearly new, size sevens, rather wide soles, scarlet lining, palest toe-tip, and a woman's "jean pocket," but without result.

Though no answer of any kind was received to this advertisement, the police still retained their confidence.

Then all of a sudden their case crumbled to nothing.  The pawnbroker's assistant who had identified Mary Donovan came to the court and asked to be allowed to correct his evidence. He had found that the woman who had pawned the ring was called Anne Donovan, and not Mary Donovan, and that, moreover, Anne Donovan had come to claim the property.

At the fifth hearing before the magistrate, Mr. Poland, who prosecuted on behalf of the Treasury, rose to his place and declared that he could carry the case no further. The police had done everything they could to discover definite proof of Mary Donovan's guilt, and had failed absolutely. The woman was thereupon discharged.

I think it is highly possible that had the police accepted the statement of Mary Donovan, and tried to find the man whom she declared had called on Mrs. Samuel on the fatal night, and looked like a plasterer, or paper-hanger, the murderer might have been caught.

The fact that nobody had broken into the house, but that somebody had forced his way out of the house, proved that the assassin must have been admitted by Mrs. Samuel herself. Mrs. Samuel was an old lady who would never dare allowed a perfect stranger to enter the house at a late hour of the night.  Everything, therefore, points to Mary Donovan's statement being absolutely true.

By the time the police awoke to this fact more than a month had elapsed. The detection of the criminal was hopeless. The usual reward of a hundred pounds was offered by the Government, but no one knows to this day how the diamond merchant's widow of Burton Crescent met her death on the night of December 11, 1878.

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7: The Battersea Mutilation Case

Truth (Brisbane) 22 March 1908

IF I ATTEMPTED to deal with all the mutilation mysteries which have horrified the country during the last 50 years I should weary my readers with endless repetitions.

The main features of such cases are always the same: The passionate wretch who has committed an atrocious crime seeks, in the first revulsion of horror to find some way of hiding the crying evidence of his guilt. Almost invariably in such cases the first impulse of the assassin leads him to cut the body in pieces, either with the idea of burning it, or with the object of enabling him to conceal it more conveniently.

Fortunately for the sake of justice, to reduce a body to dust by the ordinary processes of combustion is a very long, a very difficult, and a very expensive process. More than one murderer has been caught engaged in the gruesome and unavailing task of trying to burn the corpse of his victim piecemeal. The details of these cases are too nauseating to find a record here.

Sometimes, early discovering that his attempts are bound to fail, the murderer has desisted from employing fire to cover his guilt, and, taking  the fragments of his victim's body and either deposited the remains in one place, or else scattered them broadcast, hoping, by this means, to escape detection. My readers will recollect the story of Sherward of Norwich, who, having killed his wife, cut her body into pieces. boiled them; and then, night after night for a whole week; distributed portions of them round the city. From his own point of view his methods were so successful that had it not been for the fact that he confessed 18 years later, he would never have met his death on the scaffold.

There are two cases which are invariably quoted together when the subject of mutilation mysteries is dealt with in the various histories of crime— the Waterloo-bridge case of 1857 and the Battersea 'mutilation mystery' of 1873.

Though I intend dealing only with the latter at length, perhaps It will interest my reader if recount, briefly, the little that is known of the former.

Two boys who were out in a boat in the year 1857, noticed a carpet-bag, caught by the flow of the tide, resting against one of the buttresses of Waterloo-bridge. Regarding it as a find, they rowed up to it and promptly proceeded to investigate its contents. On opening the bag they were horrified to find that it contained the mutilated fragments of a human body, chopped up into a number of pieces.  They immediately took their gruesome find to the authorities.

The subsequent medical examination disclosed the following facts:— There adhered to some of the pieces of the body the unmistakeable shreds of male clothing; further, the doctors were able to announce that the victim was a dark and hairy man, who had met his death through a knife stab between the third and fourth ribs.

Tho remains had been boiled and subsequently salted, or placed in brine, with the probable object of trying to avoid the damning evidences of decomposition until such a time as the corpse could be disposed of. Some parts of the interior bones had, escaped the action of the salt, and from these it was possible to make an approximate guess at the date of death, which must have taken place three or four weeks before.

From the nature, of the clothes, it was adduced that the deceased must have been a foreigner. But beyond these generalities it was found impossible to discover anything. The crime had been committed with diabolical cunning, and must have been carefully thought out beforehand. All the parts likely to lead to identification, such as the hands, feet, and head, were found to be missing. Though search was made everywhere, they were never brought to light; and as a consequence, the Waterloo-bridge mystery remains a mystery to this day

The similarity between this case and the Battersea one, which I will now recount, will be apparent at once to the reader.

ON SEPTEMBER 5, 1873, a Thames policeman found, in the mud off the Battersea waterworks, the left quarter of a woman's trunk. He took the mutilated part at once to the Clapham and Wandsworth union workhouse,  where. Dr. Kempster, the divisional surgeon saw it and pronounced it to be portion or a body which had not been in the water more than 12 hours.

A careful and minute search of the river was immediately instituted by the Thames police, but, strangely enough, the next discovery. was made by a constable in the employ of the South-Western Railway, who had no knowledge of what had already been brought to light.

Off the Brunswick wharf, near Nine Elms station, he found the right  quarter of a woman's trunk. This part corresponded with the first part found, and it was clearly seen that the gruesome; operation had been performed with a very sharp knife, and that, moreover,  a saw had also been used.

Other portions of the body began to be discovered in rapid succession. Inspector Marley, of the Thames police, found a portion of the lungs, under an arch of the old Battersea bridge, and the other part near the Battersea Toll-way pier.

On the following day, September 6, the Thames yielded up off Limehouse, the face of a woman, with the scalp attached— possibly the most appalling horror ever pulled out of a river whose history runs red with tragedy

It was evident at a glance that the murderer, or murderers, had taken revolting precautions to prevent identification, for the nose was cut from the face, but still hung, attached to the upper lip. There was the. mark of a bruise on the right- temple, evidently caused by a blunt Instrument, and this blow, It was concluded, must have been the cause of death.

September 9, two more portions of the same body were, found. The right thigh was picked up in the river off Woolwich, and the right shoulder, with part of the arm, which was smeared with tar, off Greenwich.  The left foot was discovered near the bank of the Regent's canal, off Rotherhithe, and the right forearm near the Albert embankment. Six days later another piece of the  right arm was found near Hungerford-bridge.

There was one circumstance attaching to these dreadful discoveries from which the authorities were. able to deduce a very sound theory:  Each fragment had been found  on an ebb tide, each lower and lower down the river. This seemed to indicate that the heavier portions at least were committed to-the river not very far from the place, where the Wandle enters the Thames, and had been washed down by the tide to where they were  found--one to Battersea, which is but a couple of miles from the Wandle; and  another part a little later.

The publication of this grim news  created an immense sensation. The public joined hands with the police trying to track the missing portions of the body.  Several fragments, which might otherwise have escaped the notice of the authorities, were taken to the Clapham and Wandsworth workhouse. As invariably happens in these cases, quite a number or pieces of flesh and bone were handed in, which, on examination, were found to belong to different animals.

The one portion that the police were most anxious to lay their hands upon, was the skull. Without that they were unable to tell the exact cause of death. It was thought that, with that in their possession they would be able to decide definitely whether the blows on the head, as shown by the contusions, really proved fatal, or whether they only stunned the victim, whose head, while she was still insensible, but still, living, was cut from her shoulders. But the skull, was never brought to light.

Under the direction of Mr. Hayden, the medical  officer of the workhouse, where the remains lay preserved in spirits of wine, the body was built up, and the face so arranged as to give some hope that the mutilated victim might be Identified.

The medical evidence at the inquest agreed unanimously that the body was cut up but a short time before it was committed to the water, and that death was caused, in all probability, by a blow on the right temple--a blow which the scalp seemed to show was hard, enough to have crushed in the skull, and so to have caused instant death. It was held also that the parts first found had been in the water but a few hours.

The inquest was postponed from week to week in the hope that somebody could identify the remains. Crowds dally flocked to the workhouse, fearing to recognise in the horribly mutilated corpse some dear friend or relative who had been swallowed up in the mysterious maw of London.

With unfailing patience and pertinacity, the police followed, up the story of each missing woman as it was related to them, testing even the most ridiculous and improbable narratives. Within the first, few days several theories were seriously propounded. One laid it down that it might be the work of an association of criminal lunatics, escaped from Broadmoor, who, hiding among the islands of Battersea-point, wandered forth now and again to seize some victim and to put him or her to a horrible death.

Another theory, that was mooted, also in the case of the Waterloo-bridge mystery, received for several days considerable public support. The whole affair, it was said, was a grim practical joke played by some medical student who had deliberately thrown into the Thames a body they were dissecting, in the hope of horrifying the public.

The law governing the dissection of corpses was not then generally known, and it was not until The Lancet showed the impossibility of this theory, that it was abandoned. Every body of a person dying unclaimed  in a public institution, is registered at the office of the Inspector of Anatomy, and its destination settled by his officers. It is forwarded with an official schedule and certificate to a licensed school of anatomy, where its receipt is duly acknowledged by a formal certificate.

From that moment the anatomical teacher is responsible for its care; no entire body is ever given to any student, and, after dissection, the remains are collected and burled. There are undertakers attached to the schools, whose interest it is to see that each body sent for dissection, is ultimately committed to the earth, and who would be certain to report to the authorities the loss of a corpse, which loss, would rob them of their fees:

The theory was rendered finally untenable by the official announcement that after the closing of the school for the summer, no bodies are dissected within the metropolitan area before October 17. As September was not then out, the suggestion that the sinister discovery in the Thames was the work of some practical joker among the medical students was shown to be inadmissible.

Meanwhile, another, startling discovery had been made, which seemed to promise that the whole mystery would be cleared up. Among the number of people who came to view the corpse, was a Mr. Christian, of  15 South-street, Battersea-fields. He had had a lodger, a Mrs Cailey, who had taken his rooms five weeks previously. She was supposed to be a widow from Lyme Regis. Dorsetshire. On the morning of September 2, she had left the house, after offering Mrs. Christian two pawn tickets in payment of her rent.

"Next time you see me you will not know me," were her last words as she set out. From that day she had been seen no more in South-street, Battersea-fields.

Mr. Christian brought with him his wife, and another lodger, Mr. Lawson. On seeing the body they both decided that it was the body of Mrs. Cailey.  he police at once followed up this clue with great zest. Mrs. Cailey had certainly disappeared; her old landlady and a fellow lodger appeared to recognise her In the awful human fragments at the work-house. What was more likely, then, than it was the body of Mrs. Cailey that had been picked out piecemeal from the Thames?

An incident that occurred prior, to Mrs Cailey's disappearance seemed to lend support to the theory. On her return late one night she had been set on by some men near Battersea park, had received a blow over the eye, and had become so frightened of going out that she had asked for the protection of the police. Might not these men who had assaulted her be the murderers.  Her brother, Abel Beer, of South-street, Bridport, Dorsetshire, was sought out, and brought up to London. As soon as he saw the body he became deeply affected.

"I believe 'tis she. Yes, I believe, 'tis she. It's just her hair."

There was a large white mark on the poor  victim's breast which confirmed AbeI Beer's opinion. His sister had scalded herself when she was young, with boiling water, in exactly the same spot. Beer was also positive as to the identity of the ear and nose; her stature troubled; him a little, but did not make him alter his opinion that the remains were those of his missing sister.

The story of Abel Beer's tearful recognition of his sister convinced the public and the; press that it was Mrs. Cailey whose mutilated body had been found in the Thames. While they were still hoping that now that the victim's identity was established, the murderer would be discovered, Mrs. Cailey suddenly turned up smiling in Kings-road, Chelsea, very much alive, indeed.

After that the whole affair was allowed to lapse gradually into the realm of undiscovered mysteries; for, though the Government offered a reward of two hundred pounds, no one has ever come forward, who was able to recognise that awesome, skull-less face, and those brutally mutilated limbs that were fished out of the Thames on September 5, 1873.

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The Others

8: The Dog's Understudy

Barry Pain

1864-1928

Australasian 30 Nov 1895

"SHE WAS," said Mrs. Orliment, " one mask of mud, as I say. 'Ow she got I neither knows nor pretend. All I know is that I found 'er like that. She 'ad that nasty-tempered fox terrier dog of William Sake's with 'er. She may 'ave stole it, or contrariwise she may not. Girls that neither regard their clothes nor what their elders and betters says to them is as likely to steal as they is not. She wouldn't answer no questions of mine, so I just shoved the dog away and got snapped at for my pains. Then I told 'er bb I should take 'er 'ome to 'er mother. So I took 'er by the harm and brought 'er, as you see. 'Ow you will deal with 'er is for you to say."

Mrs. Orliment was a very large woman, tall, fat, and middle-aged. She moved slowly, talked slowly. She was at once lethargic and meddling— rarely hot-tempered, and never good-humoured. She was mildly and perpetually unpleasant. She was very sure that she did her duty, and as a matter of fact she frequently did the duty of other people. She had a sense that she had done it on the present occasion, and deserved to rest after it. She leaned against the gate of Mrs. Mysey's little cottage garden. The gate creaked but endured. The capacity for enduring— even admiring— Mrs. Orliment was not uncommon in the village.

On the other side of the gate stood Mrs. Mysey with the culprit that Mrs. Orliment had delivered over to her. The culprit, Violet Mysey, was a child of twelve. She bad brown hair, eyes that looked very blue and rather rebellious, and a good complexion. Over the complexion she was wearing a certain amount of mud.

Mrs. Mysey looked harassed and apologetic.

"Very much obliged to you, indeed I am, Mrs. Orliment. Won't you come in and set down a minnet or two? I'm sure 'ot's no wurd fur this weather. And you do pant―"

"Shortness of breath is what I always was troubled with, and always shall he until hall troubles is over. No. I 'ont come in, thanking you kindly for the thought of it. Leanin' up against this gate eases the lungs as much as settin', and then I 'aven't a moment I must be off again to my work ; there's only Hagnes left in the shop, and I needn't tell you what she is."

Agnes was, amongst other things, Mrs. Orliment's unmarried sister. When Orliment died the widow soon began to feel the want of some human being by her side whom she could be continually improving and setting right. So Agnes came to live with her.

"Voylut," said Mrs. Mysey, when Mrs. Orliment departed panting down the road, " why couldn't you harnswer Mrs. Orliment when she spoke to you?"

"She ain't my mother."

"No. but I ham. So jest you tell me what you've been doing of to get yourself in that state."

"I saw William Sake in the village."

"Aye, I'll be bound you did. Anywhere except at his work you might find William."

"He was taking a job home, two pairs soled an' 'eeled fur the Vicarage. An' I told him that the rats in the ditch in Chalk-lane was something shockin'. So 'e said that I could 'ave the dog if I liked, but 'e'd got no ferrets. Me and the dog got four rats any 'ow."

"Big 'uns?" asked Mrs. Mysey, who hated rats.

"Three old'uns an' a little 'un. It was when I was after the little 'un that I slip up, and come down on my face. These is my worst clothes, and they'll brush. As for my face, I'm willin' to wash it. She needn't 'ave actid as if I'd chucked myself down a muddy bank fur the pleasure of it."

"Well, another time when you sees Mrs. Orliment, you be civil to 'er. Now you take and clean yourself."

Violet retired in the direction of the pump at the further end of the garden. Her mother stood at the gate for a moment reflectively. f

"In my 'eart of 'earts," she said, "I m inclined to think that Mrs. Orliment is a aggerivater."

As Violet lay in the sun to dry her hair, she also reflected upon the personal character of Mrs. Orliment. It occurred to her that it would be a very beautiful and desirable thing if she could get even with that lady.

IN THE MEANTIME Mrs. Orliment was going slowly homewards. She was wondering what mistakes Agnes had made during her absence, and how Agnes could best be made to feel that they really were mistakes. Suddenly a streak of white shot out from behind a bush: it was William Sake's fox-terrier, in the act of going for Mrs. Orliment. When the terrier had got within a yard or two of the desired ankles, he pulled himself up suddenly; he executed a series of manoeuvres, circling round the ankles, rushing at them, retreating from them to make fresh incursions. As he did this, he barked and growled furiously, as befitted a dog who had been insulted, thereby causing Mrs. Orliment much annoyance and nervousness. She shook her umbrella threateningly at him, and he only barked the worse. There was nothing for it but to strike. She struck. She hit the high road a terrible blow on a spot that the terrier had evacuated a fraction of a second previously. The dog rushed around to the back, took one mouthful out of the hem of her skirt, and ran off. She examined the umbrella, and found that she had broken it.

"Ho— very well," said Mrs. Orliment, "we'll see what William Sake's got to say to this."

She found William Sake bending over his work in his cottage. He was a cobbler, of an independent mind.

"Mornin', Mr. Sake," said Mrs. Orliment.

"Mornin', ma'am," said William. Regarded as a woman, William Sake detested Mrs. Orliment. Regarded as a customer, he was prepared to be civil—and not more than civil—to her or to anybody.

"Well, Mr. Sake," said Mrs. Orliment, ingratiatingly, " it's commonly said in Elstow that if there is a man as knows the law of the land, hupside an' down, hinside and out, it is you."

Even the best of us— those with the most independent minds— have, as a rule, one weak point. William's weak point was his belief— unkind people might have called it his delusion— that he knew all the subtleties and intricacies of the law. He had some reputation in the village on this point, just us he also had some notoriety on the score of his irregular, independent, and eccentric habits,

"Well, ma'am," William confessed, "there's more than one in Elstow as has saved himself six-and-eight by taking of my advice. I don't deny it."

"Then what?'' asked Mrs. Orliment, very meaningly and no longer ingratiatingly, "might 'appen to be the law of this land with regard to them as keeps ferocious dogs, and let's 'em loose on the Queen's highway, to the detriment of ladies walking?"

"The law on that point," said William, "is complicated. It 'as nothing to with me, as I only keeps an innercent terrier dog, for which I holds a license direct from the Inland Revenue and can't be interfered with. But if you 'appen to own a ferocious dog, I should say you'd better shoot it."

"Me own a ferocious dog ! The aspersions of the man! It's your terrier I'm speaking of."

"My terrier never bit nobody."

"He snapped at me twice, and he tore my gown this very morning. He's a bad-tempered dog. I've 'eard it said before now that 'e gets out of nights worryin' the sheep. And if you can't be compelled to shoot 'im or pisun 'im, what's the law for?"

"As fur as I remember, ma'am," said William drily, "you arst me fur the law. The law distinguishes. It allows a dog to snap or to tear."

"Ho, does it? And allows 'im to bite too, I suppose?"

"It allows 'im to bite once, but not more. If my terrier should bite you on two different occasions, and each time in the presence of witnesses, you would 'ave ground for a action. As it is, you 'ave no more grounds for action than you 'ave for wasting of my time with your outrageous nonsense. If my terrier barked at you, you provoked 'im— probbly tried to hit 'im, for which I could bring my action for trespass and damages."

"I never did nothing of the sort. He tore at me from out of a hedge just now, as unprovoked as could be."

"How did you break your umbrella, ma'am ?"

"Oh, I don't say I stood still to be eat by a dog."

"You'd better be very careful, Mrs. Orliment. Men 'as got years of penal servitude for less perjury than you've just committed. How dare you say my dog goes out at night? Because I gets up when I likes, goes to bed when I likes, work when I likes, a lot of you libellous old cats in the village speaks of me in a way as you'll pay money down for in a court of law one of these days. I don't deny that bein' my own master I please myself. I do. But there's one point on which I'm strictly reg'lar, as can be proved by evidence. Every night at halt-past nine punct, I goes to the White Hart and has my glass ; every night I takes the dog with me; every night I comes back before ten and chains the dog in his kennel. Cast your eye down the garden, and you can see the kennel for yourself. Then how can the dog get out at night?"

The kennel was quite large enough to see. It was large enough for a large mastiff. William had found it too good a bargain to neglect because it was bigger than he wanted.

"Now you'll chain that dog up at daytime, too," said Mrs. Orliment, "or I'll know the reason why."

"I won't do nothink of the kind, and I won't give no reason except that I ain't a imbecile like yourself."

"Very well. William Sake. You soles and 'eels no more boots for me. I takes 'em to Mr. Johnson, in foochur. And as for the dog, you've had your warning."

"And as for your boots," said William, now slightly angry, "you can take them to the devil for all I care. Johnson keeps plenty of brown paper, and he'll be able to make the soles match the uppers. Jinkering three-an'-elevenpenny reach-me-downs ain't no treat to me, thank you. You've arst for the law, and you've 'ad the law. If you goes aginst it, you'll find yourself in prison, Mrs. Orliment, an' good mornin' to you."

Mrs. Orliment retired, more angry than ever. At one moment she seriously thought of appealing to the law, but she soon gave that up. It was traditional in the village that William Sake, though unaccountable and hopelessly unmarried, was an authority on the law. His reputation was chiefly based on his own expressed belief in himself, and partly on the fact that he did once achieve something; a particularly flagrant and impudent attempt had been made to enclose a piece of common land, and William had successfully resisted it. Mrs. Orliment felt that it would not be safe to appeal to the law. No, all she could do was to take away her custom and give it to Johnson, and even this was not an unmixed joy, as Johnson was a distinctly inferior workman.

"Now, Hagnes," she said sharply, when she entered her own shop. "What tom fool thing 'ave you been doin' while I was away ?"

"Oh, nothing, Jane, nothing at all. There ain't bin one customer in. I never did see such a dull place as this is. Well, there, I went to the door and not one 'uman soul could you see in the street except William Sake's terrier. 'E come up to me. Nice affeckshint little dog 'e is, too. I wish I 'ad 'im instead o' that ole heathen William. I fetched out a bone an' give 'im. Pleased? Oh, you never saw a dog as pleased as 'e was. Reg'lar jumped for joy."

Mrs. Orliment sat down. The thing seemed to have grown almost beyond the reach of words.

"Hagnes," she said in a patient, resigned voice. "I don't blame you. You was always the biggest fool I ever came acrorst. Hif it's my lot to live with a block'ead, I suppose I can bear it. I 'as very much to bear. In course, if I ever ketches you agin stealin' out of my kitching for to encourage mad dogs, or any other vermin, hout of the 'ouse you goes that minnut. But I don't blame you. You was born to be a cross and a affliction, and so you are, and so you allus will be."

There was an apple-tree in the little garden of William Sake's cottage. It stood in the centre of a diminutive lawn, and under it one fine afternoon lay William himself. He was doing no manner of work. On fine days he would occasionally postpone his work until the night. From where he lay he saw Violet Mysey pass the gate, and whistled to her. She came in gladly. It was at the time of year when William's apples were not too unripe for a girl with some pluck.

"Hello!" said Violet. " Did you want me?"

"Yes, I did." He pulled out some coppers and handed them to her. "I wants my ounce of 'baccy, and I wants a penny mornin' paper. Suppose you took and fetched 'em."

"All right. I'll be back in a minnut."

A shop— combining the news vendor with the tobacconist— was only twenty yards from William's gate. Violet had soon performed the two commissions.

"Thank you," said William. "I've been wantin' them two things powerful bad this last 'alf-hour."

"Then why didn't you get up and get 'em?"

"Because I couldn't get up without stoppin' lying down, and I didn't want to stop."

Violet laughed. " Do you want anything else?"

"Be'ind the kitching door is a wes'cut 'anging, and there's two buttons off of it, loose in the pocket, and you knows where the needle and thread is. I don't doubt I could put 'em on better myself, but you can fetch it out and do it if you like."

"Oh, I can put buttons on proper," said Violet, She ran and fetched the waistcoat, and sat down in the grass.

"You can eat any as is fallen," said William, almost savagely.

Violet collected eight large apples, and commenced on the largest. William slowly and carefully filled his pipe.

"These is good eatin' apples," Violet observed.

"They is." William unfolded his paper, and then laid it down again. "You don't 'appen to 'ave seed anythin' of Mrs. Orliment of late, do yer?" he asked.

"I ain't seed 'er to speak to," answered Violet, "Nor wanted. Your dog does 'ate her. She throwed stones at 'im, and 'e ain't forgot it. 'E's a clever 'un, 'e is. And she does 'ate 'im too."

"This mornin'," said William, "as I were settin' under this tree, up she comes. She were as smooth as oil. She wanted ter buy that terrier; said she'd give me five shillin' for 'im, she did. Said she wanted 'im as a presunt fur a friend as 'ad took a liking to 'im, and I, could 'ave the mending of 'er boots and 'er sister's boots if I'd sell. Now what do yet think of that?"

"Dunno. It's known in the village as she can't bear that dog. And she can't bear you neither. Nor me."

"Well, I explained to 'er that when I'd give seven-an'-six for a dog, and 'e were worth three pound, I wasn't in the 'abit of sellin' 'im for five shilling. If I'd sold 'er the dog she'd 'ave pisuned 'im. That was what she wanted. Pressunt fur a friend, indeed! It's beginning to be bore in on me that I shall 'ave to keep my eye on Mrs.Orliment."

"I owes 'er one myself," observed Violet.

Then William Sake picked up his paper, and studied the subtleties of the police court cases; and Violet went on with the sewing of buttons and the eating of apples.

It was on the next day that Violet Mysey wanted to purchase some of those cough lozenges that are known as The Delectable. She had no cough whatever, and would never have dreamed of doctoring herself; but The Delectable was good to eat, and— subjecting it to a severe time test— she found that it lasted longer in the mouth than any other jujube of the same size and weight. But when she got into the chemist's shop she found that another customer was occupying Mr. Pemble's attention. The other customer was Mrs. Orliment, and Mr. Pemble was just handing her a sealed packet.

"Yes, Mrs. Orliment," he was saying; "you're quite right. What'll kill a rat will kill a dog or a human being if it comes to that. You can't be too careful with such stuff. But it'll rid you of the rats."

Here Mrs. Orliment turned round, saw Violet Mysey, sniffed at her, and told her that she ought to be ashamed to go out with her hat on all crooked. Then she slipped the parcel in her pocket and went out majestically. In a minute Violet was following her until she stepped into the butcher's shop. Then Violet became meditative. After much thought she decided that the best thing to do would be to go and see William Sake and give him the result of her observations.

She found William hard at work. He heard Violet's story, and his eye gleamed. The detective instinct was awake in him.

"If Mrs. Orliment was going to pisun my terrier," he observed, "she'd be likely to come and put the stuff down when I was out. Now she knows that I go to the White Hart at half-past nine punct, every night, and come back at ten equally punct. She knows that I take the dog with me. That would be 'er time to put the stuff in his kennel. She may have wanted the pisun for rats, or she may have wanted it for the dog. But if she did want it for the dog, that's when she'd try to get at him. Now, then, listen to me. I 'as my little plan,"

Forthwith he unfolded what his little plan was.

That night at half-past nine William Sake whistled to his dog, and the two started together in the direction of the White Hart. When they had got clear away, Mrs. Orliment came down the road. She walked quickly and was excited; from both reasons she was suffering more than usual from that shortness of breath which was her frequent affliction. In her hand she carried something done up in newspaper— something damp and unpleasant.

At the gate of William Sake's garden she paused for a moment and listened. The night was very dark, but she could hear that no one was coming down the road in either direction. She opened the gate and walked boldly in. On she went, past the cottage, and right up to the big dog kennel. Here she listened again, but once more there was silence. Then she unfolded her newspaper and produced from it a repulsive-looking piece of raw meat.

"You awn't there, my beauty, aw yer?" said Mrs. Orliment; "no yer awn't, but you'll be back direckerly and you'll find your supper waitin'. An' you'll be glad of it, won't yer? Ho, yes. You'll gobble it up fast enough ; and that'll be the last of you. You won't want no breakfast in the mornin'. You won't come o' barkin' and a-snappin' and a-tearin' of the gownds off the backs of respeckerble folk. No, you'll lie quiet enough when you've eat this, I'll warrant yer."

With these words Mrs. Orliment put the meat just inside the kennel.

"There yer are," she said triumphantly, "your master won't find it there, and you will."

At this moment a voice from the inside darkness of the kennel said sternly, "Mrs. Orliment, what are you doing?"

It was so totally unexpected that it threw Mrs. Orliment into a state of panic. Whole armies have suffered from it; so now did Mrs. Orliment. She turned and ran; whole armies have done the same. It was inconvenient for Mrs. Orliment to run; rapid notion of any kind was positively distasteful to her, but panic bade her run, and she ran. Past the cottage and down to the gate she went as fast as her legs would take her— but not through the gate. She did not go through the gate, because her path here was blocked by William Sake and his dog. The dog commenced to bark furiously at her, but William Sake quieted him, and asked the same stern question that she had heard from the interior of the kennel: "Mrs. Orliment, what are you doing ?"

Before she could answer there were steps on the path behind her. She turned round, and saw Violet Mysey. This much she could recognise even in the darkness.

"You're left somethin' behind you," said Violet, politely.

Then Mrs. Orliment came to the conclusion that this world was too much for her, and she could not cope with it. She made one desperate effort to brazen it out

"What am I doin', and who might you be that arsts me that? No, Mr. Sake, it ain't my fault if I calls with an order for yer, bein' forgivin' and weak by nature, and then finds ye out makin' yerself drunk in a filthy public."

"Come inter the 'ouse," said William Sake, sternly. "Come inter the kitchen along of us."

"Well, I never?" Mrs. Orliment began. "The impudence."

"As you please, ma'rm. We knows what you've been here for. We knew you was comin'. That's why Violet was 'id in the kennel. 'Owever, you takes yer chice. The perleece is 'andy, an' I'll call 'em in if you prefers it―"

Mrs. Orliment went into the house without a word. She glowered fiercely at Violet, who smiled placidly. Violet placed the scrap of poisoned meat on the table. Mrs. Orliment at once caught it up. Here was another chance.

"I've never yet 'eard," she said, "as it were any crime to feed another man's dorg, if it's mawster 'alf starves the poor thing."

"But not with pisun'd food," remarked William Sake.

"Pisun'd, indeed! Nice, good, fresh meat fit for any Christian's supper—that it is."

William Sake turned round and locked the door of the kitchen. " Very well, then," he said, " you don't go out of this kitchen until you've cooked and eaten it."

Then at last was Mrs. Orliment brought to confess. She did it very gradually. She began with the assertion that she would be only too glad to do as William Sake said. Then she began to allow certain defects in the meat, the fault of the butcher. Then she said that someone might have played her a trick. She harped on this idea.

"It might 'a bin pisun'd unbeknownst to me," she said. Ten minutes afterwards she had arrived by slow gradations at the statement that she had poisoned the meat herself, and intended to kill the dog with it.

"And I should like to know what else I was to do? Why, you ought to be thankful to me for tryin' ter save you the trouble."

Then William Sake grew magisterial. He commented severely on her want of straightforwardness, on her brutality, and on her general illegality. He regretted that she should have wasted the time of the Bench, as it were, by her shifty evasions when, he added less magisterially, she might have seen that she was "fairly copped."

Then the principal witness, Violet Mysey, was sent home to bed, and in her absence William Sake pronounced sentence on the criminal. It was a very light sentence. William Sake had always been a much kinder man than he had wanted to be. It merely bound Mrs. Orliment to a certain course of action, promising her in return that her crime should not be divulged.

Mrs. Orliment is still the terror of some in her native village, and the admiration of others. But she spends no time now on the correction, improvement, and general irritation of Violet Mysey. Be her hat never so crooked, be her habit of stone-throwing never so dangerous, be her consumption of unripe fruit never so free and injurious, Violet never meets with one word of reproof from Mrs. Orliment.

The terrier still lives. He loves Mrs. Orliment. He calls at her shop occasionally for light refreshment and gets it. The change in him took a long  time to bring about, but it has been accomplished. Agnes wonders at it. Agnes was even so indiscreet as to ask her sister about it— an indiscretion which she will not repeat.

Mrs. Orliment has deprived Johnson of her patronage on the ground of his inferior workmanship. She employs William Sake.

___________________

9: Albert Theodore Parish

Barry Pain

Australian Town and Country Journal 10 June 1903

IT WAS Henry Ferar who introduced me to his friend, Albert Theodore Parish, and years afterwards I asked him why he had done it.

"I didn't see why I should have nil of it," he said gloomily.

Ferar was generally gloomy. As a rule he talked a little, but I have known him to be eloquent on the subject of Albert Theodore Parish. Ferar was by way of being a very superior person, and I have often wondered why he did not try sooner to reform Parish, and put him right. He was well aware of Parish's little weakness; and yet, I have known Ferar sit for an hour while Parish was talking, and talking, and talking, and listening with a melancholy smile, and never interfere or tell him to stop. And, at the same time, Ferar was frequently allowing himself to be superior with much better people-myself, for instance. However, I knew Ferar's vulnerable point; when he had been lording it over me, and telling me that I should change my mind when I was a little older, I revenged myself by spelling his name wrong. That always gave him acute suffering. At different times I invented twenty-eight ways of mis-spelling the name Ferar. A few days after he had Introduced me to Parish, I addressed a letter to him "Henry Pharerr, Esq.," and I told him inside why I had done it. Anybody who introduces anybody else to Albert Theodore Parish does a base and anti-social action, and needs to be punished.

Of course, in many ways Parish was quite a nice man. He had the kindest of hearts. He was good tempered. His wife (he married a year after I first met him) adores him. So does his baby, whose godfather I definitely refused to be. But, unfortunately, he was a man of independent means; this gave him the opportunity to acquire many new toys, and― which is far worse― the time to talk about them. I have known that man talk to me for an hour about an eighteen-penny cigar-cutter. There were interludes, but they were few and unimportant. He simply couldn't get away from that cigar-cutter.

He had just bought it, and it was his new toy. It was singularly rich in mechanical contrivances. You could cut the end of your cigar in three different ways with it. And, by touching a spring, you could convert it into a pencil case or a pair of library steps― I never cared enough about it to remember which it was. To show the full scope and resource of the instrument he produced a cigar, cut it in every one of the different ways, and then smoked what was left. He told me the price of it, and the kind of shop where he bought it, and how he hesitated at first. I tried to make him talk of other things, and I will do him the justice to say that he did his best; but that new toy was too strong for him. He could not leave it for long. I had lead him easily and pleasantly on to the subject of American Trusts.

"Yes," he said. "A great people, the Americans. They've altered the scale of commerce― made it larger and grander."

Here some silly idiot― I think it was Ferar, but it may have been myself― had no more sense than to say, that what was remarkable in the American character was the combination of laboriousness and inventiveness.

"Ah, well!" said Albert Theodore Parish. "They're inventive, of course, but they've got no monopoly of that. Now that new cigar-cutter of mine― that's as clever a thing as I've seen for many a long day, and that's English. Invented by an Englishman and made in England― so they told me at the shop." He slipped it out of one of his pockets again. "There you are. You've simply got to touch the spring and―".

"You've told us that before," I said. Ferar wore a melancholy smile, and an air of remote superiority.

"Did I?" Parish turned it over in his hand lovingly. "Well, after all, I don't know that the most remarkable thing about it isn't the price. I ask you just to think of the amount of labour involved."

"Yes," I said, "and you've asked us that before too."

Ferar went on smiling. He seemed to enjoy seeing me exasperated by Albert Theodore Parish. He must have introduced me to Parish simply to witness the infliction of a torture from which he himself had suffered. I disliked that smile immensely, and to mark my dislike of it I sent him a postcard next day addressed "Mr. H. Farrar."

The only moment of satisfaction I got out of that interview was when I produced a cigar from my case, and under the very eyes of Albert Theodore Parish bit the end off it.

"You needn't have done that," said Pariah, pathetically. "I've got that new cigar-cutter of mine here, if you'd only have waited half a moment. And you could have had it cut any way you like."

That was the kind of man Parish was. It will be noticed that I have not called him a bore. The word is not nearly big enough for him. For days and days he appeared to be haunted by thought of his new toy. He was capable of going out and talking to a policeman about it if he had been unable to find anyone else. He was more― far more― than any ordinary bore can hope to be.

ONE DAY Ferar came up to me at the club, solemnly and importantly. "It's all right," he said.

"What is?"

"Our friend, Albert Theodore Parish, won't trouble us any more."

"Your friend― yours, if you don't mind. What's the matter with him? Dead?"

"Practically. He's engaged, and will be married in two months."

"How's that going to help us?"

"He will spend nearly all the time with the girl. It's a very bad case indeed. He won't have the inclination to get any new toys, and to worry us with his disproportionate enthusiasm about them."

In one respect Ferar was right. Albert Theodore was very deeply smitten, and he spent but little time at the club. But what time he did spend there he was worse, and more tedious than he had been ever before. You see, his future wife was in the position of a new toy to him.

I will not say that he committed tho Indecency talking of her directly; I have never denied that he may have had some of the rudiments of good feeling about him. But he talked of love. Albert Theodore Parish on the subject of love was very beautiful and very monumental. He told you all the things about it that you have had previously got tired of seeing in penny stories; and he brought them all out with a fine air of discovery, as if he had just made them in his own model factory. And he never talked about anything else whatever.

"It seems to me a marvellous thing," he said one night― he got through a deal of marvelling in the course of his mis-spent life― "the meeting of kindred souls― when you come to think that for any man there is only one woman in the world whom he could really love. Don't you think so?"

"No."

"And why not?"

"Because for any man there are several millions of women for whom he could work up the same illusion."

"Ah!" sighed Parish. "A cynical speech like that only shows your inexperience. No man who had ever loved would speak like that; it is only when he first loves that a man learns to read the language of a woman's eyes, and to―"

"Albert Theodore Parish," I said, interrupting him, "I am young, and not strong. Conversation of this kind is altogether too rich for my blood. Stop it before you make me very, very ill."

This was― I confess it― rather rude. But we suffered terribly from Albert Theodore in those days just before his marriage, and occasionally I got desperate. But I gave him silver menu stand (and remarkably cheap they were), and I was present at the wedding. When it was over, Ferar and I felt that we could breathe again. Parish and his wife would be away for two months. For two solid months we should be delivered from Parish on the subject of kindred souls. It seemed almost too good to be true. But still better remained for us.

When Albert Theodore returned from his honeymoon, he seemed to be quite cured. As will be seen, the cure was temporary, but I confess that for a period of rather more than a year I came within an appreciable distance of rather liking Parish than not. His idea that conversation consisted of Albert Theodore Parish preaching at great length, and with misplaced enthusiasm to an admiring audience on his newest acquisition, seemed to have entirely disappeared. He no longer bored us with descriptions of his latest and least interesting purchases. He no longer filled us up with fiftieth-hand sentimentalities about love. He had become normal and ordinary. He had acquired some sort of a sense of proportion. He was immensely improved.

Ferar assigned the improvement to Mrs. Parish. He said definitely that on the honeymoon on a calm night in Venice, as they floated in their gondola under the stars― Mrs. Parish turned to her husband and said: "Albert, for the last three-quarters of an hour you have been talking to me about your new patent cork-screw; and you have been talking just as if the whole world revolved round it, whereas nothing whatever revolves round it except the cork in due course. And do you know, darlingest, this habit of yours of excessive enthusiasm, with its lamentable conversational results, is just the one little flaw in the snowy brilliance of your nature? And won't you, for my sake, try to get over it?"

I do not believe this pleasing scene ever took place. Mrs. Parish does not talk like that. Besides, if it ever did take place, who told Ferar about it? I am quite certain that it was not Parish or his wife. Of course, the gondolier may have written an account and posted it to Ferar, but it does not seem likely. No; this was merely a piece of Ferar's disordered imagination. But I did think it likely that Mrs. Parish, who was a nice, sensible woman, had been the cause of the improvement; of that there was some evidence.

THE BREAKDOWN came, as I have said, rather more than a year later, when the advertisement column of the "Morning Post" announced to the general public, "the wife of Albert Theodore Parish, of a son."

I was ready to make allowances. I was quite willing that for a few days Albert Theodore should so talk and comport himself as if he were the first and only father in the world, and as if there would never be another, he having secured the copyright at great expense. I had met young fathers before, and I am not an unreasonable man. When Parish told me that the baby weighed eight pounds nine ounces at birth, and that the doctor had assured him (these doctors know their business) that he had never seen a finer or healthier child, I hope that I simulated a decent interest and satisfaction. But Parish went far beyond that; he went beyond anything imaginable.

Mrs. Parish had insisted that her husband should find for himself some regular employment, and he had managed to be a kind of quasi-secretary to some sort of insignificant politician. I do not think he did very much work, but it necessitated his lunching at the club every day. He would come swooping down on the table where Ferar and I were sitting, and tell us all about the chemical constituents of different kinds of baby foods.

He said that it was by no means so easy a matter to wash a baby as we might think, and we had to explain to him that we did not think about such things.

He said that babies had a complete language, and that every sound they made signified something.  Some sounds, such as "aah-goo," which meant contentment, had been classified. Others had not. He then gave imitations (as to tho accuracy of which I am not in a position to speak) of different baby sounds which had not been classified. He attracted a good deal of attention from men, in the room, and a waiter gave notice the next day on the score of ill-health. He had probably been injured internally by suppressed laughter.

Albert Theodore Parish also lectured to us on the gradual development of co-ordinated movement in male infants, and on their digestive derangements.

He gave an imitation of the way in which his boy squinted when suffering from internal pain. And Ferar observed that if the child really did look like that, it would probably be kinder to put it out of its misery.

In reply, Albert Theodore Parish pulled out a large illustrated circular, recently forwarded to him by a perambulator merchant, and asked us to say which perambulator we liked best.

This kind of thing could not possibly go on. It was more than tedious; it was indecent. Ferar said gloomily that he would call on Mrs. Parish, and complain to her; she had put Albert Theodore right before, and she might possibly be able to do it again.

I saw him on his return. He seemed deeply depressed, and it was obvious that he had failed.

"No good?" I asked.

"None whatever. She's caught it from him."

"What do you mean?"

"I moan that she's a changed woman. I moan that sho is now every bit as bad as he is. I mean that she has talked baby― all baby and nothing but baby― to me for the last hour and a half. Do you know that I have held that infant in my arms and said that it had its mother's eyes? Do you know that I have consented to be one of its godfathers?"

"Then it comes to this, Ferar― you must have completely lost your nerve."

"Try it yourself, then. I tell you it's no use, though. The only person in the world who would have reclaimed him was his wife, and now she's gone the same way. If anything she's a shade worse than he is. You're to be a godfather, too."

"I won't," I said, and I kept my word.

Some weeks elapsed, during the whole of which Parish talked beautiful baby boy to us on every possible opportunity, and a few that were quite impossible.

Then Ferar came to me one day. and said, "I've done a wicked thing."

"Naturally. What is it?"

"I've led Albert Theodore Parish on, and aided and abetted, and encouraged him to buy a motor. He'd got some odd hundreds lying in the bank that he thought ho ought to do something with, and he has bought a motor. He intends to drive himself always, and he has had lessons to that end from an engineer. He is now quite sure that he can drive."

"Can he?"

"No. I've never seen him at it, but I am quite sure that he is not the man for that kind of thing. He will take out his wife and the nurse and tho baby on that motor, and he will go whizzing down a hill into a brick wall, and he will kill the lot of them, himself included."

"Well," I said, "you must not look only at the dark side of things. If that does happen, this club will be very greatly improved."

"True," said Ferar. "All the same, I rather wish that it could have been done without actual murder. There is no evidence of course on which the law could hang me, but the moral guilt will be mine. Parish said to me: 'Now shall I get that motor or shall I not?' And I let him got lt. I might easily have stopped him, but I was too selfish. You're all right. You will got the joy of freedom from Albert Theodore, and will not have the feeling that you are a criminal. But I― well, I have done wrong, and I am convinced that I shall be punished for it."

HE WAS punished for it, but not in the way that he had supposed. And I― who was perfectly innocent― have to share his punishment.

Parish is acknowledged to be an expert driver, and it is unlikely that he will have a fatal accident. But if I do not know the many points in which Parish's motor is superior to all other motors, it is not because I have not been told, I have been told it all many hundreds of times, told it until my senses reeled, told it by Parish himself.

He often goes for a long drive on that motor. Then he comes back and tells me all about that run three times over. There is never any incident in the run of a character that could interest anybody except perhaps Parish himself.

Briefly, he is as bad about the motor as he was about the baby.

I have given up trusting to Ferar, and shall always spell his name wrong in future. And I should be glad if somebody would tell me what on earth I am to do.

_________________________

10: Hasheesh

Barry Pain

Australian Town and Country Journal 3 February 1904

THE SEASON was nearly at its end. On the terrace of Shepherds were many groups, German, American, and English, stopping for a few days in Cairo on their way home. In the street in front of the terrace the hawkers displayed their wares― pan-pipes, fly-whisks, images of the Sphinx, picture postcards, matches. One offered for sale an inlaid table that he carried on his head. Another handed up an old flintlock pistol, heavily mounted in silver for the inspection of a pretty girl from Cincinnati. Every now and then a carriage drove up, and a party of tourists passed up the steps, followed by a dragoman laden with kodaks and dustcloaks, and bazaar purchases. The bright sunlight flooded a scene of brilliant colours.

At one of the tables― next to that where the pretty girl from Cincinnati was sipping her tea ― sat three men of different ages. Mr. Nathaniel Brookes, a man of some sixty years, and rather distinguished appearance, was discussing total prohibitions with Dr. Henson Blake. The doctor was a man of wiry build, with the face of a hawk, and that indescribable look which comes only of strength and experience. The third man listened, and fidgeted. From babyhood he had been precocious, and preferred to associate with those who were older than he was. In consequence, he sometimes had to sit, as now, rather on the outside of the association. He smoked endless cigarettes, and drank something which was cold, and not good for him out of a long glass in which the ice tinkled pleasantly. He was a fair-haired young man, whom the sun had merely freckled. He wore a single eyeglass, but did not always dare to use it. When you had got to the bottom of his fallings you found fundamentally by no means a bad sort of man, by name Percival Lake. This was his first year in Egypt. Both Brookes and the doctor had known Egypt for many years.

It was Brookes who was speaking.

"The Fellaheen should be allowed to dig," he said, "and it should be made well worth their while to dig."

"But they do," said the doctor. "They all of them do it in the summer, and they always have done,"

"Yes," said Brookes. "Prohibitions which are too strict are always evaded. It's the same thing with hasheesh. But what I mean is that if we succeed In stopping the Fellaheen from digging, the working European Egyptologist will find very little. The native will take care of that, and this is a case where the native has knowledge that the European can get only from him."

"That's possible," the doctor agreed.

"What's that about hasheesh?" the young man asked. "I thought it was the kind of drug that one came across frequently in stories, and rarely in chemists' shops, and nowhere else."

"Nominally," said Brookes, "there is no hasheesh in Egypt. It is not allowed. It is contraband. I forgot how many tons of it were seized last year, and I should be sorry to say how much managed to get through."

"Then the natives really use it?"

"Of course they do. There is a common type in all races which requires a nerve stimulant, and will have lt. If religion, or sentiment, or custom shuts out alcohol, then it will be opium or hasheesh. Egypt goes for hasheesh."

"And the prohibition is of no use?" asked Lake.

"I wouldn't say that," Brookes replied grimly. "If a native has a quarrel with his neighbour, he can― and sometimes does― sow Cannabis Indica on his neighbour's land, and then report him for growing illegal stuff as soon as the crop comes up. That is useful. Speaking seriously, the prohibition may lessen the amount of hasheesh consumed, and undoubtedly has raised its price considerably― vices are the monopoly of the rich. All the same, I had a boy working on my dahabaeah last year who was an excellent fellow. This year he was impossible, and I had to sack him. That was hasheesh."

"And what is the effect of it?"

"Ask the doctor."

"If you take enough, and take it long enough," said Dr. Henson-Blake, "the effect is insanity. The given percentage in the asylums is fairly high, and should, perhaps, be higher. They don't admit that they smoke hasheesh, or even ever smoked it, if they can help it and it cannot always be spotted."

"But what is the immediate effect?"

"A sense of bien être, of the absence of all worry. Sometimes there are delusions. The typical smoker generally gets an excessive vanity― swelled head― and becomes very quarrelsome. That is why Brookes had to sack that boy of his."

"All the same," said Lake, "I should very much like to try it."

"If I thought you meant that―" the doctor began, with a suspicion of a sneer.

Lake was rather angry. "I can assure you I am not talking for effect. There are some people who don't, you know."

"All right," said the doctor, unperturbed. "Keep your hair on. I've got some tobacco prepared with hasheesh upstairs. It is some that I had to confiscate. I'll give you a pipeful, and you can try it after dinner. Smoke it in your own room, though― not downstairs."

"Leave it alone," growled Brookes.

"Thanks very much," said Lake to the doctor. "I'll come up with you now, and get it."

The three men rose. As they did so, the pretty girl from Cincinnati stepped up to the doctor.

"Say, doctor-listen to me. Am I to give that man five dollars and half for this?"

The doctor took the scarab in his hand, and examined it.

"No, Miss Jocelyn," he said.

"Why not? I call that a dainty scarab. White amethyst. Genuine antique."

"It is not white amethyst, and I know the man who made it― the day before yesterday. If you want it for a toy, ten piastres is an outside price. The man will take that."

"My!" exclaimed Miss Jocelyn "Thank you vurry much," and she returned to her negotiations.

The three men passed through into the hall.

ii

AFTER DINNER Brookes and Dr. Henson-Blake went off to see a friend at the Savoy. They loft with grim half-chaffing injunctions to young Lake to take care of himself. Lake, a little sulky, settled himself In one corner of the hall to smoke a cigarette before his experiment.

And suddenly Miss Jocelyn, whom he did not know, came up to him.

She was a dark girl, pale-skinned and red lipped. She had a little of that jaunty, almost slangy American air of being able to take care of herself. But she also carried the impression that this air was superficial, and underneath it there might be poetry of a rather volcanic order. She sat down quietly on the other side of tho table, and said:

"Do you not know me, Mr. Lake?"

Lake said that at any rate he was charmed to have the privilege of making her acquaintance.

"But," she went on, "I want you to behave just as if you had known me for some time. My aunt Esmeralda is watching us from away back, and she's pretty 'cute. Don't smile too much. Offer me a cigarette or order some coffee for me, as if it were an ordinary thing that you had often done before for me. Don't, look at me all the time― look away now and then. I'll tell you why I'm doing this directly."

Lake did his best to act the part, and to take things more simply. He was consumed with curiosity, and for that reason he said as he lighted her cigarette:― "It is so nice or you to do this― to take pity on my loneliness― that I feel the reason why does not matter at all. I am unquestionably contented with things as they are."

"I just want to tell you. I know Dr. Henson Blake― we were on the tourist-boat together. He is playing it low down on you. That tobacco he gave you is ordinary tobacco. He wants to make you say afterwards that you got a lot of funny sensations out of it and then he'll say there was no hasheesh in it at all, and just laff at you. You needn't ask me how I know, but it's the truth."

"I believe you. The possibility of it had occurred to me. Well, I have only to tell him that I got no sensations at all, and that's all over with this little joke."

"Yes," said Miss Jocelyn, "but you can get back on him. That's better."

"How?"

"Spin him a long story. Tell him you smoked it and it gave you visions. Then when he's finished with his laff, give him his tobacco back again, to prove that you knew his game all the time."

"Excellent. He took from his pocket a little box, in which the tobacco was placed, put it in one of the hotel envelopes and sealed lt and dated it. "But tho triumph must be yours," he said,

She loaned forward seriously. "Listen to me. You don't want to mention my name― you don't even know it, but I'm Irene Jocelyn. I've put confidence in you. See, he's not got to know that I've had anything to do with you. You promise me that?"

"Certainly. But I'm puzzled. Why do you come along to save me from making myself ridiculous? It's very kind of you. I'm very glad you've done it. But why?"

She hesitated and blushed slightly. "For myself, perhaps."

It seemed promising; he was emboldened.

"What a pity I have wasted my time by not meeting you before? Have you been long in Cairo?"

"A few days," she said, absent-mindedly. "My!" she exclaimed. "If I don't go back to my Aunt Esmeralda right now, there's going to be a deal of trouble. I'll say good-night to you, Mr. Lake."

He was rather staggered. "Good-night," he said. "But I hope this is not the last time―"

"It depends. Mind that when he's about you don't know me."

He watched her as she went up the hall. Her bright smile came off very easily. She looked a little tired and hunted.

That night he could come to no satisfactory explanation. He could only decide to do exactly as he had been told, and await events. In the meantime the Kiri's face haunted him, and always as it had been when she did not know that he could see her― always with that tired and hunted look. "What had been her story? What was inside her heart and mind? What cards was she playing? Why had she spoken to him? The questions were endless. His interest in her, strangely powerful, kept him for long awake.

iii

THE LITTLE farce was played out with great success next morning. Lake told a beautiful story, and did it the bettor because Irene Jocelyn, breakfasting alone at the next table, was listening intently. After smoking the hasheesh, he had lizard the Sphinx talking. Then a black and limitless ocean had broken over it, and out of the ocean a strange white woman had crept, and cut herself with a gold-handled knife.

"Good," said the doctor, with dry triumph. "And the more interesting because you have never had any hasheesh at all."

"No?" asked Lake. "I thought that would be it." He tossed the envelope across to the doctor. "You'll find your tobacco inside― how do you give it that green colour? I think tho score is with me."

The doctor was angry, the more so because Brookes was undisguisedly amused at the failure. But he made one shrewd guess. "If I had mentioned the thing to a solitary soul, I should have been certain that it had been given away to you. As it is, I can't see how you came to think of it for yourself. It's quite unlike you."

iv

FOR THE next two days Irene Jocelyn successfully avoided young Lake, and thereby drove him to the verge of madness. It even occurred to him to play a bold stroke, and ask the doctor to introduce him. But he had the reasonable conviction that that introduction would do him more harm than good with this strange girl. He grew to hate Henson-Blake; it was evident that while he was there Irene would not speak. He invented excuses to get him out of the way.

On the third day she came up to him in the hall with hand outstretched. "I just want to say good-bye to you, Mr. Lake," she said. "We leave this afternoon."

"Won't you tell me anything before you go? I can find no reason why you should have interested yourself in my defence. Still less can I find any reason why you should have avoided me ever since."

"But I wasn't interested in you. You're not― what do they say?― not on in this act. Didn't I tell you that I was doing it for myself?"

"Yes. You are clever― you found out the doctor's trick."

"I know him. I told you that I met him on the tourist boat. I know what he would do."

"I am stupid― for I also knew him, and did not find out. I'm not vain enough, believe me, to suppose that you did this for love of me."

She laughed, and snapped her fingers.

"I wish to God you had!" he added; and the tone and simplicity of the words carried conviction. She changed her manner. She became serious.

"What was done, not for love of you, was done for hate of somebody else! Can't you imagine a woman wanting to hit back, and too proud to let it be known that she wants to hit at all? Can't you imagine her hungering and thirsting to see a certain man fail, if only in some little thing, just for once? Can't you― Oh, you don't want the whole humiliating story, do you?"

"No, no. I'm sorry. Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

"Only you know― that is not for hate of a man. If you hated, there might be a chance for those who loved."

She shook her head and turned away. A minute later he heard her laughing, and talking her best American to a group of hotel acquaintances.

And this is perhaps the primary reason why Percival Lake did ultimately take to hasheesh in sober earnest. His friends have ceased to speak of him. Dr. Henson-Blake is interested in the case.

_________________

11: The Open Eye

William Le Queux

1864-1927

Australian Town and Country Journal  11 September 1907

THE SILENT NIGHT was glorious.  High up to that far-off mountain fastness I was the first stranger to ascend, for I was the guest of a wild tribe of Albanian brigands, those men of the Skreli, who from time to time hold up travellers to ransom, and against whom the Turkish Government are powerless.

It was a weird, never-to-be-forgotten experience; living with those tall, handsome fellows in white skin tight woollen trousers with big black snake-like bands running up the legs, black furry boleros, and white fezzes. Every man was armed to the teeth with great silver hilted pistols and long knives In their belts, and nobody went a dozen yards without his rifle ready loaded.

Ever since a boy I had road stories of brigands, but here was the real thing― the free-booters of the mountains, who would never let me go about without a dozen men as guard, lest I should be mistaken for a stranger and "picked off" by one of the tribes lurking behind a rock. Life is indeed cheap in the Skreli country, that great range of inaccessible mountains east of gallant little Montenegro.

On that night in the early autumn I was seated upon a rock with a tall. thin, wiry, but handsome young man, named Luk, known in his tribe as "The Open Eye," whom the great chieftain Vatt Marashi had given me as head of my body-guard, while beside me was the dark-faced Albanian who, speaking Italian, acted as my guide and interpreter.

In the domain of His Imperial Majesty the Sultan the moon seems to shine, with far greater brilliancy than it does anywhere else in the world, and surely the panorama of high mountains and deep dark valley there spread before us was a veritable stage-picture, while the men at my side were surely as romantic looking a pair as could be found anywhere in real life..

Many times, as at night I lay down upon my humble bed of leaves, had I reflected how insecure was my position, and how easily my hosts could break their word, hold me to ransom, and worry the Foreign Office. Yet, let me here assert that all, from the chieftain down to the humblest tribesman, treated me with a kindness, courtesy, and forethought, that, from the first, caused me to admire them. They might be brigands, and the blood-curdling stories of their cruelty might possibly be true, but they were, without doubt, a most gentlemanly gang of ruffians.

We had eaten our evening meal, and were sitting in the calm night smoking cigarettes prior to turning in. The two men beside me had placed their rifles upon the ground, where the moonbeams glinted along the bright barrels; and our conversation had become exhausted.

Below, in that dark valley, ran the mule track to Ipek, therefore day and night it was watched for passing travellers, as indeed were all the paths at the confines of the territory over which my friend, Vatt Marashi, defiant of the Turks, ruled so firmly and yet so justly.

Luk, rolling a fresh cigarette, was making some remark to Palok, my guide, in his peculiar soft-sounding but unwritten language, when it suddenly occurred to me to ask him to give me some little reminiscence of his own adventurous life.

He was silent for a few moments, his keen gaze upon the shining rifle-barrel before him, then with Palok translating into Italian he told me the story of how he earned his nick-name of "The Open Eye."

About three years before, when his tribe were at feud with their neighbours, the powerful Kastrati, who live in the opposite range of mountains, he was one dark night with a party of his fellow-tribesmen in ambush, expecting a raid from their enemies. The false alarms were several when, of a sudden, Luk discerned a dark figure moving slowly in the gloom. Raising his rifle, he was on the point of firing, when some impulse seized him to stay his hand, and shout a challenge.

The reply was a frightened one― and in Turkish.

Luk came forth from his hiding-place, and a few seconds later to his great surprise encountered the stranger, who proved, to be a woman wearing her veil, and enshrouded by an ugly black shawl wrapped about her. He knew sufficient Turkish to demand her name and whence she had come;  but she refused to satisfy him. She had already recognised by his dress that he was of the tribe of the Skreli, therefore she know that she had fallen into the hands of enemies.

"Speak!" he cried, believing her to be a spy from the Kastrati. "Tell me who sent you here to us? Whore are you going?"

"I know not," was her reply, in a sweet voice, which told him at once that she was quite young, and he, being unmarried, became instantly interested.

"Where are you from?" he asked, expecting that she had come from Skodra*, the nearest Turkish town.

________

* Today: Skhodër [Ed.]

"From Constantinople," was her reply.

"Constantinople!" gasped Luk, to whom the capital was so far off as to be only a mere city of legend. It was, indeed, many hundred leagues away. In the darkness he could not see her eyes. He could only distinguish that the lower part of her face was veiled like that of all Mahommedan women.

"And you have come here alone?" he asked.

"Yes, alone. I― I could not remain in Constantinople longer. Am I still in Turkey?"

"Nominally, yes. But the Sultan does not rule us here. We of the Skreli are Christians, and our country is a free one to ourselves, but not to our captives."

"Ah!" she said, with failing heart; "I see! I am your captive, eh? I have heard in Constantinople how you treat the Turks whom you capture."

"You may have heard, many stories, but I assure you that the Skreli never maltreat a woman," was the brigand's proud answer. "This path is unsafe for you; and, besides, it is my duty to take you to our chief, Vatt Marashi, that he may decide whether we give you safe conduct!"

"No, no!" she implored.  "I have heard of him. Take pity upon me― a defenceless woman! I thought to escape from Turkey. I have no passport, so I left the train, and hoped to get across the mountains into Montenegro, where I should be free."

"Then you have escaped from your harem, eh?" asked Luk, his curiosity now thoroughly

"Yes. But I have money here with me― and my jewels. I will pay you― pay you well, if you will help me. Ah, you do not know!"

Luk was silent for a moment.

"When a woman is in distress the Skreli give their assistance without payment," was his reply, and then as day was breaking he led her up the steep and secret paths to that little settlement were we now were― the headquarters of the all-powerful Vatt Marashi.

At the latter's order she unwound the veil from her face, disclosing the beautiful countenance of a Turkish girl of eighteen, and when she took off her cloak it was seen that beneath she wore a rich harem dress, big, baggy trousers of rich mauve and gold brocade, and a little bolero of amaranth velvet richly embroidered with gold. Upon her neck were splendid emeralds, pearls, and turquoises, and upon her wrists fine bracelets, encrusted with diamonds...

She stood in the lowly hut before the chief and her captor Luk, a vision of perfect beauty, looking "a veritable houri as promised by Mahommed," as Luk put it.

Vatt Marashi listened to her story. She had, she told him, escaped from her father's harem because she was betrothed, as is usual in Turkey, to a man  whom she had never seen. She had taken money from the place where. one  of the black eunuchs hoarded it, and with the assistance of a young officer, a cousin of hers, had succeeded in leaving the capital in the baggage wagon of the Orient express. Unable to procure a passport however, she dare not attempt to cross the frontier into Bulgaria, for she would at once be detected, refused permission to travel, and sent back. For a Turkish woman to attempt to leave Turkey in that manner the punishment is death. So at some small station near the frontier, the name of which she did not know, she had, under cover of night, left the train, and taken to the mountains. For four days she had wandered alone, until Luk had discovered her.

"And what was done with her?" I inquired, much interested.

"Well," replied my companion. "She elected to remain with us, our chief giving her assurance that she would be well and honourably treated. He pointed out that had she been a man he would have demanded of the Sultan a heavy ransom for her release, but as she was a defenceless woman and alone, she was not to remain a prisoner. If she cared to accept the offer of the protection of the Skreli, then every man of his tribe would defend her and her honour to the last drop of blood remaining in their veins. The word of the Skreli, once given, is, as you know, never broken."

And this was no idle boast. The code of honour among the tribes of the Northern Albania would put even ours of England to the blush. The Skreli are very bad enemies, but they are, as I know from personal experience, most firm and devoted friends.

"And so it came about," Luk went on, "that Zorka― that was her name― was placed in my mother's charge, and discarded her veil, as do our own women. Well― I suppose I may confess it― I loved her. It was only to be expected. I suppose, for she was very lovely, and every unmarried man in the tribe was her devoted admirer. Though she lived with us, no word of affection passed between us. Why should it? Would it not have been folly? She, the daughter of a great Pasha, who was seeking for her all over Turkey, and I a poor humble tribesman, and a Christian into the bargain. And so a year went over. We often walked together, and the others envied me my friendship with the delicate and beautiful girl who preferred our free untrammelled life of the mountains to the constant confinement of her father's harem on the Bosphorus. Unlike that of our women, her skin was lily white, and her little hands as soft as satin. Ah, yes, I loved her with all my soul, though I never dared to tell her so. She became as a sister to me, a daughter to my mother. It was she who said the last word to me when I went forth upon a raid; she who waited to welcome me on my return."

"And you said nothing?" I remarked, with some surprise.

"Nothing. Our chief had ordered that no man should declare his love to her. She was our guest, like yourself, and she was therefore sacred. Well." he went on, gazing thoughtfully across the dark valley, the white moon beams shining full upon his thin, sun-tanned countenance.

"One day, our men down yonder, on the northern border, discovered three strangers, who were examining the rocks, and chipping pieces off― French mining engineers, we afterwards found them to be. They were captured, brought up here, and held to ransom. Two were elderly men, but the third was about 28, well-dressed, with a quantity of French bank notes upon him. At first the price we asked of the Sultan was too high. The Vali of Skodra refused to pay, but suggested a smaller sum. We were in no hurry to compromise, so the three remained prisoners, and―"

"And what?"

"Well, during that time the younger of the three saw Zorka, and fell in love with her. I caught them one night walking together. They sat here, at this very spot. The Frenchman had been in Constantinople, and speaking a little Turkish, could converse with her. I crept up, and overheard some of their conversation. Next day I told the chief, and when he heard it he was angry, and ordered that the prisoners wore to be released and sent away without ransom that very day.  Zorka was one of ourselves. So that afternoon, the three strangers were escorted down to the Skodra road, and there told to begone."

Here Luk broke off, slowly rolling a fresh cigarette in silence. By the light of the brilliant moon I saw the sudden change in his countenance.

"Well?" I asked.

"There is not much more to tell,"  he said hoarsely, hard lines showing at the corners of his mouth.  "A few weeks later we one night missed Zorka. The whole tribe went forth to search for her. Some men of the Hoti, down on the way to Skodra, had seen a woman pass. Vatt Marashi took me with some others down to the lake side, where we heard that she had escaped on the little steamer that runs up the lake to Ryeka* in Montenegro. And further that file had a male companion, who, from his description, we knew to be the Frenchman whose life we had spared. With the man was an elderly woman. He had evidently returned to Skodra, and sent Zorka a message in secret. At risk of arrest by the Turks we went down into Skodra itself, and saw the captain of the steamer, from whom he learnt that the Frenchman's name was Paul Darbour, and that he was a mining engineer, living in Paris. While on the boat he had chatted to the captain in French, and mentioned that he was going first to Ragusa, down on the Dalmatian coast. The Skreli punish an insult to their women with death, therefore that, same night, upon the lake shore, we twelve men and our good chief raised the blood-feud, and I was ordered to go forth in search of the man who had enticed away our Zorka. None of them, however, knew how deeply I loved her myself. Well, I left, wearing the Montenegrin dress, the blue baggy trousers, scarlet jacket, and pork-pie cap. Through Montenegro, down to Cattarn, I followed them, and took the steamer along the Adriatic to Ragusa. But they had already left.

_________

* Now Rijeka [Ed.]

"For a month I followed the trio from place to place, until late one night, in Trieste, I met Zorka in European dress, and her lover, walking together along the quays. He was speaking sharply to her, evidently trying to induce her to act against her will, for she was weeping bitterly. I crept after them unseen in the shadows. From words she let drop in Turkish, I know that he was treating her with cruelty, now that he had got her in his power― that she bitterly regretted listening to his love-speeches.

"I clenched my teeth, took few sharp steps, and next instant my keen knife was buried up to the hilt behind our enemy's shoulder. He fell forward almost without a cry."

"And Zorka?" I asked.

"I brought her safely back again to us," was his simple answer. "To-morrow you shall see her. We love each other, and next moon, with our chief's consent, we are to marry."

__________________

12: The Murdered Wife

Perley Poore Sheehan

1875-1943

Thrilling Detective July 1932

THE HANDSOME black limousine, driven by a Japanese chauffeur in dark green livery, came to a stop near the cemetery gate, and two women got down. Both of them were soberly dressed, but they were not in mourning. There was sufficient about them to indicate that one was mistress and one was maid.

The maid was an elderly woman, large and bony. The mistress herself was no longer so young— but a small and delicate woman, something of an invalid; and still beautiful, with the beauty of a fading flower.

“I'm afraid,” the big woman whispered, with a slight shiver of her gaunt frame.

“Don’t be silly, Georgette,” her mistress chided softly.

But an observer would have said that neither were her nerves any too solid.

“What if this here is but another trick of your husband, Mis’ Lucy?”

The maid’s form of address and a slight accent hinted of the South. As a matter of fact, there was a touch of Africa about her, as well— in her crinkly gray hair and her flashing dark eyes. But she was almost white. And she’d been caring for her “Mis’ Lucy” since the latter’s birth.

“Why should Mr. Mery waste his time?” the lady asked.

“Don’t ask me!” Georgette droned. “But this here graveyard!— when it’s almost dark! See, the gate’s already shut! Nobody else around!”

“You’re here, Georgette. And you said you’d bring—”

“The pistol? I got it here in my bag, Mis’ Lucy. And if anyone— Mr. Mery or anyone else—”

“Sh! Koki will hear you.”

The Japanese chauffeur, who hadn’t left the car, sat at his place like a pale bronze image. It wasn’t for him to do a footman’s work— opening and shutting doors—when another servant was on hand.

Georgette, supporting her frail mistress, gave the bronze image a look of distrust. The Oriental remained— the bronze image. The two women moved away.

As Georgette had intimated, it was already getting dark. The neighbourhood was a lonely one, even as a site for a cemetery.

The cemetery was a new one and, except for a recent event, little known. It lay far back in the hills. The general melancholy of the situation was enhanced by a grove of ancient eucalyptus trees. The trunks of these, with their scaly bark, were a leprous white.

At every sough of the breeze the branches creaked, the leathery leaves found voice in a chattering whisper.

“I’m glad the gate is closed,” Georgette muttered. “Suppose we go back home, Mis’ Lucy.”

“Home!” Mrs. Mery echoed with a note of bitterness.

“I mean our home— your home, back down South— since Mr. Mery—”

“See,” Mrs. Mery interrupted. “Someone is waiting for us.”

“A hunchback!” breathed Georgette.

Both women were shivering a little as they continued their way. The tall eucalyptus trees seemed to shiver with them. Through the shadows of that park of silence that lay ahead of them there were ghostly gleams of white marble. And that curious gatekeeper who now awaited them was not a figure to lighten their mood.

He was not only a hunchback. He appeared dwarfish, especially now by way of contrast as he opened wider one of the monumental gates. He was almost ape-like, dressed in black. But the face he raised to them as they drew nearer was shrewd and friendly.

“Yes’m,” he said. “You are the lady— the ladies— who’ve come to see the tomb of Del Manning?”

It was Mrs. Mery who answered. She breathed an assent.

“I’ll close the gate behind us because it’s after hours,” the hunchback said; “then show you the way. It’s right near-by.”

“Why couldn’t madam have driven in?” Georgette began. More than usual she was assuming the air of an armed bodyguard.

But Mrs. Mery checked her. “You know, Georgette. He—”

The hunchback— “Shorty” to those who knew him— spoke up:

“That’s right— he’s— expecting you.”

It was almost as if he’d meant that Del Manning— he whose tomb had been mentioned— was expecting them.

Del Manning’s murder was still a subject of conjecture throughout the world. Del Manning’s motion-pictures, in which that great actor— “the man with five hundred faces”— revealed his genius for striking characterizations, were still being run before crowded houses.

They followed a wide and winding avenue back into the cemetery for perhaps a hundred yards or so, no one speaking, while the silence seemed to deepen with the deepening dusk.

Then the hunchback, who’d been leading the way with his nimble ape-like tread and his long arms swinging, stopped and pointed up a slope to the left.

“You’ll find— him— there,” he murmured.

As they looked, he was gone. They were alone. They peered ahead of them.

All they could see at first was what looked like a small Greek temple up there set against the almost jet blackness of a cypress hedge. Then they were seeing something else.

From this supposed temple of death a human figure appeared, the figure of a man which, even then, Mrs. Mery felt was vaguely familiar.

“Georgette,” Mrs. Mery whispered through tightened lips; “it’s my turn to be afraid.”

Georgette glared in the direction of the apparition.

“We can’t quit now, Mis’ Lucy,” she droned. “And ghost or no ghost, I got this pistol ready.”

ii

FOR an interval the three of them were standing face to face.

The man from the Tomb was a sombre figure. Yet not repulsive. There was even something poetic about him.

His bearing was strong and graceful. On approaching the women he had removed a broad-brimmed, soft felt hat, showing a wealth of long, dark hair rolled and slightly curling. This, and the long, black cape he wore, made him appear like some Southern gentleman of a bygone century— a fact that both Georgette and her mistress found somehow reassuring.

But it was the man’s face that compelled Mrs. Mery’s closest attention— a strong face, she found it, with steady, deep-set eyes; a face in which the bony structure was so predominant that she could easily imagine it— in this deceptive light— to be the face of a skull.

In spite of this, her earlier fear was leaving her. It had almost left her—it had left her completely. She was asking herself where she had seen this face before.

“Are you— Doctor Coffin?” she asked.

“I am he who telephoned you as Doctor Coffin,” the strange man replied.

Mrs. Mery was telling herself that even his voice was familiar. It was a voice that her feminine intuition found reassuring— low-pitched, warm, vibrant. Else— so she was telling herself— she wouldn’t be here now.

His voice had inspired an equal confidence over the telephone.

“Why did you insist that our meeting take place here?” she asked.

“For a number of reasons,” the man who called himself Doctor Coffin replied. “The principal reason was to test your courage.”

“That wasn’t such a test since you told me I might bring— Georgette.”

“I knew Georgette—”

“Me?”

The gaunt maid, who’d kept her hand on the pistol in her sack, suddenly leaned forward.

“And she knows me!” Doctor Coffin declared in even tones.

His strong face gleaming whitely, he confronted the maid. His face was more like a skull than ever as he smiled.

“My God Almighty,” gasped the woman. “Are you alive or dead?”

“Both!” He turned to Mrs. Mery. “Don’t be frightened. But that’s the simple truth. You see, Georgette does recognize me. Now, I am Doctor Coffin. But I am also he who was Del Manning, supposed to have been murdered, whose tomb is here. That brings me to another reason why I wished you to meet me here. I wished to show you that Del Manning’s tomb is— unoccupied.”

The famous actor, now playing the role of Doctor Coffin while all the world believed him, as Del Manning, to be dead, explained to the two women how he had made it appear that the body of a slain gangster was his own.

Doctor Coffin next produced a flashlight.

The small Greek temple— visited daily by hundreds of pilgrims, some of them merely morbid and some of them devout— as the last resting place of the great Del Manning was, as the late Del Manning himself now said, without a tenant.

As the light snapped off, Mrs. Mery stood for a moment in silent thought. Her slight form was tense. Her small hands were clenched. In the gathering dark her wide eyes searched the man in front of her.

“If I were in my tomb, Del Manning—”

“Doctor Coffin,” he corrected her gently.

“If I were in my tomb, Doctor Coffin,” she said with a catch in her voice that was almost a sob, “I shouldn’t leave it.”

“And that is the final reason why I wished to see you here,” he told her. “You will understand, of course, the secrecy that was necessary for our meeting— on my own account, if not on yours. The late Del Manning lived for a world that wished to be amused. They paid him for it. He amassed a fortune. Now, in the person of Doctor Coffin, he’s willing to pass this fortune back in the form of another sort of service.”

“Meaning?”

“Justice! To protect the weak— make criminals confess and, perhaps, reform.”

“And— you’ve included— me in your program?”

“Yes?”

“In what way?”

“Guess! Listen to your heart!” Mrs. Mery’s breast was beginning to rise and fall.

Gaunt Georgette, standing in the background like the shadow of a guardian angel, spoke up:

“You tell him, Mis’ Lucy. Or, shall I?”

“You, Georgette. I can’t. Although— I feel it— he already knows.”

“I do know,” said Doctor Coffin, in his gentlest voice. “And shall I tell you how I know? For the past three weeks I have been a servant in your house. You took me as a servant because I came so highly recommended by the late Del Manning—”

“You? You were— but you couldn’t have been!— the Chinese second man, Charlie Soong?”

“Yes, Missie,’’ said Doctor Coffin, changing his voice to that of the Chinese servant. “Me Charlie—me all-same Happy Soong. Savvy, Happy? Only,” he added swiftly and smoothly in his ordinary voice, “I wasn’t happy. I already knew—”

Again the gaunt Georgette broke in.

“It’s the truth, Miss Lucy. Now I understand. He knows all about Mr. Mery wanting you to die. He was there— I saw him— the day Mr. Mery was telling you to go and kill yourself—”

“Enough!” gasped Mrs. Mery, with a shudder.

She found support against the stronger frame of her faithful nurse. For a moment the three of them were standing there in the silence. They were like three dark ghosts standing there near the vacant tomb, debating the mystery of life and death.

The deserted cemetery was filled with a whispering murmur as the breeze stirred the livid trees.

“Since that day Georgette mentions it has been getting worse,” said Mrs. Mery, controlling her emotions. She spoke with a forced calm. “Mr. Mery no longer hints that I ought to kill myself. I suppose he wouldn’t trust me to make the deed final— or soon. He’s been planning— to kill me himself!”

Doctor Coffin spoke:

“Of that also I have the proof. Your husband substituted poison tablets he brought back with him from Tahiti for your usual headache medicine.”

“I need no proof,” Mrs. Mery panted. “No woman lives with a man as long as I have lived with him— loved him as I have— and needs ask for proof when her husband is meditating murder. I should have obliged him and got rid of myself. I would have— if it hadn’t been for her— this other woman! Oh, I could kill her!— kill her!”

“There, there!” Georgette soothed. “If it comes to that, I’ll kill the hussy myself.”

“There need be no killing,” Doctor Coffin put in softly. “There is a better way. You have seen this empty tomb. It shows you that death need not always be what it seems.”

He reflected a moment while that death’s-head face of his shone whitely.

“I am Doctor Coffin,” he spoke again. “I own not only the largest funeral parlours in Hollywood, but I also own this cemetery. When you ride back from here you may talk as if you had been here to see me about the purchase of a mausoleum. I have a number of them available. One of which will be placed at your disposition.”

Georgette shuddered. But little Mrs. Mery stood firm, her sober eyes wide and speculate with a certain horror.

“I merely tell you this,” Doctor Coffin went on, “because Koki, your chauffeur, is a spy for your husband, telling him everything, repeating what you say. Tomorrow, I, your Chinese servant, Charlie Soong— we hope he’ll be ‘Happy’ Soong again, before very long― may have a chance to give you details of my plan before— he— asks you for a paper of dismissal.”

“Don’t—don’t leave me,” panted little Mrs. Mery with her first accent of forthright terror. “Del— Mr. Manning!— Doctor Coffin— I’m almost afraid Mr. Mery will murder me— tonight— in my sleep!”

“He’ll not murder you in your sleep. He thinks you— may die— without that! No! Leave me! It is time that we all should be getting away from here. Do as I say. Be brave— as you’ve shown yourself to be brave by coming here.”

“Can’t you ride back with us?”

Doctor Coffin smiled.

“You forget that Del Manning is dead. I’m going down to my private chapel now to change my make-up. In a little while not even Doctor Coffin will remain. But Charlie Soong will come to life. And— remember!— when you see Charlie Soong again he’ll be none other than— Charlie Soong!”

iii

THE affair of Mr. Basil Dunwich Mery, eminent motion-picture director, and Fausta Favo, the latest sensational beauty of the screen imported from abroad, had thus far been kept from the general public, even in Hollywood; but it had already reached a point where it was becoming a source of keen anxiety to those who knew.

And those who knew included some of the leading figures in the industry. For Mr. Mery was not only famous as a director; he was one of the great producers as well, with a studio of his own, an investment representing millions.

Send him down in the wreckage of a first-class scandal and the whole motion-picture industry would suffer. It might even lead to something in the nature of an international boycott.

Furthermore, Mr. Mery had allowed it to be understood, when certain friends and business associates ventured to hint at the danger of a scandal, that he didn’t care a damn if it did come to a wreck; and if it did come to a wreck, he’d damn well see that there’d be plenty of others to share the disaster with him.

The threat had teeth. Apart from his great reputation and financial power, Mr. Mery also happened to know a lot of Hollywood’s more intimate history— episodes in which several of these self-same friends and associates were themselves involved.

“Man! Crazy!” they said of him. "The fellow’s simply lost his head over Fausta Favo!”

In this respect Mr. Mery wasn’t, as a matter of fact, so different from a number of others. Practically every man who saw her was ready to go crazy over Fausta Favo.

The girl was something of a mystery— brooding, slender, ivory-skinned, a Madonna in repose; but, when she moved— even so much as those strange eyes of hers— a sort of human serpent.

It was this particular quality of hers that had, in fact, given both the title and the theme to what was intended to be her first great starring feature. They were going to call the feature:

MADAME SERPENT

She looked the part more than ever as she lay there coiled— a few days later— in the special dressing-room that had been built for her at the Mery West Coast Studios. For two hours or more her personal squad of dressers and make-up specialists had been working over her with deft skill.

She now lay there— Madame Serpent— resting, biding her time.

Fixed and brilliant eyes that never seemed to close, a low forehead, a thin-lipped but wide and sensuous mouth; then that slender but powerful body of hers that so inevitably suggested the grace and lazy terror of a python’s. The effect had been heightened by the costume she wore— a spangled gauze of gold and black and nothing else.

The dressing-room itself was more like a human serpent’s den than a lady’s boudoir. It was dimly lit, heavy with strange perfumes, airless, cushioned like a divan.

There was a faint tap at the door.

Fausta Favo neither spoke nor moved. But her fixed eyes came to the door. She remained like that for seconds longer even when the door opened and Basil Dunwich Mery came in.

During the brief interval following his entrance he also stood silent, gazing. There was something about him to suggest the water buffalo, a carabao, that has just happened on some giant python in a tropic jungle.

There was a good deal of the buffalo about Basil Dunwich Mery, anyway, not only in disposition, but in physique— a hulking man, massive about the shoulders, a big head on a short neck hung low and slightly thrust forward.

And dangerous as any buffalo, too, when it came to character— meditative, but ruthless, given to sudden rages, secretive, murderous when roused.

“I give in,” he said, at last. “I came here to bawl you out, Fausta. But I can’t. You’re too beautiful, Fausta. Why do you keep us waiting?”

“Basil,” she murmured. “Come here!”

He approached and remained standing. She uncoiled slightly and indicated her wish. He seated himself on the divan at her side.

“The stage has been set for an hour,” he began to protest.

She coiled her arms about his massive head.

“Why do you keep us waiting?” he struggled on with breath that was beginning to labour.

“Why do you keep me waiting?” she parried.

“In what way?”

“Our marriage.”

“When I’m divorced.”

“T-s-s-s!”— it was like a hiss. “That woman you’re married to will never grant you a divorce.”

“Fausta, she may— die.”

“Interesting, Basil!” she mocked caressingly. “What an impetuous lover you are!”

“More so than you think!” he stormed, softly, but with sudden fury. “What wouldn’t I do for you! You know it! For you I’d go to hell... ”

There was a subdued tinkle from the small ornamental telephone that stood on a low table near the divan. The call was repeated— repeated again and again.

“...One of your other lovers calling you up,” said Mr. Mery, with a dash of savage amusement. “Go on, talk to him!”

“Very well,” said Fausta Favo teasingly, and reached for the phone.

She was seated there with Basil Mery’s arms about her as she listened. Mery was smiling—gloating. He could catch the murmur of a man’s voice speaking, that was all. But he followed what Miss Favo said.

“Who?” she asked. “Doctor Coffin! What? What? Yes?”

Now she uncoiled herself— as suddenly, as swiftly, as an attacking snake. Like a snake she’d begun to vibrate— still clinging to the telephone, listening, drinking in the words of the message. Then Mr. Director Mery interfered.

He seized the actress and held her tight against his breast, while with his free hand he listened in turn.

“Dead!” he whispered. “Are you sure it is she?”

The response that came over the telephone sounded like a cackling laugh—chilling, mirthless. Then: “Murder... letters... proof!”

“My wife— is dead!” said Mr. Mery. He was white.

“Your work was swift,” breathed Fausta Favo.

By way of consolation, she again coiled her arms about his head. “Wait!” he whispered, huskily; and he turned to the telephone again.

“Murder!—She left certain letters stating that you murdered her!— She left certain proof!”

The words buzzed through the brain of Mr. Basil Dunwich Mery.

What was this— a blackmailing scheme?

But he couldn’t console himself that way. In the first place, his conscience wouldn't let him. In the next place, there was something about the way this Doctor Coffin talked.

No ordinary undertaker, Doctor Coffin— that was sure. An ordinary undertaker would have been more respectful. No ordinary undertaker would have dared to give him— the great Basil Dunwich Mery— orders.

Yet that was what Doctor Coffin had done.

Doctor Coffin had ordered the director to come to a certain obscure bungalow that night, where, it seemed the late Mrs. Mery had gone to reside after their latest quarrel and where she now lay dead.

iv

IT was late that night when Mr. Mery and Doctor Coffin faced each other. It was at the entrance to a small wooded canyon not far from the centre of Hollywood, but with an air of solitude and remoteness about it that suggested a country graveyard.

“You are— the undertaker?” Mr. Mery asked.

The other answered with that click of a dry laugh:

“We prefer to be called ‘morticians,’ Mr. Mery, especially when we rise to the top of our profession. Don’t you remember me? I recall seeing you among the notables at the funeral of the late Del Manning, at which I had the honour to officiate. And now, to think that I should have such another client as the great director, Basil Dunwich Mery!”

“Who requested your services, Doctor Coffin?”

“The deceased herself! Her servant, Georgette, showed me a note your wife had written.”

“Where is Georgette?”

“Disappeared, alas, Mr. Mery! She said she was afraid of you.”

Mr. Mery stopped and looked about him. He had a buffalo’s courage. Besides he was armed. He surveyed the man at his side.

Doctor Coffin appeared to be merely a middle-aged man, simple, not overly strong. With his old-fashioned black clothes and gray beard and moustache this Doctor Coffin might have been a backwoods preacher.

“Afraid of me!” the director echoed. “Now, listen, Doctor Coffin! Just what do you mean by these insinuations— now— and over the telephone?”

Doctor Coffin turned and faced the director. They were in the canyon by this time. The wooded slopes of this cleft in the Hollywood hills rose steep to either side. There was little light.

There came to the director a qualm of fear, almost his first. It was as if he had suddenly found himself not in the presence of a living man, but of a ghost. It was a curious illusion, there in the blue darkness, that he’d seen this man before somewhere and yet that man was dead.

It was, moreover, a ghostly whisper that came from Doctor Coffin:

“Would you rather, Mr. Mery, that I make these insinuations to the police?”

“No! But—”

“Eh, eh!”— again that dry laugh. “First let us see if the lady really was your wife, Mr. Mery. We can talk things over afterward.”

They came to an obscure bungalow. There was a blue light burning over the door. A stunted, long-armed hunchback opened the door.

“Shorty!”

The director had recognized that grotesque figure from having seen him long ago about the studios.

“Good evening, Mr. Mery,” Shorty greeted him.

“You must come to see me at the studio,” said Mr. Mery.

It was a speech that would have turned the head of any star in Hollywood, let alone an obscure nobody such as Shorty had always been.

But Shorty merely grinned up at the great director, and Mr. Mery felt— again with some ghostly qualm— that he was in the presence of something greater than himself.

“She’s in there,” Shorty confided. And he thumbed a direction toward a dark room at the side of the hall.

Into this dark room Doctor Coffin had gone. A strong white light was switched on.

Mr. Mery steeled himself.

“She asked”— Doctor Coffin’s pitiful laugh sounded through the heavy silence— “that you see her again in her wedding-dress— the one she wore— you remember— when you and she were married.”

Mr. Mery remembered that dress— old-fashioned now. He remembered every detail about it— the ruching about the neck, the brooch that he had given her.

He was seeing them again in the long gray casket with its lid drawn back. He was seeing again the face of his wife— lifeless, composed, beautiful in a faded way. He stood there looking at it for a long, long time.

On his own face there was no emotion visible— unless it was a trace of satisfaction.

“I’m willing to meet all ordinary expenses, of course,” he said, at last. “I’m willing to meet even certain extraordinary expenses— such as keeping the funeral quiet— avoiding unpleasant publicity. My lawyer, Mr. Stone, will see to that.”

Doctor Coffin watched him in silence without dissent.

“But, touching on those insinuations of yours—” The director paused.

“Not mine!” said Dr. Coffin. “Hers! She left certain letters—”

“Yes? So has my lawyer certain letters of hers— threatening suicide! I turned them over to Mr. Stone this afternoon.”

Doctor Coffin let out his cackling laugh, but there was no trace of joy in his face.

“Well!” he said. “I guess that settles that, Mr. Mery. But isn’t there one thing you’ve overlooked?”

The voice of Doctor Coffin as he said this was that of a doddering and disappointed old man. Was the old fossil— Mery wondered— again hinting at blackmail?

“What have I forgotten?” he blurted.

The scorn and threat in his voice was such as had often made those about him in his studio run to cover.

But Doctor Coffin eyed him now without confusion.

“You’ve forgotten,” said Doctor Coffin in a voice suddenly gone rich and deep, “that the dead— the martyred dead—sometimes have strange
ways of coming back!”

v

NOT long after this macabre and in some ways unsatisfactory interview of Doctor Coffin and Mr. Mery had ended, he who had been Del Manning— otherwise, “the man with five hundred faces,” and now, by his own preference, “the living dead man”— came back alone to that obscure bungalow in the dark canyon where the blue light burned.

He’d acted the host. He’d accompanied the hard-hearted Mr. Basil D. Mery back to the director’s limousine at the mouth of the canyon— had watched him drive away with the bronze-faced chauffeur, the Japanese, Koki, at the wheel.

A silent Great Dane and the ape-like Shorty were there to meet the master of the place.

“He offered me a job, boss,” Shorty cackled. “I’d like the job of bustin’ his snoot!”

Doctor Coffin smiled faintly.

“Take him up, Shorty,” he recommended.

“Me! Go to that bird for a job?”

“Yes!”

“Ah, gee! What's the idea? Are you throwin’ me out?”

“Less than ever, you bum,” said

Doctor Coffin, and he made a playful pass at Shorty just to reassure him. “But I happen to know what he has in mind for you. It’s a job that you may not like, but it’s your first big chance at some real detective work.”

“Boss,” said Shorty with a gust of awe, “lead me to it!”

“I’ll send someone else to relieve you here,” said Doctor Coffin. “When you’re through, come over to Number One and talk with the real detectives.”

Without further speech, the two of them entered the dark bungalow. There, Shorty lit a candle and passed it to his strange employer. Not even to Shorty himself was this employer of his ever free of mystery— the mystery which, perhaps, a dog feels when it looks at its master.

There was certainly that feeling of doglike and unshakable devotion in Shorty’s heart as he remained in the dark hallway of the bungalow and looked at his master now.

Doctor Coffin, holding the candle aloft, had come again to the side of the casket. He stood there looking down at that serene face of the woman who’d loved and served the man who’d repaid her devotion at last with thoughts of murder.

“Poor girl!” said Doctor Coffin.

His expressive voice was freighted with grief. But the grief was gone— gone also from his deep-set eyes as well—a moment later when he added:

“So he thinks he’ll replace you with Madame Serpent, does he! Ha! Ha! We’ll see!”

He abruptly turned aside and, as if by magic, the fireplace of the little parlour had opened like a door.

Slowly, muttering to himself, Doctor Coffin descended through an open trap to the tunnel that would bring him to the villa he had just referred to as “Number One.”

vi

IT was in Number One— that large and luxurious villa in the neighbouring canyon— where the late Del Manning, having ceased to be Doctor Coffin for the occasion, sat long at table that night with Captain Hughes, of the Federal Secret Service, now on special assignment, and Chief Costigan, of the local detective force.

Shorty also was there.

But the powerful little hunchback was keeping himself as inconspicuous as possible. Wasn’t he learning to be a detective?

“Suppose,” said Captain Hughes, “this lawyer whom Mery mentioned tries to mix in?”

“He won’t,” Chief Costigan came back with assurance. “He knows that Mery’s record won’t stand investigation.”

Both detectives, Hughes and Costigan, had been hidden in the little bungalow while Doctor Coffin talked to Mery across the open casket.

“I’ve seen some hard-boiled gents in my time,” said Captain Hughes, “but never one as hard-boiled as this one. He practically had a murder charge hanging over him, and he knew it. Yet, he never batted a lash. He saw his wife lying dead in her coffin, and himself as good as having murdered her— murdered her as surely as if he’d used a hatchet on her. Was he moved? No more than a man of granite.”

“We’ll move him,” said the erstwhile Doctor Coffin.

“I think you feazed him a bit, at that,” Chief Costigan commented, “when you pulled that line about— how’d you put it?— ‘the dead—the martyred dead—’ ”

The late Del Manning, his bony face devoid of make-up, sat staring in thought.

“It’s true,” he said. “The dead do sometimes have strange ways of coming back. I wonder when Mr. Basil Mery will arrange his marriage to this woman-snake who’s got him poisoned.”

“Not long after the funeral,” Chief Costigan ventured.

“I’ll see to the funeral, Chief,” said the volunteer undertaker; “and I’ll see that it’s the finest that Doctor Coffin’s funeral parlours can provide. Tomorrow, there’ll be the usual notice in the papers under ‘Deaths’: ‘Mery, Lucille R— wife of Basil D. Mery—’ ”

“Was that Mrs. Mery’s suggestion?”

“Yes. She has no family and few real friends, except back at her old home in the South. She’s there now— with Georgette. If anyone there sees the notice it will be— well, just another mistake.”

“And her acquaintances here?”

“They’ll forget her within a week. They always do—in Hollywood—unless there’s been a first-class scandal or something.”

“Won’t a lot of them want to come to the funeral— have a last look?”

“Sure! Let them come! That hard-boiled husband looked at her for half an hour and didn’t see that what he saw was merely a mannikin and a wax mask.”

“A wax mask?”

“One of the finest— made from a cast of Mrs. Mery’s face before she left for the South— garnished with her own hair— tinted, made up, by Doctor Coffin himself...”

It was Captain Hughes who was asking these questions. He’d been absent for a number of days on another case and was just now catching up on the swift developments in the Mery case.

"...And the clothes were real enough,” said Doctor Coffin. “Her wedding dress— the gown and the ornaments she wore when she married Mery— when both of them were poor. Those are the details that not even a man like Mery is apt to forget....”

The woman whom Doctor Coffin sometimes referred to as Madam Jane came in— masked, because of her face, which a clumsy beauty doctor had marred— but her fine and slender figure revealing the former beauty that had made her famous during one brief hour of glory on the screen.

“I’ve arranged— the wedding clothes to fit me,” she announced.

Doctor Coffin expressed himself With that unholy laugh of his.

“This is still another angle,” said Captain Hughes. “What’s up next?”

“Help us to put on the last act,” said Doctor Coffin. “And, trust me!— you’ll be there for that final curtain.”

vii

THERE was plenty of evidence in the following days that this last act in the affair of “The Murdered Wife,” as Doctor Coffin and his friends came to refer to it, would not be long delayed.

It was evidence relayed to them mostly through the detective efforts of one entered on the payroll of the Mery West Coast Studios as R. Boggs, but better known to all concerned as “Shorty.”

There was, it seemed, some added twist of infamy in the character of Fausta Favo that had made her long desire the services of a hunchback dwarf as a personal attendant.

It was a want that she’d often communicated to Basil D. Mery. Now, even in this respect, Basil D. Mery had been able to give her what she wanted.

Moreover, to Mery’s amazed satisfaction, Shorty had shown himself capable of meeting the requirements of the job.

And these requirements were of the hardest. They involved, for example, wearing the most outlandish of costumes— mostly early Arabic, in the style of the Arabian Nights.

They involved the performance of various degrading monkey shines for the amusement of Fausta Favo’s guests.

Worst of all— but not so much worse than those other requirements, perhaps— was a willingness to accept, with doglike humility, the lady’s temperamental outbursts.

For Fausta Favo had these outbursts. She could always be cruel. Shorty learned that. But she wasn’t always the brooding serpent. There were times when she was more like a mad jungle-cat— spitting, clawing, slapping, gurgling incoherent hate while she inflicted pain....

It was in a rage like this that Shorty heard her, one day, hiss at Basil Mery certain words that he repeated later to his friends in “Number One.”

“Yes-s-s! You pois-s-soned your Luc-e-e-e, you s-s-snake, but you won’t pois-s-son me!”

But Shorty felt that his troubles were over only when he was able to announce that Basil D. Mery and Fausta Favo had agreed at last to delay their secret wedding no longer.

Not only this, but Shorty was able to name the time and the appointed place.

viii

THERE was nothing so very surprising in the sudden disappearance of Fausta Favo from the Mery West Coast Studios in Hollywood. Famous stars were in the habit of doing that— for shorter or longer periods— especially when they stood high in the favour of those in power.

Besides, it was generally understood that her marriage to Mr. Mery, now that the first Mrs. Mery was out of the way, would be but a question of days.

The publicity department of the studio soft-pedalled the news. As for the general public— that screen-fan public that extended around the world— they’d got hardened long ago to the way stars came and went, however famous these stars might be.

A Chaplin, yes! A Del Manning, sure!

Not even the easy-going patrons of the motion-picture trade would ever forget such singular geniuses as these. But, after all, a Fausta Favo! Merely another vamp! Tonight, the most brilliant star in the movie skies! Tomorrow, gone like a meteor! Sometimes the meteors came back to be stars again. Sometimes they didn’t. The astronomer-fans of the movie public could list a dozen cases like that....

Fausta Favo had decided that the proper setting for her wedding to Mr. Mery should be a ruined mission she’d seen while “on location” across the Border in Mexico. If the wedding had to be secret it could at least be picturesque. Then, in order to carry out this picturesque effect, she spent considerable time and money trying to find a mission padre who’d perform the ceremony in the ruined mission.

Having found that this was absolutely impossible, she did the next best thing. She found a civilian who would perform the ceremony disguised as a mission padre.

You could never tell. Perhaps, at that, there’d be a few newsreel photographers on hand to grind the screen-report of the great event when Fausta Favo and Basil Dunwich Mery consummated their romance. For all her mystery and temperament, Fausta Favo—  as the publicity men themselves expressed it— “knew her onions.”

Having arranged these details to her satisfaction, Fausta Favo sent word to Mery that all was ready. He had merely to drive— or fly—  down to a certain well-known Mexican resort where she’d be waiting for him.

The resort, much frequented by Hollywood’s rich and famous gentry, had a casino that made Monte Carlo look like a honkey-tonk. It had a race-course rivalling any. Its one hotel, catering almost wholly to Americans, was superb. And here, for one day at least, Fausta Favo had been feted like a queen. They’d let her win at the casino. The horse she picked in the big event was an easy first. She had the royal suite at the big hotel.

It was in this royal suite, though, that she was visited that night by a couple of substantial but entirely unpicturesque Americans. They looked like ordinary small-town business men.

But one of them introduced himself as Captain Hughes, of the Federal Secret Service, now on special assignment. The other remained unintroduced except vaguely as Doctor Coffin and he also, it appeared, had a Federal commission of sorts.

Captain Hughes did the talking. Such as there was. There wasn't very much. The gist of it was this!

Fausta Favo would do certain things or she’d be arrested for murder.

“Murder!”

Captain Hughes repeated her little poison speech— the one Shorty had overheard—and added details; and, after that, Fausta Favo sat tight.

She would agree to anything, now that her own safety was involved. Anyway, she’d been assured, her passport had been taken up. If nothing worse happened to her, she’d be deported as an undesirable alien. Wouldn’t it be better for her to go back quietly to where she came from and—no more said?

It would!

There were a number of Mexican ports from which she could sail. It might even be arranged that she leave for Europe by way of Panama.

In any case, there were two things settled:

One was, she couldn’t re-enter the United States.

Another was, that she’d sent her last message for the present to Mr. “Poisoner” Mery— unless, of course, she wanted to take a chance.

She didn’t....

Unaware of what happened to the lady he was going to take as his second wife, Mr. Mery drove South with the Japanese chauffeur, Koki, at the wheel.

The Border officials made a good deal of trouble on Koki’s account. Considerable time was lost before they could be assured that Koki’s papers were in order. As a result it was almost night before the expectant bridegroom arrived at the Mexican resort where he was to join his bride.

There, to his consternation— expressed in terms that no bridegroom should use— he learned that Fausta Favo had expressed the wish that the wedding be performed this same evening and that all was in readiness— and waiting— at the ruined mission, still some twenty miles further on.

To make matters worse, Koki was now reporting trouble with the car. Koki didn’t know the road to the mission anyway. It was reported to be pretty bad— like all Mexican roads off the main highways— and easy to lose at that.

It was at this juncture that the situation was saved for Mr. Mery by the appearance of a gentleman who introduced himself as Senor Nitos— “Meester Nitos,” as he preferred to be called, for he explained that he was more than half American.

He looked it. But he also showed a mixture of Indian or some other blood— a broad strong face, bony but pleasant; swarthy, but not too swarthy. He spoke English with only a slight accent and had the easy bearing of a man of Culture.

Meester Nitos, it appeared, was driving past the mission in question. His hacienda lay in that direction. Would not el caballero americano do him the honour of sharing his limousine?

There was nothing else to do.

The telephone also, it seemed, had broken down.

ix

LONG, long afterward, Mr. Basil Dunwich Mery was to remember that night-ride of his with the mysterious Meester Nitos in the latter’s limousine— Meester Nitos at his side, two giant Chinamen, who appeared to be twins, acting as chauffeur and footman.

The car sped on through the dark. It seemed that all that Senor Nitos could talk about was murder—  especially of men who murdered their wives.

Then, at last, their arrival at the crumbling ruins of the old mission, where, for a time, Mr. Mery had found himself deserted and alone.

Nitos—the man who had been so obliging with his limousine— had suddenly driven away with his Chinamen. There was no sign of anyone else. No sign of light, nor life, nor anything. Nothing but crumbling walls, a broken arch against the sky, a sense of death.

Then, Mery was recalling not only things that Senor Nitos had said— he was recalling Senor Nitos himself. It seemed to him now that he had seen that man somewhere. But where?

His mind groped back.

There was something about Nitos that recalled— but that was absurd!— the undertaker who’d officiated at the burial of his wife. Could the two be one? Absurd, of course! But why, then, should Senor Nitos have insisted on talking so much of murder— the murder of a wife!

"All right, boss!”

Mery started as an ape-like figure appeared through the gloom.

"Shorty!”

"Yes, sir! She’s waiting! Everybody’s waiting!”

"Everybody?”

"Well, the bride— and the man who’s doublin’ for the padre—”

"All right! Lead the way!”

"—and, of course, there had to be a couple of cameramen,” Shorty completed. "They’re waitin’, too, ready to grind the scene.”

They followed a weed-grown trail back through a ruined garden. For a while they were following the broken arches of an ancient cloister.

“They say this place is haunted,” Shorty whispered.

Mery didn’t reply. It was haunted for him, all right. He was wishing now that he’d brought Koki along. He was wishing he had a gun. He was wishing— a lot of things that he wouldn’t express in the haunted dark of his own ruined heart and brain.

Then, as they crossed the cloister and came into a little patio, an abandoned chapel reared ahead of them, revealed by the first gleam of light they had thus far seen.

A moment later, Mery had come stumbling to the chapel door.

He had then, at least, one moment of self-forgetfulness. What he saw, he was telling himself, would make a pretty effect on the screen. It was something he might use, even, in his current production— the one that his publicity department was already touting as Basil D. Mery’s greatest masterpiece:

MADAME SERPENT

At this moment, he thought he saw her— Fausta Favo— standing there at the other end of the chapel, waiting for him. She was standing near the figure of the man who was to act the part of the padre in this romantic wedding— a man garbed in the surplice and cowl of one old Franciscan such as they who had built this mission centuries ago.

Then it may have been a phonograph— or it may have been a portable radio—that began to drub out  a moan of music. By some satanic coincidence it was no wedding music, though. It was something sad, something wailing, something with the click of coffin hammers in it and a rattle of bones.

Mery recognized it: That—

Danse Macabre!

It may have been only then that he knew that he’d been caught in some infernal mesh of misery and guilt. His heart failed him.

He was looking at that new bride of his who was coming toward him. Something was the matter with her. There had been some change. It was a change that was making him sick.

He recognized the wedding gown. It was the gown in which his wife had asked to be buried. He’d seen her in it when she lay dead— gray silk, ruching, brooch.

Paralysed with a growing sickness of remorse and horror, he brought up his reluctant eyes to the bride’s face.

“Lucille!” he gasped in a choking voice.

He saw the face of his murdered wife look back at him— recognizable still, but the face of one who had long been buried.

He heard the whisper:

“Come to me! Come to me! Basil! I love you still!”

Now the cowled figure of the padre was coming forward, and  as the cowl slipped back Mery saw another ghostly face. Was it Del  Manning’s— he who also was back from the tomb? Or was it the face  of that weird undertaker, Doctor  Coffin?

Mery never knew.

At that moment there was a blinding flash of light and several hidden cameras had recorded the scene.

IT was reported in Hollywood that Basil Dunwich Mery had suffered a slight paralytic stroke. Among his intimate friends— or those who had been such— it was also whispered that his mind was affected. He looked that way, when anyone happened to see again— in the sanatorium where he’d gone to live. He looked like a living dead man himself, they said.

As for Fausta Favo— pouf! Already there were a score of favourites to take her place.

Down at her old home in the South “the murdered wife” received a package containing a faded wedding dress. With it there came a letter from her friend, Doctor Coffin.

“If you wish,” he wrote, “I’ll get word to Mr. Mery that your part in 'the second wedding’ was played by an old actress friend of mine. He’s finished, forever, so far as Hollywood is concerned.”

She wired back simply: “...blessed are the dead... ”

It was just as well. Basil Dunwich Mery, in his sanatorium, had become interested in a pretty nurse.

________________________

13: The Prodigal Son, V.C.

Ottwell Binns

Violet Town Sentinel (Vic) 22 June 1915

THE STATION was crowded with troops, British Tommies in facetious mood, who were trying, on everyone who looked in the least French, strange scraps of language picked up from phrase-books since leaving England.

"Oh, I say there, commencer la machine!" (start the engine).

"Can't, old man," shouted an answering voice, "it's got un pneu!" (a puncture).

"Donnez-moi un billet pour―" (Give me a ticket for―)"

"Berlin!" yelled a score of voices. A roar of laughter went up, in which joined three Red Cross nurses, who were standing near watching the scene with bright eyes.

"Aren't they fine fellows?" said one. "Nothing daunts them, not even a strange tongue."

"Yes, Mary, and there's a particularly fine fellow there―that tall sergeant, I mean, over there on the right."

The nurse so addressed turned to look at the sergeant, and as he happened to swing round at the moment, their eyes met. For perhaps two seconds they regarded each other, then mingled surprise and pleasure showed in the nurse's lace, and the sergeant, a blush on his lean face, bowed gravely, and made as though to turn away. But the nurse anticipated the movement by stepping forward with hand outstretched.

"Dick," she said quickly, "aren't you going to speak to me?"

The sergeant's face grew radiant.

"Of course, Mary, if you wish it. I thought that, perhaps―"

"Dick!"

The reproach in the tone brought the sergeant to a sudden stop. Then ne smiled and grew apologetic. "Well, Mary, you know, there are people who would not wish to have long memories. My father, for instance."

"Does he know that you are here?"

"You forget," he explained with a smile. "I am supposed to be dead.

It is true that I did not die in my own name; but what of that? My father knows the name I was drowned in, and as it saved his own name from smirch, I do not suppose he is particularly sorry."

"I think you are wrong there," the nurse said quietly. "I think he hoped that you had got away, and had not died, and more than once I have been on the point of telling him, as indeed I should have done but for the promise I made you."

"I am glad you did not," was the quick reply. "The time may come when I shall be glad for him to know but until then―" He broke off and adroitly changed the subject. "But what are you doing here, Mary?"

"I am attached to the base hospital. I could not sit home twiddling my thumbs or knitting mittens with this going on, and so I volunteered. You know I trained as a nurse, because of my father's fad that every girl should learn to be useful. The training comes in handy now, and I had no difficulty in getting appointed."

"Good girl!"

As he said the words the sergeant looked at her with smiling approval. Then his eyes alighted on a small pendant hanging on her breast which held a photograph of a mischievous boyish face. For a moment he stared as though he had seen something which be could not credit, then his face flushed and his eyes grew bright. He looked as though he were about to speak again, but there came an interruption from behind.

"All aboard! All aboard! Now, sergeant, time's up!"

He moved towards the train, the nurse walking by his side. Her face was very rosy, and now she covered the pendant with her hand, apparently toying with it, in reality trying to hide it from his gaze. By the door of the carriage where his place was he came a standstill.

"Mary," he said quickly, "I'm glad you are here, and awfully glad I met you. It puts heart into one, you know... This war is my opportunity. I've prayed for it these four years, knowing that it was bound to come, and to meet you like this is a good omen."

His foot was on the carriage step, and there was but a moment.

"Dick'" said the girl in a hurried  whisper, "what name―"

"Oh, the old name," he answered with a quick smile. "I didn't disgrace it that, you know, and I shan't disgrace it now."

"I am sure you will not. And I am glad you kept it. I shall be able to read― you know― and―"

Before her stumbling remark could be finished, the man was forced to get into the carriage, the engine snorted, and the train began to move. A roar of  British voices drowned all other noises. Down the platform a group of Highlanders were cheering. In the train unmelodious voices broke into song―

Its a long way to Tipperary,

Its a long way to go.

The sergeant leaned out of the window, and waved his adieu. The nurse's handkerchief fluttered in the wind of the moving train, and then the tail carriage was all that was visible. The girl watched it for a moment, eyes bright with unshed tears, then letting the pendant swing free on her breast once more, she turned and joined her companions.

"May Hamilton," said one of them, lifting  a finger in mock reproof, "I am surprised at you!"

"And so am I," said the second. "It is positively scandalous of you! Who is the man? You must tell us that if you hope for forgiveness."

Mary Hamilton smiled. "I think I shall have to go unforgiven then!"

"But Mary, can't you see we are dying to know?"

"Yes! but I shall not tell you, though I will tell you his story if you like, and you shall tell me what you think of it."

"Very well!  Though I suppose that will only make it all the more tantalising for us. But half a loaf is better than no bread. Begin to cut, Mary, and mind your fingers."

Mary Hamilton nodded her head and smiled.

"In a way," she began slowly, "it's a commonplace story, but it has aspects that are a little unusual. You saw him, you saw what he is―"

"Sergeant in the R.F.A.!" broke in one of her companions promptly, "Yes, we saw that."

"Yes, sergeant, but if he were in the commissioned ranks, it would be more in keeping with his station in  life, for his father is the head of an old Devonshire family, with a rent-roll of several thousands a year."

"Then why―"

"Don't be impatient, Betty. I'm coming to that. I know the family well, and Dick and I as children―"

"His name is Dick, then?" laughed one of her companions quickly.

"Yes, Dick, just Dick, as there must be several thousand Dicks in the Expeditionary Force, that will tell you nothing; but the fact that in the old days he was Dick to everyone, and borer on the estate, will tell you a great deal. He was a happy, harum-scarum of a boy, always in pickle of some sort, and taking to mischief like a duck to water. Many people had cause to complain about his pranks, but as everybody liked him he was forgiven by all― except his own father. He was just a rigid, unbending martinet, with no more understanding of the boy than a gate-post would have had. He 'jawed' in season and out of season― which is a bad thing for a boy. I believe Dick hated his holidays at home, and as he grew older he used to make excuses and go away on visits and so forth, just to avoid his father. I tell you this because it helps to explain what came after, that lack of sympathetic understanding preventing the boy from approaching his father when the trouble came.

"The time came when Dick was sent to London to study law, his father having an idea that that profession would keep him out of mischief. Dick cared nothing for the law, but he went obediently enough. His name was entered at the Middle Temple, and for some months all went well; then he most unaccountably disappeared.

"Disappeared! Had he enlisted?"

"Not then. That came later. He simply disappeared, and nothing whatever was heard of him for over a year. Other people, knowing the depths there are in London, worried themselves about him, but the father did not. He expressed his opinion once that Dick was in some sort of mischief, and simply fumed with anger when he thought of him...

"Then he had a shock. He had accompanied the visiting justices to Dartmoor, and was investigating prisoners' complaints when he came suddenly upon his son, dressed in convict garb. For a moment― so Dick told me long afterwards― the old man stared at him as if he had seen a ghost, then he broke out wrathfully, 'Dick, what is the meaning of this d―d masquerade?'

"The governor of the prison and other gentlemen were there, but, fortunately, no one who knew him, and to spare the old man as much as possible Dick kept a wooden face, and replied surlily that his name was not Dick, but  John― John Udy.

" 'That is so,' said the governor. 'Udy, John, No. 902!'"

" 'But― but―' spluttered his father, 'do you mean to tell me that―'

" 'I am John Udy, sir.'

"I suppose his father realised something of the situation, and for the moment he let the matter pass, but later in the day he had a private interview with his son, in the chaplain's office, and there learned the whole story―"

Mary Hamilton broke off for a moment, then she continued, "I myself have heard that story from Dick's own lips. It is an amazingly simple one. Dick, it appears, was walking down a narrow street not far from Westminster, late at night, when he came upon a man beating a woman. He interfered, and the man turned on him, and Dick was forced to defend himself. He struck the man a blow that knocked him down, so that he fell against the kerb and became unconscious. As is the way with persons of that class, the woman turned upon the man who had tried to help her, and was abusing Dick soundly when a policeman came round the corner. Dick saw him, and not wishing to be mixed up any further with the unsavoury business, started for home. The policeman ran after him, blowing his whistle, and, before they reached the end of the short street, another policeman appeared in front, and Dick was caught. On his way to the station he thought things over, and, to spare his father,  gave the name of John Udy, and refused his address. The man was dead. The woman swore that Dick had committed an unprovoked assault upon him, and in the end he had to face a trial for manslaughter. The case came before Mr. Justice Barden―"

"The hardest judge on the bench," interrupted the Nurse Betty. "I know  him. I nursed him once."

"Yes, at any rate that is his reputation, and he lived up to it when he tried Dick, for there being only Dick's word against the evidence of the policeman and the woman, he sentenced him to four years' penal servitude... That was the story which Dick had to tell his father in the chaplain's office at Dartmoor; and as I told you, he was a martinet, and very proud, you could imagine how he took it."

"Left him to lie where he had fallen, I suppose," said one of her companions.

"Exactly! He never lifted a finger to help the boy; but three months , afterwards, under cover of a friendly fog, John Udy made a dash for liberty and escaped. Part of his convict's clothes was found on the bank of the Dart, and as a week later his cap was taken out of the river at Kingsbridge, it was thought that he was drowned. But he wasn't! He had made his way to a friend's house, who helped him with money and clothing, and getting down to Plymouth he enlisted in the artillery. I saw him six months afterwards, and he told me the whole story, but set me under the promise not to tell his father he was still alive."

"Why did he tell you the story, Mary?" asked the Nurse Betty

Mary Hamilton's face flushed deeply. "Oh," she answered with a carelessness that was altogether too elaborate, "we were old playmates, and of course―"

"Of course," replied the other meaningly. "And you could give him sympathy― Mary, I believe, if he were to ask you to marry him

"Oh, rubbish, Betty," answered her friend, flushing more deeply still. "Isn't it time we were getting back to the hospital?"

And without another word Nurse Hamilton turned to leave the station.

ii

IT WAS in the middle of that great week at Mons, and Sergeant Dick Lavington, sleeping by his gun, was wakened from a brief sleep by one of his men.

"Rest is done for, sergeant, the army's to retreat again an' hold the canal. We're to cover the withdrawal of the infantry."

He stood up and looked forth into the summer darkness. The blinding glare of a searchlight cut the night with a broad white blade, and the crash of distant guns and the detonation of shrapnel nearer at hand filled the air.

"The blighters are at it again," said the gunner who had awakened him. "They work in double shifts seemingly. Lor', what a racket they make!"

Dick Lavington laughed. "They do make a row for sure! I never envied a deaf man till I came here!"

The gunner laughed in reply, and moved away. The sergeant lit his pipe, and whilst he waited for orders, stood watching the hashes of the distant guns, and the yellow stars of the shrapnel bursting in the darkness. He was still watching when the subaltern in charge of his section came along.

"You'll have heard the news, sergeant? They're too much tor us, and the army is to retreat. Heaven send it doesn't become a bally rout. The Germans are like locusts! They're swarming everywhere!"

"Yes, sir," answered the sergeant, "and they seem to have a thundering lot of guns. I've been watching the flashes, and if there's one there are thirty guns over on the right there."

"Yes, we're to reply to them and try to keep down their fire, I fancy. But we shall know in a minute or two."

Ten minutes later the battery, concealed by a line of young trees and an elm hedge, was firing steadily at the enemy's guns, whilst to left and right of them there was a steady movement of bodies of men towards the canal. That their fire was proving troublesome to the Germans they deduced from the fact that the searchlight again and again flashed across them, apparently seeking to search them out, but in vain; for dawn broke without the German fire having been drawn towards them. But scarcely had daylight come, when a huge, dovelike shape was seen hovering in the sky. It was a monoplane.

"English, French, or German, Lavington?" asked the lieutenant.

"German," answered the sergeant promptly. "Their wings always follow the shape of a bird's, so that they're good to tell. I shouldn't wonder the fellow is looking for us."

"Very likely," answered the lieutenant. "We must have worried them a goodish bit during the last hour or so."

For a few minutes the battery had ceased fire waiting for fresh orders, and they had leisure to watch the airman, hovering overhead like a hawk. Three or four minutes passed, breathlessly interesting to the men who watched; then something burst well over the head of the watchers, and a puff of black smoke appeared, spreading slowly in the still air.

"He's got us!" said Lavington quickly. "Now for the peppering!"

But scarcely had the first shell from the German guns burst in the neighbourhood of the battery, when orders came that they were to move, and defend the road that led to a bridge over the canal, which the infantry had to cross. They limbered with a will, and raced for their new positions, followed by the fire of the German guns.

The position was three-quarters of a mile away from the bridge, and having had one gun put out of action whilst changing ground, they took up their new position, angry at the loss they had suffered. The Taube was now in front of them, hovering high above a wood, and as he watched it a look of curiosity came on the subaltern's face.

"I wonder what is in that wood!" he said musingly. "There must be something―"

A high explosive shell burst suddenly over the tree tops, another and another― a perfect rain of them. Great gaps of daylight unexpectedly took the place of dark foliage of the trees. Smoke began to rise from the depths of the wood.

"We shall know in a minute!" said Lavington quickly. "If there's anything in there it's bound' to be driven out."

"Ah! here they come!"

A swarm of khaki-clad figures had broken from the wood, and was racing towards the road.

"Our lot," said the sergeant, as in obedience to quick orders he directed the fire of his gun.

The range was a short one, and as the guns were discharged with the regularity of clock-work, he wondered what their unseen target was. He asked the lieutenant.

"Infantry moving the other side of the wood, driving our fellows back!" was the reply.

The khaki-clad figures were hurrying― retiring at the double. They swarmed in front of the guns, effectually "blanketing" them and making it impossible to fire. They were still passing between them, and the sergeant in a mental aside had noted that the enemy's shells had ceased to burst over the wood, when there broke a sudden yell of warning.

Masses of German infantry were issuing from the wood at a run. They were very near, and it appeared as if nothing could stop them.

"At the infantry. Zero!" came the order.

The gun-squads knew their danger, but they worked like heroes. The shells, with the fuses set at O, burst within fifty yards of the guns, making awful gaps in the advancing German ranks. But a volley of rifle-fire put half the gun-squads out of action, and among the men who fell was the lieutenant of Lavington's section. The sergeant stooped to put him out of the way of the feet of the four men left to work the two guns.

"They'll get the guns!" cried the injured man hopelessly. "God! to think my guns will go to Berlin."

Lavington had no time for consolation. The Germans were not twenty yards away, advancing over scores of fallen men. Nothing could stop that heavy human wave. Here and there the front of it broke and melted away, but still new masses came on, and whilst the sergeant still had a shell in his hand, the first of them readied the battery. The sergeant heaved the shell at him, and then stood up to meet death with naked fists. A German hit him with the butt of a rifle. He went down under the blow, and the surge of shrieking men passed over him....

Five minutes later he sat up. A trickle of blood obscured the vision of one eye, and he brushed it aside impatiently as he looked round. One of the men of his own squad was bandaging a wound in his leg, all the other men, so far as he could see, were either dead or badly hurt. The guns stood where they had, and somehow the recumbent figures of the men who had worked them lying round gave them an aspect unutterably forlorn.

He looked further afield. The British infantry were making a stand a little way from the bridge, and the Germans were returning their fire, remaining stationary for the most part, though occasionally groups or them made rushes towards the British line, only to melt away before the withering rifle-fire. He was still watching the contest when the voice of the man with the wounded leg attracted his attention.

"They've about done for us, I reckon. These guns are booked for .Berlin-same as the lieutenant said. If them beggars hadn't blanketed us so neatly we'd have―"

He heard no further. The dying protest or the lieutenant against the guns going to Berlin found more than an echo in his own heart. Mechanically his eyes turned towards the hollow where the horses had been stationed; then, as a thought occurred to him, he rose to his feet, and staggered towards the hollow. The Germans had been thorough in their work. The drivers were either dead or too severely wounded to help, and most o£ the horses had been stampeded. He managed, however, to catch a team that was still yoked to a limber, and led them back to the guns.

"What the blazes are you going to do, sergeant?" asked the wounded man looking up from his bandage.

"Take my gun into action. It's needed pretty badly, from the look of things. And anyway it's not going to Berlin if I can help it. Do you think you could help to work it?"

"Guess I'll have a good try!"

The man struggled to his feet, his face twisted with anguish, and together they yoked the gun to the limber; then, with the man on the limber seat, Sergeant Lavington climbed into the saddle, and lashed the horses lanyard.

For five minutes he drove until he overtook a wandering ammunition wagon, the horses of which had stayed to crop the standing corn. He halted the gun, swung it into position, and catching the other horses he led the wagon to its proper position at the left of the gun. Then, with the aid of his companion, he began to send shrieking shrapnel to burst over the German ranks.

It was a hard business for the two of them, injured as they were, to work the gun, doing what is usually the task of six men, but they persevered, and presently their fire told, and the Germans began to fall back a little. Lavington saw it with delight.

"We'll do it yet!" he shouted to his companion as he paused to dash the sweat and blood from his eyes.

"I― I don't think so," replied the other. "I― I'm petering out. This dashed leg of mine " He broke off, and a look of despair came on his whitening face. "By G―, we're done. Look there! It's Berlin after all!"

He pointed backward, and the next moment crumpled up in a faint. Dick Lavington looked in the direction indicated, and instantly understood the man's unexpected access of despair. A party of German cavalry were moving straight for the cornfield. He had but a moment to make up his mind; but he needed no longer. He quickly hooked the limber to the gun carriage, and casting loose the horses of the ammunition wagon, with the harness bound his collapsed companion to the limber. Then possessing himself of a whip from the wagon, a moment later he was in the saddle driving recklessly for the bridge.

He saw a squadron of the cavalry start to intercept him. He was conscious that somewhere men were firing at him, for bullets were flying all about him. But he recked little of it. His mind working automatically, told him the shortest course, though it brought him nearer the German fire, was the safest; and all the time, I quite unconsciously, he reiterated to 'himself, "Berlin be d―d! Berlin be d―d!"

He tore onward, the gun rocking behind him, the horses maddened by the lash. Something struck him in the shoulder, and the shock of it almost knocked him out of the saddle. He felt little pain, but as he recovered himself he smiled grimly. Once the horse he was riding stumbled, but he saved it by a great effort, and as a bullet took another of the team in the flank it screamed with pain. But pity for the moment was frozen in his heart, and he used the whip mercilessly.

The going was terribly rough, and he had no time to pick his ground. He passed the cavalry riding on his flank with three hundred yards to spare, and as he did so, caught up out of himself, he shouted exultantly, and was answered by a roar from the British lines. A minute later he had reached the lines, and amid cheers of delight came to a standstill. An officer of his own battery who had been swept away in the rush of men stepped forward to him, where he sat rocking in the saddle.

"The ammunition in the limber, Laving―"

"Untouched, sir!"

"Then, by Jove, sergeant, you've saved both the bridge and the battery!"

He had time to hear this quick praise; then the world reeled around him, and he toppled from the saddle to the ground.

A FORTNIGHT later Nurse Hamilton approached his cot at the base hospital, with a smile upon her face.

"There's a visitor to see you, Dick, if you feel you can stand it!"

His eyes shot a mute question.

"Yes," she answered; "it's your father."

A look of pleasure came on his wan face.

"Does he know?" he asked.

Mary Hamilton nodded smilingly. "Yes! Somehow it got in the English papers; and, of course, he saw that you were promoted to lieutenant and gazetted for the V.C. He didn't know that you were the man, however, until he got my letter. He's immensely proud of you, of course."

Dick Lavington sighed with satisfaction.

"Did you tell him anything else, Mary?"

"Well," she answered with a little laugh, "I told him that I had agreed to become his daughter-in-law when they made you a field-marshal― either then or before, whichever date is earliest."

"What did he say?" asked the soldier eagerly,

"He said I was always a wise little woman―" She broke off, looked at I him anxiously, then she said quickly, "Dick, he is coming now, with the doctor. Keep yourself in hand. In your state you can't afford to―"

A hale, stiff-looking man stepped quickly forward. There was an eager look on his face, his eyes were glistening, and the hard mouth was quivering with tenderness.

"Dick― my boy― my boy―"

And so the prodigal son came to his own.

__________________

14: The Vengeance of Adam Rook

Tom Gallon

1866-1914

Telegraph (Brisbane) 21 September 1904

IT SCARCELY MATTERS how, or in what way, the wrong done to Adam Rook first grew and magnified in his mind, until it absorbed his life; this story has not to do with his wrongs, but with the vengeance that gripped and hold him like a fever, and poisoned all his life.

He began rather well— this Adam Rook. Born of respectable parents, in a small manufacturing town in the north of England, he rose, by steady industry, to something greater than those from whom he sprang could have imagined. Grim, and squarely built, and determined, he shoved his dogged way among men, until he came out before them, and led them. And, at the moment when his way seemed clear, and all the calm and peaceful world was at his feet; there rose a smiling woman in his path, to change that world for him.

She was, a good woman— in the sense, at least, that she meant well; her one vice was the vice of weakness. She had, at first, an admiration for this strong, forceful man, who dominated her; she leaned upon his strength, and was quite content. To make an ordinary story as short as possible, let it be baldly stated that they married ; that she grew tired, in course of time, of what she termed his commonplaceness; and that she listened to the voice of the tempter, when, in due course, that tempter came.

The tempter was Fergus Wade, and he had those qualities which appealed to the softer, weaker side of the woman. In the end, the old story was repeated, and Lucy Rook started life again, with the wrong man.

Quite incidentally and quite unconsciously, Lucy Rook wrecked three lives at the moment of her flight. She wrecked her own, because disaster swiftly followed; she wrecked that of her lover, because she marked him down for a vengeance as cruel and swift and silent as death itself; she wrecked that of her husband, because she stripped him, in a moment, of all that he prized, and left him beggared.

Adam Rook, when he first realised what had happened, did a frightful thing. He laid his house waste; he broke and smashed every article that had belonged to her, and had been precious in his sight for her dear sake; he left all that he had built up to go to rack and ruin. And he swore that vengeance that was thereafter to occupy his life.

"God of Justice," he prayed, on his knees amid the wreck of his home— "give this man into my hands! Grant me the power to track him through the wide earth— to hunt him down— to shed his blood, as he has shed the blood of my heart! Give him into my hands; stay his feet on any road that he may travel, till I catch him, and beat and bruise him beneath my feet! God of Justice— deliver him into my hands!"

Thereafter, with the dogged stern simplicity that belonged to him, he set out upon that mission. This strong, hard-grained man of business flung all his hopes and fortunes to the winds, and set out upon a lonely journey, with that prayer always in his heart. Knowing no language but his own, he yet found his way among strange people, and into strange places , and ever before him went the fugitives. They had had a thought that in time he might tire, and might return to his own way of life," and leave them to theirs; they did not know the man.

Each night, in strange and lonely places of the earth, he slept— a common wayfarer—with the prayer upon his lips that the coming day might bring him and the man who had wronged him face to face; the dawn of each new day saw him rise, with the hope that the sun might go down upon his wrath, and see it ended.

It will scarcely be believed that for three long years he kept up the hunt― that for three long years the hapless woman and the man fled before him, with no rest, and pursued by fears.

He came upon them at last, in a little out of-the-way hut— miscalled an inn— in Norway. He crept up to the place at nightfall, only to find that the man had fled again, and that, tho woman was alone. There was a reason for her staying behind; she was dying. She died that night, upon his breast; her last words were a plea for mercy for the man who had wronged him, and deserted her.

Looking down upon her, as she lay dead, his heart hardened more than ever towards the man; the vow he had made seemed to stand out, in words of fire upon the dark walls of the place wherein he sat with his dead. He went on again, with scarce a moment's pause, on the track of his enemy.

It would be impossible be recount all his wanderings, or all that happened to him, in the time before his story ended. But he became known— this man or the white hair, and the lined face, and the grim-set jaw was a thing to he pointed at, and his story told in whispers. He came like a ghost among the living joyous men and women of his time; death was in his eyes, and the name of one man on his lips.

And so, still in that grim pursuit, he passed over, in time, to America. It might be thought that in that great place the fugitive was safe— that, amidst the crowds there, the hunted one might lose his identity, and be hunted no more. But the strong purpose, that was as the life of Adam Rook was the strong purpose that could have overcome an army ; he paused for nothing— was daunted by nothing , all men and women were mere details, meaning nothing. Before him always he saw the living figure of the man who had wronged him.

They met once, under strange circumstances, After countless journeys, and much doubling and redoubling on the track, he heard that Fergus Wade had been seen in a little western town, at the base of the Rocky Mountains; he set out for the place at once. Even there, his purpose was known, and had been noised about; it was known that, although apparently a peaceful man, he went armed, and had that desperate purpose in his mind.

Fate played him a trick. He got within a hundred yards of the man he sought. Think of it; after throe years of wild ! scouring of Europe and America, he actually saw the man he wanted, fairly and squarely in front of him! He might have shot him where he was, but that would have been too easy. The man would have died without knowing who had killed him; there was no vengeance in that. He wanted to meet him face to face; he wanted to see him on his knees, begging for mercy; he wanted to kill him slowly.

He crept nearer and nearer, scarcely daring to breathe in his anxiety, he saw his man enter a small log cabin, in which he had been living for some months; he crept to the door.

Then it was that his vengeance was snatched away from him. At the very moment that he was about to enter the place, a roving band or Indians descended upon it, and captured him and his enemy. Firing the place, they carried the two men off into the forest, securely bound, and almost touching each other as they walked.

"A moment more, and I would have killed you," said Adam Rook, fiercely, as they went along.

"An hour more, and they'll kill us both," replied the other, coolly. "You've come a long way for this, Adam Rook— only to be cheated at the last," he added, with a laugh.

"No— not cheated; that shan't happen," exclaimed Rook, fiercely. "No man shall kill you, except, myself; I have waited too long, to have you snatched out of my hands now. I'll tear you away from them: I'd snatch you out of any fire they built for you. I have not come so long and so weary a journey for nothing."

In the night, while they and their captors slept about a fire in the woods, Adam Rook awoke, to find that Wade had escaped. Mad with rage, and scarcely knowing what he did, he broke his bonds (bands of steel could not have held him then) and went after the man.

He had to fight his way— this man who once had been a plain, staid, city merchant— through a mob of them, before he got away: hut he escaped. They might as well have tried to hold a raging torrent. Once more, armed only with a heavy club, he set out into the wilderness, to find Fergus Wade.

He came to a small mining camp— starved, bruised, bleeding, and half mad. There they cared for him in their rough, kindly fashion, and got him back to some semblance of life. But still the fierce fire of his vengeance burned with a steady flame; still he saw before him, in every prospect, his enemy going on ahead. In that semi-madness he told them what his purpose was; he openly threatened the life of this man.

It must he remembered that he was a stranger to them, while the man had been, for some time, one of themselves. It must he remembered, also, that in those days, and in those places, the law dealt by man to man was strong and rough and swift.

There floated to him one day a rumour that the man was near; that he had been seen quite close to the place the day before. Weak as he was, Adam Rook leaped from his bed and set off in pursuit again.

It was near nightfall when he came at last upon the man. With a crafty knowledge he had gained in those parts, he had followed the track of the man over the soft earth, as he might have followed the spoor of a wild beast. The sun— sinking blood-red behind the trees— gave its final light to the final scene of that tragedy. For he came upon the man lying upon his face on the bare ground— dead.

In that solemn place, and in that solemn hour, God had snatched from him his vengeance, he had been almost in touch with Wade since the early morning of that day; had come upon broken branches, with the sap green and wet in them, as the other man's hand had torn them down. Yet here he lay, stone dead— killed by another hand.

It was evident that the motive had been robbery. The man's rifle had gone, and a few coins he had had; probably some wanderer, poorer than himself, had done the deed. But that mattered nothing to Adam Rook. He knelt beside the body, and raised his eyes to high heaven, and wept because his vengeance was taken from him. Frantically he strove to call the man back to life; sat the ghastly thing up in the dying light, and peered into his eyes; and spoke its name. But all in vain.

Meanwhile, in the little camp, Adam Rook had been missed, and that old rumour of his purpose spread itself about. One man remembered the story; another corroborated it; a third remembered that both men had strangely come together there.

In the end, a little company of them set out to find Adam Rook. They found him beside the body of the man he had so relentlessly pursued, and whose life he had so frequently threatened. And they only knew that that other man was dead. There had been lawless murders about the place there recently, and this was one be make an example of. They gave him but small time for prayers or protestations; they swore to hang him then and there.

On his knees to them he begged and implored that they would have mercy. He cried that he had not done it; he shrieked that he had been cheated out of his vengeance. Contemptuously they pointed to the dead, and bade him get ready to follow his enemy.

When they rode away, silently back to tho camp the night had fallen, and Adam Rook swung horribly from a tree in the wind, his dead face turned towards the spot where was the newly-made grave of the man he had designed to kill.

_______________

15: Well Lost?

F. Britten Austin

1885-1941

Strand Magazine, January 1924

THE sailor’s voice roused him at its second repetition, as the boat lifted to the pitch-black sky on the flank of a pitch-black wave.

“You’d better come and look after that lady o’ yourn!”

It was many years since Mr. Drahan had been spoken to in so peremptory a voice— not, in fact, since Mr. Drahan had started in business for himself at the age of eighteen. And with the passage of time his interlocutors had grown ever more deferential; until Antony Drahan had almost forgotten what it was like not to be addressed as a multi-millionaire.

He checked himself from resentment, savoured an ironic sense of humour. This fellow didn’t know who he was!— had no idea that he was Mr. Antony Drahan of the Transatlantic Trust! He left himself the joke— what was the good of revealing himself, anyway ? His mind cogitated the little problem, came to its decision, in a flash— and from the fellow’s manner his consciousness opened suddenly to the content of his words.

He stumbled awkwardly over the thwarts to where the sailor sat, tiller in one hand, mainsheet in the other. At the steersman’s feet, in the well of the boat, a woman lay stretched and motionless. Drahan bent over her. Her shoulders were bare in the thin evening-gown that clung to her like a sopped rag, her long wet hair wrapped about it. In the dim, uncertain light of the careering mast-head lamp, she looked a drowned corpse, beyond help. He touched her.

“Ain’t dead, is she?” queried the sailor.

“No.”

He slithered down beside her, drew her to him, held her close in his arms, her death-like head heavy on his shoulder, striving to communicate to her a little of his own scant bodily warmth.

“Not your wife, I suppose?” the old sailor threw at him as the boat slid swiftly down into a black hollow where the wind was suddenly stilled.

“Yes,” he replied, curtly.

They relapsed into silence. The sailor, crouching at the tiller as, rather by feel than by sight, he nursed the boat through the foaming, overtopping perils that surged momentarily out of the blackness, distracted his concentrated attention by no unnecessary words. Antony Drahan sat cramped and still, clutching that cold body tightly to him. Presently he felt a flutter of life in it. She sighed, passed almost insensibly out of coma into the drugged sleep of utter exhaustion. Drahan spoke, out of a vacancy of thought.

“Where are you making for?”

"Gawd knows! We're just running. Ain’t nothing else to be done in this sea.”

“No other lights?”

“No.” The rugged old face, just seen in the faint illumination of the circling mast-head lamp, spoke with a gruff economy of energy. “Guess we’re the only ones left.”

The curt, callous-sounding statement pierced the numbness of his spirit with a little shock of horror. Good God ! There must have been at least eight hundred people on the Melanesian. And now they two, of all people, were saved! He relinquished comprehension before the clumsy irony manifest in the scheme of things.

His brain began to work again, recapitulated the disaster, pieced the story together for himself. He felt again that sudden dull thud which jarred every fitting in the ship. He heard again that wild ringing of bells, the startling manifold shriek of shrill whistles, the trampling rush of crowding feet outside their cabin-de-luxe on the boat-deck. He recalled how he and Adela had stopped in their coldly bitter interchange of unforgivable words, the look of her strange eyes that softened not in the sudden whiteness of her face. He had seized her wrist, dragged her towards the door, and she had resisted, coldly, stubbornly, head-high, the damned aristocrat still— the implacability of her scornful hatred of him had insulted him in this moment of life or death— her words rang in him still, never to be forgotten— “Not with you!" He had triumphed, by brute force, dragged her out to the deck among the swarm of people, now high-voiced in an unnerving clamour, now hushed in a dreadful silence. He remembered the breathlessly ejaculated answer of the hurrying officer as they jostled in the throng— “Derelict!— Ripped the bottom out of her!” The deck was already at an angle where they slid. And somehow or other he had got her into that boat, despite her dogged, foot-by-foot resistance, wrenching to get her wrist free from his grip. She had said it again: “Not with you!"

Oh, for God’s sake, forget it! He forced his brain to function on other, wider aspects of their plight. Suppose they weren’t picked up! He imagined the consternation in that immense sky-towering building in York—the jubilant bear-raids in Wall Street and the panic-stricken repercussions in London and Paris  the telegraph wires of three continents busy with the criss crossed multiplicity of feverish

readjustments that must ensue. Who would carry on in his place? Hardwick? He had never dared to get off the wireless with Hardwick yet. He was all right as second-in-command, but he wasn’t big enough for supreme control. Hardwick was all right on oil, but he was no good when it came to steel— and he was a perfect fool at shipping. And Hennessey would be out for blood, too— wrecking them first (he could imagine Hennessey’s exultant devastating flood of selling-orders) and picking up the pieces afterwards. Could Hardwick stand up against Hennessey? He lost himself in distant visions of brain-against-brain contests fought out by stampeded sheep-like markets, forgot the boat that slithered foam-squattering under her counter down the flank of one black wave to toss up high upon the next.

His mind reverted once more to that last hour on the ship, reconstructed that drama whose full implications had been blurred by the thought-stopping rush of events. He was in the sitting-room of his suite-de-luxe— a batch of radiograms had been handed to him as he got up from dinner. Janson, the perfect secretary, unobtrusively efficient, had slit them open as was his wont, passed him those imperative of his personal attention, risen in readiness to accompany him for the hour or two of swiftly-achieved work that would send the messenger-boys scampering to and from the wireless office. Adela— she had never looked more beautiful, her fine eyes calm upon him— was going to dance; she had promised the Mainwarings. That was antecedent; he was in the spacious sitting-room of his suite-de-luxe, the ship heaving and subsiding so slowly and evenly that its motion had become almost imperceptible. Sitting back in his chair, cigar in mouth, his eyes fixed on the Adams stucco-work of the ceiling, he had already dictated half-a-dozen summary decisions.

And then Janson had said, in his quiet, clear voice—curious how he had no premonition that he was unlocking disaster!— “There’s that matter of Eberstein in Hamburg, sir―? ”

Confound it, so there was. He had postponed the answer to Eberstein for consideration. What had he done with that radiogram ? He remembered—he had crumpled it into the jacket-pocket of the lounge-suit he had been wearing that afternoon. He'd better have another look at it; it was an artfully-phrased question. The jacket was in his cabin, where he had changed for dinner. “All right, Janson, get on typing those others— I’ll fetch it,” he had said. And he also had gone blindly on the path of fate.

The jacket was not in his cabin— where the devil ?— he remembered— he had gone through into Adela’s cabin, stripped it off while he spoke to her. It ought to be there now— her maid was still eating with the second-class, had not cleared up yet. He went through the communicating door. Yes, there was the jacket. Before he reached it, the ship lurched and rolled on an unusually heavy wave. Adela’s jewel-case— how careless to leave it out! But the suite was locked, of course— went slithering across the dressing-table. He was too late to save it. It crashed upon the floor, burst open in an eruption of glittering stones. He went down on hands and knees to pick them up. Among them was a small folded piece of paper. He opened it mechanically. It was a cablegram:

Drahan (A) Melanesian Honolulu Thinking of you keep a stiff lip love George.

He had stared at it, sitting upon the floor for a full minute while credibility asserted itself. “George?” George Addiscombe! His mind leaped to the identification. George Addiscombe! —then— then— he looked at the damning words, felt suddenly sick and ill. But how had that cablegram come without his seeing it ? His eye fell on the bracketed “A” after his name— a pre-arranged code, then?—and Janson— she must have bribed Janson. Bribed Janson! For a moment the bottom fell out of the universe.

He managed somehow to get up, to steady himself to the arm-chair, where he thudded down, gasping, for an attempt at clear thought. Adela !—Adela and George Addiscombe! She— she wasn’t the cold statue, then, that—that these three years long he had accepted her to be. The fellow had dared to cable to her—secretly. "Love— George.” The worthless, dandified squanderer! He had dared to tell her to keep a stiff lip, in implied difficult endurance of— of him, Antony Drahan, to whom she owed everything! A savage, bitter anger surged up in him. They’d play with him, would they?— make a mock of him!— corrupt his servants!—deceive him!— him who with a word could make or break a thousand George Addiscombes!—him who had forced his triumphant path through the world by sheer brutal will-power!

And Adela!— he couldn’t believe it of her! —he didn’t know whether he loved her, but he had respected her, regarded her almost with awe—the rarest, most dearly-bought of all his acquisitions. She had seemed of a stuff too fine for common domestic intercourse— he had assumed that; let her live her own remote dignified inner life, content so that she symbolized to all men the regality of his success. He had never flattered himself that she loved him— she had never pretended to— but she owed it to him to play fair with him, to be grateful to him— yes, by God! to be grateful to him. Everything that money could buy had been hers— he had grudged nothing, gloried in a reckless outpouring at her feet— houses, jewels, furs, cars— her damned family would have starved had it not been for him. Even this trip round the world, taking him from his job, was the costly gratification of a whim of hers.

He had risen unsteadily to his feet. Well, this was the end ! He'd pluck that mask off, anyway, once and for all— there’d be no more artistically-acted frigid lies between her and him— all his life he had insisted on a straight deal, straight, as he had dealt himself— been merciless to the clever ones. He had gone into the sitting-room.

“Janson, ask Mrs. Drahan to be good enough to come to me here.”

“Yes, sir.” Janson had gone, unsuspectingly.

He had waited, a cold cigar between his teeth, staring at the graph-chart (freights and expenses) of one of his shipping-lines upon the wall, realizing after a minute or two that it had no meaning for him.

And then she had appeared, superb, queenly in her evening-gown, Janson deferential behind her.

“You want me, Antony?” He could hear her calmly self-confident voice now.

He had found it difficult to speak, had only been able to look straight into those large, innocently-questioning eyes— to hand her that cablegram.

She had taken it, glanced at it, crushed it in her hand, turned and looked at him. There had been a silence.

He broke it, in a voice that sounded not his own.

"Janson, you're sacked! From this moment! ”

“Sir?” He remembered how Janson’s face had suddenly blanched. (And half an hour later the man was dead!—ironic.)

She had turned to him in expostulating protest.

“Antony!"

“I don’t permit my servants to be bribed— even by my wife!” His tone had cut like a whip-lash.

She had flushed up in sudden indignation.

“I did not bribe Mr. Janson!”

He had turned to the trembling secretary.

“Did you suppress that cablegram?"

“Yes, sir—but—but I did it because— because there’s nothing in the world I wouldn’t do for Mrs. Drahan! ”

“That will do. Get out of here— and you get off at Singapore.”

Janson had gone, and they stood confronting one another in silence.

“Well?” she had said.

“You don't deny it, then?” He had been near spluttering, had had to keep a tight hand on himself.

She had shrugged her bare shoulders, superbly disdainful of answer.

“You’ve got nothing to say for yourself?”

“It may as well come now— you can put me off also at Singapore.” She had been insultingly cool, self-controlled.

“Not before I’ve told you what I think of you!” he had burst out, his voice thick in his throat. And he had told her— had recapitulated all he had done for her, her family saved from ruin, the things he had lavished on her, the Golconda of precious things she had accepted from him— with what return?— the very money this fantastic trip was losing him.

She had held up a deprecating, weary hand.

“I know. You bought and paid for me— for three years you have implied it at every moment. There is no need to tell me.”

“I made a bad bargain.” He was master of himself again, his tone coldly bitter.

She had looked at him from her dignity, her eyes sombre in their steadiness.

“Yes. Perhaps.”

The impudence of it! He had felt himself go white.

“You realize what you’ve thrown away, don’t you?”

She had nodded, the slightest undulation of her superb head.

“Yes. Five million dollars last year, wasn’t it ? I ought to know. For three years I have heard nothing else— I have heard money, money, money, nothing but money, until―” she spoke with a measured precision that sent every word at him to full effect— “until my soul has ached— ached to escape from it―”

“To George Addiscombe?” He had smiled over tight teeth, in icy sarcasm.

She had shrugged her shoulders.

“At least, life to him is more than a sordid market-place.”

It was the final outrage. He had gripped himself, framing already the phrase that should annihilate, from his side also, the last possibility of reconciliation— and then had come the shock, the sudden pandemonium of the shrieking whistles, the nightmare at the boats, that tense rebellious struggle where she tried to wrench away her wrist— “Not with you!”

HE shivered in the boat that went, spray-drenched, wallowing, dizzily― up, sickeningly― down, in the racing seas that whelmed with the black night. He felt faint and hungry— if only he could sleep— as she was sleeping! But he could not— that infernal double drama, one only ceasing to give place to the other, his private disaster to those screaming hundreds, reiterated itself in him with a vividness that was maddening, over and over again. He remembered suddenly that there were some cigarettes in his case. They might, with luck, be dry. The case was in his dinner-jacket, about the woman slumbering shiveringly close against him. He felt for it, with precaution.

She stirred, murmured out of a dream: “George—George!”

He set his teeth, opened the cigarette- case, tossed one, with his spirit-lighter, to the gruffly grateful steersman, lit his own, puffed staring at the yellow mast-light gyrating against the black sky. And then— imperceptibly— he was in his New York office, feverishly, fiercely exultant as he took measure after measure to deal with Hennessey— he was— he was in oblivion— he was crumpled in the mindless dreamless sleep that is Nature’s mercy.

JUST within that rim of shade where the coconut-palms ceased upon the dazzling white beach, a powerfully-built man, clad only in the remnants of tattered and sea-stained black trousers, sat watching a spitted fish broil over a crackling fire of husks. By the side of him lay the primitive net with which he had caught it, a torn-open shirt (his name yet visible on the collar-band) roughly fastened to two short pieces of driftwood. Just beyond, a spring of clear water went in a rivulet down to the scarcely-ruffled placidity of the lagoon. Half a mile out, in long, semicircular simultaneity of appearance, the spray shot up, white and glittering, from the enclosing reef; its deep-toned boom a sound so continuous as to lapse out of notice. Nearer at hand, some hundreds of yards along the beach, the skeletal wreckage of a boat lay half-submerged, half upon the sand, lapped by tiny waves that failed to break.

The fish was cooked. The man removed it to a palm-leaf, threw a handful of husks upon the fire to keep it in existence, called: “Adela!"

A woman appeared from among the close- set trunks of the palm-grove, her arms full with dried fronds and fibrous husks. For her only garment, a length of torn, stained silk— in which Captain Molyneux of the Rue Royale would have failed to recognize one of his most exquisite creations— was wrapped around her. Her brown hair cascaded loose about her shoulders. Her skin was reddened by the sun, white only on the undersides of her arms. Yet she was beautiful— beautiful as a nymph emerging from a sacred grove. The adult dignity of civilized attire had fallen from her, she was freshly girlish in this reversion to the primitive. She deposited her load, sat down.

Antony Drahan divided the fish into two equal portions with an exiguous gold pocket-knife, reached for a jaggedly-burst-open canister of ship’s biscuits close at hand.

“These biscuits won’t last for more than a few days longer. We must try and find some bread-fruit. It ought to grow on this island. Looks like a melon. I remember reading about it once. You cook it between hot stones." He spoke, not easily conversational, but through a cold constraint, his sentences harshly detached from one another, avoiding a direct glance at her.

She parted the loose hair from her brows to look meditatively out to sea.

"Yes." Her tone also was devoid of intimacy. “I was thinking about that this morning. I found a tree that looked like it. I meant to ask you. I was thinking of a lot of things, in case―” She broke off.

“Antony, do you think there’s really any chance of being picked up? Are we near the usual track of ships?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t know. Nothing has passed these three days. We were about sixty hours in that boat, running before the wind."

She made no further remark and they ate in silence. His mind reverted to a
many-times worried-over calculation— what were they doing?— seven or eight knots?— or perhaps more?—or less?—he had no idea. It had blown half a gale, but they had driven saggingly in that sea— say, seven— sixty hours— four hundred miles―

From these calculations, unsatisfying in their lack of stable basis, he found himself looking at a picture of themselves in the boat—the old, grey-whiskered sailor steering, hour after hour at his post with only those brief intermissions in the broiling heat of the two ensuing days when he had slept and the passenger had, after careful instruction, been entrusted with nursing the boat through the racing ever-overtaking surges— Adela white and silent, her face expressionless as she stared at the threatening sea, sitting against a thwart— himself, when they could abstain no longer for very faintness, doling out the water, the dry biscuit that was their ration. They had been spared the worst of sufferings. The boat had been provisioned upon the davits, contained a keg of water, two canisters of biscuits (of which this upon the beach was the second). He remembered his clumsy efforts to open the tin with the hatchet (for cutting the falls ?) stowed away in the locker.... And then that dawn, pale above the dark water, with the palm-trees, seen one moment, lost the next, tiny against the sky. They had been driving almost straight towards them, had scarcely needed to alter their course....

He found himself looking at the terror of the reef as they approached it, the great white walls shooting up in ceaseless boom and crash, the hiss of their descent hardly completed before the next breaker rolled in.... And then that sudden relief in their anxious tension as they coasted round looking for an entrance— the narrow gap  of dark swirling water between the leaping sheets of surf— their rush towards it, borne formidably forward on the breast of a great lifting roller— the half-heard shout of the old sailor as he lost steerage-power in its velocity— the thunderous stunning deluge that crashed down upon them, beating them under— that desperate swim, dragging a leaden burden, through an agony of imagined sharks, to the gleaming beach that seemed almost to recede— his fall, face forward, gasping, on the hot sand where he had lain, impotent, for long minutes before he could sit up and look for the old sailor— in vain.

He saw himself dragging Adela to the shade of the palm-trees, saw her at long last revive, her eyes open at him in a long strange stare, her lips move for her first words.

“You've— saved me— again?”

“Thank God!” His ejaculation had been automatic, his mind not yet functioning to full embracement of antecedent complications of existence.

“I don’t know―" And, with her slowly-uttered words, the mists had rolled back from memory— from that last five minutes in their gilded state-room— that coldly bitter conflict arrested at its climax, suspended, unresolved―

He looked round now to her where she sat, shoulder-draped with her hair, found her eyes full on him.

“You’re thinking of— Hennessey?” she asked.

Hostility leaped up in him, sensitively suspicious of a taunt. He did not answer, lest he should break the tacit and precarious truce between them. In these three days he had not once mentioned business, nor indeed any of the thoughts that gnawed at him behind his constrained reserve; his words to her, as brief and toneless as might be, were concerned only with the actualities of the moment. Her reference to Hennessey, evocative of one aspect of the ravaging preoccupations he concealed within himself— “mere sordid money!” he gibed, in savagely derisive recollection, “at which her soul ached!”— was a touch on the yet raw wound she had contemptuously inflicted. If he had brooded, he had reason enough. Heaven knew what was happening beyond that narrow sea-horizon which held him prisoner—a life-work, a whole empire of power, crumbling to ruin! And one word from him, could he have transmitted it, would have saved it! She went on:—

“You were talking in your sleep last night. I heard you and crawled out of my shelter to see what it was. For a moment I thought you had met someone else upon the island. But you were sound asleep, gnashing your teeth, and calling out ‘Hennessey!— Hennessey!’ ” She half-smiled.

"It would have scared him, I think, if he had heard you.” He softened ; it was perhaps not a taunt. “It's hard luck on you, Antony.”

HE looked at her, clad in that shredded rag of clothing, her hands scratched and bleeding from the labours of a primitive squaw, saw her suddenly, by contrast, in that world which had been hers. He saw her quietly smiling, beautiful, exquisitely gowned, in that palatial home where her slightest want was ministered-to by a multitude of deferential servants; saw her queening it in those thronged receptions where he thrilled with the pride of precious possession, noted the awed admiration of other men, the whispering of the women she outshone; saw her as he had seen her, in London, Paris, and Rome, with ambassadors, princes, aristocrats of that mediaeval-rooted Europe bowing over her hand as they did not bow to other women— to Hennessey’s wife, for example— their eyes lighting up in instinctive recognition of one of themselves. That was her life; as his was the high-speed, subtly shrewd, dynamically forceful, triumphant conquest of control over the mass-needs of mankind; not mere plundering; he organized, gave service where was none before; which incidentally resulted in that ever-swelling flood of wealth that made her possible as an acquisition. That was her life, her appointed destiny— to grace civilization with her costly perfection of femininity; would be her life with— with George Addiscombe or another man (he had no insight into the depths of her; could not measure her potentialities of basic feeling) when— when they got out of this, if ever they did, parted in cold fulfilment of that truncated crisis on the ship.

"It’s hard luck on us both,” he said, curtly.

She did not immediately answer; spoke, when she did, out of another plane of thought.

“You must let me cook next time. I must learn to do things.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“As you like.”

There was another silence before she spoke again, in a sudden seriousness of apprehension.

“Antony—supposing we never get picked up?”

The corners of his mouth went down in a grim smile.

“Humorous, isn’t it ?— we two— of all people!— I sympathize with you.”

She looked at him, said nothing. Somehow he felt a bit of a brute. He cogitated for a moment or two, wishing at the back of his mind that he had some tobacco, chewed a reed of grass to help his thought.

“Look here, Adela,” he said, suddenly, "we’ve got to face things out— as you say, we may never get picked up. We can't go on with that— that little discussion of ours left unfinished between us.”

“No,” she said, staring out to the sea.

" Well, listen to what I’ve been thinking. All that business— we won't go into the rights and wrongs of it now— is outside this isolated little world into which we’ve been pitched like Adam and Eve. It belongs to that other world where I am Antony Drahan of the Transatlantic Trust and you are―”

"Your odalisque.” She spoke still staring out to the sea.

“I don’t quite know what that means— but I’ll take your word for it. Anyway, this is the proposition I want to make. While we’re here we’ll shut down on that little argument, just as it was shut down for us on that ship—forget it. We’ll make the best job we can of things, together, until we’re picked up. And then―”

“And then―?” She still looked away from him.

“Then we go back to where we left off.” He paused for a glance at her, chewed at his stiff grass. ” I want to tell you this, Adela. I never supposed you were in love with me— as a matter of fact, I hadn’t much time to go in for sentiment myself, as you know— but I had no idea you loathed me to that extent. I'm sorry. I wouldn’t keep a dog that was unwilling, let alone a wife. So you can make your mind easy about that. And I’ll provide for you too—so, whatever man you go to, you need never talk of being bought and paid for again. I dare say, from one point of view, there’s some compensation due to you. For what has happened to have occurred, I must have made you pretty miserable.” He paused for a moment, evidently crushing back the potentialities of that topic. “Is it a deal?”

Her eyes came round to him, uncertain of him.

“You are bribing me again? ”

“No.” He laughed grimly. “I’m not in a position to bribe. For the first time in my life I’m in a place where if I wrote a cheque for a million dollars it isn’t any use. I’m merely making an amicable proposition. While we’re on this island, we forget that we were ever man and wife. When we’re picked up, we go back to where we left off. Is it a deal?”

She nodded, with a grave smile, held out her hand to him.

“Until we’re picked up―”

He sprang to his feet.

“Come along, then. Who knows?— a ship may pass at any minute. We’ve got to get a beacon ready for her— that’s the first thing— something that'll make a smoke visible twenty miles off.”

He snatched up the hatchet, for which he had dived perilously many times that morning, strode off into the palm-grove. She walked at his side, silent through the interlaced and deepening shadows. He conned over one or two commonplace conversational openings in an awkwardly felt incumbency of speech, left them unsaid.

It was she who spoke first.

“Adam,” she said, smiling at him a little timidly— their new relationship unexplored between them— “we’re like that, aren’t we?— Adam and Eve— alone in a new beginning of the world.”

He looked round to her, relaxed in their mutually-smiling glance.

“Sure,” he agreed. “Adam and Eve” —he chuckled. “We might keep that up— it gives us a lead.”

"Do you think they were a little frightened of each other at first?” she mused, the smile of fanciful thought still on the face half-seen between her long hair. “There was everything to learn about each other.”

He was silent for a moment.

“I guess we’re like that too,” he said, suddenly. He stopped before a gale-wrecked palm, full length in an offering of its crest of sere fronds. “ What about this stuff for our fire?”

THEY laboured through the afternoon, to and from the palm-grove and a little spur of the shore crowned by a bare outcrop of rock. The pile of dead palm-fronds, splintered wood, mosses, and dried grass rose imposingly. As they laboured, constraint dropped from them. They found themselves ever more frequently smiling at each other, talked with a direct and unembarrassed simplicity of speech unknown to them in that awkwardly incomplete intimacy when they called each other husband and wife in that New York house. He was surprised by her quick wit, by her unexpectedly sensible suggestions for the organization of their existence, as they came close together in their toil. He admired the unrepining pluckiness with which she accepted the situation— set it, privately, as a model for himself. He, too, would make the best of it, be cheerful— even if Hennessey was doing his diabolical damnedest. He pledged himself to it as he carried down armload after armload of fuel for that eventual fire which might, even yet, bring him face to face with Hennessey— in the nick of time; laughed at her as she dubbed herself squaw.

At last the pyre was finished, head-high. They stood regarding it.

“I wonder when we shall light it?” she said.

He shrugged his sun-red shoulders.

“Who knows?” he replied. “Perhaps to-morrow— perhaps not for months. But we must be always ready.” He turned to her with a smile. "Now, Eve, since you’re the squaw, it’s your job to see that the cooking-fire never goes out. I used the last spark in my lighter on it yesterday. And whichever one of us sees a sail or a smudge of smoke on the horizon must run and kindle this with a brand from it, not wasting a moment. That's the first law in this Garden of Eden."

She smiled back at him , parting the loose hair from her brow.

"Adam has spoken!" she said,

Together they went along the curving shore to the encampment where the smoke of their cooking-fire still went up like a blue thread.

He stood, hatchet in hand, contemplating the primitive palm-frond shelter he had put up for her that first day.

"I guess I'll put up a better shanty for you than that," he remarked. "Something with a little more room to it. "

Her eyes came round to him, large-orbed, as though something had stopped inside her. He met her glance.

"I don’t read more into the bargain than you meant,” he said. " I’ll knock up a hut for myself over there.”

Her visible relief hurt him, but he enforced stoicism upon himself. It was an explicit part of the bargain. As man and wife they had divorced that night in the suite-de-luxe of that ship surging blindly forward to the sudden shock upon the derelict. And presently another ship would come....

"Oh, damn George Addiscombe!” he muttered to himself as she went off, smiling back at him over a shoulder glint, through the dark cascade of unbound hair, to fulfil her squaw-task of gathering fuel.

He watched her as she disappeared between the palm-trunks, and a sudden pang went through him, a sudden hypernaturally acute perception of her white-limbed reality. It was as though he saw her for the first time —the woman he had called wife. “And there,” the thought shot through him, "there— where I could give her everything— she loathed me, loathed me with an aching soul!”

Here? But this was only a game of make-believe, terminated the moment their beacon-smoke rose into the sky. Or was there, fugitive behind those eyes of hers, a something else—a something new—something that could not peep out when he came home, his soul harshly-exultant with a conflict won over telephone and tape-machine? He ridiculed himself, summoned up, for antidote, an all-too-vivid vision of her frigidly hostile dignity as she stood crumpling that damning cablegram, heard again that searing "Not with you!"

Nevertheless, as he went about his new job of building her a shanty, his thoughts had to be forced to remain on the exasperating problem of what Hennessey might be up to at that moment.

THEY sat, in a warm night of unimaginable stars, near the glow of their campfire, red in the sombre blueness opening to the shore. Their conversation had ceased, minutes back. Its last note of quiet amicability still persisted through the silence. Their thoughts had gone far away.

He was remembering that it was still daylight in New York. He saw the deep cartons filled with feverishly hurrying men, dwarfed to ant-dimensions by the sky-towering buildings they had created. He saw himself in his office— the view right across the Hudson from his lofty window, perceived, as he had been wont to perceive it, from his desk, in the momentary pause of thought before giving a sharply decisive answer into the telephone which would ring again, to be vocal with a new voice and a new problem, as soon as he had clicked it back into its rest. A nostalgia for it all clutched him. He craved for the will-subdued excitement of conflict with distant mercilessly-shrewd hostile brains, personally unknown to him as often as not, whose intentions, vacillations, false-moves, he deduced with a flash of intuition from a cryptic word in a cablegram, a sudden fluctuation in a market-price; craved for the intoxicating flash of his interest from quarter to quarter of the globe. What was happening to those Anatolian oil-concessions? That freight-war he had initiated against the other South American lines— had Hardwick compromised, frightened at responsibility now that the Chief was not there to direct the fight? Or had Blydenstein and the rest picked up their courage, gone out for Hardwick’s blood? And Columbia Steel? As sure as fate, the newspaper-headlines were black with "Bottom Still Out Of Columbias”; the bears would be whooping, yelling, delirious in their destructive delight. If only he could get back for just a day! He’d bet all he owned that, in his wild-Irishman eagerness, Hennessey had oversold the market! If he could only get back—! He worried at his not yet customary beard.

And she? She spoke out of her reverie.

"It scarcely seems real to me. I have to force myself to believe that it was really I who lived in that great house of ours with everything done for me, with nothing to do but to get up, put on a new Paris frock, loll back in a motor-car, talk inanities with a lot of other idle women. That gala-night at the Opera— do you remember?—it was only a month ago to-day, the night before we started.”

He did remember, remembered how mysteriously beautiful she had looked, Cleopatra-like in a magnificence of pearls— George Addiscombe had been there too— he suppressed the thought.

"Poor Eve!” he said.

She smiled at him, unexpectedly; her face just seen in the blue night.

"Poor Adam!”

He did not answer.

"Supposing a ship came now― ” she commenced again, musingly. "And we went back to it all―”

He grunted, sceptically, staring out over the dark sea where no ship’s light twinkled. He thought of the pyre, undisturbed as they had built it, ready if the moment came.

"And then we should say good-bye―” she went on, following her thought.

"Yes. Then we say good-bye,” he agreed, curtly, his voice toneless.

"But now— after this— we shall shake hands when we say good-bye, sha’n’t we?”

Her eyes came round to him in the night. He forbore to look at them.

“Yes. I guess we shall shake hands,” he admitted.

"All we’ve done!” she said, reminiscently. “I understand now why— over there, in that other world we’ve dropped out of— you did so much. You can’t help it. It’s born in you, you are bound to organize, to create. Here, what you have done— out of nothing— it is wonderful! We have lived— almost civilized— even to the needles you hammered out of the nails of the boat, and the thread you twisted out of fibre. What a terrible brain yours is—  always thinking ! ” She finished on a note of playful awe.

He smiled, flattered.

“You’ve done your share, too,” he said. "Wonderfully. I'd never have guessed you had it in you.”

She looked out to the dark sea.

“It’s absurd to say it—but I’ve been happy,” she murmured, rather to herself than to him.

There was a silence where he went suddenly tremulous.

"Adela!”

She turned to him, held up an admonishing finger.

"Eve,” she corrected. “ Adela is out there, in that other world beyond the horizon— waiting to part from her millionaire husband.”

He took a deep breath.

"Eve!” His voice was unsteady. “Do you think that if we got back we might perhaps not— not part?"

He heard her breath also come in a deep inhalation as she stared out into the night.

“No,” she said, in a low voice. " No. It would be the same thing. You're not changed. In a month you’d have no time for me. I couldn’t start it again. Let us keep to our bargain— Adam!” She stressed the playful name as she forced a dimly-seen smile for him.

He sat dark and gloomy in this rebuff.

“Then you can’t— in any circumstances— love me?” he said, with difficulty jerking out the two final words.

She sighed.

“Perhaps—if Adela and Antony Drahan weren’t always ghosts waiting to jump back into life out there— if”—her smile came round to him and his intently peering eyes saw its little twist of pathetic wistfulness— “if Eve lived yet a little longer with her Adam in this place where a million-dollar cheque isn’t any use.” She sighed again. "Who knows?— perhaps!” Her little laugh quivered as she rose abruptly to her feet, eluded his grasp.

"Good night!”

He sat staring into the red embers, craving for a cigar.

THE next day, at an hour when the sun dipped, immense and glowing, to the empty desolation of the ocean, he walked along the beach in quest of certain sea-birds’ eggs that were edible enough when fresh-laid. Eve (it had become almost habit in his mind to call her so) was back at the encampment, busy at the cooking-fire. They had not again referred to the last night’s topic; she had been disconcertingly normal when they met that morning. But all day they had gone roving together, the best of comrades on that make-believe plane to which they were pledged, in search of fresh supplies of bread-fruit. Her beauty, emphasized in its primitive exiguity of costume, haunted him as he walked now in solitude, conflicted with his exasperated imaginations of unchecked bear-raids in that far-off, unreachable Wall Street where James Hennessey was now assuredly an unconstitutional king. His glance roved idly, seeing nothing in the double intermingling procession of his thoughts ; that elusive, tantalizing "perhaps,” that quivering little laugh, ringing in his ears. “A little longer―”

His thoughts vanished suddenly. He stopped, stared out to sea, incredulous of his vision. There, clear upon the yellowing horizon, was a smudge of smoke !

His first, almost automatic, impulse was to dash back to the cooking-fire for the brand that should light the signal, to shout as he ran. He turned for the action— saw her in the distance, her shoulders glimmering white as she bent over the fire— checked suddenly. She had not seen that far-off wisp of smoke; did not see him. He glanced round at the heaped-up pyre, close above him on its platform of rock; hesitated; looked again out to sea. The steamer was passing hull-down on the horizon, but from its bridge his sudden column of smoke would be clearly visible. Then he looked once more, furtively, towards the woman absorbed in her task, unconscious of this dreamed-of chance of rescue, the woman whose ''perhaps!" rang in his ears. It was a libel of Mr. Antony Drahan's enemies to call him unscrupulous. He was not. He was fantastic almost in his adherence to the straight deal. But now Mr. Antony Drahan, grotesque in a single garment of much-tattered dress-trousers and tugging at a beard that would have made him almost unrecognizable to friends and enemies alike, was false to his gods. He stood stock-still, watching that far-off steamer-smoke grow faint and small upon the horizon.

"I guess Mr. Hennessey can wait,” he muttered to himself.

He saw the last wisp of it disappear into the glowing semi-circle of the sun.

He turned back, empty-handed, along the beach, feeling himself suddenly, sickeningly, a traitor. It wasn't playing the game,  the glowing semicircle of the sun. Adela had her right to rescue— to the resumption of the life that was hers; to that shake-hands and good-bye to which they were pledged. He shrank, in his guilt of conscience, from meeting her eyes, from the necessary casual conversation with her, from even her mere propinquity. But he had to brace himself to it; did so, tried to smile as she looked up at him from the fire where the fish was ready broiled.

They were silent over their meal that night. The sun had gone down and the swift darkness shrouded them. They sat, both of them preoccupied, awkward in their rare speech. How she would turn on him, hating him, if she knew! Suddenly she flung herself at him, lay warm and sobbing— sobbing— in his arms, her arms about his neck.

"Adam! Antony! Antony darling! forgive me!"

He gasped, the full implication of it breaking on him. She had let the ship go past!

He held her tight, soothed her, was once more not quite honest.

“Never mind, little Eve— Adela dear!— there’s sure to be another.”

She sobbed still as she clung to him.

"I— I don’t care whether there is or not— so long as I’ve got you ! ” He bent his head down in sudden tenderness to kiss her brow. She withdrew herself abruptly, pushed him back, looked into his eyes from the night.

“Before— before you do that,” she said, “I want to tell you something. George— George Addiscombe was— was nothing!”

She lay in his arms, quite silent, while he thought. Then she whispered up to him:—

“Adam!”

"Eve!"

"Always?"

"Always."

___________________

16: Diamond Cut Diamond

F. Britten Austin

The Telegraph (Brisbane)  3 June 1937

"THIS will be the last cigar I shall smoke as a free man, Quayne," said Sir Humphrey Maule quietly as he reached for the matches.

Q.Q. raised his eyebrows. "Going back into harness? I thought the Indian Government would be after you again. Moscow is getting far too much of a run for its money south of the Himalayas."

Our visitor was Sir Humphrey Maule, who had retired a few months back after a career in India that had remained unknown to the general public until the chorus of Press encomiums at its conclusion made it aware that yet another great servant of the Empire had finished his day's work. Head of a special branch of the Political Department, I remembered.

He sat now, big and impressive, in the chair by Q.Q.'s desk lighting his cigar.

"No," he said. "I'm on my way to give myself up to the police."

Q.Q.'s quick glance challenged his seriousness.

"Income-tax returns— and a tender conscience?" He smiled quizzically at him.

Sir Humphrey finished his long puff of cigar smoke.

"Murder."

He sat back in his chair grimly stolid.

I have rarely seen Q.Q. startled, but he was startled then— startled and instantaneously incredulous.

"You're joking, Maule?"

"Not in the least."

"My dear chap! Murder?" Q.Q. puzzled at him.

"Murder."

"But whom? Some would-be assassin?"

"Jimmy Loftus."

"Good God!"

"Yes— my best pal."

Q.Q. stared at him, frankly bewildered.

"Jimmy Loftus! But— in the name of everything— why?"

"I wish I knew."

"How— then?"

Sir Humphrey looked at him, spoke slowly and deliberately.

"I know— and yet I don't know."

The Chief's hand tapped in exasperation on his desk.

"You are talking in riddles, Maule."

"It is a riddle to me— the whole business. That's why I've come to you, Quayne. I did it —

I must have done it— I somehow know I did it, can give you a story of the occurrence, although another part of me is, so to speak, loud in indignant denial— and the circumstantial evidence is beyond doubt. I don't envy my counsel his job of defending me. He hasn't a shred of a case. As an honest man. I should have to say I was guilty if I were asked. It's Jack Ketch for me all right. But— although I shouldn't dream for a moment of putting in the plea— I'd rather have a quick finish than a living death— I'd just like to know for my own personal satisfaction whether it oughtn't to be Broadmoor."

He spoke with a grim succinctness, knocked off a little ash from his cigar and looked straight at Q.Q. "You've solved some pretty queer mysteries, Quayne— we've solved some of them together— as a personal favour, the last probably I shall ask of you, I want you to solve this one for me. When Jack Ketch pulls the drop from under me I want to go into the next world knowing, why I did it."

"H'm! When and where do you say this occurrence happened?"

"In my rooms— last night."

"And where is"— Q.Q. hesitated delicately— "Loftus— now?"

"In my sitting-room. Behind a locked door. I sent my man off for the day. He doesn't sleep on the premises, you know."

"H'm! No immediate hurry for the police, then. You ask me if you are sane. You appear sane enough to me. But any of us, given the circumstances, may develop hallucinations that have all the force of reality. You may be under an hallucination now. On what evidence do you think you killed Jimmy Loftus?"

Sir Humphrey smiled again grimly.

"On all the evidence of all my senses, Quayne. There is no hallucination about this. I woke up at seven o'clock this morning to find myself in my own sitting-room still in my dress-clothes, and to see Jimmy Loftus, also in his evening kit, sitting crumpled in a chair with a bullet wound in his head. My own revolver was lying on the floor, one chamber recently discharged. I had a smear of burnt powder on the fingers of my right hand. More than that, I had suddenly an overpowering conviction— I had a queer vivid mental picture of the act, as though someone were calling it up to me— that I had myself shot him."

"Without a motive?" Q.Q. interjected the question.

"Without the slightest motive. Jimmy and I were the closest pals— the nearest thing I ever had to a brother. You can guess my horror at what I saw." Sir Humphrey's grim mouth clenched tight again for a moment. ''The only explanation that I can give myself is that— although I've never had the slightest symptom of epilepsy— I did it in a sort of epileptic fit."

"H'm! If you had done it in an epileptic fit you would probably have remembered nothing at all about it when you woke up— and you do remember, you say?"

"Yes— in a queer sort of way. I remember it as one remembers a somnambulistic act performed in a dream— like something divorced from one's real self. Half of me protests violently. that I did not, could not do it. Yet if I were challenged I could not help but say, with full conviction, automatically— ghastly and motiveless as the thing is— 'Yes, I did it.' In fact, there's an immense and curious impulse in me— the usual murderer's impulse, I suppose— to rush out and proclaim the fact."

"That was why you were going to the police station?"

Sir Humphrey shrugged his shoulders. "You can't expect a man of my stamp to give himself the ignominy of dodging the police. There's the fact. I must take the consequences. I prefer to go halfway to meet them. It leaves me some personal dignity, at any rate."

"Why was Jimmy Loftus in your rooms last night?"

"We'd had a little dinner-party."

"A party? There were others, then?"

"Two. But they left soon after eleven."

"Who were they?"

"A Russian refugee aristocrat— Count Murovieff— and his daughter, Countess Stravinsky."

"Indeed!" Q.Q. leaned back in his chair, tapped his finger-tips together. "Let's have the whole yarn, Maule. Why did you have those three people to dinner last night? It must have been something important to have brought Loftus out."

SIR HUMPHREY paused to revive the glow of his cigar, to collect his thoughts for a commencement. "There's something in your guess about the Indian Government, Quayne, I have been approached— I'd more than half-promised to go out again, in fact. Naturally, I began to sit up and take a little notice of things Indian again, to scrounge around for scraps of useful information. About ten days ago I met a couple of very interesting people— met them at my sister's house— this Count Murovieff and his daughter, regular ancient regime, red-hot anti-Bolshie. It was the lady I got into conversation with first— fascinating creature, beautiful— and she did me the honour of knowing my name. A compliment rare enough to be appreciated." He smiled grimly.

"She asked me if I were going back to India. I gave a non-committal sort of answer— as you know, I'm not the sort that , unbosoms himself to casual ladies. And then I had a shock. 'Because if you are, Sir Humphrey,' she said, 'I can give you some information that will be of the greatest use to you. Would you like to put your finger on Tretiakeff?' You can guess I sat up very sharply and took quite a lot of notice at that. Only the very inner circles know even the name of Tretiakeff— a most elusive bird and the hidden manipulator of all the Soviet intrigue of India.

"At that moment her father came up— a white-haired intellectual-looking little dwarf of a man, more like a professor than an aristocrat. She introduced us— and then my sister swooped down on us— mustn't have any interesting conversation in her drawing-room, you know— against the usages of polite society— one has to 'mix'— that's the word— talk meaningless ape-chatter with the entire cageful."

He paused for another pull at his cigar. Q.Q. made no comment.

Sir Humphrey resumed.

"Anyway, they managed to give me an invitation to visit them at their flat in Mount Street. I went— the next day. And I got quite a lot of information— highly secret information which— as it happened to be already in our possession— I could check. They hated the Bolshie regime quite thoroughly, father and daughter alike— and no wonder, if their story was even half-true. A story of torture, robbery and murder of pretty near their entire family that would have been a gold nugget to a Riga special correspondent.

"I went several times, and each time I got something more— with a hint of something really big if— and they made this proviso— I were really going out to India again. Finally I put my cards on the table, told them I was.

And then the rabbit came out of the hat. It seems the lady has a cousin, real name Baron Raschevsky, but known to the Communists at Stapouloff. To save his skin he took service under the Soviet Government— won their confidence— and is now second-in-command under Tretiakeff in India at the very centre of all their underground intrigues.

''If they are to be believed, Mr. Stapouloff is consumed by an undying secret hatred of his employers and is only waiting for a chance to play them a thoroughly dirty trick— to blow the entire Soviet organisation in India sky-high, in fact. The long and the short of it was that they promised to put me into touch with this very interesting gentleman."

Once more Sir Humphrey paused for a puff or two at his cigar.

"Of course, that isn't the kind of information that can be ignored," he went on. "I thought the best thing to do was to go and tell Loftus about it— it's down his street, as you know. I did so— and he was quite considerably interested. Naturally he was very curious to meet my Russian friends. He asked me to invite them to dinner— and not to mention that he would be present."

"And last night was the dinner?" said Q.Q.

"Yes. We had a very pleasant evening. Of course, I had said nothing about Loftus coming along. He turned up about five minutes after they did, and he was the best of my company— really brilliant— you know, what he could be when he was in the mood. They all got on splendidly together."

"No sign of recognition on either side?"

Sir Humphrey shook his head.

"No. Not the least. Of course, I didn't get a chance to talk to Loftus."

"And then what happened?"

"At a little after eleven the Russians went away. I accompanied them downstairs, saw them into a taxi. I went up again to my rooms, where Loftus was sitting waiting for me —and then —that's the confoundedly queer part about it, Quayne— I can't really remember with my whole self what happened."

"Tell me what the part of yourself that remembers or seems to remember most has to say."

"I've got a sort of dream-knowledge— a conviction rather than memory— of having gone straight to the drawer of my desk where I keep a revolver, taken out the weapon and deliberately shot Loftus— without any reason whatever as he sat there in the chair. And then I can't remember anything at all until I woke up this morning, found myself lying on the carpet, and saw Jimmy sitting there dead in the chair, with the revolver on the floor between me and him."

"And the other part of you —what does that remember?"

"Nothing at all. It's a blank from the time I saw those people disappearing down the street in their taxi— until the moment that I woke up this morning."

"H'm!" Q.Q. sat with closely pressed lips. "What are your domestic arrangements, Maule?"

"It's a service flat. The management sent up the dinner from the restaurant and did the waiting. Cleared up after we had finished while we were in the sitting-room. They do all the work of the place, you know— except the sitting-room. I don't like unknown people messing about with my papers. My man does that."

"He doesn't sleep on the premises, you said. Was he there last night?"

"I let him off before ten o'clock— when he had brought in the whisky decanter and a couple of siphons. As I told you, I sent him off for the day directly he arrived at seven-thirty this morning. My sitting-room is just as it was last night, with poor Jimmy sitting in that chair— behind a locked door."

Q.Q. pondered for a moment.

"You say you saw your guests depart in their taxi. How did you get back into your rooms? Did you let yourself in with a key— or did you leave the door open?"

"I went up in the lift— by Jove, yes, it comes back to me now— I found my door shut, and when I felt for my bunch of keys I found I must have left them inside— I had to ring the bell."

"Who opened the door?"

"Jimmy, of course— yes, I remember that— besides, there was no one else in the flat."

"Was he quite normal?"

"Well, we'd had a good dinner —and one or two whiskies and sodas afterwards— and yes, we were a bit cheerful, I suppose."

"And now can you remember anything else at all after Loftus let you into your rooms— apart from your dream-conviction that then or subsequently you shot him?"

Sir Humphrey shook his head.

"Nothing at all— other than that it is a blank. But, I say, Quayne!"— a sudden excitement came into his voice— "it's a funny thing about those keys! I could swear I hadn't got them in my pocket when I rang that door— I remember ringing and ringing— Jimmy was slow in tumbling to what had happened— yet I certainly had them in my trouser-pocket when I woke up this morning. I remember turning them out quite normally with all my other things when I changed out of my dress kit. Here they are."

He fished out a bunch of keys from his pocket, held them up. "It's an action so automatic to shift them from one kit to another that I hadn't given them a thought. But I certainly didn't have them last night— unless I was far more drunk than I thought."

"That, of course, is a possibility," said Q.Q. quietly. "I'd like to know a little more about these guests of yours. Can you describe the lady?"

"Tall, slim, raven-black hair, wonderful large grey eyes— beautiful as a goddess —give you a thrill to look at her."

"H'm!" commented Q.Q. grimly. "Enthusiasm is not description. You were more definitely helpful about her father. Wait a moment." He got up, went across to a large cabinet index-file on the further wall of the room, returned with a couple of "jackets." He sat down again, opened the dossiers, took out three or four photographs from each, spread them on his desk.

"Are these your friends, Maule?"

Sir Humphrey looked at the photographs, uttered a sharp exclamation.

"By Jove, yes! Both of them!" Q.Q. smiled in quiet satisfaction.

"I thought I was guessing right," he said. "But I am surprised that Loftus didn't tell you anything about those people when you rejoined him. He had a quite special interest in them both— and he certainly recognised them. The father's real name— he has, of course, many aliases— is Dr. Hugo Weidmann. He was at one time a well-known psychoanalyst in Vienna. Then he got into an unpleasant scandal, cleared out of Austria, and went into German Secret Service, a line of business in which his professional experience was extremely useful. Over here, during the war, he posed as a Russian reformer who had fled from the Tsarist police prior to 1914— and he brought off one or two really big coups before our people got on his track and he vanished into thin air."

"Good lord!" exclaimed Sir Humphrey. "You're making me feel an awful fool, Quayne!"

"The daughter's name," continued Q.Q. imperturbably, "is Clara Weidmann— originally, that is to say; the names she has given herself would fill a page of 'Who's Who." She was certainly one of the most efficient spies we ever had to deal with. And she got clear away— but not before she had murdered, in very mysterious circumstances, one of Loftus's best men. Jimmy swore he would get her sooner or later— that was why, evidently, half recognising both from your description, he asked you to arrange a little dinner in time so that he could put the matter beyond doubt. You, of course, serving in India all your life, would know nothing of either of them." He leaned back in his chair, fingertips together. "I'm beginning to see a little daylight in this, Maule."

"I'm damned if I am," replied Sir Humphrey. "With all that. Who are those people working for now?"

"For the Soviet Government, evidently. They knew or guessed that you might be going back to India. You're a formidable adversary, Maule— on your own ground. They did the clever thing— nobbled you from the start. If you had taken all their information seriously— naturally they saw to it that all you could check should be genuine —and had put yourself in the hands of Mr. Stapouloff, you'd have got yourself into a pretty mess."

"Well, that's out of the question now, anyway. I don't go to India— I go to the Old Bailey and to a nasty little ceremony in a prison-yard early one morning. For there's no doubt about it— mad or not— I shot poor Loftus."

Q.Q. looked at him.

"Doesn't it occur to you, Maule, how extremely convenient it is to these two people that Loftus— they certainly recognised him, as he recognised them— should be dead, and you completely out of the way?"

"Yes— but —" Sir Humphrey frowned in a desperation of thought. "It can't be more than a coincidence. I saw them go— I'm certain of that. How could they have got back, killed Loftus, and— this is the vital point— given me the conviction that I had done it myself? How could they?"

"That, Maule," said Q.Q., caressing his chin, "we're going to try to find out."

Sir Humphrey leaned forward in a sudden hypothesis.

"They couldn't have drugged me— made me murder Jimmy, could they?" he asked, desperately. "It wouldn't go down with a jury, I know, but it means a lot to me. It isn't possible— just wildly possible— is it? Queer things happen in India, you know."

Q.Q. shrugged his shoulders.

"They are very clever people." he said, as he took a sheet of note-paper and commenced to write. He wrote only a few quick words, folded the paper, reached for an envelope, put in the note, stuck it down and addressed it. "What number in Mount Street?" Sir Humphrey told him. He added it, looked across to me.

"A little job for you, Mr. Creighton. Take this note to the Countess Stravinsky and give it to her personally." He glanced at his watch. "It is now just eleven o'clock. You will probably find her at home. She may have something to say to you. Stay and listen to it— stay just as long as she likes to keep you— make the lady's acquaintance, in fact." He smiled at me. "But when you do leave, rejoin us at Sir Humphrey's rooms. Give me the address, Maule."

Sir Humphrey gave me his card, and a few minutes later I was in a taxi speeding towards Mount Street.

A PRIM, foreign-looking maid led me into a large drawing-room, furnished with an exotic and bizarre luxury, a room of rich Chinese blues touched with vivid green, where gilt Buddhas and grotesque Hindu gods niched themselves against a simplicity of wall.

"Vait 'ere," said the maid. "I vill tell ze Countess."

I stood there, feeling my heart thump, and waited. And I craved for my automatic, so thoughtlessly left behind. The atmosphere of that room seemed pregnant with something mysteriously sinister. What drama was going to be precipitated by the sealed thin note I fingered?

I turned from an absent-minded stare at a squat white-jade Chinese figure to see the Countess standing in the room, the door curtain just falling behind her.

She was beautiful— beautiful, I can only reiterate the word— with such a purity of beauty, such a grave perfection of Madonna-like loveliness that her presence set me quivering in a surge of awe that overwhelmed the cynicism of reason. Her large, clear grey eyes— wonderful under the raven-black hair, smoothed with the slightest ripple back from her brows— rested upon me in mute inquiry.

"The Countess Stravinsky?" I said.

"Yes." Her voice, in the utterance of that one syllable, was surprisingly musical on a rich, deep, vibrant note.

I held out the envelope.

She took it, tore it open, read the missive. I saw a sudden hardness come into her beautiful face. Once more the wonderful grey eyes were resting on

"You know what is in this note?"

"No, madame."

The hardness vanished from her face— vanished so that a moment later one could not recall what it had been. She smiled— a sudden opening of dazzling fascination.

"You are a —" she hesitated, "an employee of Mr. Quentin Quayne?"

I had no cue for my answer, I risked the truth. "Yes, madame."

Her eyes ranged over me, summed me up.

"You seem to be a gentleman," she said.

I bowed.

"Were you told to bring back an answer to this?" She indicated the sheet of paper in her hand.

"I was told merely to hand it to you personally, madame." Confound Q.Q.! Why the devil hadn't he told me what was in that letter? I should have had at least some idea of what to do or say.

The large grey eyes rested on me again. She pondered something I could not guess at. Then again she smiled.

"Will you not sit down, Mr.— Mr —?" She finished on a note of interrogation.

"Creighton," I said.

I took the soft armchair to which she gestured. She sat down opposite me on a settee. Our eyes met. A part of me reminded me insistently that she was a spy, a murderess. Another part of me, deep down, elemental, blindly instinctive, rose in revolt against an accusation that seemed patently absurd. Q.Q.— Sir Humphrey— both might have been mistaken. Photographs are the most deceptive of evidence. These thoughts flashed through me in a matter of seconds. She was pondering again —pondering. Perhaps, "what was required of her?" What the devil was in that note?

Suddenly she smiled once more, stretched out her slim white arm to a cigarette-box on a little table, held it out to me.

"Will you smoke, Mr. Creighton?" she asked, in that rich deep voice.

I accepted. She took one herself, reached for the matches, struck a light, held it to my cigarette— her large grey eyes close to mine evoked a peculiar intimate start deep down in me, a sudden surge and tumult of blood, over which I set my teeth— lit her own. She dropped
the still— lighted match into an antique bronze tripod brazier— Chinese and grotesque— which stood close to my right hand.

"You are going straight back to Mr. Quayne when you leave here?"

"Yes, madame."

"You are not in a hurry?"

"No, madame."

A quick look came from those clear grey eyes, large under the raven-black hair, a look that shot through me like a searchlight. It was instantly veiled, replaced by a smile that was languorously serene.

I sat, my heart thumping, waiting for her next words. I heard the faint ticking of a clock across the room. And, as I waited, I became gradually conscious of a subtle incense— like perfume filling the atmosphere, a diffusion of cloying aromatic sweetness, semi-pungent to my nostrils, that made me automatically take a deep breath. It filled my lungs, seemed to mount to my head, I pulled myself out of a momentary dizziness, glanced round at the brazier into which she had thrown her match.

A slender stem of grey smoke ascended from the bowl, coiled into a lazy spiral at its summit. Was this some sinister trick? No! —impossible! —fantastic! My suspicions were running away with me. Yet I dared not— dumb in the awe she inspired in me— break her silence. She remained immobile, lost in thoughts, her face a miracle of calm beauty,

I resigned myself. That slender stem of grey smoke continued to ascend, and with that subtly pervasive aromatic odour I inhaled at every breath a numbness in myself— imperceptible at first— crept over me. My brain dulled. I relaxed, luxuriously, languorously, carelessly scornful of the vigilant alertness to which a moment before I had endeavoured to hold fast. I lost the clear sense of my identity. And in place of my normal self, obscure primitive impulses stirred in me. They frightened me, I found myself yearning for a mad kiss from that exquisite mouth.

My arms ached to enfold that lithe figure, to crush it frenziedly in an embrace that would enforce reciprocation. My brain whirled at the thought of it— it seemed that at the next moment I should spring forward, hot-breathed upon her— flung from my seat by an impulse beyond civilised volition. Yet I did not move. I felt something hurt the fingers of my right hand on my knee. It was my cigarette, forgotten, which had burnt down to them. With an immense muscular effort I tossed the stump into the brazier whence the grey smoke ascended. In that last flicker of normal consciousness I glanced at the watch upon my wrist. To my surprise, it marked only half-past eleven.

The silence had lasted a time beyond my computation. She turned her large clear eyes upon me, smiled. I perceived her with a vision that was blurred, heard her— deep-toned, thrillingly sonorous— with a dizzy brain.

"You are thinking things about me— unpleasant things?"

"Madame— I— I " My own voice sounded strange to me.

She leaned forward, exquisitely seductive. Again I felt that primitive reckless urge, almost irresistible, electric, spontaneous, in every fibre of me, repressed it with a last spasm of will.

"I want you to look in my eyes— and see if you can believe them."

The eyes came close, wide open, eyes of a strange clear grey, the pupils peculiarly fascinating, seeking mine.

"Madame— I— I —" That direct gaze was insupportable. I dropped my own— gasped in a suffocation, my brain in a dizzy whirl.

"Look! Keep on looking!"

I looked into those eyes that focussed themselves on mine— kept on looking saw nothing but those eyes— looked into them for an endless time where I lost perception of all else but those two clear grey eyes holding mine until I could not longer turn away my gaze. My arm jerked of itself— went stiff. An immense fatigue weighed heavy on my shoulders.

"Lean back!" A last flicker of resistance leaped up in me. No! No!— I— I mustn't.

"Lean back!"

I ceded, relaxed, felt suddenly comfortable.

It might have been aeons after I saw, mistily, vaguely, as through my eyelashes, the Countess standing tall above me. By her side was a sharp-faced, white-haired intellectual-looking little dwarf of a man, peering eagerly at me.

"Yes— I think so." Her voice came through— through cotton wool— to my dulled senses. I could not move— had no will to move. I leaned back, locked in a complete passivity I accepted with a last tiny fragment of my consciousness.

"Answer me, Mr. Creighton."

"Yes." I heard myself answer— a voice that was far away from me— a voice that spoke with surprising (only I had lost the capacity for surprise) promptness of obedience.

And then— and then— I remember nothing more, until— I cannot say to this day how— I found myself in a taxi speeding through the London traffic and knowing quite clearly that I was on my way to Q.Q. at Sir Humphrey Maule's rooms. What had happened in that flat? How did I get into that taxi? I could not remember, I could only remember very clearly that I was on my way to Q.Q.— that I must get to Q.Q.— for a reason still obscure to me— with the minimum of delay.

And then another alarm shot into my mind. Was I really going to Sir Humphrey's flat— or was the taxi-driver taking me, under sinister orders, to some other destination? I had not the least recollection of giving him the address.

I had scarce grappled with this sudden panic when the cab stopped in the quiet street off St. James's where Sir Humphrey lived, at the number given on the card I took, for verification, from my pocket. I got out.

"Who gave you this address?" I said. The taxi-driver stared at me. "You did, sir," he replied.

I hurried into the building, cursing at the exhibition I had made of myself. The lift shot me up to the floor occupied by Sir Humphrey. I rang. Sir Humphrey himself opened the door.

I followed him along a short passage into an unfamiliar sitting-room adorned with Indian trophies. A white sheet was thrown over something shapeless in a chair near the table. In another chair near a writing-desk Q.Q. was sitting. He smiled at me.

I stopped. What was it I had to do when I saw Q.Q.? What was the obscure impulse which surged up in me, which made my fingers, work nervously of themselves? A cloud was over my brain. I felt my muscles go spontaneously rigid. Q.Q. still smiled.

"A knife, Mr. Creighton?" he said, blandly— held out an ivory paper-knife.

I took it automatically, felt my fingers clench tightly over it without my volition— and then, as though a trigger were pulled inside me that discharged a sudden nervous force, with no clear consciousness of what I was doing, but under an impulse that filled me suddenly to the exclusion of all else, I sprang at him, stabbed straight at his chest with the paper-knife. And even as I delivered the blow, I had an obscure half-knowledge that it was all right, that it was only harmless make-believe— a complaisance that reconciled conflicting compulsions.

Sir Humphrey leaped forward with a startled cry, clutched my wrist.

Q.Q. smiled. He sat motionless, without a tremor.

"Let him go. The wrong knife, Mr. Creighton. Give him the Indian dagger, Maule."

Sir Humphrey hesitated. "Give it to him."

He obeyed. With obvious reluctance he handed me an Indian dagger in place of the paper-knife he had wrenched from my grasp. I stood quivering, in a peculiar suspension of thought, of all volition. It was as though I was under a spell.

"Obey the command given you, Mr. Creighton," said Q.Q. quietly.

At the words once more I sprang— and as I did so I realised with an overwhelming shock what it was I had in my hand, what it was I had been commanded to do— murder!— murder Q.Q.! That realisation checked me like a bullet striking me in mid-course. In an immense revulsion of all myself, a violent, spontaneous, shattering recoil from the atrocity I was about to commit, I stopped dead, flung the dagger from me. My brain suddenly cleared, I stood trembling, dazed, bewildered, ready to drop with humiliation. Good God! What would Q.Q. think of me? I could have burst into hysterical tears.

"My God, sir!" I stammered. "What— what's the matter with me? Am I mad? —or— or?" I had no explanation to offer, even to myself. The lack of it terrified me. I looked at that dagger lying on the floor, and felt suddenly physically sick. I swayed on my feet.

Q.Q. rose quietly from his chair, put his hand on my shoulder.

"All right, Mr. Creighton." His eyes looked into mine, sent reassurance into me, braced me to command myself. "You've been making yourself useful for once— that's all." He smiled. "Sit down in that chair— and pull yourself together." Once more his eyes looked straight, compellingly into mine. "You are quite normal again— quite— you understand that?"

"Yes, sir." I gasped, and subsided weakly into the chair.

"Well, Maule, do you see the point of that little experience?"

"I'm damned if I do!" Sir Humphrey looked utterly mystified.

"Then I'll tell you. I sent Mr. Creighton round to your lady-friend of last night— she's the more dangerous of the pair— with a note he was instructed to deliver only into the Countess Stravinsky's own hand I've no doubt he did so. That note was as follows"— Q.Q. smiled grimly as he paused— " 'On behalf of Mr. James Loftus, Mr. Quentin Quayne presents his compliments to Fraulein Clara Weidmann.' Rather a shock for the lady, I'm afraid." He smiled again. "Now do you begin to see?"

"Not in the least." Q.Q. turned to me.

''What happened in the flat at Mount Street, Mr. Creighton?"

I tried with all my might to remember— found myself baffled with an absolute blankness. It exasperated me, humiliated me anew.

"I— I'm sorry, sir," I stammered. "I don't know what's the matter with me— I can't remember anything about it."

Q.Q. nodded. His voice was kindly as he spoke.

"Never mind. I can guess." He turned again to Sir Humphrey. "Put yourself in the lady's place. Last night she meets Jimmy Loftus, realises that she is recognised, and eliminates him very cleverly. This morning she learns not only that Quentin Quayne is aware of her identity, but that Quentin Quayne holds her responsible for Loftus's death. Obviously, Quentin Quayne also must be eliminated at once. How is she to do it? One method, at least, particularly after last night, would instantly suggest itself to her— a temptation I dangled in front of her, in fact. You will remember that I carefully told Mr. Creighton not to hurry away. I put an opportunity into her hands."

"Opportunity?" queried Sir Humphrey still puzzled.

"Hypnosis," said Q.Q. succinctly. "You forget her father was professor of psychiatry in Vienna— and she was an apt pupil. She undoubtedly hypnotised Creighton, and gave him the post-hypnotic suggestion, with the safeguard that his memory should be an absolute blank on the matter, that he should stab me directly he saw him. I noticed his fingers working the moment he came into the room. You saw for yourself what happened."

"Good God!" groaned Sir Humphrey, in a sudden anguish. "And they must have hypnotised me also!— made me kill poor Jimmy! I really did it, then! That proves it!''

"It proves nothing of the sort. It proves just the opposite. One of my reasons for making this somewhat dangerous experiment was to establish beyond doubt whether it is or is not possible to hypnotise a subject into committing a genuine murder. It is easy enough to make him act a dummy one— but it is a hotly-disputed point whether he will or will not obey a suggestion to do the real thing. Your lady-friend was doubtless quite aware of this— but the case was urgent with her— she had to take a long chance if she was to do anything at all.

"She took it— after all, the possibility has never been definitely disproved. And I took a chance that, being quite ready for him, I might be quicker than Mr. Creighton if he meant business with a real knife in his hand. You saw the difference in his behaviour when he had the paper-knife and when he had the real thing. No. Maule," he concluded decisively, "my experiment proved beyond doubt that whatever hypnotic suggestion was given you last night— your drinks were drugged, of course— you did not murder Jimmy Loftus. If the thing can be done at all it could be done with Creighton. She tried. It can not be done."

Sir Humphrey mopped his brow.

"You're sure?" "Quite sure!"

The big man stared at him.

"Thank God!" he ejaculated. "But how do you account for my instinctive conviction that I did do it?"

Q.Q. smiled.

"It is quite easy under hypnosis to make a man wake up with the belief that he has committed a murder— especially if you arrange the circumstantial evidence convincingly. May I use your telephone?"

"Yes— yes— of course." Sir Humphrey was still bewildered. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to get your friends round here. Very clever people." Q.Q. smiled again as he picked up the telephone— "but I think they'll find this is a case of diamond cut diamond. Hullo! Are you there?" He gave a number, waited. "Hullo! Is that Sebright? Oh, Sebright, a murder was committed last night at Sir Humphrey Maule's flat— yes, St. James's— I'll give you the details presently. Yes— I wanted you to come round— but on your way I want you to call at No. 504 Mount Street and bring along a couple of Russian people, Count Murovieff and his daughter, the Countess Stravinsky. Listen— and I'll explain.

"These two people were guests of Sir Humphrey Maule last night. They left soon after eleven. The murder was committed after that hour. Precisely, They have an alibi. Now, I want you to explain to them that their presence is necessary to verify whether the room is or is not as they left it at eleven. You can tell them, if you like, that the murderer is known. I think you'll have no difficulty in persuading them to come along— they cannot refuse their assistance in elucidating the circumstances of the crime. But it is most important that they should accompany you— and, by the way, don't mention my name. Good. You'll find me in Sir Humphrey's flat expecting you."

He hung up the receiver, turned to us with a smile "Now we'll soon clear up all this little business."

SIR HUMPHREY had been pacing up and down the room. He swung round to Q.Q.

"I'm still bewildered, Quayne. What really happened in this room last night?"

Q.Q. smiled at him.

"You've heard of dhatura, Maule?"

"Of course I have. Favourite drug of the Indian criminal. Seeds rather like capsicum. Usually administered chopped up. Leaves no trace in the human body. Sends the victim into insensibility, and if he doesn't die he wakens up minus his memory— can't remember a thing about it."

"Precisely. Your two pseudo-Russian friends are, however, a little more refined in their methods than the ordinary Indian criminal. They didn't want the police to find you and Loftus lying dead here, they themselves naturally under suspicion. They wanted Loftus dead and yourself accused of the murder. So they put into your whiskies and sodas a little— not crude dhatura, but a scientific preparation of the drug which is considerably more subtle in its effects— it leaves the victim extremely susceptible to hypnotic influence at the same time that it embroils his memory and paralyses him into a semi-insensible immobility.

"A drop or two would suffice, and it would take about ten minutes to have its effect. They did this just before they left. You accompanied them downstairs. On the way they picked your pocket of your keys. You came back, found the door shut, and— you remember— it was some little time before you could get Loftus to open it. The drug was already working in him, of course. You thought that both he and you had had a little too much to drink. You both went back into the sitting-room— not very steadily, I expect— and sat down. You were both sitting there quite helpless, when at a time convenient to your departed friends— perhaps two hours later, when everybody in the place had gone to bed— they returned, let themselves in at the outer door, and then this door with your keys, and found you nicely ready for them."

"Good God!" exclaimed Sir Humphrey. "And then —"

"And then they hunted for your revolver, found it, shot Loftus as he sat paralysed in his chair, put the revolver on the floor after smearing your finger with the burnt powder which had escaped from its not very closely-fitting barrel, put the keys back in your pocket, and gave you a detailed hypnotic suggestion that you had done the whole business yourself, that you would sleep till the morning, and wake up with such a full conviction of your guilt that you would surrender yourself to the police. Very neat, I think."

"Phew!" Sir Humphrey whistled. He was still only half-convinced, however, and showed it. "All this is damned difficult to prove in a court of law, Quayne. What do you propose to do when you get these people here?"

Q.Q. smiled again.

"I told you this was a case of diamond cut diamond. You'll see. They should be here in a minute or two now."

We sat and waited, we three— and that sheeted something in the armchair, which, in my state of broken nerve, I was grateful not to see uncovered. The minutes dragged. The ringing of the doorbell— when it came— was almost a relief.

"You go, Maule," said Q.Q.

Sir Humphrey went to open to the new arrivals. Q.Q. turned to the chair by the table, carefully withdrew that shapelessly humped covering, revealed a good-looking man crumpled in the seat, his head forward on his chest, dried blood plastered on his face from a wound in the temple. I gripped myself in a sudden sickening, sat short-breathed in suspense.

The next moment Sir Humphrey was again at the door, speaking to those who followed him.

"In here," he said. He made way politely for the lady.

She entered. I can't describe what sprang up in me at the sight once more of that quiet, Madonna-like beauty. Behind her was the little, intellectual-faced, white-headed dwarf of a man. And behind him was Sebright.

She took a step or two into the room, saw the corpse in the chair, and then her eyes switched to Q.Q. standing impassively close to it— from Q.Q. to me, fascinated where I sat. She must have recognised him as she recognised me— recognised also, in a flash, that her plan had failed. Q.Q. was still alive— grimly smiling.

She swayed, went deathly pale, jerked out her hand for support at the table.

The little white-haired old man sprang forward, caught her in his arms.

"Poor lady! Too much of a shock to her seeing that in the chair, Quayne," said Sebright, with reproof in his voice.

But Q.Q. ignored him. He also had sprung forward, caught at the lady, seemed to be mixed up in almost a struggle with the little man as he took her into his own stronger arms.

"All right," he said. "Let me have her. She'll be all right in a minute. Brandy, Maule."

He deposited her carefully in an arm-chair, turned to take the brandy decanter Sir Humphrey held out to him.

Sir Humphrey was explaining to Sebright what he knew of the crime.

"I woke up at seven o'clock this morning in this room to— to see that!" he said, gesturing to the corpse in the chair.

"Good God!" exclaimed Sebright. "Loftus! But who could have done it?"

"I did!"

I jumped with the surprise of it. It was Sir Humphrey who had spoken automatically— with full conviction.

Sebright also had jumped.

"You?" he cried. "You, Sir Humphrey?"

Sir Humphrey stood confused.

"I— I really don't know why I said that!" he stammered. "It— it was like something saying it for me."

Sebright gave him a glance of keen suspicion. Q.Q. interposed.

"All right, Sebright. He didn't mean it. He didn't do it. You'll understand presently."

Sebright turned to the little white-haired man.

"You left Sir Humphrey alone with Mr. Loftus last night, I understand, Count?" he said, professionally sharp voiced.

"Yes. At five minutes past eleven. Sir Humphrey accompanied us to the street, put us in a taxi. Is not that so, Sir Humphrey?"

"Yes— that's quite right."

"No one else was in the flat, apparently," continued Sebright, severely. "Your position requires a considerable amount of explanation, Sir Humphrey."

Sir Humphrey stammered.

"I— I— " He looked helplessly towards Q.Q.

At that moment I uttered a startled cry. A peculiar expression had come over the face of the woman. She stared in front of her as if in a trance.

Q.Q. said, "I had no intuition that she was a clairvoyant. She has gone into a trance. Let us avail ourselves of it." He smiled again. "Your daughter will perhaps be able to show us precisely what happened in this room last night."

A frightened look had come into the little old man's eyes.

"I— I protest!" he said, "against your trying possibly dangerous and certainly illegal experiments with my daughter."

Q.Q. smiled at him.

"I am afraid I must ignore your protests. A murder was committed in this room last night by unscrupulous people. We cannot afford a too scrupulous legality in dealing with them. A case of diamond cut diamond, in fact." He smiled again, turned to Sebright. His manner suddenly changed. "Will you please see that this man does not interfere, Sebright? I give him formally into your charge as Dr. Hugo Weidmann, against whom there is a warrant as accessory to the murder of Henry Paulin, Mr. Loftus's chief assistant, in January, 1917."

"It's false!" screamed the little man.

"It is true," replied Q.Q. imperturbably. "Quick, Sebright !"

Sebright leaped to the emergency.

"And now," continued Q.Q., "we will proceed with the experiment." He turned to Sir Humphrey. "Pull up the chair from which you found this morning you had fallen, Maule, into precisely the position of last night. Sit down in it and do not move. You were drugged, remember. Behave as if you were still drugged."

Sir Humphrey did as he was told.

Q.Q. reverted to the lady. He lifted her hand. It lay limp in his.

"Fraulein Clara Weidmann!" he said, in a voice of quiet authority. "You will respond to my commands, and to my commands only! Look into my eyes!"

The woman sighed. She moved her head slightly, looked into Q.Q.'s eyes, remained looking into them without a blink. Q.Q. went on:

"You will hear my voice when I speak to you, and only when I speak to you. You will hear no one else. You will see no one in this room except Sir Humphrey Maule and Mr. Loftus. Any other individuals will make no impression whatever on your consciousness. It will seem to you that they are not present. Last night you and your father left these rooms soon after eleven o'clock. It will seem to you that you are back at that hour, that you are living over again whatever happened after it." He turned to Sebright. "You will note, Sebright, that I am giving the lady no specific suggestion of what did happen."

The little old man wriggled half-out of Sebright's grasp.

"Clara!" he cried, gaspingly, "Clara! Listen to my voice! Clara! You will obey me— me only."

"Gag him, Sebright!" said Q.Q. Sebright clapped a big hand over the man's mouth.

The woman in the chair, however, seemed not to have heard his voice.

"Now, then, Fraulein Weidmann— stand up!" Q.Q. spoke quietly, but authoritatively.

She stood up.

"You have said 'Goodnight' to Sir Humphrey and Mr. Loftus. Where are you?"

"In the taxi." She spoke in a faraway but distinct voice. "I cannot stand in it."

"Sit down, then." She sat on the arm of the chair.

"Talk as you talked then."

"Du hast die Schlussel?" The words came spontaneously. "Famos!" She gabbled quick German I could not catch. "Ja— Ja, Zwei Stunden— ja— sicher?"

"Two hours," said Q.Q. "Those two hours have now passed. It is a quarter-past one. Where are you now?"

"Here." She stood up, like one in a trance.

"How did you get here?"

"We let ourselves in with the keys we took from Sir Humphrey's pocket."

"You are living through that experience again. It is, to your consciousness, a quarter-past one. Where did you stand when the clock marked that hour?"

"We were just coming in the door." Q.Q. led her— almost pathetically somnambulistic— to the door, released her.

"Behave just as you did then. It is real to you— the experience all over again."

Once more she came suddenly to an uncannily vivid life. She crept forward stealthily from the door, make a beckoning gesture. I caught the German for "Yes— yes, helpless— both of them. Quick!"

Q.Q. and I stood back with Sebright and his still silently struggling prisoner left the centre of the room clear save for the two figures of Loftus and Sir Humphrey sitting motionless in their chairs. We watched her come across the room, as though watching a drama on the stage.

She went to the writing-desk in a hurried search for something, turned from it. In her hand was a revolver, Sir Humphrey's own revolver. (Q.Q. had carefully inquired after its normal resting place, and put it back during the time we waited). She held it out to someone invisible.

"Here it is!" she said, in rapid, low-voiced German, her whole being keyed to a breathless tension. "Quick! You do it!"

She released her hold upon the weapon and it dropped upon the floor. But to her it must have seemed that that invisible person had taken it. She gave a little involuntary, jump— uncannily dramatic in that silence— as though at a detonation.

"Gott!" she whispered in German. "What a noise!" Then she sprang towards that collapsed figure of Loftus in his chair, peered at it closely, nodded her head quickly in reassurance. "Todt!"

She looked round, looked at Sir Humphrey his eyes staring, breathing deeply as he sat in his chair. She went across to him, took up his hand, spoke in English:

"You hear me?" she said, sharply.

"Yes," Sir Humphrey gasped as he looked at her.

"Look into my eyes! When you wake up you will know that you killed your friend Loftus. I tell you how it happened. After putting us in the taxi, you came back here, went straight to your desk, took out your revolver, and shot him where he sat. You will not wake until seven o'clock. You will remember nothing about us except seeing our taxi go away down the street. You will be so sure that you shot Loftus that you will give yourself up to the police tomorrow morning, and whenever the crime is mentioned, you will accuse yourself. You understand?"

"Yes." Sir Humphrey's voice came from far away.

"Good God!" exclaimed Sebright.

Fascinated by the drama he was watching, he must for the moment have relaxed his grasp upon his prisoner. I saw the little man wriggle— and the next moment there was a deafening detonation, a faint film of smoke. The woman staggered, went headlong to the floor.

Q.Q. jumped to her, twisted her over, shook his head.

"Through the heart," he said.

Sebright was wrenching a small automatic pistol. Dr. Hugo Weidmann snarled at us.

"Better for her than your English law," he said. He relapsed suddenly into cool cynicism. "All right, Mr. Quayne. You've won. We did it. But before I go with this gentleman," he jerked his head towards Sebright, "I'd like to know— professionally— what spell you put on my daughter."

Q.Q. smiled at him.

"Simple, my dear sir. When we were both assisting her in her sudden and not unnatural faintness, I picked your pocket of the little phial I guessed you carried there for emergencies"— he held it up— "the stuff with which you dragged Loftus and Maule last night. And I gave her a good stiff dose of it in her brandy. As I have already remarked— diamond cut diamond, eh?"

Sir Humphrey stirred, looked about him, jumped up with a sudden horror on his features. His eyes met Sebright's.

"All right, Sir Humphrey," said Sebright. "We know now who killed poor Mr. Loftus."

Sir Humphrey stood like one dazed.

"Yes," he said. "God forgive me— I did— I know I did! Though I don't know why! Take me in charge!"

We all stared.

"Good lord!" said Q.Q. "I believe she's hypnotised him again!"

Sebright looked not only bewildered but bad-tempered.

"All this," he grumbled, "is going to sound fantastic in a court of law, Quayne."

"Never mind, inspector," said a gasping, croaking voice, "It won't come to a court of law." It was the little old man who spoke. His face was livid, dreadful, with foam at the comers of his mouth. "When I first came in— saw Quayne— I— I guessed— it was— hands up. Took— precautions—" he grinned horribly, "little glass capsule— held in mouth— too— too clever for you —" He wilted suddenly in Sebright's strong grasp— went down, lifeless, upon the floor when that grasp was released.

_____________

17: Adventure of the Rubber Pipe

Anonymous

Telegraph (Brisbane) 27 September 1913

Shilo Coombes and Dr Thatson.... enough said.

THE SUN WAS well up towards the meridian when I awoke after our arduous exertions of the previous night and early morning, ending satisfactorily with the capture of the notorious forger Evans.

But the terrible strain on his mental faculties and the exhausting pertinacity with which he clung to his clue and finally developed it into something tangible enough for the official police to handle, had in no way prostrated Shiloh Coombes, for the dreary, groaning and wheezy modulations of a bassoon from our mutual parlour told me how, true to his custom and natural instincts, the great detective had entirely subordinated the  professional man to the hobby-hunter.

Coombes believed there was a great future for the bassoon as a concert instrument, and every moment of relaxation between the many cases which filled his portfolio was spent in an endeavour to prove that the weirdness of Wagner could he presented properly in solo from only on the instrument of his choice. He had just finished, a particularly trying chromatic run, and laid down the instrument, as I entered.

My eyes, I noticed, as I looked in my dressing glass, were none too bright, and bore that tired appearance which is the aftermath for those of us who reverse nature 'and devote the sleeping hours to work or pleasure, but Coombes was as fresh as though, he had passed a normal night: nor was I surprised to hear that he had been up since six o'clock putting some finishing touches to his brochure on "The Possibilities of the Bassoon."

"Good morning; Thatson," he exclaimed "I am glad you have come in. There will be a client in a few moments."

Used as I was to his powers of deduction and unerring divination, I expressed no surprise and only directed at him a questioning raising of my eyebrows.

"Young lady over the way," he replied. "I have, been watching her for a quarter of an hour. She has something on her mind, but she isn't certain whether  her suspicions are sufficiently convincing to make her consult me. But she will come. Her desire for help to ease her fears will triumph.―Just as I said," he concluded, and I saw the lady walk across the street.

A. minute later she was announced. A lithe figure plainly and neatly clad in black; a girl in years, but a woman in experience, and one who had evidently passed many hours in suffering and grief. Her agitation was great, and had it not been for the impetuosity which had  nerved her to the ordeal she would have collapsed.

"Mr. Coombes " she exclaimed "something dreadful has happened this morning. My father, the best and truest friend I had in the world, has, been found dead in his bed I don't, know what to think. It is so dreadful and so strange!"

The calm, impassive face of my friend created feelings of assurance to her, as it has often done in many other poor distracted beings, and she became quieter.

"Tell me the whole story You may speak before my friend, Dr. Thatson. He assists me greatly in these investigations. Am I right in supposing that you have not been long in England, and are living away out on the other side of London?"

The look of anguish quickly fled before one of surprise and interrogation.

"We have never met before, so how do you know? But it is quite true; we came from Paris to Bromley about two months ago. A man named Brenson came with us, and though he has been very kind and thoughtful, I have never really liked him. My father seemed in good health, but this morning when I went to call him as usual at six o'clock. I could get no answer, and Mr, Brenson came to my help and burst open the door and then we found my poor father lying dead in bed, but just as though he were asleep... He was quite cold, and had evidently, been dead some hours. The doctor we called in declared heart failure to be the cause of death. But I wish you would come and see the room, for I fear I do not know what."

Coombes promised to go, and made an appointment for six o'clock that evening, taking a careful note of the address.

"What will be your fee?" she asked, falteringly.

"To a lady in distress, who I can see has to earn her living as a shorthand typist, and has to snatch a brief hour from her employment in the city, my services are free!"

And with a bow he showed her out, her face being full of blank wonder at his close description.

"Really!" I cried, "why go at all to the house? If you can tell so much about her, why stir away at all?"

"Your caustic wit is in the ascendant this morning," he replied. "But really, it is very simple. Her shoes were pronouncedly Parisian, and as they had not been half-soled, evidently she had not worn them long. No snob ever puts on half a sole without showing where he cuts across the narrow of the foot. Had she not lived in an entirely opposite direction to us, she would have called here on her way to business, and she's in the city because in her fingers she twisted a twopenny omnibus ticket. As to her profession, typists use a deep violet carbon tissue for duplicating purposes, and her fingers were discoloured with it. She would not he a typist without being a stenographer. There you have the whole story. I wonder what her story is!"

A CHURCH CLOCK somewhere was striking six as we drove up to the door of 46 Northumbrian road, Bromley, and the door was opened by Miss Wryde herself, who forthwith led us to the suite of four rooms on the ground floor which was. tenanted by herself, the deceased Mr. Wryde, and Mr. Brenson. The doors of the men's rooms were close together in one angle of the landing, the lady's apartment was a little distance off, and the living-room occupied the front of the house. Opening the door of the room in which the dead parent lay, Coombes strode in, and I could see by the rapid glances which he shot hither and thither along the walls, then across the ceiling and over the floor, that he had summed up a quantity of details. It was a small room 12 feet by 12 feet, and the window was nailed up so that it was impossible to open it.

Bit by bit, Miss Wryde was led on by Coombes to tell her story. It was at Brenson's suggestion that her father used that small chamber, because he thought it would be cosier for an old man than a large one; and, by his kindly forethought. the window was fastened up securely so that the wind should not rattle the frame in the night, and prevent sleep. Not a thing was disturbed in the room it was just as she found it that fatal morning.

"You noticed no smell, and the air did not seem misty?" queried my friend.

"No," was the ready response.

"That broken pane?" he questioned, pointing to a square of glass in the window. "When was that done?"

"I found it. broken this morning, and a pebble and the damaged glass were on the table beneath. Some boy had doubtless thrown the stone at it. There are frequently a lot of wild and troublesome youngsters playing about in the road out there at the back!"

Going down on his knees Coombes carefully examined the skirting inch by inch, thence he proceeded to the door, and by inserting his finger under it, measured the space between it and the floor. Immediately afterwards he went to the door of Brenson's room and applied a similar scrutiny, and a second later his powerful magnifying lens was at his eye, and the floor between the doors was undergoing the closest observation. Then, ascertaining that Brenson was not in his room, he opened the door, and spent a few moments in glancing around, opening a cupboard, and then carefully closing it just us he found it. From the mantel-shelf he picked up a few black grains, and the pocket microscope, without, which he never stirred, was employed to examine them. Opening the window, he measured carefully the few feet it stood above the garden; then he passed through it, and made a detailed exploration of the soil, following an evident trail to the back wall, and looked up at the broken window behind which lay the subject of the tragedy.

By the side of his feet were a number of broken bottles, each of which he cautiously smelted, and, in some length, took notes of what he read on the labels.

"A simple case, Thatson," he said as he swung himself back into the room; "By to-morrow all London will he ringing with the news of a sensational tragedy. I will rejoin you later at our rooms; in the meantime, I must see the local police."

It was very late when he came tack to our lodgings. "By this time, I anticipate, Mr. Brenson has parted with his liberty for some weeks to come, at any rate; perhaps for ever. It was a most ingenious scheme he worked out, and the police detectives would never have blundered upon it, even by chance. The coroner's officer has been working up details on his own account, and he had quite agreed to the idea that it was an instance of death from heart failure. Directly I saw the deceased I scouted that view. Such men as he, thin, wiry, and tough, have hearts that don't fail m a hurry, especially during sleep.

"I was struck at the very outset by the smallness of the room, the lack of a fireplace, and the nailed-up window, all factors in a case of poisoning by gas fumes, but there was no gas laid on, nor could I find any trace of a cut pipe near the skirting. The broken window, and the absence of any smell or coloured air, both combated the theory, until right in the corner beneath the door I saw in the dust signs of something like a rope having been dragged along. My magnifying glass failed to detect any shreds of hemp which would have frayed from a rope by the friction of dragging, but clearly before my eyes was testimony that something had been pushed or pulled beneath that door, and the trail also led under the door of Brenson's room.

"Once inside his room, I speedily found what I wanted to know, for hanging in a cupboard was a coil of rubber piping, of a size just sufficient to he passed easily under the doors, where, as no doubt you observed, there was a space half an inch wide. There was a gas bracket in the' room to which the pipe could be attached, but on the mantelshelf I found a few grains of charcoal.

"Now, Thatson, a medical man like yourself knows how deadly are the fumes of carbon dioxide, and how they have neither smell nor colour. There, was the key of the mystery. Evidently Brenson had been experimenting for some time with various chemical elements. The broken bottles in the garden told me that much, and as nearly every one bore a different chemists' name, he had been at great pains to baffle any one who tried to trace his actions.

"By some means he obtained the loan of an apparatus for manufacturing this fiendish gas; it was passed by the pipe, into the dead man's room, and in a very short time his last sleep would have commenced. Medical testimony will come to our aid at the inquest, because the blood, when carbon-dioxide fumes are well absorbed, becomes of a very bright red colour, which it retains after death.

"After allowing time for the gas to do the fatal work Brenson withdrew the tube, and leaving his room by the window, as some new scratches upon it will attest, walked to the end wall, where he stopped and turned. Why? To pick up a little pebble and hurl it through the window of the gas-laden apartment, and by that method allow the fumes to escape into the night air. He evidently made off with his plant through the garden, and over the wall adjoining Long Barnes lane. He must have met with an accident to his parcel, for I picked up a fragment of an induction tube, and I have satisfied myself that its discoloration was caused by carbon dioxide. The police have all this in hand, and will bring the whole story to light, taking, of course, the full credit to themselves."

"But the motive, Coombes?"

"All that the police must find out."

ABOUT a fortnight later he showed me a newspaper cutting.

"With respect to the trial of the man Brenson for the wilful murder of Mr. Wryde, at Bromley, the police have discovered that both men were members of an anarchist party. To Wryde was allotted the task of an attack on a crowned head in Europe, but at the last minute he washed his hands of the affair, though he promised full penalty to breaking his oath, and Brenson was delegated to execute what the society termed justice upon him."

Taking no notice of my comments on this tragic news item, Coombes paced the floor with slow steps, an expression of abstraction on his face. Stopping suddenly, he darted to the corner where his bassoon leaned against the wall, and removed his favourite instrument from its case. Then seating himself, lie looked at me as one inspired.

"This is an improvisation," he said, dreamily. "I should value your opinion of it, Thatson."

___________________

18: A Condoned Crime

Mabel Quiller-Couch

1866-1924.

World's News (Sydney) 24 June 1916

Mabel Quiller-Couch was the sister of Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch and an author in her own right

FOR the twentieth time that night Nurse Gilbert stepped across to the bed and looked down at the unconscious woman lying— as she had lain for hours— without sound or movement. The doctor had said she could not live till midnight— yet it was nearly dawn, and she still breathed.

Nurse Gilbert placed her finger on the thin wrist lying nerveless on the quilt— yes, the pulse still beat, but so feebly— a few moments now must certainly see the end. For minutes she stood gazing down at her patient, and under the torture of the wild thoughts beating through her brain, her face grew more haggard than all the days and nights of watching had made it. Then, as though propelled by some force stronger than herself, she suddenly turned away, and, stepping to an old bureau which stood by the fire-place, she took a paper from a drawer, and, holding it as though it was a contaminated thing, she leaned down and thrust it deep into the heart of the fire. For a moment the parchment-like paper crackled and writhed, then burst into flame. In the light of it she glanced nervously over her shoulder at the patient—and looked full into a pair of wide-open, watching eyes.

Then the flame died down, and the room grew dim again. Under the shock and the shame of that moment Frances Gilbert nearly fainted. "Did she see? Did she understand? Was she conscious?"

The questions poured through her brain wildly.

Gusts of horror, shame, remorse swept over her. Not shame for what she had done, but that the dying woman should have seen her.

That, after trusting her so all the years they had lived together, she should die with that knowledge of her.

But did she know? Could she understand? The hope re-animated her limbs and steadied her nerves. She stumbled to the bed, and fell on her knees beside it.

"Madam! Madam! Do you know me?"

Madam's eyes still followed her, but whether consciousness lay behind their glance it was impossible to say; and while she was still straining to read them the lids dropped, and the pulse beneath her finger ceased to beat. Madam was dead— and whether she had seen or had not seen did not matter now— at least to her.

"She meant it for me! I know she meant it for me!"

Under the stress of her feeling Frances cried aloud. "She told me so herself— she said that nothing she could do would repay me for what I had done for her— and then— when I had grown accustomed to the thought, when I had made myself realise that I was never to know want again, she took it all away, and without one word of explanation.

"Oh, Madam!" flinging herself on her knees beside the dead woman, "how could you, how could you. I had never slackened in my care of you. I gave up my days and nights to you for ten long, weary years. You said you loved me as your own child, and then you gave it to him— that nephew you had never seen. Oh, you did not mean it, dear, did you? Your poor, weary brain had failed you. If you understood at the last, I know you would, have bade me do what I did. You would never have left me penniless as well as alone!"

It was no wonder that the sleepy maid was touched by the sight of Frances' wan, stricken face when she went up and roused her; nor the doctor when he came to pay his last call on the dead woman, who, in spite of her cranks and fads, had been a friend as well as a patient.

"You must not grieve so, nurse," he said comfortingly, "you did all for her that mortal could. I only hope she has shown her appreciation of your devotion." Frances writhed beneath his words.

He repeated his hope to the solicitor on the day of the funeral. "Nothing she could leave Miss Gilbert could do more than repay her for all her patience and devotion."

The solicitor caught sight of a friend and edged away. "There is no need to worry about that," he whispered confidentially.

They were both of them surprised, though, and distinctly disappointed by the calm way in which Miss Gilbert accepted the news of her good fortune. "It means at least five hundred a year, my dear young lady," Mr. Simmonds repeated impressively, thinking Frances could not have understood.

"I am very grateful," said Frances, realising that he expected a response. "Very grateful indeed." But, torn as she was between a wild longing to speak out, and so relieve her conscience, and a wild desire to refuse to take the money, she spoke in an absent tone such as the old solicitor had never met with before in anyone suddenly lifted from pennilessness to affluence.

Frances became conscious that she had surprised and slightly offended the old man. "I am bewildered— overcome," she said plaintively, looking up at them with pleading eyes, "but it is so terrible―"

"Terrible?"

"That there should be no one but me to mourn her. She was always lonely. Now will you excuse me— I am dreadfully tired." And she betook herself to the rooms in which she had lived since that awful night.

"I can never live in that house again," she had declared, much to the Solicitor's annoyance.

"But it—it is such a nice place," he argued testily.

"I can't endure it, or its associations. Oh, can't you understand?"

"You don't think of living alone, Miss Gilbert?" he asked suddenly.

The pale sadness of her face, the unconscious appeal in her grey eyes, made her look younger; the dead black of her gown showed up the delicacy of her complexion and the golden gleams in her brown hair. Mr. Simmonds had realised suddenly that his client was a very attractive woman.

"I am nearly thirty," she said, with a wry little smile. "After taking care of others for nearly ten years I think I am capable of taking care of myself. Don't you?"

The old man looked dubious. "Where do you think of going?"

"I have not thought. I only want to go soon— I don't care where."

She was dogged by a longing to get as far as possible from that place, and from every one who knew her. She was quite safe, she told herself. She did not fear detection. Only three people had ever known about that last will in which everything had been left to Kendal Forham, and only two of those knew its contents— herself and the dead woman. The servant who had been the second witness was so ignorant, it was doubtful if she understood what she was signing.

Oh yes, she was safe enough; it was not from fear that she wanted to get away. She wanted to be free, to be somewhere where she  could forget, where she could live a new life.

Two days later she told him she was going on the morrow.

"Going where?"

"I scarcely know. I want to travel a little. After being cooped up so long, I want now to move about and see a little of the world."

There was a note of impatience in her tone. "I will let you know when I have an address." Then she hurried, away to prevent further questioning.

She went westward first, travelling slowly, and when and where her fancy led her; and weeks had slipped away when at last she reached Brinton, and said to herself: "This feels like home; here I am going to stay," and with a new sense of happiness set out to look for a house.

She was weary of wandering. The spell of freedom, the open-air life, the change of scene and people, filled her with new health and spirits. But she had always been accustomed to work, and now she began to feel she wanted work again. In Brinton she might And work as well as a home. And that same day she found both. Nestling under the shelter of a hill, with its face to the sun and sea, stood the home of her dreams.

"This is mine—I must have it!" in her excitement she "exclaimed aloud.

At the sound of her voice a man stepped out of the little porch at the. side, and came along the garden towards her. The surprise brought the colour to Frances' cheeks.

"I beg your pardon," she stammered, "I thought the house was to let."

"So it is. I am only the landlord. I was looking to see what needed to be done. The summer tenants have only just gone."

"I would so like to take it," said Frances impulsively. "It looks just what I want. I have been travelling for some time, and now I want to settle down," she added in explanation. And, glancing at her mourning garments, he felt that he understood.

"But you have not seen the inside yet," he suggested, smilingly. "I will show you through."

But with each room she entered Frances' delight increased. "I've got to have it," she declared. "It is just what I. have longed for, but never hoped to find."

"We shall be very glad to have you here. I only hope you will not find it too dull. If you would care for work," tentatively, "I could put you in the way of some. I am the vicar," he added simply.

Frances looked at him gratefully. "I should like as much as you can give me. I was a nurse until a little while ago. Now I do not need to work, but I miss it."

"We have no nurse here. We shall be only too grateful if we may call upon you sometimes."

So Frances started on her new life, and the weeks that followed would have been the happiest she had ever known could she but have wiped away memory. She tried, she tried her hardest. Early and late she was busy, arranging her house, teaching her little maid, planting her garden in readiness for the spring, and making friends with the villagers until she had the entree to every house. In helping those in trouble she got her chief pleasure from her fortune.

"Oh, David, you dearest of kittens, I ought to be so happy—I am so happy," she corrected herself impatiently. "Happier than I ever dreamed I should be again."

She had come back rosy and exultant from battling with the wind down in the bay, to the cosy little drawing-room where the tea-table stood ready by the fire, and David slept on the sofa, awaiting her arrival.

"Oh, you need not wash behind your ear to warn me that a storm is coming. Jonathan and I have found that out for ourselves while you were asleep!"

Alma came in with teapot and kettle, her usually rosy face quite grave and anxious. "I was getting quite feart about you, miss. Feyther says we'm going to have a rough night, and 'e wouldn't be surprised if it snowed too!"

Even as she spoke a gust of wind made the whole house shake. Frances laughed, partly to cheer her little maid, partly with the gaiety of ignorance. The storm without seemed but to accentuate the comfort within, and, seated before the fire with David in her lap and a book in her hand, she became lost to everything but the story she was reading.

Alma's noisy entrance roused her with a shock. "Oh, miss, did you hear it?"

"Hear what?" she asked impatiently; Irritated at being disturbed. Then for the first time she saw that the girl's face was white and scared.

"The signals, miss— there's a wreck. Please, may I go to see what 'tis? Everybody'll be going to lend a hand."

"Yes, child, run. I will come too." She was as eager as Alma now. She suddenly became conscious of hurrying feet, of voices calling. Then, dominating them all, the purring noise of a motor-cycle.

"What madness," she thought, "to attempt to cycle over such roads, and on such a night! It is suicidal—"

A scream and a crash, followed by a chorus of outcries, told her that it might not only be suicidal but murderous.

In the roadway outside her gate, a group of women with shawls about their heads stood gazing helplessly at a dark, still figure lying on the ground. At sight of Frances their tongues were loosed again.

"There's been a accident, nurse, and us dunno know whether the poor soul's alive or dead."

In the light which streamed from her open door Frances caught sight of a white face with blood on it.

She knelt down in the roadway, and placed her hand on the man's heart. It still beat. "He is alive," she said, with relief in her voice, "but we must quickly get him into shelter; this wind is enough to beat the life out of him." It was hard to get her own voice above the turmoil of it. In the light from the house she could see that the women's
dark, shawls were powdered white. The rain had turned to snow.

"Where can us take 'un, nurse?" asked one of them. "All the men are down getting the lifeboat out."

Frances sprang to her feet. "He must be taken into my house," she said decisively, "and we have got to carry him."

They managed it somehow, though the man wall tall and broad, and the staircase narrow, and had got him into bed by the time the doctor arrived.

"Concussion," said he gravely; "what can we do? It would be risking his life to move him to the hospital."

"He must stay here."

"But you?"

"I will nurse him."

Dr. Parkin looked relieved. He knew that in Nurse Frances' hands the patient would have the best chance possible.

"Have you discovered who he is?"

"No, his pockets were empty, except for his watch."

"Um! He was well dressed too," glancing from the lined-leather coat to the well-cut boots. "Well, I must be off now. You know what, to do, nurse. I will be round again during the night."

When he had gone Frances slipped up to her own room, and changed into her uniform. "I shall feel more at home in that," she said to herself.

From her uncurtained window she could see the snow driving past in sheets, blotting out everything. Through the silence the boom of the sea sounded terrifying. Oh, how she longed to be out with the rest, lending a hand wherever possible But her work lay at home.

In the darkened room she sat hour after hour, silent, alert, listening to the patient's heavy breathing and the noise of the storm without.

It was not until morning that Dr. Parkin reached the cottage again. He looked utterly exhausted. "By Jove, it has been a tough job." He was nearly voiceless, yet there was a note of triumph left. "Some of them were nearly over the border; but we've saved them, nurse, every one. "Now, how is our patient?"

"Just the same, doctor."

"It is too soon to say anything yet," said the doctor at the end of his examination, "but there is hope. His chances depend on you, nurse, more than on me."

"Then he shall have his chance," thought Frances, and all her skill and energy, all her resources, were devoted day and night to the saving of the one unknown life, until she saw his eyes open, with consciousness in their depths, and knew that mind and body were saved.

"What— has— happened?" Frances had to lean down close to hear the feeble tones. "You have been ill, but you will soon be well now."

"Ill? Who are you?"

"Your nurse."

"My— what!" then the voice failed, the eyes closed, and the patient drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

A couple of hours passed before he woke again.

"Who did you— say you were?"

Frances, startled by the voice, coloured rosily. "I am Nurse Frances. Can you tell me who you are?"

"Who am I? Oh, yes, my name is Forham— Kendal Forham. Did you think I had lost my memory?"

"Kendal Forham!" The name seemed to surge and echo round her, to beat on her brain and stun her. She tried to speak, but no sound came from her throat. The patient looked up at her, puzzled by the silence.

"How white you are, nurse."

"I— have neuralgia— it is nothing. What did you say— your name was?"

"Kendal Forham. Did you know?"

"How should I?" For a moment he looked puzzled. "You had nothing on you but your watch."

"But my pocket-book— I had about ten pounds in it, and letters. I suppose I dropped it on one of those confounded roads— when I was racing the storm."

"You must not talk any more now," she urged gently, longing to see him fall asleep again, that she might have time to think— to try to realise. She felt faint with the shock― ill.

"But I must get on my journey."

Yet when he could have moved on, the de-sire to do so seemed to have left him.

"Nurse," he said one day, when he was having tea with her in her little drawing room, "I want to know to whom I am indebted for all the kindness I have received. I want to say 'Thank you and try to repay my debts as far as lies in my power."

In the tense state of her nerves she almost cried aloud, "It is your house, your own money which has provided everything." But she managed to control herself, as she had done fifty times before. "I have said 'Thank you' for you."

"But I must do so, too. I can't leave until I have!"

"Shall I read to you?" she tusked irrelevantly. "No, thank you. I want to talk, or to be talked to." He looked across at her with a laugh in his eyes.

"Very well. Do you know that your motor-cycle is repaired and is on its way here? Aren't you pleased?"

"No— o. I don't want to go from here."

"Oh!"

Silence.

"You will be thankful, though, when I do." He spoke lightly, but his eyes were full of anxious questioning. Frances tried to speak
lightly too, but no words would come. What could she say? With all her heart she wished him gone, yet she could not bear to think of the days and years when she would see him no more. Then, in terror lest he should read her thoughts, she forced herself to look up.

"Oh no, I shall not," she said, forcing a smile to her lips. "I like to have plenty to do. This is such a quiet place—"

"It is heaven," he said in a tone that brought a glow to Frances' cheeks.

"Wasn't it heaven where you came from?" she asked, trying to speak lightly.

"Well, it is hardly the name for that particular bit of America."

"Oh— h! You came from America. Are you going back there?"

"That depends. I shan't if I can help it. Nurse, may I talk about myself?"

Frances gasped. Something told her that she was face to face with a crisis—one she felt helpless to grapple with. "Do," she managed to say, but without enthusiasm.

"I am afraid I shall bore you horribly— but I do want someone to advise me— someone besides an old solicitor who sees things only from one point of view."

"It sounds quite alarming. Do go on," she said faintly, wondering how she should bear what she knew was coming.

"Well, I came to England to see an aunt of mine, who had, to my amazement, made me her heir. She had not very large means, but to me they seemed a fortune, and I can't tell you how grateful I felt— nor how surprised, for I had never seen her. But she wrote so kindly—"

Frances sprang to her feet, "She— wrote!" she cried shrilly, her face the colour of ashes, her whole body trembling.

Kendal Forham had sprung up too, his face full of concern and surprise. But before he could speak Frances had forced herself to calmness.

"It was only my nerves again. Please go on." Then, as he hesitated. "If you want to be kind you will," she pleaded, and of course he gave in.

"It's not a long story," he said apologetically. "After I had that letter from my aunt I felt I wanted to come home and make myself known to her— you understand? So I came— only, though, to the house shut up. She was dead! I went to her solicitor, but instead of welcoming me as her heir, he treated me almost as— well, as a sponger. There was nothing for me, he said. Five years earlier Mrs. Forham had left all she had to her nurse-companion.

"In my astonishment I almost showed him my aunt's letter; but I changed my mind. I thought I would like first to confront the woman who had had the pluck to carry such a thing through."

"Carry what through? What are you thinking? She probably knew nothing about the— later will."

"I am afraid I can't excuse her in that way. My aunt told me that Miss Gilbert— that is the lady's name— was one of the witnesses. But Miss Gilbert had evidently omitted to mention the matter to the solicitor."

Surely, thought Frances, he must see the guilt in her face. She dared not look at him; she could not trust herself to speak.

"I came to Devon in search of her," he continued. "Mr. Simmonds would not give me any clue to her whereabouts, beyond that. He thinks I am a ne'er-do-well relative of Mrs. Forham, who wants to wheedle or bully money out of Miss Gilbert. I was in search of her when I came to smash at your door. Now I must start on my search again."

Frances lifted her eyes to his at last. "You need not," she said in a stifled voice. "I— beg your pardon?"

"You need not go any further. I am the woman you are seeking."

For a moment silence filled the room, only a moment, but long enough for Frances to realise that she was beggared and broken in heart as well as purse.

Then—"Thank God." The words were so unexpected that she sprang from her chair again.

"Thank God," he repeated earnestly, "I told that old man nothing. I knew there must be a mistake―"

"There was no mistake." She was not only driving the knife into her heart, but turning it in the wound. "I deliberately burnt the will—" Then suddenly her calm gave way. "Oh, forgive me, forgive me! For years she had told me that she had left everything to me; then, just before the end, when her mind was weak and wandering, she asked me to witness another will, which left me without a penny. I had done nothing to offend her. I had not changed to her, nor she to me. I was sure she did not know what she had done— and I was tempted beyond my strength— oh, that night— that awful— awful—" Her voice trailed off, and broke; she swayed, but recovered herself, then swayed again, and the next moment fell with a crash on the floor.

When she recovered consciousness she was lying on the sofa with Kendal Forham kneeling beside her, supporting her head on his arm.

"I am all right," she gasped, struggling to raise herself.

"No, you are not. You are to lie back while I get you some wine." He arranged cushions beneath her head, and got the wine and gave it to her. "I want you to pull yourself together, and listen to something more I want to say."

"I am ready to hear— anything."

"It is only this. There was another thing my aunt told me. She said, "I trust to you never to lose sight of Frances Gilbert, to see that she never wants—"

Frances sprang to her feet. "I can take care of myself," she cried indignantly. "I can work— and— and I shall go away— where you will never find me— that is," she added lamely, "if you do not prosecute me for my crime."

"Frances, have I deserved that of you?" His voice, calm and reproachful, broke in on her hysterical outburst, and melted her. Her head fell forward on her hands, and she broke into bitter sobbing.

"Frances, Frances! Don't sob so, dear. What is there to cry for? Look up and listen to me. Can't we make an exchange, darling? Give me yourself— and the fortune will be ours between us."

Without protest he had taken her in his arms, her poor, tired head resting on his breast, and when at last she looked up at him, shyly, gravely, there was a new, happy light in her troubled eyes.

"Do you not know that you are condoning a crime?" she asked severely, "and can be punished by law?"

"I don't know anything," he laughed happily, as he kissed the pale face so near to his, "except that I want to marry the criminal, and intend to, too."

_______________________

19: Lance Warrener's Crime

George R. Sims

1847-1922

Pingelly Leader 1 and 8 July 1910

JOHN MALLABY, of Mallaby, Misters and Warrener, sat with a tin deed-box in front of him, the contents of which he was carefully examining.

Misters had been dead for years, now Warrener was dead, and John Mallaby, the sole surviving partner in the old-fashioned firm of solicitors in Lincoln's Inn Fields, was going over certain papers that Mr. Lance Warrener; the junior partner, a bachelor of 45, had always kept at the office. Mr. Warrener had in his will desired that these papers should at his death become the property of John Mallaby, and that Mr. Mallaby should deal with them and act upon them entirely at his own discretion.

A plain, hard-headed, matter-of-fact- man of sixty, John Mallaby had never had a romance in his life, and lo, suddenly he found himself involved in the meshes of a romance that might have-stepped straight out from the pages of Gaboriau.

Mr. Mallaby, in obedience to a letter which he found addressed to him among Mr. Warrener's belongings, had opened the box.

Dear Mallaby,

When you read these lines I shall be dead. The papers that you are about to examine will reveal the nature of a crime in which I became many years ago involved. When too late, I bitterly repented what I had done, but I could never summon up courage to atone by writing a full confession. The avowal of my wickedness would have 'wrecked the happiness and brought shame into the lives of those dear to me. My dear old mother would have gone broken-hearted to her grave; my brother, as brave a soldier as ever fought for his country, might have felt compelled to resign his commission.

I am writing this letter on the eve of my departure for the South of France, where I have been ordered by the doctors. They tell me the change may prolong my life. But I am a doomed man, and the end cannot be far off. My brother has recently passed away; he died a widower, and left no children. But my dear old mother is still alive, and so for her sake I must keep the silence to the end.

But I wish you to examine the papers in my deed-box, at the office, and make yourself master of their contents.

When you have done so, you will act as you see fit. But I implore you —nay, I charge you by all you hold sacred— to take no step that will involve the betrayal of my wickedness to the world while my dear mother still lives."

John Mallaby read the letter with astonishment not altogether unmixed at first with resentment. It seemed to him that he was being suddenly dragged down from the dignified position of a highly-respectable family solicitor to be professional employed in the precincts Of the Old Bailey. The use of the word "crime" by the late junior partner of an old and honoured firm of family lawyers shocked him. He had always had a great regard for Lance Warrener, and looked upon him with something of the feeling of an elder brother lot a younger one.

John Mallaby, the first shock of surprise over, found himself hoping and believing that in using the word "crime" Warrener— his mind weakened by illness, was taking an exaggerated view of some early lapse from the paths of moral rectitude. But the contents of the deed-box quickly dispelled any lingering hope of that sort.

John Mallaby rose from the perusal of the private papers of his dead partner the possessor of a secret which, had it been revealed to him in his partner's lifetime, he would have felt compelled to divulge to the authorities at Scotland Yard. Even with the sacred charge laid upon him in the dying man's letter, his first impulse was to go to the police and hand them the documents. That is what the staid lawyer of sixty read in the fading light of a November afternoon, as ne sat in his private office in Lincoln's Inn, with some of the most respected names in the Court Guide and Burke's Landed Gentry looking down upon him from the tin boxes, containing their papers and parchments.

THE FACTS OF THE CASE

IN THE AUTUMN of the year 1885 I, Lance Warrener, being at the time six and twenty, and recently admitted to partnership in the firm of Mallaby and Misters, was at the office rather later than usual. My partners were spending their vacation on the Continent, and I had charge of everything in their absence.

Most of the clerks had left, but I had asked one, named Williams, to stay on, as I had some letters to write which I wanted copied and sent off that evening. Shortly after six Williams came into my private room and said that a young lady, who seemed in great distress, was anxious to consult a member of the firm. I said that I would see her, and the young lady was shown into my room.

I saw at once that she was very beautiful, that she was not English, and that she was, as the clerk had informed me, in great distress. She told me that she was a South American, that she had been performing with an American Comic Opera Company in New York. There she had made the acquaintance of a young Englishman, who told her he was the Hon. Vernon Bellamy, the Nephew of Lord St. Wyvern, and heir to the title. His lordship, being a great invalid, was not likely to marry.

The young man, who was only three and twenty, had fallen in love with the young actress, and begged her to marry him. He was a good-looking young fellow, and had evidently plenty of money, and Cora Vayne with no one but herself to think of— her father and mother were dead— eventually accepted him, and they were married in New York. After her marriage she left the stage and travelled about America with her husband for some months. Then they came to Europe, and spent, a month in Rome. There a little son was born to them.

The girl had now been married for nearly two years, and during that time had frequently urged her husband to take her to England and introduce her as his wife to his relatives. He had begged her to be patient, explaining that, though nothing could prevent him succeeding to the title, his uncle could, if he chose, leave a very considerable portion of his fortune to others, and as he was likely to object to his nephew's marriage with an American musical comedy artist, he would very likely do so.

The girl accepted the explanation, and as her husband was kind and attentive, and spent money on her freely, she was content to live abroad with him until Lord St. Mervyn, who was believed to be in the last stage of his illness was no longer to be feared.

In the spring they left Rome and went to Paris. There one afternoon the husband received a telegram which appeared to cause him considerable anxiety. He told his wife he would have to leave for England by the night mail on important family business, but that he would be back in three days. He left her with plenty of money, promised to write her, and went. But from that night she had heard nothing more of him. She received neither wire nor letter, and at the end of a week of the greatest anxiety she came to England, bringing her baby and the French nurse she had engaged with her. Fearing that if she communicated with Lord St. Wyvern she might injure her husband's prospects, she determined to consult a London lawyer. At the hotel at which she was staying she had asked the manager if he could recommend one, and the manager, being a client of our firm, had recommended her to us.

I was able to inform the young lady of our knowledge that Lord St. Wyvern was dead. His death had been in the Times. The telegram that brought her husband to England was probably the announcement of that event. I promised to make inquiries on her behalf at once, and I did so. When she came to see me the following afternoon it was my painful duty to tell her that the Hon. Vernon Bellamy had undoubtedly succeeded to the title; but the Hon. Vernon Bellamy had been married in England soon after he came of age to Frances Mary Smithson.

I had obtained a copy of the marriage certificate from Somerset House. Unless this lady was dead at the time Mr. Bellamy married Cora Vayne, the marriage was a bigamous one. The only advice I could give my client was to leave the matter entirely in my hands for a few days while I made further inquiries. The result of these inquiries removed all doubt on the question. Miss Smithson had been at the time of her marriage with Mr. Bellamy, like Miss Vayne, a member of the chorus of a musical comedy company. Soon after the marriage the young husband had separated from his wife, who was a few years his senior, and had made her an allowance. But she had asserted her claim to the rank and the fortune that would now be her husband's, and in the press it had been stated that the new Lord St. Wyvern was married to an English lady who had at one time been on the boards of a well-known London theatre.

The grief of the beautiful American girl, who had been so cruelly betrayed, was painful to witness. I did everything in my power to sooth her. I advised her to leave the hotel and take rooms for herself, the child, and the nurse in a private house, and promised that, acting on her behalf; I would immediately communicate with Lord St. Wyvern and demand an explanation. At the same time I pointed out to her that it was possible for her to prosecute him for bigamy and for Lady Wyvern to bring a suit for divorce against him. I ascertained— who his lordship's solicitors were, called upon them, and in the course of a confidential interview I learnt that circumstances had arisen which accounted for his lordship having failed to communicate in any way with his American "wife."

On the day that he arrived in the country seat where his uncle lay dead he met with an accident. He slipped on a polished floor and fell, striking his head against the corner of an oak chest. He was now lying seriously ill, and injury to the brain was feared. His wife, Lady St. Wyvern, had arrived, and was in attendance on the invalid. Having received this information from his lordship's solicitors, I decided, the facts being a they were, that in any case some time must be allowed to elapse before legal proceedings were commenced against his lordship.

I called at the rooms she had taken and assured her that I would leave no stone unturned to secure for her all the reparation that was possible. I ascertained that she had sufficient money to carry her on for some little time, and I promised to bring her any news that I obtained as to the invalid's condition.

Unfortunately, I not only became deeply interested in my client, I fell madly in love with her. She was an absolutely free woman— of that I had no doubt. Her marriage with Lord St. Wyvern did not need to be set aside. It was void. The proofs of his first marriage were indisputable. The girl in her unfortunate position was grateful for my friendship. Later on I knew that she was grateful for my love. I asked her if she would be my wife, and she, perhaps seeing in my offer her one chance of escape from the terrible position in which Lord St. Wyvern's treachery had placed her, accepted me. She agreed that no good purpose would be served by the public scandal of a prosecution for bigamy. It would proclaim her position and the position of her child to all the world.

As a young widow who had married a member of a well-known firm of  solicitors she would be able to avoid the unpleasantness she would otherwise have had to face. So far my partners were ignorant of the case. Cora had called at the office after all the clerks but one had left, and there was no entry in the attendance book. There was no necessity, unless I took further action, for Lord St. Wyvern's solicitors to communicate with us.

The next step lay with me, and I determined, acting in Cora's interests and my own, not to take it. So far there had been nothing in my conduct that could not be excused in a man deeply in love with a woman who had suffered a great wrong. But as I saw more and more of Cora, and the day came nearer when we were to be married I began to feel the constant presence of another man's child. I saw that when the woman I idolised and worshipped had become my wife, this child, who had no name in the eye of the law, would always be in my home as her child. If I had children, they would be brought up with this child—  they would share their mother's love with it.

"It was Lord St. Wyvern's son— let him provide for it. Its place was not in the home I was going to make for my wife... I spoke to Cora about it, and to my surprise I found that she listened to my arguments without protest. In her anger with the man who had so cruelly betrayed her, her natural affection as a mother had become— affected. She wanted in the new happiness that was to be hers to banish the terrible memory of her wrong. That would never be while Lord St. Wyvern's child remained constantly in her sight.

In my jealousy of the unfortunate child I was jealous of its father. I did not want Cora to appeal to him even in the child's behalf. I told her that if she would part with the boy I would see that he had a good home " and was well looked after. It seemed to me that there was only one thing to do— to get the  child adopted by someone who would take it off Cora's hands for ever. I bought a paper in which there were always a number of advertisements from people waiting to adopt children, and having studied it I caused an advertisement to be put in it offering a child with a substantial payment. I. gave an address for letters, and received nearly a hundred. I selected one that appeared likely and wrote to he address, telling the person to call at Cora's rooms. The nurse was dismissed and sent back to Paris.

At the appointed time an elderly woman came and brought her references from the clergyman of the town in which she resided. I saw at once that the testimonial was a forgery. It was ungrammatical, and two of three words were mis-spelt. I had no doubt that the old woman, was a professional baby farmer, and I knew that I was giving the child to all that it helplessness might mean with such a person. The woman stated that she was a widow, and had a small income, but she was anxious to start a little business for herself and her widowed daughter. I agreed to pay the woman £100 on condition that she took the boy and adopted it for life without further demand or further communication.

It was a vile and wicked thing to do, knowing what I knew of such women, but at the time I thought only of Cora's future and my own happiness. The woman accepted the offer and took the child! The letter she sent in reply to my advertisement, and the receipt that she gave me for the money will be found in the deed-box which contains this confession. It was arranged that Cora and I said nothing to my mother, but I wished to introduce Cora as my future wife before the wedding, day. But that day never came. Three weeks after , she had parted with her child I looked upon the dead face of the woman I loved. A fortnight previously Cora had taken a violent chill. She thought nothing of it at first, but dangerous symptoms developed, and an attack of pneumonia proved fatal.

Before you have read so far, John Mallaby, you will have recalled the famous case of St. Wyvern v. St. Wyvern. Two years after I had laid the one-love of my life in the grave, the executors of Lord St. Wyvern— who should be married in a month, had had died after a long illness, the result of an accident— brought an action against the widow to prevent her making any claim upon the property. They were able to show that at the time Lord St. Wyvern married her she was already a married woman. They produced her husband in court, a convict undergoing a life sentence. It was proved that Frances Mary Smithson had never been, legally, Lord St. Wyvern's wife; the American marriage, of whom the executors knew nothing, was therefore legal; Cora was Lady St. Wyvern, and the boy I had given to a stranger, and of whom we were never to hear again, is, if by chance he should be alive now, the possessor of a title and a rent-roll of £50,000 a year.

I should have made an effort to discover the whereabouts of Cora's child. But I hesitated. To establish the boy's rights I should have had to make the .story of my infamous deed public. For ,it was infamous, and it seemed to me that the whole world would cry shame on me for a cruel and heartless deed. Had I kept in touch with the child— looked after His welfare— it would have been different. But I had taken it away from its mother and given it to a stranger, regardless of the fate that might be in store for it.

So the years have gone on and I have done nothing. But now I know that I am dying I leave it to you to right the wrong I wrought, if it be not now too late.

WHEN John Mallaby had read the astonishing confession of his partner he turned to the other documents. He read the letter of the woman first. It was dated from an address in Hertford. Then he read the receipt given to Lance Warrener. It was signed "Eleanor Mills." There was a chance that the address and the name might be genuine— that the woman might be found and that the boy might be alive. It was his first duty to find Eleanor Mills.

He determined to do so at once. The fate of the boy must be ascertained without delay. And then! How could he take action without revealing his dead parent's conduct? The press would be certain to-take up the story.

Old Mrs. Warrener must hear of it, and she would know the infamy of which her dead son had been guilty.

"Come what may, I must do the right," exclaimed the old lawyer, as he rose from his chair and put the damning documents back into the deed-box. When Mr. Mallaby got home that evening there was a telegram for him. It told him that old Mrs. Warrener, who never had got over the loss of her son, had passed peacefully away that afternoon.

A week later an advertisement appeared in every London paper and in the Hertfordshire papers offering a reward for any information as to the present whereabouts of Eleanor Mills, formerly of Meadow Street, Hertford, who had left there some time previously. The money was earned by a middle-aged woman, who said she was the late Mrs. Mill's daughter.

She came to the office in Lincoln s Inn, where replies were requested to be sent. Her mother was dead. Asked as to the boy her mother had received as an infant, she said the boy was in the workhouse at Hertford. The business she and her mother started with the money had failed. Her mother died. Having no means, the daughter obtained a situation as needlewoman in an establishment it St. Albans.

In the workhouse the boy, who had gone by the name of John Mills, was found. He was a fine, manly little lad, in spite of the starvation and the ill-usage he had known when the money paid for him had gone, and he had become a burden on his adopted mother.

The claim to the St. Wyvern peerage by a workhouse boy will be the sensation of the day when it comes before the House of Lords. But there is not likely to be any dispute as to the facts. The evidence left by the dead man who did the wrong is fully borne out by the daughter of Eleanor Mills, who waited outside Cora Vayne's home for her mother, and went back with her to Hertford with the £100 baby.

In the deed-box of Lance Warrener with his confession was the marriage certificate of Cora Vayne with the Hon. Vernon Bellamy, the certificate of the birth of their son in Rome, and the papers Lord St. Wyvern had left behind in Paris when he started hurriedly for England, and saw his wife for the last time...

But if Lance Warrener had died and taken his secret with him, a peer of the realm with a rent-roll of £50,000 a year would still be living in the workhouse at the expense of the ratepayers.

_______________

20: A Doctor's Dilemma

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

No 7 in "Stories from the Diary of a Doctor" Second Series.

Strand Magazine, July 1895

I HAD taken an interest in Feveral since he was a lad, and had watched his early medical career with pleasure. His brains were decidedly above the average, and he was in all respects a first-rate sort of fellow. As a medical student he was fond of coming to me for advice, which I always gave frankly. By-and-by, he secured the post of house physician at Guy's Hospital— his short career there was marked by much promise, and when the death of a relative enabled him to buy a share in a good country practice, I told him that I regarded his future as secure. He married soon afterwards, and at his special request I was present at the wedding. After this event I saw much less of him, but his letters, which reached me once or twice a year, assured me that he was doing well and happily in every sense of the word.

I had not seen Feveral for nearly three years, when one day, towards the end of the winter of '93, he called at my house. I was out when he arrived, but when I opened my door with my latchkey he came into the hall to greet me.

"Halloa!" I exclaimed, when I saw him.

"How are you ? What has brought you to town? I hope you are well. How are the wife and child?"

"My wife is well," replied Feveral; "the baby died a month ago— oh, the usual thing— influenza."

He paused and looked me full in the face— I glanced at him and almost uttered a shocked exclamation.

"We have had an awful visitation of the plague," he continued; "it is my belief that it has been worse at Westfield than in any other part of the country."

"You don't look too fit. Have you had an attack yourself? " I said.

"Yes, and I am overdone in every way. The fact is, I rushed up to town on purpose to consult you."

I gave him another quick glance. When last I saw him he was a handsome, well-set-up fellow, full of muscle and vigour, with the Englishman's indomitable pluck written all over him; now he looked like a man who had undergone a sort of collapse. He had contracted a slight stoop between his shoulders, his abundant black hair was slightly streaked with grey, his eyes were sunken and suspiciously bright, there were heavy, black lines under them, and his cheeks were hollow.

"I shall be all right presently," he said, with a laugh. "Will you have the goodness to overhaul me, Halifax, and put me into the way of getting back my old tone? Can I speak to you— can you devote a little of your time to me?"

"All the time you require," I answered, heartily. "You have arrived just at a convenient moment; I have come back to dinner, and don't mean to see any more patients before nine or ten o'clock to-night. I have several hours, therefore, at your disposal; but before we touch upon medical subjects, you must have some dinner."

As I spoke I ushered Feveral into my dining-room, and, ringing a bell, ordered Harris to lay places for two. Dinner was served almost immediately, but I noticed to my dismay that my guest only played with his food. He drank off several glasses of good wine, however, and the fact was soon discernible in his increased animation.

"Come into the study and have a smoke," I said, when the meal had come to an end.

He rose at once and followed me. We drew up our chairs in front of a cheerful fire, and for a time smoked our pipes in silence. It needed but a brief glance to tell me that Feveral was completely broken down— I should never have recognised him for the bright, energetic fellow whose happy wedding I had attended three years back. I waited now for him to begin his confidence— he did not say a word until he had finished his first pipe, then he sprang to his feet and stood facing me.

"I can't attempt to describe what a time we have had," he said, abruptly— "that awful influenza has raged all over the place. The more I see of that insidious, treacherous complaint, the more I dread it. It is my firm conviction that influenza has caused more deaths and wrecked more lives than the cholera ever did. You have seen Russell, my partner— well, he and I have been completely worked off our feet : I can't tell you what domestic tragedies we have been through."

"Well, you have not come up to town simply to tell me about them?" I interrupted, abruptly.

"Of course not; I daresay you can record just as dismal a tale."

"Worse, if possible," I replied; "but now to turn to yourself: you say you have been attacked by the enemy?"

"Yes— worse luck— it was after the child's death. She was a bright, healthy little soul, eighteen months old. Perhaps you don't know what a first child is in a house, Halifax? — my wife and I simply lived for the little one. Well, she succumbed to the malady in a day or two. Poor Ingrid broke down completely— she did not have influenza, but her strength gave way. She lost appetite and sleep. Nothing roused her but my unexpected illness. I suppose one does feel surprised when a doctor knocks up. Yes, I was down with the complaint, and had a short, sharp attack. I was up and about again in no time. I thought myself all right, but―"

"You acted very unwisely in going about so soon," I replied ; "you are not fit for work yet."

"Is it as bad as that ? Do I show that things are amiss so plainly?"

"Any doctor can see that you are not the thing," I answered. "You are broken down— your nerve has gone; you want rest. Go home to-night, or, better still, wait until the morning, and then take the first train to Westfield. See Russell, and tell him plainly that you must have a month off work. I can send him down a substitute, if you commission me to do so. Get away, my dear fellow, without delay. Take your wife with you— the change will do her as much good as it will you. Go somewhere on the Continent. Have complete rest in fresh surroundings, and you will be a different man when you return."

"God knows I need to be different," said Feveral. " At the present moment I don't recognise myself."

Here he hesitated, paused, and looked away.

"The fact is," he continued, suddenly, "I have not yet told you the true reason which brought me to consult you."

"Well, out with it, old man," I said, encouragingly.

He tried to give me a steady glance, but his eyes quickly fell.

"The fact is this," he said, abruptly, and rising as he spoke: "the influenza has left an extraordinary sequel behind. I have an inexpressible dread over me. By no means in my power can I drive it away."

"Sit down and keep calm," I said; "tell me your fears as fully as possible."

Feveral sat down at my bidding. After a pause he began to speak.

"You know," he said, "what an uphill thing an ordinary doctor's career is. I thought I had done a very good thing when I bought a share of Russell's practice. I found, however, that it was nothing like as large as I had been given to suppose. I did all that man could do to increase it— I have been popular as a doctor, and fresh patients now come daily to consult me. In short, I am likely to do well, and if only I can keep my health, to make a fair provision for my wife."

"Why should you not keep your health?" I asked.

"That is just the point," he replied; "at the present moment, for practical, useful purposes my health is gone— my nerve has deserted me."

"You must be more explicit," I said. "What is up?"

"I dread making a fearful professional mistake, and so ruining my prospects as a medical man."

"What do you mean?"

"I will try and explain myself. Since I have had influenza I have been subject to brief but extraordinary lapses of memory. You know we dispense our own medicines. Well, this is the sort of thing that happens almost daily: I see a patient— I diagnose his case with my usual care. I then go to the dispensary to prepare the right medicine for him— I take up a bottle, as likely as not of some strong poison, and find that the whole case has vanished from my mind ; I do not in the least know what I am holding the bottle for, nor why I am in the dispensary; my patient and his case, the diagnosis I have made, the medicine I want to make up, become a complete blank to me. After a lapse of several minutes my memory returns; but this state of things comes on oftener and oftener, and the fear of it has made me thoroughly nervous and unfit for work. You see yourself, Halifax, that grave consequences may arise from such a peculiar state of nerves as mine. I may during a lapse of memory put something into the medicine which may kill my patient. My terror on this point at times almost reaches mania— I am nearly beside myself."

"Does your memory desert you at any other time?" I asked.

"Yes, but the curious thing is that it only fails me in connection with my profession. When I am alone with my wife I feel at comparative ease, and almost like my usual self ; but when I am driving to see patients, I often completely forget my most important visits. I neglect the patients whose lives are in danger, and visit those who have comparatively little the matter with them. Of late I have given my coachman a list of all the patients whom I wish to see. He takes me to the right houses, but when I see the patient I forget the complaint under which he is labouring. Only yesterday I encountered the rage of a man who was suffering from an acute attack of double pneumonia, by asking him if his rheumatic pains were better. Of course, this state of things can't go on. Don't tell me that all my fears are fanciful. I have studied diseases of the brain, and know that my case is a serious one."

"It is serious, but temporary," I answered. "You have just been down with the complaint which leaves the most extraordinary sequelae behind— a complaint which none of us with all our study have yet fully gauged. You are tired out, mind and body— you want rest. You must not attempt to make up your own medicines at present. I can't hide the truth from you; if you do, the consequences may be serious. You must get away at once, Feveral. I told you a moment ago that I can get a good man to take your work for a month or even two months, if necessary; if you like, I will write to Russell on the subject to-night. He will, of course, see the necessity of your leaving."

Feveral did not reply at all for a minute. After a pause he said :—

"I suffer from other symptoms of a distressing character. I am possessed by that very ordinary delusion of the insane— that I am followed. I walked to this house to-night, and, in spite of all my efforts to assure myself to the contrary, I could not resist the suspicion that someone tracked me from the station to this house. The only thing that comforts me is that we have no insanity in our family. I cling to that fact as a drowning man does to a spar."

"You are not insane," I replied, "but you will be if you don't take rest. All your present most distressing symptoms will disappear if you take my advice. You had better not return to Staffordshire. You are welcome to make my house your head-quarters until you have arranged matters with Russell. Meanwhile, telegraph to your wife to join you here— get away to the Continent before the end of the week. I promise you that long before the summer you will have returned to work like a giant refreshed."

Feveral heaved a heavy sigh. After a time he rose from his chair and leant against the mantelpiece.

"I suppose there is nothing for it but to take your advice," he said.

"You will not repent it," I answered. "Shall I write to Russell for you, to-night?"

"Better wait until the morning," he replied. "I will sleep over all you have said, and give you my final decision then."

"Well, I must leave you now," I replied. "I have promised to look in on one or two patients this evening; we shall meet at breakfast."

The next morning I was down early, and entered my breakfast-room before eight o'clock. I noticed that a place was only laid for one. "How is this, Harris?" I said to my servant. "Have you forgotten that Dr. Feveral is in the house?"

"Dr. Feveral left this morning, sir," replied Harris. " He came downstairs very early, and told me to tell you that you would find a note from him in your study. I inquired if he would like breakfast, but he said that he did not wish for anything. He was out of the house before half-past six, sir."

I hurried off to my study in some alarm. Feveral's note was on the mantelpiece. I tore it open; it ran as follows:—

My dear Halifax,

I regret to say that I find it impossible to remain in your house another hour. I spoke to you last night about what I believed at the time to be a delusion, namely, that I was followed wherever I went. I now perceive that this is not a delusion, but a grim reality. Even in your house I am not safe. Last night two men entered my room— they watched me from behind the curtains, and did not leave until daylight. I have risen early, and am leaving London without delay. My fear is that I have already made some extraordinary mistake in my dispensary, and have, perhaps, during my queer lapses of memory, given medicine which has deprived a fellow-creature of life. In this way I have undoubtedly laid myself open to the punishment of the law. The men who came into my room were policemen. You will understand that I can't stay longer in London

Yours,

Arthur Feveral.

The moment I read this extraordinary letter I put my hat on and went out of the house. I went to the nearest telegraph office, and sent the following message to Mrs. Feveral:—

Your husband called on me last night— he was not well ; he left suddenly this morning, giving no address. If you have no clue to his whereabouts, come and see me at once.

To my surprise, no reply came to this telegram for several hours. In the evening I found a yellow envelope lying on the slab in my hall. It was from Mrs. Feveral— it ran as follows:—

Thank you for telegram— no cause for uneasiness. Arthur returned this morning, looking better and cheerful. He is busy in the dispensary now— I have not shown him your telegram.

Ingrid Feveral.

"This is not the last of what may turn out a bad business," I could not help saying to myself.

The next event in my friend's queer story scarcely surprised me. Within forty-eight hours after his sudden departure, Mrs. Feveral called to see me. I was just going out when she drove up to my door in a hansom cab. I had last seen her as a bride— she was now in deep mourning. She was a remarkably handsome young woman, with an extraordinary fairness of complexion which one seldom sees in an English girl. It suddenly flashed through my memory that Feveral had married a young girl of Norwegian origin. This fact accounted for the whiteness of her skin, her bright blue eyes, and golden hair. She stepped lightly out of the hansom, and, seeing me, ran up the steps to meet me.

"Thank God you are not out," she exclaimed. "I am in great trouble. Can I see you immediately?"

"Certainly,' I answered, leading the way to my study as I spoke. " How is your husband, Mrs. Feveral? I hope you are not bringing me bad news of him?"

"I am," she replied. She pressed her hand suddenly to her heart. "I am not going to break down," she continued, giving me an eager sort of pathetic glance which showed me a glimpse into her brave spirit. "I mean to rescue him if a man can be rescued," she continued. " No one can help me if you can't. Will you help me? You have always been my husband's greatest friend. He has thought more of your opinion than that of any other man living. Will you show yourself friendly at this juncture?"

"Need you ask?" I replied. "Here is a chair— sit down and tell me everything."

She did what I told her. When she began to speak she clasped her hands tightly together. I saw by her attitude that she was making a strong effort to control herself.

"I asked my husband to visit you a few days ago," she began. "He had spoken of some of his symptoms to me, and I begged of him to put his case into your hands. I hoped great things from your advice. Your telegram a couple of days ago naturally frightened me a good deal, but almost in the moment of reading it I received another from my husband, in which he asked me to expect him by an early train, and told me he was better. He arrived; he looked cheerful and well. He said that he believed his grave symptoms had suddenly left him. Several patients were waiting to consult him; he went off at once to the dispensary. I felt quite happy about him, and telegraphed you to that effect. In the evening he was wonderfully cheerful, and said he did not think it necessary to go to the expense of a change. He slept well that night, and in the morning told me that he felt quite well. He went out early to visit some patients and came home to breakfast ; afterwards he spent some hours, as usual, in his dispensary. I had been very unhappy and depressed since the death of my child, but that morning I felt almost glad— it was so good to see Arthur like his usual self again. I was upstairs in my room— it was a little after twelve o'clock— when someone opened the door in great excitement. I looked up and saw Arthur— he almost staggered into the room— his hair was pushed wildly back from his forehead— he went as far as the mantelpiece and leant against it.

" 'What has happened?' I asked.

"He pulled at his collar as if it would choke him before he replied.

" 'I have just committed murder,' he said— then he stared straight past me as if he did not see me.

" 'Oh, nonsense,' I answered; 'you can't possibly know what you are saying.'

" 'It is true— I have taken a man's life,' he repeated. 'I am ruined; it is all up with me. There is blood on my hands.'

" 'Sit down, dear, and try to tell me everything,' I said to him.

"I went up to him, but he pushed me aside.

" 'Don't,' he said; 'my hands are stained with blood. I am not fit even to touch you.'

" 'Well, at least tell me what has happened,' I implored.

"After a time he grew calm, and I got him to speak more rationally.

" 'You know those awful lapses of memory,' he began. 'A young man— a stranger— came to consult me this morning. I diagnosed his case with my usual care, and then went to prepare some medicine for him. I went into the dispensary as usual. I felt quite well, and my intellect seemed to me to be particularly keen. I remember distinctly putting some ammonia and some salicin into a glass— then followed an awful blank. I found myself standing with a bottle in one hand, and a glass containing medicine in another— I did something with the bottle, but I can't remember what. After another period, in which everything was once again a blank, I came to myself. I found myself then in the act of giving a bottle made up in paper, and sealed in the usual way, to my patient.

" ' "By the way," I said, "would you not like to take a dose at once? If so, I will fetch you a glass— even the first dose of this medicine will remove your troublesome symptoms almost immediately."

" 'The man to whom I was speaking was a fine-looking young fellow of about three or four and twenty. He hesitated when I suggested that he should take a dose of medicine directly. After a pause, he said that he would prefer to take the medicine when he returned to his hotel. I shook hands with him, he paid me his fee, and then left the house. A moment later I returned to the dispensary. I there made the following awful discovery. In a moment of oblivion I had put strychnine instead of valerian into the medicine. The quantity of strychnine which I had used would kill anyone. I rushed from the house like a distracted person, hoping to be in time to follow my patient. I made inquiries about him, but could not catch sight of him anywhere. Even one dose of that medicine will kill him. He will die of convulsions even after the first dose— in all probability he is dead now. Oh, what a madman I was to return to Staffordshire!'

"I tried to comfort my husband, Dr. Halifax, but I soon found that my words had not the slightest effect upon him. I saw that he was not even listening to me— he crossed the room as I was speaking and, going to one of the windows, flung it open and leant half out. He began to look up and down the street, in the vain hope of seeing his unfortunate patient amongst the crowd.

" 'I shall never see him again— he is a dead man,' he repeated. 'He is dead— his blood is on my head— we are ruined.'

" 'We must try and find him immediately,' I said.

" 'Nonsense, we shall never find him,' replied Arthur.

"As he said these words, he left the room. I paused to consider for a moment, then I went to consult Dr. Russell. My husband's partner is, as you know, an old man. He was terribly disturbed when I told him what had happened, and said that immediate steps should be taken to find the poor fellow who had been given the wrong medicine. He went out himself to inquire at the different hotels in the town. Meanwhile, I began to search for Arthur. I could not find him in the house. I asked the servants if they had seen him. No one knew anything about him— he had not gone out in his carriage. Dr. Russell presently returned to say that he could get no trace of the stranger. Almost at the same time a telegram was brought to me. I tore it open— it was from Arthur.

" 'Don't attempt to follow me,' he said in it; 'it is best that we should never meet again. If I can I will provide for your future, but we must never meet again.'

"There was no signature.

"That is the whole story," said Mrs. Feveral, standing up as she spoke. "After receiving my husband's telegram, I went to his bank and found to my astonishment that he had drawn nearly all the money we possess. He took a thousand pounds away with him in notes and gold. That fact seems to point to the conclusion that he had no intention of committing suicide ; but where has he gone— why did he want so much money? What did he mean by saying that he would provide for me? I know that he is not responsible for his actions— it is very unsafe for him to be alone. I thought the whole thing over, during last evening and during the long hours of the night, and resolved to come to you this morning. I must find my husband again, Dr. Halifax, and I want to know now if you can help me to search for him."

"I certainly will," I replied; "the story you have just told me is most disastrous. I warned Feveral the other day that he was in no fit state to dispense medicines at present. He did very wrong not to take my advice. Of course, I ought not to blame him, poor fellow, for he is not responsible for his own actions. Two duties now lie before us, Mrs. Feveral."

"Yes?" she replied, eagerly.

"We must first discover whether your husband has really caused the death of this man or not. After all, he may only have imagined that he put strychnine into the medicine."

"No, no," she interrupted; "there is no hope of getting out of the terrible dilemma in that way. My husband used two glasses to mix his medicines— they were found in the dispensary unwashed. Dr. Russell, on examining one, found some drops of strychnine adhering to the bottom of the glass."

"Then that hope is over," I answered. "Well, we must only trust that something prevented your husband's victim from taking the medicine. Our first duty is to find that young man immediately ; our second, to follow Feveral. Will you rest here for a few moments while I think over this strange case?"

I left the room, ordered Harris to bring the poor young wife some refreshment, and went off to my consulting-room to think over matters. I was busy, it is true, but I resolved to cast everything to the winds in the cause of my unhappy friend. I had known Feveral since he was a boy. I was not going to desert him now. I came back presently and told Mrs. Feveral that I had made arrangements which would enable me to devote my time for the present to her service.

"That is just what I should have expected," she replied. "I won't thank you in words— you know what I feel."

"I know that you are brave, and will help me instead of hindering me," I rejoined. "Will you accept my hospitality for to-night, Mrs. Feveral? My servants can, I think, make you comfortable. I mean to go to Staffordshire by the next train."

"Why so?"

"I must set inquiries on foot with regard to your husband's patient— I must find out his name and all possible particulars about him. I hope to be back in town with news for you early in the morning. In the meantime, will you hold yourself in readiness to accompany me the moment I get a clue as to Feveral's present whereabouts?"

"I will do exactly what you wish," she answered.

I saw that her lips quivered while she spoke, but I also perceived to my relief that she had no intention of breaking down. A few moments later, I found myself in a hansom cab driving as fast as I could to Paddington Station. I took the next train down to Staffordshire, and arrived at Westfield, the small country town where Feveral had his practice, about nine o'clock in the evening. I drove straight to Dr. Russell's house. He was in, and I was admitted immediately into his presence. The old doctor knew me slightly. When I appeared he came eagerly forward.

"I can guess what you have come about," he said: "that unhappy business in connection with poor Feveral. His wife told me that she was going to town to consult you. Of course, I am glad to see you, but I don't know that you can do anything."

"I mean to find the man if he is still alive," I rejoined.

"The whole case points to suicide, does it not?" replied Russell. "But sit down, won't you ? Let us talk it over."

I removed my overcoat and sat down on the chair which Russell indicated.

"I don't believe in the suicide idea," I began. "If Feveral meant to commit suicide, he would not have drawn a thousand pounds out of his bank. He is undoubtedly at the present moment suffering from a degree of mania, but it does not point in that direction. I want, if possible, to get a clue to his whereabouts; and, what is even far more important, to find out if the strychnine which, in a moment of oblivion, he put into his patient's medicine has really led to a fatal result."

"That I can't tell," replied Russell. "The young man who came to consult Feveral yesterday morning appears to be a stranger in Westfield. Just after Mrs. Feveral left for town, I succeeded in tracing him to a commercial hotel of the name of Perry's in a back part of the town. He must have walked straight to the hotel after leaving my partner's consulting-room. The waiter there tells me that he looked ill when he entered the house— he observed that he carried a bottle of medicine wrapped up in paper in his hand. The bottle seemed to be unopened when the waiter observed him— he asked for his bill, which he paid, and in ten minutes' time had left the hotel. Yesterday was market day at Westfield, and there were a good many strangers in the town. This young man evidently attracted no special attention— the waiter did not even know his name. He arrived early in the morning, asked for a room, had a wash and change ; had breakfast, of which he ate very little; went out, evidently to consult my partner; returned, paid his bill, and vanished. Where he is now, Heaven knows."

"The case must be put into a detective's hands immediately," I said. "Have you a good man in the town, or shall I wire to Scotland Yard?"

"There is, I believe, a private detective in Short Street," answered Russell; "but may I ask what is your object in following up this man's history? If he really dies of the medicine, we are likely to know all about the affair soon enough."

"There is just one chance in a hundred that he has not taken the medicine," I replied, "and on that chance we should act promptly."

"I can't follow you, "replied the old man, impatiently. "If this young fellow never takes the medicine, why move at all in the matter? If the thing is known, it will be disastrous to us in every way. It is hard enough, Heaven knows, in these times of keen competition, to keep one's connection, and if it were bruited about that we had a mad doctor on the premises, who administered poison instead of cure, we should lose all our patients in a month's time."

"Don't you see my point?" I answered. "In order to prevent your having a mad doctor on the premises, I insist on having this thing cleared up. If by a lucky chance the young man who called at your dispensary this morning is still alive and well, Feveral will in all probability recover from the mania which now threatens to overbalance his reason. From the nature of the medicine given, the patient was most likely only suffering from some simple disturbance. He refused to take the medicine while in Feveral's consulting-room— it is evident that he left the hotel with the bottle still unopened— it is not wrong, therefore, to infer that he was better. Being better, it is also on the cards, although I know it is scarcely likely, that he never touched the medicine at all. If this is the case and the fact is known, Feveral's reason may be saved."

"Oh, poor fellow, I doubt if he is in the land of the living," interrupted Dr. Russell.

"I am certain he is alive," I replied; "but the fact is this, doctor: he will be insane to the end of his days if he has really killed that young man. If his supposed victim is alive and unhurt, Feveral will in all probability soon be restored to his normal state of health."

"Perhaps you are right," said Dr. Russell, "and if so, you had better come with me at once to consult Hudson. He is a shrewd fellow, and will in all probability soon be able to trace the man to whom the strychnine was given. But how do you propose to find Feveral?"

"We will tackle Hudson first," I said. "I want to set him to work without a moment's delay."

Dr. Russell rose, put on his hat and great-coat, and we soon found ourselves in Short Street. Hudson, the private detective, happened to be in— we had an interview with him. I put the case as briefly as possible in his hands; he promised to take it up; assured us that it was a very easy and promising investigation, and told us that in all probability we should know whether Feveral's victim was alive or dead by the following morning.

As we were returning to Russell's house, a young man came up and spoke abruptly to the old doctor.

"How do you do?" he said. "Will you take a message from me to Feveral?"

"Feveral is from home at present," replied Dr. Russell.

"What a pity. The fact is, I heard from my brother this morning. He particularly begged of me to see Feveral, or by some means to convey his thanks to him."

"I hope your brother is better, North," said Dr. Russell, in a kindly tone.

"Thanks, he is getting as fit as possible— he thought Dr. Feveral would be glad to know about him— he is now at Monte Carlo, having a right good time— in short, his nerves are completely restored, and he proposes to return to work within the next fortnight or so."

Dr. Russell said a few more words, assured North that he would give Feveral his message when he saw him, and we continued our walk.

"What is that about Feveral sending a patient to Monte Carlo?" I asked, suddenly.

"I knew nothing about it until North mentioned it," said Dr. Russell. "Both the Norths have been down with influenza— the younger suffered considerably; he went through just the sort of nerve storm which seems, in a different degree, to have affected poor Feveral himself. I did not know that Feveral had recommended him change— I am surprised that he sent him to a place like Monte Carlo."

"Why so?" I asked.

"On account of the gaming-tables. There never was a man who had such a horror of gambling as Feveral. His father was bitten with the craze years ago, and, as a boy, he learnt something of the tremendous evils which spring from indulgence in such a vice. That he should recommend a patient to put himself in the way of temptation astonishes me a good deal."

I thought deeply for a moment or two.

"Do you happen to know," I asked then, "when the Norths had influenza?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I have a reason for wishing to know. In short, if Feveral gave this advice since his own attack, it may give me a clue to his present whereabouts."

"I can't see your meaning," said Dr. Russell, with impatience. "As a fact, the youngest North was down with the malady immediately after Feveral had made his own quick recovery— he had a short, sharp attack, followed by great depression— Feveral spoke about him to me one day. I said, casually, that he should have change— I did not know until to-night that my advice was acted upon."

"Thanks," I answered; "your information is of great importance. Now, if I can obtain North's address at Monte Carlo, I think my business here will be over, and I should like, if possible, to catch the midnight train to town."

"What in the world do you mean?"

"I am scarcely in a position to explain myself at the present moment," I answered. " Will you oblige me by sending a note round to North at once, asking his brother's address?"

"Why, yes; I will do that, certainly. Here we are, at home— -you can have an answer to my note while we are at supper."

Russell was as good as his word ; he sent a messenger to North's house asking him for the name of his brother's hotel at Monte Carlo. The answer came back quickly, and with it in my pocket I returned to London.

As I hurried back to town in the express train, the thought which had suddenly darted through my mind on hearing that Feveral had ordered North to seek change at Monte Carlo gathered strength and substance. The advice which he gave this young man was exactly the reverse of what he would have given had his mind been in its normal healthy state. If in a hasty moment he had ordered North to seek change of scene in the very place where he would be most exposed to temptation, was there not a possibility that he might himself seek the same relief? The fact of his having a horror of gambling in his sane moments would make it all the more probable that he would turn to it in his insane hours. In short, the idea grew stronger and stronger the more I thought it over, that North was the man to help me to find Feveral. In the early hours of the morning I reached town, and, driving straight to an office which was open all night, wired to North to his Monte Carlo address. I worded the telegram in the following manner:—

Dr. Feveral is ill, and has disappeared from home— look out for him at Monte Carlo. If he arrives, telegraph to me without delay.

Having sent off this message, there was nothing whatever to do but to wait. Until I heard either from Hudson, the detective, or from North, I could take no further steps.

ON THE EVENING of that day I received a telegram from the detective— it was unsatisfactory, and contained the simple words:—

No news; writing.

The following morning I received his letter.

Dear Sir,— it ran—

I am completely foiled in my efforts to trace Dr. Feveral's unknown patient; beyond the fact that a young man in some respects answering to his description was noticed by a porter at the railway station entering a third-class carriage for London, I have no tidings to give you. I will continue to make investigations, and will let you know immediately anything turns up.

Yours respectfully,

James Hudson.

I had scarcely read this letter before Mrs. Feveral, who had moved to a hotel close by, called to see me. I showed her the letter. She read it with impatience.

"Can nothing be done?" she cried. "Have you no plan to propose, Dr. Halifax?"

"I have the ghost of a hope," I answered, "but it is really so slight that I have not dared to tell it to you."

"Oh, do not deprive me of the slightest shadow of hope," she answered; "you don't know what my despair is and what my fears are."

At that moment Harris entered the room, bearing a telegram on a salver.

"Wait one moment while I attend to this," I said to Mrs. Feveral.

I opened the envelope and saw, with a sudden leap at my heart, that my conjecture with regard to Feveral had been correct.

"There is no answer, Harris," I said to the man.

He withdrew. I glanced again at the words of the telegram, then placed it in Mrs. Feveral's hands.

"There," I said, "this will explain itself."

She almost snatched it from me, devouring the words with her eyes. They were as follows:—

Feveral arrived here last night— he is at the Hotel des Anglais— does not recognise me— visited the tables after dinner— lost heavily."

"Thank Heaven he is found!" exclaimed Mrs. Feveral.

Tears streamed from her eyes— she let the little pink sheet of thin paper flutter to the floor.

"He is safe— he is alive," she gasped, with a choking noise in her throat. "How— how did you guess that he might be at Monte Carlo, doctor?"

I repeated in a few words my reasons for telegraphing to North— her tears ceased to flow as she listened to me— her eyes grew bright— a look of determination and courage filled her beautiful face.

"And now, what do you mean to do?" she asked, as soon as I paused.

"Go to him at once," I answered.

"I will come with you, if I may."

"You certainly may. There is still time to catch the eleven o'clock boat train from Victoria; we shall arrive in Paris this evening, and, if we are lucky, may catch the Mediterranean Express. Can you have your things packed and be back at this house in a quarter of an hour?"

"I can and will," she answered.

She left me immediately. I gave hasty directions to my servants, saw the doctor who was to take charge of my patients in my absence, and was ready when Mrs. Feveral returned. We drove to Victoria, caught the boat train by a minute or two, and soon found ourselves rushing away to Dover. We arrived in Paris without any adventure, and were fortunate enough to catch the Mediterranean Express at the Gave de Lyon. I wired to North to tell him of our proposed visit, begged of him to meet me at the railway station, asked him to watch Feveral, and to say nothing of the fact that his wife and I hoped to reach Monte Carlo the following day.

MRS. FEVERAL and I reached Marseilles at eleven o'clock on the following morning. There we left the train for breakfast. During breakfast I said, suddenly:—

"It would be well for us to arrange our plan of action now."

She looked up at me in some surprise.

"Is there anything special?" she began.

"I want you to promise me one thing," I said.

"Yes, of course, anything," she said, with a heavy sigh.

"I want you to be guided by me— I want you to obey me explicitly."

"Yes, I will, of course; but surely there is but one thing for me to do?"

"You think you must go straight to your husband?" I said.

"Certainly; that is why I am visiting Monte Carlo."

"It seems hard to say 'no' to such a natural desire," I said, "but I am anxious that you should not see Feveral on our arrival. All his future depends upon our acting with circumspection in the present crisis. I firmly believe that your husband's insanity is only of a temporary character, but one injudicious move would confirm his delusion and make him insane for the rest of his life. He has rushed from home now, under the impression that he has taken the life of a fellow-creature."

"There is little doubt that such is the case," replied Mrs. Feveral.

"I am by no means sure on that point. I have asked Hudson, the detective, to telegraph to me at the Hotel Metropole at Monte Carlo. I may find news on my arrival there. All depends on the nature of this news. When we reach our destination to-day, will you allow me to take you straight to a hotel, and will you stay there quietly until the moment comes for you to make your presence known to your husband?"

"It is hard for me to obey you, but I will," answered the poor wife, with a heavy sigh.

We soon afterwards took our places in the train, and between three and four o'clock that afternoon arrived at Monte Carlo. Young North was waiting on the platform to receive us. He shook his head when I introduced myself to him. By a gesture, I warned him not to say anything in Mrs. Feveral's presence. She was completely worn out by her journey, and fortunately did not notice the expressive action by which he gave me to understand that he had bad news. I took her to a large hotel not far from the Casino, saw that she was accommodated with a comfortable room, and promised to return to see her after a few hours. I then went out with North. He walked with me to my hotel.

"Well, I am glad you've come," said the young fellow. "I have had an awful time ever since Feveral's arrival. He is as mad as a man can be— spends every moment of his time at the tables, eats nothing, drinks a good deal— either does not recognise me or won't. He is losing money at a frightful rate, but, from the manner of his play, seems to be absolutely reckless as to whether he loses or wins."

"And where is he staying?" I asked.

"At the Hotel des Anglais. He has rooms on the first floor, and evidently denies himself nothing."

I knew that Feveral was not rich. A little more of this reckless sort of thing, and he and his young wife would be beggars.

"The poor fellow is not responsible for his actions at the present moment," I said.

"No, he is as mad as a March hare," said North, with vehemence.

"Well, I trust his madness will not continue," I replied. " He is suffering at the present moment from a sort of double shock. The death of his child, followed immediately by an attack of influenza, produced the first bad effect upon his nerves— the second shock was worse than the first, but for that, he would not be losing money as fast as man can at the present moment."

"What do you mean?" said North.

I then told him what had occurred a few days ago at Westfield.

"The unfortunate thing is this," I said: "we cannot find the patient to whom Feveral gave the strychnine. I have put the best detective in Westfield on his track, but there are no tidings whatever of his whereabouts. I had hoped to have a telegram from the detective, Hudson, on my arrival. I desired it to be sent to this hotel, but none has yet arrived."

"Hudson is a very sharp fellow," said North. "If anyone can help to solve a mystery, he is the man. I am glad you put the case into his hands. My father, who is supposed to be the best solicitor at Westfield, often employs Hudson, and thinks most highly of him."

"Well," I said, "there is nothing to do at the present moment, but simply to wait. One false step now would confirm Feveral's insanity."

"Will you not let him know that his wife has arrived?" interrupted North.

"Not at present ; I must be guided altogether by circumstances. It will be your business and mine, North, not to lose sight of him. If by any chance he leaves Monte Carlo, he must be immediately followed."

Shortly afterwards North left me, and I went to seek an interview with Mrs. Feveral. Poor girl, she was worn out in every sense of the word. I begged of her to take some rest, assured her that I would send for her the moment her presence was likely to be of use, and went away.

On the afternoon of the next day, I was walking in the gardens just outside the Casino, when I suddenly saw Feveral coming to meet me. The weather resembled that which we have in June in England. The tender blue of the sky was intensified in the deep blue of the Mediterranean. I was standing near a large bed of mignonette when Feveral walked by. He was dressed with care and looked like, what he was, a remarkably handsome and well-set-up fellow ; he was evidently going to the Casino. He passed within arm's length of me, stared me full in the face, showed no gleam of recognition, and was about to pass me, when I could not help speaking to him.

"How do you do?" I said.

He stopped when I said this and looked at me fixedly. A curious change came over his face; his eyes, which had appeared quite frank and untroubled when first he saw me, assumed a secretive and almost sly expression.

"I know who you are quite well," he said. "Will you oblige me by walking down this path with me?"

He pointed to a shady avenue of eucalyptus as he spoke. I yielded immediately to his humour. We walked together for a few paces, then he turned abruptly and faced me.

"You are a detective officer from the London police force," he said. "I know you quite well, and what you have come about. The whole thing is perfectly fair, and I have not a word to say. It is my last intention to defeat the ends of justice in any way. I have committed murder— I am stained with blood. The law must, of course, have its course— all I beg of you is to give me time. Before I am arrested, I am anxious to win a sum of money to place my wife above want. I came to Monte Carlo for this purpose. Hitherto, I have been strangely unlucky, but I have a presentiment that my luck is about to turn. I shall win largely either this afternoon or this evening. After the gaming-tables are closed to-night, I am at your service, Inspector―"

He paused, but I did not supply any name.

"I will wait on you this evening at the gaming-tables," I said, suddenly.

"As you please," he replied, "but don't come until late— I am certain to win largely. You know yourself how important it is for a man in my position to provide for his wife."

I nodded, and he left me. I sat down on a bench and watched his retreating figure. He went slowly up the steps into the Casino and vanished from view. The beautiful scenery which surrounded me— and, perhaps, there is no more beautiful scenery in the world than is to be found at Monte Carlo— no longer gave me pleasure. I thought very badly of Feveral. His malady had progressed even farther than I had anticipated. If he had indeed killed his man, all hope of his recovering his senses was completely at an end. I went back to my hotel and spent some anxious hours there, during which I could settle to nothing. I had asked North to dine with me, and he came at the appointed time. I told him of my interview with Feveral— he shook his head as he listened.

"He took me for one of the gardeners here," he answered, "and asked me how I acquired my very excellent English. His brain is quite gone, poor fellow. I must say that I am rather surprised, Dr, Halifax, that you don't―"

"Don't do what?" I asked.

"Don't use your authority, and take the poor fellow back to England. He surely is not in a condition to be at large."

"Any forcible step of that kind would make the case hopeless," I answered. "I am inclined to use the most cautious measures until we really know the fate of his unlucky patient."

"And do you intend to follow him to the Casino to-night?" said North.

"Yes, I promised to be there— I shall keep my word."

"May I accompany you?"

"Certainly ; I should like you to do so."

"What about Mrs. Feveral?"

"Poor soul, I must have an interview with her before I go," I answered.

My brief interview with the poor young wife was full of pain. I told her that I intended to follow her husband to the tables, and would bring her word of the result before midnight. She replied to this with a ghastly smile. As I was leaving the room she called after me.

"You are expecting a telegram at the Hotel Metropole from Mr. Hudson?" she said.

"I asked him to wire there if he had any news," I answered.

"Suppose his message comes while you are at the Casino?"

"In that case it must wait until I return," I replied.

"Will you commission me to bring it to you, if it does come?" she asked.

"I would rather you did not come to the Casino," I replied; "it is not a fit place for you to visit alone."

She made no answer, but I noticed a queer, determined look creeping into her face.

The hour was growing late now, and North and I hastened to the Casino. We followed the crowd into the vast building, obtained the usual cards of admittance, and soon found ourselves walking slowly through the suite of rooms which contain the celebrated gaming-tables. The hour had approached ten o'clock, and the numerous visitors from the different hotels were crowding in for their evening's amusement. Both ladies and gentlemen were in full evening dress, and the scene which met my eyes was a very brilliant and animated one. Each of the long tables was surrounded by groups of players seated on chairs close together ; outside these groups, three or four rows deep, were crowds of spectators, some merely watching the play, others playing themselves over the heads of their more fortunate neighbours, others again waiting for their turns to find seats at the tables. The roulette tables, which were eight in number, were all crowded, but as we walked through the rooms, North whispered to me that Feveral despised roulette, and only played for high stakes at the trente et quarante tables. We passed the first of these, and eagerly scanned the faces of the men and women who surrounded it. Feveral was not amongst them. We stood for a moment or two to watch the play. A woman, splendidly dressed, was drawing attention to herself by the reckless manner in which she was flinging one-hundred-franc pieces on different divisions of the table. She lost and lost, but still went on playing. Her play was reckless in the extreme, and some people who stood near begged of her to desist. The terrible passion for gambling in its worst form was written all over her excited face. I turned away with a sense of disgust, and followed North to the other trente et quarante table.

Here I found the object of my search. Feveral was in irreproachable evening dress; his face was calm and pale, there was no apparent excitement either in his manner or appearance. He sat rather near one of the croupiers, and, to all appearance, was playing with extreme caution. From thirty to forty hundred-franc pieces were piled up at his left hand. He was making careful notes on a card which was placed in front of him, and was evidently playing with intelligence. At each deal of the cards he placed his gold on certain divisions, and, as we stood at a little distance and watched, I noticed that he won at every deal. His pile of gold grew larger, but his cautious and steady manner never deserted him. By degrees some people who were standing near began to remark on his invariable luck. Hearing a remark close by in the English tongue, he raised his eyes, and for an instant encountered mine.

"I told you I should win to-night," he said; "but you have come a little early, inspector. It is all right— quite right; but you must give me time."

As his success went on he began to double and quadruple his stakes— never once did he lose. A man who was standing near me said:—

"That Englishman has been here for the last three nights, and he has not had a moment's success until now. He evidently means to carry all before him to-night. If only he has sense to stop playing before his luck turns, he may retrieve his losses, which must have been very considerable."

"He plays with caution," I answered.

"He does to-night," was the reply, "but last night and the night before his play was reckless beyond words."

Some people in the crowd of spectators moved away at this moment, and North and I stepped into the space which they had vacated. By doing so we stood at Feveral's left hand, and could look over his shoulder. In the midst of his play he glanced at me once or twice. My presence did not irritate him in the least. He supposed me to be a detective come to take him into custody— his impression was that his time was short to accomplish the task he had set himself to do— he went on doubling and doubling his stakes— still without any apparent recklessness— never once did he lose.

The moments flew by, and the time for closing was not far off. Feveral was already a rich man.

"Stop him now, if you can," said North. "Let him take away his enormous winnings, and whatever happens, his wife is provided for. Stop him, for God's sake, doctor, before his luck turns."

Before I could reply, a noise at my left caused me to turn my head— there was a slight commotion— a little pressure in the crowd, and I heard a woman's clear voice say:—

"Pardon me if I ask you to allow me to pass. That gentleman sitting there is my husband— I have something I wish to say to him."

The gentle, high-bred tone had an effect. I turned quickly, and saw, to my astonishment and horror, that Mrs. Feveral had come into the room. Unlike the other women present, she was in the quietest morning dress. Her fair face looked all the fairer because of the deep mourning which she wore.

"Your telegram has come at last, Dr. Halifax," she said to me. "I have taken the liberty to bring it to you— don't keep me, please— I must speak to my husband."

Before I could prevent her she had reached his side, her arms were round his neck, her cheek was touching his. The crowded room, the gaze of the many spectators, were nothing to her— she only saw her husband.

"Come away, darling," she said; "come away at once."

He started up when she touched him, and stared at her more in impatience than surprise.

"Don't interrupt me, Ingrid," he said, "I will come presently. Leave me now; I am busy."

He tried to resume his seat, but she clung to him, holding one of his hands in both of hers with a sort of desperation.

"No ; you must come now," she said. "You don't know where you are―"

"I don't know where I am!" he interrupted, speaking fast and thick, his face scarlet now with intense excitement. "Yes, by Heaven! I do. I am here because my hands are red with blood. I conceal nothing. All the world may know the truth. I am in this place to-night because I have taken a man's life. I am about to pay the forfeit of my crime. This detective," here he pointed at me, "will arrest me in a moment or two. Before I go, I wish to provide for you— don't touch me— I am a murderer. Hands off, I say."

He pushed her from him. His eyes were wild. The people in the immediate neighbourhood heard his words— they began to move away from him with looks of horror, even the croupiers turned their heads for a moment.

"Go home, Ingrid," said her husband.  "Don't touch me. I have made a bargain with that man," again he pointed at me; "he is a detective from Scotland Yard. My bargain is that I am not to be arrested until I have won enough money to provide for your future. I am going to double my winnings. There is blood on my head— don't touch me."

His last words were uttered with a shout. Mrs. Feveral turned ghastly pale. Feveral sat down again by the table. At this moment I remembered the telegram, which was still unopened in my hand. I tore the seal open and read the contents. These were the words which almost took my breath away with relief and delight:—

"Found Dr. Feveral's patient yesterday—  he is a young man of the name of Norris. He lives at Colehill, in Warwickshire. He took the doctor's medicine to the last drop, and says that it restored him to perfect health. On hearing this, I went straight to Dr. Russell, who examined the bottle from which the strychnine was supposed to have been taken, and found it quite full. If Dr. Feveral took strychnine from the bottle by mistake, he must have poured it back again. It is evident that Norris had none in his medicine."

"Read this," I said to Mrs. Feveral; "read it quickly— tell your husband the truth— he may be saved even yet."

Her quick eyes seemed to flash over the words— she took in the meaning in a couple of seconds.

"You have committed no murder," she said to her husband. " Don't go on with that horrid play— it is unnecessary. You are not what you think yourself— you are innocent of any crime. The man you gave the medicine to is alive and well. Read this— read this."

She thrust the telegram before his eyes. He read it— staggered to his feet, turned first red, then pale.

"Is this true?" he said, turning and fixing his eyes on his wife.

"Yes, it is perfectly true ; it has just come. The man you gave the medicine to is well, quite well. Your medicine cured him instead of killing him ; you shall see him again when you return to England."

Feveral put his hand to his forehead— a bewildered look crossed his face.

"Then what, in the name of Heaven, am I doing here?" he exclaimed.

He turned and looked with bewilderment around him.

The piles of gold which he had won lay close to him, but he did not touch them.

"What am I doing here?" he repeated.

"How did I get into this place? They play for money here ; I don't approve of it— I never play. Come, Ingrid, come home."

He grasped his wife's hand and led her quickly out of the Casino. I followed the pair, but North stayed behind to gather up Feveral's winnings.

THE NEXT DAY, when I visited him, Feveral was quite sane. He received me with a look of surprise.

"I can't imagine how I came to this place," he said ; " I have not the least remembrance of how I got here— in fact, I recall nothing since the evening I interviewed you, Halifax, in Harley Street."

"Well, you are here now, and a very good thing too," I interrupted.

"Yes," he replied, " and now that I am out of England, I think I shall stay away for a little, for although I feel ever so much better, I am not yet quite fit for work."

"Take a good, long change while you are about it," I answered.

I saw, with a sense of relief, that Feveral had completely lost all knowledge of that terrible episode during which he believed himself to be guilty of having taken the life of a fellow-creature. The winnings, which North had carefully secured, counterbalanced the large sums which he had lost during his first two evenings' reckless play at the Casino.

By my advice, Mrs. Feveral persuaded her husband to leave Monte Carlo that afternoon. They spent the next six months visiting different parts of Europe, and when he returned to his work in the following summer, he was completely restored to his normal state of health. I saw him shortly after his return, but he did not allude to the Monte Carlo incident— he is never likely to remember anything about it.

__________________

21: Stag Party

Charles G. Booth

1896-1949

Black Mask, Nov 1933

Charles G Booth was a successful Hollywood screen writer: movies such as The General Died at Dawn, and The House on 92nd Street, as well as several hard-boiled novels and short stories. Three of his stories featured McFee of the Blue Shield Agency.

STIRRING HIS COFFEE McFee—Blue Shield Detective Agency—thought he had seen the girl somewhere. She had dull red hair. She had a subtle red mouth and experienced eyes with green lights in them. That was plenty. But over her provocative beauty, lay a hard sophistication as brightly polished as new nickel.

McFee said, “You ought to be in pictures.”

“I’ve been in pictures.” Her voice was husky. “That’s where you’ve seen me.”

“No, it isn’t,” McFee said. “Sit down. Coffee?”

“Black.”

The girl let herself drop into the chair on the other side of the table. Her wrap fell back. She wore an evening gown of jade green velvet and a necklace of square-cut emeralds. Her eyes were guarded but urgent; desperate, perhaps.

Abruptly, she asked, “Do I look like a fool?”

“I dunno what a fool looks like.” McFee finished his apple pie, sugared his coffee. His movements, the flow of his words, the level staring of his V-thatched, sombre eyes were as precisely balanced as the timing of a clock. The girl was restlessly tapping the table pedestal with a green satin pump when McFee asked: Some’dy tell you I was here?”

“Jules—at the door. He’s been with Cato’s ever since I can remember.”

A waiter came, drew the booth curtains, went away. McFee gave the girl a cigarette. A flame came into each of her eyes and she began to pelt him with little hard bullets of words.

“I am Irene Mayo. Ranee Damon and I were dining here one night and Ranee pointed you out. He said, ‘That’s McFee, the Blue Shield operative.’ Jules told us you often dropped in for coffee around midnight—”

McFee muttered, “Coffee and Cato’s apple pie.”

“Yes. That’s what Jules told us. And Ranee said, ‘Irene, if you ever run into a jam get McFee.’ So I knew if you were here—”

“What sort of jam you in?”

“I don’t know.” The girl stared at the ruddy vitality of McFee, shivered. “Ranee and I left my apartment—the St. Regis—around eleven. We were going to the Cockatoo for supper and some dancing, but we didn’t get there.”

“Pretty close,” McFee said.

She nodded. “Ranee had just turned into Carter, from Second, when he saw Sam Mel-rose—”

“That’s funny,” McFee said. He tapped a newspaper beside his coffee cup. “The Trib says Melrose is aboard Larry Knudson’s yacht. Has been all week.”

Irene Mayo flared out, “That’s what Ranee said. That’s why he went after him. Melrose has been evading the Grand Jury ever since they opened up that Shelldon scandal. Ranee said they couldn’t serve him.”

“I dunno that indicting him’ll do any good,” McFee muttered, frowning. “Sam took the town over when Gaylord rubbed out, and he’s got his hooks in deep. Damon saw Melrose and went after him, you said—”

“Into the Gaiety Theatre. Ranee parked on Second. The house was dark—after eleven—”

McFee cut in, “Melrose owns the Gaiety now.”

“Ranee told me. He said he’d be back in fifteen minutes—less, maybe. But he had to see Melrose.” The girl’s green eyes dilated a little. “I waited an hour and fifteen minutes. He didn’t come back. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I went to the lobby doors. They were locked. The box office was locked. I could see into the theatre. It was dark.”

McFee said, “You tried the alley fire exits?”

“I didn’t think of those. But why would Ranee—”

The girl stared at McFee with terrified eyes. “Nothing can have happened—I mean, Melrose wouldn’t dare—”

“I dunno, Sam Melrose—”

McFee saw the girl’s red mouth lose its subtlety in the sharp twitching of the lip muscles. He stood up. “Put that coffee under your belt and stay here till I come back.”

MCFEE CROSSED Third and went down Carter. A late street car rumbled somewhere along Brant, but the town was quiet. He walked fast for half a block.

Cato’s had been at Third and Carter when the town was young and the Gaiety Theatre had billed Martin Thomas in Othello and William Gillette in Sherlock Holmes. That had been before business moved west and the corner had gone pawn shop and fire sale, and buttoned itself on to Chinatown. Second and Carter’s had been McFee’s nursery. Cato’s hadn’t moved because Signor Cato and Papa Dubois had known the value of tradition to the restaurant business, and because M. Papoulas, the present proprietor, also knew it. But Cato’s had kept its head up. The Gaiety had gone burleycue.

McFee tried the lobby doors. They were tight. The interior of the theatre was black. Light from the street seeped into the lobby. On the walls were life-sized tinted photographs of the girls. A legend under one of them said Mabel Leclair. She Knocked ‘Em Cold on Broadway.

An alley separated the Gaiety Building from the Palace Hotel at Second. The Gaiety had two exit doors in the north side of the alley. On the south side the Palace had a service entrance. Instead of turning into the alley, McFee went to where Maggie O’Day had her ten-by-four hole-in-the-wall in the hotel building. She was putting her stock away. McFee bought a pack of cigarettes.

He said, “Seen Sam Melrose lately, Maggie?”

She was a little dark witch of a woman with rouged cheek bones and tragic purple-brown eyes. Like McFee and the Gaiety girls, she belonged to the picture. Always had. In the Gaiety’s Olga Nethersole-melodrama days, she had played minor parts. That had been about the time the late Senator Gaylord was coming into power. Things had happened, and she had gone to singing in Sullivan’s saloon on Second, until a street car accident had crippled her hip. Now she leaned on a crutch in her hole-in-the-wall and shook dice with the dicks and the Gaiety girls. Midnight or later she rolled herself home in a wheel chair she kept in the Gaiety alley.

“Sam’s getting up in the world,” the old woman answered.

“See him go into the Gaiety a while back?”

“Sam go into the Gaiety—” The old woman’s voice thinned into silence. She stared at McFee. “It wasn’t Sam I saw… It wasn’t Sam—” And then, vehemently, “I can’t be seeing everybody….”

McFee said gently, “You better go home, Maggie.”

He turned into the Gaiety alley, barked his shin against Maggie O’Day’s wheel chair. He tried the nearer exit door. It was unbolted. The door creaked as McFee pulled on it. He slipped inside.

The darkness fell all around McFee. It had a hot, smothering touch. It plucked at his eyeballs. He chewed a cigarette, listened. Vague murmurings were audible. The sort of noises that haunt old theatres. Dead voices…. Sara Kendleton, Martin Thomas, Mrs. Fiske, Edwin South. But that sort of thing didn’t touch McFee. He knew the Gaiety for the rattletrap barn it was and waited, his hat on the back of his head and his ears wide open.

Suddenly he was on his toes.

The sound coming towards him was a human sound. It came down the side aisle from the stage end. It was a rustling sound, like dead leaves in a wind; then it identified itself as the slow slurring of a body dragging exhaustedly over a flat surface. Against a wall. Over a floor. It stopped. The taut quietness that followed throttled McFee. A groan flowed through the darkness, a low strangling cough. The slurring sound was resumed. It was closer now, but there was a bitter-end exhaustion in it.

McFee, chewing his cigarette, felt at the gun and the flashlight in his pocket. He took three steps forward, his arms spread wide.

The man pitched forward and fell against his chest.

McFee slid him down to the floor of the aisle. The man’s chest was wet. He felt a warm stickiness on his hands. He made light, spread it over the man’s face. It was Ranee Damon. His eyes were wide open, fixed in horror; his lips were bloodless. McFee felt at the heart.

Damon was dead.

McFee muttered, “He’s been a while dying.”

The hole was in the chest. A good deal of blood had flowed.

Damon was around thirty, a dark, debonair lad with straight hair as black as Maggie O’Day’s had once been. His bright eloquence, the bold ardor of his restless eyes, had stepped him along. The late Senator Gaylord (Senator by courtesy) had placed him in the District Attorney’s office. Damon had become a key man. You had to figure on him. But his mouth was lax.

“The boys’ll have to plant a new in-man,” McFee said. He sniffed the odor of gin. “Party, I guess.” And then, “Well, well! Rubbed out doing his little stunt!”

McFee had lifted Damon’s left arm. The fingers clutched a tangle of five-century notes. Ten of them.

A trail of blood spots on the aisle floor led backstage. The wall was smeared where Damon had fought his way agonizingly along it. McFee followed the sign, back of the boxes, up a short stair, through a door into the backstage. A dingy curtain shut him off from the house. He stood under the drops, among a bedroom set, and waved his light. Damon had crawled across the stage into the wing, where a final resurgence of life lifted him up.

Entering the dressing room from which Damon had come, McFee saw high, fly-blown walls that pictured the evolution of the burley-cue girl. He had appreciated it on previous occasions. A quart bottle of gin, two-thirds empty, stood on a rickety dressing table, two glasses beside it. He did not touch them. A table lamp lay on the floor, broken. Dancing costumes lay about. A rug was turned up.

Make-up material had been swept off the dressing table—powder, crimson grease paint, lipstick, eyebrow buffer. The tube of grease paint had been stepped on by someone, burst open. The stuff smeared the floor. It looked like coagulated blood.

Near the door lay a .32 automatic pistol. One shell had been ejected.

McFee went back to the aisle.

Irene Mayo was kneeling beside the body.

MCFEE SAID, “I’m sorry, sister.”

The cold beam of his torch made her eyes look enormous in her white, drawn face. Her mouth quivered. She pressed her hand against it, stifled a sob. But after a moment she said dully, “He would have been governor some day.”

McFee answered moodily, “Damon had the makings.” He stared down into the girl’s uplifted eyes, at the purple shadows beneath them. The emeralds at her throat blazed coldly. He added, “If it’s in a man’s blood you can’t stop him.”

“Unless you kill him.” The girl spoke passionately. “It’s in me, too, but there’s more than that in me. If it’s the last thing I do—”

McFee cut in, “You saw Melrose?”

“No—” The girl hesitated, her eyes hardening. “But Ranee saw him. Ranee said—” Her eyes fell apprehensively. “I don’t understand about that money—”

“Were you in love with Damon?”

“I don’t know.” She spoke slowly. “I liked him. He took me around a lot. He was a dear— yes, I did love him!” She rocked distractedly, said in a frenzy, “I’ll spend every dollar I have to get Melrose.”

“Good kid.”

“Are you with me, McFee?”

Instead of replying, McFee put out his flash, said softly, “There’s someone in the house.”

The girl stood up, moved close to him, her wrap drawn tightly around her body. Her breath fanned McFee’s cheeks. Neither of them moved. McFee pushed the girl flat against the wall.

“Stay here,” he whispered.

“McFee—”

“Easy, sister.”

McFee took off his shoes. He felt for his gun, went up the sloping aisle on the balls of his feet. A rustling sound became audible, quieted. He reached the top of the aisle, turned, felt his way towards the foyer. McFee sniffed. Perfume. Thick, too. He grinned, put away his gun. A door was on his right—the manager’s office. He turned into the room.

McFee stopped. Someone was breathing heavily. He heard a sob—suppressed. A floor board creaked. McFee thought he located the woman. He took three steps forward, his arms wide apart, as when he had gone to meet Ranee Damon. Caught the glitter of a necklace. As he flung one arm around the woman’s neck, he slammed the other against her mouth and shut off her scream. She fought, but McFee held her.

He said softly, “One yip and I’ll blow you in two.”

The woman became quiet. McFee removed his hand.

“Lemme go, McFee,” she said huskily.

“Leclair—swell! Anyb’dy else on the party?”

“Ranee Damon—” The woman leaned on McFee’s arm. “Oh, my God!” she wept. “Damon—that’s all—”

Mabel Leclair’s blond beauty was unconfined and too abundant. The petulant immaturity of her features ran at odds with the hardness in her round blue eyes. She presented a scanty negligee effect.

McFee asked, “That kind of a party?”

The woman’s hands and negligee were bloody. She looked down at them and went sick. McFee directed the light into her eyes. “Sit down,” he said. She fell moaning into a chair.

McFee snapped a desk lamp switch. The room contained a shabby desk, chairs, a safe, a water cooler and a couch. The dingy walls were a photograph album burleycue theme.

From the door Irene Mayo cried out, “She killed him—”

“I did not!” the Leclair woman screamed, and jumped up. “What you doing here? What’d I kill him for? We were having a party—oh—” The blood on her hands sickened her again. She wiped them on her negligee. She thrust her hands behind her back, shut her eyes, rocked her head. “Get me a drink,” she whimpered, and fell into the chair.

“You had plenty, sister. What kind of party?”

“Just a party, McFee.” She tried to smile wisely. “Ranee dropped in to see me—”

Irene Mayo cut in, “That’s a lie!”

“You think so?” The Leclair woman spoke wickedly. “Kid, I never seen the buttercup I couldn’t pick. And I’ve picked ‘em from Broadway west.”

McFee said harshly, “Got anything to say before I call the cops?”

“Wait a minute, Handsome.” The woman’s eyes took fright again, but she seemed to be listening, too. “Lemme tell you. Ranee was drinking some. Not much. I hadn’t touched it. Honest, McFee—well, mebbe I had a coupla quick ones, but I wasn’t lit. I’m telling you, McFee. I was standing in front of the dressing table. Ranee was standing beside me, next to the couch. He heard some’dy on the stage. The door was open—the backstage was dark. Ranee turned around. And that’s when he got it. Right in the chest. I saw the flash—that’s all. McFee, I’m telling you! He spun round—kind of. I caught him—” The woman shuddered, shut her eyes.

“Yes?” said McFee.

“He was bleeding—” She wrung her hands. “He slid out of my arms—slow. I thought he’d never drop. The look in his eyes knocked me cuckoo. I fainted. When I came to—” She covered her face.

“When you came to—”

“It was dark. We’d busted the lamp, falling. McFee, he wasn’t dead. He was groaning somewhere. I lit a match. He’d dragged himself out backstage. He wouldn’t quit crawling. I was scared to switch on the lights—” McFee’s cold eyes alarmed the woman. She reiterated desperately. “I’m giving you the straight of it. Ranee and me—”

“What you here for?”

“To phone the cops.”

“Did you phone ‘em?”

“No. You came in. I was scared stiff. I thought it might be Ranee’s murderer coming back—”

“Phone anyb’dy?”

“No.” The woman stared at McFee, the listening look in her eyes. “I didn’t phone anybody.”

McFee said, “You’re a liar.” He picked up the desk telephone. The receiver was moist. Leclair stared at McFee. “Who’d you call?”

“Go roll your hoop.”

Irene Mayo leaned against the wall, a little to the left of the door. Her eyes were tragic and scornful. McFee was about to unhook the telephone when she gestured warningly.

In the foyer a man said, “Put that telephone down, McFee.”

Mabel Leclair laughed.

THE MAN MOVED into the lane of light that flowed out of the office. It was Joe Metz, who ran the Spanish Shawl Club, a Melrose enterprise. McFee threw a glance at the red-headed girl. She seemed to understand what was in his mind.

McFee flung the telephone at the desk lamp. Glass shattered. The room went dark. Leclair screamed. McFee dropped behind the desk.

Joe Metz called, “You birds cover those exits. Smoke him, if you have to … McFee!”

The latter, feeling around for the telephone, said, “Speaking.”

“I’ve got three of the boys with me. Nice boys. Boys you’ve played ball with—” Metz was inside the room now. “They don’t wanna hurt you—”

McFee answered, “You’ll have me crying pretty soon.” Prone on his stomach, he found the instrument, put the receiver to his ear, his lips to the mouthpiece. “Tell me some more, Joe.”

Central did not respond.

Mabel Leclair ejaculated, “He’s got the telephone, Joe!”

“That’s all right,” Metz drawled. “I’ve cut the wire. How about sitting in a little game, McFee?”

“Speak your piece,” McFee said, and then: “I got a gun on the door.”

“Handsome, it’s this way,” Metz said. “Sam Melrose has named the next district attorney— Claude Dietrich. Now the Gaiety’s a Melrose house and Sam don’t want a deputy district attorney dying in it two months before election. So we gotta get Damon away. But that’s not the half of it.” Metz spoke with a careful spacing of his words. “Damon was in a position to get Sam something he hadda have, election coming on. So Sam turned Blondy loose on the boy—Sam has more swell ideas than a tabloid editor. Damon was a nut for the frills. He fell for Leclair like a bucket of bricks. Blondy makes a deal with Damon. The boy’s taken money before. Taking five grand from Blondy is duck soup—”

McFee said, “Five grand for what?”

“Oh, some photographs, an affidavit, a letter Melrose wrote, a coupla cancelled checks, some testimony from a lad that died—the usual junk.”

“Grand Jury file on the Shelldon blow-off?” McFee asked.

“That’s right—you’re a good guy, McFee. The Grand Jury turned it over to the D.A. Melrose thought it ought to disappear.”

“Lemme see,” McFee said. “There’s a murder tied up with the indictment, isn’t there?”

“Sam’ll beat that. But you know how it is, election coming on.”

“Well, I haven’t got it.”

“Now, look here, McFee, you aren’t in any shape to stand off me and the boys. Melrose wants that Grand Jury indictment.”

McFee had begun to creep noiselessly towards Metz and the door. “Who give you the notion that I got it?”

Metz said coldly, “You gotta have it—or know where it is. Damon had the money and the Shelldon file in his hands when that .32 bumped him. He flopped into Blondy’s arms. She threw a faint—” Metz interrupted himself to say, “There’s places where women is swell, but a jam like that ain’t one of ’em.”

The Leclair woman cried, “You got your nerve! After what I been through—”

Metz laughed. “I’ve said there are places where women is swell.” He proceeded swiftly. “When Blondy woke up Damon had the five grand in his fist, but the file was gone. She give me a bell at the Shawl. McFee, you got that Shelldon file, or you know where it is. Better play ball.”

McFee said softly, “I’m covering you, Joe.” And then, “You mean, I killed Damon?”

Metz answered carefully, “Damon don’t count now. He isn’t going to be found here. It don’t matter who killed him. There’s plenty boys Melrose can plant when Dietrich is in. If you killed Damon, swell! You know your business. But you better not try bucking Melrose.”

McFee moved some more.

He was in a spot. If Metz was bluffing, a Melrose heel had killed Damon, and the Melrose crowd had the Shelldon file. That would mean McFee knew too much and must become casualty No. 2. If Metz was not bluffing, he probably was convinced McFee had done the job and copped the file. Bad, too. And it left the question: Who shot Damon?

McFee asked, “Where’s Melrose?”

“Aboard Larry Knudson’s yacht,” Metz answered smoothly.

McFee crept forward again.

The Leclair woman shrilled, “Joe! He’s coming at you—”

RISING STRAIGHT from his heels, a little to the right of Metz, McFee threw his left to where he thought the man’s chin was, landed. Metz’ head snapped back. The rest of him followed it. His gun spat flame. McFee steamed past. Metz cracked against the foyer wall.

Metz howled, “Watch those fire exits!”

“Lights!” another man yelled. “Where the hell—”

The Leclair woman screamed, “Backstage—” and then, “Look out for that redheaded tramp—”

McFee ran towards the north side aisle. McFee knew what he was doing. The switch was in the front of the house, off the backstage, north side. He was depending on the red-headed girl. They had a reasonable chance with the house dark—none if the lights came on.

Someone collided with an aisle seat. McFee jumped the man, struck bone with the nose of his gun. The man fell among the seats. He groaned, then shouted faintly, “Over here, you birds—”

Metz yelled, “The other aisle! Gun him, if he jumps an exit— Some’dy find that damned light room—”

McFee found it. Hadn’t he been a Gaiety usher when he was a kid? There were steel switch boxes on a wall. The master switch box was largest. He plucked out a couple of fuses. They heard him. They drummed after him. Sets snapped back as someone crossed the house.

McFee cleared the switch room door, a flash beam jumped up the stage stair, pranced around in the wing.

A man howled, “Now we got the—”

Leclair screamed. “That red-headed witch—”

McFee ducked across the backstage. The light lost him. A door hinge creaked, and he knew what was troubling Leclair. Very swell!

But the others didn’t hear Leclair. They didn’t hear the red-headed girl opening the exit door. Somebody monkeyed in the switch room, but the house stayed dark. A couple of men collided in the backstage. McFee wasn’t one of them. The light jack-rabbited around the wall, shied at McFee. He chased towards the south wing. A shot came after him.

Metz yelled, “Jump him, Tony—”

The flash beam plucked Tony Starke out of the north wing. Starke had been a pretty fair heavy, and he owned a gymnasium. He looked tremendous. McFee twisted sidewise and leaned on the canvas drop that shut the backstage off from the house. The canvas was rotten old. It ripped with a thin scream, spraying dust, as McFee fell through it.

Art Kline was on the runway that fronted the orchestra. Pretty nearly as big as Starke, Kline bounced for Joe Metz, at the Spanish Shawl and was famous for his hands. He had broken a man’s neck with them. Kline pulled a fast jump over the orchestra and landed on top of McFee. They milled for a moment. Then Metz, coming through the ripped curtain, collided with them, and all three pitched into the orchestra, McFee on top.

Kline conked his head, but it didn’t do him any harm. He and Metz held McFee. Metz yelled for the flashlight. They milled some more, bone thudding on bone; then a door opened and they rolled down a short stair under the stage and hit a wall. The place smelled of stale beer and fried onions.

Leclair shrilled, “That red-headed tramp’s gone for the coppers. I’m telling you—”

McFee was getting plenty now. The flash beam came. Monty Welch brought it. Welch was five feet four. He dealt blackjack at the Spanish Shawl and knew when every cop in the city paid his next mortgage instalment. Tony Starke rolled in with him, sat on McFee’s head.

Metz went through McFee’s clothes, then said, “What you done with that Shelldon file?”

McFee said nothing. He didn’t like it under Tony Starke’s two hundred and twenty, but he still was figuring on the red-headed girl. The coppers could make it in three minutes flat—if they wanted to.

Monty Welch said in his whispering voice, “Gimme a cigarette and a match, Art. I’ll open his trap—”

The Leclair woman showed up then. Tony Starke put the light on her. She wore an ermine coat pulled tight around her body. Leclair had brought the coat from Broadway. Somebody said she had traded a couple of letters for it. She said very quietly, “McFee’s red-headed friend went for the cops while you birds was playing tag-”

Metz blurted, “What’s that?”

“I been telling you—the tramp that was with him—”

Metz said huskily, “We got to get outta this.” He sucked in his cheeks. His bulbous temples were wet and gleaming. “We take McFee. McFee’ll talk later. Monty, you jam your gun in his kidneys. Hand it to him if he squawks. Tony, Art, carry Damon. I’ll drive.”

Kline and Starke hoisted McFee to his feet. Welch’s gun made him step fast. They drummed up the stair. They climbed out of the orchestra, paraded up the center aisle, cut across to the south aisle by the seventh row. It was like a scene from an old Gaiety play.

As they clattered into the side aisle, a police siren wailed somewhere down Carter Street.

Metz said tersely, “We go through the Palace. Monty, fan that light—” And then, as Welch spread the beam on the aisle floor, “Cripes!”

They forgot McFee. His toe sent the flash whizzing out of Welch’s hand. It shattered against the wall and darkness buried them. McFee sank back into the seat right behind him.

Metz howled, “Some’dy’s been here—”

“I fell over him when I came in,” Starke sobbed.

“Grab McFee—”

But the coppers were hammering on the foyer door, and they hadn’t time to look for McFee, Metz said, “Scram!” They jumped through the fire exit, pushed through the Palace service door. Sam Melrose had taken over the Palace along with the Gaiety.

The coppers were coming down the alley.

McFee crawled out of a seat and spread his hands on the aisle floor, where he had left Damon’s body. It wasn’t there.

McFee leaned against the wall. He rolled a match in his ear. “That’s funny,” he said.

MCFEE FELT a draft on his face. A man carefully let himself into the house. Two other men were behind him. The first man, Pete Hurley, of the homicide squad, spread a flash beam over the aisle floor. Hurley’s hard hat sat on the back of his square head and he jiggled a cold cigarette between pouchy lips.

Hurley said bitterly, “Hello, Handsome.”

“You got a pip this time.” McFee sucked on a loose tooth, felt his jaw. “Tell one of your boys to fix a light. Here’s a coupla fuses.”

One of the men took the fuses, went away.

“Some’dy belled the desk and yelled ‘Murder at the Gaiety,’ “ Hurley said querulously. He added cautiously, “Ranee Damon. What’s the dope?”

“Sweet,” McFee answered, and stood up. “A box full of medals for Some’dy, and nob’dy wanting to wear ‘em.” Wobbling, he put on his shoes. “Gimme a cigarette, Beautiful.”

“I ain’t looking for medals,” Hurley said harshly. “Medals ain’t safe in this town. Where’s Damon?”

“Damon’s dead. He went away. Ask Mel-rose’s boys.”

“Melrose’s boys?”

“Joe Metz, Art Kline, Monty Welch, Tony Starke. It was good while it lasted.” McFee lighted a cigarette, then spread out his hand. Lights began to go on. Hurley stared at McFee with his bitter, button eyes. McFee added presently, “Irene Mayo brought you boys.”

“Who’s this Mayo queen?”

“A nice little number. She’s been in pictures. Likes to pull strings. She wanted Damon to be governor.”

“You got that Shelldon file?”

“I didn’t kill Damon, mister.”

Hurley didn’t look at McFee, as he said slowly, “The birds that shot Damon musta got away with him. You say Melrose’s boys didn’t take him away, so they didn’t shoot him. That’s reasonable ain’t it?” He forced his uneasy, hostile eyes up to McFee’s cold grin. “I said, that’s reasonable, ain’t it?”

“Anything’s reasonable that’s got to be,” McFee answered.

Hurley’s tone was sullen as he proceeded, “Melrose’s boys is out then. How about that redheaded number. I mean—”

“You mean, did she carry Damon out in her stocking? No, Buttercup, she didn’t. And if she didn’t she couldn’t have rubbed him out. That’s reasonable, isn’t it?”

Hurley’s cigarette became still. “Mebbe there’ll be a coupla medals in this after all—”

McFee said, “You can always sell ‘em for hardware.”

Hurley spread light upon the wet smear Damon’s body had left. Sign indicated that the body had been dragged to the fire exit and out into the alley. There the sign ended.

Inside again, Hurley asked McFee, “Why don’t that red-headed dame come back?”

“I guess she’d had plenty. You’ll find her at the St. Regis.” He added dryly, “Melrose’ll tell you where to find Leclair.”

“I’ll find Leclair.” And then, impressively, “Melrose is aboard Knudson’s yacht.”

Hurley followed the blood drop down the aisle. Here and there on the drab wall were imprints of Damon’s wet, red hands. They leaped at the eye. They implied a frantic striving, a dreadful frustration. The two dicks tailed Hurley, McFee trailed the three of them, chewing the end of his cigarette. They crossed the backstage, shoved into the dressing room.

Hurley looked the automatic over, put it down. He looked at the glasses and gin bottle, at the upset table lamp, at the squashed tube of crimson grease paint.

“Some’dy better change his shoes,” Hurley muttered.

McFee said casually, “Leclair’s shoes looked clean.”

Hurley stared sourly at the picture album around the walls. “Burleycue ain’t what she was. You need a pair of field glasses to see the jittering toothpicks that prance on the boards nowadays.” Turning to one of his men he said, “Harry, go give Littner a bell. Tell him he’d better slide over. Tell him—” Hurley slanted his eyes at McFee. “Tell him we are in a spot.”

Littner was Captain of Detectives.

Hurley chalked crosses on the floor, near the dressing table and close to the couch, to indicate where he and McFee thought Damon and Leclair had stood, when the shot was fired.

Littner and the Chief came first; then Larrabee, the District Attorney, and Atwell, a deputy coroner. Larrabee said it was too bad about Damon. Pretty nearly everybody said it was too bad and something ought to be done. When Larrabee heard about the Grand Jury Shelldon file he went white around the gills, and shut up. Larrabee was half and half about most things. He had Bright’s Disease. That was why he wasn’t going to run again. The camera boys stood up their flashlight set. The fingerprint lads prowled around with their brushes and powders. A flock of dicks were detailed to do this and that. Littner turned the pistol over to Walter Griggs, the ballistic expert. The newshawks came.

The Chief said to Littner, “Melrose is gonna be damn good and sore.”

“He ought to be damn good and glad some’dy else lifted Damon,” Littner muttered.

“You figure he needs an out?”

Littner said cautiously, “Melrose is aboard Knudson’s yacht, isn’t he?”

Littner ought to have been Chief of Police.

After a while, McFee said to Hurley, “I guess I’ll go finish my coffee.”

MCFEE WALKED up Carter to Third, stood there a minute, rolling a match in his ear. The block between Second and Third was full of police and county cars, but the rest of the town looked empty. It was three-fifteen. McFee had been in the Gaiety about two and a half hours. He saw a coupe parked half a block down Third and walked towards it.

Irene Mayo sat behind the wheel, smoking a cigarette. Her eyes were feverish. Her white face was posed above the deep fur of her wrap like a flower in a vase. She said huskily, “I thought you’d come.”

“It takes a while,” McFee answered. He got in beside her. “Thanks for giving the cops a bell.”

“Did they hurt you?” She looked intently at him.

“Some’dy sat on my head.”

The red-headed girl let in the clutch. They made a couple of right-hand turns then a left.

McFee said, “Damon sold out, didn’t he, sister?”

“Yes—” The word tore itself from Irene Mayo’s lips. Her knuckles tightened on the wheel. “That blonde woman—”

“Hadn’t it in him, I guess,” McFee muttered.

She said in a brittle voice, “He could have been governor. I had what he needed … I could have given him—” She shivered, pressed her hand to her throat. “I don’t blame Ranee. A man is just so much—no more. But Melrose—Sam Melrose—” She uttered the name as if it poisoned her mouth. “Melrose knew how to break Ranee. And he had Ranee shot because he wasn’t sure—” She stared straight ahead, her eyes as hard as bright new coins. “I’ll make Sam Melrose wish he hadn’t come to this town if it kills me to do it.”

They drove some more.

“Some’dy took Damon’s body away,” McFee said.

“What did you say?”

McFee told her about it. “Damon must have been taken after you got away. There was a five minute interval before the cops came.”

“What do the police think?”

“It isn’t what they think—this is Melrose’s town. They take the position that Melrose didn’t have Damon blinked because it wasn’t his boys carted Damon’s body away. They say that means some’dy else killed Damon.”

“Don’t you see?” Her tone was stinging, vicious. “Those Melrose men had Ranee taken while you were talking to that Leclair woman. When the police came, and they couldn’t take you with them, they pretended Ranee had vanished. They knew you’d tell the police. They knew the police—Melrose’s police!—would use it for an ‘out.’ McFee—” She gripped his arm, her face terribly white, “you must see that! You don’t believe what the police are only pretending to believe?”

They made a right-hand turn.

McFee put a cigarette in his mouth, said quietly, “Sister, you better lemme take the wheel. There’s a car tailing us. They’ll have more power than we have.”

“They can’t run us down.”

“They can do anything in this town. And they will, if they think I got what they want. Slide over.”

The girl said coolly, “Have you got what they want, McFee?”

A pair of white eyes grew large in the rear view mirror, McFee laid one hand on the wheel, slid the other around the girl’s hips. His toe lifted her foot from the gas pedal. McFee said harshly, “Don’t be a fool—this is serious.” She yielded then and glided over his lap.

McFee jumped the car forward. It was a handy little bus, but it didn’t have the steam. McFee made a left hand turn and they hit a through boulevard. The tail car showed its lights again. The lights grew bigger. A milk truck rattled past.

McFee let the coupe out, but the white eyes swelled.

McFee said, “This is your coupe?”

“Ranee’s.”

“Where’s your house?”

“Avalon. Eighteen hundred block. Avalon’s about a mile beyond the next boulevard stop.”

McFee looked at the girl out of slanted eyes. “I got a hunch they’re out to wreck us. I know those birds. If they ride us down, it’ll be as soon as we quit the boulevard.”

Irene Mayo said passionately, “I don’t know what they want, but nothing will make me believe Melrose didn’t have Ranee killed.”

They approached the cross boulevard, doing fifty or so. The neon lights of an all-night filling station blazed on the opposite corner.

“I’d like to stand those lads on their heads,” McFee muttered. He grinned, but his somber eyes were calculating as they looked at the girl. “I got a hunch. How much you good for, sister?”

“As much as you are.”

He laughed a little. “Maybe we could get away, but I doubt it. If we waited somewhere, and phoned for a police bodyguard, they’d jump us before the cops could find us. I don’t know but what we hadn’t better try to stand ‘em on their heads.”

The girl said nothing. McFee ran the car up to the filling station oil pumps. Behind them, the brakes of the pursuing car made a high wailing sound and the car—a rakish black sedan— rocked to a standstill. It had not crossed the intersection.

“What’s the street this side of Avalon?”

“Hawthorne.”

“Trees on it?”

“Yes.”

To the white-uniformed, freckle-faced lad who came running up, McFee said, “Gimme a five-gallon can of crankcase oil—Eastern. Step on it.” McFee took out a jacknife, opened a blade. The lad reappeared, lugging the can of oil. McFee placed it on the seat, between himself and the red-headed girl. “Throw in five gallons of gas.” He added to the girl, “Just to fool those birds,” and drove his knife blade into the top of the can. Ripping around the edge, he muttered, “This is going to be dirty.”

The girl’s eyes became spheres of green light.

Oil slopped onto McFee’s clothing, over the girl’s wrap. The lad came back, McFee threw ten dollars at him.

“Keep the change, kid. And do this—” McFee impaled him with an oily forefinger. “Hop your telephone. Call police headquarters. Tell ‘em, there’s an accident on Hawthorne, north of Grand. Tell ‘em to send a riot squad. Tell ‘em McFee told you.”

The boy blurted, “Anybody hurt?”

“There’s going to be,” McFee said as he jumped the car into the boulevard.

They hit fifty. The sedan behind them zoomed across the intersection, then settled down to tailing the coop from two blocks back.

Irene Mayo said tersely. “Avalon—three blocks.”

McFee dropped to thirty. The car behind picked up. McFee made the right hand turn at Hawthorne. The street was narrow, a black tunnel of peppers and eucalypti.

McFee drove half a block, dropping to fifteen. He shifted off the crown of the street. He placed the red-headed girl’s right hand on top of the wheel. She stared at him, her mouth a red gash in her white face. McFee bent back the top of the can. He caught the ragged edge nearest him with his left hand, thrust his right under the bottom of the can. The lights behind made a wide arc as the sedan swung crazily into Hawthorne.

Before the lights had quite straightened out, McFee heaved the can over the wheel and dumped the oil onto the crown of the road.

The oil ran in every direction. McFee flung the can into the trees. The sedan came roaring down Hawthorne, huge and devastating behind its tremendous lights. McFee shot the coupe ahead. He abruptly turned into a private driveway, shut off the lights.

The brakes of the big sedan screamed. The car staggered, ploughed towards the wet smear that oozed towards either curb of the narrow street. Someone in the car shouted thickly, hysterically.

The locked wheels of the sedan skidded into the oil.

McFee and Irene Mayo saw a big sedan slide sidewise on tortured rubber. Twice the car cut a complete circle at terrible speed, its lights slicing the darkness; then it leaped the opposite curb and snapped off a street light standard. Glass shattered. A wheel flew somewhere. The huge car lifted itself in a final spasm and fell on its side.

McFee said softly, “Very swell.”

WINDOWS WERE going up as McFee backed into Hawthorne. He turned on his lights. Somebody yelled at him. At the corner, he made a left hand turn; then a right hand at Avalon. He drove two blocks, and saw the St. Regis, a green light over its entrance, at the next corner. It was a fairly exclusive, small, three-story house with garages. He drove into an open garage.

“Not bad.” He laughed and looked at the girl. She was leaning against his shoulder, very white. “Oh,” said McFee. “Well.”

He took out the ignition key. There were five keys on a ring. Sliding out of the coupe, he lifted the girl into his arms and carried her around to the front entrance. No one was about. The trees in the parking threw long shadows after him. A police siren wailed somewhere.

The letter-box directory indicated that Miss Mayo’s apartment was No. 305. He carried her upstairs, reminded of an Olga Nethersole play he had seen at the Gaiety years ago. Heavy, wine-coloured carpet covered the stairs and halls. Some potted palms stood around and looked at him.

At No. 305, McFee tried three of the keys before he got the door open. A little light from the corridor came in with McFee—enough for him to see a divan in the middle of the living room into which the small entrance hall opened. He laid the girl on it, snapped a floor lamp switch. The room had dim lights, soft rugs, lots of pillows, some books and a couple of pictures. A swell little shack for a lad to hang up his hat in.

One of the girl’s green snakeskin slippers had become unbuckled. It fell off. McFee saw a long manila envelope fastened to the lining of her wrap with a safety pin. He chewed his knuckle, then unpinned the envelope. “Shelldon File” was pencilled on its upper left-hand corner. The envelope was sealed. McFee stared hard at the girl. Her eyelashes rested on the shadows beneath her eyes. Slitting the top of the envelope, he looked into it. His expression became astonished. He smiled crookedly and put the envelope inside his waistcoat.

In the kitchen McFee got a glass of water. When he came back the girl was sitting up.

“How’s it coming?” he asked.

“Nicely.” Her eyes were amused but a little cold. “You must have done a gorgeous Sappho.” She looked at her hands, at her wrap and gown. “That oil made a horrible mess. Do you suppose they are hurt?”

“You can give the hospital a bell in ten minutes.”

She laughed uneasily. “Make yourself comfortable while I get into something else.”

McFee was in a mess himself. He lit a cigarette. He began to walk up and down.

An ornamental mirror hung on the wall opposite the bedroom door. The girl had not closed the door and he saw her reflection in the mirror. She stood beside a table, a framed photograph clasped in her hands. Her expression and attitude were tragic and adoring. She pressed the photograph to her lips, held it there. Her slender body drooped. She put the photograph down but continued to stare at it, her fingers pressed against her mouth. The photograph was of Ranee Damon.

Irene Mayo slipped out of her green gown, when she reappeared some minutes later her eyes were subtle and untragic, and she wore lounging pajamas of green silk with a flowing red sash. She dropped onto the divan and laid her red head against a green pillow.

“You’d better use the bathroom, McFee,” she told him.

The bathroom was finished in green and white tile and much nickel. He used a monogrammed hand towel on his oil splashed clothes. He washed his hands and face and combed his hair. Stared at his automatic meditatively, then stood it on its nose in his right hand coat pocket.

When McFee showed himself again, Irene Mayo had a bottle of gin and a couple of glasses on a small table.

“Straight is all I can do.”

“You couldn’t do better.”

McFee sat down on the girl’s left. The liquor made a gurgling sound. She poured until McFee said “yes,” which wasn’t immediately.

As he occupied himself with the glass, a blunt object jammed his ribs. He finished the liquor.

The girl said coldly, “Your own gun.”

McFee asked, “What do you want?”

“That envelope.” Her eyes were cold, too. “McFee, I went through Ranee’s pockets just before you came back and found me kneeling beside him. He had the Shelldon file. I took it. You have it. I want it back.”

“What you want it for?”

“That’s my business.”

“Maybe I want it too.”

“Don’t be a fool.” Her cheek bones began to burn. “I’ll kill you if you don’t give me that file.”

“What’d the coppers say to that?”

“I’d tell them you wouldn’t go home.”

McFee smiled charmingly and unbuttoned his waistcoat. Still smiling, he handed her the envelope and said, “You better look at the catch.”

Suspicious, she jumped up, backed to the other side of the room, still covering him with the .38, and shook the envelope. Sheets of folded paper slid out, fluttered onto the floor. They were blank.

The girl said furiously, “McFee, I’ll give you just three seconds—”

“Use your bean,” McFee said harshly. “You saw me unpin that envelope. You know where I been since—the kitchen, the bathroom. I haven’t got anything in my clothes. “If you like, I’ll take ‘em off. Some’dy’s give you the run-around.”

She stared at him, the cold fury in her eyes turning to mortification. “I didn’t look—I took it for granted— What an idiot you must think me!” she wept. And then, stamping angrily, “How do you explain this?”

McFee said, “I can think of a coupla answers.” He helped himself appreciatively to the gin. “Number One: Leclair’s putting the buzz on Melrose. She killed Damon, picked the meat out of the envelope, and left those blanks behind. Number Two: Damon had showed Leclair the file, but was trying to sell her the blanks.” McFee set his glass down. “Here’s another one: Mr. X, as the book writers call him, shot Damon and worked the switch. Don’t ask me why. There’s only one answer, sister.”

“And Sam Melrose knows it!” Irene Mayo declared passionately.

She came towards McFee, her red sash swaying as she walked. Laughing a little, she sat down beside him, handed him the pistol. McFee took the cartridge clip out of his coat pocket, opened the magazine, shot the clip home. He set the safety.

Irene Mayo said, “Oh! You knew what I would do? You are clever—”

“Just an agency dick trying to get along,” McFee answered softly.

She laid her head on the green pillow, her red mouth smiling.

“I didn’t mean to,” she murmured. And then, “Is your wife home, McFee?”

“Visiting her sister,” he said.

After a while, McFee went away.

Down below McFee hopped the taxi he had called from Irene Mayo’s apartment. He told the man to take him to the Manchester Arms, on Gerard Street. It was daylight.

At the Manchester, McFee paid the fare and went into the house, feeling for his keys. They were gone. “Metz!” he muttered, and explored his other pockets. Some letters and a note book he had had were gone. “I owe those lads a couple,” he muttered.

McFee got a spare key off the building superintendent and walked up to his apartment on the fourth floor. He let himself into the entrance hall and pushed into the living room.

Joe Metz sat in a chair in front of the door. He had a .38 in his hand.

Metz said, “Hello, McFee.”

McFee stood quite still. Metz’s left cheek was strapped in adhesive tape from eye to mouth. His bulbous forehead was wet. Art Kline came out of the bathroom in his shirt sleeves. He was swart and squat, a barrel of a man. His nose and right forearm were plastered. The door behind McFee closed. Steel prodded his kidneys.

“Don’t make any break, sap,” said whispering Monty Welch.

McFee answered, “I thought I put you lads on ice.”

“You bust Tony Starke’s neck,” Metz said.

Welch drove McFee forward. Metz stood up. The whites of his eyes showed. Art Kline shuffled across the room. He carried his hands as if they were paws. His eyes were fixed, reddish, minute.

Metz said, “Sit down.”

McFee stared at the empty chair. It had wide wings. The three closed in upon him.

“Sit down, McFee.”

The latter whirled quietly and crashed his right into Kline’s swart jaw. The blow made a dull chopping sound. Kline hit a sofa against the wall. If he’d had anything less than a horse shoe in his jaw he’d have stayed there, but as the other two jumped McFee he bounced up, shook his head, dived in. McFee took a beating before they slammed him down into the chair. He rocked a moment, then threw himself forward and up. They slammed him back.

Art Kline smashed him terrifically in the mouth. McFee fell against the back of the chair. Metz began to go swiftly, thoroughly, through his clothes.

He said harshly, “McFee, what you done with that Shelldon file? What we just handed you is pie crust to what you’ll get if you don’t play ball.”

“I haven’t got it,” McFee whispered.

Kline hit him again. McFee’s mouth became bloody. He sat very still.

Metz said, “What you holding out for, goat? This is Melrose’s town. You can’t buck Sam. Come through, or I’ll turn this coupla bear eaters loose.”

Sick and raging, McFee blurted, “You bat-eyed kite, d’you think I’d be sitting here if I had it? I’d be down at the Trib spilling a story to Roy Cruikshank that’d put you gophers in your holes.”

“Not if you were saving it until you thought you had enough to put the bell on Melrose.” Metz unfolded a handkerchief, wiped his wet forehead, said slowly, “McFee, you must have that file. And if you have it, you’re holding it with a notion of putting the bell on Sam. Nob’dy in this town’ll live long enough to do that— I mean it both ways. But Sam wants that indictment killed, election coming on. Ten grand, McFee?”

“Go paddle your drum.”

“Lemme work on him,” Art Kline said. An impediment in his speech gummed up his voice. “I owe him a couple for Tony.”

He went behind McFee’s chair. He laid his tremendous hands on the top of it, flexed his powerful fingers. Whispering Monty Welch sat on the right arm of the chair. His patent leather-shod diminutive feet swung clear of the floor. Welch placed a cigarette between his lips, ignited it with a gem-studded lighter.

McFee waited.

Metz said, “They got no use for dicks in heaven.”

McFee’s mouth twitched. There was sweat in his eyes, on his cheekbones. He suddenly threw himself out of the chair and at Metz. The latter smacked him lightly across the head with his gun. McFee wobbled, fell back.

Metz said, “I’m waiting.”

McFee did not answer. Welch dragged on his cigarette. The detached expression of his puckish face was unchanged as he held the red end a half inch from McFee’s cheek. McFee slowly lifted his head. Art Kline laughed and slapped adhesive tape over McFee’s mouth; then he caught McFee’s wrists and began to bend his arms over the back of the chair.

Metz said, “Blow your whistle when it’s plenty.”

McFee threw himself around in the chair, but the steam had gone out of him. Metz and Welch held his legs. Kline leaned heavily, enthusiastically, on his arms. A seam in McFee’s coat shoulder burst. His sinews cracked. His eyeballs came slowly out of their sockets.

Metz said, “Well?” anxiously.

McFee mumbled defiantly behind his taped lips.

“Funny about a guy’s arm,” Art Kline said.

To his downward pressure he added a side-wise motion. Welch drew his cigarette across McFee’s corded throat. McFee’s face turned green. His eyes rolled in a hot, white hate.

“This oughta do it,” Art Kline said.

Someone knocked at the door.

McFee fell sidewise in his chair, his arm limp. Welch squeezed out his cigarette. Metz held up a hand, his thin white face oddly disconcerted. The other two nodded slowly. The knocking set up a reverberation in the room.

A soprano voice said lazily, “This is Roy Cruikshank, McFee. Pete Hurley’s with me. The superintendent said you came in ten minutes ago. We are coming in with a pass key, if you don’t open up.” Placatingly, “Now be reasonable, Handsome—we got to get out the paper.” Pete Hurley added querulously, “I wanna talk to you about that wrecked sedan on Hawthorne. Open the door!”

McFee lifted his head. He clawed at his taped lips, raised up in his chair. Art Kline smacked him down again.

“One peep outta you—”

Metz’s agile eyes had been racing around the room. They jumped at Kline. “Cut that!” he said tersely. And then, in a loud voice, “I’m coming. We been in a little game.”

Metz’ eyes lighted on a tier of bookshelves. On the top shelf were some decks of cards and a box of poker chips. Beside the bookshelves stood a card table. Moving fast, Metz grabbed the table with one hand, cards and box of chips with the other. Monty Welch took them away from him.

“Set ‘em up,” Metz said.

In the kitchen on the sink were some glasses and a bottle of gin. Metz carried these into the living room. He placed them on the floor beside the card table, which Welch had set up in front of McFee’s chair. McFee stared at Metz ironically. Art Kline stood over him, bewildered. Metz carefully upset the card table, spilling chips and cards. He threw some money on the floor.

Outside, Hurley shouted, “McFee, I told you t’open the door!” and rattled the handle.

“Maybe he’s pulling his pants on,” Roy Cruikshank said patiently.

“Don’t get excited.” Metz spoke irritably. “I’m coming.” He ripped the tape off McFee’s lips. “Tell ‘em anything you please—it won’t stick. Not in this town, it won’t. We got all the alibis we need.” To the other two he said, “McFee and Art tangled over a pair of jacks, see? Art laid him out.”

Metz poured gin into a glass. He drank half of it, spilled the remainder on the carpet. He wiped his lips on a handkerchief and opened the door.

“Hello, Pete!” Metz said.

“Oh, it’s you!” Hurley’s bitter button eyes went tight in their sockets. He shoved past Metz, saying, “Where’s McFee?”

Roy Cruikshank tailed him into the living room. Cruikshank was a slouching pink lad in his thirties. He had an egg-shaped stomach, evangelical hands and cynical, indolent eyes.

“Party,” Cruikshank said lazily. “Well, well.”

Hurley’s hostile eyes made their calculations. Art Kline sat on the couch, nursing his jaw. Welch, leaning back in a chair near the table, squeezed five cards in his left hand, lighted a cigarette with his right. McFee’s face was a mess.

“What happened, Handsome?” Hurley muttered.

McFee smiled with bruised lips. “Ask Metz.”

“Art and McFee mixed over a pair of Jacks,” Metz said with annoyed distinctness. “McFee smacked Art. Art laid him out.”

“How long you been playing?”

“Half an hour.”

Hurley flared out, “The superintendent told Roy and me—”

“It don’t matter what the superintendent told you. McFee’s been here half an hour. Coupla days ago, out to the Shawl, McFee said, ‘Joe, why don’t you and the boys drop in for a session some time? If the missus and me are out you’ll find the key under the mat.’ There’s a lad for you! So we dropped in tonight—around two. We played rummy until McFee came.”

Hurley looked at Welch and Kline. “That right?”

“Check.”

“Me, too.” Kline rubbed his jaw. “That guy packs a cannon in his kick.”

Glinting amusement surfaced the dark violence in McFee’s eyes. Hurley put a cigarette in his mouth, jiggled it angrily. Reddening, he said, “You heard these boys, McFee?”

“Sure!” McFee answered. “Gimme a drink, some’dy.”

As Cruikshank handed McFee the glass a faint irritability stirred his cynical indolence. “Sure that’s all, McFee?”

“That’s all right now,” McFee answered deliberately.

But Hurley had a couple of kicks left. To Metz he said vehemently, “I want the how of this Gaiety business.”

“Some’dy phoned the Shawl,” Metz replied cautiously. “Who was it, Art?”

“I dunno.”

Metz waved his hand. “That’s how it is, Pete. Tough, though. Damon was a nice kid. And Melrose is going to be damn good and sore.”

Hurley suddenly became enraged. “You got your gall sitting there telling me—” He became inarticulate, his face a network of purple veins. “By God! This town—”

Metz asked quietly, “What you want to know, Pete?”

Hurley took out a handkerchief, wiped the palm of his hands, put it away. He said huskily, “I wanna know where you boys were between eleven and one.”

“I’ll tell you,” Metz said confidingly. “We were having a little supper in Sam Melrose’s rooms at the Shawl. Art, Monty, Tony, Max Beck, Fred Pope and me. Mabel Leclair put on a shimmy number. She left the Gaiety around eleven. One o’clock, Tony pulled out. He had a date. Art and Monty and me came here.” Metz added lazily, “Anything else, Pete?”

Hurley’s throat sounded dry as he said, “And that Leclair queen didn’t hand Ranee Damon five grand for the Shelldon file; and—”

“Why, Pete!”

“—You birds didn’t walk Damon away with a hole in his chest—”

Metz asked Welch and Kline seriously. “Either you boys got Damon in your pockets?” And then, “Who’s been giving you the run-around, Pete?”

Hurley glared at McFee. The latter said nothing. McFee’s eyes were hot and violent, but he smiled with his lips and Hurley pulled his own eyes back into his head.

“And you ain’t heard Tony Starke bust his neck in a smash on Hawthorne?”

“Gosh, no! How’d it happen?”

Hurley flared out disgustedly, “Mercy Hospital. He’ll live.”

Metz stood up. “We better go buy Tony a bouquet.” He put on his hat. He buttoned his waistcoat. Art Kline got into his coat and shook down his trousers. Monty Welch carefully smoothed down his hair. Metz smiled. “Well, I’ll be seeing you, McFee. We had a hot party.”

As they reached the door Hurley said sourly, “The vice detail raids the Shawl tonight. Slattery and his boys. Midnight.”

“Saturday’s a swell date to knock over a road-house doing our business—”

“We got to make a play, ain’t we? The Mayor’s coming.”

“Ohhh,” said Metz. “Hizoner. Well!”

They went away.

ROY CRUIKSHANK wrapped his evangelical hands around glassware and poured himself a drink. He set his hat on the back of his pink head. “Those lads were giving you the works, McFee?”

The latter jeered, “And why didn’t I tell Hurley about it?” He flexed his shoulder muscles, began to walk the floor. “Why didn’t I tell him those pansies tailed Mayo and me in that sedan to Hawthorne Street? Roy, I told Hurley plenty before I left the Gaiety.”

Hurley blew up. “I mighta called the wagon, sure. And Morry Lasker’d have had ‘em bailed out before I’d booked ‘em at the desk. If it had come to court—which ain’t likely—Metz and his lads’d have brought a sockful of alibis, and Lasker’d have given McFee the haw-haw for his tag-in-the-dark yarn. ‘Y’honor-gen’lemen-the-jury, the witness admits the only light in the theater was that of an electric torch. How could he positively have identified my clients—’ “ Hurley jiggled his cigarette. “The papers’d pan the cops and the D. A. for not making it stick. And me out airing my pants.”

The Tribune man crooned, “Now he’s getting sore.”

“What da you want for two hundred bucks a month? If I can crack the Melrose drag, fine. If I pull a dud I lose my badge. Lookit Frank Ward. Chased Melrose doing seventy and give him a ticket. Frank lost his job—and five kids.” Hurley jerked his hat over his eyes, stood up. “The Chief said to me, ‘Hurley, you’re a good copper. But don’t get too good.’ I ain’t going to.”

Hurley slammed the entrance door.

Putting a cigarette in the middle of his pink face, Roy Cruikshank said, “Hurley isn’t a bad guy.” He laughed from his belly up. “Tonight the vice detail raids Melrose’s Spanish Shawl. The Mayor goes along. Metz has rolled up the bar and there’s checkers in the gambling room. Hizoner drinks his lemonade and makes his little speech, entitled, Everything’s Rosy in Our Town. Some’dy ought to give us a new deal.”

McFee went into the bathroom. He swabbed his face with hot water, took a shower. He rubbed his shoulders with linament, got into clean pajamas, a bathrobe. He had a mouse under his left eye. His lips were bruised and broken. The hot violence still glinted on the surface of his eyes.

In the kitchen McFee prepared coffee, ham and eggs and flap-jacks; set the food on a tray with mess-gear. Cruikshank had righted the card table. He was dealing himself poker hands. “Boy!” said Cruikshank. They ate without talk, McFee believing in food first. Cruikshank was careless with his eggs. His neckties said so.

After they had cleaned up the tray, Cruikshank began to fool abstractedly with the cards. McFee suggested they cut for nickels. Cruikshank thought it a good idea until McFee had won around five dollars; then he muttered sourly, “I guess I’ve paid for my breakfast.”

McFee said abruptly, “Who’s the Trib backing for district attorney?”

“The Trib—” Cruikshank cut a ten-spade to McFee’s heart-queen. “What you got on those girls, damn your hide—” He shoved across a chip. “The Trib—oh, yeah. Why, Jim Hughes, I guess. Jim’s a good egg, and he’d give the county a break.”

“Jim isn’t bad,” McFee admitted, “but Luke Addams is better; Luke knows the political set-up. Jim’d have to learn too much.”

“Well, it don’t matter who the Trib backs. Melrose has written the ticket—Dietrich. The Mayor endorses Dietrich and it’s count ‘em and weep.”

McFee stacked chips. “Dietrich elected’ll throw the county Melrose.” He looked at Cruikshank, eyes cold. “That’ll give him the county, City Hall and police machines. Larrabee is soft, but he’s got church backing and while he’s D.A. he’s never been more than half Melrose’s man.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“I’ll tell you.” McFee spoke harshly. “If Melrose’s heels had kept their hands off me this morning, I’d have kept mine in my pants pocket. But they didn’t.” His words made a bitter, drumming sound. “So I’m out to give Melrose a ride.”

“On what?”

“The Damon murder.”

“You think he or his heels killed Damon?”

McFee said softly, “Can I make it look that way, you mean?”

“You got the City Hall hook-up to beat.”

McFee shuffled the cards. “Littner might buy a ticket,” he muttered. “Littner ought to be chief.” He added thoughtfully. “Littner’s going to be Chief.” And then, “Roy, could you swing the Trib to Luke Addams, if you wanted to?”

“Mebbe.” Cruikshank rubbed his plump hands on his fat thighs. “But I don’t guess I want to. Jim Hughes—”

“Swell!” said McFee. “Roy, you owe me five- ten. I’ll cut you for it against Luke Addams for D.A. Five-ten isn’t high for a district attorney.”

Cruikshank grinned. “Cut ‘em first.”

McFee turned up a four-diamond.

“If I don’t beat that—” Cruikshank exulted.

But his cut was a trey-heart.

“McFee, you lucky stiff, I got a hunch you’re going to slam this across.”

McFee said, “You owe me five-ten, Roy.” He poured a couple of drinks. “To Luke Addams, the next D.A.”

Cruikshank went away.

At his telephone McFee dialled Dresden 5216. He said, “Hello, Luke … McFee. Pin this in your hat: You are to be District Attorney …” Luke Addams laughed. So did McFee.

Then he hung up and went to bed.

McFee got up around twelve and stood under the shower. His eye was bad, his lips were puffy, but he felt better. As he dressed, the telephone rang.

Irene Mayo was calling.

McFee said, “Oh, pretty good … a couple of the boys dropped in. Nothing much …” And then, “How about some lunch, sister? … Cato’s. Half an hour … Right.”

McFee stopped at his office, in the Strauss Building and looked over the mail his secretary had laid on his desk. Out of a white envelope— five-and-ten stock—fell a triangular shaped scrap of drug store paper. On it, in crude characters, was printed:

Sam Melrose got the Shelldon file, you bet.

He’s going to work on it.

MR. INSIDE.

McFee stared at the note. “Well,” he said finally, and went out.

At Cato’s Irene Mayo waited in the booth McFee usually occupied. She wore a green felt beret, a string of pearls and a knitted green silk suit with white cuffs. Her eyes were smudgy, feverish in her taut face. She smiled, with a slow, subtle curving of her red lips.

McFee said, “Pretty nice.”

“Not very nice,” she answered. “Does your eye hurt?”

McFee grinned. “You ought to see the other lad … I suppose you had callers?”

She nodded. “Captain Littner and Mr. Hurley. They stayed about an hour, but I couldn’t tell them anything they didn’t know.”

The red-headed girl ordered a roast. McFee said he was on a diet and took turtle soup, planked steak with mushrooms and apple pie. They talked a while. The girl presently fetched an envelope out of her vanity bag.

“That came this morning,” she said.

The envelope was a replica of the one McFee had received. He took a swallow of coffee and shook a scrap of drug store paper out of the envelope. The crude printing on it was familiar.

You tell McFee Melrose got the Shelldon file at the Spanish Shawl.

MR. INSIDE.

The girl flared out, “Of course he’s got it. And that means he had Ranee shot. McFee—” She laid a cold hand on his, her eyes hot. “—I could kill Melrose—myself. It’s in me to do it. Ranee meant everything to me—I can’t tell you—”

McFee said, “The Governor’s lady.”

She turned white. She whipped up her fork as if she was going to throw it at him. After a long moment she said coldly, “You mean I didn’t love him—that I was just politically ambitious—”

“Oh, you loved him, sister.”

“McFee, you are horrid.” Tears started in her eyes. “But I don’t care what you think. He’d have got there. I could have made him. He had appeal—the public—”

“What about the Leclair woman?” McFee asked.

Irene Mayo answered stonily, “She didn’t count,” and made patterns on the table cloth with her fork. “I loved him, but—I shouldn’t have minded his blonde—much. A man is a man. Only the other thing really mattered—” The red-headed girl lifted her eyes to McFee’s. “I am exposing myself, McFee. I did want to be—the Governor’s lady. You’ll think me mercenary. I don’t care. I’d rather be that than dishonest. But Sam Melrose had to—” Her eyelids fell over the hate behind them, as she asked, “Who do you suppose ‘Mr. Inside’ is?”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Nothing makes sense.”

“What does he mean by that sentence in your note, ‘He’s going to work on it?’ “

“I been thinking about that,” McFee said. “If Melrose has that Shelldon file he could do one of two things with it: Burn it, or work it over. By work it over, I mean change, substitute, lose in part, cut out, then send the file back with its kick gone. But we still got a good one to answer—” McFee stirred his coffee. “If Melrose has the file, what’s he been chasing you and me all over the lot for?” He added after a moment. “The vice detail raids the Shawl tonight, by the way.”

This appeared to interest Irene Mayo tremendously, but she stared at McFee silently while he wiped mushroom gravy off his lips and buttered a biscuit. “You said the Shelldon scandal wasn’t big enough, in itself, to pull Melrose down, didn’t you?”

McFee nodded. “You know what happened, don’t you? Mike Shelldon was a big shot poker hound. Some’dy bumped him off in one of Melrose’s joints—Melrose, maybe—but there isn’t enough, if y’ask me.”

“Wouldn’t there be enough if it was definitely linked with the murder of Ranee?”

“Yes.”

“You just said the vice detail was going to raid the Shawl tonight. McFee—” She laid her hand on his. “—if Melrose has that file at the Shawl, and it should be found there— by the police—before witnesses—newspaper men—”

“Swell!” said McFee. “Some’dy’d have to do something then. But it isn’t going to be, sister—”

“You don’t know—” Her words came feverishly. “I’m not the sort of woman to sit down and wait. I can’t! I’ve got to do something myself. McFee, take me out to the Shawl tonight. It’s Saturday—there’ll be a crowd—”

“If Sam has that file out there, you don’t suppose it’s lying around loose—”

“Of course I don’t. But we might get a break. Things do break sometimes—unexpectedly. He knows what a gun is for, doesn’t he?” she said, a little wildly. “He threatened us—we can threaten him—and if the police and some newspaper men are there—” She stared at McFee. She was very pale. She held her napkin in a ball between her clasped hands. “Not afraid, are you?”

McFee had finished his apple pie, sugared his second coffee.

“Got a hunch?”

“Yes.”

“Well—” His eyes were amused. “Wrap yourself around that food and I’ll give you a bell tonight.”

“McFee, you are a darling!”

“That’s better than being Governor,” he said.

After he had taken Irene Mayo to her car, McFee walked back along Third, turned down Carter. Some people were staring vacantly at the Gaiety Theater. A sign in the lobby said; HOUSE CLOSED TODAY. Across the exit alley hung a theater ladder. A cop on guard said, “Hello, McFee.”

“Dirty job,” McFee replied. He noticed that Maggie O’Day’s hole-in-the-wall was shuttered. “That’s funny,” he muttered. “What happened to O’Day?”

“Search me,” the cop said. “I been around Second and Carter twenty years and I never seen that old girl shut up before.”

Rolling a match in his ear, McFee went down Second. He walked seven blocks and turned west on Finch, a street of ramshackle detached houses. Finch had been red light once; now it was coloured. McFee stopped in front of a tall house with a crazy porch and a triangular wooden block at the curb. A pickaninny thumbed his nose at McFee.

McFee went along a broken cement walk to a drab side door. Two sloping boards with grooves in them led from the broken walk up to the door sill. McFee knocked. No one came. He was about to knock again when he sniffed the air. His eyes ran down the door. Folded newspaper showed between door bottom and sill. A keyhole was blocked. Moving fast, McFee pinched out his cigarette, picked up a piece of cement and shattered the window with it. He rammed the door with his shoulder. Lock and bolt gave and he fell into the room. A wave of combustible gas forced him back into the open, gagging.

A fat coloured woman with a red handkerchief on her hair came up, running. She screamed.

McFee said, “Shut up. Go telephone the coppers.” The harsh fury in his tones spun her around, goggle-eyed.

McFee drew air deep down into his lungs and plunged into the gas-filled room. He shot up a window, hung his head outside, refilled his lungs. Facing inside he saw a gas heater, its cock wide open. Three cocks of a gas plate in one corner of the room were open. He shut off the gas flow and refreshed himself again.

Maggie O’Day lay in the middle of the floor. She lay on her side. Close against her was the wheel chair she had rolled herself home in for twenty years or more. But the last time she had come home she had come on her crutches.

Ranee Damon’s body was in the chair.

A rug tucked him into it. The five grand was still in his left hand. His right hung over the side of the chair, clutched in one of Maggie O’Day’s weather-beaten bony ones.

McFee bent over the woman. He felt at her heart, lifted an eyelid. “Tough,” he muttered. He went to the door and filled his lungs.

There were some rag rugs, a day bed, a couple of rocking chairs with antimacassars, a table, some framed pictures; near the gasplate was a wall cabinet. A door that led into the wall had been made tight with newspapers. Sheets of newspaper littered the floor.

A photograph of a large, fleshy, pallid man, still in his thirties, but already gross with high living, lay on the table. It was faded, had been taken perhaps thirty years before. The print had been torn in three, then carefully pieced together with adhesive tape.

McFee muttered, “The late Senator Gay-lord.” He chewed a knuckle, stared at the photograph, then looked at Damon and the woman. He said moodily, “Poor old girl!”

A bruise discoloured Maggie O’Day’s left temple. One of her crutches lay on the floor, behind the wheel chair. McFee saw something else then. He saw a red smear some two inches long on a sheet of newspaper on the floor in front of the wheel chair. He picked up the sheet, his eyes fixed and cold.

The smear was crimson grease paint.

McFee inspected Damon’s shoes, the old woman’s shoes. Neither pair was daubed with grease paint.

Very softly McFee said, “Pretty!”

A couple of coppers came. An assistant coroner, named Ridley, came.

Presently, Ridley said, “The old girl’s been dead quite a while—ten or twelve hours. She cracked her head when she fell. It must have knocked her cold.”

“Maybe some’dy cracked her first,” McFee said.

“You mean, somebody else turned on the gas?”

A COUPLE OF hours later, McFee talked with Captain Littner, Chief of the Homicide Squad, in Littner’s office, in police headquarters on Greer Street. Littner was a lean hairless man with an oval head and bleak eyes as clear as cold water. He had a political, a cautious mind.

“O’Day had a son,” Littner said. “Some thirty years ago. But nobody knew—I mean, nobody was sure—what became of him. There was a lot of talk. Gaylord—” Littner rubbed his chin, looked at McFee.

“Sure,” said McFee. “Gaylord. And now we got Melrose. You talked with Leclair yet?”

“Yes.”

“Did she mention alibis?”

“Nine of them.”

“Where’d you see her?”

“Melrose brought her in. He said he left the Scudder yacht late this morning.” Littner was amused. “He guessed we better close the Gaiety awhile. And anyhow, Leclair was opening a dance act at the Spanish Shawl tonight. He guessed he owed Leclair a statement to the police—oh, beans!” said Captain Littner gently. “What a town!”

“You ought to be Chief, Littner,” McFee said.

“Yes,” Littner answered carefully. “We traced that .32—the one killed Damon. It belonged to Joe Metz.”

McFee exclaimed, “Now, you don’t tell me!”

“Joe said he hadn’t much use of a .32 and he sold it to Damon in the Press Club, couple of weeks ago. Ranee wanted it for someone, Joe said. Joe’s got all the witnesses he needs—Carl Reder, Fred Pope, Wade Fiske. They say they saw Damon buy the gun, take it from Metz. Damon paid him fifteen dollars—” Littner smiled coldly. “Maybe he did.”

McFee said abstractedly, “Maybe he did, at that.” And then, “What do you think of this notion Damon’s murderer bumped off O’Day because the old girl saw him leave the Gaiety?”

“We have that smear of grease paint.”

“Grease paint isn’t easy to clean up,” McFee said, thoughtfully. “If it’s on cloth—any sort of fabric, I guess—it isn’t. Now if I’d killed some’dy and stepped in a mess of grease paint, I’d throw my shoes away.”

“Where’d you throw ‘em, McFee?”

“Well, I might throw ‘em in some’dy’s trash barrel. How’s that?”

“Not bad.” Littner made a note on a memorandum pad. “I’ll put a detail on trash collection.” He pulled his long jaw down. “McFee,” he asked, “what about that red-headed girl?”

“Nice little number.” McFee stood his hat on the back of his head. “A go-getter, and no better than she ought to be, maybe. Littner, if Leclair had dropped instead of Damon, I’d say Mayo could have done it. But she wanted Damon; she had a notion she could make him governor. Mayo wouldn’t have shot Damon.” Littner nodded, and McFee proceeded. “I got another idea. The vice detail’s going to knock over the Shawl tonight—twelve p.m. Melrose’ll be there— Metz, Leclair. The Mayor’s billed to tell a bedtime story. How about it, Mr. Littner?”

Captain Littner said, “Beans!” He opened a cupboard in his desk. “What’ll you have, McFee?”

“Rye,” said McFee. “The trouble with you, Littner, is you don’t wisecrack ‘em enough. Lookit the Chief now—” He took the glass Littner handed him, pushed his forehead up, pulled it down. “Littner,” he asked again, “how’d you like to be Chief?”

“The pay’s good.”

“You’d need plenty drag.”

“Yes.” Littner stared at McFee with a flicker of warmth in his eyes. “Yes, I’d need plenty of drag.”

“Luke Addams is going to be District Attorney,” McFee said. “We got to elect Luke first.”

“Luke’d be a big help,” Littner admitted.

McFee leaned close again. “Here’s a question: If that Shelldon file should happen to be found in the Spanish Shawl tonight, what’d the Shelldon-Damon tie-up do to the Melrose organization?”

“Everything,” Littner answered drily. “But it won’t be.”

McFee handed Littner the “Mr. Inside” notes. He told him where he’d got them and watched Littner over the end of his cigarette.

Littner said carefully, “Maybe I’ll drop in at the Shawl around twelve.” And then, “Help yourself.”

“Thanks,” said McFee.

It was five o’clock. McFee’s car was in a garage on Fourth. He walked up to Carter, crossed Second. The cop was still on duty in the Gaiety alley. One of the lobby doors of the theater was open. A man with wide ears and a thick neck came out.

McFee said, “Hello, Harrigan.”

“A swell dish you canaries handed me last night,” the house manager said sourly.

“Lookit the publicity,” McFee told him.

“What the hell! You pull a murder on me and the coppers close the house. I could have sold out at two bucks a seat if they’d give me a break.”

“Why’n’t you talk to Melrose?”

Harrigan muttered uneasily and put a cigar in his mouth. “Guess it ain’t my picnic.” McFee followed him towards the door and Harrigan said, “The show’s closed, mister.”

“There’s a couple of points I want to check up.”

“Go read a book.”

McFee said, “There ought to be money in this for the house. If I give you a slant on what happened you ought to be able to hang an act on it when the coppers give you the go-sign. It’d sell big.”

Harrigan looked at the end of his cigar. “A guy’s gotta be careful,” he mumbled; and then, “All right.”

The backstage was dark. In Leclair’s room, McFee turned on a wall bracket lamp. Light flowed out into the backstage. The couch stood against the wall. McFee stared at the crosses Hurley had chalked on the floor.

“Leclair was standing farthest from wall and couch,” McFee muttered. “Damon was close against the couch—”

Harrigan cut in obliquely, “Leclair was out to the Shawl when Damon—if it was Damon— rubbed out.”

“Oh, sure,” McFee said solemnly. “Joe Metz and the boys said so. It was just a couple of ghosts I saw. Well, Mr. and Mrs. X, then. Mr. X flopped into Mrs. X’s arms. They went down. Got a ball of string, Harrigan?”

The latter found string.

“Stand here,” McFee said, and Harrigan set his No. 10’s on the Mr. X cross. “Hold this against your chest.”

McFee gave Harrigan the loose end of the string. Unrolling the ball as he went, he walked some twenty feet into the backstage, stopped and held the ball of string chest high. He stood on the south edge of the lane of light. The darkness of the backstage partly concealed him.

“The bullet must have traveled pretty well along the line of the string,” McFee said. He added drily, “If there was any bullet—”

Slackening the line, McFee inspected a shallow horizontal groove, about an inch long, in the door jamb. The string had been level with the groove and about six inches to the right of it. McFee stared hard at the groove, twirled a match in his ear.

Backing up again, McFee said, “Put your dogs on the other cross.”

Harrigan did so and the string grazed the groove. McFee said, “Swell!” and threw the ball at Harrigan. “Buy yourself a drink on me.”

“Hey, wait a minute, fellah,” Harrigan yelled. “You got me on by toes. What’s the rest of it?”

McFee said, “Read it in the papers,” and went out.

At Cato’s, McFee ordered a Porterhouse steak smothered in onions. After his third coffee, he drove to his apartment. It was now eight o’clock. He looked up Irene Mayo’s number and dialled Spring 2341. There was no response. McFee waited a little, then hung up.

He walked around the room, glaring at the Evening Tribune. The Trib said two killings in twenty-four hours was plenty and something ought to be done. McFee made a ball of the sheet. He carried the breakfast tray in to the kitchen. He put away the card table and poured himself a drink. He tried Irene Mayo’s number again. No good.

McFee took a shower and got into his dinner clothes. He had wrecked four black ties when his telephone rang.

“Hello,” McFee said. No one answered. “Hello, there—McFee talking.”

He heard voices, vaguely familiar, but detached and distant and apparently not addressed to him. He embedded his ear in the receiver and waited, a fixed, hot look in his eyes.

The indistinct muttering continued until a voice suddenly cried, “You can’t keep me here! I know where we are. We are in a house on Butte Street—I saw the name—Butte Street. Butte Street!”

It was Irene Mayo’s voice that had ended on that desperate shrill note. Her voice had been thin and distant, but clear. McFee heard that muttering again.

And then, hysterically, “Don’t touch me! I haven’t got it—McFee—” A man laughed. A woman laughed.

McFee waited. His forehead was wet. He wiped it with a handkerchief. Gently replaced the receiver, and stood up. At his desk, McFee looked at a city map. He put a gun in his jacket pocket, and went down into the street.

As he got into his car, McFee said softly, “A house on Butte Street.”

MCFEE DROVE towards the foothills that threw a possessive arm around the town, on the north. Here the streets went up and down like stair carpets and lost themselves in tangles of oaks and eucalypti. This neighbourhood had been built up years before, then forgotten while the town grew westward. Most of the residences were scattered, set in small acreage, and exclusively hedged about. Street lights were few.

Butte, a tag-end street, one block long, ended in a canyon. McFee drove up, then down the street. There were only three houses on it. Two were dark. The third, at the end of the street, was a secretive-looking, one-story, rambling, redwood place. A cypress hedge enclosed the grounds. A side window glowed.

McFee left his car at the corner, across the road from the street lamp, and walked back.

He went up a cinder driveway, saw a garage, half filled by a dark-coloured sedan. The lighted side window shone dimly in the black expanse of house and mantling trees. Curtains screened the windows. McFee could not see into the room, but he heard voices.

He heard Joe Metz’ voice. He heard Joe Metz say, “Sister, we just begun to work on you—”

McFee found the back door locked. The house was built on the slope of the canyon. He saw a basement window on his left, below the level on which he stood. The light was on the other side of the house; the wind made a melancholy rustling in the trees. He came to a decision. Holding his soft felt hat against one of the small square panes of the cellar window, he struck the felt sharply with the nose of his gun. The brittle glass broke with a tinkling sound.

His arm inside the window, McFee found the hook. The window swung upward on hinges. McFee threw the beam of his flash inside the cellar room, let himself down into it. He saw a stair, went quietly up it, came to a door. It opened when he turned the handle and pushed against it. He left his shoes on the top step.

McFee found himself in a dark, square hall, redwood timbered. He heard voices, saw an open door with light somewhere beyond it. Through the door he entered a living room with a huge stone fireplace. The light and the voices came from a partly opened door, opposite the one through which he had just come.

As McFee approached this door, Monty Welch whispered, “Lemme at her, Joe—”

This room was the library. McFee saw Mabel Leclair in a black velvet gown, curled up on a divan, eating chocolates. Metz and Welch were bent over an arm chair in which Irene Mayo strained away from them in an attitude of terror. Joe Metz held her by the arm. Her eyes were enormous, frantic. She whimpered faintly. Her lips were taped. Welch burned a cigarette.

McFee said, “Quit that, Joe.”

Monty Welch must have heard McFee first. He spun on his heel, white violence bursting through his professional calm. As McFee said “Joe,” Welch fired from the pocket of his dinner jacket. He fired again, lurching toward McFee. The latter aimed, let go. Welch’s shoulder bunched up, he screamed and went down. He threshed about, buried his face in the carpet.

Metz stood erect, his hands at his sides. McFee went towards him. Metz did not move or speak. His bulbous forehead gleamed. His lip muscles twitched. McFee took a long stride, a short one, and struck Metz a terrible blow in the mouth. It made a crunching sound and Metz hit the carpet. McFee pulled the adhesive tape from Irene Mayo’s lips.

“McFee—” the red-headed girl sobbed. She rocked in the chair, began to rub her wrists.

“Sure,” McFee said. “Take it easy.”

Welch dragged himself across the floor. McFee toed his gun under the divan. Metz lay groaning. His mouth and the plaster strap on his cheek were a crimson mess. He held a handkerchief against it. Suddenly, he jerked out an automatic. McFee’s unshod toe caught his wrist before he could fire. The gun shattered the glass front of a bookcase. McFee raised Metz by his lapels and flung him onto the divan, alongside Mabel Leclair. The Leclair woman screamed and covered her face.

McFee searched all three of them for other weapons, found none.

“What give you the notion Miss Mayo had the Shelldon file, Joe?”

Metz blotted his wet lips, whispered, “She knows where it is—you, too—one of you—”

McFee cut in softly, “The gun killed Damon was yours, Joe.”

“I sold it to Damon.” Metz’ bruised lips distorted his speech. “The boys saw me hand it him. I told Littner—”

“How about Damon handing it to Leclair?”

The blonde woman opened her mouth, but as McFee looked at her she closed it again with a gasping sound. McFee proceeded. “You went to Miss Mayo’s apartment, I suppose. That’s kidnapping. We’ll give Littner a bell.”

The telephone stood on the table. McFee backed towards it. Metz stared after him, his eyes haggard above the red-spotted handkerchief against his lips. The blonde woman wept. Holding his shoulder, Monty Welch struggled to a sitting position, his lips gray.

The telephone was a dial instrument. Several magazines had been inserted under the receiver, so that while the receiver was on the hook, the hook was up. McFee laughed a little and looked at the red-headed girl. She nodded, her eyes hot with hate. As McFee seized the telephone, she got control of herself and caught his arm.

“What’s on your mind, sister?”

“McFee, it’s our turn now.” She spoke feverishly. “These people aren’t important. Mel-rose—Sam Melrose is. He’s at the Shawl. The Leclair woman is opening a dance act there tonight. Well, she isn’t—”

“What’s that?”

Irene Mayo said deliberately, “Metz is going to phone Melrose that Leclair is too ill to appear. Shock—anything! And he’s going to tell Melrose her red-headed friend, Zella Vasquez, is on her way out to take Leclair’s place. Melrose— no one at the Spanish Shawl has seen me. If Metz telephones Melrose I’m coming he’ll accept me as Leclair’s friend. Why shouldn’t he?” Irene Mayo hammered on the table. “McFee, you’ve got to make Metz telephone him—”

“Swell!” McFee said.

“I won’t!” Metz shouted thickly. “By God, if you lay a hand on me—”

McFee jerked him up and shook him into a shivering silence. He walked him backwards, slammed him down beside the table.

He said, “Metz, since half-past one this morning, you’ve been rocking the cradle. It’s my turn now. Do as I tell you, or I’ll spatter you over that wall. Grab that phone and tell Melrose Leclair is sick. Tell him Zella Vasquez, her redheaded side kick, is on her way out. And make it stick!”

Metz’ Adam’s apple ran up and down his throat. He rubbed his wet palms together, pulled the telephone towards him. He dialled Thorn 99238. He had to do it twice and then, huskily, “Mr. Melrose—tell him Metz calling.”

McFee stuck his gun into the back of Metz’ neck. He didn’t say anything. Melrose helloed, and Metz began a pretty good job of doing as he had been told. When he weakened, McFee leaned on his gun and Metz picked up again. Melrose put some question about Zella Vasquez.

Metz answered carefully, “I dunno, Sam. Leclair says she’s good—that oughta be plenty—” The blonde woman made blasphemous noises but subsided when McFee looked at her. Metz proceeded, “She’s on her way, Sam …” Metz hung up. “What Melrose won’t do to you for this, mister—”

McFee gave Irene Mayo his gun, said, “Watch him,” and cut out a length of the telephone cord. He bound Metz’ hands and corded them to the straight back of the chair in which he sat. Metz did not resist. His ankles McFee fastened to the legs of the chair with Metz’ belt and a couple of handkerchiefs. Metz dripped sweat but said nothing. At the back of the house McFee found some clothesline. He sat Monty Welch on another straight backed chair and roped him to it. Welch had fainted. McFee slammed a third chair down in front of Mabel Leclair.

She screamed, “You ain’t going to tie me up-”

McFee cut in, “I’ll forget you’re a lady, if you don’t sit in that chair.”

“Forget it anyhow,” Irene Mayo said hotly.

As McFee was tying up the Leclair woman, she flared out, “Sam Melrose thinks you redheaded Shebas are particular arsenic.”

“He’s going to change his mind.”

“You couldn’t hold Ranee Damon.”

Vivid spots of colour on her cheek bones, Irene Mayo slapped the blonde woman hard across the mouth, rocking her head backwards. Mabel Leclair went pale under her make-up, became inarticulate. The red-headed girl was throwing up the gun when McFee said, “That’s plenty, sister.”

McFee found a roll of adhesive tape on the table. He taped the lips of his prisoners. Metz he dragged into the hall, on the heels of his chair, and tumbled into a clothes closet. The door locked, he threw the key into the cellar and put on his shoes, he locked Monty Welch in the pantry; left Mabel Leclair in the library.

Irene Mayo said, “You do a good job, McFee.”

He nodded. “That telephone stunt was slick.”

She shuddered. “I was afraid you were out. They were getting some drinks. I knew it was the only chance— They thought I was shouting at them.”

McFee stared at her. He said slowly, “Think you can put over that Zella Vasquez number?”

She smiled. “I’ve known lots of men, McFee.”

“What you think you’re going to get out of it?”

“I told you at lunch. If Melrose has that Shell-don file—if I should find it—or the police—You said they were raiding the Shawl—” She clasped her hands, whispered huskily, “Perhaps I’m a fool, but I can’t help it. I can’t help feeling something’s going to break—”

McFee muttered, “Let’s get at it, then.”

A clock in the hall showed nine-five as they went out.

They walked down Butte Street to McFee’s car.

“I want to go home first,” the girl said.

McFee smiled one-sidedly, answered, “Right.”

At Irene Mayo’s apartment, McFee poured himself a drink. He took the glass over to the telephone and called Roy Cruikshank, at the Tribune office, then Littner at headquarters. Ringing off, he pushed his face up and set his glass down. Near the telephone stood a portable typewriter. McFee took a chair and slid paper under the roller. He wrote for about ten minutes, then read what he had written, and put the paper inside his jacket pocket.

Irene Mayo came prancing out of the bedroom. She wore a green silk blouse, a blue velvet bolero, a frothy red skirt and a green sash. She looked like a red-headed Carmen. Snapping her fingers, she fell into McFee’s arms. Her green eyes were veiled and humid.

McFee said, “Very nice,” and kissed her. “If Melrose don’t fall, I’ll go peddling fleas to a dog circus.”

It was nine-fifty. McFee drove fast. They took one of the beach boulevards, followed it a while, and turned north. Presently they made a west turn, then a northwest turn into a dirt road that ended in a grove of cypress trees. The trees were on a bluff high above a crashing beach, and garlands of red, green and blue lights hung against them. Crooked in the bright arm of the trees was a sprawling, dark-shingled building with gemlike windows. A horde of cars stood around. Music throbbed. People churned in a splatter of sound and colour.

Irene Mayo said, “I’ll go in alone. You come back later—” She added lightly, “If you care to.”

McFee laughed and let her out. She ran under a canopy of coloured lights and vanished through a door. An attendant ran towards McFee’s car, but McFee reversed and roared down the road. At the intersection he parked long enough to smoke a couple of cigarettes before he put the car around.

He entered the Spanish Shawl at eleven-five.

AT ONE END of the rowdy cafe floor a six-piece coloured orchestra—Dutch Louie and his Pals— peddled hot music. The ebony lads looked livid and wet in the overhead yellow lights. A good crowd danced about. The closely regimented tables made a horseshoe about the patch of shining floor. Most of them were taken but Leo Ganns, the head waiter, found McFee one at the lower end of the room.

He ordered broiled lobster and coffee.

The music stopped and the floor emptied. McFee touched a match to a cigarette. The air was heavy with smoke and the odors of food. Some liquor was flowing. Two girls near McFee sat lopsided and very still. Dutch Louie began to shout through a megaphone in his mellow drawl. He ballyhooed one Zella Vasquez, red-headed Spanish dancer, who stood ‘em on their ears in Havana, Cuba. “Yessir, ladies and gem’men, an’ if you don’t think she’s got something you jest gotta have—”

Irene Mayo whirled onto the floor in her Spanish costume. Behind her came a dark, slick-looking number from the Argentine or Chicago, maybe. They did a fox trot, the ebony boys wailing “My Baby’s a Red-head-too.” After that, a tango. Then Irene Mayo went solo and turned in a sweet la jota Aragonese. As she frothed past McFee, her eyes bright with fever, rested on him without recognition. She threw herself into the dark number’s arms, and the crowd stamped. They did another tango. McFee dug into his lobster. The crowd howled for more and got the hat dance.

Sam Melrose came smiling onto the floor. He was an olive-skinned man with an uneven mouth and grizzled hair parted in the middle. His face was old, his forehead was corded by deep lines that never smoothed out. He was thirty-eight.

The hat dance finished, Irene Mayo pin-wheeled towards Melrose. He caught her in his arms, kissed her, and whirled her off through a door. The house yelled its throat dry, but the red-headed girl did not return. The slick-looking number took the bows.

McFee said, “Not bad,” and finished his coffee.

McFee strolled through a door which opened into a red-carpeted hall, pushed through a door in the wall opposite and joined half a dozen men drinking at a bar. The bar was a swivel arrangement that could be swung into the hall behind it on a couple of minutes’ notice.

The barkeep said, “What’ll you have, McFee?”

“Straight.” As the barkeep set up his goods, McFee asked, “Comp’ny tonight, Ed?”

“I dunno,” the man muttered.

McFee walked into the gaming room, which adjoined the bar. Roulette, black jack and craps were running. There were no windows in the room. The only entrance to it was from the bar. The games were at the lower end of the room, and it was possible to swing a false wall across the tables as quickly as the bar could be made to vanish. The device was superficial, but all the roadhouse ever had needed. Some twenty or thirty people were playing, their voices feverish and blurred. Now and then a word pattern emerged. “You pick ‘em—we pay ‘em … Get your money down … Six … point is six … twenty-one … throws a nine. Take your money …”

Art Kline stood near the crap dealer. He looked at McFee, flexed his shoulder muscles, looked away. It was twenty minutes of midnight.

Walking into the hall, McFee glanced down it to where Melrose had his rooms. A woman’s voice lifted hysterically for an instant above the harsh overtones of the Shawl. Art Kline stuck his head into the hall. When he saw McFee, he pulled it back. McFee smiled coldly, waited a minute, then went past the bar to a side door.

It was light outside. He walked to the rear of the building. Here it was dark. Trees threw tall shadows. Light came from a curtained window behind some shrubbery. McFee glanced around, then pushed through the shrubbery. It plucked at his face and throat. The window curtains did not quite meet and he was able to see into the room. He saw a soft, intimate room and a floor with a yellow parchment shade. Irene Mayo reclined in a plush upholstered chair beneath the lamp. Sam Melrose sat on an arm of the chair.

The red-headed girl laughed provocatively. Melrose bent towards her. She pushed him away, her fingers on his lips. They talked a while, Melrose leaning attentively over the girl. McFee heard her slightly hysterical laugh and Melrose’s bleak chuckle, but Dutch Louie and His Pals drowned out their conversation.

The room had three doors. One led into the hall, another opened into a small washroom, the third gave entrance from the business office. A red carpet covered the floor. An ornate flat-topped desk stood in one corner, a chair behind it, a cloak tree beside it. On the desk was a wire letter basket.

Melrose got up and went into the business office, closing the door behind him. Irene Mayo came sharply forward onto her feet. She stared at the closed door, an obsessed look on her face. She ran swiftly towards the ornate desk, bent over the wire basket. McFee saw a flat manila envelope in her hand, and muttered, “Swell!”

Someone behind him said, “We got you covered, McFee.”

MCFEE TURNED SLOWLY, his palms tight against his thighs. Three men in dinner jackets stood on the other side of the shrubbery, guns in their hands. One of them was Art Kline. An ascetic-looking man with disillusioned eyes and a plume of gray hair on his white forehead had addressed McFee. This was Fred Pope, who ran the Red Jacket, a Melrose enterprise.

Their faces gleamed a little. Their shirt fronts stood up like slabs of stone.

Fred Pope said, “Sam wants to talk to you, McFee.”

“I had a notion he might.”

“Come outta that.”

McFee stepped into the triangular huddle the three men had made of their bodies. They took his gun away from him.

“Straight ahead,” Pope said. “No monkey business.”

A private door gave them access to the business office. There were comfortable chairs, a couple of mahogany desks, safe, telephone, and a filing cabinet. A desk lamp was lighted. The hall door opened and Sam Melrose entered, a cobwebby bottle in his hands.

When he saw McFee the lines that corded his forehead tightened until they looked like wires embedded in his skull. He set the bottle down, came towards McFee with quiet, quick steps. Fred Pope laughed, dropped into a chair. Kline and the other man laid their backs against the outer wall.

An electric clock on the filing cabinet indicated seven minutes of twelve.

Sam Melrose said, “McFee, I want that Grand Jury Shelldon file.”

“Don’t be a sap.”

“What do you mean?”

“You got it already, Sam.”

“McFee, you been handing my boys that line ever since they ran you down in the Gaiety this morning. I’m damn good and sick of it.” Melrose’s flat-surfaced eyes distended coldly. “But I’ll give you a break. You shoved your nose into my business—got what I paid money for. All right—come through with that file and we quit even. You walk outta here. You go home. You forget everything you figured on remembering. And you let my business alone after this. When I get this town like I want it I’ll throw some sugar your way. Where you put that file?”

McFee smiled, felt for a cigarette, put it in his mouth. He flipped a match at it. Anger puffed across Melrose’s eyes, subsided. The two hard-faced men started forward, but fell back at Melrose’s gesture.

The clock showed four minutes of twelve.

McFee said, “Lemme see, there’s a murder tied up with that Shelldon blow-off, isn’t there, Sam?”

“I can beat it.”

“What’s the idea, then?”

“It looks bad, election coming on. I want it outta the way.”

“Wait a minute, Sam. You got Leclair to make a deal with Damon. Damon is dead. His mother is dead. And the old lady didn’t turn on the gas—” McFee paused, considered the other indulgently. “Can you beat all that, Sam?”

Melrose cut in harshly, “My boys didn’t rub out Damon and his mother.”

“Well, you oughta know. If that Shelldon file don’t turn up at the wrong time, maybe the tax-payers’ll believe you. It’s funny what taxpayers’ll believe. But the Damon-O’Day murders and the Shelldon racket’d make a bad combination.” McFee laughed. “That Shelldon file’s getting pretty important, Sam.”

Melrose said, “Ten grand, McFee?”

“I haven’t got it.”

“Listen, mister—” The lines that corded Melrose’s frontal bone deepened again. “I dunno what you playing for, but if it’s to put the bell on me you got the wrong cat by the tail. I’m running this town. I’m gonna keep on running it. Nob’dy can get to first base unless I say so. McFee—” he prodded the latter in the chest, “—I want that Shelldon file. If you don’t come across my boys’ll walk you out and leave you some place.”

The clock said one minute of twelve.

Dragging on his cigarette, McFee muttered, “Well, I dunno—”

The telephone rang.

Melrose picked it up. He did not remove his eyes from McFee, as he said, “Melrose talking.” … And then, “Yes, Joe … Yes, what’s that? … McFee—That red-head—His sidekick—But you phoned—What? … A frame-up— … You dunno …” Melrose’s violent eyes impaled McFee. The latter stood stiffly, sweat on his temples. Melrose said coldly, “I got both of ’em here—Oh, McFee’ll talk—”

Comprehendingly, Art Kline, Fred Pope and the other man crowded McFee. As Melrose rang off, he said, “Watch McFee!” and jumped toward his private room, jerked the door open. His eyes were hot when he faced around. “She musta heard—Fred, that redhead’s the Mayo woman. McFee brought her—a frame—Bring her back.”

As Fred Pope went away, Melrose said quietly, “What’s back of this Mayo woman coming here?”

“Some’dy’s been kidding you, Sam.”

“You gonna talk?”

“Nothing to talk about.”

“Lemme work on him a while, Boss,” Art Kline said.

It was two minutes after twelve.

McFee shook the sweat out of his eyes. Dutch Louie and His Pals were tearing a staccato jazz out of their horns. The music swelled, filled the house with crashing sound. But McFee could hear the ticking of his watch, the pounding of his heart.

“Listen to the music, Sam,” he said.

Melrose shouted, “By God, McFee, if you won’t talk my boys’ll burn it out of your toes—”

McFee struck him in the mouth. As Melrose went backwards, Kline and the other men jumped in. They milled for a minute. McFee got home four or five good ones, but he was taking a beating when the music stopped. The house became completely quiet.

A police whistle shrilled out in the cafe room.

Melrose ejaculated, “The coppers! I forgot—” And then, “I’ll fix those birds—” He checked himself, said less positively, “Art, you stay here—”

McFee cut in softly, “You can’t do it.” Melrose glared at him, dabbed a cut lip with a handkerchief. “Sam, you are in a spot. Littner and Cruikshank are out there. You didn’t s’pose I’d walk in here without having my tail covered? I told Littner to look for me.”

“Lotta good that’ll do you,” Melrose said harshly. To his men, “Take McFee down the beach—the shack. Keep him there till I come.”

Art Kline stood behind McFee. “Get going, sap,” he said, in his gummed-up voice, and shoved metal into McFee’s back.

As McFee moved towards the side door, Littner entered.

Melrose’s eyes turned white. Kline and the other man stared at him, slid their guns away. Littner looked around with his cold water eyes, rubbed his long jaw.

“Hello, McFee,” he said. “Sam.”

“Littner,” McFee said.

“Argument?”

“No,” McFee answered. “Sam bit his lip. He was just going to open a bottle of bubbly.” McFee walked to the desk, picked up the bottle Melrose had placed there. It was moist and cold. “Seventy-six. Elegant.” He turned to Melrose. “Got a glass for Littner, Sam?”

Melrose stared at McFee, his flat eyes inflamed. He did not speak. A flood of sound, shot through with panic, filled the house. Women screamed, glassware shattered. Melrose wiped his mouth, felt at his throat, pulled in a long breath. Then he sullenly crossed to the filing cabinet and took three glasses, a corkscrew and a napkin out of the bottom drawer. McFee ceremoniously handed him the bottle. Melrose wiped the top of the bottle, wrapped the napkin around it. The cork popped. Melrose poured unsteadily.

McFee said, “To the next District Attorney.”

They drank.

Blood from Melrose’s cut lip turned the “seventy-six” pink. He muttered blasphemously, held the napkin against his mouth. McFee hung his arm over Melrose’s shoulders. A white heat played across the flat surfaces of Melrose’s eyes.

McFee asked, “You got the Mayor out there, Littner?”

“Yes.”

“Buy him a lemonade before you bring him in. Sam and I got business to do.” McFee slapped Melrose’s shoulder affectionately. “Five minutes, Littner.”

McFee linked his arm in Melrose’s. Melrose resisted him a moment, then let the other lead him towards the door of the inner room. Littner’s eyes followed them, faintly ironical. Art Kline and his companion glared angry bewilderment.

At the door, McFee said softly, “Tell your boys this is private, Sam.”

Melrose muttered, “That stands.”

McFee looked at Littner. “Maybe you better stick close. Some’dy might take a notion.” Littner nodded.

McFee shut the door.

Melrose’s face was yellow and wet. “What’s your proposition?”

THE ROOM had a secretive intimacy that affronted the uncomplicated McFee, but he marched his somber eyes around it. The washroom door stood ajar. It had been shut when McFee had looked in through the window. His eyes dwelt on it a moment. Then he dug out the “Mr. Inside” notes and handed them to Melrose. “Take a look at these.”

Melrose said thickly, “Would my boys have been tailing you all day, if I had that file here?”

“Sure you haven’t got it here, Sam?”

“What you mean?”

McFee said slowly, “Littner and Roy are here to look for it. It’ll make a swell story—if they find it in this room—A swell story, Sam—”

Comprehending, Melrose yelled, “You planted that file here! You and that readheaded tramp—What you done with it?” He dropped his hand into his jacket pocket. He pushed his face into McFee’s, said in a low tone, “You find that file quick, or take it in the belly.”

“Littner’s out there, Sam.”

Melrose breathed hard. He took his hand out of his pocket. He wiped sweat out of his eyes, rubbed his palms together. “I’ll bust you for this, McFee.” His eyes slid desperately around the room—chairs, desk, washroom, carpet.

McFee said, “Sit tight, Sam, or I’ll call Littner.”

Melrose began to walk the floor. He stopped abruptly, came to grips with himself. “Let ‘em find it,” he said huskily. “I can beat the rap.”

“Think so?” McFee chewed a finger nail. “Damon wasn’t so much, but O’Day was his mother. Nob’dy knew it until today. The old girl had about a million friends in this town and all of ‘em are beginning to feel sorry for her. You know what people are when they begin feeling sorry. Think you got enough drag to beat the Damon-O’Day-Shelldon combination?”

“My boys didn’t rub out Damon and O’Day.”

“This is politics, Sam.” McFee thumbed a match at a cigarette. “It isn’t what a lad does or don’t do—it’s what his public’ll stand for.”

“How d’ l know that file’s planted here?”

“Call Littner—you’ll know then.”

“You found out who killed Damon?”

McFee answered carefully, “Maybe.”

Melrose pulled up in front of McFee. “What you want?”

The racket on the cafe floor had dropped to a backlash of irritation and protest. A door opened. Littner spoke to someone. Joe Cruikshank’s soprano answered. The Mayor’s platform boom cut in.

McFee said, “Sam, you been running this town long enough. I’m going to take it away from you.”

“Yes?”

“The Mayor’s out there telling everybody what a good guy he is.” McFee spoke softly, pulled out the paper he had typewritten at Irene Mayo’s. “The Mayor’s your man. Your money elected him, keeps him in the City Hall. This is an unsigned endorsement of Luke Addams’ candidacy for District Attorney—”

“A lotta help that’ll give him.”

McFee said gently, “With the City Hall machine and the newspapers pulling for Addams we got a pretty good chance beating Dietrich. Addams in, we work for a new deal in the police hookup—Littner chief. But that’s future. Sam, you are going to tell Hizoner to put his John Henry to this declaration of independence, or I give Littner the go sign.” He smiled. “How ‘bout it?”

Melrose raged, “I will not!” But he was shaken. “I’ll see you—”

McFee cut in, “You want Littner to use his search warrant? This is politics. I’m telling you.”

Jerking at his wilted collar, Melrose walked to the window. McFee slanted his eyes at the washroom door. He kept them there until Melrose faced around.

“I can throw plenty sugar your way—”

McFee said, “You are going to need sugar, Sam.”

Melrose opened his mouth, shut it without saying anything, pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. When he dropped them, his eyes were crazy, and he came charging towards McFee with his hands clenched. Littner entered just then, a brown paper parcel under his arm. Roy Cruikshank was behind him. The Mayor boomed in the outer room. His handsome, silver head was visible for a moment before Cruikshank closed the door. Melrose shook his head, let his hands fall.

Littner sat down, laid the parcel on the floor beside him. He said nothing. His oval head, his cold water eyes said nothing. Cruikshank put a cigarette in his pink mouth, pulled his hat over his eyes and leaned against the wall.

“Do I get that file?” Melrose asked tonelessly.

McFee said, “Sorry. We got to have a guarantee the City Hall’ll root hard enough.” He added reluctantly, “But I’ll give you a break, Sam. I’ll show Littner who killed Damon and his mother.”

Melrose wet his lips. “All right.” McFee handed him the unsigned endorsement. He read it, turned it over, flared out, “None of my boys killed Damon. By God, McFee if this is another frame—”

McFee said, “I never framed anybody, Sam.”

As Melrose went out and shut the door behind him, the Mayor’s platform boom ceased. A low-toned, bitter argument began. Melrose’s voice whiplashed, “I’m still running this town, Mr. Mayor.”

McFee sat down. His eyes moved towards the washroom door, remained there a moment, came back. He wiped his face.

Littner said mildly, “Warm for the time of the year.”

“It’s some of that unusual weather,” Cruikshank muttered under his hat brim.

“Maybe Sam’ll buy us a highball,” McFee said. He laughed softly, looked at the cherubic Cruikshank, at the politically minded Littner. “Politics is funny. The lad who don’t have to put over more than a couple of dirty ones to pull three good members out the bag has a medal coming to him.”

“Some’dy ought to pin a medal on you, Handsome,” Cruikshank said.

“I’m not through with this town yet.”

Melrose came in then, a dull burn on either wet cheek bone. He handed McFee the endorsement, sat down and shelved his chin on his chest. He did not speak, did not look at McFee. The latter examined the signature. A clock ticked loudly somewhere. In the next room the Mayor was booming, “Luke Addams is a man in whom I have the greatest confidence. It will be a pleasure—” Dutch Louie and His Pals whipped into a jazz.

Parading his eyes around the room, McFee blinked at the washroom door, let them idle on the ornate desk. He went to the desk, bent over the wire basket and looked through the papers in it. He stood erect and stared at the end of his cigarette. A couple of overcoats hung on the cloak tree, near the desk. McFee put a hand inside one of them and brought forth a long manila envelope with “Shelldon” penciled in one corner. The envelope was open. He glanced into it.

Melrose lifted his head. Rage had contracted his eye pupils, ground them to points of bitter, fierce light. He did not speak.

McFee handed Cruikshank the Shelldon file and the Mayor’s endorsement. “Stick ‘em in the Tribune vault a while,” he said.

“Right,” Cruikshank muttered.

LITTNER GAVE McFee the brown paper parcel. “No. 3 trash collection wagon brought them in,” he said.

“Very nice,” McFee answered. He sat down, the parcel on his knees. He looked at his watch. “Twelve-thirty-five. It’s just twenty-four hours since a lady came to see me, at Cato’s. She said the lad she was with, Ranee Damon, had gone into the Gaiety about an hour before. She said he’d followed Sam Melrose—”

Melrose ejaculated, “He did not. I was on Scudder’s yacht. I got all the alibis—” He stopped there, wiped his mouth on the napkin. “You birds got nothing on me.”

McFee proceeded softly, “The lady and I got into the Gaiety. Damon had been shot. He died. Some’dy had stepped on a tube of grease paint. Crimson. Smeared it around. Damon’s body walked out. I found it in Maggie O’Day’s. Maggie was his mother. She had rolled him home in her wheel chair. Maggie was dead—gas. But there was a bruise on her head. Maybe she fell. Maybe she was slugged. I found a smear of crimson grease paint on a newspaper on the floor. There was no grease paint on Maggie’s shoes or Damon’s. Very well. I figured this way: The party killed Damon stepped on the tube of grease paint, in the dark, bust it open, got all smeared up. Grease paint is bad. Maggie saw that party beating it out the Gaiety. The party followed Maggie home, to see how come. Maggie accused the party of murdering her son and got slugged—with her own crutch, maybe. The gas was to make it look like suicide—grief. The party’s shoe smeared the newspaper. The party didn’t know it, went away. Now grease paint is hard to clean off fabric goods, and when the party saw what’d happened to a nice pair of shoes it looked like a good idea to get rid of ’em. Sounds easy. Only it isn’t. Littner’s men found ‘em at the city trash collection dump.”

McFee unrolled Littner’s brown paper parcel. A pair of green satin pumps fell out. He held one of them up. The sole, instep, and right side of the pump were smeared with crimson grease paint.

Melrose blurted, “That lets my boys out.”

McFee lighted a cigarette, looked at the match a while. “I said a lady came to see me at Cato’s. She was wearing green satin pumps— these pumps. When I took her home three hours later she was wearing green snakeskin slippers. She beat it out the Gaiety and phoned headquarters around 1:30. I picked her up on Third at 3:15—nearly two hours. That gave her plenty time to tail Maggie O’Day home, kill her, get back to the car, drive to her apartment—taking the Shelldon file with her—change her shoes, and get back to Third.”

McFee rolled a match in his ear. “But I couldn’t figure out why Irene Mayo killed Damon. Wasn’t she going to make him Governor, herself the Governor’s lady? So I went back to the Gaiety and ran a string along what looked like the bullet trajectory. There was a horizontal groove in the door jamb level with the line the bullet followed—”

A muffled, sobbing sound interrupted McFee and terminated in a wail of despair. McFee wiped his face and throat with a handkerchief. A bitter, silent moment went by.

McFee said deliberately, “Irene Mayo wrote those ‘Mr. Inside’ notes. She planted that Shelldon file here because Melrose’s blonde had taken Damon with five grand. She wasn’t with Damon last night. She tailed him down to the Gaiety. Melrose wasn’t there. Slick little number. She tried to pull a fast one at her apartment this morning with a ‘Shelldon’ envelope full of blanks. Said she’d found it on Damon while I was in Leclair’s room. Said it had fooled her. Well, she pretty near fooled me.” McFee stared gloomily at his cigarette. “Damon must have given her that gun—Metz’ gun. She didn’t intend to kill him—the lad she was going to make Governor. No. She fired at Leclair. Because Leclair was gumming up the works. You can’t figure women. The bullet ricocheted from the door jamb, took Damon—”

That tortured cry came again, McFee got up, walked towards the washroom door.

A pistol shot reverberated in the room.

McFee took three strides forward. The door leaned open. He caught the redheaded girl in his arms. He carried her to a chair, laid her in it. Littner, Melrose, Cruikshank stood around. People came rushing in, the Mayor booming …

McFee said, “I had a notion she’d do it.” And then, huskily, “I never was much of a lad for hanging a woman.”

End

THE PAST MASTERS  ANTHOLOGY SERIES

CUMULATIVE INDEX

To Past Masters Eleven

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

Anonymous

Adventure of the Rubber Pipe 11

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

Diamond Cut Diamond 11

The Fourth Degree 5

The Inca's Treasure 5

The Other Side 5

Well Lost?  11

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

Ottwell Binns

The Prodigal Son, V.C. 11

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

Charles G. Booth

Stag Party 11

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

Tom Gallon

The Vengeance of Adam Rook  11

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:

The Open Eye 11

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 Doctor's Dilemma  11

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

Albert Theodore Parish 11

Amphistamium Formosum  10

Clubs and Hearts  7

The Dog's Understudy 11

Hasheesh 11

Some Imitations 6

Twelve Minutes 6

Marjorie Pickthall

Mannering's Men 6

Mabel Quiller-Couch

A Condoned Crime 11

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

The Murdered Wife 11

Spider Tong M

Tiger Trail 4

Adam Hull Shirk

Osiris 4

George R. Sims

Lance Warrener's Crime 11

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 Tragedy of Constance Kent
- 2: The Strange Death of Lieutenant Roper
- 3: The Eight-Minute Mystery
- 4: Who Murdered Sarah Roberts?
- 5: The Great Harley-street Enigma
- 6: The Burton Crescent Murder
- 7: The Battersea Mutilation Case
- 8: The Dog's Understudy / Barry Pain
- 9: Albert Theodore Parish / Barry Pain
- 10: Hasheesh / Barry Pain
- 11: The Open Eye / William Le Queux

- 12: The Murdered Wife / Perley Poore Sheehan

- 13: The Prodigal Son, V.C. / Ottwell Binns
- 14: The Vengeance of Adam Rook / Tom Gallon
- 15: Well Lost? / F. Britten Austin
- 16: Diamond Cut Diamond / F. Britten Austin

- 17: Adventure of the Rubber Pipe / Anonymous

- 18: A Condoned Crime / Mabel Quiller-Couch

- 19: Lance Warrener's Crime / George R. Sims

- 20: A Doctor's Dilemma / L. T. Meade and Clifford Halifax

- 21: Stag Party / Charles G. Booth

- Cumulative Index Nos 1-11