Past Masters Fifteen
Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: Twenty four short stories in the Life+70 Public Domain, collected from the pages of newspapers and magazines. The anthology opens with an unknown author having a stab at the Raffles genre; includes several Leslie Beresford short stories, a Leroy Yerxa sf novelette, and concludes with an anonymous semi-horror tale of posession. There is a cumulative index of all stories in the Past Masters series to date. 1: The Midnight Guest / Heath Crichton 2. A Country House Surprise / Heath Crichton 3: The Gold Mummy / Heath Crichton 4: The Mystery of the Hotel Royal / Heath Crichton 5: Phantom Gold / Ottw

PAST MASTERS

FIFTEEN

Produced and Edited by

"Pulpmeister"

(Terry Walker)

November 2020

Contents

1: The Midnight Guest / Heath Crichton

2. A Country House Surprise / Heath Crichton

3: The Gold Mummy / Heath Crichton

4: The Mystery of the Hotel Royal / Heath Crichton

5: Phantom Gold / Ottwell Binns

6: The Seaside Girl / Fergus Hume

7: The Blue Vase / Fergus Hume

8: The Fatal Trapdoor / Anonymous

9: Hopkins' Safe / W. L. Alden

10: Poker Hand / Leslie Beresford

11: Diamonds for the Duchess / Leslie Beresford

12: Light-Fingered Looting / Leslie Beresford

13: Feminine Feathers / Leslie Beresford

14: Black Cats For Luck / Leslie Beresford

15: Understudy / Leslie Beresford

16: The Man in Khaki / Leslie Beresford

17: Starkweather's Circular Hotel / W. L. Alden

18: Monty's Friend / W. L. Alden

19: The Remittance Man / Ottwell Binns

20: Cut-Throat Farm / J. D. Beresford

21: Through the Asteroids— to Hell! / Leroy Yerxa

22:  Patience / Sir George B. Douglas, Bart.

23: Uncle Sambuq's Fortune / Paul Arène

24: The Walled Chamber / Anonymous

Cumulative Index

___________________

1: The Midnight Guest

Heath Crichton

Nothing can be found about this author, who wrote a handful of stories around 1910-1911. The name is probably a pseudonym. The newspaper says "Author of 'Philip Thorn, Detective', etc." Couldn't find anything about 'Phillip Thorn', either. The four Heath Crichton stories below were serialised in The Armidale Express, New South Wales, 26 Jan-27 Feb 1912, and in numerous other Australian papers at about the same time.

I HAVE NOT always blessed the day I met Chandos, for it has Ied me into countless thrilling  situations, but when I look back upon them associated as they were with his extraordinary personality, I am bound to regard these episodes as the most adventurous parts of my life.

At times I have allowed the better part of my nature to assert itself, and then I acknowledge that Chandos was a villain. But before long I always came round to the reflection that I, certainly, ought never to be his judge. Chandos was no ordinary villain. There are things which he would never stoop to do—  things which merchant princes in the city might regard as smart, and successful enterprise.

I could never call him a common thief because he had nothing in common with ordinary thieves. He stole for the fun of the thing at first, and then he made the discovery that he could turn it into a high art. He never did a thing without doing it as nearly perfectly as lay in his power. That is why he made a high art of his profession.  Sheer devilry, and love of thrills were really the characteristics in him which dragged him inevitably, irresistibly into his unorthodox form of life, and caused himself to make himself an outlaw. Other men might have degenerated with his success, become brutalised, and ended by being utterly unscrupulous. But Chandos had a strain of noble character twisted up in his strangely constituted brain, which saved him from that disaster. Besides, he had an infinite sense of humour, and that alone would have prevented him from becoming ordinary.

"Jerry," he once said to me, as the clock once struck 1 a.m., and we sat smoking in darkness save for the dying twinkle of the fire, "don't you thank your lucky stars you weren't forced by fortune and fate into being an actor who had to pretend all the time, or into the dull monotony of being a king, and having to be a paragon perpetually? What king ever enjoyed the delight of standing on the landing of some ancestral hall in pitch darkness, knowing he was within reach of some glorious diamond necklace, which, a single creak of the stairs caused by his own carelessness would rob him of completely?"

When I recall how I have known Chandos face a raging tiger, far from the scene of our lawless exploits and shoot it just at the instant when the merest hesitation would have ended in a ghastly form of death for him, I know he is no common thief. He gave the tiger a sporting chance because it pleased him to take the risk. Had he failed at the psychological moment the tiger would have won. But fortunately he did not fail.

Let me tell you of the first moving chapter in my life when fate dragged Chandos into my path.

"WELL!"

My heart gave a tremendous leap, and I looked up, holding a gold watch in one hand and several rings in the other.

Advanced two paces from the door, stood a man who had uttered the remark. To me it signified the end of things. I read in his eye that in one glance he had taken in the whole situation. I was convicted, by a look, of being a thief.

He regarded me with a cold, impassive face. Towering to nearly six feet in height, while I was kneeling practically at his feet, he had me at a tremendous disadvantage. My first impulse was to leap up, hurl a chair at him and bolt. But it needed no second glance to realise the folly of such a proceeding. Athletic though I was, I saw I should have met my-match here, even if we had started level. And there was that peculiarly alert look in his eyes which told me he was taking in my every movement, ready for emergencies. On second thoughts I abandoned the idea of violence and resolved to try subtlety.

"We did not expect you to return until to-morrow, Lord Verard," I said, with as much ease as I could command.

"Indeed." His expression did not alter in the slightest, but he softly closed the door by which he had entered, so quietly that I had not heard him. Then he threw a light overcoat on a chair back, sat on the chair, and contemplated me with the calm scrutiny one bestows upon a dead beetle after it is securely pinned down.

Suddenly a flash of intuition struck me. It left a vague hope of escape.

"Lord Kelyn might be glad to see you before you turn in, Lord Verard. If you wish it I will let him know you have arrived," I said.

For days the old earl, to whom I was acting as secretary, had been looking forward to his son's return, but had I got out of that room under the circumstances, it would have been my most remote thought to call his lordship.

"May I ask who you are?" Lord Verard asked, lighting a cigarette.

"Gerald Norton, Lord Kelyn's private secretary," I replied in a level voice.

"And may I ask also," he went on, "whether it is usual for you to remain at your duties until three o'clock in the morning ?"

"I suffer from insomnia, and I was wandering about downstairs, inspecting the treasures, to kill time," I lied readily. "Shall I call Lord Kelyn?"

"Not just at this moment," he said. "I am more interested in you." The remark was so pointed that I could not evade its meaning.

"That is good of you," I observed feeling decidedly uneasy.

"As a rule I have an excellent memory for faces," he went on, "and unless I err, I have met you before."

"Indeed!" I said, a little surprised. Lord Verard had been travelling abroad for three years, whereas I had only been employed by his father for six months, and I did not remember even hearing of Lord Verard before that.

"Yes, I fancy we were at Oxford together," he went on. "Surely you were at Pembroke— let me see, nine years ago?"

"Eleven," I said, surprised, but unspeakably ashamed. To be caught stealing by an old 'Varsity companion—

"Eleven! So long ago. It makes me feel old," he continued musingly while my brain began to work at express speed. He must know. He could not possibly believe the story of insomnia. Was he merely tantalising me, or working v up the situation for a more dramatic accusation? He must be an intimate friend of many of my old associates. This meant social ruin in the worst sense for me. True, the social world had very little to do with me in these days, for a private secretary with a comparatively modest income has small opportunity for meeting well-to-do college friends of other days when he is dependent upon what he earns. But this would spell utter degradation. It meant my beginning life afresh, perhaps in the colonies, under an assumed name, even if I were able to think of some way out of the difficulty of the moment. If I could not escape it would probably mean prison. I would cheerfully have sacrificed the few possessions I had in my room upstairs, for an hour's clear start from Lord Kelyn's house.

I still had no recollection of meeting Lord Verard, and the fact that he had remembered me after all these years, although we could only have known one another slightly at Pembroke, was surprising.

"I am afraid my memory is not the best in the world," I said, "and at first I could not recall your face, but now it is beginning to come back to me." I hoped he would not see I was lying. "After all," I added, "people change a good deal in ten years."

"Yes, I suppose I have changed a little," he replied, "and you, too, have altered." As he said this he g.ave a lightning glance towards the safe into which I had deliberately replaced the valuables I was touching when he entered the room. The significance of the glance could not be misinterpreted, but I calmly closed the safe, locked it, and put the key in my pocket. What was he going to do? Did he expect me to remain there to be daintily tortured until such time as he chose to deliver a cutting sermon on the immorality of stealing  My blood began to boil but I preserved a calm demeanour.

I rose to my feet and smiled. Nobody will ever know what an effort of will that smile cost.

"I hope, Lord Verard, I shall have the pleasure of discussing Oxford days with you. Meanwhile, forgive me, but I am sure the Earl would never forgive me if I fail to inform him of your arrival now. You have not been with him these last few weeks, so you cannot understand with what pleasure he has looked forward to your return. It would be better for me to awake him and tell him than for you to go direct to his room."

Lord Verard looked at me rather strangely, but went on smoking his cigarette in silence until my hand touched the knob of the door.

"I think you are rather foolish," he began.

I wheeled round. "Why?"

"To disturb Lord Kelyn at this hour," he went on, "and I really wish you would not."

"He is almost certain to be awake," I replied, "and he may even have heard you arrive. I will return in two minutes."

I closed the door behind me, and paused in the hall to think. Upon the next twenty-four hours my whole future depended. I must get out of the house inside three minutes, before Lord Verard suspected what I was doing.

The hall was in darkness, save for the glint of the moon through the great window. At least, I must secure my money, which was in my room. No sound came from the room I had just left. I darted quickly up the broad stairs, my feet making no sound on the thick carpets and hurried along the corridor, my heart beating like a steam hammer. I could not think of the future. My mind was in a whirl. In my room I thrust one or two travelling necessities into a bag, picked up an ulster, and pocketed £5— all I had, in the world, since a panic on the Stock Exchange and a wild gamble had ruined me a fortnight ago.

I dared not return the way I had come up, for to meet Lord Verard, would have been fatal. I turned, down a flight of stairs, leading to the back of the house which would present no difficulty. In a moment I had pressed the catch back, climbed out on the grass, and closed the window behind me with a sigh of relief.

I was free— free in the sense that I was a criminal not captured. I had enough money to get me to London and keep me in hiding for a week or so, and that was the end of my tether. Nowhere could I approach my friends. Gerard Norton's description would be in the hands of the police everywhere.  I shuddered to think of the cold, printed notices that I was "wanted."

The night breeze refreshed me somewhat. I began to think of my immediate plans. Cudthorpe Station lay four miles away. There was a slow train at 4.20 to Boynton Junction. I should reach there before 5 a.m. and could pick up the 5.30 express for London. Meanwhile, what was going on at the Hall? Lord Verard would soon find out I had fled, and would give the alarm.

I remembered with relief that even if he thought of tracking me to Cudthorpe he could not follow in Lord Kelyn's car, because it had been broken down for two days. Any-how, Cudthorpe was my only hope, and I hurried on, arriving at the station with five minutes to spare. I was in an agony of suspense until the train moved off, and then sank back on the cushions, crushed. For the first time the significance of that awful night's work began to sink in-to my brain. For the first time in my life I was a social pariah. And it was all due to the one mad freak of the Stock Exchange which had swallowed my all within a few hours, leaving me desperate and reckless— so reckless that I had—

But I could not bear to think of it.

The journey to Boynton seemed to last an eternity. My nerves were beginning to quiver, and when the train began to slacken speed at the junction, I almost felt prepared to see a couple of uniformed policemen, with handcuffs dangling, awaiting me. But the little platform was almost deserted.

Half an hour to wait. And the possibility of a telegram putting the railway authorities on my track every moment! In a very agitated frame of mind I put my bag in the care of the solitary porter, and walked off the platform into the village. It was impossible, in the circumstances, to sit still, or pace up and down the small station. The village was deserted. I walked for nearly a mile in the country beyond, and then returned.

To my alarm a motor-car dashed up to the station when I was still some distance away. Could it be— ?  I strained my eyes, and to my relief I saw it was of a different shape from that of Lord Kelyn. I noticed a figure alight and enter the station. Then a queer feeling of nervousness overtook me. I stood still. Was it possible that Lord Verard had hurried over to one of the large houses and borrowed a motor-car for the chase? If so, I was merely walking into the trap now. There could be no question as to my guilt once matters came to be investigated. The mere fact that I had a key for the safe— the key which it had taken me three days to make from a wax mould-was quite enough to prove my guilt. And Lord Verard had seen me relock the safe.

To my intense joy I saw the man who had left the car, re-enter it, and a few moments later the motor was careering on its way into the distance- I felt immense relief  and walked on to the station with comparatively buoyant tread.

Sitting alone in his room was the sleepy porter to whom I had handed my bag.

His jaw dropped when he saw me, and he appeared to be covered with confusion.

"Are you Mr. Gerald Norton, sir?" he asked.

My head turned dizzy at the question. Then they were on my track ! I pulled myself together with a jerk.

"No, certainly not," I replied "My name in Mansfield— Francis Mansfield. Why do you ask ?"

The porter scratched his head in bewildered fashion.

" But your bag, sir— I hope it's all right?"

"What on earth do you mean, man?" I asked, sharply.

"It's gone."

"Gone! Where?"

"A gentleman came here in a motor-car not five minutes' ago, and said he was expecting Mr. Gerard Norton. I told him a gentleman had left his bag, and when he saw it, he said 'Yes, that's it. I'd better take it in the car, and pick him up.' And he took it."

My lips felt parched, and my brain reeled. Here was a queer situation. Why had he not waited for me? What good was a bag with a suit of pyjamas and a few odds and ends in it to Lord Verard ? What ought I to say to the porter?

"Oh, an' he left a note, sur, but this surprise drove it out of my head. He said it would explain in case Mr. Norton missed his way and came back."

"Oh, that's all right. I'm Mr. Norton's valet," I said, with happy inspiration, taking the note with trembling hand. I turned my back to the man as I opened it and read:

I told you you were taking a foolish course. Just one final word of warning to prevent you from making an ass of yourself. Think what you are doing. I will not expose you if you return. You can take the 5.35 train back, and return the same way you came. You can yet be in bed before anyone is up in the house. To save you the , trouble of carrying your bag again, I am replacing it under the window which you left by. Again, I say, don't be an ass. Return. l would take you back with me in the car, but delicacy prevents me from suggesting that we should make the journey together in the circumstances.

The letter nearly fell from my hand. It would have given me unspeakable relief, but for one thing.  And Lord Verard in his generous forgiveness, had never dreamed of that.

I had attempted to steal because I was desperate— and that desperation was caused by my having forged Lord Kelyn's name to a promissory note, which would fall due in a fortnight. I pressed my hand to my forehead, and tried to think.

"Don't be an ass. Return." The words seemed to din in my ears. Perhaps I might be able to raise the money in a fortnight by borrowing from some friend. At any rate it would be flying in the face of fortune to resist the invitation in my hand.

The train steamed into the opposite platform. On the spur of the moment I crossed the line and started the journey to Cudthorpe. I hardly realised what I was doing, until I found myself at the window. I picked up the bag and climbed in-to the servants' hall, making my way upstairs with a heavy heart. Already I had begun to regret my return, when my eyes fell on a note propped up in the centre of my dressing table. I recognized the writing as that I had read at the station. Hastily I tore it open and read :

I have rarely been more entertained, but I cannot let you take such an extremely unnecessary step as running away before you are found out. I should not have troubled about you, but I admire courage, and you did it well. Rest content, my friend. I am not, and never shall be, Lord Verard, whom you may greet in a few hours now with calm assurance. Nor was I at Pembroke, but in the course of discreet inquiries lately I had heard of your athletic record at Oxford.

One thing more I must explain. You were at the wrong safe. The diamonds are kept in the other one, but in my concern for your welfare I quite forgot their existence. I have a fancy to renew the acquaintance, so if you care to leave your bedroom door unlocked I will come in a week hence.— Chandos."

Chandos! Then it was the dare-devil, elusive gentleman burglar who had led me such a dance. And I still had an unblemished character! I laughed at the irony of the idea until I remembered the promissory note. Then I opened the window and stared out at the distant hills for hours. I had much to think of. In a week Chandos was coming here.

Sleep was out of the question after such a revelation as I had received in the quaint letter Chandos left in such an audacious manner on my dressing-table. For me to have bolted from a burglar was an odd enough situation, but to be led back to safety by one, and that one Chandos, the brilliant elusive thief, who was merely a name to the police, was a comedy of a strange order. I almost laughed later in the day when I met the real Lord Verard, for whom I had mistaken Chandos. The two men were as unlike as it was possible for two men to be. Lord Verard was short, and his manner was brusque, in striking contrast to the easy grace and fascinating way of the notorious burglar. Moreover, I took an instinctive dislike to him on account of his demeanour to me.

He regarded me as a sort of family hireling, and I had not been earning my own living long enough to learn how to submit to that sort of thing.

During the first few days I was so full of a sense of relief at not having been found out that I felt far happier than I had done for weeks. But that promissory note, at present lying in the hands of the moneylenders with its forged signature of Lord Kelyn, began to obtrude itself upon my thoughts. Only about ten days remained before it fell due. And then I should have come to the end of my tether. I must make a clean bolt then, or stand my trial on a charge of forgery. I wrote to two old friends explaining that I was in urgent need of £300 for a little while, but drew blank. A third appeal also failed, and the outlook became very black. As I lay awake at nights sometimes, the words of Chandos reverted to my mind:

The diamonds are kept in the other safe.

After my first fright, I had never dreamed of repeating my desperate plan of raising badly-needed funds. And yet the thought had always been there that those precious glittering stones in the house could raise me from the depths of despair to comparative affluence, at least for a year or so. In three more days according to the note left by Chandos, he was to renew our strangely-made acquaintance in an equally strange fashion. It sounded utterly mad. I could not believe he would risk entering the place again and take the additional risk of coming into my room.

True, it was just the sort of prank that one would expect the humorous Chandos to carry out.

I FOUND myself gradually being worked up to a state of nervous agitation as the day, or rather, the night, arrived, but on the evening before Chandos was due all thought of him was banished by an utterly unlooked-for event. Lord Kelyn made up his mind to go abroad with Lord Verard in a couple of days, and he presented me with a cheque for three months' salary in lieu of notice.

Three months' salary and I wanted £800 to redeem myself from jeopardy. It left me about £250 short, and it might as well have left a deficit of a million sterling. I sat up late that night thinking over the events of the last few months, and cursing the gambling spirit which had brought me to such a predicament. I was on the verge of a precipice, and all through my own folly. Moreover, as far as I could see, there was no way of avoiding the crash. Probably I should go to Canada or Mombasa— anywhere where I could hide myself from the charge of forgery. And I was to begin life anew with a capital of £50.

The clock struck midnight. I knocked the ashes out of my pipe. According to Chandos he was due to give me a call in the course of a few hours. Of course, he had never meant it. It was one of his jokes. With a heavy heart I made my way upstairs, and got into bed.

But I could not sleep. For an hour or so I read and then tossed and turned until the deep-voiced clock on the landing chimed the hour of 2 a.m. I found myself listening intently for the slightest sound. Two-thirty. The longer I remained awake, the more sensitive my ears became in the darkness and silence. I stared at the ceiling which it was too dark to see, and it struck me how impossible it would be for anyone to break into a house unheard, while one of its occupants lay awake listening, listening.

Suddenly I got the strangest surprise I had ever experienced in my life. A match was struck within four yards of where I lay, and by its glow I saw Chandos sitting in my armchair, lighting a cigarette as calmly as though it were broad daylight, and he bad every right to be there. There was a look of infinite amusement on his face while the flare lasted, and then I beard a sigh of contentment and saw only the rosy end of his cigarette. I put my hand out and turned on the electric switch. He sat perfectly unperturbed and smiled at me as though revelling in the surprise he had sprung upon me.

'How the— how did you get there?' I ejaculated.

'You kindly left the door unfastened.'

'But I never heard you come in.'

'Really! You flatter me. Did you expect me to send a drum ahead as a sort of herald?'

'I did not expect you at all as a matter of fact,' I replied.

'That is curious,' he said, with a tinge of regret. 'It is one of my firmest rules in life never to break my word, and yet people constantly express surprise when I do what I have said I would do. I am sorry, however, if my visit displeases you.'

He half rose from his arm-chair. 'It merely struck me that you might feel a little— er— easier in your mind after a chat, considering the circumstances of our last meeting.'

Here I had Chandos revealed in all his chivalry. I quite believe he would have vanished, and I should never have seen him again had I simply indicated that I wished him to go. He was beginning to fascinate me. I motioned him to be seated again.

'You caught me stealing,' I said.

He blew out a cloud of smoke.

'I assure you I should not have known it, had you not revealed the innermost secrets of your guilty heart when you looked up and saw me standing there,' be said. 'Certainly the hour was a peculiar one, and I might have been forgiven for a vague suspicion, but you precipitated my view.'

'Then, tell me why you, Chandos, of all people, took the trouble to prevent me from running away?'

'It would have been a little unjust— on you, wouldn't it?' he replied, musingly.

'And you have come now to—'

'To apologise for any little inconvenience I may have caused you.'

'It is good of you,' I observed. 'And what other reason had you?'

'I am very fond of country houses. But, dear me, I had almost forgotten. Can yon tell me if it is true that Lord Kelyn is leaving England in a few days?'

'It is.'

'Ah!' There was silence. 'I don't want to dissect your heart and soul,' he went on, in a curious voice,' but it would interest me enormously if you would tell me exactly what made you break into that safe.'

'Stock Exchange losses,' I replied, bluntly.

'Desperation, eh?' I nodded.

'Then you have done more than lose your own money?'

'How do you know?' I asked, jerkily, raising myself on my elbow.

'You haven't got the face of a thief,' he said, 'and if you had merely lost your own money you would have cut your losses, and decided to grin and bear it. I'm sorry for you.'

'Thanks, you're consoling.' The memory of what I had done made me bitter.

'My dear fallow, don't imagine I was preaching. I was only interested in the psychology of the thing. I suppose also, for some reason, I was interested in you. It may, have been a sort of fellow-feeling. It if so rarely one can be intimate with a man of education and refinement on such a delicate subject as theft.'

'I am not a thief,' I replied,

'Not a skilled one, certainly,' he retorted, with a gentle smile. I bit my lips in a flood of virtuous indignation.

'Now, don't look angry,' he added, in his gentlest tones, 'and do let me persuade you to put that revolver which you have in your right hand, under  the pillow.'

I stared. I had a revolver there. It had been a delicate piece of forethought on my part in case his visit should prove awkward. I pulled it from under the bedclothes.

'How did you know?' I asked.

'You kept that hand hidden in a rather obvious way, and considering I saw it under your pillow four hours ago the deduction was comparatively easy.'

'You have been in this room before?'

'I took that liberty while you were drowsing over your pipe downstairs,' he said, unmoved.

'Where have you been since?'

'Tucked up in a couch somewhere. It was very comfortable.'

'Suppose I had used this revolver now to force you to surrender?' I suggested.

His eyes were full of devilment and laughter.

'Try,' he said. 'I thought of the bare possibility of that, and removed the bullets from the cartridges.'

I looked at them. The revolver was as harmless as a toy.

'Come, come,' he said, 'you must forgive a little resourcefulness on my part, considering all things. By the way, I wonder if you ran tell me whether anyone left this house and went to London today?'

'London? No, not that I am aware of,' I replied, puzzled.

'You seem mystified. I was only thinking of those diamonds that interested you so much.' Then it dawned on me why be had come back.

'You scoundrel,' I snapped. ' And you expected me to help you to steal them.'

Chandos raised his eyebrows, and his eyes twinkled.

'Do you really suggest.' he asked 'that I should be likely to come to you for assistance?'

I felt rather crushed. 'Well, the diamonds are quite secure,' I replied, 'and they are not in their usual place of security. Lord Verard took them to his room to look over them before they are sent to the bank tomorrow.'

'Thanks, drawled Chandos. 'It's an awful bore to open a safe and find it empty.'

He pulled out his watch. 'It is getting late. I am afraid I must go. If you happen to be in town this week call on Essex Vaughan,' he said, scribbling an address off Piccadilly. 'He always knows where I am, but don't let his servants hear you ask for "Chandos" that's all.'

And as though it had been the most usual visit in the world, he shook hands, went out, and closed the bedroom door after him. I leaned back in bed and laughed. 'This is preposterous,' I thought. 'If I strove my hardest to convince anyone what had happened tonight they would only think me mad.' It was growing light when I at last fell asleep.

NEXT MORNING I felt sorely tempted to ask whether burglars had been in the place, but I thought it discreet to remain silent. Nothing was said of intruders, so I gathered that Chandos had vanished as mysteriously as be came, without taking anything with him.

Just before noon Lord Kelyn received a wire saying the London Bank's representative would call, as requested to take charge of the diamonds. He was coming by the 2.20 train. The car was sent to the station to meet him, but it was nearly three o'clock before a servant announced that a gentleman from the Central Bank had arrived, and was waiting in the library. The earl and Lord Verard went in together. Some strange instinct prevented me from going with them. Instead, I remained in the room where I was, drawn by an irresistible force to the window. I wanted to see that bank's representative as he left. Of course my fears were wildly improbable, but there seemed to be some connection between Chandos and those diamonds. My heart began to beat quickly when at last I heard the hall door close, and I waited to see the man go out. He passed close to the window, and happened to look up as he went. The worst had happened. The Kelyn diamonds were tucked away in an ordinary handbag secure in the care of— Chandos.

Not a flicker of recognition could have been observed on his face as he glanced up, but there was a roguish glint in his eye. It must have been an intense moment for him to feel that he was recognised at such a moment. Why did he trust me so blindly? My brow was wet with perspiration. I started vaguely to go to the door, and give the alarm, but something held me back. I had not the least idea what. One-half of my being urged me to cry out ; the other held me spell-bound. I collapsed into a chair and stared mutely at the gateway through which Chandos had gone.

I had been doing, so for about four minutes, perhaps, when the gate opened, and Lord Kelyn's car drove through. It did not reed any great intelligence on my part to divine the identity of the man sitting by the side of the chauffeur. It must be the bank's real representative. I felt rooted more firmly than ever to the chair.

The hall bell rang and there was a silence for a few moments, and then I heard voices raised.

'You're an idiot,' I heard Lord Verard cry. 'I tell you the bank's representative had already got the diamonds, and signed a receipt for them.'

Consternation began to reign, and within sixty seconds Lord Verard, the bank representative, and the chauffeur were tearing down the drive in the motor-car.

I staggered to the sideboard and poured out a whisky and soda with an unsteady hand. They were chasing a thief, but they did not know the sort of man they were after. I felt sure that with the Kelyn diamonds in his possession, Chandos would be more than equal to the occasion.

It was a full hour before they returned— alone, as I anticipated. In my heart of hearts I was glad, though I did not realise then why it was so. I have since tried to analyse the reason with indifferent success. Probably it was partly the sense of chaos into which my own feelings had been thrown by the financial difficulties, and partly the result of the magnetic charm Chandos.

In the car they had scoured the district in vain. Now, it was all over, they saw the simplicity with which the whole thing had been worked. The pseudo bank messenger had said that he had walked from the station, explaining that the car had broken down. The car had, as a matter of fact, broken down, so that when the real bank messenger arrived at the station, the chauffeur was delayed for more than half an hour until be found that one of the ignition wires had been unscrewed. The neatness of the trick was worthy of Chandos. Probably the thrilling wait in the house until he left with the diamonds (knowing as he did that the car might arrive any moment) was to him the greatest joy of the whole performance.

Lord Kelyn's departure for the Continent was delayed by this daring coup, and for two or three days detectives and police hovered round the place until I shuddered at the sight of a helmet. It had such a peculiar significance for me. Four days more and my sands would have run down. I could picture myself walking about London, and turning aside every time I met a policeman, lest he should arrest me on a charge of forgery. I had one clear day before the sword was to fall when Lord Kelyn and Lord Verard left England, assured by Scotland Yard that the diamonds would yet be found.

I hid myself in London at once, unable to make up my mind to fly the country. After a week of intense loneliness there I was drawn to the address of Essex Vaughan. It was ten o'clock when I rang the bell at his flat, and a sumptuous-looking footman bowed me in. Without thinking, I had given my own name.

'Mr. Vaughan is out for the moment, sir,' said the servant. 'but if you can to wait, be may not he long.

I was ushered into a room which showed the extraordinarily fine taste of its owner. Pictures by Rossetti, Burne-Jones, and Whistler bung on the walls, and curios and old Chinese bronzes of great beauty were dotted here and there. Being somewhat of a connoisseur myself I got up and admired these things when I was left alone. Suddenly my eyes fell on an envelope in the centre of the mantelpiece. It was addressed to 'Gerard Norton, Esq.'

Wonderingly I took it up. It must be meant for me. I toyed with It in my fingers for several minutes, and then tore it open, taking two sheets out. Something suspiciously like tears came into my eyes. It was the fatal promissory note, torn in two.

Before I had time to puzzle the thing out the door opened softly, and in stalked Chandos with extended hand.

'You— you know something about this,' I said, holding out the mutilated document, the possession of which left me free.

'Rubbish. That's nothing, my dear fellow. Sit down.'

'But how did you know— '

'I told you I took the liberty of exploring your room, and I noticed a letter from old Isaacstein. It was significant, and I was deeply interested in you, somehow. I read it. I put two and two together, and I called on the old money-lender. Discreet inquiries showed me I was right in what I guessed. I owed you a debt of gratitude— and there you are. I hoped you would call for the thing.'

It was impossible to thank him in words, so I took his hand. The door opened again and the servant came in.

'A note for you, sir,' he said to Chandos. Chandos held a finger up warningly as the man went out, afterwards holding the envelope so that I could see it. It was addressed to 'Essex Vaughan, Esq.'

'I trust you, you see,' he said, and I looked in amazement at the outward and visible form presented to the world by the brilliant thief known as 'Chandos '

________________

2. A Country House Surprise

Heath Crichton

DURING those first few weeks of my association with Chandos in London, I was struck in a remarkable degree with the number of friends he had. And I alone, of them all, knew Essex Vaughan to be none other than Chandos, the daring thief who stole for the fun of the thing. To the world he appeared to be a fairly well-off man-about-town. His flat off Piccadilly was an expensive one, and he kept a very fine motor-car. Occasionally, at first, I wondered how far these luxuries were maintained by his misappropriations; but, after all, that was his affair, and I ceased to consider the matter.

One thing in particular lay heavily on my conscience these days. Although I had not plunged deeply into a life of crime then, the influence of Chandos was so strong upon me, that in sober moments I could not fail to realise what I was bound to drift into. And in those moments my mind reverted to two soft brown eyes that had held me spellbound in other days. In the dreams of a year ago I had pictured my ideal with her. But even a year ago I had known it was merely an ideal which it would take a miracle to convert into a reality.

If I am to adhere to the truth I had better admit at once that it was her haunting brown eyes that had urged me to tempt fortune on the Stock Exchange. I had gambled with fate in a last, forlorn hope of becoming a rich man, and fate had inconsiderately wiped my modest capital into nothingness, leaving me only the dreamy memory of the ideal.

I should have been less than human therefore, had I not still been haunted by those brown eyes at moments when I felt fate was pulling me strongly further and further away from her.

A week after I arrived in London I was sitting buried deeply in an arm-chair in front of the fire in my own chambers. Twelve o'clock had just struck, and I was browsing over the last delights of a pipe before going to bed.  My mind was far from the whirl of the vast city when a voice broke the stillness.

"Let me recommend you to have a new lock put on your door."

It was Chandos.

"Did you come through the keyhole?" I inquired, when I had got over my surprise.

"No. A child could pick the thing. I didn't ring because I feared you might be in bed."

"And why this ghostlike visit?"

"I am going down to a country house in Surrey to-morrow, and I wondered whether you would care to come with me."

Chandos's idea of "going down to a country house" was open to two interpretations.

"Do they— er— do they quite understand that you are going there?" I asked, dubiously.

"My dear Jerry," he laughed, "why else should I ask you to come? It is an invitation from Cyril Royston, who fell back on me as one of his oldest friends, to fill a blank up. Two of his men guests have failed at the last minute, and he implored me by wire to go and to take, a picked friend. Will you come?"

I had known Royston slightly. There was something more than novel in the thought of staying anywhere with Chandos as a fellow-guest and I agreed to go readily.

"Then I will pick you up in a cab tomorrow afternoon, " he said. "Good-night."

"Chandos," I called out, as he went towards the door.

"Yes."

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask for an assurance that he had no ulterior motive in visiting Royston, I but I found it difficult to put my thoughts into words. It would have deemed like a studied insult. Moreover, I felt a disinclination to say what I thought, because I had foolishly accepted from him half the proceeds of the clever jewel robbery which had first brought us together.  He had insisted on my taking the money, declaring it was due to me, and I, having no money, took, it after a mild protest.

He looked at me quizzically when I called him back. I knocked the ashes out of my pipe and changed my mind.

"Oh, nothing. Good-night," I observed, and I knew that he had more than half divined the thoughts I had hesitated to put into words.

Later I began to regret that I had been so foolish as to hesitate about I asking him the question, and for some odd reason I slipped a small silver revolver into my dressing-case before I went to bed. Goodness knows I had not the remotest intention either of using it or doing anything which might necessitate its use. I probably put it there because the idea of being away with Chandos was bizarre.

Nothing could have been less suggestive of the criminal than Essex Vaughan— I always called him Chandos when we were alone— when he drove up to my chambers the next day. He chatted with great vivacity all the way down in the train, and when I saw him shaking hands with Royston it struck me that if anyone had suddenly endeavoured to impress upon our host that he was welcoming the notorious Chandos, Royston would have thought a lunatic was speaking.

Royston Hall was one of those delightful, rambling Early Victorian places which make the ideal scene of a country house party. It stood in extensive grounds well set back from the main road, in one of the most beautiful situations in Surrey. I felt more thankful than ever to Chandos for saving me from being a social pariah when I was received there still as a decent member of society.

Most of the house party had arrived. Some of them we knew. Chandos had met them on various occasions, and so far as I was concerned Hampshire was my native county.

Late in the afternoon we were introduced to Mrs. Echart-Rolles, a widow who was reputed to possess nearly a million sterling. It made my flesh almost creep to observe the calm glances which my companion bestowed upon the shimmering diamonds with which her fingers were bedecked. He looked from her rings to me with the expression of an innocent, child, and then smiled at some feeble joke which she made. How truly awful if she formed the faintest conception of an idea why he really was smiling! And Chandos enjoyed it in his own peculiar fashion. Presently I felt as though the whole house would arise in a moment and denounce him as a thief.

"You must admit that you had noticed them already yourself," he said to me a little later with an amused expression. "You positively looked as though you fancied I was a common footpad, who would demand her jewels or her life, even where she stood in the middle of the room. My dear Jerry, give one credit for sanity."

After all, I could hardly say any-thing considering the circumstances, and he put his arm through mine, hauling me off to a game of billiards before it was time to dress for dinner.

MY ROOM was at the end of one of the corridors, and after I had dressed, I was sauntering downstairs when my heart began to beat in a queer unaccustomed fashion. In the dim light I was uncertain at first, but then I knew that the girl who was approaching the head of the stairs was she— the being of my dreams and wildest hopes. I flatter myself I can keep my head in most emergencies, but the utter unexpectedness of this meeting, following up-on the grim page is history, which was still so fresh in my memory, made my brain reel. I put my hand on the banisters for support and pulled myself with a tremendous effort. At least, I thought I gave no outward signs of perturbation by the time she reached my side, and. I took her tiny, proffered hand naturally.

"You― you have not been ill, I hope," she said, in a low voice, which rang like music in my ears.

"I ill! No, indeed, thanks," I replied as lightly as possible.

"I thought you looked a little pale," she went on, and released the little hand which I, quite unconsciously had imprisoned for ten seconds longer than was absolutely necessary. Eileen gathered her dress in her hand and we walked downstairs together. For the life of me I could not think like a rational being. I listened as in a dream to her voice and answered mechanically until Mrs. Royston bore her away and I found Chandos at my side.

"So you have met the sweet Miss Derwent before, eh?" he said.

I was in no mood for banalities, and I gave him a glance. Even an unhardened criminal can hide his thoughts as a rule when they relate to roguery, but when one is caught an instant after an unexpected vision of one's divinity one's looks are liable to be transparent.,

"My dear Jerry," he said, in a voice I had never heard from him before, "I had no idea; but then, you see, that isn't remarkable as we have known each other such a short time."

I felt a kindly pressure on my arm, and I knew that with his quick brain he had grasped the situation far better than I had explained in words.

At dinner I had no opportunity of speaking to Eileen, and "it struck me that perhaps it was as well, for during the past few weeks I had been bracing myself up against the thought of leaving her out of my life altogether, and if I meant to stick to my guns the less I was thrown in her society the better.

But my good resolutions went for nothing after dinner. She beckoned me to her side in the drawing-room, and for half an hour I felt myself drifting— drifting I knew not where. I pulled myself up with a jerk when I remembered Chandos, my association with him and the reason of it.

Later, Chandos and Mrs. Echart-Rolles were sitting opposite one another as partners at bridge, whilst my own gaze wandered from my own cards to Chandos's face. He was smiling in his fascinating way, and chatting easily, but occasionally his eyes rested innocently upon her magnificent jewels. Probably she did not even notice it, but I, who knew what must be in his mind all the time, felt that it was perilously like playing with fire. The glow of those diamonds would get on to his brain if he were not careful. I glanced from the bejewelled form of the wealthy widow to the lithe, graceful form of Eileen Derwent, whose sweetness was all the more pronounced by the fact that she wore no jewels at all excepting a plain gold bracelet.

I was stealing furtive glances at her, when a servant with a strangely white face came over to where Royston was sitting. He was evidently greatly agitated, and trying to maintain a calm demeanour.

"May I speak to you outside for a moment, sir?" he said, in a voice that shook oddly. The words were spoken in a low tone, but he was so near to me that I could not help hearing them.

Royston looked up surprised.

"What is it?" he said. "Will it wait?"

"No, sir. It's urgent."

Royston got up and left with the man. A subtle instinct made me watch for his return, so that I could observe his expression. I looked at Chandos, He was relating some droll incident and laughing like a schoolboy.

Just three minutes elapsed before Royston returned. He tugged nervously at his moustache and looked as though he had had some violent shock. His eye roved over the room and he made quick signals to four of the men, myself included. But Chandos, who had his hack to the door, and one or two other men had seen nothing of this. The other's obeyed our host's call, murmuring apologies, and passed out silently info the hall. Somehow before Royston spoke I knew what he had to tell.

"Burglars!" he blurted out. "Don't let the ladies know at present. Some of the bedrooms have been ransacked, and God only knows whose things are missing. Mrs. Echart-Rolles carries a small fortune about with her as a rule, and they've cleared her room out. Miss Kerrell's dressing-case has been taken bodily, and the servants say the burglars have got all Miss Derwent's jewels."

For the second time that evening I was on the verge of fainting. Fortunately the others were far too upset by the news to notice the effect it had upon me.

"There is just the chance that we may catch the thieves," continued Royston. "They appear to have left the house, but I want you to help in a thorough search of the grounds."

Wild ideas passed through my brain as I joined in the expedition. We first beat all the shrubberies without even finding an incriminating foot-print. Within a few minutes a trio of motor-cars were in the drive, and we split up into parties and set off in different directions to scour the immediate surrounding country. It was too dark, to see far outside the sheen of the motor lamps, and the only thing my party came across was a rattling cart driven by an old woman, a couple of miles from Royston Hall.

I stopped the car and eagerly asked the woman whether she had seen any men walking along the road. She pulled up and stared in open-mouthed wonder at the spectacle we presented.

"I don't know as I've noticed any," she replied, after a minute's tantalising reflection.

"Nor a trap-nor a motor-car," I urged.

"Not a thing on wheels this last half hour," she replied, with conviction, and we left her in haste to resume the search.

When we arrived back at the Hall, we found the other scouts had been equally unsuccessful.

"Well, we'd better break it to the ladies," said Royston, doggedly. "They think we have merely left them rather rudely to play billiards. But they will have to know. Let us go back to the drawing-room."

Chandos gave me a quick glance as I entered.

"Been motoring, eh?" he said, as I passed him.

I gave him a level glance and saw devilment in his face.

"How do you know?" I asked.

"You seem to have had the wind in your eyes.  Well, have you made a capture?"

I did not reply. What I should have said I do not know, but at that instant Mrs. Echart-Rolles's voice was raised in an agonised little "cry.

"My jewels gone—!" she was saying to Royston, who had told her his grim news.

Within a few minutes the bridge tables were deserted and anxious guests, banded together as though to protect one another from prowling marauders, were exploring the great ! house. Eileen sat motionless on re! turning downstairs after a brief inspection of the complete clearance that had been made of the-jewels in her room.

"I hope you have not lost anything very valuable," I said.

"Fortunately I had not brought very many things of value," she replied, "but I'm afraid there are several things missing which I would not have lost if I could possibly have helped it."

I uttered some conventional expression of sympathy and bit my lips. An idea which had crossed my mind more than once was beginning to take a definite form. I had tried to recall the events of the whole evening, but could not remember precisely who was in the drawing-room during the first half-hour after dinner while I was basking heedlessly in the presence of Eileen.

Chance turned my fears into convictions. Chandos came into the room alone. There was not a very good light where we were sitting, and he strolled aimlessly across to the conservatory. Finding it empty he returned and stood staring into the drawing-room fire for a few seconds, and then a saturnine laugh escaped him. I dug my nails into my hands. Had the girl seen my face at that instant she might have noticed something there which would have alarmed her.

Before midnight the guests began to retire for the night. The visit of burglars had broken up the fun of the evening entirely. When I went to my room my mind was made up.

I opened my travelling case, and slipped something into my pocket. Then I opened the door. Everything was quiet. I set my teeth and passed along the corridor until I came to Chandos's room.

Softly my knuckles tapped the door and I softly turned the handle.

"Glad you came," said Chandos. "I feel inclined for a chat."

He was selecting a cigarette from his case until his eyes met mine. Then he put the case down quietly.

"What on earth—" he began.

Without hesitation now I turned the key in the lock and placed it in my pocket, from which I drew my revolver.

"Essex Vaughan," I said, the glittering little barrel giving me courage as it pointed towards him, "this is an outrage!"

There was an ominous glitter in Essex Vaughan's eyes as he stood facing me in his bedroom, covered by my revolver. The lines about his mouth hardened for a moment in a way which reminded me that I had challenged the cleverest criminal of the day. And then his expression changed swiftly. He smiled and began to light a cigarette.

"Jerry, I admire you for your pluck," he said. "I always knew you would rise wonderfully to an emergency."

"You misunderstand me,' I went on. 'I am in deadly earnest.'

'My dear fellow, I don't doubt it. If you could only see yourself you would realise how impressed I ought to be."

"Impressed or not, you have to understand that I came here with a definite purpose, from which joking cannot turn me."

"You interest me,' he said, more seriously.

"When I came here as a guest with you I never expected you to break through all known laws of hospitality and rob the house. That, anyway, might have been more a matter for your own conscience than my concern. You have your own ideas on the ethics of appropriating other people's property. But in this case it is different."

"Miss Derwent. I quite understand," said Chandos, who had subsided into a chair, and was smoking, peacefully, as though I were not pointing a revolver at him. "Naturally you don't want to see her robbed. I appreciate that."

"You should have thought of that earlier," I snapped. "At any rate, I mean to see that you restore everything you took from her room."

"I!" ejaculated Chandos. 'Jerry, you underestimate my good taste and pay a woeful compliment to my skill.'

"You mean—"

"If it gives you any pleasure I will give you my word that I had nothing whatever to do with the robbery," he said. "But it's rather an insult to my intelligence to suggest that I should take anything from Mrs. Echart-Rolles's collection excepting the pearls she was wearing this evening."

There was a ring of sincerity tinged with the banter in his voice which went straight home to me.

I put down the revolver and went over to him. He held out his hand.

"Sit down, old fellow," he said. "Now I'm going to ask you a question."

"Go on."

"You love this girl?"

I pitched my cigarette into the fire and nodded.

"Then why not go right back to your own room now, and forget you ever met me? I have not the least fear about trusting you with my secret."

"She's out of my reach. I tried— and failed. We'll change the subject if you don't mind."

Chandos remained silent for a few minutes.

"How would you like to help in a little expedition to recover those things?' he asked.

'We've hunted the district and found nobody,' I replied. 'We'll have to leave it to the police now, I suppose.'

'The police!' Chandos's lip curled. 'You didn't happen to see an old woman driving a broken-down old cart while you were out?' he asked.

'Yes, two miles away,' I answered with sudden interest. 'What of it?'

'I expected as much. It was going towards London, I suppose?'

'Yes, yes,' I said, excitedly.

'It's a pity.'

'What is?'

'That you didn't examine the thing.'

'Why?'

'Because I guess it contained o very tolerable specimen of cunning but entirely unintellectual burglar and the things that have vanished.'

'But I'm sure it was a woman driving.'

'Quite so. The man was tucked away in the cart.'

'Chandos, how do you know this?' I asked.

'I noticed the man talking to the disreputable driver yesterday afternoon,  not a mile from here. He happens to be a professional burglar whom I met once, strictly professionally in peculiar circumstances. When I heard of this evening's affair I put two and two together, that is all.'

'Tell me why you laughed in that queer way when you thought you were alone in the drawing-room.'

'Did I? Well,  perhaps, It was at the thought of living in a house while Melrose— that's the burglar chap— was operating in the place You see we do not love one another after what happened the last time we met, so I find it galling to be one of the victimised party.'

'Do you really think it was he who broke into the place to-night?'

'It's a thousand to one on it. If not, why was he down here?'

'But what is the good of hunting him now? Heaven only knows where he may be.'

'I think I know. There are two reasons why I suggested an expedition. Firstly I am sure it would a great satisfaction to you to see Miss Derwent and incidentally the other ladies recover their lawful property, secondly it would probably be most exciting. And to tell you the truth, the excitement of bridge leaves me feeling a trifle flat. It would certainly he amusing too, to take the bone out of Melrose's mouth. What do you think of the idea?'

'Perfect!' I agreed. 'But what is the programme?'

'Go to your room, and put on a thick coat. I will be ready when you come back. Whatever you do, don't make any noise, though.'

Puzzled, but relying entirely on his judgment, I obeyed. It was nearly one o'clock in the morning and the house was as quiet as a grave. When I regained Chandos's room I found him with an overcoat on, leaning out of the open window.

'You're an athlete. Jerry. Do you think you can negotiate this rain-pipe? It's a good thick one. There must be no fooling about with the doors, or we might wake up somebody, and it would be difficult to explain.'

I slid down to the ground, and my companion followed like a cat.

'Now the great difficulty is petrol,' be said, as be touched the lawn. ' Surely you are not going to use one of the cars ?'

'Not one of those in the garage at Royston. Everyone here will be sleeping with one eye open. Captain Foley, who lives about half a mile up the road, keeps a fine little Panhard, and if luck is with us we may be able to borrow it.'

'It's a big risk.'

'But think of the fun. Besides, these things depend largely upon how they are done.'

Not a sound disturbed the night as we made our way through the grounds. There was very little light but we kept under the shade of the trees until we gained the high road. Ten minutes' quick walking brought us to the house from which Chandos proposed to confiscate the car. The garden was surrounded by a high wall, but the main gate was unfastened.

'What an excellent idea it is to turn these old coachhouses into garages!' said Chandos. 'It is so far from the main building that one could almost remove the garage bodily without being disturbed. But don't make a sound if you can help it. One yelp from a dog and we are undone.'

With a deft movement of a knife he shot back the catch of a window and crawled in. Two minutes later the door opened without a creak.

'Forty horse-power at least!' he said with glee. 'If only the gallant officer's chauffeur has kept the car in decent order, we shall have a ripping time.'

Flashing a small electric torch here and there, he made sure that everything was in readiness, lifting a spare tin of petrol into the tonneau for emergencies.

'Now, Jerry, push,' he said. 'Not a snort can we extract from these engines until we get her on to the high road. Fortunately it is down hill all the way along the drive.'

Without much effort we got the car out of the danger zone, Chandos whistled cheerfully to himself as lit lighted the head-lamps and started the engine.

'This is better than lying in bed, isn't it?' he commented as the motor leaped forward. 'I hope to goodness the brakes are in good order. We only have about an hour to cover thirty-five miles.'

There was something immeasurably thrilling about that wild rush in a car which, though it was to be returned, was stolen. Not only had I the sensation of tearing along at break-neck speed while we were supposed to be sleeping peacefully in our beds ; with it all was the grim uncertainty of what lay in front of us, and how we should come out of it. All that we knew was that we were bound for London, that we were to beard a burglar in his den, that somehow we were to recover the stolen property, and that the whole programme must be carried out within a few hours or we should find ourselves in a very tight corner.

Chandos reduced the speed of the car as it ran through Surbiton, for at all costs we desired as little as possible to do with the police, and a clock chimed half-past two as we pulled up In Piccadilly.

Chandos jumped down.

'Wait here for me,' he said. 'We must not take this car any nearer my flat. Some wise person might notice the number. I will be back in a few minutes. There arr one or two things we may find useful.'

He had a seraphic smile when he returned. 'Now for the fun,' he said, as the car started once more. In a short time we had run to Honor Oak.

'We shall find the motor a white elephant,' I said. 'We can't leave the thing at a street corner very well, or we shall have half the intelligent police in the district on our track.'

'You wait,' he replied. 'Nobody expects a burglar to drive up in full state to the house he is going to enter.'

Two or three turnings oft the main road brought us to a quiet back street, and the car glided noiselessly to a standstill under the careful guidance of its driver. We had stopped opposite a small detached house, the garden of which seemed neglected even in that dim light of the stars.

'Remember, no shooting,' whispered Chandos, as we got out. 'This isn't a murdering expedition— it's a joke.' Like two shadows we drifted up the weed-grown path.

'When I followed Melrose home some months ago he seemed to live in this place alone,' my companion added. 'If he has considered it expedient to remove we may find it awkward, but we shall soon find out. I hope his dog is chained up at the back of the house. It's a formidable brute.'

Stepping off the path he turned his attention to the window.

'Positively criminal recklessness on the part of Mr. Melrose to have such a primitive fastener,' he whispered. 'It is an actual Invitation to enter.'

There was a faint click, the sash was raised with Infinite care, and then lowered again when we had got inside. There were two or three old chairs and a rough table in the place.

'I see the furniture is the same,' said Chandos. 'Unless the tenant is out again on business we shall possibly see him.'

He pulled from his pocket a small bottle with a squirt attached. 'Chloroform,' he explained. 'He will be less unreasonable when he is unconscious. Now move like a mouse.'

Stealthily he opened the door a few inches, and then he opened it boldly with a chuckle. Through the closed door of the next room came the deep regular snores of a man so sound asleep that he would have taken a lot of awakening. Chandos put the chloroform into his pocket, opened the door of the room where the sleeper lay happily oblivious of all that was going on, and switched on his electric lamp.

'The brute is in a drunken stupor,' said Chandos.

A man lay sprawled on the floor, an overturned whisky bottle at his side. My companion pointed gleefully to a large carpet bag that bad been thrown into a corner of the room.

'Luck is with us,' said Chandos. 'I fancy this big bag contains our hopes.'

We leaned over it and a sigh of satisfaction escaped me. Tumbled into the rough receptacle were the precious possessions of three ladies who at that moment were probably sound asleep far away at Royston Hall.

Chandos was holding the lamp while I made a quick examination of the things, when I heard a blow struck and a groan. Chandos sank with a crash to the floor, the light went out, and I heard the heavy breathing of a man two or three yards away. Quickly I stepped aside, and an instant later a chair came down violently in the place where I had been standing.

For sixty seconds there was dead silence. My unseen opponent was striving to locate me in the dark— and failed. He stumbled against something, and, like lightning, I made a blind rush in the direction or the sound. Two powerful arms gripped me round my waist, and I feared it was all over. Everything depended on my making one supreme effort, and with a tremendous jerk I bent the man over my knee so that we fell to the ground. Over and over we rolled, and I knew then that it was for life itself that my enemy and I were fighting. He fought to get at my throat. At one moment be almost had me at his mercy; the next I had twisted him under me and got my knee on his chest. There was something very terrifying in the fight for I was quite unaware who my assailant was, and I knew that, with Chandos lying unconscious, everything depended on me. Moreover, I did not know whom the sound might attract, and all the time the motorcar was waiting outside, liable to attract attention at any moment.

At last, to my intense joy, the man's strength began to fail. I was In comparatively good training, whereas he had nerved himself for one great effort and shot his bolt. At last I was able to get a firm grip of his arm, and hold it ready to twist if he moved.

'Chandos,' I said, hoping he would have recovered. There was no answer. I knelt on my captive for some minutes, though it seemed more like hours. Several times I called to my companion and at last there came a muttered reply.

'Chandos, strike a light. I've got both hands occupied. Pull yourself together.'

'Eh, what's that? Jerry, is that you?  Oh, I remember.'

'Be quick with the light. I have him here.'

Never was a light more welcome than when Chandos switched on his lamp. He was sitting on the floor, holding one hand to his head. He glanced at the strange sight I presented. My captive was Melrose, who had evidently awakened while we were inspecting the bag, and flung himself upon us with tigerish ferocity from behind.

'Half a minute, old fellow,' said Chandos. 'I'll fix him up nicely.'

He produced a roll of line cord from his pocket, and first bound Melrose's lets tightly. Then his arms were pinioned, and finally the man was secured so firmly that he lay inert as a log, following our movements with bloodshot eyes, in which there was an expression of bitterest hatred.

'The brute gave me a nasty knock on the head,' said Chandos, 'but the skin isn't broken luckily. Come on, Jerry, we must get out of this.'

'And leave him here to die!' I expostulated. Chandos stood over the prostrate figure for a few seconds.

'You know,' he said, addressing Melrose, 'you deserve a lot for hitting me so hard, but it would be painful to die of starvation. Jerry,' he added to me, 'get that bag into the car. I'll join you in two ticks.'

I left the house by the front door and put the all-important bag in the car. Not a soul was In sight, and a minute later Chandos walked jauntily down the path.

'Phew! It's half-past three,' he said. 'We haven't much time to spare.'

Driving as fast as be dared we ran through London, and he did not open out until we had passed Surbiton again.

'Chandos,' I said, as we tore along, 'what did you do with Melrose?'

'I fastened one hand up and cut the other free. If he has patience he will wriggle out in an hour— just long enough to compensate me for my sore head.'

My watch pointed to 4.30 when we approached Captain Foley's house. The place was in darkness, so Chandos boldly drove the car just on to the drive behind a tree. Before deserting it be pinned to the seat a note which he had scrawled on the way down:

The brake really needs attention, or you may have a smash. Otherwise the car is in excellent order.— 'Chandos.'

We hurried back to Royston Hall, carrying the bag between us. Chandos climbed up to his window first, drew up the bag on a string, and I followed.

'There's a lot of fun in life if you only look for it,' he said, cheerfully, he be lighted a cigarette. 'I think these things had better be left in the hall. You get to bed,' he added as he picked up the bag, 'and mind you don't get up too late this morning.'

It was worth all I bad gone through to watch Chandos's expression at breakfast next day when the delighted Royston explained the miracle that had happened. For the tenth time our host read aloud a note which be bad found on the bag:

The man who took these is rather sorry, since I pointed out to him the error of his ways. I have much pleasure in returning them.— Chandos. '

'What an extraordinary being this mysterious Chandos is!' said Eileen Derwent to me. 'I wonder what he is like to look at. What would you guess, Mr. Vaughan?'

Chandos smiled. 'I don't really suppose one would suspect him of being a burglar if one saw him,' he said.

'I wonder,' said Eileen, helping herself to marmalade.

________________

3: The Gold Mummy

I WAS SITTING in my chambers, ruefully looking over my bank book, when the servant came in and announced that a Mr. Stokes wished to see me.

I glanced at the clock. Half-past ten at night is not one's usual time for receiving visitors, and, so far at I knew I had never met a Mr. Stokes in my life.

'Did he state his business?'

'He mentioned that it was important, Sir.'

'I suppose you had better show him in here, then,' I said, wondering what on earth could bring Mr. Stokes or anyone else to see we at that hour.

As soon as my eyes fell on the man however, a vague sense of uneasiness possessed me. He had about him the air and appearance of a detective. One can tell a man of breeding generally by such trifles as the way he holds his hat or lights a cigarette when he it under a stranger's roof. Instinctively I put myself on my guard. Detectives had never had any great interest for me since I joined Chandos.

Mr. Stokes stood rather awkwardly just inside the door with an air of deference tinged with aggressiveness, which be seemed to be trying to hide.

'Good evening, Mr. Stokes. Do sit down. What can I have the pleasure of doing for you?'

He coughed, sat down, and carefully balanced his hat on his knee.

'You are Mr. Gerard Norton, I believe?' he said, in a deep guttural voice.

'Certainly.'

He stroked his pointed beard, and I noticed the ruddy appearance of his face which in itself might have been sufficient to suggest the policeman in him.

'I believe Mr. Essex Vaughan is a friend of yours?' he went on, to my horror.  Instantly, I was filled with fears concerning the safety of Chandos. Had they already taken him and come to pump me as to his movements?

'I know him,' I said, struggling to maintain a calm demeanour.

'Known him for some time, eh?'

'For years. But why do you ask?'

'It's rather important. Can you tell me exactly, where he was on the 10th of January?'

The 10th of January! It did not take me five seconds to calculate that that was the date on which he walked off impudently with the Kelyn diamonds.

'At least, I should like to know exactly why you wish to know,' I observed.

'I didn't want to mention it, but if you insist I may as well tell you that I am from Scotland Yard.'

'How Interesting,' I replied, with my eyes fixed on the match I was holding, to my pipe. Thank goodness It was as steady as a rock. 'You aren't going to tell me he has murdered someone, I hope.'

'I'm not in a position to reveal the secrets of the Yard, sir, but it you can help me to trace his movements on the 10th of January, I should be much obliged.'

I got up and looked at a calendar in a disinterested fashion. What could I say? If I invented anything it might at once show I was lying and trying to hide something. The only thing to do was to lie and warn Chandos to stick to the same yarn.'

'The 10th was a Friday,' I said. 'He came back from Paris with me on the following day. We stayed there a week. There, does that settle your curiosity?'

'Jerry, you twist the truth about shockingly,' he said, with a quiet chuckle.

'Chandos!' I ejaculated, and, after one careful look at the excellent make-up of my friend, I sank back exhausted into the chair. The shock of the relief was so great, coming as it did after ten minutes of exquisite agony that I felt almost helpless. He came over to my side.

'You are a good chap to lie so carefully for me,' he said.

'Get me a whisky and soda quickly— and a stiff one,' I remarked.

His eyes were filled with laughter as he handed the drink to me.

'I did it partly for a joke, man,' he said. 'I felt horribly dull tonight after playing the role of bogus detective for several hours. I wanted a little reality.'

'And you got it,' I replied. 'Chandos, after this, I swear that, the first time anyone asks me about. Essex Vaughan, I shall tell all the black secrets of your hideous past, just to punish you for giving me such a fright.'

'Come, don't be hard on me. Life grows terribly dull at times. Jerry, it wasn't altogether to play the fool that I came round. I have an idea. And it may lead to fun, besides profit.'

'More villainy?'

'Villainy is a very misunderstood word. I try never to do anything in that category unless driven to it by— er— circumstances. How's your banking account ?'

'It's a bit feeble,' I admitted.

'Been gambling again, eh?'

'Well, something in that way.'

'Good. Then you can't object in joining me in one of my little affairs.'

'Chandos, you are a tempter.'

'I wouldn't really have asked you, but—'

'But what?'

'I thought you would like to be tempted.' He laughed and planted himself comfortably in his armchair. 'You know Professor Ressington?' he asked, seriously.

'The old stick we met at the Markhams' dinner last week?'

'Precisely. You were talking of villainy just now. What do you think of him?'

'He seemed a very harmless old gentleman, with a reputation for exploring the tombs of ancient Egyptians.'

'Quite a respectable member of society, and a scientist who has made a distinguished name.'

'That is what I gathered.'

'Fortunately for some people the public memory is a short one. Professor Ressington is about sixty now and he had stuck to his hobby for the last twenty years. But he made his money with his wits, just as you and I do, Jerry. While we wouldn't hurt a fly unless we were driven to it he made his pile in a way which I should call distinctly unscrupulous.'

'How?' I asked in astonishment at hearing such news of the peaceable, white-haired old gentleman.

'Do you remember hearing of the Morgan Society?'

'The affair that went smash many years ago.'

'Yes. You may remember that hundreds of little investors all over the country were ruined.'

'And Morgan poisoned himself when he was arrested,' I added reflectively.

'Quite so,' said Chandos, drawing a deep whiff of cigarette smoke and blowing it to the celling. 'And Mr. Stuart Ressington was in the swindle. He was never charged because they could not be sure of bringing it home to him. Morgan, the only witness who could have sent him to prison, was dead. So Ressington went on life's road rejoicing, having done all the villainy that was necessary to ensure his having a good time for the rest of his life. He went abroad for years, and next bobbed up as a scientist and an Egyptian explorer. Bah!'

'It's sad to reflect on the depravity of mankind,' I commented, after a brief silence.

'Yes, Jerry, but it's equally sad to reflect on the good things that old man is enjoying when he has no right to them morally.'

'What of it?'

'Well, that is why I came round here, really.'

'To make me sad with the reflection that Professor Ressington has no right to his wealth?'

'No, to cheer you up with the thought that we may help ourselves to it freely with easy consciences. Do you know, he has a most wonderful collection of old gold ware? Some of it is Egyptian, and all of it is of the best.'

'Unwieldly stuff for the expert cracksman to deal with,' I remarked. 'Notes or diamonds would be simpler, if we could put our hands on them.'

'Jerry, you have the mind of a low thief, and no imagination.'

'Well, you must admit that the golden possessions of the scientific old gentleman couldn't very well be carried away under one's arm, or even in a portmanteau. Of course, if they would undertake to look the other way, we could drive up in a cab, pile the stuff into the vehicle, and drive off.'

'I see you have the glimmering of an imagination. You have nearly hit the nail on the head.'

'Are you mad?'

'No, but I'm certainly going to drive up to the Professor's front door and take away with me the choicest bits of his collection right under the old gentleman's nose. Moreover, I don't mind betting you ten pounds he'll tip me for doing it.'

Chandos began to laugh softly as he always did when contemplating the prospect of any particularly daring scheme.

'I take your bet,' I said, enthusiastically.

'Right,' he replied; 'and you shall see it done yourself. By the way,' he added, changing the subject, 'did you know I had gone in for Egyptology?'

'Indeed, no.'

'It's a fact. I picked up a fine mummy and case, all complete, the other day. quite as a bargain.'

'You are joking.'

'No. It is round at my flat. Come across and see it in the morning.'

'No, thanks the living interest me quite enough.'

'Sorry you don't sympathise with my new idea. But come round tomorrow, anyhow, and we will discuss this little affair of Professor Ressington.'

WHEN I DID CALL he seemed to have lost interest in the scientist's gold treasures, and he led me solemnly to his sanctum, where the gloomy mummy case lay in state.

'What a hideous and mournful thing to keep about the place!' I said. 'For heaven's sake get rid of it, and think of something a little more cheerful.'

'Jerry, I'm going to get rid of it. But before I do it may prove useful.'

'Going to dress the case up with skulls and use it as a sort of freak dining-table, eh?' I suggested.

'No, my son. Have a careful look at it and tell me whether you don't think it is a fine specimen.'

Gingerly I approached the coffin-like box. Like all mummy cases, it was larger than a coffin.

'Can you get into the thing?' I asked, running my fingers over its hard, wooden sides.

'I could, but it takes a lot of trouble. We won't open it just now, if you don't mind.'

'What on earth did you buy it for?'

'Dear me, as I told you, imagination isn't your strong point. Doesn't anything occur to you, with this exquisite mummy case in front of you?'

'Frankly, no, excepting that you may find it a bit of a white elephant.'

'Not at all. Don't you know that such things are nearly as negotiable as a bank-note, if only you offer them to the right sort of customer. Don't you see a faint sort of connection between this and Professor Ressington?'

The scientist— the Egyptologist! Of course, he would be interested in a way. But what had that got to do with the golden ware we coveted? What subtle plan was Chandos weaving In his far-seeing brain?'

'I wonder whether the old man would buy the thing?' he said.

'I shouldn't build hopes on it,' I replied. 'Probably he has seen all the mummies he ever wanted to while he was inspecting them in their proper place— the Egyptian tombs.'

'I hope so,' said Chandos, thoughtfully; and we left the gloomy object for the more cheerful light and surroundings of his library.

'I wish you would tell me what your plan is for raiding the Professor's place, Chandos,' I said a little later.

'I will let you into the secret in good time,' he replied. And he refused point blank to discuss the matter any further.

TWO DAYS LATER I dropped into his flat unexpectedly. It was rather late and I was surprised to bear the unmistakable sound of a saw at work in his sanctum. I listened for some time heating the sawing and strange tappings. True, Chandos had some odd hobbies, but I had never gathered that carpentering was numbered among them. Thinking he might not wish to be disturbed, I settled down to read a magazine in his library, And it was half an hour before he emerged from the room in his shirt sleeves, with, a screwdriver in his band. 'Hallo, Jerry, have you been waiting long? Why didn't you tell me you were here? I've just been amusing myself putting up a bookcase.'

'Chandos.'

'Yes, Jerry.'

'I'm sorry to see you falling away from the truth. Show me this wonderful bookcase.'

He smiled oddly.

'It isn't quite complete,' he replied. 'Help yourself to a drink. There was an interesting little paragraph in the Times yesterday Did you notice it ?'

'No. What does it say?'

'Professor Ressington is to take the chair at a conference of Egyptologists in Brussels next week.'

'The news doesn't thrill me,' I observed.

'No, nothing does, you phlegmatic creature; but don't you see that be can't be both in London and Brussels at the same time?'

'Well?'

'I have offered to sell him my exquisite mummy. I wrote to him yesterday, telling him it was supposed to be unique, and explained that I would send it round if be didn't mind, as I had no place where it could be kept safely.'

'You wrote as Essex Vaughan?'

'Why not? Here is his reply. He declares he will be charmed to examine it and if it is as good as I make out be will be delighted to take it off my hands. And so, Jerry, I want you to be good enough to convey it in a van to his place in Queen's Gate. The van will be round at four o'clock this afternoon. I've hired one for the purpose.'

'But surely you will come too.'

Chandos smiled enigmatically.

'I may have to go to— er— Brussels,' he said. 'You won't fail, will you? Come round at about four, dressed as much like a van driver as you like, and there will be a man to help you. But I want you to take charge of the operations, to make sure that our mummy case doesn't come to grief. All you will have to do is to deposit it there with my compliments, and come away.'

I 'made up' for the part very tolerably, and spent the early part of the afternoon wondering what Chandos was after. It occurred to me in a flash just before I arrived at the flat that he was going to secrete himself inside the thing. My suspicions became confirmed as soon as the haughty servant informed me that Mr. Vaughan had gone away, but left instructions that whatever we did we were not to drop the case in moving it.

I felt puzzled and rather annoyed that he should have taken such a step without confiding in me. Much as I should have liked to shout to him in the box, I could not do so under the watchful eye of the servant. So with infinite care the van-man and I lifted our precious burden down the stairs. It was no light weight, but we managed to get it on the cart eventually, and then as we drove through the streets the humour of the thing struck me. I laughed aloud until the man at my side thought I must be a trifle mad.

There was nothing light-hearted. however, about me when we came to Queen's Gate. I felt that it was like depositing my friend in a living tomb, as we carried the heavy case up the steps and, under the guidance of a footman, deposited it in a spare room. I was frantically anxious at the last moment to ask Chandos how he expected me to help him in the affair, but I had to go away disappointed, and it was with a heavy heart that I changed into decent clothes again at my own chambers.

NEXT MORNING I went round to Chandos's flat to see if he had left any message for me.

'I think Mr. Vaughan is just getting up, sir. Will you come in?' said the man-servant. Astonished, I followed, and found Chandos in his dressing-gown.

'My dear chap, why didn't you come round last night, and tell me how you got on?' he asked. I was more puzzled than ever.

'Were you here ?' I asked.

'Certainly, I waited up until after midnight, thinking you would come.'

'But— but I thought you were inside the old mummy-case,' I replied.

He burst into laughter, and threw over a note. It had come by post from the old Professor that morning, and explained in polite, but very definite terms that a mere cursory glance bad shown him that the mummy was of no particular interest the case indicating that it was of comparatively modern origin, etc. The writer added:

Unfortunately, my time is precious to-day, as I am just leaving for the Continent, so I was not able to examine it as minutely as I should have liked to do. Indeed, I tried to open the case, but found it had become jammed in some way. Its value is not great. I should offer it to some museum. My own interest, as you know, is confined to things of this nature that are of great antiquity and very rare. You may leave it where it is, if it is any convenience to you, until such time as you have found a 'home' for it.

Chandos rubbed his bands, gleefully.

'I don't see exactly where your satisfaction comes in,' I commented.

'You will when you gee the beautiful sliding-door I put in the side of the case,' he said.

His scheme was beginning to dawn on me.

'What is inside it now ?' I asked.

'Lead, my boy — harmless lumps of lead, screwed down so that they won't rattle. That's why I had to screw the top down from the inside so firmly that there wasn't an earthly chance of the old gentleman getting it open.'

'And you—'

'I'm going to remove that lead, and with my own fair fingers pack the case with the finest collection of gold ware that there is handy in London.''

'Chandos, you're an ingenious soul,' I exclaimed, 'Let me help you!'

'You shall, Jerry, if it pleases you, and when we call for goods in a week or so; you may put on your most innocent expression, for though there may. have been a daring burglary in the meantime, they will never dream that the swag is in Essex Vaughan's old mummy case.'

I SOON learnt after we had the dummy mummy case safely installed at Professor Ressington's house, what elaborate preparations and investigations it is possible for a moderate burglar to make before be attempts the final operations. Chandos seemed to know the topography of the house perfectly. And, what was even more interesting, he knew exactly where to place his hands on that precious collection of gold ornaments which was our goal. He had acquired a knowledge of the personal habits of all the servants in the place, and knew what part of the house they slept in.

We dined out with the greatest comfort on the evening when our raid was to be made. Never did two people look less like burglars than we did as we drank our coffee in leisure at nine o'clock, in a fashionable West-end restaurant. I could not repress a smile when an occasional friend nodded to the fascinating Essex Vaughan, utterly oblivious of the strange programme he had in store during the next few hours.

'It really is most fortunate for us,' he said, smiling gaily at a stately girl who swept past with a pleasant bow, 'that the excellent Professor is now in Brussels, for be keeps the oddest of hours. And if we happened the meet him on a landing in his own house at four a.m. it would tax your ingenuity and mine to breaking point for us to think of a plausible explanation.'

'Especially if we also happened to have our. hands full of his dearest possessions,' I added, with an uncomfortable twinge at the thought of the possibility.

'Don't talk in that depressing fashion, Jerry. This is a night of fun and frolic. I propose that we go to a music-hall to put us in good spirits, and then we will go to the flat and make ourselves comfortable until the witching hour.'

I agreed, but I confess that the glory of light in an exquisite ballet was lost upon me. I hardly saw a thing on the stage ; my mind was fixed on the grim reality ahead. Chandos, on the other hand, was as interested, apparently, as anyone in that vast audience.

I began to feel a trifle unnerved when we arrived at his flat— to wait for the crucial moment. The deep musical note of the clock on the mantelpiece was as a death-knell when it chimed twelve.

'You look uncommonly as though you would like a whisky and soda,' said my companion.

'I— I believe I should, Chandos.'

'I wouldn't dream of prescribing it,' he replied, firmly. 'The men who pull long faces in the Old Bailey dock have generally got their courage that way. Why, man, burglary is at art— in its way a high art. And did you ever find a man painting a really good picture when his brain was clogged with the fumes of whisky? It may be that our freedom during the next few years may depend upon our wits to-night.'

Chandos was very much in earnest, and something of his enthusiasm began to take hold of me. I decided to dismiss the idea of alcoholic courage. The clock chimed two a.m. before my companion made a move. Chandos went to a secret drawer in an oak cabinet and slipped a neatly finished steel jemmy and one or two other things into the breast pocket of a light overcoat, and then we set out on our strange adventures.

Had I known then what was in store before dawn, I do not doubt that I should have drawn back, and possibly changed my new mode of making a livelihood. But with Chandos at my side in the gayest of moods, I felt equal to any emergency. Only the fun and the vision of the material profit of the expedition appealed to me then. Somehow it seemed that with such a leader nothing could go wrong.

We took a cab to within a quarter of a mile to our destination, and then walked. I felt less and less confidence as we drew nearer the house, and saw the embarrassing lights in the neighbourhood.

'A dense fog would be a boon,' I commented, lugubriously.

'Um— yes,' said Chandos. 'These lights at least show how hopeless it would have been to attempt to march off with the things as though they belonged to us.'

We walked straight past the house, which was semi-detached. There was not a soul in sight, and before long we doubled back. At the gate Chandos stopped as if to tie his bootlace. This gave us a final opportunity of seeing that the course was clear, and then we walked boldly on to the path where there was comparative darkness.

'How are you feeling, Jerry?'

'Ripping,' I lied. Had he not been there I have not the shadow of a doubt that I should have turned tail.

'Then follow me,' he said. Like a pair of mice we passed under the shadow of the house until we came to a secluded window. After waiting a moment to ensure that we were unobserved, Chandos produced a clasp-knife with a long, thin blade, and with a firm hand pressed it against the catch. There was a snap and my companion folded the knife once more and put it back in his pocket.

'Every other window on the ground floor had a patent catch excepting this one,' he observed with a smile.  'I suppose that some intelligent person will have a patent catch put on this one tomorrow now that the damage is done.'

Gently be lifted the sash, and we climbed through into the kitchen. By now I had lost all idea of nervousness. It was too late to draw back, for that would have been a confession before Chandos of sheer cowardice.

'Slip your shoes into your pockets and come upstairs,' he said.

I obeyed, and we stalked like spectres to the foot of the staircase.

'First of all,' whispered Chandos, softly, 'we must get our mummy case ready for its precious burden.'

At the foot of the stairs Chandos stooped and stretched a piece of thin rope from one side of the steps to the other.

'It's an old trick,'  he whispered, 'but in a case like this one never knows what might happen. Step over it. And mind you don't break your neck over it if we have occasion to come downstairs in a hurry. Leave that to the man running after us.'

As we went up not a board creaked. The only sound was the ticking of a great clock in the hall. We reached the room where, in a different role, we had deposited our strange portmanteau, and fortunately found the door unlocked.

Chandos closed the door after us, and then with the glee of the true artist he put his arm through mine and took me to see his handiwork.

'Now, find the sliding door if you can,' he asked.

I tried and failed. There was a rough scheme of ornamentation at the sides, but there was nothing which remotely resembled a sliding door.

'Come hither, my son,' he said, leading me to the end of a great box and pressing two nails. Then he pulled the end of the case, which opened bodily on to a hinge at the bottom.

'Beautiful,' I commented. He went on his hands and knees and, with a small screwdriver, unfastened three heavy pieces of lead which he had secured to the bottom to prevent them from rolling about. It would never have occurred to me not to leave them on the floor, but Chandos never ran unnecessary risks. He got on to a chair and carefully deposited them on the top of a very high wardrobe where they probably remain unnoticed till this day.

It was afterwards I realised in this the importance of strict attention to minor details.

'Now, when we find some sort of a rug to wrap the booty In, to prevent it rattling, we shall be ready,' he said. ' If you are equal to the occasion we will do a little exploring now.'

I nodded, and with the utmost care he reopened the door. All was as quiet as the grave, and the corridor was in pitch darkness, save for the tiny electric torch which Chandos switched on when it was safe to do so. First he commandeered an eiderdown quilt from one of the unoccupied bedrooms, and then laid it ready by the side of the mummy case together with a coil of string which he produced from his pocket.

'Hoop-la, Jerry; and now for the gold. It is downstairs in the library, and remember that this is the critical stage. If you fall over anything and make a row we are eternally undone.'

With only occasional flashes of light to guide us we got to the library and closed the door. It as a handsomely furnished room. with various massive and valuable ornaments dotted about. Chandos gave but a passing glance at these, however, and turned his attention to an old oak cabinet, the front of which had sufficient glass in it to reveal the treasures it contained. He put his hand on the handle and pulled.

'Locked, of course,' he whiskered, ' It seems an awful pity to damage a beautiful case like this by forcing it, but as they haven't left the key lying about we have no alternative.'

He took out his gleaming little jemmy and, with my heart beating fast. I watched his skilful handling of the incriminating tool. It was only about a couple of minutes before there was a faint sound of tearing wood, and the cabinet lay open before us.'

'Aren't they fine?' he asked, turning the electric torch on to the gold treasures. 'Look at the underfill design on this chap— possibly done by some gentleman whose mummy is at present lying peacefully in the British Museum, it grieves me to think that we shall have to put 'em into the melting pot but I fear no sane being could regard such peculiar articles as negotiable in their present form. At least we can leave the lighter articles for the old Professor, just to cheer his heart up when he feels lonely without the heavy ones.'

Quaintly carved bowls, jugs, and vases were lifted on to the table, and Chandos gave me a handful. Taking a similar load himself, he led the way to our 'portmanteau,' and the precious articles were neatly tied up in a fold of the eiderdown quilt. The second journey was made successfully, and we returned to the library to make a third and final selection.  With a quick but practised eye Chandos discarded the things which be regarded as comparative rubbish. There was not much left which from our point of view, was worth taking.

Carrying a jug by the handle in my right hand and a vase in my left, I followed him to the staircase. He gave one flash of the torch to let me see where I was, end then I went up after him slowly in the darkness. I had not gone far, however, before I bumped into the banisters. The pressure I put on then was slight, but in that awful stillness the creak seemed terrible. A cold shiver ran down my back, and I paused for an instant to regain my self-possession. I could neither see or hear Chandos, and from the fact that be did not give a light when I made the creaking noise I gathered that he had gained the top and gone a little way along the landing.

Feeling far from easy, I went up another step, and then to my unspeakable horror the handle came off the jug which I was carrying. The jug clattered on the step and, with a din which at that moment seemed to resemble that of an iron foundry bumped from step to step, until it landed with an unspeakable cash on the parquetry in the hall.

I stood rooted where I was for the space of ten seconds, sheer fright making me helpless.'

'Chandos,' I said in a smothered whisper; but there came no reply, and an instant later a door opened almost at the head of the stairs. There was a sharp cry, and an electric light was switched on, and I saw a strange man in night attire. My first thought was for Chandos, who was obviously trapped further up the corridor, but the moment the light flooded the place I saw that my companion must have dodged into a door. I could see nothing of him. Partly with the instinct of self-preservation, and partly to draw the enemy off, I fled like a hare down the stairs and doubled back into the kitchen before the surprised man, who had turned the light on, had fully realised the situation.

Glancing over my shoulder, I saw him coming downstairs, and I was preparing to make a fight for freedom when I heard a thud, and I knew the rope across the foot of the stairs had done its work. I heard several voices, and knew it was too late to turn to help Chandos. I should only have complicated matters for him by returning. I went straight on, scrambled out of the kitchen window, scaled a wall at the back, and then put my boots on before running for all I was worth till I turned the corner.

I had escaped the enemy, but my heart was as heavy as lead at the thought of poor Chandos. How had he fared?

Walking quickly round the block, I came near the front of the house. I lit a cigarette deliberately and threw my light overcoat over my arm, secure in the thought that I did not even remotely present the outward and visible appearance of a burglar. With my heart still beating like a sledge-hammer, I walked on till I came to the front of Professor Ressington's house. The servants bad got to work quickly. Already there were two policemen at door, listening to the excited explanations of two or three servants. One of the policemen pulled out his whistle and blew several sharp staccato notes. In the most natural way in the world I stopped and watched, while several other policemen arrived at a quick trot. Meanwhile the first two policemen bad made a search, and found the kitchen window open.

'He's bolted,' I heard a gruff voice exclaim. 'You'd better see if you can find anything of him. We'll search the house. There may be one of 'em left yet.'

May be! I could have wrung my hands in futile despair on hearing the words. Chandos had had no possible chance of getting away. He must be secreted somewhere within those four walls awaiting the fate that seemed inevitable— all through an old jug handle coming off.

'Can I help you?' I said, to a sergeant.

'Yes, sir. Gladly, if you will. Help those men to search the grounds,' he said. Search for Chandos! The idea of my undertaking such an occupation would have struck me as intensely ludicrous if the situation had not been fraught with such peril for him. In a few minutes the policeman inside announced that they had found one of the bedroom windows open, but no trace of any hidden burglar. My heart gave a leap. If there was a window open upstairs, Chandos must have opened it, and got away while I was running for my life round the back.

But I felt less assured when I saw the window. It was about eight yards up, and though there was a rain-pipe near it, it must have been a terrible ordeal to reach it. He could hardly have jumped down, however, without injuring himself badly. Probably he was hurt, and that accounted for bib not being there with me, watching the hunt. I was a good deal puzzled by hearing, nothing of the booty which we had left by the side of the mummy case. In their search the police could hardly have failed to see it there. And then the thought occurred to me that the quick-witted Chandos might have found time to bundle it inside the case and snap the secret door to, before he got away himself. At any rate, it was just the daring sort of thing he was likely to do in order to snatch a victory out of failure.

After the discovery of the open bedroom window, I was more than anxious to reach the flat. As soon I could I hurried away, found a cab, and got to Piccadilly. I had a latchkey for his flat in my pocket, and let myself in in a fever of expectancy, but my spirits fell with a rush when I found the place just as we had left it. Chandos had not returned.

At first I thought of making inquiries of the police, and at the hospitals to see whether he had hurt himself in the fall, and then crawled out of the danger-zone, but I decided that would be a trifle risky, I went to my own chambers, thinking be might possibly have turned up there, but was equally unsuccessful.

Dawn broke, leaving me sadder, if not wiser. I had a cold bath, and in a restless mood went round to the flat to await developments. The dignified servant informed me that Mr. Essex Vaughan was out, but that was all he knew; so I sat down and waited impatiently, wondering what I could do.

At noon I bought an early evening paper, and found an account of the burglary, which gave an entirely erroneous description of myself and satisfied me that the servant who chased me had only had a view of my back as I ran. The paper then set forth the list of treasures which the burglar had escaped with in some mysterious fashion. This was excellent news, for it showed that Chandos had risen to the occasion and secreted our booty before getting away. On the library table was found— though I had not noticed my companion put it there— the following impudent note:

Some of these things look as though they were not pure gold. If that is the case I will return them with great care. I fear, however, you will not see the others again.— Chandos.

There were a few bright comments on the wickedness of this baffling thief, and the writer expressed sorrow that be should have escaped, when for once he had so nearly fallen into the clutches of the law, but there was nothing to indicate that the police believed there were two men at work, and that one of them might have injured himself in getting out of the bedroom window.

MY ANXIETY INCREASED as the day passed. It was two o'clock in the . afternoon when the thought dawned upon me that at all costs our mummy case ought to be got out or the place as soon as possible. If the police should begin to draw attention to it and find it stuffed with the missing things they would soon find that it came from Essex Vaughan, and his arrest would inevitably follow.

At Chandos's flat I found the letter from Professor Ressington, in which he said he would keep the case until Chandos cared to send for it, and I resolved to get the incriminating thing away at once. It would at least be something satisfactory to have to tell Chandos when be returned.

I rigged myself out in the false beard and clothes that I had worn the day we took the case to the house, and engaged a van with a muscular van man. Professor Ressington's butler recognised me, fortunately, when we got to the house, and no suspicion crossed his mind that anything was wrong.

He took us up to the room where the case was. I could not help thinking how innocent it looked. Chandos had left no trace of our doings. It was with a great relief, however, that I at last got the heavy thing in the van, away from the danger of discovery. Now, at any rate, there was no possibility of Chandos being traced.

We deposited it in the flat, and then I hurried off to change once more, returning a little later in rational garb, and minus my false beard and dirt, to inquire after Mr. Vaughan. I let myself in and went to his library where, to my unspeakable delight I found Chandos reclining in a chair, smoking a cigarette.

'Good heavens, how did you get here?' I asked.

He smiled. 'You ought to know— you brought me here.'

Suddenly it dawned upon me.

'Were you inside the mummy case?' I asked.

'Yes,' he replied. 'It was a tight fit with all the other things, but when I saw what a height the windows were off the ground I thought it was the only thing to do.'

'My dear fellow, you must have been nearly smothered.'

'No, I got enough air through a crack. I meant to make a dash for it this evening if the coast was tolerably clear because I wasn't sure how you fared. But I knew it was all right as soon as I felt the case rattling on the dray.'

'Chandos, I'm broken-hearted to think I caused the disaster. The handle broke off an old jug.'

'My dear Jerry,' he said, 'you don't suppose I would blame you, do you even if it had been your fault. But it wasn't a disaster anyway. Besides me, you brought all the gold. Come in the other room and inspect it. We shall be rich for months. By the way,' he added, 'I think I owe you ten pounds.'

'Why?'

'I made you a bet, you may remember, that I should be tipped when I brought the things away. It only shows how little one can tell what is going to happen.'

________________

4: The Mystery of the Hotel Royal.

SINCE OUR HIGHLY satisfactory little haul of Professor Ressington's golden treasures, Chandos and I had been 'resting.' At least, so far as I knew he was not exercising his professional skill, for I had not joined him in any exploit for a month.

My own banking account was in a healthy state, and I was happy enough for the time, spending most of my days reading lazily and at night extracting a little excitement out of life at the Mohawks' Club, which Chandos and I had joined. Gambling, the besetting sin which had once so nearly brought me with a crash to the bottom rung of humanity, still held me fascinated, but play at the Mohawks was not particularly high, and as Chandos had playfully put it, it kept me out of mischief. I had not heard from him for a week. He was wandering aimlessly about the continent in solitude. I had had briefly-worded postcards from him at Milan, Vienna and Berlin. From the last-named place he had written that he was thinking of putting in a week or two in Paris, and I had been hoping to hear from him there, so that I could run over and join him, but he had not written again, and I concluded that he had changed his mind and gone farther afield.

I was enjoying my after-breakfast smoke and running my eye over the morning papers, when my glance fell on something which gave me a shock. Some enterprising reporter on The Daily Herald had achieved a 'scoop,' and the result of his efforts was an article in the centre of the page, with glaring headlines, which made me feel queer:

CHANDOS AGAIN

DARING THREAT IN A LONDON HOTEL

Although there was nobody in the room with me, I involuntarily looked over my shoulder to see that my absorbed attention was unnoticed, and then I devoured the contents of the article. The first few lines amused me; they referred to the impudence and ingenuity of this lawless soul, whose identity the world had never been able to guess. But as I read on I felt inclined to wring my hands, at my friend's recklessness.

It was one of his firmest rules in life never to break his word whether it was given to a friend or an enemy. And in this case I could have wept at his recklessness. According to the writer, Mr. Silas B. Penn, a wealthy American, had been staying at the Hotel Royal, in the Strand, for ten days, having visited England on pleasure. He had become an enthusiastic collector of paintings, his palatial home in Fifth-Avenue, New York, containing a wonderful list of pictures.

The secret of the mysterious purchaser of the Raphael, the much-discussed painting which had suddenly been withdrawn from the market four days ago, was now revealed. It was Mr. Silas B. Penn who had acquired it.

He had given his cheque for £50,000 to the vendors and England had lost another old Master, for it had been delivered into his keeping and was to be taken back by him, and placed amongst his heterogeneous collection in Fifth-Avenue. Surprising though this was, however, it was nothing to what followed.

In that extraordinary fashion which characterised all his doings, Chandos, the elusive thief, had discovered the identity of the purchaser and had actually had the audacity to declare in writing to Mr. Penn that be had made it his business to prevent the American from carrying the painting off.

'The new owner of this Raphael,' the article continued, 'returned to the Hotel Royal last night after he had been to the theatre, and found the following note on his dressing table:

'I am afraid you may think it a liberty for me to take, but I am going to prevent you from robbing the country of the Raphael which you have acquired. I admit you have paid for it, and morally it is yours; but I have taken a great fancy to it. Fifty thousand pounds however, is more than I care to spend on one painting, and so I shall be compelled to acquire it in a less orthodox fashion than that which you adopted. All I shall be able to give you for it is the assurance that I shall treasure it more than most of the pictures I possess. I understand you are leaving for America in a week. Before you go I shall have the pleasure of depriving you of it.— Chandos.'

'Mr. Penn naturally regarded this at a joke at first,' added the writer of the article,' but he showed the letter to the manager of the hotel, who at once saw the gravity of the situation. It is a notorious fact that Chandos never threatens to do anything without fulfilling his threat, and Mr. Penn was not long in realising that his £50,000 purchase was in imminent danger. As nobody knew of the deal he had had the Raphael conveyed to the Hotel Royal, where it still remains in a light wood case in Mr. Penn's private sitting-room.

'The American was furious when he realised the truth, and though the manager and police have urged him to place his precious possession in safe-keeping he has decided to defy the impudent Chandos. As a result the painting is now guarded night and day by armed detectives, who take turns in watching it. No picture was ever less likely to be stolen than this Raphael now is, for its custodians have rigid instructions to shoot if necessary in preventing any thief from carrying it off with violence. Without an actual conflict it would be impossible for Chandos to make away with the picture in the present circumstances, so it would appear that for once this brilliant thief has overshot the mark, and will be unable to fulfil his boastful promise.'

Audacious though I had always known Chandos to be, I had never expected him to blunder into such a position as this. He was faced with the alternative of breaking his word —which I did not even then think likely— or of attempting some extraordinarily cunning feat which must be doomed, since the whole world now had its eye on him.

I read this article through twice, and then a sense of impending disaster took hold of me. Also I felt hurt and intensely disappointed, because Chandos had not only returned to London but undertaken this particularly daring scheme without letting me know. The whole thing struck me as a piece of madness, and from the first I was convinced that it could only end in discovery. I longed to impress this on him with all the persuasiveness at my command, and after a few moments' reflection I rang up his flat.

To my surprise the servant told me that Mr. Essex Vaughan had not yet returned from the Continent, so far as be knew; so I went up to the Mohawks, thinking Chandos might be putting up there for a few days. I waited anxiously until midnight for some sign of him, but he did not turn up.

Next morning I inserted the following 'agony' in the paper which I knew he always read religiously:

Ch.— Don't be an idiot. Where are you? Urgently beg you to communicate with me.— Jerry.

That, at least, I reflected, should result in Chandos letting me know where he was, unless he was so preoccupied with his present scheme that he had ceased to read the newspapers.

While waiting I found the Hotel Royal had a strange fascination for me. I walked past its stately portals several times. The place seemed to bold the fate of my friend. It only occurred to me after a time that the most sensible thing I could possibly do would be to put up there. Nothing would be more like the colossal impudence of Chandos than to be actually staying there, listening to fill the conversation about his own plan and keeping an ever-watchful eye on the American, the picture, and its zealous armed guards.

Accordingly I packed a bag and made the Hotel Royal my headquarters. I spent some time examining the visitors' book, at first looking for the sprawling signature of 'Essex Vaughan,' and then for some signature which might bear a resemblance to his.

But I hunted in vain. Chandos did not appear to be staying in the hotel. The chief subject for conversation in the smoke room was Chandos and his evil doings. I scanned everybody, man and woman, with an eager eye, expecting every moment to stumble across my friend in some clever disguise, but I soon became convinced that for the present, at any rate, he was not honouring the establishment by staying there. I was sure, however, that I should see something of him before he attempted his mad coup.

Mr. Silas B. Penn occasionally joined the smoke-room crowd, and it was not long before I found myself having a hugely entertaining conversation with him on the b inject which was nearest his heart for the moment, and was certainly just as near my own.

'I reckon he's got his work cut out this time,' he said, leaning back in an arm-chair and drawing at a huge cigar with a sense of infinite satisfaction. 'It would take a whole gang of thieves a great deal cleverer than him to lift my Raphael, unless he's out for murder.'

'Then you don't think he can possibly steal it?' I said, with an uneasy heart at the reflection that Chandos had raised a hornet's nest.

'Of course he might,' drawled the American. 'if he shoots at all but from what I can gather he's no hand with shooting-irons. Never uses 'em I believe, when he's at work.'

I smiled, for did I not well remember standing on a common with a cigar in my mouth, and my hair nearly standing on end, while Chandos knocked the ash off the cigar at ten paces.

'I shouldn't describe him as a murderer certainly,' I commented, feeling that that modest protest on behalf of the villain was fully justified. Chandos would not have harmed a fly if he could help it, and on the rare occasions be carried a revolver he made sure it was not loaded before he put it in his pocket.

'Have you seen any signs of him since he left you the note?' I asked. He gave me a guilty glance. Perhaps it was my guilty conscience which made me interpret it as, 'How do I know that you are not he?'

But apparently no such thought entered his mind.

'I'm not quite sure,' he said. 'At first I was a good deal puzzled to know how be got into my bedroom, anyhow to put his note there. But really the explanation must be an obvious one. An expert tells me he does not think the lock was picked. The window was fastened from the inside. So be must have had a duplicate key. You can bet your bottom dollar that we shall know pretty soon now if anyone gets fooling with the locks. They have all been changed, and I have the only keys that fit them here in my pocket, chained to me. But I do fancy someone was fooling round this evening. If he did try it on he must have been mighty quick and careful, because, for a wonder, nobody noticed him. I've had a pleasant little chat with those detective fellows since, and if the fish cares to nibble again I don't think, they will fail to hook him.'

Did Chandos know what elaborate plans were being laid to frustrate him? Surely be could not be risking everything if he knew that this keen-witted American was laying himself out to beat him on his own ground, and, what was very much worse, to capture him into the bargain if possible.

It almost made me burst into a cold perspiration to see the enthusiasm Mr. Penn was imparting into the contest. Chandos, Chandos why had you not let me into your secret so that I could at least let you know some of the dangers that lay in store for you?

I paced the corridors impatiently, and wandered impatiently about the building. Turning on my heel abruptly I almost ran into a waiter whom, it suddenly struck me, I had seen a minute before downstairs. He passed me with such an air of detachment that my mind flew at once to the only obvious conclusion. He was a detective and moreover, rather a clumsy one. Just to make sure I descended to the second floor by the lift, and sure enough I encountered him again a little later.

What a trap was laid! Every innocent looking guest was being furtively shadowed. I, of all people, had no desire to draw suspicion upon myself, so I ceased to play the hare to his bounds by putting on my hat and taking a cab to the Mohawks, where for a while I could forget a cloud which seemed to hang over my head by playing with Fate at the card table.

LATE THAT NIGHT I again rang up Chandos's flat, hoping against hope that he might be there, or have left some message for me; but I was disappointed, and returned to the Hotel Royal feeling sick at heart.

All sorts of wild ideas passed through my brain. I believe if I had thought of it I should cheerfully have set the place on fire in the hope of destroying the picture and thus ending the reckless scheme of Chandos.

Mr. Silas B. Penn was enjoying the distinction he had gained, and was the natural centre of an interested crowd in the smoke room, although it was past midnight.

'I guess this Chandos will have to hustle,' I heard him say as I entered the room. 'This is Thursday night, and there's no power I know of to stop me sailing for New York on Sunday morning. I'll be out of this place on Saturday night, and so he hasn't got much time left.'

There were one or two fresh faces in the room, but none could possibly have been my friend in disguise. In what dramatic way did he hope to spirit that painting away?

I puzzled my brains trying to think as he would think in the situation, but I could come to no plausible conclusion. He would never attempt to pose as one of the detectives on guard when they were all so well known to one another. It would be no use gaining an entry to the much guarded room by boring a hole in one of the floors, for the detectives were there night and day. Besides, even if he should by some miracle get the Raphael into the corridor he would be no better off, for the place was in such a state of agitation by now that anyone seen with a large object such as a picture, in his possession would have been stopped instantly by a dozen people who would have been prepared, almost, to tear him to pieces in their joy at catching the mysterious culprit.

I hardly slept at all that night, tossing until dawn when I tell into a fitful doze only to awake with a start, dreaming that Chandos was running down the Strand with the picture on his back while a battalion of mounted infantry were galloping at his heels.

Very weary and utterly depressed, I dressed and went downstairs for breakfast. I had not left my room a minute before I realised that something unusual was astir. The waiter who leaned over me with a menu said in a deferential voice. full of suppressed excitement, 'Have you heard, sir— they've caught him?'

My nerveless fingers dropped the knife which I had idly picked up. My head swam strangely, and everything in the room seemed a blur. The obsequious waiter returned the knife to the table and with an effort I endeavoured to appear calm.

In a voice which I did not recognise myself, I asked, 'Caught whom?'

'This Chandos. sir. They got him in the early hours of this morning.'

'Oh,' I answered, dully, 'Where is he?'

'In the manager's office for the present, with six detectives round him and as firm a pair of handcuffs on his wrists as you could wish to see.'

Chandos trapped! The bare thought was unspeakable.

'I'm very glad,' I said, trying to keep my shaking hands out of the waiter's gaze. 'Bring me bacon and eggs.'

For a few moments I made a pretence of eating. When the waiter came I beckoned to him. 'How did they catch him?' I asked.

'He was actually posing as one of Mr. Penn's servants. Mr. Penn took him a week ago. He must have been artful to know the gentleman was going to buy the picture and get engaged— pretending he was going back to America. They'd suspected him for two days, and when they caught him he had a note signed 'Chandos' in his pocket, saying he bad plenty of time, and was in no hurry for twenty-four hours.'

Half dead I made my way to the manager's office, and pressing half a sovereign into the detective's hand, asked in a casual fashion to see the notorious criminal.

For an instant he opened the door and my eyes fell on the manacled prisoner. I stepped back, and with, out knowing what I was doing, pressed another gold piece upon the officer.

The prisoner was not Chandos!

I could have leaped and shouted for joy. There was no earthly possibility of my having made a mistake. The captive was short and stout— as unlike my friend as possible. With a wild, exultant feeling I went into the coffee-room and ordered a whisky and soda to celebrate the occasion.

I was raising the glass to my lips when my eyes fell on a figure sprawling in a chair. I put the glass down and walked over.

'Chandos,' I whispered, nearly overcome.

'Hush; not so loud!' he answered, with a glance around. 'The very walls have ears.'

'I had a ghastly shock ten minutes ago,' I went on.

'Yes, I was rather surprised my self when I arrived just now and heard that I was laid by the heels.'

'Why did you get yourself into this pickle?' I asked.

'I didn't,' he answered, simply. 'But I seem to have come to a very interesting stage of the proceedings.'

I stared at Chandos in bewilderment when he said he had had no hand in the strange case of threat to steal the famous picture.

'Then who was it left the note on Mr. Penn's dressing-table?' I asked.

'Some lunatic who has been fired by my humble example,' he said. 'I expect it really was this man who has been caught.'

'And his object?'

'More than likely it was mere bravado, and he never intended to steal it. One thing is certain, anyway, if he had intended to get away with it he would never have succeeded. I fancy he only wanted to create a sensation, and never meant to execute his threat.'

'Then why did you come here to the Hotel Royal?'

'My dear Jerry, who could have resulted that pathetic agony advertisement of yours? As a matter of fact, I was in Marseilles when I noticed it, and as I have not been reading the papers I did not know until then that I was supposed to have been playing a prank in London. So I came home, firstly to reassure you and secondly to see a little more of this curious affair in which I was supposed to be so directly interested. One has to watch over one's professional interests you know,' he added with a grim smile.

'It will be rather hard on the man who has been arrested if they imagine he is actually Chandos, and make him suffer for all your sins,' I commented.

'He should have thought of that before he forged my name,' replied Chandos. 'But if they should happen to take him seriously I fancy you and I Jerry, might be able to convince the authorities in our own peculiar manner, that Chandos is not under lock and key. I wonder they have not already compared the writing of the note with some of those valuable samples of my 'professional' calligraphy which they treasure so greatly at Scotland Yard.'

'They probably have done,' I explained, 'but that would not help them much for this letter was written in capitals which might have been yours, and might not.'

'What sort of man is this Mr. Silas B. Fenn?'

'A real Yankee, and as obstinate us a mule.'

'So I should gather, from the attitude he took up in the first stage of this affair.'

Chandos threw his cigarette in the heart of the fire rather savagely, and I noticed that his lips were set in a firm fashion.

'I think I shall stay here for a day or two,' he added. 'It would be entertaining to have a few words with him.'

THE CAPTIVE, who gave the name of Septimus Sapt, was eventually taken to the police station. We stood in the vestibule as he passed, guarded as though he were a human eel.

'You seem to have made an important capture, judging by the care you are taking of him,' said Chandos to one of the detectives.

'Ah, that we have,' replied the officer. 'He's caused us more trouble at Scotland Yard these last few years than half a dozen criminals put together. He's a slim customer, says he can prove that he only came over from America a month ago, and never set foot in England before that. But do you think we don't know him sir?'

The detective grinned complacently. 'That's Chandos right enough. He doesn't look brainy, but you can't judge much by looks.'

'From what one has heard of this Chandos I should hardly have imagined him to be a person of that type,' said my companion, with a quaint glance at me.

'But you don't know the criminal classes, sir,' persisted the detective, pompously. 'This man is just the sort of person I expected Chandos to be.'

'Indeed,' said Chandos, with an air of surprise. 'May I ask whether that is the view of the rest or your colleagues?'

'Bless your soul, yes. We know 'em. And they're sure to stumble sooner or later, these clever ones, and land right in our arms. Good-day, sir.'

Chandos turned on his heel, and put his arm through mine.

'That fellow annoys me,' he said, in an odd voice. ' He gets on my nerves.'

In a few hours the papers came out with startling headlines. The supposed capture of Chandos was the event of the day, and the descriptive writers devoted many columns to the solving of the sensational Hotel Royal mystery. Sapt was taken before the magistrate and formally remanded "for inquiries to be made."

"If this man is indeed the notorious Chandos the country owes a deep debt of gratitude to Mr. Penn," said the stipendiary.

Chandos bit his lip when he read this. His comments, however, were cut short by the advent of Mr. Penn into the smoking room. He was full of delight over the thought of his victory.

"My congratulations, sir," said Chandos.

The American was in the mood for flattery.

"Thanks," he replied. "I said all along that I'd beat him on his own ground."

"Did you though!" ejaculated Chandos with a tinge of venom.

"I did. And let me tell you that when Silas Penn makes up his mind on a thing like this he is a dangerous man. Chandos may have wits of a sort, but I flatter myself I'm his match."

A look of intense admiration overspread my companion's face and the American glowed visibly.

"I shouldn't like to be in Chandos's shoes with you against me," said Chandos, with a bland smile. This gave Mr. Penn very evident satisfaction. "But surely you will give Chandos credit for being quite unlike the ordinary criminal― he is more original, for instance, and cleverer," suggested the arch-villain in a casual tone.

"He has a theatrical way, that's all," observed Mr. Penn, little dreaming how thin was the ice upon which he was skating.

"Ah!" commented Chandos, very thoughtfully. "And if we found this man's story that he isn't the real Chandos was perfectly true you would still hold the same view?"

"There is no question about his identity. A signed letter was found in his pocket."

"That sounds conclusive. But he might merely be pretending to be Chandos."

Mr. Penn laughed at the bare idea, and he left the room a little later.

The instant he was gone Chandos leaped to his feet and made sure no. body was listening. There was determination in his eye, in the bend of his long fingers, in the tilt of his chin.

"Jerry, when does this self-satisfied idiot leave the Hotel Royal?" he asked.

"Tomorrow he sails from Liverpool for New York the day after."

"Good." He paused to think for a moment. "There seems to me to be two reasons why we should take a hand in the matter now," he said, "In the first place it would be rough on Sapt if they sentenced him severely, believing he was Chandos . In the second place, this American is really too dead sure of his own greatness, and it is a crying necessity that he should be taught a lesson."

His eyes were blazing now, and for the first time I saw in a flash what was at the back of his mind.

"You don't mean to say that you are mad enough to try to steal the Raphael at this stage?" I protested.

"For the moment, Jerry, I believe I would do anything to get square with Mr. Silas B. Penn. Exactly what I shall do, however, I cannot tell. It must depend on circumstances."

"But the picture― let me beg of you to keep your hands off that. If you don't I know perfectly well you will be caught, And if you get into a mess I mean to be in it too."

"You are a dear, good fellow, Jerry, and I will do my best not to lead you into prison. Meanwhile, you must admit the dramatic possibilities of the present situation, quite apart from the delight it would give us to administer a well-earned rebuke to the American."

"Very well. Do your worst," I agreed. My moral courage, never high, I fear, was prone to collapse when my friend's magnetic influence began to have sway over me. I think I would have followed him into the very jaws of a police cell, but always there was the feeling that somehow he would rise superior to the circumstances and pull us out of the hole before we are enveloped in complete disaster.

The careful guard kept on the precious picture had not been noticeably relaxed, although Mr. Penn was convinced that he had Chandos under lock and key. But now the whole world knew that a £60,000 Raphael was being kept at the Hotel Royal, and it was considered wise to keep the detectives constantly on guard.

During the rest of the day Chandos spent most of his time dozing in one of the big armchairs in the smoke room, with an air of lassitude and utter unconcern. Had I not known him so well I might have imagined that he had lost all interest in the daring scheme which he had suggested. But I knew that underneath that sleepy-looking exterior his brain was working hard, and there was little said or done in the room which escaped his notice. I wandered off to the Mohawks' Club, leaving him to his own devices, and when I returned I was amused to find him again chatting pleasantly with Mr. Penn.

"I haven't any real fear now that the picture will be stolen," the American was explaining, "but just to make sure that it doesn't go astray on the trip to New York I'm taking one of the detectives over with me to keep an eye on its case until I get it safe home."

"I should be very careful now," observed Chandos. "I'm told the modern thief is a very artful person. Really one never knows when things are safe." He laughed lightly in a way that made me tingle with uneasiness.

"Well, I can trust the man I have chosen for the task of taking care of it," declared Mr. Penn. "And I shall make it my business to see that nothing goes wrong."

"I sincerely hope nothing will go wrong," said Chandos, deliberately giving me a meaning glance. But he did not mean exactly what Mr Silas B. Penn understood him to mean.

"There doesn't seem to be a loop-hole anywhere," I pointed out to Chandos when we were alone a little later.

"And still I am living in hopes," he replied, in a non-committal fashion.

"Tell me, honestly, do you see how you are going to bring it off." To tell the truth I was getting rest-less for as the following day would be our last opportunity time was getting very short, and apparently he had made no headway whatever.

"Make your mind easy, Jerry. I see three different and distinct programmes in view, but as a matter of fact I have almost settled on the one which I shall carry out."

"Well, I wish to goodness we could get to work," I said. "This waiting isn't improving my nerve."

"Save yourself up for the great occasion. I promise that you shall join in the fun. Now go to bed! and' forget all about it until I give you the word of command."

Chandos had vanished when I got up in the morning, nor had he left me any idea of what he was doing. I did not dare to leave the place lest he should suddenly want me. The hours dragged slowly. At midday I met Mr. Penn, but I avoided conversation with him, feeling sure that he would be bound to notice something unnatural in my manner.

I overheard him discussing the probability of a rough passage. One valuable hint I made a mental note of. He said he intended to catch the 10.35 p.m. train to Liverpool from Euston. That meant I calculated that he would leave the Hotel Royal at ten o'clock. Could it be possible that Chandos meant to effect the robbery on the train or at the station at Liverpool? Such a plan seemed a trifle too dramatic for my liking. The American would be travelling with his servants and a special detective ; and I had neither the desire nor intention of engaging in a conflict with those zealous guardians for the sake of all the pictures in the world.

Chandos drifted in calmly at about three o'clock and I went with him up to his room. After the door was closed he pulled off his gloves, and I noticed his hands were exceedingly dirty.

"You look more like a blacksmith than a respectable citizen," I said.

He grinned.

"It isn't a bad guess, but I do spend odd moments carpentering at times. I have put in a fairly busy morning. Where is Penn?"

"In the smoke-room, I fancy."

"Then let us stroll casually into his presence. I've posted a letter to be 'expressed' to him. It ought to arrive any minute now."

Mr. Penn was chattering with one or two others. We settled down in a corner where we could see all that went on.

"I hope they won't be long with that letter," said Chandos. "It would be amusing to be here when he gets it."

A moment later a waiter came in with a note on a tray, and handed it to Mr. Penn. The latter opened it casually, but he soon showed signs of great agitation. He read it through twice, and then stuffed it into his pocket and paced up and down the room.

"It might interest you to see a copy of it," Chandos said to me softly. I took a slip of paper from his hand and read:

Hitherto I have taken no interest in you or your picture. Septimus Sapt is certainly no agent of mine. To convince you that you cannot catch the right man, I myself will in all probability take charge of that famous Raphael before it leaves England.

Chandos.

"Why say, 'in all probability'?" I asked.

"Because though I am practically sure of one thing he means to do, I cannot entirely depend on it. If he changes his mind my plan will fail, and it will then be too late to make a fresh scheme. But I am more sure than ever now that all will be well. See how he has taken it. He is sitting still, as close as an oyster. He means to fight me alone. If he keeps that up I win."

The American did not leave the Hotel again before dinner, but just after eight o'clock he disappeared into his own rooms, and the detective who had been on guard over the picture emerged. I

"Perfect!" said Chandos, delightedly. " If only he keeps that detective out of the room for half an hour I shall be convinced that I am on the right track. Leave me alone. I'm going to keep my eye on him."

Half an hour later Chandos came to me quietly. I judged from his quick manner that a crisis was at hand.

"At ten o'clock," he said, in short incisive tones, "wait for me opposite the Army and Navy Club. You will have some time to wait, but keep your weather eye open for me." Now , I am going out. I am leaving a certain amount to good luck, but I think my theory is sound. Remember— ten o'clock."

He did not give me the faintest idea what to expect, but punctually to the moment I stood at the rendezvous. I waited for a quarter of an hour on the kerbstone, eagerly scanning the face of everybody who passed. I was just looking at my watch for the twentieth time when a growler pulled up in front of me and the driver leaned over and spoke.

"Hop up alongside o' me, sir," a familiar voice said. I could not repress a start, but I obeyed instantly.

"One man in his time plays many parts," growled Chandos, as he piloted the old growler through the busy traffic. I should never have recognised him in his battered old hat and long grey whiskers.

"It's a fine make-up." I said, "but where did you get the cabby's badge?"

"I fear the owner is fast growing far too sleepy in a little bar parlour where I left him," said Chandos,' chuckling.

"That is all very funny, but where is the Raphael?" I

"There, my son," he replied, triumphantly, touching a large parcel on the top of the cab. We had arrived in a quiet square in Kensington. Chandos pulled off his beard, and stuffed it into his pocket. His overcoat and battered hat he left on the seat, and putting on a cap, he descended from the top looking eminently respectable.

"Now, catch hold of one end of this case," he said. "It isn't heavy." Between us we carried the precious picture out.

"We'll go by tube. Cabmen have memories," he said, and in a quarter of an hour we were safe in his flat.

"Now, for heaven's sake tell me how you managed it," I urged.

"Simple as falling off a horse. Mr. Silas B. Penn meant to be clever from the start. The first thing that put me on the track was I the arrival of a light case for him at the Hotel Russell. It was just the size of the picture, but much less than the heavy frame. It occurred to me then that he meant to take the frame with all pomp and ceremony in its case, leaving everyone to think it contained the picture. Meanwhile, he intended to let the real picture be taken in an ordinary way. Mind you, he never meant to lose sight of it.

"He had decided to make a pleasure of beating me himself. Neither the picture itself or the frame would go in an ordinary cab so a growler was fairly obvious. Yesterday I heard him ask if there was a side entrance to the hotel. The porter pointed one out to him, and I watched him stand there for a minute. Then he walked over to a ordinary growler standing on a small rank.

"It was not long before the driver had been led to tell me that the inquiry was as to whether he could drive to Euston in half an hour. The whole thing then was fairly plain. He meant to smuggle the picture out, probably by himself. You remember that he turned the detective out of his sitting-room for half an hour tonight. He was taking the picture out of his frame then, and the clear inference was that he was keeping his idea from the detectives. I spent a busy morning fixing the catches of a growler so that they could not open, and putting-plate glass in the windows. Finally I arranged the most beautiful little shower of chloroform you ever saw, and at half-past nine o'clock I had the neatest trap conceivable waiting for him to walk into it. And he came."

"Alone?"

"Quite, as I imagined he would. If one of the detectives had been with him I should have pleaded a tired horse, and lost the game. He saw his £50,000 picture safely stowed on the top, and I fastened the door, set the drug working, and rattled away, keeping out of the way of the traffic. I can assure you it was exciting for the first three minutes. I thought he would succeed in breaking the window until the chloroform got hold of him, and then I opened the door and let him have a little fresh air. He looked as comfortable as could have been expected, and so I drove on to you."

'Why― Chandos, was he in the cab all the time?" I asked, a little horrified at the thought.

"He was," said my companion, with peculiar cheerfulness. "And when he comes to his senses in that Kensington square I hope he will realise the folly of bragging."

"What on earth can we do with the Raphael now we have got it?" I asked.

Chandos looked thoughtful for a moment.

"I've got it," he replied, with a twinkle in his eye. "It isn't worth twopence to us as negotiable property. We'll leave it on the doorstep of that very flattering magistrate with a nice little note."

And we did.

____________________

5: Phantom Gold

Ottwell Binns

1872 - 1935

Sunday Mail (Brisbane) 3 Feb 1935

THE man swinging the axe was tall and lean, no more than twenty-five years old, and he worked with the ardour of youth, cutting logs for the fire. For a moment he paused, appraised the result of his labours, and then nodded to himself.

'A few more will be wise,' he muttered. 'It's sure going to be a bitter night.'

He turned anew to the dead pine which he had felled, lifted the axe, and then in the very act of swinging, paused, his head cocked sideways, listening to the sounds that came from the river bank. There reached him wild yelping,  a fearful howl and then a man's voice shouting ragefully:— 'Down, you durned whelp!' A sharp oath followed, then a yell, which seemed to express consternation, the dog howled again, and he heard his name shouted by a man who from his urgency must be in some extremity.

'For God's sake, Andy―'

Carrying his axe with him, he began to run through the wood, making for the camp on the river bank. Before he reached it he met one of the sled dogs racing as if all the fiends of the Pit were at its heels. That It was a scared creature beyond all reason or regard for authority he knew, but as he ran he shouted to it. 'Babiche!'

The dog flashed by him like a grey shadow, taking no notice of him whatever, and leaving a little trail of blood on the glistening snow. He caught scared yelps, mangling sounds, wild shouts of his comrade, and then made the river bank a score of yards from the encampment. As he did so he became aware of a furry, tangled mass of wrangling dogs, and glimpsed his comrade, leaning against a tree, one mittened hand clutching a torn arm, from which the blood was dripping freely. The injured man shouted o him in excited warning:

'Look out, Andy! Get the rifle! It's Cowchee— raving. Plug him!'

Andy Melhuish skirted the furious tangle of furry bodies, and ran for the sled where the rifles reposed. Slipping one of them from the lashing, he hurriedly proceeded to strip the protective covering from the lock, Before that was accomplished, however, the furry tangle broke. Three dogs, with every sign of terror, bolted for the wood, and the fourth, snapping furiously, started to follow, shedding a noisome slaver as he went.

Dropping to one knee, Andy Melhuish sighted hurriedly and fired. He missed, and before he could eject the spent shell and reload, all four dogs had vanished, lost in the shadows of the sombre pine wood. Disappointed, he rose and, infinitely concerned, approached his friend.

The look on his face was grave, and he gulped before he asked a needless question.

'Gowchee bit you, Joe?'

'Slashed my arm. Not half a rip. That dog's been queer these four days. And Just now he went for Babiche for no reason. I tried to beat him off and he turned on me; then snapping like a mad wolf, went for the rest of the team.'

'You're sure about—er―' began Andy Melhuish.

'Dead sure! I've seen dogs with rabies before.'

His companion nodded, and, going to the sled, searched its miscellaneous assortment until he found a steel cleaning rod in two parts. He screwed the parts together, and, approaching the fire, thrust one end into the reddest part.

'You know what has to be done, old man?' The other nodded.

'Think it's any good?'

'Only thing we can do— here. This wilderness isn't exactly a Pasteur Institute. We've just got to burn out the virus?'

'You'll have to burn pretty deep, Andy,' said Joe with astonishing calm 'Arm's slashed almost to the bone.'

Andy Melhuish turned abruptly to the fire under a pretence of adjusting the cleaning rod; but in reality that the other should not see his face. When he faced about again his eyes sought the wood rather than his companion, and he spoke with affected carelessness.

'Think the dogs will come back?'

'If they do, and you've any sense you'll shoot each one as it comes into camp. I reckon Gowchee slashed the lot. Might be a mercy to shoot me, too— out of hand.'

The man laughed as he spoke, but already there was the shadow of a great fear in his eyes, a shadow which Melhuish noticed with infinite disturbance; but he forced a laugh in return.

'We'll try the hot cleaning rod first. I guess it is going to hurt you fiercely, Joe.'

'Make me squirm, I expect. Better tie me down on the sled, so that you can do what you want without me kicking.'

The suggestion was seriously made, and it was accepted with equal seriousness. The sled was dragged within range of the fire's heat; the Injured man was bound to it with the arm partly stripped; and then when the end of the cleaning rod was glowing, the rough surgery of the wilderness was performed; and at the end of the operation the sweat stood in great beads on the forehead of each man, in the one case due to the frightful pain endured; in the other to the horror of the thing done by him. When the lashings were undone, the patient slipped from the sled, and leaned against it shivering with agony.

Andy Melhuish dropped the cleaning rod in the snow, unrolled a sleeping bag, and spoke tersely.

'Climb in, Joe. I'll cook supper and make coffee. Do you good to rest and get over the shock.'

The other made no demur. He gave strained laugh as he turned to the sleeping bag.

'Making me an invalid already, hey? Well!'

Melhuish did not reply. He busied himself with the frying pan and the coffee kettle, and half an hour later when the meal was ready, wolfed his own portion, and then spoke tersely. 'I've got to bring that firing in before it falls dark. We shall need it before morning.'

He left the camp abruptly, and for three-quarters of an hour laboured at drawing the logs he had cut to the camp; then with the task accomplished, seated himself on a sack of beans near the fire, and lit his pipe. For a time neither of the men spoke; and with the fall of darkness an infinite silence settled on the wilderness. It was broken by the injured man.

'Them dogs don't seem to be coming back, Andy.'

'No!'

'Be no use if they did. We'd never be sure when one o' them would go loony like Gowchee.... This trip is busted.'

'Sure,' answered Melhuish simply. 'We'll have to make for Mactavish's trading-post, an' drag the sled. It's all three hundred miles.'

'Oh, we'll make it all right,' answered Melhuish with a confidence he did not feel. There was silence for a brief space whilst each man busy with his thoughts, stared into the fire; then Joe spoke again.

'This has been an unlucky trip.... I've allus been a bit shaky about it from the start.'

'Why?' demanded the other. 'You never mentioned it, Joe.'

'No, kep' it to myself, being superstitious, which you ain't, Andy. But I've been uncomfortable in my mind all along, an' that's the better part of thirteen weeks.'

'But why, Joe?'

'Well, this gold we're looking for ain't ordinary; an' we ain't the first by a long chalk that's started after it; an' I've allus had a notion that ill-luck marched with them that sought it. Most o' them, as you know, never came back―'

'That's because they went after it alone. The trip's too long for a solitary man.'

'Mebbe! But two o' them found it. That's known. An' what happened? First was Koyukuk Bill. He found the place, loaded the sled with raw gold, an' twenty miles from Dawson dropped into a hole in the ice. He got out, but before he could get a fire going he froze. An hour after a Mounter found him. He was just an icicle, standing against the gold on the sled— gold he'd never use. Other man was Olaf.... Lost his dogs the same as us, an' crawled into Eagle with half a hundredweight on his shoulders but crazy as a loon, an' he's that still, an'll never be aught else. I guess the nick-name they give this lost mine down on the Dawson Creek is a sound one— Phantom Gold.' He laughed harshly. 'An' phantom it is―'

'May walk slap into it to-morrow,' interrupted Melhuish sharply. 'An' if we do? ... What's going to happen? Can't load up the sled an' dance down to Dawson with the dust at our tail. It's too Infernally far―'

'We could mark the place and come back later.'

'Aye! We might, if―' he broke off and his face twisted with a spasm of pain. He did not finish the sentence, but stared bleakly into the fire for a full two minutes. Then he shot a question which revealed the real direction of his thoughts.

'Ever see a man die of hydrophobia, Andy?'

Andy Melhuish was greatly perturbed by the question, but he did not reveal that fact. Instead he answered brusquely— 'Don't be a mule, Joe. There's no sense in getting rotten notions into your head. You aren't the first man in the North who's been bitten by a husky. I've got a whole row of teeth marks myself.'

The other ignored this statement and went on like a man who was just thinking aloud. 'I have. It was a real nasty business and if I get the signs I shan't go through with it. I'll die cleanly as a man should— with a bullet.'

Andy Melhuish's reply to this utterance was a practical one. Rising from his seat he went to the sled and took therefrom a tin-flask carefully wrapped in a portion of an old blanket. Carrying this back to the fire, from it he poured into a mug a generous portion of rye whisky, added coffee from the kettle and thrust the mug into the other's hand.

'Gulp that,' he said. 'It'll buck you up. An' don't talk like a blooming undertaker. Neither you nor me is going out this trip. And you'll laugh at this talk when we hit Dawson. We'll start for Mactavish's at daylight and we'll hit the place in a fortnight. We'll be able to get dogs there from the Indians, and the rest of the trip back we'll do on velvet. You'll see, old man.'

ii

BUT they did not start in the morning, for dawn was ushered in by a rising wind, and with the wind came snow— a veritable blizzard which raged for three whole days, keeping the pair tied to their camp with little to do but keep the fire going and prepare meals. Most of the time the man Joe spent in front of the fire smoking, and when on the fifth day, yoked to the sled, they started on their 300-mile journey, he was restless and Irritable, and for a man usually taciturn showed a disposition to talk in a quick jerky way entirely foreign to his habit.

Andy Melhuish marked the fact without much misgiving and found an explanation which was quite satisfactory to him, and left him unperturbed.

'Old chap's a bit nervous! Natural I guess. But he'll get over it before we hit Mactavish's store.'

The anticipation, however, was not realised. Joe's nervous irritability increased. As he marched across the waste there was a stark look in his eyes as if he were seeing unutterable things, and at the seventh camp there was a noticeable change in his breathing, which worried Andy Melhuish a great deal, though he forbore remarking upon it.

The next day, however, there was an unexpected uplift, following an unnamed river they came to a point where the river forked, and there was some doubt as to the fork to be followed. The map they carried was no use to them in the difficulty which confronted them.

'Better toss for it,' said Melhuish.

'No need,' broke out Joe sharply, 'Look there!'

He pointed to the right bank of the right fork, and, following the line indicated, Andy Melhuish became aware of three tall fir trees standing a little apart, curiously trimmed, all their lower boughs cut away and the rest of trimmed as to proclaim the work of man.

'My hat!' Andy Melhuish ejaculated and stared like a man hypnotised. Then in a voice shaking with wxcitement he began, 'Joe, we've―'

'Hit it!' the other laughed like a man crazed. 'Them's Olaf's lobsticks— three firs set in a triangle. We must have missed the trail to Mactavish's somehow, but them lopped trees points the way to Phantom Gold. Guess the luck's turned at last. We'll take the right fork and back the luck. My God, Andy, if tales be true we'll be millionaires rollin' in our autos in a month.'

Both men were excited. They bent to the traces in which they had yoked hemselves and pulled the heavy sled more willingly than a homing team might have done. Late in the afternoon ahead on a hillock they saw a solitary tree trimmed and lopped till it was a mere pole with a feathery crown, and at the sight of it Andy Melhuish shouted:

'There! In an hour Joe―'

But he reckoned without the winding of the river and the obstacles that Nature might throw in their way. Half an hour later they struck a place where there was an ice jam, through which it was impossible to make any but the slowest progress. Great cakes if ice coming down stream before the freeze-up had been caught, heaved endwise as by titanic hands, and offered an obstacle that was formidable and dangerous because of the risks of stumbles and knife-like edges of splintered ice.

They had to cut a way with the axes, lift the sled bodily in places; and finally were compiled to unpack and carry their stores to the upper end of the Jam, after which Melhuish bore the sled on his shoulders to the smooth trail. It was falling dark when this task was completed. The hillock with its stripped pine was no longer to be seen, and after the herculean toil both men were utterly weary; whilst Joe's excitement had yielded to an infinite depression that worried his companion a great deal.

'We'll camp,' he said tersely. 'Phantom Gold won't run away in the night and we're in a dead line for it. We'd make nothing of the place in the dark, and a rest and a feed is what we need.'

They pitched camp, and it was noticeable to Melhuish that his partner's breathing had again become difficult, and that there was a scared look in his eyes. He was troubled as he watched the man without appearing to do so; but he continued his tasks without remark, and when the beans and bacon were ready he poured a portion of the mess into a tin plate and spoke cheerfully.

'Get that inside you, Joe. Guess you need it after the horse-work at that ice-jam.'

The other, however, was not hungry. He toyed with the food without eating much until the mess froze on the plate, then he thrust it aside.

'I ain't hungry,' he said in an odd voice.

Melhuish nodded. 'Overdone yourself, I guess, Joe. Coffee and a drop from the flask is what you want... Stimulating. After a sleep you'll be hungry as a bear at the end of its winter hibernation. And when we reach that hillock and see the place of Phantom Gold you'll be as spry as a two-year-old.'

He made coffee, poured out a couple of mugfuls, and laced both heavily with whisky, then handed one of them to the other.

'We'll drink to the luck, Joe! We've sure made the strike―'

He clinked his mug against his friend's, lifted it, and drank deeply of the steaming mixture. The other, however, did not drink. He lifted the mug, and as he did so a look of wild aversion came in his eyes, his bearded mouth worked painfully, and he lowered the mug to his knees. Seeing him, Andy Melhuish ceased to swallow his own coffee, and with the mug still at his lips watched his partner over the edge surreptitiously.

Joe raised his mug again, with a look of determination on his face that might properly have gone with the attempt to perform some desperate task. But he did not drink. Instantly he was assailed by a violent paroxysm in which it seemed he must suffocate. The attack lasted some seconds, and when It passed his face was livid, and there was an utterly scared look in his eyes. He set the mug down at the edge of the fire, rose slowly to his feet, and, as Melhuish jumped up hastily, he spoke in a shaking voice, staccatoing his words as if he had a difficulty in speaking them.

'My— God— Andy! I— can't— drink!'

In his friend's ears the words were like the trumpet of doom. He knew the significance the other attached to them, and he had no doubt whatever that Joe was right. But he fought against the conviction.

'You're fancying things, Joe. Got a silly notion in your head about that dog-bite, due to a bit of a sore throat— a quinsy maybe. Once you've swallowed some of that hot stuff the feeling will pass. Just get your nose into that mug an' drain it―' He picked up the mug as he spoke, and handed it to the other, who took it, on his face the look of determination that had been there before.

Resolutely he lifted the mug to his lips and instantly was attacked by a suffocating paroxysm like that which had previously assailed him. When it passed he did not speak, but tossed the mug and its contents into the fire, where the liquid set up a great splutter. The significance of the action held his friend dumb. He knew without a word spoken that it was the other's acceptance of doom— and in such a terrific situation what was there that a man could say?

In silence the men sat down again, huddling towards the fire, which cut a circle of warm light out of the frozen wilderness. And presently the afflicted man spoke with a nonchalance that was amazing.

'Guess I'll climb into the slumber sack. Might as well sleep as moon here.'

He slid into the sleeping-bag and pulled the head-piece over his face.

Andy Melhuish stared at the closed bag with eyes that were infinitely troubled— wondering what he could do? But there was nothing that he could think of, and presently, when the other's troubled breathing seemed to grow regular and he judged that he was asleep, he crept into his own sleeping-bag, and notwithstanding his fears, overcome by the weariness that had followed the tremendous toll and excitement of the day, he also slept.

A long time after he awoke, and lay listening. The camp was very still, and there was not even the crackle of a log in the fire to break the silence. But the silence had a quality that disturbed him. It induced a feeling of loneliness to which he was a stranger; and with premonition of unhappy things he threw back the flap that covered his face and looked round.

The fire had died down, but there was a green aurora flashing and whirling in the zenith that filled the wilderness with unearthly light, so that he could see quite plainly. His eyes went instantly to the sleeping-bag across the fire. It was crumpled and empty. From that they travelled to the sled where the rifles reposed. There was only one there, and as he realised that he understood everything, and into the night, with its green radiance, whispered what in fact a prayer from the heart: 'God help poor old Joe!'

He rose and examined the tracks to the snow, and found one that led upriver in the direction of the hillock, with its solitary lobstick. The frost crystals in those tracks were fresh, and he knew that his friend had not been long gone, that if one hurried he might possibly overtake him.

But he did not hurry.

Working methodically, he folded the sleeping-bag that the other had left, and from the sled took a coil of hempen rope, fine but strong. Tying the rope and the sleeping-bag together, he hoisted the bag over his shoulder, and held it with the coil in his hand whilst in his free hand he took an axe. Then he faced the river-trail, and moved off in the foot-tracks that he had discovered. Still, he moved unhurriedly, and he had taken no more than a hundred paces when the eerie stillness of the night was broken by a shattering sound which reverberated through the silent woods. Instantly he halted, doffed his fur cap, and stood for a minute with eyes closed, his face working painfully.

At the end of the time he whispered brokenly: 'Better than the death of a dog! God rest the brave soul of him!'

Then he resumed his cap and marched forward at a quicker pace. Presently a turn in the river brought him to the hill with its solitary pine. In the ethereal light of the lee of the hill he made out the outline of a cabin half-buried in the snow. A little way to the right there was a snow-covered shape that he guessed for a winch, and nearby was a large mound that he was sure under the pall of snow represented the gold-bearing gravel that some man— big Olaf, perhaps— had dug and hoisted with infinite travail from the frozen earth. He marked those things with indifference, and his eyes went to a dark shape on the snow not far from the cabin, towards which he moved resolutely, with the inflexibility of a man who had willed at all costs to do the last duty a man owes to a friend.

When he reached the place, he looked down at the sprawling figure, and at the rifle fallen from the dead hands. His lips quivered, and a little dimness came over his vision, as he whispered shakily:

'Poor old chap... But you had the clean death— and the pluck to take it.'

Then, since in such an immense solitude it is not good to linger over melancholy things, he fell busy preparing for the tree-burial which is the winter sepulchre of the North where the earth is frozen like a rock. An hour later, as he started to return to the camp, he looked back once. The aurora still glowed green and in its radiance he could discern the dark shape in a spruce largely free from snow which represented all that was earthly of his friend. He took off his cap, waved it, and whispered, 'So long, old man.'

He did not look round again. But when he reached his camp he replenished the fire and sat beside it reflecting deeply for quite a long time. Then he rose and stared up river, where he had left his partner. There was an uncertain look in his eyes as if he were not sure of the course to be followed. That there was gold in plenty in the shadow of that solitary lobstick, he was assured. For many bitter weeks he and his friend had toiled to find it; and now...

The irresolute look in his eyes hardened to one of determination. He shook his head as at some temptation. Then he muttered aloud:

'No! Joe was right! Phantom Gold is unlucky. I'm through.'

And forthwith he began to pack his sled, and an hour after, harnessed to it, he moved off, a puny, solitary figure in the white immensity, but with the courage to go his way undismayed.

__________________

6: The Seaside Girl

Fergus Hume

1859 - 1932

Huon Times (Franklin, Tas) Jan 1928

'A DOG hasn't the intelligence to do what you say,' remarked the fair man with the moustache; and his remark was made very positively.

'Billy has!' retorted his dark, clean-shaven companion, insistently.

'Place any article you like to choose anywhere in this room, and when we are on the beach, half a mile away, Billy will come and fetch it.'

The fair man and the dark man were both young and comely, both were arrayed in smart and spotless flannels, and both were enjoying a seaside holiday at a popular Devonshire resort. At this moment they were standing up in their sitting room, looking at a black and white fox-terrier, whose limited tail quivered with excitement. He knew that he was the subject of conversation, and that his master expected him to do something, which his master's friend denied could be done.

'Oh, well,' said Billy, in dog language, 'try me, that's all.'

'Very good, William,' responded the sceptic, and produced his tobacco pouch scoffingly. 'I place this in the centre of the table. The window will be left open, and I shall expect you to bring me this article.'

'It will be brought,' said the dog's master, calmly. 'Now take Billy away, Frank, while I get my hat and stick.'

And he went into his bedroom while the other man sauntered across the tiny lawn, with the terrier following. In a few minutes he was joined by his companion, and the two men sauntered across the tiny lawn, with the terrier following. In a few minutes he was joined by his companion, and the two men started for the beach. On arriving at the cliffs they descended to the ocean levels by means of a winding-path cut out of the reddish Devonian sandstone.

It was a bright breezy morning, with a sunny sky of the deepest blue. Frank and his friend were glad to shelter from the heat and glare in the shadow of a mighty rock, which thrust its gigantic bulk loftily from the smooth sands. Billy, with his tongue hanging out, squatted beside them, and looked with eager intelligence at his master.

'Fire ahead, Dick,' said the sceptic, disbelievingly.

'Billy,' said Dick, taking the terrier's head between his two hands, 'go home and bring Frank's tobacco pouch, which is on the table in the sitting-room. You understand? Good!' He released the dog. 'Home, Billy, home!'

The terrier did not wait for further Instructions, but raced up the cliff path at a surprising rate.

'Any dog can understand an order to go home,' scoffed the sceptic, and stared at the foam-flecked sea. Dick Bashford laughed contentedly and loaded his pipe.

Long before his smoke was finished Billy reappeared with the tobacco-pouch, which he dropped at his master's feet.

'You can smoke now, Frank,' said that gentleman.

'Well, I'm hanged!' Frank stared at the pouch and stared at the smirking Billy, who was being patted. 'I'll give you ten pounds for the beast.'

'Ten pounds,' said Mr. Bashford, extending himself lazily on the warm stones, 'would be very acceptable to a hard-up barrister. But Billy isn't worth it.'

'I think so, when he can perform such a clever trick.'

'He wouldn't do it for you, because you don't know the dodge.'

'Oh!' Frank looked disgusted, 'it's only a dodge, then?'

'Yes. Billy is a dog, and not a human being. See this, Delham,' and Bashword produced a slim bottle from his pocket. 'This is a special kind of scent called Kan, which comes from Australia. I have trained Billy on this scent, so you see―'

Delham interrupted indignantly:

'I do see, hang you! When I left the room you dropped some of the scent on my pouch'— he smelt it— 'yes, you did!'

Dick nodded and grinned.

'Billy will pick up and bring to me any article impregnated with this scent,' said he, quietly. 'When he went home he simply nosed about until he found the one article perfumed with Kan.'

'Well,' observed Frank, after an astonished pause, 'it's a good thing that you aren't a criminal, Dick. If you took a fancy to anything, all you'd have to do is to drop some Kan on it and send Billy for your choice.'

Dick nodded again.

'Only Kan is so little known in England that the articles I want are not scented with it.'

'What articles do you particularly want— a wife, I expect?'

'Huh! Billy could scarcely bring a young woman along, my boy. And to tell you the truth, Frank, my uncle— you know Colonel Slade— has already selected the future Mrs. Richard Bashford.'

'He might leave you to do that,' said Delham, stroking the terrier.

'He might; but being rich and pigheaded, he expects everyone to obey him without question. A month or so ago he wrote commanding me to come down to Chiselhurst and propose to a girl called Ella Fenton. He didn't even give me the option of seeing if I liked her. I was to marry her at once.'

'What rot! Colonel Slade is a Pasha.'

'Say rather a Mandarin, since he has lived for centuries in China. Well, Frank, you may guess that I declined, and so I have lost a chance of inheriting three thousand a year from my autocratic uncle.'

Frank sat up aghast.

'Do you mean to say that he has disinherited you?'

'Yes. Just because I won't marry this mysterious Miss Fenton blindly. Catch me; since I am to have no option of refusing. Probably she's a red-headed, freckled idiot with a bad temper. The offer remains open for one month.'

'She may be good-tempered and pretty, Dick. See her, at all events.'

'I shan't. Primed by my uncle, she'll expect a proposal, which I am not prepared to make, even if she's a Venus. I choose my own wife.'

The young men discoursed on this topic for quite half an hour, and Frank, in spite of the possible three thousand a year, could not help approving of his friend's attitude. To be bullied into marrying an unknown bride was too ridiculous.

'It's in China, I think,' mused Delham, 'that the bridegroom never sees his wife until the knot is tied.'

'I daresay,' said Dick, tartly, 'but I shan't marry with my eyes shut'

'Then defy Colonel Slade, and tell Billy to bring you a wife.'

'Billy!' said Bashford, gravely, 'go and fetch me a wife.'

The terrier wagged his tall and cocked his ears.

'I can't pick her out unless she's scented with Kan,' said his eyes, plainly, whereat Dick, with a laugh, rolled him over. After that frolic the young men went for a swim, and then walked home to their hotel, talking of a proposed golf match.

FOR THE next week, Delham and Bashford enjoyed themselves, although neither of them was rich. Frank as a solicitor, and Dick as a barrister, had not yet made fortunes, and it took them all their time to keep their heads above the troubled waters of life's ocean.

Shortly Delham returned to London, leaving Dick behind. He gave advice at the railway station without charging six and eightpence, to the effect that his friend should at least see Miss Fenton before risking the loss of an assured income.

'I'm not going to buy a pig in a poke,' grumbled Bashford, with more force than elegance; and his adviser departed, sighing over his obstinacy.

Left alone, Dick sauntered back to his hotel, thinking wrathfully over Colonel Slade's outrageous command. Even for the sake of a prospective income, badly needed, it was absurd to adopt an idiotic Chinese custom.

'Why, it does away with all the fun of making love to a girl,' growled Dick, and therein lay his chief objection to his uncle's arrangement.

On the fourth day after Delham's departure Dick strolled on the beach with Billy, to whom he talked nonsense, since there was no one else with whom to converse. Billy was an excellent listener, and passed no criticisms. But on this occasion his master's babble bored him, for he disappeared when Dick sat down for a rest. In ten minutes he returned with a lady's handbag of green morocco in his mouth.

A sniff showed Bashford that the bag was scented with Kan, and for this reason Billy had annexed it.

'You thief!' reproved Dick, indignantly; 'what's to be done now?'

Obviously, there was only one answer to this question, and Dick rose to restore the loot to its fair owner. But, although he looked up and down the beach, behind the many rocks and through the bathing machines, he could not find a single person, since every visitor had gone to luncheon.

'I must examine the bag,' said Bashford, and did so. It contained a dainty lace handkerchief, the photograph of a pretty girl, ten shillings in silver and pence, and two or three cards inscribed 'Miss Stella Dane.'

These last were hand-written, and a side-note intimated that their owner lived, pro tem, at the Francis Drake Hotel. Dick knew the house, and proceeded there at once with the honest purpose of restoring Billy's stolen goods.

'And perhaps,' he said severely to the terrier, 'you have done me a good turn, you rip. The girl will be nicer to talk to than you.'

Billy agreed, as his master talked rubbish instead of discoursing about rats and biscuits.

A card sent in at the Francis Drake Hotel brought Miss Stella Dane into the waiting-room. She was the very girl of the photograph, extremely pretty, fair and tall, with a figure as perfect as the Paris frock which clothed It so admirably. She accepted her property with profuse thanks.

'I must have laid it down beside me when I was resting,' she explained. 'No doubt your dear little dog took it by mistake.'

'He took it because its scented with Kan,' said Dick, grimly, and explained how Billy's unusual training had led him to become a thief.

'I am so very sorry. Perhaps you will permit me to return and express my sorrow.'

'What more can you say than you have said?' asked Miss Dane, surprised, but with a twinkle in her sea blue eyes.

'Heaps, when I can collect my thoughts,' Dick assured her, earnestly. 'I am overwhelmed at present— very naturally.'

He gave her an eloquent glance, which told Miss Dane that her charming personality was the cause of his being overwhelmed. She would not have been a woman had she not felt complimented, so graciously gave him permission to call that evening after dinner.

'I must introduce you to my aunt, Mrs. Hale,' said the lady, patting Billy— 'and do bring this darling also.'

'He doesn't deserve It,' said Dick, severely, and took Bill home to cram him with tit-bits. Severe words and kind actions do not as a rule go together, so Billy was rather surprised at his master's inconsistency.

'But I shouldn't wonder,' explained Dick, 'if you have brought me the wife I wanted, Billy. She's a ripping girl, anyhow.'

With this idea in his mind, it is scarcely to be wondered at that Mr. Richard Bashford became a well-known figure at the Francis Drake Hotel. He discovered that Mrs. Hale, the chaperon and aunt, was a stout lady averse to exercise, so cunningly proposed that he and Miss Dane should explore the surrounding uplands. The young lady, informed of Dick's position, and approving of his good looks, quite agreed; so for the next three weeks— Bashford prolonged his holiday for this especial purpose— the two walked over miles of the rich Devonshire country. They strolled along beaches, and had tea in various lonely farmhouses; they played golf together, and exchanged their views on life. Billy came everywhere with them, and was made much of by Stella Dane.

'He's turned a dull holiday into a jolly one,' said she.

'Does that mean,' began Dick, whose heart was throbbing with joy, 'that―'

'It means nothing,' interrupted Stella, warningly, 'except that if you ask such questions I shall invite my aunt to join us in our walks.'

'I don't think the invitation would be accepted,' replied Mr. Bashford, audaciously, whereat Stella laughed and agreed with him. Naturally, the intimacy between the girl and boy— they were little else— progressed rapidly, and they found a great deal to talk about. Dick, by this time, was fathoms deep in love, and Miss Dane— although she would never acknowledge it— felt her heart flutter when this amiable young gentleman paid her visits. Billy acted as chaperon on all occasions, and hunted rabbits and rats according to locality, while the human beings talked.

Stella loved Billy, and declared that he had brought them together.

'So very clever of him,' she said, kissing his smooth head, much to Dick's envy.

'It was because of the scent,' said Dick. 'How strange you should use Kan. Doesn't the use of the same scent seem to bring us together?'

Stella Ignored this too-pointed question.

'I hope you don't use scent?' said she, seriously. 'I detest a man who scents himself.'

'Oh, I only buy it for the sake of training Billy,' said Dick, hastily. 'He'd fetch the moon, if there was a Kan smell about it.'

'He certainly fetched my bag,' said Stella, lightly.

'And you,' hinted Dick, delicately. 'I wonder if Billy has brought me a―'

'We must get back to the hotel,' cried Stella, springing up with a scarlet face. She always did interrupt when Dick grew too explicit, and when his holiday ended he was no nearer a declaration that when they had first met.

WHEN MRS. HALE and her niece journeyed later to Ilfracombe, Dick returned dismally to town with Billy and a photograph of Stella Dane. This he showed to Frank, whose chambers adjoined his. Mr. Delham chuckled.

'So Billy brought you a wife after all,' said the solicitor; 'but remember, she will cost you three thousand a year.'

'She's worth it,' cried Dick, kissing the photograph. 'Wait until you see her.'

Frank did wait, and did see her, when Miss Dane, under her stout aunt's wing, returned to a Mayfair house. More than that, he became so friendly with the lady that Dick grew quite jealous. But he need not to have been, for Frank was a most loyal friend, who did his best to bring about the match by relating Colonel Slade's methods of matrimony. Stella could not but be impressed.

'What is Miss Fenton like?' she asked, anxiously.

'I don't know, nor does Dick. I believe she's red-haired and scrubby.'

'Oh! how can you be certain?'

'Well, she must have something wrong with her,' confessed Frank, candidly, 'or Colonel Slade wouldn't be so anxious for Dick to marry her in the dark.'

Stella admitted that to marry an unknown woman was too much to expect from a modern young man, and was very kind to Dick when he called again. So kind, indeed, that the barrister took his courage in both hands and asked her to be his wife in a beautiful speech.

Stella said 'No!'

'You mean yes. Oh, say you mean yes!' implored the love-lorn Dick.

'If your uncle consents, I mean yes,' answered Miss Dane, reflectively.

'Well, that's a facer; he'll never consent.'

'Why not?' Stella drew herself up indignantly.

'Because your name isn't Fenton,' snapped Bashford, whose nerves were wearing thin. 'If you don't marry me I'll go to Australia— or to the bad.'

But he did not go to either destination, but to an afternoon tea at Frank's chambers, to which Mrs. Hale and Stella had been invited. But before the ladies put in an appearance an unexpected guest arrived in the person of Colonel Slade— burly, red-faced, and aggressive.

Not finding his nephew in his own chambers he crossed to those of Delham, and at once demanded that Dick should come down to Chiselhurst and marry Ella Fenton.

'I haven't seen her, and I shan't,' said Dick sulkily, but firmly.

'You'll see her when you propose,' stormed the Colonel; 'take her as your wife, and you'll get three thousand a year when I die. What's the use of my being your uncle if I can't settle you in life?'

'You would settle me,' said Dick, grimly; 'and with a red-haired, freckled―'

'Miss Fenton is lovely, you several kinds of ass.'

'Then marry her yourself, uncle. I shan't. So there!'

'Your reason— your reason?' bellowed Slade, fiercely.

'I'm— I'm―' Dick hesitated, then plunged— 'I'm in love.'

'In love!' The Colonel rolled his eyes and grew purple. 'You dare to fall in love without asking my permission? In China you would be kicked out of house and home if you dared to disobey your parents in―'

'You aren't any parent of mine,' growled the badgered Dick, 'and this isn't China. If she'll have me I'll marry her.'

'She— she— she! Who is she?' and the Colonel's white hair bristled.

As if in answer to this question, the door opened, and Mrs. Hale sailed In with Stella behind her. Dick caught the girl's hand and drew her forward.

'She is she,' he said, distinctively, 'and if she consents to be my wife she shall be. Say yes, Stella darling.'

'Yes,' said Stella demurely, and Mrs. Hale clapped her fat hands approvingly.

Colonel Slade's face was a study of disgusted surprise. 'What are you humbugging me about?' he demanded, in a stentorian voice.

'You refuse to marry Miss Fenton without seeing her, and when you do see her you―'

Dick gasped, and so did Frank, who was in the background.

'Is this Miss— Miss Fenton,' said Stella, with a gracious bow to both young men— 'the freckled, red-haired idiot of your imaginations? But, of course,'— she looked down and pouted— 'if Dick doesn't want to marry me―'

Bashford caught her in his arms. 'I do— I do, darling!' He kissed her three times, then collapsed.

'What does it mean?' he asked feebly.

'It means that the Chinese custom is right,' bellowed Slade, rubbing his hands, 'and I am glad to see that you have obeyed it. You have seen sense.'

'I have seen Miss Fenton, and I can see nothing else,' said Dick, grinning.

'Perhaps,' cooed Mrs. Hale in a fat voice, 'I can explain. Ella was annoyed to think that Mr. Bashford would not even meet her, and would persist in thinking her red-haired and freckled. With me, she therefore went to Devonshire and managed to bring about an understanding in the way we know of.'

'But we don't know,' exclaimed the young men simultaneously.

'You shouldn't talk so loud on the beach,' said Stella, laughing, 'especially when you don't know who may be listening.'

'You were there, Stella— I mean Ella,' gasped Dick, taken aback.

'Behind the rock I heard you describe to Mr. Delham Billy's wonderful trick, and also I heard your very amiable description of me. I therefore sent up to the town for the scent, and dropped some on my handbag. In this way we were brought together by this darling,' and Ella caught up Billy to cover him with kisses.

'You might have guessed my scheme,' she added, with a woman's scorn for a man's denseness, 'by the way in which I behaved. I don't allow strange young men to be so friendly with me as to go for walks. But I knew all about you from Colonel Slade; aunt knew all about you, so―'

She made a gesture as if dismissing the subject.

'Well,' said Dick, audaciously, 'I'll marry you, and―'

'You don't deserve to,' said his uncle, sharply. 'I offer myself, Ella!'

'So do I,' observed Frank, with a sly glance at his unhappy friend. Billy sat up to beg for biscuit.

'William is proposing also,' said Miss Fenton, gaily. 'I accept Billy―'

'And Billy's master,' said Dick, valorously.

She hesitated.

'Well, then?' was her reply, and she placed her hand in that of Dick's. He kissed it.

'Billy,' Dick remarked, placing the terrier outside the door and pointing to his chambers, which were opposite, 'you know what you've to do. Home!'

'Whatever do you mean?' asked Mrs. Hale, with bland amazement.

Before she could ask the question again Billy returned with a small cardboard box, which he dropped at Dick's feet.

'Open it, Ella,' said Dick.

She did so promptly.

'Oh!' she cried, with a woman's appreciation of diamonds. It was an engagement ring.

'I told you Billy would bring you a wife,' said Frank, laughing aloud.

'He has also brought him three thousand a year,' roared the Colonel, beaming.

Dick paid no attention to either of them. He was too busy placing a ring on the third finger of Ella Fenton, alias Stella Dane's left hand.

_______________

7: The Blue Vase

Fergus Hume

Weekly Times (Melbourne) 21 April 1917

A GIRL CARRYING a basket looked expectantly over the neatly-trimmed hedge separating the dusty road from the cornfield. Earth and sky were brilliant with hot August sunshine, but a soft wind, stirring the ocean of grain into golden waves, somewhat cooled the air.

Bet Taylor was the village blacksmith's daughter, a tall, strapping wench of massive proportions, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with cheeks as rosy as her teeth were white. Although her father desired her to stay at home and look after the house, gipsy blood on the mother's side sent her wandering about the country as a peddler. In her blue gown, tartan shawl, and aggressively flowering hat, she looked attractively picturesque.

Sam Ingram, a proper gipsy, loving her exuberant comeliness and flamboyant dress, thought so; but George Salwin did not. And it was George who now skirted the meadow leisurely. He would have avoided the girl if possible, as she loved him over-much for his comfort. But, preoccupied with thoughts of another maid, more delicately beautiful, he did not notice Bet until she faced him across the hedge. And then he did so with some dismay. ,

"Goo'-day, George," said Bet, always on her best behavior with the young farmer. "Twigged y' acrost th' field. Didn't expec' t' see me?"

"No," replied Salwin, coldly, and walked on biting his nether lip.

Miss Taylor kept level with him on the other side of the hedge.

"I'm glad t'see y' George, I am. Thought heaps of y' I hev."

"Think of Sam instead."

"Don't want t'. You're th' rye fur me."

"See here, Bet," George paused to emphasise his words. "We may as well understand one another. I'm engaged to Miss Wharton."

"That Jenny gel," muttered Bet, between her teeth. "Ho, yus, I thort so.  Fust 'tis me, then 'tis her."

"It never was you, Bet. I always loved Jenny."

"Yer father won't let y' marry her, she ain't got money," retorted the girl, who knew very well the rumors of the elder Salwin's avarice.

"Yes, she has. Her uncle sent her a diamond ring worth hundreds of pounds."

Salwin was goaded into saying this, if only to stop Bet's obstinate wooing, although he disliked talking of affairs which had nothing to do with the girl who vexed him.

"Why can't you marry Sam Ingram?" he asked irritably. "He's a gipsy."

"So are you."

"Half of me is." Bet tossed her head. "T'other half's Gentile. Your fether, wants y' to marry money, George; but love's better nor money. Y' come along wi' me, an' we'll git a caravan an' go on th' road."

"Oh drop it," retorted George once more, and walked away.

Bet did drop it. She had believed that the elder Salwin would never consent to a match between his son and Warton's daughter, because of the money question, and so had cherished thoughts of becoming George's wife herself.

So great was her passion that she determined to marry Salwin somehow, in spite of his plain speaking. So as to make sure about the diamond, ring being in Jenny's possession she went straight to Warton's farm. Here she adopted a Machiavellian policy, and selected a present from her basket to propitiate the pretty girl who hung over the homestead gate watching for George.

"Goo'-day, Jenny deary," said Bet, producing a common vase of blue glass and offering it to the girl graciously. "I hev brought this. George tole me as you an' him's engaged. Only wuth sixpence,' tis, dear heart: but I wish y' all manner o' luck with it for th' weddin'."

"You are kind, Bet," she said quite frankly.

"I'd be kinder if I'd th' money," replied Miss Taylor, looking at Jenny's hand to see if she wore the diamond ring. "I do hear as you've come in t' some of late, deary," and again she looked for the ring, which was not on the girl's finger...

"I never knew such a village for gossip," said Jenny, with a vexed air.

"Best tell th' trewth, then none ken so behind it," suggested Bet, artfully.

"Truth, or no truth, it's my own business."

"An' George's, surely," suggested the other girl softly. "Y' cudn't marry him wi'out th' cash, deary."

"You've no-right to say that, Bet."

"Tain't me as ses it, deary, but th' whole village; 'Tis well known as old Salwin wants George t' marry money."

"He marries me," flamed out Jenny, tartly.

"Who hev money for sure, wi' diming rings. But maybe that's a lie."

"It isn't," retorted Jenny, goaded, as Salwin had been, into confession. "My uncle Giles, in India, sent me a ring worth five hundred pounds. I'm going to turn it into money and marry George. His father has consented."

"Becos o' th' ring." Bet nodded and shifted her heavy basket from one arm to the other. "Hai! 'Tis well t' be you, deary. My blew vase―"

"I'll keep it as a wedding present, Bet."

"Aye, y' may if th' weddin' comes off. Hevin' th' ring it do; lose th' ring it don't. Hai! I can pen a dukkerin wi' th' best. 'Tis in m' blood."

"The ring is safe enough," murmured Jenny, uneasily; "and if it was lost George would marry me just the same. He loves me."

"Y'll show m' th' ring, deary?"

"Next time you come here," promised Jenny, and then Bet really went away.

UNAWARE of the serpent in their paradise, the lovers were entirely happy and went down the primrose path rejoicing. Jenny showed George the blue vase, which she had filled with flowers and placed in the parlour.

The cutting of the hay was late this year, and even though it was early in August, Farmer Warton still had two fields to mow. George helped him, and this was soon done. But when the hay lay in swathes rain threatened, and it became the question of the hour how to gather it in before it got wet. To avert the danger, Warton, his laborers, George, extra men, and even women, headed by Mrs Warton, toiled in the far meadows.

It came about that Warton's Farm was deserted by all save Jenny. She stayed at home to feed the fowls and watch the house. Then came Bet's chance to ruin things as they were, for constantly she had been on the watch. With a smile on her face and hatred in her heart, she appeared at the door of the shingle fowl-house, where Jenny was attending to the chickens. Although still light out of doors, it was so dark in the fowl-house that Jenny had lighted a lantern to see better. What she did see by its light was the smiling face of Miss Taylor.

"Deary," said the schemer, "me an' Sam's goin' t' be married, an' come up t say goo-bye. He's out here longin' t' see ye."

Ingram, a tall, agile gipsy, handsome in a dark, brooding way, bowed and scraped and smiled in a manner alien to his usual habits. Suspecting no harm, Jenny came out to face the couple, and gave her hand to each. That it was warmly grasped and held longer than was necessary did not explain to her that they were both feeling for the ring. Nor did the looks of disappointment exchanged enlighten her. Jenny's thoughts were taken up with the sudden announcement of the marriage between her visitors.

"I hope you'll be happy," she said, earnestly― "as happy as I am."

"Oh, me an' Sam 'ull be that," said Bet, cheerfully. "We've got our bags an' tickets an' go t' th' next town, where a passion waits us. Carn't get married here, Jenny deary, as fether won't hear of me be'in' Missus Ingram."

"An' I thort." struck in Sam, who was chewing a blade of grass, "as Farmer Salwin was like Bet's fether along o' you an' th' young rye."

"He was, as I had no money," assented Jenny, with a happy laugh; "but since Uncle Giles sent me the ring he has quite turned round. I'll have £500, and perhaps more, to give to George when we marry."

In the half-light Sam's dark eyes glistened with greed, but he feigned disbelief.

"I don't believe th' ring y' tork of is wuth so much."

"Oh, Sam, how can you say so?" cried Bet, assuming to be shocked. "Jus' show us th' ring, deary, an' then he'll see."

Still in the dark as to the sinister motives which actuated the couple, Jenny readily agreed, and, thrusting the lantern into Sam's hand, ran into the house to get the ring. Bet and her man exchanged looks of congratulation.

"I'll grab it while y' hold her," said Sam, hoarsely. "Pretend to put yer arm roun' her, fond-like, and then―"

This agreeable conversation was abruptly ended by Jenny herself, who carne swiftly out of the house with the ring on her finger. She waved her hand gaily before her two friends, as she believed them to be, and Sam took the candle out of the lantern so as to see better, for the rapidly gathering clouds made the evening darker than usual. In the light the great jewel flashed gloriously, and the two robbers drew long breaths of greed.

" 'Tis wunnerful," cried Bet, with a stealthy glance at Sam. "Five hun'red an' more 'tis wuth. I swear."

"Nearer seven hundred. George says." replied Jenny, delighted by the praise.

"Eh, deary"― Bet's treacherous arm stole round the girl's neck― "t' think as yer marriage depends upo' thet ring." She tightened her grip.

"Don't, Bet," Jenny tried to twist away; "you're hurting me!'

'I mean t'," sceamed the blacksmith's daughter in quite a new voice. "Gie m' th' ring!"

For a second Jenny was paralysed, then suddenly realised her danger. Craft came to her aid, for she recognised that she was alone and powerless.

"Don't hold me so tight and I'll take it off," she said, with pretended pettishness, and Bet was quite deceived.

Sam took a step nearer, still holding the candle, while Bet passed her tongue over her dry lips and bent eagerly to see Jenny take the ring off. All at once the farmer's daughter dashed the candle from Sam's hand and sped like a hare towards the house.

The candle, still lighted, fell on a heap of loose straw near the shingle fowl-house. Heedless of a possible conflagration Bet and her man set off in pursuit, with hoarse cries of rage and baffled greed. Their path to the house was lighted by the crimson flames of the burning straw, which speedily set alight the fowl-house.

Jenny flew like the wind, and tried to shut the door; but the pair were too quick for her, and dashed inside. The girl ran along the passage to dart into the parlor and lock the door. A minute later heavy blows on the panels told her that the robbers were trying to force an entrance. With a quickness of invention born of danger, Jenny dragged forward the old-fashioned sofa and pushed it against the door. Even if the lock yielded, they could not enter while she was thus protected. Then she staggered to a chair and fell into it in a half-fainting condition.

"I must do something to bring George," she thought, trying to brace herself to meet the worst. "The lamp!"

That signal might bring help from the fields, so she lighted the large lamp and set it on a small table in the window. But already, although she knew it not, her lover was on his way, with the laborers and Warton, for the streaming flames of the fowl-house had been to them a beacon of distress.

Meanwhile Sam and Bet, knowing that their time was short, hammered persistently at the door. They forced the lock and found the sofa barred further progress. With the inbred quickness of a gipsy, Sam abandoned the attempt and rushed outside.

"The winder," growled Sam. "Come along, Bet."

In two minutes they were smashing the window, and before Jenny could think of a new plan to hold her fort, they were in the room. With a scream of triumph Bet plunged towards the girl and clasped her in a mighty embrace, while Sam seized her hands and tore at her fingers. The ring was gone.

"Where is't? Where is't?" he demanded, black with rage. "Gie's th' ring!"

"No! No! No!" gasped Jenny, struggling valiantly.

"Where is't?" screeched Bet in her turn, and slapped her captive's face.

"Where you won't get it," gurgled Jenny, on whose throat were now Sam's cruel hands. "Its mine."

Gritting her teeth Bet looked round the room, but could see no sign of the ring. Her eye caught sight of the blue vase which she had given so treacherously to her victim, and she made for it to sweep it off the mantelpiece.

"Look on t' flure― t' flure," said Sam, fiercely, while he struggled with Jenny, who was fighting silently and viciously. "She's let it drop."

" 'Twas on her hand when she come in," muttered Bet. and dropped on her knees to scramble about, searching. "Where is't, oh where?"

Distant shouts, growing nearer, told the pair that help was at hand, for the girl they were trying to rob, and the noise made them rage impotently. "I'll scrag y' If y' don' tell us," growled Sam, furiously.

"Shan't! Shan't! You shan't get it!"

"I shall!" shouted Bet, groping blindly. "When y' lose th' ring, ye'll lose George, fur wi'out cash his father u'll nivir let y' marry him." She rose with a fierce look, and grasped the blue vase to throw at Jenny. "I'll do fur y'!"

"Dry up," cried Sam, tightening his clutch on Jenny's throat. "Lemme do th' job, carn't y'. Hai!"

He might well use the gipsy expression, for George crushed through the window and flung himself on the man. Bet, still holding the blue vase, retreated towards the sofa against the door, and tried to drag it away with one hand. Why she held on to the vase it was difficult to say, but hold on she did until Warton and his men thrust back the door and seized her by the arms. In three minutes Sam was prone on his back and Bet was in the grip of angry men. Mrs Warton rushed in through the broken door to raise up Jenny.

"My child! My child! She is dead!"

"No, mother, I'm still alive," panted Jenny, and was helped to her feet. "They wanted my ring. What brought you in time. George?"

"The fowl-house is on fire," said her lover, hastily. "But the ring?"

"Is safe," said Jenny, and Sam gnashed his teeth with rage, while Bet,  unable to restrain her anger, flung the blue vase at Jenny.

"Thank you," cried the girl, with a strange smile in her flushed face, and picked up the vase. "You've given me what I wanted."

WHILE the two robbers were held by sturdy men, and the faces of all expressed curiosity as to the meaning of Jenny's speech, the girl tilted the blue vase upside down. The ring with its glittering stone fell into the palm of her hand. From Sam there came a groan; from Bet a howl of rage.

"Oh, and I had it, I had it!" she screamed, struggling.

"Yes, you had it." retorted Jenny, coolly. "I slipped it into the vase just before you broke in by the window. I knew you wouldn't look there. And you,  Bet, provided me with the hiding place, for you gave me the vase."

"Oh!" Bet burst into tears.

"And," added Jenny, knowing now the truth, "you have given me George, for without this ring and the money it brings, I could not marry George."

''I'd marry you in any case," said her lover, and folded her in his arms. "My brave lass."

He kissed her before them all, while Bet, still weeping, and Sam, still swearing, were taken away.

Thus it came about that, while the two robbers were in the dock, the two lovers were at the altar, with £600 in the bank. And conspicuous among the display of presents at the wedding was the blue vase which Bet had given to Jenny to her own undoing. Many a time during her twelve months of prison life did Bet reflect on that, and remember that the happiness of those she hated came from her own generous act. Fate is so ironical.

______________________

8: The Fatal Trapdoor

Anonymous

Western Mail (Perth) 28 Oct 1899

I NEVER recall the case of Felix Werner without a shudder. It was the most exciting adventure I had during my career as a private inquiry agent. But for a temporary hitch in the villain's horrid contrivance, I should not have been alive to tell the story of his crimes. I was within an ace of death.

This is how it came about.

One morning when I was sitting in my office reading the newspaper a young lady, attired in the garb of widowhood, entered and said: "Can I see Mr. Baxter?"

"I am Mr. Baxter," I replied, as I placed a chair for her by the fire, for the weather was rather cold.

"I am Mrs Delane," she proceeded. "Mr. Robert Herring, of Sloane Square,  advised me to call on you, Mr. Baxter. I suppose you know Mr. Herring?"

"Oh, yes; very well indeed. I once managed a little affair for him, and we have been on intimate terms ever since."

"That is what he told me, Mr. Baxter. He said you would solve the mystery if any man could."

"Mystery?"

"Yes. lt is about my husband's death. I will tell you all I know about the terrible affair."

She paused and raised her thick veil to wipe away the tears which had gathered in her eyes, and I observed that she was a remarkably pretty  woman. She had a nicely-formed oval face, clear, regular features, and a sweet, though sad expression.

"Ten days ago, Mr. Baxter, my husband left home, about eleven in the forenoon to keep an appointment with a stockbroker in Garth-street, named Felix Werner, and he never returned. On the following day his dead body was found floating in the Thames near London Bridge."

"Indeed," I interposed. "What was the nature of the business that took your husband to see Felix Werner?"

"It was about an investment be wanted to make. My husband had had a small legacy left him, and being an artist he knew very little about business matters, and was glad of advice from someone who knew the value of current investments. So, when he saw the advertisement in the papers, he got into correspondence with Felix Werner, and, of course, it ended in an appointment for a personal interview at the office of the latter. Here is the advertisement, Mr. Baxter," added Mrs. Delane, taking the slip of paper from her purse. "I cut it out of the paper, and brought it to show you. I thought you might wish to see."

"Certainly," I said. "We never know what may form the solution of a mystery."

I took the cutting from the widow's hand, and read:

Persons desiring safe and profitable investments should communicate at once with the Advertiser. From his intimate knowledge of the share and stock markets, he is in a position to give sound and valuable advice on all financial matters. No fees.

Address, F.W, Times Office, London.

"There doesn't seem much in that, Mrs. Delane," I said. "It is a very common type of advertisement. Did your husband see Felix Werner on the day he left home for that purpose?"

"No. Felix Werner stated at the inquest that he had expected my husband, but he never turned up. That is a strange part of the business."

"It looks rather queer. You mentioned the inquest, Mrs. Delane; what was the verdict of the jury?"

" 'Found drowned.' The coroner, told me that it was a case of suicide, but I didn't believe him. Why should my husband take away his own life? Answer me that question, Mr. Baxter."

"Worry, disappointment, and various other things may have driven him to Mrs. Delane," I replied.

"But he had nothing to worry him," she answered. "We lived happily together. We had an ample income, in addition to what my husband earned with his brush, and his earnings in that way were good, for he was a popular I painter. No, Mr. Baxter; the Coroner was entirely wrong. My husband did not commit suicide!"

"He may have been drowned accidentally," I suggested.

"No, I don't believe that, either. My husband was a steady man, and a skilful swimmer. Had he fallen into the river, which is most improbable, he would easily have got out again. Nothing more than a soaking would have resulted. It was foul play, Mr. Baxter. My husband was waylaid and done to death. I know it. Solve the mystery, and I will reward you handsomely."

"I have no doubt of that, Mrs. Delane. Were there any wounds or other indications of violence on your husband's body?"

"None whatever. And I may tell you that no less than five similar cases have occurred during as many weeks. The bodies were all found in the river near London Bridge, and not one of them bore the slightest trace of violence. This is the strange part of the business. A suicide mania, the Coroner called it, but that does not apply to my husband. I will never believe that he died in that way. Never."

I thought over the matter for a minute or two, and then asked, "Had your husband any money on him when he went to keep the appointment with Felix Werner?"

"Yes; he had fifteen hundred pound with him. He was going to invest this amount in a concern that Felix Werner had recommended to him as a safe undertaking."

" And what became of that money?"

"I cannot tell you."

"Was it in notes?"

"Yes; Bank of England notes."

"What I want to know is this, Mr Delane; was there any money on your  husband when his body was taken from the Thames?"

"No; not a farthing,"

"I presume your husband had a letter from Felix Werner about the investment before going to see him?"

"Oh, yes; he had two letters from him."

"And what became of those two letters, Mrs  Delane?"

"I cannot say. He must have take them with him."

"Were they not found on him?"

"No; not a single scrap."

"What did the Coroner say when you told him about the money and the missing letters?"

"I am afraid I didn't mention these matters, Mr. Baxter. I was too much overwhelmed to think of it. It was stupid of me, but I couldn't help it. I was too much crushed by the terrible loss to think sensibly about anything."

"There is certainly ground for suspicion, Mrs. Delane,"  I said. "It is a strange affair. Leave the matter to me; I will make some inquiries, and let you know the result."

I HAD ALREADY decided on my plan of action. I resolved in the first place to call on Felix Werner. It seemed to me that he might be open to suspicion. The story he told at the inquest might not be true. At any rate, his tale required corroboration.

Before Mrs. Delane had been gone an hour I was at the office of Felix Werner in Garth-street. This is one of the short quiet streets which run between Cannon-street and the River Thames. Felix Werner was a large, powerfully-built man, with an evil-looking countenance which did not impress me favourably though he had a suave, plausible way of talking, which I have no doubt tended to win the confidence of  men less acquainted with the shady side of life than I was. To be plain, I didn't like the man.

" Yes, I am Mr. Werner," he replied, in answer to my question. "With whom have I the honour of speaking?"

I expected some such question as that, and was ready with an answer.

"Charles Wyndham" I replied. "I have called to see you about some money I should like to invest. I have heard that you advise in such matters."

He looked at me a trifle suspiciously, I thought, and then said, "Yes I do a great deal of that sort of thing, Mr. Wyndham. How much money have you got to invest?"

"A thousand pounds. It is a legacy my uncle left me when he died some time ago. It has just come into my possession."

"Exactly. That is rather a singular coincidence, Mr. Wyndham," said Mr. Werner, with a smile.

"How so?" I asked.

"Because, if you had called half an hour sooner, you would have met a young gentleman who wants to dispose of some shares he has in the Bartfold Steel Company, and he is prepared to sell the lot for a thousand pounds. Yes,  it is a splendid concern. No better investment going. I can recommend it to you with the utmost confidence The shares are dirt cheap. You would never have had the chance of them at the price had it not been absolutely imperative that they should be turned into money before ten o'clock to-morrow morning. That is how things stand. What do you think of the investment?"

"If you recommend it, Mr. Werner," I said, "l am satisfied."

"I do recommend it, Mr. Wyndham. You may never have such another chance. Have you brought the money with you?"

"No, but I can soon get it."

"That's right. Go and fetch it if you have decided on the purchase of the shares.  There is no time to be lost. Be back at six o'clock. Bring notes. The share certificates will be here ready for transfer when you return."

The clock was striking six when I got back to Garth-street. Pointing to Felix Werner's office door, I said to the con-stable on duty in the street, "If you do not see me come out of that door within fifteen minutes, come in and see what is the matter."

"Right you are, Mr. Baxter. Got a hot job on?"

"I am not sure. I have a presentiment that I may need your help. I'm afraid the game may be a bit dangerous."

"Danger or no danger, Mr. Baxter, you can always rely on Thomas Giles. If you're not out of that office in a quarter of an hour, I'm in as safe as eggs. There's no funk about me."

Thank you, Giles. I will rely upon yon. It may be a matter of life and death."

"No matter what it is, Mr. Baxter. I'm your man."

"YOU are punctual, Mr. Wyndham," said Felix Werner as I re-entered his office. "But everything is ready. Have you brought the money?"

"Yes; it's here, Mr Werner," I replied tapping my breast.

"Then come this way," he said, rising to his feet. "It is in the safe in the back office."

I followed him.

The office into which Felix Werner now conducted me was somewhat lower than the outer office. As he opened the door, he said. "Be careful of the steps," and added, "take a seat."

I sat down on the only chair in the office. The chair was in the centre of the room, and when I tried to more it to one side in order that I might the better observe the operations of Felix Werner I discovered that it was a fixture. It was firmly secured to the floor. That aroused my suspicions. Casting my eyes around to see what Werner was doing, I saw him unlocking the safe and pulling out one of the drawers. At the same moment a strange, sweet odour filled the room. Almost before I had time to think he had the white cloth in his hands.

"You villain," I exclaimed, springing to my feet, "you want to chloroform me; but you won't. I know your little game. I am prepared for you. I can―"

Before I had finished the sentence, and before I had time to take the loaded revolver from my pocket. Werner touched a knob in the wall, and the place where I stood flew open as it by magic I bad been standing on the trap door. How it all happened I shall never know. But I only escaped by a hair's breadth. A merciful Providence interposed to snatch me from the jaws of death. Instead of being projected down the opening in the floor, as Werner expected, I was by some unexpected lucky stroke thrown on to the edge of the hatchway. As I looked into the dark chasm I saw a sullen, treacherous stream flowing far away down beneath the building.

How I trembled! What a narrow escape I had had, and I still felt that my danger had not passed away. For a moment Werner seemed to hesitate. He seemed scarce able to realise that I had not gone down the trap door to my death.

I tried to raise myself to my feet, and Werner, divining my motive, made as if he would spring at me to complete the horrid work which had strangely miscarried. But at the same moment there came a loud knock on the door.

"Are you there Mr. Baxter?" demanded the stentorian voice of the constable, Giles.

"Yes, but for God's sake be quick," I yelled out. "Force the door, Giles."

Before you could say knife, and before Felix Werner could recover his surprise, Giles had sent the door flying in, and stood with drawn staff facing my would-be murderer.

But the end was not yet. I got on to my feet, and without a word being spoken, the incident was all so sudden, Giles and I prepared to throw ourselves on Werner. He was a desperate character, who evidently would not submit to arrest without a struggle. We made ready for the attack. On one side I stood with the revolver, and on the other was Constable Giles with his baton in his hand. The trapdoor stood open in front of us.

When Werner saw that the game was up he chose death as the promptest solution of the difficulty. But he was a villain if ever there was one, and as cool as a cucumber to the last.

"I may as well tell you," he said, speaking slowly and deliberately, "that I was the death of all those six bodies which have been found in the Thames near London Bridge, I chloroformed them, took the money from them, and flung them down that hole. I intended doing the same with you, but―"

He never finished the sentence. With a sudden bound he went head foremost down the open hatchway into the stream below;  the dark water closed over him, and his villainous career was over.

"Baxter, you have had a close shave," said Giles, when he had sufficiently recovered his astonishment to find utterance.

"Yes," I said, "I have, But how did you happen to come so soon?"

"That is easily explained. I heard almost as soon as you had left me that Werner was a scamp. I'm glad I came."

"So am I, Giles," I added.

THERE WAS a post-mortem examination on the body of Felix Werner, and the result was that the doctors certified him to be of unsound mind. He had been seized with homicidal mania, blended with a burning desire for gain. And there was method in the villain's madness.

Mrs Delane promised to reward me handsomely if I cleared up the mystery of her husband's death, and she was as good as her word. At the end of twelve months' widowhood she became my wife. And she has been a real treasure.  I could have had no better reward.

___________________

9: Hopkins' Safe

W. L. Alden

1837-1908

Evening Journal (Adelaide) 6 Oct 1900

"I SEE," said the Jericho station-master, "that a train on the Denver-road has just been held up, and the safe robbed of over three hundred thousand  dollars. Well, these things has to happen, so long as the present style of burglar-proof safes is in fashion. Any robber that has been properly educated to the business can open a safe inside of half-an-hour, and can do it without any dynamite or such violent ways. Now a safe can be made that nobody can open except with the proper combination, for I've seen such a safe myself. Saw it on this very road, too, and it was buried only about fifty miles from here."

"What in the world was the reason for burying a safe?" I asked.

"Because you can't have a funeral wither burying the corpse," replied the station-master. "I've just got about time enough to tell you the story before the Athensville express comes in, so set down and you shall hear all about it.

"About ten years ago, or mebbe eleven, I ain't any sort of a hand for dates, there was a baggage-handler on this road by the name of Hopkins. He and I were on the same train, which was the regular day express, and carried the gold dust that used to be sent down once a week from Custerville, where the mines were panning out at the line pretty middling well. This hyer Hopkins—Jim was his name— besides being baggage-master, also acted as agent for the Express Company, and took charge of the safe. As a rule, the train was held up about once a month, and the safe was either opened by Jim with a pistol to his ear, or else the robbers had plenty of time before them, and took a pride in their profession, they would open it themselves.

"Jim got tired of this sort of thing, and, being an ingenious sort of chap, who had invented quite a lot of things, he undertook to invent a safe that nobody could open except with the combination. Moreover, he calc'lated to make it so strong that dynamite wouldn't have no effect upon it, so that it would really be a burglar-proof safe in good earnest. Well, Jim he worked at that safe for a good part of the winter, until he had got it planned out in a way to suit  him, and then he took some of his savings, for he had a good lot of money in the bank, and he built his patent new burglar proof safe.

"The new safe was about twice the size of and ordinary Express Company's safe. Outside it looked like any other safe, but besides being twice as strong as anything of the kind that had ever been built before, it had a great many special features, which I don't pretend to remember, not being a mechanical sharp myself. I do recall, however, that it had a spring lock, which Jim explained was for convenience in case the train should be held up very sudden, and there shouldn't be time to close the safe and lock it in the usual way.

"Seems to me," said the conductor, whose name was Sampson, though we always called him Gates, after that friend of Sampson's that he carried away somewhere on his back—I don't exactly remember the town― "Seems to me," said he, "that when you get a pistol to your ear that safe'll come open as easy as any other safe."

"So it will," says Jim, "provided I ever find that pistol alongside my ear. But I calc'late that I've got through with that style of amusement.  The next time this hyer tram is held up, the robbers won't find me, unless they can open that safe, which is just what I mean that they shan't be able to do.'

" 'Why, where are you going to be?' asks Gates. Are you calc'latin' to hide yourself in the fire-box, or under the water in the tank?"

" 'See here,' says Jim. "I ain't no blamed fool, if I do look like one. No, sir, I don't calc'late today any such games as those you're referring to, but I do expect to get inside of that safe when the train is held up, and to stay there till the robbers get tired of trying to open it.'

"That's a big scheme, Jim,' says the conductor; "but I'd like to know how you expect to open the safe again when, you want to come out.'

" 'Oh,' says Jim, 'that part of the business I leave with you. I'll give you the combination, and after the robbers have got tired and gone home you can open the safe and let me out.'

" 'All right,' says Gates. 'I'll let you out fast enough, provided I can remember the combination, but you know my memory isn't what you might call first-class, and might forget the combination, and never be able to open the safe. Of course, you wouldn't mind a little thing like that, for you'd be snug and comfortable, though perhaps a little bit hungry after a while.'

"Well, the conductor kept on chaffing Jim about his new invention, but the two were good friends, though it was afterwards thought by people who didn't know all the facts that Gates was partly to blame for what happened. Jim he gave Gates the combination of the safe, and the very next day after the thing was put in the baggage car the train was held up just this side of Athensville.

"The robbers climbed into the baggage car, and when they couldn't find Jim they brought up the conductor and told him to open the safe. The conductor swore that nobody knew the combination except Jim, and that he wasn't aboard the train that night, but had laid over at Jones's Misery, owing to not feeling very well. The jobbers, seeing as Jim was not to be found, believed what the conductor said, and they went to work to pick the lock of the safe. Of course they couldn't do it, for that lock was just a masterpiece of engineering, and there wasn't a living that could pick it. They tried their centre-bits, but they couldn't make any impression on the safe. The bits would just slide round and scratch the surface here and there, but they hardly made a dent in the steel. By the time the robbers had got pretty mad, and they did the safe out into the open, and tried what they could do with dynamite. They must have put a lot of the stuff under the safe, for when it went off the safe sailed more than thirty feet in the air, and came down so solid that she made a big hole in the ground. But when they came to examine her she wasn't hurt a bit. Not a joint nor a bolt was started, and except fair a little blackening of the outside she was as good as new.

" 'This hyer is a low-down outrage,' says the robber captain. The man that made that safe deserves hanging if ever a man did, for the thing is going to put an aid to train-robbing, and will throw hundreds of men out of employment. I hate a man who hasn't any feelings for his fellow-men.'

"Well, the rest of fee robbers they stood round the safe and cursed till they were tired, but they admitted that they couldn't open it, and after a while they told the conductor that he might take his safe back again, and start his train down the road. Accordingly, we got the safe into the baggage-car again, and after the train was a mile or two down the road the conductor he opens her,  and there was Jim, as gay as a jaybird, and himself sick over the failure of the robbers. There wasn't any doubt that Jim's scheme had worked well, and the Express Company gave him fifty dollars as a testimonial of their gratitude for having prevented the robbers from seizing two hundred thousand dollars worth of gold dust.

"Bimeby a new idea occurred to Jim. You see at that time there wasn't any telegraph on this line, and there being only a single track, and that a pretty rough one, accidents were frequent. One day when there was a drove of cattle on the and Jim, looking out of the car saw that there was certain to be a smash up, he just opened his safe and gets into it, to wait for better times. That train went off the track and the baggage-car broke loose and went down the embankment, turning over half-a-dozen times, and going clean to kindling-wood.

"When we began to dear things up, and missed Jim, we all supposed that he had been smashed, but when the conductor opened the safe to see if the contents were all right, there was Jim as smiling as a basket of chips, and enquiring in a kind and way if there was anything the matter with the train. After that, Jim regularly climbed into his safe whenever he heard the danger signal, and he never once got the least scratch or bruise. He went through three collisions in that safe, and after one of them, the safe was buried so. deep among the rubbish that it was two days before we could dig it out. That didn't disturb Jim, however. He just took the time out in sleep, and, according to what he said, would have been perfectly contented if he had only been able to smoke his pipe, which he couldn't do owing to the scarcity of air in the safe. You see, as long as he kept his mouth somewhere near the keyhole he managed to do very well, but it wasn't what you could call an airy sort of place.

"Jim was a careful man, and never neglected any precaution that would make the valuables in his charge as safe as possible. This was why he made it a rule to change he combination of the safe every month. About the third day of August—I remember the month, because I always suffer from the liver complaint in August, and I was off duty at the time and riding in the smoking car, being too sick to work as brakes man— we came near running into a wagon that was crossing the track. When Jim heard the brakes blown down, he crawled into his safe and shut the door, expecting there would be an accident. It so happened that the wagon got clear of the track just in time, and we went on our way rejoicing.

"After a while we missed Jim, and, knowing that he must be in his safe, the conductor started to open it. He found that the combination wouldn't work, and then, remembering that it was just after the first of the month, he knew Jim must have changed it and forgotten to give him the new combination, so the conductor gets close to the keyhole, and calls to Jim to give him the combination, but Jim answers hat he had changed it that very morning, but couldn't for the life of him remember what it was.

"Here was a pretty go. The only man who knew the combination had forgot it, and he was shut up in the safe. We told him that we would leave him quiet for an hour, and that there wasn't any doubt that he would be able to remember the combination in that time, but somehow when he agreed to this his voice didn't sound very sanguine. At the end of an hour he hadn't made any progress. All he could say was that the word had something to do either with robbery or politics, and that it must be a word of five letters, that being the way the lock was made.

"Well, we set to work to think of every word in the language relating to robber and containing five letters. It was like out some of these puzzles that you in the Sunday papers, but we couldn't hit on the right answer. Seeing as 'robbery' didn't furnish us with the word, we tried words connected with 'politics,' and if we had only known it, we were on the right track, but we never got there. The conductor sent to his house for a big dictionary, and proposed to begin and try every word of five letters in the whole concern, but after a while we found that it would take them pretty near a year to get through with them all, and by that time Jim wouldn't be wanting to get out.

"We worked at that combination for a good twenty-four hours, taking it altogether, and then we had to give it up. Then we sent for the best safe burglar in the whole north-west, and offered him a hundred dollars to open the safe, giving him leave to try any plan be might prefer. The man had heard of Jim's patent burglar proof safe, and, being an ambitious chap, who took a genuine pride in his profession, he was glad of the job. But he didn't succeed any better that we had done. Picking the lock, guessing at the combination, and working with the jemmy were all failures, and having heard about the experiment that the first gang of train robbers had made on the safe with dynamite, he didn't think it worth while to try that sort of thing a second time. However, he did say that, in his opinion, sledge-hammers would open the safe if they were used long enough. So we got two men with big sledge-hammers, and set them to hammering the safe hour after hour in the same place, and when they were tired we had two more men to relieve them. We took the safe and men along with us in the trail and they made such a noise that you could have heard that train a mile away, and would have thought that she was a boiler manufactory on wheels. At the end of twelve hours of steady hammering there wasn't so much as a good sized dent that safe, and we gave up sledge-hammers, and made up our minds that we had seen the last of Jim.

"For all that we kept tinkering at the combination for a fortnight or more afterwards. Jim had been quiet after the end of the first eight days, and we couldn't any answer from him. So, seeing as time come for to bid farewell to him, we decided that we would take the safe down to the Athensville cemetery, and bury it as it stood. Which accordingly was done on the following Sunday, and, seeing as it was well known that the safe belonged to Jim, and was empty at the time, except so far as Jim was concerned, there was nobody who had the right to make any objection. The minister who conducted the funeral did say something about the extraordinary nature of the coffin that we had chosen for the deceased, but we told him that the coffin didn't concern and that all he had to do was to heave ahead and give it Christian burial without passing any of his remarks. We didn't think it worth while to sink the safe very deep, because some day the combination might be discovered, and then Jim's heirs would want to get the safe out again and put it among Jim's assets, for it would have been sure to fetch a big price if there had been any way of getting into it.

"It must have been a year after the funeral when a passenger got to talking with the conductor of the express in the smoking car about Jim and his safe, and he accidentally mentioned that the night before Jim shut himself up for the last time they two had been talking politics, and Jim, who was a Democrat, was slinging language about President Hayes, and saying that he had stole the Presidency from Tilden, and was no better than a train robber. When the conductor heard this he swore a while in a thoughtful sort of way, and then he says. 'I've got that combination at last.'

" 'How so?' says the man.

" 'Why,' says the conductor, 'Jim allowed that the combination was a word of five letters that had something to do either with robbery or politics. Now, "Hayes" would be exactly that sort of word, and I can't think how it happened that we didn't try it. I haven't the least manner of doubt that if we was to dig that safe up and try it with "Hayes" it would open without the least trouble.'

" 'What's the good of opening it after Jim has been occupying it for more than a year?' says the man.

" 'Why, just this,' said the conductor. 'That there safe is the only burglar-proof safe ever built, and if the combination was known to the relatives of the remains could sell it for two thousand dollars easy. I'll see them about it to-morrow, and we'll have one more try at opening it.'

"Well, to make a long story short, the relatives dug the safe up, and found sure enough that 'Hayes' was the word that unlocked it. It was a little rusty on the outside, but otherwise it was just as good as ever. There wasn't very much left of Jim by that time, but what there was received a second funeral, for there wasn't anything mean about Jim's family, and then the Express Company bought the safe for eighteen hundred dollars, and it was used on this road for upwards of two years."

"What became of it finally?" I asked.

"What always becomes of anything or anybody that sticks to railroading too long. The train went off of Three Mile Bridge, about seventy-five miles north of Josephusville, and there being a quicksand at the bottom of the creek that no man could ever find the bottom of, the whole train— including Jim's safe— sank out of sight, and nobody ever found the least trace of it afterwards. You ought to have heard of that accident, for about three hundred passengers went down with the train, and the Company never paid a cent for damages because there was no remains to be found, and nobody could prove anybody in particular had been killed.

"I say it didn't cost the Company anything for damages, though they do say that the jurymen cost altogether not far from five thousand dollars apiece. However, the Company got out of it very cheap, and the Directors were more disgusted about losing that safe than they were about losing the whole train.

"Come into my office and I'll show you Jim's photograph standing by his new safe, and making believe to pronounce an oration on its merits. He was a good fellow was Jim, but be put his confidence in that safe once too often."

___________________

10: Poker Hand

Leslie Beresford

1878-1946

Australian Worker (Sydney) 30 Sep 1936

THE appearance of a clergyman in our compartment passed almost unnoticed. Persuaded by the man from Shanghai, we were whiling away the journey with a game of poker. He dipped right away into a book, and remained apparently quite unconcerned with us. All the same, I noticed how the parson's shrewd brown eyes wandered towards the table between us, following with a fascinated anxiety the fortunes of our game, and the stakes for which we were playing.

Presently, the pace grew a little too strong for two of us. The man from Shanghai had all the good cards. I had a distinct feeling that the clergyman was relieved to see us pack up, and I said to him jokingly:

'Naturally, padre, you don't agree with people playing cards for money?'

'Whether I agree, or not, is neither here nor there,' he replied. 'My cloth doesn't necessarily make me a bigot. As a matter of fact, my East-end parishioners are far more interested in gambling than in godliness, and they include some very fine fellows indeed.

'But, watching your game of poker made me think of a story, which I would like to tell you if it wouldn't bore you?'

'Oh, by no means, padre!' laughed the man from Shanghai in his dry way, and winked at us. 'Next to a game of poker, a good story—'

THE MAN I'm going to tell you about (the padre said) was an inveterate gambler. This at an age when, after coming down from college and. not being obliged to work for a living, his natural instinct was to enjoy himself. Of course, he met people only too willing and ready to attach themselves to a moneyed prodigal. Quite soon, therefore, he was led into going a pace from which they profited greatly, while he could not fail to be the loser. His nearest relative was an elderly aunt. He was quite fond of her, and she was very wealthy. She, in her turn, was proud of her nephew and anxious to see him established in a career. He had the good sense to begin by sharing that ambition. However, the prodigal in him was too strong. The time eventually came when his own means were mortgaged, and he was forced to ask his aunt for assistance, though without telling her the truth. Time and again she helped him until he came to look upon her assistance as inevitable.

Then came a moment, to cut my story short, when he was faced with an immediate settlement of certain considerable poker debts, for which he had given a post-dated cheque. Light-heartedly enough, he presented himself to his aunt at her house in the country. To his amazement, he was met by a blank refusal. Indeed, he was further astounded to discover that she knew far more about his gay life than he had dreamed.

'If you think you have only to come down here and wheedle money out of me to be thrown away at cards, you may as well know you're mistaken,' she said. 'You get no more from me. Not a single penny.'

'But my dear aunt,' he protested, taken aback and scared, 'don't you understand that I'm in a most shocking hole?'

'Well? Who put you there? I didn't. You must get yourself out as best you can.' It was useless to argue and plead.

'SO, back he went to town, on the old lady's advice, and played one last desperate game, winning through by the kind of miraculous poker luck that only occurs in novels, I suppose, padre!' intervened the man from Shanghai with a cynical little laugh.

'On the contrary,' the clergyman responded, 'this happens to be a true story.'

ONE COULD well understand (he proceeded) that this young fellow, was in a desperately serious quandary, and that his feelings towards his aunt bordered on a maniacal fury. This was more the case, because he happened to know that— while refusing him the couple of hundred he needed— she had a much larger sum in the house, and in cash as well. This sum had been paid her on account of a farm she was selling. The knowledge of that money was unfortunate. It gave a criminal twist to his desperation, of which he would never otherwise have thought. Having therefore conveyed to her that he must hurry to town, he drove off.

But he was back again that night shortly after eleven o'clock, leaving his car hidden near her house, which appeared to be in darkness. She lived there, he knew, with only two women servants. He guessed all three would be in bed by now and conveniently asleep. It was a cold and terribly stormy night, and it was his first attempt at burglary. But he had this advantage that, with his intimate knowledge of the place, he knew just where and how to make an entry. This was by climbing up the trunk and branches of a thick wistaria tree to a certain first-floor window always left a little open.

The room was in darkness when he crept through, except that a fire burned low in the grate with a high-backed arm-chair drawn up close to it. He noticed that a poker had been left lying in the embers, and was glowing red-hot. Then, as he groped his way towards the bureau, someone shot up out of the arm-chair, and he heard his aunt's voice, low and scared, in the darkness.

'Who's that in this room? Here—' She began suddenly to scream: 'Help! Burglars! Help!'

And while she screamed in that inky blackness, while he was scurrying. back to the open window to escape, he saw the glowing red-hot end of that poker pursuing him in mid-air. Despite his haste, as he clambered panic-stricken over the sill, it caught and seared him right across one of his palms. Then, as he crashed downwards on to a flower-bed, lights sprang up in the house and he heard his aunt shouting to the servants something about the police. Just how that young fellow got away, reached his car and finally made London, he never knew. The agony from his scorched palm was intense, and the doctor at the hospital casualty ward, who treated it for him, was curious to know how such a thing happened. Naturally, the young man invented a specious tale far removed from the truth. Just as well, so it proved, since the next day's papers printed with great joy the story of how his aunt, snoozing in front of the fire and wakened by a burglar, had pluckily beaten him off with a red-hot poker before he could steal anything!

'WELL, your young friend certainly asked for all the trouble he got!' intervened the man from Shanghai with a chuckle.

'I agree with you,' nodded the clergyman. 'He set out to steal, and was properly prevented. The irony of it lay in the fact that his aunt, never suspecting him for a moment, wrote him next day, regretting her refusal to help him, and asking him down so that they could go into figures, and talk about the future.

NATURALLY, with that badly burned hand, he could not go (he continued). He preferred to retain, however falsely, his aunt's belief in his honesty. So, to do this effectively, he refused her offer, and went abroad. He never saw his  aunt, again. And when she eventually died, her will made no mention of him.'

BY NOW the train was rapidly approaching the terminus. The man from Shanghai swept his pack of cards into his greatcoat pocket.

'Very interesting story, I'm sure!' he admitted. 'If it's intended as a sermon against poker—'

'Oh, not at all!' the clergyman shook his head. 'What would be the good of a sermon to you?'

'Why "to me"?' stared the other, his eyes suddenly angry. 'This is becoming personal—'

'Quite naturally!' responded the clergyman. 'Because, as it happens, you were the very person who held that young fellow's post-dated cheque, and so gave rise to that story. You ran a pretty warm gambling-den in those days, didn't you? Incidentally, from what I noticed while you and these gentlemen were playing, your poker is still more profitable to yourself than to your victims.'

'Here! What do you mean? Who are you?'

Risen to his feet, white-faced and angry, the man from Shanghai towered over the clergyman, while we all stared in amazement at this outbreak. As the train drew up at the platform, the clergyman rose, too. He held out his right hand, palm uppermost, for us all to see.

Across it was the scar left by a terrible burn, the shape of a poker head.

___________________

11: Diamonds for the Duchess

Leslie Beresford

News (Adelaide) 7 April 1938

UK: The Passing Show Feb 26 1938

THE BLACKIES, who had been married for some years, and anyhow, were sufficiently well off to please themselves, occupied separate bedrooms. One opened into the other by a door, if required; and this was the case now, so that they could talk to each other as they undressed for bed. Her voice came through to him as he struggled out of a stiff shirt. It was a rich and very nice voice, if tinged with a touch of anxiety.

"It would so happen that the Procters had that hospital call, and we're alone in the house tonight," she was saying.

"Good gosh, my dear, what difference does that make?" he called back. "I was just thinking it quite a treat to have the place really all to ourselves―"

"Henry," she interrupted him seriously, "I was thinking of those priceless diamonds downstairs."

"Don't be silly, Ethel," he laughed. "They're in the safe till tomorrow, when I'm taking them down to the duchess. I'd no alternative but to bring them here for the night. And, anyhow, who else but ourselves could possibly know they were here? So why worry, angel?"

"I suppose it is stupid," she admitted, laughing a little as well when, pyjama clad, he passed into her room. He shook her in a playful effort to be stern, which last was difficult, because they were very fond of each other and never quarrelled.

"I should say it was!" he rebuked her. "I suppose, really, it was wrong of me to tell you that I had brought them home. Just― it came to me that, womanlike, you'd never forgive me if you ever found out they'd been in the house and I'd not let you have a look at them."

"Oh, I'd have hated that," she agreed with him.

"Then, having seen them, be a good girl and go to bed without any ridiculous fears. You look tired end ought to sleep like a top."

"I don't honestly think I'll need much rocking, Henry," she acknowledged, laughing and screening a tiny yawn behind a dainty hand, adding, "It's only that― perhaps because the Procters aren't here― the house seems to be steeped in silence. I wouldn't feel so nervous, dear, if you came in with me tonight."

"Nonsense, angel!" he laughed in turn. "I'm not encouraging you in any such childish ideas. We'll leave the door a little ajar as usual."

"By the way," he added, after kissing her, "that reminds me, I've fixed up an appointment for next week with that specialist fellow, who thinks he may be able to do something to cure that― that stupid affliction of mine."

"Affliction?" She stared at him, puzzled, then, realising what he meant, a smile broadening her very charming mouth.

"Now it's you who are being childish, Henry!" she exclaimed. "I quite thought you were joking when you first spoke about it. As if it were really serious, my dear!"

"Oh, but it is," he insisted. "So shockingly annoying to other people."

"As if you need think of that, great baby."

"Well, I think it ought to be tried out, anyhow," he observed obstinately, though smiling, and then pointed to a clock.

"Half-past twelve gone!" he reminded her. "Time for shut-eye, angel. And-don't have nightmares about people coming after those diamonds."

He had no fears on that matter himself. Indeed, had she not referred to the possibility the idea would never have dawned on him, so convinced was he that nobody but a very chosen few knew the fine stones, being sold to the young and wealthy American Duchess of Warminster, were in his hands at all. And when, presently, he found that he had meantime fallen asleep, wakening sharply, he wondered at first how that had happened, the night was so still and dark. It was so still that, through the communicating door, which had been left ajar, he could hear the regularity of his wife's light breathing in an obviously deep slumber.

Then he heard another sound. It was faint and muffled by distance, as it something had fallen in another part of the house. It came to him that, perhaps, after all. the Procters might have found themselves able to get back to town, even so late as this, and let themselves in. The idea seemed worth investigating, and he slipped noiselessly from his bed, letting himself out on to the landing so silently as not to disturb his wife.

FROM the head of the staircase he realised that either the Procters, or somebody else, had entered the house, for the lights were on in the room which was used as a smoking lounge, where, also, low-pitched voices could be heard in spasmodic discussion. He went on down the stairs, reaching the partly open lounge door. Unarmed though he might be, it was impossible for him now to turn back. He bore in mind, first and foremost that whatever happened Ethel was not to be dragged into this. For he knew now not only that his idea about the Procters was wrong, but that these three men were visible proof that he had been wrong about another and very vital matter. He was careful to close the lounge door behind him before he drew their attention to his presence, for again he did not want his wife's sound sleep disturbed.

On the other hand the click of the door latch disturbed the three intruders and they swung round on him in a flash.

A sinister-looking trio, one of them instantly having whipped out a gun, covered him. Almost, because of his own empty hands, he wanted to laugh. But the matter was far too serious. Because they had been gathered round the safe, he felt the more positive that, after all, something had leaked out. In fact, this was established, without being at all explained, by the first words spoken.

"Those sparklers you're taking to a certain duchess," one of the men said, quite softly and insinuatingly. "They'll be in this safe, no doubt. No doubt, too, knowing the combination, you'll be disposed to help us to them, saving yourself and us a lot of trouble. We know that you and your wife are alone in this house―"

"You certainly have me at a disadvantage," Henry said, and moved towards the safe, which was set. in the wall on modern lines: "I suppose I shall just have to do as you say," he added regretfully.

His fingers, touching the dial, began to manipulate the tumblers, till the safe door swung open and outwards. He had thrust his right hand into one of the partitions, when a great fist grabbed him from behind and he was flung backwards.

"You keep out of that! We'll help ourselves to what's there!" warned one of the men, the three crowding before the open safe. Which was when the resource of Blackie became more apparent. The right hand, which he had thrust into the safe, now held a small gun, covering their three backs, as his voice informed them. A fact which each could verify by glancing back over his shoulder.

"My great desire is to get you gentlemen out of the house without the necessity of using this fully loaded weapon," he said. "'That would cause hurt to one or all of you, for I can assure you that I'm a practised shot. One needs to be in my business, on occasions. Also, it would mean a great deal of needles. noise, awakening my wife from a peaceful asleep upstairs, and frightening her."

He had scarcely conveyed this cynical resume of the situation, with the added request that 'meantime they should hold up their hands, the armed man dropping his gun to the floor, while the three of them turned round so as to face him, when the wholly unexpected happened. The lounge door clattered open behind him. Without looking round, but reflected by a mirror in a wall, he could see his wife on the threshold in her night clothes, her face very pale, her eyes staring wide.

"Oh, Henry!" she was gasping. "Then you really are safe?"

Seeing that she had somehow, after all, wakened and come on the scene, her unexpected appearance would, he realised, be exceedingly useful. Though now armed, he was still one against three, and he still had to dispose of them. It was indeed a blessing that she had turned up.

"Of course I'm safe, Ethel!" he called to her over his shoulder, while covering his threefold haul, who thought this a good opportunity to be troublesome. "You go and call the police, my dear, while I keep an eye on this little bunch."

"I've already called the police, Henry," she amazed him by answering breathlessly. "They should be here any minute now―"

In fact, the shrieking sirens of police cars cut into her very words. The front door opened quickly by her, the hall was filled with uniformed officers. In their charge presently the would-be diamond thieves departed, leaving husband and wife alone together again at last.

"A good job, anyhow, that you called the police so soon, my dear," he was saying. "I certainly hadn't expected that. I'd left you upstairs sleeping so soundly, as I thought―"

"So I was," she interrupted him, "and I might have gone on sleeping. It's true I had wakened a bit, but was turning over to drop off again, when I know quite well you'll laugh at me, Henry"― she was indeed, laughing herself― "but it really was entirely because of that silly little affliction of yours that I didn't drop off, but wakened properly. You see, for so many years now I've been accustomed to hear you lying there in your bed, snoring away loudly like you do. If I did waken, that seemed to soothe me. Tonight, when I couldn't hear a single snore from you, I just came wide awake and had to be up and doing to find out why."

___________________

12: Light-Fingered Looting

Leslie Beresford

News (Adelaide) 17 April 1937

UK: The Passing Show Feb 27 1937

SPANISH Tony was so-called by his professional intimates because of his coal-black hair and eyes, his olive complexion, and his frequent use of the word "mañana." This last was taken as indicating good Iberian blood. Incidentally, the London police had him registered by the same intimate nickname, for police are excellent copyists, although not perhaps with such naive ideas.

However, Spanish Tony had a cleverness much envied by his fellow professionals. It was equally, albeit grudgingly, admired by the London police. The trouble with them was that, although Spanish Tony's police record from the U.S.A. positively hummed with audacious and punishable incident, he had so conducted himself in this country as not thus far to be caught napping.

Just at the moment Spanish was endeavouring to cultivate acquaintance with a solemn and simple-looking Britisher, seated opposite to him in a third-class Pullman. This gentleman, hospitably paying for their mutual drinks, had disclosed a prettily bulging note-case, and indicated― from his manner of speech― that he was the complete and trustful mutt.

Consequently, when Brighton station had been reached, Spanish took advantage of the crush on the platform to use slick fingers, thrusting out of sight the trustful mutt's prettily bulging note case. It was not possible, nor wise, immediately to separate from his victim. so they squeezed through the seethe at the barrier, after the manner of sardines in a tin. Afterwards. more able to move freely, Spanish waved a laughing farewell to the other, and was about to depart gleefully, when the other laid a detaining hand on his arm, smiling the while.

"Let us go to the refreshment room." he was saying. "It is time that you bought me a drink, my friend, don't you reckon? Just in case you feel so disposed, allow me to return you this."

And, to his utter amazement, Spanish discovered the other to be offering him the green morocco leather wallet which rightly should at the moment be safely reposing in his own hip pocket, and which he was staggered to find entirely empty

"Exchange between members of the same light-fingered profession can be no robbery," smilingly remarked this person, who proved so far removed from a mutt.

"You're a smart guy, I must say," said Tony when they were seated together apart from the crowd, so as to talk freely.

"That, I am happy to say, is my reputation," murmured the other with an amiable enthusiasm, adding as an afterthought: "You're pretty smart, too, I admit. Just the weeniest bit heavy with the hand, all the same. You see how quickly I twigged your touch?"

"Say― wouldn't you, anyhow, being in the game?" Spanish Tony protested, professionally hurt, because he prided himself on the airy slickness of his fingers. Then, however, he laughed. "If you're like me, down here on business," he suggested, "what about making a deal together? Two smart guys, same as we are, can fix a good clean-up in a place like this."

"There's something in that," the other acknowledged, then began to hedge cautiously. "But, first of all," he went on, "I'd like to know more about you. That's only natural. I've a reputation to keep up―"

"Well, haven't I?" Spanish Tony interrupted, almost angrily, because never before had his professional status been called into question. He began to expound upon this in detail, as well as in safely confidential whispers, noting how the other gradually became impressed.

"So that's who you are?" he said presently, with a certain enthusiasm. "'Well, well, I'm pleased to have met you, I'm sure. I must have heard of you before, though, of course, I keep rather to myself. I believe in playing a lone game. It's safer. By the way― how are you with the... the gentlemen in blue?"

"Those guys?" Spanish Tony sniffed contempt, and laughed. "Say, partner― they never got one on me in New York. Do you sort of reckon these over here, in this sleepy old country, have the beatings of me?"

"I may tell you," responded the other "that they are smarter than you think. However, they have nothing against me, either, you can take it from me, especially down here. So, if we're going to work together― and I'm agreeable― we ought to have a clear run."

And with that, Spanish Tony concurred. He did so, however, with his tongue in his cheek. Having by now thought matters over, though willing enough to make use of this fellow professional to the best advantage, his mental agility― slick as his fingers― had decided that the advantage might well be so arranged as to be all on his side. The other, who had given his name as Lucas― "Light-fingered Lucas, to my professional friends," he had explained― would be convenient as a means of learning the layout of Brighton, which Spanish Tony had not before visited. Thereafter, at a convenient moment, and having so more need of him, it would be easy to lose him.

Thus, during the early part of the afternoon, Spanish Tony enjoyed this guidance, being introduced to the best professional playing grounds, and chuckling to himself over the profit in prospect. On two occasions, with deft success, he had improved the shining hour, storing away the proceeds. His companion and he had naturally become separated at intervals, an arrangement which Spanish Tony was fast becoming anxious to make a permanent one. But the other kept on turning up again, remarking that he personally had not had such a good day for ages.

It was not until dusk was falling that Spanish Tony found opportunity to get away on his own. He saw that his companion, a little distance away from him at the entrance to a pier, was engaged in talk with a man wearing a big check cap, apparently directing him somewhere. That was the propitious moment which Spanish Tony seized to take his own direction. He moved away from the pier entrance altogether, betaking himself in leisurely fashion more into the heart of the town. With relief, having glanced back over his shoulder once or twice, he saw no sign of Light-fingered Lucas.

It was now the hour of good business, and Spanish Tony set himself to it. People were pouring out of a theatre after a matinee, and he mingled with them to his advantage. A lady's handbag accompanied him out of the melee, and the feel of it indicated notes and coin within. Quite shortly after, a somewhat inebriated gentleman, with whom he came into conversation in a saloon-bar not far from the theatre, yielded up unwittingly a fiver which he had been intending to change, while Spanish Tony had emerged into the evening air, deciding that an excellent day's work was over.

He sought now some quiet spot where he could examine in detail his various acquisitions, and then make arrangements to fix himself up somewhere for the night. He was hesitating for a moment beneath a street light, considering the exterior of a nearby café as an adaptable retreat, when a hand was laid on his arm. He swung round sharply, for gentlemen in his profession dislike being touched in that way. However, it had flashed into his mind that possibly his late companion― the only person knowing him here― must have caught sight of him and rejoined him. Instead, he discovered the hand to belong to a burly man wearing a big check cap, having another man by his side.

"I must ask you to come along with me, Spanish Tony," said the man in the check cap. "From information received, I've reason to believe―"

Spanish Tony, wriggling like an eel, made a violent effort to escape.  It was, however, vain; and he suffered the mortification of finding himself at last in the charge room of a police station, and an English one at that. There, not altogether to his surprise, he saw his late companion, Light-fingered Lucas. For, by then, he had realised why the plainclothes man's check cap had seemed familiar. And now, as the various contents of Spanish Tony's pockets were brought to light in proof of pilfering, the latter sensed the truth, glaring at Light-fingered Lucas.

"You dirty double-crosser!" he raged. "They got you, and so you gave me away, too!"

"On the contrary," replied the other smilingly, "you're mistaken all round, my friend I am not here by force, but as a matter of duty. As for being given away― well, what would you expect, having first given yourself away to me?"

"What do you mean?" Spanish Tony almost yelled, choking with anger. "If you hadn't started off in Brighton Station by stealing my note-case, and then admitting to me very freely who you were, I'd never have known you were coming down here to pick pockets. Well, having made that discovery, it was my duty to keep an eye on you, following you round, letting you collect evidence against yourself, while I got in touch with my friends, the police, here―"

"Why, you told me you were at the same game yourself!" Spanish Tony gasped, half-strangled by an astonished rage. "Didn't you get my wallet from my hip-pocket, without my even knowing it? Didn't you tell me you were Light-fingered Lucas?"

"So I am, among my friends." said the other. "But― not in your line of business, all the same. Lucas is my private name. My public one― here is my professional card."

Spanish Tony stared at the pasteboard slip, on which was printed:

DIAVOLO

Conjurer and Illusionist

______________________

13: Feminine Feathers

Leslie Beresford

Chronicle (Adelaide) 29 Sep 1932

THE first indication I had of the affair was a call from my beautiful— if always somewhat featherbrained and indiscreet— cousin, Muriel.

'George— it's up to you to save me from something perfectly awful―' She began on so sincere a note of agitation that I sat up and stared at her.

'George— I've absolutely got to find a thousand pounds between today and tomorrow evening. I want you to lend it to me.'

'A thousand pounds!' I echoed.

She nodded that imperious little head of hers, with its black pull-over hat from beneath the rim of which there peeped audaciously a couple of tiny chestnut curls.

'You've lots more money than that lying idle, George,' she asserted with conviction.

'So I may have,' I agreed. 'But— why come to me, my dear? I'm only a cousin. What about your husband? Isn't it Tony's pleasure and duty to finance his wife when she needs it? Besides, you've some money of your own.'

'All mortgaged in advance. I'm afraid I've been going the pace, George. And as for Tony— he's at that conference business.'

There was, of course, a certain subterfuge in that last sentence.

'But,' I reminded her, 'it happens to be within, my knowledge that Tony is returning by tomorrow evening.'

'Don't be silly, George. I know that too. And I must have that thousand before he comes back. You see— Tony of all people is not to know I needed it.'

'Good lord―' I stared at her in wonderment. She had— in her perfectly innocent way— always been something of a wild bird. But I had never before known her to have any secret from Tony, and I said so.

'I know―' she said, colouring and lowering her head, 'and I hate having one now. But it's positively necessary. And you're the only person to help me. It isn't much, George. A miserable thousand. I'll pay you back— bit by bit— from my allowance― honestly.'

'My dear,' I said. 'I've no doubt about that. And— as your cousin— I'd lend you three times that sum without hesitation. But— as you're Tony's wife— how can I do it? Men don't like their wives borrowing money from other men behind their backs.'

'Exactly why?' Muriel had helped herself to one of my cigarettes and my lighter, and her pretty face was partly obscured by a faint blue smoke cloud. 'That's just what I have done. At least— no, I haven't exactly, and yet— I have. It's rather difficult to explain. I suppose, if I'm going to get the money out of you, I'll have to tell you the whole wretched story.'

It came out in an overwhelming cataract of words. It transpired that some months since while Anthony had been on a governmental mission to the States, Muriel had joined a party of society friends on the Continent during a number of weeks. Temperamentally always a spendthrift, she had not only run short of ready cash, but she had been gradually incurring a number of pressing debts— partly through her craze for gambling, but more largely through her still greater obsession for buying those feminine feathers which made fine birds. Muriel was always most exquisitely frocked.

However, at this awkward moment, an avalanche of insistent demands for payment had descended upon her, and her one dread was that Tony— who habitually, but in a kindly way, lectured her on such extravagances— might have to know about them. In this extremity— knowing that she would be in funds again within a few weeks— she had borrowed a round sum of five hundred pounds on an IOU from a male member of her party.

'Such a perfectly charming man, George!' Muriel explained here in parentheses. 'He was so exceedingly nice about it, go frightfully kind— just as if I'd been doing him the greatest favour by accepting the loan. Of course, about three weeks later, I paid him back when my own money came, and he returned me my IOU. You see, everything was so square and above-board.'

'Well?' I broke her momentary silence. 'And— since then, I conclude, you've borrowed again from this obliging person— twice as much, and can't pay up?'

'No, I haven't. That's just it. I haven't seen the man since— till a couple of days ago. I met him as I was coming out of Octave's in Bond street— I'd been, trying on a new frock―'

'Feminine feathers again !' I laughed, but the laugh quailed before the stark misery in Muriel's sea-blue eyes.

'Don't rub it in, George!' she almost wailed. 'Listen. As I was coming out from Octave's I met this man again. He gave me the shock of my life. Would you believe it? After we'd chatted for a minute or two, and I'd said something about how much I'd appreciated his kindness on the Lido, he actually insinuated that I was still in his debt. Of course, I asked him what on earth he meant. And then he said— yes, and he actually showed me before my very eyes that he held two IOU's from me, each for five hundred pounds.'

'Forgeries?'

'Must be! Of course, I never had any more from him than those five hundred pounds which I repaid. I only gave him one IOU, and he returned that when I settled. How he got the two he showed me, I can't say. Not from me, though I must confess that anyone knowing my handwriting would take them as mine. And he wouldn't take my denial at all. Of course, he's a sort of blackmailer. He said that, if I didn't pay up by tomorrow, he'd be compelled to go to Tony for the money. He knows— as well as you do— that I'd die sooner than let Tony know I'd borrowed from anyone but himself.'

'And yet,' I said, you come to me for the same purpose. Where's the logic, Muriel?'

'It's not the same thing, George. At any rate, you're in the family. And, if I hadn't been hard-pressed that time—

'Quite!' I agreed. 'That first IOU of yours was the root of more trouble than you imagined. It's easy to see what happened. While he held that in his possession he got down to work on the two forgeries. Apparently clever forgeries, if you're as good as deceived by them yourself. It's a question of proving them to be forgeries―'

'No, it isn't, George!' protested Muriel on a surging wave of agitation. 'We can't be bothered about that. This man must be paid. You're going to lend me the money, like a dear good soul, and we'll get those IOU's back―'

'And let this fellow walk off with a clear thousands pounds just because you're afraid to fight him?'

'I'm only afraid because of Tony. I couldn't bear for Tony to know. Nothing else matters, George. It'll be so simple, if you'll only do as I ask. I'll ling up this man. His name's Quayle. Oscar Quayle―'

'Sounds somehow familiar to me?' I said, having that impression, and also feeling that— in any case— undue haste was not called for. 'Now look here, my dear!' I added. 'There's time enough yet before Tony returns tomorrow night. And I don't see why this Quayle person of yours should get away with things so dead easily. Before we admit ourselves absolutely obliged to climb down, you'll let me see if something better cannot come of it.'

And with this faint hope, backed up by my promise that at a pinch I would stand behind her with the money, so that Tony should never hear of the wretched business, Muriel went away content.

EXACTLY HOW we were going to get the better of this Mr, Quayle I had not the faintest idea at the minute. But I arranged with Muriel meantime that I would make it my business to see the gentleman, and to think things over, and promised to look round after dinner that evening at her Kensington house with whatever news I had.

First of all, pursuing my distinct impression that the name Quayle was somehow familiar to me, I made my way round to a legal friend of mine with chambers in the Temple, being inclined to link him up with that impression. I was right. He had— in a casual and yet guarded way— mentioned the name to me some months since when talking confidentially about a case he had on at the time. He spoke equally guardedly now.

'The worst of it was,' he told me, 'that the case never went any further than this office. But I can tell you that, if it had, Mr. Quayle would have been landed high and dry for blackmail— of a peculiarly refined type. My client— a wealthy married woman —preferred to pay rather than face the publicity of a police charge, unfortunately. That's where people like Quayle are so safe. They fatten on women and their fears.'

It seemed pretty evident that he was likely to prove successful in the case of my cousin, which I related to my friend. Short of telling Tony, there seemed no other course but to pay. Indeed, my friend suggested that the fellow had been lenient in only asking for a thousand. On the other hand, if Tony were told the whole story— as we both agreed would be the proper course — what would be the result? He would almost certainly prefer to pay and save arguing the thing out in the courts, a species of linen-washing I knew he would avoid at all costs, So that when I had left my legal friend, I had reluctantly come to the conclusion— to prevent any rift in the Westerly matrimonial lute— that Muriel's proposal was the best.

However, supplied by Muriel with the fellow's address, I proceeded later that afternoon to pay a formal call upon him, finding him to be a man in the neighbourhood of 40, far too good looking to be healthy of mind, immaculate as a man's fashion plate, wearing a smile to which a monocle added a certain suave cynicism. He made no bones about the situation so far as he was concerned. He produced Muriel's reputed IOUs. He held them up guardedly for my inspection. And honestly, had I not first heard Muriel's story about them, but been called upon in court to swear in whose handwriting I judged them to be, I must inevitably have acknowledged it to be that of my cousin.

'Forgeries— of course!' I said to him coldly.

'You wouldn't, I suppose, care to make that statement afresh publicly in front of independent witnesses?' he smiled across at me. 'If you care to do so, I haven't the slightest objection to taking up your challenge. Lady Westerley may have pronounced them to be forgeries. That is her way, apparently, of avoiding a just debt. But— as against her bare word— I have the evidence of her own signatures. If you can prove them forgeries— well and good―'

'Come now!' I said. 'I'll agree that you appear to have the whip hand. But my cousin never signed those notes, and you know it. The only IOU she ever gave you was returned to her when she paid up that first five hundred. But while you held it, you were clever enough to manufacture those other two, unknown to her.'

'I beg your pardon!' he retorted. 'I am ready to go into court, if I am forced to do so, and swear that I never held any other IOU of hers but these two, that the only money I ever lent her is the money I am demanding back on these notes.'

'Why, there was five hundred you let her have on the Lido!' I insisted, surprised. 'She admits to having borrowed that, and to repaying it, getting her IOU back from you.'

'On the other hand, I deny it!' he laughed. 'And what proof has she of any such transaction? Can she, for instance, produce that particular IOU? She can't. She's admitted to me that she can't. Women don't store up old evidences of their past debts— especially when they have husbands. She knows that she tore up that IOU at the time it was returned.'

I should have liked to take that fellow up by the scruff of his neck and hurl him through the window of his flat. Instead, proposing to make an ignoble but, wise end of the whole beastly affair, I pulled out a chequebook and opened it, and was unscrewing the cap of a fountain pen when the room-door opened and a man servant appeared. He said words in a hurried and rather agitated voice which caused me a distinct shock.

'A Sir Anthony and Lady Westerley would like to see you, sir,' he addressed the Quayle person. The latter stiffened, then turned suddenly upon me the full gleam of his monocle as if questioning on my part any knowledge of this visit maturing. Presumably, from my embarrassed and puzzled expression, he gathered that I was equally surprised with him. He resumed his seemingly ordinary composure, laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

'I was quite under the impression that Lady Westerley's husband was not expected from abroad till tomorrow,' he said.

'That is so' I nodded, adding— I really did not know why: 'Expectation and realisation sometimes have a trick of differing vastly from each other.'

'Show them in,' he said to his man, and smiled across at me in a sly way. 'All the same,' he remarked to me, 'my own immediate expectations are incapable of such strange tricks.'

Before I could make any remark, Muriel appeared In the open doorway, gave a queer little helpless glance in my direction, ignored Mr. Quayle, and came towards me. It looked to me as if she had been earlier crying a good deal, but her lips were curved in a rather wan and uncertain smile. It was quite unnecessary for her to have said— 'Tony surprised me by coming back early this afternoon.' The fact was so obvious, for the biggish bulk of Tony had loomed into the room hard at Muriel's heels.

He looked across at me with slightly uplifted eyebrows, nodded and grinned— 'Hullo, George? Quite a family party. As you seem to know our host, won't you introduce me to him?'

I gestured towards the Quayle person and murmured names. This wholly unexpected arrival of Tony, this equally surprising visit in Muriel's company to Quayle's flat, had left me rather breathless. It signified, however, that Muriel— possibly alarmed by finding him back so much sooner than she had expected— must have confessed the whole business. So that it now was taken right out of my hands. The issue was joined. In a way, I was tremendously glad.

'It is apparently time we did meet, Mr. Quayle,' I heard Tony saying in his crisp, businesslike way. 'My wife has been telling me that she is financially indebted to you. I have made it my business at once to come and look into the matter.'

'Quite a trifling one, Sir Anthony!' shrugged Quayle, smiling. 'A mere thousand pounds, and no astonishing hurry. She honoured me some while ago by allowing me to be of assistance at an awkward moment―'

'So she has explained!' nodded Anthony. 'And, of course, such a liability must be immediately settled. I'm afraid my wife was inclined to keep the matter from me, but she and I have talked the matter over, and she understands now that I ought to have been told about it before―'

'But— my dear Tony!' I intervened, 'Surely Muriel has told you that— till a couple of days ago— she knew nothing about this preposterous business — that she doesn't owe the money and never did? The thing's a fraud— forgery— blackmail !'

'Sir!' flashed the monocle of Mr. Quayle as he swung round on me. 'I have warned you before that a statement of that nature is actionable―'

'Of course. Mr. Quayle,' intervened Tony soothingly, 'George is impetuous. He is rather like my dear wife in that respect. The main point is, Mr. Quayle. that I am here to waste no time in words. I understand that you hold two IOU'S signed by my wife. I am anxious to redeem them. Will you be so good as to produce them? And on your part, I presume, a cheque from me will be quite in order?'

'Entirely, Sir Anthony. Why should it not be— from a man like yourself?'

The other was methodically removing from his wallet the two signed slips he had earlier shown me, while Tony had seated himself at the writing table with an open cheque book and a pen, beginning to scribble. I felt I must make one more protest.

'It's throwing money away!' I said. 'My dear George―'

Tony looked up at me.

'You'll allow me to play deus ex machina to my wife when she is in difficulties. I am not at the minute in any position to doubt Mr. Quayle's word. In any case. I much prefer to meet his demands. Your cheque, Mr. Quayle!'

He handed it across the table and rose, as in turn the other handed him over the two slips, at which Anthony gazed with an indifferent interest. They were the same size and shape, obviously slips torn from a squarish memorandum block. And the sight of them infuriated me. Money for nothing.

'So now we're square, Mr. Quayle?' suggested Anthony laconically.

'Well— no. We're not quite that. I believe from what my wife has told me— that I really was beholden to you for an earlier five hundred pounds lent to her?'

'Not at all. Sir Anthony!' shrugged the other. 'I don't know why Lady Westerley should have been under that impression. I only know of these two transactions. She must— her memory must have played her false. It is so easy for a woman to forget―'

'Quite!' nodded Anthony with a smile. 'I suppose you rather traded on that. Mr. Quayle, and that's where I do begin to find myself in a position to doubt your word most thoroughly and take sides with my wife's cousin here. Because, possibly, of an excellent purpose, either your memory is a bad one, or you are a liar. For almost two months I have been carrying this about with me. Mr. Quayle.  This―'

From a pocket he produced a third slip, same size and shape and paper as the others, and he held it out. It was an IOU for five hundred pounds, and that it was the one in argument was obvious from, the livid state of Mr. Quayle's transformed face, while still he tried to maintain a blustering calm.

'I came across this,' Anthony meantime pursued, 'by accident while looking for something in my wife's handbag, almost directly after her return from the Lido. I said nothing about it to her, until today I returned home to find her in a distressed state. But meantime, Mr. Quayle, I had been making a few enquiries about you. For the minute, I am more interested in testing a theory which has come to my mind now that I have recovered these other two pieces of paper from you. I think it likely that―'

He crossed to the nearest window, and laid the three slips, one above the other, against the pane. Coming closer to him, I realised at once what he was doing. The slips were of the same size and, when placed on each other, the letters and figures covered each other exactly.

'Yes!' nodded Anthony. 'Just as I imagined. The last two were traced from the first, and the first was handed back. No doubt you felt safe in imagining, as my wife imagined, too, that the first IOU was destroyed. However, for once in a way, Mr. Quayle, one of my cheques will not be met. Also, for once in a way, we will let a little publicity shed its light upon your life. There are plainclothes officers from the Yard waiting outside, Mr. Quayle, for instructions from me to take a little personal interest in you.'

AFTERWARDS, in the charming library of the Westerleys' Kensington house, when dinner was over that night, it was pleasing to know that Muriel and Anthony were on the best of terms, with the little affair of Mr. Quayle throwing no shadow over the past or future. The only person in the shadows at the present was Mr. Quayle himself, ensconced in some police station to think about a cheque for a thousand pounds he could never, never cash.

I did once think that Anthony need not have deceived the poor fellow about the cheque, but that had to be done, of course, to catch him properly and to secure the incriminating forgeries. But out of this affair there came one really human touch which, when I came to look back on it, seemed curiously fitting.

'You know,' Muriel said that night in the library. 'I could have been positive that I tore that old IOU up after he'd given it back to me on the Lido. I mean... that would have been my first thought. Why ever should I have brought it all the way home in my bag— and leave about for you to find, Tony?'

'Why you left it about, I can't say, dear. You may be glad, anyhow, that I did come across it. But I can tell you why you came to keep it. Eve's first thought after her historic fall.'

'Clothes?' laughed Muriel, puzzled. 'What on earth do you mean?'

And then, passing the slip to her, folded up, he pointed to some pencilled words on the otherwise Wank side, and she laughed again.

'Of course!' she said. 'I remember now. it was just after I'd got that slip, back from Mr. Quayle that somebody gave me Octave's address in Bond street, and I jotted it down on the first bit of paper I found in my bag, so as not to forget it.'

So, for once in a way, Muriel's craze for feminine feathers had served an excellent purpose.

_____________________

14: Black Cats For Luck

Leslie Beresford

Chronicle (Adelaide) 4 April 1940

AS THE detective-sergeant reached the house, making for the front door, he passed a partly open window. From this something leaped right across his path, so closely and so startlingly that he stepped back in momentary surprise. Next moment, in a patch of light cast from other windows over a small lawn he saw what it was, and laughed softly to himself

'Big black cat!' he chuckled. 'Should be lucky, for me, if there's any truth in that old saying.'

He watched it go streaking away into the darkness, fast as though all the dogs in the world were after it. Then he turned his mind to the more serious matter which had brought him here from the station. The house, standing in a well-kept garden, had all the air of being occupied by people of comparative affluence and standing. Just the kind of house to be visited in the dark hours by members of the light-fingered fraternity.

Before knocking, he looked over the place, as if taking his bearings. He even went back for a moment to that partly open window, throwing the light of an electric torch on it and as much of the interior as was to be seen. From the sill he picked up something which he studied, and then slipped into a waistcoat pocket.

The front door was opened to him very promptly by a young maid, in whose pretty face were set a big pair of rather frightened-looking eyes. As he gave his name, her agitation became more pronounced. She said weakly:—

'Will you please come right in ...' And then, very desperately, 'It wasn't anything to do with me, sir, that I do swear.'

Before he could say anything, she had opened a door and announced him. He found himself in a largish room, two of its walls lined with books. A card table had recently been in use, though nobody was near it now. The six people were grouped round the hearth, for a fire was lit. The detective knew two of them, at least, a grey-haired colonel and his wife. He addressed the former:—

'Evening, sir. I understand you've had a burglary.'

'Well, sergeant, that's the natural conclusion, of course,' the colonel replied, distress obvious in voice and manner. He gestured in an embarrassed way.

'The trouble is, sergeant,' he explained, 'that― strangely enough— we can trace no sign of the place having been forcibly entered, and nobody has been seen or heard about the house. Meantime a pendant— a highly valuable large, black, pear-shaped pearl, attached to a platinum chain— belonging to my wife here, has disappeared from her bedroom into thin air.'

'And such a thing couldn't possibly happen, sir, without the aid of human hands,' remarked the detective, as much to the others in the room, as to the colonel.

These, apart from the colonel and his lady, numbered four. The colonel introduced them to him. First, a blonde dame of middle age, a Mrs. Worth, described by the colonel as an old and dear friend of his wife. A tall and gravely elderly man was one of the local doctors, whom in fact the detective knew quite well by sight and reputation. A young married couple, named Phayre, were relatives of the colonel, and had been staying on a week's visit.

The colonel then explained that the black pearl pendant was usually kept at his local bank. It had been brought from there the day before to be worn at an important social affair Although it should rightly have been returned to the bank during this day, it had been overlooked, being meanwhile kept upstairs in the bedroom used by his wife. It had certainly been there before dinner, because she had been showing it to young Mrs. Phayre, and Mrs. Worth, the latter saying it was too valuable to be left lying about.

In fact, remembering this only half an hour or so since, the colonel's wife had gone up to bring down the pendant in its case, so that her husband might lock it away in his bureau till the bank opened next day.

'And here―' rather dramatically, the colonel held out the empty case '—here, sergeant, is what my wife found. The pendant had gone.'

The detective silently considered the case, which to his mind was not confined merely to that empty shell of leather, velvet and silk. Nor was he looking only at that, though nobody could have said quite at what, or whom, his eyes gazed in their absorbed manner.

Actually, in contrast to his almost phlegmatic absorption, the atmosphere was electric. One sensed almost violently an under-current of suspicion, alternated by indignation, dominating each person, excepting perhaps the host and hostess. It was just as though each one, like the little maid in the hall, was silently protesting injured innocence, while shadowing everyone else with suspicion.

The detective broke a tense silence, addressing the colonel.

'You say, sir, there's no signs of anyone having broken in,' he said, and smiled. 'Well, maybe I'd be the best judge of that, seeing it's my profession to use my eyes with advantage, and trained eyes at that. I'd better go up, and have a look, round, if you don't mind.'

He was some little time before he returned from upstairs with the colonel. He had by then made a very thorough examination. He now searched minutely for possible clues on the staircase and around the ground-floor hall and passages, until in the process he came on that partly open window he had earlier noticed from outside. He was speaking about it when they returned at last to the others in the library. As they came in, they clearly interrupted a heated and not too well-tempered argument, which became hushed as the detective appeared.

'About that open window, sir,' the latter said thoughtfully, 'it's quite possible a thief could have made entry and departure that way, being lucky enough neither to be seen nor heard. As a matter of fact, just as I reached here, a big black cat jumped out that way, nearly falling on me in the dark.'

'Good gracious, sergeant!' interposed here the blonde Mrs. Worth in surprise and some agitation. 'That must have been my darling Christine. Really, in all this upheaval, I hadn't noticed that she wasn't here. Oh, dear, oh, dear. I do hope she's safe. The naughty girl. She's never run away from me before, all the times and places I've taken her with me.'

'You must be very fond of your eat, ma'am,' the detective smiled, 'taking her about with you―'

'Oh, devoted. And Christine is quite devoted to me. I can't understand―'

'I suppose, Agatha, dear, she became frightened with all the fuss that was going on, everyone talking and running about, searching for the thief,' the colonel's wife suggested, adding with a little shiver: 'I'm frightened myself. If a thief can walk in and out of my house, without being seen or heard, it's quite terrifying.'

'A chance in a thousand, ma'am,' the detective said. 'It's very rarely a man gets away with it so easily. In this case I am not of the opinion that anyone did enter and leave this house―'

'You mean?' asked the colonel, surprised. 'I think we must consider two other possibilities, sir. One is that the thief did not enter at all, but was handed that pendant by someone in this house, possibly through the window, opened on purpose.'

'Ah...' The colonel's wife was immediately intrigued. She said, 'The maid Lucy, of course. It couldn't possibly have been cook, she's such a treasure―'

'And I can't believe it could have been Lucy, either, my dear,' the colonel fired up stoutly. 'No. It's certainly true―' he turned to the detective. 'We do happen to know that the poor girl had a spot of bother with your people three years ago, and served a short sentence. But she's been straight as a die ever since she's been with us. What's more, she's only recently become engaged to a very fine young fellow.'

'Well, sir,' the detective intervened in his quiet way, 'I'll probably have a chat with the girl presently and form my own conclusions. Mean time―'

'You said there were two possibilities, sergeant,' broke in rather truculently the young man named Phayre. 'What is your second one, if the first fails?'

'That there was no outside thief at all. That the person who stole the pendant is in this house, and knows where it is.'

'Even including― one of us?' asked Mrs. Worth in a flutelike quavering voice.

'In a case of this sort, ma'am every possibility has to be considered―'

'Oh, but it's preposterous, sergeant!' The colonel exploded, red in the face. 'As though, for a single moment, my wife and I would insult our friends by suspecting them―'

'Well, colonel, the sergeant is within his rights, of course,' the doctor intervened here. 'It's awkward for all of us, that pendant disappearing. Somebody must have taken it. And several people here knew it was lying upstairs in that bedroom unguarded.'

'I did, doctor for one!' exclaimed sharply the young and pretty Mrs. Phayre. 'I had it in my hands, round my neck before we came down to dinner. But that doesn't mean I had anything to do with stealing it— or my husband, either.'

'Dear me, of course not,' the flutelike voice of Mrs. Worth rose excitedly. 'You might as well say the same of me. Why, it was I who suggested it was unsafe in the bedroom.'

'I know, Agatha, darling,' the colonel's wife soothed. 'It is all really very stupid. I wish we hadn't called in the police, if our friends are going to be insulted in this way.'

'One moment, ma'am,' the detective interrupted politely, having in the meantime been silently running through the pages of a little pocketbook, deep in thought. He closed it and thrust it away in his capacious coat.

'I don't think, for the moment, anyhow, we need distress your friends. An idea has just come to me, which... Well, just to be on the safe side, you might keep an eye on that little maid of yours, without letting her know she's suspect. I'd like to take a walk round to headquarters, and will probably call back here later.'

'There's no reason why I, for instance, need remain here, sergeant?' enquired the doctor.

'Certainly not, sir. No need for anybody to stay here if they don't wish.'

There followed exclamations of surprise and relief, and, as the detective was shown to the front door by the colonel, a babel of tongues was left behind.

'This is really a most distressing business,' the colonel said emotionally. 'I'd sooner suffer the loss of that pearl than―'

'Maybe, sir, you'll not lose it after all, not if my ideas are right,' laughed the detective, and disappeared into the darkness.

He did not, curiously, go in the direction of police headquarters at all. He went exactly the opposite way, until in eight or ten minutes he reached a small villa in a garden. The villa was in complete darkness, at the front, anyhow. He flicked the rays of his torch here and there around the threshold and over the evergreen bushes which had been planted beneath the windows, and formed a hedge to the garden. He switched off the light, after which the darkness swallowed him up. Minutes passed— five, then ten or more, when steps pattered along the road outside, a garden gate clanged, and someone came up the garden path to the front door, which was opened by a key.

A light was switched on in a small hall, and into that light the detective suddenly stepped, saying politely, 'Pardon me, Mrs. Worth.'

The light flashed in her blonde hair, as she swung round, startled and agitated, exclaiming shrilly—

'Who's that?' Then she realised and gasped, 'Why, it's that detective person―'

'Yes, madam. Naturally, I've seen you about the neighbourhood, knew where you lived―'

'But― what do you want here?'

'A little friendly chat. Mrs. Worth. I've saved you the trouble of looking for your cat. Nice animals, cats. So domesticated―'

He had moved into the hall, closing the front door, she leading the way into a room, switching on a light. This showed how he held tightly under one arm a big black feline, obviously well cared for. Round its neck was an unusually large bow of broad blue ribbon. Mrs. Worth, her face gone chalk-colour, protested feebly.

'I don't see why my cat should be any business of yours.'

She stretched out her hand to take the animal, but the other drew it back.

'You may remember, Mrs. Worth,', he said, 'that I mentioned how your cat had jumped out from an open window as I reached the colonel's place. I should properly have said that it had been hurriedly put out, and by a woman. I caught a quick glimpse of a woman's hand. Afterwards, on the sill, this had fallen. A wedding ring; as a widow, which I believe you are, you should surely be wearing one, though I noticed at the house your marriage finger was bare. This is perhaps yours, worn a trifle loose―'

'It is not, and this is preposterous,' the other exclaimed angrily. 'Why should I put my own cat out of that window when I wanted her there with me, when I had gone to the trouble to take her there.'

'Taking a cat to places did strike me as queer,' the detective said. 'Still, it may be a habit of yours. However, I'll tell you why you did put it out of that window. You knew that, following the natural habit of cats, it would come straight back here to its home. And— with what?'

He untied the immense bow of broad ribbon, then let the cat loose. Inside the ribbon, fastened by a safety-pin, was a small chamois-leather bag, which he opened. In his palm lay a black pear-shaped pearl and a thin platinum chain.

'It would be interesting to know, Mrs. Worth, how many times before pussy has played cat-burglar this way,' he said. 'Anyhow, you and I will just walk back to the colonel's place. I'd like him to know that one cannot always trust one's friends.'

____________________

15: Understudy

Leslie Beresford

Townsville Daily Bulletin (Qld) 14 Nov 1936

HAVING FOR three days been carried along a path of pretence, John Ullswater suffered occasional twinge from a conscience, which was normally healthy and at ease. This, especially, whenever he found himself alone with Miss Barbara Dainton, whose red hair at this moment had a dazzling effect in the sun. Barbara, who was perched on a small purple rock, addressed him.

'You know, Mr. Borrodaile, I've been dying to meet you, for ages. I've so often tried to imagine what kind of man you really were— off the stage,' she said in her simple, straightforward way.

It was very much in John's mind, and almost on the tip of his tongue, to be equally straight-forward with her and retort something after this fashion: 'Listen, sweet child ... I simply can't go on deceiving you along with the other people. It's getting on my nerves. I'm going to let you into a secret right now, just between our two selves. It's just absolute nonsense about my being Lester Borrodaile. It's true I've often wished I was. I've envied him his fame, which be didn't deserve, and his banking account, good money thrown away. But that was when I was only his miserable, ill-paid, understudy.'

Actually, on second thoughts, John did not deliver himself of this lengthy revelation. His courage failed him. Meantime he let the fine yellow sand trickle between his fingers, and laughed.

'For a person so long dying, little lady, you look remarkably radiant. But I'm afraid I'm just a very commonplace sort of person, after all.'

'Now you are fishing,' she laughed silkily down at him from her purple perch. You're not at all commonplace, or disappointing. In fact, you surprise me,'

'In what way?'

'For one thing, Mr. Borrodaile, you're much younger than I'd imagined you to be. Because, you see, you and my father were together, in that wreck of the Mogul how many years ago '

'Of course... Your father, yes. You mentioned him last night, I remember.'

'And on the evening before, after you'd arrived.'

'You did. I couldn't quite place him— can't still for the life of me. Queer, Isn't it?'

'He was a Major Dainton, as I told you, Mr. Borrodaile,' she pursued, intent on trying to pierce his fog of forgetfulness. 'Major Havelock Dainton. Not a very ordinary name.'

'Decidedly distinctive.'

'That's one reason why I wonder it hasn't stuck in your mind. Won't you try to think back seriously to— the wreck.'

'Just think, my dear girl, of the hundreds, the thousands of people a man in my position must have met since then! To pick out a particular individual— such as your father— it's like hunting for a needle in a haystack, don't you see?'

'Unless there was some very good reason why should never forget that particular individual,' she suggested in her deliberate way.

'Do you mean there Is some special reason why I ought to remember your father? Suppose you help me by telling me that reason?' he suggested.

It was an astute move, but it failed.

'I'd sooner not. If you don't mind. If your memory is really so bad as all that, well―'

And here, not a little to John's relief, her soft contralto voice was overwhelmed by one of greater violence and far less natural artistry.

'Dear Mr. Borrodaile... Come along, Barbara... Luncheon's ready.'

John sprang to his feet with alacrity, swinging round in the direction of the yodel. He waved enthusiastically towards the owner of It. standing on the terrace of the Château Perignac. John turned to offer Barbara a hand.

'I must have a good hard try to discover that reason!' he said to her. Her fingers touched his arm, sending a little thrill through him.

'Please, you mustn't in any circumstances speak about it to Mrs. Marpleson-White. You will promise?'

'Certainly.' With her walking by his side In silence, John approached the terrace steps, mounted them and bowed to his hostess. She was a cumbersomely built woman, monstrously ill-dressed— a woman seeking vainly to maintain an appearance of youth in an elderly face by the misapplication of makeup.

'Dear Mr. Borrodaile!' she greeted John with effusion. 'It's been perfectly sweet of you to put up with Barbara's company all the morning. I do hope she hasn't been pestering you with a lot of awkward questions?'

Escaped to the privacy of his luxurious bedroom, after lunch, another question came creeping once more into his mind. Why was it that Borrodaile. snobbishly fastidious over his social acquaintances and engagements had promised to pay a visit here, to a fifth-rate little winter resort like St. Jean Perignac, and above all to this admittedly hospitable and kindly, but otherwise unattractive and rather vulgar window of a profiteer? The real Borrodaile had not disclosed that to John when, leaving hurriedly for Hollywood, in search of fresh fame and added lure, he had made the suggestion resulting in John's presence here to-day.

Discovering John to be contemplating an immediate holiday to the sunny Riviera. Borrodaile had conceived a brilliant idea. It was, in short, that John should choose St. Jean Perignac for his holiday, making it his first business when be reached there to call on this Mrs. Marpleson-White, for Borrodaile, explain that an immediate business trip to the States had prevented him from staking her acquaintance and enjoying the hospitality she had offered him so kindly.

'Not that I've the slightest interest in meeting the silly old woman as things stand now!' Borrodaile had chuckled. 'But one never knows, and it doesn't do to upset people. I've no time to write her. You'll be there almost as soon as any letter from me, and if you could pacify the old thing's wounded feelings, you'd be doing me a good turn. Besides,' he added as an inducement, grinning, 'no doubt she'll insist on pitting you up in my place, if you tell her you're my understudy, and give you a whale of a holiday that will cost you next to nothing.'

Borrodaile had said that in his patronizing way, imagining too readily that John would bow the knee to such second-fiddle hospitality. It was the very moment for John to undeceive him, and very pleasurably he did so. He trust under Borrodaile's nose a most generous contract for the production rights of a play on which John had been working quietly for some time. And since Borrodaile's eyes opened wide at the figure of the advance, and then at the signature below— that of his greatest London rival— he could only realize that he under-rated John's abilities, and congratulate him on being in clover for the rest of his life.

Meantime, John having promised the other to oblige him over the profiteer's widow, duly arrived at St Jean Perignac. And for what happened then Borrodaile could certainly not be blamed. Nor, to any great extent, could John. Alighting at Perignac station on, as it proved, the very day Borrodaile himself was expected, he was preparing to look for an hotel. Next instant, be found himself the vortex of a human whirlpool, composed, he discovered, of Mrs. Marpleson-White and Barbara, her companion, together with some twenty-odd persons, members of the small British colony here, all assembled to give the renowned and eagerly-awaited Lester Borrodaile an enthusiastic public welcome from his own nationals.

John being the only person on the train with an appearance of an actor, and indeed bearing a quite marked physical resemblance to the great Borrodaile, what more natural mistake poor, misguided people to make? It was frankly impossible, immediately and during this tumultuous reception of a hero, to correct the error. To tell the truth then meant making all these people look unutterable fools, and cast unnecessary dislike upon himself.

To some extent, John enjoyed his adventurous three days in Borrodaile's shoes at the Chateau Perignac. A highly amusing study in psychology, in hero-worship sadly misplaced. Ignorance which is bliss. Highly amusing— until he came to look into the serene blue eyes of a russet-haired Barbara Dainton, whose father he was supposed to know for some very, good reason, but naturally hadn't the least idea what that might be.

'A party, you say?' John remarked to Mrs. Marpleson-White.

'Just the members of our small English set here. Your visit being such a treat, I had to promise our dear people they should have one little opportunity of meeting you in a more Intimate way than they could at the station, or out in the town.'

'I'm sure it's— very flattering to me,' John had to say, much against his will.

'I knew you couldn't refuse! You're each, a dear, nice man'. And— perhaps I ought to tell you as well—' she leaned again overwhelmingly towards him, '—I have whispered to them, of course, that I am taking a special interest in your new theatrical syndicate, as you know.'

Her heavy voice, hushed to confidence, breathed close to his ear as she drew him down with a plump, over-ringed hand. 'I've hardly liked to mention It, Mr. Borrodaile, having expected that you'd speak first. But of course we haven't had a real chance to talk business while you've been here. I suppose my lawyers have told you that I would go as far as twenty-thousand?'

John held his breath. So that was why Borrodaile had been cultivating this rich widow. Getting money out of her for his ventures! Twenty-thousand pounds for the asking! And yet he had turned tail and rushed off to Hollywood, saying, he hadn't "the slightest interest in meeting the silly old woman".

John required all his professional skill to conceal his astonishment. This understudy business was certainly becoming complicated. Momentarily, he fenced for time.

'Well, don't let's talk about that Just now, dear Mrs. White!' he urged, anxious to avoid anything definite. 'You don't know how thoroughly I've been enjoying this delightful time with you, miles away from all thought and talk of hateful business. Shall we leave that till the last possible moment?'

'Just as you like, dear man!' she murmured coyly. 'And I'm so glad you don't mind all our people coming to lionise you! I think the room looks rather nice with ail those flowers, don't you? Barbara is really useful She arranges things so well, poor little stray.'

'Stray?' John eyed her in surprise.

'Well, about that. Don't you know? She was born in this château. She comes of good stock. Once quite wealthy. This was their home for many years. Her mother died hue, and then— about two years ago— her father lost practically all his money. He was killed by a taxi in Paris on his way to England, I believe, to try  get some debt which was owed him there. Terrible for poor Barbara!'

'Shocking!' John agreed.

'Of course, the English people here rallied round her and did what they could for her. And then, when I bought the chateau after my dear husband died I had her here as my companion. A sweet child, dear Mr. Borrodaile, and I can do with her about me. But— as I tell her— she must look more to the future.'

'There's a very nice man here in a good position' her voice flowed on, 'a Mr. Fenwick— you'll meet him this afternoon at the party. He's just dying to marry her, but she won't listen to him. I think its' a great pity. Such a really nice dependable man, Mr. Borrodaile. Now, I think that lf only you were to talk to her about it—'

'I — dear lady? ' John stared at her, taken aback.

'She thinks such a lot of you— she was talking about you to me this morning. It was really due to her that I asked you to pay this little visit, you know. She said that before I took up my interest in your syndicate I ought to have met you and—'

Barbara herself, carrying some cut flowers, suddenly appeared at an open window close by, and the murmuring saxophone sound stumbled to a sudden silence.

Behind Barbara, too, there came a tall man, somewhat elderly, and Inclined to stoutness, with a face which was rather red but had a decidedly honest expression. A moment later John was being Introduced to him as Mr. Fenwick. and shook hands with him, realising in him the man whom it was suggested he should advise Barbara to accept as a husband.

THE BIG ROOM began to fill rapidly.

It seemed to John an age before all the hand shaking was over. His hostess kept him at her side in the position of honour among the most important members of this little English community. It was really very hard work, understudying Lester Borrodaile in this fashion, much harder than on the stage. But John felt himself presently to be doing it remarkably well, as he gradually warmed to it.

He forgot all about Barbara after a while, being only concerned in giving this circle of misguided hero-worshippers all they could possibly ask of Lester Borrodaile. He found himself talking about memory, in connection with, long and complicated parts, stage positions and so on.

'Memory, of course. Is one of an actor's most important assets,' he was saying. 'An unfailing memory—'

'Off the stage as well as on, I should say, Mr. Borrodaile!' Interposed harshly a man's rather strident voice, causing John to look round with surprise. The voice was that of Mr. Fenwick.

'Well— of course!' John eyed him, puzzled. 'An actor doesn't usually leave his memory behind him on the stage.'

'No,' said the other. 'But some people's memories get conveniently put out of sight in connection with some matters, Mr. Borrodaile. Yours, for instance.'

'Mine? I don't understand you.'

John stared at him, more puzzled than ever.

'What about the £4,000 you borrowed from little Barbara Dainton's father six years ago, and haven't remembered to pay back yet, though he's dead, and you must have known it, and his daughter's been in dire want these two solid years—'

'Mr. Fenwick... How dare you? ' It was Barbara's voice, gone curiously thrill for a contralto, which rang out across the big room, causing John to swing round in his seat. Her blue eyes, burning fire, were turned on the red face of Mr. Fenwick. 'How dare you?' she repeated, and would have said more, but that Fenwick motioned her aside with a determined hand.

'You leave this alone, Barbara!' he insisted. 'We all know you're soft-hearted, but this has got to be put right, now Mr. Borrodaile's come here. We all know Mrs. Marpleson-White's thinking of putting a lot of money into his concerns, and we're going to see first that he sharpens his memory about your father.'

'One moment, please!' interrupted John snappily, by now having seen daylight quite clearly, and holding up his hands to secure silence from the general hubbub which had begun, mostly from Mrs. Marpleson-White's saxophone wall, protesting loudly that she would not have her guest so insulted. He turned towards her.

'I have not been insulted,' he said in a quiet voice. 'If what Mr. Fenwick says is true, it is only right that the money should be paid. It should have been paid long ago, of course. If, as appears, it hasn't been—' he swung round towards the red-faced Mr. Fenwick— 'I can only suggest to you, sir, that an actor with big undertakings, naturally devoting most of his time and energy to the theatrical side of them, is obliged to depend on others to run the financial side properly. He may be let down by them without knowing It, as I seem to have been— very badly.'

Never afterwards could John Ullswater understand how he had carried himself through that wholly unexpected ordeal with such calm and assurance, so that the red-faced Mr. Fenwick was humbled to apologise, if reluctantly, and a public accusation against Lester Borrodaile's financial honesty was as publicly silenced. That, incidentally, was all very well for Lester Borrodaile, by now far away in the States. John was left, on his own promise, to shoulder as his understudy— a £4,000 debt. Fortunate that his financial shoulders were broad enough to carry that amount at the moment. And now, of course, there could be no question of him telling Barbara the truth about himself. That was completely ruled out. He must remain, to her as to everyone else here, the man they believed him to be. And with that in his mind, when the last at the guests had left the Château, John sought her out in the orchard, to which he had seen her hurrying through the gathered dusk, which already a risen moon was silvering. The thick grass made his footsteps noiseless, so that he surprised her.

'You?' she gasped.

'Of course!' he laughed. 'I followed you to put myself right with you, over that bad memory of mine and those £4,000, about which Mr. Fenwick— '

'That hateful man!' she shook back her russet hair angrily. 'He had no right to behave as he did. It wasn't with my knowledge, certainly not with my consent. You know that?'

'My dear. Of course I know it. Didn't you try to stop him?'

In the moonsheen her uplifted face was very white, and the blue eyes looked black as ink, but shining like lava alight.

'It will take a few days, naturally,' John continued, 'but I shall arrange for that long-delayed debt to be paid you from my bank In London. I shall write there to-night to give instructions.'

'In the name of Lester Borrodaile?' she asked.

'Naturally,' he replied, puzzled.

'How can you do that,' he heard her asking, 'when you're not Lester Borrodaile at all?'

That startled him. To steady himself, he had to stretch out a hand and lean against the nearest tree.

'What on earth makes you say that?' he found voice to ask presently.

'Three reasons. The first is here. It came— while the party was on— in reply to one I sent yesterday to London.' She handed him what he saw to be a telegram, which he was just able to read in the moonlight. It said:

Borrodaile left for Hollywood five days ago.

'You see,' she said as he handed it back to her, 'it isn't possible for the same man to be in opposite parts of the world at the same time.'

'Then— for you to have asked for Borrodaile's whereabouts yesterday, you must already have suspected me?' John suggested after a moment of silence.

'For my other two reasons!' she nodded. 'First, you gave yourself away quite simply, without knowing it. You're a beautiful swimmer.'

'Well? ' he stared down at her.

'If you'd been Borrodaile, you couldn't have swum a stroke. That was how my father first came to meet him. They were wrecked on a cruise. My father saved Borrodaile's life by keeping him afloat because he couldn't swim.

'And thirdly,' she went on, 'you didn't know it but I'd met you before. It was in Manchester, a year ago. Borrodaile was supposed to be there, playing. I went there to see him, to try and get that money from him, since writing did no good. And at the stage door, after the performance, they told me it wasn't him I'd seen, but his understudy. And you came out just then, on your way home, passed close by me— John something they said your name was.'

'Ullswater. John Ullswater...' He stood for a moment, looking down at her, and laughed. 'After that, Barbara Dainton, I've no more to say.'

'Haven't you?' she flashed at him, leaning towards him, not laughing at all. 'Don't you think you owe some explanation as to why you're here, pretending to be someone you're not?'

'You're sure of one thing,' he said slowly. 'You know I'd no wrong purpose behind it.'

'And— why? '

'Because, if you hadn't known who I really was, I should have paid that £4,000 back to you. And you'll get it yet—'

'Not from you.'

'But through me— from Borrodaile. Of course, you've got some proof—'

'Oh, yes. A paper he signed. But―'

'Good enough! Borrodaile will pay. Leave that to me.'

'Yes, but what matters most is— how you came to be here instead of him―'

John proved right. The curves of that charming mouth did indicate sense of humour. But then she was serious a moment later.

'I can laugh— yes,' he heard her saying under her breath. 'But what about these other people? Mrs. White—'

He slipped one of her hands within his arm. 'Come, we'll go and find her. She, anyhow, has to know. For one thing, it's only right to Borrodaile. And there are those £20,000 she's waiting to pour into his lap. She must be told they're not wanted.'

LATER, considerably later, they stood , on the terrace, those two. Not, by the way, in the moonlight, though that made the night around them clear as day. From those profound shadows cast by the Château, John Ullswater laughed suddenly, softly, giving vent to a curious exclamation:

'Dear, priceless old saxophone!'

'Saxophone?' questioned Barbara's contralto on a note of doubt, then she laughed understandingly. 'Oh, I know what you mean. She's quite sweet, isn't she?'

'I know someone very much sweeter. If I only dare tell you, Barbara—'

___________

16: The Man in Khaki

Leslie Beresford

Chronicle (Adelaide) 16 Nov 1918

HER OUTSTRECHED fingers touched the massive back of the settee and glided along the black plush with a furtive, groping movement. They were such soft, slender little fingers, and so helpless in their startling whiteness against the black, that their action attracted immediate attention. Their movement was an embodiment of sudden fright. With no light in the room but the spasmodic flicker of the dull fire in the grate— such a flicker as had flung that movement of her fingers into vivid relief— you gathered but the vaguest impression of her face. Only that it was a very young face, very young and very pretty, and very— frightened. As, too, her voice.

Darkness, which veils from eight, does not cloak sounds. It accentuates them, sharpens them into live, vibrant things. It lent a curious eloquence of timbre to the one sound fallen from her parted lips:—

'Oh!'

The little thin tricklet of sound seemed to run through the whole gamut of emotions before it faded away. Surprise, incredulity, fear, entreaty, passion at bay.... It was as if someone were playing upon a scale of human feelings. In the gloom, following upon a moment of tense silence, a door was closed quietly, and the tread of a man's boots upon the carpet came closer. An instant later, during which the fire showed you those little frightened fingers suddenly quit their black plush resting-place and feel with nervous haste to and fro over the surface of the wallpaper, she had switched on an electric light.

You?' she whispered faintly.

The man smiled. It was a singularly sweet smile and seemed to accord entirely with the mould of his pale face which was, for an instant, alight with it. His khaki uniform of an officer was faded with wear. About his personality, too, there was something of immense weariness. He was, by the way, not a young man. In the presence of this girl, he would have been regarded as an elderly man. They might almost have been father and daughter.

'You are surprised to see me, Maisie?' he questioned softly.

The girl, leaning for support against the mantel, watched him put of narrowed eyes.  Clearly she was fighting hard to minimise her display of emotion. He stood there so quietly and so undisturbed that her own agitation was in striking and almost foolish contrast.

'How— how on earth did you get here?' she gasped. 'I thought you were— in Aden.'

'Yes, I am here,' he laughed pleasantly, big kindly eyes seeming to soothe her tremulous agitation.

She glanced sharply and suspiciously towards the door, speaking on a low note of incredulity — 'The flat was locked― surely―'

He ignored the question.

'I am sorry if I frightened you,' he said, and his gentle note of chiding, such as he might have used to a child foolishly perturbed, seemed suddenly to anger her.

'It is just like you, Henry, to steal in on me in this stupid way,' she flashed at him. 'Most girls' husbands would have had the thought to send a warning, a wire―'

'But, you see, Maisie, I was not in a position to wire,' he said. 'I am here quite— unexpectedly.'

She flung out an angry gesture; her voice became querulously shrill— 'That is nonsense. You know as well as I do that it takes weeks to come here from Aden, Henry. It is only your usually inconsiderate way of treating me.'

'Is that so?' he questioned softly— repeated her judgment of him on a low note of grave reflection. 'Inconsiderate?'

'Have you ever been anything else?' She had all the scorn of opinionated youth in her voice. 'Have you ever been anything else since we were married?' She shrugged her shoulders angrily, and her pretty face was pale with an anger she made no attempt to conceal. It was as if she had long been waiting for such a moment as this to face the quiet, grave faced man opposite and to speak her mind without stint or hesitation.

'It is four years now since we were married and you have been away three of them. You could have come back long ago if you had wished. You wrote and told me so yourself. But you wouldn't. Your country needed, you, you said. Your country! On, I know it was true enough. General Cheyleton has told me dozens of times how clever you are, and how valuable, because you know the language so.

'Well, I don't doubt you are clever. That, I suppose, was one reason why you fascinated me first and I married you, although you were ever so much older than I. Girls are silly when they are nineteen and don't know much about the world. They haven't the slightest real idea of what marriage means. Marriage! Take mine. Married to a man invaluable to his country! So invaluable that he has been, for three years, more married to his country than to me. And, for the short year we were together, what was our marriage? A social affair. A sort of business arrangement. You, with your horses and clubs and cards. I― Oh well, I suppose I had a good enough time. House parties, flirtations. An enviable enough social position for a girl of my age. Money to spend in plenty. I suppose I had nothing to complain of. But a girl sometimes has hopes— ideals— sentiments―'

'I know,' he said, interrupting her with a gesture of understanding. 'That is one reason why I am here. I have a great wrong to put right. Those early days were a great wrong. I have learnt that— lately. You see, I did not know it then. I did not know you then. I did not know even myself. Marriage is a holier, a more lovely thing than I had understood it. You are right. We have never yet been really married. And yet, no man could love you as deeply, as truly, as reverently, as passionately as I do. I want you to understand that.'

A clock on the mantel struck the evening hour in a rich silver tone. It seemed to remind her of something, for she flung a quick, frightened glance at its stolid face, her hand furtively trying to hide her mouth that had suddenly twisted in a spasm of terror.

'We can't argue about that now,' she said abruptly and on a hard, strident note.  'There isn't time. You see, I didn't expect you. Everything here is upside down. I am just going away for a change to the country somewhere. It is a pity you came home at this moment. The flat is let — from to-morrow. You see―'

She drew his attention to a far corner of the room where stood a couple of trunks, corded and labelled and with a dressing basket perched upon them — as silent witnesses to her statement. And again, furtively, she glanced at the clock with a questioning light of fear in her eyes that travelled from its insistent, slow-moving hands to the door behind her husband.

'My nerves are all on edge,' she persisted querulously. 'I need change of air, of scene, some companionship after this stifling loneliness―'

'Quite so,' he agreed gravely. 'So you are going away―'

'To the seaside with a friend,' she said vaguely, watching ,out of narrowed secretive eyes his inscrutable face that was lean and brown and handsome despite Its age, and almost — to her— aggravatingly kindly.

'With Basil Hayes,' he said suddenly.

Her little white hand was flung back to the mantel for support of her slender, trembling body that was suddenly poised backward in the attitude of one who evades a blow. An ornament crashed from the mantel to the grate with a dramatic tinkling of broken glass. Presently—'

'How— how do you know that?' she breathed with the emphasis of terrified astonishment. He passed his hand gently over his eyes and was for a moment silent, as if seeking the answer to a puzzle.

'I cannot tell you,' he said slowly after a while. 'But I know. That is why I am here. You are going away with Basil Hayes. It is written on the labels of your trunks. "Mrs. Basil Hayes, Waterside Hotel, Eastbourne." '

In the silence that followed you could hear her quick breath coming and going. Only her eyes were alive in her face, which was a white mask of terrified amazement. Her little white fingers went out towards him, groping in the air as if for something they dreaded to touch end yet were impelled to.

'I don't understand at all,' she said in a hoarse whisper. 'I don't understand. We only made up our minds yesterday. Even the maid doesn't know. She thinks I am going to mother. You could not possibly know, unless― but you don't even know Basil.'

The man in khaki was watching her with his grave, kindly eyes.

'I did, he said. ''We are not strangers, although it is many years since we last met. And then only by one of those strange twists of fate which bring men together for a definite purpose.'

She stood for an instant, staring at him out of her frightened, puzzled eyes. The silence was suddenly broken by the muffled sound of a distant door banging somewhere in the building. As she heard it, one little clenched hand went swiftly to her mouth, as might that of a child caught red-handed in a misdeed. The other, its slim fingers working hysterically, tore at the black plush of the settee. On the other side of the door could he heard a quick footfall approaching with the springy, virile step of youth. The door was flung wide.

The man who stepped light-heartedly forward into the light saw only the girl. He had the fine bold eyes which few women can resist, and these held hers at once as if under a spell.

'I'm a bit earlier than I expected, darling,' he said caressingly, 'But I positively couldn't hang about any longer. And it's better to be too early than too late―'

He seemed suddenly to be aware of an unnatural tension in the atmosphere. The girl's hand, pointing in a dumb, helpless gesture towards the other end of the room, brought him round abruptly on his heel.

'Why, what the―' he questioned, and was suddenly silent. You could have heard a pin drop in the room.

Then: 'You are right, Basil Hayes,' said the man in khaki quietly. 'It is better to be too early than too late.'

The other lifted his hand for a moment to his collar, the high fashionable cut of which he seemed to find unbearable; for his fingers tugged at it as if it were choking him.

'You?' he questioned hoarsely, and peering across the room as though he would not even yet believe the evidence of his own eyes. His handsome, keen face of a man about town had suddenly become deadly pale, and lines showed here and there in it which had the effect of suddenly obliterating its youth. The mouth, till then full and slightly sensuous in rest, had now become a thin red line that twitched and twisted painfully.

The man in khaki nodded in his thoughtful, detached way.

'It is a long while since we last met, Basil,' he said. 'And you— have not charged. No, you have not changed, even by a little.'

The other took a slow, hesitating step forward as if he groped in the dark, his fingers clawing nervously and doubtingly at his restless mouth.

'King,' he muttered. 'Manners. Yes, you're Manners. But— that Manners wasn't a man for a soldier―'

He turned dull, appealing eyes to the girl who, with white hands supporting her on the arm of the black plush settle, leaned forward watching the two men with the breathless interest of a woman who knew she faced her hour of crisis. It was as if she had suddenly seen in a flash of light that these men were each a human weight in a scale, the balance of which was being marked and judged by the Unseen. The difference in the attitude of the two men, indeed, seemed to hold her fascinated. The soldier, inert and motionless, as if carven out of stone, watched the other with a deadly calm and gentle aloofness that was almost uncanny. The latter, less austere in civilian garb, was never for a moment still. Nor upright, but bent, as though expecting a blow, and furtively active with hands and feet that twisted and shuffled awkwardly under the tension of the silence.

'Tell him, Maisie, who I am,' said the man in khaki gently.

'This is my husband,' she obeyed, but without looking at the other, who suddenly laughed in a strident quaver of nervous exasperation. He appeared to have decided that his attitude needed strengthening, that he must brazen out an awkward situation.

'Well, well,' he grinned. 'It's a curious twist of fate that brings us together again. But it can't be helped. And we needn't worry about it, anyway. It need only be a matter of minutes. Of course, you've told him, Maisie, how things are between us?'

'I know — everything,' said the man in khaki.

'Excellent, excellent,' blustered the other, apparently once more complete master of himself. 'That saves a lot of argument, doesn't it? It's deuced awkward your turning up at such a moment, but―'

The soldier stretched out suddenly a pointing finger.

'It is not the first time I have turned up at an awkward moment, Basil Hayes,' he said quietly.

The other flashed him a quick, vindictive glance. For a moment again his face was swept by the pallor of fear. Then, with teeth gritting behind his lips, he flung back his head contemptuously.

'I am a busy man in these days, Manners,' he said. 'And Maisie and I, having made up our minds to cut for good and all what is, to her, the hateful tie of marriage with you, we cannot spare time to chat about ancient history―'

'History,' interrupted the other coldly. 'History which, as always, has a tendency to repeat itself: I think, after all, that before Maisie and you do proceed with your time-tabled arrangements it would be as well to chat for a moment about that ancient history.'

The other lifted abruptly his Homburg hat from the table on which he had flung it on his entrance.

'Thanks, I don't think anybody is very keen,' he blustered, and, studying a watch as if in a great hurry, adding on an impatient note with a glance at the girl, 'we shall just about catch our train, Maisie.' He turned querulously upon the soldier. 'You're not going to make trouble, are  you?' he questioned in a way which really made a demand. 'I mean, it wouldn't be any use. Maisie has quite made up her mind. Any attempt at a scene on your part would only cause her unnecessary pain, A woman―'

Again the man in khaki extended his pointing finger.

'That is so,' he said, in the dull, mechanical way of a person whose mind is far from the present. 'One should always spare woman unnecessary pain. She is born of it, to it, by heritage. It is given to man to screen her from such of it  as is not her just portion. You— you would not bring pain— undeserved, cruel pain— into a woman's life, Basil Hayes.'

The other flung out an impatient gesture.

'You―' he fumed aggressively, and, caught by the stern, implacable regard of the soldier's eyes, became instantly still. He was in that moment like a man impotent, helplessly overmastered by a will stronger than his own.

'I was thinking especially of that ancient history which even now appears to stand upon the brink of repetition,' the man in khaki was saying.  'I was thinking of Helen Broadways. You remember Helen Broadways—'

The hand of the civilian went to his eyes as if something had stabbed them with a sudden pain.

He made a faint motion of protest, and the convulsive movements of his body as he leaned over the table were those of a man straining in a leash, struggling in vain to throw off a potent force that held him helpless as in a vice. The girl at the settee stared wonderingly from one to the other, at Hayes with surprise and something of doubt in her eyes, at her husband with a tremulous wide-eyed interest. His slow speech, with it's low, pulsing note of emotion, struck rhythmically on her ear.

'Helen Broadways was young and beautiful, even among beautiful women,' he was saying, 'I said she was young. I think she was nineteen when she married. And she married a man of forty. A good man, a straight man. One of the best fellows in the world was Broadways. But he was nearly forty; and Helen was just nineteen. And you were then— what?— nearer to Helen's age than his. Opportunity, too, was yours. First you were in his employ, always quite freely in his home, a member of his household. Then you were good-looking as men go. Yes, even more good-looking than you are today, Basil Hayes. To-day, despite your willing forgetfulness, your face carries the mark of a shadow never to be blotted from it. The shadow of what became of Helen Broadways. Tell Maisie what became of Helen Broadways.'

Again the civilian's cuffed wrists went out in a passionate protest. His face was deadly white, and in the light the sweat of fear glistened on its pallid skin. Twice he opened his mouth to speak and twice nothing came from his lips but a choking cry of shamed appeal. His eyes, held by the accusing ones of the soldier, were glassy and unseeing. They seemed gripped by a fascination not to be overcome however they struggled.

'Tell Maisie what became of Helen Broadways,' repeated his tormentor.

Once more the clock on the mantel rang out through the room with its silver note. It was followed by a low, hoarse cry of final impotent protest that filtered from the lips of Hayes and became a whisper of despairing sound, dying in the corners of silence.

'She drowned herself,' he said.

The other leaned slowly forward from his side of the table.

'Why should she do such a thing?' he questioned insistently. 'Was it because you decoyed her away from husband and home and, tiring of her, left her to starve in a little out-of-the-way village on the sea coast?'

The dry lips of the civilian opened and closed.

'That is so,' he said, in the dull way of one who unwillingly completes a duty.

The other lifted once more his pointing finger. 'And is it true that, even then, you were married to a girl whom you had left in America and who still lives there today?'

'It is true,' came the answer on a note of helpless defiance. 'You know everything, curse you―'

The soldier's hand dropped to his side. 'If now Maisie wishes to adhere to your time-tabled arrangements,' he said quietly, 'I have nothing more to say, Basil Hayes.'

He turned his back upon them both, passing slowly towards the other end of the room. And with him seemed to pass the spell that had fallen upon the others.

They stood for a moment facing each other. Time enough for a whole novel of scorn and shame, horror and appeal, relief and knowledge of dismissal to be blazen in their eyes. Then the girl, with a quick, hysterical heaving of her body, turned suddenly and crouched down at the settee, a crumpled heap of weeping shame

'Oh, what have I done? What have I done?' she sobbed.

The man, with the bent back that seemed to fear the further fall of a lash, went hurriedly to the door and passed out on swift, silent feet as might a dog who had been whipped.

A TELEPHONE bell rang raucously through the room, an insistent clamour that effectively stifled the girl's sobs. Again and again it stabbed the silence, demanding attention. It is so, is it not, in this life? The coarse mechanisms of the world are always battering at our doors even when they are closed to hide a tragedy.

The girl lifted herself from the ground wearily, dragging herself to the comet where the bell rang. She realised that her husband was not in the room. Where he was, for the moment, she did not care. Perhaps he had gone out again with Basil Hayes. At least, she was thankful for his absence for a while. He was, she remembered, one of those tactful men who certainly do the right thing at the right moment. Of course, he would have to be faced sooner or later. Meantime she had the receiver to her ear.

'Yes? Who is that?' she enquired weakly.

A man's voice answered her on the wire.

'General Cheyleton speaking— from the War Office. Is Mrs. Manners there please?'

'Speaking, General.'

'Oh, is that you, Mrs. Manners? I have been trying to get round to see you personally, but can't manage it. Worked nearly to death just now. So I thought I'd 'phone rather than write. I've news for you. Baddish news, my dear little lady, and I want you be very brave, It's about your husband―'

'My husband― bad news?' she questioned, puzzled.

'Yes. He was very badly wounded in an affair just outside Aden yesterday. A cable is just through. He carried out a most gallant operation deserving the highest praise, out was unfortunately bowled over just at the moment of victory. Shocking hard lines, but there is a possibility he may yet pull through.'

'Wounded— Aden— yesterday,' she was whispering frenziedly, and glanced over her shoulder at the empty room behind her with scared eyes. And the general at the other end was still talking down the 'phone to the deaf ear of a receiver hanging loose and useless.

'Did you hear me? There is every hope he may pull through. The doctors will do everything. You must just be plucky and patient and keep a stiff upper lip and— are you there? By gad, I expect the poor little thing's fainted.'

CAPTAIN Manners, D.S.O., pulled through, and to-day he is back in London. And he has no idea that, at the very hour his body lay in Aden at the gates of death, the immortal part of him had stood in the London flat where he now sits, and saved his little wife from a calamity of which to-day he knows nothing, but which many people will tell you his spirit knew of and had power to stave off.

To-day their boxes are packed for a trip to the sea.

'I wonder, Maisie, what made you suggest Eastbourne?' he questions, kissing her. She snuggles in his arms.

'Don't ask questions,' she says softly. 'Only keep on loving me and— loving me.'

____________________

17: Starkweather's Circular Hotel

W. L. Alden

World's News (Sydney) 27 May 1905

I WAS SITTING on the veranda of a Lucerne hotel, trying to believe that it is cooler in Switzerland with the thermometer at eighty degrees than it is in London with the thermometer at sixty-five degrees, when an American seated himself beside me, and, with a view to opening a conversation, remarked:

"This seems to be a middling good hotel."

"The Swiss hotels are the best in the world," I replied.

I really thought so at the time, for it was my first visit to Switzerland, and the landlord had not yet presented his bill.

"Guess you hain't ever seen our American hotels?" said the American.

I admitted that I had never been in America.

"If ever you stop at a first-class American hotel you won't think much of these foreign hotels. I was a hotel-keeper myself for forty years, and I ought to know something about the business. I came to Switzerland when I was a young man, just to pick up new ideas about hotel-keeping, but they weren't lying around very thick. Of course, the Swiss can beat the world in charging extras in a bill, but that ain't what a hotel-keeper should aim at. I was looking for new and valuable ideas, and I only found one, and that was by accident."

"What was that?" I asked, for I saw that the man wanted to talk, and there was no reason why I should not gratify him.

"I'll tell you all about, it," said he. "I went straight through Switzerland, putting up at all the best houses, and one night I arrived pretty late at a town somewheres near Geneva. I don't just remember the name of it, and I told the waiter, who was the only person visible, that I wanted a room looking on the lake. He tried to make me take a room on the other side of the hotel, but when he found that I wouldn't have it at any price, and that I was determined to go to another hotel unless he could give me the sort of room I wanted, he showed me a good large room on the second floor, with a balcony from which I could have jumped straight into the lake.

"This room— it was Number 11— suited me down to the ground, and I sat out on the balcony and had a last cigar before I turned in. It was a square room, with three windows in front, and the floor was made of some sort of cement, that was as smooth as glass. It had the usual furniture, a single iron bedstead, a chest of drawers, a washstand, a table, a sofa, and half a dozen chairs. I undressed, putting my clothes on the sofa, and my travelling-bag on the table. I was particularly sleepy that night, and I hadn't been in bed more than five minutes before I was sound asleep.

"When I woke up the next morning, my first thought was of the lake, and I got up to have a look at it before dressing. I have been considerably astonished several times in my life, but I was never so astonished before or since as I was when I looked at my room. It was about half the size that It had been when I went to bed, and there was only one window in it in-stead of three. I pulled open the curtains and looked out. What was my surprise to find that there wasn't any balcony, and there wasn't any lake to be seen.

"Right in front of my window was a big mountain, that was so near the hotel that it shut out all the scenery— Just as Mont Blanc does at Chamonix. I turned round and took another look at the room. The furniture was all right, just as it had been when I went to sleep, and my clothes were lying on the sofa just where I had put them. My bag, too, was standing on the table, and on the edge of the chest of drawers was the stump of my cigar that I had put there the night before.

"I sat down on the sofa and tried to think the thing out. I had gone to bed in a big room with three windows locking out on the lake, and now the room was a email one with only one window, and that looked out on the mountains. I hadn't drunk a drop of anything except coffee and water the day before, so I knew that I had gone to bed sober. I don't dream once in a year, and, besides no man can dream a room down to half its size, and dream the lake of Geneva clean out of sight. I began to think that my mind was going, for I had been trying to learn German, and, according to my idea, It's a sort of language that is mighty weakening to the mind. The more I thought the matter over the less I could account for what had happened, so I partly dressed, and then rang the bell for the waiter.

'The waiter came before the bell had stopped ringing, and said: 'If you please, sir, the hot water will be ready in a moment.' These Swiss waiters think that every man who speaks English wants nothing here below but hot water, and wants it all the time.

" 'I don't want any hot water,' I said. 'What I want to know is how I came to be in this room.'

" 'If you please, sir,' he replied, 'you arrive last night, and at eleven hours, and you go at the bed immediately. Is not the room sufficient? It is of our best.'

" 'The room is all very well,' I said, 'but last night it was twice as big as it is now, and it looked out on the lake. Do your rooms generally shrink up in the night, or do you draw the lake off after people have gone to bed?'

"The waiter smiled weakly.

" 'I am sorry, sir,' he said, 'but we have no other room. The lake is on the other side of the house— it is always there. But most people, when they come to Switzerland, ask for mountains. We have the very best quality of mountains.'

"Just then a thought struck me. I went out into the corridor and looked at the number of my room. It was Number 12. Right opposite to it was Number 11, the room I had taken.

" 'Now, see here,' I said to the waiter, 'I went to bed in Number 11, and this room is Number 12. I want this thing explained, and I want it explained now.'

" 'If you please, sir,' said the waiter, who was beginning to look a little frightened, 'it is impossible that you could have gone at the bed in Number 11. That is the room of an old lady, the Princess Woronzoff. The Princess is always here in the summer, and you shall observe at this moment her Highness's boots outside of her Highness's door.'

"There was a pair of boots, evidently belonging to a woman, outside the door of Number 11. I could have sworn that there wasn't any old Russian princess in that room the night before— though, to be sure, I hadn't looked at the bed, and the fact that she was in Number 11 that morning made the thing more mixed than it was before.

"I sent the waiter away, for I didn't care to have him think me an escaped lunatic, and after I had finished dressing I went downstairs and saw the landlord. I couldn't get the least satisfaction out of him, for he stuck to it that I had been shown into Number 12 when I arrived at the hotel, and that I must have dreamed that the room had three windows and a balcony looking on to the lake.

"I couldn't understand the thing then, and I don't quite understand it now. However, I decided that a hotel where you went to bed in one room and woke up in another wasn't the sort of hotel for me, so I paid my bill and took the train on to the next town.

"I was puzzling my brains over this affair, when all of a sudden the idea of a revolving hotel came into my mind. You know as well as I do that the travelling public always wants the front rooms in a hotel. Take this hotel, for instance. Everybody wants a front room, where they can see the lake, and everybody that has a back room feels more or less discontented. What is wanted is a hotel where all the rooms are front rooms, and the way to manage this is to build a hotel that will revolve, say, once a day, and so give every room the some view that every other room has.

"I had this idea in my mind for a matter of thirty years before I ever carried it out. You see, it needed a lot of capital to build a revolving hotel, and I couldn't find a partner who had any confidence in the scheme, and who would risk money in it. But I never gave the idea up, and when I had made a pretty big pile at hotel-keeping in various parts of the States, and was about to retire from business, I resolved to build my revolving hotel, and make it the biggest success of my career.

"I was a good while selecting a site, and finally I decided to build it on the sea shore, about twenty miles below San Francisco. There was the sea on one side, and the mountains on the other, and it was hard to say which offered the  most attractive view.

"I got a first-class architect, and a first-class engineer, and told them what I wanted, and set them to work, it being understood that they were to say nothing about the peculiar features of the hotel until after it had been opened to the pub- lie. The workmen were all either Greasers or Chinamen, so they were safe enough not to talk about the scheme, and, strange as it may seem, the newspapers which mentioned that 'our distinguished fellow-citizen, Silas D. Starkweather' (that's me), was putting up a first-class seaside hotel, never caught on to the fact that it was going to be a revolving one.

"The way in which the revolving business was worked was this. The hotel was a big, square, frame building, with a courtyard in the middle, and it was built on a great iron platform, something like the turn-tables that you see in railway stations. This platform revolved on about fifty pairs of wheels, and was set in motion by a small steam engine connected with the platform gear by cog-wheels. I had the platform covered with asphalt, so that it wouldn't make a noise when any one walked over it, and I planted a hedge all around the edge of it, with the intention of concealing from the general public the fact that it was anything else except a circular sort of garden.

"I don't know what the hotel and platform weighed, though the engineer could have told me, if I had asked him. I do know, however, that when the engine was started up gently, and the house began to revolve, there was no more jar than there generally is when a man walks across the floor of an upstairs room. I expected to revolve the hotel every night after the guests were asleep, and I calculated that this would have considerable effect in increasing the receipts at the bar. You see, a stranger who didn't know that the hotel revolved would be mightily astonished to wake up In a room looking out on the mountains, when he could swear that he had gone to bed in a room looking out on the sea. Naturally he would think he was getting into a bad way, and would swear off at once.

"Then he would see me, and discover that he was all right, and that the hotel bad turned round in the night; and this would be such a relief to his mind that he would order champagne for all his acquaintances, and drink about four or five times his usual allowance. In fact, that was just the way it worked, as a general rule, though there was one man who was so frightened when he found that the landscape had, so to speak, swung round in the night, that he rushed downstairs in his night-shirt and drowned himself, which was what I call sheer foolishness.

"However. I am going too fast. I opened the hotel the first day in July, and it was about half full for the first week, and everybody except the man who drowned himself was delighted. 'Starkweather's Grand Circular Hotel' was what I called it, and I advertised that, every room had a view of all parts of the horizon. People used to stay up to see the hotel revolve, which took place every night at exactly two o'clock, and they all agreed that the absence of any vibration to speak of was a triumph of mechanical skill. The engine was powerful enough to move twenty-times the weight of the hotel, but we worked it so slowly that it took a good half hour to swing the building through half a circle, and by that means we reduced the vibration to next to nothing.

"The hotel had been opened about ten days when I got a dispatch from Professor De Hopkins, saying that he would arrive the next night with a gang of personally-conducted tourists. You have heard of the Professor, I presume, for he comes to Yurrup every bow and then. He don't profess anything except the personally conducted business, and his name, is plain Hopkins without the 'De.'

"Well, I hustled round and got the necessary number of rooms ready, and by the time that De Hopkins and his gang arrived dinner was ready, and a band of music was playing on the platform. The gang consisted mostly of school teachers, and preachers, and such. They all wanted rooms looking on to the sea, and those who had to take the back rooms were considerably discontented, and said that an advertisement which pretended that every room had the same view as every other room might be good business but it wasn't good morals.

"I kept cool, and told them if anyone was discontented with the view from his window the next morning he needn't pay his bill. That suited them perfectly, except that some of the people that had front rooms wanted to change for back rooms, so that they could put in a claim to be discontented, and get rid of paying a bill. It's my belief that the average personally-conducted tourist is better pleased at getting a reduction in his bill than he is with anything that he sees while he is travelling.

"My engineer who had charge of the engine that turned the platform was a perfectly competent man so long as he was sober. At least that was the character that he had from his last place, and, as he told me that he had signed the pledge, I calculated to keep him until he broke it, and then to send him about his business. The night that the De Hopkins gang arrived, I woke up about 4 o'clock in the morning and found that the hotel hadn't been revolved. This made me pretty cross, for I supposed that the engineer must have overslept himself, and I got up and dressed, calculated to wake the fellow up, and make things lively for him. When I got down to the engine-room there he was sure enough, fast asleep and snoring.

"When I managed to got him waked up he was in a hasty temper, and, as I afterwards discovered, though I didn't notice it at the time, far from being sober. There was a full head of steam on the boiler, and when I ordered the engineer to start up the engine, and turn the hotel without another minute's delay, he just made a jump for the lever, and pulled it wide open. The platform started with a jerk that was a like a middling-sized California earthquake, and the engine, settling down to its work, whirled that hotel round at least ten times as fast as I ever intended it should move.

"As I told you, we used to turn the platform so slowly and carefully that there was hardly any perceptible shaking. To move it round, through half a circle generally took a good half hour, but this time the platform made an entire revolution in about five minutes, and the speed kept increasing owing to the fact that the weight of the hotel made it act as if it was a fly wheel, and by the time the thing had made three revolutions it was flying round at the rate of about one revolution a minute.

"Of course every soul in the hotel, as well as every Mexican and Chinese servant, was awakened up by the jerk the hotel made when the engine was started, and the shrieks and yells that came from that house were enough to make a cat's blood run cold. Every blessed tourist made a rush for outdoors, without waiting for any such foolishness as dressing. The professor did have the presence of mind to put on his top hat, for he was bound to keep up his dignity no matter what happened, but he was the only one who thought of dressing for the occasion. You see, everybody supposed that an earthquake had let itself loose, and in those days California had about as imposing earthquakes as you can find anywhere, though of late years newspapers have multiplied to such an extent that earth-quakes have become scarce.

"When De Hopkins and his gang reached the veranda, and saw that the whole earth was sailing round the hotel at about ordinary railway speed, they were as anxious to stick to the hotel as they had been a minute before to leave it. It seemed to them the hotel was the only part of creation that hadn't taken to revolving, and naturally they concluded to stay where they were. Some of the women fainted, and some shrieked for the landlord, as if a landlord could turn an earthquake on or off to suit his guests. There was one old preacher, who stood up and gave out a hymn, but nobody sang it except himself, and it didn't slow down the engine a particle. As for the men, they held on to anything they could clutch, and watched the sea rushing round the hotel in full chase of the mountains.

"They didn't look very long, however, for presently the motion of the hotel and the queerness of the spectacle of the revolving earth made the whole gang deathly seasick. Men, women, and children just dropped on to the floor of the veranda and tried to die, and it's my belief that if at that moment the earth had opened and swallowed them they would have been thankful. I've crossed the British Channel in the worst sort of weather, but never saw any sea-sickness that could he named in the same day with the sea-sickness of the De Hopkins gang. It made me feel a little queer my-self, and I'll back my stomach against any stomach in the whole British or American navy.

"What was I doing all this time? Well, I was standing where I could heave in some good strong language at that engineer, every time his engine came round to where I was standing. I threatened him that if he didn't stop her instantly I would shoot him in his tracks; but he knew that this was all foolishness, for if I had had my pistol with me, of course I should have shot without waiting for idle formalities. By-and-by the man began to
feel a little sick himself, and so he shut off the steam and put on the brake, and when he had finally brought the hotel to a stop he dropped off the engine, and sneaked into the woods, where he could die all alone, like the selfish hound that he was.

"Then I turned to and went to work to pacify my guests by assuring them that the earthquake was over, and wouldn't return, and that if they would fill themselves up with the champagne that I was about to offer them they would get over their sea-sickness almost immediately. Gradually they were persuaded to listen to reason, and after I had served out four dozen and a half of my best champagne, the guests managed to get to their rooms and dress. But nothing could induce them to stop in that hotel an hour longer than was necessary, and by ten o'clock that morning the last one had started for San Francisco. Of course, nobody paid me anything, but I was only too glad to get off without being sued for damages. In the course of the following night the hotel took fire and was burned to the ground. I never knew how the fire originated, but I always suspected that the engineer knew something about it, though he never called on me and offered to explain.

"I never rebuilt the hotel, for the reason that I suspected that my luck had begun to turn, and the sooner I retired from the hotel-keeping business the better. All the same, I maintain that the idea of a revolving hotel was a mighty good one. Some day these Swiss hotel-keepers will get hold of that idea, and build all their hotels in accordance with it. Then the travelling public will give them all the credit for the invention, and not a soul except you and me, and the surviving members of the De Hopkins gang, will remember that Starkwater's Circular Hotel was the first revolving hotel that the world ever saw."

________________

18: Monty's Friend

W. L. Alden

From Lords Of The Housetops (anthology) 1921

THE DISCOVERY of gold at Thompson's Flat, near the northern boundary of Montana, had been promptly followed by the expected rush of bold and needy adventurers. But disappointment awaited them. Undoubtedly there was gold a few feet below the surface, but it was not found in quantities sufficient to compensate for the labour, privation, and danger, which the miners were compelled to undergo.

It is true that the first discoverer of gold, who had given his name to the Flat, had found a "pocket," which had made him a rich man; but his luck remained unique, and as Big Simpson sarcastically remarked, "A man might as well try to find a pocket in a woman's dress as to search for a second pocket in Thompson's Flat." For eight months of the year the ground was frozen deep and hard, and during the brief summer the heat was intense. There were hostile Indians in the vicinity of the camp, and although little danger was to be apprehended from them while the camp swarmed with armed miners, there was every probability that they would sooner or later attack the handful of men who had remained, after the great majority of the miners had abandoned their claims and gone in search of more promising fields.

In the early part of the summer following Thompson's discovery of gold there were but thirty men left in the camp, with only a single combined grocery and saloon to minister to their wants. Partly because of obstinacy, and partly because of a want of energy to repeat the experiment of searching for gold in some other unprofitable place, these thirty men remained, and daily prosecuted their nearly hopeless search for fortune. Their evenings were spent in the saloon, but there was a conspicuous absence of anything like jollity. The men were too poor to gamble with any zest, and the whiskey of the saloon keeper was bad and dear.

The one gleam of good fortune which had come to the camp was the fact that the Indians had disappeared, having, as it was believed, gone hundreds of miles south to attack another tribe. Gradually the miners relaxed the precautions which had at first been maintained against an attack, and although every man went armed to his work, sentinels were no longer posted either by day or night, and the Gatling gun that had been bought by public subscription in the prosperous days of the camp remained in the storeroom of the saloon without ammunition, and with its mechanism rusty and immovable.

Only one miner had arrived at Thompson's Flat that summer. He was a middle-aged man who said that his name was Montgomery Carleton—a name which instantly awoke the resentment of the camp, and was speedily converted into "Monte Carlo" by the resentful miners, who intimated very plainly that no man could carry a fifteen-inch name in that camp and live. Monte Carlo, or Monty, as he was usually called, had the further distinction of being the ugliest man in the entire north-west. He had, at some unspecified time, been kicked in the face by a mule, with the result that his features were converted into a hideous mask. He seemed to be of a social disposition, and would have joined freely in the conversation which went on at the saloon, but his advances were coldly received.

Instead of pitying the man's misfortune, and avoiding all allusion to it, the miners bluntly informed him that he was too ugly to associate with gentlemen, and that a modest and retiring attitude was what public sentiment required of him. Monty took the rebuff quietly, and thereafter rarely spoke unless he was spoken to. He continued to frequent the saloon, sitting in the darkest corner, where he smoked his pipe, drank his solitary whisky, and answered with pathetic pleasure any remark that might be flung at him, even when it partook of the nature of a coarse jest at his expense.

One gloomy evening Monty entered the saloon half an hour later than usual. It had been raining all day, and the spirits of the camp had gone down with the barometer. The men were more than ever conscious of their bad luck, and having only themselves to blame for persistently remaining at Thompson's Flat, were ready to cast the guilt of their folly on the nearest available scapegoat. Monty was accustomed to entering the room unnoticed, but on the present occasion he saw that instead of contemptuously ignoring his presence, the other occupants of the saloon were unmistakably scowling at him. Scarcely had he made his timid way to his accustomed seat when Big Simpson said in a loud voice:

"Gentlemen, have you noticed that our luck has been more particularly low down ever since that there beauty in the corner had the cheek to sneak in among us?"

"That's so!" exclaimed Slippery Jim. "Monty is ugly enough to spoil the luck of a blind nigger."

"You see," continued Simpson, "thishyer beauty is like the Apostle Jonah. While he was aboard ship there wasn't any sort of luck, and at last the crew took and hove him overboard, and served him right. There's a mighty lot of wisdom in the Scriptures if you only take hold of 'em in the right way. My dad was a preacher, and I know what I'm talking about."

"That's more than the rest of us does," retorted Slippery Jim. "We ain't no ship's crew and Monty ain't no apostle. If you mean we ought to heave him into the creek, why don't you say so?"

"It wouldn't do him any harm," replied Simpson. "He's a dirty beast, and this camp hasn't no call to associate with men that's afraid of water, except, of course, when it comes to drinking it."

"I'm as clean as any man here," said Monty, stirred for the moment to indignation. "Mining ain't the cleanest sort of work, and I don't find no fault with Simpson nor any other man if he happens to carry a little of his claim around with him."

"That'll do," said Simpson severely. "We don't allow no such cuss as you to make reflections on gentlemen. We've put up with your ugly mug altogether too long, and I for one ain't going to do it no longer. What do you say, gentlemen?" he continued, turning to his companions, "shall we trifle with our luck, and lower our self-respect any longer by tolerating the company of that there disreputable, low-down, miserable coyote? I go for boycotting him. Let him work his own claim and sleep in his own cabin if he wants to, but don't let him intrude himself into this saloon or into our society anywhere else."

The proposal met with unanimous approval. The men wanted something on which to wreak their spite against adverse fortune, and as Monty was unpopular and friendless he was made the victim. Simpson ordered him to withdraw from the saloon and never again to enter it at an hour when other gentlemen were there. "What's more," he added, "you'll not venture to speak to anybody; and if any gentleman chances to heave a remark at you you'll answer him at your peril. We're a law-abiding camp, and we don't want to use violence against no man; but if you don't conform to the kind and reasonable regulations that I've just mentioned to you, there'll be a funeral, and you'll be required to furnish the corpse. You hear me?"

"I hear you," said Monty. "I hear a man what's got no more feelings than a ledge of quartz rock. What harm have I ever done to any man in the camp? I know I ain't handsome, but there's some among you that ain't exactly Pauls and Apolloses. If you don't want me here why don't you take me and shoot me? It would be a sight kinder and more decent than the way you say you mean to treat me."

"Better dry up!" said Simpson, warningly. "We don't want none of your lip. We've had enough of you, and that's all about it."

"I've no more to say," replied Monty, rising and moving to the door. "If you've had enough of me I've had enough of you. I've been treated worse than a dog, and I ain't going to lick no man's hand. Good evening, gentlemen. The day may come when some of you will be ashamed of this day's work, that is if you've heart enough to be ashamed of anything."

So saying Monty walked slowly out, closing the door ostentatiously behind him. His departure was greeted by a burst of laughter, and the cheerfulness of the assembled miners having been restored by the sacrifice of Monte Carlo, a subdued gaiety once more reigned in the saloon.

Monty returned to his desolate cabin, and after lighting his candle threw himself into his bunk. The man was coarse and ignorant, but he was capable of keenly feeling the insult that had been put upon him. He knew that he was hideously ugly, but he had never dreamed that the fact would be made a pretext for thrusting him from the society of his kind. Strange to say he felt little anger against his persecutors. No thoughts of revenge came to him as he lay in the silence and loneliness of his cabin. For the time being the sense of utter isolation crowded out all other sensations. He felt infinitely more alone when the sound of voices reached him from the saloon than he would have felt had he been lost in the great North forest.

Before coming to Thompson's Flat he had lived in one of the large towns of Michigan, where decent and civilized people had not been ashamed to associate with him. Here, in this wretched mining camp, a gang of men, guiltless of washing, foul in language, and brutal in instinct, had informed him that he was unfit to associate with them. There had never been any one among the miners for whom he had felt the slightest liking; but it had been a comfort to exchange an occasional word with a fellow-being. Now that he was sentenced to complete isolation he felt as a shipwrecked man feels who has been cast alone on an uninhabited island. If the men would only retract their sentence of banishment, and would permit him to sit in his accustomed corner of the saloon he would not care how coarsely they might insult him—if only he could feel that his existence was recognized.

But no! There was no hope for him. The men hated him because of his maimed and distorted face. They despised him, possibly because he did not permit himself to resent their conduct with his revolver, and thus give them an excuse for killing him. He could not leave the camp and make his way without supplies to the nearest civilized community. There was nothing for him to do but to work his miserable claim, and bear the immense and awful loneliness of his lot. As Monty thought over the situation and saw the hopelessness of it, his breath came in quick gasps until he broke into a sob, and the tears flowed down his scarred and grimy cheeks.

A low, inquiring mew drew his attention for a moment from his woes. The camp cat—a ragged, disreputable animal, who owned no master, and rejected all friendly advances—stood in the door of Monty's cabin, with an interrogative tail pointing to the zenith and a friendly arch in his shabby back.

Monty had often tried to make friends with the cat, but Tom had repulsed him as coldly as the miners themselves. Now in his loneliness the man was glad to be spoken to, even by the camp cat; and he called it to him, though without any expectation that the animal would come to him. But Tom, stalking slowly into the cabin, sprang after a moment's hesitation into Monty's bunk, and purring loudly in a hoarse voice, as one by whom the accomplishment of purring had long been neglected, gently and tentatively licked the man's face, and kneaded his throat with two soft and caressing paws. A vast sob shook both Monty and the cat. The man put his arms around the animal, and hugging him closely, kissed his head. The cat purred louder than ever, and presently laying his head against Monty's cheek, he drew a long breath and sank into a peaceful slumber.

Monty was himself again. He was no longer alone. Tom, the cat, had come to him in the hour of his agony and had brought the solace of a love that did not heed his ugliness. Henceforth he would never be wholly alone, no matter how strictly the men might enforce their boycott against him. He no longer cared what they might do or say. He felt the warm breath of the friendly animal on his cheek. The remnant of its right ear twitched from time to time and tickled his lip. The long sinewy paws pressed against his neck trembled nervously, as the cat dreamed of stalking fat sparrows, or of stealing fried fish. Its hoarse croupy purr sounded like the sweetest music to the lonely man. "There's you and me, and me and you, Tom!" said Monty, stroking the cat's ragged and crumpled fur. "We'll stick together, and neither of us won't care a cuss what them low-down fellows says or does. You and me'll be all the world to one another. God bless you forever for coming to me this night."

From that time onward, Monte Carlo and Tom were the most intimate of friends. Wherever the man went the cat followed. When he was working in the shallow trench, where the sparse gold dust was found, Tom sat or slept on the edge of the trench, and occasionally reminded Monty of the presence of a friend, by the soft crooning sound which a mother cat makes to her newborn kittens. The two shared their noon meal together; and it was said by those who professed to have watched them that the cat always had the first choice of food, while the man contented himself with what his comrade rejected. In the evening Monty and Tom sat together at the door of the cabin, and conversed in low tones of any subject that happened to interest them for the time being. Monty set forth his political and social views, and the cat, listening with attention, mewed assent, or more rarely expressed an opposite opinion by the short, sharp mew, or an unmistakable oath.

Once or twice a week Monty was compelled to visit the saloon for groceries and other necessities. He always made these visits when the men of the camp were working in their claims; and he was invariably accompanied by Tom, who trotted by his side, and sprang on his shoulder while he made his purchases. The saloon keeper declared that when once by accident he gave Monty the wrong change, Tom loudly called his friend's attention to the error and insisted that it should be rectified. "That there cat," said the saloon keeper to his assembled guests on the following evening, "ain't no ordinary cat, for it stands to reason that if he was he wouldn't chum with Monty. A cat that takes up with such a pal, and that talks pretty near as well as you or me, or any other Christian is, according to what I learned at Sunday School, possessed with the devil. You mark my word, Monty sold his soul to that pretended cat, and presently he'll be shown a pocket chuck full of nuggets, and will go home with his ill-gotten gains while we stay here and starve."

The feeling that there was something uncanny in the relations that existed between Monte Carlo and the cat gradually spread through the camp. While no man condescended to speak to the boycotted Monty, a close watch was kept upon him. Slippery Jim asserted that he had heard Monty and Tom discuss the characters of nearly every man in the camp, while he was concealed one evening in the tall grass near Monty's cabin.

"First," said Jim, "Monty asked kind o' careless like, 'What may be your opinion of that there Big Simpson?' The cat, he just swears sort of contemptuous, and then Monty says, 'Jest so! That's what I've always said about him; and I calculated that a cat of your intelligence would say the same thing.' By and by Monty says, 'What's that you're saying about Red-haired Dick? You think he'd steal mice from a blind cat, and then lay it on the dog? Well! my son! I don't say he wouldn't. He's about as mean as they make 'em, and if I was you I wouldn't trust him with a last year's bone!' Then they kept on jawing to each other about this and that, and exchanging views about politics and religion, till after a while Tom lets out a yowl that sounded as if it was meant for a big laugh. Monty, he laughed too; and then he says, 'I never thought you would have noticed it, but that's exactly what Slippery Jim does every time he gets a chance.'

"I don't know," continued Jim, "what they were referring to, but I do know that Monty and the cat talk together just as easy as you and me could talk, and I say that if it's come to this, that we're going to allow an idiot of a man and a devil of a cat to take away the characters of respectable gentlemen, we'd better knuckle down and beg Monty to take charge of this camp and to treat us like so many Injun squaws."

Other miners followed Slippery Jim's example, in watching and listening to his conversations with the cat, and the indignation against the animal and his companion grew deep and bitter. It was decided that the scandal of an ostentatious friendship between a boycotted man and a cat that was unquestionably possessed by the devil must be ended. The suggestion that the cat should be shot would undoubtedly have been carried out, had it not been that Boston, who was a spiritualist, asserted that the animal could be hit only by a silver bullet. The camp would gladly have expended a silver bullet in so good a cause, but there was not a particle of silver in the camp, except what was contained in two or three silver watches.

After several earnest discussions of the subject it was resolved that the cat should be hung on a stout witch-hazel bush, growing within a few yards of Simpson's cabin. It was recognized that hanging was an eminently proper method of treatment in the case of a cat of such malevolent character; and as for Monty himself, more than one man openly said that if he made any trouble about the disposal of the cat, he would instantly be strung up to a convenient pine tree which stood close to the witch-hazel bush.

The next morning a committee of six, led by Big Simpson, cautiously approached the trench in which Monty was working. There was nearly an eighth of a mile between Monty's claim and those of the other miners. The latter had taken possession of that part of Thompson's Flat which seemed to hold out the best promise for gold, and Monty, partly because of his unprepossessing appearance, had been compelled to content himself with what was considered to be the least valuable claim in the camp.

The committee made its way through the long coarse grass, which had sprung up under the fierce heat of summer, and was already as parched and dry as tinder. They had intended to seize the cat before Monty had become aware of their presence; and they were somewhat disconcerted when Monty, with the cat clasped tightly in his arms, came running towards them. "There's Injuns just over there in the woods," he cried. "Tom sighted them first, and after he'd called me I looked and see three devils sneaking along towards your end of the camp. You boys, rush and get your Winchesters, and I'll be with you in a couple of minutes."

The men did not stop to question the accuracy of Monty's story. They forgot their designs against the cat, and no longer thought of their promise to shoot the boycotted man if he ventured to address them. They ran to their cabins, and seizing their rifles, rallied at the saloon, which was the only building capable of affording shelter. It was built of stout logs, and its one door was immensely thick and strong. By firing through the windows the garrison could keep at bay, at least for a time, the cautious Indian warriors, who would not charge through the open, so long as they could harass the miners from the shelter of the wood.

After Monty had placed his cat in his bunk he took his rifle, and carefully closing the door of his cabin, joined his late enemies in the saloon. Several of them nodded genially to him as he entered, and Simpson, who was arranging the plan of defence, told him to take a position by one of the rear windows. The men understood perfectly well that Monty's warning had saved them from a surprise in which they would have been cruelly massacred. Perhaps they felt somewhat ashamed of their previous treatment of the man, but they offered no word of apology.

However Monty thought little of their manner. Although he knew that in all probability the siege would be prolonged until not a single miner was left alive, his thoughts were not on himself or his companions. Would the Indians overlook his cabin, or in case they found it, would they offer violence to Tom? These were the questions that occupied his mind as he watched through the window for the gleam of a rifle barrel in the edge of the forest and answered every puff of smoke with an instantaneous shot from his Winchester. The enemy kept carefully under cover, and devoted their efforts to firing at the windows of the saloon. Already three shots had taken effect. Two dead bodies lay on the floor, and a wounded man sat in the corner, leaning against the wall, and slowly bleeding to death. Suddenly a cloud of smoke shot up in the direction of Monty's cabin. The Indians had set fire to the dry grass, and the flames were sweeping towards the cabin in which the cat was imprisoned.

Monty took in the situation and came to a decision with the same swiftness and certainty with which he pulled the trigger. "You'll have to excuse me, boys, for a few minutes," he said, rising from his crouched attitude and throwing his rifle into the hollow of his arm.

"What's the matter with you?" growled Simpson. "Have you turned coward all of a sudden, or are you thinking of scaring the Injuns by giving them a sight of your countenance?"

"That there cabin of mine will be blazing inside of five minutes, and I've left Tom in it with the door fastened," replied Monty, ignoring the insulting suggestions of Simpson, and beginning to unbar the door.

"Here! Come back, you blamed lunatic!" roared Simpson. "Do you call yourself a white man, and then throw your life away for a measly, rascally cat?"

"I am going to help my friend if I kin," said Monty. "He stood by me when thishyer camp throwed me over, and I'll stand by him now he's in trouble."

So saying he quietly passed out and vanished from the sight of the astonished miners.

"I told you," said Slippery Jim, "that Monty was bewitched by that there cat. Who ever heard of a man that was a man who cared whether a cat got burned to death or not?"

"You shut up!" exclaimed Simpson. "You haven't got sand enough to stand by your own brother—let alone standing by a cat."

"What's the matter with you?" retorted Jim. "You was the one who proposed boycotting Monty, and now you're talking as if he was a tin saint on wheels."

"Monty's acted like a man in this business," replied Simpson, "and it's my opinion that we've all treated him pretty particular mean. If we pull through this scrimmage Monty's my friend, and don't you forget it."

Monte Carlo lost none of his habitual caution, although he was engaged in what he knew to be a desperate and nearly hopeless enterprise. On leaving the saloon he threw himself flat on the ground, and slowly drew himself along until he reached the shelter of the high grass. Then rising to his hands and knees he crept rapidly and steadily in the direction of his cabin.

His course soon brought him between the fire of the miners and that of the Indians, but as neither could see him he fancied he was safe for the moment. He was drawing steadily closer to his goal, and was already beginning to feel the thrill of success, when a sharp blow on the right knee brought him headlong to the ground. A stray shot, fired possibly by some nervous miner who had taken his place at the saloon window, had struck him and smashed his leg.

He could no longer creep on his hands and knees, but with indomitable resolution he dragged himself onward by clutching at the strong roots of the grass. His disabled leg gave him exquisite pain as it trailed behind him, and he knew that the wound was bleeding freely; but he still hoped to reach his cabin before faintness or death should put a stop to his progress. He felt sure that the shot which had struck him had not been aimed at him by an Indian, for if it had been he would already have felt the scalping knife. The nearer he drew to his cabin the less danger there was that the Indians would perceive him. If he could only endure the pain and the haemorrhage a few minutes longer he could reach and push open the door of his cabin, and give his imprisoned friend a chance for life. He dragged himself on with unfaltering resolution, and with his silent lips closed tightly. Not a groan nor a curse nor a prayer escaped him. He stuck to his task with the grim fortitude of the wolf who gnaws his leg free from the trap. All his thoughts and all his fast-vanishing strength were concentrated on the effort to save the creature that had loved him.

After an eternity of anguish he reached the open space in front of the cabin, where the thick smoke hid him completely from the sight of both friends and foes. The flames had just caught the roof, and the heat was so intense that for an instant it made him forget the pain of his wound, as his choked lungs gasped for air. The wail of the frightened animal within the cabin gave him new energy. Digging his fingers into the ground he dragged himself across the few yards that separated him from the door. He reached it at last, pushed it open, and with a smile on his face lost consciousness as the cat bounded out and fled like a mad creature into the grass.

Two hours later a troop of Mounted Police, who had illegally and generously crossed the border in time to drive off the Indians and to rescue the few surviving members of the camp, found, close to the smouldering embers of Monty's cabin, a scorched and blackened corpse, by the side of which sat a bristling black cat. The animal ceased to lick the maimed features of the dead man, and turned fiercely on the approaching troopers. When one of them dismounted and attempted to touch the corpse the cat flew at him with such fury that he hurriedly remounted his horse, amid the jeers of his comrades. The cat resumed the effort to recall the dead man to life with its rough caresses, and the men sat silently in their saddles watching the strange sight.

"We can't bury the man without first shooting the cat," said one of the troopers.

"Then we'll let him lie," said the sergeant in command. "We can stop here on our way back from the Fort, and maybe by that time the cat'll listen to reason. I'd as soon shoot my best friend as shoot the poor beast now."

And the troop passed on, leaving Tom alone in the wilderness with his silent friend.

___________________________

19: The Remittance Man

Ottwell Binns

Bathurst Times,  18-19 Dec 1913

1: An Instalment is Paid

THE LAWYER fingered the card which had been brought in to him; and through his gold pince-nez looked thoughtfully at the young man who, without waiting; for permission, had followed it in. Prejudiced though he was by preconception, he rather liked the face before him. It bore signs of dissipation, but it was frank and open, whilst the large jawbone and firm mouth testified to a certain strength of character that seemed worthwhile taking into account.

But the lawyer did not allow himself to be swayed by his liking. He had had to do with remittance men before, and knew the breed, therefore his voice was cold and his mien austere.

'Oh, Mr. Mordaunt. I was expecting you, but you certainly do not let the grass grow under your feet. When did you arrive?'

'This morning by the Wallaroo. It's taken me all the time since then to find you. Sydney seems to be no end of a place.'

The lawyer took no notice of the comment. Turning to his desk, he opened a file and took from it a letter.

'You want to know the worst, I suppose, Mr. Mordaunt?'

'Or the best!' replied the young man lightly.

'Best or worst, it's all the same,' answered the lawyer quietly. His lordship's instructions are precise. So long as you remain in Australia l have to pay you three hundred pounds per annum in two instalments.  The first cheque is now due; and if you will sign this receipt I shall have pleasure in paying it to you.'

He pushed a piece of paper towards his caller, and without troubling to read it through, the young man in an execrable hand signed his name, 'Richard Arncliffe Morduant'.

The lawyer took the receipt, glanced at the signature, then filling out a cheque for a hundred and fifty pounds and handed it to the young man, who carelessly doubled it up and thrust it into his waistcoat pocket.

'Awfully obliged to you, I'm sure, Mr. Matley,' he said, as he reached for his hat. But the lawyer had not quite done with him yet.

'I think it will be best for both of us if I make it quite clear that my instructions will be carried out to the letter, Mr. Mordaunt. In six months' time, if you present yourself here or communicate with me from any part of Australia, I shall pay you another one hundred and fifty pounds, but you must understand that it will be an absolute waste of time for you to apply to me before then.'

A slight flush spread over the young man's face. 'Wouldn't, it be as well to wait until I—'

'No,' interrupted the lawyer quickly; 'it wouldn't; it is as well that I should make the thing clear at the start; that you may make this money last. I have had transactions of this kind before, and I know what I am talking about. Money melts in this climate.'

'It does in all climates ' said the young man with a laugh.

'And as I understand that the trouble that compels your presence in Australia was of a financial nature?'

'You're wrong there, sir. The trouble was that the bally horses were too slow!'

The lawyer smiled drily.

'Well,' there are slow horses in Sydney as well as at Epsom, and if you will take my advice, and will eschew the racecourse and kindred attractions, and find some remunerative employment, because while there is no need that you should starve with this amount of money, yet idleness is the Devil's opportunity; therefore, for your own sake I advise you to seek work.'

Mordaunt's eyes twinkled. 'I daresay you are right. I suppose you are not wanting a clerk?'

The lawyer glanced at the sprawling signature on the receipt and shook his head, smilingly. 'Your penmanship has too much character in it for a lawyer's office. I am afraid you will have to go further, Mr. Mordaunt.'

'Then the sooner I am on the way the better,' replied the young man lightly. 'It is no use wasting time. Good afternoon, Mr. Matley.' He reached for his hat again, secured it, and with it cocked at a jaunty, angle passed out of the office.

For a moment the lawyer sat looking thoughtfully at the door through which he had passed, then he shook his head again.

'Irresponsible,' he muttered; 'irresponsible! He'll have to touch bedrock before he finds himself. That money won't last him a month!'

HE WAS wrong there; however. It lasted the young man six weeks, then having backed his fancy once too often, he struck, 'bed-rock,' and struck it hard, finding himself with just seven pounds in hand and with four and a half months before he could draw again. Seated in the Domain, watching the nursery-maids with their charges, he considered the position carefully, and at length set his seal to the lawyer's wisdom: 'By Jove, the old Johnny was right about the horses anyway, and about the work, too. It's time I was on the lookout.'

A tall, lean man lounged towards him and dropped into a seat. He was, indifferently dressed, but of very distinct aspect from the loafers who sprawled on the grass, having the (bronzed, hard look of a man from off the ranges.

'Fine dye!' he said, with a friendly glance at his neighbour.

The honorable Dick took a sudden resolution. The newcomer was transparently honest, he looked like a man who knew the country, and his advice would be worth having.

'I say,' he said quickly, 'if you found yourself on the rocks with only seven pounds in your pocket, what would you do?'

The man from the back-blocks grinned.

'I should swear off the liquor, an' hit the wool-track just as fast as I could.'

'But suppose you knew nothing about sheep or wool?'

'I should go an' learn. There's alwyes a job on the stations for the cove what wants one, an' there's big cheques in it, too.'

'How do you get there?' asked Mordaunt, who found the prospect alluring.

'Go up to the ryle-head by train, then cycle your swag over to the paddocks; that the wye most of the shearers does it nowadyes.'

He paused whilst the honourable Dick considered the idea of taking a roadless cycle tour halfway across New South Wales, then he said, 'If yer  thinkin' of tyking it on, chummy, I'm startin' to-morrow, an' can give you the shove off, I guess.'

'I should be awfully obliged if you would.'

'You're almighty welcome, chum. An' I guess I'd best help you to get your bike an' swag. Sydney's just as full of sharks as the Pacific itself, an' if they see a green hand like you comin' along, they'll snap you up like butter. You're a swell, ain't you?'

The scion of the Mordaunts thought of the fortune his pockets held, and laughed.

'Used to be! But now I am for the wool-track.'

And so it fell out that on the afternoon of the next day the two of them left the terminus, and with their swag-laden bicycles pushed off for the wooltrack. At first they followed a road, but soon they left it and turned on to the grass, making for the great paddocks. They camped that night, dog tired, by the water-tank of one of the big stations, and as he lay in his blankets with the white stars of the South shining down on him, Dick Mordaunt thought of the lights of the Strand with only a half regret.

2: In The Paddocks

The following day they travelled to the next tank thirty miles away, over what, to Mordaunt's unaccustomed eyes, seemed a mere desert of mulga bush and salt scrub, with great patches of 'scalded' clay between, and on the way they met other men making for the paddocks and the great wool harvest.

Three days later they arrived at the Burraburra, the station they were making for, and Mordaunt's companion promptly went off to interview overseer. He returned with a long '

'Full-up,' he said laconically. 'My place at the shearin' board has been booked this three months, but he ain't got any sort o' vacancy for you. Says though as how they're wanting hands of all sorts at Ralloloola. Guess you'll have to push on there, mate.'

'How far is it?'

'Sixty mile or so, with four water tanks on the road. You'll make it as easy as waltzing. Just strike the paddock rails an' stick to 'em; an' you'll hit the place all rite. An' when you get there, look up Rogers,  he's the boss; tell him that the Colbar Kid sent you on, an he'll fix you up somehow. So long mate, I'll be up Ralloloola wye myself in about three weeks.'

Again Mordaunt took the road, light-heartedly, unconscious of danger. There were no blacks in, that part of the country, and though sixty miles was a fair stretch through the almost trackless paddocks, he never dreamed of any peril by the way. The first tank he made all right, and the second, by which he camped for the night; but he next day he went wide, and long before sundown there was the shadow of trouble in his eyes. His water was exhausted, his throat parched; his tongue so swollen that it was impossible for him to eat.  The night was full of uneasy dreams. Once he was in the act of drinking iced champagne, when he awoke and felt his dry tongue rasping the roof of his mouth.

Very early next morning, he mounted his machine and pushed off into the waste. Two hours passed and no tank or water-hole appeared. He knew that he was lost now, and the peril that confronted him shook his nerve. Looking round, he could see no sign of life anywhere, neither sheep, nor men, nor buildings, nothing but the wide, featureless landscape that now, despite the sunshine seemed full of a brooding menace.

He dismounted from the machine and considered matters. The track was he knew not where, the line he was following, for anything he know to the contrary, might, lead straight into the sandy heart of the Continent; it was imperative that he should alter his course.

'East or west?' he said aloud, and was startled at the sound of his own voice, so hoarse and cracked was it. He felt in his pocket and took out a coin.

'Tails west, heads east.'

He spun it, and it came down tails.

'West has it!' he muttered, and climbed on his machine once more. The torment of his thirst increasing every moment he rode for perhaps ten miles, scarcely conscious that ho rode at all, then away across the horizon a thin line appeared, a line punctuated by uprights at even distances.

'The paddock-rail! Thank God!'

He rode recklessly now. The rail was two miles, away, and when he made it, he knew that he might have to follow it many miles before he reached either water-tank or station.

He rode too recklessly. Half a mile from the rail, there was a sudden outcrop of rock. His eyes being fixed ahead on the rail that meant salvation, he never noticed the outcrop, and the first intimation he had of it was when he found himself flung over the handle-bars. He picked himself up, and looked round at the cause of his mishap. Them he examined his machine. The tyre was burst and the front wheel hopelessly buckled. He did what he could to straighten it, then as he could not do so, left both machine and swag lying there, and began to walk towards the rails.

By the time he reached them he was half delirious; before he had followed them a mile he was wholly so! Snatches of song came from the cracked lips, he babbled incoherences, and began to stagger in his walk; yet still driven by the unconquerable will to live, he moved forward, one hand on the wire which meant so much.  Once he stumbled, but rose to his feet again, reeling like a drunken man.

He began to see visions, fountains of water, like the ornamental one in his father's park at home, and then a shining lake, clear as crystal, in which he felt he must bathe and drink. He relaxed his fevered clutch of the wire and with arms outstretched ran towards the crystal water. A root of mulga caught his foot and flung him headlong. For a moment the delirium was swept aside, and the terrible reality impressed itself upon his consciousness. At all costs, he must keep to the rails.

'It's no use,' he croaked, 'but―'

He made the rails anew, and stumbled forward. The visions began again, but he resisted their allurement, and when in the midst of them there came one of a girl dressed in blue linen, with a wide sun hat; he laughed drunkenly, and addressed it with grim jocularity.

'It's no use, my dear. I'd marry you with pleasure, but in the place where I'm bound for they neither marry nor are given, in marriage.'

To his astonishment the vision answered him, in a cool, melodious voice, that made him think of water rippling among stones.

'There's no need for you to go there, I guess. Here, take this and drink— a drop at a time at first, remember.'

He lifted a hand as if to brush the vision from his eyes. But it remained. and, as if to make it more real, a little distance away, hitched to the paddock rail, was a buggy with two horses in it. Then the voice spoke again.

'Why don't you take it, then?  Aren't  you thirsty?'

He took it then, and with shaking hand set the bottle to his lips. The water was real enough. It went down like nectar, and he drank the last drop before he handed the bottle back. 'Thank you! That was good,' he murmured, and then incontinently fainted.

WHEN HE came to himself he was lying in a bunk, and the girl of-his vision and a grey-bearded man were bending over him.

'He'll do now,' said the man; then as Mordaunt endeavoured to sit up, the man addressed him. 'Best lie still a bit, I think. You seem to have had a pretty near shave. How did you come to get lost?'

'I was coming up from Burra-burra, and missed the water-tank, then I buckled my cycle just when I hit the paddock rail, and started to walk. I was a bit done and―'

'I understand. It was a lucky thing for you that my daughter happened to have driven out that way. Going far?'

'Rallaloola.'

'This is Rallaloola,' was the reply, so 'you've hit it after all. What were you wanting?'

'A job,' replied Mordaunt bluntly 'The Colbar Kid said I was to see Mr. Rogers and he'd find me work of some sort.'

'I'm Rogers,' answered the man, 'and I know the Kid right enough. He's a good sort. But as for a job, I don't know.' He glanced doubtfully towards a letter which had fallen from the young man's pocket, and which now lay face upwards on a bench, the name on which he had read.

'What's your name?' he asked suddenly.

'Mordaunt— Richard Mordaunt.'

'The Honourable?'

'Well, if you will have it so,' Mordaunt replied, smilingly. 'Though, now the dickens you know, beats me.'

'It's on the letter there, which fell out, of your pocket as we lifted you from the buggy.'

Mr. Rogers, glanced at his. daughter, and his next words were the result of that glance: 'I daresay I can find you a job of some sort, if you're not particular what you do.'

'I'll try anything, Mr. Rogers.'

'That's all right then. As soon a; you're fit, we'll go into the business. Now, you'd best try and sleep.'

He turned, and with his daughter left the hut. Outside he looked at the girl. 'A remittance man, of course, May; though he seems a cut above the wasters of that class. Anyway we shall see how he pans out. The Colbar Kid wouldn't knowingly loose a rotter on me.'

May Rogers made no reply, but as she walked towards the house a whimsical smile came, on her face, and again she heard Mordaunt's voice addressing her when he had mistaken her for a figment of his brain. 'It's no use, my dear, I'd marry you with pleasure, but—'

3: Makes Good.

INSIDE the great iron-roofed shearing shed the machines hummed like a vast hive of bees, and the hum was punctuated by the slap of the driving belt and the rough staccato utterances of the sweating shearers as they dealt with recalcitrant sheep. Outside the sun was like flame; thousands of sheep, watched by horsemen, bleated their plaint to the skies whilst they waited for the shearers; and other sheep, shorn and scared by the experience they had passed through, after being branded with hot tar, wandered away into the limitless landscape once more.

Under the shed Mordaunt stood by the pens counting the sheep as they slid down the shoots from the shearers' hands on the floor above. It was not hard work, but it was tedious, and to keep the number right demanded dose attention; and just now his attention was being distracted by the vision of Miss Rogers in a grey habit and a white puggaree hat, seated on horseback, surveying the scene. But with an effort he kept his eyes averted from her. In one short week he had schooled himself to the thought that whatever he was in England, at Rallaloola he was a station 'hand,' and not a particularly good one at that. It was quite natural that she should occupy his thoughts, since she had saved his life, and equally natural that being young and ardent he should have fallen in love with her. But as he told himself the thing would not do— yet! So he kept his eyes on the bleating sheep resolutely, though all the time very conscious that the girl's eyes frequently strayed in his direction.

A steam-whistle hooted suddenly, two minutes later the hum overhead slackened, then the engine stopped, and out into the sunshine streamed the shearers for the welcome tea-. Morduant finished his task and made as if to join them, then the grey-clad figure on the horse moved forward.

'How do you do, Mr Mordaunt? I hope you are feeling quite well.'

'Very fit, thank you, Miss Rogers,' he replied. It was the second time he had spoken to her since his arrival on the station, and his heart was thumping as he though how fair she was.

'How do you like wool?' she asked, with a little laugh.

'Famously,' he replied. 'I never was so interested in anything in all my life. The whole romance of empire is in it.'

'I'm glad you like it,' she said; ' but I must not keep you, or you will miss the tea. Good afternoon.'

She turned her horse easily and rode towards the house, and Mordaunt himself moved towards the steps of the shed where most of the shearers were seated.

He caught a meaning grin on several faces, but though his cheek flushed, he disregarded it, then a big man from over the Queensland border made a ribald remark that embraced both Miss Rogers and himself. Very deliberately he set down the tiny cup, just filled with tea, and walking over to the man smote him on the mouth. A second later the Queenslander lurched to his feet roaring like a bull.

'Come on, you pup, I'll smash you for that!'

In a twinkling the shearers, yelping delight, had formed a ring, with the two men inside, fronting each other for the inevitable fight, whilst bets were freely made with heavy odds for the bigger man. The Queenslander, with a fist hard as ebony, was quite confident, but he was boiling with rage, whilst the younger man was cool and collected, and as his opponent rushed at him, intent on finishing the matter at once, he stepped aside, and delivered a straight body blow with the left. For all the effect it had on the Queenslander he might as well have thumped a bale of wool, and someone shouted encouragingly, 'That's the mark, pup! Hammer him!'

Again and again the big man rushed, and as many times was avoided, for among many useless hours Mordaunt had spent some at the National Sporting Club, and though he had never fought in earnest since his schooldays, he understood well the whole art of self-defence.

He let the big man exhaust himself, occasionally suffering a blow that staggered him, then when he calculated the time had come, he went in, blow after blow over the heart. The Queenslander began to reel and strike wildly. One blow of his closed Mordaunt's left eye, and another split, his lip, but the lighter man hung on unmoved, striking remorselessly always at the same place, and at length his opponent staggered like a sick sheep, and fell to the ground, in a collapse.

'Well done, pup! well done!' yelled one of his backers, and then a harsh voice from the elevation of horse-back inquired, 'What's the meaning of this, Mordaunt?'

The whole crowd of shearers turned. It was the 'boss,' who, for ten minutes, had watched the fight unobserved, watched with a grudging approval of the victor's method. Before the young man could reply, a voice was lifted in explanation.

'Tain't the pup's fault, sir. The Queenslander said things about Miss Rogers and the pup slapped him on the mouth for it. There yo' have it.'

'That so?' The boss's eyes blazed, and he raised the whip in his hand, then he lowered it, and addressed the prostrate man.

'I guess you've got your gruel, but as soon as you can crawl, come for your cheque and get. We've no room for blackguards on this station.'

There the incident ended, but it had lifted Mordaunt in his employer's eyes.

'The lad's got grit,' he said to his overseer that night, 'and grit's always worth having about a station. I reckon me might find him a permanency, if he wants one.'

And so it fell, that when the wool harvest was over, for the year, the young man became a boundary rider on the Rallaloola station, and gave Lawyer Matley the shock of his life, when the second remittance having fallen due, he requested him by letter to invest it if he thought fit, and to let the interest accumulate.

For nine, months he lived a lonely life, and rode the Hounds, on a paddock that contained eighty square miles of land. His home was a little hut, and once in three weeks he saw a man, who brought him stores and papers and a mail when there was one. And three times in those nine months he was privileged to see Miss Rogers herself; on two occasions by accident, and on the third, when in goodness of heart she drove out with the overseer to leave him a bundle of paper-backed novels. But lonely as his days were he was content. He was learning there the sober meaning of life, and though not a word had been spoken he knew that May Rogers understood what was in his heart.

THEN A DAY came when he was free to speak. Across the wide landscape, he saw the station buggy crawling, with three men in it, and rode out to meet it. One was plainly a station hand, the second was Mr. Rogers himself, and the third was a dandily-dressed clerk from Sydney. Clearly there was something unusual in the wind, and he waited with some curiosity to know what it was.

'Mordaunt,' said Mr. Rogers, 'this is Mr. Matley's clerk. He's something very important to communicate. That's why I've driven him over myself.'

'Sir,' said the clerk, going straight to the point. 'I have to acquaint you with the fact of your elder brother's death through a motor accident in France. You are now the heir to the barony, and his lordship, your father, desires that you will return to England forthwith. You will know that the income from a portion of the estates goes in tail to the heir, and that now it is yours.'

For a moment he stood there stunned by the news and by the change, in his fortunes, but his first thought was for his dead brother.

'Poor old Geoff!' he said softly. 'Poor old Geoff!'

Then, Mr. Rogers interfered tactfully.

'I think it would be as well if we went to the hut, Mordaunt. I brought Jim along with us to take your place, and it's just as well to shake him in before you leave.'

TWO HOURS later, as they drove towards the station, Mordaunt unfolded to Mr. Rogers what was in his heart....

'I had meant to save, sir, until I could have acquired a partnership in a small station, and then I should have asked your permission. But now I shall have a clear thousand a year, and someday I suppose there'll be the succession.'

Mr. Rogers listened, then he said doubtfully, 'I am honored by this proposal of yours, Mordaunt; but my daughter's happiness is very dear to me, and I can't forget that till a day or two ago you were a remittance man, and in this country we have no cause to hold such in any very great esteem. Tell me why you came to Australia in the first place?'

The young man told him a tale of 'slow horses' that made the boss shake with laughter, and when he finished by declaring that he had learned his lesson, the elder man gave his consent.

And so it fell that next day as he walked with May Rogers under the blossoming wattle trees, the remittance man stopped and asked her, 'Miss Rogers, do you remember that day when we first met?'

'I do,' she said, and the color deepened in her face.

'You saved my life that day,' he said, 'and I shall always be grateful to you. But I wonder if you remember the first words I ever spoke to you.'

Her face was very rosy now. 'I do,' she said, nodding her head. 'You said—' laughter bubbled up at the recollection, and it was left to him to repeat the words:

'I thought you were a vision— you were beautiful enough for one— and, if I remember rightly, I said I'd marry you with pleasure, but in the place where I was bound for they neither married nor were given in marriage.'

'You did,' she said, and her laughter rang clear in the still air.

'Well,' he said quickly, ' I am going to England now, and marriage is still an institution there; and because I love you, have done ever since that day, I will marry you with pleasure— if I may.'

The last words were very humble, and his voice shook as he uttered them, and for that reason she left him in doubt no longer than half, a minute.

'I believe in old institutions, and as you are only going to England, I think I might allow―'

The rest was lost, for there under the yellow wattle blossoms he kissed her for the first time.

___________________

20: Cut-Throat Farm

J. D. Beresford

1873-1947

From  Nineteen Impressions, 1918

"AH! US calls un coot-throat farm," said my driver.

"But why?" I asked nervously.

"Yew'll see whoy when yew gets there." And this was all the information I could get from him. So, finding excuse for the driver's ill-temper in the sodden weather, I shielded my strained eyes from the onslaught of the rain and relapsed into silence.

For two miles or thereabouts after leaving Mawdsley we had followed a decent road, but now we were jerking warily down a rutted lane that appeared, so far as I could see through the blur of rain, to creep downwards into a dark, tree-clad valley, the depths of which were obscured in a mass of soaked, depressing verdure. Still the track fell and fell, and on my left I could see a dark slope of trees rising higher and higher above me—a slope that, seen thus dimly, appeared gigantic, overpowering. Then the lane plunged, dipping ever more steeply, into a black wood, and I clung to the side of the swaying cart, expecting catastrophe every moment. I tried desperately to combat the gloom that was overpowering me; I repeated to myself that this was England, that I was within a hundred miles of London, that I was going to spend a delightful summer at the "Valley Farm"; but, despite my efforts, a horror of the place gripped me; I found myself absurdly muttering "The Valley of the Shadow of Death."

The wood ended abruptly, and we came out on the very keel of the valley. "That's un," muttered my driver with a nod; and, shaking the rain from my cap, I discerned a hunched, lop-sided house that crouched in a clearing at the foot of the opposite slope. I pictured it as having slid down the interminable wave of trees that reared its dim crest into the sky beyond, as having slid till brought to a too sudden standstill in the place where it now remained, dislocated, a confusion.

Such was my coming, my first sight of "Cut-throat Farm." If my subsequent experience seems morbid and unaccountable, my final cowardice indefensible, excuse must be found in that first impression which tinged my mind with a gloom and foreboding I could not afterwards throw off.

It was at starveling place. The stock was meagre: a single cow, whose bones were too prominent even for an Alderney, a scatter of ragged, long-legged fowls, three draggled ducks, an old loose-skinned black sow. This was all, save for "my little pig," as I learned fondly to call him, the one bright, cheerful thing in all the valley; a whimsical creature of quaint moods, full of an odd humour that had in it some quality of sadness. Looking back, I see now that his fun was an attempt, largely successful, to make what he could of his short life, to jest in the face of death.... My host and his wife were an awe-inspiring couple. He was short and swarthy, the hairiest man I have ever seen, bearded to the cheek bones, with hair low down over his strip of forehead, and great woolly eyebrows. His wife was tall, predatory, with a high-bridged, bony nose and wistfully hungry eyes; she was thinner, more angular even than the emaciated cow: that hastily covered skeleton who stood mournfully ruminant in the dirty yard. My first morning at the Valley Farm was marked by an incident, not in itself unduly disconcerting, but typical, an incident surcharged, as I see now, with warning. I had had breakfast. I remember that at the time I considered it scanty (later, it became a memory of plenty) and insufficient even for the standard of thirty shillings a week, a sum that covered the whole cost of my entertainment. I considered this price very reasonable when I answered the advertisement.

After breakfast I stood by the window, which was open at the bottom, the top sash being fixed. Outside were clustered the half-dozen gawky chickens, clamorous and excited, straining their stringy necks to look into the room over the low sill.

"The poor brutes are hungry," I muttered with some feeling, and I fetched a fragment of crust and threw it to them. Lord! how they fought for those few crumbs! I turned back into the room to get the remainder of the bread left from my breakfast, and, as I turned, a lanky young cockerel, inflamed by a desperate courage, hopped over the sill and followed me. I heard him come, and, interested to note to what lengths he would go, I retreated further into the room. In an instant he was on the table and had seized the chunk of bread from the platter; then, with a frightened squawk, he was out and off across the yard, sprinting away with impetuous, leaping strides, outstretching his fellows, who had immediately set off after him in hot pursuit. On his way he had to pass my little pig (my first sight of him, and how typical), who was sauntering casually in the direction of the yard gate. An inveterate jester, my little pig; he slewed round suddenly as the straining bird came up to him and made a well-timed snap which startled the rooster, intent only upon the hungry crowd behind, into dropping his booty, a morsel something too large for his gaping beak. I can still see the merry twinkle in my little pig's eyes as he ate that piece of bread. It seemed to me that he was unduly deliberate in the doing of it; maybe he chaffed the resentful but intimidated young cockerel, in some Esperanto of the farmyard, as he ate.

NOTHING else of any account happened that morning; I remember I saw the farmer sharpening his knife, and wondered what he could find to kill with it...

THE NEXT morning the young cockerel was not among the expectant group of five that waited under my window; but I met him again at dinner, and as I essayed to gather nourishment from his ill-covered bones, I smiled again over my recollection of his encounter with my little black pig. He is such a neat, quaint little creature, that pig; we have become friends over a few scraps of food, though he allows no liberties as yet....

Among my notes of that stay at the Valley Farm I have found the following; they seem to me so full of suggestion that I append them just as they stand:

"The stock is disappearing; only one old fowl left—the one that has twice provided me with an egg, or so I judge from her ululations. I suppose she will be kept to the last.... I was right; there are only two ducks this morning...  The ducks are all finished at last (thank Heaven!), but I have a horrible fear upon me.

The cow has disappeared! The farmer's wife says they have sold her. Did she buy the suspiciously lean and stringy beef I now live on with the price of her?... The sow has gone, and the farmer's wife has bought pork with the money obtained. I may be wrong in thus associating the meat I am given with those vanished animals. Can it be possible that there is some superstition or sentimental affection in buying the flesh of animals similar to those they have just sold? I see points about this theory, but why is the farmer always sharpening his knife?... I cannot believe it! He is not there this morning, and yet, surely, no Spanish Conquistadore of the sixteenth century could have had the brutality to kill my little pig, my whimsical, wayward, humorous little companion, the one living thing in all this accursed valley that could smile in the face of doom. . .. More pork! It must be the remains of the old sow; but why has she become so suddenly tender ? How is it that she has furnished me with the first satisfying meal I have had for  weeks ?

I cannot believe it, and I dare not  ask the farmer's wife. I will not believe it until the pork is finished. He must have been sold. I am convinced of it. I hope he has found a happier, less hungry home, poor little chap.... I had an egg this morning that went off with a pop when I cracked it. I had a curious sensation when it happened. I have not hitherto been a believer in metempsychosis, but an intuition came to me at that moment that the soul of my little pig had entered into that egg. It would have been so like his whimsical, joking way to go off pop. And I was so hungry.... I have been writing a story of two men cast away in an open boat, with very striking patches of what one may call local colour. They suffered horribly from hunger. ... The old hen has gone at last, and the farmer is still sharpening his knife. Why? Is he going to cut vegetables for me ?

I don't know where he will find them. In my story of the men in the open boat, one of them, driven to desperation...  Bread and cheese for dinner. Is this the lull before the storm? I surprised a curious expression in the farmer's eye this afternoon. He was sizing me up with an appraising look. I can't help feeling that he was mentally going through the process I described in my story after the stronger man had.... The farmer brought me my breakfast of bread and butter this morning. He says his wife is ill, that she is not getting up, that— I don't know what he said.

No!

Definitely and finally, I cannot, I will not...."

(My notes  end here.)

After that last breakfast I went for a stroll in the yard, and in an outhouse I saw the farmer sharpening his knife. With an assumed nonchalance worthy of my little pig, I strolled carelessly to the gate; then, with tediously idle steps I sauntered towards the wood. And then— I ran. God, how I ran!

__________________________

21: Through the Asteroids— to Hell!

Leroy Yerxa

1915-1946

Planet Stories Fall 1946

BLAIR Freedman pushed the jet control slightly, sending the X26 into a wide slow arc toward the asteroid tunnel. He sighed and glanced at the chart on the desk. Trip number seven thousand twenty-two. For the rest of his life.

"Come over here, Jerry," he called.

Jerry Graham, short, slight of figure, smiled and left the navigation desk. Graham's face was black where his razor had left heavy hair just below the surface of the skin. His smile was mild and the brown eyes behind heavy spectacles were gentle.

"What is it, Blair?"

He stood beside Freedman, watching the solid, moving wall of the asteroid belt.

Blair Freedman sighed.

"Did you ever have the urge to deliberately miss the entrance of the tunnel? To hit full on against the asteroids?"

Graham stiffened, feeling ice water sluice suddenly into his veins.

"Are you nuts?"

Freedman relaxed. His grip on the control lever became lighter, more expert.

"No," he said slowly. "No, I'm okay. For a minute I was crazy, I guess. That's why I called you."

Graham studied the face of the younger man. Freedman was tall, rather slim. Graham could never decide just what made Blair Freedman attractive to the opposite sex, unless the secret lay in his deep, gray eyes and that shock of alarmingly red hair.

"I don't get it," he said. "Sure, the old routine gets tiresome. But it's a job and someone has to do it. We can't all be in the Warrior Patrol."

Freedman had seemingly come to his senses now. He sent the ship straight at the dark maw of the tunnel, flashed his colors to the guard ship that hovered near the entrance with its big guns trained on him, and then they were in the darkness.

The brilliant lamps of the X26 sent splashes of light along the walls. Blair Freedman shuddered.

"Walls," he said idly. "Walls of twisting, gyrating death. I wonder what really happens when a ship hits them?"

He was talking half to himself, but Graham shuddered. Blair Freedman needed a rest, he decided. Needed to straighten himself out with the world.

"You'd be torn to dust in ten seconds," he said. "That is, if you weren't riding in the Cutter."

The Cutter was the huge ship designed by Planet Control, to keep the asteroid tunnel open.

Freedman nodded.

"And that's another thing I've got on my mind."

Graham wanted him to talk, until all the bitterness was out of him.

"What's another thing?"

They were deep in the tunnel now. Graham's eyes checked the mileage. Fifteen miles in. Ten minutes before they would see light again.

Blair Freedman said, "I'm damned tired of running that plough horse. Pete Folley's got to get another man for the job. I'm quitting."

Both men continued to look straight ahead. Freedman kept his eyes on the controls. He had said it now. Said what he had wanted to say for a month. A war was coming. He wanted "out" from the tunnel patrol. He was good enough for the warrior ships. He wanted to fly them. Get out into space where there was excitement, and a chance to show that he was ready for something better.

"Look here, Blair," Graham said slowly. He had a helluva lump in his throat. He felt lost. "Me, I'm not fit for the service. Too old. I couldn't fly in here with anyone else. We been a team for years. You can't...."

Freedman interrupted.

"I thought it all out, Jerry. You haven't got the confidence because you've never had to do the work. You've leaned on me. You can handle this ship and the Cutter. Folley will never fire you."

A speedy luxury ship swished past them, coming from the opposite end of the tunnel. There was light far ahead.

"I dunno," Graham said hesitantly. "You made up your mind? You're leaving for sure?"

Freedman took a deep breath.

"I'm leaving," he said.

Graham turned and went back slowly to the navigation desk. He was acting like a damned fool, he knew. Still, losing Blair was like losing your arm, losing part of your brain and soul. He sat down and tried to study the mapping sheets.

The figures and lines jumped up and blurred his eyes. Cautiously, so Blair Freedman wouldn't see, he lifted his specs and rubbed a hand across his eyes.

"Dammit," he said suddenly in a furious voice. "Go on then, and be cussed. Sure I can fly alone. You can go to hell and see if I care."

Freedman swung around, startled. Graham's back was to him, his head bent over the desk. "You don't have to get tough," he said mildly.

"You heard me," Graham said. "Go to hell."

They flashed out into the bright, clear void above the satellite Parma, and Freedman changed his course for the home port. Behind them, the solid, bulking group of asteroids barred them once more from the main satellite group. There was only that single, carefully cut tunnel through the wall. Freedman remained by the controls, a frown on his thin pleasant face.

What was wrong with Jerry, acting like that? Sometimes he thought Jerry was a little nuts.

OLD MAN FOLLEY leaned back in his chair behind the desk in the Operations Office. Peter Folley was his full name and he had mild, washed out blue eyes that regarded Freedman in a puzzled manner.

"But Blair—" he protested quietly, in answer to Freedman's outburst.

"I've made up my mind," Freedman said. "I've threatened to leave a dozen times. It isn't you. It isn't anyone. Or, for that matter, anything special. I'm fed up on the job and I want something exciting. The Warrior Patrol is my meat."

Folley found a cigar and lighted it. He seemed to relax a little. He was getting ready to argue the case.

Freedman knew he couldn't escape the argument. He had too much respect for Pete Folley to walk out on him.

"Remember, Pete," he said, "I've made up my mind this time. The old pep talk won't do any good. I'm fed up."

Folley was stubborn. He found a piece of paper and a pen-stick.

"Watch this, Blair," he said, and made a little x in the right side of the paper.

"Vestena," he said, pointing to the x. "The strongest satellite in the outer area." On the left side of the sheet he put another x. "Parma," he said. "The gold satellite—power of the system."

He blacked in the center with a heavy series of lines.

"Now then," he said slowly, "I'm trying to show you that this job is important. Get me straight. I know it's no cinch to go through that damned tunnel twice a day, week after week. To blast the Cutter through, pushing aside asteroids and slaving in the dark.

"But listen to me, Blair. You got it all wrong. You say yourself that there's a war heading up between Parma and Vestena. If war comes there'll be a lot of glory for the Warrior Patrol. You'll be big stuff. You'll be a great guy. But did it ever occur to you how Vestena plans to attack Parma?"

He paused dramatically, then plunged on with his story.

"Vestena fighters have to fly the long route, fifteen thousand miles around the asteroid belt. They can't do that. The supply line is too long. They think they're coming through the tunnel."

Freedman shook his head.

"Simple problem," he said. "We'll close the tunnel. They haven't the brains or equipment to re-open it again."

Folley shook his head.

"We can't do that, son. When Planet Control gave us the contract for the tunnel, it collected vast sums of money from the fifteen associated satellites. Now war is coming between two of those satellites. The others still hold a huge interest in the tunnel. Business has to go on as usual between those other satellites. It can't stop. The tunnel has to be kept open. It will be."

"How?" Freedman asked.

"By an independent fighting group. By Tunnel Control."

Freedman shook his head.

"Sorry, Pete. It's a good argument, but it just isn't good enough. I need lots of void to move in, Pete. I need the thunder of guns and the taste of flame. Can't get it out of my system. Maybe, when it's over...?"

Pete Folley swore.

"Graham told me it was no good arguing with you," he said in a low voice. "Okay, Blair, desert us. Run away and join the damned army. But don't come sniveling back to me when it's over. We'll fight our battles without you. When we've finished, there'll be no place for a guy who walked out on us."

Freedman felt a cold stab go up his back. He had never thought it would be like this. Jerry Graham, and now Pete. Old Folley who had raised him since he was a kid. He straightened his shoulders.

"If that's the way it is," he said.

"That's just the way it is," Folley said, and looked down at the desk top with brooding eyes.

Freedman turned and went out.

BLAIR FREEDMAN'S room was barren. His things were packed neatly into three trunks in the center of the floor. Freedman stood near the window looking down into the street. The car from the Warrior Patrol would be here shortly to pick him up.

He looked around the place for the last time. A queer feeling of homesickness swept over him. This room at the Setric Hotel had served him for the past ten years. Now he was leaving it to take over quarters in the splendid barracks of the Warrior Patrol of the Parma Air Force.

A knock sounded on the door. Thinking the boy had come up for his bags, he called:

"Come in."

Freedman didn't look up as the door opened. He heard footsteps near the door, then a quiet, feminine voice said:

"Do you usually ignore your visitors?"

Freedman straightened, his face red, to stare with surprise at the slim, honey-haired girl inside the door. She wore the uniform of the Space Merchants of Vestena. Her neat figure seemed molded into the scanty leather breeches and gold-cloth vest. A small light-gun hung loosely from the belt around her waist. Was it his imagination, or did the fingers of her right hand poise lightly over the gun?

"Hello," he said slowly. "I don't think I know you. I had expected...."

She nodded.

"The porter," she said. "Yes, I had to bribe him to let me come up."

Blair Freedman felt new warmth in his face. Anger, rising slowly, made his fingers clench.

"Why was it so necessary to see me?"

He didn't like it. The Space Merchants were neutral, but the satellite Vestena was stalling waiting to declare war. Could she be a spy?

The girl walked across the room and looked down on the busy square below. Her back was turned to him. She had a way of coolly going about her business as though he didn't exist, and speaking to him only when she was ready to do so. He watched the slim, well-built figure, the maze of fluffy gold that hung about the back of her neck.

"You're Blair Freedman," she said, without turning around.

"You knew that before you came up here."

Silence.

"You're going to join the Warrior Patrol?"

"If that's any of your business, yes." He was blazing mad. Mad because she had the nerve to walk calmly into his room and question him.

"See here," he snapped, "I've got work to do. You've said your piece. Now get out of here before I call the management."

She whirled around, facing him, solemn blue eyes staring into his.

"You asked for it," she said. "You're joining the Warrior Patrol to make yourself a big-shot. You've got to have glory and blood. I'll tell you something. You bored the tunnel through the asteroid belt. You handled the 'Cutter.' You've done the job three times now and it's a job that one man in a thousand has the courage to tackle. Now you're walking out on the Tunnel Patrol."

She hesitated, panting, catching her breath.

"Well, Mr. Big, you're walking right out into the open where they can take a pot shot at you, and don't think they won't do it."

He took two strides toward her and grasped her wrist. He must have held it tightly for tears started from her eyes.

"Go ahead—hurt me. You can. You're very strong."

"Who's taking pot shots at me?"

She jerked away from him violently.

"It's none of your darn business. You deserve to be shot. You're a tin horn sport, running away from a real job to get your wings covered with star dust."

She backed away from him, holding her wrist, her eyes blazing.

She reached the door and opened it quickly.

Freedman, completely bewildered by what had happened, started after her. The light-gun shot into her hand and its barrel pointed at his stomach.

"I came here to help you," she said coldly, "but I think I could shoot now, you bull-headed, star-chasing hero."

He stopped short. The girl was beautiful, and so angry that her eyes seemed to shoot flame.

"Who are you? Why did...?"

"I came because I thought I loved you," she clipped the words off with an utterly matter of fact voice. "Now I find that you're so much in love with yourself that there isn't room for anyone else."

She was gone, and the room was silent. A Parma housefly zoomed across the room and lit on the door knob. Freedman jerked the door open and the fly buzzed away. The hall was empty. He listened. Not a sound.

He went back in, shaking his head slowly.

"Well I'll—be...."

A girl who came from nowhere. A girl he had never seen before, and she had come to say that she loved him, and in the same breath, threatened to shoot him through the stomach.

Freedman sat down on the edge of the bed. He felt a little shaky....

LIEUTENANT BREECHER made a wide, sweeping gesture with his free hand. "The Warrior Patrol of Parma." Blair Freedman sat in the cramped, efficient little fighter rocket, following Breecher's hand as the Warrior Patrol swept in toward the entrance to the Asteroid Tunnel.

"I'm proud to be in the force," Freedman said. "I've watched you men for years. Always had the feeling that I had to desert those pluggy patrol ships and get into the fighters. It's a great feeling. A clean feeling, as though I've dropped the slow, dull life and kicked up my heels for a real run in the void."

Breecher's head came around slowly, where he could study Freedman's face more easily.

"Those thousand ships out there are all that lie between Parma and destruction," he said slowly. "Yet, if it weren't for the tunnel, you know, they would have to travel too damned far to get at us. They can fight their war two ways. Plan a series of battles with the Warrior Patrol, or blow up the tunnel and seal Parma behind that ungodly range of Asteroids. Either way, Parma would choke in a few months. The tunnel is important."

Freedman nodded. It troubled him, all this reference to the tunnel. First Folley, then the girl, and now, even Lieutenant Breecher of the Warrior Patrol.

"Strictly routine stuff, though," he said, almost in self-defense. "A hundred men, a few patrol ships, and an occasional trip with the Cutter to clear out debris. That's the tunnel patrol, year after year."

The Lieutenant let well enough alone. The Warrior Patrol had swept past now. The dull, war-painted heads on the rockets were business-like and ready. The Lieutenant nosed his own ship into the tail of the formation and opened his jets. They swept back toward Parma.

"There, I've shown you the boys and their ships," he said. "Tomorrow you'll fly with them."

The ugly static of the relay-screen broke in.

"Calling Warrior Patrol—Calling Warrior Patrol."

"That's Leader Van Nordast," Lieutenant Breecher said in a low voice. "Something's up."

Van Nordast's face was on the screen. He looked powerful, compact, business-like.

"The Warrior Patrol will not come to base tonight. It will protect the outer entrance to the asteroid tunnel.

"A hundred extra ships are being sent at once. They will join the Patrol near the Tunnel Patrol ship, and base there until further orders come from this office.

"Post guards and watch that tunnel. By tomorrow, news will be up to date and I will give you further instructions."

The image on the screen sighed.

"You may as well know tonight. Vestena didn't wait for us to make plans. It tried to destroy the tunnel today. Sabotage, with a few suicide ships.

"A few men were killed but the attempt failed. That is all. Proceed to base."

The screen was empty again, and Blair Freedman was cussing and wondering if maybe Jerry Graham had been right.

He could fight now. He had the best equipment in the planetary system.

A few men were killed....

He remembered Van Nordast's words. Grim words that probably applied to the boys he had known since childhood. Maybe Jerry was one of them. Jerry Graham with his gray-black hair, wrinkled kindly face and gentle eyes peering from behind his specs.

The Lieutenant hadn't spoken since the message flashed off. Now he said:

"Well, you're going to get your baptism of fire sooner than I expected."

"Yes," Freedman said. "Yes, that's right."

He was wondering if it made any difference. If Jerry was dead, he'd have to kill a couple thousand soldiers to revenge that one kindly man.

THE GUARD SHIP on the outer end of the Asteroid Tunnel was anchored in space a short distance from the tunnel itself. It had to carry its own supplies, heavy armament and ammunition. Normally, it was capable of holding off a dozen space fighters, sending them reeling back with the heavy punches from its cannon.

The Warrior Patrol came in on a sweeping arc, and slowed to circle about and finally hide the rugged, stocky mother-ship that guarded the tunnel. Orders were given. Ships and pilots were warned not to fly too close to the heaving mass of asteroids. They looked solid. Actually, they were in motion every second, tons of ragged, grinding metal and stone, heaving a few inches this way or that, destroying anything that touched their surface.

It was through this terrifying belt of death that Blair Freedman had first dared point the prow of the "Cutter" and had, by sheer guts, torn a tunnel through the asteroids that served to demolish the thousands of miles of impossible flying by the outside route to Parma.

In peace, the asteroid belt had been pierced by the needle-like tunnel and through it commerce poured to the other worlds. It was the Panama Canal of space. In peace time, a simple job of patrolling. In war, it might become a hell-spot of intrigue and battle.

The Warrior Patrol had come to protect it, keep it open, and to prevent the fighting ships of Vestena from using it to conquer Parma.

A vast set for a chess game. The pieces were placed, alert and waiting, about the tunnel head. When would the opposing player make his first move?

Lieutenant Blair Freedman left his ship, moved carefully up the deck of the mother-ship and entered the air lock. In five minutes he was talking to fat, easy going Captain Stew in the mother-ship. Captain Stew wasn't the pudgy old gentleman's real name, but he had been called by it for so many years that any other he may have had was long forgotten. The Captain, with his home-made, blue denim uniform and enormous black pipe, led Freedman into his cabin and offered him the place of honor on his bunk.

"Sit, Blair," he said. "Suppose you heard the news?"

Freedman nodded. He hated to ask what had happened. Captain Stew was a tough old warrior. He could hold off half an army with this big, well armed ship. He knew how to fight and how to live. He hated to part with men.

"What happened here?"

Stew puffed mightily on his pipe and laid it down. "Nothing much, if they hadn't shot two of my gunners."

A tiny sigh escaped Blair's lips. Then Jerry Graham was safe.

"Night work," Stew said briefly. "Two ships passed and signalled with our flags for permission to enter. I gave them the okay after checking their numbers and the flight charts. They didn't go into the tunnel. I saw them start heaving stuff out into space at the tunnel mouth.

"It was pretty dark, but I recognized the stuff they were tossing out." He paused, then said, "Space mines."

"They planned to blow the head of the tunnel?"

Stew nodded.

"I opened fire and blew them straight to hell."

"But your men?"

Stew grunted.

"They had time to put one shot across my forward deck. Knocked out one gun. Killed a couple of good boys."

He stood up, emptied his pipe and put it back into his mouth with bowl upside down.

"Graham and his men came through on routine patrol just a few seconds after those damned ships blew up," he said. "If they had hit one of them space mines...."

Freedman stared ahead of him at the smoke darkened walls.

"That would have been tough," he said. "Well, the danger's over now."

He stood up.

"I think the Warrior Patrol is strong enough to protect the tunnel, don't you, Captain?"

Captain Stew looked thoughtful.

"Strong enough," he said, "if the rats will come out in force and fight. Take my word for it, though, they'll make more attempts like the one last night. This isn't the...."

Captain Stew was cut off suddenly by a mighty explosion that seemed to come from directly below. The mother-ship took a quick lurch that sent them both to the floor. Stew, in spite of his size, was the first to regain his feet.

"What the...."

They stumbled out onto the deck. The darkness was sliced with orange and red flame. The entire fleet, it seemed to Freedman, had opened fire at a dark object disappearing toward Vestena.

He watched the object for fifteen seconds, then saw it dissolve in white hot flame.

The guns became quiet. The decks of the mother-ship stopped shaking. Captain Stew howled something at the top of his voice and a gunner came running up.

"Why in the name of the Seven Ton God of Hate didn't you call me?" Stew shouted.

The soldier, grim faced, sooted by the cannon smoke, did his own share of cursing.

"Didn't have time," he fumed. "One ship. It sneaked up to the tunnel mouth and didn't even show a light. It tossed out enough stuff to seal that tunnel for keeps. Captain Stew, there's a patrol ship due through from Parma in fifteen minutes. The tunnel's sealed tight."

FREEDMAN knew the ship. His ship was due, with Graham at the wheel. Freedman knew where the radio was on the mother-ship. He dashed down the deck.

The radio man was flashing signals to Parma, warning all flights to wait for approval to come ahead.

Freedman slammed himself down at the board.

He plugged in the tunnel speaker. The power board showed zero. The mighty voice that could speak to anyone in the tunnel was dead.

"The guns shook some wires loose," the control man said. "We'll try the electro-screen."

They worked swiftly, trying to contact Jerry Graham. Finally his voice came on to the screen. He had a cheerful grin on his face.

"Hey," he said, "what's wrong at tunnel head? I'm getting a whistle on the screen but I can't tune you in. Something wrong with your transmission."

"For Heaven's sake, Jerry," Freedman shouted, "turn back, don't come through."

Graham looked puzzled.

"Seems like I hear a voice," Graham was saying. His eyes were bright and sparkling behind his specs. "You guys playing a joke on me? I can hear something that sounds like a voice, but I can't hear words. Just a jumble."

"Jerry," Freedman shouted. "The tunnel head is blown out."

The control man was working furiously with the set.

"Sure, we'll have a blow out," Graham said. The smile was broad on his lips. Five minutes to the tunnel head. Five minutes between that smile—and sudden death.

"What the hell," Freedman said. "We've got to get this set running."

"Hey," Jerry Graham was saying, "what is wrong with your sender? The screen is blurred. The static is awful. Clear it up, will you?"

"Can't," Freedman mumbled to himself. Perspiration stood out on his face. "Can't, Jerry. Can't."

The control man continued to work.

"Never had this happen before," he said. "Guns were raising hell for a while. They blew out the tubes on both sets. Wire shorted somewhere. Can't find it."

Freedman looked at the clock.

"One minute," he said in a humble, frightened voice. "One minute of life for Jerry." He paused and then put his face close to the screen.

"Jerry," he shouted, "Jerry, for God's sake, go back. The tunnel...."

It wasn't any use. Before he stopped talking, Graham said:

"Wow, this is too much. You guys sound like a bunch of wailing banshees. I'm signing off until you get that sender running again."

"Jerry...."

There was something wild and uncontrolled in Freedman's plea.

The screen clicked and was white. Dead white, like a sheet drawn over a corpse.

Freedman sat there, idly holding his watch, his face pale, eyes vacant. The control man kept on working, patiently, carefully. After a long time Freedman looked at his watch. He stood up. He walked unsteadily toward the door, to meet Captain Stew coming in.

"Guess everything is okay up there," Stew motioned back toward the deck. "Did you contact Graham?"

Freedman couldn't hear him. He pushed Stew aside and went out, staring across the void at the line upon line of fighters, grouped like soldiers at attention.

Behind him, Captain Stew spoke to the control man.

"What the hell's burning him up?"

The control man's head came up slowly from the set.

"He ain't feeling so good," he said. "Seems like he deserted a pal a while back, and now his pal's dead. I think he's kinda sorry he wasn't on the job when it happened."

Stew nodded slowly.

"That's tough," he said. "I guess I know how he must feel."

BLAIR FREEDMAN stood rigidly before the desk, arms at his sides, eyes on Peter Folley. Folley didn't look up. He gripped Freedman's release papers in his hand. He wasn't reading them.

"So you came back?"

Freedman didn't answer.

"I suppose on account of Jerry, huh?" Folley said. "You were talking to Jerry just before he died, they said."

Freedman found his voice.

"I tried to warn him."

Folley nodded slightly.

"If you had been with him, you'd have known the tunnel head was blocked. You had that gift, the sense of feeling pressure changes. You would have saved Jerry."

Freedman didn't answer. He had left the Warrior Patrol and come back to his old job again. He had to carry on for Jerry Graham.

"Well," Folley said suddenly, "I know what you want, and I don't need you. You quit once. That's enough. Go back and get all the glory you can out of army life. We'll get along."

He stood up and turned his back to Freedman.

Freedman picked up the release papers and put them into his pocket slowly. His hands shook.

"Pete," he said, "I was a fool. It took Jerry's death to make me see it. I came back to say I was sorry. Jerry Graham was like a brother to me. I want the old job back. I want to open the tunnel and keep it open."

Pete Folley faced him slowly. He looked very tired. His face was pale and dark pockets stood out under his eyes.

"I'm giving up," he said desperately. "I can't fight alone. Ten of my best men have been killed in a week. As fast as we open the tunnel, an enemy ship darts in and commits suicide to blow it closed again. I haven't got the men or the guts to keep on fighting. It's up to the Warrior Patrol to protect the tunnel. Your place is with them."

Freedman wanted to help Folley then. Wanted to prove his worth all over again.

"Pete, you and I started the tunnel. We always have kept it open. If we work together now, I think we can do it again. You, I and—Jerry."

There was a brief flash of hope in Folley's eyes. Then it faded and he looked glum.

"Okay," he said, "You know where the Cutter is. Take it out in the morning. You're on the payroll, as long as there is one."

THE TUNNEL PATROL, in spite of its homely name and lack of dignity was a big organization. Its field and hangars housed a hundred speedy patrol ships, tons of special earth moving equipment, and last but most powerful, the ship referred to as the Cutter.

Freedman came down the field to the huge building that housed the Cutter. He slipped quietly into the side door, still shivering from the cold morning fog that had settled on the port. He paused, old memories surging through him. Memories of the long days and nights he and Jerry had spent behind the instrument board of the huge craft.

The Cutter was officially labelled Z1000. Its vast bulk filled a space equal to a city block. Its bulky, blade covered nose wasn't graceful. In fact, the whole ship looked like a vast, bloated sausage with spiral blades attached to its bow, and a number of stove pipe lengths at the stern which shot out thunderous potions of fire and gas.

It was a special job, the Z1000. It was a working man's ship. A ship that you couldn't batter and destroy. The Z1000 could take it. It had taken unbelievable punishment already and it was ready for more.

Freedman mounted the ladder and went into the belly of the ship. It was like coming home again. He half expected to hear Jerry Graham shout to him from the navigation room above.

"Damned imagination," he said aloud. He said it bitterly.

His voice came back to him, a hollow thing echoing through the interior of the Cutter.

He climbed the series of steps and came out on the platform behind the blades. He entered the navigation room. Already the doors of the hangar were rolled back by the electric-finger he had touched as he came in.

No use waiting for anyone or anything. He was flying alone. Freedman adjusted the fuel indicators. Folley had told him last night that the lanes would be open and no ships were manoeuvring this side of the tunnel. He drew back the rocket release levers, sat back and adjusted the delicate headphones that would tell him what the blades on the ship's nose were doing. Then, as though riding behind a plugging work horse, he started to doze.

This, he thought, hasn't the speed or the flash of the fighting ships. It's a tough job to do. But I'll do it.

The job wasn't a pleasant one. Freedman knew that near the far end of the tunnel, wedged into the debris of the wrecked tunnel, his old ship, the X26, was laying. In the control room, if there was still a control room, Jerry Graham's crushed corpse would be stretched across the instrument panel.

An endless hour passed.

The flight was no longer routine. He was nearing the end of the tunnel. The Cutter, Z1000 had taken the grinding, tearing trip easily, and her plates were hardly heated by the occasional edges she had to rip from the tunnel. He slowed the huge sausage-like ship and watched the instruments closely. Fifteen miles—then only ten.

He braked the ship and paused. Here, according to the instruments, the X26 would be wedged.

Grimly, Freedman donned the oxygen suit, turned on the powerful lamps that would light his way in the inky black tunnel, opened the forward hatch and went out. Ahead and all around him were the dense metals and rocks of the tunnel. The crushing, tearing sounds, always present in this weird place, seemed worse today. He climbed carefully out on the huge cutter blades, down the emergency ladder and jumped to the X26. It wasn't as badly wrecked as he had feared. That didn't mean that it would fly again, or that there was any hope of Graham being alive. He knew that the X26 had hit with a speed that would insure at least a broken neck for near-sighted Jerry.

No sense kidding yourself, Blair, he thought.

He worked his way into the broken hatch of the X26, found a heavy emergency bar and tore the door to the main cabin open. It was as he thought. Jerry hadn't known what happened. The accident had come too fast. Jerry had been thrown to the floor. There were no marks on his body. His lips were parted in amazement, but no horror.

Freedman choked back a sob, picked Graham up tenderly and went back along the wrecked corridor. In the Z1000 he placed Graham on one of the emergency bunks, strapped him down and covered the body with a blanket. His teeth were gritted tightly together. His knuckles were white. He felt little emotion, or rather, tried to steel himself against feeling it.

Back in the control room, he sat down, pulled out the special valve release that ran the Cutter blades and waited for their steady, powerful rhythm to tell him that they were ready to cut.

This was a part of the business that had always thrilled him. Today it was just a job. A dirty, routine job. There wasn't any pleasure in it.

He thought of Jerry. Jerry who had laughed and gone to his death because a certain Blair Freedman had deserted him and tried to find glory.

The cutters were gyrating at a terrific speed now. The nose of the Z1000 was hot with the movement of the bearings. Freedman turned on the oilers. Long, thick jets of oil started to shoot out ahead of the ship, glancing off the blades, oiling the rocks.

Savagely, as though this was a personal battle, Freedman turned on the forward power. The Z1000 hit the remains of the wrecked patrol ship, ripped through it and into the sullen, slow moving mass of metal and rock. It shuddered once, then settled down, matching its blades against the mass.

It moved stolidly ahead, and the roar of the blades drowned out everything else.

The wall wouldn't be thick. Freedman grimaced. He remembered the months he had spent ripping through the first time.

He'd like to go on tearing and gouging, fighting the only way he knew—fighting nature.

Those slim, tube like army ships weren't for him. His job was to slog along, ripping away at the barrier that at once protected and cut off his home satellite from the other satellite nations.

The Z1000 was a fighting ship that would never enter the war directly, and yet affected its course more vividly than any single unit of the fleet.

Never enter the war directly?

Freedman wondered. Listening to the inhuman power of the Cutter, he wondered. It might be feasible. He had never studied speeds and pressures. Just how much punishment could the big ship take?

Suddenly, with a lurch, the Z1000 tore itself from the wall and flew out into space.

Swiftly, as the cutters were already whirring upward toward a breaking speed, Freedman cut the power and idled in space. To his left, the fleet was drawn up in neat battle lines. Captain Stew's guard ship was floating about, and he knew that Stew himself would be watching him coming. They had been listening to his thunderous battle with the rocks for some minutes.

For a second Freedman felt elation because he had once more battled with nature and won. Then he remembered Jerry Graham, stretched lifelessly on the bunk in the room below.

The fight was just starting.

THE GIRL STOOD on the apron near the hangar. Though it was dark, he knew her at once. In the light of the moon, she seemed more like a ghost than a woman. Her hair was like a soft gold crown. Her dress, cut close to her body, was white and of rare Vestena silk.

Freedman wanted to avoid her, and yet there was that mystery that clung to her and forced him to walk toward her.

"You've come back from the tunnel," she said.

Her voice was low.

He nodded. He was tired. He had just called the authorities and asked them to remove Graham's body from the Z1000. The tunnel was open again and the fleet guarded it. He needed rest.

"The tunnel is open. You told me I was a tin-horn sport. I don't know who you are, but you were right. I'm working in the tunnel again. That's what you wanted."

Though he had seen her only once before, he was anxious to please her. She was like an angel, appearing only when he needed her, and slipping away into the night again.

"You're still feeling very much like a hero, aren't you?" she challenged. "You've just opened the tunnel. You're tired and you want to be alone. You've done something big and wonderful."

He didn't try to explain to her. He didn't tell her of Jerry's crushed body in the ship and how he, himself, felt crushed and weary.

"No ... I...."

"Don't talk to me," she said scornfully. Fire danced in her eyes. The fresh wind sent her hair, the flimsy gown, flying in the wind. "I told you I loved you once."

"I don't even know you," he protested. "Why have you chosen me?"

Her voice was steady now. Steady and like a whip lash.

"Because I knew you from the time you entered the patrol as a boy," she said. "I worshipped you from afar, and I know of everything you did. I talked to my father every day, sometimes more often than that. He thought the planet system would have fallen apart if you hadn't been here to steady it."

Her father?

"You seem determined to punish me," he said unsteadily. He could hear the ambulance car rocketing across the field now. They were coming for Jerry.

"I'll go on punishing you," she said. "If it hadn't been for you, Dad wouldn't be dead now, laying over there in that ship."

Dad? Jerry Graham?

"You're not...?"

Her nod was barely discernible.

"Jerry Graham lived on Vestena for many years," she said. "When mother died, he put me into a community school. He came here. He never told anyone...." Her voice broke.

"Through my father, I worshipped you. It's all dead now. If I can find a way to hurt you, I'll do it."

She whirled and was gone, a slim, windswept figure in the vast darkness of the field.

He started to run after her. Then he saw the tiny, sport-model rocket plane parked at the edge of the apron. She was in it and the rockets were exploding before he could reach her.

She waved her arm at him as the ship leaped forward. She shouted something that was drowned in the roar of rocket exhaust. Then she was gone.

PETER FOLLEY was talking. "The jig's up, Blair. The Vestena merchants have signed an oath to refuse further trade with Parma. You know what that means?"

Blair Freedman nodded. It didn't make any difference to him now. Not, at least, until he found Sheila Graham and made her understand how he really felt about Jerry's death.

"I suppose we'll close the tunnel?"

Folley shook his head and frowned.

"No, that's the bad part of it. We've got to hold the tunnel open."

He leaned forward, tapping his pencil.

"United Satellites, comprising fifteen powers, accepted a contract to open the tunnel, on the promise that we would keep it open. Now there's a war between Vestena and Parma. The Merchants of Vestena won't buy from us, and the tunnel was used mostly by their ships. Yet, even if the other powers no longer use the tunnel, we promised to keep it open in the event they do. They won't release us from that contract. Now we've got to keep open our most vulnerable approach. We've got to protect it from the people who will leave no stone unturned in their effort to destroy us by attacking through the tunnel. It's a nasty mess."

It was nasty. Freedman realized it. But this was an army job. A job for the Warrior Patrol.

He stood up.

"I'll keep my end going," he said. "I'm doing three patrols every day. When you need the Z1000, you know where to find me."

He was half way to the door when Folley stopped him.

"What's eating you, Blair?" Folley asked abruptly.

Freedman whirled around.

"Jerry's death for one thing," he said.

Folley shook his head.

"I know," he said. "There's something else. I'd almost swear you were in love, with that miserable, whipped pup look you've been carrying on your map."

Blair didn't answer. Damned nonsense, he thought. He wanted to see Sheila Graham. But not because he was in love with her. He wanted to explain about Jerry, and tell her that he felt as miserable about it as she did.

She, supposedly, was on Vestena, the enemy satellite.

CAPTAIN STEW strode up and down the cabin, his huge paunch moving ahead of him like an anchored balloon. Stew was angry. Angry clean through. He showed it with his frown, the set of his lips. He said:

"The damned army isn't getting anywhere. Look here, Freedman, what's gonna happen when the Vestena fleet attacks and enters the tunnel?"

Blair Freedman had been with Stew for several hours. He was almost ready for the return patrol trip now. He stood up wearily.

"That's the worry of the Warrior Patrol," he said. "My orders are to keep the tunnel open."

Captain Stew stopped pacing the floor.

"Sure," he said. "Sure, you're in the clear. Look at it like I do. Eight times now, Vestena suicide ships have shot in here and dropped explosives into the tunnel mouth. Eight times you've plowed them out again. Not once has the Vestena army attacked.

"When they do, they're going straight through to the other end of the tunnel. There isn't room inside the tunnel to fight. There isn't any Parma fleet at the other end.

"Damned if we can stop them here. They'll be in the tunnel before we have time to strike."

Freedman shrugged.

"Blow up the tunnel."

"Sure," Stew bellowed, "and have every satellite in the system on our neck. This ain't war boy. It's politics, and Parma has its political neck stuck out right over the block."

Freedman read the note a dozen times. He propped it up near the mirror as he shaved, trying to figure out why Sheila would trouble herself again with him. Blair Freedman, it said, meet me at the Z1000 hangar tonight at moonrise. He scowled at the mirror as he shaved. The girl had admitted that she lived with the Space Merchants on Vestena. Admitted that she was actually from an enemy country. It took nerve, he thought, for her to come here alone.

He was undecided about the proposed meeting at the hangar. Was it some sort of a trap? She had threatened him. Freedman smiled. Threatened by a girl. He washed his face, donned a fresh tunic and laced it. He found his space pistol, always worn in these unstable days, and strapped it on.

Moonrise, he thought, and made a mental calculation. Half hour to ten. Here I come, Miss Graham, and no tricks please.

He locked the door behind him and went down to the rocket car in the hotel court.

The Z1000 bulked huge and secure in the semi-darkness of the hangar. The low moon was coming up slowly, and the high moon already shot its pale rays from the Larr Mountains in the opposite direction. This was one of those rare, beautiful nights when Parma seemed to bask proudly in the light of its moons. A night for peace, Freedman thought, and Vestena ships probably already on the prowl.

He walked up and down in front of the Z1000. A tiny ship shot over the far edge of the field and landed daintily near the hangar apron. It rolled up until the shadow of the hangar almost hid it. Sheila Graham jumped out and came toward him. She was at his side before he saw the frightened look on her face.

She took his hand.

"You're a man of honor," she said in a clipped, matter-of-fact voice. "I've had to change my mind about you. You're doing a good job."

She let go of his hand and stared earnestly into his eyes.

"You know nothing of me. Perhaps I'm not Sheila Graham. I come from enemy territory. Would you trust me on a very important mission?"

He stared at her. It didn't make sense. He saw the fright in her eyes. He knew that she had something of great importance on her mind. Something that she must do and yet feared to try without his help.

"I don't understand," he said. He was careful not to show his true feelings toward this childlike, delicate girl from Vestena. She wasn't born to fight, yet she seemed to be a fighter. "First you hate me, then you ask for help. What changed your mind?"

Her face was tinged with sudden color.

"I don't hate you," she said, and turned away, staring toward the moon that had just touched the top of the Larr Range. "I think you made a mistake. That mistake cost my father's life. Since then, you've done a loyal job. I can't tell you what we're going to do, but I know that with your help we can do it."

He waited, saying nothing.

"The ships of Vestena attack tonight," she said in a shaking voice. "We—you and I are going to stop them."

"Attack the whole army? Why didn't you notify the Warrior Fleet at the tunnel head? They could have been ready."

He wheeled away from her, but she caught up and put her hand on his arm.

"They can do nothing," she said. "The Vestena fleet sent a decoy army. The Warrior Fleet of Parma is thousands of miles out in space, pursuing a dummy army—an army of empty, robot-controlled ships that left Vestena hours ago.

"Now the true fleet is somewhere near the tunnel head, poised for a quick dash through."

"How do I know you're telling the truth?"

Her eyes were steady on his.

"You've never doubted a word I've spoken."

Odd, he thought, but I never have. Why? Then he knew why. He was looking into Jerry Graham's eyes. The eyes of a man he had trusted above everyone else. This was his daughter. There could be no doubt.

"I've got to warn the command at the city," he said.

She shook her head.

"There is no time. They can do nothing. The important thing is to stop the Vestena fleet from getting through the tunnel."

She started to run toward the Z1000. Over her shoulder she called to him.

"I have a plan. You must help. I can't operate the Cutter."

THEY WERE in the tunnel, and Freedman was confident once more. At the controls of the Z1000, he felt at ease. At his side, Sheila Graham was asking hurried questions.

"What speed can the blades carry?"

He told her.

"And the hull. How thick is it?"

He chuckled without humor.

"If you hit it with a city block at a thousand miles an hour, it might break."

She was figuring with a pen-stick on the smooth surface of the control board.

"How far are we into the tunnel?"

He consulted the mileage chart.

"Half way. It's...."

"Good," she said. "Turn on the blades. Use all the power you have."

There was an undercurrent of fear in her voice. He was sure that she struggled with herself at this moment to keep from breaking down. When she spoke again, the howl of the rotating blades drowned all other sound. Without stone or metal to work on, the blades were screaming at top speed, cooled only by the oil. The Z1000 was a strange, rumbling giant, stumbling ahead in the darkness.

"Blair," Sheila Graham said quietly, "Are you afraid to die?"

He felt cold beads of perspiration stand out on his forehead. The cabin was growing very hot. Deep down he had known all along but now, as he faced it consciously, he had to fight for control. His hands were clammy on the wheel.

"I told you I loved you very much once," she said. He didn't dare turn and look at her. This wasn't any time to go soft. "I haven't changed my mind. This was a very strange love affair, wasn't it?"

She didn't wait for his answer, but stumbled on, her voice eager.

"I haven't very much time to talk. Blair, I fell in love with you when I saw your picture. When Vestena became hostile, I was declared an orphan. I couldn't see Dad and he couldn't reclaim me. A rich man adopted me. He was a high member of the Space Merchants organization."

She sighed.

"I used to read about the work you and Dad did. That's why I was so badly hurt and angry when you left him to his death."

"I could get away from Vestena when I wished. My foster-father owned three ships. I learned the plan of the Vestena fleet from him. I waited until I knew how and when they would strike. Then I came back to you. I knew you'd be the only one to help."

He was silent. Then:

"It seems like old times," he said, slowly. "Seems as though Jerry and I are together again."

Her fingers touched his neck. She kissed him on the cheek. Her lips were soft and very warm. "Dad is here, I think. I'm a pretty important part of Jerry. We loved each other very much."

He was busy now. Busy keeping the Z1000 in one piece. If he kept up the dizzy power rate long, and the blades didn't meet an obstruction, they'd fly off and destroy the ship.

"How long do we have?"

She sighed.

"The fleet will be in the tunnel in two minutes. We should meet them in three."

"We'll stop them," he said in a harsh whisper.

OIL WAS sloshing and flying over the Cutter's blades. He listened to the unholy roar of the motor, then pushed the power lever down as far as it would go. The Z1000 leaped ahead a little faster. The blades sang a song of destruction.

In the cabin the heat became stifling. No longer able to see through the steamed windows, he turned out the lights. In the darkness, the red hot plates over the motor shaft made the place glow like a tiny hell. The extra power from the batteries hummed madly.

"Sheila," he turned toward her. In the glow of the hot plates, he could see her face, as pale as glistening shell. Her eyes were moist and her face was close to his.

Then he could say no more, because her lips were pressed tightly to his.

"Blair, is there a chance ... any chance at all?"

"The Z1000 was designed to cut rock and metal," he said. "I don't think the engineers ever planned to stop an army with it."

Two minutes. Then fifty seconds. Would the Vestena army be on time?

The blades were good for another five minutes at most. After that....

"Blair."

It was Sheila, her lips parted by a startled cry. Instinctively he grasped her and held her tightly against him in the heavily padded chair.

Ahead of them, bright fingers of light probed the darkness; lights that expanded rapidly, blindingly. The blades found something. There was a sound of ripping and tearing as metal shrieked against metal in deafening protest. The Z1000 stopped.

Still the hurtling lights of the Vestena fighters came on. One after the other, like blind fireflies, they flashed into the tunnel to be ground to bits by the screaming blades of the Cutter. Then the Z1000 lurched sickeningly. The enemy ships, ripping through the now broken and slowing blades, pounded at full speed into its hull. Blair Freedman, staggering and half-unconscious from the shock, sought for the controls. He was too late. The Z1000 had stopped running. He reached blindly for Sheila....

Outside, the tunnel was a hell of noise. Showering sparks cast an eerie red glow that was occasionally punctuated by the blinding white flash of an explosion. Ship after ship pelted into the buckling plates of the Cutter until the cavernous maw of the tunnel became a molten mass of smashed, twisted scrap.

Then, gradually, the noise died down as the last Vestena ship hurled itself into oblivion. The shriek of mangled metal was stilled. The fires flickered into darkness.

And in the control cabin of the huge Z1000, Blair Freedman and Sheila Graham, battered almost beyond recognition, lay in each other's arms—united in the final sacrifice of death.

______________________

22: Patience

Sir George B. Douglas, Bart.

1856–1935

Forbes Times (NSW ) 26 April 1918

That would be an unjust judge indeed who should hold parents accountable for any incongruity with character, or unsuitability which time may reveal, in the baptismal names bestowed by them upon their offspring. For who could foresee that the complexion of an infant who has received the name of Rose, or Blanche, at the font was going to he of gipsy brown without carnation?  Those things occur. And still more awkward is the predicament when a name suggests a moral attribute of which the hearer daily shows herself destitute. A Ruth without pity, for example! Would not the defect show more glaringly in her than in any other? Perhaps the most stuck-up young lady I have ever known had been christened Humility after a Puritan ancestress. And somewhat, on a par with hers was the history of Patience Wylder.

Her mother had fallen in love with the sweet old English name after reading Mr. Austin Dobson's delightful poem, "Patience Caryll." So when the little stranger appeared, and proved to be a girl, she made up her mind that it should be a Patience. Mr. Wylder contended for Gladys, spelt in the Welsh way, with a W. But gentle Mrs. Wylder could be very firm on occasion, and after two or three well-contested encounters, she gained her point.

"I suppose we shall call her Patty, or something of the sort," said her husband, to hide his discomfiture.

"Patty! Oh, dear no— nothing of the kind! Always Patience in full— I insist on that. Why spoil a lovely name?"

Mr. Wylder sighed and fell into line, as he was daily learning to do. At that time, he little guessed that by her insistence on the name, and on the name in full, his wife was preparing a Nemesis.  Nor was any alternative provided by giving the infant a second name. She was Patience Wylder, nothing more. A pretty name, is it not?

Over the troubles of infancy I pass lightly. Patience's teething was much like that of other children, though her father thought the symptoms abnormally acute. It is only after one has gained distinction in later life that one's teething is discovered to have presented unique features.

Inevitably, Patience's first governess expatiated on the moral significance of the name. Mrs. Wylder held her to do this, although she would have done it of her own initiative. And I must acknowledge that tiny Patience, with her hair in curls, and a string of coral beads round her neck (as in Harlow's portraits) afforded not infrequent opportunities for a sermon on this text. For example, when she had eaten what they, not she, considered enough strawberries, and they put the fruit-dish out of her reach, she stamped with her little bronze- sandalled foot— and did it with a will too!

Mr. Wylder was highly amused. "Bravo!" he cried, "I like my children to have wills of their own!" (Poor man! he had reasons for liking that.)

"Do not encourage her!" cried gentle Mrs. Wylder warmly. And Patience was borne roaring from the room in her nurse's arms.

"That child has healthy lungs," observed the Vicar, the Rev. Charles Sumner, who was lunching with the Wylders after service.

Time went on, and when the growing spirit of mastery in Patience had thrice reduced her governess to tears, the Wylders dismissed that mild-mannered, elderly lady, and engaged a young one. The new governess was a younger woman, of exceptional stature, which it was hoped would have its effect in overawing the intractable child. Unfortunately her powers of discipline were not in proportion to her inches.

A few days after her arrival, Mr. and Mrs. Wylder, being at leisure after luncheon, were startled by a commotion overhead. It was followed by the sound of fleeing footsteps and of furniture overturning.

"I know that woman is ill-treating my precious!" cried Mrs. Wylder excitedly. "Don't forget it was you who engaged her, Martin, I never liked her look."

And the anxious mother rusher upstairs to the schoolroom, the husband following.

There the scene which me their eyes was not precisely that which Mrs. Wylder's imagination had foreshadowed. A chase was indeed taking place, but it was the governess, not Patience, who fled, as in terror of her life whilst half in vengeful, half in playful mood, the pupil was pursuing her round and round the table, a cartwhip in her hand.

"Patience, how dare you!" exclaimed the scandalised mother, and dispensed with the governess's services on the spot, as not worth having.

Patience was sent to boarding school. But before the end of the second half-year, the school mistress returned her, writing that she "could do nothing with her. Your daughter does not lack ability," she added, "nor is she without fine qualities. But the quickness of her temper and the strength of her will are such as I have never before met with, whilst the word discipline is unknown in her vocabulary."

Poor Patience! After that she was left to tumble up as best she might at home.

It certainly did not take her long to obtain the ascendancy over her parents; whilst it was currently reported in the neighbourhood that she led everyone in the house a life.

Weeping servant-girls would come protesting to Sirs. Wylder that they "could not do with Miss Patience." To which that lady, now much humbled from her former pride of place, could only reply, in conciliatory tones. "But you must try to put up with her, Jane, for my sake. Do now— I have to put up with her. You will find that her bark is worse than her bite.''

The remarkable thing was that, despite all this, Patience was immensely popular. People criticised, yet ran after her. Her beauty, her high spirits, the way she had with her, went far to account for this. For, whatever her faults might be, there was no doubt that, our Patience was a personality. The villagers simply adored her, notwithstanding that they knew that, on the slightest provocation; she would be ready to give them "what for."

The discrepancy between her name and elm rue tor was ever so apparent. One day when her horse was not forward at the moment when the hounds were throwing off (she having motored to the meet), the groom caught it till his ears tingled.

"What is that young lady's name?" enquired a young man, a stranger to the Hunt, as he adjusted his stirrup-leathers.

"Her name is Patience, sir," replied the bystander to whom the question had been addressed— a yokel— and he grinned;

"Patience! ha— that is a good one!" replied the stranger, as he cantered off, for the hounds were already running. "I should like to teach her patience, that I should."

The last part of his remark was, however, soliloquy.

And now, as I am no mystery-monger, let me state at once that the stranger was a certain young Naval officer, Lieutenant Siegbrand Vertamtoft, who was on a visit to his midshipman friend, Charlie Sumner, the Vicar's son.

Laura Sumner, the Vica's laughter, had been Patience's lifelong friend, her  playmate in childhood and her schoolfellow for the one term and a half that Patience spent at school. Poor Laura! I am much inclined to pity her. For the position of bosom friend to Patience Wylder was no bed of roses certainly. Patience's sudden outbursts, her squalls of temper, her domineering, dictatorial moods when nothing would satisfy her— of all these, Laura Sumner bore the brunt submissively. People wondered that she could stand it, yet she herself did not complain. The fact was that plain Laura Sumner was attached to her magnificent young friend with an almost dog-like fidelity. It was she and not Miss Wylder who should have borne the name of Patience.

Of course, there were moments of compensation, too, when Patience would throw her arms round Laura and fondle her to her heart's content.

"What a brute I am!" she would remark at such times, having just vented her spleen on' the other girl almost to the point of drawing tears. "But we understand each other, don't we, darling? Of course we do!"

After that, Patience would be very nice to Laura for a little time, and Laura would be radiant.

Now Lieutenant Vertamtoft was Charlie Sumner's hero, and all the world knew it. And he was also Laura's hero, and nobody knew it but herself. He had paid her somewhat marked attention.

That night, at dinner at the Vicarage, after recounting the run to the Vicar, whose hunting days were over, the Lieutenant asked, "But who is the young lady they call Patience? She was in evidence to-day.''

"She was indeed!" laughed Charlie, who had been present at the meet, but had not followed. "Not the most patient of young ladies, is she?"

"By Jove! that girl can go," exclaimed Siegbrand, in admiring retrospect, speaking very much us if he meant it.

Then they informed him that Patience was the daughter of a neighbouring Squire, and Laura's special friend.

"Does she ever come here?" he enquired, adding naively, "I should like to meet her."

"Be careful what you're doing, Lieutenant," cried Charlie, "she'll give you snuff if you offend her!"

But Laura stood up for her friend.

"Don't you believe him, Mr. Vertamtoft," she said. '"Patience may be a little quick in temper, hut she's a jewel of a girl, staunch and sincere."

"I rather like a touch of temper in a woman, Miss Sumner," answered the sailor, with an air of wide experience, "it goes with a warm heart."

"Patience has a warm heart," replied Laura earnestly, "and she has made great efforts to curb her temper— I know that, , for she has told me so herself."

Then she blushed a little, like one who feels that perhaps she has said too much. But Vertamtoft did not look as if he thought so.

Next evening Patience dined at the Vicarage, and met the Lieutenant. Though they met for the first time, his name was well known to her in connection with his gallant and sailor-like conduct on the occasion of the foundering of the gunboat Strumbelow, when he had succeeded in landing his crew without a casualty, and had himself narrowly escaped drowning  whilst saving a disabled seaman. She was pleased to make his acquaintance. and as they had the fruitful topic of the chase in common, their conversation soon absorbed thein, somewhat to the exclusion of the other persons present.

During the next few days they met repeatedly in the hunting' field, where certainly Patience was seen to the best advantage. Laura Sumner was not hunting at present, for though her tastes inclined in that direction, her father could not afford to keep a horse for her; whilst the one elderly pony which constituted their stud barely sufficed for Master Charlie's requirements. But as if to make up for this, every evening after hunting the Lieutenant would regale her and her father with detailed descriptions of the day's sport, and of the conspicuous part which Patience had taken in it. To hear his description was almost as good as being there, so Laura said. And in the simplicity of her heart she believed that Siegbrand was taking all this trouble for her father's sake— and her own. Whereas, as a matter of fact, he was simply talking of what had immensely impressed him. and was interesting himself most at the moment.

A sailor's leave of absence from his ship is generally brief, and Charlie's soon elapsed. But the Lieutenant, who was about to go through a course of gunnery, was able to stay on longer at the Vicarage. Thus the, little hunting-party would now consist of Patience on her sorrel mare, Lady Cutadash, of the Lieutenant mounted on the best that the local job-master could provide; and of Laura on the Vicar's wonderful cob— wonderful, not for breeding or beauty, but because of the large amount of work it got through, it's advanced age notwithstanding. At the end of a day's hunting Laura would  generally be somewhat bespattered, somewhat dishevelled. Yet it was remarkable how much of the run she had contrived to see.

Now I must mention that, though Patience and Vertamtoft had not been long acquainted, the time had already sufficed them for the formation of a habit. It was that of riding home from hunting together— for choice, alone; when if their horses were still fresh enough, they would sometimes put them over a jump or two.

Laura's first appearance in the field threatened to put an end to this practice, and of those, concerned one, if not both, was inclined to deplore its discontinuance. So, on the first afternoon, as they started on the homeward ride, each of the three was feeling the truth of the old saying that two is company and three is none. Proceeding- by by-paths and across fields, Patience and the Lieutenant rode slightly ahead whilst Laura did all she could to make her mount keep up with theirs.

Was it mere chance, or a manoeuvre, that led Vertamtoft to put his horse at a dry-stone fence that barred their way? He cleared it, Patience followed, and then only did it seem to occur to them that the cob was not a fencer, and that Miss Sumner must be left behind, to find her way home by a more circuitous route. This was a little rough on Laura certainly, but self-effacing good nature such as hers is pretty sure to be presumed on. Patience and Siegbrand had a pleasant ride together. But Laura had no one to open gates for her, or to improve gaps. She reached home hot, tired and late.

That night at dinner at the Wylders', she was silent and unlike herself. So far as she gave it a thought, Patience saw that there was something amiss with her friend, and even fancied once or twice that she was on the verge of tears. But Laura would sometimes weep for very little— a misunderstanding with her father, for example. On the other hand, when Patience and Mr. Wylder differed, it was he who was brought nearest to the melting mood, not she. So for the present, Patience remained unconcerned, but in her private room, after dinner, and before the gentlemen had left their wine, she distinctly saw a tear-drop splash on the keyboard of the piano at which Laura was seated.

"Why, child, what is the matter?" she asked, somewhat loftily.

Then the crisis came, the floodgates were opened, and Laura's tears fell like summer rain. And all she said between her sobs was this:

"Oh, Patience, dear! you won't take him from me, will you?"

If Patience's manner had been somewhat lofty previously, it would have baffled a psychologist to define it now. Puzzlement conjecture, consternation, and the will to dominate consternation chased each other across her countenance. And, for a moment or two, she allowed her friend to sob on, undisturbed, to her heart's content. It is the best plan in these emergencies. Then Laura raised her homely, good-natured; face, all blowsed with weeping, and repeated her entreaty.

Unsympathetically, almost unkindly, Patience put her from her, turned away from her. But, as Mrs. Wylder had once remarked, Patience's bark was worse than her bite. For what she said was this, "All right, old girl! You needn't make a fuss— you may depend on me."

And, strangely enough, her tones were such as might have been mistaken for boredom. Did Laura distinguish better? At any rate there was something very like compunction in the voice in which she murmured,

"You see, you have so many, Patience dear, and he is all I've got."

Oh, Laura! as if in matters, such as these, the many could ever counterbalance the one. But it may be that perceptions remain blunt or dull within the four walls of a secluded vicarage.

"What in the world is the matter with Patience this morning?" enquired Wylder of his wife next day. "She fairly snapped my head off just now! And I who believed that she was learning to subdue her temper!"

"I fear not," returned Mrs. Wylder sighing, and she added, after a moment spent in listening, "I can hear her voice now. She is addressing Jane, and is excited, very much, excited. Something must have happened to upset her. Ah, Martin! I believe you are right after all. We ought to have christened her christened her Gladys— even Gladys with a W!"

That day the hounds had a fair run. Laura Sumner was not out. Sidling up to Patience, after a kill in the open, the Lieutenant asked—

"Am I to have the honour of escorting you home; Miss Wylder?"

Truth to tell he had not been quite satisfied with her behaviour towards himself during the latter part of the previous evening, and he was anxious to re-establish their relations on the old pleasant footing.

Out of her fine, bold eyes, Patience gave him a look which was ambiguous, and which by the light of after events he vainly tried to interpret. Then in a well known, loftily, condescending manner, which came naturally to her, she answered his enquiry.

"I do not say no, it will depend on yourself. I mean to return home by the nearest way."

The first jump was a post-and-rails, which her ladyship as seen from behind seemed to take in her stride. The Lieutenant's horse pecked, and thus some further ground was lost. When he looked up it was to see Miss Wylder, superbly seated, disappearing amid the twigs of a "bullfinch," on the further side of the grass field. And that was the last he saw of her for many a day to come.

Remember, reader, that sailors are not usually the finest of horsemen, and that, whilst Patience was well mounted, and knew every inch of the surrounding country, the Lieutenant bestrode a job-horse, and was besides a comparative stranger in the land.

That evening Patience announced to her astonished parents that hunting in Gloomshire was not worth a farthing rushlight and that she had decided to accept an invitation to finish the season at Melton. What could they do but acquiesce?

So, counter-attractions being safely out of sight, the Lieutenant and Laura gradually settler down into their old relationship at the Vicarage. And Patience?  She prolonged her visit to the Midlands until after their engagement had been announced.

So perhaps, after all, a warm temper may co-exist with some of the virtues— such as, for instance generosity and the capacity to self-sacrificing friendship!

___________________

23: Uncle Sambuq's Fortune

Paul Arène

1843-1896

Cobram Courier 2 April 1896

(Strand Magazine, 1896)

TROPHIME COGOLIN, generally known in the district as Master Trefume, had so often related the story of Uncle Sambuq and his fortune that he had finally come to believe it himself. The simple truth of the matter was that Peter Sambuq, a ne’er-do-well who had given his parents no end of trouble, had shipped as an ordinary seaman on a three-master one fine day in the year of grace 1848, and had never been seen or heard of since. These hard facts were too ridiculously simple for the worthy friends and relations of the vanished Peter; they could not understand how anyone could set out for America without reaching that continent and making his fortune; so the worthy people gradually evolved the idea that Uncle Sambuq had gone and done likewise, and would one day return rolling in riches— of course, to die in due time and leave his fortune to them.

So the years rolled by, and Uncle Sambuq’s fortune grew bigger in the imagination of his people. The older relatives died, and Master Trefume became heir to his uncle. Now, it happened one day that Trefume met a sailor whose acquaintance he had made a year or so previously. This man had just returned from a voyage to the States, and Trefume seized the opportunity to offer him a glass of brandy (contraband) and ask him if he had heard of Uncle Sambuq while on the other side.

The sailor, probably out of politeness, and in order to please Trefume and his wife, informed them that he had a distinct recollection of having on several occasions met an individual (on the quays of New York) who was undoubtedly very wealthy indeed, and was the exact image of Sambuq. That settled the matter; there could no longer be any doubt that Uncle Sambuq had reached America and made his pile, as any other reasonable person would do.

On the following day Trefume again met the sailor— or perhaps it was the sailor who made a point of meeting Trefume; be that as it may, the result of the meeting was another glass of brandy for the sailor, further questions about Uncle Sambuq, and a confidential communication to the effect that the stranger in New York was really the long-lost Peter, for he had spoken to the mariner concerning his relatives, and had dropped mysterious hints as to his intentions towards them.

The Trefumes became the envied ones of the neighbourhood. Uncle Sambuq and his fortune— especially his fortune— were the chief topic of conversation for many a day among the inhabitants of the whole district. The Trefumes lived happy and contented, patiently awaiting the time when they would have their share of the millions amassed by Peter Sambuq.

A FEW MONTHS passed away. One morning, when he was least expecting it, he received a letter from New York. The letter bore the seal of the French Embassy. Trefume carried that precious letter about with him all day, without breaking the seal, in order to show it to his friends. Not till the evening, in the presence of his wife and children, his hands trembling with excitement, did he venture to open it. It was somewhat bulky— probably it contained bank-notes. The papers were carefully taken from the envelope and proved to be— Sambuq’s death certificate and a brief note from the Embassy.

“So he is dead?” said his wife.

“Of course he is,” replied Trefume; “doesn’t the Ambassador say so?”

There was silence. None of them had known the dead man, but they had thought so much about him that it seemed as though they had been on intimate terms with him, and they were able to squeeze out a tear.

“The Ambassador doesn’t say anything about the fortune,” observed Trefume’s better half, wiping her eyes.

“I suppose you want him to tell us all about it straight off before the man is fairly dead,” replied Trefume, sarcastically. “We can wait, and he knows it. He’ll write again in a day or two.”

He looked again at the envelope and noticed that it was addressed to “Monsieur Sambuq or Monsieur Cogolin.” As all the Sambuqs were dead and he was the only Cogolin, it was natural that the letter should have been delivered to him, and the vagueness of the address did not inspire in the simple man any misgivings as to the fortune any more than did the brief note from the Embassy.

But, strange to say, the Ambassador omitted to write that other letter. As the time went on surprise deepened into anxiety; a veritable fever— a gold fever— took possession of them; they lost interest in everything, they could think of nothing but Sambuq’s millions, and wonder what had become of them. At length their anxiety reached such a pitch that Trefume announced his intention of undertaking a journey to New York— a decision which met with the full approval of all concerned.

“I sha’n’t be away more than a month— or two,” said Trefume, “and the boy can look after the boat. A few hundred francs won’t break us; besides, I know I shall be ill if I don’t go and see what’s going on over there.”

I have said that everyone approved the decision. I may add that had it been otherwise it would have made no difference. When Trefume got an idea into his head it wanted some getting out.

He travelled to Havre and embarked on a vessel bound for New York. He knew absolutely nothing of the great city which he was approaching; he could not speak the language— he was as helpless as a child in a wood. He began to get very anxious, and looked around for somebody to confide in and obtain assistance from. He tried the under-steward, a fellow-countryman, but the latter was too busy to be bothered. Trefume, however, refused to be shaken off, and the under-steward, in desperation, glanced about for somebody to whom he could refer the persistent fisherman, and so get rid of him.

“Here!” he said, pointing to two of the passengers; “those are the men to help you. They know New York so well that they could find their way blindfold anywhere in the city. Try them!”

Trefume looked at the men and thanked his compatriot heartily. He was delighted at the thought of meeting two people who were so well acquainted with New York. They were two shifty-looking Yankees, who had been left very severely alone on the voyage. He went towards the two passengers, who, after exchanging a word or two between themselves, walked away before he could reach them. Trefume walked after them, but they still avoided him and began conversing earnestly together. The fisherman hesitated; he thought they had something private on, and he did not wish to intrude. It never entered his head that they were avoiding him. He did not intend to lose his chance, so he continued to walk after them at a respectable distance. Two or three times, when he thought the moment opportune, he approached them hat in hand and attempted to speak to them in his best French, but was met with a scowl and a growl which made him retire. He put it down to American— or English— manners, and with a sigh he withdrew for a few minutes.

The two Americans were evidently much perplexed at the strange conduct of their fellow-passenger; they were worried about it, too; so, finally, they spoke to the under-steward concerning Trefume. The official was more busy than ever, but he was fond of a joke, and thought he might as well enliven the routine of the day by a little fun.

“You know that there has been a big robbery in Paris?” he said, in a confidential whisper. “Well, I wouldn’t mind betting that this man is Jean Ernest, the cleverest detective in France, who is on the track of the thieves and has disguised himself as a fisherman from the South.”

The two men looked at each other, thanked the under-steward, and dived into their cabin, from which they only emerged when the ship was actually alongside the quay.

Poor Trefume looked for them in vain; they got off the steamer unobserved by him, and he was left to find his way about New York as best he could.

How he went through the rest of that day, where he lodged at night, he never knew. He began again on the following day, looking for the Embassy, asking the way in his provincial French, and being laughed at and treated with contempt as an impostor, until, sick at heart, and thoroughly discouraged, he sat down on a doorstep and began to cry.

Uncle Sambuq might have journeyed to his native country to die, and thus have made things easier for his heir!

After a few minutes he plucked up courage and determined to try again. He had just reached the end of the street when he saw one of the Americans to whom the under-steward had referred him on the steamer. He had changed his clothes and cut off his beard, but Trefume was positive that it was the same man.

“Monsieur, monsieur!” he cried, running towards the man.

Whether the man heard the words or not, he took to his heels as soon as he saw the Frenchman running.

“What!” said Trefume to himself, in an indignant tone. “This man knows New York as well as I know Endoume, and he won’t help me! I’ll see about that.”

Away they went, the American and Trefume. In vain the former doubled this corner and that; his pursuer stuck to him until, thoroughly exhausted, the American took refuge in a bar and awaited the arrival of his pursuer.

“So I have you at last!” exclaimed the Frenchman. “Why did you run away and give me all this trouble? Now you must―”

“Hush!” interrupted the American, turning pale in spite of the violent exercise. “Don’t make a fuss,” he continued, in excellent French; “that will be of no use. Come and sit down in this corner.”

“Ah! that’s better,” thought Trefume. But he simply looked knowingly at the man and took a seat.

“I know what you have come to New York for,” said the man.

“Good again!” thought the fisherman; but before he could speak, the American continued:—

“We can arrange this little affair, can’t we, without further bother?”

“Of course we can!” exclaimed Trefume, thinking still that the man was talking about Uncle Sambuq’s fortune.

“That’s agreed. Now, how much do you want?”

“My fair share, of course!” replied the Frenchman.

“I’ll give you this pocket-book— it has one hundred thousand francs in French notes— I have not had time to exchange them for American money. They are good, you need not be afraid that they are bad or stopped. Will that satisfy you?”

One hundred thousand francs! It was an immense sum; but was it a fair share? How much was Uncle Sambuq worth?

“Is that my fair share?” asked Trefume, doubtfully.

“How much do you expect?” asked the other, irritably. “It was a good thing, but it wasn’t a gold-mine, and there are several to share it. It’s either that or nothing!”

“Well! I’ll take it!” said Trefume, beginning to fear that he might lose all.

“Very well! Now, you have this on condition that you go back in the Bretagne, and the Bretagne starts in two hours. And remember, you have never seen me!”

“Done!” exclaimed Trefume.

The pocket-book was handed to him, and he scrutinized the notes. They were all right. He tried to explain it all to himself; he was not clear on some points; but the more he tried to think it out, the more confused he became. Only one thing was clear: he had succeeded in getting a good slice of Uncle Sambuq’s fortune and was now a rich man.

They remained where they were for an hour, then the American went with him to procure a ticket, saw him safely on board, and watched him until the ship started on its voyage across the Atlantic.

Thus it came about that Master Trefume, having had the good fortune to be taken for a detective, became the heir of Uncle Sambuq, who had died penniless in a hospital a few weeks before!

As to Trefume, he was never able to arrive at any proper understanding of the affair, but he did not worry himself much on that head. Later on, when he had given up work and donned a frock-coat, he used to shake his head and declare, with much gravity, that in business matters those American fellows were far ahead of any other people. See how quickly they settled that little matter of Uncle Sambuq’s Fortune.

_____________________

24: The Walled Chamber

Anonymous

Singleton Argus (NSW) 24 August 1912

STANLEY NEVILLE and I had been college chums. Then we lost sight of each other for six years, and met again by the purest accident at Biarritz, that delightfully cosmopolitan seaside resort in the south of France. The meeting, as far as I was concerned, was most opportune, as I had that morning received a letter from a friend who had promised to join me in a walking tour through the Spanish provinces of the Pyrenees, saying that owing to the serious illness of a near relative he would be unable to do so.

Naturally, this up-et my plans, but sooner than be disappointed I had made up my mind to undertake the trip alone. To my great joy, however, I discovered that it was a similar object, that had brought Neville to the South of France, and we at once decided to undertake the walk together.

As there was nothing to detain us at Biarritz, we took the first train the following morning to St. Jean de Luz, at that time a quaint, old-world little seaport town, six miles, distant from Biarritz, but now a good deal spoilt from a picturesque standpoint by the advent of modern villas and boarding establishments, while, the rough cobble paved streets have given place to smooth, well kept highways.

Here we left the train, and instead of following the main road leading into Spain by way of the frontier town of Irun, on the famous Bidasoa River, we bore away to the south-east, intending to take one of the many mule-tracks crossing the westerly spurs of the Pyrenees, and avoid as much as possible the beaten roads.

Neville was a good linguist, and spoke French and Spanish with equal fluency. He also had a knowledge of Basque, which is the common language of that part of the Pyrenees. In appearance he was a well set up man, with an open, pleasant countenance, though at times there was a dreamy far-away look in his eyes. On such occasions he would suddenly become quite oblivious to his surroundings, and I have frequently had to speak to him several times before attracting his attention.

But the moat striking characteristic about him was his complexion. It was more than dark—it was positively swarthy. Even for a Spaniard or an Italian it would have been noticeable, but for an Englishman it was remarkable. I had often wondered from what branch of his family he had inherited it, for his parents had been in no way remarkable for their colour, being both a sort of happy medium between the two extremes. On the other hand, his sister, whom  in her features bore an obvious resemblance to him, had a fair skin, wavy brown hair shot with gold, and deep blue eyes. I knew every mood of those eyes," because— but never mind about that: they have no part in this story, and I am talking about her brother, whose hair and eyes were black as the ace of spades.

These ideas were passing through my mind when Neville broke in upon the train of my thoughts.

"I suppose," he said, "you have often wondered where I got my black pelt from?"

I admitted that I had been pondering over the problem when he mentioned it.

"That's queer. A sort of mental telepathy, I suppose," remarked Neville, seating himself on a rough stone wall that marked the boundary of a grove of chestnut trees. "Sit down, and I'll tell you something that may interest you."

When Neville talked he was always worth listening to.

"Go ahead," I replied, seating myself beside him. "A few minutes spell will do us no harm. I don't know how you feel, but I am pretty warm."

Neville lit a cigarette. He was an inveterate cigarette smoker, and it was one of the few things I had against him, that his fingers were always stained with nicotine.

"Do you know, old chap, that the subject of my complexion used to give me a deuce of a lot of worry. I didn't mind the tint, because I don't think I would have cared if I had been as red as a carrot and as speckled as a turkey's egg. It  was the fact of being black that bothered me. I am one of those fellows, as you know, who likes to get at the bottom of things, and as I could see no good reason for my colour, the hunt after one began to get on my nerves. It was only by the merest chance that I got on the right trail.

"But before I go on I ought to tell you that my father was the most unromantic and least imaginative man you could possibly meet. I am afraid most. people who came in contact with him outside of business found him rather dull and oppressive. Small blame to him, either, for when he was young his advantages were but few, and his whole life was spent in building up the fortune his father lost at the card table, and, as you know, he succeeded pretty well. But as for the past history of our family, I don't believe he ever gave it a thought, and, as you know, it goes hack for over a thousand years. Certainly, he never tried to recover any of the heirlooms, which had been sold by my grandfather to meet his gambling debts, and it has only been at great trouble and considerable cost that I have unearthed as many as I have.

"Well, the other day I happened to be in the shop of a dealer in antiques and second-hand furniture when I came suddenly face to face with what at first glance I thought was a portrait of myself in fancy dress. A closer examination, however, convinced me that it was a genuine old painting, executed upon wood. Convinced that in some way the picture was connected with our family, I made inquiries of the dealer, and learned that it was actually the portrait of an ancestor of mine, one Maurice Neville, who had come to an untimely end in a duel exactly a hundred years ago.

"Seeing that I was greatly interested, and possibly observing the likeness between myself and the subject of the picture, the dealer told me that he believed he had some papers relating to the picture, and if I would call the following day he would endeavour to find them for me.

"The papers referred to proved to be some notes made by the man who had purchased the picture from my grandfather, and they accompanied it to the dealer's shop, when, at his death, it was once again sold. They referred to the picture chiefly, but incidentally mentioned a remarkable event in the history of my family, of which my sister and I, although the most interested parties, had not the slightest knowledge. Briefly stated, the facts as related by the writer of the notes are these, and I think when you have heard them, you will admit that they do not lack a spicing of romance.

"You remember, of course, how proud I used to be to consider myself an Englishman. Well, if the writer of those notes is correct, and I have a sort of an idea that he is, I am really a good deal of a Spaniard. But not only have I  Spanish blood, but I have a considerable dash of the tar-brush in me too, for an ancestor appears not only to have fallen in love with a beautiful Moorish girl, but to have committed the further indiscretion of marrying her.

"This event took place in the fifteenth century, shortly after Ferdinand the Catholic, by his marriage with Isabella, had united Castile and Aragon, and just as he was in the middle of his crusade against the Moors, which was finally to drive them out of Spain.

"Unfortunately for himself, the ancestor, who was a Spanish noble, appears to have been high in favour at Court when he committed this lapse, consequently his fall was the greater. Ferdinand was a man of austere religious ideas, and, having just established the Inquisition, felt himself bound to mete out exemplary punishment. Exactly what became of him is not disclosed, but the notes are more detailed regarding the fate of his Moorish wife. Quotations from old chronicles of the time say that the devil flew away with her, but it is generally believed that she was walled up alive in her husband's castle at Navarre. Anyhow, she first gave birth to a daughter, who was taken to England, and eventually married a Neville, from whom we are directly descended."

"You are right, old chap; the story is weird and romantic enough for anything." I remarked, when he had concluded. "But what a pity yon don't know the name of this castle, or even where it is. We shall be in Navarre tomorrow, and may even now be quite close to it."

"Exactly. But then, of course, the story may have no foundation in fact. Still, the colour of my skin certainly seems to lend it a show of possibility."

Two days later we were sauntering along a road that had evidently been cut out of the face of a cliff of solid rock. On our right the beetling rocks rose to a height of four hundred feet, while on our left a thick, low wall protected pedestrians and wheeled traffic from a sheer drop of as many feet, into the rocky bed of a river that flowed below. The road was descending by easy grades into a fertile valley, one end of which was opening before us as we wound round the cliff.

The tinkling of hells heralded the approach of a string of mules carrying goat skins filled with wine, and a man ploughing, with two oxen yoked to a wooden plough, in the valley below, bore the mind back to mediaeval times, and lent an additional charm to a scene already striking enough in itself from the point of natural beauty. The by-paths of Spain, or of any country with a stirring and brilliant past, have never failed to make a deep and lasting impression on my mind. But I felt that even without the halo of a romantic past hovering over the land I could never forget that mountain torrent hurtling through its rock-bound channel, and a moment later gliding serene and noiseless between reed and osier-lined banks, to feed the rich flats of a fertile valley; nor that time could ever erase from my mind the recollection of the towering heights of the Pic du Midi, that away to the east reared their snow-rapped pinnacles, majestic and unchanging, to the eternal skies.

We had both stopped the better to the beauty of the scene. Neville, his foot resting on the stone wall, was gazing down into the valley, with that I faraway look in his eyes I have said sometimes came into them. For fully ten minutes he remained silent, seeing, yet apparently not noting, the details of the prospect.

"You will believe me," he said, turning suddenly towards me, and I noticed that his eyes had regained their normal expression, "when I tell you that I have never been in this part of Spain before?"

"Certainly I'll believe you, old chap," I replied, smiling at his vehemence. "But even if you had been here, I don't see that the fact would constitute a crime."

"Yes, but do you know that unless I was absolutely sure I had never been here before, I could quite easily persuade myself I had. With very few and trifling exceptions every detail of the landscape scorns familiar to me. One of the exceptions is that the road we are now on was much narrower, as I seem to have known it."

"Possibly you may have seen this view reproduced in a picture," I suggested. "It is one an artist would delight to paint."

"No, I don't think so. Pictures can't look round corners, can they? You see, almost two hundred yards further on, that the road takes a sharp turn to the right. Very well, I am positively certain that I could describe to you exactly what we shall see when we get round it. And to prove my words, I shall do so now. About a quarter of a mile from us, and standing on a small hill in the centre of the valley, we shall see a fine castle, with moat, drawbridge, portcullis, and donjon. As the place seems to be well kept, and in excellent preservation, I suppose some American millionaire has bought an old feudal castle, and had it repaired as a kind of hobby. About a mile beyond the castle is a small village, or hamlet. It is a wretched sort of place, and the huts— they are only hovels at best— look more like pigsties than the homes of men and women, though there is a tine monastery immediately beyond it. You will also see when we get round the corner that the castle is connected with the village by a stone causeway which is raised above the level of the marsh, because it is all marsh between the castle and the hamlet. Hang it all, the place where that chap is ploughing down there ought to be marsh, too, instead of solid ground. Somehow, also, I seem to think the whole valley should be alive with wildfowl, and fellows with hawks on their wrists hunting them."

"Well, seeing is believing," I said, leading the way towards the bend in the road; "and I am quite prepared to believe in your occult powers when I get ocular demonstration of them."

A moment later we had rounded the corner, and I surveyed a scene considerably different to what Neville had described.

"I am afraid you will have to take up some other walk in life than that of seer, if you wish to become famous. Tell the truth and shame the devil by at once admitting that there is jolly little resemblance between the picture you conjured up and what is actually there, unless, of course, that very substantial looking little town represents your collection of wretched hovels, and that ruin a mile this side of it is your idea of the sort of place an American millionaire would consider a desirable residence. And what has become of the monastery, or the marsh, and the causeway leading over it? To complete your undoing, I'll bet you a new hat you couldn't find a feather of game in the whole of that valley."

"It is very strange," replied Neville, as though answering his own thoughts rather than my words.  "The places are exactly where I described them, but they are not as I seem to have seen them. I cannot understand it."

While he had been speaking I had been examining the view through my field-glasses.

"There certainly does appear to be the remains of an old building on the other side of the town which by a stretch of imagination might represent a monastery. But as far as I can see there are only a couple of arches and a few fragments of walls standing. Here, look for yourself."

For several minutes Neville gazed intently through the glasses. In the meantime I was pondering over a strange and startling idea that had come into my mind.

"Well, are you satisfied now?" I asked, replacing the glasses in their case. He took no notice of my question, but walked beside mc for some distance in silence.

"Do you believe in pre-existence? Don't answer we till you have heard exactly what I mean," he added; seeing that I was about to reply. "What I mean is, that the soul, being, as we believe, everlasting, is it not feasible to suppose it may retain memories of sights and events with which it came in contact in the long ago? Or do you believe that an entirely new soul enters the body of every child born; I confess that if the latter view is correct, I find it hard to account for certain mental characteristics which frequently run through several generations of one family."

"Now, you are putting to me questions quite beyond my ken. Still, it is a rather curious coincidence that some such idea was running through my mind when you spoke. I understand you to suggest, that your family, having been at one time residents of these parts, your mind, by the working of some form of telepathy, has harked back through the centuries, and you remembered this place as it must have appeared in the days of your forefathers. If that is so, I do not see anything extravagant in the idea."

"I am awfully obliged to you, old fellow, for not thinking I am insane," he said. laughing. "But let us hurry on and get to this place. I am beastly curious to learn the history of that old castle."

On reaching the town— it was merely a village when we got there— we found it was far more attractive from a distance than on closer inspection, and it had about it that depressing air of slowly falling into decay characteristic of all Spanish, towns I have ever been in.

The evening meal was just about to be served as we entered the village inn, an old-fashioned, rambling half the ground floor of which appeared to be devoted to the housing of cattle, mules, and poultry. The only other guest at the table was the village priest, a kindly, simple minded old man, who had lived his whole life in the place, and whose travelling consisted of an occasional journey of some thirty miles to the neighbouring town of Pampeluna.

The padre was a veritable encyclopaedia of local knowledge. He seemed to know the history of every stone in the place, and was deeply versed in the folklore of the district, while a good deal of the superstition of the Middle Ages still clung tenaciously to him. Neville could not have found anyone better versed in the history of the old castle had he hunted Spain.

"Yes, would the old ruin speak, it could tell of wild scenes and dread doings. At one time it was the abode of a great and powerful noble. But in the height of his prosperity he flew in the face of Church and King by marrying a Moorish woman, and an unbeliever."

The old priest paused in his tale, and Neville nudged me under the table, just as though I were not already sufficiently interested in the narrative.

"The marriage did not become known until after the woman gave birth to a child. Then the officers of the Inquisition, which had only been recently established in Spain, seized her during her husband's absence, and, 'tis said, had her walled up alive in her own castle. It was an ill deed, señors, and I do not hold with the shedding of blood for the uplifting of religion. But it was a worse deed, and a dreadful and sacrilegious vengeance that the lord of the castle took on the Church. Learning of what had taken place, he returned with a horde of lawless men and hired assassins at his heels, gathered from beyond the mountains, and burned to the ground the beautiful monastery that once stood just outside of this town. Tradition has it that not a monk or a brother escaped— all were put to the sword. But the abbot, and eleven of the foremost monks, he took away to his own castle, and there crucified them in sight of all men, blasphemously calling them the twelve apostles."

"Did yon ever hear what became of the husband and his child?" asked Neville.

"Not for a certainty, señor: but it is thought that the child, which was a girl, was carried away to England, and that the father abjured the Church, and spent his life leading the infidel hosts against the armies of Spain. It is a terrible story, señors, and I would it were not true."

"It will be full moon to-night," remarked Neville, speaking in English. "What do you say if we go and explore the old ruin at the witching hour of twelve?"

Remembering the discourtesy of speaking in a language the priest did not understand, Neville repeated his suggestion in Spanish.

"Banish the thought, I beg of you, señor," implored the old priest, crossing himself devoutly. "I have heard it is the custom in these days to laugh at such things, but the place has an evil reputation, and none of the inhabitants of will remain even in its vicinity after dark. I tell you solemnly, señors, that I would not adventure myself there at night unless with the protection of some holy relic, and then only to shrive a passing soul."

For some time the old priest continued to entreat Neville to abandon his object, and seeing his earnestness we promised to do so. On my part the promise was given readily enough, for somehow the prospect of that midnight visit held few attractions for me.

The room which Neville and I shared was spacious though low, and the great time-blackened rafters made it appear lower than it really was. The dingy lamp supplied by the landlord had a hard battle to assert itself against the bright rays of the moon that streamed in through the open windows.

We had had a big day's walk, and my head was no sooner on the pillow than I was off into a dreamless sleep. It was midnight when I waked again. I know that was the time, for I remember, half asleep as I was, counting the strokes as a distant clock chimed the hours. Then I dozed off again, but only for a moment.

A sweet, heavy scent, something like the perfume of attar of roses, filled the room. At first I thought it had been wafted in through the open windows from some neighbouring garden. But the recollection of the stables in the basement, with their evil smells, and the gloomy houses crowding round the inn, convinced me that it could have no such origin, though it brought me no nearer a solution of the problem.

A movement in the other bed caused me to look in that direction. Neville was sitting up, his face in the full glare of the moon. I saw that his eyes, though open, knew nothing of their surroundings, like the eyes of a sleepwalker. And yet I noticed that they were not fixed, but seemed to be intently following the movements of some unseen thing in the room. Then the silence was broken, and I heard a woman's voice speaking in the soft tongue of Old Castile.

I looked into every corner of the room, but could see no one. But, stranger still, I could not detect even from what direction came these soft, pleading accents. Low and sweet as the notes of an Aeolian harp in the breath of summer, the voice seemed to pervade the whole room, like the echo of distant music.

"You have come, my beloved!" it said. "In the maze of thick blackness you have found your true love who has awaited your coming through the uncounted years. Come, my adored. Why tarry you?"

"Soon, mine own, have patience. I shall be with you soon."

The words were Neville's, but he spoke as one answering in his sleep.

"Not soon, but now," came the answer. "This very night, beloved, to part no more."

Neville made no reply, but he stretched out his hands as though he would clasp a loved one to his bosom, and there came into his face a look of radiant joy.

Next moment he had jumped out of bed and was rapidly putting on his clothes. He dressed himself with as much care as though we were about to continue our journey. In the meantime I vainly endeavoured to attract his attention while I hastily slipped on some clothing, for I saw that he was bent on going out, and I was determined to follow wherever he might go.

Until that moment I had scarcely realised the weird aspect of these strange happenings, and I certainly had not felt the slightest tinge of fear. But when I got into the cool night air, and was struggling to keep pace with Neville, he was making straight across the fields in the direction of the old castle, I confess that I felt my flesh creep, and I would have given the world for a companion.

Neville reached the ruin fifty yards ahead of me, and an owl welcomed his arrival with a dismal hoot. He seemed to know exactly where he was going, for on entering he at once crossed what had been a courtyard, and, turning sharply to the right, entered a small roofless chamber. He went up to one of the walls, and stood looking fixedly at it for a moment. Following his gaze, I noticed that at one time there appeared to have been a doorway at this spot, which had since been walled up. Before I could conjecture what the reason for this had been, I saw Neville slip his hand into his hip pocket and take out a revolver, which he pointed at his own head.

Overcome with horror, I was about to spring forward in the hope of wresting the weapon from him, when the figure of a woman suddenly appeared before me, barring my way with outstretched arms. Her complexion was dark, and she wore a mocking smile on her beautiful features, while her hair was ornamented with gems of barbaric beauty. As the report of a shot rang out the figure vanished, and I fell swooning to the ground.

When I came to I was lying on my bed at the inn, with the old priest sitting beside me. It appears that when the good man missed us he at once suspected that, in spite of our promise, we had gone out to the ruin, and himself went in search of us, with the result that he discovered poor Stanley Neville dead, with a bullet in his brain, and me lying insensible on the ground. After Neville's body had been sent home for burial, I obtained leave to explore the old castle, and immediately set about having the stones removed from the walled-in doorway before which Neville had shot himself. Behind it was found  a small recess about three feet square, upon the floor of which lay a heap of human bones, fragments of gold embroidery, and some beautiful but barbaric looking jewels. Those jewels I knew at once, for I had seen them upon the night of Neville's death as clearly as I can see the page upon which I write these words.

End

_____________________

The Past Masters  Anthology Series

Cumulative Index

To Past Masters Fifteen

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

W. L. Alden

Hopkins' Safe  15

Monty's Friend 15

Starkweather's Circular Hotel  15

Grant Allen

The Conscientious Burglar P

Raymund Allen

Allah Knows Best 13

The Black Knight 13

The Winning Move 13

Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews:

The Butler 6

Anonymous

Adventure of the Rubber Pipe 11

By a Miscalculation 12

A Detective's Story 12

The Fatal Trapdoor  15

Martin Guerre 12

The Walled Chamber 15

Paul Arène

Uncle Sambuq's Fortune  15

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

J. D. Beresford

Cut-Throat Farm  15

Leslie Beresford

Black Cats For Luck 15

Diamonds for the Duchess 15

Feminine Feathers  15

Light-Fingered Looting 15

The Man in Khaki 15

Murder in Oils  14

Poker Hand 15

Understudy 15

John Bickerdyke

A Fearful Night 12

Earl Derr Biggers

Volcano-Mad 3

Harold Bindloss

The Evicting of Grainger 9

The Tempter 6

Ottwell Binns

Phantom Gold 15

The Prodigal Son, V.C. 11

The Remittance Man  15

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

Through Toil and Tribulation 13

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

J. Storer Clouston

The Fortunate Lord Fabrigas 13

Magic 13

The Trials of Tony 13

Sir George B. Douglas, Bart.

Patience  15

Arthur Conan Doyle:

The Disintegration Machine 10

The New Catacomb P

When the World Screamed 12

Frank Condon

A New Year's Surprise 13

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

Heath Crichton

A Country House Surprise  15

The Gold Mummy  15

The Midnight Guest 15

The Mystery of the Hotel Royal  15

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 Fifth Domino (as by John Morris) 12

The Gift to See Ourselves as Others See Us  8

George Allan England

Arson in the Jungle 10

The Longest Side 14

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

Jacques Futrelle

Room 666   14

Tom Gallon

The Vengeance of Adam Rook  11

John Galsworthy:

Acme 3

Cosmo Hamilton:

Proofs of  Guilt 10

The Mirror of Nature 12

The Silent Witness 5

Floyd Hamilton Hazard

Front!  13

Headon Hill

The Sapient Monkey  9

Robert J Horton:

The Ninety-Ninth Proposal 4

Fergus Hume

Tragic Voyage  14

6: The Seaside Girl 15

7: The Blue Vase / Fergus Hume

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

Lord Kilmarnock

A Man's Hand  14

Otis Adelbert Kline:

The Phantom Wolf-Hound 4

Stephen Leacock:

The Prince of Wurttenburg P

William Le Queux:

Cheating The Spies!  14

The Open Eye 11

Sheer Profit P

John Luther Long

Madame Butterfly 14

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

C. S. Montanye

Come Back to Aaron 14

Death With Music 14

Fog is Necessary  14

Ink  13

Ivan’s Foe 13

Merry Month of Mayhem 14

A Shock for the Countess 13

This Will Kill You 13

Lawrence Mott

Nab  13

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

A Strange Conspiracy 13

The Tower Ghost 8

"Ouida"

The Eldest Born 13

Frank L Packard

Corporal Bob  12

Barry Pain

Albert Theodore Parish 11

Amphistamium Formosum  10

Clubs and Hearts  7

The Dog's Understudy 11

Hasheesh 11

"If"  13

Some Imitations 6

Twelve Minutes 6

Marjorie Pickthall

Mannering's Men 6

Mabel Quiller-Couch

A Condoned Crime 11

Frederic Reddale

Galleon Gold 12

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

The Anarchist 12

The Anticipator 12

The Arbitrator 12

An Edited Story 12

The Figure-head of the "White Prince" 12

The Judgment Of Paris 12

A Man's Death 12

Her Memory 7

A Pawned Kingdom 12

The Pedestal 6

Round the World in a Hurry 12

Two Men and a River 12

The Wedding Eve 12

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 Hands of Killian 12

The Murdered Wife 11

Spider Tong  M

The “Smuggler’s Daughter”—Five Reels 12

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

Annie Swan

Aunt Caroline  14

Sir Basil Thomson

The Vanishing of Mrs. Fraser P

Guy Thorne

The Flirt 10

Major Marlowe's System 13

On Christmas Night 13

Puzzle Phyllis 6

Reward of Revenge 12

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"

Monk's Mark 13

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

Victor L. Whitechurch

Stopping an Execution 12

Raoul Whitfield

Death in the Pasig 14

The Great Black  14

Inside Job  14

Oscar Wilde

The Canterville Ghost  8

Valentine Williams

Blind Guess M

C N and A M Williamson

The Dazzle Plot  8

John Strange Winter

Hunks 12

P. C. Wren

Simple 6

Leroy Yerxa

Through the Asteroids— to Hell! 15

Arthur Leo Zagat

Beyond the Spectrum  M

Israel Zangwill

Cheating the Gallows  9

_____________________

Table of Contents

- 1: The Midnight Guest /

- 2. A Country House Surprise / Heath Crichton

- 3: The Gold Mummy / Heath Crichton
- 5: Phantom Gold / Ottwell Binns
- 6: The Seaside Girl / Fergus Hume
- 7: The Blue Vase / Fergus Hume
- 8: The Fatal Trapdoor / Anonymous
- 9: Hopkins' Safe / W. L. Alden
- 10: Poker Hand / Leslie Beresford

- 11: Diamonds for the Duchess / Leslie Beresford

- 12: Light-Fingered Looting / Leslie Beresford

- 13: Feminine Feathers / Leslie Beresford
- 14: Black Cats For Luck / Leslie Beresford
- 15: Understudy / Leslie Beresford
- 16: The Man in Khaki / Leslie Beresford
- 18: Monty's Friend / W. L. Alden
- 19: The Remittance Man / Ottwell Binns
- 20: Cut-Throat Farm / J. D. Beresford

- 21: Through the Asteroids— to Hell! / Leroy Yerxa

- 22:  Patience / Sir George B. Douglas, Bart.

- 23: Uncle Sambuq's Fortune / Paul Arène
- 24: The Walled Chamber / Anonymous
- Cumulative Index