Past Masters Sixteen
Author: Various
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Description: 27 more short stories in the Life + 70 public domain, collected from on-line newspaper collections and magazines. Starting with purest fantasy by Charles Leonard Moore, and including romance by May Wynne and Lilian Quiller-Couch, humour by Bruno Lessing and Howard Dwight Smiley, and a miscellany of other genres. 1: The Lion Rug / Charles Leonard Moore 2: The Mated Rubies of Kyat Pyen / W. C. Morrow 3: The Professor's Panther / Dallas Lore Sharp 4: The Burglars / Kenneth Grahame 5: The Man Who Lifted the Blind / E. Phillips Oppenheim 6: As It Happened To Moey / Bruno Lessing 7: A Happy Solution

PAST MASTERS

SIXTEEN

2020

Produced by "Pulpmeister"

(Terry Walker)

Contents

1: The Lion Rug / Charles Leonard Moore

2: The Mated Rubies of Kyat Pyen / W. C. Morrow

3: The Professor's Panther / Dallas Lore Sharp

4: The Burglars / Kenneth Grahame

5: The Man Who Lifted the Blind / E. Phillips Oppenheim

6: As It Happened To Moey / Bruno Lessing

7: A Happy Solution / Raymund Allen

8: The Other Man's Boots / Richard Marsh

9: Shadows / F. St. Mars

10: Moritsky's Ward / Bruno Lessing

11: In Masquerade / Alice & Claude Askew

12: Smokeless  Tobacco / Howard Dwight Smiley

13: The Tiara / May Wynne

14: An Exciting Week / Lilian Quiller-Couch

15: The Mysterious Englishman / William Le Queux

16: Peter Pirnie's Prison-House / Sir George Douglas, Bt.

17: The Dragon Casket / Headon Hill

18: The Gunman from the Underworld / Headon Hill

19: The Fierce Eyes / Headon Hill

20: Behind the Cupboard / Headon Hill

21: The Scarecrow / Mrs. Baillie Weaver

22: The Poultry Yard / Marmaduke Pickthall

23: Cal Wood's First Case / William H Hamby

24: "I Have Killed a Man!" / Richard Marsh

25: The Honour of Two / J. S. Fletcher

26: The Story without a Title / Andrew Soutar

27: Giving him his Chance / Richard Marsh

Cumulative Index up to Past Masters 16

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1: The Lion Rug

Charles Leonard Moore

Singleton Argus (NSW) 20 July 1912

1854–1925: American poet and essayist, born in Philadelphia. He became a lawyer and in 1878-79 served as United States Consul at San Antonio, Brazil.

THAT NIGHT the firelight seemed to concentrate all its vivifying effects on a lion skin which I had spread before my book case as a rug. It was a magnificent specimen, the maned head finely mounted, and the great limbs spread out with claws unsheathed. I had got it from an Armenian, who deemed himself in my debt. He did not pretend to have shot the beast himself, and could only vaguely report that it came from somewhere in the East. It was of the Asiatic species, and of immense size. The animal must have been a personage of the desert or jungle in his day, and, judging by the freshness of the skin, the perfect preservation of the hair, that day could not have been far distant.

As I say, the fire reflections seemed to spend their force upon the head and tawny skin of the beast as it lay fronting me. They illumined the sombre eye sockets, in which balls, of some sort of glass. I suppose, had been set. These eyes glowed and gleamed, emitting opalescent flashes. But, indeed, the whole thing seemed to throb and quiver.

Was I awake? The beast's front reared up, solid forepaws supported it. There it stood, several yards long, between me and the bookcase, over which hung my rifle and revolvers. The poker at hand was too inglorious a weapon against such an antagonist. So I sat there, motionless, waiting for developments.

The lion did not seem to be in a hurry. It shook and stretched itself, dug its claws into the polished floor, and yawned cavernously. Soon it began to move around the room, pacing with softest tread and turning its enormous bulk with sinuous ease to avoid the furniture and scattered objects. After a little it seemed to discover me, and, with slow, majestic step, approached my chair, its sombre, yet glowing, eyes enveloping me with the light projected from them. It neared me, and then, with a haughty sinking, crouched on the floor by my side. I ventured to place my hand on its head, but it shook this off as if in disdain of such petting. Then it rose and marched toward the door, looking back as if to draw me on. Thrice it did this, each time making "a back" for me on its return. My spirits began to rise.

"Ho! old fellow," I cried, "are you for an adventure?"

I sprang to my feet, and, crossing the room, took down my rifle, and slung it over my shoulder. I buckled on the cartridge belt, thrust a hunting knife through it, and was equipped. But, no! My pipe and tobacco, and some matches! And money! I opened a secret drawer in my desk, and placed a package of notes in my breast pocket. "See, old boy, I am for you!"

He was crouched in the centre of the room. I bestrode him like a horse, winding his mane about my hands. He rose up, lifting me lightly. As he did so I shut my eyes.

Whether or not I lost consciousness I cannot say, but when my eyes opened we were standing by a great rock on the edge of the desert. On one side the sand stretched away under a blazing midday sun; on the other there  were rocks scattered about, intermingled with trees, and further on shadowy forest slopes, with tangled mountain masses lifting above them.

Seeing that I was in a strange land I set to work to charge the magazine of my rifle. I had hardly done this when I heard a noise of horses' hoofs and jangling harness.

Peering around a corner of the rock, I saw a cavalcade approaching, along a rock-strewn path toward the desert. At the head rode a picturesquely attired chieftain— Arab or Turcoman— his dark face and black beard seemingly painted against his white caftan and robe. He bore a long gun, glittering with ornaments, and his horse was of matchless Arab breed. Following at a little distance, on a similar steed, was a female figure, apparently bound and swathed in veils and robes. She was guarded on each side by riders armed with spears and guns, and, bringing up the rear, were four more dark-faced fellows on horseback.

As the captive lady came nearly abreast of my rock one of the guards fell back to arrange his stirrup. As he did so the lady gave a convulsive leap from her horse and ran swiftly around the corner of the rock opposite to where I was concealed. Instantly there was a hubbub. The chieftain wheeled his horse in pursuit, and I stepped forth to confront him. There was a tremendous roar, and the lion bounded past me, met the rider, with one mighty stroke of his paw disembowelled the horse, and as the sheik fell plunging forward crushed his skull with another blow.

There were cries and shots. A spear whizzed past my head. Instantly I lifted up my rifle and poured shot after shot at the group before me.

In a moment the affray was over. Three men and three horses lay dead or dying on the ground, and the rest of the company was scampering over the desert. Leaving the lion to guard against their return, I went to look for the lady, whom I found in a faint by the side of the rock. I cut the thongs which bound her hands, and gently unwound the layers of veiling which swathed her face and form. Both were of the purest Circassian beauty. Even in collapse she was lustrous, dazzling. She was in rich and festal array. Necklaces were upon her throat and bosom, many coloured jewels gleamed on her arms and in her girdle.

Taking my helmet hat I made for a spring which bubbled up by a group of date palms a little distance away. A dash of water on the girl's face and hands brought her to. She rose, startled, and made as if to fly. I tried to make her comprehend that she was safe. She gazed on me in wonder, and then moved a few steps until she came in sight of the dead sheik and his companions. She lifted up her arms with an indescribable look of gratitude and joy, and turned toward me in confidence.

At that moment the lion, who was certainly more concerned in her rescue than I, came forward. She shrank behind me as in fear, but as he gravely crouched at our feet a look of amaze came into her face, a light of recognition. She evidently recognised him. and though still afraid, spoke to him in a thrilling voice. I could only conjecture that she had known him in captivity, had been kind to him, and had won his affection, and that the memory of her goodness and the knowledge of her peril had worked upon his spirit after death, until he had been enabled to reassume his form and bring aid to rescue her.

But it was no time for recognitions and delay. The scattered riders might return and bring others with them. Our lion evidently thought so, for he rose and set off toward the woods, stopping and looking back as though to command us to follow. Knowing nothing better to do I drew the lady to obey, first stripping from one of the dead men his long cloak, which I thought might be of service if we had to camp out.

Our path led at first through scattered boulders, then, after fording a shallow stream, under the shade of trees and up pastoral ravines. These grew thicker and thicker with foliage— towering cypresses like black pyramids, Oriental planes, oaks of many centuries' growth. Here and there were wild fruit trees, the fig, the almond, the pomegranate. As we went I plucked some of this fruit for Zetelka, for such she decidedly announced her name to be, and to assuage my own thirst. Higher up we came to hills covered with pine and wild olive, the ground being one mass of arbutus plants.

Night came suddenly on, and made preparation to camp at the head of a densely shadowed ravine, where a cool stream poured down. I gathered some twigs and branches and lit a fire. We were hungry, but there did not seem to be any prospect of supper. Looking around I missed the lion who had guided us to this spot and then had disappeared. Presently I heard a crashing in the bushes, and he came into sight, bearing in his mouth a small deer. I skinned this, cut off some of the best pieces, and resigned the rest to him. After cooling the meat in the stream I toasted some slices of it over the fire on long wooden forks, and Zetelka and I made a hearty meal. She appeared to have lost all constraint at my companionship, and accepted my services with joyous smiles.

By and by, however, her mood altered. She grew sad, as if remembering fearful things. Unable to make mc understand by words what had happened, she rose to her feet, and. with motions and gestures and signs enacted the story she had to tell me. That which her vivid pantomime made clear was this:—

Her father had accepted the suit of a worthy man for her hand. The wedding day had arrived, her family, the bridegroom and the guests had assembled, when like a storm from the desert an Arab Sheik, whose demand for her had been rejected, swooped down upon them with a multitude of horsemen. All her friends were killed, and she was seized, placed upon a horse, and carried away by the Sheik and a few followers, the main body of the force being left behind to guard the retreat.

Her bosom heaved. She pointed toward the north, and, shuddering with fear, seized my hand and urged me to continue our flight. It was useless, however, to do so in the dark, and I soothed and quieted her.

After a while I made her a bed of leaves, and, throwing a cloak over her. I laid down myself, somewhat apart. When I awoke in the morning she was nowhere to be seen. Soon, however, she appeared from behind some bushes by the brook, where she had been making her toilet. Her beautiful white feet were bare, and she held in her hand the remnants of her wedding footgear— satin slippers embossed with pearls. They were pitifully worn and torn by her scramble over rocks and through thickets. It was plainly impossible for her to proceed in them, so I took some pieces of the deer skin, and, cutting thongs, bound them upon her feet. They made clumsy but pliant moccasins. She preserved a grave composure during my operations, as though everything was right and proper under the circumstances.

Under the guidance of the lion we again took up our march. We crossed several ranges of foothills during the day, descending into wooded valleys and climbing up winding or bare slopes to their summits. Late in the afternoon we reached an eminence which gave a view upon all the ground we had passed. We were in the shadow, but afar upon the desert the sun still shone, and we caught there the gleam of arms and robes of a numerous company of horsemen making for the foothills. Well, we had a long start of them, and even if they could follow our trail, which I doubted, their horses would be useless for the pursuit.

For five days we fled through an interminable tangle of mountains and passes. The lion led us steadily, as if he knew the way, and we blindly followed. No roads or signs of human habitation appeared. If any such existed in this region our guide avoided them. The slopes and valleys were thick with wild fruit trees, and game abounded. If my rifle failed of prey the lion was a good provider, and could be relied upon to bring us food— gazelles or small deer. The character of the mountain formations now began to change. Instead of richly wooded slopes and vales we came to bare, rock-strewn chasms, towering pinnacles, and tremendous defiles. Everything about evidenced a volcanic origin.

We had climbed up one of those defiles, so deep as to be dusky at midday, when night began to close in. I was about to call a halt, but our guide moved resolutely on, so we followed him. It grew black between those black walls, but in the distance we saw a glimmer of light. Hastening on we turned a corner of the pass, and a weird scene was revealed to our sight. The rock walls fell back here, and sloped up in circular ledges, leaving a nearly flat space at the bottom. In the centre of this bubbled up a spring of fire, not a miniature volcano, but a clear fount of molten matter, which overran the lip of its cup and trickled down toward the defile. The whole amphitheatre was lit by its blaze, ledges and slabs of rock and the glassy black walls behind them being all bathed in a crimson glow.

But more astonishing still were the living inhabitants of this hall whom the illumination revealed. Crouched tier upon tier, upon the encircling ledges were the forms of two or three score of lions motionless in the light. As we appeared at the entrance of this strange rock chamber, they rose to their feet and in unison emitted one mighty roar which echoed and reverberated to the mountain peaks above. Then they sank down, motionless as before.

Zetelka, though by this time certainly used to terrific happenings, shrank to my side and hid her face on my shoulder. But our lion, with solemn majesty marched on and I followed, carrying rather than leading the girl. Our guide ascended the stairway of rock until he reached a projection which dominated all the other seats and which had been left empty.

Zetelka and I sank down beside him. Standing on this eminence, the lion gave utterance to a series of short, decisive cries. Evidently he was making a speech to the assembled conclave. All its members, by the way, were full maned males, no females or cubs being among them, and from this I inferred that they had gathered from long distances.

Then there began a strange exhibition of beast magic on the floor beneath. The other lions all descended and, forming themselves in ranks and files, went through various evolutions about the fiery spring. They wrought but with their living forms distinct designs and figures, squares and circles and pentagons and spiral serpent lines. This shuffling coil went on for perhaps twenty minutes, when suddenly all the animals halted in their tracks and gave utterance to a second tremendous roar.

I looked to our lion for support. There upon the rock beside me lay the head and hide which had decorated my study. Now indeed I was alarmed. We had lost our protector. The lions below formed in line and clambered up to our place. Slowly they passed before the remains of their dead monarch as if to pay their last respects. Their sides brushed us as they moved, but they regarded  us not. Slowly they descended again, and one by one disappeared down the defile whence we had come.

Only one remained behind, crouched by the spring. Timidly Zetelka and I descended, and he rose to greet us. Evidently he had been appointed to take the place of our departed guide.

For days, so many that I lost count of them, we wandered again through the recesses of those mountains, following our new leader. At last the hills began to grow smaller, the mountain tops sank into the background, and one morning, breasting a little rise, we came in sight of a blue sea.

"The Mediterranean!" I cried.

There was a seaport in the curve of the shore below us; steamships and trading vessels were anchored in the roadstead; houses dotted the hillside. Below us, in the ravine which swept downward, a ribbon of road gleamed amid the cypresses and olive trees.

I turned to our guide. He lifted his head to snuff the air from the sea, and then, bowing it between his paws as if to bid us farewell, he wheeled and plunged into the thicket. Hand in hand Zetelka and I descended to the city.

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2: The Mated Rubies of Kyat Pyen

W. C. Morrow

The Argonaut, November 28, 1892

William Chambers Morrow (1854-1923) was an American writer, now noted mainly for his short stories of horror and suspense.

IN ALL sorts of rubies those are taken for the male which show a quick red more fire-like than the rest: and contrariwise female, such as shine not so bright, but after a faint manner. In the male it is observed that some seem to name more clear and pure; others are darker and blacker; there be again that shine brighter than the rest, yea, and in the sun give a more ardent and burning lustre, but the best simply be those which are called amethystizontes, that is to say, that in the end of their life resemble the blue violet colour of the amethyst.

—Pliny.

THE SENSATION of the day in Paris was the caning received by that distinguished Italian, known as “Conte Alberto d’Azeglio.” It took place one afternoon before the astonished eyes of a fashionable crowd; and the fact that many of these witnesses had been flattered to entertain the handsome count in their houses added to the sense of the disgrace which overwhelmed him. Equally well known was the chastiser— Mr. Richard Harden, a Scotch gentleman of refinement and wealth. The two men had met in the fashionable circles of the French metropolis, and their friendship had been strong. This disgraceful termination of their intimacy set ever-idle tongue in vibration and uncovered a distressing scandal. More than that, it invited prying into the history of the dashing Italian. Some of the doubts and mysteries which thus came out for solution were never cleared up, partly, perhaps, by reason of the count’s disappearance; for after being released from the beating, he arose from the ground a pitiful object, his clothing torn and soiled, his face badly bruised and cut, and his black hair wet with blood; and then, looking about him, despairingly, like a fox before the hounds, he slipped into a little café, said a few words to the frightened restaurateur, disappeared into a private room, and was never seen again in the circles that had known him.

The first guess at the nature of the matter lying behind the thrashing was made by an acquaintance of Harden’s, who saw him on a train that was leaving Paris for Calais the morning after the affair. Harden had with him his little daughter (about two years old), a nurse for the child, and a valet. The acquaintance had heard of the whipping. What particularly attracted his notice was the peculiar expression of Harden’s face. He was pale, his eyes were bloodshot, and his features were drawn in a way that indicated great suffering. Next he saw that Harden’s beautiful young wife was not with him. Observing that, everything indicated a removal from Paris, the acquaintance incautiously exclaimed:

“Leaving Paris? But where is Mrs. Harden?”

Harden looked at him steadily a moment before replying:

“Yes, I am leaving Paris,” he said, and that was all; but the acquaintance felt very uncomfortable, and had a great deal to say when he returned to the city.

Harden himself disappeared, though he was known to have taken the boat for Dover, and he had a charming house in London. This house remained closed week after week and month after month. Harden certainly was in existence somewhere, for he transacted business regularly through his solicitor, who did not feel at liberty to disclose his client’s whereabouts. Nothing but pity was felt for the unfortunate gentleman, and nothing but surprise and scorn for his wife; for be assured that the stories about her were told in the clubs and homes of London. The strangest part of it all was the extreme vagueness of these rumours. Still, there could be but one conclusion— the whipping of the Italian and the abandonment of the wife by her husband were sufficient. Her family came very near making trouble for the poor solicitor. They made threatening demands, and were distracted with anxiety. They hinted at murder, and really contemplated the arrest of the poor fellow as accessory, or for concealing the murderer. But he remained firm and held his tongue. Then they employed detectives and scoured Paris and the whole continent. Some people believed that the detectives solved the whole mystery, but if they did they kept the knowledge to themselves. Certain it is that they suddenly discontinued the search for the woman, and the immediate members of her family withdrew from London and spent two years in St. Petersburg. The report came back that they wore mourning during the first year.

As for the Italian, although no one made it a business to seek out his history, queer rumours found currency. The D’Azeglios were known to be an old family in Southern Italy, and it was said that they repudiated “Count Alberto” and denounced him as an impostor. Some tried to explain this on the ground that he had been disgraced, and lacked the manhood to retrieve himself—a thing impossible with a true D’Azeglio. Indeed, his submission to the thrashing was cowardly in the extreme. He was a tall, vigorous young man, fully the equal of Harden in strength and agility; yet without any attempt at resistance, he had submitted to the whipping, even showing the most craven fear during the castigation, begging piteously to be spared.

It was rumoured, further, that he was a charlatan of a peculiar order; that he had brought trouble to divers women and wealthy young men by means of some strange power he possessed above the attraction which a singularly handsome person and insinuating manner might exercise. He had some fine jewellery, among the articles being a pair of curiously matched rubies, which he wore set as solitaires in rings. It was observed that although these gems appeared to be set in one ring, placed obliquely, there were really two rings, one stone set in each, and the rings so ingeniously made as to fit nicely together, giving the appearance of one when worn together. At times he was seen to wear but one of these rings. It was said that this or that man or woman was seen with the other. The count, when asked about the other ruby, would always parry the question lightly. Certain highly imaginative persons accredited these rings with an occult power, but thoughtful ones would only smile disdainfully when they heard such talk as that. Still it was somewhat strange that when one of the rings was missing from his hand the one that remained was always the same; and this requires mention of their peculiar colour. The one which he always wore, and which under no circumstances did he permit to leave his finger, was of a deep, fiery, lustrous red, clear and dark, and almost sinister and menacing in the steady glow of its brilliancy. The other was of a very different colour, and even more beautiful than its mate.

It was a pale rose, tinged with purple, giving a cooler, livelier, and more elastic effect, shining with matchless serenity and purity.

Once a Tuscan lapidary visited Paris, and there he learned of these two gems ; for it must be supposed that the owner of two rubies so remarkable in size and colour— indeed, their
value was almost fabulous, being many times greater than that of the finest diamonds of equal size— was conspicuous on that account alone. Being greatly interested in such matters, he found the count at a fashionable club, engaged with a group of gentlemen in conversation. The lapidary addressed his countryman in Italian, and expressed a desire to see the stones. Two or three of the gentlemen present understood the language, and their account of the interview, given after the episode of the cane, excited a great deal of interest. As reported by them, it went about in the following manner:

The lapidary, after some courteous expressions, said:

“...And, accordingly, I should be very much pleased to see the beautiful rubies of which I have heard so much—” at the same time eyeing them eagerly as they glistened on the finger of the owner.

The count looked at him sharply and suspiciously, at the first words thrusting his hand into his pocket and thus concealing the gems.

“May I ask for an explanation of this extraordinary and apparently impudent request from a stranger?” asked the count.

“With pleasure,” replied the lapidary, much embarrassed. “I am a lapidary from Tuscany. Hearing of the presence of these two rubies here, I conceived a great .desire to see them, meaning no impertinence, but moved solely by love of my art and of fine precious stones.”

“Sir,” said the count, in an overbearing manner, “I insist that your request is an impertinence, and I trust that you will take yourself hence without delay.”

The mortification of the stranger quickly turned into rage; and there, before all present, but still in Italian, he hotly said:

“And I insist that my conduct is not impertinent, but that yours is gross and ungentlemanly.” Then his eyes brightened suddenly with the recurrence of something he had almost forgotten. He sprang back, with a look both of surprise and alarm, and exclaimed: “What! are those the famous mated rubies of Kyat Pyen, for which the Sultan of Oman was murdered four years ago?” The lapidary gasped for breath, so great was his excitement, and concurrently the count became very pale and seemingly helpless.

“Oho!” exclaimed the lapidary; “the famous mated rubies, which, if separated, will come together again— married, as the old Jew dealer at Bagdad said.” Then the lapidary, apparently overwhelmed by his discovery, grew bolder. “And you dare to talk in this way to me? I know you now, sir, and, by God! all Europe shall ring with your true name in twenty-four hours―”

What more the man would have said can hardly be guessed ; for, at this juncture, the count, changing his manner abruptly, advanced, with a friendly extended hand and a smile, toward his visitor, and said:

“My dear fellow, you and I ought to be friends. Can you not understand a little pleasantry? Come, and I will tell you. all about it.” With that he led the astonished lapidary away, whispering to one of the gentlemen as he passed: “You see that the poor fellow is insane; I will quietly hand him over to the authorities.” Upon that, the two walked out arm-in-arm. Whatever became of the lapidary no one knows, and the incident was forgotten until the whipping revived it. It seems a pity that this clew was not followed to the end. Whether there ever was such a person as the Sultan of Oman, and whether he was murdered for a pair of rubies, was never clearly learned ; and as for the lapidary of Tuscany, it was only the unsupported conjecture of certain other lapidaries that a man found floating in the Seine, with his throat cut, was he.

With regard to the whipping, there is only one other established incident to be recorded. This was furnished by the restaurateur of Paris.

“The Italian swore that he would be revenged upon his antagonist in some terrible manner,” he said.

NORTH OF THE Firth of Clyde, the western coast of Scotland presents a high breast to the beating waves; and where the coast is not sheltered by the Hebrides, the sea at times runs wild and furious, belabouring the rocky rampart with thundering energy. Upon the extremity of one of the numerous headlands stands an ancient stone house in ruins, and, as it is just upon the edge of the cliff, its environment is weird and wild and its aspect bald and gruesome. Along up the peninsula, toward the mainland, there is a fair stretch of country, mostly given over to pasturage.

Some years after the incident of Paris, a modest house on the peninsula was occupied by Mr. Richard Harden and his daughter—the latter now an exceedingly pretty girl of eighteen. Established in the house, for her education and protection, were a housekeeper (an elderly woman of discretion) and such servants as were needful. As for her father, he had reappeared upon the busy scenes of life years before, but so changed that his old friends dropped gradually away and new associations were formed. His one great anxiety was on the score of his daughter ; he watched and guarded her with a pathetic solicitude that gave evidence of a warped and suspicious mind. This had kept the girl away from the many pleasures of society, and had denied her the safeguard which experience erects. The most of her life had been passed in a convent, and the stray glimpses of gray London which her father had given her brought nothing of sunshine and happiness to her life. She had no girl friends, no male admirers. Her whole life had been hedged about with that infinite care which breeds sentiment and stifles expansion. Scotch poets and romantic Scotch novelists gave her the only views of life which fell to her narrow
inspection. The housekeeper— a kindly woman, refined and educated— was her only constant companion; but this worthy person saw so little of interest in the girl, and found so little companionship with her, that whatever good effect her superior experience might have had was withheld. Upon her silent, saturnine father the daughter lavished all the affection of a really warm, impulsive, and responsive nature; these two loved each other with a touching tenderness. Evelyn found in her father’s society that masculine sympathy and companionship which her ardent and romantic nature required. He regarded every man as a villain; all requests of young men to be introduced to this charming girl had been met with a sullen denial. In the summer months he kept her here on this peninsula of the Highlands with his careful coadjutor, the housekeeper, who maintained the watch which his necessary and long absences in London prevented him from keeping. Evelyn hardly knew how other girls lived and amused themselves; after a fashion she was happy and cheerful; but her life was one of dreams, and it is in such dreams that danger lurks. What Harden’s plans for her were he never made known ; he appeared content to keep her a prisoner, so long as she was innocent and out of the way of harm. It was surmised that much of her father’s policy was explainable on the ground of his wife’s disgrace; for Evelyn had never heard that distressing story, and it was carefully withheld from her knowledge.

It became known to the peasant population of the peninsula that the old house on the bluff, some two miles from Harden’s country home, was to have a tenant. At that time the house was not so far gone into decay but that it had sound places of considerable importance. Skilled mechanics from Edinburgh swarmed over the premises, patching here, building up there, restoring and reviving house and grounds, and fitting the place for the habitation of a person of means and taste ; but they could give no definite information concerning him; they knew only that his agent had employed them, and they had heard that the incoming tenant was a Persian gentleman of great wealth. When the place had been put in order and luxuriously furnished, the stranger appeared.

By this time there had developed a lively curiosity concerning him. As all his servants were Scotch, none knew his history ; but it was learned through them that he was a singularly handsome man, whose age it was difficult to guess. His hair was nearly white, and there were sharp lines in a face otherwise singularly young and fresh. His manner, though easy and graceful, was cold, and his servants were held at a great distance. A peculiar circumstance was that he always wore a glove on his left hand, never removing it in the presence of any one. From this it was surmised that the member was artificial. Two or three scars showed in his hair and extended down upon his face.

Having settled himself comfortably, the stranger, who gave it out that his name was Hosain al-Ghazali, and who had a comfortable knowledge of the English language, began to bestir himself in the interest of his poor neighbours, and this he did with so good address that he soon became very popular throughout that end of the country. Evelyn’s curiosity about the great man had reached extensive bounds, for he was the only wealthy, cultured, and distinguished gentleman, her .father excepted, in all that comer of Scotland. She at last saw him, and under the following circumstances:

One day, she and the housekeeper were driving along a narrow road cut in the side of a steep hill, when the horses became frightened and dragged the vehicle over the grade. The ladies were thrown out and somewhat hurt among the stones and brambles. At this juncture, the Persian (it is convenient to write of him thus) drove up and instantly went to their assistance. Without calling for the aid of his coachman, he straightened out the difficulty which the ladies had encountered, all with exquisite tact, good judgment, and a conspicuously gentle and high-bred manner. During this time, Evelyn, whose heart had bounded with excitement when first the sharp light of his glance had fallen upon her, felt that his eyes were following her every movement, and that his every act and word were intended for her comfort. She had never seen so handsome a man, and she had never before experienced the deep admiration of such a man’s glance. Realizing that he must have been as old as her father, she felt that he was infinitely removed from her by the possession of qualities to which her father was a stranger and which she did not try to analyse. In words which on the surface expressed polite and meaningless admiration of her beauty, she heard a distant melody that confused and embarrassed her. The incident passed quickly away. There were no formalities, no introductions, no invitations—only thanks and a hurried and silent drive homeward.

A few days afterward, Evelyn, while taking her customary morning walk along a path through the shrubbery, saw a brilliant jewel glistening at her feet in the broad sunlight. She picked it up, and found that it was a ruby set in a ring. Not knowing its great value, she nevertheless was entranced with its beauty. She had seen rubies, but never one with the pale, purplish rose-colour of the one she now held in her hand. She took it hastily to the housekeeper, who, being an experienced woman, instantly saw that the gem was of the finest order. The two women engaged in endless speculation in trying to account for the presence of the gem in the garden. It may have lain in the gravel for years, left by a former tenant, and then accidentally uncovered. All possible steps were taken to discover the owner of the gem, including the sending of a note to the Persian; but neither he nor any one else could give any information about it. Evelyn was much excited over the circumstance, and mentioned it in a letter to her father.

If the housekeeper had ever heard of the famed mated rubies of Kyat Pyen, she had forgotten the fact, and she had been kept in ignorance of the early history of Harden’s household. What effect Evelyn’s letter had upon her father, after she had already written him of the rich Persian and the accident of the road, may be set forth later herein.

Unable to discover an owner for the ruby, Evelyn tried on the ring, and easily found a finger that it fitted. From that time forth (indeed, the beginning may have been earlier), strange and disturbing emotions beset her. It is impossible to describe the character and force of an unsophisticated sentiment under the circumstances which environed her. It appears almost idle to mention the delight that she experienced while admiring the matchless beauty of the gem as it reposed on her finger ; thus far there is to consider only the commonplace aspect of a woman’s vanity. But beyond that were feelings stronger than those which ordinarily prove most dangerous to girls. That maidenly sweetness which is most alluring is never found in company with wisdom—for wisdom and guile are hardly to be thought of apart. It were foreign to the discussion to say that the purer the innocence the greater the crime of its betrayal and the easier its accomplishment.

If any should find an unhappy condition in that assertion, I shall be pleased to say more upon the subject privately to such inquirers as are blind to the fact that the highest purity and the lowest depravity are generally yoke-fellows; and, besides that, my fiddle, dumb, as all fiddles and other agreeable things are when called upon for a sermon, is eager to sing the song of this story, and there is no story of human temptation and suffering that is lacking in melody.

Evelyn could not have analysed her feelings. The picture of the Persian—a handsome, polished, debonair man of years and discretion ; a man to whom an innocent maiden, awakening to new and startling emotions, might pour out her heart ; a gentleman refined to the tips of his fingers, chivalrous, brave, generous, of an age at which a man, if he be handsome, may become the idol of a world-ignorant girl; besides that, a Persian, and not a commonplace Englishman or a slow-moving Scotchman— the picture of this fascinating man, with eyes of unfathomable liquid depths, dwelling with caressing deference upon every line of her spring-time beauty, took up its ah ode in the inmost soul of the girl. How lonely must be his life, with no woman of his rank to serve him as friend and companion, no daughter to caress and worship him !

Uncontrollable unrest filled with wretchedness every hour of Evelyn’s life. A longing that no rebuke could suppress drove sleep from her eyes and quiet from her spirit. A few days passed in this unhappy way ; and then, late one afternoon, Evelyn, violating all precedent in her conduct, slipped away from home, hurriedly crossed a range of rugged hills that separated the estuary from the house, and soon, a mile from shelter, found herself facing a raging sea. The western sky was black with threats of an impending storm, and a yellow sun, changing to crimson, sank behind inky clouds. Heralding the storm ran a gale, which, smiting the sea, hurled it madly upon the black rocks at the foot of the cliff, swept it over them in a mad tumult of white foam, and hurled it against the rampart at her feet. Great clouds of shivering spray swept up the breast of the headland and curled back upon the thundering waves beneath. Evelyn faced the hurricane, and drank in its storm-scented odours. She looked lovingly at the ruby on her finger, and shuddered to see its cold violet colour. Unnerved perhaps by the roaring of the sea, intoxicated possibly by the sweet freshness of the wind—at all events, filled with wild emotions which she could not understand—she forced a way against the gale and headed for the extremity of the headland, which lay toward the ebon west. The great, black clouds swept onward to meet her, and no force of wind, though it tore her hair from its fastenings and stripped her head of its covering, could deter the swiftness of her flight. Whither was she bound? She could not have said. A pale, handsome face, the liquid depths of eyes that gazed upon her longingly, a consciousness of the loneliness of one into whose dreary life she might bring the light of human sympathy, shone clearly in the west between her vision and the blackness of the storm. This light guided her footsteps ; and soon it took the tangible shape of illuminated windows in gray walls that looked ghostly against the background of the clouds; for an early night had come on the wings of the storm.

The turmoil of her feelings permitted of no reflection; the inherited shrinking of Anglo-Saxon maidenhood had lost its hold upon her. The lighted windows invited protection against darkness and the oncoming storm, and behind them sat manly chivalry enthroned, embodied in one who would lay down his life to shield her. She had won the contest with the wind, but the tumult of the sea had an echo in her soul. Upon one of the furthermost western cliffs of Scotland, she stood, gazing out upon the boiling sea, while the warm light from windows near at hand streamed across the lawn and danced grotesquely beyond the wind-whipped trees. With palpitating heart and stifled breath she gazed at the great oaken doors before her. Then a moving light in an upper -window fell upon her, and a flash before her drew her glance to the ruby. The light remained fixed upon her, and the ruby continued to blaze. No longer was the colour a cold, dead violet; no longer had it that sinister deadness which the setting of the sun and the roaring of the sea had imparted; for now it was warm and gentle, infinitely soft, beautiful, and alluring. She gazed at the ruby and then at the oaken door, and then-

“My dear young lady, come at once into the house, for the storm has broken upon you.”

The velvety softness of that greeting, the warm grasp of the hand upon hers, the eyes of liquid brilliancy that gazed down into hers, had no kinship with the storm; which, indeed, unheeded by her, had burst in fury upon her, wetting her flying hair. He took her hand firmly in his, and bore her toward the house—that was the sweetness of slavery. He threw open the door and led her within. Not another soul was visible. Silently he led her up the stairs. She tottered somewhat, hut he held her safely, ushered her into a great, strange room dimly lighted, quickly made a fire in the broad hearth, drew up a chair, and seated her before the blaze. She was very pale, and more beautiful than ever in her life before. She looked at him somewhat wildly and fearfully as he busied himself to make her comfortable; then she arose in alarm, stammering a protest, thanks, and an apology, and started for the door.

“It is impossible for you to go home now, Miss Harden. Listen to the storm.”

It did not require his warning to heed the tempest. The gray house stood on the very edge of the cliff, and far below the breakers roared, and a blinding rain, mingled with spray, dashed against the panes.

“You must stay here until the storm subsides, and, meanwhile, I will send a messenger at once to inform your household that you are safe.”

It was very sweet music to her ears, and somehow it seemed to belong to the storm and the ruby.

“It is the greatest pleasure of my life,” added the Persian (known in the neighbourhood as Hosain al-Ghazali), “to be able to render assistance even so slight as this to the most beautiful woman of Europe.”

He led her back to the chair and retired. He soon returned, bringing dry clothing, and also wine and biscuits. He offered her a glass of the wine with so persuasive grace that she could not resist, and so she drank it. Then he begged her to change her gown for the dry one which he had provided, and was about to take a courteous leave of her when a dramatic thing occurred.

As he handed her the garment, she noticed a brilliant blood-red ruby on his left hand— the hand that she, the first in Scotland, had seen ungloved. He saw the start that swept over her, and noted the quick flush that flamed into her pale face and the heightened gleam that illuminated her eyes. He tossed the garment aside, and, with a smile, advanced. He took her willing left hand in his, caressed it, and gazed admiringly upon the beautiful ruby that she wore.

“And so you saw my ruby ? You, too, have a very beautiful one. Is this the one you thought I might have lost?”

“Yes,” she stammered; “and it is so very like yours, except in colour.”

He smiled and pressed her hand. “So very like!” he softly agreed. He held his hand against hers, that the likeness might be the more apparent. “How well mated they are!” he said; “and the setting— it is identical with that of mine. This is more than strange— it is destiny!” He drew her closer toward him. He stooped, and she felt his warm hreath upon her cheek. “It is destiny,” he whispered; “and the ruby and the storm have brought me this unspeakable happiness.”

Instinct took the form of impulse. She drew away from him and gazed at him in white terror. The rich oriental hangings of the dim room pressed heavily upon her sensibilities. She longed for more light. Though the room was large, she yearned for one as wide as the continent ; and she would have felt it a blessing if the storm would drive the windows from their fastenings and fill the room with its fury. Her breath came heavily; her chest was bursting with the violence of her heart-throbs.

Her gaze was fixed upon the blood-red ruby which the Persian wore. “The ruby!” she gasped; “let me have it in my hand.”

He slipped it from his finger and handed it to her. She took it, trembling in every nerve. “It is beautiful,” she said. She placed it on her finger with the other. All consciousness of the presence of the Persian seemed to pass instantly from her. “How beautiful they are! Why, the two rings fit as one l They are beautiful!” Then she pulled them both from her finger and looked around in a bewildered manner.

The Persian, with a faint look of anxiety, advanced toward her, but with a suddenly conceived alarm that seemed much like horror, she backed away from him.

“Give me my ruby,” he pleaded, making an attempt to seize the hand in which she held them, but she adroitly eluded him. A shade of anger fell upon his face and his bearing took on an aspect of threatening. She continued to retreat, regarding him with a peculiar kind of fear that filled him with dismay. She looked hurriedly about, like a bird caught in a trap; and then, with a swift desperation that his vigilance failed to arrest, she sprang to one of the windows, threw it open, and, with all her strength, sent the fatal rubies flying out into the storm, far down the cliff, and into the boiling sea at its base.

Possibly it was the furious thundering of the waves and the hoarse roaring of the wind, aided by the terrible excitement of the moment, that made them both unconscious of the entrance of an intruder, who happened to be Mr. Richard Harden, brought flying home by a terrible fear which his daughter's letters had inspired. In all this wretched work his alert suspicion had discovered the hand of his old enemy. His daughter was missing from home, and he had gone straight in the way which his fears illuminated. And so now he stood, dripping and deathly pale, in the house of his enemy, having arrived in time to see his daughter fling the jewels from the window; and in their singular beauty he recognized the fatal instrument of his wife’s destruction.

He had entered unnoticed, and he stood in silence, watching the progress of a tragedy. After throwing the rubies from the window, Evelyn tottered backward, and the Persian, aghast at what she had done, stood gazing at her a moment like a lion that has been wounded to the death. Hard, deep lines came into his face and a desperate fury surged within him.

“You have thrown away my rubies!” he gasped. “You shall follow them to the sea.”

With a quickness and ferocity which Harden could not intercept, the. desperate adventurer sprang upon the terrified girl, dragged her to the open window, and, despite her struggles, would have thrown her the next moment down the rampart, had not the firm grasp of a sturdy Scotch gentleman torn her from his arms. With a swimming gaze Evelyn saw two desperate men in a fierce, sharp struggle; something was hurled through the window; and then her father, alone in the great dim room with her, caught her in his arms as a sickening blackness swept over her senses.

_________________

3: The Professor's Panther

Dallas Lore Sharp

Huon Times (Tasmania) 1 May 1925

(1870–1929) An American author and university professor. He was a professor at Boston University. He wrote many non-fiction books on outdoor and nature themes, plus some fiction, such as this fantasy.

I HAD BEEN sure for a long time that there was a story connected with the panther, but the old professor, for some reason, never seemed to feel the bearing of my hints concerning it. The panther was a magnificent male specimen, mounted in the central case of the museum, a crouching, crawling figure, so terribly realistic that had to school myself to go past it at night without a shiver.

'You certainly saw that beast when it was alive, professor,' I remarked one day, as we were re-arranging some of the smaller specimens in the case. 'That's a study from life. Look at the curve of the back! And those shoulders! I can almost see them work beneath the skin.'

'I can see them work,' the old professor, replied, pausing a moment: to look at the beast; 'and I'm likely to as long as I see anything.' he added.

I kept discreetly silent, and he went on:—

'It is a study from life, as you nave guessed, and the best mount, I think, in the collection, though the study was made in Florida and the mounting done here.

'That was a peculiarly vivid lesson I had there, quite sufficient in a taxidermical way for the rest of my life. I was collecting along the Indian River, near where Micco stands now, taking specimens of everything, from the largest alligators down. It was a rich country there then, as crowded with wild' beasts as a menagerie. Panthers were by no means rare, and I had taken two when I came upon the tracks of this fellow in the sand along the river. The print of his foot measured twice that of the specimens I had taken, and my ambition was stirred. I wanted that big panther— for the very spot where you see him now. I never could get sight of him— perhaps because I was afraid of his getting sight of me first.

'I trailed him up and down the river, and finally found a beaten path that I thought the big fellow used, running in through the brake to a heavily-timbered forest. The grass about the end of the path was so heavy and the track so hard packed that no footprint showed; but out along the river the signs of his coming and going in this vicinity were so numerous that I determined to risk my chances in the path.

'The surest, quickest way to have taken him, if this were the track of the beast, would have been to lie in wait in some good place along the path, and shoot him— provided,! of course, that the wind, the light, and the aim were all just right. But this was asking too much; besides. I was constantly busy collecting, and couldn't spare the time it might take to wait. So I took the two big bear-traps that I had at camp, and set them in the path, trusting that the panther, in an absent-minded moment, might walk into one of them.

'It is seldom that a wild animal, especially a panther, had an absentminded moment. Human beings are much more liable to them, according to my experience, though up to this time I had not known it. I selected a narrow, walled-in place along the path, where the bushes were so thick on each side that the beast would not be likely to leave the trail. Here, too, was a sharp rise in the ground for about twenty feet. At the bottom of this I set one trap, and twenty feet away, on the very crown of the ridge, I set the other. He could hardly go up and down that hill without stepping into one of those traps. But he did, even though I had concealed the traps so skilfully that no eye could easily have detected them.

That very night a small manatee that I had caught late in the afternoon was dragged from near the tent and half-eaten in the bushes along-shore, the marks in the sand telling plainly that the thief was the big panther. A visit to the traps showed them undisturbed. Perhaps the beast had come out by some other path. To make sure I placed four slender sticks across the run, so that nothing could pass without brushing them aside.

'The next day I found the sticks down. Something had been through the path, and something large, too: but the traps had not been touched. Hoping that the creature might become used to their presence, and so grow careless, I left them several days without changing, wherein I again showed my ignorance of wild animals. It was folly, to imagine that so keen a creature as a panther would walk abroad in his sleep and catch himself. Nevertheless, I went down the river one afternoon and into the path, intending to make a last attempt with the bear-traps.

'The one at the crest of the ridge I moved down about five feet, replacing its former cover, and all the surroundings as precisely as they were, so that to all appearances the trap was in its old place. Then with infinite pains I hid in the new spot, laying back upon it every tiny leaf I had disturbed. It was as neat as nature but so intent had I been upon the work that I had utterly forgotten . about time... and looked up to see the dusk falling rapidly. The other trap still remained to be set.

'Hastening back down the ridge, I pulled up the heavy chain, and, in doing so, hit the plate so sharply that the jaws came to with a snap! I had scooped out a place for it in the path, and was pressing the stiff spring down with my knee and the jaws with my hands, when I felt something touch my foot behind.

'The strain upon my arms was so great that I dared not risk loosing the spring with my knee, for fear the long-toothed jaws would close on my hands. So without pausing, I spread the jaws on down and opened and held them there. And I continued to hold them there, for crawling up between my knees came the head and neck of a great snake. A second look was not needed to show me that it was a water-moccasin, as vicious and as deadly a reptile as the rattlesnake.

'The thick heavy-jawed head slid up along my left wrist and curved out directly across the open trap. There it lay. All depended on my keeping perfectly quiet, for the beast was not alarmed, though I could see that the light in its eye only half-smouldered. Its dull wits were aware of something unusual here, and so it had paused, suspicious.

'Fortunately the trap was fully open now and not hard to hold. But my body was cramped into a unnatural posture with the effort to set the spring, and this, together with the terrible nervous strain of having that deadly scaly head against my hand, soon began to tell on my strength.

'If I could only get my knee off the spring without arousing the snake, and still hold the trap open with my hands, I might be able to release the jaws quickly enough to cut the muddy, horrid head clean off. I would risk it while I had the power; but instantly , that power left me. Whether I had half-consciously heard a twig break, or by some mysterious telegraphy felt the gaze of the panther fixed upon me, I did not know; but without looking up I knew that the beast lay in the path at the top of the ridge above me.

'I had scarcely to move my head in order to see him. There in the deepening twilight he stood motionless, his front paws on. the ridge, his head lifted high, looking in surprise at me. Then the head was slowly lowered the big paws reached down, and the long body flattened itself to the ground. My flesh might, have been of stone, so far as any trace of feeling went. I was frozen to the spot and to the open trap. But trap and snake were forgotten while I glared back into the blazing eyes that, glared down into mine, as the great cat began stealthily crawling over the ridge for a footing to spring.

'I could see only the blaze, of the eyes, the hump of the working shoulders, and the twitch, twitch of the swaying tail, so quickly had the darkness settled. But I knew every motion that the brute made. He had come entirely over the ridge when the hump of his shoulders sank. He had flattened. Then it began to rise slowly, and I knew the moment of crisis had come. The creature was gathering himself, together for the leap.

'Suddenly, with a scream that was half-snarl, he sprang, stopped short, in the air, turned heels over head, and was jerked head down into the path before me.

'I was standing with the moccasin's scaly tail lashing my boots.

'The panther had crept one step too close, and had planted his paw in the open trap near the top of the hill. In my excitement and fright, I had entirely forgotten that it was there, and the brute, as he crawled down upon me, had been too eager to notice it.'

'The moccasin, was squirming in the trap I had been holding, its head nearly severed. But how I did it, how I got off the trap to my feet, I have never known at all.'

________________

4: The Burglars

Kenneth Grahame

Port Adelaide News 9 April 1925

1859-1932: Author of The Wind in the Willows.

IT WAS MUCH too fine a night think of going to bed at once, and so although the witching hour of nine p.m. had struck, Edward and I were still leaning out of the open window in out night shirts, watching the play of the cedar-branch shadows on the moonlit lawn, and planning schemes of fresh devilry for the sunshiny morrow.

From below, strains of the jocund piano declared that the Olympians were enjoying themselves in this listless, impotent way; for the new curate had been bidden to dinner that night; and was at the moment unclerically proclaiming to all the world that he feared no foe. His discordant vociferations doubtless started a train of thought in Edward's mind, for he presently remarked, apropos of nothing whatever that had been said before, "I believe the new curate's rather gone on Aunt Maria."

I scouted the notion.

"Why, she's quite old," I said. (She must have seen some five-and-twenty summers.)

"Of course she is," replied Edward scornfully. "It's not her, it's her money he's after, I bet!"

"Didn't know she had any money," I observed timidly.

"Sure to have," said my brother with confidence— "heaps and heaps."

Silence ensued, both our minds being busy with the new situation thus presented; mine in wonderment at this flaw that so often declared itself in enviable natures of fullest endowment— in a grown-up man and a good cricketer, for instance, even as this curate; Edward's (apparently) in the consideration of how such a state of things, supposing it existed, could be best turned to his own advantage.

"Bobby Ferris told me," began Edward, in due course, "that there was a fellow spooning his sister once―"

"What's spooning?" I asked meekly.

"Oh I dunno," said Edward indifferently. "It's— it's— it's just a thing they do, you know. And he used to carry notes and messages and things between 'em, and he got a shilling almost every time."

"What, from each of 'em?" I innocently inquired.

Edward looked at me with scornful pity.

"Girls never have any money," he briefly explained. "But she did his exercises and got him out of rows, and told stories for him when he need it—and much better ones than he could have made up for himself. Girls are useful in some ways. So he was living in clover. When unfortunately they went and quarrelled about something."

"Don't see what that's got to do with it," I said.

"Nor don't I," rejoined Edward. "But anyhow the notes and things stopped, and so did the shillings. Bobby was fairly cornered, for he had bought two ferrets on tick, and promised to pay a shilling a week, thinking the shillings were going on for ever, the silly young ass. So when the week was up and he was being dunned for the shilling he went off to the fellow and said: 'Your Your broken-hearted Bella implores you to meet her at sundown. By the hollow oak, as of old, be it only for a moment. Do not fail.' He got all that out of some rotten book, of course. The fellow looked puzzled and said: 'What hollow oak? I don't know any hollow oak.'

" 'Perhaps it was the Royal Oak?' said Bobby promptly, 'cos he saw he had made a slip through trusting too much to the rotten book; but this didn't seem to make the fellow any happier."

"Should think not," I said; the Royal Oak's an awful low sort of pub."

"I know," said Edward. "Well, at last the fellow said, 'I think I know what she means. The hollow tree in your father's paddock. It happens to be an elm, but she wouldn't know the difference. All right, say I'll be there."

"Bobby hung about a bit, for he hadn't got his money. She was crying awfully," he said, "then he got his shilling."

"And wasn't the fellow riled," I inquired, "when he got to the place and found nothing?"

"He found Bobby," said Edward indignantly. "Young Ferris was a gentleman, every inch of him. He brought the fellow another message from Bella: 'I dare not leave the house. My cruel parents immure me closely. If you only know what I suffer!—Your broken-hearted Bella.' Out of the same rotten book. This made the fellow a little suspicious, 'cos it was the old Ferrises who had been keen about the thing all through. The fellow, you see had tin."

"But what's that got to―?" I began again.

"Oh, I dunno," said Edward impatiently. "I'm telling you just what Bobby told me. He got suspicious, anyhow, but he couldn't exactly call Bella's brother a liar, so Bobby escaped for the time. But when he was in a hole next week, over a stiff French exercise, and tried the same sort of game on his sister, she was too sharp for him, and he got caught out. Somehow women seem more mistrustful than men. They're so beastly suspicious by nature, you know.

"I know," said I. "But did the two— the fellow and the sister— make it up afterwards?"

"I don't remember about that," replied Edward indifferently; "but Bobby got packed off to school a whole year earlier than his people meant to send him. Which was just what he wanted. So you see it all came right in the end!"

I was trying to puzzle out the moral of this story—it was evidently meant J to contain one somewhere— when flood of golden lamplight mingled with the moon-rays on the lawn, and Aunt Marie and the new curate strolled out on the grass below us, and took the direction of a garden seat which was backed by a dense laurel shrubbery reaching round in a half-circle to the house. Edward meditated moodily.

"If we only knew what they were talking about," said he, "you'd soon see whether I was right or not. Look here! Let's send the kid down by the porch to reconnoitre."

"Harold's asleep," I said; "it seems rather a shame "

"Oh, rot!" said my brother; "he's the youngest, and he's got to do as he's told!"

So the luckless Harold was hauled out of bed and given his sailing orders. He was naturally rather vexed at being stood up suddenly on the cold floor, and the job had no particular interest for him; but he was both staunch and well-disciplined. The means of exit were simple enough. A porch of iron trellis came up to within easy reach of the window, and was habitually used by all three of us when modestly anxious to avoid public notice.

Harold climbed softly down the porch like a white rat, and his nightgown glimmered a moment on the gravel walk ere he was lost to sight in the darkness of the shrubbery. A brief interval of silence ensued, broken suddenly by a sound of scuffle, and then a shrill; long-drawn squeal, as of metallic surfaces in friction. Our scout had fallen into the hands of the enemy!

Indolence alone had made us devolve the task of investigation on our younger brother. Now that danger had declared itself, there was no hesitation. In a second we were down the side of the porch, and crawling Cherokee-wise through the laurels to the back of the garden seat.

Piteous was the sight that greeted us. Aunt Maria was on the sea, in a white evening frock, looking— for an aunt— really quite nice. On the lawn stood an incensed curate, grasping our small brother by a large ear, which—judging, from the row he was making—seemed on the point of parting company with the head it completed and adorned.

The gruesome noise he was emitting did not really affect us otherwise than aesthetically. To one who has tried both, the wail of genuine physical anguish . is easily distinguishable from the pumped-up "ad misericordiam" blubber. Harold's could clearly be recognised as belonging to the latter class. ,

"Now you young whelp," (I think it was, but Edward stoutly maintains it was devil), said the curate sternly, "tell us what you mean by it!"

"Well, leggo of my ear then," shrilled Harold, "and I'll tell you the solemn truth!"

"Very well," agreed the curate, releasing him; "now go ahead, and don't lie more than you can help."

We abode the promised disclosure without the least misgiving; but even we had hardly given Harold due credit I for his fertility of resource and powers of imagination.

"I had just finished saying my prayers," began that young gentleman slowly, "when I happened to look out of the window, and on the lawn I saw a sight which froze the marrow in my veins! A burglar was approaching the house with snake-like tread! He had a scowl and a dark lantern, and he was armed to the teeth!"

We listened with interest. The style, though unlike Harold's native notes, seemed strangely familiar.

"Go on," said the curate grimly.

"Pausing in his stealthy career," continued Harold, "he gave a low whistle. Instantly the signal was responded to, and from the adjacent shadows two more figures glided forth. The miscreants were both armed to the teeth."

"Excellent," said the curate: "proceed."

"The robber chief," pursued Harold, warming to his work, "joined his nefarious comrades, and conversed with them in silent tones. His expression was truly ferocious, and I ought to have said that he was armed to the―"

"There, never mind his teeth," interrupted the curate rudely; "there's too much jaw about you altogether. Hurry up and have done."

"I was in a frightful funk," continued the narrator, warily guarding his ear with his hand; "but just then the drawing-room window opened, and you -and Aunt Maria came out— I mean emerged. The burglars vanished silently into the laurels, with horrid implications!"

The curate looked slightly puzzled. The tale was well sustained, and certainly circumstantial. After all, the boy might really have seen something. How was the poor man to know— though the chaste and lofty diction might have supplied a hint— that the whole yarn was a free adaptation from the last Penny Dreadful lent us by the knife-and-boot boy?

"Why did you not alarm the house?" he asked.

" 'Cos I was afraid," said Harold sweetly, "that p'raps they mightn't believe me."

"But how did you get down here, you naughty little boy?" put in Aunt Maria. At that moment Edward touched me on the shoulder and glided off through laurels. When some ten yards away he gave a low whistle. I replied with another. The effect was magical, Aunt Maria started up with a shriek, Harold gave one startled glance made straight for the back door, burst around, and then fled like a hare, in upon the servants at supper, and buried himself in the broad bosom of the cook, his special ally. The curate faced the laurels— hesitatingly. But Aunt Maria flung herself on him.

"Oh, Mr. Hodgitts," I heard her cry, "you are brave! For my sake do not be rash!"

He was not rash. When I peeped out a second later the coast was entirely clear.  By this time there were sounds of a household timidly emerging, and Edward remarked to me that perhaps we had better be off.

Retreat was an easy matter. A stunted laurel gave a leg up on to the garden wall, which led in its turn to the roof of an outhouse, up which at a dubious angle, we could crawl to the window of the box-room. This overland route had been revealed to us one day by the domestic cat, when hard pressed in the course of an otter-hunt, in which the cat— somewhat unwillingly— was filling the title role; and it had proved distinctly useful on occasions like the present. We were snug in bed— minus some cuticle from knees and elbows— and Harold, sleepily chewing something sticky, had been carried up in the arms of the friendly cook ere the clamour of the burglar hunters had died away.

The curate's undaunted demeanour, as reported by Aunt Maria, was generally supposed to have terrified the burglars into flight, and much kudos accrued to him thereby. Some days later, however, when he had dropped in to afternoon tea, and was making a mild, curatorial joke about the moral courage required for taking the last piece of bread-and-butter, I felt constrained to remark dreamily, and as it were to the universe at large,

"Mr. Hodgitts, you are brave! for my sake do not be rash!"

Fortunately for me, the vicar also was a caller on that day; and it was always a comparatively easy matter to dodge my long-coated friend in the open.

__________________

5: The Man Who Lifted the Blind

E. Phillips Oppenheim

1866-1946

The Grand Magazine Oct 1907

World's News (Sydney) 16 Nov 1907

"MONSIEUR is right," the waiter answered, pausing for a moment in his deft arrangement of my table and glancing over his shoulder. "The lady interests us all. There are many who inquire about her."

"She comes often, then?" I asked.

"But yes, monsieur," the man answered. "That table is reserved for her. She comes every evening."

I glanced around the crowded room. Every place was occupied by gorgeously-dressed women and men of every nationality. The strains of the orchestra were mingled with the popping of champagne corks and the murmur of hilarious conversation. A girl in short skirts was dancing down the room. A certain abandon in the atmosphere, an absence of all restraint in the familiarities that floated from table to table, clearly indicated the insistent influence of the demi-monde.

"But she," I said, "she is not like these others, surely?"

"She speaks to no one," the waiter answered. "Still one cannot tell. It is something that she comes alone to a place like this. Every night she has her supper and a small bottle of wine. Then she smokes two or three cigarettes and goes. Pardon, monsieur!"

The man rushed away. I looked again at the woman who had interested me so much. She was apparently young, perfectly dressed, yet with a certain restraint, the more effective in contrast to the elaborate toilettes of the women by whom she was surrounded. Her deep brown hair was arranged in the latest mode, her complexion was pale, but not unhealthily so, her eyes clear and fine. At that moment she was leaning back against the wall, a cigarette between her lips, her eyes fixed upon the door. The room was small, and she was hemmed in among all the other habitués of the place— the men, whose faces were more or less flushed and whose evening clothes, at this hour in the morning, were a little awry— the women, whose laughter and chatter became more and more hysterical. And yet she had unmistakably the air of being far away from them all. Her surroundings never embarrassed her. The most risky joke— and there were many flying about— brought no shadow of disapproval or annoyance to her still somewhat languid face. Once I saw a man stop in front of her table. She knocked the ash from her cigarette and looked at him calmly.

He passed on at once.

For me the hour or so I spent there resolved itself into a study of her. I learned very little. She watched the dances with a certain languid interest, as though she were somewhat bored but desired to be tolerant. Once she applauded a little dancer who was being given a trial and was evidently nervous. Afterwards she called the girl to her table and spoke a few words. I could not hear what she said, but the girl was evidently pleased. When she dismissed the dancer it was with a little nod of the head, kindly enough, but a trifle imperious. There was none of the familiarity with which the other habitués of the place treated the performers. One thing only I discovered. She had often the air of watching for someone. Every time the door opened she looked up. She never showed any sign of pleasure or disappointment, but it was obvious that her interest in all new-comers was simply because she hoped or expected someone who never came.

At three o'clock precisely she paid her bill and departed. I watched her move down the room. She was perfectly self-possessed, her figure slimmer and more elegant even than I had imagined. She nodded kindly to the little dancer, and spoke to the leader of the orchestra. The manager himself escorted her to the door. I called him to my table.

"Monsieur Albut, who is the lady who has just gone out?"

Monsieur Albut was amused. "I do not know, sir," he answered. "She comes every night, and she stays sometimes later than this. She comes alone, and she departs always alone."

"She amuses herself?" I asked doubtfully. Monsieur Albut shrugged his shoulders.

"She has not the air," he admitted, "but― nevertheless, she returns always."

"Perhaps," I suggested, "she is looking for someone?"

"It is possible," the manager answered. "At least, she is an excellent customer. We are careful that she is not annoyed. Pardon!" Monsieur Albut detected symptoms of a disturbance at a table lower down the room and hurried off. Disturbances were never permitted at the Chat Mort. Complaints were invariably decided at once in favour of the customer. He might even depart if he chose without paying his bill. But there was no return. Monsieur Albut saw to that. It was a small room, and one had to pass two commissionaires and Monsieur Albut himself before one gained admission to it. There was a certain list, and if once your name was on it an entrance into Buckingham Palace would have been easier than to have passed into the inner circle of the Chat Mort. I, too, called the waiter and paid my bill. I pointed to the table next to the one where the girl had sat. "Can you reserve me that table for to-morrow evening?"

He smiled a little doubtfully. "But yes, monsieur," he said. "It shall be reserved."

His smile was very eloquent. He wished to let me know that I was laying up for myself a store of disappointment. Yet I fancied that his uneasiness went even further than this, and I was right. He followed me out of the room.

"Monsieur will pardon me," he said, "but if I were he I would keep the same table. It is a very nice table— and there is an excellent view of the dancing—and everybody." "Agreed," I said. "But for to-morrow night I prefer the other."

"It is as monsieur wishes, of course," he answered respectively. "Monsieur has been a generous patron, or I would not take the liberty. There have been many others who have de-sired to reserve that table, yet now it is occupied by chance comers."

"They found mademoiselle unapproachable," I remarked. Not only so, monsieur," the man answered. "The table has ill-fortune. It is the unlucky table of the place. Not one of these ladies"— he indicated them with a sweep of the arm— "would think of sitting there."

"Tell me," I said smiling, "how unlucky?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Monsieur desires it? Very well, then. First a young Englishman sat there. Madame Rosa made his acquaintance. In three weeks the young Englishman was in the Seine. Then a stranger took it. He made the acquaintance of Mademoiselle Lenant, who does not come here now, and he robbed her of all her jewellery and savings. Then the young Baron de Jammapes sat there. He spoke to mademoiselle several times in vain. One night he lost his temper after a rebuff and left the place hurriedly. Outside he was run over by an automobile, and he goes now on crutches."

I laughed heartily. "It is an appalling list, Jules," I declared, handing him a five-franc piece, "but I will tempt Fate. Keep the table for me to-morrow. I shall arrive about midnight."

The opportunity for which I had sought came at last. A passer-by moved with his elbow the ice pail upon her table. The bottle was upon the point of falling. I rescued it.

"Pardon, mademoiselle," I said. "Your wine was in danger."

"Thank you very much," she answered in excellent English.

"Mademoiselle speaks English," I ventured to observe.

"Evidently."

The word was almost chilly, but I was getting desperate. This was my fifth night, and positively the first opportunity I had found of speaking a word. I felt hot and cold by turns, but I blundered on.

"The place is full to-night," I said.

"It is," she answered calmly.

I stuck to it blindly. At least she was answering me.

"One wonders," I remarked, "why so many people come here. The performance is amusing, but scarcely more, and there are so many other cafés."

"Why do you come?" she asked calmly— "five nights following, I believe?"

"And mademoiselle," I ventured, "a great many more than five."

She turned her head and regarded me critically, even thoughtfully. I honestly believe that it was the first time she had taken that trouble. I felt myself as nervous as a boy. She said nothing. The conversation was perishing and I was desperate.

"Mademoiselle is never lonely— here— always by herself?" I faltered.

"Never, when I am by myself," she answered calmly, and turning away went on with her supper.

I swore to myself silently, and followed her example. Yet the Fates were to befriend me that night. A few minutes later a man entered and came strolling up the room— a middle-aged Frenchman, a typical boulevardier. He paused in front of her table.

"Mademoiselle permits?" he asked, bending toward her and touching the back of the chair which fronted her.

"This table is engaged, monsieur," she answered quietly.

He bowed.

"Mademoiselle will at least permit," he added in a lower tone, "that I seat myself for a moment. It is dull to be alone."

I leaned over toward him.

"Monsieur," I said, "this lady is my companion. Your presence here is an intrusion."

He looked me up and down. Perhaps he read the thoughts which were in my mind. He shrugged his shoulders and passed on. Still mademoiselle continued her supper calmly and said nothing. But my reward was to come. Suddenly she addressed me.

"Monsieur!" she said.

I started as though I had been shot. She had finished her supper and was leaning back, an unlighted cigarette in her mouth.

"Can I trouble you for a light?" she asked.

I struck a match with trembling fingers. I fancied that she smiled slightly as she accepted it.

"I am much obliged to you for your interference just now," she said. "It was unnecessary, for Monsieur Albut looks after me very well. But I thank you none the less."

"It was only— a pleasure," I murmured.

"You have appeared," she continued, "anxious to converse with me. I am afraid that I have been rather rude."

"On the contrary, I had no right to speak to you at all."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"I am not so sure about that," she answered. "Other places, other manners. We are at the Chat Mort."

"To me," I said, looking at her earnestly, "that is the most extraordinary part of it all."

She blew away the cigarette smoke from around her face.

"I suppose," she said, "like all the rest of them, you are consumed with curiosity to know why I come here."

"It is not exactly curiosity," I answered. "I admit that I should like to know why you do come. I have wondered why since the first evening I saw you. But I should not call it curiosity."

She looked set me mockingly. "A deeper interest?"

"I think that you know," I answered gravely. After that she was silent for a few moments. "And you," she asked, "you, too, keep yourself aloof from the others. What pleasure do you find in seeing how the devil calls to his own? Do you see that there is sunlight outside those shutters— sunlight and the freshness of the morning? Yet you, too, stay and breathe the poison."

"Mademoiselle," I answered, "I am a writer and a traveller. I have been away from France for two years, and I will admit that on my return my first visit is always here. The place has few attractions for me, yet I think that the knowledge of it adds to the sum total of one's knowledge of life."

"You defend yourself admirably," she declared. "Yet— five nights following."

"You, too," I answered, looking at her, "have been here for five nights following."

It was close upon the hour of her going. She closed her little cigarette ease with a sharp snap and rose to her feet.

"You will permit," I said, rising, "that I see you to your carriage."

She shook her head.

"Forgive me," she said, "but it is my whim to leave this place always as I enter it— alone. Good-night."

She left me, and I sat there with my pulses tingling and my blood all in a fever. People looked at me curiously and whispered to one another. I was the only man with whom mademoiselle had ever spoken.

Four nights afterwards she took me by surprise.

"I think," she said, "that I am going to tell you why I come here."

"If you do," I answered, "I shall value the knowledge more as a proof of your confidence than anything else." She looked at me and
sighed. I think that my secret must have been perfectly obvious to her.

"You are a very foolish person," she said, "but you shall know. Come to No. 77 Rue de Martine to-morrow afternoon at four o'clock. Can you remember that?"

Could I remember! Such an absurdity needed no reply.

"I shall be there," I answered.

The moment I entered her studio I knew who she was. I recognised at once two of her paintings, which I had seen in the Salon.

"You are Lucille!" I exclaimed. She nodded.

"I sign all my work so," she admitted. "I am Mademoiselle Lucille de St. Cruex— at your services."

I bowed over her outstretched hand. It was the first time I had touched it.

"But why does no one recognise you there?" I said wonderingly.

"Because scarcely anyone knows me," she answered. "I go out nowhere; I find my work absorbing— altogether absorbing. Then I have been in Paris only 12 months. I studied in Milan and London. Society does not attract me in the least."

A great canvas stood upon an easel in the north end of the room. I pointed toward it.

"May I not see what you are doing?"

She smiled as we moved side by side toward it. "It will tell you my secret," she said— "or rather part of it." She swept aside the covering and I bent forward with a little gasp. It was the interior of the Chat Mort. Men and women sat at the small tables, waiters were hurrying backward and forward. One could almost hear the pop of the champagne corks. But over the whole was spread a lurid effect. It was a picture of arrested motion. Every face was turned toward the door; waiters, pausing in their tasks, were looking backward; the little dancing girl stood still with one foot in the air. Women craned their necks; those at the hindmost tables were leaning forward. And the faces of all of them! It was a warm afternoon, but I stood still and shivered.

"You see what has produced the effect," she said. "Someone entering has thrown back the blinds from the east window, and the sun is shining in."

I put out my hands. I did not wish her to speak for the moment. The horror of that sunlight effect was almost paralysing. God's light upon the Devil's children! it was merciless, indescribable. The rouge cracked upon the faces of the women, their eyes were lit with terror, and from the faces of the men out-shone the beast, hideous, unmistakable, uncompromising. Red-lipped, pale-faced, with eyes all aglare and hungry for the foul things of life, they stared at me from the canvas, dumb, mocking faces. The blood turned to ice in my veins. They were my fellow-creatures! My face even might be there. I could have cried in sheer horror.

"You see what I am waiting for," she said, suddenly dropping the covering. "I am waiting for the face of the man who lifts the blind. That is why I go to the Chat Mort. I want to see him come in. Now let me give you some tea."

The relief of that dropped covering! Once more the world seemed a real place. Between the Mademoiselle de Cruex, whose conversation was all the while womanly and gentle, and mademoiselle of the Chat Mort there seemed no possible affinity. Before I went I spoke something of my mind.

"I wish that you would seek elsewhere for your model."

She smiled. "Why?"

"You are out of place there," I declared. "I cannot bear to see you in such— company. Besides, the incongruity of the thing is obvious. The man who would lift the blind will never come into the Chat Mort. There are a hundred places where you might seek him with a better chance of success."

"It is true, my friend," she answered, for in those days we seemed to be drifting into a sort of familiarity which filled me with hope. "And yet I have an idea that he will come— and come there. Perhaps I have dreamt it. I cannot tell! But I believe that he will come, and I would ten thousand times rather see him, as I have fancied, walk into the midst of that scene in his proper place than meet him anywhere else."

"I shall see you to-night, then," I said, feeling some scant consolation at the thought.

"To-night," she repeated.

And that night it happened.

She had stayed later than usual. It must have been nearly four o'clock when I saw her suddenly start and lean forward eagerly. A man, fair, tall, and slim, was standing in the middle of the room, looking about him. Even I, who knew his history and his character, who knew him to be the biggest blackguard in France, could not deny the beauty of his face. Heaven knows what devil's tricks he had made use of, but his skin was as fair as a girl's, his eyes as clear and soft, the poise of his head almost noble. He looked around with a faint frown of disapprobation, and a sickening fear seized me. I bent toward my neighbour.

"It is the Vicomte D'Aurnay," I mattered. "You have heard of him."

But I might as well have saved my breath. Their eyes met, and I saw in her face what no one had ever seen there before in this place— a slight, insidious smile of invitation. The Vicomte D'Aurnay was not the man to ignore it. In a moment he was bowing before her table.

"Mademoiselle permits?" he asked, softly drawing out the vacant chair.

And mademoiselle permitted.

They talked in whispers. Their heads were close together, and people throughout the room were interested and amused. As for me, I could not sit still. I could not leave the place, I could not remain near them. I hung about in an agony which presently reached its climax. For the first time Mademoiselle de St. Cruex did not leave the place alone!

IT WAS SEVEN months afterward when, uncured, haggard from illness and altogether miserable, I found myself once more in the Chat Mort.

It seemed to me that Monsieur Albut greeted me a little nervously and glanced quickly toward a corner table. My old friend the waiter nearly dropped a bottle of wine, and I saw a look pass between him and Monsieur Albut. I sat down idly at a small table and took up the wine-card.

"Garcon—" I began, and then I said no more.

Around the lights whirled, and up and down the faces bobbed and swayed like pieces in a kaleidoscope. Horror and faintness pressed me hard, but Monsieur Albut brought me brandy and I found strength to raise my head. She was dressed— like the others. She sat with a famous lady— two men completed the party. Their laughter seemed to me the most awful thing I had ever heard in my life, her face the most terrible I had ever seen. There was rouge upon her cheeks, the hard glitter of joyless mirth in her eyes, hell in her face. And while I sat there fighting for my breath— for I was only three days out of bed from my illness— the rest happened.

He came in exactly as before. He paused between the tables and looked critically around— as before. But this time I saw her rise to meet him. I saw her face. God grant that I but some day forget it. He turned his head and their eyes met.

There was a moment's intense silence. Everybody expected something, they scarcely knew what. Then there was a sharp unfamiliar sound, and a little puff of blue smoke floated lastly up to the ceiling.

He died where he fell, and she threw the little ivory-handled revolver at his prostrate body. Then she leaned back in her chair and laughed. The laugh, too! May I some day forget that!

___________________________

6: As It Happened to Moey

Bruno Lessing
World's News (Sydney) 28 Aug 1909

Rudolph Edgar Block (1870-1940) was a Jewish American journalist, columnist, and author. Much of his writing was done under the pen name of "Bruno Lessing".

SOME people are born to failure, some achieve failure, and some have failure thrust upon them. The phraseology of this bit of wisdom was suggested by a man named Shakespeare; the application of it was suggested by Moey Blumenfeld. If all the men in this world who have failed— failed, that is, to reach whatever goal they were striving for— were to catalogue and publish the causes of their failure it might help future generations to avoid falling into the same pitfalls. It also might not. I think it might not.

Lezinsky, for instance, never fails in what he undertakes. That is to say, if he sets his heart upon the achievement of a certain purpose, he achieves that purpose. He told me this many years ago, and I did not believe him. I now believe him.

The secret of it is that Lezinsky never sets his heart upon achieving anything unless he is absolutely certain that he can achieve it. In other words, he has a correct idea of his own capacity, and he measures his ambitions and his undertakings accordingly. He would not set his heart upon acquiring the moon, because he knows he can never acquire the moon. Nor would he undertake to make a name for himself in the realm of art or literature or music or any of the professions. He might succeed, but there are too many chances against him; anyway, he isn't sure that he would succeed. Therefore he will never undertake it. In his line, however— Lezinsky's line is pickled fruits—  Lezinsky knows exactly how far skill, imagination, and energy will carry him, and when Lezinsky announces to you that be has set his heart upon accomplishing a certain end in that line you may count upon it that he will succeed.

I am very fond of Lezinsky. It is so refreshing to have an acquaintance who knows just what he can do and does it. He plays no part in this story save to show the kind of man that Moey Blumenfeld ought to have been but wasn't.

The kind of man that Moey Blumenfeld wasn't would take many pages to describe; the kind of man he was is much easier to explain. He was simple and good natured.

"Is that all you can say of him?" I hear some critical reader inquire, and, in the words of my friend Moloney, echo answers, "That's all!"

Moey was married. He was poor. He worked in Lezinsky's factory, in the apple and apricot department, although Lezinsky knew him only as a name upon his pay-roll. He was as regular in his habits as the earth in its orbit. When he was through with his day's work he went home and ate his supper. Then he went to Natzi's cafe, drank a cup of coffee, and gossiped for a few hours. After that he went to bed. He did not drink. He did not smoke. He had no bad habits. He was very simple. He was very good natured.

Mrs. Blumenfeld had a rich uncle who lived in Philadelphia and who had never forgiven her for marrying Moey Blumenfeld. Uncle Reuben was the staple subject of conversation in the Blumenfeld household. He was old and had no other kin in the world. He was a very erratic and crabbed person, with a great many prejudices and, as far as I was ever able to make out, no redeeming qualities.

"If only he would see you and talk with you," Mrs. Blumenfeld said to her husband at least once every day, "I am sure he would like you. And when he dies we would get his money."

Moey only sighed; he had no suggestion to make. He had never seen Uncle Reuben, and his imagination could not picture what might happen if he did see him.

It happened one night that Moey Blumenfeld sat alone at a table in the cafe waiting for his nightly cronies to arrive. He suddenly felt a hand laid upon his shoulder.

"Hello, Bill!" cried a cheery voice. Moey looked up and found a dapper young man with a glass eye gazing at him with an expression that was amiability itself.

"I ain't Bill. I'm Moey," he said simply.

The young man looked at him in astonishment, and then, seating himself opposite Moey, brought his fist down upon the table with a resounding crash.

"Well, I'll be jiggered!" he exclaimed, "I would have gone on the witness-stand and sworn till the cows came home that you were Bill Morrissey! By Jingo! I never saw such a resemblance in my life! Say! Have a drink on me, or a cigar. Bill will be flabbergasted when I tell him!"

Just how it came about Moey was never afterwards able to tell, but within an hour he was telling the stranger the whole story of his life. Moey was naturally of a quiet and retiring disposition, and rarely discussed his personal affairs, even with his cronies. But, somehow, it seemed to him that for the first time in his life he had met a sympathetic soul— a human being who listened with gravity to everything he said and took the deepest interest in all the details of his life.

"Call me Sam," the man had said, and for the rest of the evening Moey called him Sam without inquiring further into who he was, where he came from, or what he did. One thing about the stranger fascinated him. Every now and then Sam would remove his glass eye, toss it into the air, catch it, and restore it to its place. He seemed to do this oftenest when he was listening most intently. Sam heard the full story of Uncle Reuben.

"Well, sir," he finally said, "it's the easiest thing in the world. The trouble with you, Moey, is that you're too modest. What Uncle Reuben wants is a jolly sort of fellow who'll drag him out of his hole, take him around the town, slap him on the back, and give him a good time. I wish I had a rich uncle! I'd show you how to make a hole in his bank account."

"Uncle never drinks. He hates a man who drinks," said Moey.

"You don't say! Waiter, bring me a glass of beer. Well, Mo, you take my advice. Telegraph your uncle to come on to New York. Say that you insist on seeing him immediately. See? When he comes you go down to the ferry to meet him. Slap him on the back. 'Uncle,' you say to him, 'tell me, between man and man, what's the matter with you? Why aren't you and I friends?" And take my word for it you  will make a big hit with him."

Moey's eyes glistened. Like all quiet men he admired the aggressive spirit in others.

"I never thought of it before," he said. "But maybe when he comes I will get scared. My wife says he is a rough man."

"You never drink, you say? Well, make an exception for this once. While you're waiting for him drink a cocktail. One won't harm a fly, and it'll brace you up so that you wouldn't be afraid to crack a joke with Old Nick him-self. Lemme know how it turns out. I've got to be going. Ta-ta! See you when I get back to town."

The next morning Moey sent his uncle a telegram.

"You must come to New York right away," it read. "Let me know when you will arrive."

At noon he received an answer, "I will arrive at 6 o'clock to-night." Moey's  heart bounded with joy. Why hadn't the thought of that long before? His heart went out in gratitude to Sam. What a charming man Sam was! For the first time Moey began to wonder who and what Sam was.

Moey arrived at the ferry fully half an hour before the train-boat was due, and as he watched the hurrying throngs that alighted from other boats his spirits began to sink. The courage was oozing out of his soul. Mindful of Sam's advice, he sought the nearest saloon, and for the first time in his life he called for and swallowed an alcoholic drink. It was not so bad, and, sure enough, in five minutes Moey  felt the strength and courage of a whole army coursing through his veins. What a fool he had been all his life! Why had no one ever told him that such strength and joy were imprisoned in a single, simple drink?

The boat was in, and Moey watched the passengers emerging from the ferry-house. Ah! There was Uncle Reuben! It did not even require his resemblance to the photograph in the Blumenfeld family album to identify him.

In that hurrying throng of well-dressed travellers, alert business men and women, Americans from all parts of the country, the austere figure of the Russian Jew, moving slowly, looking in bewilderment to right and to left, was  sufficient identification in itself.

Moey hastened to his side. "Hello, Uncle Reuben!'' he exclaimed jovially. The tall figure straightened. The old man turned around and slowly his eyes focused themselves upon Moey's smiling countenance.

"You are Moey Blumenfeld?" he asked.

Moey nodded. The old man's head was bent nearer and nearer to Moey. A suspicious light was in his eyes. He held his nose close to Moey's lips and sniffed. Then, straightening himself with a jerk, "You are drunk!" he said. And without another word he turned and re-entered the ferry-house.

Moey, flushed with mortification, all his courage and high spirits gone, wandered off in gloomy dejection and cursed the day he had ever set eyes on Sam. He hardly blamed Uncle Reuben. Such crabbedness and injustice were, to his mind, all of a piece with the old man's nature as he had come to regard it. He knew that he was perfectly sober; knew also that no sane person could have suspected other-wise. The odour of liquor upon his breath had offended the old man. It was Sam's fault.

He went to the cafe and inquired if Sam had been there. No one seemed to know him. He described him to the waiters and said:—

"If the man with the glass eye comes any evening when I'm not here, ask him to wait and send for me. He's not so smart as he thinks he is."

Every night for the next two weeks Moey, while sitting with his cronies, kept a vigilant watch for Sam. Patience is its own reward. It soothes the spirit and uplifts the soul. In addition to which, one night, Sam came.

"There's the man I've been looking for," said Moey, rising hastily.

"Oh, I know him," said one of his friends. "That's Buck."

"Ain't his name Sam?" asked Moey, pausing.

"I don't know," was the reply. "He was here once before, and they were all calling him Buck."

Moey approached him. His anger had died out many days before. His soul, however, was still full of gentle reproach, which he was eager to unload upon the man with the glass eye.

"Hello, Sam!" he said. The man with the glass eye had seated himself at a table near the door. He looked up and smiled.

"Hello, Izzy! Wie gehts?"

Moey gazed at him sadly. "Don't you remember me?" he asked.

"Sure I do. You're the fellow that looks like Bill Morrissey. Didn't you tell me your name was Izzy and that you had a rich uncle?"

"Moey Blumenfeld my name is."

"By Jingo!" Sam's hand crashed down upon the table. "If I didn't get you all mixed up with Izzy Aaronson. Ever meet Izzy? Sit down and have a drink, Mo!"

Moey sat down and gazed sadly into Sam's wandering glass eye. "Sam," he said slowly, "you gave me bad advice. My uncle came and smelled a drink on my breath. Then he turned around and went back to Philadelphia and didn't even speak to me. He said I was drunk. That's all he said."

Sam looked deeply pained. "Say, old man, I'm awfully sorry. I wouldn't have had that happen for the whole world. Why didn't you take a clove?"

"A clove?" asked Moey. "What for?"

"Why, you know, if you take a clove after drinking, then your breath doesn't give you away. Cinnamon is good, too. Look. Here's what I always use. 'Mooney's Breath Sweetener.' I can drink all night long if I like, and then when I take one of these my breath is just as sweet as a baby's."

He handed Moey a tiny vial filled with silver-coated pellets. Moey, for the life of him, could bear no resentment against the man. There was something in his way of talking, something that was so much of a personal appeal, that Moey found himself thoroughly happy to be in his company. He examined the vial closely, opened it, and smelled of its contents.

"They don't smell at all," he said.

"Not like that, they don't," explained Sam. "But after you've had a drink and put one of them on your tongue it dissolves and takes away all taste and smell of the drink. Here. Just try it."

Sam had been drinking a glass of beer. He held it out to Moey. "Just take one sip of it. It won't hurt you. And then put one of those 'Mooney's' in your mouth. You'll never know you had tasted beer."

Moey held one of the pellets between two fingers of one hand. In the other hand he took the glass of beer. He raised the glass to his mouth. His lips barely felt the touch of the cool liquid when, "Drunk again!" cried a rasping voice. Moey looked up in consternation. There stood Uncle Reuben, glaring down at him. And ere Moey's scattered wits could gather in a single coherent thought, Uncle Reuben, with a loud "Bah!" turned and walked out of the cafe. Sam took out his glass eye, tossed it up as far as the ceiling, caught it, and returned it to its place.

"Is that your uncle?" he asked. Moey could only nod. He could not speak. He could not move. He could not think.

"He looks just like Sammy Oppenheim," continued Sam. " 'Oppy' we call him for short. Ever meet Oppy?"

Moey staggered to his feet and ran out of the place. Uncle Reuben was nowhere in sight. With a weary sigh Moey went home. At the door of the tenement in which he lived he met his wife.

"Oh, Moey!" she cried in great excitement.

"Uncle Reuben is here. I told him you were at the cafe, and he went to look for you. How did you miss him?"

Moey sadly shook his head. "I did not miss him," he answered. "I saw him."

IT TOOK a week for Moey's mind to resume the normal tranquillity of its course. And another week for him to map out a scheme that was all his own, that owed nothing to the man with the glass eye. It took the form of a letter that he composed, with the aid of his wife, in four days. It was a long letter and a dignified letter and a persuasive letter. It was the letter of a man who has determined to be master of his own fate and captain of his own soul.

"And now," it ended, "to make up for the great wrong you have done me, you must give me a chance. If you take the same train to New York I will be at the ferry to meet you. Never again will my lips even touch a drink. When I see you I know you will understand everything. To-morrow at six I will be at the ferry."

Upon the morrow at 6 Moey was at the ferry. He waited. But Uncle Reuben did not come.

ABOUT A MONTH later one of Lezinsky's salesmen died, and Moey Blumenfeld conceived the brilliant idea of applying for the position. If he succeeded he knew it meant a bigger salary, in addition to which his work in the apple and apricot department was beginning to pall upon him.

"What do you know about selling?" Lezinsky asked him.

"Nothing," replied Moey, "but I can learn quickly."

"Are you a smart man?"

"Yes, Mr. Lezinsky. My wife thinks I am very smart."

"Well. I don't. If you make a good salesman I will be surprised. But I need a man to go to Philadelphia right away, and I will give you a chance. I think you will fall. But maybe you will surprise me."

The task was a simple one. A Philadelphia grocer, who had hitherto purchased regularly of Lezinsky, had announced that he was now buying the same goods of the firm of O'Connor and Company. It was Moey's task to reclaim the erring grocer and lead him back into the path of legitimate orthodoxy. The grocer's name was Isaac Aaronson. Moey travelled to Philadelphia, elated at the prospect of proving to the world that he was fitted for better things and wondering whether it might not be advisable after be had concluded his business to call upon his uncle.

Mr. Aaronson was stubborn. "You tell Mr. Lezinsky," he said, "dot ven he sells me as cheap as der Connor company den I buy mit him. Unt ven he don't, den I don't do it."

"But," persisted Moey, in his most eloquent Yiddish, "the Connor company is a Goy (Christian). And how can you buy of a Goy when Mr. Lezinsky is so religious?"

"In der grocery business," said Aaronson, "dere iss no religion. Cheap iss cheap, unt dear iss dear. Anyway I haf no time to talk mit you all day. I haf business to do."

Moey scratched his head in perplexity, and, to his delight, an idea came to him.

"To-night," said he, "when the store is closed, maybe you will go with me to a café to have supper, and we will have a nice talk." And inasmuch as a free supper appealed to Aaronson he promptly accepted the invitation.

During supper that night Moey exhausted every argument in favour of his position. He went into the details of manufacture in order to show Aaronson how vastly superior the Lezinsky products were to those of all their rivals. But Aaronson was obdurate.

"Cheap is cheap, unt dear iss dear!" was his invariable retort.

At the conclusion of the supper Moey played his trump card. "Mr. Aaronson," he said, "sometimes cheap is cheap and dear is dear, but sometimes, maybe, cheap is terrible dear. So is it when a Jew buys from a Goy and not from a Jew. Does not the Talmud say you must buy from a Jew and not from a Goy?"

Mr. Aaronson frowned. A knowledge of the Talmud was not among his accomplishments.

"I ask you now," said Moey, raising his voice and shaking his finger in Aaronson's face. "Between man and man I ask you, does not the Talmud say, 'Don't buy from a Goy'?"

"No!" cried a thundering voice in Moey's ear, and turning in amazement he beheld the tall figure of his uncle, his face red with wrath.

"Fool!" exclaimed Uncle Reuben. "Never in my life did I hear such silly talk. The Talmud says to buy from a Goy just as much as from a Jew, especially when it is cheaper. You are foolish! Bah!"

And Uncle Reuben strode haughtily from the room.

"You see," exclaimed Mr. Aaronson. "He iss a smart man. He iss right. Cheap iss cheap, unt dear iss dear, Goy or no Goy. Good-night, Mr. Blumenfeld."

MOEY BLUMENFELD is still in the apple and apricot department of Lezinsky's factory.

Some people, as I remarked before, are born to failure, some achieve failure, and some have failure thrust upon them. Moey Blumenfeld accomplished it in all three ways. You may analyse his experiences, make allowances for a cruel fate and unfortunate coincidences, and even figure out how, under the circumstances, you would have succeeded in doing the things you set out to do. But when destiny brings you face to face with your own Uncle Reuben will Moey's experiences help you? Perhaps. And perhaps not. I think not.

Lezinsky tells me that he intends to branch out into the mustard business soon. Lezinsky will succeed.

________________________

7: A Happy Solution

Raymund Allen

1863-1943

The Strand Magazine, Dec 1916

THE portmanteau, which to Kenneth Dale's strong arm had been little more than a feather-weight on leaving the station, seemed to have grown heavier by magic in the course of the half-mile that brought him to Lord Churt's country house. He put the portmanteau down in the porch with a sense of relief to his cramped arm, and rang the bell.

He had to wait for a few minutes, and then Lord Churt opened the door in person. His round, rubicund face, that would hardly have required any make-up to present an excellent "Mr. Pickwick," beamed a welcome. "Come in, my dear boy, come in. I'm delighted to see you. I wish you a merry Christmas."

It was Christmas Eve, and his manner was bubbling over with the kindliness appropriate to the season. He seized the portmanteau and carried it into the hall.

"I am my own footman and parlour-maid and everything else for the moment. Packed all the servants off to a Christmas entertainment at the village school and locked the doors after 'em. My wife's gone, too, and Aunt Blaxter."

"And Norah?" Kenneth inquired.

"Ah! Norah!" Churt answered, with a friendly clap on Kenneth's shoulder. "Norah's the only person that really matters, of course she is, and quite right too. Norah stayed in to send off a lot of Christmas cards, and I fancy she is still in her room, but she must have disposed of the cards, because they are in the letter-bag. She would have been on the look-out for you, no doubt, but your letter said you were not coming."

"Yes, I know. I thought I couldn't get away, but to-day my chief's heart was softened, and he said he would manage to do without me till the day after to-morrow. So I made a rush for the two-fifteen, and just caught it."

"And here you are as a happy surprise for your poor, disappointed Norah— and for us all," he added, genially.

"I hope you approve of my fiancée," Kenneth remarked, with a smile that expressed confidence as to the answer.

"My dear Kenneth," Churt replied, "I can say with sincerity that I think her both beautiful and charming. We were very glad to ask her here, and her singing is a great pleasure to us." He hesitated for a moment before continuing. "You must forgive us cautious old people if we think the engagement just a little bit precipitate. As Aunt Blaxter was saying to-day, you can't really know her very well on such a short acquaintance, and you know nothing at all of her people."

Kenneth mentally cursed Aunt Blaxter for a vinegar-blooded old killjoy, but did not express any part of the sentiment aloud.

"We must have another talk about your great affair later," Churt went on. "Now come along to the library. I am just finishing a game of chess with Sir James Winslade, and then we'll go and find where Miss Norah is hiding."

He stopped at a table in the passage that led from the hall to the library, and took a bunch of keys out of his pocket. "She was sending you a letter, so there can be no harm in our rescuing it out of the bag." He unlocked the private letter-bag and turned out a pile of letters on to the table, muttering an occasional comment as he put them back, one by one, in the bag, in his search for the letter he was looking for.

"Aunt Emma— ah, I ought to have written to her too; must write for her birthday instead. Mrs. Dunn— same thing there, I'm afraid. Red Cross— hope that won't get lost; grand work, the Red Cross. Ah, here we are: 'Kenneth Dale, Esq., 31, Valpy Street, London, S.W.' " He tumbled the rest of the letters back into the bag and re-locked it. "Put it in your pocket and come along, or Winslade will think I am never coming back."

He was delayed a few moments longer, however, to admit the servants on their return from the village, and he handed the bag to one of them to be taken to the post-office.

In the library Sir James Winslade was seated at the chess-board, and Churt's private secretary, Gornay, a tall, slender figure, with a pale complexion and dark, clever eyes, was watching the game. The secretary greeted Kenneth rather frigidly, and turned to Churt. "Have the letters gone to post yet?"

"Yes; did you want to send any?"

"Only a card that I might have written," Gornay answered, "but it isn't of any consequence"; and he sat down again beside the chess-players.

Churt had the black pieces, black nominally only, for actually they were the little red pieces of a travelling board. He appeared to have got into difficulties, and, greatly to the satisfaction of

Kenneth, who was impatient to go in quest of Norah, the game came to an end after a few more moves.

"I don't see any way out of this," Churt remarked, after a final, perplexed survey of the position. "You come at me, next move, with queen or knight, and, either way, I am done for. It is your game. I resign."

"A lucky win for you, Sir James," Gornay observed.

"Why lucky?" Winslade asked. "You told us we had both violated every sound principle of development in the opening, but could Black have done any better for the last few moves?"

"He can win the game as the pieces now stand," Gornay answered.

He proved the statement by making a few moves on the board, and then replaced the pieces as they had been left.

"Well, it's your game fair and square, all the same," Churt remarked good-humouredly. "I should never have found the right reply for myself."

Gornay continued to study the board with attention, and his face assumed an expression of keenness, as though he had discovered some fresh point to interest him in the position. At the moment Kenneth merely chafed at the delay. It was an hour or so later only that the secretary's comments on the game assumed for him a vital importance that made him recall them with particularity.

"If the play was rather eccentric sometimes, I must say it was bold and dashing enough on both sides," Gornay commented.

"For instance, when Lord Churt gave up his knight for nothing, and when you gave him the choice of taking your queen with either of two pawns at your queen's knight's sixth." He turned to Churt. "Possibly you might have done better to take the queen with the bishop's pawn instead of with the rook's."

"I daresay, I daresay," Churt replied. "I should have probably got into a mess, whatever I played. But come along, now, all of you, and see if we can find some tea."

Kenneth contrived, before entering the drawing-room, to intercept Norah for an exchange of greetings in private, and her face was still radiant with the delight of the unexpected meeting as they entered the room.

After tea Sir James carried off the secretary to keep him company in the smoking-room, and Churt turned to Norah. "You must sing one of the Christmas carols you promised us, and then you young folk may go off to the library to talk over your own private affairs. I know you must both be longing to get away from us old fogies."

"Thank you, Lord Churt, for 'old fogies,' on behalf of your wife and myself," Aunt Blaxter commented, with a mild sarcasm that somehow failed of its intended playful effect. But Norah had sat down at once to the piano, and her voice rang out in a joyous carol before he could frame a suitable reply.

A second carol was asked for, that the others might join in, and in the course of it Kenneth's hand came upon the letter in his pocket. He was opening the envelope as Norah rose from the piano. Her eye caught her own handwriting and she blushed very red. "Be careful. Ken. Don't let anything fall out!" she cried in alarm. Thus warned, he drew the letter out delicately, being careful to leave in the envelope a little curl of brown hair, a lover's token that she would have been shy to see exposed to the eyes of the others. But, in his care for this, a thin bit of paper fluttered from the fold of the letter to the carpet, and all eyes instinctively followed it. It was a Bank of England note for a thousand pounds.

Kenneth looked at Norah in wonder, but got no enlightenment. Then at Lord Churt, as the bare possibility occurred to his mind that, in a Christmas freak of characteristic generosity, he might have somehow contrived to get it enclosed with her letter. But Churt's dumbfounded expression was not the acting of any genial comedy. His hands trembled as he put on his glasses to compare an entry in his pocket-book with the number on the note. He was the first to break the amazed silence. "This is a most extraordinary thing. This is the identical bank-note that I put into the Red Cross envelope this afternoon as my Christmas gift, the very same that I got for the purpose of sending anonymously, and that you ladies were interested to inspect at breakfast time."

Each looked at the others for an explanation, till all eyes settled on Norah, as the person who might be expected to give one, Churt looked vexed and troubled. Aunt Blaxter severely suspicious, as she saw that the girl remained silent, with a face that was losing its colour. "As the note was found in a letter sent by Norah, she would be the natural person to explain how it got there," she remarked.

"I haven't the remotest notion how it got there," Norah replied.

"I can only say that I did not put it there, and that I never saw it again since breakfast time, until it dropped out of my letter a few moments ago."

"Very strange," Aunt Blaxter remarked, drily. Kenneth turned upon her hotly. "You don't suggest that Norah stole the note, I imagine!"

"My dear people," Churt Intervened, soothingly, "do let us keep our heads cool, and not have any unpleasant scene."

Kenneth still glared. "If Norah had put the note into this envelope, she would have referred to it in her letter. I suppose you will accept my word that she doesn't."

"Read out the postscript. Ken," Norah requested. "Miss Blaxter may like to suggest that it refers to the note."

The girl looked at her with a face that was now blazing with anger, and Kenneth read out: "P.S. Don't let anybody see what I am sending you!" It had not occurred to him that it could be taken as anything but a jesting reference to the lock of hair, the note of exclamation at the end giving the effect of "As though I should ever dream you would," or some equivalent. The matter was growing too serious for any shamefacedness, and he produced the lock of hair in explanation. It was cruel luck, he reflected, that the unfortunate postscript should be capable of misconstruction. He had counted on Norah's making a triumphant conquest of the Churt household, and it was exceedingly galling to find her, instead, exposed to an odious suspicion. Aunt Blaxter's demeanour was all the more maddening that he could think of no means to prove its unreasonableness. He looked gratefully at Lady Churt, as her gentle voice gave the discussion a fresh turn. "How long has Mr. Gornay been with us?" she asked her husband.

Churt looked shocked. "My dear, we mustn't make any rash insinuations in a matter of this kind. "What possible motive could Gornay have for putting the note into Norah's letter, if he meant to steal it? Besides, my evidence clears him."

"Would you mind telling us what you did with the note after you showed it at the breakfast table this morning?" Kenneth asked.

"I'll tell you exactly," Churt answered. "When it had made the round of the breakfast table, I put it back in my pocket-book and kept it in my pocket till this afternoon. It was while we were playing chess that I remembered that the bag would be going to post earlier than usual, and I put the note in the Red Cross envelope with the printed address and stuck it down and put it into the bag. I came straight back to the library, and I remember being surprised at the move I found Winslade had played because he was offering me his queen for nothing. Just at that moment it occurred to my mind that Norah had probably already put her letters into the bag, and that, if so, I might as well lock it at once, for fear of forgetting to do so later. I looked at the chess-board for a few minutes, standing up, and then went and found that Norah's letters were in the bag, and I locked it, and came back and took Winslade's queen."

"But I don't quite see what all that has to do with Mr. Gornay, or how it clears him," Lady Churt remarked.

"Why, my dear, whoever took the note out of one envelope, and put it into the other must have done so in the few minutes between my two visits to the bag. It was the only time that the letter was in the bag without its being locked. And during that time Gornay was watching the chess, so it can't have been him."

"Was he in the library all the time you were playing?" Kenneth asked.

"I can't say that," Churt replied. "I don't think he was. I didn't notice particularly. But I am positive that he did not enter or leave the room while I was standing looking at Winslade's move, and he must have been there when Winslade offered his queen and when I took it, because he was commenting on those very moves after the game was finished, and suggesting that I might have done better to take with the other pawn. You heard him yourself."

"Yes," Kenneth answered. "I follow that. But there is such a thing as picking a lock, you know."

"The makers guarantee that it can't be done to this one," Churt answered, "and the key has always been in my possession, so he couldn't have had a duplicate made, even if there had been any time."

Norah interposed in a voice that trembled with indignation.

"In short. Lord Churt, you think the evidence conclusive against the only other person, except Sir James Winslade, who was in the house. I have only my word to give against it."

"It is worth all the evidence in the world," Kenneth cried, and she thanked her champion with a bright glance.

"Lady Churt is quite right," Kenneth went on. "I'd stake my life it was that sneaking Gornay. Have him in here now, and see if his face doesn't show his guilt when I call him a thief."

"Not for the world!" Churt exclaimed, aghast. "We should have a most painful scene. This is no case for rash precipitancy."

He assumed the air of judicial solemnity with which, from the local bench, he would fine a rascal five shillings who ought to have gone down for six months. "I entirely refuse to entertain any suspicions of anybody under this roof, guests, servants, or anyone else. It will probably turn out that some odd little accident has occurred, that will seem simple enough when it is explained. On the other hand, it is just conceivable that some evil-disposed person from outside should have got into the house, though I confess I can't understand the motive of their action if they did. In any case, I feel it my duty, for the credit of my household, to have the matter cleared up by the proper authority."

"What do you mean by the proper authority?" Lady Churt asked. "I didn't think the local police were very clever that time when poor Kelpie got stolen."

The Aberdeen terrier at her feet looked up at the sound of his name, and Churt continued: "I shall telephone to Scotland Yard. If Shapland is there, I am sure he would come down at once in his car. He could be here in less than two hours. Until he, or somebody else, arrives I beg that none of you say a word about this affair to anyone who is not now present in this room."

"Quite the most proper course," Aunt Blaxter observed. "It is only right that guilt should be brought home to the proper person, whoever that person may be."

With a tact of which Kenneth had hardly thought him capable, Churt turned to Norah. "I have no doubt Shapland will clear up the mystery for us satisfactorily. Meantime, my dear girl, you and I find ourselves in the same boat, for there is only my word for it that I ever put the note into the Red Cross envelope at all."

The kindness of his manner brought the tears to her eyes, and Kenneth took her away to the library.

"Fancy their thinking I was a thief— a thief, Ken— a common mean thief!"

"Nonsense, my darling girl," he said. "Nobody could believe any such rubbish."

"That odious Aunt Blaxter does, at any rate. She as good as said so." She sat down in a chair, and began to grow calmer, while he paced about the room, angry but thoughtful.

"I was glad I had you to stick up for me. Ken, and Lord Churt is an old dear."

"He's a silly old dear, all the same," he answered. "He has more money than he knows what to do with, but fancy fluttering a thousand-pound note through the Christmas post, to get lost among all the robins and good wishes!"

They were interrupted at this point by the entry of Gornay.

"I am not going to stay," he said, in answer to their not very welcoming expressions. "I have only come to ask a quite small favour. I am having a great argument with Sir James about character-reading from handwriting, and I want specimens from people we both know. Any little scrap will do."

Kenneth took up a sheet of note-paper from a writing table and wrote, "All is not gold that glitters," and Norah added below,

"Birds of a feather flock together." It seemed the quickest way to get rid of him.

Gornay looked up at the sheet with a not quite satisfied air. "I would rather have had something not written specially. Nobody ever writes quite naturally when they know that it is for this sort of purpose. You haven't got an old envelope, or something like that?"

Neither could supply what he wanted, and he went off, looking a little disappointed.

"I wonder whether that was really what he wanted the writing for," Kenneth remarked, suspiciously. "He's a quick-witted knave. Look how sharp he was to see the right move in that game of chess. It wasn't very obvious."

The chess-board was lying open on the table, where Churt had
left it before tea. He glanced at it, casually at first, and then with growing interest. He took up one of the pieces to examine it, then replaced it, to do the same with others, his manner showing all the time an increasing excitement.

"What is it, Ken?" Norah asked.

"Just a glimmer of something." He dropped Into a chair. "I want to think — to think harder than ever in my life."

He leant forward, with his head resting on his hands, and she waited in silence till, after some minutes, he looked up.

"Yes, I begin to see light — more than a glimmer. He's a subtle customer, is Mr. Gornay, oh, very subtle!" He smiled, partly with the pleasure of finding one thread of a tangled web, partly with admiration for the cleverness that had woven it. "Would you like to know what he was really after when he came in here just now?"

"Very much," she answered. "But do you mean that he never had any argument with Sir James?"

"Oh, I daresay he had the argument all right — got it up for the occasion; but what he really wanted was this." He took out of his pocket the envelope in which the bank-note had been discovered. "The character-reading rot was not a bad shot at getting hold of it, and probably his only chance. But no, friend Gornay, you are not going to have that envelope— not for the thousand pounds you placed in it!"

"Do explain, Ken," Norah begged.

"I will presently," he answered, "but I want to piece the whole jigsaw together. There is still the other difficulty."

He dropped his eyes to the hearthrug again, and began to do his thinking aloud for her benefit.

"Churt's reasoning is that

Gornay must have been in here, watching the game, at the only time when the letters could have been tampered with, because he knew afterwards the move that was played just at the beginning of that time, and the move that was played just at the end. But why might not Winslade have told him about those two moves while Churt was letting me in at the front door? That would solve the riddle. I should have thought Winslade would have been too punctilious to talk about the game while his opponent was out of the room, but I'll go and ask him. I needn't tell him the reason why I want to know."

He came back almost immediately. "No, there was no conversation about the game while Churt was out of the room. Very well. Try the thing the other way round. Assume— as I think I can prove— that Gornay did tamper with the letters, the question is how could he tell that those two moves had been played?"

He took up the chess-board again and looked at it so intently and so long that, at last, Norah grew impatient.

"My dear boy, what can you be doing, poring all this time over the chess?"

"I have a curious sort of chess problem to solve before the Sherlock Holmes man turn up from Scotland Yard. Follow this a moment. If there was any way by which Gornay could find out that the two important moves had been played, without being present at the time and without being told, then Churt's argument goes for nothing, doesn't it?"

"Clearly; but what other way was there? Did he look in through the window?"

"I think we shall find it was something much cleverer than that. I think I shall be able to show that he could infer that those two moves had been played, without any other help, from the position of the pieces as they stood at the end of the game; as they stand on the board now." He again bent down over the board.

"White plays queen to queen's knight's sixth, not taking anything, and Black takes the queen with the rook's pawn; those are the two moves."

For nearly another half-hour Norah waited in loyal silence, watching the alternation of his face as it brightened with the light of comprehension and clouded again with fresh perplexity. At last he shut up the board and put it down, looking profoundly puzzled.

"Can it not be proved that the queen must have been taken at that particular square?" Norah inquired.

"No," he answered. "It might equally have been a rook. I can't make the matter out. So many of the jigsaw bits fit in that I know I must be right, and yet there is just one little bit that I can't find. By jove!" he added, suddenly starting up, "I wonder if Churt could supply it?"

He was just going off to find out when a servant entered the room with a message that Lord Churt requested their presence in his study.

THE CONCLAVE assembled in the study consisted of the same persons who, in the drawing-room, had witnessed the discovery of the bank-note, with the addition of Shapland, the detective from Scotland Yard. Lord Churt presided, sitting at the table, and Shapland sat by his side, with a face that might have seemed almost unintelligent in its lack of expression but for the roving eyes, that scrutinised in turn the other faces present. Norah and Kenneth took the two chairs that were left vacant, and, as soon as the door was shut, Kenneth asked Churt a question.

"When you played your game of chess with Sir James Winslade this afternoon, did he give you the odds of the queen's rook?"

Everyone, except Norah and the sphinx-like detective, whose face gave no clue to his thoughts, looked surprised at the triviality of the question.

"I should hardly have thought this was a fitting occasion to discuss such a frivolous matter as a game of chess," Aunt Blaxter remarked sourly.

"I confess I don't understand the relevance of your question," Churt answered. "As a matter of fact, he did give me those odds."

"Thank God!" Kenneth exclaimed, with an earnestness that provoked a momentary sign of interest from Shapland.

"I should like to hear what Mr. Dale has to say about this matter," he remarked. "Lord Churt has put me in possession of the circumstances."

"I have an accusation to make against Lord Churt's private secretary, Mr. Gornay. Perhaps he had better be present to hear it."

"Quite unnecessary, quite unnecessary," Churt interposed. "We will not have any unpleasant scenes if we can help it."

"Very well," Kenneth continued. "I only thought it might be fairer. I accuse Gornay of stealing the thousand-pound bank-note out of the envelope addressed to the Red Cross and putting it into a letter addressed to me. I accuse him of using colourless ink, of a kind that would become visible after a few hours, to cross out my address and substitute another, the address of a confederate, no doubt."

"You must be aware, Mr. Dale," Shapland observed, "that you are making a very serious allegation in the presence of witnesses. I presume you have some evidence to support it?"

Kenneth opened the chess-board. "Look at the stains on those chess pieces. They were not there when the game was finished. They were there, not so distinctly as now, about an hour ago. Precisely those pieces, and only those, are stained that Gornay touched in showing that Lord Churt might have won the game. If they are not stains of invisible ink, why should they grow more distinct? If they are invisible ink, how did it get there, unless from Gornay's guilty fingers?"

He took out of his pocket the envelope of Norah's letter, and a glance at it brought a look of triumph to his face. He handed it to Shapland. "The ink is beginning to show there, too. It seems to act more slowly on the paper than on the polish of the chess-men."

"It is a difference of exposure to the air," Shapland corrected. "The envelope has been in your pocket. If we leave it there on the table, we shall see presently whether your deduction is sound. Meanwhile, if Mr. Gornay was the guilty person, how can you account for his presence in the library at the only time when a crime could have been committed?"

"By denying it," Kenneth answered. "What proof have we that he was there at that particular time?"

"How else could he know the moves that were played at that time?" Shapland asked.

Kenneth pointed again to the chess-board. "From the position of the pieces at the end of the game. Here it is. I can prove, from the position of those pieces alone, provided the game was played at the odds of queen's rook, that White must, in the course of the game, have played his queen to queen's knight's sixth, not making a capture, and that Black must have taken it with the rook's pawn. If I can draw those inferences from the position, so could Gornay. We know how quickly he can think out a combination from the way in which he showed that Lord Churt could have won the game, when it looked so hopeless that he resigned."

The detective, fortunately, had an elementary knowledge of chess sufficient to enable him to follow Kenneth's demonstration.

"I don't suggest," Kenneth added, when the accuracy of the demonstration was admitted, "that he planned this alibi before-hand. It was a happy afterthought, that occurred to his quick mind when he saw that the position at the end of the game made it possible. What he relied on was the invisible ink trick, and that would have succeeded by itself, if I hadn't happened to turn up unexpectedly in time to intercept my letter from Norah."

While Kenneth was giving this last bit of explanation, Shapland had taken up the envelope again. As he had foretold, exposure to the air had brought out the invisible writing so that, although still faint, it was already legible. Only the middle line of the address, the number and name of the street, had been struck out with a single stroke, and another number and name substituted. The detective handed it to Churt. "Do you recognise the second handwriting, my lord?"

Churt put on his glasses and examined it. "I can't say that I do," he answered, "but it is not that of Mr. Gornay." He took another envelope out of his pocket-book, addressed to himself in his secretary's hand, and pointed out the dissimilarity of the two writings. Norah cast an anxious look at Kenneth, and Aunt Blaxter one of her sourest at the girl. The detective showed no surprise.

"None the less, my lord, I think it might forward our investigation if you would have Mr. Gornay summoned to this room, I don't think you need be afraid that there will be any scene," he added, and, for an instant, the faintest of smiles flitted across his lips.

Churt rang the bell and told the servant to ask his secretary to come to him.

"Mr. Gornay left an hour ago, my lord. He was called away suddenly and doesn't expect to see his grandmother alive."

"Poor old soul! On Christmas Eve, too!" Churt muttered, sympathetically, and this time Shapland allowed himself the indulgence of a rather broader smile.

"I guessed as much," he observed, "when I recognised the handwriting in which the envelope had been redirected, or I should have taken the precautions of going to fetch the gentleman, whom you know as Mr. Gornay, myself. He is a gentleman who is known to us at the Yard by more than one name, as well as by more than one handwriting, and now that we have so fortunately discovered his present whereabouts, I can promise you that he will soon be laid by the heels. Perhaps Lord Churt will be kind enough to have my car ordered and to allow me to use his telephone."

"But you'll stay to dinner?" Churt asked. "It will be ready in a few minutes, and we shall none of us have time to dress."

"I am much obliged, my lord, but Mr. Dale has done my work for me here in a way that any member of the Yard might be proud of, and now I must follow the tracks while they are fresh. It may not prove necessary to trouble you any further about this matter, but I think you are likely to see an important development in the great Ashfield forgery case reported in the newspapers before very long."

"Well," Churt observed, "I think we may all congratulate ourselves on having got this matter cleared up without any unpleasant scenes. Now we shall be able to enjoy our Christmas. I call it a happy solution, a very happy solution."

His face beamed with relief and good-humour as he once more produced his pocket-book. "Norah, my dear, you must accept an old man's apology for causing you a very unpleasant afternoon; and you must accept this as well. No, I shall not take a refusal, and it will be much safer to send a cheque to the Red Cross."

__________

THE SOLUTION OF THE END-GAME given in this story, and the proof that a white queen must have been taken by the pawn at Q Kt 3, is given herewith:

1.... P to K 6; 2.

Q to R 6 (a), Q to R 5, ch.;

3. Q (or B) takes Q, B to B 5;

4. Kt to Kt 3, B takes Kt and mates, very shortly, with R to R 8.

(a) 2. Kt to Kt 4, Q takes Kt; 3. Q (or P) takes Q (b), B to B J as before.

(b) If 3. Q to R 6, Q to R J, ch., as before.

If 2. P to K Kt 4, B to Kt 6; 3. Kt takes B, Q takes Kt and wins.

The following is the proof, from the position of the pieces, that a white queen must have been taken by the pawn at Q Kt 3: All the black men except two are on the board; therefore White made only two captures. These two captures must have been made with the two pawns now at K 5 and B 3, because they have left their original files. White, therefore, never made a capture with his Q R P, and therefore it never got on to the knight's file. Therefore the black pawn at Q Kt 3 captured a piece (not a pawn). The game having been played at the odds of queen's rook, the white Q R was off the board before the game began, and the white K R was captured on its own square, or one of two adjacent squares, there being no way out for it.

Now, since Black captured a piece with the pawn at Q Kt 3, and there are no white pieces off the board (except the two white rooks that have been accounted for), it follows that whatever piece was captured by the pawn at Q Kt 3 must have been replaced on the board in exchange for the white Q R P when it reached its eighth square. It was not a rook that was captured at Q Kt 3, because the two white rooks have been otherwise accounted for. The pawn, on reaching its eighth square, cannot have been exchanged for a bishop, or the bishop would still be on that square, there being no way out for it, nor can the pawn have been exchanged for a knight for the same reason (remembering that the capture at Q Kt 3 must necessarily have happened before the pawn could reach its eighth square).

Therefore the pawn was exchanged for a queen, and therefore it was a queen that was captured at Q Kt 3, and when she went there she did not make a capture, because only two captures were made by White, both with pawns.

Q.E.D.

________________________

8: The Other Man's Boots

Richard Marsh

Sunday Sun (Sydney) 25 Oct 1908

Richard Marsh (1857-1915) was the pseudonym of the English author Richard Bernard Heldmann. A best-selling and prolific author of the late 19th century and the Edwardian period, Marsh is best known now for his supernatural thriller novel The Beetle, which was published the same year as Bram Stoker's Dracula (1897), and was initially even more popular, outselling Dracula six times over

BUTLER CAME into my room with a pair of patent leather boots in his hands.

"I can't wear them," he said. "I paid five- and- twenty shillings for them; you can have them for twelve-and- six— and they're brand new."

I was going to the Parkers at Hendon; and could not but feel that decent looking boots might catch Jane Parker's eye; particularly as my own were a trifle worn. So I bought the boots— to oblige Butler.

My idea was that since they were of no use to him seven-and-six would be ample. But the man's nature constrained him to extract that uttermost farming from a friend whose only wish was to do him a good turn, so he insisted on squeezing out of me an additional two-and-six.

The result was that when we had finished our discussion, and I had rushed into my clothes, there were only a few minutes left to catch the train. Off I tore. I hate tearing, but there was not a cab in sight, and it was perfectly aware that if I missed that train there was not another for at least three hours. What with my agitation, and the speed at which I was rushing, I had not gone half-way. before I became conscious that, as regards fit, Butler's boots were a trifle too glove-like. The miserable man had palmed off on to me a pair of boots which were inflicting on me the most sanguinary tortures.

By the time I had purchased a ticket, charged down the platform, been pushed into the starting train by an over-officious porter, who nearly hurled me through the opposite door, I felt that I was better fitted to be the subject of a surgical operation than to pay a visit to the Parkers. As the train glided out of the station I removed Butler's boots.

Oh, the relief!

Placing them on one seat and my feet on the other, I enjoyed a few minutes of almost perfect bliss. Presently we stopped at a station. Prudence and my natural delicacy suggested that I should replace the boots, but as on glancing through, the window I saw no one who seemed at all likely to come my way I felt justified in postponing the evil moment as far as possible. Judge, then, of any consternation when, just as we were off, a young woman came tumbling into the compartment and flopped down upon the patent leathers. For a second I was speechless.

"Excuse me," I ventured at last. "You are sitting on my boots."

The start she gave! The way she sprang to her feet, and the look she cast behind her! She saw the boots; she saw my feet; she understood— at least, partially. She glanced through the window. We were clear of the station, or I make no doubt that she would have left the carriage in defiance of the railway company's bylaws.

Sinking on to the seat, she covered as much of her countenance as a very small pocket-handkerchief permitted. I perceived that I was in the presence of an unusually sensitive young woman— possibly of some tender creature who had for the first time quitted the protection of her mother's arms. I stammered an apology— with what was meant to be a smile.

"Excuse me, but the fact Is they are new boots, and they are just a little tight." She glanced up with gleaming eyes. "If you speak to me I'll ring the alarm-bell!"

She looked as if she would do it too. It was my turn to shiver. What might not happen to me If she did? Goodness only knew what story her excited fancy might prompt her to tell. Before I knew it my character might be gone. With hands which literally trembled I began to replace Butler's boots; or, rather, I began to try to, because it soon dawned upon me that I was essaying a feat which approached the impossible. Without a shoe-horn to strive seemed vain. I endeavoured to make the most of a half-crown. It would not do. Either the coin was useless or my fingers awkward. A half-crown was not going to induce Butler's boots to replace themselves upon my feet.

I stuttered a request. "A thousand pardons, but the boots are rather, tighter than I thought. Have— have— have you such a thing upon you as a shoe-horn?"

"I told you if you spoke to me again I should ring the bell."

She rose. So did I.

"Pray forgive me— I had no intention to offend— I've been the victim of circumstances— I promise I won't speak to you again if you'll leave the bell alone."

She left the bell alone — with such a glance towards me!

I continued wrestling in silence with Butler's boots. It is not always easy for a person of a certain figure to put on a pair of refractory boots in public. My coat was a little tight under the arms. I knew that the starch was coming out of my collar. I felt that my tie was crooked. Each second I expected that something would happen to my waistcoat. Had I only been able to undo a button or two I should have been eased. But in my situation how could I?

Luckily, as I feared that I was approaching an apoplectic fit, the train began to slow. We entered a station.

The young woman stood up. She said with an air of the loftiest disdain— "I will leave you, sir, to continue your struggle with your boots alone."

She  quitted the compartment. How thankful I was for her departure!

I perceived that the weather had changed, and, that it was commencing to rain. In a sense, inside it was raining too, for the perspiration was streaming down my face. I mopped myself with my handkerchief, sighed, replaced the wretched foot-wear on the opposite seat, and resolved that when we were once more clear of the station I would remove my coat and waistcoat, and return to the attack on Butler's boots under circumstances better calculated to achieve success. —Someone stood before the carriage window— a huge fellow, over six feet high. He turned the handle. I clutched at the window.

"Pardon me, sir," I began, "but there's plenty of room in the train, and if you wouldn't mind I should be obliged—"

He cut me short, wrenching the door from my grasp. "What the deuce do you mean by trying to prevent my coming in?"

He entered, shutting the door behind him with a bang. The train was off. He all but stamped on my unshod feet. I made a forward movement as he was about to seat himself.

"One moment, sir! You arc about to sit upon my boots!"

He looked behind him. As he did so an expression of the most singular kind came on his countenance. He looked down at my feet. When he saw the condition they were in the expression intensified. I really feared that he was going to assault me. He seemed In a towering passion. It is possible that I did shrink a little back. He exclaimed with a sound that was between a gasp and a splutter— "You scoundrel!"

He picked up Butler's boots. Before I had a notion of what he designed to do, he threw them out of the carriage window, wide of the line, right into a field of grain which we were passing.

The action was so unexpected, the outrage so unprovoked, so unjustified, that it was some moments before I was able to realise what had actually occurred.  Then the whole enormity of the thing came on me with a rush.

"Do you— do you know you've thrown my boots out of the window?"

Instead of showing the slightest sign of contrition, he spoke and behaved as if the fault were mine.

"And if you're not careful, in two seconds I'll throw you after them! How dare you put your filthy boots on the cushions of a first-class carriage? How dare you sit in a first-class carriage in such a condition at all? Perhaps you would like to remove the rest of your clothing? In which case I take leave to Inform you that I will send it after your boots, and you after the lot!"

I was almost petrified into speechlessness. That an individual— for absolutely no reason whatever— should throw my boots— my only boots!— into a field of standing corn, with the rain coming down in bucketfuls!— and should then assail me as if I were a pickpocket. the thing surpassed belief. I endeavoured to collect my scattered senses. I made an effort— a somewhat feeble one, I admit— to reason with the man.

"Let us be calm, sir—"

"Don't ask me to be calm!"

"Well, sir, will not ask you to be calm; but I will ask you if a man who is suffering from tight boots is not entitled to relieve himself for a few moments of the torture he endures."

"No reasonable being would travel in such things. You might as well ask if, because you choose to wear a suit of clothes which is three sizes too small for you, you are not entitled to relieve yourself of it wherever and whenever the fancy seizes you, say at high noon in Regent-street. It is persons such as you who make railway travelling in England a public scandal, and an actual danger. If I did my strict duty as a magistrate I should give you into custody for infringing the company's bylaws, and for an outrage on public decency."

"Give me into custody! It's extremely probable that I shall give you Into custody for stealing my boots."

"Stealing your boots!" Leaning forward, he glared at me in a manner which induced me to compress myself into the corner.

"You speak to me like that again and, magistrate or no magistrate, I'll break this stick across your back!"

I never encountered such an Individual before. I trust I never may again, He seemed to be under the impression that the fact of hiss having deprived me of my boots— my only boots!— entitled him to load me with every sort of abuse. It was no use trying to argue with him. Not the least. He was much bigger than I was, and apparently of a disposition which enjoyed disturbance, for its own sake. To have a vulgar quarrel with him in a railway carriage was out of the question. I should have been practically annihilated. Probably there were few things which he would have enjoyed more.

At the next station he alighted. Although it was pouring cats and dogs, he stood there in the rain and shouted lo the guard.

"Guard, here's a person in this first-class carriage with nothing on his feet! Such conduct oughtn't to be allowed."

His monstrous insinuation I did resent, and that In a manner which I have no doubt he found sufficiently emphatic.

"Nothing on my feet!" I shouted. "I beg to inform you that I've a pair of socks on my feet, sir! And, guard, if this man hadn't thrown a pair of brand-new patent leather boots out of the carriage window into the middle of a corn-field, I should have had something more. I want a policeman— that's what I want."

"If you want a policeman you'll have to get out and find one."

The guard held the door wide open.

"Get out? In this rain! What do you take me for? Certainly not. I'm going to Hendon, and when I reach it the law will be immediately put into motion."

"Hendon is next station, can't hang about here. Right!"

We were off.

Hendon was the next station? Indeed! I did not look forward to the prospect with entire equanimity. I had never been to the place before, but I had a vague idea that it was a hole-and-corner village in which it might be difficult to procure a decent pair of either boots or shoes.

I had not told the Parkers by what train I should arrive, but as there appeared to be only one by which anyone could come, it was just possible that they might send some sort of vehicle to meet me. Suppose it contained Jane Parker, and I had to show myself to her to my stockinged feet!

It turned out that the station at Hendon consisted of a single platform— a mere strip of earth, no more. There was a wooden structure about the size and shape of a gipsy's caravan. Nothing else. And the wooden structure was ever so far from the point at which my carriage had stopped. I had not the faintest glimmering of an idea what to do. Without an umbrella— the sun had been shining when I left!— with a new top-hat, and a nearly new frock coat, to descend in my stockinged feet!— into the sea of mud which did duty as a platform suggested the act of a lunatic.

The guard gave me no time to reflect. He came paddling through the quagmire.

"This is Hendon. Now then, sir, quickly, if you please! It's raining!"

As if I didn't see it!

"We want to be off— we're late already."

"I can't possibly get down into that mud in my socks. Where's a porter? Porter!"

A lout of about eighteen turned and looked at me.

"Lend me an umbrella — at once, if you please!"

"Umbrella?" The lout grinned. "We ain't got no umbrellas. We don't use 'em."

"Don't use them!" I gasped. He himself was enveloped in what looked like a tarpaulin taken from the top of a truck. I was about to ask if he had another with which he could accommodate me, when that wretched guard started worrying again.

"Now, sir, are you going to get out, or aren't you?"

He reached up his hand. Really unconsciously I took it. In an instant, dragging me out of the carriage, he jerked, me into the mud, banged the carriage door, waved his flag, and the train was off.

My hat had slipped on one side. I had gone over my ankles in slush. The passengers were enjoying from the carriage windows the spectacle I presented, and I was the subject of some most impertinent remarks.

"Ticket, please!"

Those were the words which greeted me before I had really realised my situation, and the fact that the departing train was leaving me behind. I turned upon the lout with a not unnatural burst of anger.

"Ticket! Don't talk to me. about a ticket! Take me into the station. It will be time enough to talk about a ticket then."

"Can't go into the station. Station's going to be closed."

"Station's going to be closed? What do you mean? Send the station-master to me at once."

"Station-master's over at sports. I'm going too, now train's gone!"

"Sports! In this weather!"

" 'Tisn't often anything happens 'round these parts. A little weather won't keep us away when anything's doing. Mostly do rain sports day. Though this time it do be raining more than usual."

"Get me a cab, please. Where's the village?"

"Village is ' about a mile down the road. Ain't no cabs there. No cabs this side of Uffington. That's about, five mile. Might be a little more. I can't get you a cab. Tell you I'm going to the sports. Ticket, please!"

"Where can I get a pair of boots?"

"I don't know nothing about mo boots. There ain't nowhere 'round these parts where you can get no boots, that I knows on. Ticket, please!"

I found myself standing in what was meant to be a road. A gate was slammed in my face. The station was shut. I shouted a last despairing appeal.

"Can you tell me where Mr. Parker lives?"

"He lives about four miles on t'other side of the lane. You go about a mile up the lane till you come to a stile. You go over the stile across some fields till you come to a pond. You go round the pond till you come to a wood. You go through the wood till you come to some cross-roads. You take the road to your right like, and then the first turning to your left. Then you'd better ask again, for afterwards 'tis a little puzzling."

Whether the ruffian was or was not jeering at me I do not know unto this hour. Conceive my situation! It is difficult to depict It without seeming to use the pencil of exaggeration. The rain was descending simply in sheets. In less than the twinkling of an eye I was soaked to the skin.

Remember that I had my best clothes on, under the impression that I was going to a garden party. Accustomed though I am to the fickleness of the English climate, I had no suspicion that we were about to have such weather.

There was no shelter to be had. Wooden palings about five feet high, marked the station. There was a hedge at either end. On the opposite side of the road was a ditch, with another hedge beyond it. Nothing in the shape of a house, barn, or reasonable-sized tree was to be seen. What had become of the loutish porter I cannot say. I Imagine that the sports were held on the other side of the line, and that he had trudged to them across the fields. I only know that I called to him feebly, yet audibly, now and then; and that not a creature took the slightest notice. No. I turned up the bottom of my trousers and the collar of my coat.

I tied a handkerchief round my neck. I rammed my hat down as far as possible over my eyes. And I clung to the palings in the pouring rain, practically barefooted, up to my ankles in mud, through the long hours of what was theoretically a summer afternoon; it is frightful to contemplate. Awful to look back upon.

I felt as if  I was there for ever. Why a station had been planted there is more than I can even guess. Not a soul came near it all the time I was in its neighbourhood. Nor did I see a sign of life of any sort or kind. I was just forming a resolution to mark my abandonment of hope by sitting down in the mud when a voice addressed me from the other side of the palings.

"Hallo! What are you doing there?"

"What was I doing there?" The irony of the question! But I was too far gone to show resentment. An individual in a long black waterproof was standing on the "platform."

"If you are connected with the railway company;" I mildly remarked. "I shall be obliged if you will allow me to take shelter in the station till the next train comes."

"But there isn't another train for more than half an hour."

"As I have been waiting here since the last train went, without an umbrella, and without shoes, a further half-hour is but an added trifle. And you will understand that I have reached a period at which trifles do not count."

He hardly seemed to know what to make of me. But he opened the gate. He was the station-master. Having personally had enough of the sports, he had left his assistant to have his fill.

He was good to me, on the whole. He took me into his own room, six feet by seven; he lent me a suit of clothes and a pair of boots— against a deposit of money. I will not speak of the cut, nor— since he was probably six inches taller than I was— will I dwell on the fit. I will merely remark that, on that, occasion, my feet did not suffer from compression. As I knew that I should never be able to wear my own clothes again, I let him have them as a keepsake— including my new silk hat.

He saw me into the train— it appeared that if you only waited long enough trains did sometimes come even on that line; and I went home.

________________

9: Shadows

F. St. Mars

The World's News (Sydney) 9 Feb 1918

Frank Howard Atkins (1882–1921) was a British author who wrote more than 180 short stories, most of which were published in pulp magazines between 1908 and 1935, mostly as by "F. St. Mars".

"THE spark i' the flint shows not till it be struck."

RACTON got out of the 5.39 down, as he had done every afternoon except Saturdays, Sundays, Bank Holidays, and summer holidays for seven years. He carried a bunch of flowers in his hand and a small basket of fruit― such things as a man buys (for good or evil) outside a large London terminus― a little offering to his wife― as he had done any day, and nearly every day, all through those years. He rarely forgot. He walked up the short hill leading from the quiet station, with his little shambling walk, a quiet, clean-shaven man, quietly dressed, a little flabby, a little weak both ways, but a "sticker"― and we all know what a "sticker" means― for all that.

He let himself in at the polished front door of his little house, which was not far from the station, surveying his little front garden the while, and seeing that it was good-as he had done any day these many years.

He walked across the hall, hung up his hat, put his bag on a strictly correct, hard hall-chair never meant to be sat upon, and opened the dining-room door-as he had done almost every day.

And the dining-room was empty-empty of all save the company of a little singing brass kettle on a little, natty brass gas-ring― as it had often been empty any time these many years, for Racton's wife frequently was out shopping, or seeing friends, or― oh, anyway, out.

But Racton, though he was used to it, could never get over a horrible empty feeling in the pit of his stomach, a sort of dread, nameless 'tis true, foolish undoubtedly, but still a vague dread nevertheless, when he found the room thus empty― on many days― these several years. Perhaps it was Kismet "tipping" him in advance. Some men get warnings that way, maybe.

Racton laid his offerings upon the table, made and poured himself out a cup of tea, and had eaten half-a-dozen mustard and cress sandwiches― he grew the mustard and cress, all the year round, in the attic― before he discovered a note for him lying conspicuously upon the table.

He was an absent-minded man, much preoccupied with his own thoughts usually, and he opened the letter in an absent-minded way. He read perhaps half through the letter before he realised what he was reading. Then he stopped chewing his mustard and cress sandwich, and his mouth fell open. It remained open while he finished the letter― it was not a long letter― and while he re-read the same twice. Then he stumbled rather than walked to the fireplace, and stood there with his head dropped-like the head of a beaten dog-staring at the coals― as he had not done once during all those years.

Up to that point everything had been in order, regular, and as usual. From that point everything was new.

He held the letter crushed in his clenched right hand, the letter from his wife, who was his wife no longer, but the beloved of another man― the letter said so, like a bombshell, all in a second, in a few bald words. And she could never be his wife again; never, however much they two might wish it, could  they be as they had been. The house of cards had fallen, and they could never rebuild it, even if they prayed till ninety times ninety― he was that sort of man, fashioned that way by the good God, and he knew it. But he knew, too, how to long.

And in that hour Racton died, and― a new Racton was born. But perhaps the new Racton had been there all the time, waiting for the steel to strike the spark out of the flint. It is the same way with other men, I guess, though most go to their Maker without the flint ever being struck.

The servant noticed it when she came into the room, directly Racton turned to speak. ("No, he did not wish to give her and cook notice. Everything would carry on just as usual, if you please.") Men at the office noticed it next day, and, coming to get the better of an easy-going Racton in a deal― he was an estate agent― went away dumb, and with their tongues in their cheek. Dear, kind relations, rushing, with their mouths open, to offer the sympathies they assuredly never felt, got stuck half-way, and retired disconcerted, leaving much unsaid that they had meant to say.

As for Racton himself, he said nothing. He worked. My! how that man worked; worked at anything and everything that he could lay his hands to that would make money, worked night and day, worked to kill himself with work, and only succeeded in growing stronger. At the beginning, upon the day of the coming of his trouble, his bank-book showed that he had £5 in the bank, and his account books that he had some £30 owing to him. Upon a day three years later his bank-book showed that he had over £1000 in the bank and some £500 owing to him. During that time he had launched into journalism in his non-office hours.

But upon the day when he had come home to find his wife gone, he had turned when the servant left the room, and, going to his wife's room, examined everything swiftly. His wife was a careless, untidy person, one of those lolloping, walloping women that no man can understand, but a few go crazy over and do mad things for: she might have been Roman, if she wasn't Saxon.

Apparently she had left in a hurry, this wife of Racton's― unable to make up her mind till the last moment, and then, acting in a fit of "madness," she had complained in her letter left behind, that it was so quiet at home; that Racton was always at work, and dull when not at work; and that she wanted some life (she spelt it with a small "l," but intended it with a capital). Her room showed the woman. Compton's letters to her― Racton knew Compton and knew nothing good of him, and he had suspected him from the first― were lying open in a drawer; jewellery was about, everything was about, including some deeds belonging to his wife, and which were her private property.

He could not take them, and they were worth a little, say £100 or so. He put them in his desk, of course, till reclaimed.

"And he'll come for these," muttered Racton to himself. "He's always hard up. They'll both be hard up. Sooner or later he'll come, not openly, but as a thief."

By which it appeared that Racton knew Compton, and suspected him of fearing to face divorce proceedings or Racton's revengeful nature, and yet would in the end be driven to take the risk of a thief. Racton was quite well aware that his wife would fear his violence upon Compton if she wrote for the deeds, and neither of them dare call for them. A third party was out of the question with Racton.

"He'll come," said Racton, and his face was the face of a granite statue. "Perhaps at once, perhaps in years; but he'll come, and I can wait."

He did wait. He went to his study, pulled out a leather case from under some books, took therefrom the stock of a twelve-bore gun, then a pair of laminated steel 12-bore barrels, and a fore end, put the gun together, placed two 12-bore cartridges in the chamber, put the safety catch at "safe," and hung the gun up where he could at all times most easily get at it.

"I can wait," he had said, and he kept his word. He waited three years; by which time. since he had never, by word or deed, altered his daily life, people began to think that he had forgotten. Howard Racton forget!

"And the shadows come and go, old man, and the shadows come and go," a girl had said to him lately, a girl who had known him in the old days and the old life, before he had given up all his prospects, and been disinherited, to marry his wife.

And he had nodded, only nodded, and said "Yes." That was all; but no man, or woman either, knew what was in his soul. Here was no longer a little Racton, or flabby, but a man of power, with an exterior of flint. People did not deal with him lightly, as a rule, or get much change out of him if they did. He made no friends, only acquaintances, and those said that it was like talking to a sphinx.

It was on a quiet, warm, still morning that Compton came, not as Racton had expected him to come, quite, but he came― after three years (and Racton had spent every hour of that time, whenever he was at home, waiting for Compton; waiting for him with his gun ready).

The deeds he kept in his desk. He knew his wife would know it and would tell Compton. And his desk was generally open. His wife knew that, too.

A gentle, subdued rain-shower had fallen, and the quiet streets of the sleepy town were very still, for a big local fete was taking place, and all the world and his wife and his children were at it. Racton was expected to be at it. He had given the servants a holiday to be at it. Racton had, indeed, left home to go to it, but had returned, after half an hour, to fetch a rain-coat.

And he was standing in his study, within reach of his gun― in his study, all alone in the empty house, looking out of the open French windows on to the lawn. And Compton came walking from the tradesmen's entrance, softly, silently, across the lawn, and was standing framed in the French window, with the furtive sun behind him, his face in silhouette― like the face of a Roman emperor it was, close-shaven, swarthy, and selfish, clean-cut like a cameo― before he became aware of Racton, erect and motionless, there in the middle of the shaded room.

Then he started and was still.

The silence that followed was tense and strained almost beyond endurance. Only the little clock broke it, the little clock on the mantelpiece, ticking hurriedly, as if anxious to get so awkward a period of time over. But the actual period cannot have been more than seconds, though it seemed minutes.

Plainly, Compton was surprised to see Racton― had not expected him to be there at all, having watched him out of the house some time before. He seemed to feel keenly the need for explanation― like a man who finds himself suddenly up against it without meaning to be.

"May I come in?" he asked, after a bit, in a voice that had become high suddenly; but he cannot have meant the commonplace that he spoke, for he had stepped inside before the words were out of his lips.

"Look here, Racton," he began, in that customary, half-argumentative, half-bullying tone that was his, "you've got to—"

But there he stopped, for his eyes had become now accustomed to the change of light from sun-glare to shaded room, had focussed, and he realised for the first time two facts at once. The first was that Racton was holding something strangely sinister in his hand which gave off a bar-like gleam. The second was that this still, cold, erect man in front of him was not the self-conscious, slightly deprecating, apparently weak Racton he had known. There was a change somewhere, almost like a mistake, for which he felt inclined to blame Racton, a subtle difference that met him like a piece of metal.

But life is very dear to such men as Max Compton― which, by the way, does not explain why they usually make such a bungle of it. Danger was to him worse than a blow.

"I say! Steady, Racton! Steady, old man. What're you doing with that thing?"

Dawning horror and realisation were playing across his "classic" features in swift, horrible waves: his face had suddenly become un-nice to look upon. He was the colour of putty: then a sickly grey. His eyes drew themselves together, till it seemed as if they must join and fly out of his head at Racton. The vertical lines above his brows became knotted. He seemed suddenly about to be choking. He struggled, wildly, visibly, without moving, with himself. He was throttling slowly, with a frantic, a wild, an awful desire to say something, but could not get it out: the words would not come, they stuck in his throat, they prevented breathing, and he gripped at his throat with his hands, but the hand that was throttling back his words was the hand of fear. Yet he must speak must. If only he spoke, he would not die. If only he could say what he had got to, everything would be all right. But he could not, fear had got him dumb. And the seconds passed, somehow, the slow, dragging seconds, that were precious to him in that moment beyond gold. In a very few moments it would be too late, too late, if he did not say what he had to say; what he had to say, but couldn't say, because of fear.

And so he watched, fighting like a man possessed of devils, visibly, awfully, with himself. As he stood there and watched Racton slowly raise his double-barrel gun to his shoulder, stood there and gazed, like a fascinated rabbit, into the twin, black, circular cavities of the muzzles, the years seemed to fall from him, and he became once again a little boy, a petulant, spoilt, tearful little boy. The bullying. blustering manner had gone, slidden from him with the rest, leaving only the real Compton― the little, spoilt boy, wild and speechless with terror.

Racton's face was as impassive as a stone carving, and as hard; also with as much expression. His suffering had been spread over three years; he could not suffer or feel more than he had. Compton, on the other hand, was getting all his suffering in one lump― concentrated into seconds.

Slowly, horribly, ghastily slowly, Racton's knuckles on his right hand whitened to ivory, especially the first one.

"I knew you would come," he stated at last, clearly, emotionlessly, levelly. "But you have kept me waiting a long time."

Then he pulled the trigger of the right barrel.

He had waited three years to do that very thing.

Compton made a sort of whistling sound in his throat, but he did not move; nor did Racton.

There was the sound of the clock ticking and of the hammer falling, and-that was all. There was no flash, no report, nothing― only the clean, sharp smack of the falling hammer.

"Never mind." said Racton coolly. "There is the left barrel. That is the beauty of having two." He had never moved, never altered his expression.

Compton was making noises; he was about to speak; he was speaking; words came to him.

"But― but―" he sputtered, and Racton pulled the second trigger, the trigger of the left barrel.

Compton fell back into a chair, his hands over his face.

Racton lowered his gun. His face was like a carving, but he was staring at the gun, for again there had been no waited-for thunderous report, only the clean, hard tap of the hammer falling.

"My God, Racton, what d'you― what d'you want to kill me for?" burst out Compton at last.

"Missfire, apparently― and both barrels, too. You should know, if any man should. No, by Jove! Look." Racton had opened the gun as he spoke, and now showed it to Compton.

The gun was empty.

What the—" Compton began, and stopped with an odd laugh; there was no mirth in the laugh.

"Took the cartridges out when I went to the fête, and must have forgotten to put them in again," replied Racton. "Never mind. I can remedy the omission"― and then, as an afterthought, "You should know why I've waited for you."

And Compton suddenly leapt up in his chair. "Oh, you fool! Not Mrs.― not Winnie― your wife? You don't think? Heavens, man, I haven't seen her since the day she ran away from you, when she met me, and left me, at the railway station. I thought you knew."

Racton stopped in his task of taking cartridges from a drawer in his desk. His back was turned. His hand in the drawer ceased to move.

The little clock on the mantelpiece ticked ten times like mad.

Then Racton turned slowly round. "Why?" he asked slowly, and between his teeth, his cold, stony eyes fixing squarely upon Compton's prominent ones.

And Compton shrugged his shoulders.

"God knows," he said. "Seemed to have a sudden reaction against me, changed her mind, or something. Said I looked shabby and untidy and dirty, and she'd made a mistake, a silly, mad mistake. No accounting for women. They're all alike."

And Racton smiled, a slow shadow of a smile, that played about the corners of his mouth for a moment and was gone.

"Where did she go? Why didn't she write to me?" he snapped out harshly, and so curtly that Compton, who was just beginning to get back to man's ways again, jumped.

"Went to her married sister, I believe. I told her to write to you, and she said it would be no use; you'd never believe or forgive."

"No more I should," came the prompt reply.

Compton began to look more like a boy again, and eyed the gun.

"Um," said he.

"Eh?"

"Nothing."

"Look here, Compton, even if I believed you, what did you come here for now, anyway?" Racton asked, his eyes cold and hard as ever, his face black.

"Your wife wrote and asked me to get her deeds, and, like a fool, I took this way. She didn't ask me to thieve 'em, but I was afraid of your violence, you see, had a sort of haunting fear."

"Why?"

"We didn't know what you'd do. I feared you wouldn't believe me, especially as I was getting 'em for her. But you do, don't you? Send 'em yourself. We never even saw each other out of your sight, you know. It was all a silly, mad idea, made on the spur of the moment. If you were a different sort of man, you'd understand."

"I don't, and I'm glad I am not," was Racton's uncompromising answer.

"And did you really mean to kill me, and be a murderer?" went on Compton. "Were there ever cartridges in that gun?"

And for answer Racton held up two cartridges with the oil from the chambers of the gun still upon them. It seemed enough answer, truly, but Racton never actually said, and no one has ever found out, whether he really knew that there were no cartridges in the gun when he aimed it at Compton's head, or whether he did not know. Even his wife never knew, but she knew she was very happy to get back to him, and she seemed to think much more of the new Racton than she ever had done of the old, which only shows— W-e-l-l ― The shadows come and go, my friends, the shadows come and go.

________________

10: Moritsky's Ward

Bruno Lessing

World's News (Sydney) 19 March 1910

MR. MORITSKY and Mrs Moritsky were unhappy. Uncle Ezra had died in Russia, and somebody named Sinkovitch had written them that he had died penniless. Neither Mr. Moritsky nor Mrs. Moritsky knew who this Sinkovitch was, and they did not care. They had never cared much for Uncle Ezra, either, if the truth be told, although, in a vague way, they had imagined that he was well-to-do, and that when the time came for him to be gathered into the bosom of Abraham there would be something in the way of a legacy for them. But now he was gone, and this Sinkovitch who said he had died penniless wrote as though he knew what he was talking about. And there it might all have ended but for the concluding portion of this Sinkevitch's letter.

"Your beloved uncle," he wrote, "adopted a niece of his first wife, who has been taking care of him for the past two years. Her name is Elsa Vorhis. As she is now alone in the world something has to be done for her. As nearly as I can find, you are her only relatives. I am therefore sending her to America at my own expense, knowing that you will be glad to take care of the poor orphan. Please meet her at the steamer. She is eighteen years old."

Now if this Sinkovitch had announced that Uncle Ezra had left them a white elephant to be cared for and cherished it could not have made them more unhappy, because― and you may as well know this at the very beginning― the Moritskys knew exactly how many pennies there are in a dollar and also knew what each penny is worth. Close-fistedness to the extent to which the Moritskys practised it must be some sort of a disease. I know a married couple who had a strawberry bed and counted the strawberries each day to make sure no servant took one. Well, the Moritskys were worse. They had no children, their income was ample, and no earthly care weighed upon them save the desire to accumulate more pennies. Mrs. Moritsky was not quite so bad as her husband― women rarely are― but in the gradual course of the many years of their married life she had fallen into the habit.

"Oy! Oy!" wailed Mr. Moritsky. "She hain't a cent, and we must support her! Oy! Oy! Such a terrible expense!"

"They eat an awful lot when they are eighteen." added his wife.

"And the clothes she will need! Oh, me! Oh, my! Nothing but money. And just now I need every penny I have for my business. Never in my life did I need the use of a few thousand dollars more than I do now, and Uncle Ezra goes to work and dies without leaving a penny. Only yesterday I was thinking of borrowing some money from the bank. And now I must support that girl."

"Maybe she can work at something," suggested his wife.

"A greenhorn? She couldn't earn enough to pay for her hats."

"Maybe she'll get married quickly," was Mrs. Moritskys next venture, and that gave Moritsky an idea.

"That is not bad, not bad at all." he said. "Maybe we can get her married right away. Why not? The schatchen will surely find someone who will take her. She is only eighteen, you know, and I'm sure she is good looking."

"But won't he want to see her first?"

"Nonsense! I'll arrange to give a little some-thing for her dowry, and I'll bet the schatchen will find someone who will be glad to take the girl in order to get the money. It will be cheaper than supporting her."

And so it came to pass that Maritsky smiled upon Levy, the schatchen, or marriage-broker, and asked for a husband for Elsa Vorhis.

"H'm!" said the schatchen, after listening to Moritsky's recital, "it is not the regular way. They nearly always want to see the girl before they close the deal. You don't even know what she looks like?"

"Sure I do!" declared Moritsky stoutly. "She is very good looking. All our relations are good looking."

The schatchen turned his head to hide a smile. Then, "Well, maybe I can arrange it, but of course you won't get such a desirable party as you might if he could see the girl first."

"Oh, they are all alike," said Moritsky impatiently. "As long as you find a good man who has a job one is as good as another. She just needs someone to support her. And I'll pay two hundred and fifty dollars spot cash."

"I will see what I can do," said the schatchen. The next day he appeared at Moritsky's house with his party. "His name is Lipsky," he said. "He has just got over an attack of rheumatism or he wouldn't look so bad."

I hate to describe Lipsky; even Moritsky frowned as he looked at him.

"Have you a job?" Moritsky asked.

Lipsky nodded. "I drive the delivery waggon for the Hester-street Poultry Company," he replied.

"That is good," said Moritsky. "Maybe if you got a shave and put on your best clothes you would look much better. Fix yourself up and come around to-night for dinner."

Lipsky's eyes sparkled at the thoughts of dinner, but he had something more important on his mind. "I have been laid up for a week," he said, "with rheumatism. To-morrow I go back again. But I am a little short of money; could you let me have about fifty dollars? It can come out of the lady's dowry."

"He will give you a receipt," interposed the schatchen.

Moritsky winced. "It is not regular," he said. "How do I know you will marry her?"

The schatchen drew himself up in affronted dignity. "Mr. Moritsky," be announced, "when I give my word it is as good as spot cash. Mr. Lipsky will marry the young lady. I guarantee it."

"Sure I will," exclaimed Lipsky. Moritsky sighed and paid the money. That night Lipsky, somewhat better groomed and more presentable, came for dinner. And the next night he came again, and the following night, too. In fact, he calmly established himself as a member of the Moritsky household waiting patiently for the arrival of his bride and eating and drinking to his heart's content.

Upon the day that the steamer was due to arrive he suggested that perhaps it might be a good idea for him to accompany Moritsky to the pier.

Moritsky gazed upon him critically. "You'd better not," he said. "I will talk to her first."

It was with some trepidation that Moritsky approached a young woman who stood alone at the foot of the second cabin gangway. She was the only woman that he had seen who was alone, and he felt that if it was not she there must have been some mistake― probably she had missed the ship. But this solitary passenger seemed such a dainty creature and her great brown eyes gazed so fearlessly into his, and she seemed to radiate such an atmosphere of charm and refinement, that several minutes elapsed before he could muster up sufficient courage to approach her. It was Elsa Vorhis, and an expression of great relief came over her face when Moritsky introduced himself.

"I was afraid you were not coming;" she said, "and I lost your address. It is very good of you to come for me."

"She is very good looking," thought Moritsky, "but I suppose the good-looking ones eat just as much and cost just as much to support as the others. I'm glad she is going to be married quickly." Then, aloud, he said to her: "I will take you home. It is very lonesome with us― only my wife and myself― but as long as Uncle Ezra adopted you we will give you plenty to eat. Come with me."

He allowed her to carry her own bag, and led the way through the crowd at the end of the pier. Elsa followed him, losing sight of him several times; but she hastened her steps and finally found herself in the midst of a group struggling to board a street car. She entered with the rest, and it was not until the car had gone nearly a mile and the conductor, elbowing his way through the crowded interior, asked for her fare, that she realised that she had lost her guide. He was not on the car.

Elsa explained the situation to the conductor. He could not understand a single word she said, but he knew that she must be a newly-landed Russian immigrant.

"All right, girlie," he said. "I'll pay your fare. I'll let you off when we get to Grand-street― they all understand your lingo over there."

He smiled at her and motioned to her to sit down, and Elsa obeyed, somewhat bewildered, but feeling that he had understood her and would direct her. At Grand-street she left the car and stood upon the street corner, her bag at her feet, gazing around at the throng hurrying in every direction. There was not a particle of fear in her heart. The turmoil of life around her impressed her profoundly and interested her. She had dreamed much of this new world, but had never imagined it was as great and as noisy as this. And then, suddenly, she became aware that a young man had come to a standstill within five feet of her and was staring at her in open-mouthed wonderment. Her eyes happened to meet his― he had blue eyes, and although his countenance was grave his eyes seemed to be smiling. Elsa coloured and stooped to pick up her bag. Then the young man approached her, raised his hat politely, and, without even smiling, said in Yiddish:

"Are you lost? If you will tell me where you are going I would like to carry your bag. It is too heavy for you to carry."

Elsa looked at him intently. Then her lips slowly parted and a feeling of gladness came into her heart. "I just came off the steamer," she said, "and Mr. Moritsky, a relative of my uncle, came for me, but I lost him, and I do not know his address. How can I find it?"

The young man took her bag and said, "Come with me." And without a single word and with-out the slightest misgiving Elsa followed him, and when they came to a crowded crossing she even clung to his arm.

"I live right close by here," the young man said. "My name is Jacob Aarons. I will leave you with my mother, and then I will go out and find your people. There are a great many Moritskys on the East Side, but I will go to all of them and then go to the police. He will be looking for you, too."

The Aaronses lived in one of the little brick buildings on Clinton-street that had, many years ago, before the Jews settled there, been the abode of aristocracy. A servant who admitted Jacob and his companion announced that there was no one at home. For a moment Jacob frowned. Then a smile came to his lips, and he ushered Elsa into the parlour.

"Would you mind sitting down for a moment and telling me something about yourself? After you have told me I will tell you why I asked."

Without a moment's hesitation Elsa told him her whole story. She narrated it with the simplicity of a child. There really was very little to it-a life of drudgery and privation until her distant Uncle Ezra adopted her, and after that the irksome life of a young person in enforced attendance upon a crabbed invalid until death brought her release.

Jacob's eyes never left her face. When she had finished he said:

"Now, listen to me. I told you my name. I have never seen a girl like you in my life. I am twenty-four years old, and I have a good position. My father has a place of his own, so that my mother and sisters do not have to depend upon me. When I first saw you my heart nearly stopped beating. You have wonderful eyes, but it wasn't your eyes. You have a beautiful face, but it wasn't even your face. But through your eyes I saw the sweetest soul in all the world, and as long as I live I will never have use for any other woman but you. I know you will think I am crazy, but I am perfectly sane. I have always hoped I would meet a girl like you. If I let you go now you will meet other men, and you will be with friends and I will not be able to see you. But I swear to you that I love you as well as if I had known you all your life. Will you trust me and marry me?"

He was trembling as he spoke-she could see his hands shake-but the truth shone out in his face, and her heart was beating tumultuously.

"I don't know! I don't know!" she whispered. "No man ever spoke to me like that before."

She was not thinking of the cheerless home that awaited her, nor did there occur to her the slightest thought of her own friendless, lonesome condition. She was listening alone, with a woman's heart, to a lover's outpouring, and slowly she felt herself carried away. Jacob approached her and fell down upon his knees beside her.

"You can trust me," he whispered. "You can trust your life to me, dear one. I know you as well now as I ever will as long as I live, and I love you. Say you will be my wife."

He took her unresisting hands in his and covered them with kisses. Then, gazing into her eyes, which now were filled with tears, he drew her head towards him and kissed her upon the lips. Then her arms were flung around him, and bursting into a fit of weeping she cried:

"Oh, I like you so much! You are so nice! I will marry you. Nobody in the world was ever nice to me."

Then a shadow fell upon them, and looking up they beheld a grey-haired woman standing dumfounded in the doorway. Jacob rose to his feet, and taking Elsa's hand in his drew her toward his mother.

"Her name is Elsa Vorhis, mamma. We are going to be married."

When Elsa saw the light that came into the old woman's eyes the tears rolled down her cheeks and a wave of happiness overwhelmed all her soul. "He is lovely," she said simply. And then, even though she was so astonished that she could not speak, there came to Mrs. Aarons's rescue some subtle instinct that was as convincing as it was unreasoning, and she folded the girl in her arms.

"I don't know anything about it," she said, "but you are a sweet girl, and you can always trust Jacob."

JACOB HAD but little trouble in finding Moritsky. Moritsky had spent half an hour in looking for Elsa, and then had gone home to wait until she arrived.

"I knew she would turn up all right," he said.

"She is with my mother," Jacob explained. "My name is Aarons."

Moritsky shook hands with him. It costs nothing to shake hands. Then he introduced Lipsky.

"This is the man I got for her," he explained. "She needs someone to support her, and Mr. Lipsky is going to marry her."

For a moment Jacob's heart almost stopped beating. "She-she said she was going to marry me," he faltered.

Moritsky gazed at him in amazement. "You only know her an hour, and she will marry you?" he exclaimed. "I suppose you expect me to give a big dowry?"

"Not one cent," Jacob replied. "I fell in love with her the moment I saw her, and I do not want any dowry."

Then Moritsky's heart expanded, and he beamed with delight. "You are a noble fellow," he said, clasping Jacob's hand. "I know your father by name. You will be a good husband for her. Mr Lipsky," he continued, turning to the schatchen's party, "I am sorry, but it is all off. I guess you are too old for her, anyway. Besides I wouldn't let her marry anybody against her own wishes."

Mr. Lipsky's eyes blinked. "Then you don't get back the fifty dollars."

Moritsky winced. He suddenly remembered not only the fifty dollars, but the meals that Lipsky had eaten at his expense. But, realising the futility of attempting to recover anything from Mr. Lipsky, he made a lofty virtue of necessity.

"Keep the money, Mr. Lipsky," he said grandly, "and all the meals you had. And please go away."

The saving of the rest of the dowry pleased Moritsky so much that he insisted upon buying a bottle of wine and accompanying Jacob to his home. "We will have a drink to the happiness of the young lady," he said, "and maybe if your father comes home I would like to talk some business with him."

There it all ends. And it would have ended happily for everyone, even Moritsky, if, upon his return home that night, he had not found a letter from this man Sinkovitch, whom he did not know, which must have arrived on the very same steamer that brought Elsa.

"I find I have made a mistake," this Sinkovitch wrote. "Just after the young lady left a lawyer brought me your Uncle Ezra's will. He leaves nearly forty thousand roubles and two houses. They all go to you to be taken care of until Elsa gets married. Then they all go to her. Until she is married you have the use of the money if you give her a good home. After she is married you have nothing to do with her property."

And Moritsky groaned.

_______________

11: In Masquerade

Alice and Claude Askew

World's News (Sydney) 20 Nov 1915

Alice Askew (1874-1917) along with her husband, Claude Askew (1865-1917) were British authors, who together wrote over ninety novels, published between 1904 and 1918

"YOU ought, to have told me who you were before. You might have given me a hint of the truth."

Clive Warrington spoke in low tones, gazing hard at the girl who sat by his side in an arbour that was trailed with sweet-scanted honeysuckle. His young face was very set and pale— his dark eyes full of reproach, but Molly only peeped at him shyly from under her long lashes and played with a big bunch of clove carnations. The spicy scent of the flowers filled the air; far away in the distance could be heard the sound of waves breaking upon the shore— it was an afternoon of golden sunshine.

"What reason had I to tell you my real name? I didn't want anyone staying in this dear sleepy little Devonshire inn to know a word about me— to guess who I was. I suppose Cousin Clara let the cat out of the bag— you've been talking a lot to Cousin Clara lately?"

Molly sniffed at her carnations. She was an extraordinarily pretty creature. Her eyes were as violet and velvety as pansies, her head clustered over with golden curls. Her small face had a curious charm about it; she looked half a wise child— half a woman, but there could be no denying that there was something elusive about her; she was as baffling as she was fascinating.

Clive rose slowly to his feet. He was a tall, thin young fellow, and, like so many Devonshire lads, he had a slightly Spanish look, nor was this at all surprising in Clive's case, for one of his forbears had been a Don of Spain, wrecked on the Devon coast the night the Lord moved the waters and shattered the great Armada, and the Spanish blood in his veins gave Clive his olive skin, his dark passionate eyes, and a cold, somewhat exaggerated, pride in his house and his family.

He was the heir to a comfortable inheritance, for Farmouth Court would come to Clive when his aunt died— the aunt who had brought him up ever since the death of his parents, a dear, old-fashioned old lady, who was hopelessly behind her times.

"You are making a mistake, Molly. Your cousin never revealed the secret of your identity to me, or that you were staying here in masquerade. I— I made the discovery myself— found out the truth this morning."

Clive spoke with somewhat chilly dignity, but Molly stared at him in frank astonishment.

"However could you have found out? You must be very clever. I am sure I never gave you the least hint— the smallest clue. Oh, you mustn't blame me too much for having adopted masquerade, as you call it. If you only knew how tired I get of being photographed and stared at— whilst as for the newspaper paragraphs—"

Molly shrugged her shoulders. She looked very pretty, very tantalising, very much a child, and as dive stared at her he found it more and more difficult to realise that Molly's real name was Coralie Leigh, and that she was the leading lady at the Colony Theatre, the beautiful, baneful Coralie, who had been the cause of an unfortunate man's suicide only two months ago, a tragic occurrence which had filled all the papers at the time, and resulted in a nervous breakdown on Miss Leigh's part, which had compelled her to take a long holiday— not that she was really very much to blame for her would be admirer's suicide, but the press did not spare her, for the whole affair was excellent copy.

"I think you might have told me the truth about yourself. Wouldn't it have been franker— fairer?"

Clive spoke with all the slow dignity of his Spanish forbear, but Molly sprang impulsively to her feet

"What nonsense! Why should I take you more into my confidence than anyone else? We certainly made friends very unconventionally on the sands— talking without introduction, and I have been pleased to see you when you have come up to the hotel. I admit that we bathe together, in the mornings, and roam about your aunt's woods in the afternoons, and that I have been nice to you— friendly; but as to telling you who I am— why, I saw no reason to do that."

Molly, pressed her lips very tightly together. She had very soft, warm lips, and sometimes she could pout quite adorably, but her little face looked very serious for once; she clenched and unclenched her hands.

A tall, finely built, somewhat limp, woman came slowly down the garden path at that moment; this was Miss Grey, another guest staying at the hotel.

She was obviously on her way down to the beach, for she carried a quantity of books and magazines under her arm, and her maid, who trudged behind, was heavily loaded with two deck chairs and a big sunshade.

Miss Grey nodded to Molly and walked past the arbour. She certainly could walk and sit down beautifully— it was a pleasure to watch her movements, but the dowdy dress she was wearing, her unbecoming straw hat, and the dull pallor of her face, made her distinctly unattractive; yet, as Clive glanced at Miss Grey, he vaguely realised that her features and eyes were very good—what she lacked was colour— animation; besides, how badly her hair was done— just knotted in one loose, untidy coil on the nape of her neck— and as for her figure, well, she had plainly discarded her corsets.

"Going down to the sands to laze?"

Molly waved her hand to Miss Grey, who nodded her head in assent and walked on.

"That woman's just like a sleepy cat." Molly turned abruptly to Clive. "She does nothing but eat and lie on the sands. I don't believe she reads any of the books she's always dragging about with her. She's frightfully boring; I wish for poor Cousin Clara's sake there were some other ladies staying at the inn—Miss Grey's no use to anyone."

Molly paused abruptly and frowned at Clive.

"You're not attending in the very least to what I am saying. I was informing you that we find Miss Grey very dull."

"I was thinking of something rather more important than Miss Grey. I was telling myself how madly I loved you."

Clive flushed and rose from his seat in the arbour. He towered above Molly as he stood by her side, then he suddenly caught her in his  arms and kissed her.

She glanced at him triumphantly.

"So you do love me; I was so afraid you wouldn't admit that you did— that you'd just be proud and selfish and silly— that was why I was so cross that you'd found out who I really was; but now that you've said you love me nothing matters."

She sighed contentedly, but Olive's face hardened in the sunshine— hardened and worked.

"Nothing matters as far as you and I are concerned— that's true enough, Molly; what's happened has happened. We love each other, and we are not going to allow anything to part us— divide us; but I don't know what my poor old aunt will do when she discovers who you are, and I feel that I ought to warn you, Molly, that I may not be very well off in the future, for though Yarmouth Court is entailed upon me. Aunt Isabella can deal with her large private fortune exactly as she likes. There is no necessity for her to leave it to me, and I expect she will alter her will as soon as she knows that we are going to get married— she's practically certain to alter her will."

"But, my dear Clive, why should she?"

Molly opened her big pansy eyes in frank astonishment, then she gave one of her soft little laughs end put a hand upon Clive's arm. "What does it matter if she does leave her money away from you— what can it matter under present circumstances? You will always have Farmouth Court, the home of your forbears." Molly paused a second. "Your aunt must be a very conscientious old lady. I suppose she thinks it is a mistake to have too much money— she must really be quite a character. Take me up to see her this afternoon, Clive. I do hope we shall get on well with each other— that she will like me."

Clive shook his head.

"My dear Molly, I daren't take you up to Farmouth Court— I simply daren't. I don't know what Aunt Isabella would say to you, but I fear you would get a very cold welcome. My aunt has been brought up in a very stern school, you must remember— she has very stiff, old-fashioned ideas. Besides, as ill-luck would have it, it was Aunt Isabella herself who cut this paragraph from the Plymouth Times, and showed it to me this morning, little suspecting that I loved you—merely interested in the fact that Peacock Inn was harbouring such a distinguished guest."

Clive produced a small newspaper cutting from his pocket as he spoke, and Molly snatched at it impatiently. Her cheeks had flushed a bright crimson; she looked very put out and annoyed.

"It's too bad— I declare It's really too bad that I should have all my goings and comings put in the papers. Why won't the news- paper reporters leave me alone? It's absolutely disgraceful." She stamped on the turf with her little foot. There were tears in her eyes— tears of Intense vexation. "I thought if I came quietly down here with Cousin Clara, and didn't even bring a maid, that it would be some weeks at all events before my identity became known. Besides, I tried my best to put the reporters off the scent before I came here. I gave out that I was going abroad— but they're wretches, they really are. Here, read me what the beastly paragraph says yourself."

Molly handed the newspaper cutting back to Clive, and sat down again in the arbour, swinging her little feet restlessly. The young man read aloud slowly and gravely:—

"It may interest our many readers to know that Coralie Leigh, the young and beautiful actress, who had advanced with such rapid strides in her profession during the last year and now occupies the proud position of leading lady at the Colony Theatre. London, is spending a few quiet weeks resting at the Peacock Inn, Farmouth, endeavouring to recover from the terrible shock to her nerves caused by Mr. Gilbert Pelton having committed suicide in her presence exactly two months ago. Our readers may remember that the unfortunate gentleman was a great admirer of Miss Coralie Leigh, who did not, however, reciprocate his affection, and after pursuing the beautiful actress with his unwelcome addresses for some time. Mr. Pelton finally shot himself in the drawing room of her flat in Laburnum Mansions, Knightsbridge. We understand that Miss Leigh's nerves have greatly benefited by her stay in glorious Devon, and that she proposes to resume her role at the Colony Theatre early next month. We wish we could delight our readers with a photograph of this young and beautiful actress, but it is a well-known fact that Miss Leigh has always set her face sternly against being photographed, proving a great exception in this matter to most of our leading footlight favourites."

Molly gave a queer little start.

"How cruel the papers are," she murmured. "Why must they rake up things? You don't believe I was to blame for— for what happened? You'd trust me, Clive, wouldn't you, thick and thin?"

"My dear, I love you, so how can I believe ill of you? Yet I know that a great many people— my dear old aunt included— are only too ready to credit anything that may be said against an actress; but that cannot be helped, and once you are my wife, whoever breathes a word against your good name will have to make answer to me— your husband." Molly's flush deepened.

"You don't regret having fallen in love with me— even if I am an actress?"

"Yes, I do, Molly." He spoke with a blunt strength. "God knows you are the one and only girl for me. I fell in love with you the first day I set eyes on you, I believe, but it will hurt me more than a little having to break with my old aunt. I've been the very apple of her eye— but she'll have nothing to do with me once we are married. She hates the theatre, poor, dear old lady, and she's old, Molly, and I shall know that I've embittered her last years— that I've gone far to breaking her heart."

Molly crushed the carnations in her hands.

"You can give me up. We can easily say good-bye to each other."

"We cannot! We've got to be true to ourselves now— to our love; if anyone has to be sacrificed it must be Aunt Isabella; but I'll be quite candid with you, Molly. If I had guessed when I first met you that you were the celebrated Coralie Leigh, I would have avoided you— just for Aunt Isabella's sake; but now that I know you love me— why, I wouldn't give you up now if an angel came down from heaven and told me to; it's going to be you and I to the end of the chapter."

Molly gave a queer little laugh— a laugh that was half a sob.

"Would it make things better if I promised never to appear on the stage after we were married? I'd do that willingly."

"My darling girl." Clive raised one of Molly's soft little dimpled hands to his lips. "You'd be miserable if I took you at your word; you'd regret your career— of course you would."

"No, I shouldn't." Molly's face suddenly dimpled over with smiles. "Clive, I want you to let me see your aunt this very afternoon. Let me see her alone and break the news of our engagement to her myself."

"My dear— it wouldn't be wise. Aunt Isabella would only say things that might hurt you when you confessed who you were. Besides, there's really nothing you could say or do, that would mollify her wrath. She is an old lady of stern principle— most unworldly, for she'd welcome an aristocratic pauper into the family, though she'd frown at you, my pet, because you are on the stage."

"Let me try what I can do all the same," Holly pleaded. "I can be very fascinating when I like— oh, most frightfully fascinating. Hand Aunt Isabella over to me for half an hour, and see if she doesn't give us her blessing at the end of the interview. Oh, Clive, grant, me my first— my very first— request to you."

She threw her arms about Clive's neck. He felt her warm breath on his cheek and he yielded—how could he do otherwise?— to the voice of this charmer.

"You are a witch, Molly. I don't believe anyone could resist you— not even Aunt Isabella. You shall see her, this afternoon. I will take you up to Farmouth Court— but be prepared for the worst."

Molly shook her soft little head.

"I'm not afraid— not the least little bit afraid. If I've been able to win your heart— if you love me and believe me— why shouldn't your aunt?"

She pouted adorably. She did not look the least like a baneful beautiful vampire, but Clive could not quite forget that a man had shot himself at Coralie Leigh's feet only two months ago, sprinkling her little high-heeled shoes with blood. Still, he had not only given Molly his love— he had given her his trust. He must forget in the future that rumour had ever been busy with her name; he must believe in her honour even as he believed in, his own.

Clive's heart beat very rapidly a few hours later, however, as he wandered restlessly— impatiently— up and down the smooth green turfed terrace of Farmouth Court, aware that his aunt and Molly were shut up together in the beautiful old-world drawing-room whose windows opened on the terrace, a room that was redolent of the warm, spicy scent of pot-pourri and hung with the somewhat stiff portraits of Clive's forbears. Buhl cabinets full of priceless china stood in the corners of the big room; the Chippendale furniture would have delighted the heart of a connoisseur, and it was in this old-world parlour that Miss Isabella Warrington and Coralie Leigh were to have their duel— a duel which, as far as Clive could see, would be a bitter one, for when had his aunt been known to abandon any of her prejudices?

"I oughtn't to have let Molly tackle Aunt Isabella single-handed. Suppose the old lady says something cruel to her! What a long talk they are having together, though. Can Molly was winning the dear old aunt's- heart as easily as she won mine—pasting her spells over Aunt Isabella?"

The French windows opened at that moment, and. Miss Isabella and Molly made their appearance on the terrace. They walked up to him hand in hand, Molly all demure blushes and Miss Isabella smiling all over her thin, delicate face— her grey silk skirt making a pleasant rustling— her grey hair raised high over a cushion.

"My dear boy— my dear nephew-" Miss Isabella's voice quivered. "I must congratulate you on your engagement— only I wonder you had the presumption to ask Molly to marry you— I do indeed, even though you both care so deeply for each other."

Clive gazed at the old lady in startled bewilderment. Had Molly achieved such a victory over Miss Isabella that his aunt was actually beginning to think well of the stage as a profession? It seemed as if this must be the case— but it was like a miracle.

"Dear Aunt Isabella—I'm, so glad—so thankful—that you've taken to Molly— that the fact of her having made such a tremendous success on the stage hasn't—"

"Oh Clive— Clive!" Molly burst into rippling laughter as she spoke. "I may as well confess the truth to you now. I'm not Coralie Leigh; Miss Grey is that celebrated lady— only she's giving herself and her good looks a rest for once— taking a real holiday, poor creature— not making up— wearing comfortable clothes— just lazing."

"You're not Coralie Leigh?" Clive drew a deep breath. "Then who are you?"

"I'm Molly— Margaret MacWelton— the— the heiress," Molly gurgled softly. "I can't help having a lot of money— over seventy thousand a year, for my poor father left all his fortune to me— he was the Copper King. Oh, dear, the proposals I've had, and the way the journalists pester me for interviews, and the newspapers put in paragraphs about me! Do you wonder that I sometimes hide away from every one— don masquerade in self defence?"

She paused and looked at her lover rather nervously.

"You the Margaret MacWelton." Clive coloured up and started. He had heard— who had not heard— of the Copper King's daughter, the girl whose great wealth would have made a barrier between them had he only found out who Molly was earlier in the day; but as it was, what he has won he would keep. Just as he had been ready to marry the actress, he intended to marry the heiress; nothing should part him from Molly— nothing, he loved her too well.

He put his arms round the little masquerader and kissed her.

"Darling, I ought not to marry you now that I know the truth— but I'm going to all the same."

Molly's laugh rung out, clear, sweet, and tuneful.

"Of course you are— even though I am an heiress" she hesitated for a second, then she turned shyly to Miss Isabella. "He loves me just for myself— that's the beautiful part of it all— just for myself. Oh, I'd glad— more glad than I can say— that I put on masquerade; but what a game of cross purposes we both played this morning! I thought Clive had found out that I was so frightfully rich. I never guessed till he showed me the newspaper cutting that he'd got on the wrong track, but I soon tumbled to the situation and— and played up to it; and now, dear Miss Isabella, will you be a darling and invite me to stay at Farmouth Court and keep all the interviewers away? Just let me be happy like any other girl— happy with my  sweetheart."

"My dear little Molly." Miss Isabella put her thin old arms round the masquerader. "I shall try and forget that you are a great heiress; I shall make up my mind to forget it. You will just be my girl, as Clive is my boy and you shall make my home your home in the future— your city of refuge."

The heiress whom such scores of suitors had courted— and courted in vain— the heiress who had tried to hide from Vanity Fair for a season, clapped her little hands exultingly, for she had not only found love— she had found the way in to the home of which she had so often dreamed— the home where she would be loved for herself.

_______________

12: Smokeless  Tobacco

Howard Dwight Smiley

World's News (Sydney) 8 Aug 1908

1877-1940: American poet and humorist

"THE very idea! That I can't leave the house for an hour without coming back and finding it so blue with smoke that I could cut it with a knife!" exclaimed the irate Mrs. Stevens. "I'm disgusted!"

"But, my dear," timidly remonstrated her husband, "it surely isn't so bad as that. I assured you that I have smoked but two pipefuls of tobacco, and—"

"It's nearer twenty, I'm thinking," interrupted his indignant spouse. "And there are my nice lace curtains, too, all smelled up so they aren't fit to hang in a barn! You've got to stop this smoking in the house, and that's all there is about it!" she added, with an air of finality, and flounced indignantly out of the room.

For a long time thereafter Mr. Stevens sat before the open fire, dejectedly sucking at his empty pipe, and sighing deeply as he mused on the inconsistency of woman.

"It doesn't seem reasonable that a man should he deprived of his pet hobby in his own home," he complained to himself. "A man ought to have some privileges. If some one would only invent a tobacco that could be smoked in the house, without raising the roof, what a blessing it would be to hen-pecked husbands like me."

Musing thus, he absently knocked the ashes from his pipe bowl, reached for the tobacco-jar and filled the pipe. He had lighted a match, and was about to apply it when he suddenly remembered where he was, hastily blew out the match, threw it into the grate and glanced guiltily around, grinning foolishly, when he found that his act had been unobserved.

"Pshaw!" he muttered. "I'm as nervous and guilty as a petty thief. Nice state of mind for a man to be in!"

He sank back in his chair again, and continued sucking on the fireless pipe, gazing reproachfully down at the cold and unresponsive bowl. For a long time he sat thus, musing, and then suddenly he started up with a smothered exclamation.

"By Jove!" he muttered, "why not? This is the age of 'less' things. There's horseless carriages, smokeless gunpowder, and all that sort of thing. Why not smokeless tobacco? If a man could discover such a thing, and get it on the market, it would be worth a million!"

Mr. Stevens excitedly reached for his tobacco-jar again, but remembered himself when he found his pipe already full, and, with a groan, he threw it into the corner.

"The only way out of it is smokeless tobacco," he told himself. "But how is it to be discovered? I might advertise. By Jove! I will advertise!"

He reached for the telephone, and called up the leading morning paper.

"Hello! Is this the business office?" he called into the transmitter.

"Yes? Well, this is Mr. Stevens. I want to insert an advertisement to appear in to-morrow's issue, sure.

"Yes. Say that I offer the reward of one thousand dollars to anyone who will discover a smokeless tobacco. A—"

"What?

"No, I'm not crazy! I want to discover a smokeless tobacco Yes, smokeless! Well, it ain't any of your business, anyway! Will you run the ad.?"

"All right, then. See that it is in to-morrow's issue, sure. Say that the applicants are to call at my office, downtown, in the Chase Block. Good-bye."

"Crazy am I?" he muttered, as he hung up the receiver. "I'll show them whether I am or not when I get that tobacco on the market. Why, it'll be the greatest boon that ever befell humanity— or at least that benighted class of which I am a member."

Then Mr. Stevens stole stealthily down the back stairs into the basement, where he opened the furnace door, drew a box up before it, seated himself theron and lighted his pipe, carefully blowing the smoke into the furnace, where it was carried up the chimney. He enjoyed himself thus for an hour, then went upstairs and retired for the night.

The next morning Mr. Stevens rode down town on the rear platform of a trolley-car, and again indulged in his pet hobby to his heart's content.

When he reached his office he greeted his stenographer cheerily, and was about to enter his private room when she stopped him.

"There has been a man here twice to see you this morning," she said. "He called in response to an advertisement he read in the morning paper, and seemed very anxious to see you. He said he would call again."

"Ah! I will want to see him, then. When he returns please send him in," and Mr. Stevens entered his private office, and was soon busy with his morning correspondence.

A few minutes later the door opened, but Mr. Stevens was so engrossed with his work that he did not immediately notice the shabbily-attired man who entered and stood waiting for him to look up. Finally the man coughed loudly to attract attention.

"Hello!" exclaimed Mr. Stevens, starting at the sound. "How did you get in here?"

"The young lady out there told me to walk right in," answered the man.

Mr. Stevens looked him over disapprovingly, noting the unshaven face and soiled clothing.

"Well," he said finally, "who are you and what do you want?"

"My name is William Kulp, and I have called to answer to your advertisement in this morning's paper regarding smokeless tobacco," answered the man,

"Yes. Are you an inventor?"

"I am, and I think I can claim that reward."

"Oh, you do, eh? Think you can solve the problem, do you?"

"I have already solved it," replied the man quietly.

"You have?" exclaimed Mr. Stevens incredulously. "Isn't it a rather hurried-up job, considering that you saw the advertisement only this morning?"

"The discovery is not new with me; I figured it out some time ago." answered Kulp.

"And is it really smokeless?" asked Mr. Stevens doubtfully.

"Absolutely. And odourless, as well."

"What! Not that?"

"Certainly, sir. It can be used in the house with perfect freedom, without the knowledge of the other inmates."

"You don't tell me!" cried Mr. Stevens joyfully. "That is just what I am looking for— unless it happens to be tasteless, as well. How about that, and what are the effects?"

"Oh, that part is all right. The taste is most pronounced, and it will have the same soothing effect as does any tobacco. Of course, your not being able to see or smell smoke will make a difference at first, but you'll soon get used to that, after which you will derive the same satisfaction from it as you do from the brand you now use."

"Splendid!" exclaimed Mr. Stevens enthusiastically. "Have you some of it with you?"

"Yes; I have a package of it in my pocket."

"Good! Let's see it." "Not yet," answered Kulp shrewdly. "The process for making tobacco smokeless is much simpler than you imagine, and were I to show you this sample you might discover my secret. In which case I would probably be out a thousand."

"Oh, no, you won't," Mr. Stevens assured him. "If the tobacco is really all you claim it to be, it is just what I want, and I will gladly give you that amount for the sole rights— that is, of course, if the process for making it is not already patented."

"It is not patented, to my knowledge," said Kulp, "and it is all I have represented it to be. In case you should buy it I will sign over to you all claims I may have, together with the process of making, and directions for using. But, as I said before, the process is so simple that I must insist on having my money before I divulge the secret."

Mr. Stevens hummed and hawed over this for some time, arguing that it was not good business policy to pay for goods before he had seen them; but Kulp was obdurate and finally started to leave, in apparent indifference as to whether he sold his smokeless tobacco or not.

"Hold on!" cried Mr. Stevens, when he saw this, "it is against all principles of business, but if you can give me some sort of assurance that I am not being buncoed, I'll close the deal now."

"If it isn't exactly what I have represented it to be I will hand you back your money," Kulp assured him.

Mr. Stevens pondered for some minutes over this. It was evident that he didn't like this method of doing business, but the man he was dealing with was obviously not of the business world, and was possessed of a stubborn determination to have his own way in the matter.

"Very well," said Mr. Stevens finally. "I don't like to do business on this basis, but if you really have what I am looking for, I can't afford to let you go. You may be the only man in the world who knows the secret. How will five hundred down do?"

Kulp smiled sardonically and shook his head. "I'm from Missouri direct," he answered. "It'll have to be a thousand down, with me."

Mr. Stevens silently considered this ultimatum for some time, then seeming suddenly to arrive at a definite conclusion, he reached for his cheque-book.

"What did you say your name was?" he asked.

"William Kulp."

Mr. Stevens made out a cheque for the required amount and handed it to Kulp, who, after carefully examining it, folded the cheque and placed it in his pocket, apparently satisfied.

"Now, if you'll just draw up your paper of transfer, or whatever you may call it, I'll sign that and then hand over the sample and directions," he said.

Mr. Stevens obediently drew up the paper and called in his stenographer as witness while Kulp attached his signature. Then the latter took a long, sealed envelope from his pocket and handed it to Mr. Stevens.

"This envelope contains full directions for making tobacco smokeless," he explained. "And this is the tobacco," he added, taking an oblong package, done up in a newspaper, from his hip-pocket. "An examination of it will make it obvious to you that any further instructions from me would be superfluous; so I will now bid you a very good day, with the sincere hope that you will be successful in your enterprise of putting smokeless tobacco on the market," and with that Mr. Kulp bowed himself out of the office.

Mr. Stevens raised his hand with the apparent intention of detaining the man, but before he spoke he suddenly changed his mind and permitted Kulp to leave unmolested. Mr. Stevens sat in his office chair and gazed at the doorway through which Kulp had passed for some minutes, and then a slow smile broke over his face.

"Stevens, you old fool," he muttered, "what have you gone and done now? This is certainly a most amazing way of doing business, but that fellow was so almighty independent that I didn't dare try to bluff him, for fear he would go away in a huff, and, then, if this thingamarig really does amount to anything, I'd have been out of a nice little deal. Well, let's take a look at this wonderful smokeless tobacco and see if I am the shrewd financier or twin brother to Mr. E. Z. Mark."

He took up the package that Kulp had left, cut the cord and slowly unfolded the newspaper wrapping. When his eye fell on the contents he stared, spellbound for several minutes, utterly at loss for words. And then he grinned.

"Now, why didn't I think of that?" he chuckled.

What he held was a long, black plug of "Jolly Tar" chewing tobacco!

Mr. Stevens opened the envelope containing the directions. They proved to be a printed article on the manufacture of plug chewing tobacco, evidently clipped from some magazine. There was also a short note, written with a pencil, which stated that the tobacco should be chewed and not smoked in order to obtain the desired results; and that after the user had become accustomed to this mode of using it, he would derive the same satisfaction from it as he would from smoking tobacco.

"It's smokeless tobacco, sure enough," Mr. Stevens chuckled, "but not the kind I was figuring on. I'm Mr. E. Z. Mark's twin brother all right, and this experience will go to teach an old fool that mixing with schemes that are out of his line is dangerous in the extreme to his bank account. If I had been a little bit more of an easy mark I would have paid that man cash for his wonderful secret; and if Brother Kulp had been on to his job he'd have demanded cash.

"He is a very enterprising gentleman, and enterprise deserves encouragement; but, as the matter stands, I fear he is due to have a great disappointment," and with that Mr. Stevens stepped to the telephone, called up his bank and stopped payment on the cheque.

_________________

13: The Tiara

May Wynne

World's News (Sydney), 16 March 1918

(1875-1949) Pseudonym of Mabel Winifred Knowles. An extremely prolific author, mainly of adult romances and general girl's adventure stories with romantic elements.

"THE business," said Mr. Rawlden, "is confidential." There was an ensuing pause, during which the two men took each other's measure.

John Gesdell nodded. "Of course," he replied cautiously. "We have a great deal of confidential business to do for our clients."

Rawlden raised his brows as he glanced round this inner sanctum belonging to the famous jewellers. He had heard, it is true, of society ladies pawning or selling family heirlooms, and having their counterparts made in paste wherewith to deceive their husbands. Yes, he had heard, and remarked as much to the keen-eyed business man who had every appearance of a gentleman.

Young Gesdell smiled. "One does not talk of such things," he remarked; "in fact, one does not talk of business at all."

His client's face brightened. "Good," he said in quite naive satisfaction, "that is what I like to hear. Again I repeat, my business is confidential. May I rely on your discretion?"

"Certainly."

Rawlden slipped his hand into his breast pocket, took out a small leather case, deliberately opened it, and brought out a folded paper, which he passed across to the jeweller. The latter spread it out upon the table, and studied the pencilled sketch critically.

"Diamonds?" he queried.

"And emeralds," said Rawlden, drawing a deep breath. "That is the sketch of a tiara which has been in my step-mother's family for generations. She is the last living representative; she had hoped to leave it to my step-sister, who, if she married, was to take my mother's maiden name. My sister, how- ever, eloped when she was seventeen, and went abroad, where she died. The tiara has for many years been in my possession. In March it was stolen from me. I did everything in my power to discover the thief, but the detectives have been at fault. Still, I hope, I am convinced, it will eventually be discovered. In the meantime a niece has unexpectedly put in an appearance. She is my late step-sister's only child, orphaned. My mother has received her. It will soon, I know, be a question of producing the tiara to give to Cynthia. If it had not been for her arrival I feel sure my mother would never have asked to see the jewels again, for her resentment against my sister was acute. The girl changes everything, and I dread the consequences should my mother ask, for the tiara and I fail to produce it. My mother has a disease of the heart, and the shock, the anger occasioned by such a loss, might be fatal. You will now understand why I want this work done at once, so that if the original jewels should not have been traced before my step-mother asks for them, I can satisfy her with the paste representation until the jewels are safe once more in my keeping."

John Gesdell was pondering ever the sketch as his client spoke. It was certainly an elaborate explanation to give a mere jeweller, but Gesdell was used to all sorts of eccentricities in his clients' manner of giving orders.

"The work shall be put in hand at once, sir," he said, "though I can give no date for its completion. There is a great deal of fine handling needed here which I shall have to do myself. But you can rely upon my getting it done as soon as possible."

Rawlden nodded and rose.

"If you could give an approximate date," he said carelessly, "I would call for it."

Gesdell hesitated.

"I am afraid that is impossible," he replied. "It is most uncertain. Kindly leave me your address and I will drop you a line when the tiara is finished."

He had an intuitive knowledge that the other hesitated, and again a vague suspicion, born first half an hour before, flashed across his mind. He looked keenly at his client, and the latter, flushing darkly, drew out a card and laid it on the table. Gesdell glanced at it— the address Bartram Rawlden had given was that of a business firm.

When Rawlden had gone, after urgent repetitions about wanting the tiara at once, Gesdell sat down and drew the pencilled sketch close again. It was well done, with neat markings where emeralds and diamonds were to he placed, yet Gesdell did not seem satisfied. He frowned as he studied, comparing the sketch with some other illustrations.

"Queer," he murmured, "that setting is and yet is not conventional. I dare swear that design, irregular as it is, was not the formation of a tiara which has been handed down from one generation to another. There's something wrong somewhere."

In his way Gesdell was a connoisseur in jewels and their setting. Jeweller by trade, he was a gentleman by birth end a rich man into the bargain, yet, being on the right side of thirty and a bachelor, he preferred sticking to trade where many men in his position would have gone into society, which ever opens its doors to the golden key. He laid down the drawing at last, and took up the business card. As he did so he started, half closing his eyes, as a man who suddenly recollects what has escaped his memory.

"Rawlden and Quandy," he murmured. "Of course! And this step-mother of his must be old Mrs. Naughton I have heard Bessie mention. She lives at Chitlay's Court, not a mile from Bessie's house. H'm. I wonder now if Bessie could have me down for a week- end." He took up the telephone receiver with the promptness of one who sets on quick resolve, and two hours later was seated in the train on his way to Harleton, in Herts, scarcely aware himself why he was going.

Mrs. Emsden was delighted to see the brother who had been her closest chum since childhood.

"You dear," she said, hugging him; "but why have you come after yarning so much about the press of business? Are you going in for nervous breakdown?"

Gesdell laughed.

"I look like it, don't I?" he retorted; "but the fact is I am interested in someone in your neighbourhood. Will you for once let me ask questions, whilst you refrain, like the heroic soul you are, from asking me any in return?"

Bessie Emsden grimaced.

"You are a privileged person," she said."I promise, though I don't like doing so a bit."

So Gesdell asked his questions, and after half an hour's brisk conversation was in possession of certain facts.

Old Mrs. Naughton lived at the Court; she was something of an invalid, and had a step-son whom Bessie disliked much, and described  to her brother's complete satisfaction. Last week— no— this week, as-ever-was, a grand- daughter had arrived― very pretty, very colonial, very unconventional, very young.

"Of course, the old cats of the neighbourhood are talking," added Bessie. "They must gossip or they'd bust, and they are horrified at this Cynthia Crysingten going to town in the milk-cart, riding the donkey bare-backed through the village, etc. I like the girl. She came to apologise because her dog 'rootled' the garden."

"Good," said Gesdell. "Let it rootle again and invite her in every time. Chum with her, old girl, if you want to please me. Perhaps  you could even ask her in to tea to-morrow?"

Bessie , said she could— and she did. What is more, the fair Cynthia came, saw, and I was going to say conquered, only I'm not so sure that she was not conquered herself.

She was a very pretty girl, in the vivid, blue-eyed type, with masses of untidy brown hair, and a gorgeous complexion.

John Gesdell returned to town and business. He set to work the same day on the tiara. It was fine work, as he had said to Rawlden, and he found it most interesting because the pattern was perfectly irregular. He knew exactly, being a connoisseur in antiques, how those jewels ought to have been set, and he became more and more convinced that the original pointing of that tiara was not in the least like the design.

"I would give a good deal to see that original," the young man mused. "Great Scott! It must have been worth a fortune. Curious that the stealing of such an important piece of jewellery did not get advertised in the papers."

He went down to Harleton more than once— after learning from Bessie that Bartram Rawlden was away from home— whilst Bessie, being feminine, and therefore match-making, saw to it that Cynthia was always invited to meet him.

"I'm bubbling with excitement," Cynthia told Gesdell one Sunday. "Grannie is going to give me a wonderful present on my birthday, and I am to wear it at the Rampton Hunt Ball. Guess what it is."

"An emerald and diamond tiara," said Gesdell promptly, watching the pretty face opposite in keen scrutiny. Cynthia opened her eyes very wide.

"How did you know?" she cried. "I haven't even told Bessie yet."

Gesdell's smile was enigmatical. "So I am right," he replied.

"You knew— it couldn't have been a guess. Yes, it is an emerald and diamond tiara. The 'Naughton' tiara, Grannie calls it. She told me all about it last night," and the young girl's face grew wistful. "Do you know?" she added, in a burst of confidence, "about my mother, and Grannie thinking that there never would he anyone to wear the Naughton tiara again?"

"Yes," said Gesdell. "I know. But tell me, how does it come to be the 'Naughton' tiara?"

"Grannie told me that, too," nodded Cynthia. "She married an Alan Rawlden, but he took her maiden name. That is always the way. When I," she blushed furiously, "if I," she supplemented, then broke off in that hopeless embarrassment which takes bashful eighteen unawares at times when alluding to a subject we may suppose to be very near her heart.

Mrs. Emsden happened to come in at the moment, and Cynthia greeted her with effusion. "Mr. Gesdell and I have been talking secrets," she said, giving Gesdell his cue; "and I have news for you, too. I am going to the Rampton Hunt Ball on the thirtieth. I do hope you are going to be there. Uncle Bartram is taking me— and if you go you will see my secret, for I shall be wearing it."

Mrs. Emsden was delighted, though entirely on the wrong tack. She supposed the secret would confess itself in a brand new engagement ring, and so looked mighty wise and smiling, so that Cynthia flushed up again and prepared to beat a hasty retreat.

"Of course, dear, I shall go to the hall," cried Bessie, following her little friend, "to take care of John, as naturally he will be going, and I shall have a new dress for the occasion."

It did not surprise Gesdell to receive a call early next week from Bartram Rawlden. He had been expecting this visit, and, in fact, working towards this end. So far he had succeeded in keeping from his client the fact that he had been down to Harleton, and he trusted to a proverbial luck that Rawlden, having been away from home since his young niece's Coming, would not have heard his name mentioned, or in any way connect him with Cynthia's friends. And he was right.

So far so good, and Gesdell knew at once that he was safe when Rawlden asked if the tiara were finished.

"My niece is to receive it next week," he said; "though, after all, there need not have been all this trouble about the matter. The private detective who has charge of the case tells me he hopes to place the tiara in my hands in a month's time. So all is well that ends well. I do not mind the expense, as my mother's heart is so weak. The shock of hearing her treasured jewels had been stolen would certainly have killed her."

"What is the reading of the riddle?" thought Gesdell, after Rawlden had gone, taking the paste tiara with him; but, puzzle as he might, the conundrum remained inexplicable. Of one thing, however, he was certain— that paste tiara, triumph of jeweller's art as it was, was no faithful reproduction of the original. And John Gesdell did not trust Bartram Rawlden.

THE NIGHT of the Rampton Hunt Ball arrived in due time, bringing Gesdell once more to his sister's house. He found her not only in raptures over her new gown of amber-coloured charmeuse, but with her own conviction that her cherished "match" was actually to be announced to-night!

The Hunt Ball was a brilliant function brilliantly represented. There was an unusual sprinkling of men in pink, and the ladies had been careful in the shading of the dresses to tone with their partners' bright attire.

Bessie Emsden was soon dancing away as gaily as a girl of eighteen, but Gesdell hung back, standing apart from the butterfly group of girls and youths. He was watching for his "belle of the evening."

"Not come!" exclaimed Bessie, coming up to him presently, her pretty face incredulous. "What can have happened? Cynthia is the first debutante I ever heard of being late for her coming-out ball, and she was so keen."

"Well, she's not come, anyhow," snapped Gesdell, sourly. "And I very much doubt if she means to do so. I suppose she thinks it a joke, to sell a fellow a pup like this"— and he went off to the smoking lounge because he did not choose to wait for Bessie's sympathy.

But Bessie Emsden had discretion, and knew better than to show pity to a disappointed swain.

Neither Cynthia nor her uncle appeared at the ball, and their defection was much criticised by those who felt an interest in the "new" granddaughter who had so mysteriously appeared to gladden the hearth of old Mrs. Naughton.

Cynthia had already won friends and admirers for herself in the neighbourhood, as well, as critics and disparagers who sneered at her unconventional ways and colonial hoydenishness.

John Gesdell overheard many of the criticisms passed, and champed over the unfriendly ones in wrath. Altogether the Rampton Hunt Ball was a hopeless failure as far as he was concerned, and he was thoroughly disagreeable during the drive home.

Of course, Bessie was disappointed, too dreadfully disappointed, she declared; but she had so obviously enjoyed herself in spite of certain blighted hopes that John would make no confidante of her.

"I really expect old Mrs. Naughton is ill," said Mrs. Emsden, more cheerfully; "the doctors say she may go off any minute with that heart, of hers, and I suppose Cynthia's appearance on the scene and the very fact of her debut into society have been a strain. I must go round to-morrow morning to inquire."

"I shouldn't bother to do anything of the kind." retorted John; "ten to one you will not be wanted. Probably Miss Cynthia never intended to come to the ball at all."

He wanted Bessie to be shocked, to argue, to reproach him for a remark he did not believe in himself, but she did nothing of the kind, merely asking him to pull up the car window as it was chilly.

Gesdell returned to town by the early train next morning, feeling as cheap as a man can do after being up all night not enjoying himself. Probably he made himself unusually disagreeable at business, and was bored stiff with life by the luncheon hour, when, as he was in the act of putting on his hat, a telegram was brought to him.

It was from Bessie, and ran as follows:— "Come at once. Cynthia in trouble.

"Just like Bessie," thought the ungrateful brother, "saves sixpence, and gives me the Hand's own Journey down to Harleton."

But he lost no time in starting.

Bessie met him in the hall and caught both his hands.

"My dear boy," she cried. "I had to wire because this needs someone to use his brains. Cynthia is in despair. It is all about that wretched tiara."

"Go on," said Gesdell, "go on."

There was no object in saying he had half expected this.

"Cynthia came down to me soon after breakfast," said Bessie. "I believe she had come to see you. She was half crazy with grief. Would you like her to tell you it all as she told it to me? She is in the library."

John did not reply; he just walked off to the library— and there was Cynthia.

She was crying, poor little girl, but she gulped down her tears at sight of Gesdell, who came forward and took her two hands.

There was something wonderfully comforting in the way he took those hands and held them— fast.

"Little girl," he said simply, "I can help you and I'm going to help you. Tell me the whole tale, that is all I ask."

She looked up at him, at first just a beautiful child, in sorrow and distress, then with that deeper expression dawning in her eyes that he was so glad to see.

"I told you," she replied without hesitation, "about the Naughton tiara. Grannie gave it to me on my birthday three weeks ago. Uncle Bartram brought it down. I never was so pleased about anything, it was just lovely. Grannie talked of it being an heirloom, and of more value in the eyes of any Naughton than any money. I could hardly believe it was mine. I— well, if you were a girl like me you would understand. The tiara was put away in a special safe, and Uncle Bartram gave me, a key.

" 'Don't look at it too often,' he said jokingly, 'remember I am in town and not here to look after you— and it.'

"He said it so oddly that I was cross, for I never did like him, and I daresay I was rude, for Grannie was vexed― so vexed that I almost took a dislike to my beautiful tiara, which I thought she valued more than me. So I never looked at it— till last night, when I got it out after I was dressed for the ball, and Henker, my maid, fastened it on. Grannie was up in her boudoir, and I went straight up to her. Uncle Bartram was there, pacing up and down, and Grannie lay back in her big chair looking oh! so white.

" 'Come here, Cynthia,' she said in a new sort of voice, and when I knelt at her feet, thinking she would say something nice, she put up her glasses and stared at the tiara. I heard her give a queer little gasp, and I got frightened and asked her what was the matter.

" 'Take off the tiara,' she said, and when I did so, Uncle Bartram came over and they both looked, at it in silence.

"Then Uncle Bartram said hoarsely:—

" 'That is not the Naughton tiara. It is not the tiara I gave Cynthia three weeks ago; the pointings are absolutely different. It is nothing but a clumsy, paste make-believe. The story I heard in town must be true.'

"I didn't understand, I was looking at Grannie, who looked as if turned to grey stone.

" 'Grannie,' I cried, 'what does it mean? Of course, this is the same tiara—my beautiful tiara.'

"But Grannie had dropped the jewels.

" 'A thief's daughter,' she said in an awful voice, 'and a thief. I might have known. The Naughton tiara has been sold, lost, destroyed. I shall never see it again. And I trusted you.' "

Cynthia covered her face with her hands.

"It was terrible," she moaned, "terrible to hear her speak like that, and then she just swayed forward and I would have caught her, but Uncle Bartram pushed me aside, crying out, 'You have killed her, you wicked girl. Go away at once;' and I went, I was so frightened. I came here. I― oh, Mr. Gesdell, do tell me what it means?"

Gesdell's face was so grim that no wonder her cry rang piteously, but the next second the look in his eyes reassured her.

"It means," he said, "that your uncle has not proved to be a sufficiently clever criminal. Will you come up to the Court with me and hear the explanation?"

They looked at each other, reading the secret which lay between them, yet unspoken.

Then— "Yes," said Cynthia, "I will come with you."

Quite naturally Gesdell drew her to him, and kissed her— he knew he could not have been mistaken just now, and there could have been no words spoken in such a crisis.

Mrs. Naughton was not dead. Terrible as the sudden strain had been, certain as anyone might have supposed that it would kill her, it had not done so! She had rallied, and the hastily-summoned doctor had been astounded on his second visit to find how far she had recovered.

There is no doubt at all that her step-son was even more astounded than the doctor at the phenomenon. What the full extent of his feelings must have been will be under-stood presently.

As chance— or fate— had it, Gesdell was able to stop the doctor's car in the drive; when he rejoined Cynthia he was smiling.

"It's all right," he said, "Marley is no fool. He will be back directly in case he is needed."

Then they went on together. It was Cynthia who, with her ready disregard of convention, opened the garden door, and let herself and her companion into the house.

"This way," she whispered; "we need not go through the hall, but straight up to Grannie's room by the back-stairs."

Stealthily they stole upstairs. On the landing they met Mrs. Naughton's maid, who was all for stopping their entry into her mistress's room.

"Mr. Rawlden is in there, Miss Cynthia," the woman protested. "I—"

"No one need know you met us," retorted Cynthia, who was showing a splendid though white-faced pluck. She opened the door as she spoke.

When Rawlden saw Gesdell he cursed furiously— but he was too late. Cynthia was by the bedside, where Mrs. Naughton lay propped up by pillows.

"Grannie, dear," she cried, "I have brought John Gesdell to explain about the tiara. Will you listen?"

The sick woman looked from one to the other. It must have been her step-son's face that convinced her.

"Go on," she whispered.

It was Gesdell who replied by drawing out the sketch of the tiara he had copied in paste. This he laid before Mrs. Naughton and told his tale.

It was all transparently clear now.

Rawlden had never lost the Naughton tiara, but when he heard he would be called on to give it up he had a faulty copy made in paste. On Cynthia's birthday he had given her, in his step-mother's presence, the original heirloom; but, having a second key to the safe, had the same night taken out the original and substituted the paste tiara, relying on Mrs. Naughton instantly recognising the defective design. Then, on the night of the ball, he had come down early and told his step-mother that he had heard tales of his niece's gambling habits, and the influence of some ne'er-do-well colonial, with whom she was in love. He had ended with the hint of how he had also heard of a startling rumour about jewels sold for a great sum to save this lover from ruin, and hardly had he finished his tale when Cynthia in the paste tiara had appeared.

All this story in detail was not, of course, pieced out during that short dramatic scene in old Mrs. Naughton's room. But Gesdell's statement, the drawing, his receipted account, together with Rawlden's wordless fury, were proof enough. The climax, however, was reached outside the invalid's room, where Cynthia remained with her grandmother, whilst Rawlden followed Gesdell, only to learn that the police, summoned by the doctor, were in the house, and a search for the real tiara was in progress.

As Gesdell had said, Rawlden was not sufficiently clever to play the rogue. He had trusted too much to chance, and belief that John Gesdell, of Gesdell and Co., would never hear of the private scandal of an old family heirloom.

The long arm of coincidence had been against Bartram Rawlden, or maybe a higher power had intervened to right the wrong. At any rate, the culprit made his exodus from home that night, in fear of imprisonment, nor was he heard of for many months afterwards. Mrs. Naughton, with the marvellous rallying power of many heart cases, recovered from the second shock of joyful reaction quite easily, and all that remains is to ring down the curtain on Gesdell's reward. All true lovers know al-ready what that was, hut equally so they want to hear what is not intended for their ears.

It was after all the excitement was over, when the famous tiara had been found, Rawlden missing, and Mrs. Naughton asleep, that Gesdell came into the library, where Cynthia was awaiting him.

She turned from the hearth as he entered, and smiled upon him.

"Before I thank you, sir," she said, "I want to know why you kissed me just now?"

Gesdell's answer was entirely satisfactory.

__________________

14: An Exciting Week

Lilian Quiller-Couch

1867-1941

World's News (Sydney) 2 Dec 1916

WOULD anyone else have thought it an exciting week?

If they had lived Felicia Byrne's life they would have had no doubt about it.

A convent schoolgirl for nearly eighteen years; an invalid's wife for one year; already a widow for two years!

A month ago a lawyer's visit and a few formalities had marked her twenty-first birthday; then the dull round of life went on again. "And I may live to be seventy!" thought Felicia hopelessly.

It was Saturday afternoon. For two hours she was comparatively free. The elder Mrs. Byrne and her daughter, Fanny, were at a concert. "Must I always stay at home because I am a widow?" wondered Felicia. Felicia guessed that if one had loved one's husband very much, perhaps concerts might have no attraction; but poor Edward Byrne

As the hot May sun poured through the shrouded windows of the dull London house Felicia neglected the sheet of music her mother- in-law had set her to copy, and, leaning her chin upon her palms, allowed her dejected thoughts to wander back to the day when she had been summoned from school to the couch of her cousin, her future husband. She recalled her horror, dread, and revolt from the idea of linking her life with that of the poor fretful boy who lay there. She had withstood argument, persuasion, even covert threats, till the anguished, penniless mother had finally thrown herself upon the girl's pity end generosity, had revealed the fact that Felicia, though alone in the world, was rich and untrammelled, and begged her to give the only chance of life to this dying son. And Felicia, inspired by a spirit of self-sacrifice, had at last consented.

And with Felicia's money they had all travelled to softer airs. And the mother and sister had nursed Edward with jealous devotion; and Felicia had fetched and carried for them, and had tried to be patient whenever she found herself left for an hour with the querulous, self-centred invalid. And then, within a year, the end came; the money had failed to save Edward; and Felicia was a widow.

It was then that, young and homeless, she had drifted into sharing Mrs. Byrne's home, paying generously for the privilege. And Mrs. Byrne and Fanny had drifted into the stern, dictatorial attitude which was natural to them when dealing with softer natures; gradually forgetting that the pretty child had saved them from poverty, and was still doing so; remembering only to fend off all possible friends, or suitors, who might "unsettle dear Felicia's mind," and, incidentally, deprive themselves of a comfortable income.

The beat of the day, and her thick, black gown brought a pretty flush to Felicia's cheeks; and memories had so absorbed her languid brain that she did not hear a ring at the door- bell, and it was with a start of guilt that she heard the door open, and realised that she had scarcely begun her task. But she need not have feared, Mrs. Byrne and Fanny were still safely listening to M. Tarratot's "Roulades." It was George Garth, the explorer, who crossed the room to her.

George Garth was often unconventional; perhaps that was why, instead of saying "How do you do?" he touched Felicia's thick sleeve, and said gently, "Then he did die?"

"Yes, more than two years ago," she replied.

And after that beginning it seemed natural that they should talk of that summer in Switzerland, when George Garth was enjoying a fortnight's rest before starting on his bigger travels; and Felicia had wandered lonely about the little mountain town while her new relatives nursed her dying husband.

George Garth had never forgotten her child-like, troubled eyes, or the pathos of her situation. In those days he had pitied her, thought about her, helped her when he could, and then, perforce, left best.

To-day he felt that there was still trouble in her eyes and pathos in her situation. "Did she care so much for the man?" he wondered, noting the sad apathy of her expression.

But before a quarter of an hour had passed he saw bright eagerness take its place; and she talked, half-shyly, it is true, but with a happy smile upon her lips. And when Teller brought in tea, and he watched Felicia's pleased surprise as she looked at the maid, he wondered what it all meant.

The tea was a great success. Felicia poured it as awkwardly as a child unaccustomed to a new doll's tea-set; and Garth helped her; and they laughed together so heartily that they did not hear the return of the mistress of the house.

Garth, looking up at the opening of the door, saw the expression of Mrs. Byrne's face before she had schooled it to geniality. He noted, too, the anxiety, almost dread, upon Felicia's. But Mrs. Byrne's greeting was really effusive, though that of Fanny was rather grim and cold.

"We have followed your journeyings with a map, Mr. Garth," declared Mrs. Byrne. "Haven't we, Fanny? Ah, how much has happened since we said good-bye to you in Switzerland." She sighed deeply; then, as if to spare her daughter-in-law's feelings, she added: "Felicia, dear, if you could finish this music now I should be so glad. I know Mr. Garth will forgive your running away. It is rather urgent."

Felicia, with a pang of disappointment, gathered up her papers, and, uttering a few words of excuse, left the room. For the first time rebellious thoughts took the place of depression or apathy, and her heart swelled hotly as she sat down to the task which she knew would occupy nearly an hour.

In the drawing-room below George Garth lingered awhile in hope of Felicia's return; then he said good-bye, and Felicia heard the shutting of the front door, and felt unaccountably miserable. "Will it always be like that?" she thought; and tears smarted in her eyes. But, all unknown to her, her week had begun.

In the hours that followed a strange thing was happening. Felicia Byrne was awaking to the realisation that the outlook of fifty years shut up in her mother-in-law's house was unendurable. The monotony and uselessness of it were unendurable. The thick, uncomfortable gown and white cap were unendurable. George Garth had come in from the sunny outside world; and the awakening had begun.

On that Saturday evening she was restless and depressed. By Sunday she had reached a state which saw the possibility of a brighter life, and the impossibility of ever making her mother-in-law agree to it. By Sunday night she seemed to have gained nothing but unsatisfied longing. In reality she had gained much; for she had reached a point from which she could never again go back without protest to the old grey existence.

By Monday morning it seemed to Felicia better to run away and starve than to stay and become a mummy in widow's weeds.

Mrs. Byrne the elder little thought what was seething in her daughter-in-law's brain, nor did she imagine for a moment how her own simple refusal to allow the windows to be open at luncheon really precipitated matters. The blazing sun was baking the road into white dust outside. The thick collar of Felicia's stuff gown pressed like a hot cord round her throat; her hands were swelled and veined in the hot, black wristbands; and when she escaped to her bedroom she tore her widow's cap from her soft brown hair, loosened the high collar from her throat, and cried many times to herself, "I can't bear it! I can't bear it!" Before long: she had reached the point at which she demanded, "And why should I?"

Then a wild insubordination filled her, a spasm of courage upheld her, and she determined to do two things. Hitherto she had not been expected to appear in the drawing-room if any visitors were there. Teller came daily with a small tea-tray, or a message to say that the drawing-room was free. To-day she would not wait for Teller; she would discard her cap, turn down her collar, and go down to tea unasked.

To Felicia these were momentous decisions. "But they can't kill me for it!" she assured herself; and allowing no time for repentance, she ran quickly downstairs and opened the drawing-room door.

The next moment she realised several things, She realised George Garth's  presence; also that three faces turned and stared at her; also that it was too late to run away.

"Felicia!'' It was Mrs. Byrne who spoke first. Shocked annoyance bit through her voice. "You have forgotten to put on your cap!"

"No, I've not forgotten it," said Felicia, trembling as she spoke. "It was unbearably uncomfortable and hot. How do you do, Mr. Garth," she added, shyly.

The mother and daughter watched sternly as Garth came forward with obvious pleasure on his face.

"You had better lie down, then," said Mrs. Byrne, "and I will send Teller to you."

"No, thank you," said Felicia bravely, feeling that she must not surrender at the first attack. "The sun is blazing in my room, so I came down for shade and tea."

Then George Garth broke into the conversation. "I am glad to see you all," he began cheerfully. "I came this afternoon to ask you to come to my cousin's concert on Thursday. I do hope you will all be able to." His invitation was addressed to Mrs. Byrne, but it certainly included Felicia.

"How very kind of you," said Mrs. Byrne, pleased, but embarrassed and anxious.

"I should enjoy it immensely," exclaimed Felicia, the novelty of the situation making her forget her nervousness. "Do you know, Mr. Garth, I have never yet been to an entertainment in London!"

"My dear Felicia," snapped her mother-in-law, "young widows are not supposed to be dancing off to every pleasure."

Felicia's eagerness went out of her face suddenly.

"But this is different, of course," said Garth, "No one would object to a selection from Han- del." He did not know how decisive his tone had suddenly become; what he did know was that, just as suddenly, and as he saw the eagerness die from Felicia's face, he knew that he loved her, and that it hurt him like a blow to see her wince under her mother-in-law's words. Two years ago his heart had been prepared for this— indeed he had guessed it even then, and had crushed it out, so he thought. But now he knew his heart aright, and in a mingling of wonder and joy be looked straight into her sad eyes. And with an answering look of puzzled questioning, Felicia's own heart sang within her in response.

Instinct told Garth to take his leave as soon as politeness allowed. Instinct also told him, and his heart contracted with the thought, that Mrs. Byrne was capable of saying some hard and unreasonable words to her daughter-in-law. He was right in his surmise, but be did not guess what a storm would beat upon that pretty, uncapped head, a storm so severe for such a trifling cause that it roused even Felicia from her usual gentleness; and having been told that she looked like a third-rate chorus girl, and that it was flagrant and improper behaviour for a young widow, she interrupted with a protest. "But surely young widows do more than that! I read it in stories. Why, sometimes they— they— why, they even marry again!"

The words fell like a bomb; but it was Mrs. Byrne who exploded. Fanny got up and the room.

"Ah!" cried the outraged lady. "So that is it! You want to marry again! That is your scheme, and you have set your cap at Mr. Garth, you deceitful woman! Have you no shame? Are you blind to the fact that Mr. Garth came here to see Fanny?"

Felicia turned very white under the lash of these words; her heart felt suddenly numb, then swelled as if it would burst, and her indignation flashed from her eyes.

"You know exactly how much I have seen of Mr. Garth," she cried. "No idea of marrying again ever entered my head. But if it had, what wrong is there in it?"

"My son—my dead son's memory—" began Mrs. Byrne feverishly. But Felicia was wounded too deeply to listen to more words, or even to choose her own.

"You know better than anyone else," she declared, "how much I wanted to marry your son." And she walked from the room with her head held high, though the tears were veiling in her eyes.

"Teller," remarked Felicia, longing for sympathy, when that kindly maid brought the can of warm water to her bedroom. "Have you ever read stories about people who run away—from convents and—and places? I suppose the poor things really starve to death sometimes, if they've nowhere to go?"

Teller was a shrewd woman, with a heart full of pity for "Mrs. Edward." "People don't need to starve much nowadays, ma'am. And running away is easy if they've got any money, and someone to call a taxi," she re-plied. And new ideas came to Felicia, and she pondered. So ended Monday.

By Tuesday morning thoughts of running away and starving were banished. And after breakfast, having put on her hat and crape-trimmed mantle, she rang her bell for Teller, and in a voice trembling with suppressed excitement asked her to call a taxi.

"I won't deceive," thought Felicia, "but I've a right to go out by myself in broad daylight, I think;" and though her heart thumped painfully, she walked downstairs without hurry, and out at the front door, which Teller held open for her. Then she gave the chauffeur the address of her bank, and stepped into the taxi. Glancing back at the house, she saw the amazed face of her mother-in-law looking out between the drawn-back curtains. Then Felicia was out of sight and on her way to a glimpse of freedom.

It was a glorious morning, and the new sense of liberty was like wine. In every face Felicia expected to see a friend, though knowing she possessed none, "or— perhaps, one—" she confessed with a glow of comfort. Even if he did want to marry Fanny, he could be her friend. How wonderful it would be if she were to meet him this morning! But no, that sort of thing happened only in books. But at any rate she would see him on Thursday; meanwhile— oh, how lovely it all was. She had not enjoyed an hour so much since the last school picnic!

Felicia was right, she did not meet George Garth; but she joyed in the thought that she was preparing to meet him in two days' time; and the shops were like fairyland to her; places where her heavy prison-garments could be transformed into cool, shimmering robes fit for a fairy queen.

Mrs. Byrne stood at the drawing-room door as Felicia crossed the hall on her return, and haughty displeasure was on her brow. "And where have you been, Felicia!" she demanded, ready for the fray.

But Felicia's hour of freedom had brought her wisdom as well as courage. "Shopping," she replied quietly, and ended the conversation by determinedly continuing her way upstairs. Mrs. Byrne, speechless with anger, went back end closed the door. And only Fanny heard the comments intended for Felicia. And Fanny, though detesting Felicia for the obligation under which they lived, was honest, and told her mother some truths in her curt, rather cruel way.

The rest of that day and Wednesday were passed without open warfare; but in both Mrs. Byrne's heart and Felicia's there lay a fixed purpose, and each was anxious, for a very different reason, that the afternoon of the concert should come.

Teller had no instructions from Felicia, but on Her own responsibility she took the large, interesting-looking cardboard boxes straight to "Mrs. Edward's" room when they came from the shops, without allowing them to meet the eyes of Mrs. Byrne or her daughter. And Felicia, alone in her room after luncheon, went down on her knees, and unpacked them, and wondered with a delighted wonder that such lovely things had become her very own. In eager silence she drew the soft folds of cool grey silk and chiffon from their bed of tissue paper. Then she rose, and, loosing the buttons of her thick, black dress, she let it slip from her shoulders, and with all the pleasure of a child she began her new toilette.

In less than half an hour Felicia stood before her mirrors to behold the result of her morning's shopping, and felt startled, almost ashamed, at the sight of her transformed self. And yet her face flushed charmingly with pleasure at the sight.

She had listened, as she dressed, to hear Mrs. Byrne and Fanny go downstairs ready to start for the concert. She had not heard them, but the clock on her table warned her that she must go down and face the inevitable interview, and, summoning all her courage, she went slowly down the stairs. The drawing-room was empty, and Felicia, wondering a little that such vigorously punctual people should be late to-day, sat down in dread to wait. But the hand of the clock crept near to the hour of the concert's beginning, and still they did not come. And at last, with a new fear at her heart, Felicia rang the bell. When Teller appeared, and caught sight of Felicia, she cried out in her surprise, "Oh, Mrs. Edward, how beautiful!"

But Felicia's anxiety had made her forget her new clothes. "Teller," she exclaimed; "has Mrs. Byrne come down yet?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am," replied Teller, "Mrs. Byrne and Miss Byrne went out quite half an hour ago— to a concert, I understand."

"Gone!" gasped Felicia. "But I was to have gone with them! Are you sure?"

"Quite sure, ma'am." When the faithful Teller had gone back to regale the kitchen with a description of Mrs. Edward's appearance, Felicia hunted wildly for the ticket which George Garth had left for her. She would follow them. She would walk up the room and take her place beside them. But this bold revenge was denied the poor child. Her ticket was not to be found.

"I will do this, I will do that." Felicia thought angrily of one plan after another. But the emotions of the past five days had been over-much for her, and she suddenly sat down on the sofa, in her pretty finery, and big tears splashed down upon her beautiful gloves.

She knew now how much she had looked forward to seeing George Garth. When George Garth, standing near the door of the concert-room, saw Mrs. Byrne and Fanny approaching without Felicia, a resentful annoyance filled him even before they began to make explanations. "We were obliged to leave my poor daughter- in-law at home," Mrs. Byrne declared. "Such a cold; sneezings and streaming eyes. Bed was the only fitting place for her. So sorry!" Garth's disappointment was well hidden under a quiet politeness. "May I show you to your seats?" he suggested.

"Thank you so much. And it would be delightful if you would come and take the vacant chair yourself, Mr. Garth."

"Delightful," echoed Fanny.

"I will certainly come later on," Garth promised, "but I have one or two things to do first," and he left the mother and daughter well pleased with the success of their afternoon's work.

They would have been less pleased if they had known the "one or two things" George Garth meant to do. George Garth always knew his own mind; so now, excusing himself to his cousin, he went out quickly, and hailed a taxi. Felicia Byrne was the chief person in the world to him now. If she were ill he meant to carry flowers to cheer her; he meant to know the truth; and above all, he meant, as soon as she was well, at the first possible opportunity, to ask her to be his wife. When Teller opened the door to him and listened to his inquiries, the surprise on her face confirmed the doubt which had been in his mind.

"No, sir," she declared. "Mrs. Edward Byrne is not ill. Will you come inside." And she felt pleased to think that Mrs. Edward's pretty gown would not be wasted on an empty drawing-room.

Garth's heart-beats quickened as he crossed the hall, but when the drawing-room door was opened and he saw Felicia with bowed head, sobbing, he forgot everything but that he loved her and she was in trouble.

It has been said before that George Garth was unconventional. And now he gave no formal reason for his invasion of her privacy; he merely crossed the room to her, and said half-questioningly, "You put on that beautiful gown to come to the concert?"

And Felicia, looking up like a startled child, the tears still wet on her cheeks, nodded her head.

"Felicia—" he said slowly; and she stared at him in inquiring wonder, but with no anger for his use of her name. "Felicia, will you let it be your wedding-gown? Will you marry me— soon— as quickly as possible?"

With every vestige of colour drained from her face, she looked at him now in dumb amazement.

"I love you," he said simply. "I think I began to love you in Switzerland. I know I love you now. Will you marry me?"

"But— but―" Felicia could frame no answer with her trembling tongue.

"You don't know much about me," he admitted, "but I swear I would be a good husband to you, Felicia. Truly you may trust me."

"Then at last she found her voice. "Trust you!" she echoed; and her face lighted up as if she sighted a haven of refuge and joy. "I would trust you to the end of time. I— know— now— what love means. Oh, yes, I know now."

George Garth did not tell Felicia of the lie that Mrs. Byrne had told him. For a long, long embrace he held her to him with all the strength of his great love. Then, loosing her, he put his gift of roses into her hands, and said gently, "I want to take you to the concert. Will you come?"

The entertainment was nearing its end when the lovers walked up the concert-room. Neither Mrs. Byrne nor Fanny at first recognised Felicia in the slim figure in its grey draperies, with shy eyes looking out from under the brim of her softly-feathered hat. Amazement and anger were mingled on their faces, the music on the platform became intolerable to their ears, and they longed yet dreaded that the concert should end.

As usual, George Garth took the frankest, simplest way out of the difficulty. When he had followed the three ladies to the vestibule he took Felicia's hand, and, standing before Mrs. Byrne he said quietly, "I induced Felicia to come to the concert, Mrs. Byrne; and I want to tell you that she has given me permission to care for her for the rest of her life."

But no congratulations could be forced from Mrs. Byrne's lips. "Envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness" seemed to riot in her heart.

"She has treated me disgracefully," were all the words she could find to say; and, turning her back upon the lovers, she walked away, followed by her daughter.

"It won't be for long, darling," said George Garth, as he said good-bye to Felicia at the door of the dull house which had imprisoned her so long.

"Oh, I can bear it easily now," she whispered joyfully. "I am too happy to care."

The next morning, on her favourite page of the newspaper Mrs. Byrne's eyes fell upon the following announcement:— "A marriage has been arranged, and will take place very shortly, between George Garth, explorer, and Felicia Byrne."

And on Saturday, at just the hour when, a week before, Felicia had been thinking hopelessly of the long, long stretch of years before her, of loneliness and monotony, George Garth and his bride were speeding towards Dover and France.

"It has been an exciting week," sighed Felicia happily. "Last Saturday I was dreading fifty more years of life; now I should like to live till I'm a hundred, if you'll do the same— my husband."

"Ah, my wife, my wife," Garth answered. "We are only now beginning our real life. Long or short, we will try never to waste a day of our joy. We will never dread again."

____________________

15: The Mysterious Englishman

William Le Queux

World's News (Sydney) 29 Nov 1919

ONE warm September evening in the year prior to the European conflagration, I was sitting with two friends from the British Legation at dinner at Capsa's, that gay restaurant in the Galea Victoriei, in Bucharest.

In the whole Roumanian capital— that chic city of careless waste and wantonness which eclipses the Montmartre in its devil-may-care nocturnal recklessness— no spot is so merry as Capsa's, where one eats one's umpluti— paprika pods filled with rice— and listens to the best gipsy band in the Balkan peninsula.

That morning the International Schlalwagen gesellschaft had brought me direct from Ostend upon a diplomatic mission from Downing Street to the Roumanian capital. Indeed, I had, just before I had come out to dine, made a call upon the French Minister, had put my questions, and had received a promise of answer on the following day.

So far my journey had been a pleasant one. My two friends, Jackson— who, in addition to his appointment to the legation, was a Commissioner of the Danube Navigation, with an office in Rustchuk— and Dering, who was Secretary of Legation, entertained me on each occasion I visited Roumania, while I, in turn, tried to give them a good time in London whenever either of them got leave.

The night was breathless, the windows were open, and the meal, which included a portion of sterlet— that most delicious of all fish—  was more perfect than one could eat anywhere else in the whole of Europe. Besides, we had the Tzigane band, ten dark-faced, swarthy gipsies, with their quaint string instruments, playing selections, including those two or three haunting waltzes which one hears everywhere from the Carpathians to the Black Sea.

The room overflowed with well-dressed Russian princes. Hungarian millionaires with their women folk, Roumanian Cabinet Ministers, diplomats, financiers, and people of wealth— the crowd that congregates at Capsa's each night before the theatre, making it one of the gayest spots in all Europe.

We were going to the opera, where Jackson had a box, and opera in Bucharest in those days when Carmen Sylva was Queen was always good. "Carmen" was to be given by a company from Paris, and all the gay world of Bucharest was to be there.

Life in the West End of London may be bright and amusing, but the half-mile around Regent Street is as a Baptist community in comparison with the fast Roumanian capital.

We had finished our dinner with a glass of Imperial Tokay, an exquisite wine little known outside Hungary or Roumania, when the three of us rose. Passing the band, we gave the smiling, beetle-browed conductor, five francs as our contribution, and then went out.

Jackson wanted to buy some cigarettes, so while he went with Dering I waited beside the smart little victoria which the porter had summoned to take us to the theatre.

As I did so, I suddenly heard a child's refined voice at my elbow, saying in English:—

"This is for you, sir!"

Then, looking down, I saw a little girl of about twelve, who held something in her hand.

She gave it to me, and I realised that she was passing me a note surreptitiously.

"Hulloa!" I exclaimed, surprised to meet an English child in the main street of Bucharest. "And who are you?"

"I'm Daisy, sir."

"Daisy what? What's your other name?"

"Tressider, sir," replied the child shyly. "Dad told me to come here and give it to you. But he told me to say that you were not to open it before anybody. He relies on you to say nothing."

This last sentence interested me.

"But you are not Roumanian?" I said, thrust the strange note into the pocket of my light overcoat. "Surely you are English, my little girl?"

"Yes, sir, I am. "We come from London," she said.

"And how long have you been here, eh?"

"It's nearly a year, sir, since we left Highgate."

"Oh, so you lived in Highgate! Where?"

"In Talgarth Road, sir."

I knew Talgarth Road, a most respectable thoroughfare, and I was about to Question her further when my two companions emerged from the shop; so, in order to evade any questions, I brushed the child aside, and without further word entered the conveyance and drove to the theatre.

After finding our box I made excuse, and, going out to the foyer, broke open the letter, which I found read as follows:—

Sir,

I have been awaiting your return here, and I know you arrived this morning. I also know that you will readily do a favour for a fellow-Englishman. Can you come here and see me for five minutes, No. 18, Strada Cantemir—quite close to the Church of St. Spiridion? I regret that I cannot call on you, but it is impossible, as you will understand when we meet. Meanwhile, please tell nobody I have written.

With thanks in anticipation.

George Tressider.

The tone of the mysterious letter aroused my curiosity.

Was it some cunningly-prepared trap? I confess that I was suspicious. Cosmopolitan that I am, I was wary of visiting strangers. Yet I had with me a good automatic pistol, so why should I not satisfy my curiosity?

That night, after the opera, we had supper at the gay Villa Regala, outside the city, and it was nearly three in the morning before I re-entered the Boulevard Hotel.

Next day I was again at the French Legation, where I spent an hour with his Excellency the Minister, and, having returned to the Boulevard Hotel for luncheon, I resolved to put my automatic in my pocket and call upon this mysterious Englishman.

The street seemed quite of the best class, and the door of a first-floor flat was opened to me by a burly, thick-set, dark-skinned gipsy of about forty-five.

"Ah, I've been waiting for you, sir!" exclaimed the gipsy in English, in a refined voice. "It's so kind of you to come."

I was startled, for the man looked a perfect Tzigane, even to the jacket he wore, with great silver filigree buttons.

"Are you Mr. Tressider?" I asked.

"Yes, I am," he answered politely, smiling at my surprise. "I see," he said, "you are, of course, puzzled at my dress?"

"Well, not only at your dress," I said, "but at your dark skin and your hair!" The latter was black and lank. He was the type of gipsy one finds all over Hungary and Roumania.

"Come inside, sir," he urged, speaking in an educated tone, and following him I found myself in a cool, well-furnished room, the wooden sun-shutters of which were closed against the heat, reducing the place to half darkness, which was refreshing after the sun glare outside.

"I had your note," I remarked, after I had sat down.

"Well, I must first ask you to pardon me," he said. "But it is of dire necessity, and I know sufficient of you to be certain that you will do a favour to a fellow-countryman."

"What do you know of me?" I asked.

"Much more than you suspect," he laughed. "It's our business to know about people. But I'll tell you at once that what we know about your private affairs is to your credit— and not to your detriment."

"That's gratifying, at any rate," I said, much puzzled at the man's demeanour, and perhaps the more so because of his outspokenness; even though he was a mystery.

The man who comes from Highgate and poses as a gipsy in Roumania must, I thought, be carrying on some rather crooked game.

"Well," I went on. "Why have you asked me to call?"

"Why?— well, because I want to beg you to do me a favour. When are you returning to London!"

"The day after to-morrow. I'm going back direct by the Orient express to Ostend."

He made a calculation.

"Then you will arrive in London on the evening of the eighteenth— just in time!"

"I suppose I shall be there on the eighteenth," I said.

"Perhaps it may surprise you, but I knew of your expected arrival here. I knew by telegram of your journey a few hours after you knew of it yourself."

''Who told you?" I asked, much mystified.

He, however, only smiled mysteriously, and said:—

"That's of no importance. The real matter is whether or not you will do something for me?"

"I don't know," I replied, hesitating. "It seems to me that you are living here in hiding— aren't you?"

"Yes. To be frank, I am. England is very unhealthy to me just now," said the burly, yet polished man, smiling again grimly. "The fact of the matter is that the Scotland Yard authorities want me, and are very anxiously inquiring of my whereabouts, hence I am in a country where they are not likely to arrest me. I bungled over a bit of crooked business, and so I slipped out here with my little girl. But I tell you it's a rotten life. I am an ass to do what I did."

"What did you do?" I inquired.

"You've heard of the big burglary at Pinder's, the jewellers in Bond Street, about a year ago? Well— I did that!"

"You did!" I gasped, staring at him.

"Yes— and a good many others, too," he said. "Oh! it's a great game while it lasts, but sooner or later it means either quod or exile. I've done both— and if it were not for the child I'd prefer quod. This loneliness is terrible— you don't know what it is. I should go mad if it were not for little Daisy— all I've got in the world. I only had one pal, Jack Hunter, and he died a fortnight after we did the job in Bond Street. Knocked down by a taxi in Oxford Street."

I recollected the sensational robbery at Pinder's, one of the most expensive jewellers in London, and how the safe had been opened by the latest scientific means, jewellery and uncut stones being stolen to the value of about eighty thousand pounds, the thieves get-ting safely away.

"The jewellery must have brought you in a big sum," I remarked.

"Fair—enough to keep me honest for the rest of my life. But one thing troubles me, and now I've told you the truth I want you, if you will, to do me a favour, and take some thing to London for me."

"Not if it's stolen property."

"It is stolen property," he said, looking me very straight in the face.

"Then I'm sorry that I can't oblige you," I replied at once.

"Listen before you decide," he said, in a tone of appeal. "First, I'll show it to you," and going to a cupboard he took out a small parcel which, on being opened, contained a jewel-box of crimson morocco. Within was the finest emerald necklace I had ever set eyes upon. "This I want to restore to its owner. Will you take it to her?" he asked.

"No," I answered promptly. "You can surely send it to the lady."

"Ah! that's just it— I can't! There are reasons— strong reasons— why it should be de-livered into her hands," he said. "I may perhaps be foolishly sentimental for a thief, but I did a very mean action, and I want, if possible, to make reparation. Funny thing, isn't it?— a thief with a conscience!" But the expression upon his countenance was so earnest that I became further filled with curiosity.

He saw my hesitation, and added:—

"Now I know you'll do this little favour for me— won't you?" he begged. "If I dared to send it to her by post I wouldn't trouble you— but unfortunately it's impossible."

"But how is it that you knew of my arrival in Bucharest?" I asked in curiosity.

"I have friends— crooks like myself," was his enigmatical reply. "This," and he indicated the necklace, "is a great weight upon my mind. When she has it again I shall feel that at least I've made atonement for an action that I should never have done."

"To whom do you want it delivered?" I inquired, after a few moments' reflection.

"Ah! Then you will do it?" he cried gladly. "I cannot be sufficiently grateful to you!" And placing a note which he had already written inside the case, he packed it up again in brown paper.

"When you get to London will you put this advertisement in 'The Times,' " and he handed me a slip of paper upon which was written:—

JOAN

Must see you once again

GEORGE

"Joan who?" I asked.

"That does not matter. You will insert your telephone number in the advertisement, and she will ring you up. I would rather you did not know her name— for her sake."

"But will she meet me?"

"Yes— she will call on you if you give the name of Grierson when she rings up."

"Very well," I said. "If it will really make reparation I will execute this very curious com-mission of yours. But how will you know that I've safely delivered the box?"

"Oh! I shall know all right. People of my profession know more about the movements of jewels, and in whose possession they are, than people ever dream."

"I think you might tell me the name of the lady I am to meet," I said.

"No. Please pardon me, I know she would not wish it," was his reply, and as the jewel thief's little daughter entered the room at that moment our conversation drifted into another channel. Therefore when I left I carried with me the small brown paper parcel to convey to London.

Four days later I arrived at my rooms in Albemarle Street, and lost no time in putting in the advertisement, giving my telephone number.

I chanced to be out all next day, but on my return at six o'clock I found that Davies, any man, had answered the telephone call of a lady named Joan, and according to my instructions he had given her my address, using the name of Grierson.

She had promised to call upon me at seven that evening.

Thus I waited, with what curiosity you may well imagine, until at about five minutes past the hour I heard a ring at the bell, and a few moments later Davies ushered into my presence a tall, elegantly-dressed young lady, with deep blue eyes.

The instant she confronted me she drew back in apology, saying:—

"I fear I've made a mistake! I have called to see Mr. Grierson. You are not Mr. Grierson."

"No," I replied, with a smile. "But you are Joan, I presume."

"That's my name."

"And your surname?" I asked.

"Why? That cannot be any concern of yours. I saw the advertisement in 'The Times,' and I rang up, but I expected to meet Mr. Grierson."

"Please pardon me," I said. "I resorted to a ruse, as I was instructed to do. I have been charged to deliver this to you," and I handed her the packet, passing her a pair of scissors with which to cut the string.

She stood, staring at me in amazement.

"What does this mean?" she inquired. "Who asked you to deliver this to me? Is it some hoax? Where is Mr. Grierson?"

"I regret that I know nothing, except that this packet is to be delivered into your own hands. It was given to me by a mysterious man in Bucharest."

She cut the string, and as soon as she recognised the morocco case she gave a cry of delight. The emeralds were inside, together with the note, which she tore open.

Then, as she glanced it through eagerly, her eyes staring wildly, her face blanched. She uttered a low scream, and, reeling, collapsed upon the floor ere I could rush forward to save her.

Whatever that note contained it had evidently dealt her a very severe and bitter blow.

For some minutes I tried in vain to restore her to consciousness, until at last she again opened her eyes. She gazed about her, half-dazed, until, suddenly realising where she was, she said apologetically:—

"I— I— I trust you will forgive me? I have learnt something— something that has greatly upset me. I— I— now know the truth!"

"Your jewels are safe," I said, assisting her to a chair, and then repacking the case in its paper.

"Yes," she said, in a dull, hoarse voice, yet staring at me blankly. "It— it isn't that!— it's— it's what I know now— what I— I never dreamed!"

The light had gone out of her handsome face, and she looked pale and ill.

I longed to question her, but with a feeling of delicacy refrained from doing so.

At last she was sufficiently recovered to rise and put her hat straight and her hair tidy before my mirror. Then, at her request, Davies went below to get her a taxi.

"I have to thank you very sincerely, and apologise," she said in a low voice, ''though I do not know your real name."

"Neither do I know yours,'' I said smiling.

"My name really doesn't matter," she said with a sigh. "I— well, I loved the man who stole my necklace— I never dreamed that he was a thief. And he was actually staying in our house in Scotland at the time— that's all! You do not know my name, and I don't know yours. Let it be so. I can only thank you— and yet— yet," she added, slowly trying to crush down a sob. "I would rather have lost my emeralds than have known this bitter truth!"

And then, taking my hand in farewell, she passed out, for at that moment Davies had returned.

THREE DAYS later, on taking up one of the illustrated papers, the face of my unknown visitor who had loved a thief gazed out upon me. At its side was the portrait of a military officer. Beneath I read the words:—

Lady Joan Uldale, the beautiful daughter of the Earl of Twywell, who was married at St. George's yesterday to Major the Honourable John Boyd-James, of the Guards. A very valuable emerald necklet which was stolen from Twywell Castle, her father's seat in Perthshire, a little over a year ago, was anonymously returned to her a few days ago, apparently as a wedding gift from the thief.

___________________

16: Peter Pirnie's Prison-House

Sir George Douglas, Bt.

World's News (Sydney) 4 March 1916

Sir George Brisbane Scott Douglas, Bt.  (1856–1935) was a Scottish poet and writer, as well as a Baronet.

"I CALL it a nuisance," said Christie Nixon doggedly, and thrust his hands deep down in his riding-breeches pockets.

"Wait until you have seen Magdalen Bruce," retorted his pretty sister, Ailse. She spoke half archly and half coaxingly, but, meeting with no response, she swept on out of the room upon some business of the farm.

Then Christopher carried his grievance further afield. Passing out of the house and over the hill, he found his neighbour farmer, Peter Pirnie, at work with a herd, keeling ewes in a drystone stall or fold.

Peter and Christie were of an age, attended the same marts, and followed the same hounds. Both bachelors, they were on the face of it close friends; but, being Scotsmen, each was sharply critical, keenly emulous, of the other. Despite their close association, there was more rivalry than love between them. Without previous salutation, though they had not met that morning, Christie leant upon the drystone and repeated:—

"I call't a nuisance!" Only this time he used an expletive which I suppress.

Peter was for finishing his work upon a ewe's foot before looking up to ask an explanation. But Christie didn't wait for him, he had not come there just to see foot-rot removed. His grievance was too deep for that. In the very busiest of the lambing season, his sister had invited a girl friend to stay with them— a town girl, from Montrose.

"She'll be wanting every sort of thing that the place doesn't affurd, and I shall have to put on a collar at tea-time every night."

But Peter, stolidly unsympathetic, gave what interest he could spare from sheep to the girl and not to Christie's woes.

"What is she like?" he asked.

"I couldn't tell you, for I haven't seen her. But I've noticed this— that my sister and I very seldom like or dislike the same person."

Then at last Peter looked up, interested. For he argued that if Miss Nixon and her brother didn't dislike the same person, and if Christie liked him none too well (as he had some grounds for suspecting), then it followed that Miss Nixon would probably be favourably disposed to him. And in this he felt some interest.

That very evening Miss Bruce arrived at Howlet's Ha', being met and driven from the station, not by Christie, but by a farm lad. True to his determination that her presence should make no difference in his habits, the young farmer greeted her curtly, sat almost silent through the evening meal, and very soon afterwards went out to join the shepherd in the lambing-fold. He had been rather gratified to observe that, though in other respects not bad-looking, his sister's visitor had red hair, which in his estimation was enough to deprive her of any claim to beauty. Having red hair himself, and having been much chaffed about it, he disliked it, even in others.

During the next few days he contrived to see but little of Miss Bruce, alleging that the labours of the season sent him early afield and kept him there late. When they did meet, he confined his intercourse with her to bare civility, and the only disappointing thing about it was that she seemed to look for nothing more from him. For Magdalen Bruce was certainly not a self-effacing sort of girl. He had expected that she would fasten upon him, courting his society upon every conceivable pretext. But she did nothing of the sort.

Sunday came, and that evening, according to custom, Peter Pirnie came to tea. His behaviour fairly surprised Christie. For though, as a guest, he was bound to take some trouble to make himself agreeable, he went far beyond what was necessary. Whereupon Miss Bruce on her part rose to the occasion, exhibiting a liveliness and conversational talent which had hitherto been unsuspected.

"Well, what do you think of her?' asked Christie of his crony when they were alone.

"Dod, man! I think she's the finest girl I've ever come across."

"Do you indeed?" returned Christie disdainfully; "well, I'm sorry for you!"

But the strange thing was that from that moment his own opinion of the girl began to alter. And what bothered him was this— that she had taken much more trouble to make herself agreeable to Peter than to himself. To any disinterested person, the reason of this was obvious, for Peter had simply expended himself in attentions, compliments, and small-talk. Strange to say, this simple explanation did not occur to Christie.

None the less, from that day forward, his demeanour towards Magdalen underwent a remarkable change. If he didn't actually court her favour, he became at least a model host, But these sudden changes of conduct are not always easily effected. And so, more than once, he found that he had put a spoke in his own wheel. For example, there had been mention one evening of the so-called Elfin Tower, a neighbouring ruin. Miss Bruce had expressed a wish to see it, but Christie had not risen to the occasion. A few nights later, however, he came forward of his own accord, offering to guide her up the glen.

"Thanks much," replied the young lady, "but, knowing how busy you are, I didn't think you would be able to show me the way, and have already found it for myself. The scene is exceedingly romantic."

"Bother the scene!" thought Christie. Then Peter crossed his path.

For instance, one afternoon Miss Bruce had neuralgia. There was no remedy in the house.

Christie thought to be uncommonly gallant. "I'll fetch some," he said. "I have to go in to the town anyway.

But his sister Ailse explained, not without some satisfaction, that Mr. Pirnie, having heard of the attack, was already gone upon that errand.

Christie damned his neighbour's officiousness.

And so, again, when Magdalen went into raptures over the young lambs, and Christie handsomely offered her one to take back with her to Montrose, to browse tethered on the lawn, he found that Peter had forestalled him. Ere this Christie had discovered (what he had never thought of before) that red hair may be of various shades, for example, "carrots," auburn, and Venetian. His own was carrots, but Miss Bruce's was Venetian (so his sister told him), and certainly it was the finest head of hair he had ever seen— a revelation in itself. For, by this time, Christie, if not actually in love, was at least powerfully attracted to his sister's school-friend, the irritating rivalry of his neighbour acting as a spur to him.

He became first uncomfortable, then miserable, then jealous. Miss Bruce was his guest. Still, in courtship, no priority of claim is vested in a host. None the less he felt that Peter had taken to coming too much about the house. He wasn't wanted there. Or at least he wasn't wanted there by Christie, that was certain. Why didn't he attend to his lambing?

Curiously enough, that was the very question which Peter one day addressed to him, for it was noticeable that he was leaving more in the herd's hands than he had done before. Christie replied by suggesting that Peter should mind his own business. The long and short of it was that this gorgeous vision from Montrose had turned the two young men's heads. Nor can I blame them for it. Miss Bruce was an uncommonly handsome young woman, and not only handsome, but clever, fascinating, and infinitely better versed in the ways of the world than either of the young sheep-farmers. Nor was she unwilling to establish herself in life.

At length matters reached a head. It happened thus. The two young men had been comparing stock-notes one evening beside the sheepfold, each endeavouring to appear more long-headed and better versed in his business than the other. At the moment when they were about to separate, Peter hesitated, and, speaking with emotion, said:—

"Man, Christie! is there a chance for me? Ye s'ould ken."

Then, as if by a flash, the situation became clear to Nixon. For, though he had seen that his neighbour admired Magdalen, and was carrying on with her, he had never until now suspected that he wished to make her his wife. The worst of it was that he himself was harbouring the identical wish! In this emergency he acted in a way which could scarce have been foreseen. For, whether actuated by impulse or by some vague sense of fairness, he at once put his rival in possession of facts so far as these concerned himself. He loved Miss Bruce distractedly, and would go all lengths to win her. Peter Pirnie heard him out.

"That's serious!" said he, and certainly he spoke most seriously.

"It is indeed," replied Christopher gloomily.

And then it so happened that, of the strange mixture of intimacy and rivalry which composed the mutual relations of the two, something of better feeling came uppermost. Under similar circumstances, two Spaniards would have drawn their navajas; but, being Scotsmen, the rivals discussed the situation. And their discussion made several points clear. In the first place, though each of them believed himself to have received tokens of the lady's favour, neither one nor the other could claim to have established an understanding with her. In the second place, neither had any inclination to make way for the other. Curious as it may seem, their talk in these deliberations was frank and almost friendly. To have listened to them you might almost have imagined that they were concocting something against a common enemy. And this is what they decided on. They would draw "cuts" for the right of proposing first to Miss Magdalen.

No sooner said than done. Christie gathered two bents from the hillside, and, leaving the ends protruding from his closed fist, presented them to Peter. Peter drew the longer cut.

"Hooroosh!" he cried, and in unwonted demonstrativeness flung his bonnet into the air.

But Nixon admonished him.

"You're no out o' the wood yet, Pate, my man! And, mind, you have three days from now to do the job, and if you haven't done it by then, your claim is void. Is that agreed?"

"Agreed!"

And the rivals shook hands on it and parted.

Peter took the next forenoon to prepare for the fateful interview. Then he shaved, attired himself in his new suit, and selected his most tasteful necktie. A lithe and keen young chap enough he looked, as he took the hill, heading for Howlet Ha' on his way to woo and, as he hoped, to win.

The month was April: but a Scotch April, remember, in whose lap winter crouches. Spring, so far, was an influence felt, rather than a pageant seen. Nor had her beaten enemy quite given up the struggle for mastery. As Peter strode along, breasting the slope, as only hill-men can, a travelling cloud was blotting out the sky, and soon the first heavy drops of a drenching shower disturbed his reverie. Now, he carried no burberry, no umbrella, and, though careless of weather as regards himself, at least on the present occasion he cared very greatly for his clothes. For what chance would a bedraggled suitor stand with fashionable Miss Bruce? He glanced round him for a shelter. Trees there were none upon the open hillside: but in a link, or hollow, stood a sheet-iron chest, which had been placed there to hold winter feeding for the sheep. It was quite big enough to contain a man, so Peter raced for it through the increasing storm, threw up the lid, popped in, and lowered the lid again, resting the hasp upon a metal loop intended to receive a padlock. Except for dust and a few locust beans, the chest was empty. In the crouching attitude which its limits enforced Peter wiped his clothes dry with his pocket-handkerchief, and chuckled over his own ingenuity. He was quite comfortable. The storm would not last long. Once it was over, he would pursue his way— to lay his heart and fortune at the feet of the fair Miss Bruce.

Meantime the wind increased in violence, rattling the iron sides of the chest in imitation of stage thunder. And, all at once, the balanced hasp slipped forward over its support, and the chest lid closed to. No human power could open it again from the inside. This Peter instantly recognised. Yet he remained unflustered. He had a pocket-knife with him, but could scarcely hope to make much impression on the sheet-iron with that. But, though the hillside was unfrequented, he knew that a shepherd would pass that way at eve and morn, whose attention he could attract by knocking on the resonant walls of his prison-house, and so obtain release. And there still remained before him two clear days in which to carry out his purpose with regard to Miss Bruce, so that on that ground he need fear nothing. Accordingly, with occasional interludes of hammering for the benefit of any chance passer-by, he composed himself philosophically to await the hour of the herd's evening rounds.

Now it happened that the chest was the property of Christie, and stood on Christie's ground, though not far from the march. Also that Christie had undertaken to "look" the sheep himself that night and on the following days. And so that night, as he passed by, within fifty yards of Peter's prison-house, he couldn't help remarking to himself on the infernal "blattering" which the wind was making with the kist on the exposed hillside.

Then he pursued his way and his love-dream. Next morning, when he came in from his rounds, his sister Ailse was at the window.

"Christie, Christie!" she cried in an excited voice, "have ye seen aught of Peter Pirnie? His servant lassie has just been here to spier for him. It seems that he went out yesterday, and has not returned since. Oh, I hope no mishanter has befa'en him!"

Christie chuckled disdainfully.

"And what mishanter should befa' him here-away? He has gone on the spree, that's all, my girl; and it isn't the first time either."

But, though overtly he acknowledged no more, Christie thought within himself that there might easily, be a reason for this conduct on the part of his rival. To wit, he might have been refused by Miss B., and might be seeking consolation in the bottle. So far, so good, he ruminated. Yet still, for another day or two, his pledged word barred the way against trying his own luck. Meantime he looked forward cheerfully to to-morrow night.

But ere that time arrived the plot thickened. Needless to say that there was still no word of Peter at his own home. But when Nixon again went on his rounds that evening the blattering at the iron chest again caught his attention. And what made this the more remarkable was that the wind had dropped.

"There's something no nat'ral here," said he to himself, and drew near to the box to look into it. His thoughts were busy as he moved, and the result of his reflections was that, having reached the chest, he hesitated and looked round him before proceeding to do more. Except for sheep, the wide hillscape about him was as empty as could be. Then he lowered his eyes, and, lo! at his feet lay the clue that he desired. It was a cigarette end. He raised it and recognised the brand beloved by Peter Pirnie. Meantime the hammering on the sheet iron continued with a will— nay, almost desperately. But Christie, after a moment's hesitation, turned on his heel and went away, not, I admit, with an entirely easy conscience.

At supper time the next evening the compact of Peter and Christie expired. Some half-hour later, as luck would have it, Miss Bruce went out into the garden unaccompanied. Thither Christie presently followed her, stated his case like a man, and was accepted.

But though up to this point Christie's demeanour as a lover had been unimpeachable, there was something rather ungallant in the haste with which he now withdrew from the beloved one's presence. Nor was it without misgiving that he made his way over the hill. Upon the darkening slope before him stood the box, and it was silent as a grave. He regarded it doubtfully.

In order to reassure himself, he gave the sounding metal a kick, which, to his great relief, was answered from within.

Next he released the catch and raised the lid, exclaiming, with well-feigned surprise, "Man, Patie! what can ye be doing there— in all your best clothes, too?"

Cramped with confinement in one attitude, it was not without some difficulty that Pirnie rose to his feet. He seemed at first a little dazed, but otherwise none the worse for his imprisonment.

"I'm on my way to ask Miss Bruce to marry me," replied he to Christie's question, and began forthwith to knock the dust from his garments.

"Troth, man, but you're too late! The time for that was up nearly two hours agone. More by token, Miss Bruce has consented to be mine."

Peter did not dispute the first assertion, for his watch had not run down, and so he had been able to measure the time of his incarceration. He just made the best of things; and said, offering his hand:—

"Well, lad, here's luck to you, for I doubt you've fairly cut me out."

Christie grasped the proffered hand, and inquired however Peter had got into the box.

But he did not volunteer any information as to the part he himself had played in the series of events.

He and Miss Bruce were married after harvest, and spent their honeymoon in a tour of the Scottish hydropathics. But theirs was not the only wedding in the family about that time. Before he had been dazzled by the brilliant visitor from Montrose, Peter had often looked approvingly on Ailse, who on her part asked for nothing better than to be mistress of his heart and farm. So when the wound occasioned by Magdalen has healed, he returned to his first love, who frankly forgave and welcomed him. So henceforth the two households lived on side by side, and for neighbours were good friends, though not uncritical of each other.

The chest on the hill received the name of Peter Pirnie's Prison-house.

____________________

17: The Dragon Casket

Headon Hill

1857-1924

World's News (Sydney) 19 June 1920

THE cashier of Floyd's Bank at Steeplecross glanced with respectful inquiry at the tall old man at the other side of the counter. Never before had he known this valued customer of the bank to omit a cheery response to his own salutation. But to-day Farmer Gascoyne seemed too preoccupied to return his perfunctory "Good morning." The cashier thought that he had aged since his market-day visit three days ago. He made no show of paying in or wanting to cash a cheque, but just stood at the counter as though he had forgotten the business that had brought him there.

The cashier, an observant young man, noticed that the prosperous agriculturist carried a brown paper parcel under his arm.

"Ah, good morning, Mr. Warren," the old man found his tongue at last. "I didn't mean to be rude, but I am afraid I was half asleep. Getting up in years, you see. Is Mr. Duncan unengaged?"

Raising the counter-flap, the cashier came out and conducted the customer to the manager's private room, off the general office. Here John Gascoyne was received with a blend of personal friendship and professional deference by the grey-haired gentleman who rose to greet him. Mr. Duncan had a bank-manager's respect for a customer whose current account and deposits ran into big figures, but he cherished a warmer feeling for the hospitable sportsman who had given him many a good day's shooting.

"You are not looking well," he said as the old man sank wearily into the client's chair.

Farmer Gascoyne, as he was called throughout the country-side, placed his parcel on the pedestal table which separated them and began to untie the knots in the string.

"I am not well," he replied, with a catch in his breath. "I am fresh from seeing Doctor Haycraft. He doesn't give me more than six months. I suppose. I can't complain. Eighty next month."

The last knot came untied, and Mr. Gascoyne unwrapped the article which he had carried so carefully to the bank. It was revealed as a silver casket, beautifully chased with fantastic dragons by some skilled craftsman long since dust and ashes. Mr. Duncan, as a frequent visitor at the farmhouse, which was almost a mansion, had often seen it before in a place of honour, on a priceless mahogany sideboard.

"Why, that's the Dragon Casket!" exclaimed the bank manager. "Do you want us to take care of it for you?" he added, eyeing his visitor with unaffected curiosity. "Burglars about?"

The question was only thrown out as bait for further information. Mr. Duncan knew very well that the most ferocious burglar would have no terrors for the old man facing him.

"So" said Gascoyne. "There's worse things than burglars. I shouldn't fear such trash so long as I can hold a gun. All the same, I want you to put that casket in your strongroom, Duncan, and make out the receipt to my granddaughter, Ida Gascoyne, so that she alone can claim it when I'm gone. Just jot down my instructions, will you?"

The manager drew paper towards him, and made a note of his client's wishes. They were of the simplest nature. On Mr. Gascoyne's death the bank was to notify Miss Gascoyne that if held a package which had been deposited with them in her name for safe keeping, and that if she would call at the bank a receipt enabling her to claim it would be handed to her.

"You wish us to retain the receipt as well as the casket it refers to?" Mr. Duncan raised his eyebrows. "That is rather unusual. Why not give the young lady the receipt and ask her not to use it till after your death?"

Mr. Gascoyne stuck out his chin aggressively.

"You don't want me to shift my account over the road at this stage of the proceedings," he said. "Very well, then. Put the thing through, like a good fellow, and humour my little whim. Your branch of Floyd's won't suffer in the long run."

After this the transaction was quickly completed. Mr. Duncan wrote out a receipt to Miss Ida Gascoyne for a silver casket entrusted to the bank for safe custody, and placed the document in an envelope, together with a silver key which the farmer extracted from his vest pocket. At the latter's suggestion, the envelope was sealed with a great splodge of red wax.

All right," said the manager. "I will see that your instructions are carried out, provided I don't predecease you. It is very irregular, the bank holding the receipt. What's to hinder me or my successor forging your granddaughter's signature and appropriating the casket? I've often coveted it while enjoying your hospitality."

Farmer Gascoyne rose heavily and buttoned his overcoat

"I'd rather trust you, Duncan, or any rogue that may follow you, than a bigger rogue I'm up against," he replied.

The manager accompanied him to the outer door of the bank, helped him climb into his dogcart, and looked after him with affectionate solicitude as he drove away. Not till the cart had rounded a corner in the sleepy High Street did Mr. Duncan return to his private room.

"Dear old chap." he murmured. "On his last legs, I'm afraid. I wonder who the rogue is. There are such a lot of them about."

Then he saw to the bestowal of the casket and the envelope in the strong-room, and in the pressure of other business relegated the touching little incident to the back of his mind. Provincial bank mangers have not much time for exploiting their more human side.

In the meanwhile Farmer Gascoyne drove his high-stepping blood mare at a brisk pace out of Steeplecross to the stone-built house which had been the home of his forefathers for centuries. Three miles out he turned in at the white gates and handed the reins to the stable-boy who ran out of the yard to meet him.

"Mr. Stephen is in the house, sir," the lad informed his master.

The farmer nodded, and, entering the front door, passed into the dining-room, where a pale, middle-aged man with sandy eyebrows was standing with his back to the fire.

"How are you, grandfather?" he said heartily, advancing with outstretched hand. "I cycled out to see how you are. Thought you were looking peaky when you were in town on market-day."

"Very good of you, Steve," the old man replied. "I'm all right for an old 'un, but I can't expect to last long at my age. Doctor Haycraft does not give me more than twenty years."

"Twenty years!" came the astonished exclamation. "Well, well, grandfather, I'm sure I hope so." The dismay was quickly toned down into affectionate regard. "You don't look a day over sixty, anyhow."

Mr. Stephen Jarvis was Farmer Gascoyne's grandson, the only son of his only daughter, long since dead, who five and forty years ago had married the Steeplecross solicitor. On the death of his father Stephen had taken over the lawyer business, but he had never been a success. People didn't like his manners or his methods. The clients who had liked and trusted Stephen's father had mostly gone over to the rival practitioner, excusing their defection by saying that it wouldn't hurt Steve Jervis. There was no need for him to practise law. He would inherit, at any rate, half, probably a good deal more than half, of Farmer Gascoyne's money and property. Ida Gascoyne might get some of the money, but the old man loved his broad acres too well to leave any of them to a girl who wouldn't know how to farm them.

So wagged tongues in Steeplecross, and there was shrewd commonsense at the back of the wagging.

For Ida Gascoyne was most certainly a girl, and with equal truth it could be said that she was not capable of running a farm of two thousand acres. She was Farmer Gascoyne's granddaughter, sole child of his only son, much younger than his sister, Steve's mother; he had been killed while serving with the Yeomanry in the Boer War. Ida kept house for her grandfather, and kept it well. The lore of dairy and orchard she had at her fingers' ends, but to saddle her with the burden of the pastures and the plough land would have broken down pretty shoulders not meant for such work.

On the whole, Mr. Stephen Jarvis was fairly satisfied with his prospects, and for very good reason. He was his grandfather's legal adviser, and as such was well acquainted with the provisions of the will which Mr. Gascoyne had executed five years before. Mr. Jarvis had not drawn the will himself, since he was the principal beneficiary under it. The work had been done by a solicitor in a neighbouring town, but Mr. Gascoyne had been quite frank as to the purport of the will. It tallied with the public gossip. The bulk of his property had been left to Steve, with only a modest pittance to Ida.

There was, however, a fly in the amber. At the time of the execution of the will Ida had been a pretty child, mostly away at boarding-school. Since then she had grown to womanhood, and was the apple of her grandfather's eye. tending the old man with a loving care which he plainly prized beyond all his possessions. So far, Stephen Jarvis was sure that the will he wotted of had not been nullified by a later one, but he lived in a state of chronic dread lest that last testament should be altered in Ida's favour. Being what he was, he took every opportunity of undermining the girl in their mutual grandsire's estimation.

If only the old fool would die before he did something silly! Steve had had thoughts of providing against that contingency by marrying his fair young cousin, but he doubted if he stood a dog's chance of that. She had never attempted to disguise her antipathy to him, and he had, moreover, plighted his troth to a barmaid in Steeplecross, who would most assuredly mulct him in damages for breach of promise if he threw her over. Also, and again being what he was, the voluptuous charms of the barmaid appealed to his senses more than did the slender grace of Ida Gascoyne.

The farmer produced a decanter of his famous sherry, and chatted a while on the weather and the crops. Then Steve said he mast he going, and, like a scorpion, the sting was in the tail of him.

"I saw Ida with young Fred Heath again this morning," he remarked, as he made for the door. "Nothing in it, I dare say, but it's a pity she goes about with a wastrel like that. Demobbed six months ago, and not got a job yet. Living on his mother, they tell me."

The old man's face grew black as thunder. "I'll talk to her," he growled. "I'll talk to her, Steve. Glad you mentioned it. Leave her to me."

And Mr. Stephen Jarvis departed, smiling darkly to himself. He had put yet another spoke in his cousin's wheel.

He had not been gone many minutes when there swept in upon Farmer Gascoyne a radiant vision of girlhood, throbbing with health and high spirits. At sight of the old man's tired face, Ida checked her exuberance and kissed him tenderly.

"You are not well, granddad," she said, glancing at the sherry glasses on the table. "I met Steve on the road. I hope he hasn't been worrying you."

The farmer made a grimace. "He did his best to," was the reply. "Pitched me a tale about having seen you with young Heath."

"The sneak!" exclaimed Miss Ida. "But it couldn't be that that makes yon look so ill, granddad. You like my Fred, don't you, dear?"

"I like him all right, lassie, but there are times when you have to dissemble," Mr. Gascoyne replied. "I am going to forbid Master Fred the house next time he comes courting you here. I can't have Steve upset yet awhile. You and me have no cause to quarrel about Fred."

The girl scanned the old man anxiously, and. satisfied, dismissed the subject, suggesting that he should go upstairs and lie down. He allowed her to lead him front the room, but before they reached the door she stopped and pointed the sideboard.

"Why, whatever has become of the Dragon Casket?" she asked.

Farmer Gascoyne gazed a little guiltily at the vacant apace on the shining mahogany. He was like a child caught in a minor fault.

"Oh, that!" he quavered. "What sharp eyes you've got, my lass. I meant to tell you. I took it into the bank at Steeplecross this morning. I set a lot of store on the casket as an heirloom. It will be safer there."

When Ida had unlaced her grandfather's boots and made him comfortable on his bed, she returned to the dining-room and examined the used wine-glasses, applying her dainty nostrils to each in turn, and subjecting them to a prolonged scrutiny. In one she thought she detected the faintest trace of a sediment. That glass she took up to her own room and locked it up in a drawer, after soiling and substituting another glass for the servant to find on the dining-room table.

Later in the day the old man recovered, and for many days attended to the affairs of the farm with his usual vigour. Then, six weeks after his call at the bank to deposit the casket, he suddenly sickened and died. Doctor Haycraft, who had attended him for many years, had no hesitation in certifying the death as due to senile decay, accelerated by heart failure.

Stephen Jarvis lost no time in asserting his prospective rights as heir-at-law. The very next day he turned up at the house, took the arrangements for the funeral into his own hands, and gave Ida to understand that he should come into residence as soon as the will was proved, which was as good as giving her notice to clear out herself. He went to the length of patronising the girl by informing her that, though he inherited the bulk of the property, she had not been left destitute.

"You will have enough to live on, in a small way," was his comforting assurance.

The conversation was held in the dining room, and as he was going out Mr. Jarvis alluded to the absence of the Dragon Casket, adding that he had noticed it before, but had abstained from questioning his grandfather about it so long as it was no business of his. Now it was different. Ida replied coldly by repeating what the old man had told her that the casket had been deposited at the bank for safety.

"Old idiot," spluttered Stephen. "I wonder if he had it added to the inventory of the other plate stored at the bank. I shall have to look into the matter, as all the stuff will have to be valued for probate."

He went off, greatly to Ida's relief, and shortly afterwards another visitor called. Ida was in the tall, young man's arms the moment the maid closed the door. When he released her she began to cry a little.

"Oh, Fred, that beast has been here," she sobbed. "He seems to know all about the will. He as good as jeered at me for not being quite a pauper."

"Never mind, darling," her lover soothed her. "I'm sure to get a sound job directly. Then we can snap our fingers at Steve Jarvis, and in the meanwhile we shall be able to see as much of each other as we choose. What possessed the dear old man to saddle us with those restrictions I can't imagine."

They talked themselves into a calmer mood, and then there was a tap at the door, and the maid came in, treading softly, as befitted a house of mourning.

"A letter for you, miss, from the bank," she said. "It came by hand, and there is only a verbal answer wanted."

Ida tore open the envelope and read the contents. "Tell the messenger that I will be there," she said.

"It is from Mr. Duncan, the manager at Floyd's," she explained to her lover. "He wants me to call at the bank to-morrow morning on business of importance. What can it be, I wonder? I hate business. Will you come too, and help me, Fred, if there is any knotty point to be solved?"

"I will be on hand, girlie," laughed the young man. "We will carry on together, always supposing they let me in. I know old Duncan very well, and he's one of the best, but he'll probably turn me out as having no pull in your affairs."

But Mr. Duncan raised no objection when Fred was ushered into the private room next day with his sweetheart. The manager spoke a few words of kindly condolence, and went straight to the matter in hand by producing a sealed envelope and giving it to Ida. At his suggestion she opened it, extracting a key and the receipt for the casket. He explained that the heirloom had been deposited in her name by Mr. Gascoyne, and that if she would sign the receipt, releasing the bank from its responsibility, the casket would be handed over to her.

"But won't my cousin object?" faltered Ida. "He tells me that he has inherited most of the property under a will."

"This transaction has nothing to do with the late Mr. Gascoyne's estate," replied the manager. "Mr. Jarvis can have no possible cause for complaint. For some reason best known to himself, your grandfather took this method of making you a present of the casket during his lifetime."

A clerk was summoned, and the casket which Ida had so often dusted, and latterly had missed from its accustomed place, was set on the manager's table.

"I should open it," remarked Mr. Duncan, drily. "I know nothing, but I rather suspect a surprise."

Ida inserted the key and unlocked the casket. It contained a folded foolscap document and a sealed envelope addressed to Miss Ida Gascoyne. The girl's fingers fluttered undecidedly from one to the other of the two enclosures, but into the bank manager's shrewd eyes a sudden light had leapt.

'Will you allow me?'' he said, gently taking the folded paper from her. "This may be important."

He glanced through it, his lips shaping unspoken words.

"I should rather think it is important," he exclaimed, smiling all over his face. "This is your grandfather's will, Miss Gascoyne, t most certainly of later date than the one Mr. Jarvis knows of, and it constitutes you sole heiress to money, and lands, and everything. The dear old boy was game to the last. I wonder what he says in his letter."

Ida tore the envelope, but, before she could extract the letter, the door of the private room was flung open, and Mr Stephen Jarvis entered. His truculent gaze settled on the S casket, roving thence in turn to the three occupants of the room.

"I suspected something of this sort when I heard that you two were closeted with the J manager," he shouted. "A conspiracy to rob me of the Dragon Casket, eh? I shall hold you responsible for any hanky-panky that you have lent yourself to, Duncan."

Mr. Duncan laughed his professional laugh.

"I shall be pleased to meet all my responsibilities," he said. "The casket is the legal property of Miss Gascoyne, and it contains a will, dated only two months ago, and duly signed and witnessed, leaving everything the late Mr. Gascoyne possessed to his granddaughter, Ida. Might I suggest, Miss Gascoyne, that you read this letter."

This is what the girl read out, in a trembling voice, wincing from a hate that would have killed if Steve Jarvis had had the power.

My dear Ida,

I take this means of putting you in possession of my last will, because I could not trust your cousin with the knowledge that I had made a second one. If he had been aware of its existence he would have been capable of substituting a still later will of his own manufacture. I flatter myself that I have outwitted him, and I hope that you will live long to enjoy what I have left you. If it is as the wife of that nice boy, Fred Heath, so much the better. I owe the young man an apology for my seeming rudeness, but it was necessary to keep the blinkers on Steve to the end, which I have sometimes suspected him of trying to hasten.

Your affectionate grandfather

John Gascoyne

Through the recital, Jarvis had looked so vicious that Fred edged nearer to him, and Mr. Duncan's hand stole to the drawer in which he kept a little automatic protector against "hold-ups."

But there was no need for alarm. At the final sentence in the letter the dethroned heir went white, glancing furtively at the door. Ida stepped boldly up to him and whispered in his ear:

"I have a wine-glass locked away at home. If you make no trouble I shall not produce it, for that attempt failed, and you were not at the farm within a week of granddad's death."

Without a word, and in person, Mr. Stephen Jarvis turned and followed the direction of that furtive glance at the door.

__________________

18: The Gunman from the Underworld

Headon Hill

World's News (Sydney) 21 Oct 1916

THE business of my firm takes me at brief intervals to big cities in the United States. It was on my return from one of these trips that I recently boarded the Gloxinia, of the Flower Line, at New York.

The great steamer hauled out of her berth in the North River at two o'clock in the afternoon, so that by the time the bugle sounded for dinner I had begun to form general impressions as to the prospects of the voyage. Apart from meteorological conditions, which cannot be controlled, these chiefly depended on the personnel of my fellow voyagers, and my selfish forecast was rendered easier because it was the season when the tide of American tourists sets homewards.

Though we were a fairly populous community, the ship was by no means full. Even in the first hours, before we passed Sandy Hook, it was possible to study types and catch the prevailing note. With the weather set fair and no over-crowding, there was no reason why the passage should not be a pleasant one. It would be a cheerful ship, and to a business man who has to put in spells of office drudgery on shore, a cheerful ship is a desideratum when at sea.

My optimistic mood, however, was quickly shattered. By the time we assembled in the first saloon for dinner I had begun to notice that some insidious influence was at work. The passengers were furtively scanning each other's faces; such as were travelling in company conversed among themselves in whispers; the solitary ones scarcely answered when accosted by a stranger, showing an aloofness quite foreign to the good-fellowship that usually prevails on an Atlantic liner. Everybody seemed to be ill at ease, not to say thoroughly frightened.

In the alley after dinner I met Sinnett, the purser, with whom I had crossed several times.

"What's wrong with 'em?" I buttonholed the popular officer. "The whole crowd seems as jumpy as a bear with a sore head."

"I'm going to have a mooch round to try and find out," was the reply. "Captain Gregory noticed the rift in the lute and he wants to know. Look in at my shop in half an hour, Mr. Halliday, and you shall hear the result if there is one."

He hurried off, and I went up to the hurricane deck to smoke a cigar while he fulfilled his mission.

The purser on a great liner is the chief of the ship's secret police, and I had no doubt that Sinnett, with his urbane diplomacy, would get to the bottom of the mystery. I pictured him moving from group to group in the lounge, in the music-room, and in the smoking divan, ferreting out the cause of the sudden gloom that had swooped upon us. I even caught a glimpse of him once, when he flitted up the stairs to my lofty perch, and down again after a few words with a Steel Trust magnate, who had also chosen the promenade deck for his post-prandial smoke.

When I had given him law enough I presented myself at his bureau on the main deck. He was waiting for me and led the way through the official sanctum to his own private cabin behind.

"I have spotted the scare-demon," he announced, as he dumped a bottle of whisky and glasses on the table. "It isn't the fear of God this time, but the fear of man. You'll never guess."

"I'll give it up," I replied, taking the glass be handed me.

"We've got Bert the Tough on board."

Sinnett eyed me shrewdly to see if I took his meaning, and he must have seen at once that his bomb had not missed fire. The name of Bert the Tough had been in everyone's mouth in New York for the past week. The very air stank of it. It arose in flaming headlines and smote you in the eye whenever you opened a paper. It was the nom de guerre of Albert Cronin, one of the "gunmen" wanted by the authorities in connection with the police scandals. Most of these ruffians had been arrested by the private detectives employed by the District Attorney, but Cronin had given them the slip, and up to the hour of our sailing was reported to be still at large.

"That is an ugly proposition," I remarked. "He is hardly likely to make trouble, though. His game will be to lie low and quit the ship without anyone being the wiser. How did the news get about? One of the passengers recognised him, I suppose?"

"No, it's not quite so simple as that," the purser replied. "He hasn't been recognised. A woman's tongue started the mischief, and may cost at least one good man his life. Did you observe that grande dame at the captain's table— piles of snow-white hair, brickdust complexion, and long-handled eye-glasses?" I intimated that I had not only noticed the lady, but that I had been greatly struck by her distinguished appearance.

"Well," Sinnett continued, "that is Mrs. Appleton Dwight, of Louisiana, planter's wife and real old-time Southern aristocrat. She is responsible for the rumour that Bert the Tough is on board. A curious conjunction of apparently divergent stars, but fairly intelligible when you hear how it came about."

And he went on to explain that Mrs. Appleton Dwight, shortly after the ship sailed, had run across one Peter Schuster, who had been of service to her the previous year in recovering some valuable jewels of which she had been robbed. Schuster was a trusted sleuth in the employment of Mr. Byrne, the great New York private detective. Mrs. Dwight had pumped him as to his reasons for going to Europe, and he had told her in strict confidence that he had been sent on board at the last moment in the belief that Bert the Tough, disguised and under an alias, had booked his passage by the Gloxinia. This sensational plum had been too luscious for Mrs. Appleton Dwight to chew in solitude, and within half an hour she had shared it with two other lady passengers. By dinner time it had been all over the ship that the desperado was somewhere on board.

"I don't think much of that sleuth," was my comment on the singular story.

"I'm not so sure," rejoined Sinnett. "The fellow is raving mad at having been given away. When I had traced the thing to the fountain-head by judicious inquiry I interviewed him, and he struck me as being as cute as  they make 'em, barring this slip of trusting an old client with his secret. It is in his cuteness that the danger lies. If the Tough finds out that he is a 'tec and anticipates arrest there'll be shooting, sure as eggs, and the Tough's gun has got eight notches on it already, they say."

I was about to suggest that the assassin would hardly be likely to pursue such desperate tactics on a steamer at sea, whence there could be no possible escape, when an electric bell sounded in the cabin. Sinnett went into the office, and a moment later came back with a man who had covered his dress clothes with a long ulster. He wore a rather fierce moustache and a chin-tuft of the French type, both turning grey. "This is Mr. Schuster, of Byrne's Detective Agency," Sinnett introduced him. "I have told him that you are a discreet old friend, Mr. Halliday, and as you are interested in the rumours that are flying about he does not object to your hearing his business."

"The more friends I make on this ship the better I shall feel, after that old woman's gassing," said the new arrival, sizing me up with a pair of coldly calculating eyes. "I only dropped in to assure you, Mr. Purser. that I ain't going to raise Cain on board, though I reckon I've spotted my man."

"You have?" Sinnett and I exclaimed in chorus.

"Well, I'd take short odds about it. He is booked as Waldron Evans, and occupies stateroom 118."

"When do you propose to effect his capture?" demanded Sinnett.

"As soon as he lands at Fishguard and I can command the assistance of the British police," Schuster replied, adding with a wry smile: "I ain't accounted much of a coward, but I shouldn't figure on tackling Bert the Tough single-handed. I may have to, if he goes for me on the ship, as he likely may after that old fool's chatter. The best to hope for is that he won't suspect that I've marked him. Good-night, gentlemen. No harm in the captain knowing, but no one else, please, if I'm to keep a whole skin."

Our visitor retired, and Sinnett stared at me in mute inquiry till the outer door clicked, when he got up and glanced into the office "The peace of the ship seems to depend," he said as he rejoined me, "on the suspect not discovering that he is suspect. It is a good thing that Mr. Schuster is taking no risks. What do you make of him, now you've seen him?"

"I have seen him before," I answered. "Only last night in New York. I was supping at the Casino on Broadway. Mr. Peter Schuster supped three tables off. I shouldn't have noticed him if he hadn't been entertaining a golden-haired divinity who rather filled the eye."

"He was combining business with pleasure probably," rejoined Sinnett. "Perhaps the missing gunman was at the Casino too. But you have not answered my question. How does Schuster strike you as a detective?"

"I prefer to think of him as a squire of dames," was my guarded reply. "Regarding this suspect, as you call him— have you made acquaintance, with Mr. Waldron Evans, of stateroom 118?"

"Not me," said Sinnett. "Even a purser can't keep track of everyone on the passenger list. But I shall take good care to make an unobtrusive study of Mr. Evans henceforth, and I trust that your study of the gentleman will be equally unobtrusive, Mr. Halliday."

On this we parted for the night, and the next morning our separate studies of the suspect were facilitated by that gentleman himself. I had anticipated having to pick him out from the three hundred first-class passengers by questioning stewards and pursuing more or less humiliating private inquiries. But long before noon, when the Gloxinia was steaming steadily in fair weather, Mr. Waldron Evans did not need any looking for. The smart, well-groomed young man had established himself as a popular favourite. He was the life and soul of the promenade deck, now chatting with the men, now flirting with the girls, and even extending his civilities to the older and least attractive females.

Hidden behind a magazine, I watched him from my place in the line of the steamer chairs, and I soon came to the conclusion that it he was playing a part he was doing it uncommonly well. His manners were irreproachable, and his appearance was prepossessing. It was hard to believe that this clear-eyed, clean-shaven young fellow, bubbling over with the joy of his life, could be a hireling murderer— one of the debauched degenerates from the underworld, who had placed their weapons at the disposal of a corrupt police. I felt that the detective must have had some very strong grounds before he centred his suspicions on this gay butterfly.

The chair next mine had been vacant when I sat down, and I was startled to hear myself addressed in a deep-throated female voice which murmured some commonplace about the beauty of the day and the calmness of the sea. Turning to make an appropriate answer. I saw that my sociable neighbour was the lady of the snow-white hair and the regal mien, whose garrulous gratitude had set the ship buzzing with sinister rumour. A spirit of curiosity, or it may be of mischief, prompted me to draw Mrs. Appleton Dwight's attention to Schuster's suspect, who was the centre of a group not far off.

"Lively boy that," I hazarded. "Making a lot of new friends."

"Isn't he!'' was the gushing reply. ''I was talking to him just now. He is most delightful. So fresh and breezy."

I smiled grimly to myself. Schuster had not repeated his initial blunder by confiding his materialised suspicion to his former client. After a decorous interval I rose, and with a bow moved away, my brain busy with a new idea born of my quite conventional chat with Mrs. Appleton Dwight. But I pigeon-holed it for the present, for I had seen nothing of Sinnett that morning, and I wanted to compare notes. I found him at work in his office with his clerk, and he at once took me up into his private cabin.

"Well, what price Waldron Evans as a gunman?" he began. "That Schuster must be a first-class fool."

"There are degrees in fools, but I shouldn't rate him as high as that," was my ambiguous reply. "You and I seem to have changed places to some extent about the cuteness of Mr. Schuster. Last night you thought him as cute as they make 'em, while I have rather modified the contrary opinion I held."

Sinnett gaped at me. "Surely you don't think he's hit the right scent?" he blustered. "For the matter of that I can prove he hasn't. I have looked up the list, and Waldron Evans booked his passage a fortnight ago— long before the hue and cry after these gunmen started."

"My dear chap," I soothed him, "I didn't need that to convince me that that festive youngster is not the pea under the thimble. I have another reason, of which more anon. In the meanwhile are there any fresh developments?"

"An important one," said the mollified purser. "A Marconigram from New York was received half an hour ago, giving definite information that Bert the Tough is on board. There isn't the shadow of a doubt, according to the message."

"Who sent it?" I asked.

"Byrne himself, the head of the Detective Agency."

"To whom," I persisted, "was the message addressed?"

"To the skipper, Captain Gregory."

"Somewhat of a reflection on Schuster eh?" Sinnett regarded me with a puzzled frown, as though trying to follow the thread of my logic.  "I can't see what you're driving at," he complained. "A moment ago you traversed my opinion that Schuster was a first-class fool, and now your questions suggest that he is not deemed of sufficient importance by his employers to receive direct communications. I don't see it in that light. Byrne's Agency, knowing that the captain is omnipotent on board, and that their man couldn't move without his sanction and assistance, would conceivably, as a matter of courtesy, address their message to him. They would be sure that Captain Gregory would pass on the information to Schuster, as he did without a moment's delay. And now for this reason why you are convinced that Waldron Evans is not the man Schuster is looking for?"

"I will disclose it to you as soon as we sight the English coast," I replied and not another word could Sinnett extract from me on the subject of the absconding gunman, either then or during the next five days of the voyage.

He reverted to it several times, but I refused to be drawn, and as a result our relations became rather strained— so far as that was possible between two men who had a warm regard for each other.

In the meanwhile as the days passed and nothing happened, the bogey of the lurking desperado receded into the distance. The grisly menace of a shooting fracas, spoken of with bated breath on the first day out, was the subject of frivolous jest by the third.

By the fifth it was entirely forgotten. The few people who had come in closer contact with it kept their own counsel. That brass-bound potentate, Captain Gregory, snubbed anyone who alluded to it. Mrs. Appleton Dwight, the originator of the trouble, declined to discuss the topic which she had started, and, on one or two occasions when pressed, was bluntly rude. Mr. Peter Schuster showed his resentment by openly avoiding her. His conduct was in strict accordance with the policy he had laid down. He played a waiting game, keeping himself to himself, and his surly aloofness gained him some sympathy as a great detective who had been given away by a woman's tongue.

As for Waldron Evans, the gay suspect, the thing never seemed to touch him at all. On the third day out he focused his gallantries on Miss Maisie Derringer, a congenial spirit, who was also an opulent heiress from Kansas City. No one but an arch-dissembler could have masked a guilty conscience behind the rapt adoration with which the young man followed his charmer about, and which culminated on the fifth day in an open engagement.

With no head winds or seas to encounter, we made a good passage. On the evening, of the sixth day I was preparing to dress for dinner when Sinnett came to my stateroom door and said that we were passing the Tuskar Light.

"We shall be at Fishguard in a couple of hours," he added. "You promised to divulge that mysterious reason of yours when we sighted the English coast. As it is after dark we shan't sight it at all till we reach port, so I thought you might take the Tuskar as an equivalent."

"And so I will," I replied. "I was cock-sure that that boy wasn't the gunman, because I have spotted the genuine one.''

"By George!" cried Sinnett. "That fathead 'tec ought to be posted at once. Otherwise he will let the tough go. and crown his blunders by arresting Evans directly he steps ashore."

"Schuster must certainly be told," I replied. "But I am going to copy the Byrne Detective Agency by telling Captain Gregory first. Come along."

We found the captain in the chart-room, and I had never had before two such interested listeners as the commander and the purser of the Gloxinia, as I briefly unfolded my tale. Then things began to happen. Captain Gregory pushed three bells, and as many men, each the pink of capability in his own line, appeared as by magic. Two were the second and fourth officers, while the third was a hairy and gigantic sailorman who filled the post, mostly a sinecure on Atlantic liners, of master-at-arms.

"Got your handcuffs, Bolt?" snapped the Skipper at this individual.

"Yes, sir." The big seaman produced the formidable gyves. "I've kep 'em oiled, too, this v'yge, hearing things."

The captain nodded approval, and uttered a few curt commands. "Now, gentlemen," he concluded, "we will interview Mr. Peter Schuster. We shall probably find him in his stateroom."

We did. And as the six of us swarmed into the little cabin, the electric light shone upon a curious scene. The occupant was kneeling before a crucifix, which he had propped upon the toilet stand. For a moment the sight held us in check, but he turned upon us with an angry snarl which dwindled into a cowed whimper as he looked into the muzzle of Gregory's levelled pistol.

"I was just thanking God we'd won through," blubbered the singular creature, while Bolt manacled his docile wrists.

And we realised that our assault in force had been quite an unnecessary precaution, we might have known that gunmen who shoot down defenceless victims for a wage are but whining cowards when, isolated from their gang.

WHAT GAVE me my clue? "Mrs. Appleton Dwight's" voice in the first instance, and in the second the serpent bracelet with the ruby eyes which I had noticed that morning when I left her on deck. The bracelet alone would not have done it, but it is impossible to disguise the human voice, and taken in conjunction, these two features made me absolutely sure. For I had observed them both in connection with the young woman who had supped with "Mr. Peter Schuster" the night before we sailed.

From that it was but a short step to the deduction that the pair I had seen at the restaurant had been Bert the Tough and his female associate, the former already wearing the false beard and moustache in which he sailed, while the woman had indulged her vanity by deferring her elderly make-up to the last moment. Thus, more by luck than judgment, was I able to defeat their cunning scheme for escaping suspicion in the event of the gunman's presence on board being wirelessed to the captain at sea.

___________________

19: The Fierce Eyes

Headon Hill

World's News (Sydney) 20 Oct 1923

SILVIA, who had stopped to look back, suddenly clutched my arm. I, too, turned and stared in the same direction.

"The eyes, Jem!" she whispered. "At the broken slats!"

Perhaps I was not quick enough, for I could see nothing but a black void behind the flaw in the Venetian blind. When I said so, adding some banality about "fancy," my young wife withered me with scorn.

"I am positively certain of it," she insisted. "There was a pair of eyes— very fierce eyes— glaring at us from between those damaged slats."

If she was right, her assertion was not only startling, but utterly unaccountable. Less than five minutes ago we had left the house, after going through every one of the half-furnished rooms with the keen scrutiny of a young couple searching for a home in these homeless days, and in all the bare interior there had not been cover enough to hide a cockroach. Of no living organism had we caught a glimpse. And on coming away, we had carefully seen to the window fastenings, and the locking of the front door. I still carried the key in my hand.

"Shall we go back?" I asked.

But Silvia's nervous break had passed Squaring her shapely shoulders, she marched along the path to the lane where we had left the hired car which had brought us on our visit of inspection.

"No," she decided. "We have got to live somewhere and it's a jolly old crib, if it is a little bit creepy. You may be right, Jem, and it's the creepiness that gave me the jumps. The kiddies will frighten the bogies away."

So we motored back to the agents in Exeter, and I made formal application to take Hawk's Barton for three years. I would have taken it for a longer term, or bought it outright, but the agent told us that the owner, Mr. Flood, only needed a tenant for a short time, as he wanted to live in the himself when he returned from completing an appointment which he held in the Chinese Customs Service. Mr. Flood, who was now in England, had purchased it with that object in view. The application would have to be submitted to him.

The arrangement was not quite what I should have wished, though force of circumstances drove me to accept it. On my return from prospecting for gold in British Columbia, I had to find shelter for Silvia and the youngsters, five and three years old. While I was abroad, my small family had lived in a tiny furnished flat in London, where there was really no room for me when I came home I had at once tackled the job of obtaining permanent and more extensive accommodation.

It had been like butting against reinforced concrete. Having a moderate private income. I was not tied to any locality, but north, west, east, and south, there seemed to be no roof-tree available, till one morning I saw Hawk's Barton advertised. A house that one could rent seemed to be an impossible dream. Six hours later. Silvia and I were in Exeter. interviewing the agents. We  asked for an order to view, but were told that, as the house was unoccupied, an order would be of no use to us. Instead, the agent handed us the keys, with the result that we had spent the night at an hotel, and motored out next morning to look at the place. It was in a lonely and inaccessible spot, far from the railway, and the ancient house had few modern conveniences, but it was a case of any port in a storm.

"I hope I shall get the house," I said, as I signed the application. "I suppose than are any number of people after it?"

The agent looked at me queerly, smiling a little.

"A goodish lot," he replied. "You won't have to wait long before you know your fate,  though. I'll get Mr. Flood on a trunk call and send over to your hotel directly he answers. He has turned down all applicants so far."

This was not reassuring, but we were still at lunch when the agent's messenger arrived with a brief note informing me that Mr. Flood had accepted us as tenants. The same afternoon Silvia recovered from her fright of the morning, hurried back to London to close the flat and fetch the  iKtciooa kids, while I remained in Exeter to buy furniture for our new home, engage a couple of maids, and have Hawk's Barton ready for the arrival of the family four days later.

All these things I did with laudable precision— so successfully indeed that, with the exception of servants, the house was ready for occupation the day before the family was due to arrive. I could only find a cook, and she could not come to us for a week. This did not matter much, as Silvia was a capable house-wife, and she was to bring with her the excellent nursemaid who had been with her for the last five years. We should rub along somehow till a full staff had been enlisted.

The house being fit for occupation, I decided to camp in it till Silvia and the chicks should put in an appearance next day. They were to come in a fast train to Exeter, whence they would motor out to the coast. The furniture people, having departed, I regaled myself on some cold provisions which I had brought, and started out to survey my new domain.

The grounds on the seaward side, about an acre in extant, stretched from the house to the edge of a low cliff, from which a flight of steps ran down to the beach. The garden was unkempt and neglected, and I was wondering where I should obtain someone to put it in order when a deep-chested cough sounded close by. Coming towards me along a weed-grown by-path was an old man in a blue guernsey, with a seamed, weather-beaten face like an over-ripe pippin.

"Beg pardon, sir," he began. "Be you Mr. Flood?"

"No, my name is Royde," I replied. "I have taken this house, and am going to live in it."

The old fellow seemed puzzled. "We up along to Branscombe heard tell as a gent called Flood had boughten the place," he remarked, in a tone of suspicion.

"That's true," I said. "Mr. Flood has bought the house all right, but he does not want it yet. I have rented it from him for three years."

My statement was evidently satisfactory. The doubt cleared from the puckered brows, leaving the whole face frank and friendly.

"My name be Dennis— Tim Dennis," was the rejoinder. "I come along to see if a gardener was needed. I've follered the sea most of my life, but I be ashore for the rest of the v'yge now. Not but what there's a good day's work in me for a Job of this kind."

I liked the old man's manner, and I promptly engaged him to "do" the garden, commencing on the morrow. After that we fell into general talk, and I asked him who had been the last occupant of Hawk's Bartons and how long it had been vacant. The simple  question called forth a rather startling answer.

"Been empty a long while," replied Dennis; "Bit of a myst'ry, the last chap were, and up to no good."

Pressed for an explanation, my new retainer told me that my predecessor had been a Mr. Holson, who had lived there for quite a number of years. Though he spoke English well, it was with a slight foreign accent, and when people noticed it he owned to being a Swede. He was not popular in the hamlet of Hawk's Ridge, and he was not only avoided, but pretty closely watched by the neighbours.

"It was my nevvy, Ben Smale, as spotted him for what he was," the old man continued. "Ben had to sail for the Indies the day after he laid the information, and he was drowned at sea two months later, so I can't tell 'ee the rights of what Ben found out."

"What happened to Holson?" I inquired.

"He bolted before 'im could be copped by the police. He wasn't seen hereabouts again, nor the man as was his only servant. The furniture was carted off to Exeter and sold. There was precious little of it."

My amphibious gardener lurched off the way he had come, and I sauntered back to the house, pondering on the sinister reputation he had thrown at it. It didn't seem to matter— so far as we were concerned. The thing was over and done with, and could not affect the happiness of Silvia and the kids.

Suddenly, as I approached the house, I caught sight of the Venetian blind at which Silvia had seen what the called "very fierce eyes" regarding us through the dangling slats. The damage had now been made good, and no possible peep-hole existed for any unseen watcher. I laughed at myself for the  momentary qualm which had caused me to connect Silvia's alarm with the tale had just been listening to.

My solitary night at Hawk's Barton was uneventful. I slept in the room next to the one where the disarranged blind had so excited my wife, and my slumbers were unbroken, save that I was awakened about two o'clock in the morning by a rumbling in my ears, which I attributed to nightmare due to the tinned tongue I had eaten for supper.

The next day the advent of Silvia and the youngsters dispelled the atmosphere of gloom which I had not been able entirely to ignore. No ghosts or memories of ill deeds could lurk in the boisterous presence of Irene and Dick, who were scampering up and down stairs, in and out of every room, within five minutes of their arrival. They were aided and abetted by their nurse, Maggie, a cheery creature, whose booming voice and adoration for her charges would have exorcised any demon. Maggie was capable of downing a giant in defence of the two children she had helped Silvia tend during my absence abroad.

And then, late in the evening; when Sylvia and I were sitting together, after Maggie had put the children to bed. and gone to bed herself, the intangible spectre of trouble reared its grisly head again. Though tired with her journey and with unpacking, my wife had been her own bright self till now, when, in the low-celled dining-room, I told her the history of Hawk's Barton as gathered from Dennis. The recital seemed to knock her all of a heap. At first she listened carelessly, but when I came to the suspicions about Holson having been engaged on some nefarious enterprise, she lost colour, and begin nervously to interlace her pretty fingers.

Yet her comment on my story, in the form of a question, was, on the surface, wholly irrelevant.

"Oh, Jem!" she said. "Those eyes at the blind the other day! I may not have been mistaken, after all. I am afraid of the eyes."

"Why, what have they got to do with the last occupier?" I asked, mystified by her agitation.

Silvia gazed wildly around the cosy room, as if questing for some hidden means of ingress.

"If he was a criminal, he probably had some secret way of entering and leaving the house," she faltered. "He could have used that way when he peered through the blind at us."

"But, my dearest," I protested, "supposing the former occupant was guilty of the misdeeds attributed to him by a pack of rustic gossips. Hawk's Barton would be the last place he would poke his nose into— provided he escaped capture and sentence."

"There might have been a very strong motive to bring him here." my wife said, dully, her lovely head sinking into her cupped hands.

Something wrong here. I told myself, of greater import than the fear of an out-of-date miscreant who had made the place too hot to hold him.

"Look here, Silvia," I said, "leaving old Dennis's yarn aside, is there anyone you are afraid of— some blackguard who has molested you and got on your nerves. There are a lot of dirty dogs about, trying to trap pretty women." s

Then in a burst of confidence, it all came out— the pitiful little story which she had spared me while I was away, and later, because, with my coming home, the trouble had passed. A man, living in the same set of flats, had pestered her with attentions, and, on her turning him down, had threatened revenge on her and hers. That threat, she admitted, had recurred to her when she thought she saw eyes watching us from the empty house. She confessed that she had been unable to shake off the dread that obsessed her, and that she had only been able to force herself to bring the children there because there was nowhere else to go. She was sorry for being so foolish.

Though we had been married so long, it was rather as a lover than a husband that I comforted her, saying that she had not been foolish at all. Having done this, I became so much the husband, as to destroy the effect by pointing out that her fears must be ill-founded, since they were in direct conflict. She had been all right that night till I had upset her with the story told me by our longshore gardener about a problematical evil-doer— a story which was now ancient history, and could have no connection with the threats of her West End persecutor.

Sylvia's fine eyes opened wide, the more beautiful for the trace of tears. Then she leaned over and patted my hand, smiling with the gentle tolerance of a mother for infantile ignorance. I have been told since that young wives always treat their mates with the maternal adoration lavished on their recently discarded dolls.

"Has it not occurred to you, Jem, that the wretch at the flat and the Mr. Flood who bought this house may be one and the same?" she said. "Very likely the suspect calling himself Holson escaped arrest, in which case .he may well be the man who later annoyed me under the name of Wylie. He certainly spoke with a queer accent. And there was something mysterious in our being selected as tenants out of a horde of applicants. It was forced on us by the new owner as a card is forced by a sharper— probably after being bought for the purpose."

Wisdom in a nutshell! I could have kicked myself for not doing the horrid sum with equal facility, and I was casting about for some excuse for my stupidity, when I glanced at the lady against whom I had to assert my male superiority. She appeared to have lost interest in the argument she had so lately propounded. She was sitting erect, in a listening attitude, her face a frozen mask. And, at the same moment, there broke upon my ears the dull rumble which had wakened me up the night before. It wasn't tinned tongue this time, for I had supped bravely on lamb cutlets brought by Silvia from Exeter, and cooked by her own fair hands.

"There is something wrong upstairs," she whispered. "I shall go and see."

We had only got half-way to our goal when, from the nursery, where Maggie was sleeping with the children, a loud scream rose and died away. In the nursery we found her, a crumpled heap on the floor, with a big bruise on her forehead. There were no signs of the children, but two empty cots and twin piles of disarranged bedclothes. The upper rooms, like the lower, in the thick-walled, cob-built house, were panelled with oak, but the panels were intact, yielding no clue.

With a despairing wail, Silvia sank on her knees at Maggie's side. To revive her seemed our only chance of learning what had happened, and our suspense was turned to dreadful certainty in less than two minutes, when she opened he; eyes.

"The wall!" she cried. "Left of the wardrobe. Two man with masks!"

The girl relapsed into unconsciousness, but it was easy now to reconstruct the scene. The youngsters had been carried off by two masked men, who had entered and departed by some mechanical contrivance in the panel. I could discern no trace of any break in the age-blackened oak, nor any excrescence that might be the key to its opening. But the spot indicated by Maggie confirmed her statement by yielding a hollow sound.

"I must get an axe and break the wall in," I said, frantically, and then whatever I might have added to dispel the haunting anguish from Sylvia's face was drowned by a tremendous pealing of the old-fashioned front door bell.

We raced downstairs and admitted that old Devon sea-dog, Timothy Dennis, and another blue-guernseyed native of like kidney. But what mattered most was that Dennis was carrying Irene, who looked rather scared, while Master Dick's arms were twined round the brawny neck of the second man. When my three-year-old crowed and put out his tongue at me, I knew that all was well.

The worthies handed over their burdens, and Dennis cleared his throat.

"It war that Holson, in a false beard, sir," he said. "We blocked 'em at the lower end, and the police have copped him and his mate. After you telled of them eyes at the windy yesterday, we in the village put our heads together, and kep' a look-out. Come dark to-night, a car stopped close to your front gate, and we informed the constable that two fellers from it had gone down to the beach. He 'phoned for the sergeant to bring help, and we bagged the toads as they was coming out."

"Coming out of what?" I said testily. "You cut it rather fine, my friends. Why didn't you stop them from getting into the house?"

"They used the smugglers' passage. Mister, as folks thought had fallen in. Holson must have cleared it when he lived here. As to stopping them sooner," Dennis added with an aggrieved look, "we be ancient man, stiff with rheumatics. Us allowed we'd best wait for the sergeant and his little lot."

I agreed that the precaution was reasonable, and the feelings of Dennis and his colleague were doctored with appropriate medicine, while Silvia took the children upstairs, and completed the restoration of Maggie.

NONE OF my household were called as witnesses at the trial, as we had neither seen the malefactors nor been injured by them. But Maggie's assertion that the voice of one of the masked men reminded her of "that beast at the flat" lent colour to Silvia's theory that her persecutor had been the owner of the "fierce eyes."

After a long search, the police found the secret door in the panelling a most delicate piece of mechanism, which must have been installed by Holson half a century after the tunnel to the base of the cliff had ceased to be a thoroughfare for smuggled spirits. The one-time haunt of Devon "free-traders" had been discovered, and used by the modern miscreant as a factory of bogus bank-notes and forged scrip. The "rumble" had been the sound of the printing press in a hidden chamber off the underground passage.

Holson's return to the scene of his former activities had evidently been due  to a desire to combine pleasure with business the pleasure of revenge again the woman who had scorned him, and the business of resuming a profitable crime.

________________

20: Behind the Cupboard

Headon Hill

Daily News (Perth) 22 Nov 1911

WITH wide-open, tearless eyes, which to that day had not ceased  to weep through three long piteous weeks, Rachel Boyne stood in her doorway and stared up the sordid street of the colliery village. The parallel rows of tiny brick boxes in which the miners dwelt lay blistering in the noonday sun, flanked and overshadowed by the great refuse mounds round the pit's mouth. It was towards a bend in the road about half a mile away that the woman's gaze was directed.

Suddenly, round the turn, there came into sight a horse and cart, driven at a slow jog-trot, and with, a scarcely perceptible sigh the watcher retreated into her house.

Young and comely was Rachel, and till her marriage a year ago to Jack Byrne, had been accounted the most desirable maiden in all Cindermere. And now, the pity of it, she was to be a widow with an unborn child in prospect, for on the morrow her husband was to be hanged for murder.

And, greater pity of it still, it was Rachel's winsome beauty that had brought the light-hearted young miner to this sorry pass. At the recent assizes It had been established on convincing evidence that Jack had killed Leonard Hayman, the assistant-manager of the mine, for dangling with sinister intent after his pretty wife.

Never a breath of scandal had rested on her name, and even the prosecution had had to admit that the prisoner had been sorely tried. The verdict had been one of 'Guilty, with extenuating circumstances,' and the jury had recommended Boyle to mercy, but the judge had chanced to be one of the hanging sort, and had merely forwarded the recommendation without  endorsing it.

On re-entering her tiny sitting-room Rachel cast a look of stony despair at the furniture; for the most part pretty cheap stuff with its newness not yet worn off. She had taken a pride in her little nest, delighting in, the knowledge that it was smarter and cleaner than the homes of her rough-and-ready neighbours. And now she had to part with her household goods to pay for her husband's futile defence at the trial. Afterwards, as her father had died since her marriage, there would be nothing left for her but the workhouse— unless, as she had thought sometimes during the dark hours of the past three weeks, she could summon courage to end it all in the stagnant pool behind the engine house.

The cart which she had been expecting was that of the second hand dealer, whom she had sent for to buy her cherished belongings. Presently it pulled up outside and the dealer stood in the doorway, a wizened little chip of a man, with a red, puckered face like that of a withered apple.

'Come in, Mr. Mazey,' she said listlessly. 'And for the love of God,' she added, with a quickly strangled sob, 'get it over as soon as you can.'

Cornelius Mazey stepped across the threshold, his cunning eyes ranging over the spotless interior before he turned them on its mistress. When at length he did so they softened, for hard old file as he was, and not to be beaten at a bargain, he would have been less than human if he could have approached the tragedy of that day's business unmoved.

'I'll meet you in every way I can, ma'am,' he said civilly.  'I couldn't have the heart to beat you down for a shilling or two things being as they are. Are you selling the lot or only some of it?'

'I don't know,' Rachel replied wearily. 'I have fifteen pounds to make up to settle Lawyer Phipson's bill. I should liked to have kept enough— just a bed and a few chairs— to stay here for a week or two― till―'

Her voice trailed sadly to silence, and Cornelius, comprehending, nodded sagely, but he looked askance at the trumpery furniture and was beginning to shake his head, when his eyes alighted on a dingy triangular cupboard of ancient black oak. With a queer cackle of approval, he went over and examined it closely.

'Might I make bold to ask, Mrs. Boyne, how you came by this?' he wheezed. 'It isn't exactly in keeping with your other things.'

'I should think not!' exclaimed Rachel, warming to indignation. 'It oughtn't to be in the same street with them. That bit of old rubbish is the only thing I brought to the furnishings. 'Twas given to me by my father, and I didn't care to hurt him by saying no to it, ugly as it looked among all my nice new walnut wood. It had belonged to my father's grandfather, and to his grandfather, too, as like as not.'

Mr. Cornelius Mazey smiled indulgently. He was a happy man at that moment, for he saw his way to gratifying the two sentiments which just then swayed him— a natural, desire to obtain a bargain, and the prompting of his seared old conscience to smooth matters for a woman in distress.

'If you'll let me take the cupboard, ma'am, you can bide in the house as long as its otherwise convenient to you,' he said. 'Gentlefolks, more fools they, set a wonderful store by aged truck such as that, and I shall see my money back if I give you twenty pound for it. That'll pay the lawyer's bill, and leave you five over to be going on with. There's no call for me to disturb the other chattels till you give the word.'

In view of the impending catastrophe of the morrow nothing seemed to Rachel Boyne really to matter much, but the maternal instinct already, dawning in her told her that it was not for herself alone that shelter was needed, and Mazey's offer would give her that shelter for the requisite time.

'Thank you kindly,' she said. 'If you're sure I shan't be robbing you I shall be glad to accept that! I had no idea the cupboard was worth five shillings.'

Cornelius, who was confident that a ten pound note would be his smallest possible profit on the deal, bustled out to his cart, and returning with a chisel,  began to loosen the holdfasts with which the cupboard was attached to the walls. Rachel paid but little attention to his operations, duly thankful in a dull sort of way that the gaudy, thirty-shilling easy chair in which Jack had sat on Sunday afternoons would be spared to her a little longer.

The holdfasts, driven home by the young miner's lusty arms six month's before, caused the little dealer much labour, but at length he loosened his last one and gently lowered the cupboard. As he did so a folded paper fluttered to the floor, reaching it before Mazey had deposited his burden. He made no remark, but having assured himself by a glance over his shoulder that Mrs. Boyne had not noticed anything, he picked up the paper and slipped it into his pocket.

'I'll just get the article out onto the cart,' he said. 'Then I'll step back and pay you for it.'

With much puffing and blowing he accomplished his task— and a little more. For outside in the roadway he mastered the contents of the paper, Which proved to be a letter. When he returned to the sitting room he was bubbling with suppressed excitement, which Rachel, if she thought of it all, attributed to his successful deal.

'There's, your money, ma'am,' he said, counting out twenty sovereigns on the reprieved centre table. 'Right glad is old Corney to have been of service without breaking up the home, so to speak. I ain't the nasty skinflint people call me― not by no means― and I'd be thankful to do you another good turn, given the chance.

'It's kind of you, Mr. Mazey,' replied the poor girl, essaying a wan smile. 'I  don't suppose I shall be here very long, but I shall tell the neighbours how you might have taken advantage of me and didn't.'

Cornelius shot a furtive glance at her from under his crinkled brows.

'I ain't so sure as I couldn't do you a bit of good if so be as you'd not mind.   talking a little,' he said in the wheedling tone he always used when on the make. 'I don't want to harrow your feelings, poor thing, seeing as how heavy your load lies on you to-day. I wouldn't mention anything, if there wasn't what appears to my ripe judgment a goodly reason.'

'I don't mind talking, Mr. Mazey,' said Rachel, with a bitter laugh. 'It might even be a relief, for the good folk hereabout think it's kindest not to mention anything to me but the weather.'

The old man took a seat en one of the spindly chairs.

'Did it ever strike you as queer,' he asked, mopping, his forehead, 'that Ralph Curtis never claimed the reward? A hundred pound is a big sum for the like of him to fling away.'

A rosy blush suffused Rachel's fair cheek. 'He was my husband's friend,' she replied, falteringly.  'Tisn't likely he would want blood money.'

'Yet it was on the evidence of Ralph Curtis that your good man was convicted,' purred Mr Mazey. 'I was at the trial, same as you were, and the counsel didn't have to press him much, it seemed to me.'

'I reckon Curtis was on his oath,' Mrs. Boyne made feeble answer.

The dealer nodded enigmatically, and tried a new tack. 'Curtis being a pal of your husband's, I expect he's been good to you since the trial— called frequent, to do what any right-minded young fellow could?' hazarded the dealer. '

'He has been in many times, but I didn't let him in. I couldn't bear it, he being the one to put the rope round my Jack's neck, however well disposed he might have been.'

And Rachel broke down and wept over old memories which the plausible Mr. Mazey had to probe a little deeper still before he got what he wanted. He waited patiently till the paroxysm had passed, and then began again:—

'You know, ma'am, I don't live here in Cindermere, but away at the county town. The gossip that reaches us there maybe is all lies, but the yarn that went round was that Ralph Curtis, whom by the same token I don't know from Adam, was one of your admirers before marriage?'

'Ah, I see; I mustn't take up such things in the day of trouble, though my tongue is but the surgeon's knife as is cruel to be kind. Only one more question, and old Corney is through with his catechism. Curtis was present in this very room, wasn't he, when the police took your husband?'

Shuddering at the remembrance, Rachel made a gesture of assent, and then, chancing to glance out of the window, she whispered hurriedly:

'Best talk of something else, Mr. Curtis is out there now. I reckon he's coming here.'

Mr. Cornelius Mazey took a sly peep, and what he saw caused him to. emit a hastily suppressed chuckle. A tall, muscular young miner was standing in the road, surveying the cart with the cupboard upon it with a sickening, mortal dread stamped on his boldly handsome features. For quite two minutes he stared at Mr. Mazey's bargain, then took two steps towards the door of the cottage, thought better of it, and walked fast down the sun-baked street. When he was a hundred yards away he commenced to run; and kept on running until he was out of sight round the bend— a fact which Mr. Mazey, who had gone to the door, duly noted.

'Not visiting to-day, Mrs. Boyne— Mr. Ralph Curtis isn't,' announced the dealer, drily. 'Well, I must be jogging, and―' he broke off as though at a loss for words, as in fact he was. The smooth-spoken old knave wanted to serve two masters — a kindly desire to extend a ray of hope to the stricken wife; and of natural greed that warned him not to say anything that might jeopardise the haul he saw looming ahead. So he steered a middle course by adding:— 'And don't hug your grief, Ma'am. 'Tis a stale proverb, but a good 'un, that there's a silver lining to every cloud, and I don't doubt that you'll find it so.'

But when he had climbed into his cart, and given reins to his ancient steed, Mr. Mazey improved on his philosophy. 'Silver lining, by God!' he muttered. 'There's a golden lining to this blooming cloud, and it's old Corney that's going to collar the gold.'

He drove no further than to an inn on the outskirts of Cindermere, where he stabled his horse and cart and then took train for Durham. The cart was not quick enough for the work, in hand. To do the old fox justice his wish for speed was not wholly due to avarice. A man's life was at stake, and the; dazed agony in the face of the man's wife spurred Cornelius Mazey as much as did the legend; 'One hundred pounds reward,' which kept hammering on his brain.

IN the condemned cell of the county gaol, Boyne lay awake listening at intervals to the boom of the cathedral clock as it inexorably snipped off the few hours remaining to him. It is a trite saying among prison officials that the more callous the murderer, the sounder he sleeps on the night before execution. Which was, perhaps, the reason why Jack could not sleep at all: for he was innocent of the crime attributed to him.

He viewed his approaching doom with a dull rage at his heart, not so much because he feared the fall of the drop which would hurl him into eternity as on account of the sweetness of life he was so unjustly called on to leave behind.

He knew that he had not killed Leonard Hayward, the coxcomb assistant manager of the mine, nor had he ever had any reason for doing so. Assured of his young wife's perfect love, and trusting her wholly, Jack had regarded the antics of the amorous lady killer with an amused contempt, in which there was no bloodthirstiness. It had all seemed like some horrid conspiracy of fate to wreck his happiness and Rachel's; the chance that had led him to stumble over Hayman's body on his way home from work; and the further chance that had sent his friend Ralph Curtis to find him as he was peering down into the dead man's face.

He did not blame Ralph. He had watched him closely at the trial, and had been touched by his reluctance to tender the evidence which had been dragged from him by the police. And if proof were needed of Ralph's good faith, was there not his generous refusal to accept the reward offered by the colliery company? Why, at the very moment of his arrest Ralph had been at his cottage, begging him to fly.

Yes, it was hard to die at eight and twenty, in the full flush of his manhood, leaving his Rachel and his unborn child to the cold mercy of a world that would mete out to them unmerited shame. And he had not done the thing for which he was to hang. He almost wished that he had, so that he might step out into the sunlight for the last time on the morrow without a curse for God's justice on his lips. And, so wishing, towards the dawn he fell asleep.

But, presently the rattle of the key in the cell door woke him, and he sprang up, thinking that his hour had come. In place of the hangman with the thongs to pinion him there stood in the doorway the governor of the jail. The veteran soldier's stern face was relaxed in a friendly smile.

'All right, Boyne,' he said. 'You're strong enough to bear a bit of a shock,  especially a pleasant one. You are reprieved by order of the Home Secretary, owing to a discovery made only yesterday. You cannot be liberated till the right man has been convicted, but I expect I shall have to let you out before very long.'

JACK BOYNE was at home, a free man, and Ralph Curtis had taken his place in the condemned cell, when one evening there was a commotion outside the cottage, followed by a knock at the door.

'Why, Mr. Mazey!' exclaimed Rachel, who left the supper-table to answer the summons.  'You are a late caller, but none the less welcome— after what you've done for us.'

'Evening, Ma'am; evening, Mr. Boyne,' said the dealer. 'It's all along of that cupboard I'm here. I thought you might like to have it back again, seeing what luck it brought you, and if you'll accept it it's yours. Give us a hand in with it, mate. I ain't as young as I was.'

'But we don't want to go back on the bargain,'  protested Jack. 'It was a cheap deal for me any way.'

'You've got to humour an old feller,' Mr. Mazey persisted. 'And,' he added with a leer, 'I'm eighty quid to the good on the bargain without having to soil the thing for profit. I drew the reward to-day.'

'Then it's the price of blood, and I'll be d—―d if I'll have the cupboard in the house,' the young miner was beginning angrily, when Rachel stopped him.

'Don't, dear,' she purred in his ear. 'It's second nature to him, and he is being generous from his point of view. And he was good to me on that awful day.'

So 'the piece of old oak,' as Mr. Mazey called it, was brought in, restored to its old position, and the donor having been invited to sit down to supper he told over again the story he had already told in the witness-box— how when  he had taken down the cupboard a letter had dropped from behind it, of which he had at once grasped the true significance. It had been addressed to the murdered man, and signed by Curtis, asking Hayman to meet him at the lonely spot where the body was found, and which Boyne had to pass, at the time mentioned, on his way home from work.

Mr. Mazey had promptly guessed the reason of the, to him, amazing refusal of Curtis to accept the reward.  Mrs. Boyne's old admirer had planned to get rid of the husband by saddling him with the capital offence committed by himself, but he knew he would stand no chance of winning Rachel if he profited pecuniarily by the testimony given with so much apparent reluctance against her husband.

And his treacherous cunning would have prevailed but for the oversight which the murderer almost invariably makes. After killing Hayman he had searched the body for the letter and had found it, but instead of destroying it had placed it in his pocket, and forgotten all about it until the police came to arrest Boyne. Seeing them approach the cottage, and being stricken with a sudden fear that they might suspect him, he had rid himself of the compromising document by thrusting it behind the cupboard, hoping for an opportunity to remove it later. That opportunity never came, and his flight on seeing the cupboard in the cart sent Mr. Mazey hot foot to the authorities with his find.

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21: The Scarecrow

Mrs. Baillie Weaver

World's News (Sydney) 3 April 1915

Gertrude Baillie-Weaver (born Gertrude Renton 1855-1926) was a writer and suffragist.

THE cottage stood on the edge of the moor, on the outskirts of the hamlet which divided the cultured country from the heathland. A lonely little dwelling it was, uncompanioned by any tree to shelter from the sun or break the force of the winter winds. From the door which led to the single sitting-room, the sight leapt from billow to billow of the stretching moor to a far horizon, close to which lay a dense object, dwarfed by the distance to insignificance. On all sides the ground fell away, for the cottage— hovel rather, since it consisted but of two rooms, both of small dimensions— stood upon an eminence flattened at the summit into a tiny tableland, and sloping rapidly at the back towards the church and the handful of dwellings which made up the hamlet of Rystone.

Across the tableland at the back of the cottage ran a narrow strip of garden containing vegetables; there were no flowers, save such as nature, in her lavishness, sends forth in the form of weeds. Minnie Gedge, the lessee of the homestead, cultivated the ground herself, and all her labour was given to the raising of edible produce. She was very poor, the neighbours said; certainly her custom at the village shop was the scantiest in the place.

A young woman, thirty perhaps, and looking five or six years older than her age, she lived a solitary life, mixing but little with her neighbours, a stranger to them still, though she had dwelt beside them three years. The most they knew about her was that she worked hard, that she rose early, and sat up late; very late, for the last home-comers, however belated they might be, were always guided and cheered by the light in her cottage window. Some said she kept it burning all night, for company's sake, and wondered how so poor a woman could afford to spend so much on oil; but, however that might be, the little lamp in the window was the only company that Mrs. Gedge ever had. She never encouraged anybody, not even the clergyman, to come and see her; the few who, when she first settled in the place, had come to the cottage door, got no farther; it was a joke in the village to say that Mrs. Gedge wanted no friend but her scarecrow.

This was an allusion to the collection of tattered garments, which, attached to two pieces of stick in the form of a cross, served to frighten the birds from taking too large a share of her garden produce. And truly the figure had, at a little distance, some semblance of humanity. The man's battered grey felt hat which crowned it, the jacket which had once been green, and which hung with empty loose-flapping sleeves from the short horizontal bar that crossed the slender upright pole, the ragged red skirt which swayed and fluttered in the breeze, produced together an uncanny effect of life that was lifeless, of a form that was familiar and yet weirdly strange.

Mrs. Gedge had created her scarecrow soon after she had come to Rystone, and it hung there untouched, alike through the fertile summer months and the barren winter, growing more and more ragged, more and more discoloured as it suffered and survived the onslaughts of sun, wind and rain.

Mrs. Gedge worked hard all day, and in the evening she sat outside her cottage door and looked across the moorland. She had one treasure; amongst her scanty possessions there was a single article of intrinsic value; a pair of field glasses. They lay all night and most of the day in a drawer, but at sundown she took them with her to the little wooden bench outside the door, and every now and again she raised them from her lap to her eyes and turned them towards the dense object on the horizon. That was in the summer, the autumn, and the spring; in winter she stood at the open door and looked, as the short day darkened, but a little while across the black expanse. But in winter, all through the solitary evening, had any of her neighbours stolen to the uncurtained window and looked into the scantily furnished room, they would have seen that she paused continually in her needlework to listen.

In summer she looked; in winter she listened. There was much to listen to; the wind that called— with a human voice, as it seemed sometimes; that beat upon the cottage door with what might have been on impatient shelter-seeking hand; that rushed across the heather with a sound in it as of fleeing footsteps. Sometimes on those long evenings she would start up and rush to the door, her breathing quickened, her face expectant, and fling it open. But always the light in her eyes died down, the name on her lips remained unuttered.

On such evenings as those, the last rite of the day was very sadly performed; the manuscript book that had nothing but numbers in it was opened with dragging hand. The numbers began with "one," and went steadily on, "two, three, four," and upwards to a thousand and eighty-three. Nearly three years of days they represented. How long would they go on? Oh, the long weeks and months of days that lay in the years ahead, to be chronicled one by one in loneliness, in longing, in dwindling hope, unless...

On those evenings when Minnie opened her door to face blank night, the days seemed a huge interminable host, and the thought that they must be vanquished one by one was a thought that crushed out courage; but there were other evenings when it seemed impossible that they should advance in single file to being and extinction, upon which it seemed that one splendid stroke would sweep their ranks into nothingness ere they could come to the birth.

And on these nights she would lie down in bed, saying to herself: "He's so clever, so patient, and so strong, he's sure to find a way."

Now and again the cottage would be empty for a day, when Mrs. Gedge went to a distant town to post a letter and to change a cheque; and the name that stood at the end of the letter and as signature to the cheque was not the name she was known by at Rystone.

Number one thousand and eighty-three had been entered in the book of the days. It was autumn, and the day crept to rest soon after six o'clock. In the early evening, when dusk began to threaten the sunlight, Minnie Gedge sat on the wooden bench, as her habit was, and looked across the moor. The field-glasses moved slowly from side to side, searching the whole desolate expanse; no moving object came within their range, and they dropped at last from weary hands into their owner's lap.

Presently she rose; night was coming on and it was useless to look longer. She went into the house, barred the door, and sat down by the window: the lamp stood ready on the table at her side, but it was hardly time to light it yet. She sat there despondent and lonely; it was one of the evenings when her heart failed her. Dusk lay upon the far-reaching landscape, and she could not see a hurrying figure that struggled across the moor towards the spot where the light ought to be. The dusk was thickening; soon all the landmarks would be blotted out, end there was no beacon. In the cottage the woman's head had sunk upon her hands, and she did not notice how the night stole on. At last she looked up, and then she started; it was almost dark. Well, it hardly mattered; it was all no use; fate and those stone walls were too strong. Still, she would go on as though hope had not so often played her false; she stretched out her hands towards the lamp, and in another minute the light sprang up. In that same minute, in eyes far distant still, confidence and courage revived; the wayfarer on the moor came on with quickened speed.

Minnie sat on by the window; now she must rouse herself to prepare her evening meal; hut time hung as heavy as her heart; there was no hurry. She sat on till outside the window. Instead of a grey veil, there was dense blackness. Through the blackness the light showed more clearly, and, if one were close to the window, the Roman's form beside it showed clearly too.

The man outside knew the form at once, though the back was towards him. He tapped on the pane—gently.

The woman started up, half fearful, half in hope; in the scene she had pictured and waited for, it was always to the door he came; her first thought was that this was some new mocking of the wind. But the wind bore no visible form, and there was a face at the window; and a hand that tapped anew.

She flew to the door, and once again, as so often during past watches, flung it open. Always before she had opened it to emptiness; but now her arms might open out and fold tight again as he came into them and laid his head upon her shoulder.

NO MORE light to show wanderers the way across the moor; the window was curtained close; all the light was gathered into the room, as husband and wife sat side by side, and talked and were silent, and questioned and replied anew. There was so much to tell— and so little, for the life that each had led had been without variation. But she had to assure him that all was ready, every penny saved that could be saved, and available at an hour's notice; and there were plans to be discussed, risks to be estimated, and contingencies to be faced. His clothes were all ready for him and she had planned how to dispose of the tell-tale garb he wore; but they must wait; she must go on living her usual life, and he lie hidden within the cottage till the hue and cry was over. That was the safest; yet—

Husband and wife looked at each other with white faces, as the sound was borne across the miles of moor into the tiny room. Boom, and boom, and yet again. It was the signal of discovery, the prophet of search.

"Shall we go at once?" whispered Minnie— who was Maggie now.

The man shook his head. "We couldn't get far enough without train, and at all the stations for miles round we should be noticed. Better wait."

It was better, yes, it was better; yet her heart sank. Who would look, more than cursorily in any case, for James Crispe in the cottage of the poor, hard-working peasant woman, Minnie Gedge! Yet she longed to get away. If he were taken? But she would not think of it; there would be no search till morning anyway.

In the morning, while they were yet far away, she saw them through the field-glasses, those hunters of men. Far away still, but each moment brought them nearer, and brought nearer, too, the five minutes when her nerve would be tested, her courage taxed. For they would be sure to come to the cottage door and question her; more than once she had been asked for news of an escaped prisoner;  and each time she had wondered with an ache of terror at her heart if he who now stood behind her in the room were seeking a barren refuge on the moor. Never yet had the seekers entered; if they did—

Maggie rapidly reviewed the resources of her two small rooms. Adequate hiding-place there was none. All round she looked; fireplace, cupboard, windows, the one by which she stood, and the window at the back that looked on to the garden. The high-growing beans were over, and the scarecrow stood up forlorn amidst the cabbages. Then, as she looked, inspiration came to her. She turned to the man who came from the inner room.

"Jim, if they should come in? You would have no chance...."

She drew him to the window at the back, opened it, and pointed with hurried, whispering words.

He nodded. "Yes, I'll manage. Don't be afraid."

She stood at the open door, and gave her answer; no, no one in convict dress, no stranger of any kind had passed her door. She spoke in stolid peasant wise, yet something— a quaver of the lip perhaps, or hands that clutched at her apron— aroused suspicion. What she said was true, no doubt, but— for formality's sake—they must Just look through the cottage.

She wouldn't mind?

"Lor', I don't mind. Come in!" said stolid Minnie Gedge; while Maggie Crispe saw the room heave and whirl.

There was nobody there, of course, no place in which anyone could hide.

"Outhouses?''

"There ain't no outhouses," said Minnie Gedge.

"Hullo! what's that?"

"What?

"Where?"

"In the cabbages."

"That there? The scarecrow? I calls it my lodger," said the spirit of Maggie Crispe in the voice of Minnie Gedge.

"Like to go and shake hands with him?" said one man to another.

"Do,'' said Maggie Crispe in the borrowed voice. "It won't bite ye."

"I dunno," said the first speaker. He was half a wag and half a bully; he glanced at the woman's set face. "Dunno as I will. But I'll take a pot-shot at it before we go, to keep my hand in. You don't mind?"

"Do as you like. I got some more old clothes in my chest," said Minnie Gedge, while the soul of Maggie Crispe was rent with agony.

Yet in its agony the soul stood firm, holding the face that hid it stolid and still, while the man raised his gun to his shoulder and took aim.

She moved away. "Oh, I beg your pardon!"

In moving she had touched his arm. He swore, for his hand was on the trigger; then, as the bullet sped, he smiled. "It's all right. Straight through your, lodger's head, missus."

She must look; she must. The battered felt hat had fallen from its perch; the stick on which it had rested stood up thin and naked; in the garden was silence.

ALONE; but they might come back. Alone; but the seekers were not yet far away. Alone, was she indeed alone? Was there in truth no life but hers within her small demesne?

Swiftly out of the house, down the garden, and into the cabbage patch.

"Jim! Jim!" It was Maggie Crispe who spoke, and all the pent-up agony of Maggie's soul was in her whispering voice.

"Have they gone?"

She held back the tears of relief as she crept toward the scarecrow. Within the ragged skirt he knelt, clasping the pole; the empty jacket sleeves hung close to his head; on the ground beside him lay the grey felt hat with a bullet in the crown.

Three weeks later the cottage was empty, and Minnie Gedge was no more known in Rystone. Long afterwards another tenant of the cottage on the moor, digging deep, found a suit of convict's clothes beneath the cabbages.

__________________

22: The Poultry Yard

Marmaduke Pickthall

World's News (Sydney) 30 Jan 1915

Marmaduke Pickthall (1875-1936) was a British Islamic scholar noted for his 1930 English translation of the Quran, called The Meaning of the Glorious Koran. His translation of the Qur'an is one of the most widely known and used in the English-speaking world.

IN an upper valley of the Jura, not five hundred yards from the frontier-line of France and Switzerland, on the Swiss side, at the foot of climbing forests, stands the Pension Courvoisier. With no pretence at a garden or a yard of any kind, it rises sheer out of the green grass beside a straight white road; and its yellow walls, blue shutters, and pure scarlet roof become an eyesore every time the sun shines. Elise Courvoisier calls the place her poultry yard, with characteristic scorn of those who lend themselves to exploitation.

Sole offspring of a former President of the commune of Le Pas, she had from a child disdained the thought of marriage, and given her whole heart up to money-making— a pursuit for which she was marked out by the possession of a shrewd and selfish mind, an iron body, and relentless will. As a girl she had been in foreign service in Lausanne. It was thanks to that peep into the outer world that, on inheriting her father's hoard at forty, she formed the project, reckoned daring at Le Pas, of building a great boarding-house below the forest. The gossips shook their heads, but Elise knew what she was doing. She had been struck by the multitude of foreigners who colonise Geneva and Lausanne from motives of economy. They all went up to the mountains in the heat of summer, but could not afford to pay the price of grand hotels. A price they could afford they paid like clockwork. By charging an average of five francs a day for board and lodging she hoped to fill her house with these desirables. She could put up forty persons at a pinch; and forty persons at five francs a head per diem— there was profit!

Her venture was successful from the start. At a small cost for advertisement she filled most of her rooms the first summer; and succeeding years were better as the place got known. Elise was counted happy in her poultry yard.

It was precisely in the light of poultry that she viewed her guests. She provided for them a clean house, furnished only with necessaries, and a sufficiency of wholesome food at stated hours, also a splendid run in field and forest. If with all that they moped or grumbled, out they went. She had the same contempt for them, their airs and dignities, their ailments, squabbles, occupations, interests, as if they had in truth been silly fowls. Scorning to mix with them, she never left her kitchen and its purlieus unless it were to deal with some bad layer or pacify some cherished bird whose plumes were ruffled. But she watched over them, keeping herself minutely informed of their behaviour by means of two stout peasant girls who did the housework. In return, the little world extolled her management, while generally ignoring her existence as a power above them. They referred to her in talk as "Mademoiselle." Her pride was to keep them peaceful and in good condition; and for years she had had no serious difficulty. But in the summer of 1902, as soon as the pension opened she smelt trouble. They were as good a lot to look at as she had ever kept. She did not doubt the capacity of a single one of them to lay the weekly egg with punctuality. It was the mixture of the breeds which made her anxious. She feared fighting, which might seriously reduce their numbers, not to name the insult to her as keeper. There were French and Germans, an Italian captain, a Brazilian, and three Belgians, without counting the old English brood, her special fancy.

On the very first day of the season she charged Marie and Adele to keep a sharp lookout, and at a hint of disagreeableness to inform her instantly. Nor had she long to wait.

Adele reported:—

"The old English lady keeps her room this morning. Her maid informs me she is furious."

"Eh, eh! but this is grave!" Elise exclaimed. "I go at once to learn what has displeased her."

This old English lady, Mrs. Draycott, was Mademoiselle's prize bird, a famous layer. She had returned each summer since the house was opened, paying ten francs daily for herself and maid, and seven francs for her son when he joined her in August. Moreover, she had recommended some good clients. Having tidied herself by pulling down the sleeves of her print bodice, Elise made haste to Mrs. Draycott's room.

"Excuse, Madame, but having a moment of leisure, I come to ask how Madame goes, if she is content, if there is anything that one can do to make her sojourn here more agreeable."

"Thank you, thank you, dear Mademoiselle." The old Englishwoman's sombre visage spoke of grievance. "I know well that you do all you can. But to-day I am feeling ill, disgusted. Last night at dinner I was insulted by that little widow with the two children— as I have never been before in all my life. She replied insolently to a remark of mine; she dared to set me right on a point of etiquette. I told her she should push her chair in when she rose from table, and she reeled: 'How bourgeois!'— just like that. It is unheard-of. She calls herself English, but such manners would not be tolerated in our country for a single instant."

To Elise Courvoisier, the ground of the quarrel seemed ridiculous, like everything that caused a flutter in her poultry yard. To soothe her prize hen's agitation, she remarked compassionately:—

"Ah, she is not well brought up, that is evident! She lacks Madame's distinction, her advantages of education!"

"She is a dangerous woman, Mademoiselle, an adventuress. I am convinced of it. See how her cheeks are rouged! See how she rolls her eyes at the Brazilian— and the colonel too. I believe she was never married, though she has two children."

"That may well be," sighed Mademoiselle, to whom this also appeared immaterial, these idle, daisy-plucking guests of hers seeming all alike immoral to her practical mind. "But Madame must not distress herself, I do entreat,

That little lady is so much beneath her, and everyone respects Madame so highly, and looks up to her as to a queen. When Monsieur Adolphe comes we shall be gay once more. Ah, the hand. some boy! I trust Madame has good news of dear Monsieur Adolphe?"

Mrs. Draycott, thus beguiled, discarded dudgeon for a time, to speak enthusiastically of her son Adolphus, who was in Germany studying with a view to consular employment. She hoped, she said, to have him with her in a fortnight's time.

"Ah, Madame, what pleasure I shall have in seeing him again! He is so good, so considerate, and he makes the house so gay!" With these words Mademoiselle Courvoisier backed, smiling and bowing, from the presence, alleging with regret her many duties. She did not, however, return straight to the kitchen, but went first to the bedroom occupied by Mrs. Brett, the young widow, whose impertinence had so angered Mrs. Draycott. Getting no reply to her knock, and opened the door. The room was empty. Holding her apron to her nose to obviate a faint perfume which lurked within, glancing contempt at an array of objects on the dressing-table, she crossed to the window and peeped out. There was the coquette at play with her two babies on the grass, posing for the admiration of the monkey-faced Brazilian and the English colonel.

Retreating, with much care to close the door, Elise went clumping down the bare deal staircase to the back door.

"If Madame would have the extreme goodness to accord me one small minute!" she pleaded, wiping her hands as if she had that minute come from work in the kitchen.

"Willingly," replied the widow, jumping up.

Having drawn her out of earshot of gentlemen, Mademoiselle, with every of deprecation, sighed:—

"Ah, Madame, I am so ashamed. How shall I tell it? It desolates me, but I had misjudged the cost. The children eat as much as the others, and give much more trouble. Ah, Madame, I am truly sorry. I must charge full price for them."

"Is that all?" laughed the widow. "I agree, of course. You must not ruin yourself, and your prices are so moderate."

The face of Mademoiselle expressed relief. "And, Madame," she added as a pleasant afterthought, "it is not fair that you should have the burden of the children all day long. Adele pap take them sometimes. It would be a little extra— a mere bagatelle— say, five francs the week. We shall not quarrel about that."

"How kind you are!" replied the widow gratefully. "I had not dared to ask it, seeing both the chambermaids so hard at work."

Having raised Mrs, Brett's value to more than that of Mrs. Draycott's by this sly manoeuvre Elise washed her bands of the dispute, regarding it as fraught with little danger since the disputants were of one nationality. Her fear had been of race attacking race; it was their nature, she had learnt at school. She viewed the whole pageant of history, empires, wars, conspiracies, from the same height from which she watched her poultry yard, and half unconsciously confused the two. Now, though the quarrel grew in bitterness, she kept her kitchen, and she only smiled at the reports brought in by Marie and Adele.

There were, of course, two factions in the pension. The stronger, that supporting Mrs. Draycott, numbered all the English, with the exception of the grey-haired colonel, and such of other nations as had been there in past years. The other, in the interests of Mrs. Brett consisted of new-comers, who knew nothing of the customs of the house, nor cared a jot for its proprieties. The old stagers gasped when Mrs. Brett indulged in walks alone with the Brazilian and a Belgian lad of seventeen, They dealt in innuendoes at the public table. The independents waxed furious at such prudery, and made much of the fair widow to defy it. It became a custom with Mrs. Draycott and her intimates after dinner to talk aloud of their aversion in the widow's presence, naming no names, while frowning over hands at bridge.

At the words, "Well, where is her husband, I should like to know!" hurled forth by Mrs. Draycott on one such occasion, Mrs. Brett burst into tears and left the room. She had been put that afternoon alone with the Brazilian, to appease the latter's jealousy of the young Belgian boy. This it was that had raised the gall of her censors to that pitch of rudeness.

Her adherents gathered round her in the corridor. The Brazilian cried out: "If she were a man, or had a man to answer for her!" with terrific meaning. "My faith, I will go back and pull her nose!"

Mrs. Brett laid taper fingers on his arm, and, removing the lace handkerchief from her eyes a glancing-space, implored him to be peaceful— for her sake! He raised her fingers to his lips in speechless homage.

Already he had stirred her pulse that day by threatening to kill the Belgian boy unless she snubbed him. She loved the sensation of men yearning for her, striving for her, maddened by the passion she exhaled as flowers do perfume; while she knelt, praying, helpless, fragile, a prize for the victor. This Brazilian, lean and swarthy, whose bronze face, prematurely wrinkled, bore the scars of many conflicts, impressed her as distinguished, an uncommon figure. His fierceness pleased this lily amorous of tempests. He was, besides, the only man available, the colonel being too sedate, the Belgian boy too indiscreet, for fine flirtation. She let herself be swayed by his exotic ardours, with closed eyes, yielding nothing, owning nothing, more than may be conveyed in dreamy smiles. She wished to continue thus; but he went on to violence. As a result of a piece of roughness on his part, she had resolved to walk no more alone with him, and was seeking refuge in devotion to her babies, when Adolphus Draycott came.

He was a slim, dapper youth of twenty, with more of elegance and less of boyish shame, than would have fallen to his lot if schooled in England. He was also far more touchy on the point of honour, more punctual in bows and little courtesies, than home bred youngsters of his age. His complexion was fair, relieved from insipidity by dark brows and lashes which lent a shadow to his rather pale blue eyes. In the article of clothing he was most particular, and even in the mountains studied every point.

When Mrs. Brett first met his gaze her heart beat faster. Just arrived, he was looking for his mother, and came out at the back of the house, where the young mother frolicked with her children on the grass. Mrs. Brett was on her knees, with back towards him. She turned her head at the noise of footsteps, and remained thus, chin on shoulder, staring with fawn-like eyes that spoke a kind of terror. He, too, stood spellbound for a moment. Then he raised his hat.

"Excuse me. I am looking for my mother, Mrs. Draycott."

"Oh, I think she must be in her room," said Mrs. Brett, and slowly turned away.

Adolphus went indoors and heard his mother's judgment on the charmer. It was only what he expected; she was always down on pretty women. For himself he saw an interest in life at the boarding-house, which reconciled him to the thought of spending weeks there. Last year he had tied in a fortnight, he had been so bored.

As for the widow, revenge on his mamma was second in her thoughts to his subjection. He was indeed a very personable youth. After a day or two of mutual shyness, of tentative, self-conscious glances, and of panic flights, they drew together naturally.

"She's a dear, there's nothing wrong with her," he told his mother. "It's a shame for you all to be so down on her, poor thing. It's not her fault if she is left alone. She was married at sixteen to an awful brute, and got a divorce at last on account of his cruelty. She has the custody of the children. That proves that there's nothing wrong with her."

Mrs. Draycott still must shake her head forebodingly and bid her son take care. But she found it necessary to abate her rigor, unless she wished to have a quarrel with Adolphus. There was then a truce to innuendoes.

The pretty widow sunned herself in wintry favour. And when Adolphus announced his intention to spend the whole of his holiday at the Pension Courvoisier his mother felt quite grateful to the woman. After all, she was superior to shameless hussies. Adolphus had no wealth to tempt a siren; and all young men must try their wings in love.

"Your mother thinks me an adventuress," sighed Mrs. Brett. She shrugged her shoulders and spread out both hands in a pretty, helpless way. "If I were that, should I have come to such a quiet place? I am so lonely and defenceless; it is hard to be misjudged."

Adolphus took her hand and fondled it. He was in love, and, being very young, stalked upon planes of high resolve and knightly purpose.

"Darling, you are not defenceless while I live!" he cried sublimely. "Do you— can you— feel so lonely now that I am here?"

He asked to have the right to guard her always. She smiled, saying she was much too old for him.

"Old! What nonsense! When you're only twenty-three!" he cried exultingly. "In six months I shall be of age, and my own master,

"With you to fight for, I could make my way to anything. Say Yes, my dearest! Oh, in mercy, do say Yes!"

Mrs. Brett said "No" repeatedly, but so tenderly, making it so evident that she loved him, and resisted only for his good, submitting all the while to his caresses with such willingness, that her refusal seemed the sweetest of surrenders.

He told his mother solemnly in private that he must marry Mrs. Brett or die of longing.

"At any rate I can trust her not to be so foolish," was the cross rejoinder. "She knows which side her bread is buttered, if you don't."

But Mrs. Draycott, though she spoke thus firmly, was not without misgivings of a lively kind. She honestly believed her son to be beautiful and attractive beyond the common, and knew young women sometimes lose their wits.

Elise Courvoisier, informed by Marie and Adele of this development, was happy at the turn events were taking.

"Mon Dieu! I do not blame the little lady!" she chuckled as she tidied her kitchen. "I also, if condemned to such a senseless life, should commit follies only to be doing something. And after the manner Madame Draycott treated her, it is only pleasant to enslave the cherished Adolphe. He stays six weeks instead of two, at forty-nine francs a week. It is well, one has nothing to complain of. We are all content."

But, in making this complacent survey of the situation, Elise had forgotten the Brazilian, that umbrageous fowl. He of the dark, scarred face, the frowning brow, had permitted Mrs. Brett's flirtation with Adolphus on the understanding that its only object was revenge on Mrs. Draycott. When he found that it was otherwise, that Mrs. Draycott, instead of being furious, connived at the affair, the world flashed black and red before his maddened eyes.

It was some time before he could come face to face with her, since she divined his state of mind. But at length, one afternoon, he saw her from a window, sitting out beneath an apple tree which grew behind the house. He strode out. She started up on his appearance, hoping to escape. He seized her roughly by the arm, and demanded an explanation of her conduct in imperious tones. By a frantic effort she released herself and ran indoors, exclaiming:—

"You have hurt my arm, Monsieur!" This took place just underneath the window of the chamber where Adolphus slept. The young man happened to be in that chamber, near the open window, studying his appearance critically in the looking-glass, smoothing his hair, adjusting his neck-bow, brushing his eyebrows and his small moustache— a ceremony he performed ten times a day. Hearing the altercation, he rushed out to Lily's rescue.

Flushed and trembling, he confronted the enraged Brazilian, screaming:—

"Monsieur, how dare you lay your hand on my fiancée!"

The retort came quickly, like a thunderbolt, destroying reason:—

"Take that and that, insolent monkey!" two slaps on either cheek and a painful wrench at his nose. And with a final snap of his fingers, the Brazilian vanished.

When Adolphus recovered from the frightful shock, it was to realise the instant need of bloodshed to wipe out the insult. Trembling like a leaf, and white with rage, he went and spoke to the Italian captain, who brightened up at the prospect of a duel. He bade Adolphus be at ease; he himself would provide a second witness— a Belgian gentleman of experience in such affairs—and arrange everything.

"No doubt," he said, "our adversary will select the two Messieurs Escoffier; they are friends of his. The father is all one could desire, but the son is frivolous. Never mind. We shall agree very well. You wish the meeting to take place as soon as possible."

"As possible," Adolphus echoed shakily.

"It is easy, since the frontier is but two steps off. We will go this evening, and choose a place in the forest. Then the matter can be decided to-morrow at sunrise. Leave all to me, and think no more about it."

But the bold youth could think of nothing else. He felt removed from all mankind upon heroic heights. The usual conversation of the boarding house appeared degrading; and he endured it with extreme impatience. He would have liked a talk alone with Lily, but she kept her room. That evening there was great excitement in the Pension Courvoisier, for the story of the quarrel bad leaked out. Mrs. Brett, at the meal, looked pale and very interesting. Her eyes filled with tears when she asked a neighbour for the salt. The desire of everybody was to learn the place and hour of the duel. It was so thrilling— a sight to be seen but once in a lifetime; and all the girls had cameras. But nothing could be said openly, in the presence of the principals, who looked glumly at their plates, Adolphus fearing greatly that his nose still showed a redness from that awful wrench.

At the close of the dinner Mrs. Brett received a call to Mrs. Draycott's room, and exchanged seared glances with Adolphus as she rose from table.

Mrs. Draycott, stern old tyrant as she was, was on her knees. She besought her son's seductress to undo her evil work, to stop the duel. This acknowledgment of her chagrins, though tardy, flattered Mrs. Brett. It even made her feel some slight compunction. The sight of a mother in such grief was most affecting. But what could she do? "I have no influence," she sobbed despairingly. "God knows that I would prevent it if I could. I have implored Adolphus.

But he will not listen. He says his honour is at stake. That hateful honour! Oh why was I ever born? Why will men always risk their lives for me?"

"That you know best!" said Mrs. Draycott, once more stern. "You are a foolish, a wicked, and a dangerous woman. Chiefly foolish to begin with, but the others follow. If my son dies his blood is on your hands."

"Oh, cruel," hiccupped the sweet flower hysterically.

About half an hour after she had shown out Mrs. Brett, Adolphus entered his mother's room. Kneeling beside her chair, he put his arms round her.

"Mother!" he whispered, "don't be hard on Lily. It is not her fault. That beast pulled my nose— think of it, mother!— with his beastly yellow fingers. After that, of course, I must fight him, or feel myself disgraced my whole life long."

"I wish I'd never sent you to school in France and Germany, though at the time it seemed to be for the best. Englishmen don't fight duels. Oh, my boy! my boy! Don't do it! Go away tonight! I'll give you money to amuse yourself." She produced from her pocket a small key. "Don't talk to me about these people. They are nobodies. You will never see them again."

She wished to rise but he compelled her to keep seated.

"Mother," he implored, "don't make it harder. Don't embitter this last evening. It may be the very last we spend together. I've got to fight this man, or else despise myself for evermore. Surely you wouldn't have your son a coward? Whatever pride I have I get from you. Do he nice to me. And promise to be kind to Lily if I fall. She is so young, so friendless."

While this tragic scene was going on in Mrs. Draycott's room, the other boarders were endeavouring to find out what arrangements had been made for the duel. The Italian captain was impervious to hints, so was his colleague, a rotund Belgian. The choice for attack fell on the younger Monsieur Escoffier, a mercurial student, whose head was turned by the attentions paid him. Girls— reserved English girls— came near to kiss him. He could not long resist such frantic coaxing. Swearing one damsel whom he much admired to secrecy, he whispered in her ear. She straightway left him, with the others clinging round her.

Elise Courvoisier had been told at dinner-time by Marie, that something serious was wrong among the boarders; she could not tell what. Rendered anxious by the tidings, She bade her handmaids leave no stone unturned to learn the matter. They presently returned, declaring that there had been a fight between Monsieur Adolphe and the Brazilian. Incensed by the fear of losing one or other of the disputants, Elise pronounced a wish to wring their necks. Then, late in the evening, Marie ran to her with staring eyes of horror, crying out that there was going to be a duel.

"A duel!"

Mademoiselle grew stiff with rage, her face went purple. In her house, a duel, perhaps loss of life? The impudence of the insurgents took her breath away. If she could show indulgence in due season, she preferred severity; and now the time had come to be severe. She, would lock all the fools in their bedrooms till they had found their senses. But no, they were too artful, and, besides— the windows! She must learn their plans. As a first move she went to question Mrs. Draycott, in wrath; without her wonted mask of self-obsequiousness. There was no need of interrogation. The heart-bro-ken mother told her grief at once.

"My good Mademoiselle, I know not what to do, I am so troubled. A dreadful thing has happened. That Brazilian— insulted Monsieur Adolphe. They are going to fight. It is all the work of that ignoble woman. Did I not always tell you she was dangerous?"

"And why, Madame," demanded Mademoiselle, with arms akimbo, "do you wait till late at night to tell me this? If warned earlier, I could have informed the cantonal authorities, and procured a force of police."

"Ah, my dear Mademoiselle, it is all useless, they will fight across the frontier."

"The frontier! I deride it! Where, and at what hour, have the goodness to inform me?"

"I do not know. My son has told me nothing."

"Be ashamed, Madame—you, an old lady, whom I thought so reasonable— not to have informed me sooner! It is my affair. If any of any pensionnaires transgress the law, my management is blamed. I am disgusted with you."

Leaving Mrs. Draycott sore dismayed, Elise withdrew. In the passage she met Marie and Adele.

"Meess Smeeth," they said in a breathless eagerness, knew all there was to know about the duel. Five other girls were with her in her bedroom. They were preparing all their things for taking photographs." Ordering the domestics off to bed, for it was now near mid-night, Elise, without knocking, entered Miss Smith's room.

"Well, Mademoiselle, so there is to be a duel. is it not so? And we are all enraptured. It will afford us such a charming spectacle— such delicious picture for our album of photography. The spectacle of blood flowing, of sudden death, is so agreeable to gentle ladies well brought up."

For a quarter of an hour she heckled them in this strain, emptying all the vials of her pent-up scorn. When, in the end, she asked to know the place and the hour, Miss Smith, in tears, related all she knew.

"Good, then it shall be stopped. But, mesdemoiselles, prepare your cameras. There will, perhaps, be still a picture," said Elise grimly.

The girls were a little consoled by the vision of gendarmes stepping in between the combatants. But Mademoiselle intended nothing of the sort. She despised the males of her kind, however named and uniformed, and except against an army could do best without them.

Long before sunrise there was a surreptitious life in the pension. Figures slipped out by twos and threes towards the forest. The last of these inquisitives had been gone some minutes ere Adolphus and his witnesses emerged.

The young man, dressed with more than usual care, was pale, but otherwise his usual self. He kept raising his right arm to make sure of its obedience. The Italian captain walked beside him with extreme decorum. The Belgian followed with a jovial air. They passed through the trees to the appointed glade, and there stood talking very carelessly. All round the little clearing there were clumps of thicket hiding the feet of pine trees which formed endless vistas, shifting kaleidoscopic, If one walked about. The smell of the dew-drenched leaves was delicious in the cold air.

Soon there appeared the other small procession, the Brazilian looking yellow, but as fierce as ever. Salutes were exchanged with ceremony. The ground was measured. Escoffier, pere, produced a case of pistols, remarking that he never went abroad without them. The Italian and the portly Belgian were proceeding gravely to examine the weapons; the principals had taken off their coats already, when, with loud cries of: "Gare a vous, tas de coquins! Polissons! Chenapans!" three stalwart female figures came forth from behind some bushes. Each bore a pail and a mop. Setting down the pails close by the startled group, they soaked the mops and dabbed them in the nearest faces, saying, "There! It is for pigs!"

The Italian captain spluttered and protested hotly; the Brazilian shrieked out curses in his native tongue, the stout and easy-going Belgian, after one taste of pig-swill, fled the scene. Adolphus, in spite of repeated defilement, stood his ground indignantly, till he caught a glimpse of English ladies taking snapshots. Then he, too, turned. He was the last to run.

"Well done, Mademoiselle!" he heard the cry behind him.

The Brazilian left the pension that, very morning, after a vain attempt to wrest apologies from Mademoiselle. His going made Adolphus ready to forget his own spoilt suit and outraged feelings, since at all events he was left master of the field. But to his utter chagrin, Lily, too, gave notice of departure. She had received, she said, a letter containing important news, which made it necessary for her to go to Geneva, with her children. She vouchsafed no further particulars; but when the time came, parted from him tenderly, but in a way which told him plainly it must be for ever.

The fact was, as more than one friend told him after she had gone, that Mrs. Brett could not endure a breath of ridicule. The scene in the forest, of which she heard so many versions, of which, too, she was even shown developed photographs, she regarded as a personal disgrace, and felt disgust for all concerned in it.

Mrs. Draycott would have rejoiced at her departure had her son been less dejected. As it was, fearing illness for him, she wished the woman back with all her heart. Indignant as she was with Mademoiselle for sousing her son with pig-swill on a par with mere assassins she would have stayed on at the pension, where she was comfortable; but her son's health, taking precedence of everything, she also took her flight at the end of the week, carrying Adolphus off to gayer scenes in the hope to distract him.

But though her poultry-yard was thus depleted, Elise Courvoisier was not downcast. She had gained in prestige what she had lost in numbers. Spectators of her prowess on that August morning were charmed with what they called her eccentricity. They wrote to friends in England, France, and Germany, extolling her as a character; it was a free advertisement, enabling her presently to fill the rooms vacated, with fowls as paying, but less cock-a-hoop. The fear of her was on them all, and all went smoothly.

"With all their airs and follies," she informed her gossips in the village, "they are quite easy to govern for one who has studied their habits. One must not let them fancy they can have their way. If they are not punctual to meals they go without. After being hungry once or twice, they mend their habits. Things broken must be paid for within a week. Candles must be extinguished in the bedrooms at a certain hour. Fighting or slanderous talk will be punished by expulsion. A few strict rules, and for the rest indulgence. Thus I tame them."

______________

23: Cal Wood's First Case

William H Hamby

1875-1928

World's News (Sydney) 19 Aug 1916

i

CAL WOOD is a great detective now. More, he is a diplomat, a big man, very near the top of the Government Secret Service. I never hear of him unearthing an international plot, or uncovering a big revenue swindle, that I do not nod my head and remark:—

"It was born in him!"

For I was with him on his first case— a case which I still remember with shivers.

Cal and I were boys together, away off in the Ozarks, twenty miles from a railroad. Our mountain country used to be full of feudists from Kentucky, Tennessee, and West Virginia; fellows who would shoot first and apologise to the Court afterward. But at last the law got the upper hand, and for four years, with Henry Wilson as prosecuting attorney, ours had been a very peaceable county.

Then, one morning in April, a neighbour dashed up to our gate on horseback and called to us that Art Truesdale had been shot. He was lying dead in the road, a quarter of a mile this side of Crawford's.

The murder created a sensation. Not that anybody cared much for the loss of Art. He was a sort of jack-leg, real-estate man at Oakdale. He drank up more farms than he sold, but he was inoffensive and never quarrelled. Why anybody would waste ammunition and risk his neck to shoot Art was beyond comprehension.

The mystery stirred the county for a time. The sheriff, the constable, Henry Wilson, and another officer or two worked on the case a couple of weeks and then gave it up.

One evening, between sundown and dark, I heard the whip-poor-will call that was the signal between Cal and me.

Cal had something dramatic to tell. I knew that, from the way he did not tell it. He might have whistled me down to the creek after supper on a very slight pretext, or none at all, as he sometimes did; but to-night there was something momentous on foot.

He sprawled with supreme but uneasy indifference on the sand-bar and lazily flipped gravel into the gurgling water, where the broad creek twisted itself into a narrow, dark cord of a stream that whipped against the roots on the opposite bank. I sat with my elbows on my knees, occasionally straightening up to fling a pebble with the nonchalance of intense suspense. What in the world did Cal know, and when would he tell it?

"David"— he sat up and locked his hands across his knees— "I am going to find the man who killed Art Truesdale!"

"You are?"

It went over me like quicksilver. Cal and I had both longed-to be detectives. He nodded slowly, solemnly.

"Do you want to come in on the case?"

"Of course!"' I said indignantly.

"No matter where it leads?"

He got up, and I, too, rose to my feet.

"No matter," I answered as solemnly.

"Suppose"— I could hear Cal's breath coming hard— "suppose we should find that it was Henry Wilson?"

That did give me a shock. Henry Wilson, with his black hair and flashing eyes and daring oratory, had been our hero for years. Cal loved Henry Wilson. But I'm ashamed to confess that a feeling of gladness sneaked through me. I hoped it would be Henry Wilson!

I was horribly jealous of him, Edith Crawford loved Henry Wilson— and I loved Edith. She was twenty, and I was only sixteen, but in the mad infatuation of a boy I fancied that her smile for my diffident, eager boyishness was a smile upon a grown man.

"You see," went on Cal, shaken even in his remorselessness, "Art was in love with Edith, and wanted to marry her. I saw him try to kiss her the Sunday before he was killed— and Henry Wilson was at her house the night Art was shot."

We stood there in dramatic silence by the lapping, swirling stream. The darkness already had its long, tenuous fingers upon the woods. "I hope to Heaven," he said, shuddering, "that it wasn't Henry Wilson; but I'm going to find out. Are you with me?"

For answer I gripped his hand.

ii

DURING DAYLIGHT, six days a week, Cal and I were our fathers' farm-hands. In the evenings and on Sundays we were detectives.

"See here!" Cal had bent quickly and picked up an empty rifle cartridge. It was Sunday, and we had been searching every foot of the ground within fifty yards of where Art was shot.

"That is sure a find," I said with a thrill, reaching for it.

"Yes," said Cal. "That is the cartridge that took Art's life, and"— he spoke with a sudden great hope— "that kind is not sold at Oakdale!"

"Still," I suggested, "Henry Wilson often goes to the city."

"That's so." Cal's face was again troubled.

"Or he could have ordered it by mail, or maybe taken it away from some prisoner."

"Do you suppose," I suggested, with a sudden new fear, "that— that Edith would be all broke up if we convict him?" Cal nodded gloomily.

"It'll kill her. I was reading the other day of a girl that dropped dead when they arrested her lover. They found her heart had bursted clean in two— and the fellow wasn't guilty, after all."

"We ought to find his tracks." Cal started remorselessly ahead with his search. "And Edith has been awful good to us boys," he went on, down on his hands and knees, searching the ground. "Remember the time they had a party, and she stole out a whole gallon of ice-cream for us boys out in the meadow? And that time at the church social, when she slipped an apple pie to us through the window?"

Remember! Was there a look or turn of Edith Crawford's I did not remember?

We found two other clues. One was a bit of cloth on a thorn limb, which might have been torn from a coat. The other was a match-box, with the initials "H.W.'' on it.

This we picked up from under some dead leaves beside the tree where the cartridge was found. "It's him." Cal nodded, pale and grim. He was fairly sick, and his hand shook as he turned the match-box over and over. "But we haven't enough evidence for an arrest yet," I suggested, remembering the girl who had dropped dead when her lover was accused. "No"— he shook his head— "not quite. Next we must discover from her what time he left, and if she heard a shot."

"From her?" Horror filled me.

Cal shut his lips, much as you see them shut in some of his pictures, and nodded remorselessly. "We've got to get the facts in this case, even if it kills us."

I was all for throwing it up then and there; but I didn't say so, remembering my pledge to follow the lead to any end. That night I had nightmares, in which Henry Wilson was dangling from the limbs of a dozen trees, while Edith was stretched out on the porch, white and cold. It would have got on my mind terrifically had not a still more terrific diversion happened that evening.

I had started to cross the creek, near dark, to the bottom pasture, to separate the cows and calves, when I heard a running behind me. I whirled, as a detective would, and faced a flushed and panting Cal. For once all his assumed nonchalance and self-assurance were gone. "He's come back!" Cal gasped. "He? Who?"

"Squint-eye!"

"He doesn't dare!" It was too much of a thriller to believe. Nothing since the courtroom scene had stirred me with such a delightful terror. "They'd hang him!"

"Yep; it's him, all right." Cal spoke with finality. "He came just about an hour ago."

"How do you know? Did you see him?" My quick breath routed all pretence of matter-of-factness,

"Nope. But he came."

"How do you know?" I demanded an answer.

"You know that hole between the logs at the back of his cabin, next to the woods?"

"Yes!"

"When I went along about an hour ago, hunting the cows, it was still there. When I came back, about sundown, it was chinked up."

The strip of red behind the trees was gone; only a dull grey showed dimly. A bullfrog sent out a sonorous but lonesome call. In the pasture up from the creek the cow-bell clanked twice as the bell-cow lay down to sleep and was still. The dark, swift rope of water whipped and sucked and gulped like the jerking of a hangman's noose.

"He's come to kill him!" I said in an awed monotone.

Cal nodded in the dim dusk. "To-night," he added.

Neither of us moved for several minutes. Squint-eye Klaver had killed one man— a deed for which he had never been arrested. Justice by way of the law was not swift in the hills; and Klaver was a bad man to get into trouble with. Then he killed another— a neighbour whom he shot down from ambush. They could not prove it on him; but the third time Henry Wilson was in office, and Squint-eye was sentenced to hang. He broke gaol, and they never caught him.

That had been three years ago. Now he had come back to kill his fourth man— and we knew who that fourth man would be.

"He'll be over to her house," suggested Cal tentatively.

"Yes," I said bitterly. "This is Wednesday evening."

Henry Wilson always came to see Edith on Wednesday and Sunday evenings, and sometimes on one or two other evenings.

"They'll sit out on the end of the porch by the honeysuckle vine," remarked Cal.

"How do you know?"

I turned on Cal fiercely. I knew perfectly well where they would sit— where they sat every evening. But what right had Cal to know?

"Oh," evaded Cal, "I reckoned they would." Silence again.

"Squint-eye can slip up to the edge of the brush by the fence there. It ain't more than two hundred feet." Cal, spoke in a sort of hypnotic monotone. "And he can shoot as well in the dark as in daylight— maybe better. It was dark when he killed Mel Snider, and he hit him the first shot, more than a hundred yards away."

I dug my heels in the sand. Cal and I had been among the first to view Mel Snider before the coroner came. And, without any sense or reason at all, I remembered that Henry Wilson once picked Cal and me up on the bank of the creek, took us two miles in his boat, and put us down on a big rock in the stream, where we caught the finest string of fish you ever saw.

I kicked the gravel bar so fiercely that the pebbles flew in every direction.

"I don't believe Squint-eye has come back," I said doggedly.

"Now don't let nothin' like that get to eatin' you," said Cal indignantly. "Come on, and I'll show you!"

We were over the creek and off through the bottom woods in a jiffy.

iii

IT WAS a mile and a half up the creek to Squint-eye Klaver's cabin! The stars made some light for the tops of the hills and the open places, but down in the bottom, where the trees were tall and the underbrush thick. it was almost pitch-dark. By looking toward the sky we could trace the narrow opening in the black woods and follow the little straggling bottom road.

"Here's where we have to cross the creek, said Cal.

We had come upon a tall, dead sycamore that stood at the edge of the woods like a sentinel ghost.

A half-mile north of the creek, near the foot of the hill, was a five-acre patch en-closed by a dilapidated rail fence, the corners of which were rankly grown with weeds and brush. Across the field, in the dim starlight, the cabin made a dark splotch against the woods.

We skirted the field and approached cautiously through the timber from the back. As we neared the cabin we rested frequently. We lay quite still in a thicket of sumac and hazel, and listened.

I discovered uneasily that my heart was diseased. It was thumping about in such a curious way that I was scared. Perhaps I would die there in the thicket and, never Set to see Edith. again— never warn Henry Wilson.

But directly we crept on to the very edge of the woods. The cabin was not fifty feet from us. When you are very, very still, not making a motion except struggling to breathe, and wondering if your heart will really split open, it is strange how every little night sound has a creeping terror in its minor note.

Suddenly I clutched Cal's arm. I think he saw it nearly at the same time, for he made such a sound as a fellow makes when he shivers with a chill.

There was a light in the cabin!

The crack between the logs, through which we had often peeked in delightful terror while Squint-eye was away, had been chinked up, as Cal said; but about five feet to the right of the door a piece of daubing had dropped out, and through the little hole came a speck of light.

I don't know whatever held us to it; only the sublime egoism of youth and the deathly fear of being a coward, I suppose. Anyway, gripped with a common terror, fascinated by a gigantic horror, we crept toward that hole in the cabin chinking until Cal's eyes were over it.

He looked for only a moment, and then, in dumb horror, motioned for me to look. We crept away. For a long time we lay in the hazel thicket, too weak to move, watching the cabin.

The cabin door opened cautiously. The lamp was extinguished. Squint-eye stood in the doorway for a moment, stepped out with rifle under his arm, and hurried into the woods— in the direction of Crawford's.

We got up and ran, circling ahead of him. No terror so horrible as that behind! We ran until our clothes were scattered upon a hundred sharp limbs, and our hands and faces were bleeding with scratches and bruises and cuts from me underbrush.

"That's the same rifle he killed Snider with," said Cal, when he could finally speak.

"He'd just been oiling it," I remarked. "And he was loading his forty-four when I looked," said Cal.

We had come to our meadow, and with a common consent we sat on the rail fence a moment for breath.

"He'll get there pretty soon," said Cal. "Maybe he ain't goin' to kill him," I said evasively.

I was now fully decided that I did not want Henry Wilson killed; but as I did not see what I was going to do about it, I wanted a loophole for my conscience in case anything did happen. Cal snorted.

"Of course he is! What else would he risk his neck for? You don't think he's come back to raise turnips, do you?' Don't you remember the threat he sent back to Henry Wilson after he broke gaol? And Henry Wilson had been real kind to him in gaol, too."

I shifted, uneasily on the fence and picked off a loose splinter from the top rail.

Do you suppose he'll waylay him as he goes home?" I asked.

"Yes,"' said Cal, "or shoot him while he's on the porch."

I jumped down on the outside of the fence.

"We've got to warn him!" I said desperately. Now that I no longer wanted Henry Wilson killed, I began to think what a good fellow he was, "Let's hurry," I added.

We started on a dog-trot down the rocky valley road toward Crawford's. We trotted most of the way, stopping every now and then to get our breath, for we had been running a good deal that night.

When we got close to the house I turned to the left into a little path that led through the woods around by the north side of the house. I knew how to get in real close without being seen. I don't know why we thought we had to slip to the house so secretly. I guess we didn't think about it at all.

They were on the north end of the porch, as I knew they would be, for there was a seat there facing the woods, and there was a honeysuckle vine across the front of the porch, at that end, which sort of shut them off from the road, the moon had got up a little, so far that its horns were clear above the trees to the east, and there was some light. They were sitting real close, but we could hear what they said, for everybody else was in bed, and the house was still, and nothing making any noise anywhere.

"Henry, supposin' something should happen to you?" Edith said.

She was looking up at him with her face real close to his, and there was kind of a catch in her voice, like there had been when she started to cry about that robin Cal killed. She was awfully pretty.

He said something and patted her shoulder.

She laughed, soft and easy and happy, and he bent over to, kiss her. I yanked Cal by the arm and started to slip back.

"We don't want to come up just yet," I said. "They'd think we were watching." I knew how I would feel if somebody should walk up and catch me that, way. "We'll go back and come down the road, and make a noise as we come," I suggested.

When we got back to the road we stopped and looked cautiously up and down.

There was a scratching sound— like a fellow pushing through the underbrush and a black- berry brier scratching across his trouser-leg. We jumped into the shadow of a big tree by the road and listened, with our hearts acting funny again.

"Squint-eye!" we both gasped in a horrified whisper. We could tell his slouch as far as we could see him— and the old, long rifle was in his  hands.

iv

OUR NERVES were gone. I don't know how we got into the woods—whether we made any noise or not. All I can remember is that we ran and ran, with that desperate sort of feeling you have when you dive deep and get to wondering if your head isn't caught under a root. We were away down back of the field, a quarter of a mile west of the house, when we finally couldn't run any longer, and dropped down, breathing so loud that it sounded like a choked cow.

"Old, Squint-eye will shoot him on the porch," I said, gasping for breath. Cal jumped up desperately.

"I expect he is nearly there now!"

We started to climb the rail fence. In my haste I knocked the top rail off. It fell among some sleeping sows and pigs. They jumped up with a great noise, and we fell backwards off the fence. When we climbed back we were so weak and exhausted that we had to rest a minute. I could not run to save anybody's life— not even Edith's.

"What'll we do?" asked Cal desperately. "I expect Squint-eye is slipping into the woods right now."

"He'll be there in five minutes," I said. "And we can't get across the field to save our lives!"

"We can't run," said Cal.

"I would if I could," he added desperately. "But I can't." He was almost crying. "My legs won't go. They stopped going a while ago."

"We might whistle," I suggested, counting off the time by the thump of my heart.

"That wouldn't do any good," said Cal. "He wouldn't know what it meant."

Thump, thump, thump, went the seconds, pounding away with every jumping heart-beat. Cal knew, and I knew, that the murderer, was slipping stealthily as a cat through the woods towards the north end of the porch. In a few minutes— maybe only one or two— there would be a sharp, hellish crack of that long rifle, and then— Edith's wild scream as Henry Wilson fell and lay—

The moon shone weirdly over the meadows. The house stood like a dim shadow at the edge of the woods beyond. And there she and he sat—very close— and that rifle poking captiously from around the tree!

I tried to yell, but my throat would not utter a cry— it was only a frightful gurgle. "Oh, let's do something!" Cal was really blubbering now. "He's about ready to kill him. I'm going to stop my ears!"

It was awfully still. I could not hear a cricket or a frog or anything, it was just hills— and that glimpse of moon— and that awfully quiet house—and those two on the end of the porch by the honeysuckle vine.

I could not stand it. I jumped off the fence into the pasture. The old sows gave another grunt, and the pigs squealed. It was that, I guess, which gave Cal an idea.

"Quick!" Cal yelled, and dived toward the hogs. "Catch a pig and pinch it hard!"

Cal got one first. He didn't take time to explain, but I obeyed. I nearly pulled the animal's tail out by the roots the first time I
jerked it—and such a yell you never heard from anything but a scared pig.

The sows were in an uproar in a minute and came at us. We got over the fence somehow, holding on to our pigs.

"Pinch hard!'' Cal yelled to me above the din. "Hurt it— hurt it quick!"

"Why?" I yelled, as I grabbed my pig's hind leg in my teeth.

"She can't stand for nothing to be hurt," Cal threw at me. "She'll come running, and he'll come with her."

If only we were not too late! If only they did not wait to see if the pigs could get loose themselves!

"Pinch hard!" Cal yelled again, when the din quieted a little.

All the pigs and the old sows were screeching now. I got up on my knees, toy pig under my left arm, while I pinched it with my right hand and peered through the fence.

Oh, would they never, never start? That rifle would crack out any minute now!

And then my heart stopped beating for minute, and started on a faster but different run. I saw two figures in the moonlight come running across the meadow.

"Pinch him more!" I called to Cal, when the figures stopped to listen.

When they got close we turned the pigs loose and let things quiet down, as they came up all out of breath.

"We got 'em loose," said Cal, as if we had come all the way to help the pigs out of trouble, "Who is it?" said Edith, sort of peering at us and catching Henry by the arm.

"It's me and Cal Wood," I said, as steady as I could.

"Oh, David Talbott!" She recognised me, "What in the world are you boys doing out at this time of night?"

But Henry laughed. I suppose he was thinking we might ask the same question.

"Mr. Wilson"— and I could see, even in the dim moonlight, that Cal was suddenly moved with a big discovery— "I've found the man who killed Art Truesdale!"

"You have!" Wilson came quickly up to us. "Who is it?"

"Squint-eye Klaver," said Cal. "He came back to kill you, and hid in the woods, and shot Art by mistake."

"What makes you think so?"

Wilson was stirred. Edith, too, came up gasping, and her hands clutched frightenedly to his arm.

"Because," said Cal with deadly calmness, "Squint-eye has come back to kill you. He was slipping up to shoot you on the porch five minutes ago. That's why we made the row with the pigs."

Wilson was a brave man, but he shook there in the moonlight as if he had the ague. What occurred to us had occurred to him— the thought of being shot down beside the girl he loved.

"Come!" he said hurriedly.

We climbed the fence and went down the bottom road. As we went, we told him what we had seen.

We aroused some of the neighbours, got others on the rural telephone, and by midnight had a posse surrounding Squint-eye's cabin. They caught him at three o'clock as he slipped back.

The cartridge we had found was from his rifle, the scrap of cloth from his coat; the match-box was one that Wilson had given him, with matches and tobacco, while he was in the cell.

We were both heroes in the community. And of all the rewards that have since come to call I doubt if any ever meant as much as the glory of being Henry Wilson's best man at the wedding and none to me more than the grateful kiss of the bride.

____________________

24: "I Have Killed a Man!"

Richard Marsh

World's News (Sydney) 16 Sep 1916

PHILIP ROWLAND was going to bed. He had put the finishing touches to his play, and was tired out; although it was still early he decided to turn in. He had doffed his coat and waistcoat, when there came a knocking at the outer door, an insistent, persistent knocking, as though someone, having once hold of the knocker, had decided to keep on using it without a moment's ceasing till the door was opened. He hurried to open it. The instant he had done so, while he still had the handle in his hand, a feminine figure came pushing past him into the sitting-room be-yond. When he turned to look at her he found that it was a young woman, apparently not ill-dressed, of prepossessing appearance— a perfect stranger to him. He noticed that she wore a scarlet toque, and that her hair was fair. She seemed to be in a state of extra ordinary agitation— which was easily accounted for by the first words she uttered: "I've Killed a man!"

He stared at her, not sure that he had heard aright, half in doubt if she was in her right mind. Before he could speak she went on— with both hands pressed against her side:—

"I'm Moya Varney, the actress, and I live in the flat beneath."

He was well acquainted with Miss Varney's reputation as one of the shining lights of the stage, he was aware that she had a flat under his— he started as the girl in the scarlet toque revealed her identity. Again before he could speak, she went on, the words coming from her as if her whole frame was torn by some terrible emotion.

"I came back from the theatre with Guy Bennett." He knew that Guy Bennett was an actor who just then was at the same theatre as Miss Varney. "Directly we got in he began to make love to me— he tried to— oh, my God, he tried to—! There was a knife on the table, I caught it up, and— then he fell, with the knife right in him."

She covered her face with her hands; he could see she was shaking, as with palsy. He himself was speechless, the thing was so sudden; for the moment he was even more unmanned than she was. Again she found words before he did— speaking with her hands still hiding her face.

"I left him there upon the floor, I did not dare to stay; will you go and see if he is dead, and— and send for the police and the doctor? I can't!― I can't! I can't!"

Dropping on to a chair, laying her head on the table, she burst into a paroxysm of sobs. He was more unnerved than ever, the whole affair was such a thunderbolt, the errand on which, she would send him such a gruesome one—yet she resented his hesitation, raising her head to storm at him.

"Why don't you go? Go, go, go! and come back and tell me. Don't stop there! He may be dying while you stop!— Go!"

She hurled the word at him in a scream of frenzy. It did occur to him, so far as he was able to collect his wits at all, not only that the request was unreasonable in itself, but still more unreasonable in the way in which it was urged; but— he went.

On the floor below a door stood open, in what seemed to him to be a sinister fashion— the door of the lady's flat. He moved to it; all was still within— also all was darkness. Had she switched off the light to hide from herself the thing which she had done? On tip-toe he went through the open door, finding the switch on his right as he entered; in a moment the darkness was gone. He was struck, even then, by the charm of the room he was in, so different from the almost bare apartment in which he spent his waking hours. What he had feared to see was not there— the room was empty; it was in the one beyond, the door of which again stood open. This apparently served as a dining-room— preparations for a meal were on a little centre table; but what he feared was not there either. A door, also open, led into a third room— an uncomfortable something seemed to tell him it was there. Entering it, he switched on the light. It was a bedroom— the daintiest of sleeping chambers; but— still there was no sign of what he feared. Puzzled, he tried to think, to make out his bearings. He had been conscious, as he entered the flat, that there were other rooms— he had turned, haphazard, to his right; it must be in one of those.

He was about to retrace his steps and pursue his researches in the apartments he had left unexplored, when a voice addressed him  from behind.

"May I ask who you are? And what you are doing here?"

He twisted round like a teetotum, to find himself confronted by, as it seemed to him, the most beautiful girl he had ever seen— tall, stately, with wonderful eyes, and the daintiest nose, exquisite mouth and chin. Which of the twain was the more surprised, the lady or the gentleman, was a moot point. He suddenly became conscious of the fact that he was in his shirt-sleeves.

"I beg your pardon, but— isn't this Miss Varney's flat?"

"It is."

"Then— she has just sent me down."

"Who sent you down?" A slight emphasis was laid on the pronoun. He broke into explanation.

"I'm Philip Rowland; I live in a flat over head; I was just turning in, when Miss Varney came and told me—" It suddenly occurred to him that if he were not careful he might be guilty of a serious breach of confidence. "I beg your pardon, but— are you Miss Varney's friend?"

"I am Miss Varney."

"You! But—I don't understand."

"Nor do I understand; your story is both a very odd and a very lame one. How did you get into my flat, and what are you doing here?"

His words were not an answer to hers— he was struggling with reflections of his own.

"But— if you are Miss Varney— and I quite believe you are―"

"That is really very good of you."

"Then— who is the lady I left in my room upstairs?"

"Really, Mr.— I think you said your name was Rowland— if this is a riddle you're asking me, I am afraid I must give it up. I am still waiting to be told how it is that I find you, in that costume, here, at this hour of the night."

Philip Rowland put up his hand to wipe the moisture off his brow; Although the night was cool, he bad seldom felt more conscious of the heat.

"If you'll allow me— I'll try to tell you, although— it isn't easy."

"I should say that it probably was not easy."

"About ten minutes ago a lady came rushing into my flat who told me that she was Moya Varney, the actress, that she had just come home from the theatre with Guy Bennett— the actor, you know—"

"I know Mr. Bennett very well indeed, thank you."

"And that he'd—that he'd tried to do some-thing to her— I don't quite know what, and that she'd caught up a knife and— left him lying on the floor, and—and she asked me to come down and see if he were dead. I was looking for him when you came in."

A radiant smile lit up the lady's face. "And— have you found him?"

"Not yet. I— I've only looked in these three rooms."

"I don't think that it is necessary that you should look into the rest; I said good-night to Mr. Guy Bennett and his wife perhaps twenty minutes ago, and he was then sound in wind and limb." Philip Rowland stared at her; a horrid suspicion was beginning to germinate in his mind. The lady went serenely on.

"Mr. Rowland, would you mind taking me to see the lady whom you left in your room upstairs?"

He did not wait for the suggestion to be repeated. He hurried up the stone staircase as fast as ever he could, the lady keeping pace beside him— to find, when he reached his flat, that the door was closed.

"I left it open."

"Is it your flat on the other side of that door?"

"Certainly it's my flat. She was crying at the table—"

"Oh, she was crying?"

"I never saw a woman cry like it!"

"You are sure she wasn't laughing?"

"Laughing!— If you'd seen and heard her you wouldn't ask such a question; she seemed to me to be half out of her mind. I can't understand why she doesn't open the door."

They had kept up a continuous ringing and knocking without evoking the slightest sign from within that anyone had heard.

"Haven't you a latch-key?"

"I left it on the table; I tell you that I was just going to bed when she came in."

"Don't you keep a servant?"

"Not I— a woman comes every day and does for me, but I always get rid of her as soon as ever I can. Whatever can have become of her?"

"Perhaps she's committed suicide."

"Good gracious!— you don't think that?"

"I'm afraid, Mr. Rowland, that you mightn't like it if I were to tell what I think. But I'll give you a piece of advice. As you are aware, there's a porter downstairs, who, I believe, has duplicate keys to all the flats; I think you'd better go down and ask him if he has one to yours. If he hasn't, it looks as if we'd have to break the door down, doesn't it?"

Philip Rowland went down the stairs three at a time.

The lady, left alone, laughed to herself.

"A pretty figure I should cut if he turned out to be the more than doubtful character which the circumstances suggest, and I've given him the very chance to make off he's looking for; but if he is that kind, never call me a judge of a face again. Even without his coat and waistcoat he's quite one of the nicest-looking boys I've lately seen. That sounds as it I wasn't such a bad judge after all."

Footsteps were coming up the staircase; presently Rowland reappeared, accompanied by a man in uniform—the janitor.

"It's all right," announced Mr. Rowland. "Snook has got a key."

Snook was the janitor's name. The lady addressed him.

"I hope, Snook, you recognise me as Miss Varney."

"Of course, miss, you're Miss Varney. I should think almost everyone knows that— who's been saying you aren't?"

"This gentleman seemed to have his doubts." The gentleman in question protested.

"Oh, I say!— that isn't fair!— I never doubted for a moment."

"At least you seemed to be under the impression that there was another Miss Varney and that she was the owner of my flat— or did I misunderstand you?"

Mr. Rowland said nothing; he was observing the porter's efforts to open his own door.

"There's either something the matter with your lock, sir, or else I've got the wrong key, or— ah, that does it; I must have got it in wrong— she opens easy enough."

Snook held the door wide open. The lady smiled at Philip Rowland.

"Let's hope it's not a case of suicide."

Her tone could hardly have been sweeter. yet somehow it seemed to sting the gentleman. He bit his under lip, as if to chose words back. He led the way into the flat; it was all in darkness; he switched on the light. The trio looked about them. Miss Varney's tone was sweeter still.

"Where is the lady, Mr. Rowland, who told you such— a tragic story, and whom you left upstairs in your flat?"

As far as one was able to judge, the room was empty; there was nothing to show the lady had ever been there. Its tenant recognised the fact with what was very like a groan.

"Miss Varney, I didn't think I could be such a perfect idiot— she certainly does seem to have gone.

Miss Varney turned to the porter.

"Snook, you've been on duty same little time, I suppose; have you happened to notice a lady leaving the building— say within last few minutes?"

"There was a lady coming down the other staircase just before Mr. Rowland came down this one— I wondered who she was."

"Was there indeed; did you notice anything particular about her?"

"Well, I noticed she'd got on a scarlet hat, one of those things you ladies call toques, and I rather think she'd got fair hair."

"Mr. Rowland, had your Miss Varney a scarlet toque, and do you think that she had fair hair?"

"Miss Varney, I'm a blithering idiot, there's no mistake about it— I'm a prize fool. Do you know that dear creature has cleared me out?"

'What do you mean by cleared you out?"

"I've been looking round, and I've noticed that everything worth having about the place is gone. When I left, that desk in the corner there was locked; now, you see, it's open; if she's cleared that out, then she's taken pretty nearly all the money I have in the world, and other things as well. My watch and chain and six or seven pounds in cash were on the table in my bedroom— you see, they're gone. It looks as if she's effected a regular clearance, and— then I'm in the soup; and, by gad. it serves me right."

"That may be, Mr. Rowland, but the same remark hardly applies to me." The gentleman looked at her. "I also glanced round my premises before I came up— to see your lady friend, and the impression was conveyed to my mind that a good many things which I rather valued were missing."

"Miss Varney! I— I hope you're mistaken."

"I hope so also, but— I'm doubting. Suppose we go down and see; I trust to find that I'm not as you are, in— did you say the soup?"

It needed but a cursory inspection to show that the lady had been served, if anything, worse than the gentleman; she went through quite a catalogue of the articles which even a momentary glance had shown to her were gone.

"But," exclaimed Philip Rowland, when the sad state of the case was made only too plain, "I don't understand how the creature ever got into your flat."

"That," exclaimed the lady, "is, in rather a dismal sense, the cream of the Joke— she was there already— she was there on guard."

"You don't mean to say, miss," struck in the porter, "that it was that new maid of yours, the young woman what hasn't been with you a week?" The lady's sigh was eloquent. "But— she was dark, and I'm pretty sure the young woman I saw was fair."

"That is only too probable. People in my profession have sometimes to wear other people's hair. You see this case; it is empty now; it contained what is technically known as a 'blonde transformation' when I saw it last; when you saw her, Snook, my transformation, I fear, hid the real hue of that young woman's hair. She must be a really remarkable person altogether, because, by way of a crowning blow, even the scarlet toque she wore was wine. Yet, after all, to rob her mistress was quite a commonplace thing to do; the stroke of genius was gaining admission into Mr. Rowland's flat in the way she did, and— managing to be left alone in order to enable her, at her leisure, to rob him. Mr. Rowland, I cannot tell you how much I admire you; you must have such a simple and such an innocent nature to have allowed yourself to be so easily beguiled— by such a curious tale."

It was a restless night for Mr. Rowland; he called himself all the names he could think of; now, after the event, it seemed incredible that he should have been gulled so easily; yet, supposing the woman's story had been true, might he not have been guilty of a more serious offence if he had declined to believe her; either way the audacious hussy had him in a difficult position.

He had still more to bear when, at breakfast the next morning, after what had been practically a sleepless night, Mrs Giles, the woman who "did" for him, offered what she appeared to think was the priceless gift of her commiseration.

"After all," she told him, "it's only what you might have expected, sir, you being so young, and unused to London ways, and fresh from the country, as it were; as I've told you myself, sir, more than once, everybody's a-doing you all the time. I daresay that young woman had heard what sort you were, and, of course, she saw her chance. It's all as heaven meant it."

What Mrs. Giles meant Mr. Rowland would very much have liked to learn— only it is just possible he might have liked to preface his inquiry by throwing her down the stairs. He made certain remarks which induced the woman to leave his presence with unusual rapidity.

There came a knock at the front door; be-fore he was prepared for anything of the kind, the preposterous Mrs, Giles reappeared, ushering somebody in. "A lady to see you, Mr. Rowland, sir."

"A lady? What lady? Good gracious, woman, you don't suppose—"

He started to his feet; what he was about to say must be left to conjecture; the sight he saw deprived him for a moment of the use of his tongue. There, in the open doorway, stood Miss Varney— the real Miss Varney.

"You must excuse me, Mr. Rowland, for intruding on you in this very unceremonious fashion, and— in this very casual costume, but I felt that the sooner I saw you the better it might be for both of us."

The "casual costume" she referred to consisted of some wondrous creation which might have been either a dressing gown or a morning gown, and which was doubtless intended to be worn in the privacy of her own apartment. She had on a dainty pair of slippers, and she wore no hat. He thought that she looked lovelier even than she had done the night before. He envied her her air of self-possession.

"Please go on with your breakfast, Mr. Rowland; I'm frightfully sorry to interrupt you. I can talk to you quite as well when you are eating, but— the fact is, I've read your play."

"My play?" he stammered— what she meant he had not the faintest notion.

"I've had another odd experience, Odder, I think, than that of last night—and that was odd enough."

He flushed, as a schoolboy might have done who felt that he was being laughed at.

"Among my morning letters was this one." She held out to him what looked like a manuscript in a brown paper cover. "It came with this note— as it's rather a curiosity I'll read it to you. 'Dear Miss Varney, the enclosed is rather more in your line than in mine— I found it in Mr. Rowland's room last night when he had gone downstairs to see if you had murdered Mr. Bennett. Trusting that in sending it on to you I am doing you a service, both you and Mr. Rowland, believe me, dear Miss Varney, yours gratefully, Jane Ballard.' The writer of this note, Jane Ballard, is the young woman who played that trick on both us last night."

"You don't mean to say so! Of all the unspeakable baggages! You don't mean to say that that's my play, which I only finished last night, and left on the table— and that she's had the— well, the cheek, to send it to you."

"By this morning's post, and here it is— as you see. And let me tell you that I think it's quite possible she has done me a service, however it may turn out for you. Have you made any arrangement for this play, Mr. Rowland?"

"Is it likely, when I don't know a soul connected with the theatre of any sort or kind? I was going to start it on what I believe is the usual round this morning."

"Then, in that case, it's starred, and— it's got there right away. It's a one-act play; there isn't much of a market for curtain raisers as a rule, but there may be one for this. As you may have heard, if you are interested in such things, I am shortly going to start in management on my own account. The comedy I am going to do is a trifle short for the evening bill. I've been wondering where I could find something to put in front of it "Which wasn't rubbish, and which even, per-haps, might help to draw money into the house, and, by the strangest accident of which I've ever heard, I believe I've got it. This is the very thing I've been looking for— this little play of yours. And do you know, Mr. Rowland, how sweet are the uses of advertisement? I don't think it would be at all a bad thing if it got whispered about in what a curious fashion I was introduced to this play of yours— it might give it quite a nice little sending-off fillip."

The whole story was not told, but parts of it did get about, in various versions— some of them even got into the papers; it is extraordinary how such things do get into the papers. As the world knows, Miss Varney's opening programme was successful, and not the least successful item on it was the first piece. Mr. Guy Bennett, who turned out to be a gentleman somewhere in the fifties, with a large family and a wife whom he adored, told Philip Rowland that the man who wrote that play must be that freak of nature a dramatist born— and that Mr. Guy Bennett, unlike some mummers, did not, in such matters, say the thing be did not mean, was shown by what presently followed. When the play with which Miss Varney opened had run its course, it was succeeded by a comedy by Philip Rowland— which formed the whole of the evening's entertainment. Its success is already ancient history; it was one of those phenomena which cause people to talk with bated breath of the immense sums which a lucky playwright must earn. The play had not been produced a month when the author asked the manageress— and leading lady— to marry him. Her reply was frankness itself.

"My dear Philip, I'd marry you to-morrow, or— you know what I mean; but I'm not at all sure that an actress ought to marry."

"I was of your opinion till I met you; now— I certainly think you ought to marry, although you are an actress, and, what is much more to the point, I think you ought to marry me."

It will be seen that the gentleman had be-come more courageous where the lady was concerned than when we met him. That was the first time of asking. It is believed that the question was repeated on several occasions, and, to show that in such cases there is nothing like perseverance, only the other day it was announced that a wedding had been arranged. One morning the engaged pair were walking together down the Strand, when, without a moment's warning, the gentleman made a sudden dart from the lady's side, vanishing down a side street before Miss Varney had even realised that he was going. When he reappeared, it was with a smile upon his face.

"Philip," exclaimed the lady, with an air of not unnatural surprise, "wherever have you been? You didn't give me the slightest hint that you were going, and, when I turned to speak to you you'd gone."

"I've been interviewing Miss Jane Ballard."

"Miss Jane Ballard? Who—"

"Moya, don't say that you've forgotten Jane Ballard!"

"You don't mean that— dreadful creature? You don't mean to say you let her get away; why ever didn't you give her into custody?"

"That's what I meant to do— what do you suppose? I saw her crossing the Strand, just as she was coming from the back of a motor bus— she saw me just as I saw her, and was off like a flash down the street there. When she saw me on her heels, she stopped, and what do you think she said. "I hope, Mr. Rowland, that you've come to thank me, and that that explains the hurry you are in.'

" 'Thank you,' I shouted, 'you— you beauty! The idea of my thanking you is quite in your best style, Miss Ballard. And, pray, what have I to thank you for?' 'Why,' she said, and you should have seen the minx's smile, 'don't people generally thank other people for doing them a service? I'm sure, Mr. Rowland, I did you a service— both you and Miss Varney— and I do really think you ought to thank me.' "

The gentleman stopped to laugh; the lady asked:—

"And then— did you thank her?"

"Well, I didn't exactly thank her, but— I let her go; though I'm not at all sure that I oughtn't to have thanked her in so many words, because, after all, she did do us a service— she couldn't have done us a greater, as far as I'm concerned. I don't know what your point of view is, but that's mine."

"My dear Philip," remarked the lady, ''this is an occasion when your point of view is exactly mine."

Some of the passers-by, observing the lovely lady, wondered why she smiled.

__________________

25: The Honour of Two

J. S. Fletcher

World's News (Sydney) 28 March 1914

Joseph Smith Fletcher (1863-1935) was an English journalist and author. He wrote more than 230 books on a wide variety of subjects, both fiction and non-fiction, and was one of the most prolific English writers of detective fiction.

SINCE he had come into the county as Chief Constable six months previously, Colonel Quartermayne had never taken much as a day's holiday from his new labours. Famous in the army as a strict disciplinarian and a good deal of a martinet, he had started out on his duties in Southmorland with the idea of complete thoroughness, and in order to set an excellent example to the two hundred and odd men whom he controlled he conceived it to be very necessary to be thorough himself. Some of his subordinates spoke of him, half-humorously, as a new broom that searched out every corner for a rigid sweeping; none of them could deny that their new chief took as much out of himself as he expected others to yield. He was here, there, end everywhere during those six months of entry upon office; it had been his boast in the days of his service that his was the finest battalion in the army; he meant to make the Southmorland Police the best and most vigilant county force in England. To that end he worked early and late, and there were folk under him who wondered when his energy was going to wear itself out.

But upon a certain fine day in autumn Colonel Quartermayne suddenly took it into his head to have a whole afternoon's holiday and to go a-fishing. He lived in a pretty country house on the edge of the great moor which lies in the heart of Southmorland; that moor, as everyone knows, is intersected by numerous streams and burns running towards the sea through quiet ravines and gorges. On one of these streams the colonel had long cast desirous eye, and it was with a feeling of almost boyish anticipation and exhilaration that he picked up his long disused angler's kit and set out for it, meaning to throw off all thoughts of officialdom and of business for a few hours.

The soft September sunlight lay calm and gentle over the wide moor as Colonel Quartermayne marched briskly across it. As men will who are glad with the gladness, of temporary liberty and irresponsibility, he looked carelessly around him at the wide-spread scene, wonderful and striking in its diversity. Northward rose the sharp outlines of the Southmorland Hills; far away to the south, beyond the intervening miles of heather and bracken he caught a glimpse of the sea. And in the middle of the great expanse of moorland, half-way between hill and ocean, he saw the grey walls and slated roofs of the convict prison for which Southmorland is famous, and for a moment he thought of the men within and about it, who were doubtless sighing in vain for the liberty which he was enjoying with such vast appreciation. At the thought he forgot his strict notions of discipline and his reputation as a law-upholding martinet and became human.

"Poor devils!" he said. "Poor devils'!" But sad or melancholy thoughts were not of the essence of the afternoon, and Colonel Quartermayne threw all reflections aside when he came to the place which he had been hankering after ever since he first set eyes on it.

It was a narrow ravine which cut deep into the moorland, a quiet, retired hiding-place of nature from which the world seemed very far away. A brown stream ran swirling through it, bordered by great boulders green with moss and lichen, and overhung by alder and willow and mountain ash; on each side rose high crags and walls of limestone, rising to the lip of the purple moorland above. Autumn though it was, there were dragonflies of exquisite colour darting here and there above the stream, and the joy of the warm sunlight was everywhere. the colonel breathed a sigh of great contentment as he looked around him; he promised himself a glorious, restful, profitable afternoon.

He began his fishing at a brown pool which lay at the foot of a great limestone crag. All around him were rocks and boulders which had been worn smooth by the rush of the winter torrents pouring down from the high ground of the moors on their way to the sea. And upon one of these rocks, close by him there suddenly fell a pebble which glanced off it and bounced with a smart splash into the water at its foot.

Beyond a sharp glance around him, the colonel paid no attention to this falling stone— he concluded that it had become detached from the cliff above him. But presently a second followed, and then a third— the third alighted fair and square on the creel wherein he meant to store his fish. And at that he came to the conclusion that somebody was playing some foolish game with him, and he turned and gazed angrily at the heights above, from which it was certain the pebbles had been thrown. He had fancied himself alone in the ravine, and he was not pleased to think that it had other occupants.

But as soon as he looked around Colonel Quartermayne saw that the ravine was tenanted, and by a tenant whose movements were, to say the least of it, strange and mysterious. From the edge of the stream the ground sloped upward to the foot of the crags; the slope was covered with thick undergrowth. And over the top of this, where bush and rock met, a man's head appeared for a second— a close-cropped head, dark, sun-browned of forehead, hatless, looking somehow forlorn, and oddly out of place against the blue-grey tint of the crags. It vanished— and in its place appeared a hand which beckoned eagerly. Colonel Quartermayne was a man who had never known physical fear in his life, and he carried a revolver is his hip-pocket, being much accustomed to going about in wild places on the moors at night. He was not the sort to delay the solution of a mystery, and when the hand beckoned him he immediately laid down his fishing rod, felt for a second at the butt of his revolver, and made his way through the shrubs and undergrowth to the foot of the crags.

"Here— this way!" said a man's voice, deep and strong, but curiously harsh.

The colonel emerged on a little pebble-carpeted clearing at the base of the cliff and saw before him the mouth of a cave which seemed of considerable size. And, standing just within it and staring anxiously at him, was a man who wore a dress of dirty yellow, every few inches of which were stamped with the broad arrow. Colonel Quartermayne recked little of the garb of shame or of its distinguishing mark. He was staring, as if spell-bound, at the man who wore it, a man, handsome, well set up, but worn and haggard, who stared back at him with something of a defiant carelessness making itself seen through the anxiety. For a second or two both men were silent; then the colonel burst into speech with one sharp  exclamation.

"Lattimer! And— a convict!"

The man in the dirty yellow laughed. There was a sneer in his laugh, and there was bitterness in it. He turned away and sank down on a ridge of rock within the cave. And he held out a hand that trembled. "Have you food and drink on you?" he said in a harsh, croaking voice. "I'm famished— spent! You anglers"— he laughed mirthlessly. "You anglers generally— I mean always—  carry something toothsome. Ah, how glad I am to see that!"

The colonel drew a flask out of one pocket or his old fishing coat and a sandwich box out of another. He passed them over in silence and turned away, not caring to see the  savage eagerness with which the fugitive seized upon them. He stepped to the front of the cave and looked out on the scene from which all the brightness and pleasantness had been blotted, and as he gazed it faded from him and he found himself regarding a picture of a long-dead day in which he saw himself, then adjutant of his regiment, welcoming a newly-arrived subaltern who seemed to bring with him into the Indian cantonments where they met all the joy of life and all the promise of a brilliant future. That was years ago— and the subaltern was now sitting behind him in a convict's garb, eating as ravenously and savagely as the wild beasts who had once made that cave their haunt.

He turned at last and saw Lattimer drink the last drop of the contents of the flask. His deeply sunken eyes had grown brighter and there was a flush on his thin cheeks. He laughed sardonically as he handed back the flask and the case.

"That was the first bite and sup— beyond blackberries and cold water— for forty-eight hours," he said. "You may be sure how I rejoiced when I saw you enter this valley with your rod half-an-hour ago. Anyway, you would have seen me to-night."

"I should have seen you to-night? I don't understand," said Colonel Quartermayne.

"I was making my way to your house. You may not think it, but we do get news of the outer world up there on the top of the moor." said Lattimer, jerking his head in the direction of the convict establishment. "I heard of your appointment as Chief Constable of Southmorland some months ago, and I resolved that as soon as I saw a chance I should make a bolt to you. And— here I am!"

"Why to me?"

The colonel's voice sounded hard, peremptory, unsympathetic, and the convict looked at him with some surprise.

"Why to you, Quartermayne? Because of your promise to me at Allahawar!" he answered. "You have surely not forgotten that I saved your child's life?"

Colonel Quartermayne's face suddenly flushed scarlet, and he hastily held out his right hand.

"Forgive me, Lattimer!" he said. "It— it had slipped my memory for the moment. I— I am so confused— so bewildered by the sight of you after all these years in that— that garb, that I am scarcely myself. No— no!— I have not forgotten."

Lattimer looked keenly at him.

"Nor that you then promised to stand by me through thick and thin if ever the time came?" he said.

"No— no!— I have not forgotten that either," replied the colonel. His unhappy mind went back again to a certain afternoon in the far-off past whereon Lattimer at the risk of his own life had saved the colonel's only daughter from what deemed certain death. "No— of course. I have not forgotten."

"Well— the time has come," said Lattimer, grimly. "It's here. I've got myself out of the place up yonder. Now you must get me out of the country, Quartermayne."

Colonel Quartermayne pulled at his grizzled moustache, wiped his hot forehead, and manifested other signs of disturbance.

"How— how did you get there?" he suddenly burst out. "I don't want you to— to―"

"Oh, I'm not afraid of making a clean breast— to you," said Lattimer, interrupting him with a laugh. "I got there for— forgery."

Colonel Quartermayne flinched.

"Forgery!" he muttered.

"Just so. If you'd been in my case, perhaps you'd have done what I did," answered Lattimer.

"Never, sir!" exclaimed the colonel. "Never!"

"All right. We won't debate the point. I know how assured of themselves virtuous people are. But they've never been tempted, and when they utter a certain petition in the Lord's Prayer about not being led into temptation they always say to themselves. 'But, of course, we never could be!' All right, I say. Forgery, as I tell you, and five years as the result of it."

"Of which you have served—"

"Three."

Colonel Quartermayne fidgeted the toe of a shoe about the loose sand at the mouth of the cave.

"Would it not have been better to have— to have fought it out?" he said, half-timidly. "You— you would not have been there so much longer."

Lattimer laughed, and the colonel felt as if the sound of it tore his nerves.

"Thank you!" said Lattimer. "If— if you ever get there yourself— which, of course, you won't— you'll know why a man escapes even if he has only a short month to serve. And I was ready to escape as soon as ever I learnt that you had come into the district. Because I knew, of course, you would keep your promise, your word."

Colonel Quartermayne sat down on a ledge of rock and groaned.

"Lattimer, how did you come to this?" he said. "You— with your brilliant prospects!"

Lattimer smiled sourly.

"Facilis descensus—" he began, "But we won't be trite. The usual thing, Quartermayne—there's nothing new in these stories. When I was fool enough to exchange, I got amongst a bad lot— you know the usual mode of procedure to the devil. Cards, horses, and so on— it's a poor same, looked back upon. And in the end— this."

"And— and what of the future?" asked the colonel.

An eager look came into Lattimer's face.

"If I can only get clear away out of England," he said, with a ring of hopefulness in his voice, "I've a chance— a good chance to pull myself round. I've some money— a fair amount— in a bank in Paris; I shall take it up and go off— never mind where, but it will be to a land where there is a chance. Quartermayne— get me out of this!"

"Yes!" said the colonel. "Yes! I'm thinking— thinking how to do it. Of course," he added, "you know there's a strict search being made for you?"

"Yes, and I also know that there's no more danger here," answered Lattimer. "I slipped off in the opposite direction and worked miles and miles round to this place. They were here this morning; they were within a few yards of me. I'm safe until night, anyway; to-night, Quartermayne, you must get me off, get me down to the coast, down to Starmouth. You can do it!"

"Yes— yes!" said the colonel, "I can do it— I will do it. But— Lattimer!"

"Yes?"

"You are aware that I am Chief Constable of Southmorland?"

"I said so."

"Well, to-morrow I shall resign the post. I shall keep my promise to you faithfully. But as soon as I have kept it, I shall resign— because, in keeping my word to you, I shall have broken my oath to the King."

"Your promise to me was made before your oath," said Lattimer sullenly. "I saved your girl's life— she would have been killed but for me."

"True— and I have never ceased to be grateful," said the colonel. "If I seemed to forget just now it was because I was so astounded. You must remember that I had not heard of you for years. And you must remember, too, Lattimer, that it was not I who placed you in this position."

"So you want to show me what a favour you are doing me!" exclaimed Lattimer, half angrily. "You want—"

"I only want you to understand how much I feel indebted to you by the sacrifice I am making to repay you," said Colonel Quartermayne. "I am not a well- to- do man; the fact is. I have very little private means beyond my pension. On my pay as Chief Constable I and my daughter could live comfortably; all else I was going to save for her. Now I shall give all this up cheerfully to make good my promise to you. Only understand that."

Lattimer frowned.

"I don't pretend to understand Quixotic conduct," he muttered. "I see no reason why you shouldn't get me away and keep your post into the bargain. Who'd ever know?"

"I should know," said Colonel Quartermayne. "But enough of that. Now I am going home. This evening as soon as it is dark I shall bring my motor-car along the moorland road at the top of the valley, and in It a suit of clothes for you— We are just about the same size and height— and a kitbag with some necessaries. I will leave the car at the head of the valley, and come down here to you. And— you will need money?"

Lattimer, who was looking morose and sullen, nodded.

"Very well— I will bring plenty. Now, keep close— you are not safe until you are on the boat for France. So until evening, good-bye."

Colonel Quartermayne went away from the cave with his head in the air; he collected his fishing tackle and strode away up the valley.

Once on the level of the moorland he paused and looked around him. The sunlight was just as bright, the hills just as purple, the far-off sea just as blue, the rush of soft air just as welcome as it had been earlier in the afternoon. But to the colonel all was changed. Nevertheless, his head was held high as ever when he resumed his march to the pretty house on the edge of the moor.

"Both these things have got to be done," he murmured to himself.  "They have— got— to— be— done!"

No one thought it an unusual thing that Colonel Quartermayne took out his motor-car by himself that night. He was an expert driver, and accustomed to going out at all hours; his daughter, therefore, expressed no surprise when he told her that he might not return home until midnight. She thought he had some important mater in hand; he had returned from his fishing expedition complaining of a headache, and had been very silent and preoccupied during dinner. Indeed, he had only made one remark to her—a remark which broke up on a long silence.

"Letty, do you remember when your horse ran away with you on the Rawal Kotar road?"

The girl looked up and shuddered involuntarily.

"Yes, father," she answered in a low voice.

"And I remember Lieutenant Lattimer stopping it at the very edge of that awful precipice. I wonder—"

"What?" he said quickly as she paused.

"I wonder where he is now," she said. "I just remember him— a big, fair-haired man who laughed a great deal when everybody praised, him. He left the regiment, didn't he, father?"

"Exchanged," replied the colonel. "Exchanged."

An hour later he, too, was wondering where Lattimer was. For when he reached the cave in the valley it was empty. He searched it thoroughly with the help of the lantern which he had brought with him, but there was no Lattimer there, nor any token of his recent presence. And the colonel shook his head and toiled back to the motor-car which he had left on the edge of the moor.

"They've taken him," he muttered. "Poor fellow! I wish— I wish I had found him last night."

But there was always the chance that Lattimer, alarmed by some search party, had forsaken the cave for another hiding-place, and the colonel, with his headlights burning, hung about the moors for a long time. At last he went home, and, with a sudden inspiration, hurried to the telephone and rang up the convict prison.

"Hullo! This is Colonel Quartermayne. Have you heard anything of the man who escaped on Tuesday?"

"Yes, colonel, we have him all right."

"Where and when was he captured?"

There was a pause. Then the answer came sharp and simple.

"He was not captured. He came back and gave himself up this afternoon. He—"

But the colonel rang off and hung up the receiver. He had heard enough. Lattimer had proved himself a man of honour.

_____________

26: The Story without a Title

Andrew Soutar

All-Story Weekly, Dec 23, 1916

Born Edward Andrew Stagg, (1879 – 1941), Soutar married Elspeth Soutar Swinton in 1907, adopting the name Soutar shortly after. Soutar was a correspondent, but is better known today for his novels, which were often serialized in newspapers. He also wrote pulp adventure stories for magazines.

WHEN the door opened in response to Carson’s impatient “Come,” there appeared on the threshold a young man of probably twenty-four, and so striking in appearance that Carson rose instinctively and placed a chair in readinessfor him. Then he returned to his own and said very politely:

“Is there anything that I can do for you?”

The young man sat down, and after brushing a mass of tawny hair back from his forehead, replied: “Forgive me if I say that you are the antithesis of all the editors I’ve ever readabout. They told me at the boarding-house that I should meet with rebuffs— that so many persons wrote short stories that it was next to impossible for a beginner to gain the favor of a conversation with an editor.”

He took an envelope from his pocket and held it toward Carson.

“I think it’s a most wonderful story,” he said. “Will you read it,and if you like it pay for it?”

Carson couldn’t repress the sigh. Hepicked up the visitor’s slip that had come from the commissionaire at the door of the building, and said reproachfully:

“You state here that your business is of great import.”

“I dare to think that it is,” the young man replied. “You see, I believe this story will help people at a time where sympathy is most needed. It is the first story I have ever written.”

“Indeed?” said Carson coldly. He was glancing at the first page of the manuscript.

“You’ve even forgotten the title.”

“No, I hadn’t forgotten it. I couldn’t think of one.”

“What’s it all about?” asked Carson smiling at the delightful ingenuousness.

“About the war.”

Carson dropped the manuscript on his desk. “We don’t want any more war stories. We’re fed up with them. People are sick of war stories. Those who have lost friends and relatives don’t want to be reminded of their grief; those who haven’t wish to have their minds diverted from the calamity that has befallen the world. It was your name that attracted me—‘Gilead.’”

The young man nodded acknowledgment of the doubtful compliment.

“Who led you astray and induced you to take to writing?”

“No one,” said Gilead. “It just came to me— the idea. There was a little woman in the lounge at the boarding-house where I am staying. She was sobbing her heart out, because that morning she had received notice that her husband had lost his life in Flanders. I spoke a few words of sympathy to her; but she told me it was past sympathy, her grief. She became hysterical in her declamations against the enemy.”

“And quite right, too,” said Carson. “There’s no room for the ordinary war story, Mr. Gilead. Write a ‘Hymn of Hate,’ and I’ll publish it and pay for it.”

Mr. Gilead’s face underwent a change. The large, pathetic eyes looked past Carson. He said to him:

“You have lost some one dear to you?”

“My son,” said Carson quietly. “My only child.”

There was a long moment of silence; then the voice of Gilead came pleadingly:

“I wish you’d publish that story.”

“I’ll read it,” said Carson, with an attempt at compromise. “I believe in encouraging new writers, although I’ll be quite frank with you— the magazine is not doing as well as it might, and it’s risky work to encourage new blood at the expense of one’s property.”

He added quickly: “I’m only the editor.”

The big eyes were inviting confidence. More, they couldn’t be resisted.

“We were doing fairly well before this war came,” said Carson, trying to turn his back on the visitor and finding it impossible, “but the circulation has been dropping steadily since. The proprietors won’t spend money on the magazine. They expect me to make bricks without straw.

“Why, if I said to you, ‘Yes, I’ll publish your story,’ I couldn’t pay you enough to buy you a good dinner. There! That’s the position. I could have made it go if it hadn’t been for this cursed war.”

“The war will not last forever,” remarked Gilead.

“No,” said Carson; “nor will I. I was fifty last week. And if this publication should fail, I fail with it. And, my boy, this is the hardest profession in the world in which to start again at fifty. I don’t know why I should be telling you this.”

“I know,” Gilead exclaimed quickly. “You’re thinking of your son. Your heart’s just bursting for sympathy.”

“Is it?” Carson affected indifference. “Well, I’m only one of thousands, I suppose. That’s why I say to you it is no good publishing an ordinary war story. You’re young, so that you have plenty of time to learn how to gauge the public taste.

“War stories were all right at the opening of hostilities. There was a thrill in them, for those who wanted thrills— fictional thrills. But, by Heaven! there have been enough real thrills in most families in the country during the last two years, and there is a difference between the real and the fictional thrill. It’s when the war comes home to you hard, when something happens that strikes right into your very life— it’s when— You are a young man without responsibilities, I gather?”

“I am alone in the world, but I try to make a friend of every one I meet. I find it is much more pleasurable than to seek to make enemies.”

“Ah!” said Carson, still in that bitter tone. “I’ve made nothing but enemies since I received a letter from the War Office informing me that my boy had been killed while bravely leading his section out of a trench.

“Not hundreds, not thousands, but millions of enemies; a whole nation I marked down in my mind as enemies— enemies to be hated and contemned all the rest of my life— enemies that no amount of peace talk and preaching will ever make human to my mind.

“When they killed my boy, they killed my faith. He and I had understood each other so perfectly since the night his mother died. He brought back into my life all the brightness and happiness that fled the night she was taken.

“I didn’t urge him to stay behind when the new army was being formed; indeed, I acquiesced in everything he said and did, because I loved him so much that I could feel the pain of his being taunted later if he studied my loneliness and remained at home.”

He stopped; then again he said: “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. But I want to help you with practical advice. Write a story that will teach us to remember the hell that has been created on the face of the world. I am speaking not only out of personal feeling, but from knowledge of what other people are suffering in this country.

“Look there on my desk! Piles of letters, all from men and women who have lost their best beloved. What is your story about?”

“Forgiveness,” said Gilead.

“Ah! I thought so. That won’t do.”

“I wish you’d read it,” with greater pleading. “I know I’m only a beginner, but I think you will like that story, and I don’t care what you pay for it. May I tell you a secret?”

Carson didn’t speak.

“I wrote that story for the poor little woman in the boarding-house. I said to her, ‘If the editor of the Aureole publishes this, I’ll read it over to you when the house is quiet.’ And, do you know, she seemed quite grateful.”

“Very well,” said Carson, “I’ll read it, but be prepared for a very candid opinion on it. I don’t believe in the common practice of buoying up beginners with false hopes. Story-writing is not easy. It’s not a trade that can be learned. If you do not possess the imaginative faculty you would be much better employed in attempting some other profession. You must be very new to this kind of thing, since you haven’t even put a title to it, as I remarked just now.”

“Now I come to think of it,” Gilead remarked thoughtfully, “an idea did occur to me. I could have put a title on it, but I thought it would be much better and more original to publish the story without a title, and if readers were interested they might suggest one. Better still, ask them to send in a title.”

Carson, having recovered some of his professional sternness, looked up at the clock and said:

“I will take it home with me to-night, and let you have an answer as soon as possible. Call here about this time to-morrow afternoon.”

As Gilead closed the door on his way out, Carson threw the manuscript of the story into the “To be Read” basket and leaning back in his chair, smiled at the recollection of how he had been tempted to let himself go, as he termed it.

“Forgiveness!”— as he recalled the word. “And millions of men dead and wounded in two years—all to appease the blood-lust of the Prussian wolf. And he talks of forgiveness! Still, it’s helpful, these times, to meet one so simple of nature. Looked like a curate out of work or a—”

He reached for the manuscript and glanced casually at the first sheet. He began to read with concentration. He found himself arguing against the writer at the end of the second page; he decided that he was an ass when the third was turned over. When he reached the end of the story he dropped the manuscript into the “Possible” basket, and wrote a letter to the proprietor of the magazine explaining that the drop in the circulation was due to a hundred causes.

Then he reread Gilead’s manuscript, and dropped it into the “Accepted” basket, but marked it “Cheap.”

That night he attended a meeting addressed by his own member of Parliament, Sir Joseph Ansett, and cheered with the others the peroration:

“They forced war upon us; they shall have it. Our dead cry for vengeance; they shall not cry in vain. They taught us to hate; we shall hate till the world is dead.”

And all night long Carson fretted because of the story in the “Accepted” basket.

He couldn’t have said why it disturbed him, especially as there was a familiar ring about it. Before daybreak he wished that he hadn’t seen Gilead.

Carson occupied a flat on the third floor; a little gray-haired spinster with big, lovable eyes occupied the flat immediately beneath. She had often spoke to him on the stairs, and when she read of his son’s death she took the trouble to go up the next flight, tap timidly at his door, and say, “I know that your heart’s aching: so is mine. I’ve just heard of the death of one who was always saying to me in the pre-war days, ‘Wait, old girl— wait till I’ve made enough.’ And now they’ve killed him—the fiends!”

As Carson went down the stairs on his way to the office the little spinster intercepted him.

“I’m afraid to look at the newspapers,” she said. “Is there any news?”

“Oh, yes,” he replied. “It’s much brighter.”

And yet he hadn’t opened his papers since his thoughts were held in a vise by the story written by Gilead, the unknown. He had been in the office only a few minutes when he received a telephone call. The proprietor of the Aureole asked him very pointedly if he had seen the figures for the previous month.

The proprietor was not a literary man, and had no sympathy for what he called the “stupid pandering to art” on the part of his editor. He was a stock-broker, and had bought the property in the spirit of one who would buy a new strain of domestic fowls.

“Look here,” he said coarsely, “you’ve got to take those figures home and sleep on ’em! I want circulation and a profit, or what’s the good of a paper to me? I read last month’s magazine through from the first page to the last. I don’t know how much you paid for the pap, but I didn’t think it worth the sixpence I gave for the magazine.

“You get the right sort of war stories into it— give the Huns a punch. Pile on the agony. Did you hear Sir Joseph Ansett’s speech last night? You did? Well, that’s the clutter. Stuff some of that into your pages and make people think? “Do you read the newspapers? You do? Do you see that the parsons are preaching the ‘kiss and forgive’ game? Well, you know what I think of the parsons, don’t you?”

All the same, Carson read Gilead’s story for the third time; and, at the risk of incurring the displeasure of the proprietor, he made up his mind to publish it and see what would happen. If he had been asked his reason for coming to that decision, he might have said that Gilead had impressed him more than did the story. There was a haunted look in Gilead’s eyes; although he had smiled during the whole of the interview on the previous day, it occurred to Carson that those big, smiling eyes were not unacquainted with grief.

After all, he said to himself, it was only a question of two or three guineas. He himself had lived in a boarding-house in his younger days, and had felt some of the misery that creeps into the corners of a boarding-house lounge. He said to himself: “If it is an act of kindness, I’ll do it. God knows, the few guineas may help him more than the story will hurt me if the proprietor kicks up a row.”

Gilead called as arranged. It would have taken a much harder man than Carson to turn him down, because he came in glowing with anticipation, and said eagerly: “You read it, didn’t you? What do you think of it?”

“It’s not a bad story,” said Carson, uncompromisingly. “Sit down, Mr. Gilead, and we’ll talk about it. As I said yesterday, you’re a beginner, but I’m ready to admit that you show remarkable promise. Shall we go through the story together?”

“If you please.” said Gilead, not at all dismayed by the somewhat faint praise.

“It’s a dramatic theme.” Carson was holding the manuscript before him, his eyes on it, but conscious that Gilead’s eyes were riveted on his face. “There are many improbabilities in it, and nowadays one dare not ask the public to accept what we call ‘the long bow.’ But I want to help you. If I made you an offer for this story, it would not be more than three guineas. What do you think about that?”

Gilead’s face flushed. He said with a rush of feeling:

“Three guineas would make a lot of difference to me and a certain little woman in the boarding-house. I told you about her yesterday? Her husband didn’t leave much.”

“We are not a rich magazine,” said Carson, “or I would double the sum. But I want to point out that I am taking risks in publishing this story. How long did it take you to write it?”

“About three hours,” said Gilead.

“You work quickly for a beginner,” observed Carson. “What strikes me most is the extraordinary lack of grip you have of a parent’s emotions— but you tell me you are a single man?”

Gilead nodded.

“Take the father in this story. He loved his boy— I was going to say as deeply as I loved mine—and yet when that boy fell into the hands of the enemy the father was collected enough to stand by and reason. “Do you think that if I had been standing near my son when they fell upon him to that trench— do you think that I should have halted and asked myself whether or not it was a glorious death? That boy was everything to me— my only son! I lived for him; he made my life one long road of happiness. He belonged to me. He was part of me. Can you feel that?”

“Let me ask you a question,” said Gilead. “Who gave that son to you? Who said that he was yours? Made in God’s image, only for your benefit, your pleasure? Had the world no right to him? Had you done something in the sight of your Maker that was so great, so noble, that you were rewarded by this unfathomable pleasure?”

“But listen,” exclaimed Carson testily. “You go on to say, in this scene, that although father and son were fighting a common enemy— although the father could have summoned aid that would have saved the boy, he dared to hesitate, and ask himself— I’ll read the passage aloud: 'From his place of concealment the father saw the mass of envenomed men fall upon his boy. In their frenzy they struck at him with their fists and with any weapon that suggested itself.

“ 'Once the face of the son rose out of the dense mass of black hatred and vindictiveness; the eyes looked to where the father was concealed, and if the poor, wounded body was racked with pain, the lips uttered no cry. Again it was lifted as the mob of soldiery heaved from all sides. This time the face was seamed with blood.

“ 'Still the father kept silent. His boy was dying with resignation that ennobled him. He was teaching the whole of the sleeping army how to die.'

“Explain that to me.”

“I will, presently,” said Gilead. “I’d rather that you went on reading for a while. Don’t overlook the fact that he epitomized all that the enemy hated. It was within his power to betray the whole of the cause for which he and his comrades were fighting. If they could make him speak, they had won. Will you go on?”

“Yes,” said Carson, and the manuscript was trembling in his hand. “All the same, I cannot see how you can reconcile the emotions of the parent with the callousness of the father standing by. I say again, that if my boy—”

“Supposing,” Gilead said softly, “that you try to forget your boy for a few moments. I want you to make an effort to understand the splendid silence of the father in that story.”

“I’ll go on reading,” said Carson. His voice was unsteady. “ 'Again and again they offered the son his freedom if he would speak, but when they realized that his courage was superhuman, that all the brutal blows which they had rained upon him, all the agony of their knife-thrusts, left him as strong of resolution as before, their frenzy increased to madness.

“ 'All semblance of humanness left them. No memories of their own children, or their brothers or friends, were allowed to stay the fiendishness of their designs. They cried, ‘Torture him!’ and on the words a number of them drew apart and whispered of a method of torture that would break down all his fortitude. “Among the mass of enemies there were some in whom the touch of humanity was not altogether dead. They shrank from the suggested torture, but fears for their own safety kept them silent, and they raised no protesting voice.

“ 'The father heard, and—' ” Carson dropped the manuscript. “You’ll never get the public to believe this,” he exclaimed.

“They will,” said Gilead. “They will. Something tells me that they will believe it.”

“You go on to say that the father watched the torture, although he could have prevented it by awakening the sleeping army behind; but he was able to say to himself, ‘My son’s death is so terrible that it will be remembered with horror, not only by his comrades, but by those who have brought it about. For years— hundreds of years— they will speak of it with shame. Whenever men talk of it, they will feel some of the agony that he is suffering now. It will awaken in the breasts of men, not hatred and vindictiveness, but a desire to prevent its recurrence.”

“That is the end of the story, save that the son died under this torture. Do you think that if my son were tortured like that, I could forgive?”

Gilead’s eyes glowed as he replied: “Your son died even as the one in my story; but, mercifully, there was no torture. You hate now because you are unable to differentiate between death and sacrifice. In the story, I have ventured to submit that sacrifice is not death.”

“My boy is dead,” said Carson sullenly.

Gilead murmured: “Read on. When peace is signed— when the world has ceased to labor in travail, you will not speak of your boy as being dead. Every time you look into the eyes of a free-born child you will see your son, since without the sacrifice he made there might not have been a free-born child. Try— just try to think of all those little mounds out yonder as stones—foundation stones of a new world.”

“Ye— yes,” said Carson feebly. There was a period of silence; then, “I like the story better than I did before you came in this afternoon, but it’s very doubtful that you will get others to agree with you. As I said yesterday, the reading public does not like an imagination that is too elastic. They may appreciate the— the originality. I don’t know.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Gilead confessed. “I don’t think I’d call it originality.” Again there was silence.

“We go to press this week,” said Carson abruptly. “Perhaps we shall both feel different when we see the story in print. Would you like a check now?”

“No.” Gilead waved it away modestly. “But I should like you to send it to the little woman in the boarding-house. The surprise might do her a world of good.”

And so Gilead left, and Carson did not see him again until the magazine had been on sale a fortnight.

And that fortnight had been full of wonderment for Carson. Within three days after publication the magazine had been reprinted. The story without a title was being talked about and argued about. Letters poured into the office, and the tenor of them may be suggested by the words of the gray-haired spinster who lived in the flat immediately beneath Carson. She went quietly up the stairs and dropped a note through the letter-box. God bless you for that story in this month’s Aureole. The circulation of the magazine frightened Carson. At first it was professional fright— he feared that some other editor would get hold of Gilead and buy him, “body and soul,” as he put it.

The proprietor of the Aureole was equally alive to the commercial value of the new writer; he telephoned through to Carson: “You haven’t let that fellow slip you, have you? Nail him down. Get him to write a series. Give him any price he cares to demand. That’s a really new story.”

Carson went round to the boarding-house, but learned that Gilead had gone away without leaving any address to which correspondence might be sent. He questioned the landlady.

“Do you happen to know if Mr. Gilead did much writing? You must have seen a great deal of him.”

“What sort of writing?” she asked, pursing her lips. “He told me that he spent most of his time in the British Museum, copying things for gentlemen.”

Copying! Carson went back to the office with all manner of fears assailing him. Was it plagiarism? Certainly the story had a familiar ring about it; he remembered having said as much to himself after he read it for the first time.

A fortnight passed. The Aureole had been mentioned from half the pulpits of the country.

Then Gilead walked into the office, and, smiling benignly, said, “Well?”

Carson closed the door.

“I’ve had a fortnight of acute anxiety,” he said hurriedly. “For pity’s sake, put me out of my misery. That story of yours— was it original—your own?” Gilead’s smile vanished.

“Why— no! I thought you understood.”

Carson felt for his chair and fell on it.

“Understood? What?”

“The story— the original story is known to everybody—”

“To everybody! It’s increased the circulation of the magazine by seventy or eighty thousand!”

“And nobody sent in the title?”

“Never mind the title.” Carson was white to the lips. “From what book did you copy it?”

“I didn’t exactly copy it. I dared to alter the— the form of narrative.”

“The book— the book?”

Slowly Gilead took it from his pocket and turned over the pages.

“The New Testament,” he said in a whisper. “It is the story of the greatest sacrifice in the history of the world.”

_______________

27: Giving him his Chance

Richard Marsh

Daily News (Perth) 22 Sep 1911

SHE STARTED out of dreamless sleep, suddenly wide awake, quivering with apprehension.

Someone was knocking, hammering with the knocker, rather, at the front door. Who could it be? What was it? It was still quite dark, especially for that season of the year, when the day began so soon. Who could be out so late— in that solitary place on Dartmoor?

There was not another house for two miles, two miles by the shortest way across the moor, She was alone, the only living creature in the house. Her maid's sister had been married that day, over by Chudleigh— she had allowed the girl to go home, and to stay the night. She would be back almost at dawn, but still then, she, her mistress, was a good two miles from the nearest living soul.

Who would it be, at that hour, who was knocking at the door?

The knocking came again— crash! crash! crash!

In the silence it must have been audible for miles across the moor. She scrambled out of bed, opened the window, looked out. '

'Who's there?'

'Come down and open this door at once— I'm a warder from Princetown Gaol.'

Princetown Gaol? Why, that was— how many miles away, right on the other side of the moor; how came a warder to be there? Hurrying on some clothes, sho went quickly down to the door, She turned the key— then hesitated; suppose— but what was the use of supposing— she drew the bolt and opened the door. A man came staggering in without waiting to be asked.

'Why,' she exclaimed, 'you're, no warder.'

He was in convict's clothes — hideous breeches, jacket and stockings, the brood arrow stamped all over them. The lamp she had placed on a bracket in the passage-way shone on him. Her heart jumped into her mouth.

'I am a warder,' declared the man. 'I'm Warder Crow, of Princetown Gaol. A prisoner got away this evening, we've been following him all night, I and my mates— we lost him in the mist. It's not so bad down here, but up above there it's so thick that you can't see your way.

'I not only lost my man, I lost' my mates too. I was wondering whereabouts they were, and where I was, when someone hit me on the head from behind. I knew who It was without turning to look, He downed me first time; see, he's broken my head right open.'

She could see that the hair at the back of his head was all clotted with blood.

'With whatever it was he hit, he knocked me silly; as I lay there, he stripped me of my uniform. I knew what he was doing, in a sort of a way, but I couldn't move a finger to stop it. Then I went clean off, lost my senses   altogether. When I came to I hadn't on so much as a shirt— I beg your pardon, ma'am, but I hadn't; but there was something lying close by me— it was this rig of his. So I got into it― what else was I to do— and ever since I've been wandering about, shouting and hollering, trying to find a road or something that would tell me where I was. The mist up there is still as thick as ever, and it's the first time I've ever been on this side of the moor. Then there was a break in the mist, and I saw this house just below, and I've been knocking, I should say, half a dozen times before a could get anyone to hear. You haven't got a trap or anything of that sort?'

'I've nothing of the kind.'

'But you've got stables.'

'They're empty. This is let as a furnished cottage, and I'm a summer tenant.'

'How far am I from Princetown?'

'That I could not tell you; certainly several miles.'

'Where's the nearest place I can get a trap or some sort of vehicle?'

'I should say Tormohan, Farmer Daniel's― that's about two miles across the moor.'

'Across the moor? How do you suppose I'm going to find my way across the moor In the darkness in a mist like this?'

'You asked ma a question, and I've answered it.'

'How far is it along the road?'

'Much farther, and not much easier to find.'

The man uttered what sounded very, like an oath.

'I suppose there is a high road somewhere. How far am I from it? And when I've found it how far shall I have to go to a place where there's a trap? I can't do much more walking; I'm pretty nearly done.'

She gave him the directions he required as best she could. Since it was her first visit, and she had not yet been there three weeks, her acquaintance with the neighbourhood was not much more intimate than his.

She said to him as he was going: 'I hope that what you've told me is not false, and that you really are a warder?'

He laughed— not over pleasantly. 'Why, if I wasn't a warder, do you think you'd get off, as you are doing? If I was the man we're after he'd have everything about the place worth taking. He'd cut your throat, for— well, I'll put it at a half-a-sovereign, but I shouldn't wonder, if ho was a bit pushed, If lie did it for less. You may thank you're lucky stars I am a warder!'

He vanished In the mist, which all at once had gathered closer round the house. She shut the door, locked and bolted it. Then stood with her hand pressed to her side. What a fright she had had! If, as he had said, he had not been a warder, but the awful man of whom he was in pursuit — who would cut her throat for half-a-sovereign! Wedding or no wedding, Susan should never have spent the night at home had she dreamt for an instant that an adventure of this sort was possible.

She had heard of prisoners escaping from Dartmoor, but she had supposed that that happened, as it were, only once in a blue moon; nor had she imagined that the chase ever reached so far as this, across those miles and miles of intervening moorland, When she got upstairs to her room she would thank God on her knees for the escape she had had. She turned, still trembling, to take the lamp from the stand on the bracket, when there was a sound at the back of the house, the kitchen door was opened, and a man came out into the passage, who pointed a revolver at her head.

The thing was so sudden, so unexpected, that sheer surprise deprived, her for a moment of the faculty of speech.

'Who was that you were just now talking to?'

The man was asking her a question, still with the revolver pointed at her head. Her senses came bask sufficiently to enable her to realise that he was in uniform; to her knowledge she had not been one like it before, but her intuition told her that it was the uniform of a prison warder. He repeated his Inquiry,

'You heard what I, asked— who's that you were just now talking to? I'm an officer of Princetown Gaol, a convict's escaped, I just caught sight of him at the top of the hill there, he must have come down to this house. I believe you were just talking to him outside that door— you're helping him to escape, do you know what the penalty is for anyone helping a convict to escape? Don't stand there as if you were dumb. You've got a tongue. I heard it just now. Now let me hear it again, and quick's the word. I suppose you know it's my duty to shoot anyone at sight who helps a convict to escape?'

Then an answer did come; that it was nothing like the one he expected, his manner clearly showed.

'Mark?'

'What— who the— good God!— It's Letty Hogarth!'

'Mark!' she cried. 'Mark Willis! What does it mean? What are you doing here— in that uniform? Tell me, what does it mean?'

Regardless of the weapon he had levelled at her head, she had gone close up to him, and, as if in a sudden frenzy of excitement, was pointing to the garments he had on. The air of authority he had worn seemed to have dropped off him as completely as If it had never been there; he had become all at once a different man— a smaller man. The fear which had shone in her countenance had been transferred to his— he cowered in front of her, seeming, in his turn, to be as speechless as she had been. She, on the contrary, seemed to have regained even more than her natural volubility —words came streaming from her lips.

'Mark, tell me! I don't understand. What does it mean? What are you doing here, at this time, of night— tell me, what are you doing— in these— these things? I don't understand. I thought— they told me that you were— on the other side of the world. Tell me— can't you speak? Tell me, Mark, what you are doing here— in these things?'

He seemed to find it as difficult to answer as she had done a moment ago. He stood before her, with bowed head, the revolver drooping at his side, a pitiful figure of a man who was broken by his shame.

He had been so fine a gentleman, holding more than his own with the very best of them— light-hearted, gay, nearly always with a jest on his lips and a smile in his eye. Could this be the same man?

She laid her hand lightly on his arm, as if seeking to give him courage, to put back into him some of the manhood she had known. And she dropped her voice, as if conscious that what they had to say to each other he might not care for all the world to hear― as if there was anyone who could hear!

'Mark, tell me; don't be afraid— it isn't like you to be afraid; tell, me what this means; I'll try to understand.'

One might have thought, from the manner in which she pleaded with him, from the pain which was in her voice, that it was she who had cause to be ashamed, not he.

'Look at me, Mark; please, look— it's only Letty.'

But he would not look up; if anything his head sank still lower. When words did come they were spoken in a voice which no one which had addressed her, in such blustering fashion only a very few seconds before.

'Letty, I've come to this.'

'Mark— to what?'

'I'm a convict in Dartmoor prison.'

She had known what was coming, yet— her heart sank within her. Once before it had sunk very low— then he had been the cause of it; but it seemed to her that that had been as nothing to this. As he went on, in some dreadful incredible fashion, the life seemed to be oozing out of every pore of her body.

'I've escaped from gaol; they've been chasing me all night. I've killed one of them for all I know; one of the warders; this is his uniform that I've got on, I left him mine. If they catch me, they'll take the skin off me with a cat o' nine tails, and worse than that.'

She did not ask him of what crime he had been guilty; he had been guilty of a crime against her; she had forgiven him that and she could forgive him anything.  This man had been her lover; she was to have been his wife; although a man could hardly use a woman worse than he had treated her, although, for very shame, she had not owned it oven to herself until that moment, she loved him still.

'They shan't— get you if I can help it, you can be sure of that;' She spoke, as It seemed, with a sharp catching of her breath.

For the first time he looked up at her, as if her words had taken him by surprise, as if he had expected her to say something altogether different from what sho had said. And when he looked up their glances met; in her eyes there was something which seemed to move him more even than her words had done.

She said, in a broken whisper, as if she saw what was passing through his mind. 'Mark— dear Mark, don't— break my heart by looking at me like that.'

His voice, when he replied, was as broken as hers, but from' a different cause.

'Letty, if you only knew what a brute you make me feel. I was in the house when that fellow came to the door just now; if his few wits hadn't come out of the hole which a made in the back of his head he'd have searched the place for me; he's got my clothes and I've got his; but, in spite of it, no one will take him for a convict, but they'll spot me at once. A man can't be long— over there, without getting something which marks him out among other men; he knows it marks him— he feels that every decent man sees 'convict' written on his face. I believe there's never been a case on record of a prisoner getting clear away from Dartmoor; I knew it, but— there was a chance, and I took it— fool that I wast because I had been given good conduct marks which would have earned remission; and now —they'll catch me again, flog the skin off my back, take my marks away and increase my sentence. After the way in which I handled Crow I shouldn't wonder if they made it life.'

He spoke with a , violence which frightened her; yet sho did 'her best to conceal her fears and to comfort him.

'They shan't catch you, Mark— don't think it. I tell you they shan't catch you, if I can help it.''

'If you can help it! How do you think that you can help It? They're all over the moor, the hue and cry is out against me. I'm worth five pounds to someone; how do you think I'm going to get clean off ?'

'I'm trying to think, give me a moment or two, I'll find out a way; they —they shan't catch you.'

'Who's in 'the house besides you?'

'No-one; I'm all alone.'

He started at her, a new something In his eyes.

'All alone? In— this solitary place? Isn't there even a servant in the house?'

'My maid is spending the night with her parents at Chudleigh.'

A new something had come, not only into his eyes, but into his tone― his bearing; an eager something.

'Letty, the two chief things I want are clothes and money; have you a suit of men's clothes in the house?'

'I'm afraid I haven't.'

'Where could you got me one— quickly— now, at once?' He observed her hesitation. 'If you can't get me a suit, of men's clothes— how big is your servant? Is she as tall as I am? You're too short.'

'I'm afraid I am; Susan's bigger than I am.'

Her glance was travelling up and down him. 'Can't you wait until the morning? I might manage to find a suit in the morning. I'll keep you safe.'

'Suppose they come and, look for me, Crow may fall in with some of them; when he tells them about this house they'll tumble to the fool he's been, they'll come and search it; I know them. If they do come, how are you going to keep me safe? Listen!— what's that? Put out the light!— put out that lamp!'

He snatched the lamp from her hand and blew it out.

'Didn't you hear? I did; I've got sharper ears than you. I need them. Letty, there's someone coming towards the house. Now, how are you going to keep me safe?'

Her breath was coming in gusts.

'Mark, I'm not so very much shorter than you. I'm as big as that man who was here just now. Take those clothes off; wear mine.

'What good do you think that would do? Do you think they won't spot me at sight? They'll be on to, me the moment I start to run; and they'll shoot at sight.'

'I'll keep them off for as long as I can.'

'How do you imagine you're going to do it? You're talking nonsense. They're outside; I tell you I'm done.'

'Listen, Mark! I've quite a lot of money upstairs— forty or fifty pounds; It's In a little cash-box in a drawer. I'll go upstairs and get it. You go into that room and take off those things quickly. I'll leave the money on the table and some clothes, which you must try to get on. They'll be old ones; I'm sure you'll be able to manage, You can leave these things in that room. When you come up I'll come down.'

'What will be the good of doing that? They're closing in on the house; they're found each other. There's all the lot of them. I'd better make an end of it with this.'

He raised the revolver which he had in his hand, She caught at his wrist.

'Mark, don't do that— you shan't! Give it to me!'

Before he knew it, she had snatched it from his fingers, 'If you do as I told you— at once, without wasting time, you've a chance— a good chance,'

'Letty, don't be a fool! Give me that revolver. You don't know what you're talking about. Where do you think my chance comes in?'

'You're going to get into my things.'

'Letty!'

'Quick! I can hear them! Go in there. The moment you have them off come upstairs. I'll be waiting for you with the money. Then― I'll come down.'

'But, Letty, I tell you―'

'Tell me nothing! Do what I ask you— quick, Mark, quick!'

She half pushed him through a door, which opened out of the passage on the right; then, closing it, ran swiftly up the stairs. Reaching her room, dropping on her knees beside the bed, she crowded into a few flying seconds an agonised prayer.

Rising from her knees, there were sounds without; it seemed that she had left her window open when she had gone down to unfasten the door. Through it came the tramp of heavy footsteps, a voice which seemed to be issuing orders, a clank as of metal. She took her cashbox out of the drawer, brought it to the table, unlocked it, turned out of it all her precious store. Then, thrusting her feet into her thickest pair of boots, she laced them up. She went to the top of the stairs and listened— how long would he be?

The footsteps had halted outside the house.

She could not wait. Running down the stairs, she opened the door of the room in which he was.

'Mark, quickly! You'll find everything ready. The clothes are on the table beside the money. I'm sure you'll be able to get them on.'

'What's the use? They're here! I don't know what mad scheme you've got in your head, but I tell you—'

'Tell me nothing!— go! Up the stairs, to the right, at the top— It's the room in front of you, I left the door open so that there should be no mistake.'

A scantily-clad figure, coming out of the room, passed up the stairs, obeying her injunctions. He made more noise than she had done, the house seemed to shake as he mounted.

She slipped into the room ho had left; it was in black darkness, she had to find by the sense of touch the garments he had discarded, of which he had robbed the warder. With amazing rapidity, under the circumstances, she was into them; she had a dressing-gown over her nightdress, to be rid of them was the work of an instant. She buttoned up the tunic, tightened the belt about her waist, crammed her hair under the peaked cap.

She was ready. What was he doing upstairs? Was he as quick as she was? She had the revolver—still; she had brought it down with her. Her impulse was to leave it on the table. God grant that she might not have to use it; but— it might be useful.

She went close to the window to listen— someone was outside, it was no use trying that way. She went out of the room to the back of 'the house. Her idea was to get out of the kitchen window. It was open. someone was without— she could hear him speaking.

'Hullo, here's a window open— looks as if this might have been his way in.'

A figure appeared outside; she felt sure there was another close by— was he caught like a rat in a trap? It was essential, if her part of the programme was to be carried out, that she should get out of the house— clear away. When she bad got a decent start they might see her if they liked— she intended that they should; and, seeing, they might give chase; that also she intended. She was fleet of foot; and counted on them being tired; they had been out all night; she ought to be able to keep out of their reach, in the mist and darkness, for, at any rate, a mile. By that time, she would be at a distance from the house— he would be able to get off unsuspected in the opposite direction; he would have his chance. But this programme would fail at the very start if she could not quit the premises without rushing into; their arms.

She began to understand what they had been doing; how it was they were so long in attracting the attention of the inmates of the cottage to their presence. There were outbuildings— stables, a washhouse, a barn; they had been subjecting those to an exhaustive search before tackling the house. Now the turn of the house had came; she did not know how many they were, he had not said, possibly he did not know, probably someone had an eye on all the loopholes of escape.

She drew suddenly back closer to the wall; the man outside was coming through the open window, committing what was very like burglary under cover of the official aegis. She arrived at a sudden decision, slipping round the wall nearer to the window as he scrambled awkwardly into the room. When he was in, he was within a foot of her, though his words made it plain that he saw nothing.

'It's dark in here— as bad as it was on top; can't see a thing— haven't you got any matches? I must have some sort of a light; if he was in here, he could down me without my ever knowing who did It.'

She had been right— there was someone else without; a second figure appeared outside, If a match were struck—there would be an end of her; she was conscious that the trick she was playing would be detected in an instant— if there was light. Neither of the men suspected. If Mark was to have his chance it was now or never. Sho pulled the trigger of the revolver she had in her hand— the muzzle was pointed towards the floor; she had never fired a pistol in, her life, she felt now as if she were exploding a dynamite bomb. The noise of the discharge made her jump— but it did not startle her to anything like the same extent that it did those two warders; to judge by their behaviour she might have wounded both of them; both exclaimed— the one without moved aside, the one within, who was probably the more startled of the two, jumped back.

In an instant she was past him, through the window and away. Before either had realised what had happened she was a hundred yards off. Then a hubbub arose; she could hear oaths coming from the two startled men; it seemed to her that figures and voices were coming towards her from all sides of the house. Then something happened for which she had not bargained— there was a report, someone had fired at her; she heard the bullet so whistling past, she was not sure it had not grazed her as it went.

So taken by surprise was she, just as the two warders had been, that for the moment she lost her head— stumbled, fell. She was down and up in an instant— but that was an instant too long; she had lost the start she had won, they were almost on to her, three or four men seemed to be within a couple of yards, of her heels, But she was not caught yet— she was not going to let him lose his chance quite so easily as that; she knew the ground better than they did— she made for a low wall which divided the garden from the stable yard; it was only a few inches high, she was over it unscathed; her pursuers, unconscious that there was such an obstacle, went blundering against it. It  seemed that each man, catching at his fellow for support, brought him with him, so that all came down. Blasphemies came volleying after her; they were not much longer down than she had been. Then a voice rang out.

'Shoot! shoot! Why don't you shoot, you fools?'

Another voice rang out still higher, one which she knew well.

'It'll be murder if you do— It's a woman you're shooting at. I'm up here— at this window. Can't you either hear or see! If you want me you can come and fetch me; but if you shoot that woman it will be murder!'

Others recognised the voice as well as her; among them the man who had just called out the order to shoot.

'Oh, you're up there, are you? All right, my; lad, we'll come up there and fetch you— you make no error. You can see for yourself the game's up— are you coming down to us, or have we got to come to you?

'What fool is that shooting?'

Someone had shot—the shot was followed by a cry, a scream of pain.

'As I live,' a hoarse voice exclaimed, 'it is a woman, and I've shot her:'

The chase was ended, so far as Letty was concerned; she was lying in a bunched-up heap when the warders reached her.

'Why the devil did you shoot?' The question was asked by the voice which had given the order.

'You said shoot.'

'You heard him shouting— you knew it wasn't him.'

'Not till it was too late, I didn't.'

'Let's hope you haven't killed her. You'll pay for It if you have.'

Someone came bursting through them— someone who was in women's clothes, someone who knelt beside the silent form which lay upon the ground.

'Letty, Letty— speak! For God's sake, Letty, speak to me.'

She did speak, but what she said he alone heard, as he bent over her, she whispered in his ear.

'Mark, I'm so sorry you haven't had the chance I tried to give you.'

'Never mind me. Are you much hurt?'

'I don't think so; it's only broken my leg, that's all.'

'Thank God it isn't worse. Letty, you'll see, I hope to show you that you've, given me my chance.' He stood up. 'You've got me.  I'm done— only be careful how you handle her!'

They could not have 'borne her into the house more carefully had she been one of their own dear ones. When the daylight came they left her In her maid's charge, who had returned from the wedding, and the doctor's, who had been fetched from a distance of half a dozen miles.

'It's nothing serious,' the doctor told them; 'a clean gunshot wound in the leg, that's all— she ought to be about again in a week or two.'

'Then,' said the recaptured convict, opening his shoulders and drawing a long breath, 'I don't, care what they do to me; she has given me my chance, and I'll prove it.'

He kept smiling to himself as they haled him back to gaol,

End

_________________

The Past Masters  Anthology Series

Cumulative Index

To Past Masters SIXTEEN

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

A Happy Solution  16

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

In Masquerade  16

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

Peter Pirnie's Prison-House  16.

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 Honour of Two  16

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

Kenneth Grahame

The Burglars  16

William H Hamby

Cal Wood's First Case  16

Cosmo Hamilton

Proofs of  Guilt 10

The Mirror of Nature 12

The Silent Witness 5

Floyd Hamilton Hazard

Front!  13

Headon Hill

Behind the Cupboard 16

The Dragon Casket 16

The Fierce Eyes 16

The Gunman from the Underworld 16

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 Mysterious Englishman  16

The Open Eye 11

Sheer Profit  P

Bruno Lessing

As It Happened To Moey  16

Moritsky's Ward  16

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

Richard Marsh

Giving him his Chance  16

"I Have Killed a Man!"  16

The Other Man's Boots  16

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

Charles Leonard Moore

The Lion Rug 16

W. C. Morrow

The Mated Rubies of Kyat Pyen  16

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

The Man Who Lifted the Blind  16

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

Marmaduke Pickthall

The Poultry Yard  16

Lilian Quiller-Couch

An Exciting Week  16

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

Dallas Lore Sharp

The Professor's Panther 16

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

Howard Dwight Smiley

Smokeless Tobacco  16

Thorne Smith

Yonder's Henry! M

John Philip Sousa

The Conspirators M

Andrew Soutar

The Doctor Takes a Hand  6

The Story without a Title  16

F St Mars

Shadows  16

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

Mrs. Baillie Weaver

The Scarecrow  16

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

May Wynne

The Tiara   16

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 Lion Rug / Charles Leonard Moore

- 2: The Mated Rubies of Kyat Pyen / W. C. Morrow

- 3: The Professor's Panther / Dallas Lore Sharp

- 4: The Burglars / Kenneth Grahame

- 5: The Man Who Lifted the Blind / E. Phillips Oppenheim

- 6: As It Happened To Moey / Bruno Lessing
- 7: A Happy Solution / Raymund Allen
- 8: The Other Man's Boots / Richard Marsh
- 9: Shadows / F. St. Mars
- 10: Moritsky's Ward / Bruno Lessing
- 11: In Masquerade / Alice & Claude Askew

- 12: Smokeless  Tobacco / Howard Dwight Smiley

- 13: The Tiara / May Wynne

- 14: An Exciting Week / Lilian Quiller-Couch

- 15: The Mysterious Englishman / William Le Queux

- 16: Peter Pirnie's Prison-House / Sir George Douglas, Bt.

- 17: The Dragon Casket / Headon Hill

- 18: The Gunman from the Underworld / Headon Hill

- 19: The Fierce Eyes / Headon Hill
- 20: Behind the Cupboard / Headon Hill
- 21: The Scarecrow / Mrs. Baillie Weaver
- 22: The Poultry Yard / Marmaduke Pickthall
- 23: Cal Wood's First Case / William H Hamby
- 24: "I Have Killed a Man!" / Richard Marsh
- 25: The Honour of Two / J. S. Fletcher

- 26: The Story without a Title / Andrew Soutar

- 27: Giving him his Chance / Richard Marsh

- Cumulative Index up to Past Masters 16