PAST MASTERS

TWENTY

February 2021

Produced by "Pulpmeister"

(Terry Walker)

Contents

1: The Molten Bullet / Arnthony M Rud

2: Green for Danger / Anthony M. Rud

3: A Square of Canvas / Anthony M. Rud

4: The Corpse on the Third Slab / Otis Adelbert Kline

5: Mandrake / Adam Hull Shirk

6: The Hank of Yarn / Perley Poore Sheehan

7: The Bearded Men / Adam Hull Shirk

8: All Talk / H. Bedford-Jones

9: Courage / Andrew Soutar

10: The Lost Limerick / Guy Gilpatric

11: Scotch and Water / Guy Gilpatric

12: West of Guam / Raoul Whitfield

13: Two on the Roof / K. R. G. Browne

14: The Soft Spot / K. R. G. Browne

15: For One Night Only / K. R. G. Browne

16: The Dogs of Purgatory / Hugh Pendexter

17: The Man With the Wild Eyes / George R Sims

18: The Match / James Oliver Curwood

19: Greaves' Disappearance / Julian Hawthorne

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1: The Molten Bullet

Anthony M Rud

1893-1942

Thrilling Wonder Stories, June 1937

THIS is the last of my long series of studies of the folk of the Lost Planet, fellow Skrygeours. Or, fellow Martians, as we have agreed to call ourselves, the name being so much more pleasing to the electric ear.

I feel a warmth and a sympathy for those Earthmen, so far ahead of us in many ways, yet totally unable to help themselves in that last dreadful calamity.

Since we have adopted their spoken and written word, in place of our thousands of clashing dialects different along each two canals, and so many of their incredible mechanisms, it is only natural that we should have devoted time to their individuals.

In passing let me say that my deepest regret has been the inability of myself and other Martian scientists, in spite of our monster selectoscope which allowed me to pick up their ether waves, their speech, and even to follow the movements of any single Earthian with understanding, to get together with their great scientific men in any sort of talk.

We could hear and see and understand almost everything; but we could not fathom the manner in which those ether waves they called radio, were flung from place to place, and even out to us here in the center of the Universe.

They, on the other hand, were apparently several time cycles behind discovering anything similar to the Loamm selectoscope, which would have enabled them really to study us!

As I have reiterated, both physically and mentally they resembled us so closely— allowing for the differences in climate and our other natural advantages, of course— that it is almost certain we sprang from the same stock.

Either the Creator developed life on both planets in almost identical fashion, or at some past time and greater epoch of civilization we must have conquered the difficulties of interplanetary travel, and sent a space ship to colonize Earth.

I favor that theory. Though of course it might have been a landing party from Earth which started us!

I HAD great hopes for Albert Einstein Ammerton. He was more like a Martian than any of the other scores of Earthmen I had studied. If any man on Earth ever could have invented our selectoscope, or its equivalent, Ammerton would have been the man.

According to their time reckoning, which I have explained earlier, Ammerton was born in their year 1937, A.D. Though we might have regarded him notably backward, and odd in some respects, from his very ,earliest years he was far ahead of his fellow Earthians. He was a mathematical genius.

At the age of eleven he had graduated from Massachusetts Institute of Technology and already was in a fair way to becoming recognized as the greatest Earthian authority on mathematical variants. When he was fifteen, and acting as third assistant at the great Sandraes Observatory, he worked out a correction to the parallax of Neptune— an error which had gone undiscovered for more than a century.

Development of this kind, usual with us on Mars, was something more than phenomenal on Earth. Ammerton was called a prodigy. Like our great astronomer and calculator, Ebii Loamm, who had conquered the binomial theorem at the age of forty months, Ammerton was a trifle narrow in after life. He did not become insane, however, (You will recall that Loamm, after inventing the selectoscope, went violently mad at the age of two hundred, in the very prime of his young Martian manhood.)

Ammerton's greatest interest lay in the far stretches of the Universe. He was human enough, in his odd moments though, to court and marry a beautiful young woman, one Elspeth Sandraes, daughter of the multi-millionaire Earthman who had given this observatory its great 300-inch mirror telescope.

So no one was greatly surprised when in 1963, at the death of the. observatory chief, Albert E. Ammerton was promoted over the head of the then assistant chief, one Hans Becker, and given supreme authority, in the Sandraes Observatory.

Note that name, Hans Becker. He was much like many Martians you and I know— selfish devils, consumed by inner furies, men who believe that all that they desire should be handed to them, irrespective of their real desserts.

With the selectoscope I followed Becker and Ammerton, and flatter myself I understood them from bones to brains. It is too bad they were not radio engineers, for if so it is certain we would know now the one great Earthian secret which escaped us..

(Even now, after one of our Martian centuries— equal to 178 Earth years— I often puzzle over what those early radio broadcasters were trying to tell us, when they kept repeating over and over again that statement about the music going round and around. It did, and so did their words, of course, but as far as giving us the hint we sought, it seemed irrelevant!)

Hans Becker was about forty years of age, haughty and arrogant of manner. He was a competent astronomer, of course, painstaking and methodical, until a pair of things happened to upset him greatly.

First, the beautiful heiress, Elspeth Sandraes, married Becker's young rival, Ammerton. Second, Ammerton received the coveted post as head of the observatory. As the chief assistant, Becker believed that he should have received the appointment. And it is probable that he did love the girl. A good many men of assorted ages did.

How Becker did rage! I was fascinated by him, and followed him on the long walks he took over the countryside. He walked fast in spurts, sometimes raising his right leg stiffly in a sort of wooden-soldier march, sometimes stopping short to lift his fists to the uncompromising stars, and shout curses which ought to have turned green the face of the moon.

Becker's own white face would grow red, then purple, while his thinning thatch of yellow hair bristled with the electricity generated by his venom.

All that first year Ammerton, happy with his new wife and the great camera-telescope, was unaware of the hatred and jealousy seething in Becker's heart. In fact Ammerton was extremely blind, never finding out about this personal grudge until at last it was almost too late to do anything about it.

In all their relations at the observatory, Becker was courteous, suave and obedient to his new chief, bending often from the waist in that stiff, rather jerky bow which was characteristic of him. But his inner thoughts must have been black and slimy enough. He vowed aloud in a shout to the distant stars— and to my selectoscope— that he would devote the remainder of his life to vengeance.

It was Ammerton's career as Earth's foremost astronomer, which Hans Becker ruined— and ruined so insidiously, after a long period of seeming harmony with his chief, that the plotter achieved his object in full before Ammerton as much as suspected that he was the victim of a conspiracy.

Becker came of a German family of clockmakers, and himself had served an early apprenticeship in that trade. So he was deft with delicate machinery, intricate little affairs of springs, pawls and ratchets. He studied the finer adjustment mechanisms of the awesome camera-telescope, and then busied himself for weeks in a secret workshop in the cellar of his home.

Then during one afternoon, when honest astronomers sleep, Becker brought his devilish little gadget to the observatory and fitted it to the great telescope. It concerned tiny fractions of a degree in setting, and was so small itself and placed so well out of the way that no one could suspect its presence, save possibly the subordinate in charge of cleaning, oiling and care of the expensive instrument. And that subordinate was Hans Becker himself!

A tiny electric switch in the adjoining office had to be thrown, in order to affect the telescope. When the switch was not in contact, the instrument was perfect as usual. But Becker, by merely moving that switch arm back and forth, could make one observation faulty, while another taken the next minute, would be accurate!

The error there on Earth was perhaps three one-hundred-thousandths of an inch. Two and one-half billion miles away on Neptune, for instance— a planet much nearer than any star— that tiny discrepancy had magnified itself so greatly that an astronomer could break his heart endeavoring to understand it.

Or, he could believe that stars and planets suddenly and irresponsibly had left their prescribed orbits, like so many off-center-weighted golf balls in flight, and were slicing and hooking themselves into the heavenly rough.

Becker was far too wise in his plotting to allow anything like this, uncontrolled and incredible, to happen. What did seem to occur was calmly regulated and consistent, even though startling. You see, astronomy was so exact a science that when even a tiny error showed its head, it created a sensation throughout the world. It is quite as if in a high school geometry class a young sophomore went to the blackboard and demonstrated to the astounded teacher that in a certain right-angle triangle he had discovered, the sum of the squares of the two other sides did not equal the square of the hypotenuse!

Becker waited until his chief launched a series of observations. These had to do with the earth's present orbit, and inferentially with the eccentricity of that orbit from one million years B.C. until the present day. Ammerton little realized that he was going to find anything more wrong than might be accounted for by the difference in modern and old-time instruments. Croll, Leverrier and Stone, working out these calculations first, had been handicapped by telescopes outdated by more than a century.

But Ammerton's results certainly did begin to come out differently! At first he was inclined to doubt, to think that possibly the great instrument itself must be in error. But tireless checks over all the great coordinates of the heavens, finally convinced him that he was on the right track, and that those old figures, believed in the way lamas believe in Buddha, were in gross error!

Becker stayed right with his chief all night long every night for months, helping take the photos, tabulating results, and making intricate calculations. When not in the observatory, Ammerton was walking around wide-eyed and preoccupied. His wife scarcely knew him. He muttered long strings of figures to himself. The thing he had come upon was stupendous, unbelievable!

Yet everything checked. Each time he repeated his observations he obtained the same amazing results. Of course it had been difficult indeed for those poor fellows with their primitive apparatus, back in the nineteenth century. But even so, it was hard to conceive that they had been this far wrong.

At last Ammerton's final doubts were satisfied, though. He sat down to write the epoch-making article for the Journal of Astronomy, which would give these new results to a wondering world.

Heretical statements such as this were the meat of the new exposition, which would make savants gasp:

It must not be supposed that the eccentricity, in obedience to the laws, relating to planetary eccentricities, oscillates between the absolute maximum and .the absolute minimum, the perihelion shifting continuously forward. On the contrary, the successive maxima and minima are very unequal, and are attained after very unequal intervals.

Becker looked startled and shocked when he read. He stammered around, and then suggested fearfully that it might be wiser to break the, news somewhat more gently. Would not Herr Ammerton consider sending out a few hints first, and postpone the actual publication of his revolutionary article until some future time?

THIS got the scientist's back up—  as it was intended to do.

"By the cosine of Caraneus, no!" cried Ammerton, banging his clenched fist on the table in passionate emphasis. "I'll never quibble or qualify! When I'm right, I'm right— and everyone must know and understand!"

"Of course you know best, chief," murmured the hypocritical Becker, bowing stiffly from the hips. "And what a poke in the eye is coming to you, you handsome sap!" he gritted under his breath, concealing jubilance under the usual mask of grave suavity.

It was during those days, following the mailing of his treacherously deluded article, that my fullest Martian sympathy went out to poor Ammerton. Not only had he been betrayed in his lifework, but all the natural and unnatural misfortunes men are heir to, started ganging up on him. He fell ill with influenza. His wife died in childbirth, and the baby with her.

And then when at long last Ammerton managed to stagger to his feet, facing every disaster like a strong man should, resolved to bury his sorrows in work, he found even that chance for forgetfulness slipping away from him!

The friendly editor of the Journal of Astronomy had sent him a message, hinting that after having read the cosmic surprise in the long article, he wondered if Ammerton were not poking out his neck a bit too rashly. He suggested a careful recheck of results.

Ammerton, out of himself with grief and physical illness at the time, answered this with curt savagery, quite unlike his usual manner. So in due course the article appeared. The magazine editor realized it would boom circulation, even though it did ruin Ammerton.

And then, of course, there was the slight possibility that the man was right. He had a worldwide reputation for care and thoroughness in his work. The sensation was all that anyone expected.

Then for a few weeks— silence. Finally, when other observers had gone over the ground, there came the frigid, stern word that Ammerton must be quite mad. This came from Professor Emmanuel Liebling, of Prague. An Associated Press interview with another noted astronomer. Dr. Wilfred Graham of Lick Observatory, appeared in many of the chief newspapers.

Dr. Graham said flatly that his learned contemporary was mistaken. Less dignified savants all over the earth jeered loudly. Why, any eighteen year-old freshman in college astronomy could take a twenty-foot 'scope and show how ridiculous these findings were!

The Judas plot of Hans Becker had worked to perfection. Now he added the master touch. Spurred out of his grief, indignant beyond words, Ammerton plunged into a complete recheck of his work. And his second batch of results was identical with the first, to a dozen decimal places! He called in Becker to see. But now, appalling though it was, results were totally different! (Becker, of course, had thrown off the switch.)

Sweating even in that chill mountain observatory, shaking with a palsy of sudden horror, Ammerton suddenly broke. He yelled insanely, flung his fists aloft, and ran from the observatory gibbering in momentary madness.

If Hans Becker right then and there had dismantled his secret apparatus of error, he would never have been discovered. Like many another criminal, however, he could not keep from overdoing it. He saw that his chief's great brain was practically unhinged now. One more shock, one more senseless happening which reason could not explain, and the mental ruin of the young scientist would be complete. That, and nothing less, was Becker's goal.

BACK now into the observatory rushed the wild-appearing Ammerton. One can realize just how far from his usual mental moorings he had drifted, by what he did then. He actually cleaned the lenses of a ponderous eyepiece, unused since the first days of testing the giant camera-telescope, and looked through this eyepiece into the heavens!

Becker waited. The opportunity for his final coup would arrive, he thought, but this was not it. Ammerton was sweeping the night sky, his own mind chaotic.

He chanced to cross the orbit of Polyphemus. This gigantic asteroid-comet, which for many centuries had come near— dangerously near— the Solar System, once each eighty-three years, now was out of sight from any save the very largest modern telescopes on Earth. It may have been causing the jitters just then, to the ice-blooded inhabitants of far-away Uranus, if any.

Ammerton's keen observer's brain, still not addled as were his emotions, caught and fastened to a strange thing. There was something peculiar and disturbing about the asteroid-comet, showing out there against the blue-black of interstellar space as a faint streak of orange fire.

Polyphemus had a kink in his tail!

In plain words, his tail should have been slightly curved, if he were pursuing his ordinary course. Instead, there was a wide bend in it! That meant trouble.

Ammerton instantly realized the possibilities. They were so monstrous that the thought acted like an ice-pack on his fevered head. The distortion of the tail meant that somehow and sometime the asteroid-comet had abruptly changed course!

As a possible result, he might hit and explode one of the planet members. Or another catastrophe, thought Ammerton with horror, might lose Earth its sun—letting all inhabitants of that planet freeze to death in a few hours. Or it might even head Earth straight into the sun, to be swallowed up in boiling, molten oblivion!

There were other terrible possibilities as we on Mars know; but those were enough for Ammerton at that time. He started new observations, making photos of Polyphemus every half hour, and calculations from them.

During the following day, unable to sleep, the scientist studied all available data on Polyphemus. He made painstaking calculations, and at ten that evening carefully swung the giant telescope to a certain position of right ascension. Careening along through space at its terrific pace, the comet-asteroid should have reached this exact point at 10 P. M. sharp, Greenwich Observatory time.

Again Ammerton looked through the eyepiece of the telescope before getting ready to take the photograph. An awed exclamation burst from his throat. Polyphemus was not there!

(I hasten to make plain that this was not Becker's fault. That scoundrel was lying low and waiting for a good opportunity, which he did not suspect had arrived. Ammerton had told him nothing of-the blood-chilling discovery.)

With the big telescope sweeping back to the comet-asteroid's, position of the previous night preliminary to some sleuthing of the star spaces, Ammerton was shocked to discover Polyphemus almost exactly where it had been the night before! Realize what that meant! The tail had grown appreciably shorter. Polyphemus had changed direction sharply, and now was headed directly toward Earth, at an approximate speed of 3300 miles a minute!

OF course, whatever it was that had shooed it from its normal orbit, might have slowed it somewhat, or vastly increased this usual speed. Time alone could tell. But Ammerton was never to know, nor anyone else on Earth, why Polyphemus had changed its course so amazingly.

No one could suspect that it was because the asteroid-comet was a mass of highly magnetic iron, attracted to Earth's iron core! However, unless something intervened, or the speed of Earth was sufficient to outstrip Polyphemus, this unholy game of celestial tag was bound to end in blazing catastrophe!

The mass of Polyphemus, which was indeed a super-comet, was approximately seven times greater than that of Earth's moon— or about one-twelfth the mass of Earth itself! When and if these two bodies collided, it would create such intense heat that both would be utterly consumed, and the resultant gases blown away into furthest space!

Naturally there could be no survivors on Earth, unless some of them came forward with a space ship at the last minute, and succeeded in navigating away to some other planet. If that happened, of course, the refugees would have been most welcome among us on Mars.

Chances, however, of any group of Earthmen inventing and actually building such a ship in the short space of a few weeks— the time which would intervene before a collision— were naturally very small.

However, on the fourth morning, after three nights of intensive study, Albert Einstein Ammerton announced to the reporters of a large daily newspaper that Polyphemus had gone wild, left its recognized orbit, and now was running amok to collide with Earth!

The scientist, though knowing now well enough what would be said of him in astronomical circles, thought it his sacred duty to warn the world. He himself had ceased to matter. The reporters spread themselves, and their city editor cooperated.

Ammerton's story was rendered with all due solemnity— if you were not capable of reading between the lines. It was a derisive masterpiece. While seeming to kowtow as usual to the sage of Sandraes, it really said in substance. This Guy Is A Nut, And Here Is Proof!

Other astronomers, boiling over with indignation at Ammerton's previous mistake, did not even wait until their smaller telescopes could pick up Polyphemus. They howled. They jeered. They demanded that alienists be called to consider Ammerton's case, and that immediately Sandraes himself and the trustees of the observatory, get together and discharge the crazy man.

Through it all for nearly a week, a pale-faced man with set jaw, glued his eye to the telescope and watched the onrushing doom. He had every calculation made. He knew the day, hour and second when Polyphemus would reach the outer limits of Earth's atmosphere— and then the fractional second later which would be the time of actual impact. Gripped by gravity, the speed of Polyphemus would increase terrifically, along at the last. It would probably reach the awesome velocity of 5000 miles a second!

Earth had twenty-nine more days to live, according to Ammerton.

All of a sudden the derisive clacking of onyx upon porphyry, the braying of human asses, and the skirl of jeering bagpipes come to an end. A few of the learned doctors tired of their fun, and turned to peer through their own little lensed barrels. Might just as well see what might have caused poor Ammerton's delusion.

Then came a brief, appalling message out of Europe:

Dr. Luigi Genetti of the Cisalpine Observatory says Ammerton may be right! Polyphemus headed straight for Earth!

In Sydney they saw it. In Moscow. At Cape Town. At Buenos Aires. At Edmonton. In the course of five or six more days they all could make out Polyphemus.

Give them another week, and they would be able to discern a small, glowing sun all by itself in a blank portion of the heavens, using only their naked eyes!

By the time that week was out increasing crowds were gathering to stay up all night and stare at Polyphemus. There was an undercurrent of mild excitement. Fear? Not a bit! Too many bearded wiseacres clad in nightgowns had climbed to the tops of neighboring hills, and there waited for the end of the world. The great Earth public was enjoying a new kind of show, but it was not in the least disturbed. Not yet, that is—

The days and, nights passed. Of course long ago the comet-asteroid had completely tucked in his fiery shirt-tail; or rather, because of the sun's position directly beyond Earth, it was streaming directly behind him, and therefore could not be seen from Earth.

Dr. Graham of Lick Observatory now calculated that his speed had increased to 13,700 miles a minute!

It was when he read this frightened report that Hans Becker realized the truth. A few hasty observations of his own convinced him that destruction of the earth, with everything upon it, loomed.

And Becker, like many another treacherous scoundrel and egomaniac, feared hurt and death to himself with an intensity of wild, shuddering horror. It could not be! It could not! It— He had to catch a grip on himself, for just then a surging horde of reporters came rushing to him, demanding his views on the all-important thing.

Did Earth have any chance to escape? Controlling his shivering, Becker pooh-poohed the idea of world destruction. Certainly Polyphemus was coming. But after all, what was the usual fate of a meteor (he knew, of course, this was no meteor!) which rushed into the rim of Earth's atmosphere? In practically all cases, the friction set up caused it to be consumed utterly! In this case it just might be that a fragment would succeed in reaching Earth's surface; enough, let us say, to cause a perceptible jar. Or perhaps it would go unnoted, like that big meteor which fell in Arizona a few thousand years ago.

But Hans Becker, try as he did, could not believe his own words of assurance. For untold centuries the comet-asteroid Polyphemus had been a flaming bulk of molten metal and gases, careening through space. Why should it be consumed in the few seconds— or split part of a second— it would take to traverse the atmosphere of the earth? Answer: it wouldn't!

In his palsied fright, Becker forgot all about the throw-switch on his desk, and its effect upon the big telescope. What a little matter this thing, and Ammerton's disgrace, seemed now!

Ransacking his desk, gathering items he meant to take with him to a deep cellar or vault somewhere, Becker accidentally upset one of his desk telephones, and did not bother to put it back on its cradle. The speaker-transmitter bumped against the throw-switch, and closed the circuit. Becker went in haste, not knowing and not caring.

Ammerton came into the observatory a half hour later, and went to the telescope. No longer was it possible to get anything save boiling, seething chaos by training the big instrument upon Polyphemus; but the astronomer had some by-product observations and calculations he wished to make.

When, however, he attempted to train the telescope, he found it cock-eyed! From that to a discovery of Becker's apparatus and the subordinate's treachery, was a short matter. Ammerton traced the wires to the switch on the desk, and found out exactly how the thing had been worked to make him go haywire on those first calculations published before the scorn and derision of the entire scientific world.

So he had been wrong after all— and it had been his trusted helper who had betrayed him!

From that moment Ammerton, deprived of everything, he had loved and valued in the world of men and women, forgot the impending cataclysm, except insofar as it limited his time now to a few days; Before, that space of life was ended, he meant to find Becker, who had gone from the observatory, and even from the secluded hamlet at the foot of the mountain.

Becker had taken the train for New York City. Ammerton did the same. He was out to wreak vengeance upon the scheming rat. Then those last four days of fiery terror. That is, from dawn to dusk the sky was practically as usual, save for a gathering heat haze. Polyphemus came always in the direction of the night side of the earth, as far as North America was concerned.

At night, however—if you could call it night— a full third of the sky was filled by the glowing, rushing monster! It gave far more light than ten suns. And perhaps the most horrible part of it all was that, employing plain smoked glasses, any inhabitant of the world could watch Polyphemus actually roiling and boiling and growing in size!

With a loaded pistol in his pocket, Ammerton was on the trail of his quarry. Haste was important now; and in these days of mounting horror, few people paid attention to others. Each man was searching his own soul for hope, and most were finding only the rusted tin cans, worn-out auto tires, and empty bottles of past excesses.

Ammerton managed, as time grew terribly short, to learn that Becker for some reason had left New York City, (it was his fear of the falling skyscrapers) and had gone out to a place called Port Washington on the shore of Long Island.

But even finding one man in that large a place, was a hard task. Ammerton started a systematic search, since it appeared that Becker was unknown to the crowds running panic-stricken about the streets. No one could give any information, or cared to try.

Most thinking men had provisioned deep cellars, hoping against hope that disintegration of the comet-asteroid would occur, and that somehow Earth would survive— with perhaps only a few days of excessive heat. Becker certainly had sought one of these holes.

Ammerton grimly made the rounds, hoping he could be in time. Mounting terror reached its icy, constricting fingers to clutch the heart's and brains of all careless mankind.

Business stopped. Ships put into port and were immediately deserted. Trains, city subways, airplanes— everything quit. Power was turned off. Gas plants ceased operations, and storage tanks of gasoline, oil and other inflammables, were emptied. Frenzied throngs rushed about the streets of cities, like ants caught upon a hot plate.

The arrogant New York multi-millionaire, Augustus Blick, who manufactured motor cars, was caught, crushed and trampled to death by the maddened mob besieging the largest cathedral in New York, attempting to get inside and repent their sins.

In all the world only a few real saints and Ammerton went about uncaring. And Ammerton really did care, not for catastrophe, but for completing one private affair before it came. Even Polyphemus paled before the star of his destiny. If he found Becker now, what did it matter that the end of the world arrived ten minutes later?

THAT final night the entire heaven was sealed from horizon to horizon by the glaring, molten bulk of the monster of doom. Heat outdoors became too intense for humans. The ground began to smoke. Pitchy trees in the forests suddenly burst into flames. Buildings of frame construction began to scorch and blister.

Everywhere men took their families into cellars and holes in the ground, into mines. Then by word of mouth the dreadful last-minute news was passed: Two more hours, and Polyphemus hits the outer rim of the Earth's atmosphere! Then we will know!

Ammerton, making a final dash across the street of liquefied asphalt paving, realized that when he had searched this block of buildings, in which a bank was situated, he was through.

Even with every protection, he could not venture outdoors in the remaining moments—if any did remain —without shriveling up and burning to a cinder.

"Just let me see him! Just let me see him once!" he repeated over and over in half imprecation, half prayer.

One hour, fifty-nine minutes and fifty-one seconds of the period of grace had sped, when Ammerton at last succeeded in bribing his way into the crowded subterranean bank vault. The place was jammed with sweating humanity, lighted only by a few candles, and filled with the fearful din of frenzied sinners on their knees.

Becker was there. He was on his knees, arms wildly waving. But that moment he saw Ammerton pushing through the crowd, advancing, his face a mask of grim vengeance, to level an automatic pistol.

"Don't!" shrieked the Judas.

"You betrayed me, and made me the scorn of the world!" said Ammerton, calm and implacable now. "So, the world's vengeance—"

His words were lost in the sudden, screaming awfulness high above. The heat of the earth's surface, as its atmosphere was consumed like a flimsy curtain, suddenly mounted to millions of degrees!

The bank building, like all other excrescences on Earth's surface, suddenly became molten over their heads. The surface too— even before the actual impact— But just as he himself dissolved into a wisp of smoke and nothingness, Ammerton squeezed the trigger of his pistol. Flame spurted, meeting greater flame in mid-air.

The bullet never reached its mark, for the mark had gone. The vault, along with the planet Earth, melted, became gas, exploded— all in a trice.

The cupro-nickel slug from the gun melted in flight and disappeared. But Ammerton, dissolving into fires hotter even than the imagined hell of his forefathers, believed in dying that he had avenged the wrong.

_________________

2: Green for Danger

Anthony M. Rud

Argosy Weekly, 7 Oct 1933

THROUGH the driving sheets of rain big Emile Dupres saw the little man trying to hide behind the anise bush. Quick as thought the tall Cajan dropped full length to the palmetto, dodging the expected load of buckshot. Then he whisked away into the scrub, vanishing, circling to stalk the bushwacker, his black eyes narrow and the set lines of his harsh countenance revealing his far-off trace of Indian blood.

But no blasting explosion sounded amid the dripping aisles of the piney woods. The little man, shivering behind the anise bush, chilled to the marrow in spite of the humid warmth of the Alabama May, blinked rain out of his red-rimmed eyes and whimpered despairingly. The ridiculously large automatic pistol in his hand wavered and drooped hopelessly.

Noiselessly, Dupres appeared at his back. The Cajan halted a second, frowning in wonderment at the strange garb of the skulker. His derby hat was now a sagging, pulpy thing. His blue serge suit, his collar and tie, and his shoes that once had been brown-and-white but now appeared to be mere blobs of red clay. A city man—or boy. What could be his mission here in the heart of the woods, fifty miles from Mobile?

Something warned the little fellow. With a gasp he whirled, attempting to fling up the automatic.

"Blatte!" gritted Emile, and closed with him.

One stride, two motions of the giant's arms, and the lurker was disarmed and helpless. True, the pistol thudded once. Its heavy forty-five caliber slug tore three or four pink bells of laurel from a bush but did no further damage.

Joe Carney tried to fight, but he might as well have tried to stop the drenching sub-tropical rain. Emile Dupres thrust the automatic into the deep hip pocket of his overalls, seized both of the little man's wrists in his left hand, then thrust him a yard away and stared at him.

That last wrench, which nearly tore Joe Carney's arms from their sockets, was the last straw in his weakened condition. He sagged, breathed deeply, and fell in a black faint.

The Cajan let go of him then, turning him face upward with the toe of his laced boot. For a moment it seemed as if he meant to crush Carney under his heel the way he would have crushed a cottonmouth moccasin that disputed his way across a cypress log.

But the undiluted wretchedness of the haggard, upturned face, the face from which both freckles and innate pugnacity had faded and in which homely red bristles had grown, halted the Cajan. His harsh visage did not exactly soften— it could not do that— but a scowl of puzzlement replaced the flinty, righteous anger.

Emile knew city men— even some of the liquor racketeers of Mobile. Rut never before had he seen a northern gunman. Here was one, come straight down the Dixie Highway—JH—and then that sand-and-clay track through the wilderness which is pompously termed the Mississippi Valley Highway.

The police of Jackson, on a bluff above the flooded Tombigbee River, had found the hot car where Carney had abandoned it. All the ferries had been drowned out. Carney had managed to get a Negro to row him across the turbulent three-mile-wide stream. He had come the rest of these miles toward the Gulf of Mexico on foot.

But all the gunman's gloss was now gone from him and his clothes. He was starved, terrified and sick. Unafraid of pursuit, he feared this awesome country— and the unending rain.

JOE CARNEY awoke snug and warm. Hot, in fact, for dengue fever had got deep into the marrow of his bones. Everything about him looked unreal. A rough-raftered cabin of two rooms. A giant blue-gray dog, always silent except for resounding thumps when he lay down on the floor before the hearth. A big, harsh faced man with long black hair like an Indian—a man who dosed him with quinine, and with a stinking greenish brew which pepper-burned his throat and gullet, but which felt powerful and comfortable once it reached his stomach. That dose and the quinine made him sweat.

Strips of tasty meat, broiled and cut up fine, were fed to him by the giant. This was yearling venison, though Joe Carney did not guess. He also tasted fresh milk still warm from the cow— and it made the little gunman snarl and spit. There were satsuma oranges, skinned and seeded, which he liked, and lemonade squeezed from a giant lemon the size of an osage melon and mildly spiked with corn liquor from a charred keg.

Emile Dupres fed his patient regularly, but left him alone through long hours, morning and afternoon. The big, silent mastiff stayed in the cabin when his master was away, but he could not be petted or cajoled. He lay about, occasionally stretching wide his terrifying jaws in a yawn, completely indifferent to the sick man on the cot.

A day came, nearly two weeks after he had been carried to the cabin, when Joe Carney got up on shaky legs and lifted down his clothes from pegs on the wall. Only then did the dog awake to any signs of interest. He did not interfere with Joe's dressing. Even after Joe was fully clothed, the dog merely followed him out into the bare red-clay dooryard. But when Joe went shakily to the gate that gave upon the wood road, he found his left forearm seized firmly in the mastiff's jaws. The dog refused to let him lam!

As soon as Joe, trembling with weakness, went back to the cot, the dog left him and lay down in a corner, indifferent again. Joe Carney cursed wonderingly. He had never seen an animal like this— no, not even in Lincoln Park, where they had the zoo.

THAT night, Emile Dupres did not come in until well after dark.

When he did appear he staggered a little. Saying nothing to the convalescent, he stripped off his chambray shirt, letting his overalls hang to his waist. As soon as he lighted the lamp, the left side of his big torso, above his hips, showed drenched and sticky with blood. One buckshot had torn through his arm; another had plowed along his ribs, tearing up a sliver of flesh and skin as long as a man's forefinger.

Death had whispered as it passed him by.

Hot water. Then a swabbing with iodine, which bit until the Cajan's teeth ground together. Then gauze compresses, sprinkled with boric acid and held down by strips of plaster. The Cajan asked no help, paid no attention to Joe's awed curses and questions. Only when a clean shirt had been donned did the big man come over to the cot. Never before had he spoken more than curt monosyllables to Joe Carney.

"Who paid you to come and kill me?" he demanded abruptly.

"Wha-at?" gasped Carney. "You think I done— that? After you took care of me? Sa-ay, big fella, what the hell kinda guy d'ya think I am?"

"Une blatte!" growled Emile. The patient would miss the exquisite contempt in that word, since he neither knew the French for cockroach, nor suspected that in that language the vermin was feminine, and implied the effeminate.

"You would have shot me from ambush, that first day!"

"Oh, yeh, mebbe I would," agreed Joe Carney with a shrug. "I was sick and kinda nuts then. I dunno what in hell I thought I c'd get offa you. I was broke, and hungry—"

He fell silent as he saw his host go over and lift the long shotgun from its nails on the wall, break the breech, and squint through the barrels. Anyhow, there couldn't be any burnt powder in that gun! It had hung there all day long.

"Your dog wouldn't let me outa the yard anyhow," Joe continued after a pause. "I was gonna beat it, an' I tried."

"Where?"

Joe stared. "Hell, I dunno," he admitted. " Somewheres— and try and get a job, I s'pose. The booze racket's done for, now we got beer."

Alabama had not availed itself of the new dispensation, so the Cajan did not understand.

"You want to work ?" he asked doubtfully. "All right. You can work with me. My frere, Antoine, he was killed in March. It is too hard for one man."

"Oh , yeah?" breathed Joe, staring up. "You mean your buddy was shot, and now they're layin' for you? Good clean fun in your job, eh? You begin to interest me to beat hell!— Say, just what is it you do? I thought you was a farmer!"

"No, citrus gas," said Emile. "And I guard the dipping vats. Four of us, we take turns. That's where they shot Antoine— and me. I got one through the head. With a rifle."

The little man's eyes were wide at the unadorned savagery of this nonchalant tale. And they boggled out still further when it came to light that the gas used in the big citrus orchards of the neighborhood was precisely the same poison gas introduced by the Germans into modern war. Chlorine— the heavy green cloud which sent men coughing and retching into oblivion!

"Good grief! Poison gas and buckshot! Well, you can lead me to it, big fella. It'll be sorta in my line, after Cicero and Burnham— sorta." He grinned. "Do we wear masks and everything?"

DAYS went by, however, before Joe Carney could make the grade. Now big Emile talked. He did not boast, but he made plain his odd position, here in the new citrus belt of the piney woods.

There were six good-sized orchards, all fenced with hog-tight wire. Outside the wire ranged cattle and swine; the fierce, wild, stringy beeves and the gaunt, savage razorback hogs belonging to whites, blacks and Cajans. There were a few herds of sheep, too. Any man who wanted to raise oranges, pecans or market truck had to fence in his place and keep out the free-range animals. That was the Alabama "herd law."

Resentment over the fences ran high. Now and then a whole length of fence would be found cut down, with animals inside, ruining the fruit. There was no recourse against the vandals.

"Gotta catch 'em cutting the wire, and shoot 'em, eh?" nodded Joe with thrilled understanding.

"That is so— only very hard. The worst trouble, though, comes with the dipping vats," said Emile.

He explained that according to State law, all cattle had to be dipped regularly. The State had established a station here, and all farmers were required to round up their cattle and bring them here for dipping. That cost money, and if given half a chance, the sullen, angry ones who never could understand the reason behind such a law dynamited the dipping vats.

Emile and his brother had made big the woods, that is—by a number of dangerous money— for taking over part-time jobs, the vats, they had guarding They had maintained twice repairing them when been destroyed, meanwhile them as well as possible. They patrolled the woods, discouraging wire-cutters and repairing breaks in the orchard fences. Once each season they gassed all the citrus shrubs, thereby killing parasites. A careless man might easily lose his life or his health while handling chlorine gas. But Emile and his brother, who had fought three years for France, were experts. They wore masks, and they did not neglect a single precaution for their own safety.

But now Antoine was dead, and Emile had had great difficulty finding a helper who was not afraid to use the gas. For the work of fence and dipping vat patrol, there were three other Cajans who would slouch around with shotguns. Their actual bravery was questionable, but for the sake of the good pay they went through the motions. Emile checked up on them sharply.

"I wait for those who came with dynamite and killed my brother," he said simply. "They will come back."

"Do you know 'em? I should think mebbe you'd go after 'em your ownself," said Joe Carney.

"They are not from this part of the woods," said Emile. "I think they go all around in several counties, and I think they are paid to dynamite the vats. I will know two of them when I see them."

THE little Irishman, had he thought about it, would have grinned and called himself as completely unprincipled as he was lacking in any vestige of nervousness or fear.

On the causeway over Lake Calumet, just south of Chicago, he had left two hijackers the victims of his smoking pistol. The big boss had handed him a wad of notes and told him curtly to lam. Otherwise he never would have thought of coming south.

Flight in a stolen car, though, with a final lap on foot through this rain-wet wilderness had given him his first taste of fear. Now, watching and listening to big Emile, and later watching the careful competence of this man who lived with death all of his waking hours, Joe Carney learned a thrill of admiration for something besides lawless toughness.

This big fella was good, and he had been a real pal in time of need. Certain resolutions were still misty in the little gunman's mind. Perhaps he would never phrase them. But once he learned that Emile had a dangerous job on hand, and could use "a guy with nerve," Joe never for an instant considered going on south to Mobile to catch a fruit boat.

The job of gassing was simple enough, if a man took the proper care. The gas came in long cylinders, and was under pressure. The cylinders were stacked at the dipping vats, like greenish-brown cigars against the outside wall of the supply shed.

When one of them was needed it was taken in a wheelbarrow or a wagon. The orchards here had Florida oranges, satsumas, grapefruit, lemons, cumquats and loquats. All were grafted shrubs, the bases being the hardy, tough and thorny trifoliata, which never grows much higher than a man's head.

When each was to be gassed, a canvas hood was dropped over it, and a metal flex hose with a nozzle carried the chlorine up under the hood. There was a short hiss of gas, then a ten-second wait. Then the hood was lifted away and the men went on to the next shrub, upwind. If you left the hood on too long, the gas destroyed the shrubs as well as the parasites. Masks were essential, of course, and these made the job hard in hot weather.

The very first day he was out in the orchard with Emile, however, Joe Carney saw something he never forgot. The day was humid, windless. The greenish gas dissipated slowly, clinging to the ground. As they neared the end of the first row, Joe was taking surreptitious breaths by lifting his mask.

ALL of a sudden he stopped doing that. A big, mousy jackrabbit hopped across between the rows. One three-legged leap took him through the center of that hanging greenish curtain. A second and more spasmodic leap took him out of danger. But the damage was done. He fell, twitching. In fifteen seconds he lay still.

His mask firmly in place and his cheeks paper-white, Joe Carney went on, wheeling the barrow, then releasing gas from the clip nozzle as soon as Emile had the canvas hood in place. Conversation, of course, was impossible.

Traces of the dengue fever would linger with Carney for weeks more, bringing occasional hours of listlessness, bone ache and ague. But the odorous, peppery brew which Emile gave him twice daily seemed to be a specific for the illness.

Little by little, as they finished the gassing of this orchard and moved on to the next, Joe found himself able to work larger fractions of each day, and to sleep nine hours of dreamless exhaustion each night.

Emile had furnished him with two overall suits, with chambray shirts and a pair of laced boots— too large, but usable. He had kept Joe Carney with him at the cabin, as a matter of course.

The little man, to do him justice, had not thought of the money he might be earning. Here was a safe haven, in case the hounds of the law really were interested in him, though he rather doubted they would trouble about him, once they were sure he had left Chicago.

But Emile was generous. When he was paid off for the finished orchard, he handed over a ten-, a five- and a one-dollar bill to the little man.

"Two dollars a day for half time," he explained. "Now you work more, you get more. And the time for dipping comes soon. There will be trouble then. You get paid five a day for act as guard."

"You mean— I earned this?" asked Joe, his voice oddly shaky, a queer look in his blue eyes. He had forgotten all about the perils and discomforts of working in a gas mask. Somehow, this slender sheaf of small bills— about one-third of what he had been paid for guarding a load of alky from Indiana Harbor to the Loop— looked like important money to him.

The Cajan nodded. "I think pretty soon now those men will come," he said. " I will sleep at the supply shed, near the vats. Most times, the job of guard is easy. Now for a month we earn the money."

DURING the days that intervened before Saturday, when even Emile went into Citronelle— the only town of the region— to meet his fellows and perhaps indulge in a movie, Joe crinkled his brow in unaccustomed thought.

In the lining of the jacket of his old blue serge suit there was a crudely sewed place. He ripped this out and removed a single twenty-dollar bill. He put this thoughtfully with the sixteen dollars he had earned.

On Saturday evening, he too went in town, catching the down train at Laurel Siding. The three Cajans who helped Emile guard the fences and vats were left in charge.

In Citronelle, Joe Carney made two purchases. The first was a glittering wrist watch with a chromium flex band. It was a good watch for an outdoor man who worked with his hands, for it had no face or crystal. The figures of the hours and minutes showed in recessed slots.

"I saw you didn't have any ticker, so— so— I wish you'd wear this!" said Joe diffidently, next morning. He started to blush, to shake as though the dengue had hold of him again.

As he fixed the shiny bauble around his brown wrist, Emile looked clown at it a full minute. Then he raised his harsh face.

"Thanks," he said. "I am glad to have it."

Joe, vastly pleased with himself, went away to open and use his other purchase. This was a package containing a safety razor, a shaving brush and soap.

As he scraped and grinned at his image in the cracked mirror, he noted that the multitude of brown freckles had come back.

THE day which had been assigned by the authorities as the deadline for cattle dipping in this region drew near. If there were vats in readiness, and if the herd owners did not avail themselves of the facilities, then the State would step in, round up and dip the animals— and charge five dollars a head, a ruinous price.

So far, not a single cow had been brought from the piney woods range. That was ominous. Emile stopped the younger man midway in the last orchard and put him on as an additional guard for the vats. Two of the other three Cajans had quit; possibly they had been intimidated.

"I will finish this gassing," said Emile. "At evening I will come and relieve you. Take the shotgun."

"I'd rather have my old rod," grinned Joe boyishly.

With alacrity he returned to fetch the automatic, and thenceforth he prowled the woods about the supply shack and the vats.

But no skulkers appeared in daylight. All Joe discovered was one minor fence repair, and a trio of belligerent razorbacks chewing the young cumquats.

The two businesslike dynamiters came by night, and in the rain. They drove mules and a spring wagon loaded with cases of giant powder. Wires, caps and a plunger dynamo were wrapped in a waterproof poncho. They knew the lay of the land, and exactly what they would find.

This was a matter of revenge as well as destruction.

On their previous attempt they had failed and one of their number had been left on the ground with a rifle bullet through his head. The Cajans had said that the killer, Emile Dupres, now slept in the supply shack, within five yards of the two long vats.

Very well. He might never awaken from that sleep!

Tethering the team of mules on an old wood road, they carried the cases of giant up to within thirty yards of the shack and the vats. Vivid lightning gave them occasional glimpses of their objective.

When all was set for the operation, they carried the cases down and set them in the bottom of the two vats, in such wise that the explosion would blow them into one big, shapeless crater.

Then, speedily, they set two more cases against the side of the supply shack, where the cigar-like chlorine cylinders were piled. Wires came from here also. A single downward stroke of the dynamo plunger would send sparks to detonate six cases of giant.

THREE hundred yards away in the cabin, Joe Carney paced uneasily back and forth. He flinched each time the unearthly glare of lightning came to yellow the light of his kerosene lamp. He dreaded lightning, and never in his life had felt so vastly alone. Usually, in a thunderstorm, he had been able to mingle with men he knew, and to hide his perturbation.

He suddenly resolved to go to Emile for company. Sitting down, he pulled on his boots, and laced them. Then he reached for Emile's yellow slicker, left hanging on the door. Putting this on, he bent his head and went forth into the rain.

He turned back momentarily, took his automatic, and thrust it in a pocket. Then he squished out through the puddles and into the scrub.

Half way to his destination he stopped short. Dull-clanking, but unmistakable, there came the sound of shaken cowbells!

This was Emile's alarm. Someone had run into the waist-high catfish-line which the Cajan had strung about the vats to make a skulker give notice of his coming.

Joe did not know it, of course, but one of the dynamiters, returning to crouch over the dynamo plunger had forgotten the alarm, though he and his confederate had been careful about it when they came.

No matter, thought the man at the plunger; all was ready!

"Let 'er go, George !"

GRRROOOUUUMMM!

That terrible flash of red, outblazing the lightning, followed by a thunder blast more deafening than the wrath of the heavens, wrung a frenzied curse from Joe Carney.

The dynamiters had succeeded! Probably they had bumped the big fella!

Pistol in hand, Joe burst through the scrub. But just before he reached the scene of demolition, something big and shadowy blocked his way. A team of mules and a wagon!

A flash of lightning. Two men in dark raincoats— one of them with a gun!

That man yelled a sudden warning, and flung up the shotgun. A blaze of two barrels belching fire and lead. Joe had dropped to a crouch. His upper lip came back in a snarl from his teeth. The automatic in his hand jumped once— twice— thrice.

Joe had no hat now. Something had whisked it from his head, though his scalp was untouched. Out in front, two shapeless huddles lay on the ground. As he broke into a run for the supply shack, Joe flung two more bullets in their general direction. If they just hadn't got the big fella!

A deep pit yawning where the vats had been! He stopped suddenly, and his boots slipped on the lathery clay.

As he scrambled up, a lightning flash showed him something which brought a groan of horror.

The shack was leveled! Hanging there in the air, slowly settling, to mushroom and creep over the debris and the ground, was a thirty-foot-high curtain of the deadly green gas— chlorine! If big Emile was somewhere in the debris of that shack the gas would soon cover him!

"They blowed up all the cylinders too!" yelled Joe in anguish.

He circled around the crater, to get to the back of the wrecked shack. This was mostly small pine logs, now flung about like spilled matches; but in the lime-shimmer of forked lightning the little man saw a half of the pitched roof lying in one piece. And under that piece of roof something was caught, for projecting was a human arm and hand!

With a choked cry, Joe leaped, bent, and tugged with all his convalescent strength. The roof refused to budge. Grunting, cursing, he reached down to the ground for another hold; and in the darkness something stung his skinned knuckles. The chlorine had come! A green cloud of it— green for danger!

Joe shrieked in terror for his friend. Yanking off his slicker, he beat at that remorseless green wall which was slowly coming, an inch at a time, but growing in height from the ground as the gas above descended and mushroomed. For a moment, his tactics were fairly effective, though Joe himself got a small whiff of the choking poison, and nearly collapsed.

Head reeling, throat seared, he groped for something he could use as a lever—a small log, or—

From beneath the fallen roof came a gasping cry.

"Get— gas mask! Gas!"

It was Emile Dupres, and he was still alive!

Lightning flared. Joe had to let go of the log he had found and like a demon fight with the slicker against the encroaching gas. Some of it clung to the slicker and came back to bite into his face and blind his eyes with tears. This would be the last chance. Whimpering, almost praying, he grabbed the log, slid it under and heaved. Once— again!

The broken roof, defeated, raised up and fell back. Joe groped down through the gas, grabbed a weakly moving figure, and dragged as frantically as his slight strength would permit.

Five minutes later, Henry McLean, the planter for whom they were working, hurriedly dressed after the explosion, found them eighty feet from the scene of the explosion. The little man was gassed, unconscious. Emile Dupres, with four crushed ribs and a broken arm, was trying to bring him to consciousness. McLean and two of his men took charge and in a short time the men were laid on cots fixed in the tonneau of McLean's seven-passenger phaeton, and were being driven slowly and carefully toward St. Catherine's Infirmary in Mobile.

Joe Carney moaned once or twice, but he did not awaken; and during all that long ride south, a big, gray-haired Cajan held the little gunman's slender wrist in a firm, anxious clasp.

JOE CARNEY had lost his voice. But when they let big Emile in to see him, the little man grinned and whispered happily:

"Hyah, old-timer! I ain't going to cash in, after all. And I'm glad to see you, pardner!— Will your arm be all right pretty soon?"

"Yes, pretty soon," said Emile, sitting down, a peculiar scowl on his forbidding face. Even the doctors were not quite sure yet that Joe would recover, though they now thought his chances better than at first.

"Well, make it snappy!" bade the little man.  "You and me can lick the world! We're going to save up some jack, pardner. Then we're going to have some oranges of our own to gas!"

Unknowingly— for the social ban against Cajans thereabouts never had been explained to Joe Carney— this came right to the heart of a secret ambition long cherished by Emile Dupres. To put the money he had saved into a fruit orchard of his own! That, of course, had long been impossible for him, a Cajan. But with a white partner? Yes, that would do the trick!

"You and I will have the finest orchard in Alabama!" Emile said shakily, leaning forward to take Joe Carney's hand. " I have enough money, and you have enough spirit— partner!"

__________

3: A Square Of Canvas

Anthony M. Rud

Weird Tales, April, 1923

“NO, MADAME, I am not insane! I see you hide a smile. Never mind attempting to mask the expression. You are a newcomer here and have learned nothing of my story. I do not blame any visitor— the burden of proof rests upon us, n’est-ce-pas?

“In this same ward you have met several peculiar characters, have you not? We have a motley assemblage of conquerors, diplomats, courtesans and divinities—if you'll take their words for it. There is Alexander the Great, Richelieu, Julius Caesar, Spartacus, Cleopatra—but no matter. I have no delusion. I am Hal Pemberton.

“You start? You believe this my delusion ? Look closely at me! I have aged, it is true, yet if you have glimpsed the Metropolitan gallery portrait that Paul Gauguin did of me when I visited Tahiti....?”

I gasped, and fell back a pace. This silver-haired, kindly old soul the mad genius, Pemberton? The temptation was strong to flee when I realized that he told the truth! I knew the portrait, indeed, and for an art student like myself there could be no mistaking the resemblance. I stopped, half-turned. After all, they allowed him freedom of the grounds. He could be no worse surely, than the malignant Cleopatra whom I just had left playing with her “asp”— a five-inch garter snake she had found crossing the gravel path.

“I— I believe you,” came my stammered reply.

What I meant, of course, was that no doubt could exist that he was, certainly, Hal Pemberton. His seamed face lighted up; it was plain he believed that establishment of identity made the matter of his detention absurd.

“They have me registered as Chase — John Chase,” he confided. “Come! Would a true story of an artist’s persecution interest you? It is a recital of misunderstanding, bigotry....”

He left the sentence incomplete, and beckoned with a curl of his tapered, spatulate index finger toward a bench set fair in the sunshine just beyond range of blowing mists from the fountain.

I was tempted. A guard was stationed less than two hundred feet distant Notwithstanding the horrid and distorted legends which shrouded our memories of this man— supposed to have died in far-off Polynesia— he could not harm me easily before assistance was available. Beside, I am an active, bony woman of the grenadier type. I waited until he sat down, then placed myself gingerly upon the opposite end of the bench.

“You are the first person who has not laughed in my face when learning my true identity,” he continued then, making no attempt to close the six-foot gap between us— much to my comfort.

“Ignorance placed me here. Ignorance keeps me. I shall give you every detail, Madame. Then you may inform others and procure my release. The cognoscenti will demand it, once they know of the cruel, intolerance which has stolen nine years from my career and from my life. You know—” and here Pemberton glanced guardedly about before he added in a whisper, “they won’t let me paint!

“My youth and training are known in part. Alden Sefferich’s brochure  dealt with the externals, at least. You have read it? Ah, yes! Dear Alden knew nothing, really. When I look at his etchings of buildings— at his word sketch of myself— I see behind the lines and letters to a great void.

“At best, he was an admirable camera equipped with focal-plane shutter and finest anastigmatic lenses depicting three dimensions faithfully in two, yet ignoring the most important fourth dimension of temperament and soul as though it were as mythical as that fourth dimension played with by mathematicians.

“It is not. Artistic inspiration— what the underworld calls yen— has been my whole life. Beyond the technique and inspiration furnished by Guameresi, one might scrap the whole of tutelage and still have left— myself, and the divine spark!

“I was one of the Long Island Pembertons. Two sisters still are living. They are staid, respectable ladies who married well. To hell with  them! They really believed that Hal Pemberton disgraced them, the nauseating prigs!

“Our mother was Sheila Varro, the singer. Father was an unimaginative sort, president of the Everest Life and Casualty Company for many years. I mention these facts merely to show you there was no hereditary taint, no connate reason for warped mentality such as they attribute to me. That I inherited the whole of my poor mother’s artistic predilection there is possibility for doubt, for she was brilliant always. I was a dullard in my youth. It was only with education and inspiration that even a spark of her divine creative fury came to me— but the story of that I shall reach later.”

“As a boy, I hated school. Before the age of ten I had been expelled from three academies, always on account of the way I treated my associates. I was cruel to other boys, because lessons did not capture my attention. Nothing quiet, static, like the pursuit of facts, ever has done so.

“When I tired of sticking pins into younger lads, or pulling their hair, I sought out one or another of my own size and fought with him. Often — usually— I was trounced, but this never bothered. Hurt, blood and heat of combat always were curiosities to me— impersonal, somehow. As long as I could stand on my feet I would punch for the nose or eyes of my antagonist, for nothing delighted me like seeing the involuntary pain flood his countenance, and red blood stream from his mashed nostrils.

“Father sent me to the New York public schools, but there I lasted only six or seven weeks. I was not popular either with my playmates or with the teachers, who complained of what they took to be abnormality. I had done nothing except arrange a pin taken from the hat of one of the women teachers where I thought it would do the most good. This was in the sleeve of the principal’s greatcoat

“When he slid in his right hand the long pin pierced his palm, causing him to cry out loudly with pain. I did not see him at the moment, but I was waiting outside his office at the time, and I gloated in my mind at the picture of his stabbed hand, ebbing drops of blood where the blue steel entered.

“I longed to rush in and view my work, but did not dare. Later, when by some shrewd deduction they fastened the blame on me, Mr. Mortenson had his right hand bandaged.

“Father gave up the idea of public school after this, and procured me a tutor. He thought me a trifle deficient, and I suppose my attitude lent color to such a theory. I tormented the three men who took me in hand, one after the other, until each one resigned. I malingered. I shirked. I prepared ‘accidents’ in which all were injured.

“It was not that I could not learn— I realized all along that simple tasks assigned me by these men could be accomplished without great effort — but that I had no desire to study algebra, geography and language, or other dull things of the kind. Only zoology tempted in the least. and none of the men I had before Jackson came was competent to do much of anything with this absorbing subject.

“Jackson was the fourth, and last. He proved himself an earnest soul, and something of a scientist. He tried patiently for a fortnight to teach me all that Dad desired, but found his pupil responsive only when he gave me animals to study. These, while alive, interested me.

“One day, after a discouraging session with my other studies, he left me with some small beetles which he

intended to classify on his return. It was a hot day, and the little sheath-winged insects were stimulated out of dormance to lively movement. I had them under a glass cover to prevent their escape.

“Just to see how they acted, I took them out. one by one, and performed slight operations upon parts of their anatomy with the point of my pen-knife. One I deprived of wings, another lost two legs of many, a third was deprived of antennae, and so on. Then I squatted close with a hand-lens and eyed their desperate struggles.

“Here was life, pain, struggle— death close by, leering at the tiny creatures. It fascinated me. I watched eagerly, and then, when one of the beetles grew slower in moving, I stimulated it with the heated point of a pin. At the time— I was then only sixteen years of age— I had no analytical explanation of interest, but now I know that the artist in me was swept through a haze of adolescence by sight of that most sincere of all the struggles of life, the struggle against death!

“A fever raced in my blood. I knew the beetles could not last. An instinct made me wish to preserve some form of record of their supreme moment. I seized my pencil. I wrote a paragraph, telling how I would feel in case some huge, omnipotent force should put me under glass, remove my legs, stab me with the point of a great knife, a red-hot dagger, and watch my writhings.

“The description was pale, colorless, of course. It did not satisfy, even while I scribbled. As you may readily understand. I possessed no power of literary expression; crude sentences selected at random only emphasized the need of expression of a better sort. Without reasoning— indeed, many a person would have considered me quite mad at the time— I tore a clean sheet of paper from a thick tablet and fell to sketching rapidly, furiously!

“As with writing, I knew nothing of technique— I never had drawn a line before— but the impelling force was great. Before my eyes I saw the picture I wished to portray—the play of protest against death. I drew the death struggle....”

“By the time Jackson returned the fire had died out of me.

“The horrid sketch was finished, and all but one of the beetles lay, legs upturned, under the glass. That one had managed to escape somehow, and was dragging itself hopelessly across the table, leaving a wet streak of colorless blood so mark its passing. Exhausted in body and mind. I had collapsed in the nearest chair, not caring whether I, myself, lived or died.

“Poor Jackson was horrified when he saw what I had done to the Coleptera, and he began reproaching me for my needless cruelty. Just as he was waxing eloquent, however, his eye caught sight of my crude sketch. He stopped speaking.

“I saw him tremble, adjust his pince-nez and stale long at the poor picture I had made, and then at the dead beetles. Finally, seeming in a torment of anger, he lead the paragraph of description, turning to examine me with horror and amazement in his glance.

“Then, suddenly, he sprang to his feet, gripping the two sheets of paper in his hands, strung about, and made off before I could rouse from my lassitude sufficiently to question him. I never saw Jackson again. The poor fool.

“An hour later father sent for me. I knew that the tutor had been to see him, and I expected another of the terrible lectures I had been in habit of receiving each time a new lack or iniquity made itself apparent to others. On several occasions in the past father had flogged me, and driven himself close to the verge of apoplexy because of his extreme anger at what he deemed deliberate obstinacy. I feared whippings: they sickened me. My knees were quaking as I went to his study.

“This time, however, it was plain that father had given up. He was pale, weighed down with what must have been the great disappointment of his life; but he neither stormed nor offered to chastise me. Instead he told me quietly that Jackson had resigned, finding me impossible to instruct.

“In a few sentences father reviewed the efforts he had made for my education, then stated that all the tutors had been convinced that my lack of progress had been due more to a chronic disinclination for work rather than to any innate defect of body or mind.

“ ‘So far,’ he told me, ‘you have refused steadfastly to accept opportunity. Now we come to the end. Mr. Jackson has showed me a sketch made by you in which he professes to see real talent. He advises that you be sent abroad to study drawing or painting. Would you care for this last chance? Otherwise I must place you in an institution of some kind, where you no longer can bring disgrace and pain upon me— a reform school, in short. I tell you frankly, Hal. that I am ready to wash my hands of you.’

“What could I do? I chose, of course, to go to Paris. Father made the necessary arrangements for me to enter Guarneresi’s big studios as a beginner, paying for a year in advance, and making me a liberal allowance in addition.

“ ‘I shall not attempt to conceal from you, Hal, ’ he told me at parting, ‘that I do not wish you to return. Your allowance will continue just as long as you remain abroad. If, in time, a moderate success in some line of endeavor comes to you I shall be glad to see you again, but not before. The Pembertons never were failures or parasites.’

“Thus I left him. He died while I was in my third year at the studio, and by his express wish I was not notified until after the funeral was over. I wept over the letter that came, but only because of the knowledge that now I never could make up in any way for the great sorrow I had caused my father. Had he lived only ten years longer—and this would not have been extraordinary, as he died at the age of fifty-two—I could have restored some of that lost pride to him.”

“Is it  necessary to tell of my years with Guarneresi ? No; you confessed some slight knowledge of me. Very well, I shall pass over them lightly. Suffice it to say that here at last I found my forté. I could paint. The maestro never valued my efforts very highly, but he taught with conscientious diligence nevertheless. In the use of sweeping line and chiaroscuro I excelled the majority of his pupils, but in color I exhibited no talent— in his estimation, at least.

“It was strange, too, for through my mind at odd intervals swept riots of crimson, orange and purple, which never could be mixed satisfactorily upon my palette for any given picture. I told myself that the fault lay as much in the subjects of my pictures as in myself— the excuse of a liar, of course.

“There was some excuse there, however. For instance, when we painted nudes Guarneresi would assemble a half-dozen old hags with yellowed skin, bony torsos and shriveled breasts, asking us to portray youth and beauty. Instead of attempting to pin a fabric of imagination upon such skeletons, I used to search out the more beautiful of the cocottes of the night cafes, and bring with me to the studio the next day memories and hurried sketches of poses in which I had seen them. This was more interesting, but unsatisfactory withal.

“I had been five years in the studio, and had traveled three winters to Sicily, Sardinia and Italy, before the first hint of a resolution of my problem came to me. It was in the month of July, when north-loving students take their vacations.

"I was alone in the vast studio one afternoon. Guarneresi himself was absent, which accounted for the holiday taken by the faithful who remained during the hot days. On one side of the room were the cages, where the maestro kept small live animals, used for models with beginners. There were a few rabbits, a dozen white mice and a red fox.

“Wandering about, near to my wits' end for inspiration to further work, I chanced to see one of the rabbits looking in my direction. Rays of sunlight, falling through the open skylight, caught the beast’s eyes in such a manner that they showed to me as round discs of glowing scarlet.

“Never had I witnessed this phenomenon before, which I since have learned is common. It had an extraordinary effect upon me. In that second I thought of my delinquent boyhood, of dozens of cruel impulses since practically forgotten— of the mutilated, dying beetles which had been instrumental in embarking me upon an art career.

“Blood rose in torrents to my own temples. A fever consumed me. There was life and there could be death. I could renew the inspiration of those tortured beetles.

“With agitated stealth, I glanced out into the empty hallway, locked the door of the studio, drew four shades over windows through which I might be seen, and crept to the rabbit cage.

“Opening it, I seized by the long ears the white-furred animal which had stared at me. The warm softness of its palpitating body raised my artistic desire to a frenzy. I pulled a table from the wall, and holding down the animal upon it I drew my knife. Overcoming the mad, futile struggles of the rabbit, I slit long incisions in the white back and belly. The blood welled out....

“Perfect fury of delight sent me to my canvas. My fingers trembled as I mixed the colors, but there was no indecision now, and no hint of muddiness in the result. I painted....

“You perhaps have seen a reproduction of that picture? It was called “The Lusts of the Magi,” and now hangs in one of the Paris galleries. Some day it will grace the Louvre. And all because our white rabbit had sacrificed its heart’s blood.

“At eleven next morning Guameresi himself, coming to the studio, found me exhausted and asleep upon the floor. When he demanded explanations, I pointed in silence to the finished picture upon my easel.

“I thought the man would go frantic. He regarded it for an instant, with intolerance fading from his bearded face. Then his mouth gaped open, and a succession of low exclamations in his native tongue came forth. His raised hands opened and shut in the gesture I knew to mean unrestrained delight.

“Suddenly he dashed to the easel, and, before I could offer resistance, he snatched down my picture and ran with it out of the studio and down the stairs into the narrow street. I followed, but I was not swift enough. He had disappeared.

“In half an hour he returned with four brother artists who had studios nearby. The others were more than lavish in their praise, terming my picture the greatest masterpiece turned out in the Quarter for years. Guarneresi himself was less demonstrative now, but I detected tears in his eyes when he turned to me.

“ ‘The pupil has become the master,’ he said simply. ‘Go! I did not teach you this, and I cannot teach you more. Always I shall boast, however, that Signor Pemberton painted his first great picture in my studio.’

“The next day I rented a studio of my own and moved out my effects immediately. I started to paint in earnest. There is little to relate of the next few months. A wraith of the inspiration which had given birth to my great picture still fingered, but I was no better than mediocre in my work. True the experience and accomplishment had improved me somewhat in use of color, but I learned the galling truth soon enough that never could I attain that same fervor of artistry again—unless....

“After four months of ineffectual striving— during which time I completed two unsatisfactory canvases— I yielded, and bought myself a second white rabbit. What was my horror now to discover, when I treated the beast as I had treated its predecessor, that no wild thrill of inspiration assaulted me.

“I could mix and apply colors a trifle more gaudily, yet the suffering and blood of this animal had lost its potent effect upon me. After a day or two the solution occurred. Lusts of The Magi had exhausted the stimulus which rabbits could furnish.

“Disconsolate now. I allowed my work to flag. Though I knew in my heart that the one picture I had done was splendid in its way, I hated to believe that in it I had reached the peak of artistic production. Yet I could arouse in myself no more than the puerile enthusiasm for methodical slapping on of oils I so ridiculed in other mediocre painters. Finally I stopped altogether, and gave myself over to a fit of depression, absinthe and cigarettes.

“Guarneresi visited me one day, and finding me so badly in the dumps prescribed fresh air and sunshine. As I refused flatly to travel, knowing my ailment to be of the subjective sort, not cured by glimpses of pastures new, he lent me his saddle mare, a fine black animal with white fetlocks and a star upon her forehead. I agreed listlessly to ride her each day.

“Three weeks slipped by. I had kept my promise— actually enjoying the exercise— but without any of the beneficent results appearing. I was in fair physical health— only a trifle listless— it is true, yet whenever I set myself to paint a greater inhibition of spiritual and mental weariness seemed to hold me back. Little by little, the ghastly conviction forced itself upon me that as an artist I had shot my bolt.

“One day, when I was riding a league or two beyond Passy, I had occasion to dismount and slake my thirst at a spring on which it was necessary to break a thin crust of ice. Drinking my fill I led the mare to the spot, and she drank also. In raising her head, however, a sharp edge of ice cot her tender skin the distance of a quarter inch. There, as I watched, I saw red drops of blood gather on her cheek.

“I cannot describe adequately the sensations that gripped me! In that second I remembered the beetles and the rabbit; and I knew that this splendid animal had been given to me for no purpose other than to renew the wasted inspiration within me. It was the hand of Providence.”

“Preparations were soon made. I obtained the use of a spacious well-lighted barn in the vicinity, and put the mare therein while I returned to Paris for canvases and materials. Then, when I was all ready for work, I hobbled the mare with strong ropes, and tied her so she could not budge. Then I treated her as I had treated the rabbit.

“Deep down I hated to inflict this pain, for I had grown to care for that mare almost as one cares for a dear friend; but the fury of artistic desire would not be denied.

“Next day, when all was over, I took the canvas in to Paris and showed it to Guameresi. He went into ecstasies, proclaiming that I had reawakened, indeed. Yet when I told him of the mare and offered to pay his own price, he became very white of countenance and drew himself up, shuddering.

“ ‘Any but as great a man as yourself, Signor,’ he shrilled, his cracked old voice breaking with emotion, ‘I should kill for that. Yourself are without the law which would damn another, but not outside the sphere of undying hatred. You are great, but awful. Go!’

“I found, then, that no one wished to look at my picture. Guameresi had told the story to sympathetic friends, and it had spread like a fire in spruce throughout the Quarter. I was ostracized, deserted by all who had called me their friend.

“A month later, nearly broken in spirit, I came to New York. I was done with Paris. Here in America none knew the story of my last painting, and when it was put on exhibition the critics heralded it as greater far than the finest production of any previous or contemporary American artist. I sold it for twenty thousand dollars, which was a good price in those days.

“I was swept up on a tide of popularity. As you know, in this country even the poorest works of a popular man are snatched up avidly. Criticism seems to die when once a reputation is attained. I got rid of all the canvases I had painted in Paris, and was besieged for portrait sittings by society women of the city.

“Because I had no particular idea in mind for my next painting I did allow myself to drift into this work. It was easy and paid immensely well. Also I was called upon to exercise no ingenuity or imagination. All I did was paint them as they came, two a week, and get rich, wasting five years in the process.

“Then I fell in love. Beatrice was much younger than myself, just turned nineteen at the time. I was first attracted to her because my eye always seeks out the beautiful in face and form as if I were choosing models among all the women I meet.

“She was slim of waist and of ankle, though with the soft curve of neck and shoulder which intrigues an artist instantly. She was more mature in some ways than one might have expected of her years— but the more delightful for that reason.

“Her eyes were dark pools rippled by the breeze of each passing fancy. The moment I looked into them I knew that wrench of the heart which bespeaks the advent of the one great emotion. Many times before I had thought myself in love, yet in company of Beatrice I wondered at my self-deception. In the evening, as she sat beside me in a nook of Sebastian’s Spice Gardens— you know, the great indoor reproduction of the famous gardens of Kandy, Ceylon— I gloried in her beauty, and in the way soft silk clung to her person. The desire for possession was intolerable within me. Before parting I asked her. and for answer she lifted her soft, white arms to my neck and met my lips with a caress in which I felt the whole fervor of love. That was the sweetest and happiest moment of my life.

“We married, and built ourselves a home upon Long Island. After three months of honeymoon we settled there, more than ever in love with each other if that were possible.

“A year sped by. Ten months of this I spent without lifting a brush to canvas. It was idyllic, yet toward the last a sense of shame began to pervade my mind. Was I of such weak fibre that the love of one woman must damp out all ambition, all desire for accomplishment?

“At the end of the year I was painting again, making portraits. The long rest and happiness had made me impatient with such piffle, however. I had all the money that either of us could need in our lifetime, so I could not take the portraiture seriously. I dabbled with it another full year, without once endeavoring to start a serious piece of work.

"Then, after Beatrice bore me a daughter, I began to lay plans for continuing serious endeavor. It is useless to repeat the story of those struggles. It was the same experience I had had after that first successful picture.

"My technique now was as near perfection as I could hope to attain, and the mere matter of color mixing I had learned from those two wild flights of frenzy. I found myself, however, psychologically unable to attack a subject smacking in the least of the gruesome— and that, of course, always had been my talent and interest.”

“I rebelled against the instinct which urged me to try the experiment of the mare again. In cold blood I hated the thought of it, and also I feared, with a great sinking of the heart, that I should find no more inspiration there even if I did repeat.

“I turned to landscape painting, choosing sordid, dirty or powerful scenes. I painted the fish-and-milk carts on Hester Street, showing the hordes of dirty urchins in the background playing on the pavement. Somehow, the picture fell short of being really good, although I had no difficulty in selling it.

“I portrayed, then, a street in the Ghetto on a rainy night, with greasy mud shining on the cobblestones and the shapeless figure of a man slouched in a doorway. This was called powerful— the ‘awakening of an American Franz Hals’ one critic termed it— but I knew better. Beside the work I could do under powerful stimulus and inspiration, this was slush, slime. I hated it!

“Even waterscapes did not satisfy. I painted half of one picture depicting two sooty, straining tugs bringing a great leviathan of a steamer into harbor, but this I never finished. I felt as if I drooled at the mouth while I was working.

“Thus two more years went by, happy enough when I was with Beatrice, but sad and savage when I was by myself in the studio. My wife had blossomed early into the full beauty of womanhood, and yet she retained enough of modesty and reticence of self that I never wearied of her. Because up to this time, when I turned thirty-three years of age, the powers of both of us, physical and mental, had been on the increase, we still were exploring the delights of love and true affection.

“There was an impelling force within me, however, which would not be denied. I had been born to accomplish great things. Weak compromise, or weaker yielding to delights of the mind, and body, could but heap fresh fuel on the flame which consumed me when I got off by myself. I fought against it months longer, but in the end I had to yield. With fear and trepidation struggling with ambition and lust within me. I took a trip to a distant town of New York State, procured a fine, blooded mare, and repeated the experiment which had lost me the friendship of Guamaeresi and my Parisian contemporaries.

“All in vain. Out of the hideous slaughter of the animal I obtained only a single grim picture—a canvas which I painted weeks later, when the shudder of revulsion in my frame had died down somewhat. I called the picture ‘Cannibalism,’ for it showed African savages gorging themselves on human flesh. It never sold, for the instant I placed it on exhibition the art censors of New York threw it under ban—and, I believe, no one really wanted the thing in his house.

“I did not like it myself, and finally, after much urging by my wife. I burned it. This sacrifice, however, merely accentuated the fury in my heart. I must do better than that!

“Since I have told you of ray other periods of frenzy and self-hatred, I may pass over the ensuing month. One day the inspiration for my last great picture came, and as with the second, through pure accident. Beatrice was cutting weeds in the garden with a sickle, while I sat cross-legged beside her, watching. I always could find surcease from discontent in being near her, and watching the fine play of animal forces in her supple body.

“The sickle slipped. Beatrice cried out, and I jumped to place a handkerchief over the wound that lay open on her wrist, but not before my eyes had caught the sight of the red blood bubbling out upon her satiny skin.

“A madness leaped into my soul. My fingers trembled and a throbbing made itself felt in my temples as I laved on antiseptic and bound a bandage over the wound. This was the logical, the inevitable conclusion! She was my mate; she was in duty bound to furnish inspiration for the picture I must paint, my masterpiece.

“I of course, told Beatrice nothing of what was passing in my mind, but went immediately about my preparations.

“I placed a cot in the studio, fastening strong straps to it. Then I made ready a gag, and sharpened a keen Weiss knife I possessed until its edge would cut a hair at a touch. Last I made ready my canvas.

“She came at my call. At first, when I seized her and tore off her clothing she thought me joking, and protested, laughing. When I came to placing the gag, and bound her arms and legs with strong straps, however, the terror of death began to steal into her dark eyes.

“To show her that I loved her still, no matter what duty impelled me to do, I kissed her hair, her eyes, her breast. Then I set to work....

“In a few minutes I was away and painting as I never had painted before. A red stream dripped from the steel cot, down to the floor, and ran slowly toward where I stood. It elated me. I felt the fire of a fervor of inspiration greater than ever had beset me. I painted. I painted! This was my masterpiece.

“Drunk with the fury of creation, I threw myself on the floor in the midst of the red puddle time and time again. I even dipped my brushes in it. Mad with the delight of unstinted accomplishment, I kept on and on, until late in the evening I heard my little daughter crying in her room for the dinner she had not received. Then I went downstairs, laughing at the horror I saw in the faces of the servants.

“They found Beatrice, of course. The servants ’phoned immediately for the police. I fooled them all, however. I knew that they might do something to me, such, is the lack of understanding against which true artists always must labor, so I took the canvas of my masterpiece and hid it in a secret cupboard in the wall known only to myself. I did not care what they did to me, but this picture, for which Beatrice had offered up her love and life, was sacred.

“They came and took me away. Then ensued a terrible scandal, and some foolish examinations of me in which I took not the slightest interest. And then they put me here.

“I have not been in duress all the time, though. Oh, no! Three years later some of my old friends contrived at escape, and secreted me away to the South Seas. There they gave me a studio, meaning to allow me to paint. I was guarded, though. They would not allow me full freedom.

“I painted, but I have not the slightest idea what was done with those canvases. I had no interest in them personally. All I could think of now was the one great masterpiece hidden in the cupboard of my old studio. I wanted to see it, to glory in the flame of color and in the tremendous conception itself.

“At last I gave my guards the slip, and after long wandering about in native proas, made my way to this country again, to New York. I found the canvas, and, rolling it. secreted it upon my person. Then I went out and gave myself up to them. I was brought here again.

“Imprisonment was not important to me any more. I was getting old. Though I would like to be released now it is a matter of less urgency than before, because I have with me always my masterpiece. See!"

The old man tugged at something inside his blouse, and brought forth a dirtied roll which he unsnapped with fingers that trembled in eagerness.

“See, Madame!” he repeated triumphantly.

And, before my horrified eyes, he unrolled a blank square of white canvas!

_______________

4: The Corpse on the Third Slab

Otis Adelbert Kline

1891-1946

Weird Tales, July-August, 1923

OFFICER RYAN walked slowly along between two rows of cold, moist slabs on which reposed the chill, grisly remains of what had once been human beings.

He essayed a few bars of “River Shannon” in his rich, Killarney baritone, not loudly, yet with volume enough to drown the weird uncanny echoes that rang back from the walls and sloping ceiling of the morgue each time his heavy, hobnailed shoes came in contact with the floor.

Though he knew himself to be alone in the room, those echoes somehow gave him a feeling that he was being followed— a queer, creepy sensation that was far from agreeable. He stopped his humming abruptly. What was that? The sound of many voices mimicking his own? Suddenly he realized— and laughed. A myriad hollow cackles answered him.

His face grew sober again, and he roundly cursed his superior who had detailed him for special duty in this ghastly place, all because a corpse which nobody could identify, and consequently nobody wanted, had been stolen the night before.

He glanced at the dial of his watch. It was nearly one o’clock. Five long, dreary hours must pass before he could go home to the wife and kiddies. An attendant had thoughtfully placed a chair from the office for him at the far end of the room. His instructions were to patrol the place every half hour. As it took hint only five minutes to make the rounds, there was twenty-five minute intervals of rest twice in every hour. He hurried his pace a little as he neared the chair. Once seated thereon, he would at least be rid of the sound of those haunting footsteps.

He was walking along, swinging his night-stick with attempted jauntiness, when, out of the tail of his eye, he saw, or imagined he saw a slight movement of the sheet covering the corpse at his right. He stopped petrified with amazement, and stared at the thing on the cold, gray slab, while a strange prickly feeling coursed the length of his dorsal vertebrae.

With forced bravado he stepped up beside the still figure and turned back the sheet. The corpse, which lay on the third slab from the end, was that of a middle aged man, gray haired, slightly bald, and dressed in the garb of a laborer. No doubt the face had not been unpleasant to look at in life but in death it was hardly a thing of beauty, with its glassy, staring eyes, sagging lower jaw, and protruding, blue-white tongue.

Ryan replaced the sheet with a shudder and hurried to his chair. The place certainly got on his nerves. He had known that it would when Chief Howell assigned him to it and, in observation of the old proverb, “Forewarned is forearmed,” had made due preparation for the exigency. The preparation was very simple. He had poured some pale amber-liquid from a large round bottle into a small flat bottle. The flat bottle reposed snugly in his hip pocket. The large, round  bottle, a gallon of “moon,” had been a present from a bootlegger friend.

“Don’t be afraid to drink it like water, Ed,” his friend had told him. “I know it’s all right ’cause l made it myself. You won’t find no slivers in that hooch.”

Despite the admonition of his friend, the bottle had reposed in the Ryan basement for six months, untouched. Ryan was not an habitual drinker, but he believed in “kapin’ a nip in the house for emergency.”

He glanced slyly toward the office door, then extracted the bottle from his hip pocket, pulled the cork, and held it up to the light to admire its color and lucidity as a connoisseur admires rare old wine. With some dismay, he noticed that it was nearly two thirds empty, whereas the night was scarcely more than half gone. He must cut down the size of his drinks, or go without during the wee, small hours. He would cut down, too, after this one. Just this once he must have a man’s size shot.

He needed it sorely. The staring eyes and lolling-tongue of that corpse on the third slab had set his nerves on edge.

Placing the bottle to his lips, he drank deeply; corked it, and returned it to his hip pocket with a sigh.

“Sure, and that Wop knows how to build booze,” he muttered. “Goes down as smooth as oil, and it has a flavor like tin year old bottled in bond.”

He sat in silence until his watch told him that it was time to make the rounds again, then rose reluctantly to perform his distasteful duty.

When he: arrived opposite the third slab he resolutely looked straight ahead. Thus, he reasoned, if the thing should move he would not see. it, and there would be no harm done. Ryan had overlooked the fact that he had a pair of perfectly good ears, and that they were in excellent working order. A slipping, sliding, soul-sickening sound from the direction of the third slab, acted as a forcible reminder.

With a gasp of horror, he fairly flew to the chair. He sat down weakly, mopped the cold perspiration from his forehead, and finished the contents of his bottle at one gurgling gulp.

Ryan had made up his mind not to look in the direction of that slab again, and when he made up his mind he was a hard man to change. With stubborn determination to carry out his plan, come what might, he pivoted his swivel chair a half turn and settled down to await the dreary passage of another twenty-five minutes.

“Now let the damn’ thing turn over all it wants to, or do a toe dance, for all of me. Oi’ll not give it the satisfaction of watchin its devilish capers,” he resolved, half aloud.

That last drink had been a stiff one. In fact, it would have made four good husky drinks for as many hearty lumberjacks or longshoremen.

Ryan grew drowsy. Decorators had been at work in the morgue that day, white, enameling the walls, and he told himself that the smell of the turpentine made him sleepy— that and the cursed dank, musty odor of the place itself. His head nodded until his chin rested on one of the gold buttons that adorned the front of his uniform.

Some time later he awoke with a start and looked at his watch. He looked again, rubbing his eyes to make sure that he was awake. Surely he had not slept more than ten minutes, yet the hands told him it was four-thirty.

He wondered what had-awakened him. There had been a noise of some sort. He dimly remembered that much, but, try as he would, he could not recall the nature of the sound.

Suddenly, and with, startling distinctness, the noise was repeated. It was the sharp click of a heavy shoe on the hard, concrete floor. Scarce had the hollow echoes died when he heard it again.

Someone was walking toward him with slow,, dragging footsteps from the direction of the third slab!

RYAN was no coward. On the contrary, he had shown marked bravery in many encounters with desperate bandits and thugs of the underworld. Neither was he superstitious. He believed that when a man was dead he was gone, and that was that. His soul might go to purgatory, and thence to heaven or hell, but never return to earth. Yet, despite his inherent bravery and his firm theological convictions, he could not bring himself to swing his chair about and face the thing that was approaching.

In fact, he discovered, to his utter horror, that he was unable to move. He could not so much as lift his nerveless hands from the arms of the chair. Even breathing was difficult, as though great chains had been wound about his body, pinning him against the chair back.

Deliberately, painfully, those weird, echoing footfalls approached. The thing was almost upon him, yet he could not move nor utter a sound. An odd, misshapen shadow appeared on the floor in front of him. Slowly it crawled up the side of the wall, its grotesque outline gradually assuming human form. Then the thing itself appeared. The invisible chains about Ryan’s chest tightened, and icy fingers laid hold of his wildly beating heart and squeezed it until it pounded eccentrically, like an engine with cracked spark plugs, for he recognized the gaunt figure and grisly features of the corpse from the third It stood there before him, swaying slightly, then extended its gnarled left hand and steadied itself against the wall. As those glassy eyes stared into his, Ryan’s palate seemed to shrivel and dry up. It rattled like a dead leaf in a gale with each intake of his breath. Evidently the corpse was trying to converse with him, for its blue-white tongue and lips moved slightly. Presently it obtained some measure of control over them and spoke in a hoarse, husky whisper:

“G-good evening.”

Ryan was too petrified with horror to reply.

The corpse looked at him curiously for-a moment. Evidently it reached the decision that it had said the wrong thing. It tried again:

“G’morning, oshifer.”

The policeman’s tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth.

“Sha matter? Ya deaf and dumb?”

To his amazement, Ryan heard himself speaking. Anger at the other’s insulting insinuation had loosed his tongue.

“No. Oi ain’t deaf and dumb. Oi don’t talk to the likes of yez, that’s all.

Now go back and lay down on yer slab and behave yerself, or oi’ll kill yez deader than yez are already.”

The corpse leered horribly. Then it laughed— a cackling, graveyard laugh that brought on a fit of coughing.

“Fooled you, too, did I!” it rasped. “Fooled ’em all. Fooled the old woman. Fooled the ash man. Fooled everybody.”

“Go wan. You ain’t foolin’ nobody.”

“Fooled ’em all, I tell you. She put chloroform in my hooch. Wanted to ’lope with the ash man. Don’t care. Let her ’lope an’ good riddance. Damned she-devil, anyhow. But I fooled ’em. They think I’m dead, but I ain’t. No more dead ’n you are.”

“The hell you ain’t!” growled Ryan.

“Tell you I ain’t,” wheezed the corpse, testily. “Can’t I walk? Can’t I talk? Can’t I do anything any live person can do?”

“Course yez can,” agreed Ryan, who felt that he was beginning to see the light. “Anything can walk in a dream— even a corpse. Oi wance saw a kitchen table do the toddle with a grand piano in a nightmare.”

“Who said anything about a dream? I’m not a dream and I can prove it.”

“Yez’ll have to show me,” said Ryan. “Oi’m from St. Louis,”

“All right. If I was a dream you could see and hear me but I couldn’t see or hear you. Am I right or wrong?”

“Right.”

“F’r instance, I wouldn’t know whether you was a bull or a ballet dancer. I wouldn’t be able to tell if you was smooth-faced or wore a set of Patsies. ”

“Sure yez wouldn’t, and yez don’t.”

“Don't I, though. Get this. You’re a big, overgrown, dish faced, bull-necked cop, with a long, loppy carrot-colored set of soup-strainers that makes you look like a seasick walrus.”

Ryan tried to rise and smite the presumptuous one but the invisible bonds held him. He gritted his teeth.

“Yez’ll suffer for this, dream or no dream, corpse or no corpse,” he groaned.

The corpse stared glassily, unmoved by his threat

“You know,” he continued, “I’ve been in better jails than this. No heat— no blankets—nothing. The beds are cold as ice and hard as rocks, and the sheets are thin as paper.”

Ryan was astounded. Could it be possible that this corpse didn’t know it was in the morgue?

The thing yawned, disclosing its ghastly, blue-white tongue.

“Ho, hum. Gettin’ sleepy again. Guess I’ll crawl back in the old sheet-rock bunk. G’night, bottle-nose.”

This was too much for Ryan. His naturally florid countenance turned purple with anger as he watched the ghoulish figure stagger slowly toward the third slab. If he could only move! He concentrated his gaze on his little finger. Even it was incapable of motion, he thought. He tried to wiggle it, nevertheless, and lo, it wiggled. He essayed to lift his hand. It lifted. He was overcome with joy.

Rising carefully and noiselessly from the chair, he tiptoed stealthily after the corpse. First he thought to lay a heavy hand on its shoulder, but he could not bring himself to touch it. Revenge— sweet revenge was almost within his grasp, yet he dared not grasp it. Then came an inspiration. Shifting his hulk to his left foot, he poised his right and took careful aim at the tattered hip-pocket.

Somehow— perhaps because the pocket was moving, or mayhap because the amber liquid had befuddled his vision— he miscalculated the range. The heavy, hob-nailed boot traveled upward to where a solid target should, have been but wasn’t, and kept on traveling. It would probably have soared upward to the ceiling had it not been most intimately connected with Ryan’s anatomy.

As it was, it jerked his left foot from under him, the back of his head collided with the floor, and he caught a momentary glimpse of a hitherto unheard of, gloriously brilliant stellar constellation.

Then a curtain of dismal darkness descended around him, dragging him down to oblivion.

RYAN’S first approach to consciousness after that was a half-dreaming, half-waking state. He was under the impression that he was a corpse, lying on a cold, gray slab.

He put out his hand, then jerked it back hastily. He was lying on something cold and hard. This discovery quickly and thoroughly awakened him. He sat up and groaned, as a sharp pain shot through his head. Surely something had laid it wide open in the back. He felt it tenderly, and discovered a beautifully rounded contusion.

Suddenly he heard the hum of voices. One voice in particular sounded like that of Chief Howell.

He rose hastily, picked up his cap, and dusted his uniform. His watch told him it was six o’clock. He tried to recall

how and why he was lying on the floor with a goose-egg on the hack of his head. At length he remembered, and glanced suspiciously toward the third slab. It was occupied, nor had the corpse apparently been disturbed, for it lay just as he had seen it when he passed at one o’clock, with the sheet draping its angular figure.

The sound of voices grew more distinct. Someone had opened the office door. Chief Howell was holding it open while two attendants entered, bearing a litter on which lay the body of a coarse, thick-featured woman. Her face was horribly mutilated and her hair and clothing were stained and matted with blood.

The attendants, casting about for a vacant slab, noted that the fourth was unoccupied, and conveyed the body thither.

Chief Howell called to someone who had just entered the office through the outer door.

“Come in. Coroner,. I guess we’ve got this thing straightened out for you now."

Coroner Haynes entered, and the two walked over to the third slab. The chief drew a photograph from his pocket and, raising the sheet, compared it with the features of the corpse.

“It’s him, all right,” said Howell.

“Who?”

“This woman’s husband, Frank Merlin. She killed him night before last-- put chloroform in a bottle of moonshine whisky he had so she could elope with the ash man. As soon as he was dead she called up her affinity, who earned the body out to his cart, wrapped in gunny sacks, and hauled it to another part of the city where he dumped it in a dark alley.

“Last night she and her sweetheart got into a drunken argument and he almost cut her to ribbons. Neighbors, hearing the rumpus, called the officer on the beat. When he arrived the woman was dead and the man, beastly drunk, had to he clubbed almost into insensibility before he would, submit to arrest. When he was brought in I doused him with cold water and sobered him up. After a severe grilling he confessed all.”

Ryan listened to the story with bulging eyes. He had regarded his experience of the night before as a dream. What if, after all, it was a reality ?

He started for the office, when something arrested his attention—the mark of a human hand on the newly enameled wall, as if someone had leaned against it. He recalled the attitude of the corpse as it stood by that wall the night before, and curiosity .drew him irresistibly to the third slab.

The left hand was lying palm downward, and he turned it with difficulty, for rigor mortis had set in. Then he cried out in amazement at what he saw.

The palm of the dead man was smeared with sticky, half-dried, white enamel!

_________________

5: Mandrake

Adam Hull Shirk

1887-1931

Weird Tales, July-August, 1923

“FALLON, you’ve got to help me!”

Dr. George Burton laid one hand, which trembled, upon the arm of his friend, the eminent psychologist, Professor Fallon, and fixed his tired eyes upon the latter’s calm face.

“Of course I’ll help you, George,” said the scientist, reassuringly, “but first you must tell me just what is the matter.”

Dr. Burton sat back in his chair and nodded slowly:

“Yes,” he said, “I will. But— I don’t understand it all myself.”

“Never mind— go ahead—”

“You remember my writing you last Fall that I hoped to be married before so very long? Well, that hope may never be realized. This is the story: A couple of years ago, Power Marbury and his wife and two daughters came to Cranways. Six months later, Mrs. Marbury died. You may recall the case. The husband was convicted. It was murder, and though the evidence was purely circumstantial, there was never a doubt of the outcome. Power Marbury was sentenced to pay the extreme penalty and did so, unconfessed.”

The physician rose and took a turn across the room before reseating himself.

The psychologist said nothing. Presently the younger man continued:

“Can you imagine the effect on those two girls— Alice, not yet sixteen and Marjorie just two years her senior? Is it any wonder that they were stricken, almost driven insane? It was fortunate they had one friend in this narrow, hell-fearing community. Old Squire Broadman had been their father’s executor, to care for the considerable property left to the two girls, but remaining in his hands until they should marry when it reverted to them automatically. He it was who defied the pious citizens and took them in, to share his bachelor home, like daughters of his own. Had it not been for him, Fallon, God knows what would have become of those two helpless orphans.”

“What followed?”

“Fate seemed to be relentless,” pursued the doctor, “and after a while Alice fell ill. I was called in. But in spite of all I could do, she faded, just as a flower transplanted to alien soil will wither and die. I exerted all my slight skill. The malady was apparently impervious .to drugs. And in the end she — died.... That left Marjorie— alone.

“In the days when I had attended her sister, I learned to love her. I have never met a girl who was blessed with a sweeter disposition and how she bore up under it all, no one will ever understand. I had not spoken to her, of course, but some day I knew that I should do so; and that she would receive my proposal favorably I had good cause to believe.... This brings me up to recent events— events that have resulted in my sending for you, Fallon, my old friend!”

“You are welcome to my help— but you have not yet told me what the present difficulty is.”

The physician sighed:

“I’m coming to that,” he muttered “It was about three weeks ago that I learned Marjorie had. taken to visiting the cemetery where her mother and father and sister were buried. It lies just outside the village. I remonstrated with her, because I saw it was a means of keeping the tragedies ever before her mind. But it was of no avail. Then, about ten days ago, she was stricken—"

“Stricken?” The scientist looked sharply at his friend. “What happened?”

“She was found on her doorstep in a dead faint, a look of absolute horror frozen on her face. I was called, and it took me several horn's to revive her. When she came to, she confessed to having been frightened, but that was all she could or would tell. Then I learned she had been to see a charlatan who has lately come to town and established himself in offices here— Valdemar is his name, and he claims to be a hypnotist, psychometrist, or something of the kind.”

“I know the breed,” nodded Fallon. “Go on. She saw him?”

“Yes. I deduced that this might be the cause of her collapse and visited him myself. He admitted her consulting him, that she seemed obsessed regarding her father’s possible innocence and had asked his advice. He said he had been unable to help her. Indeed, he seemed so fair spoken that I could find no cause to blame him. But Marjorie grew worse. She has become morose and seems to have lost confidence not only in me, but even in her guardian, who is as deeply; anxious as I am.

“Fallon, she is secretly worried or frightened, and it is driving her slowly mad. That’s why I’ve sent for you. Can you help me— by helping her?”

The savant sat for a moment immersed in thought Finally he nodded:

“I feel certain I can,” he declared, “and I suggest that we call on the young lady at once. Can it be arranged?”

“Certainly—I was about to suggest it—”

“Introduce me as a brother physician visiting you— nothing more and—”

Fallon’s speech was interrupted by a knock at the office door, and in a moment the attendant announced that Peleg White wanted to see the doctor urgently.

Burton turned to his friend apologetically: “He’s a sort of half-wit I’ve befriended—it won’t take a moment.”

“Bring him in,” suggested Fallon.

The old creature came haltingly into the room, a malformed, hesitating parody of mankind. His story was quickly told, however, and, strangely enough, bore upon their present problem.

“It’s about Miss Marjorie, Doctor,” he said. “I know she’s a friend of yourn. Well, last 'night I slept out in the old hollow tree near the buryin’ ground, and I seen her come steelin’ in like a ghost. I wasn’t afeared, though, an’ I followed to where her father was buried. She kneeled right down by his grave, and I thought she was prayin’—”

“What was she doing—?”

“She was pullin’ something up outen the ground— looked like a weed or somethin’. And just as it came ’way, they was the most awful onearthly shriek I ever heard in all my born days. Miss Marjorie she yelled out, too, and started to runnin’ away. I run, myself. And then I knew you’d oughter know.”

“Thank you, Peleg,” said the doctor with a look of dismay on his face as he glanced at Fallon. “Here’s a dollar for you. Don’t say anything about this to a soul."

Mouthing his thanks, the half-wit hastened away. Burton, turned to his friend.

“What does it mean?” he asked.

“It means,” said the psychologist, “that the sooner we see Miss Marjorie, the better. Come along.”

THEY found the girl alone, pale, indicating by her manner lack of sleep and a condition of extreme nervousness. To their questions as to her feeling, she answered listlessly. The psychologist said little, but observed her every move and gesture.

Back at Burton’s office, the latter asked:

“Have you formed any conclusion?”

The other shook his head negatively. “Not as yet. But I can assure you of one thing. There is a cause for her malady that is not altogether pathological. It goes deeper, my boy— we’ve got to locate it.”

On the following day, while the two men were seated again in the doctor’s consulting room, Peleg White put in his appearance in a state of extreme agitation. Admitted to the office, he plumped down on the table a grotesque object that resembled nothing the physician could remember having seen in his experience.

“I just come from Miss Marjorie,” panted the half-wit. “She wanted I should sell this durn thing for forty cents or less. Said I mustn’t take as much even as half a dollar cause she’d paid that for it Told me not to tell nobody she give it to me, but I reckon I kin tell you. Anyway, who’d give me even a penny for the thing.”

“I will,” said Fallon, before his friend could speak. “Here’s exactly forty cents. Take the money right back to the lady and don’t tell her who bought it. Here's a quarter for yourself.”

When the creature had departed, Burton turned to his friend with the pain he felt written plainly on his face.

“In God’s name,” he cried, “what is it?”

Fallon took up the thing and examined it with deep interest. It was a vegetable of some sort, of a sickly flesh color so far as the root was concerned; black mould still clung to it, and when viewed from a certain angle, the root portion bore a most uncanny resemblance to a human body.

“This,” said the psychologist, slowly, “is a mandrake. One of the first I’ve ever seen!”

“Mandrake?” Burton repeated in a puzzled tone.

“Exactly. The one plant concerning which superstition is almost universal. Many books have been written about it. Even Shakespeare refers to it—I think in 'Romeo and Juliet,' where he speaks of ‘Shrieks like Mandrakes torn out of the earth’.”

The doctor shook his head, shudderingly.

“I can’t understand—”

“This much,” said the scientist, quickly, “I do understand— we must get back to Miss Marbury at once.”

Dr. Burton stared at him in sudden “You mean she is worse?”

“I don’t think so— but something must be done immediately. I suppose,” he added, “you trace the connection between my quotation from Shakespeare, and the story of Peleg about Marjorie at the cemetery?”

“You mean the shriek— that she was pulling this thing from the earth—?”

“It seems likely. But let us be going.”

They found Marjorie so greatly improved on their arrival that Dr. Burton, at least, was overjoyed. His friend, however, seemed less impressed by her greater vivacity and the improved color in her cheeks. Seeking an excuse for their return so soon after the previous visit — though the doctor himself was in the habit of calling almost every day— Fallon observed that he had wanted to look at some of the Squire’s books which he had noted when they were there before.

“I’m sorry,” said the girl, “the Squire is out. But you can make yourself at home there, anyway— in the library."

Fallon smiled at her as he expressed his thanks.

Dr. Burton followed him to the door. “She’s better, don’t you think?”

“She’s seen Peleg,” murmured Fallon enigmatically, and left them together.

In the library, quite an extensive one, he browsed among the books, looked at several, rubbed some of the upper edges gingerly with his forefinger and read a few lines from certain volumes. He also examined the contents of a Japanese card tray on a table, slipped one card into his pocket, and made a note on a slip of paper.'

When he returned, Marjorie was smiling happily, but, as he gazed into her face, he noted the sudden alteration in her expression. She was staring with increasing horror, past him at the doorway. Dr. Burton noticed the change at the same instant, and rose with a question on his lips. But Professor Fallon, seizing a stick from the corner of the room, slashed viciously at a small pinkish object that was crawling along the floor and through the draperies at the entrance.

The scientist followed, leaving Burton to care for the girl, who had sunk back on the couch, one hand at her heart:

“He lied to me,” she whispered, “he lied—”

Then she fainted. As the physician set to work to revive her, sounds of a struggle from the hallway came to his ears and his friend’s voice calling his name. He laid the girl gently on the couch and tugged madly at the bell rope. As he tore the curtains aside and rushed out a servant came screaming down the corridor—

“They’re killing one another,” she cried.

“Go to Miss Marbury,” he ordered, and hastened to where Fallon was struggling in the grasp of someone who, in the dim light he could not at first recognize: then he caught a glimpse of the white hair and beard of Squire Broadman, just as the scientist cried “Hurry, for God’s sake! Can’t you see he’s crazy?”

Together they overpowered the maniac and bound him with a cord from the portieres.

“He was in a niche of the wall,” explained the psychologist, as he regained his breath. “He jumped on me as I came

“What does it mean?” asked Burton.

“First ’phone for an ambulance to take him away. Then get an order for the arrest of that fellow Valdemar. After that I’ll explain. How is Miss Marbury?"

“Fainted— but she will be all right. Wait for me— I’ll use the ’phone downstairs.”

A few moments later he returned.

“That’s attended to. The ambulance is coming, and they’ll get Valdemar— it seems they’ve got enough to hold him on, anyway— obtaining money under false pretenses or something.”

Marjorie had fallen into a deep sleep under the ministrations of the psychologist, and Burton drew his friend into the library.

“For heaven’s sake,” he begged, “tell me what it means.”

The other removed from his pocket another of those ill-favored vegetables and laid it on the table: “There,” he said, “is the root of the whole matter. You see tied about it a bit of silk thread? I broke it with my cane. The other end was in the hands of the madman. Briefly it is part of a diabolical plot to drive Miss Marbury insane or to the grave. It’s God’s justice that the one responsible suffered the fate he intended to inflict on another.”

“Squire Broadman?”

“Of course. He would have lost control of the estate when Marjorie married, would he not?”

“Yes.”

“That’s it. Probably he has speculated with the money he held in trust. Now as to the Mandrake— and Valdemar: The cemetery story and the business of selling the plant were my first rays of light. In the library here I found, among other books, Thomas Newton’s ‘Herball to the Bible.’ It had been much used— lately. No dust on it such as the other books showed. This passage was marked:

“ ‘It is supposed to be a creature having life engendered under the earth of the seed of some dead person put to death for murder.’ ”

“In a more recent work, Skinner’s ‘Myths and Legends of Flowers’ I discovered a dog-eared page on which I read this: ‘The devil has a special watch on these objects and unless one succeeded in selling one for less than he gave for it, it would stay with him till his death.’ How does that strike you?

“But now we come to Valdemar. Here is a card I found in the Squire’s card tray there. It’s the charlatan’s, you see. On the reverse is a memo in the Squire’s writing—‘ See V. tomorrow and get more mandrakes.’ You see, he was a benevolent old fiend. Of course, it was he who shrieked in the cemetery as she tore up the mandrake. It’s hellish—that’s all Now let’s see Valdemar.”

THEY found the eminent psychometrist in the city jail, much perturbed and decidedly crestfallen. He told them, under methods not far removed from the third degree, his part in the transaction: Broadman had been working on the girl’s mind, telling her she ought to vindicate her father’s memory if she could, and sent her to Valdemar, whom he had previously hired to help in the nefarious scheme. He told her to go home and if anything happened to tell him.

As she reached the door, a white figure rose in the dark hallway— as prearranged— and commanded her in sepulchral tones neither to rest nor sleep till her father’s memory had been cleared. She swooned.

Then she told the Squire, but he cautioned her not to speak to the doctor about it and again to consult Valdemar. Broadman had read the mandrake stuff, and the charlatan had arranged to secure some of the plants— goodness knows where— and suggested to Marjorie that she plant one on the grave of her father. Later, if she pulled it up, and the thing shrieked, she would know her parent had been justly punished. It had merely to be planted one day and torn up the next, they told her, to attain the desired results.

She had paid fifty cents for the thing, it seems, and naturally threw it from her when she heard the awful cry. Returning home, she found what she believed to be the same mandrake somewhere about her room, for as Skinner’s book had further said: “Throw it into the fire, into the river... so soon as you reached home, there would be the mandrake, creeping over the floor, Smirking human fashion from a shelf or ensconsed in your bed!”

She told Valdemar, and he assured her that if she sold the thing for less, than she had paid for it, the curse would be removed. She tried this, but again one of the dread plants crept across the floor. Then the end had come swiftly. Doubtless, Valdemar admitted, the squire was himself half demented for years. Burton, putting two and two together, believed that in some subtle way Broadman had brought about the death of Alice, as he had hoped to encompass that of Marjorie, or at least to drive her insane, so that she might not marry and thus automatically expose his own guilt in the matter of the money.

“Which proves,” remarked Fallon, as he bade his friend good-bye at the station the following day, “that it pays to read abstruse matter sometimes. I knew the legend of the mandrake long before I refreshed my memory of the thing in Squire Broadman’s library!”

_________________

6: The Hank of Yarn

Perley Poore Sheehan

1875-1943

The Thrill Book, April 1919

WHAT had happened? He had a queer sensation of unreality, of change— something that took his breath away, made him solemn, frightened him a little. He came up over the edge of the hollow and stood there gazing, swallowing, trying to get a grip on himself.

This was Peddler’s Hollow, from which he had just emerged. It was a narrow dip in the mountain road, perpetually dark, bushed heavily on either side with laurel and overhung with trees. It was here that the peddler had been murdered twenty or thirty years ago, and ever since then the place had had the reputation of being haunted. Was it haunted?

He had always been among those who would have scoffed at such a question, and yet here he was asking the question himself.

It seemed to him that he had seen the peddler’s ghost—had seen the peddler’s body lying there in the mi4dle of the road at the bottom of the hollow. It almost seemed as if he could still hear a ghostly echo— as of the shot that had killed the victim.

“It can’t be,” said Winder to himself. “All that happened twenty or thirty years ago.”

But he was still shaken, still unconvinced. “I ain’t drunk,” he said. “It ain’t the liquor I’ve took.”

He stood there in the moonlight and reflected. And he wished that he could look back of him, but somehow he didn’t dare.

He had been down at the Crossroads all that evening drinking whisky with the Logan boys, and he had taken more than was good for him, as he knew. But, no; this was no mere vagary of a drunken mind. He was never more sober in his life than he was right now, and he knew it. He had been sobered instantly and all of a sudden. The something that had just happened; that was what had sobered him.

He felt as if he had never had a drink in his life. There was no taste of liquor in his throat

His head was as clear as a bell, He felt strong and steady. He felt somehow rejuvenated— vigorous and clean— felt as he hadn’t felt for years, not since he was a boy.

His composure was gradually coming back, but the sense of -wonder, if anything, grew stronger; also that preliminary gust of solemnity and awe.

He didn’t turn, but he peered about him.

He had a sort of impression that something had happened to the night as well. The night no longer seemed so cold, nor yet so stormy as it had been, nor somber and dim.

There was no wind, and the sky was clear. The moon shone brightly. It struck him that the moon was brighter than he had ever seen it before. And yet, even so, he could see all the stars. They sparkled in the frosty air. They looked at him like a million eyes. And Winder thrust up his hands toward them with a gesture of appeal. And that had never been in the nature of him, either; not before this reeling and shocking change.

“My God!” he muttered.

The earth also looked different to him. It was a change that he couldn’t explain any more than he could explain that change in himself and the sky. but there it was— a fresh fall of snow as yet unspotted; not a track— not even a rabbit’s; nor his own, for the matter of that, because— he remembered it now— he hadn’t taken this road on his way to the Crossroads after supper. Instead, he had taken that short cut through the woods— his habitual path so long as there was any daylight, but a bad road after dark. Now that he thought of it, the path through the woods wasn’t the most desirable route in the world anyway for a man with enemies, especially with such enemies as the Logan clan. They were a bad lot. They had threatened more than once to shoot him. And yet, this very night, he had been drinking with them again.

Now that he thought of it, there had even been some sort of a fresh quarrel with them. “Lord forgive them,” he said, “and me!” He started on.

It was almost as if he had never seen this road before, although he had been traveling it back and forth ever since he could remember. He had never seen it look so bright and clean.

Right away ahead of him it ran, by a gentle slope, up and around the shoulder of the mountain to where his cabin lay. It hurt his conscience a little when he remembered how often he had cursed this road, in season and out, but especially when there was snow on the ground, as there was to-night, hiding the ruts and the niggerheads, the roots, and the mud holes.

But he didn’t curse it now. He felt a creeping affection for it. The road looked good to him. The snow couldn’t have been more than an inch or so in depth, and yet the road was also as if transformed, like himself and everything else.

It lay in the full flare of the moonlight and the starlight, for here there were no woods on either side of it, and yet it looked like a road that no one had ever traveled before. The moon was just over the bend of it, so that it looked like a road to the moon.

He’d seen it in a picture— a road like that— with white angels going up and down it. He paused again. He was swept with a fine shudder. There for a moment or two it had seemed to him that he was seeing such a spirit procession now.

He fought off the feeling. He was like a man who had been asleep, and, having had bad dreams, had now wakened into some other sort of a dream.

He wished he would meet some one. He wished that he were home. He wished that he hadn’t left his cabin at all. He was filled with an immense regret. And what was this thing that had happened to him? That was the question he kept asking himself. No answer.

The world was like a church. It was like a church filled with ghosts. It was as if he could hear the silence filled with a thousand muted voices, some of which he could recognize and some of which were strange.

“Hallelujah!” they were singing.

And he could hear his mother’s voice— she who had been dead these five years— joining in with her little old cracked soprano.

He kept on hearing things like that all the time that he was moving along toward home, especially when he passed the cemetery where most of his folks had been buried for a century or so. For, at one time, his people had owned pretty much this whole part of the State. And what had they done with it? Spoiled it! Impoverished it! Given it a bad reputation! Just as he was doing with what was left! Making whisky and then drinking it! Keeping the jailers busy! Until they died with their boots on! His own career!

For the first time in his life he was getting a correct view of himself. And he knew that also.

He kept on up to his cabin, and never noticed once that the road was steep and rough. For that matter, he was like a man walking on air; he was so strong and light on his feet. But he noticed what the cabin looked like. Nothing had been done to it hardly since his grandfather had built it more than fifty years ago. The old chimney falling down! Shingles missing from the roof! Sagging sills! Doorstep rotted half away!

He wished he had fixed these things. There was a light in the window, so he guessed that they were sitting up for him— his invalid sister and his wife; or that little Henry was sick, as little Henry usually was.

But when Winder came up to the window of the cabin and peeked in, he saw that there was a visitor there. The light was dim—just the flicker thrown out by the smoky flame in the fireplace. It was sufficient though. Winder recognized the caller. “Old Doc Summerville," Winder identified him. And he wished that the old man was elsewhere; but there was nothing for it except to go in.

Summerville was a native “yarb” doctor and preacher, who, besides having a local reputation for second sight, was known to speak his mind freely on all occasions. “I’m in for a call-down,” said Winder, and he knew that he was in no mood to talk back.

There was only one room in the cabin. It was like a thousand mountain homes thereabouts— that one large room with the fireplace at one end of it and two beds occupying the comers at the other end, a loft overhead, reached by a ladder and an open scuttle, to serve as extra sleeping quarters. And it was in the loft that Winder slept.

Winder had an idea that he might get to the loft now without being discovered. He had come through the door so quietly that those in front of the fireplace hadn’t turned. It was evident that they hadn’t heard him. Only Winder’s old hound, Buck, had lifted his muzzle from his paws and stared. Not even Buck, though, made any sound.

Winder took a step in the direction of the ladder. Then he stopped. He could feel that his mouth was open and that he was swallowing again, just like the time when he had come up over the rim of Peddler's Hollow back there. And now. as then, he felt the creep of the same sort of wonderment and fright, of solemnity and strangeness.

Little Henry, it appeared, had already been put to bed. And now there he was, sitting up in one of the comer beds and looking at Winder as if Winder were something or somebody he had never seen before. The child didn’t speak. The child didn’t smile. He just stared and stared—and he always had been a little pale and hollow-eyed.

Winder felt his heart give a lurch.

It was as if now, for the first time, he was recognizing just how much this son meant to him. He made one of those awkward, playful gestures of his with which, on rare occasions, he was wont to make the little fellow laugh. But little Henry didn’t laugh now—merely kept on staring, white and still. “He don’t recognize me,” said Winder to himself.

And at that he would have spoken aloud. But just then he was struck by a remark dropped by his wife. “I don’t know what we’d do if anything did happen to Henry,” she said. “He’s all we’ve got.”

“And he has got a good heart,” said Henry’s sister.

The old doctor spoke up: “Now, I ain’t saying that anything did happen to Henry. I’m merely saying that the feeling came to me while I was going home about an hour ago that Henry needed me. Where do you reckon he is ?”

“All I know,” said Mrs. Winder, “is that he started out on an errand for me right after supper and that he ought to be back by this time. He went down to the Crossroads.”

“And I suppose he’s there yet, drinking whisky with those Logan boys.”

“No, it ain’t that,” Henry’s sister spoke up.

“Why not?"

“Because he promised not to.”

“Maybe he’s got in a fight or something,” said the doctor. “Some men need a good crack on the head to make them brace up. And those Logan boys are pizin snakes— like their pop was before them— and they ought to be exterminated, just like be was.”

“Henry ain’t like that,” said Mrs. Winder. “His heart’s all right. I was just talking to-night about me wanting to knit little Henry a jacket, so pa speaks right up and offers to go down to the Crossroads and get me a hank of yarn.”

While they were still talking like that, Winder’s old hound got up from where he’d been lying in front of the fireplace. He came over to where Winder stood. Winder put out his hand. But Buck sort of kept his distance and merely stared as little Henry had continued to do. Buck must have recognized him, though. Buck slowly wagged his tail.

“They're waiting for me to bring back that yam,” said Winder to himself, “and I’ve forgotten all about it.”

Maybe it wasn’t too late yet He turned, and, almost before he knew it, was outside once more, determined to go back to the Crossroads and get the yam.

"I wonder what ails Buck,” said Henry’s sister, after he was gone.

“He looks like he’s worried about something,” the old doctor said.

“I reckon he may have smelled a fox or something,” said Mrs. Winder. And she came over and opened the door for Buck.

With a whine. Buck bounded forth.

“Or he may have scented a ghost,” said the yarb doctor. “Hounds are given to trailing spirits at this phase of the moon.”

“I wish Henry would come,” said Mrs. Winder. And she went over to the bed to see that little Henry was covered up all right. The child was apparently asleep again.

And, out on the mountainside, Winder was making his way back toward the Crossroads as fast as his legs would carry him. He had taken the short cut down through the woods, for he was not only in a hurry, but he had lost all fear of getting himself ambushed by the Logans. After what he had been through, and all those queer experiences of his, he wasn’t afraid of any one. The only thing in the world he feared now was to come back home and confess what he had done.

He was going fast, but he hadn’t gone very far before Buck caught up with him. “Go back!” Winder called.

But the hound paid no attention to him.

“Go back, I tell you!”

Buck merely kept his nose to the ground, zigzagging, wagging his tail, as if he were trailing something. There was no snow on the ground here because of the trees, and it was darker than it was in the open. Then suddenly Buck disappeared off to the left “That was where I left the path to see if there was anything in my possum trap,” said Winder.

And he knew, with a little thrill, that this was his own trail that the hound was following— the trail Winder had left when going this way to the Crossroads earlier in the evening.

"Or maybe some one had been following me,” said Winder. “I remember now that Jimmy Logan came sneaking into the store just about five minutes after I myself got there, and that he and his brothers whispered to each other when they thought that I wasn’t noticing.”

And yet he wasn’t sure. He couldn’t quite figure it out. He could see that the old hound was getting more anxious and nervous all the time—now turning to look up at Winder, now staring off into the bushes, whimpering again, and once he howled. Winder called, but the hound wouldn’t answer, and that wasn’t like old Buck, either.

“And it's my trail he’s following all right,” said Winder. For, at one place on that previous trip of his, he had stepped (out onto a rock to one side of the path at a place where he could look down to see if the signal light was burning at the old moonshine still; and Buck had run out onto the rock also and sniffed the place where Winder had stood, and then Buck had looked over the edge of the rock just as if he didn’t know that there was a hundred-foot drop.

In spite of all this, though, Winder traveled fast and saw nothing else to trouble him until he came out into the clearing where old man Cummings had his store at the Crossroads. And then he saw that he was too late. The store had been closed up for the night.

He remembered now. He stood there in the silence and the moonlight at the edge of the clearing and called himself names. All this came from not having kept his promise. All the details of the carousal came back to him, and then that old man Cummings, the proprietor, had closed up early so that he could go off to visit a sick relative beyond the divide. In the moonlight Henry could see the old man’s tracks— there where he had come out of the back door of the store and gone over to the stable where the mule was kept— old man’s footprints going into the stable, mule’s hoofmarks coming out, as if the devil had been up to one of his dirty tricks in there.

No use to think of the yarn this night. Too late! And it made Henry swear at himself.

“Lord, have pity on my soul!”

But he was not going to take that path through the woods again— not after the way the hound had been acting— so he started around for the front of the building, in the direction of the road he'd taken when he started off for home before.

He came around in front of the store, and the new snow wars heavily trodden there. He could see his own footprints, and recognize them, too, for Henry was as good as any trailer in the county, and he picked out the footprints of the different Logan boys. It brought it all back to him— how they’d all left the place together, when old man Cummings closed up, and then there had been some sort of a scuffle— there were the signs of that, too— and he recollected how it was Jimmy Logan who had settled the trouble and given him one last drink out of the bottle before starting him off alone.

There went the footprints of the Logans off in one direction; there went his own in another.

But what had happened to Buck, the hound, this time?

Winder held his breath and listened. At first, everything as still as the end of the world, and the world frozen dead like the moon. No wind. Even the trees standing there in the moonlight as if they also held their breath and listened.

Then there it was again.

That was Buck, and he was howling, away off ahead along the road somewhere, howling softly and with a sort of a choke at the beginning of each howl, which is the real mourning note for the whole dog tribe, whether the dog be hound or wolf.

Peddler’s Hollow!

They called it that because a peddler had come through these hills one day with a pack on his back and money in his pocket. And early next morning some one found the peddler sprawled in the road at the bottom of the hollow with a bullet through his head, and his pack rifled, and his pockets empty.

An ugly crime, and no one ever punished for it; although, right after that, old man Logan— the father of these boys— had money when he had none before. They buried the peddler, and old man Logan disappeared, and ever after that they had called the sharp dip in the road by that same name which it bears to-day.

Now, it was from right on there ahead, only a quarter of a mile or so, there where Peddler’s Hollow lay, that the hound was howling— and the hound with a reputation for trailing ghosts.

Henry thought of the old murder, and the connection of the Logans with it. He thought of the queer way Buck had acted all along the path through the woods. He had to take his choice. It was either the path through the woods again, or this road he had followed when he started out for home before. The woods were dark. The road was bright. Anyway, he chose the road.

As clearly as if it had been broad daylight, he saw that trail he himself had left there not more than an hour ago. The fall of snow had been so light that the black earth showed through like ink stains on white paper at every step. No snow had fallen since. There had been no wind. When he looked ahead of him he could see the tracks meandering on and on as far as he could see the road itself.

A record it was that no man could have been proud of— those spraddling, crazy lurches from one side of the road to the other. And this, he told himself, was what he had thus far been doing all his life— smearing up with black splotches what might otherwise have remained snow white and clean.

Buck howled again. It was the quaver of a howl, still from over there in the direction of Peddler’s Hollow. He had seen something over there, found something. What could it be?

And just when he was asking himself the question, Winder saw that the hound was coming back— still howling, still whimpering.

“Buck! What is it, Buck?’’

And this time the dog paid attention. He came loping up to where Winder stood. He crouched there. Ears back, he looked up into Winder’s face and bayed.

As plainly as a dog could say it, Buck was saying: “What have you done? What have you done?”

“What have I done?” Winder demanded of himself. But the hound bounded away for a dozen yards. Then he stopped and looked back and whimpered. It was as if .he were speaking again. “Come on,” he seemed to say. "Maybe it won’t be too late, anyway. Only hurry! Hurry!”

Whatever the reason, Winder began to run.

Peddler’s Hollow was a mere gully in the road, five or six feet deep and not more than a dozen yards in width. And all the time that Winder was running, something kept telling him that here was where the trouble lay, that Buck had not been mistaken— nor had he— and that it was something in the Hollow that had dismayed the dog like that. The hollow, moreover, was heavily bushed on each side with laurel and hickory— a ghostly place even in broad daylight—and no place anywhere better designed for ambush.

Winder thought of the Logan boys. He recalled all the details of their long enmity for him—an enmity no less deadly in that it had been disguised at times as it had been this night under the lure of an alcoholic friendship.

But, somehow or other, all fear of the Logan boys had gone out of Winder. It was of himself that he was afraid. It was as if the moonlight and the starlight and all the oddness and solemnity of this night, and the things he had seen and heard had revealed himself to himself. It was of his old self that he was afraid— the creature who had made those ugly tracks in the road he had been following: so he was telling himself even when he had come right up to the brim of the hollow and stood there faltering.

Buck was already down into the hollow. Winder could see the hound down there. At first, though, that was all he could see. After the dazzling moonlight on the snow the shadows of the laurel and the hickory lay heavy. Still he could see that Buck was active, that Buck really had found something down there and that Buck was whimpering and moaning.

“Somebody's dropped a blanket from a wagon,” said Winder.

But his own mind told him that this could not be the case. No one had driven a wagon this way.

And also he was remembering that time, years ago, when he was nothing but a boy, when he had come to this place with the crowd from the Crossroads to look at the grisly spectacle of the murdered peddler before the coroner should arrive.

Was this a mere memory or an illusion? He advanced a step or two. He peered into the woods to the left and right of him. He listened. Darkness! Silence! He dared to look again at the thing in the road.

Winder could see it for himself, all right, but at first he couldn’t believe his eyes. The thing in the road that Buck had found was the body of a man.

It lay there sprawling—right there where the peddler’s body had lain, and in the same way, and the old hat the thing had worn was knocked to one side, and from its head there came a little stream of blood.

The peddler? It couldn’t be the peddler!

He knew where the peddler had been buried. He had been to the funeral himself.

But who could it be? That was what gave him the creeps. His own footprints were the only ones that went down into the place. Had he shot some one down there himself on his first trip through the hollow and then forgot about it?

He remembered that queer change that had come over himself and over the sky and the earth just as he was coming up out of the hollow when he passed this way before.

He raised his eyes and looked across the hollow to that other place where he had stood. He looked and looked, and into the very soul of him there came a feeling that he knew was to remain with him for the remainder of eternity. Yep! It would be there when Gabriel blew his trumpet and Henry Winder went marching with the rest of the dead up to the Judgment Seat.

For, there where he had stood on the farther side of the hollow, there wasn’t the trace of a footstep. Nothing! Nothing but untrodden snow. Not a spot. Not a rabbit track. And the road stretched away like that, on up around the mountain as far as he could see—there where he had passed—or some part of him had passed—and left no trail. No wind. No more snow had fallen. Moonlight and starlight flooding down. No chance for a mistake. Something which was himself, but which left no footprints, was what had come out of the hollow and gone on its way and left this thing in the road down there.

He turned and looked back of him. Only one set of footprints there—drunken footprints—the ones he had just been following—the ones he had-made when he was first leaving the Crossroads—and the Logans were heading through the woods to lay in wait for him here and shoot him down as their pa, at this same place, had shot the peddler down.

He could see it all.

But Buck was calling to him, whimpering, crying like a child, coaxing him to come on down into the hollow.

Too late? Not too late yet, perhaps. It rested with himself. It rested with that part of him that was still alive and free to move around, the part of him that had gone home and heard what the doctor and the women folks had to say and had then followed Buck on the back trail to the Crossroads and on to here.

So he went on down into the bottom of the hollow and looked at the thing that was lying there.

It was still alive. The Logans had fired a trifle high. Not very much. The wound was serious. An hour or so more here in the snow, without attention, and that would be the end of it except for one more mound in the lot on the hill.

And Henry looked at the thing and tried to make up his mind. He knew that this thing was full of bad whisky and pain. He knew that it was wet and cold, and that it needed a bath and other attentions. The clothing on it was old and soiled. It wore no socks, and its boots were full of holes. It had always been lazy and vicious and ready to fight, and unmindful of others so long as its own appetites were taken care of. It was ugly to look at— a mean weight to carry, a rebellious thing to manage.

Should he leave it?

Or should he take it back ?

He knew that he was free to do either.

Once before some such thing had happened to him when old man Cumming’s mule had kicked him on the head. Then also some part of him had been set free to roam around, just as it had befallen him now. And he recalled all the times that since then he had wished the kick had killed him—times when this better, cleaner, wiser part of him had wished to God it had never come back to this other part of him that was now lying here in the road.

Buck looked up at him imploringly and whined again.

“After all,” said Henry— that spiritual part of him which was standing up to that physical part of him which was lying down; “after all, I might make something out of you worth while, if you only gave me the chance. But I know you. You won’t give me the chance.”

Buck continued to plead. But Henry’s real or living self continued to address the thing in the road.

“I know you’d say that without you the cabin will never be fixed and that my women folks will pine away and that my poor little sickly son will grow up fatherless. All these are good arguments. And I might come back to you if I could only be sure that you wouldn’t abuse me any more. But you’re altogether bad. You never listen to my promptings.”

He stopped. He had seen something that stuck out of the pocket of the snow-draggled and ragged old coat the recumbent figure wore.

The thing he had seen was a hank of yarn.

Presently, had there been any one there to see, it would have been noticed that the body of Henry Winder, lying there in the bottom of the hollow, showed signs of returning life.

Buck was there, though, and it was as if the old hound understood. Buck gave a yelp of joy. He paused just long enough to lick his master's face. Then he had bounded away. It was Buck who returned to the cabin and notified the people there, in his own unmistakable way, that they were needed and that he would show them where.

So, without any great delay, the women and the doctor hurried down the road toward Peddler’s Hollow. They found Winder where he still lay, there where Buck had left him, and the doctor bound up Winder’s wound and washed his blood away with snow. By and by Winder was able to stand, then to walk; and, with his arms about the doctor and his weeping wife, they trudged up out of the hollow on their way back toward home.

But at the rim of the hollow Winder paused and lifted his face. It was the place of his vision. There he made a promise to the entity inside of himself— and he knew that it was a covenant he would keep: “Hereafter you rule and I’ll obey.”

________________________

7: The Bearded Men

Adam Hull Shirk

Weird Tales Aug 1925

I HAD come to the end of my rope. The statement lacks originality, I am aware. Many men have made the same admission before me; many others will make it after I am forgotten. But to every man his own troubles seem magnified tenfold. I felt entirely blameless, a victim of circumstances, of the folly or perfidy of others, but this fact did not help me. Considered from whatever angle the fact remained— I had come to the end of my rope.

I do not think I am a coward, but I had almost decided to take the coward’s way of escape— the only way, I argued.

I strolled aimlessly along Riverside Drive, taking a northerly course for no other reason than because I had turned in that direction on leaving home. Home! I smiled bitterly at the word. For by what possible stretch of the imagination could I term that miserable little apartment where I had existed since my collapse and the desertion of one upon whom I had counted, home?

The thought strengthened my half-formed determination to have it over and done with. As I walked, already more of a ghost than a living man, among the chattering crowds, hearing, without understanding, the words that floated to my ears, seeing, without taking note of it, the placid river with its pleasure craft and fast moving steamers—as I strolled aimlessly, head bent, my soul involved in the darkest reflections, I realized quite suddenly that I was followed.

It was not that I heard or saw anything to indicate a shadow, but the conviction was positive. Then, out of the void, someone called my name. I did not hear the word spoken; I sensed it.

A feeling of awe, almost of superstitious fear, gripped me. I had been summoned— but for what purpose and by whom? I walked on, forgetting temporarily my crushing load of despair, until I realized that I was weary. A sign on a tall electrolier told me that I had reached Ninetieth Street. An empty bench invited me and I sat down. Again the cloud of troubles rolled back upon my soul. My decision to die took definite form.

I took my revolver from my pocket and looked carefully about me. I had gone beyond the more crowded portion of the drive; indeed, in one of those odd lulls of traffic, I had the spot momentarily to myself. It was my fate playing her last card! The way to death was opened to me. I raised the weapon to my head.

"Gordon Hunt! Gordon Hunt!"

I lowered the revolver and sat rigidly, for again I had been called, and now the call registered upon my brain rather than upon the tympanum of my ear. It was imperative, brooking no disobedience. I became aware of a figure standing behind my bench — the figure of a man with a heavy beard. His oddly luminous eyes were fixed upon me with a steady gaze.

He came around the end of the bench and sat down beside me. He moved with a stiff, almost decrepit action, as of extreme age. Yet he did not seem so old. His beard was dark, his eyes bright, and his skin, where it showed, but little wrinkled.

I wanted to get up, to leave, but something, possibly curiosity, held me.

“Did you call me?”

“I did,” he finally answered, in a voice slightly high and suggestive of age, but which at the same time possessed a dominating quality. “You are Gordon Hunt?”

“Why should I deny it? You have been following me; why?”

He hesitated, and I could feel his bright eyes burning into my brain.

“This is no place to talk,” he said, finally. “This much I may say— you are in trouble.”

I groaned.

"You had planned to kill yourself.”

He pointed to the revolver, which I had still clasped in my hand.

“Put it away. And if you want to escape your troubles without dying to do so, come with me.”

"But—"

“Wait! A moment ago you contemplated suicide. You can, therefore, have few scruples. A few hours more or less can not matter to you. If you still wish to die, after our talk, I will not try to prevent you. If not—"

“Who are you?”

He shook his head. “I can tell you nothing here. Will you come?”

Again I was conscious of that insistent call. I knew that I must obey.

And after all, why not? What did it  matter? What did anything matter  to me— now?

He arose and I did likewise. Then he started off with peculiar swiftness and silence. Certainly his years had not affected his activity, though I still noticed that stiffness of movement.

He led me away from the drive up the hill toward Broadway. Along this street we hastened for perhaps a dozen blocks, and then my guide suddenly darted down a cross street toward the drive again. Midway of the block he stopped before an old house in the center of a sizable yard. It was a house that had escaped the fate of its neighbors of old, which had been torn away to prepare for the erection of an apartment house on either side.

The stranger entered the yard and led the way up the tumble-down front steps and inserted a key in the lock.

“Come,” said he, and I obeyed. The door he closed softly behind us and I followed him along a narrow and dark hallway, up a flight of stairs, and presently was ushered into a small but over-furnished room which was quite evidently a study, for there were books without number and a cluttered desk.

“Sit down,” directed my companion, indicating a comfortable chair.

I sank into its depths, watching with some renewal of interest as he removed his hat and hung it, with the crooked stick he carried, in a comer. Then he came over and sat down facing me. In the better light I could see that he was not so old, though his beard was certainly dyed. He had no hair whatever. His head was like a billiard ball, or, apter simile, the shape suggesting it, the egg of some colossal bird, say a roc. But his eyes! They scintillated, snapped, or burned with a steady glare, burned into my very soul, it seemed. They were young eyes; they had not aged with their owner.

“Yon are Gordon Hunt,” he remarked.

“You have already named me,” I answered, a bit sharply.

“Until recently,” he went on, unruffled, “you were vice-president of the Gotham Trust Company, which failed through, as announced, the unwise speculations of the president, James Q. Moffitt, who afterward committed suicide.”

“All that is public property,” I snapped.

“By the failure of the company many poor persons lost all they possessed."

I could not repress a groan. That was, indeed, the tragedy of it all.

“Moffitt is not dead!”

“What?”

I sprang from my chair, but he motioned me back, a bit impatiently.

“It is true— he planned very cleverly. After accumulating all the funds, turning all available securities into cash, he arranged the suicide carefully by means of a body obtained from a professional dealer in cadavers. Perhaps you did not know there is such a man in New York? It is so. Well, the face was disfigured by a pistol shot so as to be entirely unrecognizable. Otherwise the resemblance to Moffitt was marked. He had no close friends or relatives to tell the difference. The body was buried— and the brunt of the whole business fell upon you—and crushed you!”

It was true! God, shall I ever forget those days and nights of agony? The sound of the pistol shot as one man killed himself before his wife’s eyes when he learned that all their little savings had been swept away; the crying of widows whose pittance had been lost— these will ring in my ears forever.

“If this is true—”

The man with the beard nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on mine.

“It is true. Moreover, Moffitt still lives in New York City. He bears an assumed name, of course, and not even you would recognize him if you should pass him in the street. He has lived a double life for years. As James Moffitt, he had, as I have explained, few friends. You know that. As William Bowers he is well known. This coup had doubtless been planned for some time.”

“William Bowers? Surely you don’t mean—?”

“Bowers of the Hemisphere Life Insurance Company—yes.”

“But man— I know Bowers, not intimately of course, but there must be others who—”

“He is shrewd. As Moffitt, he was retiring, almost diffident, keeping aloof from his associates. He also wore a heavy beard like mine; he complained of weak eyes and covered them with dark glasses. He spoke gruffly— and seldom. As Bowers, he is smooth-shaven, debonair, and his eyes are perfect. He talks much and lightly; he is a favorite with the fair sex, a frequenter of cabarets, what is known as a ‘good spender’. In short, he is a rounder. There you have it. Bowers is the real man; Moffitt was the unreal. The latter is dead— in that sense. But Bowers is very much alive— and he is the robber of widows and orphans, the man who ruined your career—”

I jumped to my feet again. I raised my arms to heaven and cried out to God, if this were true, to let me get my hands upon the fiend.

“Why do you tell me this? What is your motive? How can I believe you?”

The stranger got up and came closer to me.

“You believe because I tell you. I have told you because I intend to take you to this man.”

“You will— take me to him?”

“Yes; but there must be no violence. He will be punished. But not by your hand. And that is not the only thing I shall require of you.”

“If this man can be brought to book,” I returned earnestly, “you may ask what you will of me. I will be your slave if necessary.”

“I may require even that,” he answered in a low tone. And something in his eyes sent a chill to my heart; I was afraid, that was it. But with my fear was a fierce exulting joy. Despite his words, I might gain the opportunity I coveted: to exact from the wretch who had ruined me and many others, the payment that was due!

“Tomorrow will be time enough,” he went on, “and tonight you shall be my guest. I will introduce you to some of my friends.”

I wondered silently, but made no demur as he asked me to follow him to another and even smaller chamber, which seemed a sort of dressing room.

He took from a drawer a false beard.

“I must ask that you wear this,” he said, almost apologetically. “I will explain why later.”

Astonished, I seemed unable to refuse even this singular request and adjusted the beard to my face. It was a complete disguise.

He surveyed me approvingly.

“Good,” he remarked, with a chuckle. “Now we will go in.”

I followed him downstairs and into a large room, brilliantly lighted, at the rear of the house. In it, to my surprize, I saw that a number of men and several women were gathered. And each man wore a beard, similar to mine, or else of natural growth, while the women were masked. It was like a theatrical green room or some grotesque masquerade.

My guide was greeted with every indication of deference. I noticed that those present moved with a sort of mechanical precision and seemed to be going about their various pursuits — playing cards, smoking, talking, like so many automaton figures. Only one seemed an exception to this peculiarity— a woman, young, as I could easily determine by the smoothness and beauty of her neck and shoulders gleaming from the black evening gown she wore. She seemed nervous, watchful, alert.

The room was richly furnished, like a club lounge; there was a piano, and a woman played with that queer lack of expression characteristic of the mechanical instrument.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said my guide, “allow me to introduce to you, Mr. Black.”

The guests bowed stiffly. Only the woman in black made no move, but watched me, furtively, from the eyeholes of her domino mask.

Suddenly as I stood there, I felt (that is the word) I felt my name called. I turned involuntarily and met the eyes of my host. They were bright, like two pinpoints of light. And then I ceased to know anything.

I RECOVERED myself in a small room, sparsely furnished and with white walls unrelieved by a single picture. I was lying on a couch, and it was dusk, for though there was a high window, no light came from it. I sat upright, and in doing so flung out an arm which tipped over a chair standing by the couch. In response to the sound, apparently, the door opened and a woman entered. She was the one I had noticed when I first entered the mysterious house, where, I now suspected, I still remained. She still wore the domino mask but had discarded the evening gown for a charming negligee.

“It is all right,” she said soothingly, as she replaced the fallen chair.

She glanced at her wrist watch.

"Nine o’clock," she muttered. “It never fails.”

“What has happened to me?” I blurted, and got up from the couch.

My head was a trifle befuddled; I recalled the incidents imperfectly.

“Nothing,” she returned. “You have been asleep— that is all.”

“Where am I— on One Hundred and Ninth Street?”

She nodded.

“Where is he— who is he— the man who brought me to this place?”

“He will be here presently. I  can’t tell you who he is— now.”

I put my hand up to my face. The false beard was still there. I started  to remove it, but she stopped me.

“He wouldn’t like it,” she explained softly.

As she spoke her face paled at a sound of approaching footsteps.

“He’s coming—lie down,” she whispered; and so evident was her fear that I obeyed.

She sat down a distance from my couch and was reading when the queer man entered. He came in with that same active, yet stiff-jointed movement I have mentioned and stood looking down at me. Apparently satisfied, he turned to the girl.

“Freda,” he said, “you may go.”

I watched from beneath half-closed lids as she darted one fearful glance at me and then hurriedly left the room. When the door had closed behind her, he turned to me again. For a full minute he stood looking at me.

Then he said:

“You are awake. I am not to be deceived. I have something here to show you.”

I opened my eyes and then sat up. From his pocket he took a part of a newspaper and I saw that it was dated June 11, the second day following that upon which I had first heard him calling me out of the void. He pressed it into my hand, pointing with a long, bony finger at a marked article. With bulging eyes I read the headline:

WELL-KNOWN CLUBMAN MURDERED.

William Bowers, Man-About-Town,

Noted as Raconteur, Found Slain

in his Apartments.

The article went on to tell how, the evening before, a servant had discovered Bowers with a knife-thrust in his heart, and no trace of the assassin had been discovered. Robbery, it said, might have been the motive, since there was nothing of value found in the room, and a small strong box let into the wall was open and empty.

I finished reading and looked at my queer host.

“What does it mean?” I gasped.

“That you killed Bowers—or Moffitt,” he said slowly.

“I killed him? But I don’t remember anything."

“You went with me to denounce him as we had planned. He turned over the contents of his strong box— two hundred thousand dollars in banknotes — to me. Then without warning you picked up a jeweled dagger used as a paper knife, from the table and stabbed him. I got you away—”

"It’s a lie!” I cried. “How could it be true? I’ve no recollection of anything of the kind— you’re trying to frighten me— you can’t prove it.”

“Oh, yes, I can,” he chuckled. “There was a witness—Freda, my foster daughter, accompanied us. She waited in the other room. But she saw the murder—”

“I can’t understand—this is terrible—he deserved death—but I—I—”

“You must have gone temporarily insane,” he said, soothingly, “from your worry. However, you’re safe with me— you were in disguise— the beard— and there was no clue. It will be another ‘unsolved mystery.’ But you must understand one thing— you are in my power. Unless you do as I wish—I will tell the police.”

“The money,” I cried, suddenly remembering; “what will you do with it! It belongs to those poor depositors!"

“Half of it has already been sent to them— that is, to the receiver of the defunct Gotham Trust Company. The other half I shall retain as my share. After all, that is fair enough: but for me, they would have got nothing.”

I sat down again on the couch from which I had arisen in the excitement of his revelations. I bowed my head in my hands. It was maddening. My brain refused to act with its usual quickness. I seemed unable to think clearly. He continued talking:

“If you try to escape, you will be arrested. In the meantime consider yourself my guest. Here you are free to do as you wish. But you must not go out without my permission. Do you understand?”

I nodded weakly. Why was I unable to pull myself together? Why did my brain seem clouded? If only I could remember—

“Who are you?” I said suddenly.

He started at the abruptness of my question. Then he frowned slightly.

“There is no need,” he declared, “that you should know my name— I may tell you that few do. I am called —by my guests— by the members of the club— the Chief.”

“The club? What club?”

“Oh, you did not understand? We call it the Club of Bearded Men— the ladies are merely auxiliary members—”

“But what is it for?”

“That,” he returned, as he left me, “you will find out later.”

I waited until he was out of hearing and then tried the door quickly. I had half expected to find it locked, but it yielded to my touch and I emerged into the hallway, only to be confronted by the girl— Freda he had called her.

“Where are you going?”

“He told me I had the freedom of the house. I am tired of that stuffy room.”

“Please come back— I want to talk with you.”

Her tone was so filled with pleading that I obeyed wonderingly. She closed the door and sprang the latch.

“Now we can talk undisturbed for awhile,” she added.

“What is it?”

“This: I am tired of this life— this has been the last straw, this affair of yesterday.”

I remembered, and eagerly I questioned her. But she would say nothing of the killing of Bowers.

“Did you see me strike him?” I asked.

“Don’t ask me,” she murmured. “We must get away. I tell you I’m tired of it all.”

“Won’t you remove your mask? I’m going to take off these absurd whiskers.”

I suited the action to the words and tore the false beard from my face. For a moment she seemed uncertain and then followed my example, stripping the domino from her face. I had made no error in my surmise. She was beautiful.

“What is all this masquerade?” I exclaimed, petulantly. “What is this club?—tell me.”

“If I tell you what I know, will you swear not to betray me to him?”

“I betray you? Heaven forbid!”

“Well, then, I am the daughter of a woman whom I never saw, for she died when I was born. I am told she was one of the auxiliary members of the club. I don’t even know that I have a name except my given name, Freda. He claims to be my foster father. Perhaps he is really my father. I don’t know. I’ve lived here always. I’ve gone about very little and then always with one of the elderly women. We are always veiled, even in the warm weather. It is dreadful.”

“But who is he? What is it all about?” I persisted.

“He is called the Chief,” she said, with a little shudder. “I don’t know any more about him than that he is the leader of this crowd of men and women who appear always masked and bearded. They meet every night here. But they talk of nothing in particular. Then, frequently, he takes one of them aside, as he did you the other night. What happens then I don’t know, except in your case, when he compelled me to go along— as a witness, he said.”

“And what did you see?”

“I saw— I saw you go up to that  man, after the talk you three had— and which I only heard a part of— and raise a knife to strike him— and then, I— I forget.”

“You forget?” I repeated in astonishment.

“I remember nothing more until we started homeward. He said you had killed Bowers.”

I groaned in my own effort at remembrance. But I could recall nothing. I walked across the little apartment and then turned back upon the girl, who stood, trembling, near the door.

“Why do you tell me, a stranger, that you have sickened of this life of yours? Why didn’t you decide to escape long ago?”

“Because,” she answered slowly, “I was afraid. I am afraid now— horribly afraid. But I had vowed that the next time a new member came I would confide in him, if he was of a sort to whom I might speak.”

“You believe me of that sort!”

“Your face shows it—you are good—”

She broke off quite suddenly and her eyes overflowed.

“Oh, take me away—take me away! I shall die if I stay here another night!”

I went over and patted her upon the shoulder gently.

“Don’t be afraid any more,” I said soothingly. “We’ll get out of this, somehow.”

“Oh, thank you—”

“But listen: you must tell me all you know, if you haven’t done so already. Who are these people, these members?”

“I don’t know. They may be criminals. Or they may not. Strangers come; sometimes the old ones disappear. None are called by name. There is never any talk of their business. That is, I never hear it.”

“Have you a weapon of any kind! A revolver?”

“Only a knife!”

She produced it from her bodice. I shuddered as I thought of that other knife with which, I had been told, I had struck down a fellow creature, a man who certainly had deserved death, but not at my hand. For after all, despite my desire for revenge, I was a God-fearing man, and I believed that he should have been punished by Providence.

“Give me the knife,” I said.

She handed the weapon to me and at that moment we both heard the queer footsteps of her foster father approaching.

“Stand behind me, ” I ordered. She obeyed and I unlocked the door and stood ready, my knife poised.

The door opened and the queer man came in. In a moment I had pinioned him against the wall, my knife at his throat.

“I am going away from here,” I gritted, “and neither you nor anything else will stop me. And Freda is going with me.”

He gurgled and stuttered in incoherent rage and I pricked him slightly with the knife point

“Before I go,” I added, “you will tell me what and who you are, and the truth about Bowers—or I will kill you."

He stopped struggling and his eyes burned into mine. I felt that insistent calling of my name, knew my senses were leaving. She saw it, and cried out:

“Don’t let him look at you; stop him or it will be too late.”

With a frantic effort I drew my eyes away from his and pinned him closer to the wall. And now the absurdly simple truth came to me. He was a hypnotist! But I was warned now. He should not again obtain the mastery over my will. I pressed the point of the knife against his throat.

“Stop,” he cackled finally. “I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

He was a feather in my hands, for beneath his clothes he was a mere bag of bones. I carried him bodily to the couch and laid him down. I held him firmly and, my eyes averted, told him

“You did not kill Bowers,” he muttered. “He died by his own hand. I tried to make you kill him, but not even I have the power to make a man do while under my influence what he would under no circumstances do thatꟷ"

“I do not believe you,” I said; “you killed Bowers yourself.”

“You lie,” he panted.

Suddenly he writhed out of my grasp, and with a burst of strength entirely unsuspected threw himself, clawing, tearing with nails and teeth, upon me. I was taken by surprize and almost overcome while Freda, a prey to her old terrors, fell back against the wall and stood with staring eyes. But all at once the grip relaxed and the creature dropped from me like some loathsome spider and lay writhing on the floor.

It was a fit of some sort, and I believed it was likely to prove fatal. Presently he lay quite still and I knelt down to feel of his heart. It fluttered feebly and he opened his eyes, which now, however, had lost their unwonted brilliance.

“I’m dying,” he gasped, faintly. “Look in my desk— the secret panel — the paper explains—”

His voice broke off abruptly and his eyes closed. A tremor went over his body and he died very quietly.

I arose: “Come,” I said to the girl, “let us get out of here. But first, where is his desk?”

She cast a last, frightened look at the body and then led me to the room I had entered when I came first to the house. An old-fashioned desk stood by the wall. A search revealed a small button which, when pressed, released a small panel and disclosed a folded paper. This I thrust into my pocket, and with Freda at my side I slipped quietly from the house into the night. Not until we were far from the place did I take the document from my pocket. And together, Freda and I read this queer statement:

“To be read after I am dead: I am the founder of the Club of Bearded Men, otherwise the Lost Men’s Club. Every member is a man or woman who has found it advisable or imperative to drop out of sight of the world. It was my idea, conceived years ago. I watched carefully, and when through some event I knew that a certain person must find it essential to vanish, I went to that person in one guise or another, and gained the mastery over him by my hypnotic power. In the club, the men wore beards to insure that they should not recognize one another. Sometimes they have temporarily been released from the trance, but usually I have kept them partly at least under my control. They have done my bidding and remembered nothing, because that has been my will. None of my subjects has ever been apprehended; I have seen to that. Many mysterious crimes were committed by my people— crimes that have remained unsolved. And I have grown rich. My fortune is in trust for my daughter, Freda.

“A hypnotized person is far less likely to be captured in the commission of a crime than one in his normal senses. Why? Because the latter thinks of what he is doing, and in thinking he endeavors to cover his tracks. My people think only my thoughts, do only my bidding; when they have completed their work, they are finished thinking even my thoughts, more than to return to me. I plan shrewdly and direct all their actions mentally. Sometimes my plans fail. It is known that a person cannot be made to do a thing hypnotically which he would not do in his normal senses— a criminal act, I mean. But most of my people, having been carefully selected, lack scruples in that direction and are good material. Occasionally I, myself, care for important matters. You who read this may have heard of ‘the Little Black Man’, supposed to be a figment of the criminal brain. But not so. I am ‘the Little Black Man’— the ‘Mysterious Egyptian’ of newspaper headlines. He is one of my disguises: at that I am an adept. My people can mingle with those who have known them without fear of detection, after they leave my hands.

“That is all. Should I die suddenly, a competent hypnotist could release any of my mesmerized subjects from their trance. Then will the papers have another sensation. Involuntarily, by my own disappearance years ago, a mystery which has become proverbial in such cases, I afforded the world a sensation. This you will no doubt appreciate when I sign myself—

"The Lost Charley Boss.”

__________________

8: All Talk

H. Bedford-Jones

Adventure, March 15, 1930

KENNEDY WAS a mystery, as he stood there in the Messageries office in Saigon, pocketing his ticket for Singapore; but his papers were correct and he was so evidently a man of the right sort that the polite Frenchman behind the counter took a chance.

“Messieurs, you will both be on the same boat; you are both alone— may I assume the honor of making you acquainted? Monsieur Kennedy— Monsieur Dudevant.”

The two men bowed, shook hands and adjourned to a table at the Café de Paris for drinks.

Kennedy scrutinized the Frenchman quietly. He himself was brown, level eyed, tight of lip and thin of nostril; a man of forty-five, to judge by graying hair and lined features. Lines or not, the innate strength of those features made women look twice. Even when he smiled, Kennedy’s face preserved a certain gravity, a hard and inflexible purpose. Yet he was extremely likable.

Dudevant was gay, carefree, handsomely dressed. His face was lean and sallow, with a long waxed mustache, gray hair at his temples, and alertly eager eyes, ever bright and dancing. For the past six years he had been upcountry, an official of the Compagnie d’Indo-Chine. Now he had resigned, was going home to Paris. He had made his pile.

Kennedy had been traveling about for a month past, seeing the country. He said no more, except that he was alone in the world; one inferred that, like many another tourist, he was seeking in travel to forget a loss. Of money, he had a great supply. He had been across the border in Siam and was now going to Singapore; after that, he did not know. Perhaps back home, he said with a shrug, perhaps on around the world. Life seemed rather a blank to Kennedy.

The Singapore boat would not be in for two days. Kennedy accepted Dudevant’s offer to put him up at the club; they drifted about together, became better acquainted, liked each other. Beneath Dudevant’s gay demeanor was a nervous hardness, a bitterness against the world; he told Kennedy many a tale of the hill-country, and they were cruel stories as a rule. Yet his bubbling vivacity, his eagerness for France, were good to see; he had enough money to see him through the rest of his life and he was joyously happy about it.

Dudevant spoke good English, liked Americans and made Kennedy at home in Saigon. He learned that Kennedy had been a banker— not surprising to one who noted the thin lips. By the second day the two men were good friends.

That afternoon, as they sat sipping apéritifs on the cool, tree shaded terrace of the Café de Paris, a young Frenchman went staggering past—a boy in the colonial infantry, fresh from St. Cyr and France. Kennedy watched him half cynically, half pityingly.

“Drunk, eh? Too bad,” he commented. “First time I ever saw one of your officers in that shape.”

Dudevant shrugged.

“Why not? The boy’s homesick, touched with fever, lost in some hell hole upcountry; he tries opium, perhaps takes a native woman, comes to himself, believes his life and honor are smirched, tries to forget it in liquor— and voilà! A bullet through his brain some day. The young fellows, they are made that way, my friend.”

“Not ours,” said Kennedy. “Not Americans. And yet—”

“Oh, yes!” Dudevant laughed, with a wry and mirthless grimace. “Youth is alike the world over. I remember— that is to say, there was—”

He paused, his gaze following the lurching figure of the young officer. Then he smiled and looked at Kennedy.

“But perhaps it would be offensive, this story about an American?”

“Not a bit of it.” Kennedy beckoned the waiter and laughed. “Why? I’m not taking offense where none is meant. You think you can prove your case?”

“That youth is the same the world over? Absolutely.” Dudevant settled back in his chair and lighted a jaune. “There was a young American who came out to Bangkok— his name, I believe, was like an overcoat; oh, yes, Mackintosh. That was it.”

Fingering the fine points of his mustache, his brilliant eyes fastened upon the passing figure of a charming golden skinned Eurasian girl, Dudevant sat half retrospective, half in dream. He did not observe the sudden sharp flush that leaped in the brown cheeks of Kennedy, to be gone next instant.

“You knew him, then?” asked Kennedy, his voice very negligent.

“I? Oh, no, not at all!” Aroused by the words, Dudevant laughed and turned. “No, but I have heard the tale from those who did. He came to Bangkok on some important mission for a teak lumber firm— a chance to open up his career. Three months later he was a wreck— and why? One night did it. You know, they have some remarkable gambling places in Bangkok, yes? You have seen them, perhaps.”

Kennedy nodded. He was fingering his glass, staring down at it, as though but half hearing the story. Puffing at his cigaret, Dudevant pursued the thread of his story.

“Mackintosh, it seems, got drunk one night, and gambled. He lost some enormous amount. He was hooked by some English or German chap from Canton, I think. He became very drunk. Well, that was all! A little thing, to you or me, a mere youthful trifle. True, he rather made an ass of himself and the American consul had to intervene; but in all, a trifle. To him, however, it was no trifle. He felt he had disgraced his whole life, himself and his family and so forth. So he, who until then had drunk seldom, plunged into gambling and liquor— perhaps attempting to retrieve the sums he had lost. Some woman, too, got hold of him.”

Kennedy watched the liquid in his glass intently. A deep crease had appeared between his brows; his eyes, beneath their lowered lids, seemed to flame and glitter.

“This poor young man,” pursued Dudevant, “had entirely ruined himself in another fortnight— entirely. He fought with two or three men, one the head of his company. He was fired from his position. He lost his own and the company’s money. His affair with the lady became scandalous, even for Bangkok, which is no ways particular. You have been in Siam; you have seen the temples there, the Golden Wat and the others, with their enormous treasures? Well, this Mackintosh probably became utterly desperate. One night, having laid his plans, he got into one of the temples, killed one priest and hurt another, and got away with bulging pockets— jewels of all kinds. He disappeared.”

Kennedy started to speak, checked himself, then asked an odd question.

“Was it known that he was the guilty party?”

“Oh, no! He was never suspected.” Dudevant laughed a little, ironically. “Others were suspected; there was a great scandal. He disappeared; and because no white man disappears easily in Bangkok, he was thought to have jumped into the river— killed himself.”

Kennedy looked sharply at the Frenchman, then lifted his glass and sipped at it.

“Odd,” he commented.

“Was it not? That a foreigner, an American, should have pillaged one of those temples, which not the cleverest thieves in all Asia have been able to enter!” Dudevant’s voice was admiring, his eyes were eager. “Weeks later, this young man turned up at one of our frontier posts, disguised as a native. He was in terrible condition— emaciated, wounded, starved; he died a day or two afterward. The official in charge buried him decently and kept his secret.”

“Where was this?” asked Kennedy, an odd steely inquiry in his tone.

Dudevant shrugged and waved his cigaret lightly.

“Who knows? I heard some gossip; but one does not inquire too closely into the doings of a brother official. It was at one of the hill stations.”

“And his loot? His jewels?”

“Ask of the jungle, of the natives, my friend; he had nothing left. You see how my case is proved? One little youthful folly, one evening gone wrong, and imagination led him on. He thought his life was ruined; so he went on and ruined it.”

Kennedy nodded. He produced a cheroot, bit on it and his eyes gleamed.

“By gad, you’ve got to hand it to him! He got away with a man’s job, eh? I’ve seen those temples and how they’re guarded. Then he lost everything, staggered into French territory and died from his hardships. That it?”

“So.” Dudevant smiled. “You see? And this young colonial officer who just passed— he drinks, he commits some trifling breach of discipline, he drinks more, and some day he is found with a bullet in his brain. All for nothing. Excuse me a moment. I will telephone to the club about the wine for dinner.”

He rose and strode inside, a tall, lean man who walked with lithe steps. Kennedy looked after him, face like iron, and took the cheroot from his lips.

“So!” he said, half aloud. The sound of the word was like an animal’s snarl.

THE MESSAGERIES boat came in, took aboard its south-bound freight and passengers and went back downstream in the curious way boats have of leaving Saigon.

Kennedy and Dudevant had obtained a cabin together. As though the safe departure and the free air of the sea had unsealed his lips, Kennedy almost at once became less taciturn, treated his companion to little confidences, displayed a new and very pleasing side of his nature. He, a hardboiled financier, had his weaknesses; and the trust of such a man is always flattering.

He told Dudevant, for example, just what he had been doing in Indo-China and upcountry. The Frenchman listened, at first astonished, then with thoughtful, reflective eyes fastened on the sea horizon to port.

“So you collect gems, eh?” said Dudevant slowly. “For those who can afford it, a pleasant pastime, and perhaps profitable. And you had no luck?”

Kennedy shook his head.

“Not a scratch; never found a stone. Wasted my time and money, not to mention my arrangement with a customs guard at Singapore. You see, that’s how I could make it profitable. No duty to pay here, no duty to pay when I got home. Such things can be arranged if you locate the right men. I had hoped to take home at least fifty thousand pounds’ worth of stones— and I haven’t found a dozen decent ones the whole trip.”

Dudevant commiserated with him, and presently changed the subject. That evening they sat in a bridge game with two Englishmen, and Kennedy lost quite heavily. He settled up from an amazing roll of fifty-pound Bank of England notes, and Dudevant’s eyes lingered on this display of cash with gathering cupidity in their dark depths. Some men are like that; the sight of much money seems to waken latent greed within them.

It was on the following afternoon, as they sat together beneath the after bridge deck awning, that Dudevant turned to Kennedy and spoke with very sober air.

“The compliment you have paid me, in your confidences, my friend, is not only deeply appreciated; more, it is an extraordinary coincidence. I know that you had no ulterior motive in telling me about your hobby— because I am the only living person who could know that I am interested in it.”

Kennedy gave him a slow, surprised glance of interrogation.

“Eh? I’m afraid I don’t quite get you, old man.”

“No?” Dudevant laughed gaily and jerked his chair closer. “You desire to buy stones. I have stones, good ones. You could not know that, of course; not a living soul even suspects it. Listen, my friend. You know it is forbidden for officials to meddle with such things; they must live on their miserable pittance of pay, and hope some day to go home on a pension, when they are old and broken— but not many ever enjoy their pensions.”

Kennedy shrugged.

“Naturally not. If an official is honest, he’s damned to the extent of letting virtue be its own reward— a cursed poor one out here— while other men get rich all around him. If he’s dishonest, so are most of the others; the only crime lies in getting caught.”

It did not occur to Dudevant that this sort of philosophy was a bit strange on the lips of an American financier. Probably, indeed, it was just the sort of philosophy that coincided with his Gallic notions of American financiers. He nodded earnestly, shrewdly, and lighted a fresh cigaret.

“Of course, of course,” he agreed. “You have expressed it exactly, my friend. You may not know the extent to which the life of a small official is plain and undiluted purgatory. The endless red tape, papers, papers, papers! The small salary, the fear and enmity of his superiors, the inability to trust any one around him, the secluded life off at some hill post surrounded by natives. Perhaps twenty years of it lies ahead of him, before he can hope for civilization, for repose, for France. Small wonder if that man seeks to feather his nest as he sees his superiors do every day.”

Kennedy’s face was quite blank as he nodded tacit approval of these sentiments.

“So— you comprehend.”

The Frenchman spread his hands eloquently, leaned back, fingered his thin pointed mustache for a moment. Kennedy looked at him, then smiled thinly.

“And you’ve managed it, have you?”

Dudevant’s expression was sardonic.

“I have come into an inheritance, yes,” he said. “It allowed me to resign my post and go home; the explanation was sufficient. And now I am going to France. In another month I shall be comfortably established in a small pension. I shall set about locating a wife with the proper dot. I shall have ahead of me an easy and quiet life, with small luxuries in plenty, a few large ones— all of life. But wait. I go to bring you something, something to show you, my friend. I think you will find it of great interest.”

He rose and departed with his lithe, sure stride. Kennedy darted one glance after him— one glance from eyes that were shaggy browed, fiercely grim.

“Yes, all of life— luxurious, easy, comfortable!” he muttered. “You’ve got it all ahead of you, sure; never bothers you a bit that other men had life ahead of them, too— well, you’re hooked, or I’m a Dutchman!”

He sat unmoving, looking out at the glittering horizon; their little portion of the bridge deck was to itself, cut off from other passengers.

Presently Dudevant came back, carrying with him a cane of square bamboo, a stick Kennedy had noticed him carrying in Saigon. It was lightly carved between the joints, which as in this variety of bamboo were quite far apart, and each joint bore a neat little ring of yellowed ivory about it, inconspicuous, but also lightly carved.

The Frenchman sat down, looked around to be sure they were alone, then took hold of the stick and turned. It unscrewed from the handle at the top joint; then a second and a third joint came apart in like fashion. It was cunningly made.

“Here we are.”

Sun helmet upside down in his lap, Dudevant placed in it little twists of paper which he took from the hollow sections of bamboo; each twist of paper held something. He fingered them, counting them over, and nodded. One or two he put aside in his pocket. Then he handed the helmet and contents to Kennedy.

“There, my friend,” he said with great frankness. “Look at these and tell me what you can give for them. I had that stick made, but I am not so sure about such a concealment. I fear it might not get me safely into France, after all. And, you understand, France must be attained. I have gambled heavily and can not afford to lose. I have, indeed, just enough money to reach Marseilles comfortably.”

“Stones, are they?” demanded Kennedy, his fingers fumbling at one of the paper twists. “Where’d you get them?”

“Here and there, over the past ten years.” Dudevant shrugged. “Some were pledges for loans made with Chinese traders. I had most of the Chinese in my district on the lookout for bargains. Others I got at odd times and places. They’re all native cut, if you’ll notice. May have to be recut.”

Kennedy’s face was like stone, giving no hint of belief or disbelief.

One by one he unrolled the paper twists; one by one he carefully examined in his palm the gems thus revealed; one by one he twisted them up again and laid them by. Dudevant sat smoking, watching him closely, nervously, all absorbed attention. There were only eighteen stones in all, but they were very fine ones— four diamonds of old cut, the rest rubies and sapphires.

When he had seen them all, Kennedy frowned a little and looked at Dudevant with the air of one who had expected great things, only to find small ones.

“Not bad, not bad,” he said. “Unfortunately, I would have to buy them all in order to get the diamonds. And I must confess to you that I seek diamonds above all else. Yes, I find stories in diamonds, queer tales, odd anecdotes— but I am not so fond of these antique cuttings. If you had picked up any more modern stones, now—”

Almost reluctantly, it seemed, Dudevant’s fingers went to his pocket.

“Well,” he admitted, “there is one such diamond here. I could not well remove it from its setting without risk of damaging it. I got it from a native chieftain a couple of years ago, still in the lump of gold that held it. The gold has value, and the stone is fine, though very small— so small that, on the whole, I left it in the gold. Look at it.”

Kennedy took the paper twist handed him. It was heavier than the others. He opened it and disclosed a bit of gold in which was set a small, fine diamond. He examined the gold attentively. What it had been was hard to say. Gouges in the back showed where initials had presumably been hacked out; yet there was a certain symmetry about it. Near the diamond in front were a few tiny flecks of black, which had escaped the file or knife scratching the whole thing.

Letting it fall among the rest in the helmet, Kennedy looked up. His face was very bleak and cold; his eyes glimmered strangely.

“My friend,” he said in a level, controlled voice, “this diamond indeed tells me a story— or do I fancy it? You got it two years ago, eh?”

Dudevant nodded.

“From a native,” he said, a little uneasily.

A harsh laugh broke from Kennedy.

“You are not acquainted with the customs of American universities? No. I thought not. They have societies which they call fraternities. The members have gold pins, some of them set with jewels. This was one such. It was worn by that young man of whom you told me in Saigon— you recall? Young Mackintosh. It bore his initials on the back—”

“No, no; impossible!” said Dudevant swiftly— almost too swiftly. He caught the gleam in the eyes of Kennedy and turned pale.

“Impossible, and shall I tell you why?” said Kennedy. “Because it was barely six months ago that young Mackintosh disappeared. You got this diamond two years ago; hence, impossible. Provided you told the truth. But you did not. You are the official to whose station this unfortunate young man came. These stones are the ones he looted in Bangkok.”

“My dear sir,” intervened Dudevant, coming to his feet, a deathly pallor in his face, “I do not understand why you talk to me in this manner. I do not understand your insinuations or charges.”

“Nonsense!” Kennedy laughed and leaned back in his chair, so that the Frenchman frowned down at him, puzzled by his manner. “You’ll understand them all in another moment, my dear fellow. You see, my name isn’t really Kennedy at all; I only took that name after hearing about my son’s tragedy and presumed death. I didn’t think he was the sort to commit suicide, and I was right. My name is Mackintosh.”

Dudevant took a step backward. His face was livid, greenish, and horror sat in his eyes. He tried to speak, wet his lips, could say nothing.

And in this moment Kennedy calmly lifted the sun helmet with its contents and flung it out, over the steamer’s rail.

A moment later Kennedy sat there alone, lighting a fresh cheroot, looking out at the horizon. His face was like stone, his eyes held no emotion. He remembered the low and terrible cry which had burst from Dudevant, how the Frenchman had turned and rushed below.

“Should have gone after him, I suppose,” he reflected. “But why? It’d do me no good to kill him. I punished him enough. He—”

He glanced up as a shadow fell; it was the purser of the boat, a kindly, bearded old Frenchman. Kennedy motioned to the empty chair, and the purser sat down. After they had exchanged a few amenities, Kennedy turned to the officer.

“Tell me what you think about something, monsieur— what you think would be the reaction of a Frenchman under certain circumstances!”

“With all my heart, monsieur.” The purser laughed amusedly. “Your case?”

“That of a man of, say, forty-five,” said Kennedy slowly. “A small official out here, who has in a manner sold his soul to get sudden wealth. He gives up his post, burns his bridges, starts for home. He visions Paris, France, awaiting him— a life of comfort, of ease, of retirement. The fact that in order to get his future he has allowed another man to die does not worry him at all. Then, unexpectedly, like a bolt from the blue, he loses every bit of the fortune for which he sold his soul. He also perceives, or rather dreads, exposure, vengeance, punishment. What would such a man do?”

Under the slow words, the laughing face of the purser grew very sober.

“Ah, monsieur,” he rejoined, “I am afraid, very much afraid, that such a man would see only one thing to do— Mon Dieu! What was that?”

A sudden sharp sound came from the cabins below them—the sharp, bursting crack of an automatic pistol. Kennedy took the cheroot from between his teeth.

“That, monsieur,” he said calmly, “was probably proof that your discernment is most excellent!”

The purser had not stayed to hear his comment, however.

____________________

9: Courage

Andrew Soutar

1879-1941

The Thrill Book  April 1919

IF, WHEN you have read this story of Ranelagh Deene, you should be tempted, as I am afraid you will, to ask who was Caesar Diavine, I beg of you to cast about in your own hearts that you may find the answer there.

Ranelagh Deene was a young man who insisted on telling himself that he had the brains but not the opportunities. He lived in the village of Meadowcroft, where he kept a small grocery store.

Very early in life he had taken to himself a wife— Clarissa, the daughter of the village postmaster. In villages, as in greater communities, there are “marriages of the season,” and this was one.

Clarissa was a very beautiful girl, and with many natural gifts. Ranelagh Deene was ambitious, and his friends never begrudged him the promise of a big future. It was a very small grocery store, and the population of the village being in hundreds, it was possible for him to calculate almost accurately what would be his financial position twelve months ahead. Had he been possessed of capital, he might have struck out for himself in the town, but he had no moneyed friends, and no security to offer to any one else who might be in a position to advance capital.

There is nothing so pathetic as young ambition chained to a rock. Ranelagh Deene told himself that if only the opportunity came he would show the world something of which it would be proud.

The opportunity came.

On an afternoon in November a motor car drove through the village and stopped at the door of Deene’s grocery store. A tall man with an impressive personality stepped out, and for a few minutes contemplated the signboard over the store. A group of children, who were playing on the other side of the street, came across the road, with the natural inquisitiveness of children. First, they admired the car. The chauffeur appeared not to have seen them. He remained seated at the wheel, his face almost completely hidden by the motor wraps. Then the children moved between the tall man on die pavement and the shop window. They looked up into his face, and as he looked down at them they shrank away, and in a little while disappeared from the street The tall man entered the shop. Clarissa called to her husband who was behind the frosted glass of the cashier’s desk.

"Rann, dear,” she whispered; then, as the children had done, crept away.

Ranelagh came forward and said: "Yes, sir; what can I do for you?”

The stranger tilted his silk hat, and meditatively fingered his long, thin chin.

“I’m afraid that I’m not a very profitable customer,” he said in a voice that was not at all unpleasant; indeed, there was something ingratiating about it, and his eyes, or, rather, the sparkle in them, added eloquence to his tongue. “To tell you the truth, the name on your signboard interested me— Ranelagh Deene! I wonder if you are related in any way to Samson Deene?”

Ranelagh smiled, and there was some bitterness in the turn of his lips.

“You refer to Samson Deene, the financier— the great financier? Come, do I look as though I were related to such a man?”

“I am sorry if I have provoked you,” said the stranger. “It was not my intention. Only I happen to know Mr. Samson Deene very well, and I heard him say that he had some relatives in this part of the country.”

Ranelagh was still smiling bitterly. “Samson Deene,” he said, “must be worth— what?”

“Probably half a million dollars,” said the stranger, “not more.”

“Half a million!” Ranelagh laughed. “And yet I’ve heard them say that he hasn’t the brains of a laborer. How do these men get on ?”

“By using other men’s brains,” said the stranger. "That’s genius. I hope I’m not interrupting your business?”

“No,” said Ranelagh quickly. “It’s early-closing day. I was just going to put the shutters up.”

“Do,” said the stranger, "and if you will permit me I will remain here until you have finished. I’m tired; motoring does tire one.”

"I have never been in a motor car,” said Ranelagh, “so I can’t deny or confirm.” He went out to put up the shutters. When he came back he found the stranger sitting on the tall, cane-bottomed chair against the counter. He was humming to himself, and there was a great deal of fascination in the voice.

“I suppose you know,” he said, “that Samson Deene commenced life in such a business as this? But he was too ambitious to remain long.”

Ranelagh accepted that as an affront.

“Perhaps he hadn’t the responsibilities that I have,” he said. "Besides, I had to start on my own savings.”

He half turned as he said that, and a fierce light came into his eyes as he pounded his left palm with his right fist. “Some men have the luck!” he said. "They stop at nothing; they just fight their way through to a fortune without considering the feelings of any one else. Somehow I admire that class of man. Half a million! By heavens, I believe I would kill a man for that!”

The stranger laughed. “Do you know,” he said casually, “that’s one of the commonest phrases of today? And yet I don’t believe that one man in a million would.”

“Would— what?”

“Why, deliberately take a human life for the sake of adding to his fortune.”

“It’s done every day,” said Ranelagh. “Don’t you read the newspapers?”

"You’re thinking of criminals,” said the stranger; “low-bred men, illiterate men, men whose brains are abnormal— madmen. We were talking about men like Samson Deene, dear-witted, shrewd, a man on whose word thousands of financiers depend day after day. He wouldn’t—”

“Sometimes,” said Ranelagh, walking to and fro, “I wish the opportunity would come.”

“Aren’t you happy here?”

“I suppose I ought to be. I’m married to a good woman who lends me every assistance in this little business; I’m respected in the village; but—”

“But what?”

“Is this village to be my grave? Is there no world outside this village?”

“Ah! You’re ambitious,” said the stranger; “and I do admire ambition.”

“And there’s something else besides ambition,” said Ranelagh. “I’m not the fool you may take me for. I know what you’re thinking; you’re pitying me.”

“No, my friend; on the contrary, I was pitying—  Samson Deene.”

“I don’t suppose he would thank you for it,” said Ranelagh. “It’s greater scope that I want.”

“I should have said that you were just the kind of man to make a way for himself.

Again Ranelagh laughed that bitter laugh.

“Think so? Look here, Mr.—”

“My name is Caesar Diavine. I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of me, although I am always moving about this country of yours.”

“I was going to say," Ranelagh went on in a lower tone of voice, at the same time casting a glance in the direction of the little back parlor wherein Clarissa was hiding herself, “I’ll tell you how I started and how we stand. Although I don’t know why I should tell you, a perfect stranger.”

Caesar Diavine was resting an elbow on the counter, and he turned his hand very slowly in Ranelagh’s direction. “I trust,” he said, “that we shall know more of each other, for you interest me, and I am frequently in a position to lend a hand to the man who cares to take it.”

“Thank you,” said Ranelagh. “I was going to tell you that I opened this little grocery store with five hundred dollars. It had taken me seven years to save that amount. I commenced when I was at school, saving the coppers I received for selling newspapers out of school hours. Five hundred dollars represented my capital, and I’ve worked steadily from seven in the morning till seven at night, and sometimes later, for five years.”

“And to-day,” broke in the stranger; “how do you stand to-day?”

“I’ve neither lost nor gained. Five hundred dollars is all I have, outside my stock.”

“Come, that’s not bad,” said Caesar Diavine. “You’ve paid your way, and you still have your five hundred.”

“And my ambition,” said Ranelagh, somewhat angrily, and as though he would condemn himself. “Why, there’s a man in this village— a coal merchant— who can hardly write his own name. To my knowledge, he’s never done a single act that made him of any value to the village or to the world for that matter. He’s mean, illiterate, always on the lookout for the chance to grab a margin. I knew that man when he lived in a two-roomed cottage. To-day he has the finest house in Meadowcroft. It stands yonder, on the crest of the hill; you can see it if you step to the doorway. Mudgill his name is.”

“Ah!” said Caesar Diavine. “He may be a man with a gift for using other men’s brains. That reminds me, the coal market isn’t in a very flourishing state, is it?”

“No,” said Ranelagh, anxious to show the stranger that he studied other markets than his own. “It hasn’t been so low in a decade. And it’s going lower, or I'm a Dutchman.”

Caesar Diavine smiled quietly as he said: “You are wrong, Mr. Deene. Coal has been my study— among other things— for years and years, and compared with you I am an old man. Let me tell you this, by way of a challenge, and when I call this way again you may remind me of it, and if the laugh is on your side— well, you may laugh. Coal is down to three-seventy-five to-day. It may drop some more to-morrow, but"— and here Diavine rose and struck a most dramatic attitude that would have impressed a more sophisticated man than Ranelagh Deene— “within three days coal will be selling at eleven dollars a ton.” With that he fixed his hat more firmly on his head, held out his hand in a most friendly way, and said: "Mr. Deene, I am glad to have met you. I know we shall meet again. There is my address, if ever you happen to be in town— 61 Drinsmore Gardens. Never hesitate to call. I am very simple in my tastes, and maybe I shall be able to introduce you to some friends with influence.”

“I don’t know that I want influence,” said Ranelagh, not discourteously. “I only want the chance.”

“Of course,” said Diavine, “and yet, do you know, you startled me just now when you said that for half a million you would— Ah, we’ll forget it. Good-by, Mr. Deene.”

Ranelagh didn’t go to the door to see him off, and he didn’t hear the car move away. He was standing behind the counter, with his eyes staring hard at the shelves in front of him, his mouth agape, when Clarissa touched him on the arm. He said to her quite shaiply: “Don’t talk to me now, Clarissa, dear. I’m thinking.”

She went back to the parlor. The door was still open, although the shutters were up, and Ranelagh was staring in a vacant way, when another form filled the doorway.

“Ah, Deene! I’m in luck again. I was afraid you’d be shut. I suppose you can’t let me have a barrel of oil? They’ve run out completely at the house.”

It was John Mudgill, the coal merchant, and his appearance at that moment had the strange effect of paling Deene’s cheeks.

“Certainly, Mr. Mudgill,” he said. “Will you be seated while I book the order?” Then, in a suspiciously anxious voice: "How’s business with you?”

Mudgill struck the counter a blow with his big red fist. “Rotten!” he said laconically. “Down to three-seventy-five, and I heard on the exchange this morning that it was likely to touch three dollars and a half. And in my yard I have four thousand tons of it, for which I gave four dollars myself at the pit-head! That’s the sort of luck I get.”

Ranelagh left him a minute to close the sitting-room door, and to endeavor to steady his nerves. He was shaking, just like a woman who has gazed on a ghost. When he went back he said to Mudgill: “I don’t think the situation’s as bad as all that. The coal market has been my study, Mr. Mudgill, for a long time— a kind of hobby outside my own business.”

Mudgill said with a laugh: “You’re happy, Deene. Keep happy; keep out of coal. I’ve got four thousand tons there, as I said just now, for which I gave four dollars at the pithead. If you were a man with money, I’d sell you the lot at three-seventy-five, just to cut my losses.”

It might have been Deene’s fancy or the result of excitement of the brain, but a face seemed to be looking from the shelves— the face of Caesar Diavine. Ranelagh tried to lean carelessly over the counter, but he had to adopt an erect attitude before saying: “I’ve done very well, Mr. Mudgill, during the last three or four years. I’ve never speculated much, but I’m not afraid to speculate now. Tell you what I’ll do— I’ll buy an option on those four thousand tons. For how much?”

“Good for you, Deene!” said Mudgill eagerly. “You shall have the four thousand tons of coal at three-seventy-five, and I’ll take two hundred and fifty dollars for the option. Give you six weeks’ option?”

“Come down to the bank,” said Ranelagh, “and I’ll fix it up with you now.”

It was all done within an hour. The gray-haired bank manager, Mr. Pascoe, who had been in the village almost as long as Deene, shook his head warningly, but there was something in Ranelagh’s brain that kept on saying, “Eleven dollars! Eleven dollars!”

The deal was clinched, and Ranelagh Deene went back to the shop. Clarissa wanted to talk to him, but his nerves were all jumping, and he was thankful when she went to the little cottage piano and played some simple ballads.

ii

TWO days later the miners in Scotland and the north of England went on strike, and there was every indication that it would be a long strike. Coal jumped two and a half dollars. At midday it was seven dollars, and on the following day it had reached ten. And on the fourth day it stood at eleven! Ranelagh Deene made a profit of twenty-nine thousand dollars and more!

Now, mark the transition of Ranelagh Deene. The little grocer’s store in the village of Meadowcroft was emptied. A spark of sentiment in his nature prompted him to retain the lease, and he didn’t wish to see, or hear of, any one standing behind the furrowed counter or sitting in the little back parlor where he and sweet Clarissa had spent so many wonderful hours.

His first visit to Drinsmore Gardens was crowded with dramatic happenings. Clarissa accompanied him, and never had she looked so beautiful, so dignified, so much like the wife of a man who felt that the world was waiting to be conquered. He had written to Caesar Diavine that he wished to call and pay his respects; the response was an invitation to dinner.

“No doubt,” he said to Clarissa, “he will have other guests, so we must be on our guard against— against what we might term the simplicities of the village.”

A sallow-faced serving man had led them through a hall that was draped with scarlet velvet, the color being strangely toned down by the deep blue light of the electric globes. In the reception room the hangings were of purple, the whole of the walls being covered. There were no chairs; indeed, there was no furniture, save a worm-eaten oaken sideboard on which reposed a grinning skull and a stuffed boa constrictor who rested on the top of the skull and whose eyes were apparently of emeralds. There were piles of gorgeous skin rugs, and the sallow-faced servant waved Deene and his wife to them with an imperious gesture. Clarissa was expressing herself on the eccentricity of the great when the velvet hangings parted and Caesar Diavine appeared in the opening. Clarissa cried out in fear; Ranelagh sprang to his feet, ready to apologize for any word that might have been overheard. Diavine looked much younger than when he paid his visit to the shop; and the evening clothes were different from any that Ranelagh had seen. The lower garment was tight fitting from the ankles upward; there was no opening in the coat, but a huge ruby gleamed from a spot where the ends of the collar met. And his hair was darker— or seemed to be— and his deep-seated eyes had greater compelling power.

Diavine had heard of Ranelagh’s success, and received his profuse thanks with a courtly bow. “We shall be only four at dinner,” he said apologetically; “but Mrs. Deene will find Mr. Samson Deene a most charming companion.” He paid no attention to the half-suppressed exclamation of Ranelagh, to whom the name of Samson Deene was something to be reverenced.

Diavine conducted them to another room, where Clarissa was able to prepare herself for dinner. She didn't want Ranelagh to leave her, but she hadn’t the courage, in the presence of Diavine, to tell him so. When she returned to the first room she found the great Samson Deene, fat of cheek, yet handsome in spite of it, deep in conversation with her husband. She was introduced. Samson Deene was more than courteous; his eyes were still on her face long after he resumed his conversation with Ranelagh. Clarissa was wearing a new gown that night— one of sea-green color that seemed to stir like a billow in the moonlight, and when she moved made a soft, sibilant sound like a wave breaking gently on a pebbled beach. Samson Deene fascinated her as she did him. He took her in to dinner, at the request of the host, and after dinner it was to his desires that she appealed when she was asked to sit at the piano and play.

That night Ranelagh listened to Caesar Diavine in the attitude of one who finds himself in a strange world and is grateful for a friendly voice. Diavine took him to his study, where the atmosphere was pregnant with a heavy, sensuous perfume, and drove from his mind the fallacy that Samson Deene was an exceptional man. Diavine showed him how he might achieve much greater things than Samson Deene had ever attempted.

"I have taken a great fancy to you,” he said, resting his hand on Ranelagh’s shoulder. “I would that I were a young man again so that I might join forces with you. But I am getting old, and surely I have wealth enough. Look!” He opened a desk and lifted out a blue envelope that had been carelessly flung in. “The information in that envelope would make a comfortable fortune for any man of average ambition. I am acquainted with a member of the city council; be. serves on the improvements committee, and he left this report behind him the other night.”

Ranelagh asked the question with his eyes. Diavine went on:

“Recommendations of the committee, on which the council is pretty sure to act. Old property that must be bought so that streets may be widened. If the owners of that property knew all that is contained in that report they would treble the price of their property when asked to sell.”

Clarissa was playing an accompaniment to a love song that Samson Deene was singing when the other two rejoined them. Clarissa’s cheeks were flushed; her eyes were lit up by a fire that Ranelagh had never before seen. But Ranelagh’s mind was too full of a resolve that shamed him to take much notice of his wife. Caesar Diavine amused his guests by sleight-of-hand tricks, tales of Eastern romance, and conjectures on the hereafter. He spun a coin in the air, waited as it spun, and laughed when Clarissa screamed because the coin split into a thousand golden butterflies that flitted about the room and disappeared as suddenly as they had come. He took the diamond- studded snake bracelet from her wrist— it was Ranelagh’s gift—  spoke to it, made sundry passes in the air as conjurors do at a party; and— the head of the snake moved.

While Diavine was playing a serenade of his own composing, Ranelagh Deene slipped out of the room and made his way to the study. Stealthily he took the blue envelope from the desk, gleaned the information he desired, and was back in the drawing-room almost before the others had noted his absence.

The name of Ranelagh Deene was quoted, a week later, in every newspaper in London as that of the man who, with extraordinary foresight, had anticipated the intentions of the city council, bought up for the proverbial song a street or two of dilapidated house property, and sold the site to the authorities for a small fortune.

iii

WITHIN two years after leaving the grocery store in Meadowcroft, Ranelagh Deene was worth nearly a quarter of a million dollars, and his relations with Caesar Diavine were so intimate that the two men were seldom seen singly. Diavine regarded his protégé as a genius; Ranelagh looked on Diavine as one specially gifted by the gods. Ranelagh was now interested in a hundred different concerns, and, which is more, his was an active interest. Society began to talk about him, and when be successfully manipulated the Western Iron Combine society insisted on coming in contact with him. How splendidly Clarissa rose with the rising tide of success! Ranelagh’s enemies said of him that his many schemes were the fruits of his wife’s brains. He never took the trouble to contradict them. Somewhere on the south coast he took over a mansion of the Tudor period, but left entertaining to Clarissa. She had her own cars and horses, concerned herself with the drama, was a liberal patroness of music and the arts in general. There were occasions when nearly a hundred guests gathered at Beechtree Park, and of all those people Clarissa was the fairest. Only seldom did Ranelagh allow himself a vacation; then he went abroad in the company of Caesar Diavine, and always he associated business with pleasure. It was while in New York that he bought the (latent rights of an improved incandescent mantle that added a hundred thousand to his fortune; he engineered a loan to a small near-Eastern state, and— and there was only one thing he seemed unable to conquer, and that was the indomitable saint of Samson Deene. Between these two men there was a fierce rivalry that provided the basis of many a dinner-table discussion.

“Heard of Samson Deene’s latest coup?”

“Wait till Ranelagh Deene has planned his countermove. Then talk.”

And so on. Strangely enough the two men were frequently in each other’s company, as friends. Clarissa openly avowed herself an admirer of Samson’s acumen; Besides, he was musical.

Then society, finding its palate jaded, began to weave a scandal around the pair. Ranelagh heard whispers, but told Caesar Diavine that he was too big to let his thoughts dwell on such whispers; besides, be loved Clarissa with the intensity with which she loved him.

At Drinsmore Gardens Caesar Diavine was as excited as Ranelagh. They were alone in the house; the very servants had been dismissed by Diavine with a threatening flash of the eye and a pass with the right hand, held fanwise, palm downward.

“You’ve touched the million, Ranelagh?” He was leaning across the table, his long thin chin almost touching it. “One move— the right move— and you make it five. More! You crush Samson Deene."

Ranelagh had refused wine at dinner, knowing the value that night of clarity of thought, and yet his face was flushed to the color of the hangings on the wall in that scarlet room. He had tom open his collar; the perspiration on the backs of his hands glittered in the light of the electric globe above his head; they were held out in front of him, resting on the table.

“It’s too big a gamble,” he said, with a sharp hiss. “If I won— five millions.”

“And Samson Deene beggared.”

“If I lost— ruin!”

“Strong men never count the risks.”

Ranelagh raised his hand and held it like a shield

before his eyes. “Don’t look at me like that, Diavine,” he entreated. “There's something diabolical in your expression to-night. No! I apologize for that."

“Hus-s-sh!” whispered Diavine. “I know you are jumpy, to-night. And it is a big proposition— the cornering of the iron market.”

“I should have to realize every holding I’ve got, and then borrow.”

“I know a score of banks who would scream for the chance of coming to your aid.”

“If I lost—” His face was dehumanized.

"Why talk like that?”

“It would be ruin for me— and Clarissa. And I live for her— just her. She has been so splendid.”

“Five millions! Think for a moment. Here is this special information. A new government program of armaments. It might mean ten millions.” Diavine turned to the right; a bronze statue of a nymph holding a chalice was seeming to smile encouragingly in the red, shaded light; he lifted the chalice from the bronze hand and offered it to Ranelagh. “Moisten your lips,” he said persuasively. Ranelagh drank thirstily, deeply.

“Yes,” he said determinedly, as be put down the chalice; “I'll risk it.”

Caesar Diavine helped him. The loans were advanced. He dared not tell Clarissa everything, but, being a shrewd woman in spite of her changed environment, she divined most of it. She tried to talk him out of his plans, but now he was in a stronger grip than love. Avarice possessed him. The blood in his veins ran more swiftly; his nerves were quivering strings of red-hot wire.

“Five millions, maybe ten, Clarissa.” He went about his work like a swiftly moving automaton, his brain held together by stimulants.

The newspapers heard of the greatest gamble in history. Ranelagh Deene was shadowed wherever he went by press photographers.

And all the while Samson Deene was piecing together his ingenious net.

iv

CLARISSA was at Beechtree Park; Ranelagh in his town house. Samson Deene was newly returned from abroad. It was Saturday night. Ranelagh had not tasted food all day, for his brain was inflamed by a thousand wild suspicions. He was aware that no man could set out to risk a million on a throw without the eyes of a thousand enemy spies being focused upon him.

Things were moving with dramatic rapidity. Inside information was to the effect that the government’s intentions were to be made known on the following Wednesday morning.

Ten o’clock! The telephone bell broke in discordantly. Ranelagh snatched the receiver.

“Morton speaking. That you, Mr. Deene?” Morton was his principal agent.

“Yes— quick! What’s wrong?”

“My God! Watch the tape!”

“Damn the tape! Tell me!”

“I daren’t!” It was the wail of a terrified man.

“Tell me— you idiot!”

“Government program’s leaked out.”

“Well— well ? Quick, Morton— for the love of God— what is it?”

“Partial disarmament. And the American market has dropped to the bottom.”

“H—l!’’

Ranelagh flung the receiver from him and leaped, hatless, through the hall and into the street. A taxicab was droning along. He sprang on the footboard and shouted at the driver:

“Sixty-one Drinsmore Gardens. Drive like fury!”

Caesar Diavine lurched into the scarlet room whither Ranelagh had been shown by a gnomelike footman.

"Beaten!” he gasped, and there was a wicked, taunting smile in his eyes as he stared at Ranelagh.

“Nearly. Diavine, you’ve heard the news?”

“Just a minute ago.”

“It’s true— eh?”

“Absolutely.”

Ranelagh tried to steady himself. Diavine reached for the chalice with its brain-burning nectar.

“I’m not beaten— quite.”

“You are. And by a cleverer man.”

"Name. Name. Diavine!”

"Samson Deene; he has just left me.”

“Beaten! How?"

“It was Samson who organized the loans to you!”

“Liar! Traitor!”

“Don’t raise your hand. You fool!” Caesar Diavine had stretched himself to the full. His eyes were blazing; he towered above Ranelagh. “He has just left me,” he repeated. "He is going abroad on Tuesday, and—”

“Go on!”

"He is calling in the loans. He has fixed Monday night— midnight— as the last moment.”

“I couldn't do it even if I wished. A week— a month, and I could recover, at a loss; but Monday night!”

“He means to crush you. ‘Pay that thou owest’ by Monday midnight or go down—down to the very bottom.”

“The short interest on those loans would ruin me completely.”

“ ‘Pay that thou owest.’"

“Curse you, don’t— don’t look as though you were pleased.”

“The world will laugh. I’m only preparing you."

“The laugh will kill me.’

"And your wife.’

“There’s no way out of it— no way of compelling Samson Deene to hold his hand for a while ?”

“Only one way, Ranelagh. If anything should happen to prevent Samson Deene—”

“Stop! For God’s sake, stop! What are you urging me to do ?”

Caesar Diavine shrugged his shoulders. “How the

world will laugh!” he mused. “It will point scornfully at the once great Ranelagh, Deene, who was beaten by a cleverer man. It will smile as it passes Beechtree Park, empty and forsaken. But if anything happened to Samson Deene!”

Ranelagh stepped back in awe from the sinister figure. “Take a human life!” he said in a deep, hollow whisper. “No. God help me! No.”

“Misery for Clarissa, your wife, unless she is stronger than you. What are marriage bonds, after all?"

“Diavine, you’re inflaming me! Have a little pity.”

Diavine poured him out another stimulant. “All right,” he said softly. “I have nothing more to say. Poor Ranelagh! Poor Clarissa! Samson Deene has gone down to his place at Berkham. Do you know Berkham Court? A delightful old-world mansion, isn’t it? Wonder what he’s thinking about.”

Ranelagh gulped the wine that remained in the chalice. “Good night,” he said shortly, and the next moment the front door clashed.

Caesar Diavine smiled.

“So easy,” he laughed. “So very easy.”

v

THROUGHOUT the night Ranelagh Deene was locked in his room. There was a pile of telegrams on the table. Clarissa had wired: “I want to help you— come.” He remained in the room all next day, subsisting only on stimulants. At nine o’clock in the evening he took a revolver from a desk, examined it carefully, and placed it in his pocket. At ten o’clock he was in the grounds at Berkham Court. He had telegraphed to Samson Deene: “I must see you; important.” In the grounds there wasn’t a soul to be seen, and although the hall door was slightly open there didn’t appear to be a servant in the house. There were no lights, although outside everything was in darkness. He passed in, and called out. No one answered him. He went from room to room, commencing at the very top of the house. The same deathly stillness was on everything.

Then came one of those inexplicable moods in a man who sets out to commit some crime in cold blood. He was conscious of a feeling of faintness, conscious, too, of relief because Samson Deene wasn’t there. He opened the door of the library and went in. On the table was a small oil reading lamp, and with extraordinary calm he lit it, then sat with his elbows resting on the table and his hands pressing his temples.

“Diavine was wrong,” he muttered; “to take a human life isn’t possible to a man with courage. Nothing shall tempt me.”

He waited there an hour. No one came, and the longer he waited the stronger became his resolution boldly to face anything that the future might hold for him.

He rose and walked about the room. On the mantel shelf there was a photograph of Samson Deene as a boy. He had no difficulty in recognizing the features. The boy was standing at the knee of a sweet-faced woman of thirty-five, and at the bottom of the photograph was written: “The greatest friend I have ever possessed— my beautiful mother.”

Ranelagh went to the window, opened it, took the revolver from his pocket, and hurled it into the darkness. He returned to the table. And just then there was a movement in the grounds. He went back to the window and looked out. Some one was coming toward the house. It was very dark, but he knew the gait of the man. It was Samson Deene, and by his side was a youth carrying a bag of golf clubs. In the drive, Deene dismissed the boy, who went away.

Then, as though he had forgotten something, he followed after the boy. Ranelagh waited another half hour. Deene didn’t return. Still that strange silence, until there came to his ears a voice— a very faint voice. Some one was coming down the stairs— somewhere.

Picking up the lamp, he went out of the library, across the hall, and into the drawing-room. A door opened on the other side of the room, and an awful cry from his very heart escaped him. For into the room had come, stumbling, falling on her knees, his own wife, Clarissa!

He held the lamp above his head, so that the light fell on her upturned face. She was wearing a light, flimsy gown; her hair was disordered. He looked down at her, and something— or somebody— was whispering in his ear: “Diavine was right! there is a moment in a man’s life when-”

Clarissa spoke: “Rann! You!” He felt in his pocket for the revolver that wasn’t there. But his fingers were strong. He took one step toward her. In his face there was a blankness that meant the cutting off of the mind from everything save the duty which he believed he owed to himself.

But at that moment another form appeared in the curtained doorway through which she had come. He didn’t look up, but he was conscious of a red glow suffusing the floor where she, Clarissa, was kneeling; and he knew, too, that the Thing in the doorway was smiling exultingly. It was Caesar Diavine. He saw without looking two long arms reach for the curtains. There was a rustle, and then a rattling of rings as the curtains were brought together and the opening closed. Ranelagh was left done with his wife. Again she spoke.

“Rann, believe me! I came to plead for you.”

‘‘Hush!” he said in that strange, unnatural whisper.

‘‘I came to dinner, Rann, to plead for you, because I know what’s happened.”

He placed the lamp on the table. Once more the house was in dead silence. He went slowly on his knees and felt for her hands. A courage that was greater than all the contumely of a thoughtless world was coining to him.

“Clarissa, answer me slowly. Think carefully before you answer. Do you believe in a God?"

“Yes, Rann.”

“Do you believe in the strength of love?”

“Yes, Rann.”

"Do you know that I shall be ruined when the clock strikes twelve ? I shall be penniless. Does that matter to you?”

"Not if you are the same, Rann.”

“You could give up everything— all the luxuries— and go back to the starting point?”

“With you, Rann—willingly.”

“The world will sneer at me, Clarissa, and at you.”

“The world matters nothing, Rann, so long as you are by my side.”

A moment or two of silence. The lamp went out.

He whispered to her: “Come nearer, Clarissa, and hold your hands—so,” and he clasped them for her. A long silence. Then he raised her to her feet. Silently they stole out of the house. He placed his overcoat over her shoulders and walked along in evening dress as though the wind meant nothing to him.

Suddenly he stopped and held her hand tightly, and listened. Through the darkness came the booming of a clock. Twelve— midnight. He stretched himself like a boy in the playing fields.

“Now for the work,” he said, “the honest work.”

vi

THEY went down to the village of Meadowcroft together the next day. In the little thoroughfare where he had spent so many years of his life there was a deep, restful quiet. The shop was still empty, the windows covered with dust. They looked through the window, and could see the sun hooding the little back parlor.

“I haven’t a penny in the world, Clarissa,” he said, "but somehow I never felt so happy in all my life.”

They walked on a little, and came to the bank at the comer of the street. The gray-haired man inside saw them, and came to the door. It was Mr. Pascoe, the bank manager.

"My dear Mr. Ranelagh Deene,” he said, "it’s like a breath of fresh air to a stifling man to see you again! You’re paying a visit to the old village? Good! You little know how proud we are of you!”

Ranelagh Deene, with a smile, put his hands on he old man’s shoulders.

"I suppose you haven’t read the newspapers,” he said, and when Mr. Pascoe shook his head he went on: “Ranelagh Deene, the millionaire, is dead. I have come back to the village because I’m poor— poorer than you can imagine.”

Whereat Mr. Pascoe laughed, believing it to be a jest. And, thinking to add to that jest, he said:

"You’re not poor, Mr. Deene, for you never closed your account with us.”

“My account with you?” said Ranelagh. “What does it amount to?”

"Five hundred dollars— the old five hundred.”

Ranelagh gripped him by the hand, and he said: “Mr. Pascoe, smile, if you will, but I want that five hundred. We— my Clarissa and I— are going to reopen the old shop. We're starting again. Now let the world laugh!”

________________

10:  The Lost Limerick

Guy Gilpatric

The Saturday Evening Post Jan 4 1930

Guy Gilpatric (1896-1950) is best remembered for his many comic short stories of ship's engineer Colin Glencannon, a scurrilous fellow with no redeeming features and a vast thirst for whusky.

IT WAS A FINE sunny morning, and the Inchcliffe Castle was butting her nose into the turquoise swell which surges off North Africa— butting, then rearing back and pouring cascades of white water from her rusty foc'sle head. Off to starboard, the saw-tooth Atlas Mountains loomed in the heat haze, with here and there an ancient crumbling Moorish watchtower repeating itself in the sky above their summits in obedience to the mad whims of Fata Morgana, or lying down sidewise upon a cloud some miles above its proper earthly foundation. Once a three-mile stretch of coast range wavered viscously, broke loose from its anchorage, and stood coyly on its head upon the horizon.

Mr. Glencannon, viewing these phenomena from the Inchcliffe Castle's deck, paused on his way to breakfast to frown in sour disapproval.

"Aseenine— pairfickly aseenine!" he declared. "Fortunate it is that I'm no' a drinking mon, or those domned mirages wad gi' me St. Vittle's dance! Still"— and he settled an elbow on the rail the better to pursue his train of thought— "still, yon's a hot an' theersty country, beyont a doot, and I'll be three days in Algiers wi'oot a saxpunce to bless myself. It's a dry prospect, and a lesson never to send hame my savings unless present needs are provided for. But heaven will provide!" And with head bowed deep in thought, he strolled down the deck and stepped through the doorway.

"Captain Ball and gentlemen, I bid ye a vurra gude morning," he said, touching his cap visor. "I hope your healths are better than my poor shattered ain." There was a scupping sound as he attacked his oat porridge— a heaping quart of which, lubricated with a lump of oleomargarine the size of a cricket ball, constituted his time-honored breakfast.

Captain Ball, who had heard the greeting and the scupping every morning for nine long years, acknowledged the former with his usual polite concern:

"We're all quite fit, Mr. Glencannon, thank you; but we're sorry, 'm sure, to hear that your own condition is still unsatisfactory. Er— just what seems to be the trouble today, Mr. Glencannon?"

"It's my nairves," sighed the engineer, pushing back his empty plate and producing an old plaid sock which served the dual function of tobacco pouch and pipe case. "Yes, my nairves. They've been all a-joomp and a-jangle since we cleared Melilla for Algiers. Yes, captain, since we cleared Melilla. I fear that Melilla wull eventually be the death o' me." And as he filled his pipe he glanced covertly from one to another of them, as if to appraise the effect of his lugubrious prophecy.

"Melilla?" repeated Mr. Montgomery, the first officer, rising to the bait. "And wot, may I arsk, was so fatal about Melilla?"

"Weel," explained Mr. Glencannon, his canny Caledonian eye gleaming through the toxic mixture of smoke and steam which arose from his pipe, "it's a seetuation so strange as to be no less than eunuch. As some of you know, Captain Ball and gentlemen, I've always been a great one for lummericks— silly veerses o' poesy, like, for instance, the one aboot a sairtain young mon from Bombay who went oot a-riding one day, and the coolie who lived in Hong Kong whose job was to hammer a gong. You know the sort o' thing?... O' course: Weel, there are leeterally hundreds o' them, a' more or less immoral, but a' o' them vurra comic—  yes, vurra, vurra comic indeed! It's been a hobby o' mine to collect and meemorize a lummerick for every port in the world; in fact, it's been a matter o' pride that no living mon, aship or ashore, could stump me when it comes to lummericks. Weel, when I heard aboot our nuxt port o' call being Melilla, I o' course thought o' the famous lummerick which goes—weel, the feerst line goes something aboot Melilla. Ye know it?" And tensely he leaned forward.

"Oh, ha-ha— why, my word, certainly I know it!" chuckled Captain Ball patronizingly. "It goes— it goes— er— wait a moment. Let's see now—"

Mr. Montgomery spoke up: "Oh, I've 'eard that one, sir! It's about the— er—"

"It's about Melilla, sir!" volunteered the third mate, who was extremely young. "I've recited it a thousand times, I 'ave! Er— funny, though; it seems to eskype me."

Captain Ball shot him a withering glance. But the mate's eyes were closed and his fingers were beating time upon the table,

"Ah!" sighed Mr. Glencannon. "There, gentlemen— there is the deeficulty! I know that lummerick, you know that lummerick; but I canna think o' it and neither can you! And because my health is frail at best, the domned thing has become an obseesion wi' me nicht and day, and my nairves are shattered in conseequence."

"Well, I'll think of it in a minute," said Captain Ball doggedly—"that is, I will if you gentlemen will do me the favor to shut up and stop drumming on the table. I've got a pretty good memory for such things."

"So 'ave I," declared Mr. Montgomery.

"Well, mine's a bit above the average," said Mr. MacQuayle, the second engineer.

"Oh, and is it?" inquired Captain Ball. "Well, I'll have you know, sir, that I'm in command of this vessel, and when it comes to memory—"

"'Old 'ard—I mean excuse me, sir!" exclaimed Mr. Montgomery, springing to his feet. "The Melilla limerick goes like this—er—wyte a minnit now, 'arf a mo'.... Oh, 'ell, I do believe it's slipped me!"

The mess boy paused in gathering the dishes and cleared his throat respectfully. "Beggin' pardon, sorrh, if Oi moight say a word to the captain, sorrh, Oi've 'eard that Melilla limerick monny's the toime, sorrh! It's— ha-ha!— it's something— a— um— er— er— just a second, sorrh, whoile Oi goes and arsks the cook."

There was silence at the table, broken only by tense mutterings and the ruminative drumming of fingers upon oilcloth.

The mess boy returned, hand pressed to brow, and walking as if in a trance.

"Well?" Captain Ball snapped at him.

"Sorrh, the cook says 'e knows it loike a beggar in 'is cups; in fact, 'e was on the very point of tellin' me, sorrh, when it slipped 'im, it did. But 'e says as 'ow 'e'll 'ave it in a jiffick."

"Weel, I ha' me doots," declared Mr. Glencannon, wagging his head sagaciously. "Dinna meesunderstand me, captain and gentlemen, when I say that if a meemory like mine— which has mastered Bobby Burns from cover to cover—fails in recalling a sumple lummerick, there's no' much chance on a ship like this!"

"Oh, we don't misunderstand you a bit!" bristled Mr. Montgomery. "What you mean is that the rest of us is so many 'arf-wits, so to say!"

Mr. Glencannon blew a stifling cloud and through it smiled a seraphic smile.

"Oh, no!" he protested. "To you, Muster Mate, I wad no' say as much as that."

"Wait!" interrupted Captain Ball in a voice of frozen fury. "I said before, and I say again, that I've got the best memory on this ship, and what's more, I've got money to prove it! What's your answer to that, gentlemen?"

"You mean you'll bet, sir?"

"Well," said the captain, with such effort at repression that he almost bit off his palate, "that was the idea I intended to convey. But I doubt if there's anybody in the crowd who's sportsman enough to bet with me!"

"Let's myke it a pool. How about that, sir?" suggested Mr. Montgomery. "All fork up a percentage of our pay, winner tyke all."

"Right-o for me," agreed Captain Ball. "The more I win, the merrier! What do you say, Mr. Glencannon?"

There was a pause while the engineer thought it over. "Aweel," he said at length and doubtfully, "I'm no' a gambling mon, such being contrary to my streect Preesbyteerian principles. Also, I'm extremely conseervative in a' matters conceerning finance. But if you yoursel' wull admeenister the thing, captain— taking it oot o' the hands o' the mates and thus assuring fair play— I'll sairtainly parteecipate."

And so it was arranged that the first man to hand Captain Ball a copy of the limerick, before the Inchcliffe Castle docked at Algiers the following day, would receive 10 percent of the monthly pay of all of them.

This was, in itself, a tidy sum; but later in the morning the second mate was waited upon by Bos'n Hughes.

"Sorrh," said the bos'n, "the foc'sle is in a huproar! Oi've 'ad to broike three 'eads, Oi 'ave, to muntain discipline. And all habout the ruddy limerick which the hengineer arsked the captain and the captain arsked the mess boy and the mess boy arsked the cook. All of us knows it, of course, but none of us can quoite think of it!"

"Ah," said the mate absently, gazing toward a soaring sea gull and moving his lips in futile quest of vague and fleeting words. "Ah? That is, I mean to say, yes?"

"Yes," said Bos'n Hughes, "and wot Oi'd loike to s'y, sorrh, is that the men would loike to come in on the pool, they would, syme as the horfficers, and settle once and for all 'oo's got the best memory in this 'ere ship."

Thus the pool was swelled to mammoth proportions, and by midday the Inchcliffe Castle had taken on a strangely preoccupied air. On the bridge, Mr. Montgomery was pacing back and forth, eating one cigar after another, and pausing at intervals to smite himself upon the forehead as does one who strives to summon an elusive memory. The man at the wheel was gnawing his mustache and peering off into space for minutes at a time, recalling himself to the binnacle and business only by the fear that Mr. Montgomery might glance astern, see the wavers in the wake, and kick him as Mr. Montgomery alone knew how. Though the British Board of Trade, in its wisdom, has decreed that no officer shall strike a seaman, it has said nothing at all about kicking him; and the Inchcliffe Castle's mate, observing the letter of the law, had also mastered the technic of the boot.

Only, just now, Mr. Montgomery was too busy thinking of something else to bother about the extremely untidy wabbles in the soapsuds. Suddenly his face brightened; he stepped to the engine-room speaking tube and whistled down it.

"Second engineer," answered a voice.

"I'll speak to the chief if he's down there," barked Mr. Montgomery.

There was a long pause, during which the mate beat time upon the tube nozzle. "'Ell!" he growled impatiently. "If 'e don't 'urry up it'll slip me.... 'De-da-de-de-de-de Melilla'.... I s'y, are you there, Mr. Glencannon?"

"No, sir; it's MacQuayle again. The chief says he canna speak to ye the noo, and says he's vurra annoyed at bein' deesturbed, sir."

"Well, tell 'im I almost 'ad it!"

"So did he, sir, but he says ye bruck his train of thought. He's standing nuxt the crank pit noo, sir, seerching for it in the rhuthm o' the engines."

"Rhythm your eye!" shouted Mr. Montgomery, beating on the tube with his fist. "I know the rhythm— it's the words! The rhythm goes 'De-da-de-de-de-de Melilla.'"

"I beg to deefer wi' ye, sir!" and the voice came through the tube a trifle tartly. "The proper rhuthm is 'Da-da-DE-da-de-Melilla," and ye'll obsairve it's wuth three da's an' twa de's, and no' wi' one da and five de's, as ye reheersed it, sir."

"Wait, wait, wait, can't you?" screamed the mate. "There's first a de, then a da, then four— no five— oh, blarst your eyes, MacQuayle, you've got me all mixed up, you 'ave!"

Mr. Montgomery let the tube snap shut, glanced aft, saw the snakes in the wake, and advanced truculently toward the wheelman—timing his stride like a hurdler who plans to elevate his right foot smartly and at the proper instant.

The wheelman didn't see him coming. Head back and eyes closed, he was murmuring, "There once was a de-de Melilla."

"Right-o!" exclaimed Mr. Montgomery, staying his foot in midair. "You've almost got it, you 'ave! Think 'ard, my man—think 'ard!"

The wheelman thought. He thought frantically, and in the process let the Inchcliffe Castle slide full seven points off her course. "There once was a— there once was a— er— Oh, I'm afraid it's got me beat, sir," he admitted feebly.

Mr. Montgomery tossed his head in disgust, remembered the wake and launched his kick— all more or less in one motion. Then, becoming conscious of a monotonous and distracting sound, he scowled down at the well deck where three seamen were chipping paint. Their hammers rose and fell in unison in a vaguely familiar and yet unsatisfactory rhythm which they changed from time to time after prolonged and heated debate.

"Strike me pink," muttered the mate. "Why, I do believe the 'ole bloomink ship's gone barmy!"

And so, in truth, it seemed. At supper that evening scarcely a word was spoken or a mouthful eaten. So preoccupied were the officers with scraps of paper and stubs of pencils that none of them noticed that the meat was scorched or that the treacle was served on the potatoes instead of on the pudding.

"Weel," Mr. Glencannon broke the silence as he pushed back his chair, "I'll spend the evening in streect concentration. What time wull we be docking tomorrow, Captain Ball?"

"Eleven o'clock at latest. Please to notify everybody, Mr. Montgomery, to hand in their limericks by four bells sharp."

"Ye may rest assured that by four bells I'll hand ye the winning ticket, sir," declared Mr. Glencannon, retreating to the deck before a volley of vicious snorts.

Chuckling to himself, he went to his room, bolted the door, and hung a blanket over the porthole before he switched on the light. Then, pausing a moment to listen for footsteps outside, he took from a drawer a huge oilcloth-covered scrapbook and sat down upon the bunk.

He turned to the first page, which was a methodical and neatly hand-written index, and ran his finger down the columns. "No," he said at length, "no, it's even as I suspected. Under A there's nowt that wull sairve— absolutely nowt! But noo, let's conseeder the rest o' the alphabet."

For the better part of an hour he studied the index and thumbed the pages. At length an idea seemed to come to him, and eagerly he turned to the letter M.

"There!" he exclaimed, triumphantly smiting the page. "I knew I cud find one! 'Twull fit like a piston fits a cylinder! It's not only good, it's pairfect! And noo I'll write it doon, so's to have it a' in readiness for the morrow!"

Having written it down, tucked it into an envelope, and tucked the envelope into his pocket, he produced from beneath his bunk a bottle whose label bore the legend Duggan's Dew of Kirkintilloch. He held the bottle to the light and sighed sepulchrally.

"Less than a quart!" he said. "Losh, but I figured close—so close it was foolhardy. I should ha' laid in twa or three spare cases at Melilla before I sent my money hame. Why, just suppose we'd struck rough weather!"

Shuddering at the thought, he poured himself a brimming tumblerful and drank it gratefully. "Saxty-four poonds nineteen sheelings saxpunce," he mused. "That's what the pool comes to by the most conseervative esteemate! 'Twull be a braw bricht festival in Algiers after a'!"

Replenishing the tumbler, he dragged an oilskin case from beneath his bunk, and from it produced a bagpipe.

Then, filling his mouth with the Dew of Kirkintilloch, he removed the reed from the chanter of the bagpipe, and thrust it between his lips. Now, ordinary pipers, of course, suffer from the delusion that a chanter reed can be properly conditioned by saliva alone; but this is because such great virtuosi as the MacCrimmons of the Isle of Skye have jealously guarded as a secret of their art the fact that only Scotch whisky— and notably Duggan's Dew of Kirkintilloch—can so affect pipe and piper as to produce the so-desired soul-shivering result. Mr. Glencannon, religiously observing the ritual, let the chanter reed soak for full five minutes. Then he swallowed the mouthful and drank what remained in the tumbler for his own benefit.

"Whoosh!" he said, tucking the bagpipe under his arm and stepping out into the moonlight. "God's in his heaven an' a's richt wi' the world! What cud be more feeting than an hour or two o' 'Cock o' the North'?"

"Cock o' the North," as all good Caledonians know, is the greatest and grandest music ever composed by mortal man; but, unfortunately, none but the Caledonians are capable of appreciating it. The rest of mankind is unanimous in decrying the opus, and dismissing it along with all other bagpipe music as the merest melange of savage groans, shrieks and caterwauls. And so, though Mr. Glencannon paced up and down the deck and played "Cock o' the North" as perhaps only four other living men could have played it, his efforts were not gratefully received by the rest of the ship's company.

The first manifestation of disapproval came from the mate. Mr. Montgomery, tactfully awaiting a moment when Mr. Glencannon had laid down his pipes to take up his bottle, ascended the ladder to the upper deck.

"Orl finished?" he asked hopefully.

"If ye're refeering to the whusky, yes," said Mr. Glencannon, hastily laying the bottle on its side behind the doorsill to conceal the fact that it was still a good quarter full. "But if, on the other hand, ye're refeering to the museec, ye've still a gude three hours to enjoy it. And noo"— picking up the pipes and inflating the bag— "I'll beed ye a vurra gude nicht, Muster Mate."

Mr. Montgomery was undaunted. "I s'y, now, see 'ere," he protested. "You've put the 'ole ship to a lot of trouble, you 'ave, with your ruddy limerick and orl, and it ayn't cricket for you to go disturbing the rest of us wot's trying to think of it. 'Ow can we think of this limerick—'ow can we think of anything, for that matter?—with you up 'ere pl'ying this bloody squealing yowler orl night? I arsks you, Mr. Glencannon—yes, I arsks you—is it cricket or ayn't it?"

"No," said Mr. Glencannon, "it is no' creeket, which is at best a fool's game. It's museec, which is a gentleman's highest deevairsion! I'll reemind ye, Muster Montgomery, that ye wear but three stripes and I wear foor, and if ye dinna take yere ugly face beyont my reach, I shall be forced to reesort to lusty meesures."

"Oh, so that's it, is it?" said Mr. Montgomery, backing down the ladder. "Well, just for that, my Scotch bucko, I'll go to my room, I will, and show you 'oo's 'oo when it comes to remembering limericks on this 'ere ship!"

"Scottish, not Scotch," corrected Mr. Glencannon patiently. "And for yere further information, the true pronownciation is no' 'oo, but who, wi' the 'h' audeeble, as in 'hoot.'"

Mr. Montgomery's growl of rage was lost in the drone and shrill of the pipes, as for the two hundred and sixty-fourth time Mr. Glencannon launched into "Cock o' the North."

Shortly, though, there was a hiss of steam, a rasping wheeze, a shower of warm water, and the Inchcliffe Castle's whistle gave vent to a bellow which shook the ship and shattered the night. The roar kept on—head-filling, terrible—and Mr. Glencannon, cocking his eye across the empty moonlit expanse of sea which lay ahead, realized that the whistle was being sounded solely in a malicious attempt to drown him out.

"On the bridge, there!" he hailed. "Muster Coyle, ye mannerless pup ye, if ye dinna stop wasting steam pressure oot o' my boilers, I'll feerst come up and tromple ye, and then I'll go doon and tell the captain why."

The whistling subsided and the piping resumed. Resumed, and continued for another ghastly hour, at the end of which Mr. Glencannon, discovering that his bottle was almost empty, reconditioned the chanter reed, laid away his pipes and prepared for bed.

He had switched off the light, said his prayers and composed himself for slumber with blissful thoughts of sixty-four pounds nineteen shillings sixpence, when he was stabbed into trembling wakefulness by a frightful fear.

"Losh!" he exclaimed, his feet groping in the darkness for his slippers. "How cud I have forgotten him?" And with his night shirt flapping around his shins in the warm African breeze, he tiptoed his way to the wireless room and peered furtively through the port.

There, sure enough, was Sparks, earphones in place, cigarette going, and his dark, pimply young face illuminated by the eerie blaze of miniature thunderbolts which crackled and stuttered as his fingers set them free. Suddenly he abandoned the key, seized his pencil, and listened. Thin cold notes were coming from across the ocean spaces—coming in a broken whine which Mr. Glencannon visualized as flying fragments of pale blue thread. But Sparks knew their meaning, and eagerly wrote it down.

When the operator had finished and sat back reading the result, Mr. Glencannon threw wide the door and stood pointing an accusing finger.

"Swundler!" he shouted. "Gi' me yon paper befeer I do ye in!"

Sparks, who was a callow youth and typical of his calling, glanced him up and down, handed him the message and shrugged.

"'Ere you are, old walrus, and a fat lot of good it'll do you!" he said. "I thought I'd cop the pool, as so would you if you 'ad 'arf my chance! I've been sending out a query: 'Seek detailed information limerick about Melilla.' Just now I gets this reply from 2 FMP, which is Funchal, Madeira, the ruddy Portugee swine! 'Ere, read it for yourself!"

"H'm," said Mr. Glencannon, holding the pad beneath the green-shaded light. "It says, 'Limerick not about Melilla. Limerick about 129 miles W. S. W. of Dublin, Ireland.' Ha-ha, they completely meesunderstood ye, ye perishing young thief! Weell, noo"—and he assumed a pious air—"let this be a lesson to ye, young Muster What's-Yer-Name, that honesty is the best policy!"

Very deliberately, Sparks switched off his receiving apparatus, sat back and lighted another cigarette. "My nyme," he said, "is not Whut's-Yer-Nyme? it's Levy. There's quite a few of us is trydesmen in Whitechapel. But aside from that, 'ow would you like to see the replies I've 'ad from nine other stytions and twenty-two different ships—orl of which I got before you cyme barging in 'ere where you 'aven't a mite of right to be, you being a hengineer horfficer, blarst your eyes, sir! Do you know, I've 'arf a mind to report you to the captain?"

Mr. Glencannon paled, swallowed twice, and assumed his most charming smile.

"Ah, noo!" he said. "Be paceefic, Muster Levy—be paceefic! I did na' mean to inteerfere wi' your juties! It was only that—"

"It was only that you've got this swindle orl figured out, you 'ave, and you're afryde I'll crab it. Well, I will crab it! I'll go stryght to the captain now, and tell him that there simply ayn't no such thing as a limerick habout Melilla! Now wot do you s'y to that?"

Mr. Glencannon's somewhat prominent Adam's apple traveled up and down his throat like the conveyor bucket of a Liverpool coal barge.

"Er—why, noo, what ye say is rideeculous, young Muster Levy—absolutely rideeculous! I don't mind telling ye that even noo a fair copy o' the Melilla lummerick is reeposing in my room, a' ready for the captain in the morning."

"Then it's a fake—a ruddy fake!" declared Mr. Levy. "None o' them ships and stytions wot answered my query 'ave ever 'eard of a Melilla limerick! And besides that, the British Consulate in Halgiers 'as an hexpert on limericks, and 'e says as 'ow there never was a Melilla limerick. So now I'll step below, I will, and tell the captain that you're trying to swindle the ship. And I'll warn 'im not to settle the pool until after 'e's seen the consul in the morning."

"Wait!" said Mr. Glencannon, restraining him.

Mr. Levy took several deliberate drags on his Gold Flake and lowered the lids of his extremely intelligent eyes. "I'll wyte while you mykes up yer mind, but remember, time is money!"

"Meaning what?" asked Mr. Glencannon nervously.

"Meaning, what's my split?" explained Mr. Levy.

Mr. Glencannon licked his lips and did some rapid calculating. "Ten percent. There, that's fair, isn't it?"

"Ha-ha!" replied Mr. Levy.

"Fufteen."

"Ha-ha-ha!"

"Twunty, then! Twunty! Why, think o'it!"

"Twenty? Why, I s'y, listen 'ere, Mr. Glencohen, I thought you was a sensible businessman, I did! Now I don't know just 'ow you're going to work your swindle, but I do know I'll go to the captain this minnit unless you agree to split 'arf-and-'arf. And that's that!"

Mr. Glencannon was on the verge of tears. "Feefty percent! Why, 'twull come to theerty-odd poonds!" he moaned.

"Well, maybe I'd better myke it sixty," mused Mr. Levy.

"Feefty percent! So be it, then," said Mr. Glencannon hurriedly. But after a moment he chuckled and looked up. "Do ye know, Muster Levy, that ye're a most precocious young mon? In monny ways, ye're a lad after my ain heart, and I preedict ye'll go far! What do ye say tommorrow we exploor Algiers together?"

"Orl right with me," agreed Mr. Levy. "Only, I wants my share right 'ere in my pocket before we starts ashore!"

ii

HOT and humiliated, Captain Ball plodded up the arch-borne ramps which lead from the docks to the Boulevard de la Republique. His eyes, long accustomed to the grateful blues and greens and grays of the seven seas, winced at the dazzling whiteness which leaped out at them from all sides. Well, he was getting old—that was the answer! Even his memory was deserting him. It had been a bitter pill to stand before the officers and crew, that morning, and bestow those sixty-odd pounds upon a blithering Scot with a memory no longer than the interval between drinks!

The dome of the Mosque Jamaa-el-Kasbah seared his eyeballs, and he looked away. "Narsty town!" he muttered. "Hanged if I don't write a letter to the Member from Dorking, demanding that the British Consulate be moved down to the waterfront, where a white man can get to it!"

At the Rue Bab-Azoun he paused and glanced about him. On the corner, surrounded by spellbound Arabs, sat a snake charmer playing a bulbous brass instrument to the strident brayings of which sundry reptiles writhed and reared upon a rug. Beside him, a boy beat upon a tomtom.

"Three damns to you, my man!" snarled Captain Ball, tossing his cigar butt into the snake charmer's alms bowl. "Your profession is narsty, so are you, and your instrument sounds like a shuddering bagpipe anyway!" And crossing the street, he made for a building which bore the sunblistered arms of Great Britain. That he had to climb two flights of stairs added nothing to his poise.

He entered a room on the third floor and introduced himself. A man who proved to be the limerick expert fiddled with hopeless courtesy at the lever of the electric fan.

"Shno use," he said rather thickly. "Twelve-fifty's all she'll rev, same's my old Sop. Dolphin. Say, you weren't in jolly old Flying Corps during war, were you? Why, no, 'f course not; it was 'nother chap named Ball, but the Hun got him. Trust you'll pardon my undershirt, captain. Bottle and splash are right there at your elbow, captain. Clap your handsh twiche—twice—for ice, captain. Realize it's breach of hoshtality to ask guest to clap own handsh for ice, but I'm not very good at clapping handsh. Haw!"

"Haw!" echoed Captain Ball tartly. "Er-that is, I mean to say, haw-haw!"

"Thash spirit—haw-haw-haw!" roared the limerick expert. "I'd clap for you, captain, only my right handsh made of jolly old aluminium. 'Riginal member got shot off during war by jolly old shplosive bullet.... And now, captain, I shpose you want me to sign ship's papers and all that?"

"Yes, sir, if you please," said Captain Ball in a businesslike tone. "Vessel, Inchcliffe Castle; burden, thirty-six hundred tons; port of register—"

"Inchcliffe Castle?" repeated the expert. "Oh, of course, by all meansh! I hope you got the message?"

"Got the message?" repeated Captain Ball.

"Message in reply to your wireless last night. Always glad to be of shervice in such matters. You see, I'm an expert—yes, captain, the world's greatest limming—er, living—limerick expert alive in world today. Thash why I'm in position to say asholutely that there'sh never been a limerick about Melilla. I've spent years in research, burned gallonsh of midnight oil, in fruitless efforts to find—"

"Just a moment, sir," interrupted Captain Ball, groping in his pocket. "I don't know what you mean about wireless messages from my ship. But I do know I've just awarded a pool of approximately seventy pounds to one of my officers for remembering a limerick which is most certainly about Melilla!"

"Indeed?" inquired the expert, his face lighting up like that of a book collector who has discovered a Gutenberg Bible on a bargain counter. "Oh, read it, captain—read it!"

Captain Ball cleared his throat, glanced at the servant, and blushed.

"It's a funny one—but, well, it's fair foul, sir!" he warned. "Perhaps it would be better if you'd read it to yourself. It might demoralize the A-rab."

"H'm," said the expert, reaching for his monocle, but finding his key ring instead. "Er—haw! Er—really, I mean to say, haw-haw!"

"Why, what's wrong?" inquired Captain Ball, hitching forward in his chair.

"Wrong? Why, my dear fellow, you've been had! Oh, my word, you've been imposed upon— yesh, frightfully! Why, I wrote this limerick myself in 1919! But I wrote it about Manila, in the jolly old Philippine Islands, not about Melilla in Spanish Morocco! It ishn't about Melilla at any price! Melilla is pronounced Meleeya— those middle I's don't sound at all, so it's a false rime. Can't you shee, captain, that this line here ... and this one— haw, it is rather neat; very neat; you musht admit it, captain!— could apply only to Manila? You see, I was in Manila before I came here and—"

Captain Ball cleared his throat, gulped his drink, and cleared his throat again.

"Hell's bones!" he murmured. "I've been swindled, and no mistake!"

"You certainly have!" agreed the expert. "But it's not too late. Why not make him give the money back— face him with the swindle and jolly well make him cough up the cash!"

Captain Ball bowed his head upon his breast in thought.

Dimly he heard the whine of the snake charmer's pipe and the throb of the tomtom. But suddenly there came an outburst of shouting and the sounds of strife. The music ceased, and then even the shouting died away.

"Well," Captain Ball broke the silence, "I guess in some ways you're right. It's plain we've been swindled, but I'm afraid it would be difficult to get the money back. You see—" And suddenly he paused, listened.

The snake charmer's pipe had once more found voice, but now it was playing "Cock o' the North."

Captain Ball sprang to his feet and strode to the window. "That's him now!" he announced. "Mister Glencannon himself, drunk as a fiddler, and wounded A-rabs heaped all around him!"

"Er— Glencannon? He sounds a bit Scottish," remarked the expert.

"He is! And, why, look there, sir! There's Mr. Levy, my wireless man, selling the tom-tom to those American tourists!"

"Ah," mused the expert, "Glencannon, did you say? And Levy? Well, captain— er— I mean to say, perhaps, after all, you'll have to charge it to experience. Have a chair, won't you, and clap your handsh for ice?"

_____________________

11: Scotch and Water

Guy Gilpatric

The Red Book Magazine Feb 1929

A MOON like Cortez's silver shield hung in the sky above Havana. It made of the city an intricate lovely pattern of sharp black shadow and cold pale green— the cold pale green of a luminous wristwatch dial which, if it had happened to be an accurate wristwatch, would have given you the time as a quarter to three. But it was really too hot to be wearing a wristwatch.

Out in the harbor lay a drowsy herd of tramp steamers— battered, they were, and rusty as old dun cows, and streaked with the salt of every sea from Behring to Sargasso. Beyond their humble picket line, towering and aristocratic, rode the world cruise ship Brandenburger, of Hamburg— twenty-five thousand tons of Diesel engines, gilt furniture, grand ball rooms, and electric horses for sluggish livers. From her mighty superstructure came the glow of many lights; but it was a discreet illumination, such as filters through a sidewalk awning on the night of an embassy ball, and just sufficient for the swabbing of decks and the chalking thereupon of cabalistic diagrams for the morrow's shuffle-board.

The Brandenburger would put to sea at six for San Juan, in Porto Rico. Meanwhile' according to the cruise prospectus, her passengers would "Gaze back across the sleeping city, and spend the farewell pensive hours in the spice-filled hush beneath the tropic moon...."

The only obstacle between the prospectus and reality was the Inchcliffe Castle. The Castle— Montevideo to Cardiff— was the tramp moored nearest the Brandenburger, and perhaps the rustiest, most disreputable craft currently South of Cancer. She was laden with hides and beef-bones which in stifling wafts made mockery of the "Spice-filled" allusion of the tourist company's literature. The "Tropical moonlight" she disposed of with two 500 watt lamps slung in the mouth of the port poop ventilator-lamps whose blinding rays blanked the puny lunar effort, flooded her deck, and made the surface of the surrounding waters as nastily bright as a sheet of new tin. Directly in the glare, their oil-soaked carpet slippers cocked at comfortable angles, their pipes distilling noisome juices, and their rugged faces wreathed in smoke and homesick wistfulness, sat seven alcoholized Scotsmen. Their corporeal selves (in a deplorable state of undress) were in Havana, but their hearts were in the Highlands. And the reason for this was the bag-pipe recital even then in progress— a recital by no less a virtuoso than Mr. Colin Glencannon, Chief Engineer of the Inchcliffe Castle, and pupil of that greatest of pipers, The MacCrimmon of Gairloch, on the Isle of Skye. And— last straw for the prospectus— Mr. Glencannon's efforts most effectively disposed of the "hush."

Clad in drawers, slippers, gnats, mosquitoes and perspiration, Mr. Glencannon was pacing before his guests, up and down upon the deck. Under his arm was a pig-shaped tartan bag, and out of it jutted sundry be-ribboned pipes. Out of these, in turn, came squeals and wails and shrieks and dronings which filled the harbor and the sky, rent the tropic night asunder, and in the distant city raped the chaste silence of patios which had for centuries echoed no music save the romantic strummings of caballeros' guitars.

Mr. Glencannon was playing the ceol beag— the lighter music of Scotland — which consists of reels, flings, and such— like rollicking didoes. He had been playing it, in fact, for four hours, pausing between tunes only long enough to toss off tumblerfuls of neat whisky. Later on, when the pipes should be really in tone and the audience properly en rapport, he planned to play the classic ceol mor, and especially the piobaireachd Coghiegh nha Shie— strains so inspiring that they cause Scotsmen to bite the necks off bottles, and even, in the tenderer passages, to give away their matches.

On, on, and ever on he played! It was magnificent! Over in the Cabañas Fortress, the garrison was tossing wide-eyed upon its cots and muttering fierce "carramba's." Out on the bastions of distant Morro, the very sentries were pacing sleepless. And forward, Captain Ball, master of the Inchcliffe Castle, had read five chapters of "Lloyd's Maritime Register" and three of the Book of Ezekiel, without unseating the insomnia which rode him like a succubus. At last, even as Aphrodite, he arose from his bunk, draped a towel around his mid-section, and walked through the passage to the Mate's room. The door was ajar on the hook.

"Mr. Montgomery," he whispered, "are you asleep?"

"Great God, no!" came a voice from the darkness. "'Arf a mo', Sir, while I switch on the light."

The Captain entered, sat down, and scowled resentfully at the electric fan.

"You'd as well turn it off, Mr. Montgomery— that breeze will give you blisters."

"T'isn't the 'eat that bothers, Captain— it's that bleeding racket aft."

"It's awful, Mr. Montgomery, isn't it? If only them tunes wouldn't wind on and on so— if only they'd get somewheres...."

"—To 'ell, for instance!" suggested the Mate, savagely.

Captain Ball leaned forward and shook the perspiration from his chin.

"Well," he said, gloomily, "There's really nothing I can do about it. I gave Mr. Glencannon permission to invite his friends to this party, and— well, there they are! I couldn't risk offending him, because he's the only engineer in the world who could keep that coffee mill below-decks running which our damned sheeney owners call an engine."

"I suppose he is," conceded the Mate, reluctantly. "But it's awful, just the syme, Sir!— It looks like a gathering of the clans, back there on the poop.— Thickest gang of Scots I ever set eyes upon. They're all engineers from the other boats."

"—All with Aberdeen accents and genuwine Edinburgh thirst! When I looked 'em over, two hours ago, they'd done in nine quarts of Duggan's Dew, and every man of them still dreary sober."

There was a long silence, broken only by the purr of the fan.— Silence, that is, in the immediate foreground; all the rest of the world shuddered to the screech of pipes.

Through the porthole came the sound of oars, and of a boat bumping the gangway.

"Hell's bones!" groaned the Captain. "Can that be more of them?"

Bo's'n Hughes tapped on the door jamb, and though he stood respectfully beyond the sill, a fierce light glinted in his eye.

"Captain, Sorrh," he said, tensely, "There's a 'Un h'officer from the Brandenburger 'as boarded us, and says 'as 'ow 'e'd loike to speak with the Captain, Sorrh."

"Speak to me, Hughes? And how often must I tell you not to call Dutchmen 'Huns'?— I wonder what he wants to speak to me about? Well, Mr. Montgomery, that means I've got to get all dressed and sweated to talk to this brass-bound Heiney... oh, won't that piping ever stop?"

Five minutes later, Captain Ball stepped out on deck. At the gangway-head stood a spruce white-uniformed officer who clicked his pipe-clayed heels, saluted, and bowed from the waist. He looked cool, which was irritating. He was German, which was more irritating still. "Goot evening, Keptain," he said, with a bright, toothy smile which was most irritating of all. "My name iss Schneider, Keptain— I am second officer of the welt-gruise ship Brandenburger. It iss a lovely evening, iss it not?"

"No," said Captain Ball, one of whose principles was never to agree with Germans. "Talk a bit slower, my man— your accent is shocking."

"But the moonlight, Keptain," persisted the German, undismayed. "Surely the moonlight iss jarming?"

Captain Ball favored the man with a sour glance, and then, in the tone of one who has recently smitten his thumb with a hammer, said:

"Oh, charming— quite!"

"Quite?" repeated the visitor, hopefully pricking up his ears. "Quite?— Yes, Keptain, the evening iss quite jarming, but not quiet.... See, I make a joke, Keptain— quite but not quiet — har, har!"

"Er— what?" asked Captain Ball, frowning. "A joke?— 'Quite but not quiet?' — Er, that is, I mean to say, are you laughing at me, Sir?"

The German's smile became a bit discouraged at the corners, but he was a brave man.

"It iss only vat the French call a bon mot, Sir," he explained. "Vat I mean iss, that the evening iss quite jarming, but it iss not quiet. It iss not quiet because of the musics which come from this ship. Our passengers are gomplaining that they cannot schleep. Also, these bright lights have attracted a million bugs and moths and even two wampire bats which fly around in the ballroom. And so, Keptain von Meissner has sent me to ask you, Sir, for your kind go-operation...."

"Now, just a minute, Sir!" interrupted Captain Ball. "Just let me get this thing straight.— First of all, I observed— and I think politely— that this evening was 'quite charming.' Whereupon you, Sir, twisted the very words in my mouth and..."

"—But Keptain, please! It was only a play on words..."

Captain Ball squared his shoulders and advanced truculently. Bo's'n Hughes, one pace to the rear, also cleared for action.

"Sir!" bellowed Ball, "I resent having the English language made a fool of by them as cannot speak it! I resent having Captain von-what-ever-the-hell-his-name-is send a third steward like you with an impertinence of this kind! Get off my ship, before I lose my temper and kick you over the side! And if you and your Captain and your passengers don't like the sound of this greatest music of the Northern civilizations, let them go below and play the Wacht am Rhein on their ha'penny tin whistles!"

The German opened his mouth once or twice, but no sound emerged. He stiffened, saluted, bowed, and departed briskly down the ladder, the Captain's scowl burning wrinkles in his back like a red-hot waffle-iron.

Ball witnessed his departure with fists clenched, muttering to himself.

"Captain, Sorrh, beggin' pardon," said Hughes, who had itched to take an active part in the rencontre, "I've seen that 'Un before, I 'ave! 'E was mate of a bloody 'Un submarine durin' the War. 'E sunk us, 'e did, in blizzardy February with the tempachoor below zebra, Sorrh! And he never give us a minute to put blankets and food in the lifeboats— 'e just sunk us and left us floatin' 'elpless in the North Sea, the domned 'Un 'ound!"

"See here, Hughes," said the Captain severely, "that's no way to talk about our late enemies! Er— well anyway, what could you do about it now?"

"Well, Captain, Sorrh, if I could 'ave your kind permission to stay ashore a night or two, I'd lay for 'im on the dock, I would, and I'd barsh 'is narsty 'ead in, Sorrh!"

"Hughes," said the Captain thoughtfully, "it's possible that what you propose would be a great and Christian work. The only trouble is that his ship is sailing in two hours. It's hard luck— but well, good night, Hughes!"

As the Captain stepped into the deck house, the sound of retreating German oars arose from the water. Hope overcame the Bos'n's momentary dejection and he sprang to the side and peered downward. Then, lithe as a cat, he scurried aft, across the well-deck, and in amongst the celebrants on the poop. And though his fingers closed on the fresh quart bottle which was instantly proffered, he did not trouble to pull the cork. Instead, the bottle gripped in his capacious paw, he leaned over the taffrail, his eyes straining into the shadow.

At this very moment the spirit of Terpsichore descended upon Mr. Glencannon's little party and entered the person of Mr. Donald MacBane, second Engineer of the Saxon Merchant. Lurching to his feet and hiccuping his intention of treading a measure, he looked about the deck for a pair of claymores upon which to execute the ancient Caledonian sword-dance. It chanced that there were none; so Mr. MacBane folded up a chair, and within its difficult confines, spurred on by the throaty "Hoots!" of his audience and the frenzied shrilling of the pipes, he danced, tripped, sprawled, and undaunted, danced again.

To Mate Schneider, standing in the sternsheets of his gig, with the tiller between his legs, these cries, this increased sound, spelled derision. His four oarsmen, he knew, were laughing at him; and this was hateful. As the gig passed into the black shadow beneath the Inchcliffe Castle's stern, rage overcame him. He looked up toward the light, shook his fist, and cursed the Scottish swine with all the soulful if inadequate oaths of his Fatherland.

An invisible Something hurtled down through the night, caught him neatly on the forehead, and he slithered overboard as limply as an old pair of dungarees.

His descent into the depths was attended by the phosphorescent phenomena peculiar to tropical waters, and which are so invaluable to aged and infirm sharks employed on the night shift. It happened that one of these— a twelve foot specimen with a bullet-hole through his dorsal, and therefore familiar to the estivadores as El Herido— was pessimistically exploring the neighborhood with his appetite set on nothing more pretentious than potato peelings. A German was as far beyond his hopes as caviar to those of a Russian beachcomber; and yet— here was a German in a white uniform descending before his very snout— sprawling, bubbling, shimmering in an aura of light— Descending, and then, very slowly, rising again. El Herido followed him up, smacking his chops and wondering whether to eat him whole or on the half-shell. In any case, it would be the daintiest snack since the day the seaplane crashed, off Playa del Rey....

Near the surface, El Herido made up his mind;— he would chew this German into filets, which are really delicious. His perforated dorsal cleaving the water, he turned on his side, opened his mouth, and zipped toward his meal. Suddenly, a terrific weight crashed down upon his back, knocked the breath out of him, jolted away his appetite, and severely damaged his courage. Half-stunned and wholly dismayed, he sought sanctuary beneath the Inchcliffe Castle's weed-grown bottom to take sulky stock of his twinging vertebrae.

He saw the man who had jumped upon him— a man clad only in drawers and carpet slippers— swimming downward with powerful strokes to the very bottom, and there apparently groping for something. Then he saw this strange visitor abandon his quest and start upward for air— in the course of the journey colliding with the German who was going down for the last time. He of the drawers paused, registered surprise, seized the German and dragged him toward the surface. There were splashes as the sailors hauled the pair into the gig, and silvery haloes in the water as the oars propelled it back to the Inchcliffe Castle's gangway.

Mr. Glencannon, wringing out his drawers, led the way up the ladder, leaving the Germans to manage with the limp Schneider. He was greeted with cheers from his guests, which he silenced with upraised hand.

"Scots wha' hae wi' Wallace bled!" he announced, sadly, "My journey to the realms o' Nepchoon was a sorry failure. All I ha' brought back wi' me is a drowned Dutchman, who is even the noo' bein' conveyed aboard us by a quartet o' his deepraved compatriots. So let us no' weep over the dear departed— let us broach a fresh bottle an' mak' murry while the Huns are admeenistering last rites."

The German sailors set about restoring life to their officer by frantic pumping of the arms and similarly-strenuous devices of first aid. Soon Mate Schneider's eyelids fluttered, and he groaned.

"Gi' him a drink!" urged Mr. Glencannon, taking charge. "Here, Mr. Campbell, hae the kindness to pass me that bottle after ye've quaffed yere fill.— Thank 'ee, Mr. Campbell.— And noo, we'll see if this Gairman reesponds to gude Scottish liquor as a human being should!"

Prying open the Teutonic mouth, he poured into it approximately one pint. It was a hundred and fifty proof, and the results were stupendous. Mate Schneider coughed explosively, sprang to his feet, saluted, and shouted "Achtung!" Then he lurched against the rail, and stood stupidly fingering a livid bruise above his left eye.

"Ye're a'richt, noo!" Mr. Glencannon said soothingly. "Ye're fit as a fuddle, Meester Dutchman! Do ye sit doon in this chair and summon ye're scrambled faculties."

Mate Schneider sat, and turning to his sailors made thick and guttural inquiries in his native tongue. They replied with voluble enthusiasm and much respectful pointing toward Mr. Glencannon.

"Sir!" said the German, rising unsteadily and seizing his savior's hand, "I am your efferlasting debtor! My men haf described your bravery in fighting the shark and safing my life. I cannot begin to tell you..."

"Shark?" echoed Mr. Glencannon, lowering his bottle in astonishment. "What shark?— Why, the poor mon is daft!"

"Vat shark? — Ah, Sir, you haf a sublime modesty! I shall neffer forget vat you did, Sir, I shall neffer forget it!"

"Have a drink," invited Mr. Glencannon. "Have a drink. T'wull be gude for yere apoplexy."

"Aboblexy? Ach, you are right, Sir.— I must have had aboblexy! I stand in my boat and suddenly— puf!— I know nothing! It must be aboblexy, from the high air bressure in the submarines during the War."

"Beyond a doot!" Mr. Glencannon humored him. "But befeer you leave us to gae aboard yon floating palace, let's a' ha' a drink toguther. 'Just a wee doch an' doris,' as the great poet Burns ha' phrased it. And, by the way, Mr. What's-yer-name, that's a song we've got to teach ye! Come on— sing!...

'Just a wee doch an' doris

Just a wee drap, that's a'

Just a wee doch an' doris

Befeer we gang awa...

"Come, join in, gentlemen, an' let us learn our new-found friend that most brouching tallad— er, that most touching ballad o' gude fellowship! Mr. MacTavish, if you please, when ye've frinished with that crorkshrcrew, we'll sing."

Mate Schneider— his cargo of harbor water now well-diluted with alcohol— found his voice and raised it high in song.

"Ach," he said, after the fifteenth chorus, "Such hosbitality! I drink to you again, brave Scottishers! Hoch! Gesundheit!— But Gott, vat a potency has this liquor!"

"Ha' another, for yer apoplexy!" invited Mr. Glencannon, passing one arm around a stay for better support. "An' noo', let's sing it once again."

The hoot of a siren burst upon them with mighty surging sound. It was the Brandenburger! and as they turned toward her, their song drowned in their throats, they saw a plume of steam curling from her anchor winch. Beyond to the East, the red sun was rising over the fincas. This, then, was the parting. Ah, grief!

Mate Schneider's emotions quite overcame him, and mercifully, consciousness fled....

Tenderly, tearfully, the Scotsmen carried him down the ladder and laid him in his boat. Only the respectful firmness of the sailors prevented them from embarking as a guard of honor and completely swamping the craft.

"Gentlemen!" sobbed Mr. Glencannon, his misty eyes following the departing gig, "Let us drink to a prince o' gude fellows!"

Even as they tilted their bottles in his honor, Mate Schneider lurched to his feet, and waved his hand in fond farewell. Then another fit of apoplexy seized him, and he collapsed into his boat.

THE Inchcliffe Castle, Liverpool to Odessa, swung at anchor off Piraeus, in Greece. She was rustier than ever— more woe-begone than any vessel seen in those classic waters since the lusty days of Ulysses.

Mr. Glencannon, beneath the awning, was deep in an ancient copy of the Presbyterian Churchman. A boat came off from shore with the mail, and the Engineer was handed a neat and impressive packet.

Now, in all his twenty years at sea, this was the first time Mr. Glencannon had received anything in the post, but he accepted the packet with a casual air, took a swig out of the bottle which stood beneath his chair, and carefully considered the address. Yes, it was for him, without a doubt. "Herr Colin Glencannon, S.S. Inchcliffe Castle, care of H.B.M. Consul, Piraeus, Greece." The stamps were German, and the postmark that of Hamburg.

Tearing off the wrapper he found a red morocco case, within which was a handsome gold medal. Having viewed this for several minutes, he removed it from its velvet niche, bit it to see if it was genuine, and then, satisfied, solemnly pinned it to the breast of his overalls. Next he produced a roll of parchment, richly engrossed but entirely in German. He wrinkled his brows and cleared his throat.

"I dinna mak' head nor tail o' it," he announced. "Mr. Flynn, I'll trouble ye to whustle through yon speakin' chube an' tell that Dutchman in the fireroom to come oop here an' translate this meestery."

A grimy German appeared, a corner of his neckrag between his teeth.

"Hun," said Mr. Glencannon, banding him the scroll, "translate, and mind ye speak the truth, lest I smite ye with this bottle which is no more than a quarter empty."

The fireman glanced through the document, and read

"In recognition of the heroism of Colin Glencannon in plunging into the shark infested harbor of Havana and saving the life of Kurt Schneider at peril of his own, the Humane Society of Hamburg is honored in conferring upon the said Colin Glencannon its Gold Medal and Certificate."

"HAVANA?" repeated Mr. Glencannon doubtfully, turning to Captain Ball. "Havana? Why, when were we ever in Havana?"

"Havana? Well, I couldn't say exactly without looking at the log. About fourteen months ago, I fancy."

There was a long silence, while Mr. Glencannon contemplated his medal and took another drink.

Then a great light dawned upon him. "Foosh!" he chuckled. "I remember noo, o' course! That was the nicht I dove overboard to retrieve a full bottle o' whusky which that dom' temperance fanatic, Bos'n Hughes, had thrown away! Down near the bottom o' the sea I chanced to mak' the acquaintance o' a Dutchman who was havin' a fit o' apoplexy. Oh, cairtainly I remember noo! But Captain—" his face fell and he shook his head sadly "—I could na' find that whusky!"

______________

12: West of Guam

Raoul Whitfield

1896 - 1945

Black Mask, Feb 1930

The first story featuring Joe Gar, the Manila, Phillipines, Private Eye.

CORAL REEF and green cliff— one showing a jagged edge of white in the blue water; the other a rising splash of color— were falling astern of the Army transport Thomas. The heat was terrific; the breeze was a hot blast sweeping the decks of the heavily laden transport. Five days more, with favorable weather, and the boat would reach Manila.

Five hot days and nights, west of Guam.

Colonel Dunbar, infantry officer in charge of troops aboard, sat in the wicker chair of his cabin, let the electric fan bathe his sticky skin with warm air and cursed. It was his second Island job— and he didn’t look forward to the arrival with much enthusiasm. He was sore because the West Point assignment hadn’t come his way. He was sore because the transport was crowded with troops and civilians. He was sore because it had been so infernally hot since they had put out from Honolulu. A rotten trip.

There was a sudden pounding of heavy shoes along the deck. Burker, his orderly, stiffened near the open door of the cabin. His face was strangely white; the muscles of his mouth were twitching.

“It’s— Captain Lintwell sir!” he muttered. “Major Jones found him—”

The orderly broke off. He was breathing heavily. Evidently he had run up from a lower deck. The colonel was impatient.

“Captain Lintwell— what about him, Burker? Get on with it—”

“He’s dead, sir!”

The orderly got the words out all bunched up, but the commanding officer understood them. He jerked himself out of the wicker chair.

“The hell you say!” he snapped “Lintwell—dead? How?”

The orderly was calmer now. He stood stiffly, as though he were reciting a section of the manual.

“Major Jones said he was murdered, sir. The major found him. Up front, on C Deck. A bullet through his head— the back of it—”

The colonel swore sharply. He swore because it irritated him to think that after twenty-five days aboard a transport his orderly could be stupid enough to designate a spot on the boat as “up front.” His lips formed the word “forward,” and he forgot about the orderly, and the orderly’s stupidity. He moved out of the cabin, went forward. His lean, browned face held a frown.

There had been three deaths at sea, from natural causes. There had been one drowning. A civilian’s wife had lost all of her hair and a portion of her scalp, through carelessness near an electric fan. A sergeant had run amuck because of heat and smuggled booze— and had put two of the transport’s crew in the ship’s hospital. And now— Captain Lintwell had been murdered!

The colonel descended the forward companionway. He hadn’t particularly liked Lintwell. The captain had played too good a game of bridge, and had played too loose with other officers’ wives. But murder—that was a rotten trick. It would have to be cleared up. Before the transport reached Manila. Five days, five nights. The colonel was on B Deck now. He swore savagely. Perhaps there had been some mistake. He’d get a different orderly, anyway. “Up front!”

He was descending the companionway between B and C Decks now. There was a circle of khaki clad figures below— ten feet or so from the bottom step. A voice called— “’Tention!” in a husky tone. Men straightened up— most of them were officers.

“‘’Ease!” Dunbar snapped. “Where’s Major Jones?”

The adjutant moved up close— the others moved away. Major Jones was short and thickset. He had a bristling, gray mustache, and even the heat of the tropics failed to destroy his efficiency.

“Rotten business, Joe,” he muttered in a low voice. “They got him— back of the head. I was going below, found him.”

The colonel stared down at the handsome face of Captain Jerry Lintwell. The man had a half smile on his face; his lips were drawn back slightly over his white, even teeth. The deck boards were stained with red. The colonel swore grimly. He started to kneel beside the dead captain, changed his mind.

“Keep everyone off this section of the deck, Adjutant!” he ordered crisply. “Two M.P.s should be able to see to that. Send for Major Vane—”

“I’ve done that,” Jones stated quietly. “He sent word from the hospital that Private Bulking is having convulsions— that he’ll get up here as soon as he can. Lieutenant Robards came along right after I found him here— he found there was no pulse. Dead ten minutes or so, he said.”

“He guessed,” the commanding officer corrected. “Very good—come up above with me, Adjutant. See about the guard first.”

Jones moved away and gave orders. The colonel glanced at his wrist watch. It was five minutes past four. He looked down at the murdered man again. Browned skin was becoming a bit yellow. He noted that Lintwell’s uniform was immaculate, as usual. Then he moved towards the steps of the companionway, climbed. There was a mild swell now. The effort of the trip down below had soaked him in perspiration. He felt vexed and irritable.

“Have that killer— by dark!” he muttered. “Damned fool to think he could get away with— that sort of stuff!”

It was almost midnight. The Thomas nosed her way through a phosphorescent sea, rocking lazily in a mild swell. Guam was behind—miles behind. The night was hot, filled with stars. The transport steamed to the westward. In the colonel’s cabin five men were gathered. Four of them were officers— one was a civilian. The colonel was speaking.

“It stands like this: At precisely thirty seconds after the ship’s bells had struck four o’clock, Major Jones came up from D Deck and found the body of Captain Lintwell. Lieutenant Robards was next on the scene—that medical officer pronounced the captain dead. He stated that he did not believe Lintwell had been dead more than ten minutes. There was no one about when Jones, here, came along. Major Vane probed— the bullet is regulation. Colt .45. Major Vane feels that death was instantaneous. The bullet entered the back of the head— and almost emerged back of the left eye. Major Vane and I both feel that suicide was extremely unlikely.” The commanding officer smiled faintly. His eyes went to those of the transport captain— Hungerford. That gentleman said nothing. He merely shrugged his shoulders. Majors Jones and Vane merely nodded their heads. The civilian spoke:

“Not suicide,” he stated tonelessly but with assurance. “Lintwell was left-handed. The entrance point of the bullet was slightly to the right of the head, just above the neck. The bullet traveled towards the left eye. Impossible for a left-handed man to shoot that way—couldn’t bend the wrist that much. Death was instantaneous but we can’t find the Colt. Very little chance that Lintwell could have shot— then flung the gun overboard.”

The colonel grunted. His eyes were on the civilian. He rather disliked all civilians; Jo Gar was no exception. He didn’t like the name, in the first place. He didn’t like the lack of emotion that Gar exhibited. And he didn’t like Gar’s looks.

The civilian half closed his blue-gray eyes, relaxed in the uncomfortable chair. His body swayed slightly as the transport rolled. He was a young man, but he looked rather old. His hair was gray; he was medium in size, but because of the loose way he carried himself he appeared rather small. His face was brown— very brown. He had good teeth, a narrow lipped mouth, fine features. His eyes were slightly almond-shaped, and they were seldom normally opened. They held a peculiar squint. Jo Gar wore soiled white trousers and a white shirt. His shoes had once been white, but his quarters on D Deck had prevented them from remaining so. He had abandoned socks at the same time that the Thomas had abandoned Honolulu.

“Captain Hungerford tells me that you have done some fine crime detection work, in the Islands, Mr. Gar.” The colonel smiled with his lips. “He suggested, when we were making no progress, our calling you up here. We shall go right along with our investigation, of course—but we thought you might work— say, under cover.”

Jo Gar smiled with half closed eyes. He spoke tonelessly, as always. “It is the better way— under cover. Your blundering will help me.”

The colonel flushed. He tapped on the seat of his wicker chair with a couple of knuckles. Major Jones swore beneath his breath.

“I fail to see where we have blundered,” he stated simply. Jo Gar continued to smile with lazy, blue-gray eyes.

“You have not,” he replied. “I spoke in the future tense.”

The colonel grunted. Only Captain Hungerford was smiling, and he allowed his dark eyes to meet the eyes of Gar. The colonel became sarcastic.

“We have called you in, Mr. Gar. That was damn sensible, wasn’t it?”

The toneless-voiced one smiled faintly. He shook his head.

“It was very stupid,” he stated. “But it was not a blunder. I came up alone— and I made sure that no one knew I was coming. In fact, I planted an alibi for myself. But that isn’t important— it’s done. There is a civilian under guard below— and he has a tongue. I caught up with him in two months, Colonel. He didn’t expect me to do that. He thinks he is fairly clever— therefore he thinks— I am extremely clever. If he is believed by the enlisted men—”

“An enlisted man didn’t murder Captain Lintwell.” The colonel was emphatic. “Only a few of them carry Colts.”

“One of them— was sufficient,” Jo Gar stated. “You blunder, Colonel. You are sure of something. That is bad— one should never be sure.”

The colonel was holding back angry words. The civilian got to his feet.

“I’m going to talk with a certain lieutenant who told his wife she was a fool, two nights ago,” he said slowly. “I want to know why he told her that.”

The colonel stared at him.

He spoke grimly.

“How do you know he told her she was a fool?” he demanded.

Jo Gar smiled without opening his eyes very far. He stood near the door.

“You are a truthful man, Colonel,” he stated. “I overheard you telling Major Jones that the lieutenant had done so.”

He nodded good-night to the three other officers, smiled at the colonel. He went from the cabin very quietly. There were no footfall sounds. The colonel swore harshly.

“The man’s a fool— or a genius!” he muttered.

Captain Hungerford lighted his pipe, got to his feet and stretched. “It’ll take one of the two— to get this killer,” he stated quietly. “And Jo Gar has the genius of playing a fool, Colonel.”

“No motive— no clues,” Major Jones muttered. “Beats the devil, it does!”

Colonel Dunbar reached for his pitcher of ice water. Civilians aboard a transport annoyed him. Ship’s bells. Midnight. Eight hours of work, and they had gotten nowhere. He looked out through the cabin door opening. The transport swung lazily towards the Islands. She was a slow boat. This trip she was a death boat. And aboard her was a killer.

“The men know of the murder, of course?” The colonel felt foolish when he asked that.

Jones replied. “Of course— and the roll call showed everybody was aboard, including all of the ship’s crew.”

The colonel shook his head slowly. He was hot, tired and irritated. “We’ll work out the report tomorrow, Adjutant,” he said grimly.

“For the present we’ll just rate it murder— west of Guam!”

Jo Gar lay stretched on a hatch cover, aft of the radio room. He appeared to be sleeping—the hot, tropical sun beat down on his body. He was not sleeping. And the sun did not dull his brain. Jo was thinking.

“So many motives,” he murmured to himself. “The colonel no doubt is a fine soldier. In this matter he is the great blunderer.”

Jo Gar thought best under circumstances which would have dulled most human’s brains. But Jo had been born in the tropics, raised in the Islands. With his body slugged by heat—his brain was most active. It was almost noon now, and he had come from a chat with the colonel. He had read the colonel’s report— even in it there was a blunder. Jo Gar detested errors.

“The murder,” he had pointed out to the colonel, “was not committed west of Guam. You have it written so here. The transport was steaming beneath the cliffs, almost, when Captain Lintwell was shot down. Agana was not to the eastward.”

The colonel had stared, then had sworn grimly.

“Find the killer— never mind such small details,” he had gritted. “For example— why didn’t someone hear the shot? A Colt makes a noise.”

Jo Gar had only smiled. He felt that the commanding officer had little confidence in him. He had got away as soon as was possible. Now he stirred his baking limbs, chuckled.

“So does steam escaping— make a noise,” he murmured. “There is the Marine post, atop the cliffs. And the flag that is dipped. And the salute by whistle. Three blasts. That is good!”

He sat up on the hatch, swung his legs over the edge. Up on A Deck he caught a flash of white. A woman was swinging along rather briskly. It was very hot— and the woman was Lieutenant Solter’s wife. She was very young and very beautiful. The night before the transport had reached Guam her husband had told her, heatedly, that she was a fool. He had pointed out that Captain Lintwell’s reputation was not an enviable one. He had suggested that his wife walk the deck less in the captain’s company.

Jo Gar smiled faintly. Helen Solter was doing so, at the moment. It was she who had told him, with reluctance, that her husband had rather hated Captain Lintwell. The captain was owed much bridge money by Lieutenant Briggs. Charlie Briggs was her husband’s best friend. Her husband disliked gamblers, anyway. Captain Lintwell had been a gambler. And Helen Solter had also assured Jo Gar that her husband had been at her side, watching the Island of Guam slide out of sight, for fully a half hour after the transport had started to steam out from her anchorage beyond the coral reefs.

As for Lieutenant Briggs, he had been below, with his company. Sergeant Walker had accompanied him during an inspection. The alibis of the two lieutenants were excellent.

“So many motives,” Jo Gar murmured as he got to his feet, “and not a clue.”

He went to his quarters and dressed rather immaculately in white. Outside the colonel’s cabin he found a private with red hair and a cheerful grin. Privates were not allowed on A Deck, so Jo Gar guessed out loud.

“You are possibly the colonel’s new orderly? He told me he contemplated a change.”

The orderly nodded. “He fired Sam Burker— I’m the new orderly. My name’s Tod Harraker, and at the time the murder was committed I was—”

Jo Gar smiled. “It doesn’t matter where you were, Tod,” he stated. “Where will I find Burker?”

The new orderly told Jo where he thought Burker might be found. The door of the colonel’s cabin opened, and Dunbar frowned at him. The orderly stiffened.

“Why Burker?” the colonel demanded of Gar. “He’s too dumb to know anything about a murder.”

Jo smiled more broadly. But his voice was as toneless as ever. “Stupidity is sometimes a virtue, Colonel,” he philosophized. “I wanted to know something about music— I hear that Burker plays a mouth organ.”

The colonel swore. Jo Gar moved forward along the deck. Near the starboard companionway he almost ran into Mrs. Solter. She was rather pale. She looked ill, despite the fact that the Thomas was navigating through a sea of glass.

“Have you learned anything, Mr. Gar?” she asked in a low tone.

Jo nodded. It seemed to him that Helen Solter was breathing heavily.

“Many things,” he replied. “All unimportant.”

He imagined there was a flickering expression of relief in her dark eyes. But he wasn’t sure. He bowed and moved down the steps of the companionway. On C Deck, aft, he discovered the former orderly. Burker was lying in the shade of a ventilator, with his eyes closed. He was lying on his back. Jo moved up close, careful that his figure cast no shadow in the sunlight beyond the reclining private. His rubber-soled shoes allowed him to move quietly. From a pocket of his white trousers he drew an Army Colt. He squeezed the trigger.

There was a sharp click. Burker’s body jerked— in a flash the man was sitting up. He twisted around, stared at Jo. There was fear in his eyes.

“Jeeze!” he muttered. “That gave me a jolt!”

He smiled sheepishly. His nose was crooked and he had slightly stooped shoulders. His eyes were dark, rather squinted.

“I noted that fact,” Jo stated quietly. “Why did it?”

The former orderly smothered an oath. He shook his head.

“I dunno,” he replied. “But it did.”

Jo Gar slipped the Colt back into his pocket. Private Burker wet his lips with the tip of a sick looking tongue. He started to get up, but Jo shook his head.

“Don’t rise,” he stated. “I’m Mr. Gar— perhaps you— know that.” The private nodded. “Guess we all do,” he stated. “You’re that Manila soft-shoe— the guy that always gets his man.”

He chuckled. It was a nervous chuckle. Jo Gar shook his head. “Not always,” he stated. “Two years ago I failed. China is a difficult country. A transport at sea has advantages.”

Private Burker looked towards the rail. He kept a half smile on his face. Jo Gar spoke tonelessly.

“The colonel has been in a bad humor,” he stated. “He replaced you with a new orderly. Why?”

Burker grunted. “I dunno,” he replied. “Maybe he thinks I’m dumb. Guess it’s the heat— I ain’t used to this sort of thing.”

Jo nodded. “You took word to the colonel, that Captain Lintwell was dead,” he stated. “You happened to come along, just after Captain Jones found the body.”

“Major Jones,” Burker corrected. “I had a message from— Captain Drake. I was bringing it up to the colonel.”

Jo Gar nodded again. His gray-blue eyes held the dark ones of the former orderly.

“Burker,” he said slowly, “the colonel was right. You are stupid. But you have tried to be clever. Very clever. Get up and come with me.”

The former orderly was staring at Jo Gar. He got to his feet. “I don’t get you,” he muttered. “You’re on the wrong track—”

Jo Gar smiled faintly. “Perhaps,” he agreed. “Just walk ahead, please— aft of this spot—”

Burker stared blankly. “Which way?” he muttered. “I ain’t wise to—”

“Back, towards the stern, the rear of the boat,” Jo said slowly. “It isn’t far. You’ll find steps there—they lead down to the ship’s brig, jail, or what-not. That’s where we’re going, Burker.”

The private’s body stiffened. Jo Gar slipped his right hand into the right pocket of his duck trousers.

“If I were to squeeze the trigger again it would not click, Burker,” he warned. “Possibly you know why.”

The former orderly’s face was turned towards Gar’s. His facial muscles were twitching. He smiled with an effort.

“You got me wrong,” he stated. “I don’t know what you’re gettin’ at.”

Jo Gar smiled with his thin lips. He spoke in a low voice.

“You contradict yourself, Private,” he advised. “However, I want your nerves to relax. I want you to have quiet. Please walk aft, Private. That’s— fine.”

It was five minutes of four. The Thomas was steaming westward; a mild breeze was kicking up some white through the blue-green tropical water. The water, however, was not rough. It was very hot. Colonel Dunbar drank ice water, and cursed. Major Jones dabbed at his face with a damp handkerchief. He would have preferred to wipe his face, but his bristling mustache prevented that.

“The men are holding up well, all things considered,” he stated. “This murder has given them something to talk about. I hear they are laying bets—”

“Hell!” The colonel snorted the word. “What sort of bets?”

“Three to one that this Jo Gar won’t produce the killer before we reach port,” the major stated. “And I don’t see how the odds got that low.”

The colonel snorted again. “From what I hear he’s asked questions of about everybody on board,” he stated. “And he’s learned nothing of importance.”

Jo Gar bowed slightly from the open door of the cabin. The colonel reddened. He muttered something about “gum-shoes.”

Jo spoke cheerfully.

“I have located the murderer of Captain Lintwell, Colonel,” he announced.

The commanding officer stared at Jo. Major Jones stared, too. He spoke crisply.

“Who, Mr. Gar?”

Jo seated himself in a chair. He smiled faintly at the colonel.

“I said that I had located him. But there are a few questions, first. He is aboard the transport.”

Major Jones swore. The colonel looked disgusted.

“I dislike such humor, Mr. Gar,” he muttered. “Of course he’s aboard.”

“He might have gone over the side,” Jo pointed out. “He might have been someone not accounted for in the roll call check-ups. Someone who came aboard at Guam.”

The colonel grunted. Major Jones smiled cynically.

“But he wasn’t,” Jo said quietly. “And therefore Private Burker is confined under guard—”

“Burker!” The colonel’s face was red. “That dumb orderly? Are you sure, Gar?”

Jo fingered one of the peculiar, brown-papered cigarettes, of which he seemed to have an unlimited supply.

“The murderer of Captain Lintwell,” he stated slowly, “was not dumb, Colonel. You may remember that sergeant who ran wild— Schaeffer. He injured two of the ship’s crew. He is still in the ship’s hospital, and in bad shape. Investigation showed me that his Service Colt had never been found. Lieutenant Grace, his immediate superior, felt that he had thrown it overboard.

“I had doubts. Particularly so, after my examination of all the .45s aboard, after the murder. None had been cleaned recently— and that was what I had thought I might be able to determine. Sergeant Schaeffer did not toss his Colt overboard, before he was calmed down. It was used to murder Captain Lintwell.”

Colonel Dunbar stared at Jo Gar.

“Burker!” he muttered. “And I thought he was dumb— talking about going— ‘up front’— after being aboard three weeks!”

Jo Gar smiled. “That struck me as peculiar, when you told me about it, Colonel,” he stated. “So I looked over his service records. He was a seaman for eight years, before he entered the army, some two years ago.”

The colonel wiped his face. He grunted. Major Jones had his eyes on the cabin ceiling.

“He overdid it a bit,” Jo stated quietly. “He wanted to appear very stupid, you see. But he wasn’t stupid. He had an alert mind. I talked with him and referred to Major Jones as Captain Jones. He corrected me instantly. A stupid man would very likely not have noted my mistake. He wanted you to think that he knew very little about a ship, Colonel.”

“But why— did he murder Captain Lintwell?” Colonel Dunbar muttered.

Jo Gar shook his head. “He didn’t murder Lintwell,” he stated.

“You misunderstood me, Colonel. I merely said that Burker was confined under guard. He was the accomplice.”

The commanding officer was stiff in his chair now. Jo Gar lighted his cigarette, inhaled.

“Your orderly delivered a false message to Captain Lintwell— a verbal message. It was to the effect that you wanted him at the foot of the starboard companionway, on Deck C. The transport was passing close to the cliffs at that moment— at the moment Burker delivered the message. She was nearing the Marine post— and there was a flag to be dipped, and to be saluted by the transport’s whistle. It is a heavy whistle, as you no doubt know.

“Captain Lintwell was shot through the back of the head, at close range, as he turned his back on the killer. He was shot as the whistle boomed in salute— and the men were all at the rails. Deck C, near the spot where Lintwell was killed, is closed in except for a small space. No one was near— no one but the murderer. Burker was not present, but he was on the deck above. He heard the shot, but it was so faint that even the men beside him missed it. They were all cheering, you see.”

The colonel swore softly. His eyes were narrowed now. Major Jones arose. His face was white, set grimly.

“The motive was revenge,” Jo said slowly. “Burker’s job was to get a Colt without any record being made of it, and to deliver a message at the right time. He was paid well for it. He did both jobs. The murderer was—”

He stopped. The colonel’s eyes were staring into his. Jo Gar did not look away from the colonel. Major Jones stepped past him— his shadow was for a second in the open doorway. The colonel looked up, startled.

His eyes were staring out towards the deck now, towards the rail.

Suddenly he jerked from the chair, crying hoarsely. “Jones— stop!”

Jo Gar did not turn, did not look towards the deck. The muscles of his mouth twitched a little. He heard the cry from somewhere above.

“Man overboard!”

Seconds passed. Ship’s bells jangled. The engines shuddered. Jo Gar got up, walked out on the deck. He went to the rail, stared towards the stern. The transport was swinging wide now. He could see the fins. The water was filled with sharks.

After a while the fins vanished from sight. The transport was coming around in a wide circle. On the bridge ship’s officers were using glasses. The colonel turned towards Jo, his face white, twisted.

“It was— Major Jones?” he managed thickly.

Jo Gar nodded. His face was sober, but his voice was still toneless. “A year ago— his wife killed herself,” he reminded. “You know of that, of course. I got it from Major Vane. It happened up in Alaska. She was there on a visit to some friends— army friends. I looked up Captain Lintwell’s service record— you gave me permission to examine all the men’s records, you remember, Colonel. I discovered that Lintwell was in Nome at the same time that Mrs. Jones was there. He had a way with women, you see.”

The colonel nodded; he looked very tired, much older. Jo Gar spoke on:

“I asked Captain Hungerford about the steam salute of the Marine post flag. He told me that Major Jones had seemed very interested about that. He had wanted to know how long after the transport started to move— it would take to reach the point of salute. Hungerford had told him not thinking much about it. I worked over Burker— his nerves— were breaking. He’d reached a point where he dreaded the thought of hearing the transport’s whistle again. Finally, I bluffed—told him that Major Jones was already under arrest, charged with murder. And Burker broke down— he told the truth.”

__________________

13: Two on the Roof

K. R. G. Browne

1895–1940

World's News (Sydney) 22 Jan 1927

INTO the office of old Mr. Gresham, towards six o'clock of a murky spring evening, came young Mr. Gresham, looking extraordinarily downcast, glum and morose.

"Ha, Roger!" said old Mr. Gresham, glancing up from his desk. "That you, hey? Sit down, boy, sit down."

Roger sat down, heavily and wearily, threw his hat carelessly upon the floor, and sighed. A large and gusty sigh; the sigh of a strong man staggering beneath the blows of a malignant destiny.

"Well, upon my soul," said old Mr. Gresham, peering through his immense spectacles, "you look devilish merry and bright, don't you? What you want is a little liver pill, by the look of you."

Roger smiled. A wan, pale smile: the smile of one who has drunk the cup of Life to the dregs and found it very bitter; a smile hinting that if old Mr. Gresham wished to be coarsely facetious, he (Roger) could not prevent him.

"You wanted to see me, Uncle George?" he asked, in the tolerant tone of one addressing a playful infant.

"Hey?" said old Mr. Gresham. "Oh, yes, to be sure, to be sure. Now what was it I wanted to see you about, hey?" He proceeded to stimulate his memory by massaging his glittering and hairless scalp with the butt of his fountain pen. "Ha— I know! I want your signature to this transfer of stock, as per my letter to you of yesterday. Sign here, if you can make the effort."

With another sigh Roger heaved himself from his chair, walked on leaden feet to the desk, and appended his signature where indicated.

"Anything else?" he inquired.

"Hey? Yes, there was something. Now what— Oh!" said aid Mr. Gresham briskly. "I know! What's all this nonsense about you and Phyllis?"

Roger stiffened; the glance which he bent upon his aged relative was eloquent of his displeasure at this tactless introduction of a painful subject.

"No nonsense about it, Uncle George. Our engagement is at an end, that's all"

"Oh, is it? And why?"

"I'm sorry," said Roger, coldly dignified, "but that concerns nobody but ourselves. I think."

"Fiddlededee'" observed old Mr. Gresham testily. "You're my nephew, and she's my ward— hey? Yourselves be jiggered! What's it all about, hey?"

Roger shuffled his feet uneasily. He would have perished on the rack rather than admit it, but he was just a little afraid of his Uncle George, who, despite his absence of mind, had an uncanny faculty for seeing twice as far through a brick wall as most other people.

"Well— we had a— a disagreement, and we decided it would he best to— to end things. That's all."

"Don't keep on saying 'That's all'," requested old Mr. Gresham "It isn't anything like all. "Disagreement, hey? Well, what about?"

"Well," answered Roger, reluctantly, "as a matter of fact, it began about cheese."

Old Mr. Gresham bounded in his chair. "About what?"

"Cheese. I happened to say at lunch one day that an ounce of Camembert was worth a ton of Gorgonzola, and she— disagreed with me. Gorgonzola's her favorite, apparently. That started it."

Old Mr. Gresham gasped and fell back in his seat, lifting astounded hands to heaven.

"Bless my mildewed soul! Do you mean to say you two young fools broke off your engagement over a bit of cheese?"

"That," said Roger, somewhat sulkily, "was the beginning of it. We both got rather worked up, and one thing led to another, and finally we've decided that if we couldn't agree on a little thing like that, we weren't likely to be able to agree on bigger things. So—"

"So all is over between you. I see, I see. And when did this happen?"

"A week ago to-morrow."

"I see," said old Mr. Gresham again. "Well, of all the—"

He broke off as the telephone upon his desk claimed his attention. He picked up the receiver, listened, said: "All right. In one minute," and turned again to his nephew. "Look here, boy, there's something else I want to speak about— can't think of it at the moment— but here's a client I've got to see at once. Go in and wait with Miss Simpson— no, she's turning her room out, and it's all endways. Tell you what— go up and look at the view from the roof. Best view in London. Up the stairs at the end of the passage, and through the iron door. I'll call you when I'm ready."

"But—"

"Run along, now, run along," said old Mr. Gresham. "Camembert, indeed! Run along."

Roger, on the point of registering a protest, thought better of it, picked up his hat, and went moodily from the room. He did not in the least desire to look at the view from the roof, but old Mr. Gresham, who had acted as a father to him for the past ten years, had a habit of being obeyed in all things. If Uncle George bade him wait until summoned, then wait he must, whatever his personal inclinations; and that waiting might as well be done upon the roof as anywhere. So Roger walked gloomily to the end of the passage, gloomily climbed a short flight of uncarpeted stairs, with an effort thrust open a small but weighty iron door, and emerged upon the roof.

The office of old Mr. Gresham was situated upon the topmost floor of a mighty building in the neighborhood of London Bridge. That section of the roof upon which Roger found himself was roughly as large as a tennis-court, and was flat, save for a kind of small penthouse in the middle, which marked the head of the stairs. A breast high parapet girdled the roof upon all sides, and in one corner, a lofty flagstaff, its halyards flapping in the evening breeze, reared its flagless head to the sky.

Gloomily Roger wandered to the parapet and peered over. The dusk, assisted by a slight mist, was rapidly deepening, so that the celebrated view was hardly at Its most impressive. Far below the lights of the street twinkled valiantly; much nearer and slightly to his left a pale radiance from the windows of old Mr. Gresham's office was reflected upon an adjacent wall.

Roger, leaning upon the parapet, relapsed again into melancholy reflections concerning the fickleness of woman and the general rottenness of things. He had been thus engaged for possibly live minutes when a slight sound behind him jerked him about, expecting Uncle George.

But it was not Uncle George. Roger, staring through the gloom, saw that somebody had come forth from the iron door, and, apparently unaware of his presence, had crossed the roof to lean upon the parapet at the other side. Twenty seconds slid by while Roger stared dumbly at the back of this somebody, his ingenuous countenance displaying first incredulity and then blank astonishment. "Presently he took a step forward, hesitated, cleared his throat nervously, advanced another step, coughed loudly and in a slightly uncertain voice remarked:—

"Oh— hullo!"

The new-comer turned sharply, when it became instantly apparent that she was a young lady of uncommonly prepossessing appearance. At sight of Roger, goggling at her through the twilight, she started ever so slightly and drew back.

"Oh!" she said.

Roger, removing his hat, advanced, another step.

"Uncle George," he explained, speaking very rapidly, "sent me up Here to wait while he interviewed a client—"

A little pause, while Miss Phyllis Anderton— for such was the name of the prepossessing young lady— digested this Information.

"But that," she observed at length, "was what he said to me."

Another pause. Then Roger laughed— a hollow, mirthless, disillusioned, man-of-the-worldly laugh.

"Very tactless of him. what?" he said coldly, and added: "Please make yourself at home. I'll go. Good evening."

"Good evening," returned Phyllis, looking at the flagstaff.

For a fraction of a second Roger lingered; then he turned abruptly, strode across the roof to the little iron door and thrust at it vigorously. The door very annoyingly declined to open. Roger, conscious that this delay was wrecking the dignity of his exit, thrust at it again, still more vigorously. The door remained uncompromisingly closed; nor had his further efforts the slightest effect upon it. Anon Roger, feeling both heated and peevish, swore under his breath, turned on his heel and marched back to where Phyllis was still pensively contemplating the flagstaff.

"I'm sorry," he reported stiffly, "but I can't go. The door won't open. It's stuck or something."

Miss Anderton raised her delightful eyebrows.

"Won't open?" she echoed, and there was that in her tone which brought a flush to the cheeks of her ex-fiancé.

"Try it yourself, if you don't believe me. I'm afraid you'll have to— to endure my company till Uncle George lets us out."

"Oh, well," said Phyllis cheerfully, "it's a nice large roof. Isn't it?''

"Undoubtedly," said Roger, In a restrained voice. "Which side do you prefer—the east or the west?"

"Oh, I'll have this, whichever it is."

"Certainly," said Roger. He achieved a very creditable bow and walked grimly away.

Thereafter for a period there was no sound upon the roof, save the footsteps of young Mr. Gresham, walking briskly up and down the eastern side, and the footsteps of Miss Anderton, walking no less briskly up and down upon the western side. But presently when this situation had endured for what seemed to Roger about a year, he became aware that Phyllis vhad left her chosen stamping-ground and was approaching him. Remembering just in time to suppress any suggestion of eagerness, he went to meet her.

"Look here," she began. "Uncle George is a long time coming."

"I expect," said Roger, politely formal, "his client has detained him "

"H'm," said Phyllis, and for a moment gazed thoughtfully at nothing in particular. Then: "Did Uncle George ask you to come here this evening?"

"Yes."

"At what time?"

"Five-forty-five."

"He asked me to come at six. It looks to me," said Phyllis slowly "as if this is a put-up job."

Roger stared at her. "Meaning?"

"It looks to me," said Phyllis, "as if Uncle George made us come here so that he could get us both up on the roof and— lock us out."

Roger stared on.

"Lock us out? But why on earth— Oh! You mean he wanted to— to sort of throw us together, so that we could "

"That," said Phyllis composedly, "is what it looks like to me. Uncle George has the most weird ideas sometimes."

Again one of those hollow laughs— frightfully hollow.

"Yes, doesn't he?" agreed Roger brightly. "But that would be altogether too weird, wouldn't it? I mean to say—"

"What's the time now?" inquired Phyllis, suddenly.

"Six-thirty-five."

"But he always eaves for home at six-fifteen sharp."

"That's so," admitted Roger, "but to-day perhaps " A thought came to him, and he stepped aside to the parapet and looked over. "Why, dash it all, he has gone!"

"What do you mean?"

"There's no light in his office. It's just below here, and when the light's on it's reflected on that wall. It was there a few minutes ago, because I noticed it"

"But he can't have gone!" said Phyllis, blankly.

"Probably," said Roger, in the tone of one delighted to concentrate upon the blackest aspect of the situation, "he's forgotten all about us. You know how absent-minded he is. One day last week he went home without his hat."

"Yes, I know, but— then how are we going to get out?"

"I'll try the door again,' said Roger, unhopefully.

And this he did. But, though he thrust and shoved and belabored it until his arms ached and he was perspiring freely, the door flatly declined to oblige Roger's frenzied assault had about as much effect upon it as a snowflake upon the dome of St. Paul's; never did a door remain so firmly and definitely shut.

Presently, having pushed until he could push no more, Roger Resisted from his futile labor, leaned exhausted against the recalcitrant door, and mopped his heated brow.

"No go," he said. "It's jammed somehow— or locked."

"Well," said Phyllis, "what do we do now?"

For a space Roger considered her in silence. A detached onlooker, had one been there, might have remarked that young Mr. Gresham seemed to have cheered up considerably in the past few minutes. It may have been that the violent exercise had served to banish his gloom; it may have been the fact that Phyllis, absorbed by the possibilities of their absurd predicament, was no longer looking at him as if he were a grave mistake on the part of Nature; whatever the reason, a faint but unmistakable grin— the first that had been seen there for nearly a week— appeared upon his homely countenance, and he answered in a tone almost jovial

"Having no wings, partner, It looks as if we're anchored here till somebody lets us out."

"But that's nonsense! Why, we might have to stop here all night!"

"And that," said Roger, gravely, "would be very Injurious, to your reputation, of course."

"Dash my reputation!" replied Miss Anderton, ungracefully. "I'm going to a dance this evening, and I shall be quite late enough as it is."

"A dance?" said Roger. "Oh, well, It's ever so much healthier for you up here, you know."

"Can't we attract somebody's attention, somehow?"

Gravely Roger pondered the question.

"If we had a rocket," he observed at length, "that would do the trick. But I came out without my rockets this evening. Stupid of me. We might throw something down into the street, perhaps—"

"Oh, that's a good idea!"

"if we had anything to throw, which we haven't."

"There must be something we could throw!" said Phyllis impatiently.

Slowly and methodically Roger embarked upon a detailed search of his pockets, at intervals shaking his head disappointedly and uttering little chuckling sounds, indicative of failure.

"Nothing," he announced, "except this." From a waistcoat pocket he produced a small object and held it up. Phyllis glanced at it, started, flushed, opened her mouth to speak, changed her mind, and said nothing. Roger replaced the ring in his pocket and sighed.

"Not big enough, anyway," he said, calmly. "So I'm afraid that's no go, either." He paused to scratch his left ear in a reflective manner. "You know,'' he went on, apologetically, "I'm awfully sorry about this. I quite see how rotten it is for you to be cooped up on a roof with me. So embarrassing for you."

"I—" began Miss Anderton warmly.

"I suppose I ought to be fearfully heroic and throw myself into the street with a message pinned to my trouser-leg. That would attract somebody's attention all right. But," said Roger, candidly. "I don't really feel inclined to do that, things being as they are."

The small and comely foot of Miss Anderton began to tap ominously upon the roof.

"I suppose," she remarked frigidly, "it amuses you to behave like this, knowing I can't get away."

Roger drew himself up and stared at her so keenly that, to her immeasurable annoyance, she felt herself beginning to blush.

"You really do want to get away, then?" he asked. "You don't feel that a loaf of bread, a flask of wine and me, beside you on the roof-top, is happiness enow?"

"If I had the bread and wine," answered Phyllis swiftly, "I could manage without the rest of it, because I'm getting hungry. As it is, I can think of about twenty-seven places where I'd rather be at this moment,"

Roger nodded slowly several times.

"I see. You don't like the prospect of waiting here till Uncle George remembers us and come gallumphing back ?"

"I do not," said Phyllis decidedly. Roger nodded again.

"So be it. Then we will take steps."

He swung on his heel and went quickly across the roof to the flagstaff. Phyllis, watching in some astonishment, saw him grasp the halyards and begin to haul energetically thereon. But the halyards, unaccustomed to such unceremonious handling, promptly jammed in the pulley-block at the top of the staff. Whereupon Roger was seen to remove his coat, lay it tenderly upon the parapet, embrace the flagstaff firmly with his arms and knees and prepare to climb.

But he had ascended no more than a couple of feet when he heard a quick step approaching across the roof, and then the voice of Phyllis, saying;—

"What are you going to do?"

Roger, clinging grimly to the flagstaff, paused and looked down at her.

"Get this rope," he explained briefly. "What on earth for'"

"Film stuff. Episode seventeen— Marooned on the Roof. Uncle George's window is only about ten feet below here. If I lower myself over the edge, I can break into his office and let you out that way. Otherwise you'll be hopelessly late for your dance."

He took a fresh grip of the pole and jerked himself up another yard. But Phyllis moved quickly forward and laid a band upon his ankle, effectually detaining him.

"Don't be silly, Roger," she said. "You can't do that!"

"Oh, but I can," said Roger, brightly. "Wait and see."

"But the rope may not be strong enough. You might fall "

"I might," said Roger, reasonably. "But I'll pin that message to my trouser-leg— then you'll be all right either way. Unhand me, will you? You're tickling."

"But, Roger "

"Look here, old girl," said Roger, patiently, "I'm getting cramp in the arms. You said just now that you'd rather be in Holloway Gaol than here on this roof with me, or words to that effect. Therefore, we must get you off the roof. The chances are that Uncle George has quite forgotten us, and nobody else is likely to come up here for months, I should say. As we haven't a parachute, this is the best scheme I can think of; so stand from under."

"But I won't let—"

"It's rather annoying," said Roger, shifting his grip again, "to think that some people get hundreds of dollars a week for doing this sort of thing at Hollywood, Calif. But such is life. Well, good-bye for the present. I'll be back shortly."

So saying, he twisted his ankle gently from her grasp, and in another moment had climbed beyond her reach. Phyllis, gazing upward with a somewhat singular expression upon her very attractive face, saw him attain the top of the staff and set himself to free the, halyards.

But, as a certain celebrated thinker— whose name escapes us for the moment— once pointed out, the best-laid schemes of mice and men gang frequently agley. Certain it is that the carefully-laid scheme of young Mr. Gresham began at this point to go agley with startling rapidity.

The flagstaff had been erected upon the roof in the year 1913 by the original owner of the building, a pious gentleman who indulged his patriotic instincts by displaying the national banner upon every possible occasion. At his demise, however, which occurred shortly afterwards, this pleasing custom had fallen into disuse, with the result that for quite a number of years the flagstaff had enjoyed no attention whatsoever from the hand of man, but only the persistent and enervating onslaughts of the British climate. Consequently, though it was still quite stout enough to perform those simple duties for which it had been designed, it was in no condition to bear up under the weight of twelve-stone-seven of sturdy English manhood, as represented by Roger. Thus it was that, of a sudden, as .he wrenched lustily at the entangled rope, Roger heard somewhere below him a loud crackling noise and a shrill, agitated cry from Phyllis.

"Oh— look out, Roger!"

Roger looked out— or, rather, down— but too late. For, even as he hastily made ready to slide earthward again, the flagstaff groaned loudly, cracked again with a report like a cannon-shot, and slowly, almost deliberately, fell. Happily it elected to fall inward upon the roof, rather than outward over the parapet into the street; otherwise this story would have ended here. The horrified Phyllis, instinctively leaping aside in the nick of time, saw the luckless Roger hurtle past her, strike the roof with an audible crash, roll over twice, and lie still.

"Ooh!" breathed Phyllis, in a small, scared voice.

Roger, when in another moment she knelt beside him, was discovered lying upon his back and looking very limp, pale and senseless.

"Roger!" said Phyllis, urgently. "Roger!"

No response. Desperately she proceeded to apply those small remedies which seemed suitable to the occasion, such as chafing his hands, slapping: his face, and pillowing his head upon her lap; but these, too. were without result.

"Oh, Roger" said Phyllis, and now there was no coldness in her voice. "Oh. Roger, darling, please wake up! Please, Roger, dear!" And with -that she bent her very graceful head, and quite unashamedly kissed him.

Curious though it may appear, that did it. Roger stirred slightly, groaned, opened an eye, blinked, opened the other eye, blinked again, and said faintly:—

"Message— pinned to my trouser-leg— up there on the roof " He stopped, blinked again, and remarked in obvious surprise: "Good Lord, old girl, surely you didn't fall off too?"

"Oh, Roger darling," said Phyllis anxiously, "have you broken anything?"

For the third time Roger blinked. "Say that again," he requested.

"Have you broken any-"

"No, the first part... Eh? Broken anything? No. I think not. Just knocked out temporarily. What happened, exactly?"

"The flagstaff fell over."

"The dickens it did. Then we're still on the roof? Well, well!"

"Are you sure you haven't broken anything?"

For a moment Roger did not answer. Then:—

"Look here," he said, "I'll promise faithfully— no, don't move— I'll promise faithfully never to touch Camembert from now on. if you'll say that again. It was all my fault, and I'm a fat-headed, argumentative beast— so there! Now say it again— what you said just now."

"No." said Phyllis, gently, "it was all my fault, because I'm not really so keen on Gorgonzola as I pretended to you. Roger darling."

"Thank you, Phyllis darling." said Roger, with a deep and happy sigh. "Now, do it again— what you did just now. You know." And when that had been done once or twice to his satisfaction: "I'm getting better every minute. If you'll lock in my top left waistcoat pocket—"

"Bless my mildewed soul!" exclaimed a sudden voice behind them. "What's all this, hey?" And old Mr. Gresham, emerging from the iron door with the abruptness of a pantomime demon, came stumping towards them, astonishment writ large upon his expressive features.

"Hullo, Uncle George," said Roger. With the assistance of Phyllis— which he did not really need— he clambered to his feet and greeted his ancient relative with a wide and cheerful grin. "You've been a long time coming."

Old Mr. Gresham adjusted his spectacles and peered at his fallen flagstaff, keenly at his ward, who blushed, and keenly at his nephew, who continued to grin.

"What's been going on here, hey?" he demanded. "Been tossing the caber, or what?"

"Tell you, later," answered Roger. "Look here, uncle George— did you lock us out here on purpose, or did you just forget about us?"

"Forget nothing!" said old Mr. Gresham indignantly. "My memory's as good as yours, any day! Of course, I locked you out, you young fools. Thought you'd come to your senses if you were left alone together for a bit. And you have, hey? Then that's all right. Now, come along, come along— can't stop here all night. I'd have come back before, but I had to nip across the street on business. Come along, now."

"Uncle, dear," said Phyllis, softly, as they moved towards the iron door, "you do have the most beautiful ideas, sometimes."

"Oh, do I?" said old Mr. Gresham. "Then here's another for you. A milligramme of real Stilton's worth a ton of Camembert and Gorgonzola combined. Put that in your pipe and smoke it!"

______________________

14: The Soft Spot

K. R. G. Browne

World's News (Sydney) 12 Feb 1927

IN PICCADILLY CIRCUS Mr. Henry Morgan paused upon the kerb, leaning gracefully on his gold-knobbed cane, land surveying the hurrying multitude with a blandly cynical eye.

The casual observer, encountering him thus, would probably have assessed Mr. Morgan as one of the Idle Rich. The glittering silk hat, the flawless morning coat, the dazzling spats, and the incredibly perfect trousers, combined in an effect at once elegant and impressive. They lent to their wearer the general aspect of one to whom money— was no object, and work but an empty word.

This casual observer, bestowing a glance of envy, would doubtless have passed on. a prey to socialistic thoughts. But he would have erred in his judgment, for Mr. Henry Morgan was neither idle nor rich. He was, indeed, about to begin the day's work, while his pocket at the moment harbored a mere three shillings and sevenpence in current coin, a sum which he was desirous of augmenting as soon and as safely as might be.

One of the many drawbacks our modern democratic tendencies is the difficulty which ensues therefrom of distinguishing the crook from the courtier, the politician from the profiteer. In the present era of equality for all, it is not only unwise, but idiotic, to judge a man by his outward seeming. No one meeting Mr. Henry Morgan for the first time would have dreamed that behind that elegant facade there lurked one of the most accomplished swindlers and confidence-men who ever sold gold brick, committed genteel burglary, or pleaded on behalf of a prisoner in Spain. Yet such was the case. Mr. Morgan (better known to his associates and to certain unobtrusive gentlemen at New Scotland Yard as Harry the Duke) was an artist in deception. Many a bucolic simpleton, newly-arrived from the old home town, filled with wonder and superfluous cash. had found cause bitterly to regret the fascination of his smile. Many an ingenuous soul, having acquired from the hands of Mr. Morgan a "pup" (as it were) for which he had no use, went about thereafter yearning for revenge. In the art of separating money from its legal owners. Mr. Henry Morgan had no superiors.

Now, however, as he gazed out over Piccadilly Circus, he was feeling slightly peevish. Things had not been going well of late, and unless something were done immediately to remedy the vacuum in his bank account, the future might well wear a blackish tinge. Mr., Morgan sighed and took out a gold cigarette case, which had once borne quite another monogram. At the back of his agile brain there simmered one of the most attractive schemes ever devised for the spoiling of mankind; but he needed capital to set it under way. And three and sevenpence, whichever way you look at it, is not capital in the best sense of the word.

Mr. Morgan sighed again. There was, he realised, only one thing for it. Greatly as he deprecated such clumsy, inartistic methods the present was no time for yielding to his aesthetic instincts. He glanced round reflectively.

Presently he stiffened slightly, and his roving eye halted in its career. Advancing . briskly across the Circus was a short, stout, elderly citizen of obvious affluence and probable importance. Like Mr. Morgan, he wore a morning-coat and silk hat: his trousers, too, were wonderful to see. He was clearly a director of at least a dozen companies of unimpeachable integrity.

As this individual reached the kerb, Mr. Morgan, in a languid, careless manner, stepped forward. As he did so he tripped, stumbled, and clutched wildly at the nearest object in the effort to retain his balance. The nearest object, as it chanced, was, the elderly citizen. Mr. Morgan, recovering his equilibrium, made haste to apologise.

"Awfully sorry, sir," said Mr. Morgan, lifting his hat. "Devilish clumsy of me." He smiled winningly, bowed, sprang lightly to the step of a passing 'bus, and was borne away eastward.

As the bus turned the corner into Haymarket he dropped to the ground again, crossed the street, and dived into the Tube station. Some minutes later he came to the surface at Holborn, where again he boarded a 'bus. In the comparative seclusion of a front seat he draw forth a stout leather wallet which but a short time before had graced the breast-pocket of the elderly citizen.

"Twenty-five quid," murmured Mr. Morgan. Investigating. "Not much, but it'll do to start the frame."

Smiling contentedly, he stowed the wallet away again.

IT WAS FIVE o'clock in the afternoon before Mr. Morgan reappeared in the West End. In the interval his outward aspect had undergone a marked change. He wore now a huge, belted overcoat, horn-rimmed spectacles, and a soft felt hat of un-English design; in his mouth reposed a long cigar, and upon the roof of the taxi that bore him along Piccadilly were visible two large suit-cases, battered and be-labelled.

The taxi drew to a halt before the gigantic portals of the Byzantium Hotel, that colossal and ornate hostelry whose charges are as high as its cuisine deserves, and Mr. Morgan alighted. He paid the driver, indicated to a hurrying flunkey the extent of his baggage, and stalked into the lounge. The clerk in charge of the reception-desk watched his approach respectfully, for there was that in Mr. Morgan's bearing which betokened one who knew his mind, and was accustomed to tolerate but little nonsense.

"I wired you this morning from Liverpool Street Station," said Mr. Morgan, crisp)v. "Name of Berman. My rooms ready?'' He spoke with a perfect New York accent, for one of his minor accomplishments was the ability to reproduce with complete fidelity the respective intonations proper to Broadway, the Bowery, Boston, or Batesville, Va.

"Berman, sir? Let me see— Oh, yes. Bedroom, sitting-room, and bath. At the back of the hotel, high up, you wanted them, I think. Numbers 410 and 411, fourth floor."

"That's good. If I sleep at the front of a place like this I don't get a wink all night. Too much noise. I expected to bring Mrs. Berman with me this evening, but she's decided to stop over with friends, and won't show up till to-morrow. But I'll move in right away."

"Very good, sir." The clerk pushed across the hotel register, and Mr. Morgan inscribed there, in a clear, bold hand, "Julius M. Berman, New York City."

"Now see here," he said briskly. "As you don't know one thing about me, I guess I'll put down a bit on account first off. That'll save trouble, make me at home right away, and put your mind easy. I guess that's the best reference I can give you, too."

The clerk smiled vaguely, and made embarrassed noises, as if deprecating the discussion, between friends, of so sordid a topic. But Mr. Morgan was firm, and the matter was at length adjusted to his satisfaction. An abbreviated youth in buttons materialised suddenly at his elbow, led him to the lift, wafted him aloft, and decanted him at the fourth floor. The buttoned one ushered him into Number 410, and departed, biting a shilling.

Mr. Morgan waited until the footsteps died away; then he slid out of his overcoat, and began a rapid tour of inspection.

Number 410 differed not at all from a million other apartments of its kind. It was a small, square room, furnished in the exotic style peculiar to expensive hotels and Lyceum melodrama. Its window looked out into a well, formed by the high blank walls of huge office buildings, thus affording a view which most people would have considered lacking in perspective, but which seemed to gratify Mr. Morgan's somewhat bizarre sense of the fitness of things. There were two doors, one leading to the bedroom, the other to the corridor.

Number 411 also conformed strictly to type, in its decoration and furnishing. The window framed an outlook even more restricted than that obtainable from the sitting-room, by reason of an iron fire-escape which ran past it towards the ground. Mr. Morgan, however, appeared quite satisfied; he returned to Number 410, smiling cheerfully.

He tested the locks of his suit-cases, and stood them in a corner. Then he cast a final glance round, picked up his overcoat, and passed out into the corridor, where, disdaining the use of the lift, he began to descend the wide stairway.

He had reached the third floor landing, and was on the point of continuing his downward journey, when he became aware of a small, shrill voice which hailed him from behind.

"Please," said the voice, "will you mend this for me?"

Mr. Morgan, turning, perceived that this appeal emanated from a email boy in a sailor suit, who was standing in a doorway and regarding him with a hopeful expression. Beneath his arm, the infant carried a large clockwork locomotive.

"It won't work, you see," he said. "Will you make it go, please?"

As Mr. Morgan himself was prone to admit in his weaker moments, he had a soft spot, for kids. It was, in the opinion of his friends, the one flaw in an otherwise admirable character. He smiled kindly at the small boy, and looked at his watch.

"I can't stop long, son, but I'll have a look at it. Hand it over!"

He took the toy from its owner, and sat down upon the topmost stair. The small boy seated-himself at his side, and watched anxiously.

"Thank you," he said, politely, as Mr. Morgan got busy.

"Daddy gen'ally mends it for me, but he's not at home, and Nurse is downstairs. So I asked you."

"Quite right," said Mr. Morgan, peering into the locomotive's interior economy. "And what's your name, son?"

"Octavius Mannering Barrington," said the small boy, unexpectedly.

"Gee!" said Mr. Morgan. "All that?"

"Yes. People call me Tavvy, though. What's yours?"

"Lucifer Beelzebub," responded Mr. Morgan, whose sense of humor was of a slightly warped variety.

"That's a funny name," said Octavius Mannering Barrington, with decision. "Daddy's name is Joshua. He's most awf'ly rich, Nurse says. Are you?"

"Not to-day." said Mr. Morgan. "But I shall be to-morrow. Here you are, son. That's fixed it." He handed back the engine, and rose to his feet.

"Thank you very much," said Octavius Mannering Barrington, courteously. "I'm very much obliged. Mr. Bee "

"Don't mention it. son," said Mr. Morgan. "So long, Octavius."

He smiled down at the infant, and resumed his progress.

AT THE lower end of Regent Street is the establishment of Messrs. Lockett and Macpherson, jewellers, goldsmiths, and silversmiths, by appointment to the Royal Family. It is commonly believed by ordinary persons who have rashly tried to buy something from them that Messrs. Lockett and Macpherson would scorn to stock anything valued at less than fifty pounds, and that all their salesmen are noblemen in their own right. Their shop is not so much a shop as a temple of luxury; its moral atmosphere is calculated to overawe and reduce to stammering bashfulness all but the most wealthy.

It had, however, no effect whatever upon Mr. Henry Morgan. As a matter of fact, no atmosphere, moral or otherwise, had yet been discovered with power to cause that gentleman one moment's discomposure. He entered the shop of Messrs. Lockett and Macpherson as if he had just acquired it on a long lease, approached the nearest nobleman, and addressed him almost curtly.

"I'd like to take a look at some pearl necklaces."

The nobleman inspected him expertly, summed him up ("American— money— worth an effort"), and smiled amiably.

"Yes, sir. About what price?"

"Well, I'm not out to skin myself, but within reasonable limits, I'll see you. Bring out what you have around fifteen hundred dollars— three hundred pounds, say."

The nobleman bowed slightly, withdrew, and returned in a moment with pearl necklaces to the number of half a dozen. These he spread upon the counter, and proceeded to indicate their good points. Mr. Morgan listened attentively, his hat pushed to the back of his head, and his cigar in a corner of his mouth. Presently he nodded.

"These all look pretty good to me. Now, listen here. Can you oblige me by sending these six around to the Byzantium Hotel tomorrow, for my wife to make a choice?"

The nobleman stiffened noticeably. He had not been a Regent Street jeweller's assistant for five years without learning something.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm afraid we can't, unless we know—"

"It's this way," said Mr. Morgan, "To-morrow's my wife's birthday, and I've set my mind on giving her one of these toys. She won't arrive at the hotel till to-morrow, and then she'll have to rest up all day, because she's pretty much of an invalid. I want her to choose for herself, and if you're a married man, sir, you'll appreciate my sentiments. If you can't oblige me, I must look around for someone who can. Those folks across the street, now— what's their name?— Sparling and Son— maybe they'd do it. Here's my card, if that'll help any."

The nobleman hesitated, plainly affected by the mention of Messrs. Lockett and Macpherson's closest business rival.

"'Excuse me one moment, sir," he said, and gathering up the necklaces, disappeared into the hinterland of the shop. In a short while he was back again. "Very good, sir," he announced. "The necklaces will be sent round to-morrow for the final selection. About what time?"

"Around 3 o'clock," said Mr. Morgan. "My room number's on that card. I'm obliged. Good day." He rolled the cigar to the other corner of his mouth and sauntered leisurely away.

AT 2.15 ON the following afternoon Mr. Morgan rose from his table in the dining room of the Byzantium and passed out into the lounge, where he paused at the reception desk.

"I'm expecting a couple of visitors along in about half an hour," he informed the clerk. "I'll be obliged if you'll send them right up."

He turned away and ascended to his rooms. At the door of No. 410 he paused; then he moved along the passage, locked the door of No. 411, and dropped the key into his pocket. Passing into the sitting-room, he locked that door also.

These preliminaries accomplished, he took off his coat and opened one of his suit-cases. Thence he extracted a screw-driver, a packet of screws, a gimlet, and a pair of powerful wire-cutters. Then, lighting a cigar, he embarked upon a period of strenuous and sinister activity. His movements during the ensuing half-hour would have caused the hotel management the most acute distress and alarm, could they have witnessed them.

Mr. Morgan worked fast, but his preparations were barely completed when there came a brisk rap at his door. He started, swore, sprang to the table, slid into his coat, swept his implements into his pockets, and cast a final comprehensive glance round the room. Then, strolling forward in a care-free manner, he unlocked and opened the door in one movement.

In the corridor stood the nobleman with whom Mr. Morgan had transacted his business on the previous day; behind this individual loomed the impressive figure of a gigantic commissionaire. Messrs. Lockett and Macpherson were not the firm to run avoidable risks.

Mr. Morgan smiled welcomingly.

'Dead on time! Walk in, Mr. —?"

''Jackson's my name, sir," responded the nobleman.

"Mr. Jackson. And your friend, too. Come right in." The pair entered, and Mr. Morgan closed the door after them. From a sturdy handbag Mr. Jackson produced six cases fashioned in purple leather, and of an opulent aspect. Placing these upon the table, he glanced round in a politely inquiring manner.

"My wife's in bed in the next room," explained Mr. Morgan, advancing to the table and idly arranging the six cases in a neat pile. "She's had a kind of relapse after her journey, and I've made her rest up. You must make yourselves at home while she takes her pick of these. A cigar, Mr. Jackson. And your friend. That's right. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll "

He was interrupted by a delicate cough from Mr. Jackson.

"You'll forgive me, I hope, sir," said the latter, courteously, "but my instructions are not to let the necklaces out of my sight. They represent a considerable sum, and you'll understand—"

"Quite Tight!" said Mr. Morgan instantly. "Absolutely right, sir! I appreciate your point of view perfectly, Mr. Jackson. But we must fix this somehow. My wife's in bed there, and you'll agree that you two can't very well—"

His voice ceased suddenly. Mr. Jackson, glancing at him in some surprise, saw dawn upon his countenance an expression of astonished horror; his glance was rivetted above the heads of his visitors upon the window behind them.

'Oh, my God!" cried Mr. Morgan. "Look at that! Someone fell out— went clean past—" He extended a shaking hand.

Involuntarily the nobleman and the commissionaire spun round; but no sign of disaster was presented to their startled gaze. Even as they stared, a faint click sounded from behind them and whirled them round again. At once it was borne in upon them that the room no longer held Mr. Julius Berman; it was as if he had never been. The same remark applied to the six pearl necklaces.

For a brief instant Mr. Jackson and his colleague stood as if welded to the ground. Then the former emitted a single vivid curse, and hurled himself at the door leading to the bedroom. As he sprang he yelled a command.

"The other door, Smith!"

The commissionaire, emerging from his I open-mouthed paralysis, leaped for the outer door, seized the handle, and tugged lustily. Promptly the handle parted from its parent body, sending him staggering backwards. A precisely similar misfortune overtaking Mr. Jackson at that moment, the pair collided heavily in the middle of the room, each grasping a completely useless door-knob.

Mr. Jackson, however, was not the man to give in without a struggle.

"Smash that door!" he cried, indicating that leading to the bedroom. The commissionaire projected his vast bulk through the air; his massive shoulder crashed against the panel. But the Byzantium Hotel had been erected in the days when builders gave thought to their craft, and did not regard it merely as a lucrative hobby. The door was fashioned of good solid mahogany, and yielded not one millimetre.

Mr. Jackson, now blaspheming in a manner incredible to those who knew only his courtly Regent Street manner, seized the telephone— and observed at once that the wire had been well and truly severe:!; flinging it down and rushing to the bell in the wall, at his first touch its entire mechanism fell out upon the carpet.

"Window:" said the commissionaire suddenly, in the tone of one anxious to leave no stone unturned. As one man he and Mr. Jackson jumped for the casement and strove to open it; but the window, being admirably secured by three-inch screws driven through both sashes, remained immovable.

Messrs. Jackson and Smith, temporarily worsted, desisted, panting from their efforts, and glared savagely at each other. From the bedroom came no sound whatsoever; the corridor seemed equally deserted, for Mr. Morgan had chosen his hour well. Messrs. Jackson and Smith were, it seemed, as safely trapped, marooned, and isolated, as if they had been upon the summit of Mount Everest instead of in a fourth-floor sitting room in a Piccadilly hotel.

"I knew he was a wrong 'un!" snarled Mr. Jackson bitterly (and to be strictly fair, inaccurately). "Blustering into the shop— laying down the— Hullo!" He stooped and picked up the object just encountered by his restless foot.' "A key. Smith! What key's this?"

Without waiting for an answer he dashed forward and thrust the key into the lock of the bedroom door, which failed to respond. Mr. Jackson cursed again and tried the other door. This, also, was obdurate.

"Damn!" said Mr. Jackson, and hurled the key from him. "If ever I— dam it, Smith, why didn't you think of it?" he added suddenly, in another tone. And with that he seized a chair, swung it over his shoulder, and dashed it fiercely at the window. The pane dissolved in chaos; from below the clatter of falling glass floated up to them.

Mr. Jackson, thrusting his head through the aperture thus provided, glared about him feverishly. Below lay a species of enclosed courtyard, apparently dedicated to coal-cellars and dust-bins. Around and above him the windows of offices stared back with a cold, blank gaze.

"Hi!" yelled Mr. Jackson, so abruptly that the commissionaire started violently. "Hi! Help! Help!"

Fired by this example, the commissionaire, drawing a deep breath, added his bull-like bellow to the din....

It is necessary at this juncture to return to Mr. Henry Morgan at the moment when that astute privateer sprang nimbly backwards through the bedroom door and locked it swiftly between him and his guests. As he turned away, a satisfied smile played over his features, and he patted lovingly the pockets wherein reposed the fruits of his labors. The smile persisted as he stepped cat-like across the room to the outer door and felt in his pocket for the key.

And then the smile vanished from his face as if wiped out by some unseen sponge. The key was no longer there. Mr. Morgan's questing fingers found in his pocket only a large hole; through that exit, no doubt, the key had departed unnoticed In the stress of the past hour, and now lurked unobserved in some corner of the sitting room. Mr. Morgan, grasping this horrid fact, heard the inner door creak and groan as some weighty substance was hurled against it from the other side.

It is crises of this nature that reveal the character of a man. Other and leaser malefactors, finding themselves in so deplorable a situation, might have given way to despair and themselves up to justice. Not so Mr. Morgan. Once recovered from the shock, his brain began to function rapidly and coolly, entirely unaffected by the muffled uproar drifting in from 410.

Glancing round the bedroom, he noted that there remained to him two methods of egress: (a) the chimney, and (b) the window. The former being clearly too small to allow passage to anything larger than a Central African pigmy, he turned his attention to the latter. Crossing the room in two noiseless bounds, he raised the window and peered out. The encircling office buildings betrayed no sign of interest in his movements; from the window of No. 410, a short distance to the right, issued spasmodically vague, unidentifiable sounds.

Mr. Morgan stepped over the sill, closed the window after him, and began a cautious but rapid descent of the fire-escape. It was his intention thus to reach the ground and make his final exit from the premises by the route sacred to dustmen and their ilk. But it was not to be.

As he drew level with the windows of the third floor, he became aware of voices and footsteps in the yard below, and saw two figures, tottering beneath large sacks of coal, debouch from a passage, and take their way towards some distant coal-cellar. As yet, owing to their bent attitude, they had not observed him; but it was a tolerably safe bet that they would do so on their return journey.

There was only one thing to be done, and Mr. Morgan, a man of instant decisions, did it forthwith. Without hesitation he turned to the window at his side, tested it, found it amenable to reason, pushed it up, and slid though. Then he paused for a moment to take his bearings.

The room wherein he now stood was the bedroom immediately below No. 411, and was furnished with so exact a similarity that it was as if he had never left his own quarters. It was empty of life, but sundry items of luggage and apparel indicated the existence of a tenant. Mr. Morgan listened intently, but no sound came from the sitting room beyond. Pleased at this noble behavior on the part of Providence, he began outer door. He was two yards from it, and the freedom that lay beyond, when there arose behind him a voice— a high, childish pipe— that froze him in his tracks.

"Oh, it's Mr. Beezlebun! You did frighten me till I reckonised you! Please will you mend it again? It won't go properly now— only round and round Please, will you?"

Mr. Morgan jerked round, to perceive, standing in the doorway of the sitting-room, the figure of a small boy in a sailor suit, who carried under his arm a large clockwork locomotive. This infant now came trotting forward, smiling a welcome.

Five seconds passed while Mr. Morgan, striving to recover from the shock,  stared at Octavius Mannering Barrington as at same unpleasant specimen from the insect world. His first impulse was to brain the critter with a chair; but he thought better of it.

"Shut up!" he whispered fiercely, taking a stealthy step towards the door. "Be quiet! I can't stop now."

"Oh please!" wailed Octavius Mannering Harrington. And then, shrilly and with appalling unexpectedness: "Daddy, daddy, here's Mr. Beezlebun, what mended my angine! Please ask him to stop and mend it again!"

Mr. Morgan started violently, and emitted a curse, which happily eluded the infant's comprehension. Then he gasped audibly and stood staring, incapable, for almost the first time in his career, of speech, or movement.

Through the sitting-room door came a short, stout, elderly citizen, of obvious affluence and probable importance. He wore a morning coat and trousers wonderful to see. He was clearly a director of a dozen companies of unimpeachable integrity.

"Yes, yes!" said this person fussily. "What is it, Tavvy, what is it?" He glanced inquiringly at Mr. Morgan. Then he started, frowned, stared, started again, and stared harder. He uttered a quaint choking noise.

"By gad!" he cried. "That's the fellow! You're the scoundrel who picked my pocket yesterday! I'd know you anywhere, you villain! I found it out directly afterwards— and I'd have had you if I'd been a few years younger. What mischief are you up to now, eh? What the devil are you doing in my rooms, eh? I've got you now, you— you— Tavvy, ring the bell, boy! Ring the bell!"

He skipped nimbly across the room and stood with his back to the door, his arms spread out, his attitude somewhat suggestive of a fowl defending her young. Octavius Mannering Barrington, crowing with delight at this new and thrilling game, scampered to the bell and rang.

Mr. Morgan, with an immense effort, achieved an outward calm.

"Really," he began haughtily, "there seems to be some—"

He stopped. From somewhere overhead sounded a loud crash, and the ruthless splintering of glass; a second later a powerful and resolute voice shattered the hotel's postprandial tranquility.

"Hi! Hi! Help! Help!" Another pair of lungs, even more vigorous, joined the chorus; the resultant din was almost deafening.

"What's that, eh?" snapped the stout citizen. "What's that? More of your work, eh? Well, you've over-reached yourself this time!"

Mr. Morgan even now refused to admit defeat. He cast a glance round the room, and without warning hurled himself sideways at the window; flung it up— and cursed again. Mounting the fire-escape from the yard were the two coal-heavers whom he had remarked but a few moments ago, now obviously intent upon investigating the commotion taking place above.

"Stop that!" shouted the stout citizen. "You can't get away—"

There became audible from the corridor a hurrying of feet and a babble of voices; unseen hands belabored the panels of the door.

"Hullo!" called some one. "Anything wrong here? Who smashed that window? What's all this row?"

For a fraction of a second Mr. Morgan toyed with the idea of battering the stout citizen to a pulp. Then he beckoned to Octavius Mannering Barrington.

"Come in! Come in!" the latter's parent was shouting loudly. "Come in! I've got him here!"

"Son," said Mr. Henry Morgan, philosopher, to Octavius Mannering Barrington, puppet of Fate, "I'm sorry. Looks like I won't have time to fix that engine for you."

__________________

15: For One Night Only

K. R. G. Browne

World's News (Sydney) 12 March 1927

IT was entirely typical of Jimmy Riggs that he missed the connection at Southling-by-the-Sea. It was, of course, the kind of thing that might happen to anyone, but it was also the kind of thing that could not help happening to Jimmy Rigg. He was that kind of man. It is doubtful if a more accomplished train-misser ever cursed upon a platform.

Jimmy Rigg was tall, lean, angular, and twenty-five. He owned an income of one hundred and fifty pounds per annum and contrived another fifty by the perpetration of alleged light verse for the lesser comic papers. It was his ambition to write— and achieve celebrity from— genuine comic songs and snappy, mirth-compelling lyrics, an ambition which Destiny bad so far not seen fit to gratify. True, the songs were undeniably written, but they were equally undeniably unsung: up to date, there had been no pronounced rush of applicants for the privilege. One need say no more of Jimmy Rigg: a man who habitually misses trains and writes unsalable comic songs must be left to explain himself.

Having elicited from an apparently exulting porter the information that he could not resume his broken journey to Maryborough for at least two hours and a quarter, Jimmy swore whole-heartedly and wandered down the station with the threefold object of buying tobacco, exploring Scruthling. and seeking some form of diversion. The first of these he found almost at once.

"The train service from here to Maryborough," said Jimmy," sourly to the tobacconist, just about everything a train service should not be."

The tobacconist glanced up with a gleam of interest in his eye.

"Maryborough ? Do you come from there, sir?"

"I do. I am now trying to get back."

"Have you seen Peter Patten?" asked the tobacconist unexpectedly. "He's at the Hippodrome there this week."

"I saw him last night," said Jimmy, in some surprise. "Jolly good."

"He's a Southling man, sir," said the tobacconist, proudly. "Born here. His people live here yet. "We're rare proud of Peter as you'll understand, though we've nor see him often since he made his name. We've been hoping he'd look us up while he's at Maryborough." He continued to speak at some length of Peter Patten.

"I see." said Jimmy, as he finished. "Town's most eminent son, what?"

"That's about it, sir. That'll be two-and-eleven, sir, please."

Jimmy Rigg paid and wandered out again Into the diminutive High Street, a prey of conflicting emotions. Mention of Peter Patten had served to remind him of the futility of his own hopes.

Peter Patten was one of the three most famous and beloved comedians upon the music-hall stage. He paid more in income tax than any Cabinet Minister received in salary, and, in the opinion of many, was of greater value to the country. His appearance. complete with the bushy red wig, beard, and whiskers, which he affected as a disguise, was the signal for the audience rise as one man and vociferate its joy. His photograph adorned shop windows from Brighton to Buckie, N.B. Cigarettes, soap, and even a bowler hat had taken their name from his. No man can ask for greater recognition.

Jimmy Rigg's slightly morbid interest in Peter Patten arose from the acknowledged fact that a song once sung by the great man became at once a kind of young gold mine for Its fortunate author. It was a dream of Jimmy's life to hear the voice of Peter Patten give fame and immortality to one of his own compositions; but it was a dream which bad email likelihood of ever coming true.

Engrossed in these and similar reflections, Jimmy ambled aimlessly along until, chancing to glance up, he discovered that in his absorption he had passed through the inconsiderable town and gained the open country beyond. At the same moment he observed the girl.

She was leaning upon a gate, her back towards him, and there was that in her attitude which caused Jimmy Rigg to halt and regard her curiously. He saw that her head was bowed and that her shoulders were shaking perceptibly; there came to his ears a distinct and unmistakable sob.

Jimmy looked about him; save for himself and this patently distressed lady, there was no sign of life visible. For an instant he hesitated, and then cautiously approached her. Her face was hidden from him, but she seemed quite young and neatly, if shabbily, dressed; beneath a small hat was evidently a quantity of red-gold hair.

A yard from her Jimmy hesitated again. lie was not by nature a squire of dames, and was, indeed, prone to consider the female of the species as a mere unnecessary hindrance in time of stress and crisis; but some instinct notified him that he could not pass by and leave this girl weeping upon a gate. Mere decency ordered him, at least, to offer assistance. Red-gold hair, moreover, had always been comparatively popular with him. He drew a deep breath and coughed delicately

"I beg your pardon," he remarked gently. "Is anything wrong?"

A foolish question, but no better occurred to him at the moment.

The girl started and whirled to face him. He saw that she was of that extremely rare comeliness which is but enhanced by tears. In fact, he was not sure that he had ever seen a more attractive countenance.

"Oh," she said confusedly. "I— I— No—"

"Can I do anything?" asked Jimmy He was now absolutely certain that to pass on would be the act of a complete and utter bounder.

The girl made an effort to regain her composure; she achieved a gallant but pitiful smile.

"No, thanks. I'm— I'm just an idiot."

"So am I," returned Jimmy promptly, "a perfect idiot. So I ought to help a fellow idiot if I can. What's the trouble? Or is it private?"

The girl surveyed him gravely. The most kind-hearted of his friends could not have called Jimmy handsome; his mouth was too large, his visage too freckled, his ears too prominent for perfect beauty; but there was something about his face which invariably proved attractive to children and dogs, than whom there are no better judges of character. It seemed to attract the girl also, for she smiled again, a little less forcedly.

"It's only," she said, "that I've no money and can't leave here till I get some."

"That's tough luck," said Jimmy, "but surely—"

"And I'm not the only one. There are four others. That's us."

She extended a finger, and Jimmy glanced in the direction indicated. A dozen yards away stood a large barn, upon which was were displayed two slightly weather-beaten posters. The larger of these stated, in immense black lettering, that for one week only Peter Patten, the world-famous comedian, would appear at the Hippodrome, Maryborough. The smaller poster gave to the universe the tidings that the Merry Nibs, that refined and talented concert party, proposed to do their best to brighten Southling-by-the-Sea (also for one week only) at the Drill Hall nightly at 8.

Jimmy stared somewhat blankly at these announcements. Certainly they were not works of the highest art, but they did not strike him as sufficiently repulsive to move this girl to tears. Suddenly understanding dawned upon him.

"Oh, I see! You mean you're a Merry Nib?"

She nodded unhappily.

"Show gone bust, I suppose?"

"Yes. It's a pretty rotten show, really, and we couldn't get a date at any of the big towns along the coast. We've been playing the little places, like this, for two months, and getting worse houses every time. This— this hole finished us. Yesterday, Mr. Forbes, the man who was running the show, disappeared. So we're left with about nine shillings between the five of us. We've paid for the hall up to to-night, and we'll give one more show, but we'll get nothing out of it. Last night there were six people in the house."

Jimmy listened in silence to this history of disaster, his gaze fixed absently upon the wall of the barn. He felt deeply moved. He was frequently hard-up himself, but never so hard-up as this. His opinion of the female sex was undergoing a rapid revision; he had never met a girl like this before, and it  seemed to him that there must be something seriously wrong with a world that could permit one of her calibre to undergo such hardship. He brooded upon the problem.

"Can't borrow, I suppose?" he suggested.

"Who in this town is going to lend money it, a broken-down concert-party?" returned the girl, bitterly. "And none of us have any people who can send us any. I daresay we shall find some way out, but I don't see it yet. Anyway," she added suddenly, "it's a shame to plague you with all this. It's nothing to do with you. I must go back now. I only came out here to have one good weep. Thanks very much for trying to help. It's done me good to tell you." She began to move away.

"Wait!" said Jimmy, sharply. For the past two minutes he had been staring at the posters on the wall with the fixed gaze of one whose mind is far away. An idea was slowly taking shape in his fertile brain— an insane, foolish, dangerous idea— an idea that could have come only to Jimmy Rigg, but an indubitable idea none the less.

"I believe I can help," he said, and jerked a thumb at the poster of Mr. Patten. "That thing's given me a notion. Where's the rest of your party?"

"At the Drill Hall, I expect. But what—"

"Come along," said Jimmy, briskly. "No time to waste. By the way, I ought to know your name, I think."

"Charity Clayton," answered the girl, smiling. "Sorry, but it is."

"Jolly good name, too. Mine's Rigg— Jimmy Rigg. Now come on. I'll explain when we see the others." He led the way at a rapid pace back towards the town.

At the Drill Hall, a red-brick erection of repellent architecture, the remaining Merry Nibs were discovered, engaged in giving the lie to their name. Their appearance was anything but merry. They comprised two young men and two young women, the former lean, lank, and long-haired, the latter short, plump, and peroxided. They were sitting about in dejected attitudes upon hampers, wearing expressions of the deepest melancholy. The entry of Charity and her escort did nothing to rouse them from their gloom.

"Here they are," said Charity, whose normally sunny temperament seemed to be returning to power under the influence of renewed hope. "Reading from left to right: Miss Cynthia Warburton, Mr. Gerald Lees, Mr. Carleton Dunn, Miss Genista Chase. Wake up, you people. This is Mr. Rigg. He's going to get us out of this."

A gleam of interest appeared suddenly upon the faces of the Merry Nibs. Simultaneously they rose to their feet and came forward. Jimmy felt somewhat self-conscious as they gathered about him eagerly.

"How?" they demanded, as with one voice. Jimmy drew back a step. He was unversed in the art of public oratory, but he nerved himself to the task.

"Well,'' he said, slowly, "you can't get away from here without money, and you've no means of getting money except by giving a show. But the fat-heads won't come to your show. That's right, isn't it?"

The Merry Nibs were understood to signify a moody assent.

"Then you must make them come. Now, listen. You know Peter Patten?"

"Yes," chorused the Merry Nibs, foggily.

"Well, Peter Patten was born in this one-eyed locality. He's the bright particular star of the town. He's the original little tin god of Southling-by-the-Sea. Babies are christened after him. He's the only thing the place is famous for. He's it." Jimmy paused impressively. "If it got to be known around here that Peter Patten was taking part in your show to-night, by way of a joke and without warning, you'd make your fortunes."

There was a stunned silence. Jimmy proceeded:—

"We can't get the real Pattern, but we can provide a substitute. If you've got a red beard and wig in your outfit the thing's easy. All we've got to do is to spread the word casually that Patten's going to do his song and dance as a member of your party tonight, just to surprise his home town. It's just the sort of thing he would do, by all accounts. They'll roll up in their hundreds."

There was another tense pause, broken at last by the voice of Mr. Carleton Dunn, who seemed a trifle brighter than his fellow-Nibs.

"You mean one of us is to pretend to be Patten?"

"That's the idea. It's quite safe. Very few of the folk here have ever had a chance to see him in his stage get-up, though they know what it is. of course. If they come here expecting to see him, they'll assume that the man they do see is him."

"But," objected Mr. Dunn, "we've been here a week now. They know us all by sight."

"Quite," said Jimmy. "Therefore I will give my celebrated impersonation of Peter Patten."

Charity gave a little astonished cry. "You?"

"Me. Obviously it can't be one of you. and I've done enough of this sort of thing not to disgrace myself. I've seen Patten often enough, and"— he coughed modestly— "I know a couple of songs that Southling would love to hear."

At this point Mr. Gerald Lees emerged suddenly from a species of trance and gave tongue.

"Look here. I say, you know, we can't do this! We shall get run in or something!"

"Why?" said Jimmy. "We're all right as long as we don't make any definite statement about Patten. We're only hinting that he might show up. I'll do all that— none of you need come into it at all. If they choose to mistake me for Patten, that's their affair. After all, it's only a superior form of leg-pull. And you owe this place something for not coming to your shows, and I owe it something because I missed a train here."

For a brief space no word was spoken. The Merry Nibs regarded each other anxiously, as if debating the practicability of this peculiar scheme. Suddenly Charity smiled, walked over to a large hamper, lifted the lid, and delved vigorously in the depths; then she stood up, holding a vivid scarlet wig.

"Let's do it!" she said. "It's our only chance of raising enough cash to get us all back to town, and I hate this beastly place, anyway!"

Mr. Carleton Dunn nodded agreement with this view.

"I'm with you." said he. The rest of the company appeared willing to follow his lead.

"Splendid!" said Jimmy. "Now I'll dash along and start the ball rolling. To-night you'll know what a full house looks like!"

In the street he paused for a moment and drew a deep breath. Prom his early youth he had always suffered from a craving for adventure in any form, and here was adventure ready to his hand. And more than that. It may as well be admitted here and now that Jimmy Rigg had not been entirely disinterested in his efforts to assist the Merry Nibs. The welfare of that unhappy band had, of course, been prominent in his mind, but there had been also the knowledge that, by assuming, for one night only, the role of Peter Patten, he could at least contrive that the public should lend an ear to his songs. For, as with the aspiring author who sees his first article in solid type, so with the youthful composer who hears the first rendering of his melody: nothing else is of the least importance. Jimmy Rigg, determined that someone should listen to his achievements, felt that even Southling-by-the-Sea Was better than nobody at all. He grinned happily as he bent his steps towards the tobacconist's shop where first he had heard mention of Peter Patten. He had completely forgotten that it had ever been his intention to catch a train to Maryborough.

In Southling-by-the-Sea and the neighboring villages the last performance of the Merry Nibs' Refined and Entertaining Concert Party is still spoken of with awe. It marked an epoch in the placid life of the district; it is the general opinion that nothing like it will be seen again.

Jimmy Rigg had done his work discreetly and well. A few words to the garrulous tobacconist, a veiled hint to the postmistress, a casual remark to the landlord of the "Dog and Duck," and the thing was done. By mid-afternoon it was common knowledge that the great Peter Patten, the town's idol, had decided, in a fit of that freakish humor which had raised him to his present eminence to make an unheralded appearance in the ranks of the hitherto despised Merry Nibs, with whom, it was alleged, he was on the friendliest of terms. Southling-by-the-Sea, hastily assuming a clean collar, resolved that he should receive a fitting welcome.

Seven-thirty of the evening found Jimmy Rigg, his eye fixed to a hole in the curtain, watching Southling-by-the-Sea, having dug deep into its jeans for the benefit of Mr. Dunn at the box-office, filing, with much happy noise and badinage, into the hall. The spectacle caused him a momentary sensation of panic. For the first time he realised the enormity of his intended offence against these worthy burghers. In the first bright flush of his eagerness to assist the Merry Nibs in general and Charity Clayton in particular, the scheme had seemed tolerably sound; now, however, it appeared impracticable and dangerous in the extreme. If the imposture were by some mischance laid bare during the performance, his chance of escaping unscathed would be small indeed. For an instant he toyed with the idea of furtive flight, but the thought of Charity restrained him: he could not desert her now...

Fifteen minutes later, the ecstatic Mr. Dunn, having torn himself from the blissful contemplation of more money than he had ever seen in his life, to announce that the hall could not hold another person, the dilapidated curtain wobbled up, and the show began.

From the outset it met with a reception to which the Merry Nibs had long been strangers. The audience had come prepared to treat these mummers, if not with unbridled enthusiasm, at least with genial tolerance for the sake of Peter Patten. Mr. Gerald Lees, whose lot it was to open the revels with his masterly imitation of children, drawn corks, bees, and hand-saws, concluded his effort amid a sizeable volume of applause.

"Old man, it's a riot!" he exclaimed joyfully, if inaccurately, to Jimmy as he gained the wings.

"That's good," said Jimmy, and smiled encouragingly at Charity, who stood second on the bill. Miss Clayton, however, was wholly at her ease. Looking particularly charming in the semi-pierrotic costume affected by the troupe, she achieved a distinct hit with her songs at the piano. Her exit was marked by what Mr. Lees again referred to as "a riot."

So far so good. But, as the evening wore along, the audience began to exhibit symptoms of restlessness— Southling had come to see Peter Patten, and Peter Patten had not yet appeared, nor was any mention of him upon the programme. There became audible cries of "Peter!" and vague stampings of feet. When, therefore, at the conclusion of Miss Warburton's little song and dance, Messrs. Dunn and Lees, with much comic business, displayed a large board inscribed "Extra Turn," the house rose and yelled its approval.

Jimmy, waiting in the wings, was aware of a singular weakness about his knees, his mouth felt very dry and his wig and beard seemed anxious to stifle him. The voice of Charity served to stiffen his resolution.

"Good luck, Mr. Rigg," said she. "I know you'll be splendid."

Jimmy smiled feebly, braced himself, and wavered forth upon the little stage. Next moment he reeled back before the gale of noise that swept up at him.

Southling-by-the-Sea had no doubt that Peter Patten was the world's greatest man, and it grasped with both hands this opportunity of saying so. It stood up and yelled until its voice died from sheer exhaustion. Three-quarters of those present had never seen Peter in the flesh, but the flaming wig and beard had become a kind of household word.

"Peter!" they shouted. "Good old Peter! Wotcher, Peter!"

For a moment Jimmy could only stand and gape. Very foolishly, he had not anticipated this welcome His few previous appearances upon the boards had been upon strictly amateur occasions; never had he had to face anything like this. Again he contemplated ignominious flight; then, as Charity at the piano broke into the first of his songs. he became suddenly calm and at his ease, lie forgot Peter Patten; forgot his hideous scarlet hair; forgot everything but that here was his chance to give his song— his own song— to at least a portion of the public. He cleared his throat, stepped forward, and gave tongue

It was, as a matter of fact, a good enough song, as comic songs go, entitled humorously "Baby's Eyes," It began as a ballad, drifted into pure farce, and finished as a negro melody. Southling, who had never heard its like, listened as in a trance, and at its close burst into wild applause. Jimmy, now completely happy, glowed with pride.

His second composition went even better. This a witty trifle dealing chiefly with income-tax, land-ladies, and kindred ills, involved the use of a member of the audience as a species of butt. Running his eye along the front row, Jimmy selected a small, solemn-faced. middle-aged man in blue serge, as being the most innocuous, and proceeded to sing at him with immense gusto. Southling-by-the-Sea rocked in its seat with happy mirth. This was their own Peter.

Ten minutes later Jimmy, flushed with triumph and exertion, stood once again in the wings, while from beyond the curtain came the rapturous calls of the delighted house. He had no intention of appearing before them again, for even in his exaltation, he perceived the danger of carrying things too far; but he found this appreciation very pleasant, even though he knew it to be aroused not so much by his songs as by his supposed personality. He beckoned to him Mr. Dunn.

"Better get on and tell 'em the extra turn's lefty the place," he said. "Don't mention any name. They'll stay all night if we don't shift 'em."

Mi. Dunn nodded and turned away. As he vanished round the curtain, Jimmy felt a touch on his arm and turned to perceive Charity. He observed to his surprise that he wore an expression almost of panic.

"Oh, Mr. Riggs," she said quickly, "what do you think has happened? Two dear old people have turned up, asking for you. They say their name is Patten!"

Jimmy stared convulsively. At first the true import of this information did not reveal itself, but as its meaning grew clear, he turned pale behind his vivid whiskers and stared affrighted at Charity. With a sickening sense of his own folly, he recalled the words of the tobacconist: "His people live here yet."

Obviously, Mr. and Mrs. Patten had called for their celebrated son. He groaned aloud.

"The best thing to do," suggested Charity, "would be to take off that face-furniture, and slip out quickly. They won't recognise you without it. Then I'll tell them he's not here, as if I'd never heard of him."

Hurried reflection showed Jimmy no alternative. He nodded dumbly, tore off his wig and beard, and crept towards the stage door. But as he came within sight of it he saw that he was too late. Within the doorway, effectually prohibiting all passage, stood an aged couple, in deep converse with a small, solemn-faced, middle-aged man in blue serge— none other, in fact, than Jimmy's carefully chosen assistant for his second song. As Jimmy, sick at heart, turned to crawl away again the voice of the old lady came to his ear.

"But, Peter dear, why didn't you tell us you were going to sing?"

Jimmy started again, and turned miserably, to find, to his utter bewilderment, that the old lady had not been addressing him. At the same moment he encountered the eye of the man in blue serge. The latter spoke briefly to the old couple, turned and came towards the shrinking Jimmy.

"Good evening," he said, pleasantly, "are you Mr. Patten?"

"N— no," stammered Jimmy, helplessly.

The other raised a pair of extremely flexible eyebrows.

"No? But surely everybody here thinks so?"

It was at this point that the truth broke in upon Jimmy's comprehension, with the abruptness of a lightning flash. He gasped.

"Good Lord! Are— are you Peter Patten?"

The solemn man regarded him gravely.

"Until this evening I had always thought so," he answered, "but now—"

He was interrupted by a new voice— the voice of Charity Clayton.

"I was afraid so, Mr. Rigg," she said. "Mr. Patten, may I explain?"

Peter Patten bowed politely.

"I should certainly be interested," he observed. "I came here after my show at Maryborough this evening for the weekend, and found nobody at home. So I came here and was told that I was about to perform so I came in and saw myself perform. It was most interesting."

"Well, you see," said Charity, "it was like this." And she plunged into a recital of the misfortunes that had led up to the impersonation. Peter Patten listened with an expressionless countenance.

"You see, we were desperate," finished Charity, "and what else could we do? And Mr. Rigg was awfully careful not to copy you exactly. It was the only way to get the people in."

For what seemed like a year at least, the comedian said nothing.

Suddenly he looked up at Jimmy.

"Those songs of yours. Who wrote them?"

"I did," said Jimmy, dazedly.

"Are they published? Have they been sung in public before?"

"No."

"Well, I like them. Would you care to let me have them? I'll see you don't lose by it."

Jimmy uttered a strangled gasp, and fell back against the wall, entirely incapable of speech. Again it was Charity who answer for him.

"Oh, Mr. Patten, how splendid of you! Do you mean you're not going to—"

For the first time Peter Patten smiled.

"If Mr.— Rigg, is it— was able to make Southling believe he was me, it seems a pity to spoil it by undeceiving them, doesn't it? I don't suffer personally, as far as I can see."

PETER PATTEN, now beyond all question Britain's greatest comedian, goes from strength to strength. His popularity— and therefore his salary— has immensely increased since it became known that, in order to assist a struggling concert-party, he appeared at a small seaside town and sang without fee or reward.

Whenever the great man makes a London appearance, there may invariably observed, seated in the centre of the second row of the stalls and applauding with an almost fanatical frenzy, Mr. James Rigg, the talented and successful writer of songs, and Charity, his wife.

___________________

16: The Dogs of Purgatory

Hugh Pendexter

1875–1940

Complete Northwest Novel Magazine, June 1936

DIX STARED GLOOMILY across the flat, monotonous country and its illimitable expanse of swamp and dreary areas of moss-bearded evergreens. The gray autumnal sky minimized the charm of the riotous coloring of the hard growth on the low hills behind him and prevented his appreciating the beauty of the frost-burned ferns and grasses in the lowlands ahead. He was not circumstanced to enjoy the dying glory of Indian Summer and moodily likened the painted landscape to a gaily bedecked wanton bedraggled by the storm. In fact, it was a most inhospitable country, and he cursed the chance which had led him there. It had seemed a simple matter to make the camp on Caribou Lake, but what with the loss of his compass and the clouds masking the heavens he had gone hopelessly astray three days back. For twelve hours he had been without food.

He recalled odds and ends of campfire gossip about the dismal Purgatory country and fished out his woods map. Sure enough; there were the two lakes, Big and Little Purgatory, connected by a sluggish, winding stream. He had wandered some fifty miles from the Caribou Lake trail.

The discovery was startling. Once the clouds let loose the “line” storm this whole region would be inundated. To retrace his way before securing food was impossible. To advance was a waste of his remaining energy. A drop of rain splashed ominously on the map.

He must build a lean-to to shut out the storm. First, he would light a fire before the rain soaked the dead wood; and he searched his pockets for matches. Ordinarily, for the sake of a climax, one match is found and a tragedy lived while it is being nursed into feeble flame. Dix was denied this conventional thrill. He had no matches.

The thatch of spruce boughs remained to be constructed, and unslinging his small axe he assailed a clump of evergreens and labored fiercely for several minutes. Then the absurdity of it all struck him and he threw down the axe. If a man must die of starvation what odds whether he die wet or merely moist? Without fire or food, with his strength lessening, he had been dreading the rain as a major evil. It suggested a drowning man’s fears lest he wet his feet.

As he crouched on a blanket of moss and stared helplessly on the flat waste his range of vision gradually shortened, for lowering clouds and gathering dusk shut down about him like a collapsing canopy. Queer stories of the Purgatory country drifted through his mind and as they were accentuated by despair he found it easy to imagine strange shapes in the swamp growth. The funereal cedars in the foreground became filled with supernormalities.

“Rot!” he angrily exclaimed, shaking his head to dislodge the unwholesome fancies. “When a chap gets to seeing things—” He chopped the sentence abruptly and leaned forward with mouth agape. His ears had joined in the conspiracy of nerves against reason; he had caught the deep baying of a dog.

Now the Purgatory region was an abomination and no man lived there, consequently there could be no dogs. Thus spoke Reason, and again the long, deep-mouthed cry sounded, this time more distinct and much nearer. He frowned and remembered his guide’s garrulous recital of a spookish experience in this same region.

The guide had sworn by all the woods gods that he had wandered to the edge of the swamp country and at twilight had glimpsed the gorgon shapes of fearful creatures, which moved with the lithe stealth of tigers and cried out like dogs after game. However, there could be no dogs in this deserted place, Reason persisted. Nor could they be wolves, for wolves do not bark. His ears had picked up some woods sound and had distorted it into an illusion.

Even as he clung to this explanation, the hoarse clamor of the canine voices swept nearer and nearer, dinning on his ears like the climax of a nightmare. He was halfway down the side of a low ridge and from this coign of vantage he now saw them just below him, and counted them, seven huge, tawny forms. They were running one behind another and not in a pack, as the wolf runs. Dix rubbed his eyes but the spectacle would not vanish. Next he discovered he was alive with fear and yet had no impulse to fly. Once he thought he heard an alien sound behind him, but the sinister figures circling up the slope held his gaze. The leader spied him; instantly the chorus was changed to a sharp, triumphant key, and they were streaking up the ridge in a long, undulating line which vaguely reminded him of sea serpents.

There were trees nearby and yet he remained motionless, the thought of avoiding their onrush never finding room in his dazed mind. Then the leader was upon him, snarling and mouthing horribly, nuzzling at his throat. There was no hallucinations in the fierce impact of the heavy body, nor in the hurt of the pounding attack of the others. He struck and kicked and cried out wildly. Above the clamor he finally caught a shrill voice and heard the swishing blows of a whip. The brutes minded this none. A man’s voice, shouting commands accompanied by resounding whacks of a club, by degrees quieted the confusion until the furious animals were beaten off and Dix to his surprise found himself alive and suffering only from bruises and scratches.

“If they hadn’t had their muzzles on!” panted the shrill voice.

“They’d have killed him in no time,” proudly completed the man.

Pulling himself to a sitting posture Dix stared in amazement at the couple. The man was almost a dwarf in stature, with a broad face that was nearly covered by a beard. He was eyeing Dix with open disfavor as he waved his stout cudgel to keep the dogs at a distance. The woman—Dix gaped incredulously—was exquisitely out of place in the rough scene. He noted the texture of her brown skin, the sheen of her hair, the noble poise of her small figure and her dainty grace as she kneeled beside him. But as he met her anxious gaze he read sadness and trouble in the small, oval face, a sadness which was deep seated and in nowise hinging on the danger just averted.

“The dogs?” he managed to exclaim as he rubbed his aching chest.

“Keep them back, Cumber,” she cried. “Beat them back. On your life don’t slip their muzzles!”

The last struck him as being rather a ridiculous speech, for who but a murderer would think of freeing those slavering jaws? The man grunted something unintelligible and astounded Dix by displaying a surly unwillingness in herding the brutes before him down the slope.

“Lock them in the hovel till I get to the house,” she called after him. Grumbling and mumbling the man drove the dogs into the underbrush, but it was not till he had vanished that the girl turned to Dix.

“Are you badly hurt?”

“Only bruised and shaken—thanks to the muzzles. But my mind riots most confoundedly. They’re real, eh?”

“Fearfully so,” she shuddered. “They’re a cross between the giant Danes and the bloodhound—ferocious as tigers.”

“But why are they? And why do you have them?” he puzzled.

The transient horror of her gaze was succeeded by somber earnestness as she ignored his query and said, “Turn back to the hills from where you came. Once you’ve covered a few miles you’ll be safe, as the dogs never wander far from the swamps.”

“Turn back?” he blankly repeated. “But I’m famished. I’m all in. I was prepared to meet Death when you came.”

“You were never nearer to it,” she muttered, staring intently at the swamp cedars. “When unmuzzled, one of the dogs would be more than a match for any three men. Of course if you’re unable to travel—”

“I’m not,” he abruptly cut in. “Who owns the dogs? Why are the devils allowed to run loose?”

“They belong to old Cumber, my uncle’s servant,” she explained. “You’ve never heard of them?”

“Only in ghost stories. My name is Bruce Dix. I was camping with friends on Caribou Lake. Tried to cruise back alone from Clear River a few days ago. Lost my compass, lost my way. I’ve not eaten for hours. Began seeing things. Thought the dogs were imagination till they leaped on me.”

She listened gravely and in turn informed, “I’m Florence Dessel. Andrew Dessel, my uncle, has a cabin on the lake. We came here for his health. He has grown worse and will never return home alive.”

“I’m mighty sorry to hear it,” consoled Dix. “Of course, you can’t take in wanderers. I’ll turn back and make it somehow.”

“You mustn’t attempt it till we’ve outfitted you with supplies and a compass. You must stay with us tonight and start back tomorrow.”

He staggered to his feet, found strength in her level gaze, and asked, “Can’t your uncle be moved to some settlement? I will return with my friends and get him.”

“That’s good of you, but he would never stand the trip out,” she sighed.

“But should he die—what about you?” he demanded.

She shook her head despondently. “I don’t know. I should be alone then except for old Cumber—and the dogs. He is deranged, I fear. He’s been in uncle’s service for years and always faithful. He’s changed sadly the last few months, but I suppose I could depend on him to take me to the settlement.”

“Good heavens, Miss Dessel! There must be no guesswork,” he cried. “Don’t you realize winter will soon be here? I shall come back with my friends and guides and make a camp till you can return with us.”

“The snow will be terrible,” she admitted. “But I’ve been so worried about uncle I haven’t had time to think of myself. Of course, Cumber would take me out safely. He’s a good woodsman.”

“If he’s deranged you can’t tell what he’ll do,” he objected. “What makes you think he’s unbalanced?”

“The dogs.” She shivered in saying it. “We had been here some two months when suddenly he disappeared. We took it for granted he had deserted us; then, after an absence of five or six weeks, he returned with them. He imagines we’re in danger from the outside world. He lets the brutes run the woods unmuzzled at night to guard us from the supposed danger. Which reminds me, we must be going.”

“The dogs loose at night reminds you?” he inquired.

“It’s unsafe for anyone but him to be abroad after dark,” she simply explained. “No time for talk now. We’ll finish our plans tonight.”

“Our plans for getting you back to civilization,” he grimly appended.

“It seems cruel to anticipate my uncle’s death while making arrangements for my comfort.”

“It would be hideously wrong to leave your safety to chance,” he warmly insisted. Before he could say more she suddenly clutched his wrist and urged him after her down the slope, her eyes wide with fear as she cried:

“Hurry, hurry. I fear Cumber has loosed the dogs!”

“Knowing you’re out?” he exclaimed.

“He’s forgotten. Remember he is weak-witted. Hark!”

A deep-throated baying sounded through the thickening gloom, the chorus entering its full swing with a tempo that could emanate only from wildlife suddenly set free and rejoicing. “He started to take them to the hovel,” she called over her shoulder as she took the lead in a narrow, winding path. “But he forgot. He’s obeying his one obsession, his nightly habit. They’re running unmuzzled.”

“They’re between us and the house,” he protested, slackening his pace.

“We’ve time if we hurry. Don’t talk,” she sharply commanded.

He doubted it, for they were heading straight for the bellowing clamor. But pride kept him close to her heels. “Unless the house is very near—” he began.

“I’m making for a boat,” she informed, now running swiftly and lightly.

A gray blur of water opened to their view even as she spoke. On their right and drawing nearer with unnerving rapidity rose the hunting cry of the dogs. But already the girl was splashing through the mud and reeds and was pushing off a crudely constructed flat-bottomed boat. “Jump in!” was her staccato command.

He gently lifted her aboard and with a push of the paddle sent the frail craft gliding from the shore. As he dropped in the stern and began sculling, the dogs burst into view, jaws free and exulting. On discovering their quarry had escaped they made fierce whining noises and ran up and down the shore. The leader even jumped into the water and swam a short distance after the boat.

“The cabin is on the knoll to the right,” informed the girl. “The dogs will try to head us off, but we’ll have time enough, as they’ll make a wide detour to pass round a morass.”

“He unmuzzled them knowing it might mean death for us,” raged Dix.

“He’s not responsible,” she reminded, picking up the second paddle. “We’ll soon be indoors and the dogs will lose interest in us. Then to plan your escape back to civilization.”

“Escape?” he muttered. “To be sure. I had forgotten I must use finesse in quitting here.”

“Faster! The dogs are swinging in,” she warned.

Dix made sure the heavy door of the long, low structure was fast behind him before searching the shadows of the room. Then a seed of light budded and blossomed and he beheld her standing by a lamp, her profile that of a child if not for the heavy shadow sorrow had laid upon it.

Outside the dogs were making the night hideous, while the harsh voice of old Cumber occasionally roared some order. As Dix leaned against the door, striving to coordinate his thoughts, the girl threw some pine-knots on the hearth of the huge fireplace and set them to blazing. Warmth and light filled the place, and if not for the dogs and the girl’s melancholy mien Dix would have pronounced the retreat most comfortable. For the cold rain was now beating steadily on the roof and the coziness of the open fire suggested confidences.

“Please step in here to see uncle while I get you something to eat,” she listlessly invited.

He furtively studied her small face as he advanced. It was her slight stature that had induced him to think of her as a mere child.

A glimpse of the misery in her wide eyes bespoke the woman who had suffered not a little.

“Who is it, Florence?” called a weak voice from an adjoining room.

She lighted a candle and passed into the room, announcing, “Mr. Bruce Dix, of the city, lost his way and here for the night, Uncle.”

Dix gazed in pity at the sunken face of the sick man. In the prime he must have presented a fine figure of a man, but now he was woefully emaciated. Only his eyes seemed alive and in the feeble light of the candle they glowed like coals.

The man nodded to Dix and motioned him to approach closer. At the same time the girl glided to the door, saying, “He’ll talk with you while I’m preparing your supper, Uncle.”

She had barely crossed the threshold before the sick man had seized Dix’s hand, scanned him with burning gaze, and then whispered, “You look clean and honest. Thank God for that! Hush! Did Cumber come in?”

“He’s outside,” soothed Dix. “Your servant—”

“Servant!” bitterly interrupted Dessel, his wasted features grimacing. “Master is the better word. The girl and I are his prisoners. It doesn’t matter about me as my time is short. But it’s eating my soul out to think of her being left.”

“Prisoners?” gasped Dix.

“Softly. She doesn’t know the worst. She doesn’t know he believes he must keep us here. He believes evil awaits us if we return to civilization. That’s why he got the dogs, to keep us here—to keep others out.”

“It’s damnable!” gritted Dix.

“He mustn’t find you talking with me,” hurriedly whispered Dessel, half rising. “I didn’t suspect the truth till too late. You must take my niece out to the nearest settlement.”

“She worries about you more than about herself,” said Dix.

“She doesn’t realize the danger,” muttered Dessel. “Cumber will not go out for provisions. Once the snow comes and buries this part of the world—it means starvation!”

“I leave tomorrow to bring help,”

“No, no,” huskily protested Dessel. “I shall not last till you return. Once I’m gone no knowing what insane freak old Cumber will take. You must stay till the end and somehow manage to take her with you. Promise me as you’re a man you’ll stand by her.”

“By all that’s good in the world I promise,” solemnly assured Dix.

“You’ve made it easier for me,” sighed Dessel, closing his eyes. “You must get a good start with the boat while Cumber sleeps. Pass through Little Purgatory. This rain will flood all the swamps south of it. You can go for miles and miles in the boat. It’ll be a hard rub, a good seventy-five miles if you go south. If you strike west to hit the traveled trail between Caribou Lake and Clear River, it means fifty miles and you can’t use the boats except in crossing the lake. I fear Cumber would follow you with the dogs if you took that course.”

“She shall get through safely. If you could hold out for a while—”

“Sh-h-h!” cautioned Dessel, his eyes flying open. “Leave me. Quick!”

Dix glided back to the living-room and had scarcely seated himself before the blaze than the door opened and Cumber entered. He slowly advanced to the fire, his frowning gaze never leaving the newcomer’s pale face. “What do you want here?” was his abrupt query.

“Food, rest. I lost my way,” replied Dix, fearful lest the madman spring upon him.

The deep set eyes leered at him mockingly. “You were pretty near this place before losing your way. You were aiming in this direction.”

Dix patiently explained his experience in wandering from the Caribou trail, but even as he spoke he knew old Cumber’s thoughts were not following the recital. He was wandering among suspicions, dallying with half-formed plans, cunningly arranging plots, all of which were hostile and deadly to the stranger. As Dix concluded, Cumber wheeled and glared at the candle in the sick room. “Who took that in there?” he demanded.

“The young lady.”

He snarled in his thick beard, sprang into the room and blew out the candle. On returning to the living-room he all but closed Dessel’s door. Then his mood lighted up with some fierce joviality which caused him to rub his hairy hands and chuckle deep in his throat. Dix decided it was the baying of the dogs, for their master was cocking his head as though weighing the individual notes and appraising the total effect.

“Brave, brave voices,” he gleefully cried. “And they are hungry.”

“Why do you have them here?” boldly asked Dix.

Cumber stealthily gave him the tail of his eye and readily explained, “To haul the sled in winter. They’ll make a brave team.”

“Great scheme,” endorsed Dix. “And you made the sled?”

To his surprise Cumber motioned him to follow and led the way through the kitchen, where the girl was busy with coffee making. Opening a door to a shed Cumber proudly pointed. Sure enough he had a sled, a long, narrow affair, homemade yet serviceable and built along the lines of the travois sled of the woodsmen. Only unlike the travois, it was boxed in like a sleigh, the back being unusually high.

“One could ride very comfortably in that,” approved Dix, noting how the runners had been shod with iron.

“Aye. And ride far,” muttered Cumber, turning away.

“There is room for but one,” added Dix.

“Only one,” agreed Cumber, snapping his finger joints excitedly. “It will travel smoothly. Nothing at all for my pets to haul. I used the hoops of the kerosene barrel on the runners.”

“You may have your supper now, Mr. Dix,” the girl called out with a touch of nervousness in her voice. “Cumber, your supper is by the stove.”

As Dix entered the kitchen she passed into the living-room with a tray of food and a pot of coffee. He admired her courage in holding the old man to his plane of servant and wondered if she sensed his status, that of master. Cumber bestowed a flaming look upon them, hesitated for a moment, then rushed to the small table and fell to eating like some ferocious, half-starved animal.

DIX, FAINT for need of food, lost no time in assailing the tray. From his place by the fireplace he could observe Cumber snapping and bolting his meat and bread. And as he watched him he likened him to one of the howling brutes outside. The girl passed to her uncle’s room, carrying some steaming drink.

When she returned Dix asked, “Do you never eat?”

“Not now,” she murmured. “By and by, perhaps. He is worse tonight.”

“Miss Dessel, you must be brave. He is a very sick man. He is living on borrowed time. Even were he in town no physician could help him.”

Tears welled to her eyes and her chin quivered although she fought bravely to control her emotion. To divert her thoughts Dix asked, “What is the meaning of the sled?”

“One of his fancies. When in his black moods he rambles much about going far away to a strange country.”

“Apparently he plans to go alone.”

“Possibly. Yet he has skates ready to use besides the sled. He was sharpening them only a few days ago. One could ride in the sled, one could skate—” She paused with a glimmer of horror in her eyes, and whispered, “Why, he must be planning to take me!”

“Good heavens, child,” he whispered. “Haven’t you given any thought to the future?”

“I suppose so. But not much,” was the spiritless reply. “It has worried uncle, though. He just told me to talk with you. You start back tomorrow?”

“I remain here,” he firmly replied. “It would be a crime to desert you. It is your uncle’s wish that I stay.”

There was no doubting the relief and sense of security his words had given her; her face mirrored it and her eyes thanked him warmly. “Now I shall feel safe,” she murmured.

Both were silent till he had finished his meal, when he said, “Listen to the rain.”

The wind was driving it in sheets against the small window. The dogs had fled to the refuge of the hovel. “If this keeps up the whole country will be flooded.” He added, “So much the better for us.”

She knew he was planning to use the boat. It seemed wrong to concert their own safety while no early aid could benefit her uncle; yet reason and common sense assured her it was right. She rose and passed to the window and blinked into the blackness. Her little startled exclamation brought him to her side to peer over her shoulder. A light was mistily bobbing along the shore.

“What is he doing?” she puzzled, as, in a lull of the storm, they heard the sound of blows and the breaking of timbers.

He stepped to the door and opened it a trifle. When he returned to her his face was pinched and haggard. “He’s destroyed the boat,” he informed.

She heard him in stony silence, the hand clutching the simple window curtain straining till the muslin parted in shreds. “We must know the worst,” he hoarsely continued. “Unless we can escape to high ground this flood will maroon us.”

“We’re surrounded by the swamp,” she dully discouraged. “By morning this knoll will be an island. We three in here; Cumber and the dogs outside.”

FOR THREE DAYS the torrential downpour continued till the pools and the lakes of the Purgatory country were merged in one far stretching sheet of black water. Then overnight the skies cleared, the frost swept down from the north and the people on the knoll awoke in a new world.

It was on the morning of the fourth day of the cold wave that Mr. Dessel dropped into his last sleep.

Once old Cumber understood his master had gone he withdrew with his dogs to the farther side of the knoll and remained until nightfall. This left Dix alone to fashion a coffin and dig a shallow grave in the frozen ground. Dry-eyed and silent the girl watched him line the grave with spruce boughs and heard him repeat the service for the dead. After doing his duty by the deceased he led her through the edge of night to the cabin and sought to comfort her, promising that once back in civilization he would send men to remove the remains. On entering the living-room she seated herself by the fire and for a long time remained silent.

“It’s bitter cold out,” he said, standing by her side and gently patting her shoulder. “And you have been very brave.”

“The ice thickens fast in the lake,” she murmured. Suddenly lifting her head and meeting his pitying gaze she whispered, “Don’t think I fail in appreciation. You have been good to me. What could I have done without you, what—” Unable to continue, she wept for the first time since her uncle’s death.

HE WAS WISE enough not to interrupt this display of emotion and simply stood by her side, patting her shoulder. Gradually her sobs ceased and she said, “I won’t be weak again.”

“Don’t try to suppress anything, little woman,” he gently soothed.

She clasped his hand, then clutched it fiercely as a sharp report echoed through the darkness outside, smiting their ears through the frosty air like the crack of a whip.

“What was that?” cried Dix, releasing his hand and darting to the window.

“Cumber shooting small game for the dogs,” she explained. “It made my nerves jump.”

“Then he has a weapon?” whispered Dix.

At first the full significance of his tone and query did not register. She stared at him questioningly for a moment; then her face flushed and she lamented, “I should have told you. Yes; he has a rifle. I know what you fear and it was criminal in me not to think to tell you.”

“We’ll fear nothing,” he mumbled, yet gnawing his lips. “If I had known—”

“Forgive me,” she pleaded. “If heedless for myself I should have remembered your danger. Now with uncle gone and him armed—”

“It matters none his having the gun,” he deprecated. “I’ll make a try for it tonight—”

When old Cumber finished feeding his pets and entered the house he was unarmed. Nor could Dix locate the weapon although he searched the shed and peeped into Cumber’s room. The fact that the man was cunning enough to keep the rifle concealed bespoke a sinister purpose. Dix did not dare to wander from the immediate vicinity of the house, for once he strayed aside he knew the dogs would hunt him as fair game. Undoubtedly the rifle was in the hovel, but to search there with the brutes unmuzzled meant a horrible death.

When he returned to the living-room, his ears tingling with the cold, he found old Cumber crouched on the floor and brooding before the leaping flames.

“It’s zero or lower,” Dix announced to the girl who had withdrawn to the shadows in one corner.

Cumber jerked up his head and staring at the two remarked, “The master is gone to a fair country far to the North. The ice holds and tomorrow I must be off to find him.”

The light from the fireplace flared in Dix’s eyes and the glance he exchanged with the girl contained a message. She caught his inspiration and her own gaze warmed and she slowly nodded her head in acquiescence. Bowing over her he whispered, “We will start early and get ahead of him.”

“The dogs will stay in the hovel because of the cold,” she murmured. “I will be ready.”

“Pack up food, matches and a compass. Make a bundle of blankets and put on your warmest clothes. Where are the skates?”

“Hanging in the shed behind the door. I’ll secure the provisions now.”

THE GLOWING COALS in the fireplace vaguely illumined the room as Dix tiptoed to the door and opened it a crack. The sharp air whipped the blood to his face and filled him with a strange exultation. The half-lights in the east were announcing the morning. The dogs were quiet, doubtlessly crowded together in the hovel for warmth. Old Cumber was in his room, asleep, Dix hoped.

He tapped softly on the girl’s door and immediately she appeared, a mackinaw swathing her small figure. She carried a roll of blankets and a bag of provisions. “We must bring the sled through the house,” he whispered.

Moving as softly as possible they gained the shed and picked up the sled. It was necessary to pass old Cumber’s door, but this, fortunately, was closed. The skates had been already secured. Dix was now in something of a quandary. He did not believe he could drag the sled to the lake without arousing both Cumber and the dogs. The girl guessed the dilemma and insisted she be allowed to help. He was loath to consent. His indecision was interrupted by the sound of a shuffling step in the kitchen. Dropping the provisions and blankets into the sled Dix pushed it through the door, whispering:

“Drag it to the ice. It’s a case of must.”

“And you?” She shivered.

“I’ll be along directly. Go.”

He closed the door on her and turned just as Cumber stole into the room. For a moment his heart jumped and he fancied he was facing a new and grotesque evil—a beast that walked erect like a man. A second glance revealed the cause for such grim imagining. Cumber had pulled a heavy fur cap down to his ears and what with his beard and deep-set eyes he resembled anything savage except a man. He took in the situation at a glance and with a growling cry turned to retreat. With a spring Dix was upon him and had him by his broad shoulders. Outside came the rasping shriek of the iron-shod runners as they grated over the frozen ground, to be quickly answered by the fierce qui vive of the dogs. “You are a devil!” screamed the madman, twisting and seizing Dix around the waist and with terrible strength hurling him across the room.

Again Dix overtook him before he could make the kitchen, and this time managed to avoid the crushing embrace. The sled complained shrilly and the dogs increased their protest. The two men fought blindly, Cumber striving to break clear and release the dogs, Dix grimly determined to stop him. In one of their gyrations they crashed against the table and as Dix fell across it his outstretched hand brushed across the skates. With a mighty effort he drew clear of the groping fingers and struck at random. Cumber fell with a crash. Still grasping the skates Dix sprinted down the slope and arrived just as the girl drew the sled onto the ice.

“Jump in and roll up in the blankets,” he barked, as he rapidly adjusted the skates.

“Cumber?” she choked.

“He won’t bother us,” he panted. “But the dogs may break loose any minute…”

“They’re shut in or they would have been here before now,” she shuddered, staring horrified at the dark bulk of the cabin.

A high-pitched, ululating cry ascended from the top of the knoll in a hideous spiral of warning and a door slammed violently.

“By heavens! He’s able to do mischief,” groaned Dix, fumbling at the last clamp. “He’s gone to the hovel,” moaned the girl.

“Sit tight!” commanded Dix. The next moment the sled was gliding over the ice, the clear musical clang of the skates cutting the crisp air like knives. He took a course paralleling the shore and as he found his stride the uproar on the knoll changed into a purposeful chant, the deep, swinging chorus of the dog-pack hot on the trail, pricked through with the sharp strident cries of the madman.

“They’re coming!” gasped the girl, peering back.

Dix swung farther from the shore and cast a glance behind. Dark shapes were darting along the edge of the ice. Suddenly a spurt of flame punctured the gloom and something whined viciously overhead.

“He’s using the rifle,” muttered the girl.

Dix mended his stride, spurred on by the singing lead. He was now at the tip of a cedar-draped point and as he rounded this and left Cumber’s range of vision he breathed in deep relief. But his meandering course had cost them distance as was emphasized by a crashing in the undergrowth on his left and just ahead. Without pausing to reason he swerved at right angles from the shoreline and darted toward the middle of the lake. As he gave his heel to the ice in making the turn, a sprawling, snarling shape struck the ice by his side and slid along helplessly beside him, the hot glow of the cruel eyes causing the girl to mask her face with the blanket. This loathsome companionship endured only for a moment, however, as with another backward thrust Dix headed the sled down the lake. The rest of the pack were now on the ice, running rapidly.

SKATING EASILY and hugging the shore now he knew all the dogs were behind him, Dix allowed the animals to draw within some fifty feet of him, when he turned sharply. The maddened brutes essayed in vain to change their courses as they slid helplessly along. Enraged by their failure and pricked on by the fearful cries of their master, somewhere behind the point, they frantically regained their feet and streaked once more after the fugitives. Dix held straight ahead until they were dangerously near, then repeated his maneuver and sped for the outlet. But now he was within the zone of the rifle as Cumber had gained the point. Several times the bullets clipped the ice on either side of the sled.

Either the instinct of the chase or the commands of their master now worked a change in the brutes’ tactics, for immediately following their last grotesque failure they scrambled ashore and disappeared in the spruce. The girl cried out in relief, but Dix gritted his teeth and put every ounce of energy into his feet. Ahead was the outlet of the lake, and the winding stream connecting it with Little Purgatory seemed very narrow in the gray dawn. He knew the dogs would attempt to head him off once he quit the open expanse of the lake. Already they were racing in a straight line while he was held to the curving course of the river. A wild impulse to trust to luck and enter the overflowed areas was entertained for a moment, but he feared the shadows and the logs and reeds, and held to the stream.

“We’ve left them behind,” rejoiced the girl.

“Sit tight,” he panted. “They may try to head us off.”

The stream curved and twisted and in places doubled back on itself. Between strokes Dix listened for the menace he knew was threading the covert ahead. At last he located the danger, a low rasping growling. His aching back straightened, his sagging arms grew rigid, and before the girl detected the danger he had picked up speed to the sprinting point, and he thanked God he had learned to skate as a youth.

“Open water!” she shrilly warned, pointing to a black streak in the middle of the channel. Too late to swing to the right, he skirted it on the left, plunging into the face of the crouching danger.

Then it was upon him, and with an inarticulate cry in which was blended the shrill scream of the girl, he lunged ahead just as the mass of infuriated beasts leaped out to pull them down. Like a meteor the sled shot ahead. Something grabbed at his steel-shod heel and relinquished it with a howl of pain. And he was clear of them and they were sliding into the black water.

“That’ll hold them for a bit,” he choked, bending low over the back of the sled.

“I’m proud of you,” she cried.

“Nonsense. I was scared blue,” he panted. “Plenty of room ahead. No more ambushes.”

He took it leisurely and over his shoulder watched the dogs struggling to crawl back to the ice. The plunge evidently had lessened their lust, for they whined and shivered as old Cumber trotted up and dragged them from their bath. Dix was halfway across Little Purgatory before the last brute was rescued. Cumber frantically discharged his rifle and raged at his pets. But their ardor was dampened and they would not resume the pursuit. Strangely indifferent to the occasional bullets Dix watched the scene with grim satisfaction. The dogs refused to advance and Cumber’s wild rage had spoiled his marksmanship.

A slow smile of triumph was overspreading Dix’s haggard face when there came a wrench at his right foot and he would have fallen if not for his grasp on the back of the sled. As it was he sagged to his knees. As the girl felt herself whirled about she cried out, “Are you hurt?” And there was a world of agony in her voice.

“Clamp given out,” he explained. “Give me a piece of cord—anything.”

“Better than cord. Here’s a strap,” she rejoiced by replying.

As he knelt to repair the damage he noted with alarm that Cumber had detected his predicament and with renewed zeal was urging the dogs forward. But the brutes were mutinous and moved uneasily in a circle about their master, Infuriated to see his victims within reach and about to escape, the crazed man began belaboring the dogs with the butt of his rifle. They fell back from him, snapping and snarling as the blows fell. With a wild cry Cumber swung his rifle at the leader, holding it by the muzzle. The blow fell heavily, the dog reared with rage and grabbed it between his powerful teeth, there was an explosion and the man went down in a heap.

“He’s shooting at us,” mumbled the girl.

“He’ll not harm us,” comforted Dix, rising to his feet once more and resuming his flight.

“We shall soon be there,” he encouraged, pointing to the smoke of the settlement.

“You’ve been good to me,” she said.

“Who wouldn’t be?” he murmured. “Sometime I shall have something to say to you, sometime when I have the right.”

“The right? You have that now,” she impulsively cried.

“No; not till you’re back home among your kin and friends,” he awkwardly corrected.

Then she understood and a crimson wave swept up from beneath the mackinaw collar and made her eyes appear very moist and tender. “I shall always be glad to see you,” she shyly whispered.

___________________

17: The Man With the Wild Eyes

George R Sims

1847-1922

Dorcas Dene, Detective, 1897

WHEN I FIRST knew Dorcas Dene she was Dorcas Lester. She came to me with a letter from a theatrical agent, and wanted one of the small parts in a play we were then rehearsing at a West End Theatre.

She was quite unknown in the profession. She told me that she wanted to act, and would I give her a chance? She was engaged for a maid-servant who had about two lines to speak. She spoke them exceedingly well, and remained at the theatre for nearly twelve months, never getting beyond “small parts,” but always playing them exceedingly well.

The last part she had played was that of an old hag. We were all astonished when she asked to be allowed to play it, as she was a young and handsome woman, and handsome young women on the stage generally like to make the most of their appearance.

As the hag, Dorcas Lester was a distinct success. Although she was only on the stage for about ten minutes in one act and five minutes in another, everybody talked about her realistic and well-studied impersonation.

In the middle of the run of the play she left, and I understood that she had married and quitted the profession.

It was eight years before I met her again. I had business with a well-known West End solicitor. The clerk, thinking his employer was alone, ushered me at once into his room. Mr.—— was engaged in earnest conversation with a lady. I apologised. “It’s all right,” said Mr.——, “the lady is just going.” The lady, taking the hint, rose, and went out.

I saw her features as she passed me, for she had not then lowered her veil, and they seemed familiar to me.

“Who do you think that was?” said Mr.—— mysteriously, as the door closed behind his visitor.

“I don’t know,” I said; “but I think I’ve seen her before somewhere. Who is she?”

“That, my dear fellow, is Dorcas Dene, the famous lady detective. You may not have heard of her; but with our profession and with the police, she has a great reputation.”

“Oh! Is she a private inquiry agent, or a female member of the Criminal Investigation Department?”

“She holds no official position,” replied my friend, “but works entirely on her own account. She has been mixed up in some of the most remarkable cases of the day— cases that sometimes come into court, but which are far more frequently settled in a solicitor’s office.”

“If it isn’t an indiscreet question, what is she doing for you? You are not in the criminal business.”

“No, I am only an old-fashioned, humdrum family solicitor, but I have a very peculiar case in hand just now for one of my clients. I am not revealing a professional secret when I tell you that young Lord Helsham, who has recently come of age, has mysteriously disappeared. The matter has already been guardedly referred to in the gossip column of the society papers. His mother, Lady Helsham, who is a client of mine, has been to me in the greatest distress of mind. She is satisfied that her boy is alive and well. The poor lady is convinced that it is a case of cherchez la femme, and she is desperately afraid that her son, perhaps in the toils of some unprincipled woman, may be induced to contract a disastrous mésalliance. That is the only reason she can suggest to me for his extraordinary conduct.”

“And the famous lady detective who has just left your office is to unravel the mystery— is that it?”

“Yes. All our own inquiries having failed, I yesterday decided to place the case in her hands, as it was Lady Helsham’s earnest desire that no communication should be made to the police. She is most anxious that the scandal shall not be made a public one. To-day Dorcas Dene has all the facts in her possession, and she has just gone to see Lady Helsham. And now, my dear fellow, what can I do for you?”

My business was a very trifling matter. It was soon discussed and settled, and then Mr.—— invited me to lunch with him at a neighbouring restaurant. After lunch I strolled back with him as far as his office. As we approached, a cab drove up to the door and a lady alighted.

“By Jove! it’s your lady detective again,” I exclaimed.

The lady detective saw us, and came towards us.

“Excuse me,” she said to Mr.——, “I want just a word or two with you.”

Something in her voice struck me then, and suddenly I remembered where I had seen her before.

“I beg your pardon,” I said, “but are we not old friends?”

“Oh, yes,” replied the lady detective with a smile; “I knew you at once, but thought you had forgotten me. I have changed a good deal since I left the theatre.”

“You have changed your name and your profession, but hardly your appearance— I ought to have known you at once. May I wait for you here while you discuss your business with Mr.——? I should like to have a few minutes’ chat with you about old times.”

Dorcas Lester— or rather Dorcas Dene, as I must call her now— gave a little nod of assent, and I walked up and down the street smoking my cigar for fully a quarter of an hour before she reappeared.

“I’m afraid I’ve kept you waiting a long time,” she said pleasantly, “and now if you want to talk to me you will have to come home with me. I’ll introduce you to my husband. You needn’t hesitate or think you’ll be in the way, because, as a matter of fact, directly I saw you I made up my mind you could be exceedingly useful to me.”

She raised her umbrella and stopped a taxi, and before I quite appreciated the situation, we were making our way to St. John’s Wood.

On the journey Dorcas Dene was confidential. She told me that she had taken to the stage because her father, an artist, had died suddenly and left her and her mother nothing but a few unmarketable pictures.

“Poor dad!” she said. “He was very clever, and he loved us very dearly, but he was only a great big boy to the last. When he was doing well he spent everything he made, and enjoyed life— when he was doing badly he did bills and pawned things, and thought it was rather fun. At one time he would be treating us to dinner at the Café Royal and the theatre afterwards, and at another time he would be showing us how to live as cheaply as he used to do in his old Paris days in the Quartier Latin, and cooking our meals himself at the studio fire.

“Well, when he died I got on to the stage, and at last— as I dare-say you remember— I was earning two guineas a week. On that my mother and I lived in two rooms in St. Paul’s Road, Camden Town.

“Then a young artist, a Mr. Paul Dene, who had been our friend and constant visitor in my father’s lifetime, fell in love with me. He had risen rapidly in his profession, and was making money. He had no relatives, and his income was seven or eight hundred a year, and promised to be much larger. Paul proposed to me, and I accepted him. He insisted that I should leave the stage, and he would take a pretty little house, and mother should come and live with us, and we could all be happy together.

“We took the house we are going to now— a sweet little place with a lovely garden in Elm Tree Road, St. John’s Wood— and for two years we were very happy. Then a terrible misfortune happened. Paul had an illness and became blind. He would never be able to paint again.

“When I had nursed him back to health I found that the interest of what we had saved would barely pay the rent of our house. I did not want to break up our home— what was to be done? I thought of the stage again, and I had just made up my mind to see if I could not get an engagement, when chance settled my future for me and gave me a start in a very different profession.

“In the next house to us there lived a gentleman, a Mr. Johnson, who was a retired superintendent of police. Since his retirement he had been conducting a high-class private inquiry business, and was employed in many delicate family matters by a well-known firm of solicitors who are supposed to have the secrets of half the aristocracy locked away in their strong room.

“Mr. Johnson had been a frequent visitor of ours, and there was nothing which delighted Paul more in our quiet evenings than a chat and a pipe with the genial, good-hearted ex-superintendent of police. Many a time have I and my husband sat till the small hours by our cosy fireside listening to the strange tales of crime, and the unravelling of mysteries which our kind neighbour had to tell. There was something fascinating to us in following the slow and cautious steps with which our friend— who looked more like a jolly sea captain than a detective— had threaded his way through the Hampton Court maze in the centre of which lay the truth which it was his business to discover.

“He must have thought a good deal of Paul’s opinion, for after a time he would come in and talk over cases which he had in hand— without mentioning names when the business was confidential— and the view which Paul took of the mystery more than once turned out to be the correct one. From this constant association with a private detective we began to take a kind of interest in his work, and when there was a great case in the papers which seemed to defy the efforts of Scotland Yard, Paul and I would talk it over together, and discuss it and build up our own theories around it.

“After my poor Paul lost his sight Mr. Johnson, who was a widower, would come in whenever he was at home— many of his cases took him out of London for weeks together— and help to cheer my poor boy up by telling him all about the latest romance or scandal in which he had been engaged.

“On these occasions my mother, who is a dear, old-fashioned, simple-minded woman, would soon make an excuse to leave us. She declared that to listen to Mr. Johnson’s stories made her nervous. She would soon begin to believe that every man and woman she met had a guilty secret, and the world was one great Chamber of Horrors with living figures instead of waxwork ones like those of Madame Tussaud’s.

“I had told Mr. Johnson of our position when I found that it would be necessary for me to do something to supplement the hundred a year which was all that Paul’s money would bring us in, and he had agreed with me that the stage afforded the best opening.

“One morning I made up my mind to go to the agent’s. I had dressed myself in my best and had anxiously consulted my looking-glass. I was afraid that my worries and the long strain of my husband’s illness might have left their mark upon my features and spoilt my ‘market value’ in the managerial eye.

“I had taken such pains with myself, and my mind was so concentrated upon the object I had in view, that when I was quite satisfied with my appearance I ran into our little sitting-room, and, without thinking, said to my husband, ‘Now I’m off! How do you think I look, dear?’”

“My poor Paul turned his sightless eyes towards me, and his lip quivered. Instantly I saw what my thoughtlessness had done. I flung my arms round him and kissed him, and then, the tears in my eyes, I ran out of the room and went down the front garden. When I opened the door Mr. Johnson was outside with his hand on the bell.

“ ‘Where are you going?’ he said.

“ ‘To the agent, to see about an engagement.’

“ ‘Come back; I want to talk to you.’

“I led the way into the house, and we went into the dining-room, which was empty.

“ ‘What do you think you could get on the stage?’ he said.

“ ‘Oh, if I’m lucky I may get what I had before— two guineas a week.’

“ ‘Well, then, put off the stage for a little and I can give you something that will pay you a great deal better. I’ve just got a case in which I must have the assistance of a lady. The lady who has worked for me the last two years has been idiot enough to get married, with the usual consequences, and I’m in a fix.’

“ ‘You— you want me to be a lady detective— to watch people?’ I gasped. ‘Oh, I couldn’t!’

“‘My dear Mrs. Dene,’ Mr. Johnson said gently, ‘I have too much respect for you and your husband to offer you anything that you need be afraid of accepting. I want you to help me to rescue an unhappy man who is being so brutally blackmailed that he has run away from his broken-hearted wife and his sorrowing children. That is surely a business transaction in which an angel could engage without soiling its wings.’

“ ‘But I’m not clever at— at that sort of thing!’

“ ‘You are cleverer than you think. I have formed a very high opinion of your qualifications for our business. You have plenty of shrewd common sense, you are a keen observer, and you have been an actress. Come, the wife’s family are rich, and I am to have a good round sum if I save the poor fellow and get him home again. I can give you a guinea a day and your expenses, and you have only to do what I tell you.’

“I thought everything over, and then I accepted— on one condition. I was to see how I got on before Paul was told anything about it. If I found that being a lady detective was repugnant to me— if I found that it involved any sacrifice of my womanly instincts— I should resign, and my husband would never know that I had done anything of the sort.

“Mr. Johnson agreed, and we left together for his office.

“That was how I first became a lady detective. I found that the work interested me, and that I was not so awkward as I had expected to be. I was successful in my first undertaking, and Mr. Johnson insisted on my remaining with him and eventually we became partners. A year ago he retired, strongly recommending me to all his clients, and that is how you find me to-day a professional lady detective.”

“And one of the best in England,” I said, with a bow. “My friend Mr.—— has told me of your great reputation.”

Dorcas Dene smiled.

“Never mind about my reputation,” she said. “Here we are at my house— now you’ve got to come in and be introduced to my husband and to my mother and to Toddlekins.”

“Toddlekins— I beg pardon— that’s the baby, I suppose?”

A shade crossed Dorcas Dene’s pretty womanly face, and I thought I saw her soft grey eyes grow moist.

“No— we have no family. Toddlekins is a dog.”

I had become a constant visitor at Elm Tree Road. I had conceived a great admiration for the brave and yet womanly woman who, when her artist husband was stricken with blindness, and the future looked dark for both of them, had gallantly made the best of her special gifts and opportunities and nobly undertaken a profession which was not only a harassing and exhausting one for a woman, but by no means free from grave personal risks.

Dorcas Dene was always glad to welcome me for her husband’s sake. “Paul has taken to you immensely,” she said to me one afternoon, “and I hope you will call in and spend an hour or two with him whenever you can. My cases take me away from home so much— he cannot read, and my mother, with the best intentions in the world, can never converse with him for more than five minutes without irritating him. Her terribly matter of fact views of life are, to use his own expression, absolutely ‘rasping’ to his dreamy, artistic temperament.”

I had plenty of spare time on my hands, and so it became my custom to drop in two or three times a week, and smoke a pipe, and chat with Paul. His conversation was always interesting, and the gentle resignation with which he bore his terrible affliction won my heart. But I am not ashamed to confess that my frequent journeys to Elm Tree Road were also largely influenced by my desire to see Dorcas Dene, and hear more of her strange adventures and experiences.

From the moment she knew that her husband valued my companionship she treated me as one of the family, and when I was fortunate enough to find her at home, she discussed her professional affairs openly before me. I was grateful for this confidence, and I was sometimes able to assist her by going about with her in cases where the presence of a male companion was a material advantage to her. I had upon one occasion laughingly dubbed myself her “assistant,” and by that name I was afterwards generally known. There was only one drawback to the pleasure I felt at being associated with Dorcas Dene in her detective work. I saw that it would be quite impossible for me to avoid reproducing my experiences in some form or other. One day I broached the subject to her cautiously.

“Are you not afraid of the assistant one day revealing the professional secrets of his chief?” I said.

“Not at all,” replied Dorcas— everybody called her Dorcas, and I fell into the habit when I found that she and her husband preferred it to the formal “Mrs. Dene”— “I am quite sure that you will not be able to resist the temptation.”

“And you don’t object?”

“Oh, no, but with this stipulation, that you will use the material in such a way as not to identify any of the cases with the real parties concerned.”

That lifted a great responsibility from my shoulders, and made me more eager than ever to prove myself a valuable “assistant” to the charming lady who honoured me with her confidence.

WE WERE SITTING in the dining-room one evening after dinner. Mrs. Lester was looking contemptuously over the last number of the Tatler, and wondering out loud what on earth young women were coming to. Paul was smoking the old briar-root pipe which had been his constant companion in the studio when he was able to paint, poor fellow, and Dorcas was lying down on the sofa. Toddlekins, nestled up close to her, was snoring gently after the manner of his kind.

Dorcas had had a hard and exciting week, and had not been ashamed to confess that she felt a little played out. She had just succeeded in rescuing a young lady of fortune from the toils of an unprincipled Russian adventurer, and stopping the marriage almost at the altar rails by the timely production of the record of the would-be bridegroom, which she obtained with the assistance of the head of the French detective police. It was a return compliment. Dorcas had only a short time previously undertaken for the Chef de la Sureté a delicate investigation, in which the son of one of the noblest houses in France was involved, and had nipped in the bud a scandal which would have kept the Boulevards chattering for a month.

Paul and I were conversing below our voices, for Dorcas’s measured breathing showed us that she had fallen into a doze.

Suddenly Toddlekins opened his eyes and uttered an angry growl. He had heard the front gate bell.

A minute later the servant entered and handed a card to her mistress, who, with her eyes still half closed, was sitting up on the sofa.

“The gentleman says he must see you at once, ma’am, on business of the greatest importance.”

Dorcas looked at the card. “Show the gentleman into the dining-room,” she said to the servant, “and say that I will be with him directly.”

Then she went to the mantel-glass and smoothed away the evidence of her recent forty winks. “Do you know him at all?” she said, handing me the card.

“Colonel Hargreaves, Orley Park, near Godalming.” I shook my head, and Dorcas, with a little tired sigh, went to see her visitor.

A few minutes later the dining-room bell rang, and presently the servant came into the drawing-room. “Please, sir,” she said, addressing me, “mistress says will you kindly come to her at once?”

When I entered the dining-room I was astonished to see an elderly, soldierly looking man lying back unconscious in the easy chair, and Dorcas Dene bending over him.

“I don’t think it’s anything but a faint,” she said. “He’s very excited and overwrought, but if you’ll stay here I’ll go and get some brandy. You had better loosen his collar— or shall we send for a doctor?”

“No, I don’t think it is anything serious,” I said, after a hasty glance at the invalid.

As soon as Dorcas had gone I began to loosen the Colonel’s collar, but I had hardly commenced before, with a deep sigh, he opened his eyes and came to himself.

“You’re better now,” I said. “Come— that’s all right.”

The Colonel stared about him for a moment, and then said, “I— I— where is the lady?”

“She’ll be here in a moment. She’s gone to get some brandy.”

“Oh, I’m all right now, thank you. I suppose it was the excitement, and I’ve been travelling, had nothing to eat, and I’m so terribly upset. I don’t often do this sort of thing, I assure you.”

Dorcas returned with the brandy. The Colonel brightened up directly she came into the room. He took the glass she offered him and drained the contents.

“I’m all right now,” he said. “Pray let me get on with my story. I hope you will be able to take the case up at once. Let me see— where was I?”

He gave a little uneasy glance in my direction. “You can speak without reserve before this gentleman,” said Dorcas. “It is possible he may be able to assist us if you wish me to come to Orley Park at once. So far you have told me that your only daughter, who is five-and-twenty, and lives with you, was found last night on the edge of the lake in your grounds, half in the water and half out. She was quite insensible, and was carried into the house and put to bed. You were in London at the time, and returned to Orley Park this morning in consequence of a telegram you received. That is as far as you had got when you became ill.”

“Yes— yes!” exclaimed the Colonel, “but I am quite well again now. When I arrived at home this morning shortly before noon I was relieved to find that Maud— that is my poor girl’s name— was quite conscious, and the doctor had left a message that I was not to be alarmed, and that he would return and see me early in the afternoon.

“I went at once to my daughter’s room and found her naturally in a very low, distressed state. I asked her how it had happened, as I could not understand it, and she told me that she had gone out in the grounds after dinner and must have turned giddy when by the edge of the lake and fallen in.”

“Is it a deep lake?” asked Dorcas.

“Yes, in the middle, but shallow near the edge. It is a largish lake, with a small fowl island in the centre, and we have a boat upon it.”

“Probably it was a sudden fainting fit— such as you yourself have had just now. Your daughter may be subject to them.”

“No, she is a thoroughly strong, healthy girl.”

“I am sorry to have interrupted you,” said Dorcas; “pray go on, for I presume there is something more than a fainting fit behind this accident, or you would not have come to engage my services in the matter.”

“There is a great deal more behind it,” replied Colonel Hargreaves, pulling nervously at his grey moustache. “I left my daughter’s bedside devoutly thankful that Providence had preserved her from such a dreadful death, but when the doctor arrived he gave me a piece of information which caused me the greatest uneasiness and alarm.”

“He didn’t believe in the fainting fit?” said Dorcas, who had been closely watching the Colonel’s features.

The Colonel looked at Dorcas Dene in astonishment. “I don’t know how you have divined that,” he said, “but your surmise is correct. The doctor told me that he had questioned Maud himself, and she had told him the same story— sudden giddiness and a fall into the water. But he had observed that on her throat there were certain marks, and that her wrists were bruised.

“When he told me this I did not at first grasp his meaning. ‘It must have been the violence of the fall,’ I said.

“The doctor shook his head and assured me that no accident would account for the marks his experienced eye had detected. The marks round the throat must have been caused by the clutch of an assailant. The wrists could only have been bruised in the manner they were by being held in a violent and brutal grip.”

Dorcas Dene, who had been listening apparently without much interest, bent forward as the Colonel made this extraordinary statement. “I see,” she said. “Your daughter told you that she had fallen into the lake, and the doctor assures you that she must have told you an untruth. She had been pushed or flung in by some one else after a severe struggle.”

“Yes!”

“And the young lady, when you questioned her further, with this information in your possession, what did she say?”

“She appeared very much excited, and burst into tears. When I referred to the marks on her throat, which were now beginning to show discoloration more distinctly, she declared that she had invented the story of the faint in order not to alarm me— that she had been attacked by a tramp who must have got into the grounds, and that he had tried to rob her, and that in the struggle, which took place near the edge of the lake, he had thrown her down at the water’s edge and then made his escape.”

“And that explanation you do accept?” said Dorcas, looking at the Colonel keenly.

“How can I? Why should my daughter try to screen a tramp? Why did she tell the doctor an untruth? Surely the first impulse of a terrified woman rescued from a terrible death would have been to have described her assailant in order that he might have been searched for and brought to justice.”

“And the police, have they made any inquiries? Have they learned if any suspicious persons were seen about that evening?”

“I have not been to the police. I talked the matter over with the doctor. He says that the police inquiries would make the whole thing public property, and it would be known everywhere that my daughter’s story, which has now gone all over the neighbourhood, was untrue. But the whole affair is so mysterious, and to me so alarming, that I could not leave it where it is. It was the doctor who advised me to come to you and let the inquiry be a private one.”

“You need employ no one if your daughter can be persuaded to tell the truth. Have you tried?”

“Yes. But she insists that it was a tramp, and declares that until the bruises betrayed her she kept to the fainting-fit story in order to make the affair as little alarming to me as possible.”

Dorcas Dene rose. “What time does the last train leave for Godalming?”

“In an hour,” said the Colonel, looking at his watch. “At the station my carriage will be waiting to take us to Orley Court. I want you to stay at the Court until you have discovered the key to the mystery.”

“No,” said Dorcas, after a minute’s thought. “I could do no good to-night, and my arrival with you would cause talk among the servants. Go back by yourself. Call on the doctor. Tell him to say his patient requires constant care during the next few days, and that he has sent for a trained nurse from London. The trained nurse will arrive about noon to-morrow.”

“And you?” exclaimed the Colonel, “won’t you come?”

Dorcas smiled. “Oh, yes; I shall be the trained nurse.”

The Colonel rose. “If you can discover the truth and let me know what it is my daughter is concealing from me I shall be eternally grateful,” he said. “I shall expect you to-morrow at noon.”

“To-morrow at noon you will expect the trained nurse for whom the doctor has telegraphed. Good evening.”

I went to the door with Colonel Hargreaves, and saw him down the garden to the front gate.

When I went back to the house Dorcas Dene was waiting for me in the hall. “Are you busy for the next few days?” she said.

“No— I have practically nothing to do.”

“Then come to Godalming with me to-morrow. You are an artist, and I must get you permission to sketch that lake while I am nursing my patient indoors.”

IT WAS PAST NOON when the fly, hired from the station, stopped at the lodge gates of Orley Park, and the lodge-keeper’s wife opened them to let us in.

“You are the nurse for Miss Maud, I suppose, miss?” she said, glancing at Dorcas’s neat hospital nurse’s costume.

“Yes.”

“The Colonel and the doctor are both at the house expecting you, miss— I hope it isn’t serious with the poor young lady.”

“I hope not,” said Dorcas, with a pleasant smile.

A minute or two later the fly pulled up at the door of a picturesque old Elizabethan mansion. The Colonel, who had seen the fly from the window, was on the steps waiting for us, and at once conducted us into the library. Dorcas explained my presence in a few words. I was her assistant, and through me she would be able to make all the necessary inquiries in the neighbourhood.

“To your people Mr. Saxon will be an artist to whom you have given permission to sketch the house and the grounds— I think that will be best.”

The Colonel promised that I should have free access at all hours to the grounds, and it was arranged that I should stay at a pretty little inn which was about half a mile from the park. Having received full instructions on the way down from Dorcas, I knew exactly what to do, and bade her good-bye until the evening, when I was to call at the house to see her.

The doctor came into the room to conduct the new nurse to the patient’s bedside, and I left to fulfil my instructions.

At “The Chequers,” which was the name of the inn, it was no sooner known that I was an artist, and had permission to sketch in the grounds of Orley Park, than the landlady commenced to entertain me with accounts of the accident which had nearly cost Miss Hargreaves her life.

The fainting-fit story, which was the only one that had got about, had been accepted in perfect faith.

“It’s a lonely place, that lake, and there’s nobody about the grounds, you see, at night, sir— it was a wonder the poor young lady was found so soon.”

“Who found her?” I asked.

“One of the gardeners who lives in a cottage in the park. He’d been to Godalming for the evening, and was going home past the lake.”

“What time was it?”

“Nearly ten o’clock. It was lucky he saw her, for it had been dark nearly an hour then, and there was no moon.”

“What did he think when he found her?”

“Well, sir, to tell you the truth, he thought at first it was suicide, and that the young lady hadn’t gone far enough in and had lost her senses.”

“Of course, he couldn’t have thought it was murder or anything of that sort,” I said, “because nobody could get in at night— without coming through the lodge gates.”

“Oh! yes, they could at one place, but it ’ud have to be somebody who knew the dogs or was with some one who did. There’s a couple of big mastiffs have got a good run there, and no stranger’ud try to clamber over— it’s a side gate used by the family, sir— after they’d started barking.”

“Did they bark that night at all, do you know?”

“Well, yes,” said the landlady. “Now I come to think of it, Mr. Peters— that’s the lodge-keeper— heard ’em, but they was quiet in a minute, so he took no more notice.”

That afternoon the first place I made up my mind to sketch was the Lodge. I found Mr. Peters at home, and my pass from the Colonel secured his good graces at once. His wife had told him of the strange gentleman who had arrived with the nurse, and I explained that there being only one fly at the station and our destination the same, the nurse had kindly allowed me to share the vehicle with her.

I made elaborate pencil marks and notes in my new sketching book, telling Mr. Peters I was only doing something preliminary and rough, in order to conceal the amateurish nature of my efforts, and keep the worthy man gossiping about the “accident” to his young mistress.

I referred to the landlady’s statement that he had heard dogs bark that night.

“Oh, yes, but they were quiet directly.”

“Probably some stranger passing down by the side gate, eh?”

“Most likely, sir. I was a bit uneasy at first, but when they quieted down I thought it was all right.”

“Why were you uneasy?”

“Well, there’d been a queer sort of a looking man hanging about that evening. My missus saw him peering in at the lodge gates about seven o’clock.”

“A tramp?”

“No, a gentlemanly sort of man, but he gave my missus a turn, he had such wild, staring eyes. But he spoke all right. My missus asked him what he wanted, and he asked her what was the name of the big house he could see, and who lived there. She told him it was Orley Park, and Colonel Hargreaves lived there, and he thanked her and went away. A tourist, maybe, sir, or perhaps an artist gentleman, like yourself.”

“Staying in the neighbourhood and studying its beauties, perhaps.”

“No; when I spoke about it the next day in the town I heard as he’d come by the train that afternoon; the porters had noticed him, he seemed so odd.”

I finished my rough sketch and then asked Mr. Peters to take me to the scene of the accident. It was a large lake and answered the description given by the Colonel.

“That there’s the place where Miss Maud was found,” said Mr. Peters. “You see it’s shallow there, and her head was just on the bank here out of the water.”

“Thank you. That’s a delightful little island in the middle. I’ll smoke a pipe here and sketch. Don’t let me detain you.”

The lodge-keeper retired, and obeying the instructions received from Dorcas Dene, I examined the spot carefully.

The marks of hobnailed boots were distinctly visible in the mud at the side, near the place where the struggle, admitted by Miss Hargreaves, had taken place. They might be the tramp’s— they might be the gardener’s; I was not skilled enough in the art of footprints to determine. But I had obtained a certain amount of information, and with that, at seven o’clock, I went to the house and asked for the Colonel.

I had, of course, nothing to say to him, except to ask him to let Dorcas Dene know that I was there. In a few minutes Dorcas came to me with her bonnet and cloak on.

“I’m going to get a walk while it is light,” she said; “come with me.”

Directly we were outside I gave her my information, and she at once decided to visit the lake.

She examined the scene of the accident carefully, and I pointed out the hobnailed boot marks.

“Yes,” she said, “those are the gardener’s probably— I’m looking for some one else’s.”

“Whose?”

“These,” she said, suddenly stooping and pointing to a series of impressions in the soil at the edge. “Look— here are a woman’s footprints, and here are larger ones beside them— now close to— now a little way apart— now crossing each other. Do you see anything particular in these footprints?”

“No— except that there are no nails in them.”

“Exactly— the footprints are small, but larger than Miss Hargreaves’— the shape is an elegant one: you see the toes are pointed, and the sole is a narrow one. No tramp would have boots like those. Where did you say Mrs. Peters saw that strange-looking gentleman?”

“Peering through the lodge gates.”

“Let us go there at once.”

Mrs. Peters came out and opened the gates for us.

“What a lovely evening,” said Dorcas. “Is the town very far?”

“Two miles, miss.”

“Oh, that’s too far for me to-night.”

She took out her purse and selected some silver.

“Will you please send down the first thing in the morning and buy me a bottle of Wood Violet scent at the chemist’s. I always use it, and I’ve come away without any.”

She was just going to hand some silver to Mrs. Peters, when she dropped her purse in the roadway, and the money rolled in every direction.

We picked most of it up, but Dorcas declared there was another half-sovereign. For fully a quarter of an hour she peered about in every direction outside the lodge gates for that missing half-sovereign, and I assisted her. She searched for quite ten minutes in one particular spot, a piece of sodden, loose roadway close against the right-hand gate.

Suddenly she exclaimed that she had found it, and, slipping her hand into her pocket, rose, handed Mrs. Peters a five-shilling piece for the scent, beckoned me to follow her, and strolled down the road.

“How came you to drop your purse? Are you nervous to-night?” I said.

“Not at all,” replied Dorcas, with a smile. “I dropped my purse that the money might roll and give me an opportunity of closely examining the ground outside the gates.”

“Did you really find your half-sovereign?”

“I never lost one; but I found what I wanted.”

“And that was?”

“The footprints of the man who stood outside the gates that night. They are exactly the same shape as those by the side of the lake. The person Maud Hargreaves struggled with that night, the person who flung her into the lake and whose guilt she endeavoured to conceal by declaring she had met with an accident, was the man who wanted to know the name of the place, and asked who lived there— the man with the wild eyes.”

“YOU ARE ABSOLUTELY certain that the footprints of the man with the wild eyes, who frightened Mrs. Peters at the gate, and the footprints which are mixed up with those of Miss Hargreaves by the side of the lake, are the same?” I said to Dorcas Dene.

“Absolutely certain.”

“Then perhaps, if you describe him, the Colonel may be able to recognize him.”

“No,” said Dorcas Dene, “I have already asked him if he knew any one who could possibly bear his daughter a grudge, and he declares that there is no one to his knowledge. Miss Hargreaves has scarcely any acquaintances.”

“And has had no love affair?” I asked.

“None, her father says, but of course he can only answer for the last three years. Previously to that he was in India, and Maud— who was sent home at the age of fourteen, when her mother died— had lived with an aunt at Norwood.”

“Who do you think this man was who managed to get into the grounds and meet or surprise Miss Hargreaves by the lake— a stranger to her?”

“No; had he been a stranger, she would not have shielded him by inventing the fainting fit story.”

We had walked some distance from the house, when an empty station fly passed us. We got in, Dorcas telling the man to drive us to the station.

When we got there, she told me to go and interview the porter and try and find out if a man of the description of our suspect had left on the night of the “accident.”

I found the man who had told Mr. Peters that he had seen such a person arrive, and had noticed the peculiar expression of his eyes. This man assured me that no such person had left from that station. He had told his mates about him, and some of them would be sure to have seen him. The stranger brought no luggage, and gave up a single ticket from Waterloo.

Dorcas was waiting for me outside, and I gave her my information.

“No luggage,” she said; “then he wasn’t going to an hotel or to stay at a private house.”

“But he might be living somewhere about.”

“No; the porter would have recognized him if he had been in the habit of coming here.”

“But he must have gone away after flinging Miss Hargreaves into the water. He might have got out of the grounds again and walked to another station, and caught a train back to London.”

“Yes, he might,” said Dorcas, “but I don’t think he did. Come, we’ll take the fly back to Orley Park.”

Just before we reached the park Dorcas stopped the driver, and we got out and dismissed the man.

“Whereabouts are those dogs— near the private wooden door in the wall used by the family, aren’t they?” she said to me.

“Yes, Peters pointed the spot out to me this afternoon.”

“Very well, I’m going in. Meet me by the lake to-morrow morning about nine. But watch me now as far as the gates. I’ll wait outside five minutes before ringing. When you see I’m there, go to that portion of the wall near the private door. Clamber up and peer over. When the dogs begin to bark, and come at you, notice if you could possibly drop over and escape them without some one they knew called them off. Then jump down again and go back to the inn.”

I obeyed Dorcas’s instructions; and when I had succeeded in climbing to the top of the wall, the dogs flew out of their kennel, and commenced to bark furiously. Had I dropped I must have fallen straight into their grip. Suddenly I heard a shout, and I recognized the voice— it was the lodge-keeper. I dropped back into the road and crept along in the shadow of the wall. In the distance I could hear Peters talking to some one, and I knew what had happened. In the act of letting Dorcas in, he had heard the dogs, and had hurried off to see what was the matter. Dorcas had followed him.

AT NINE O’CLOCK next morning I found Dorcas waiting for me.

“You did your work admirably last night,” she said. “Peters was in a terrible state of alarm. He was very glad for me to come with him. He quieted the dogs, and we searched about everywhere in the shrubbery to see if any one was in hiding. That man wasn’t let in at the door that night by Miss Hargreaves; he dropped over. I found the impression of two deep footprints close together, exactly as they would be made by a drop or jump down from a height.”

“Did he go back that way— were there return footsteps?”

I thought I had made a clever suggestion, but Dorcas smiled, and shook her head. “I didn’t look. How could he return past the dogs when Miss Hargreaves was lying in the lake? They’d have torn him to pieces.”

“And you still think this man with the wild eyes is guilty! Who can he have been?”

“His name was Victor.”

“You have discovered that!” I exclaimed. “Has Miss Hargreaves been talking to you?”

“Last night I tried a little experiment. When she was asleep, and evidently dreaming, I went quietly in the dark and stood just behind the bed, and in the gruffest voice I could assume, I said, bending down to her ear, ‘Maud!’

“She started up, and cried out, ‘Victor!’

“In a moment I was by her side, and found her trembling violently. ‘What’s the matter, dear?’ I said, ‘have you been dreaming?’

“ ‘Yes— yes,’ she said. ‘I— I was dreaming.’

“I soothed her, and talked to her a little while, and finally she lay down again and fell asleep.”

“That’s something,” I said, “to have got the man’s Christian name.”

“Yes, it’s a little, but I think we shall have the surname to-day. You must go up to town and do a little commission for me presently. In the meantime, pull that boat in and row me across to the fowl island. I want to search it.”

“You don’t imagine the man’s hiding there,” I said. “It’s too small.”

“Pull me over,” said Dorcas, getting into the boat.

I obeyed, and presently we were on the little island.

Dorcas carefully surveyed the lake in every direction. Then she walked round and examined the foliage and the reeds that were at the edge and drooping into the water.

Suddenly pushing a mass of close over-hanging growth aside, she thrust her hand deep down under it into the water and drew out a black, saturated, soft felt hat.

“I thought if anything drifted that night, this is where it would get caught and entangled,” said Dorcas.

“If it is that man’s hat, he must have gone away bareheaded.”

“Quite so,” replied Dorcas, “but first let us ascertain if it is his. Row ashore at once.”

She wrung the water from the hat, squeezed it together and wrapped it up in her pocket-handkerchief and put it under her cloak.

When we were ashore, I went to the lodge and got Mrs. Peters on to the subject of the man with the wild eyes. Then I asked what sort of a hat he had on, and Mrs. Peters said it was a soft felt hat with a dent in the middle, and I knew that our find was a good one.

When I told Dorcas she gave a little smile of satisfaction.

“We’ve got his Christian name and his hat,” she said; “now we want the rest of him. You can catch the 11.20 easily.”

“Yes.”

She drew an envelope from her pocket and took a small photograph from it.

“That’s the portrait of a handsome young fellow,” she said. “By the style and size I should think it was taken four or five years ago. The photographers are the London Stereoscopic Company— the number of the negative is 111,492. If you go to them, they will search their books and give you the name and address of the original. Get it, and come back here.”

“Is that the man?” I said.

“I think so.”

“How on earth did you get it?”

“I amused myself while Miss Hargreaves was asleep by looking over the album in her boudoir. It was an old album, and filled with portraits of relatives and friends. I should say there were over fifty, some of them being probably her schoolfellows. I thought I might find something, you know. People have portraits given them, put them in an album, and almost forget they are there. I fancied Miss Hargreaves might have forgotten.

“But how did you select this from fifty? There were other male portraits, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes, but I took out every portrait and examined the back and the margin.”

I took the photo from Dorcas and looked at it. I noticed that a portion of the back had been rubbed away and was rough.

“That’s been done with an ink eraser,” said Dorcas. “That made me concentrate on this particular photo. There has been a name written there or some word the recipient didn’t want other eyes to see.”

“That is only surmise.”

“Quite so— but there’s a certainty in the photo itself. Look closely at that little diamond scarf-pin in the necktie. What shape is it?”

“It looks like a small V.”

“Exactly. It was fashionable a few years ago for gentlemen to wear a small initial pin. V stands for Victor— take that and the erasure together, and I think it’s worth a return fare to town to find out what name and address are opposite the negative number in the books of the London Stereoscopic Company.”

Before two o’clock I was interviewing the manager of the Stereoscopic Company, and he readily referred to the books. The photograph had been taken six years previously, and the name and address of the sitter were “Mr. Victor Dubois, Anerley Road, Norwood.”

Following Dorcas Dene’s instructions, I proceeded at once to the address given, and made inquiries for a Mr. Victor Dubois. No one of that name resided there. The present tenants had been in possession for three years.

As I was walking back along the road I met an old postman. I thought I would ask him if he knew the name anywhere in the neighbourhood. He thought a minute, then said, “Yes— now I come to think of it, there was a Dubois here at No.—, but that was five years ago or more. He was an oldish, white-haired gentleman.”

“An old gentleman— Victor Dubois!”

“Ah, no— the old gentleman’s name was Mounseer Dubois, but there was a Victor. I suppose that must have been his son as lived with him. I know the name. There used to be letters addressed there for Mr. Victor most every day— sometimes twice a day— always in the same hand-writing, a lady’s— that’s what made me notice it.”

“And you don’t know where M. Dubois and his son went to?”

“No, I did hear as the old gentleman went off his head, and was put in a lunatic asylum; but they went out o’ my round.”

“You don’t know what he was, I suppose?”

“Oh, it said on the brass plate, ‘Professor of Languages.’ ”

I went back to town and took the first train to Godalming, and hastened to Orley Court to report the result of my inquiries to Dorcas.

She was evidently pleased, for she complimented me. Then she rang the bell— we were in the dining-room— and the servant entered.

“Will you let the Colonel know that I should like to see him?” said Dorcas, and the servant went to deliver the message.

“Are you going to tell him everything?” I said.

“I am going to tell him nothing yet,” replied Dorcas. “I want him to tell me something.”

The Colonel entered. His face was worn, and he was evidently worrying himself a great deal.

“Have you anything to tell me?” he said eagerly. “Have you found out what my poor girl is hiding from me?”

“I’m afraid I cannot tell you yet. But I want to ask you a few questions.”

“I have given you all the information I can already,” replied the Colonel a little bitterly.

“All you recollect, but now try and think. Your daughter, before you came back from India, was with her aunt at Norwood. Where was she educated from the time she left India?”

“She went to school at Brighton at first, but from the time she was sixteen she had private instruction at home.”

“She had professors, I suppose, for music, French, etc.?”

“Yes, I believe so. I paid bills for that sort of thing. My sister sent them out to me in India.”

“Can you remember the name of Dubois?”

The Colonel thought a little while.

“Dubois? Dubois? Dubois?” he said. “I have an idea there was such a name among the accounts my sister sent to me, but whether it was a dressmaker or a French master I really can’t say.”

“Then I think we will take it that your daughter had lessons at Norwood from a French professor named Dubois. Now, in any letters that your late sister wrote you to India, did she ever mention anything that had caused her uneasiness on Maud’s account?”

“Only once,” replied the Colonel, “and everything was satisfactorily explained afterwards. She left home one day at nine o’clock in the morning, and did not return until four in the afternoon. Her aunt was exceedingly angry, and Maud explained that she had met some friends at the Crystal Palace— she attended the drawing class there— had gone to see one of her fellow students off at the station, and sitting in the carriage, the train had started before she could get out and she had to go on to London. I expect my sister told me that to show me how thoroughly I might reply upon her as my daughter’s guardian.”

“Went on to London?” said Dorcas to me under her voice, “and she could have got out in three minutes at the next station to Norwood!” Then turning to the Colonel, she said, “Now, Colonel, when your wife died, what did you do with her wedding ring?”

“Good heavens, madam!” exclaimed the Colonel, rising and pacing the room. “What can my poor wife’s wedding ring have to do with my daughter’s being flung into the lake yonder?”

“I am sorry if my question appears absurd,” replied Dorcas quietly, “but will you kindly answer it?”

“My wife’s wedding ring is on my dead wife’s finger in her coffin in the graveyard at Simla,” exclaimed the Colonel, “and now perhaps you’ll tell me what all this means!”

“Tomorrow,” said Dorcas. “Now, if you will excuse me, I’ll take a walk with Mr. Saxon. Miss Hargreaves’ maid is with her, and she will be all right until I return.”

“Very well, very well!” exclaimed the Colonel, “but I beg— I pray of you to tell me what you know as soon as you can. I am setting spies upon my own child, and to me it is monstrous— and yet— and yet— what can I do? She won’t tell me, and for her sake I must know— I must know.”

The old Colonel grasped the proffered hand of Dorcas Dene.

“Thank you,” he said, his lips quivering.

DIRECTLY we were in the grounds Dorcas Dene turned eagerly to me.

“I’m treating you very badly,” she said, “but our task is nearly over. You must go back to town tonight. The first thing tomorrow morning go to Somerset House. You will find an old fellow named Daddy Green, a searcher in the inquiry room. Tell him you come from me, and give him this paper. When he has searched, telegraph the result to me, and come back by the next train.”

I looked at the paper, and found written on it in Dorcas’s hand:“Search wanted. Marriage— Victor Dubois and Maud Eleanor Hargreaves— probably between the years 1905 and 1908— London.”

I looked up from the paper at Dorcas Dene.

“Whatever makes you think she is a married woman?” I said.

“This,” exclaimed Dorcas, drawing an unworn wedding-ring from her purse. “I found it among a lot of trinkets at the bottom of a box her maid told me was her jewel-case. I took the liberty of trying all her keys till I opened it. A jewel-box tells many secrets to those who know how to read them.”

“And you concluded from that—?”

“That she wouldn’t keep a wedding-ring without it had belonged to some one dear to her or had been placed on her own finger. It is quite unworn, you see, so it was taken off immediately after the ceremony. It was only to make doubly sure that I asked the Colonel where his wife’s was.”

I DULY REPAIRED to Somerset House, and soon after midday the searcher brought a paper and handed it to me. It was a copy of the certificate of the marriage of Victor Dubois, bachelor, aged twenty-six, and Maud Eleanor Hargreaves, aged twenty-one, in London, in the year 1906. I telegraphed the news, wording the message simply “Yes,” and the date, and I followed my wire by the first train.

When I arrived at Orley Park I rang several times before any one came. Presently Mrs. Peters, looking very white and excited, came from the grounds and apologized for keeping me waiting.

“Oh, sir— such a dreadful thing!” she said— “a body in the lake!”

“A body!”

“Yes, sir— a man. The nurse as came with you here that day, she was rowing herself on the lake, and she must have stirred it pushing with her oar, for it come up all tangled with weeds. It’s a man sir, and I do believe it’s the man I saw at the gate that night.”

“The man with the wild eyes!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, sir! Oh, it is dreadful— Miss Maud first, and then this. Oh, what can it mean!”

I found Dorcas standing at the edge of the lake, and Peters and two of the gardeners lifting the drowned body of a man into the boat which was alongside.

Dorcas was giving instructions. “Lay it in the boat, and cover it with a tarpaulin,” she said. “Mind, nothing is to be touched till the police come. I will go and find the Colonel.”

As she turned away I met her.

“What a terrible thing! Is it Dubois?”

“Yes,” replied Dorcas. “I suspected he was there yesterday, but I wanted to find him myself instead of having the lake dragged.”

“Why?”

“Well, I didn’t want any one else to search the pockets. There might have been papers or letters, you know, which would have been read at the inquest, and might have compromised Miss Hargreaves. But there was nothing— —”

“What— you searched!”

“Yes, after I’d brought the poor fellow to the surface with the oars.”

“But how do you think he got in?”

“Suicide— insanity. The father was taken to a lunatic asylum— you learned that at Norwood yesterday. Son doubtless inherited tendency. Looks like a case of homicidal mania— he attacked Miss Hargreaves, whom he had probably tracked after years of separation, and after he had as he thought killed her, he drowned himself. At any rate, Miss Hargreaves is a free woman. She was evidently terrified of her husband when he was alive, and so— —”

I guessed what Dorcas was thinking as we went together to the house. At the door she held out her hand. “You had better go to the inn and return to town to-night,” she said. “You can do no more good, and had better keep out of it. I shall be home tomorrow. Come to Elm Tree Road in the evening.”

THE NEXT EVENING Dorcas told me all that had happened after I left. Paul had already heard it, and when I arrived was profuse in his thanks for the assistance I had rendered his wife. Mrs. Lester, however, felt compelled to remark that she never thought a daughter of hers would go gadding about the country fishing up corpses for a living.

Dorcas had gone to the Colonel and told him everything. The Colonel was in a terrible state, but Dorcas told him that the only way in which to ascertain the truth was for them to go to the unhappy girl together, and attempt, with the facts in their possession, to persuade her to divulge the rest.

When the Colonel told his daughter that the man she had married had flung her into the lake that night, she was dumbfounded, and became hysterical, but when she learned that Dubois had been found in the lake she became alarmed and instantly told all she knew.

She had been in the habit of meeting Victor Dubois constantly when she was at Norwood, at first with his father— her French master— and afterwards alone. He was handsome, young, romantic, and they fell madly in love. He was going away for some time to an appointment abroad, and he urged her to marry him secretly. She foolishly consented, and they parted at the church, she returning to her home and he going abroad the same evening.

She received letters from him clandestinely from time to time. Then he wrote that his father had become insane and had to be removed to a lunatic asylum, and he was returning. He had only time to see to his father’s removal and return to his appointment. She did not hear from him for a long time, and then through a friend at Norwood who knew the Dubois and their relatives she made inquiries. Victor had returned to England, and met with an accident which had injured his head severely. He had become insane and had been taken to a lunatic asylum.

Then the poor girl resolved to keep her marriage a secret for ever, especially as her father had returned from India, and she knew how bitterly it would distress him to learn that his daughter was the wife of a madman.

On the night of the affair Maud was in the grounds by herself. She was strolling by the lake after dinner, when she heard a sound, and the dogs began to bark. Looking up, she saw Victor Dubois scaling the wall. Fearful that the dogs would bring Peters or some one on the scene, she ran to them and silenced them, and her husband leapt down and stood by her.

“Come away!” she said, fearing the dogs might attack him or begin to bark again, and she led him round by the lake which was out of sight of the house and the lodge.

She forgot for the moment in her excitement that he had been mad. At first he was gentle and kind. He told her he had been ill and in an asylum, but had recently been discharged cured. Directly he regained his liberty he set out in search of his wife, and ascertained from an old Norwood acquaintance that Miss Hargreaves was now living with her father at Orley Park, near Godalming.

Maud begged him to go away quietly, and she would write to him. He tried to take her in his arms and kiss her, but instinctively she shrank from him. Instantly he became furious. Seized with a sudden mania, he grasped her by the throat. She struggled and freed herself.

They were at the edge of the lake. Suddenly the maniac got her by the throat again, and hurled her down into the water. She fell in up to her waist, but managed to drag herself towards the edge, but before she emerged she fell senseless— fortunately with her head on the bank just out of the water.

The murderer, probably thinking that she was dead, must have waded out into the deep water and drowned himself.

Before she left Orley Park Dorcas advised the Colonel to let the inquest be held without any light being thrown on the affair by him. Only he was to take care that the police received information that a man answering the description of the suicide had recently been discharged from a lunatic asylum.

We heard later that at the inquest an official from the asylum attended, and the local jury found that Victor Dubois, a lunatic, got into the grounds in some way, and drowned himself in the lake while temporarily insane. It was suggested by the coroner that probably Miss Hargreaves, who was too unwell to attend, had not seen the man, but might have been alarmed by the sound of his footsteps, and that this would account for her fainting away near the water’s edge. At any rate, the inquest ended in a satisfactory verdict, and the Colonel shortly afterwards took his daughter abroad with him on a Continental tour for the benefit of her health.

But of this, of course, we knew nothing on the evening after the eventful discovery, when I met Dorcas once more beneath her own roof-tree.

Paul was delighted to have his wife back again, and she devoted herself to him, and that evening had eyes and ears for no one else— not even for her faithful “assistant.”

__________________________

18: The Match

James Oliver Curwood

1878-1927

World's News (Sydney) 8 March 1913

SERGEANT BROKAW was hatchet-faced, with shifting pale-blue eyes that had a glint of cruelty in them. He was tall, and thin, and lithe as a cat. He belonged to the Royal North-west Mounted Police, and was one of the best men on the trail that had ever gone into the North. His business was man hunting. Ten years of seeking after human prey had given to him many of the characteristics of a fox. For six of those ten years he had represented law north of fifty-three. Now he had come to the end of his last hunt, close up to the Arctic Circle. For one hundred and eighty-seven days he had been following a man.

The hunt had begun in midsummer, and it was now midwinter. Billy Loring, who was wanted for murder, had been a hard man to find. But he was caught at last, and Brokaw was keenly exultant. It was his greatest achievement. It would mean a great deal for him down at headquarters.

In the rough and dimly lighted cabin his man sat opposite him, on a bench, his manacled hands crossed over his knees. He was a young er man than Brokaw— thirty, or a little better. His hair was long, reddish, and untrimmed. A stubble of reddish beard covered his face-

His eyes, too, were blue— of the deep, honest blue that one remembers, and most frequently trusts. He did not look like a criminal. There was something almost boyish in his face, a little hollowed by long privation. He was the sort of man that other men liked. Even Brokaw, who had a heart like flint in the face of crime, had melted a little.

"Ugh!" he shivered. "Listen to that beastly wind! It means three days of storm."

Outside a gale was blowing straight down from the Arctic. They could hear the steady moaning of it in the spruce tops over the cabin, and now and then there came one of those raging blasts that filled the night with strange shrieking sounds. Volleys of fine hard snow beat against the one window with a rattle like shot. In the cabin it was comfortable. It was Billy's cabin. He had built it deep in a swamp, where there were lynx and fisher cat to trap, and where he had thought that no one could find him. The sheet-iron stove was glowing hot. An oil lamp hung from the ceiling. Billy was sitting so that the glow of this fell in his face. It scintillated on the rings of steel about his wrists. Brokaw was a cautious man, as well as a clever one, and he took no chances.

"I like storms— when you're inside, an' close to a stove," replied Billy. "Makes me feel sort of— safe." He smiled a little grimly. Even at that it was not an unpleasant smile.

Brokaw's snow-reddened eyes gazed at the other.

"There's something in that," he said. "This storm will give you at least three days more of life."

"Won't you drop that?" asked the prisoner, turning his face a little, so that it was shaded from the light. "You've got me now, an' I know what's coming as well as you do." His voice was low and quiet, with the faintest trace of a broken note in it, deep down in his throat. "We're alone, old man, and a long  way from anyone. I ain't blaming you for catching me. I haven't got anything against you. So let's drop this other thing— what I'm going down to— and talk something pleasant. I know I'm going to hang. That's the law. It'll be unpleasant enough when it comes, don't you think? Let's talk about— about— home. Got any kids?"

Brokaw shook his head, and took his pipe from his mouth.

"Never married," he said shortly.

"Never married," mused Billy, regarding him with a curious softening of his blue eyes. "You don't know what you've missed, Brokaw. Of course. It's none o' my business, but you're got a home— somewhere."

Brokaw shook his head again. "Been in the service ten years," he said. "I've got a mother living with my brother down in York State. I've sort of lost track of them. Haven't seen 'em in five years."

Billy was looking at him steadily. Slowly he rose to his feet, lifted his manacled hands, and turned down the light.

"Hurts my eyes," he said, and he laughed frankly as he caught the suspicious glint in Brokaw's eyes. He seated himself again, and leaned over toward the other. "I haven't talked to a white man for three months," he added, a little hesitatingly. "I've been hiding— close. I had a dog for a time, but be died, an' I didn't dare go hunting for another. I knew you fellows were pretty close after me. But I wanted to get enough fur to take me to South America. Had it all planned, an' she was going to join me there— with the kid. Understand? If you'd kept away another month—"

There was a husky break in his voice, and he coughed to clear it.

"You don't mind if I talk, do you— about her, an' the kid? I've got to do it, or bust, or go mad. I've got to because— to-day— she was twenty-four— at ten o'clock in the morning— an' it's our wedding day."

The half gloom hid from Brokaw what was in the other's face. And then Billy laughed almost joyously. "Say, but she's been a true little pardner," he whispered proudly, as there came a lull in the storm. "She was just born for me, an' everything seemed to happen on her birthday, an' that's why I can't be downhearted even now. It's her birthday, you see, an' this morning, before you came, I was just that happy that I set a plate for her at the table, an' put her picture and a curl of her hair beside it—set the picture up so it was looking at me— an' we had breakfast together. Look here."

He moved to the table, with Brokaw watching him like a cat, and brought something back with him, wrapped in a soft piece of buck-skin. He unfolded the buckskin tenderly, and drew forth a long curl that rippled a dull red and gold in the lamp-glow, and then he handed a photograph to Brokaw.

"That's her!" he whispered.

Brokaw turned so that the light fell on the picture. A sweet, girlish face smiled at him from out of a wealth of flowing dishevelled curls.

"She had it taken that way just for me," explained Billy, with the enthusiasm of a boy in his voice. "She's always wore her hair in curls— an' a braid— for me, when we're home. I love it that way. Guess I may be silly, but I'll tell you why. That was down in York State, too. She lived in a cottage, all grown over with honeysuckle an' morning glory, with green hills and valleys all about it— and the old apple orchard just behind. That day we were in the orchard, all red an' white with bloom, and she dared me to a race. I let her beat me, and when I came up she stood under one of the trees, her cheeks like the pink blossoms, and her hair all tumbled about her like an armful of gold, shaking the loose apple blossoms down on her head. I forgot every-thing then, and I didn't stop till I had her in my arms, an'— an' she's been my little pardner ever since. After the baby came we moved up into Canada, where I had a good chance in a new mining town. An' then—"

A furious blast of the storm sent the overhanging spruce tops smashing against the top of the cabin. Straight overhead the wind shrieked almost like human voices, and the one window rattled as though it were shaken by human hands. The lamp had been burning lower and lower. It began to flicker now, the quick sputter of the wick lost in the noise of the pile. Then it went out. Brokaw leaned over and opened the door of the big box and the red glow of the fire took the place of the lamplight. He leaned back and re-lighted his pipe, eying Billy. The sudden blast, the going out of the light, the opening of the stove door, had all happened in a min-ute, but the interval was, long enough to bring a change into Billy's voice. It was cold and hard when he continued, He leaned over to-ward Brokaw, and the boyishness had gone from his face.

"Of course, I can't expect you to have any sympathy for this ether business, Brokaw," he went on. "Sympathy isn't in your line, an' you wouldn't be the big man you are in the service if you had it. But I'd like to know what you would have done. We were up there six months, and we'd both grown to love the big woods, and she was growing prettier and happier every day— when Thorne, the new superintendent, came up. One day she told me that she didn't like Thorne, but I didn't pay much, attention to that, and laughed at her, and said be was a good fellow. After that I could see that something was worrying her, and pretty soon I couldn't help from seeing what it was, and everything came out. It was Thorne. He was persecuting her. She hadn't told me, because she knew it would make trouble and I'd lose my job. One afternoon I came home earlier than usual, and found her, crying. She put her arms around my neck, and just cried it all out, with her face snuggled in my neck, and kissin' me—"

Brokaw could see the cords in Billy's neck. His manacled hands were clenched.

"What would you have done, Brokaw?" he asked huskily. "What if you had a wife, an' she told you that another man had insulted her, and was forcing his attentions on her, and she asked you to give up your job and take her away? Would you have done it, Brokaw? No, you wouldn't. You'd have hunted up the man. That's what I did. He had been drinking— just enough to make him devilish, and he laughed at me— I didn't mean to strike so hard— but it happened. I killed him. I got away. She and the baby are down in the little cottage again—down in York State— an' I know she's awake, this minute— our wedding day— thinking of me, an' praying for me, and counting the days between now and spring. We were going to South America then."

Brokaw rose to his feet, and put fresh wood into the stove.

"I guess it must be pretty hard," he said, straightening himself. "But the law up here doesn't take them things into account— not very much. It may let you off with man-slaughter— ten or fifteen years. I hope it does. Let's turn in."

Billy stood up beside him. He went with Brokaw to a bunk against the wall, and the sergeant drew a fine steel chain from his pocket. Billy lay down, his hands crossed over his breast, and Brokaw deftly fastened the chain about his ankles.

"And I suppose you think this is hard, too," he added. "But I guess you'd do it if you were me. Ten years of this sort of work learns you, not to take chances. If you want anything in the night just whistle."

It had been a hard day with Brokaw, and he slept soundly. For an hour Billy lay awake, thinking of home, and listening to the wail of the storm. Then he, too, fell into a sleep— a restless, uneasy slumber filled with troubled visions. For a time there had come a lull in the gale, but now it broke over the cabin, with increased fury. A hand seemed slapping at the window, threatening to break it. The spruce boughs moaned and twisted overhead, and a volley of wind and snow shot suddenly down the chimney, forcing open the stove door, so that a shaft of ruddy light cut like a red knife through the dense gloom of the cabin. In varying ways the sounds played a part in Billy's dreams. In all those dreams, and segments of dreams, the girl— his wife— was present. Once they had gone for wild flowers and had been caught in a thunderstorm, and had run to an old and disused barn in the middle of a field for shelter. He was back in that barn again, with her—and he could feel her trembling against him, and was stroking her hair, as the thunder crashed over them and the lightning filled her eyes with fear.

After that there came to him a vision of the early autumn nights when they had gone corn roasting with other young people. He had always been afflicted with a slight nasal trouble and smoke irritated him. It set him sneezing and kept him dodging about the fire, and she had always laughed when the smoke persisted in following him about like a young scamp of a boy bent on tormenting him. The smoke was unusually persistent to-night. He tossed in his bunk, and buried his face in the blanket that answered for a pillow. The smoke reached him even there, and he sneezed chokingly. In that instant the girl's face disappeared. He sneezed again—and awoke. A startled gasp broke from his lips, and the handcuffs about his wrists clanked as he raised his hand to his face. In that moment his dazed senses adjusted themselves. The cabin was full of smoke. It partly blinded him, but through it he could see tongues of fire shooting toward the ceiling. He could hear the crackling of burning pitch, and he yelled wildly to Brokaw. In an instant the sergeant was on his foot. He rushed to the table, where he had placed a pail of water the evening before, and Billy heard the hissing of the water as it struck the flaming wall.

"Never mind that," he shouted. "The shack's built of pitch cedar. We've got to get out!"

Brokaw groped his war to him through the smoke and began fumbling at the chain about his ankles.

"I can't— find— the key—" he gasped chokingly. "Here— grab hold of me!"

He caught Billy under the arms and dragged him to the door. As he opened it the wind came in with a rush, and behind them the whole cabin burst into a furnace of flame. Twenty yards from the cabin ho dropped Billy in the smoke, and ran back. In that seething room of smoke and fire was everything on which their lives depended, food, blankets, even their coats and caps and snowshoes. But he could get no farther than the door. He returned to Billy, found the key la his pocket, and freed him from the chain about his ankles. Billy stood up. As he looked at Brokaw the glass in the window broke and a sea of flame spurted through. It lighted up their faces. The sergeant's jaw was set hard. His leathery face was curiously white. He could not keep from shivering. There was a strange smile on Billy's face, and a strange look in his eyes. Neither at the two men had undressed for sleep, but their coats, and caps, and heavy mittens were in the flames.

Billy rattled to handcuffs. Brokaw looked him squarely in the eyes.

"You ought to know this country," he said. "What'll we do?"

"The nearest post is sixty miles from here," said Billy.

"I know that," replied Brokaw. "And I know that Thoreau's cabin is only twenty miles from here. There must be some trapper or Indian shack nearer than that. Is there?"

In the red glow of the fire Billy smiled. His teeth gleamed at Brokaw. It was in a lull of the wind, and he went does to Brokaw, and spoke quietly, his eyes shining more and more with that strange light that had come into them.

"This is going to be a big sight easier than hangin', or going to gaol for half my life, Brokaw—an' you don't think I'm going to be fool enough to miss the chance, do you? It ain't hard to die of cold. I've almost been there once or twice. I told you last night why I couldn't give up hope— that something good for me always came on her birthday, or near to it. An' it's come. It's forty below, an' we won't live the day out. We ain't got a mouthful of grub. We ain't got clothes enough on to keep us from freezing inside the shanty, unless we had a fire. Last night I saw you fill your match bottle and put it in your coat pocket. Why, man, we ain't even got a match!"

In his voice there was a thrill of triumph. Brokaw's hands were clenched, as if someone had threatened to strike him.

"You mean—" he gasped.

"Just this," interrupted Billy, and his voice was harder than Brokaw's now. "The God you used to pray to when you was a kid has given me a choice, Brokaw, an' I'm going to take it. If we stay by this fire, an' keep it up, we won't die of cold, but of starvation. We'll be dead before we get half way to Thoreau's. There's an Indian's shack that we could make, but you'll never find it— not unless you unlock these irons and give me that revolver at your belt. Then I'll take you over there as my prisoner. That'll give me another chance for South America— an' the kid at home."

Brokaw was buttoning the thick collar of his shirt close up about the neck. On his face, too, there came for a moment a grim and determined smile.

"Come on," he said. "We'll make Thoreau's or die!"

"Sure," said Billy, stepping quickly to his side. "I suppose I might lie down in the snow, an' refuse to budge. I'd win my game then, wouldn't I? But we'll play it—on the square. It's Thoreau's, or die. And it's up to you to find Thoreau's."

He looked back over his shoulder at the burning cabin as they entered the edge of the forest, and in the grey darkness that was preceding dawn he smiled to himself. Two miles to the south, in a thick    was Indian Joe's shack.

On their way to Thoreau's they would pass within a mile of it. But Brokaw would never know. And they would never reach Thoreau's. Billy knew that. He looked at the man hunter as he broke trail ahead of him— at the pugnacious hunch of his shoulders, his loss stride, the determined clench of his hands, and wondered what the soul and the heart of a man like this must be, who in such an hour would not trade life for life. For almost three-quarters of an hour. Brokaw did not utter a word. The storm had broken. Above the spruce tops the sky began to clear. Day came slowly. And it was growing steadily colder. The swing of Brokaw's arms and shoulders kept the blood in them circulating, while Billy's manacled wrists held a part of his body almost rigid. He knew that his hands were already frozen. His arms were numb, and when at last Brokaw paused for a moment on the edge of a frozen stream Billy thrust out his hands, and clanked the steel rings.

"It must be getting colder," he said. "Look at that."

The cold steel had seared his wrists like hot iron, and had pulled off patches of skin and flesh. Brokaw looked, and hunched his shoulders. His lips were blue. His cheeks, ears, and nose were frostbitten. There was a curious thickness in his voice when he spoke.

"Thoreau lives on this creek," he said. "How much farther is it?"

"Fifteen or sixteen miles," replied Billy. "You'll last just about five, Brokaw. I won't last that long unless you take these things off and give me the use of my arms."

"To knock out my brains when I ain't looking," growled Brokaw. "I guess— before long— you'll be willing to tell where the Indian's shack is."

He kicked his way through a drift of snow to the smoother surface of the stream. There was a breath of wind in their faces, and Billy bowed his head to it. In the hours of his greatest loneliness and despair Billy had kept up his fighting spirit by thinking of pleasant things, and now, as he followed in Brokaw's trail, he began to think of home. It was not hard for him to bring up visions of the girl wife who would probably never know how he had died. He forgot Brokaw. He followed in the trail mechanically, failing to notice that his captor's pace was growing steadily slower, and that his own feet were dragging more and more like leaden weights. He was back among the old hills again, and the sun was shining, and he heard laughter and song. He saw Jeanne standing at the gate in front of the little white, cottage, smiling at him, and waving Baby Jeanne's tiny hand at him as he looked back over his shoulder from down the dusty road. His mind did not often travel as far as the mining camp, and he had completely forgotten it now. He no longer felt the sting and pain of the intense cold. It was Brokaw who brought him back into the reality of things. The sergeant stumbled and fell in a drift and Billy fell over him.

For a moment the two men sat half buried in the snow, looking at each other without speaking. Brokaw moved first. He rose to his feet with an effort. Billy made an attempt to follow him. After three efforts he gave it up, and blinked up into Brokaw's face with a queer laugh. The laugh was almost soundless. There had come a change in Brokaw's face. Its determination and confidence were gone. At last the iron mask of the law was broken, and there shone through it some- thing of the emotions and the brotherhood of man. He was fumbling in one of his pockets, and drew out the key to the handcuffs. It was a small key, and he held it between his stiffened fingers with difficulty. He knelt down beside Billy. The keyhole was filled with snow. It took a long time— ten minutes—before the key fitted in and the lock clicked, He helped to tear off the handcuffs. Billy felt no sensation as bits of skin and flesh came with them. Brokaw gave him a hand, and assisted him to rise. For the first time he spoke.

"Guess you've got me beat, Billy," he said. "Where's the Indian's?"

He drew his automatic Savage from its holster and tossed it in the snowdrift. The shadow of a smile passed grimly over his face. Billy looked about him. They had stopped where the frozen path of a smaller stream joined the creek. He raised one of his stiffened arms and pointed to it.

He drew his revolver from its holster and tossed it in the snowdrift. The shadow of a smile passed grimly over his face. Billy looked about him. They had stopped where the frozen path of a smaller stream joined the creek. He raised one of his stiffened arms and pointed to it.

“Follow that creek— four miles— and you’ll come  to Indian Joe’s shack,” he said.

“And a mile is just about our limit.”

“Just about— your’s,” replied Billy. “I can’t  make another half. If we had a fireꟷ”

“Ifꟷ” wheezed Brokaw.

“If we had a fire,” continued Billy. “We could  warm ourselves, an’ make the Indian’s shack easy,  couldn’t we?”

Brokaw did not answer. He had turned toward  the creek when one of Billy’s pulseless hands fell  heavily on his arm.

“Look here, Brokaw.”

Brokaw turned. They looked into each other’s  eyes.

“I guess mebby you’re a man, Brokaw,” said  Billy quietly. “You’ve done what you thought was  your duty. You’ve kept your word to th’ law, an’  I believe you'll keep your word with me. If I say  the word thatII save us now will you go back to  headquarters an’ report me dead?” For a full half  minute their eyes did not waver.

Then Brokaw said:

"No.”

Billy dropped his hand. It was Brokaw’s hand that fell on his arm now.

“I can’t do that,” he said. “In ten years I ain’t run out the white flag once. It’s something that ain’t known in the service. There ain’t a coward in it, or a mail who’s afraid to die. But I’ll play you square. I’ll wait until we’re both on our feet, again, and then I’ll give you twenty-four hours the start of me.”

Billy was smiling now. His hand reached out. Brokaw's met it, and the two joined in a grip that their numb fingers scarcely felt.

"Do you know," said Billy, softly, "there's been somethin' runnin' in my head ever since we left the burning cabin. It's something my mother taught me: 'Do unto others as you'd have others do unto you.' I'm a —— fool, ain't I? But I'm goin' to try the experiment, Brokaw, an' see what comes of it. I could drop in a snowdrift an' let you go on—to die. Then I could save myself. But I'm going to take your word—an' do the other thing. I've got a match."

"A match!"

"Just one. I remember dropping it in my pants pocket yesterday when I was out on the trail. It's in this pocket. Your hand is in better shape than mine. Get it."

Life had leaped into Brokaw's face. He thrust his hand into Billy's pocket, staring at him as he fumbled, as if fearing that he had lied. When he drew his hand out the match was between his fingers.

"Ah!" he whispered excitedly.

"Don't get nervous," warned Billy. "It's the only one."

Brokaw's eyes were searching the low timber along the shore.

"There's a birch tree," be cried. "Hold it— while I gather a pile of bark!"

He gave the match to Billy, and staggered through the snow to the bank. Strip after strip of the loose bark be tore from the tree. Then he gathered it in a heap in the shelter at a low-hanging spruce, and added dry sticks, and still more bark to it. When it was ready he stood with his hands in his pockets, and looked at Billy.

"If we had a stone an' a piece of paper—" he began.

Billy thrust a hand that felt like lifeless lead inside his shirt, and tumbled in a pocket he had made there. Brokaw watched him with red, eager eyes. The hand reappeared, and in it was the buckskin wrapped photograph he had seen the night before. Billy took off the buck-skin. About the picture there was a bit of tissue paper. He gave this and the match to Brokaw.

"There's a little gun-file in the pocket the match came from," he said. "I had it mending a trap-chain. You can scratch the match on that."

He turned so that Brokaw could reach into the pocket, and the man hunter thrust in his hand. When he brought it forth it held the file. There was a smile on Bílly's frost-bitten face as he held the picture for a moment under Brokaw's eyes. Billy's own hands had ruffled up the girl's shining curls an instant before the picture was taken, and she was laughing at him when the camera clicked.

"It's all up to her, Brokaw," Billy said gently. "I told you that last night. It was she who woke me up before the fire got us. If you ever prayed— pray a little now. For she's going to strike that match."

He still looked at the picture as Brokaw knelt beside the pile he had made. He heard the scratch of the match on the file, but his eyes did not turn. The living breathing face of the most beautiful thing in the world was speaking to him from out of that picture. of that picture. His mind was dazed. He swayed a little. He heard a voice, low and sweet, and so distant that it came to him like the faintest whisper.

“I am coming— I am coming, Billy— coming— coming— coming ” A joyous cry surged up from his  soul, but it died on his lips in a strange gasp. A  louder cry brought him back to himself for a  moment. It was from Brokaw. The sergeant’s face was terrible to behold. He rose to his feet, swaying,  his hands clutched at his breast. His voice was thick— hopeless.

"The match— went— out—"

He staggered up to Billy, his eyes like a madman's. Billy swayed dizzily. He laughed, even as he crumpled down in the snow. As if in a dream he saw Brokaw stagger off on the frozen trail. He saw him disappear in his hopeless effort to reach the Indian's shack.

And then a strange darkness closed in on him, and in that darkness he heard still the sweet voice of his wife. It spoke his name again and again, ad it urged him to wake up— wake up— wake up! It seeing a long time before he could respond to it. But at last he opened his eyes. He dragged himself to his knees, and looked first to find Brokaw. But the man hunter had gone— forever. The picture was still in his hand. Less distinctly than before he saw the girl smiling at him.

And then— at his back—he heard a strange and new sound. With an effort he turned to discover what it was.

The match had hidden an unseen spark from Brokaw's eyes. From out of the pile of fuel was rising a pillar of smoke and flame.

________________________

19: Greaves' Disappearance

Julian Hawthorne

1846-1934

Six Cent Sam’s, Price-McGill 1893

WE WERE FOUR in the club smoking room that October afternoon. The weather was gusty and inclement, and we were out of sorts. Perhaps our having been up till two or three o’clock the night before may have had something to do with our gloomy sensations. Twelve hours had elapsed since we had left the card table, and permitted yawning Thomas to go to bed. We had dispersed to our various abiding places, slept till noon, and drifted back to the club and breakfast. Hardly anyone besides ourselves was in the house. It was intolerably dull. What is one to do in town at three o’clock of a rainy October afternoon, after being up all night?

Allardice, the man-about-town par excellence, lay languid and relaxed in his easy-chair, his legs outstretched, his chin on his breast, and a black Mexican cigar between his teeth. His prominent gray eyes were half closed, some cigar ashes lay unheeded on his vest, and the light from the window was reflected dimly on the bald summit of his cranium. Tinling, the poet and dramatic critic, reclined on the divan, his gray, abundant hair contrasting oddly with his smooth pink-and-white face; the hand with the big seal ring on it lay romantically and conspicuously on his heart. Gawtrey sat with his elbows on his knees, and his face between his hands, the small eyes in his big fat countenance blinking stupidly at the fire. He and Tinling had been wrangling about the merits or demerits of the new Persian dancer who had been attracting the town for some days past, and who was being advertised, free and otherwise, to a degree unexampled. Tinling had declared that she was “the peer— I do not say of Ellsler or Taglioni, but of Salome, the daughter of Herodias.” Gawtrey had replied that he had never seen the Herodias girl, or the other two, either; but that he could find women in any ordinary music hall, here or in London, who could knock the stuffing out of Mlle. Saki. Thereupon fell a silence, finally broken by Allardice.

“If no one else will, I suppose I must,” said he, leaning forward and touching the electric bell in the panel. “Think of what it’s to be, gentlemen.”

We sighed and changed the position of our legs.

“There should be a by-law specifying the correct drink for each hour of the day,” said someone. “Up to eleven p.m., at any rate, it’s too fatiguing to choose for one’s self.”

“You might always order the same drink, you know, like Greaves,” suggested Gawtrey. “Grand Vin Sec is his tipple, and he never touches any other.”

“Gawtrey has no discrimination,” murmured Tinling. “Greaves has a hundred thousand a year, youth, health and happiness.”

“No rose without the thorn,” said Allardice. “He’s going to get married.”

“That’s a pretty cheap article of cynicism, even before dinner,” rejoined Tinling. “In the first place, the girl comes of one of our best families. Baddely was a name famous in the old country centuries ago, and always respected. Secondly, Miss Baddely is a mighty fine girl, both in looks and otherwise; and fifthly and sixthly, and to conclude, Greaves is dead in love with her.”

“The Baddely, is it?” grunted Gawtrey. “Why, they don’t amount to a row of pins! Met the old boy downtown. Ain’t worth a hundred thousand.”

“The greater her good sense, to look with favor on Greaves’s suit,” was contributed by Allardice.

Tinling closed his eyes. “You weary me,” he said. “She’s the most independent girl I know. If anything could make her jilt Greaves, it would be precisely his income. If Greaves were poor, she’d support him. She thinks women ought to support themselves, anyway.”

“What can she do for a living?” someone inquired.

“What couldn’t she? Anything— from keeping a dancing school to running an American railroad system. She’s got genius.”

“That’s the reason Greaves didn’t join us last night,” remarked Gawtrey. “When a fellow gets gone on a girl, he may as well resign from his clubs. But I wish he’d given me my revenge first. Never saw anything like the hands that fellow held last time. Two flushes and a four-ace were some of ’em.”

“What is yours, sir?” inquired the pale but ever respectful Thomas, appearing at this juncture. Whereupon we all wearily began to try to think of something.

In the midst of our deliberations, in came Fred Guise, looking quite pale and haggard. He nodded to us without speaking, and dropped into a chair.

“Just in time,” said Allardice, “and you look as if you needed it. Ask Mr. Guise what he’ll have, Thomas.”

“Absinthe cocktail,” said Guise, without faltering. “I’m knocked out. Haven’t seen the color of a bed since night before last. None of you chaps have heard anything new about him, of course?”

“Guess not. About whom?”

“Greaves, of course. Did you think I meant the Shah of Persia?” inquired Guise, with a fine irony.

“All we know about Greaves here is, that he promised to be here last night and didn’t materialize,” said Gawtrey, with a yawn. “He owes me my revenge—”

“Do you mean to say you chaps haven’t heard?” interrupted Guise, sitting up and speaking slowly, as if astonishment weighted his utterance. “Why it’s nearly a day old!”

“Is its father known?” asked Allardice, languidly.

“What’s the matter, Fred?” demanded Tinling, struck by something peculiar in Guise’s manner. “We’ve only just got up, you know, and you’re the first man that’s come in since—”

“Why, good God, the man’s disappeared,” exclaimed Guise, always in his characteristic low but distinct voice. “He vanished like the blowing out of a candle! He was with me one moment, and the next, he was— well, he was gone!”

“I say,” grunted Gawtrey, “draw it mild. What are you giving us?”

“What are the circumstances? How disappeared? When? Where?” put in Tinling, erecting himself, and shaking back his long gray hair.

“Why, I supposed the report would have got here the first thing. It’s the most inexplicable thing I ever came across. Let me see— to begin at the beginning, I’d breakfasted with him in the forenoon yesterday at his rooms. He was quite jolly— rather more so than usual, I thought. I took it for natural high spirits— going to be married soon, and all that sort of thing, you know. But I’ve thought since it may have been excitement from some other cause, you know. He talked a bit about his private affairs— we’re pretty intimate, you know— but nothing was said in particular that I remember. We talked of the Ingledew’s ball, and that escapade of Mrs. Revell’s, you know, and that Mlle. Saki, the Persian dancer— whom he didn’t seem to think much of, by the by— and of the gold-find in Alaska; he said he thought that looked promising, and that he might like to take some stock in that; and then—”

“For pity’s sake, do tell us the story first, and we can join you in your comments afterward,” someone exclaimed. “Get to the point, can’t you?”

“I was only trying to recall anything that might possibly throw some light on the thing, you know,” rejoined Fred, unhurriedly. “I can’t make out any motive for it myself. Everything was all right about him— property, health, love affair— well, everything. And it’s inconceivable to me that he could have planned anything beforehand— to make away with himself, or anything of that sort; but then it’s even more inconceivable he should have vanished involuntarily, don’t you know. I can’t make it out,” and here Fred accepted the absinthe cocktail that Thomas silently extended to him, and emptied it with deliberate circumspection.

Allardice elevated one eyebrow, and hunted in his pocket for a cigar. “Take your time, my dear boy,” said he. “We’ve got the afternoon before us, and we’re none of us curious. Won’t you take another absinthe before you continue?”

Guise leaned back in his chair, seemed to consult his memory, and finally went on:

“Well, after breakfast, you know, we lay about for a while, looking over his books and pictures, and talking philosophy and art. Toward three or four o’clock— just about this time, you know— we agreed to go out for a little stroll. It looked as if it might rain, and Greaves put on a light gray Mackintosh overcoat, that he’d just had over from London— rather a peculiar looking thing it was, by the by—and a soft felt hat, and out we went. We turned into Broadway, and walked on the west side up past the hotels toward Thirty-Fourth Street. There were comparatively few people out. I remember we passed a long file of those sandwich men, you know, with Persian turbans on, and boards with Saki’s portrait on them. She’s at the Fifth Avenue, you know. Just as we reached the corner of Twenty-Eighth Street, we came across a bit of an excitement. There was a man running down the middle of the street, with his hat in his hand, and making good time; and about a dozen yards behind him were a couple of bobbies. Greaves and I stopped on the corner, to see what would happen. Greaves said he was a fool to run in that direction, because he could never get across Broadway. The bobbies thought so, too, I fancy, and it threw them off their guard. Almost at the entrance of the street the chap turned like a flash, and dashed straight at them. Before they knew where they were he had tripped them both and sent them sprawling, and was flying up the street. Halfway along the block there’s an empty house, going to be torn down. The basement door was open and he went through it, and that was the last ever seen of him, I fancy. I turned round to Greaves, who had spoken to me, you know, just the instant before, and saw him across the other side of Broadway, walking on toward Thirtieth. There he was, you know, in his gray Mackintosh and soft felt hat. I hurried to catch up with him, and took his arm. I said, ‘He was no fool, after all, that chap. I fancy he must have played on a football team.’

“That’s what I said, and then Greaves pulled away his arm and turned round on me, and you may imagine I was surprised when I found it wasn’t Greaves at all, nor anyone a bit like him. It was a fellow of fifty, with a stubble of gray beard a week old, a red potato nose, and one eye gone. ‘I beg your pardon, young fellow,’ he said to me, ‘I guess you’ve made a mistake.’

“Well, you know, at first I didn’t think so much of it; I’d been misled by the similarity of dress, that was all. Greaves must be somewhere, of course, and close at hand, too; it was hardly thirty seconds since he’d spoken to me, and there were only three directions in which he could have gone—up Broadway, or down or up the side street toward Fifth Avenue. If he had gone down the street toward Sixth Avenue I should have seen him, for that was the direction I’d been looking. But the Broadway sidewalks in both directions were nearly empty, the crowd having run down Twenty-Eighth after the fellow and the bobbies. There was nobody going toward Fifth Avenue either, and he couldn’t have got away more than a dozen rods, anyhow. I should have recognized him at any distance in that gray Mackintosh. It was true, he might have gone into some shop, so I looked into all of them up and down the blocks, but it was no use. Unless he’d dropped through a manhole in the pavement, there was nowhere he could have gone; but he was gone just the same. There never was a disappearance on the stage managed quicker or neater, or half so inexplicable. I began to feel mighty queer about it—something as if I’d seen a ghost. Here was an effect without a cause. I assure you it was as unpleasant a shock as ever I had in my life.”

We all stared at one another. At last Gawtrey said:

“See here, Fred, make a clean breast of it; how many bottles of the Grand Vin Sec did you polish off at the breakfast?”

“I’m entirely serious, gentlemen,” returned Fred, gravely; “and recollect, even if Greaves could have eluded me in any ordinary way, he would still have been heard from somewhere by this time. But he’s given no sign. Whether he went voluntarily or not, he’s vanished, and I’m afraid when news does come it will not be the sort of news we shall like to hear.”

Gawtrey now poured his pony of brandy into a tumbler, added a dash of water, swallowed the mixture, looked in the bottom of the glass for inspiration, and said, “I don’t believe, for my part, that Greaves has been kidnapped in broad daylight in the center of New York; and on the other hand, I don’t believe in miracles— this year, anyway. What he did, depend upon it, was just to step quietly out of sight somewhere, when you weren’t looking. Probably he saw Miss Baddely on a horse car, and boarded it to join her.”

“There’s something in that idea,” said Allardice.

Guise shook his head. “There wasn’t, as it happens, a single car passing, for there was a block across both tracks at Twenty-Fifth Street. And as for Miss Baddely, I afterward ascertained that she was at home at the time. No, gentlemen; ordinary explanations won’t work. Last evening, I went down and had a talk with Inspector Byrnes, and he has put two of his best men on the case. But they had found out nothing when I looked in at Headquarters just now.”

“You called on Miss Baddely, did you? How does she take it?” inquired Tinling.

“I saw her father; she was not to be seen. Of course they are all upset. I told him all I’ve told you. He said one thing— the old man did— that struck me as a bit odd; he said that both his daughter and Greaves were persons of arbitrary will and extraordinary whims. They were capable of almost anything. If one of them did a crazy thing, the other would be apt to do something to cap it. He said he had no control over either of ’em, and never had had. But he said this last business did surprise him. I thought that was queer language to use on such an occasion. It might mean that he suspected something.”

“A quarrel, for instance, and desperation on Greaves’s part.”

“A wager of some kind, maybe.”

“I never did think much of that fellow Baddely. He’s a poor sort of an old dude. Where does he get his pocket money from? He never made a cent in his life. Shouldn’t wonder if his daughter supported him somehow. Takes in sewing on the quiet, or paints fans, or gives music lessons. Rum things go on in some of these old families.” It was Gawtrey who made these observations.

“Upon the whole,” said another of the party, “it looks to me as if Greaves’s kidnapper must have been Greaves himself. But how he arranged it— the circumstances being what they were— I can’t figure out. My impression is, Guise should have followed up that fellow in the gray Mackintosh.”

“I agree with the last honorable member,” said Tinling. “Such a coincidence as that similarity of costume is too remarkable not to be suspicious. Looks like a plot of some sort. But there’s nothing to throw any light on his motive.”

“Let’s have another drink,” said Gawtrey. “What are we going to do this evening?”

“I am going to the Fifth Avenue to see Saki,” said Allardice. “Your talk about her has aroused my curiosity. I saw some oriental dancers at the Paris Exhibition a while ago, and I’d like to see how she compares with them.”

The evening papers had just been brought in, and I had picked up one of them. A paragraph headed “Illness of the Persian Dancer” caught my eye.

“She won’t appear this evening,” said I. “It says: ‘Mlle. Saki was so unfortunate as to sprain her ankle yesterday while alighting from her carriage. While the injury is not regarded as serious, it will prevent her from dancing this evening. Tickets purchased in advance will be accepted for later dates.’ ”

“Nothing in the paper about Greaves?” asked Tinling.

“Seems not.”

Soon after we broke up, and drifted away in various directions, somewhat preoccupied with speculations about Greaves.

The next morning, however, the papers were full of the story, and though no light was thrown upon the manner of Greaves’s disappearance, certain facts of interest were mentioned. On the very day before his disappearance, it appears, he had executed a deed conveying the bulk of his large property to Sophie Baddely. This deed was not a will, but a deed of gift simply. Its provisions went into effect immediately, and, in view of what had occurred, one could not help suspecting that Greaves had prepared it as part of a predetermined scheme of action, whether of suicide or something else. And here there was a coincidence that drew my attention. The “indisposition” of Mlle. Saki corresponded very nearly with the disappearance of Greaves. She had not returned to the theater since the evening of that occurrence, and it was now stated that her absence might be prolonged for a week. I knew from Guise, the most intimate friend that Greaves had, that the latter had been several times to see Saki dance, and that he had betrayed rather marked interest in her performance. Mr. Baddely had said that his intending son-in-law was capable of strange escapades; was it possible, then, that he and the too-fascinating Persian had eloped together— he having first salved his conscience by bestowing his wealth upon the woman he was abandoning? Moreover, Tinling, having made inquiries at the theater, brought news that there was now no prospect of Saki’s returning at all; on the contrary, her agent had paid a heavy forfeit, and she had departed none knew whither. The sprained ankle was obviously a fiction. Of course, the manner in which Greaves had effected his exit was no less than ever a mystery. A conceivable motive had been suggested, that was all.

The establishment known as Six Cent Sam’s extends clear through the narrow block in which it stands, and has an entrance in the street on the other side, a fact not generally known. For the rear face of the eating house is a pawnshop, kept, as the sign board indicates, by one Samuel Jonathan, who is, in fact, no other than Six Cent Sam himself; and to the initiated there is a passageway leading out of the pawnshop into the eating house. I am of the initiated; and as I was passing down this passage on the day after the scene at the club, I met Sam— or Mr. Jonathan— and he said:

“Turn back, sir; I’ve something to say to you.”

I followed him into the office of the pawnshop, where we sat down.

“One way or another,” began Sam, “I hear a good deal of what’s going on. Pawnshops and eating houses bring news. Now, there’s young Greaves, for instance.”

I became interested at once. Sam is always interesting.

“When last seen,” continued the latter, “had on gray Mackintosh and soft hat. Could you identify them? Look at these,” and from a shelf he drew out just such an English-made garment as Guise had described to us, with the hat to match.

“He’s been here, then?” I asked.

Sam shook his head, and went on in his terse, deep-toned way. “A fellow came here yesterday with a carbuncle on his nose, and a game eye. Had these duds under his arm; wanted to sell ’em. How did he come by ’em? Gent had given ’em to him. How and why? Oh, quite a yarn. Gent met him on street doing sandwich act for Fifth Avenue Theatre. Pursuant to bargain then and there made, and instructions given, met him again next day, same place. Another gent along. Disturbance on street; other man’s attention distracted; garments exchanged inside ten seconds. Gent, in sandwiches, marches down street after other sandwiches; no one ever thinks of looking at face of sandwich, only the announcement on board. Thus gent became invisible, and has so remained.”

So this was the simple but ingenious solution of the puzzle.

“And where is Greaves now, and what did he do it for?” I asked.

Sam looked me straight in the face with his powerful eyes.

“Where’s Saki?” he replied.

“So they’re together after all?” said I, rather vain of my insight.

“Guess not; but they ought to be.”

That was a queer thing to say, and I stared at Sam without answering.

“Newspapers say he gave a pot of money to Miss Baddely,” resumed the latter. “Proud, independent girl, father poor. She will be beholden to nobody, not even Greaves. Wanted to support herself. Greaves objects; quarrel. Now, if Greaves were to make away with himself, after deeding property to her, she would naturally give up her scheme of earning her own living. Do you see how the cat is going to jump?”

“You think Greaves has committed suicide?”

Sam gave me a reproachful glance. “Wasn’t I asking to bring him and Saki together? Do you know either of the ladies?”

“Either of them?”

“Well, do you know Saki?” said Sam, a trifle impatiently.

“No, I don’t.”

“Nor Miss Baddely?”

“I haven’t that pleasure.”

“I’ll introduce you to both of them. We’ll go now. Great friends; always together.”

“Who? Miss Baddely and Saki?”

“The same.”

“What are we to do there?”

“I want ’em to settle which of ’em’s to marry Greaves.”

“Is Greaves in love with both of them?”

“That’s his fix, precisely.”

“And they with him?”

“That’s what I’m figuring on.”

“And you expect them to agree which of them—”

“We have to hurry,” remarked Sam, rising. “Let me get into a clean shirt, and we’re off.” He stepped into a side room as he spoke, and shut the door.

I did not know what to make of it, but I knew enough of Sam to know that he, who knew everything and everybody, from a pawnshop habitué to a wealthy club man, was not acting in the dark. In a few minutes he reappeared, in the garb of a well-to-do man-about-town. Silk hat, Prince Albert coat, striped trousers, white scarf, yellow gloves, and silver-headed umbrella. Not a finer gentleman in the city.

“We’ll look up Mlle. Saki first,” he said, as we sallied forth together. “Do you speak Persian fluently? Never mind, she speaks as good English as you or I do, and is a very intelligent woman.”

To us, awaiting her in a tasteful but simple sitting room up-town, entered the famous Persian dancer. She was a handsome brunette, with superb black eyes and hair. Her figure and bearing were all grace and elegance. She was plainly dressed, and looked, as Sam had said, very intelligent.

“Now, Mademoiselle,” said Sam, after the greetings were over, “I have called as your manager, to learn what you want to do. You may speak freely before this gentleman.”

“Tell me first what has become of him?” she replied, in a slightly tremulous voice. “I can never forgive myself. Is he—”

“He is a pig-headed donkey, if you must have my opinion,” returned Sam. “And he’s as well as such a monster deserves to be. Now, shall we temporize with him, or shall we keep on our course and let him go to—” Sam’s finger at this juncture was pointing downward.

“Temporize with him? I’ll go down on my knees to him if he will but give me the chance. He was right from the beginning, and I was wrong. I saw that almost from the first— long before this terrible thing happened. But for my miserable obstinacy, I’d have given it up then. I had no conception what the life was till I had tried it. It was an awful lesson. I shall never forget it. I feel as if I had actually done all the bad things every one seemed to suspect me of. And yet, when I was looking forward to it, it all appeared good and right. I thought I would elevate and ennoble my art. But the world is hard.”

“Well, it is unless we take it the right way,” said Sam. “The best way to find out is to make experiments. I helped you to do that, and you’re the better for it, because you now know what you would never have believed if it had been told you. Some girls go through life believing all they are told, good or bad, but you’re not that sort. You can do other things just as clever as dancing, and not so open to remarks. For one thing, you can make a man happy, and bring up his children.”

Mlle. Saki blushed, and tears stood in her eyes.

“It’s too late to think of that now,” she said. “He must despise me and hate me; he couldn’t help it.”

“Pooh! Besides, there are other men in the world as good as he, and a great deal better.”

“You know that is not so,” exclaimed Mlle. Saki, with a naïve indignation that was enchanting. “I should like to see him again, though, just once,” she added, “to tell him how sorry and ashamed I am, and to ask his forgiveness.”

“I guess it would be more politic for you to forgive him,” said Sam, with a smile. “However, we’ll see what can be done,” and thereupon we took our leave.

It was a mysterious affair altogether, and has never been cleared up to this day. As everybody knows, Greaves is married, but he married Miss Sophie Baddely. Mlle. Saki was never again heard of. It is the impression among the general public that she returned to Paris. Be that as it may, I saw Mrs. Greaves driving out in the park the other day with her husband, and remarked that the lady bore a striking resemblance to the Persian dancer. Guise and Tinling, however, have never spoken of any likeness. No doubt, she must have looked very different in her Persian costume from what she did in the plain American dress that she wore when I saw her.

End

Cumulative Index to Past Masters 20

February 2021

An Author Index to the short stories in the Past Masters series produced by "Pulpmeister", in which the issues are identified as follows:

Past Masters: P

More Past Masters: M

Past Masters Two: 2

Past Masters Three: 3

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

Mark Allerton

Price of Office  17

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

Arthur Applin

Overdue  17

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

All Talk 20

The Four Red Circles  4

Gallegher of Beaver  4

The Luck of a Cowboy  4

J. J. Bell

The Great Corkscrew Mystery  17

Stella Benson

The Man Who Missed The 'Bus  18

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, 18

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

Heywood Broun

The Fifty-First Dragon  17

K. R. G. Browne

For One Night Only 20

The Soft Spot 20

Two on the Roof 20

Ellis Parker Butler

The Detective Club 7

Geoffrey's Panklaggephone 6

Wadsworth Camp

The Obscure Move 18

Egerton Castle

The Guinea Smuggler 17

Christopher Caudwell

Four Friends and Death  5

J. Storer Clouston

The Fortunate Lord Fabrigas 13

Magic 13

The Trials of Tony 13

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

Dorothea Conyers

Sir Hector Devereux's Bet 17

When Rogues Fall Out 17

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

James Oliver Curwood

The Match 20

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

Sir George B. Douglas, Bart.

The Adonis of Slagborough  17

Patience  15

Peter Pirnie's Prison-House  16

George Allan England

Arson in the Jungle  10

The Longest Side  14

Glyn Evans

"The Man Who Was—"  5

Gwyn Evans

The Croucher 18

J S Fletcher

Comedy of the Grand Canal  8

The Cracksman's Catspaw  7

The Honour of Two  16

The Yellow Dog  P

Sewell Ford

The Impressing of Looney Fipps  17

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

Guy Gilpatric

Gabriel's Trumpet 18

Mary, Queen of Scots  18

Kenneth Grahame

The Burglars  16

George Griffith

Five Hundred Carats  18

Harlan Halsey

Cad Metti, The Female Detective Strategist 18

William H Hamby

Cal Wood's First Case  16

Cosmo Hamilton

Proofs of  Guilt 10

The Mirror of Nature 12

The Silent Witness 5

Frances Noyes Hart

"Contact!"  18

Julian Hawthorne

Greaves' Disappearance 20

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

The Seaside Girl 15

The Blue Vase  15

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

Violet Jacob

Secret Intelligence  17

Edgar Jepson and Robert Eustace:

Mr. Belton's Immunity 7

The Tea-Leaf P

Lord Kilmarnock

A Man's Hand  14

Guy Gilpatric

The Lost Limerick  20

Scotch and Water 20

Otis Adelbert Kline:

The Corpse on the Third Slab 20

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

The Secret of the Fox Hunter  17

Sheer Profit  P

The Wrong Road  17

Bruno Lessing

As It Happened To Moey  16

Moritsky's Ward  16

John Luther Long

Madame Butterfly 14

Sir William Magnay, Bt.

Mrs. Brotherton's Adventure  17

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

Arthur W. Marchmont

The Bolchester Bank Robbery  17

Don Marquis

The Locked  Box  17

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

Alice Duer Miller

Slow Poison  18

Lucy Gertrude Moberly

Black Paws 6

C. S. Montanye

Come Back to Aaron 14

Cricket's Last Hop 18

Death With Music 14

Fog is Necessary  14

Frozen Stiff 18

Hoodwinked 18

Ink  13

Ivan’s Foe 13

Merry Month of Mayhem 14

Opals Are Unlucky 18

A Shock for the Countess 13

This Will Kill You 13

Wings For An Angel 18

Charles Leonard Moore

The Lion Rug 16

F. Frankfort Moore

The Crock 17

Joan's Two-seater  17

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

Destiny  18

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

John Oxenham

The Missing Q.C.s  18

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

Rose Rose 18

Some Imitations 6

Twelve Minutes 6

Hugh Pendexter

The Dogs of Purgatory 20

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

Clarence Rook

The Stir Outside the Café Royal  17

Theodore Roosevelt

The Wendigo M

Anthony M. Rud

Green for Danger 20

The Molten Bullet 20

Ooze 7

A Square of Canvas 20

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 Hank of Yarn 20

The Murdered Wife 11

Spider Tong  M

The “Smuggler’s Daughter”—Five Reels 12

Tiger Trail 4

Adam Hull Shirk

The Bearded Men 20

Mandrake 20

Osiris 4

George R. Sims

Doctor Mazeppa  18

Lance Warrener's Crime 11

The Man With the Wild Eyes 20

The Silver Fox 18

Under the Mistletoe Bough  18

Howard Dwight Smiley

Smokeless Tobacco  16

Thorne Smith

Yonder's Henry! M

John Philip Sousa

The Conspirators M

Andrew Soutar

Courage  20

The Doctor Takes a Hand  6

The Story without a Title  16

Henry Spicer

Called To The Rescue 18

F St Mars

Shadows  16

There and Back  8

Arthur Stringer

In the Wireless Room 18

Halliwell Sutcliffe

At The Road Top  17

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

Katharine Tynan

His Lordship and Kitty-for-Short  17

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" (Mary Helena Fortune)

The Dead Man in the Scrub  17

The Dead Witness  17

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

Carolyn Wells

The Silent Model  17

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

West of Guam 20

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